ndslotesse's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I should s top Dear Diary, It has been a while since I've written in here. I'm not sure if I am amused as I once was with the idea of having a diary that you could type on. It is more convienent than writing in my writing binder which I have neglected for so long. But the other day I ended up taking it to school and felt sort of embarressed because it draws too much attention. Many people notice it because they say it reminds them of "Lisa Frank," even though it isn't. My mother gave me the binder so long ago while she gave my brother, I think, a football one, and my sister a ocean/whale one. And on my binder, which I do cherish, has Unicorns on it. I'm not sure if I love it because my mother gave it to me when I was so young, or because it has Unicorns on it. Or might even be because it may have been my first writing journal. I'm not sure, everything that I remember is a blur nowadays. I'm not sure if it's because I can't remember or because my mind chooses not to. Whatever it is, many thoughts, thoughts I even thought I minute ago, has avaded me once more, and I am left with other thoughts to ponder and to lose. My hands reak of oranges right now. And as I type away at this darned keyboard I can smell the aroma. And the taste of turkey bacon lingering in my mouth. I recently have been eating oranges every morning on the way to school. I use to be in love with them. Mostly tangerines actually. I play with them. I play with them like I played with my balloons back when. I'm a strange child, uncanny even. And I choose not to talk about my balloon story at this moment. They aren't even stories. It is just something I use to play with when I was younger. I use to fill them up with water and put them in a sink and watch them..."grow," Yes, I am fucked up. Please don't ask. My friend brought turkey bacon to school today and I ate the last piece of it. That is why I am hungry still because we had a conversation about breakfast. It seems I'm the only one who likes eggs. Maybe I am some different lady with weird taste. I like eggs a lot. You should try ketchup. It is very good. I sometimes think that someone will come over and ask me why I have stopped writing in this thing, or why I locked it. I keep thinking someone cares enough about me to tell me this. Or someone cares enough about me to tell me what's wrong with me even if they think it's going to hurt me. I wonder even if they notice that I'm this way. I think my act of 'normal-tude' has gotten me an oscar because no one knows who I am here. Even if I choose to show it to people. Even if I do talk them more than I do others. They know me better, yes. But is it right to say that they really know me as me? The bell is about to ring and I have given myself a lot to think about. With care, 7:44 a.m. - 2003-02-25 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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