xcrutchcorex

dan invented that word. i think that it is a cool word.

this is what i wrote at 2:53 pm, on notebook paper, in crayon:

i think the reason i'm not as mad at my parents as maybe i should be is because this is my first time going through this, and therefore it's there first time going through the process.

my ankle has one sexy bruise on it. it's almost as sexy as the bruise i got when i gave blood, but it's not as colorful. I HATE BEING INJURED. i don't do anything. it's bad enough to be lazy and feel helpless, but it's worse when you ARE helpless and you WANT to do something.

and this is how i feel now:

BROKEN ANKLES ARE THE @#$%ING DEVIL! I HATE THIS STUPID CRAP! THIS MAKES ME WANT TO RIP MY LEG OFF AND BEAT PEOPLE WITH IT!!!!!!!

yeah, my ankle is broken. and i can't sleep.

hooray for boobies

yeah bloodhound gang... ok no.

so my friends, if you ever hear me complaining about my boobies ever again, please remind me of the great help they have provided me in this time of need. i mean dude, you can like store stuff in them. and i bet their weight has helped me keep balance in some instances. the irony in all of this, is that the idea came from tyler when he wore fake boobies on silly dress night in germany, he was all "dude these are so useful! ::puts camera down shirt:: you can like store stuff in them!" hehe, and also from some people in TOD who wrote of putting cameras down their bras. yep, boobies are a great advancement in storage technology.

blah blah blah THIS IS NOT ABOUT ME FOR ONCE

why does every conversation i have about someone else's faults turn into what a jerk i am? i'm not denying anything. unless it's false of course. but gosh, people need to realize things.

don't accuse me of something i didn't do before you make sure that was what i was doing.

don't use your experience to make yourself sound like you know what you're talking about. this is not your god damn ankle, it's mine.

_______________ (any number of other things could go in that blank.)

there will be hell to pay

dude, if i don't find the fucking piece of paper that i wrote kristen's address on i'm going to shoot myself. i hope that 5913 is the right numbers in the stupid code thingie that is part of her address. i've fucking spent 2 hours looking for it!!!!!

(you'll have to excuse me, i'm having a bad day. broken ankle... mother who makes things up about me... yeah, FUN.)

and i don't even listen to her

You are: Sick of Me.

Love sucks. But I don't get the vibe you're really.. bitter about it. Then again, I could be wrong..

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