Despite being exhausted by my five hour waitressing shift and wanting nothing more than my bed, I came online the minute I got on. Just to talk to you. And you can't be bothered even attempting to make conversation with me. And you can't fit me into your plans for New Years Eve. And you don't want to know how my day was, or how work was, or what I got for Christmas or how I'm feeling or who I talked to or what I'm listening to. You don't like me, you like the fact that I listen to you. You like the concept of me - the idea of this intelligent, attractive, articulate girl with good music taste and interesting friends. You couldn't possibly know if that idea coheres with what I am because you're not interested in getting to know me. You have the concept of me, and that's all you need. Chances are you won't even read this, and you can put that down to being "admirable" if you like, but really we can all see it's because you're uninterested. This diary contains my heart and soul (if you dig through the day to day crap) but you've already created a heart and soul for me. I have my own identity and if you don't want to discover it that's fine, but don't create another for me. I won't be anyone's concept. I won't be the vessel chosen to hold someone's false ideal.
< - >
* the marks of memories forgotten
* wasting emotions, over again
* intentions, and such
* nothing unusual, nothing's changed - just a little older, that's all (damien rice : amie)
* now I understand! It doesn't make sense because it isn't supposed to
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