Iz Gon' Rain

I somehow managed to get a nasty little sprain on my right hand pinky finger. I apologize now for the misspellings and typos, as this splint is the size of a house.

I'm in a daze, slightly a wreck, nervous about my trip in less than 36 hours. Cold. Frozen. Apprehensive. Angry. Irritated. Sad. Self-loathing. Stupid. I could scream. I'm at my wits end, Lord knows I have a buttload of wits, but here I am, almost out. Little Miss Talkative has nothing to say. Well, she has alot to say, but she's frightened to, knowing the consequences all too well, as she has flirted with them many times before. This is Bob Dole's chair.

I cannot function properly. My brain is fried. My finger is broken. My heart is frozen. Tonight, no words will pass through my lips. The ceiling will be my only friend, I will wait for sleep to visit, to take me away. I will dream those dreams that I can only justify in my subconscious, I will live vicariously through those dreams dreamt by a tiny girl with huge dreams. I will awake in the same tired old skin that I have called home for 19 years, though it feels like 100.

Maybe California will be my glue. Maybe I will go and never come back. I want to be alone. Just me, in a huge city without one familiar face. I want to go into a coffee shop, sit down, and just be with me. I need me. I need something different. When you stop loving your life, you fall into a routine. Routines are the dwindling of inner sanity. Routines are the swords that become your tongue, if provoked. Routines are bitterness intertwined with constant hope for something better, that is further and further sabotaged by passing days, steady consistency that makes up your once melancholy state of mind and replaces it with a line from Queen's "Bohemian Rapshody" Sometimes I wish I'd never been born at all.

Ain't it the truth.

My guitar is calling, but I can't play with a broken finger.

On so many different levels.