I haven't been feeling or doing an awful lot. Those three weeks of a break flew, just like everything good always does and I'm back in my tiny little room that feels so far away from home. I cut my hair again, I'm becoming more and more tempted to get rid of it all. It gets shorter every time and sticks out at all the wrong angles after I sleep. I got film for my Instax camera, only a year after I bought the damn thing and I have ten photographs tacked to my wall. My mam and dad and me and my dog and my dog again and my mam again and my other dog and my leg in the shower and the flowers that are dying in my window and me and him and me and his dog and him and half his dog and his Christmas tree and I'm not really sure what this says about me and my life. I just feel sad when I see them stuck to my wall and I don't know why I bother, but there they'll stay because somehow they feel like a part of me. I've carried them everywhere in my little turquoise notebook since I took them two days ago and they feel personal and nobody understands. I've been listening to the same song over and over again, I found a list of songs I used to love from 2006 and my taste in music really wasn't all bad when I was fifteen and sixteen, but things change, I don't know how to explain it better than that. Maria hasn't been around since well before I started college and I can imagine her saying things about how I'd better get into college because she's sick of me being around all the time only it's the kind of thing that'd make us both smile because that's the kind of tough love bitch she was. It's probably not even much of a memory, it's probably one of those things you get to thinking that really happened after you replay it over and over and then you just can't remember if it's a real memory of if it's a dream or something you just stupidly made up in a sad attempt to comfort yourself. I go to their house every Sunday before I drive back up to college and she's never been there on such an occasion, not once. We left her back in 2010, how sad is that? I don't think I'll ever get over the cruelty of having her taken away. What a fucking beautiful soul, you'll never even know. She was the kind of woman that kept her chin up and still wore her wedding ring, a whole thirteen years after her husband died. I never met the man, but it's easy to see why he loved her like he did. I just wanted her to be there so badly today to tell me to fuck back where I came from because sometimes you just need somebody to not have any pity for anybody for a change because that's the sort of refreshing that helps people to move on with their lives. They took away the one person that was allowed to tell me to get the fuck over things, and now what? Everybody allows me to cry because crying's good to cleanse the soul. Fuck cleansing. Her old car's all bashed up because Alan got it and I hate him a little more every time he drinks and drives because she loved that damn thing, and it's all that's left, and more and more he keeps messing it up. I'm going to stop writing about her now. I'm going to stop crying about her, too.