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2009-05-22 / 3:19 p.m.

I'm spending most of my days doing but not really doing. It's always this or that, but it never has meaning or consequence. All I remember is sitting in this spot on my bed with my back to this damn wall thinking and talking about memories and things we did or said. But fuck, it's so depressingly stagnant in these parts. I get so fucking lonely that I drive down all these roads that I've never been on but I always end up on some junction that leads to somewhere else that I know.
I've walked across town twice now in a few weeks, holding my trousers up from the back with my left hand, clutching the denim and always cursing myself for not owning a belt anymore. I see so many people that I recognise but can't and have never brought myself to speak to. I know better than to let myself fall back into this loop of forgetting and then remembering and feeling unhappy again, but it happens and it happens and I'm not really comfortable anywhere with anything or anyone anymore. Was I ever?
It's like I keep waking up on the same day, and it's replaying itself over and over like a scratched record, only nobody's going to fix it up so that things can move forward again. It's always this same damn bed in this same old messy room that I begin to tidy but never really finish. Travelling to the same supermarket every fucking day for bread or milk or peace of mind and never having anybody to call, through my own fault. But Jesus Christ, I get so frustrated with company where we ask over and over how he is or how she is or how this is or how that is and we always answer the same. Fine. Okay. Grand.
I don't care much for my best friends anymore, what does that say about me? There's nothing wrong with these people, not a thing, but I sigh when they come over and I wish they'd just go home and leave me be.
My boyfriend joked a few nights ago, begged me to not become a hermit and we were both laughing but maybe he's serious, maybe that's the thing, maybe he just wants to look after me because I'm stuck and need a boost. Two and a half years though, love, haven't you gotten tired of it yet?
I sit in the car with my mother and she's such a stranger, she talks about things that I can't begin to care for, lacing them with her own opinions and morals and my stomach feels sick knowing that these thoughts can come from a brain fuelled with my own blood. I sit and say as little as possible, and I'm even afraid to turn up the music because she'll be sarcastic and say "That's a lovely song", and it'll break my heart just a little bit because I'll say the same thing, only I'll really mean it. I'm too shy around her to just sing along and laugh and tell her to shut the fuck up.
Our exhibition in school is beginning on Monday evening and she'll be there, and so will my father and they won't even feign any pride you know. Neither will I. There'll be others there too, there because they've been asked and not because they want to be and it'll make me feel tired and awkward and ready to go anywhere, anywhere but here.
Basically, I'm frustrated at myself for never feeling comfortable in any one singular moment, for always wanting the next thing or the next thing in the hopes that I'll find comfort in continuity or repetitive tasks.
I haven't made a memory in years.

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