I am scared to put words on the wall, because I grow weary of letters. Hate being told what to do. I had �wake up, sunshine� on my window in the winter, but after a week, I wanted to scream.

I am scared to put paint on the wall. Of not rolling the foam brushes correctly, of putting too much paint in one place, clumped and murky. Then everytime I saw that clump of paint I would regret, regret, regret. It�d be everything I could see about that wall. Talk about the forest and the trees.

I am troubled with seeing the good, but self-proclaimed at finding the silver lining in any situation outside myself. This is probably annoying.

I am sick of dressing up for other women. I need to be around men. I barely speak to any. The gays do not count.

I can�t order anything from Amazon, because I have ten million items in my shopping cart. This is why I cannot have nice things.

I make people laugh. And I am serious, but love to be silly. A rephrase: if I feel like I can be myself, be silly around you, I might love you. One of my goals is to be able to be the person I am with my best friend, to everyone. I am working on it. I am working on what makes me happy.

I have some really amazing friends. I like it when people lean on me when they are sad. I like talking long walks around this magical city, everything reminding me of something else. Sometimes it reminds me of this moment.

I am strong. I don�t let other people fuck with me. When people underestimate me, they soon realize their mistake.

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