Arg.
Arg.
Arg.
Arg.
Next time I decide to be human, remind me it's not worth it. Remind me that after a whole fourteen years of living, I should know by now that it sucks and I should stop trying.
Ok, good.
I should accept it, I need to accept it, I will accept it, eventually.
I should meet more people, I need to meet more people, I will meet more people, eventually.
Better people, people who won't let me down, again and again.

I was just telling my friend Scott (the only person who probably will read this, ha) about how Will crushed my face/neck area the other day with his boot. Short story shorter, I challenged him to a duel, he won.

Anyway, thats the literal crushed feeling. Mostly, I am in a constant state of the figurative. Disapointments, lame crushes on lamer people (who turn out to have met a girl he likes better. WHOOP!), the constant urge to die.
No, not suicide.
Just to die, in an accident.
That way my lazy ass doesn't have to do any work.
It's not like I ever achieve my goals anyway.

HAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHA I SUCK!


PS: I can make this face in real life: :C

crushed

For those who can only read in english, spanish, or something else that involves the latin alphabet, that says LEET MASTER.
Well, actually, "1337" is the only way to spell "1337". It's just not right to write it out phonetically.

My fascination with 1337 is not the point of this journal, blog, thing.
I guess it really doesn't have a point.
But does life? More specifically, does my life?
Sure, I may sound like any other, whiny teenage girl. Or boy. And not to sound cliche, but whatever.
Just, whatever. That's pretty much how I look at my life. It's just all one big whatever of color and sounds and smells. I've gotten to the point where I don't care, be it a death or a victory, i couldn't tell you which would mean more to me. 
Keep in mind, I'm not apathetic. Is that the right word? I think so. That's the one that starts off the Emo Song, right?
Dear Diary, mood: apathetic.
You know, my first aid course book told me that being apathetic is the last stage of shock, the victim is a goner at that point. Not to imply that I want to die. Save that for when I accidentally live past 35. (This is just a survival tactic, I wish not to see the world get annhialated by its inhabitants.)

I guess I'm only writing so kids can laugh at me, or maybe even laugh because, finally, someone feels the same way as they do.
Again, whatever.

Pieces,
1!~|)54`/ (Lindsay)

pensive