I am…Melancholily Assertive, Tied Enduringly with Rubies...In A Lesser Ideal, Sick with Tonic, Intruding social Classes.

Depression seeps in and out, like waves. I am utterly convinced that my mother doesn't accept me, and every rare, lazy action she conquers is an attempt to gain my father's approval. In that sense, when I grew tired of their game, she comfortingly approached me in what I think was more of a kind act in the sake of my father.

My room is a mess. I can never keep it cleaned. Such a pig.

Makeup still holds its grasp on every little cell or atom of whatever mental self confidence I lack, and I still believe I do need help in this area. However, I am sure I am fortunate enough to not start the beginnings of BDD.

My decision to ignore all party kids, ghetto kids, wannabe stoners, and rich, over privledged social junkies is starting to crack, as I can't avoid them forever. Whatever slutty popularity I had Freshman year has shrunk into a beautiful solace of nerdom and spirituality.

My 17th birthday is in 8 days. I find it hard to imagine I made this account…what, 4 years ago? 5? 4. Back in the days of Beyonce's B-Day album, of anime, of cutting, photography, black skinny jeans, clothes from Harajuku, Freewebs. The dawn of dinosaurs, as we crawl around Myspace and Youtube, trying to find ourselves in such a misunderstanding and distrusting world.

The best I can do is be happy with what I have.

But I am so unhappy. I am so unhappy. Something is wrong.

Suicide enters my mind more often.

But, c'est la vie. Je dois aimer le vie. As long as the clocks keep ticking, I don't see a point in wasting time sulking.

Someday, repetition will get to me, melt into my mind, and I will be happy simply because I've said so. I am happy. I will ignore unhappiness. And I will be happy.

Still so young. This blog post has no point.