There isn't anything that is particularly wrong and the things that are wrong aren't particularly worse today. But somehow I'm feeling super blah. It must be all that crap blowing up inside of me- the stuff that I can't write or talk about because it actually means something to me. If I share everything, I'll have nothing left for myself. I guess you could say I'm an emotion hoard. I'm like that because if you don't have a lot of something, you have to hoard it or risk losing it completely. Feeling this way makes me hate myself because I have a good life. I like to imagine what it's like to not be me. I used do this when I was driving home at 3 or 4 am. I see a young girl at the bus stop. I want to roll down the window and say to her: Where are you going? Where are you coming from? Who left you here? Did someone hurt you? Why do you look so sad? What are you thinking about, standing there so quietly? Are you lonely? Can you take me to where ever you're going? I'm sure your life is much more interesting than mine. I know you can still feel because I can see it in your eyes and that makes you better off than me.

I want to beg her to take me away because I don't want to be here either.

But I never do. I just drive away and by the next morning her face is just a blur to me. After all, girls standing at the bus stop in the morning are just a dime a dozen in this city. Then again, girls who like to dream away their lives aren't worth much either.