I badly need to live up to my own expectations.

Nobody will believe this, but I write to disappear into someone else's world. It's working too well now, though; I looked in the mirror last night and didn't recognize myself.

Scary, isn't it. I don't show people my poems sometimes because I feel they aren't me, but it's getting better now. Or maybe I'm just more thickskinned.

First my prose made me feel like puking, and now my poetry's starting to feel that way too.

I'm incoherent, but whatever.

Lit quiz tomorrow, and I feel so slack compared to everyone else. Chicken essence and a good dose of studying are what I need, like, now. Seeing as New Moon got heartlessly kidnapped from me today. D: