The door goes bang bang.

I'm not sure if this is real or if I'm so exhausted that I'm confusing fear with the truth, but it feels like all the time I have been given to spend with you will only be the longest goodbye I've ever said.

If it's real, then damn my bad luck.
If it's not, then I need sleeping pills/alcohol/hypnotism/someone to knock me unconcious.



Sometimes I feel like I'm wearing someone else's face that doesn't really match all the fucked up things swimming around in my head.
Or I'm thinking someone else's fucked up things.

Either way I need sleeping pills/alcohol/hypnotism/someone to knock me unconcious.

Scratch that, I need a piano and Tom DeLonge.



I don't understand why clowns exist. They're not funny or cute.
In fact, I'm going to Wikipedia it right after I post this.

Never will I make nice with a clown. My fear is keeping me sane.

How do you expect me to trust someone who wears excessive face make up and ugly clothes and has an eerie and offensive laughter and ISN'T FUNNY/JOYFUL AT ALL?

John Wayne Gacy anyone?

ika.

Current mood: tired.
Listening to: Chasing Cars.