My hair matches my boots.

Need to clean room. It looks like a place where bad things go to die.

Someone says to you "Hey you coming or not?" You say, "No, I'm feeling a little sick." And she says "Oh yeah you do look awful!"

But you're not even that sick. Just a little nauseated.

In fact, you were lying because you just didn't want to go to class.

It's awkward, you know. And hurtful.

I blame the wind for making my hair all tornado like and disproportionate.

I've been thinking a lot about it, and I decided The Beatles' version of Baby, It's You is much better than the Carpenter's.

There, that's decided.

I hate being asthmatic. It's really sad.

I might die from it. That's sad.

Sigh. I want to go sleep now and feel all pitiful and sorry for my health and imagine being hugged by a tall fat fuzzy siberian husky that walks on two legs and smokes a cinnamon scented cigar.