How depressed I am..All my dreams reside in my journal. Dreams that would make my life worthwhile. And I title my journals, mind you. You know what this particular journal it in? The (YES, Im serious!) Journal of Impossible Things. Everything I've ever wanted, needed, actually, reside there. My life is a cold and cruel existence, death being not an option because Im not easy to kill. AT ALL. JOURNAL OF IMPOSSIBLE THINGS. *end capsabuse* My whole life revolves around a fictional Doctor who is my father, and I'm an irken/timelady 'all of both at once' werewolf thingy. I mean, I know Im a werewolf, but a year ago a friend shoved it into me, albeit for a month or two, to put being a werweolf in there. In pen, and now my faith in even that is shaking. I might even end up putting my band in there seeing as we:
1: couldnt possibly get intruments.
2: Cant think of or get decent songs.
Why cant I be easy to kill like other people, with soft twinky- like skin that can end it, not make you writhe in pain, and pull it out and patch it up and go on with life, and thats an estimate. Could be worse, but my innate knowledge lacks that information. So...Why cant I just pass on now? Oh, I dunno...line of Bad Wolves will end? Cat will beat the carp out of me in heaven when she reaches it there? Besides, she's shoved that down my throat, and im athiest. But she's really nice so I only say it to humor her. GAH, Im so foolish/stupid/crazy/pathetic....





















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