i'll write you a novel.

the only thing to do these days, it seems, is to spend time with myself. boyfriend - too busy. friends - don't really have any. family - live with them (and you know how that goes). i sit in my room day after day, walk around the house sulking, no answer form the outside world except a bird chirp and the occasional text that is received on a weekly basis. how can i bring excitement and energy back into my life? how do i let go of the disappointment and anguish?

all of this time spent alone scares me a little. it brings out a side of me that i don't like to face. maybe i am a little crazy. i have all of this time to think, and thinking is exactly what i do. i overanalyze every bit about you. i overanalyze the things you say and do. i overanalyze my life and how i feel as if i am getting no where. i overanalyze the fact that i am alone. that even if i wanted to go out and participate in debauchery i have no where to go and no one to go with.

my life revolves around two, sometimes three, short-lived days. friday. saturday. occasionally sunday. every weekend it's the same routine. i can't complain about this because it is my life and i do with it what i please.

i want to move again. i want to start over. a new life, perhaps a new identity. i would still be myself, don't get me wrong, but i'd like to be a whole new person at the same time. an improved version of myself. someone people will get along with. someone who is intriguing. all of this will have to wait because i am still not ready.