Fact: My psychiatrist is a G.

just got home from what was the longest 40 minutes of my life.
"so how has it been since we put you on the new medication? any side effects? still having trouble sleeping? well you could try this. oh by the way, how's your brother doing?" i dont know. i guess he's doing fine. maybe you should stop talking so i can go home and find out. whatever. i guess all he's trying to do is help. but don't say, "how do you feel deep down inside?" what? do you want me to get all deep and poetic on you? the only real emotion you're going to see from me is what's written in this journal. unless you come and find me at a fall out boy show. apparently those things are real tear-jerkers. i know this from experience(s).

if its not obvious yet, i'm having a pretty bad day.
i've had a horrible headache all day.
i feel like i'm going to die.
i got two hours of sleep last night.
-smacks insomnia in the face-
"fuck you, too."
people in school are being bitches.
obviously i'm not worth anyones time.
havent i said that before?
probably. i tend to repeat myself often.
i vary, very often.
"who are your heroes?"
"who rows?"
you never stopped to care.
until the sun set on your front door
and told you stories you'd probably heard before.
but you couldn't remember them.
because they never mattered.
they didnt make themselves known.
so those stories go unheard and die young.
was it worth the effort and five minutes of your night?
did i waste your time?
because if i did...
i'm not sorry.