...when I'm inexplicably happy, find my living room too small to dance around as much as I want to. And that despite wanting to single-handedly strangle every single child in my seventh grade. Well, not every one, there was the odd one who didn't deserve my rage. Thinking of it gets me down, though, so let's leave it. Let me rather think of my eleventh grade: my ... what are they to me? I kinda love them, I do. They're smarter than others, they're so wonderfully normal kids, they're, well, just awesome, I guess. Sometimes I think I never really got over my first boyfriend, hence I like guys that age. Nah, quite unrealistic. I just like the fact that they are still kind of innocent and charming. They're not charming in order to kiss up to somebody or to get laid. Well, who knows. Anyway, not towards me. They still think they can rule the world. Or change it. Or that it's worth seeing all the world, learning a lot about it. Ah, it would have been a lovely age if I had been like that at 17. Instead I couldn't wait to get back into my hole after having tentatively sneaked a peek. Why be lively and attractive if you can suffer from your sensitivity? Well, no, I'm not putting myself down, but sometimes it seems I should have been at 17 as I am now. I wish that I knew what I know now when I was younger. Ah, everyone's fate. The sad thing 'bout experience is by the time you got it it's all you've got. Oh, wise Tim Rice (it was him, wasn't it?).

Come to think of it, maybe it's a hormone thing. (No, no guy anywhere in sight, not even in my yearning, my dreams, my hopes. God, how good!!) Or it's Friday around the corner.