There is only one I wll love unconditionally. He is Bramwell. He has brown hair, brown eyes, and ocer the years his nose has been completely worn off. Concidering it was sewn on, that's mighty impressive. Bramwell is my constant, a part of me- anyone who knows me well knows him, and recognises him on sight. And soon, He too will be turning 18. In two days, I will be legal to drink, vote, smoke and join the army. I might concider doing one or two of them.

Either I'm reverting to my pre-teen seriously over-sensitive state, or I'm PMSing something chronic this week. Knowing me, it's a bit of both. I've snapped at my brother and mother, and neither of them listened to me when I tried to tell them to leave me alone. So I started crying. But then Rove started, and that made me happier. I was already adgitated from being on the computer and having to deal with the idea that ANOTHER friend might decline to come to my 18th. I've been crying so much lately that even I want to slap myself and tell me to be a man. Or woman, whatever. It's not alltogether out of character, but I'm disgusted by it. I also rather wish I'd shouted at them or something. At least then they might have got it. No one actually listens to me unless I shout. Then they have to pay attention, because I have my fathers shout. I've heard him shout once, and I was so shocked I didn't know what to do. I haven't heard it since, but it's loud and scratchy and inherantly pissed off. Of course, I add my own dying crow to the mix...

Enough about my voice, yes? Perhaps more about my Bramwell? No?

Well then, I have nothing more to say to you. If I'm not dog fodder by then, I shall write later.

"When I'm tired and thinking cold, I hide in my musinc, forget the day..."
~More than a feeling.
- posted by Washi @ 8:17 pm