So I'm watching The Truth About Cats and Dogs last night, 2am and I'm thinking that... this movie is my life. I am the really smart funny girl who guys never notice or just want to be friends with. I am the person who will live alone with a dog, playing a violin and reading Simone de Bauvier and John Paul Satre to keep myself company.

Art imitates life.

But only to a certain extent.

Oh, I don't know. Most of the time I don't care about these things anymore. It's not as though I'm walking around bemoaning my loveless existence, but you know, every now and then. It just feels like more because I write about it. I hardly ever feel a need to communicate when I'm up.

I have this really ugly blotchy spot thingie on my skin. Ugh. I've been walking around with my hair over one half of my face because it feels as large as Mars on my face. What a terrible feeling that is. I feel like I should hang a sign around my neck.. Ugliest Woman Ever.

Truth of the matter is some things come to easy to me and most things don't and I'm stuck in the middle, with a see-saw for a chair. Part of me is longing to be level and another part of me is longing for it never to stop in one place.

It's strange.

Honesty breaks really hard some times. Even if it's only a truth that I understand.