The sky is a watercolour dark blue, seeping leaking ink, getting darker, and birds or leaves dive past the window, I can't tell which.

I was sort of sad because it was a good day. It's not nice to see your face fall with disappointment all over again.

Once I was watching a programme on tv and a man committed suicide, put a gun to his head. You didn't see much at all but I still burst into tears, suddenly out of nowhere and my mum had to comfort me although she didn't know what was going on. She looks at me sometimes as if to ask me, I look back to say, you're asking me?

I was always good at fooling people into thinking I'm doing work. Scribble scribble scribble, I'm actually writing my diary in class, or what's happening outside the window, or writing about other people. I can't give a lucid account of anything.

scribble, really I couldn't care less about Ian McEwan, even though I should, I want to hear more about Ibsen and Chekov though, please. It's odd, I'm the only person who likes A1. We sit in class and I tell everyone that really, I haven't got any ambitions, and really, I don't know what I want to do. I know what I like, but since when has that ever benifitted anyone? I'm annoyed with people like me because we make pretensions to know better than most people, and pretend to know what we're talking about when actually we haven't got a clue. I'd like to have one. I think I may go about finding it. At least I've begun to admit it.
It is tiresome, I wish she wouldn't do that, my mother. It is tiresome. People are idiots, but we don't realise it, we're too self important. All I have to do now, is stop caring, like everyone else.

I'm too self-indulgent. I've used up my goes.

Feeling:
Listening to:
Pretending:

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