diana (me) -- this website's owner/operator; 15/f


patsy -- poet and dreamer; 16/f


meredith -- humorist and saint; 16/f


him -- hunter and listener; 16/m


'fred' -- counselor and taxi; 17/m




08:43;   I got my permit yesterday. I got a score of 90 on the signs, 85 on traffic rules. Everytime I got one wrong, the old thing clicked louder than the other times. The whole test is on a "computer" (as my mom put it), which is really just a projection. You push 1, 2, 3 or 4 (It's multiple choice.) and then SCORE. I think I got a total of four wrong. Maybe five. That close to failing it. That would've been an embarrassment. The picture on it isn't that gorgeous, either. I have this stuck up, "I'm-about-to-sneeze" action going on with my face. They were just like, "Stand, look, smile, done." Next year's will be better. I'll let them get my "good" side. My nose looks really straight, my mouth is curved strangly that makes the left side of my face seem... crushed. My forehead's greasy. And my hair's strewn all over my shoulders. Mom and I took a guess on height and weight -- 5'6, 115 pounds.


20:30;   I was everything and anything it was supposed to be. Passion, passionless, love, hate, everything and anything.... I loved every moment, every word, every character, every setting, every perspective of it. Evened out, perfect.
I just saw American Beauty. It was excellent, I didn't cry like everyone else did. I never really cry in movies, except for in Titanic. But it was everything and anything, and I loved it.
Right now, I'm recooperating by listening to Sleater-Kinney. I feel ashamed for putting those three dotted lines on my wrist during math class. Nothing would've happened. I draw dotted lines on my left wrist often, usually no effect to me. I don't go home and "cut on the dotted line". He watched me draw the dots. He didn't stop me. He just looked with tears in his eyes. He's scared of what I will do. He should know that I don't kill myself anymore. I don't try to do it anymore, I just make terrible threats and bitches. I call Him when I am holding the knife in my hand and threatening to end it. I show Him my anorexia's showing. I recently started eating a bit more lately. No big thing. My ribs still show. My chest looks bigger with a thinner stomach. When I was 13 - about to turn 14 - I thought anorexia was "cool" and "hip". I thought there were benefits to skip menstrual cycles. Of course my anorexia ways were never that harsh, I ate. I always ate. I have a stomach. Still do. I eat now, though. No harm now. Of course not.
Funny. I come on here to tell you about American Beauty, and I lead into suicide. How weird.

18:10;   For nearly the third time this week, we are not all sitting down together for dinner. I hate that.

15:58;   Mr. Freeman turns off the [pottery] wheel and grabs a piece of chalk without washing his hands. "Soul," he writes on the board. The clay streaks the word like dried blood. "This is where you can find your soul, if you dare. When you can touch that part of you that you've never dared look at before. Do not come here and ask me to show you how to draw a face. Ask me to help you find the wind."
- Page 10, Speak (Laurie Halse Anderson, 1999)

15:28;   Someone said today that my writing skills were (in basic terms) choppy, unbalanced, and not understood. Of course, this is the type of person that draws smiley faces on notes. Go figure.


21:43;   I went out to buy a Chemical Brothers CD (Any one of them... I love the way they did the X-Files theme song for the movie.), and I returned with All Hands on the Bad One, which is a fabulous CD done by Sleater-Kinney. With a few minor songs, the CD is awesome. Highly recommended. (Note: Since there are no "cool" music places near here, I had to resort to going to Wal*Mart to buy the CD. Chemical Brothers would've been elsewhere, I'm sure.)

18:01;   Jish forced me to, I swear. (I'm joking with you, ha ha ha... yeah, I'm so cool to be in a webring.)

15:26;   There's this group of people on my bus that are really tight. We're talking, tight. We all sleep on the bus, resting our heads on another, hugging the others as we get off, wishing the leavers a good day. It's a high-spirited surrounding. There's probably five or six of us that are in this tight group. We don't really talk much, we just sit there and listen to our Beatles tapes or write stories or poetry. I hate being one of the last of the group to get off the bus... really, I do.

06:34;   Take these broken wings and learn to fly.
- Beatles, "Blackbird" (Full Lyrics)
My site choice of the moment: Emode tests.

06:03;   Send all complaints here, please.


16:04;   I remember watching this tv show when I was younger, called "Night Court". I'm re-watching an episode on A&E, and it's the last episode. Everyone's leaving. Christine's leaving, Dan's leaving, Bull's leaving. Judge Stone was offered another job, which he didn't take... it's a really sad episode. My dad and brother have just been sitting here watching it in silence... it's quite fascinating.
I drank Jones Soda - "Pineapple Upside Down Soda" - today. Not only was it the best soda I've ever had, but the covers of it are kick-ass. I really like their concepts. Ahhh... how addictive.


19:20;   Me- "You did nothing wrong."
Him- "Well, then what was wrong?"
Me- "Nothing. Ahh... you're tired. I'm tired."
Him- "Yeah."
Me- "So, we can't really argue much because we're both tired. Or else we'll say something we'll regret."
Him- "Maybe it's something that needs to be said."

15:27;   I agree with what Natalie is saying about colors. A few friends and I discussed this topic today, actually.

06:57;   You Piece It Together (Patsy Nova)
Im turned away from your door,
you dont want me anymore.
No, you dont want me anymore.
I try to piece it all together
youre not there to help.
I try to make the bad times better
all you can think of is yourself.
You left me standing in the
cold, dark rain.
Hazy days dont know nobody.
You stand there ignoring the pain
while I waste away.
Youll never see anybody.
I try to piece it all together
youre not there to help.
I try to make the bad times better
all you can do is think of yourself.
You walked away,
I spend my time alone.
Who cares anyway?
Our relationship is blown.
You can have it all,
let yourself prove;
you were my wonderwall.
What happened to you?
I used to piece it all together
I didnt get anywhere.
I used to make the bad times better
now its not worth the care.
I used to piece it all together,
now I leave it all to you.
Why dont you make it better?
Im dumping this one on you.....

(Submit poetry)

06:40;   Her face was covered by her anorexia-thinned arms. Her voice, muffled to cover up her tears. She needed him, but he didn't seem to need her.
She whispered, begging, "Donít leave me, donít hang up the phone." Alas, the click of the other end verified it. Louder, she repeated. And when she got the operatorís voice a few seconds later, she screamed it. "Donít leave me, donít hang up the phone."
None the less, she did not get much sleep that night.


20:42;   if thine right eye offend thee, pluck it out - Page 167, Carrie (Stephen King, 1974)

20:22;   You say you want a revolution
Well, you know
We all want to change the world.
Tou tell me that itís evolution,
Well, you know
We all want to change the world.

- Beatles, "Revolution" (Full Lyrics)

19:57;   Why is it that I can never come to think of names for my characters? I seem to fall in love with a name - any name - and then instants later... poof, I don't love it anymore. It's quite odd. That's probably why my characters are known by He, She, Him, Her, etc. No names, I guess... probably because it's best to remain nameless.
The thoughts are usually what I am thinking at the time that I write them. I am usually not sharing the feelings that the characters are playing. I'll try to explain more about myself at a later time, I guess. It's not important at the moment.

17:48;   Her fingers weaved through her long dark hair. The hair's tips lightly pressed against her soft breasts. She couldn't stare at her breasts. It was unruly. But she wanted to... oh, how she wanted to. The music blared loudly from the tv. It was her inspiration. Her hands cupped over her breasts, her fingers swirling around the coffee-colored nipples. Soft. She waited for sensation. But none never came.
She laid down on the bed, nude, open, waiting. Nothing.

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