There are 14,400,000 search responses on Google for the phrase "life sucks". Want to know why? Because it does. A lot.
It does me no good to rant here, solidifying my thoughts, making them more terrible and pronounced, but I will regardless, because I am a masochist.

Pinching myself, running my hands through my hair, a heavy, sick sigh.

A flush to my face, voices from behind a closed door muffled like underwater. The night is early, and the light from the lamps is weak, weak enough to spill over the wall in a soft circle and disappear.

The lights from the airport, gold and green and white, blended into the dark, and her head pressing against the backseat lolled back and forth, eyes closed, breaths whining through a chest rising and falling.

Consumed with guilt. Hate the uncertainty and, in a very vain kind of way, hate it when people are mad at me. I feel so disappointed in myself that I have given cause for someone to be angry at me.

A terrible, near certainty that I am far more fond of him than he of me. Isn't that always the way, though - always.

Late at night. Rushing of water from the shower, the babble of voices from the TV screen. Where do I stand in life, really, what is this other than some kind of hesitation before birth? Some kind of pause, inhalation of breath, before a final plunge?

I feel distinctly confused, perpetually trying to catch up, like a winded sprinter just behind another runner, pounding his feet on the asphalt, straining to reach a goal but missing, missing very nearly. I feel as if I am lacking something, an indefinable chunk that is still dormant within me, alive and pulsing in others.

I wander through a world of grey- flat, static, filled with stagnant water, with the specters of people rushing by with bowed heads and clasped hands.

How unbearable so many thoughts are to me.

Printing math requirements.

The hum of the printer, monotonous, disturbing the relative silence of quickly closing doors, soft rustling of paper, rush of cars outside my window.

The rain is pounding on the windowsill.

I have a vague desire to go out tonight, but with who?

College is not quite what I expected. I imagine it would be better...never mind. It's not prudent to forever fantasize.

My locket clicks between my fingers, open and closed, small like a hinged egg. The clock on the nightstand seems to stare unfeelingly away as it ticks, ticks away inescapable seconds and minutes and hours.

There are books piled eveywhere, some that I have not yet finished. It is too cold, too cold for the warm, wet night.

I lie in bed and wish I had a warm body to curl next to.