YOU'RE ACTING LIKE A LUNATIC.

My first order of business is to figger out why the tabs at the top of the page that say things like "Create a Blog" or "Sign In" or "Create a Post" are in Swedish.

My second order of business is to congratulate anybody who has read this or is reading this or ever will read this on any awards they won at the Young Authors' Conference. Good on you, folks.

My third order of business is to describe. What I am about to describe is ironic, to me. Last night, I was thinking to myself, "Wow. I think I'm totally over everything. It's been so long since I cut, or cried to myself for no reason at all, or stayed awake all night with my mouth hanging open, staring at the ceiling, feeling nothing. Or felt overwhelmed with depression. Or, you know, had any reason to think I'm bipolar. It must have just been a weird time of my life." And then my mind and body responded this afternoon, "GUESS AGAIN, MOTHERFUCKER!!!"

So. I spent three hours today crying AND I DON'T KNOW WHY. The littlest thing set me off. I was getting ready to go to the art show in the Fire Island lighthouse (which I ended up skipping, unfortunately), and I've been saying this a lot lately, but, really, I have no clothes to wear. I don't look good in anything I have. I wear the same things over and over. I've lost interest in my clothes, and recently I've really wanted to be more creative. It seems the harder I try, the less creative I am. So I was getting ready to go, I had no clothes, my hair looked TERRIBLE, Steve was in the downstairs bathroom so I couldn't get a nail clipper, Mom was in the upstairs bathroom so I could do my hair and maybe boost my self-esteem. So I started getting frusterated, a little bit.

And then I cryed. For three hours. And gave myself a migraine. And envied Donnie Darko, who had pills to control his fucked-up-ed-ness.

And Mom, of course, flipped a shit. She's like, "Tell me what's wrong. (I told her I didn't know, nothing was wrong, because I didn't, and nothing was.) Oh, it's Number Two (she numbers my moods, the fucking bitch). Number Two without any warning. You're such a lunatic. You're such a freak. If you have no idea why you're so upset, we have to go get emergency help."

Her calling me a lunatic and a freak made me feel really awesome. It helped so much. More than fucking Prozac.

Yeah. I guessed again, motherfucker.

This sucks. Again.

FUCK.