I hate people. A lot. No really. They're so dramatic about their own lives and when they're in need everyone must console them. But if you happen to be the one who is usually doing consoling, when it's your turn to be consoled, in a moment of drama, passion, whatever it may be, they turn on you. You're scum, there must be something wrong with you, you need to stop whining and get on with your life.
Hypocrites.

If I'm angry, I'm angry. Deal with it. If I'm sad, or god forbid, depressed, let me have it. Maybe try returning the favor?

August.

I hate it, this month. August is so dead, so tiresome with it's heat and humidity! There are no flowers popping from every direction like there are in spring. No juicy, sweetest-of-the-sweet fruits to bite into like the early summer months. All you get is sweat and the confidence to sleep in the nude.
The one good thing about August, is the anticipation of September. The beginning of fall. Oh cool, crisp, melancholy little season.

Precisley.

“I froze before the keyboard. I couldn’t think of a damn thing to say. No poems, no prose, no words. The pain cannot even be alchemized into art, into words, into something you can chalk up to an interesting experience because the pain itself, its intensity, is so great that it has woven itself into your system so deeply that there is no way to objectify it or push it outside or find its beauty within.”

- Elizabeth Wurtzel

Conjuring romantic fantasies.

I should have been born an aristocrat in the Edwardian period, who escapes to the country as soon as the summer starts. With trunks full of white lace dresses, straw hats, and silk ribbons to tie back my hair. I would swim in the giant fountains to keep cool, and pick wildflowers behind the old manor. Drink earl grey tea in the morning with toast and jam; fruits and lemon flavoured water in the afternoon. I would read books until my eyes were cross and take naps before supper.

In the heat of summer, I go where the wildflowers grow. by wolfsmilk featuring Stella McCartney clothing

Remind me to read:

'Tipping The Velvet'

'American Gods'

'The Tempest'

'One Hundred Years of Solitude'

'The Secret Garden'

'The Portrait of a Lady'

'Sexing The Cherry'

Also, I have a rash on my foot and it is driving me crazy. I think I may have stepped in some poison oak walking through the park on the way to work the other day. No more scenic roots for me. :[

Oh but all I do is watch TV, A programme I want to, But I never see it, Cos I'm thinking about you.

cleanliness and reflections on mushy gushy love stuff.

I really hate not waking up to him every morning. I remember him stealing kisses from me, thinking I was still fully asleep.