I am not ashamed to say that I am having trouble concentrating.
I am unsure how I will manage to write an essay on a script I've hardly read, let alone take eight pages to dissect it.
I may easily sum it up here for you.
The Death Of A Salesman: He looses his shit and dies. V. depressing.
How long has it been since I have written here, lovelies? How much has happened since then.
My life feels as if it has been wrenched from beneath me, and however hard it was to stand again, I made sure to do so quickly.
I cannot show weakness.
I who scorns heartbreak, should not show it's effect on me.
Yet, months later, I am still so broken. Every remembrance of The Bastard makes me sick. A smell. A phrase. Chipotle.
When I am free of school I will explain better. Or not. I don't know. My moods are volatile and attention sometimes flighty.
I will try and write here once a week, though that may be difficult during the month of June.
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