In conclusion, I run away from everything.

I'm not dead. I'm sitting around waiting for something to happen that isn't the hormone-drunk rambling of a teenage loner who isn't pregnant, because even that would be a turn up for the book right about now.

I don't do much. I wake up, walk to school, trip through lessons, sit through free periods, go home, shower, do homework, read blogs, go to bed. Wash, rinse, repeat. Five days a week.

I've got nothing to say, or do, or write. I come home tired and aching and drained and go through the motions.

It's not that I don't have tons of ideas. I want to write about things like why I can't make eye contact with people, or why I act like a steroid-fueled fucknut at every chance I get, but every time I sit down to type stuff up something else comes up.

And also I feel like I'm dragging on every one's mood and pace n' shit. People have stuff going on in their lives that make them happy or sad or angry but they blog about it and it's exciting to read and you can dwell on it later, or people are happy but have nothing going on in their lives, but you can still tell they're happy and that's good.

I'm neither happy nor living a shiny happy life right now, and I feel like I'm disappointing everyone, even though 'everyone' is a pretty small number (FYI I love you all, you smart, sexual people).

So I'm pulling out (that's what he said?) until I can get my butt in gear and pull myself together a bit.

And then I'll be back, baby. Possibly with cookies.