i must be doomed to fail here. i can't even keep up with a journal, me who loves to introspect. i will say this: i hate my english class. it's everything smith supposedly wasn't. i like the smell of the laundry room, disgusting as it is. most likely i'll be the one to clean it, if they should make me a housekeeper. and i'll 'suffer their shit with a smile,' thinking 'bitches' but letting it happen nonetheless. strange that it's always 'they.' the man isn't keeping me down, it's 'they,' a half-imagined group of skinny white-gold princesses jeering through ultra-brite teeth.

i could write the secrets of the universe in here and no one would be the wiser.


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