i'm sitting here with puffy, watery eyes and legs crossed as though they've been crossed for ages and i'm peering out of dirty glasses that sit just barely on the end of my nose. i cough every thirty seconds or so and my mouth is kind of lopsided because i have a habit of chewing my lip or something when i'm thinking. my hands and shoulders--scratch that; all of my joints and muscles are sore. i'm half way sick and half way cynical, here we go again!

i feel like i'm full of intuition and brilliant deductions, like if i started a novel today it could be the absolute living end because i'm such a goddamned ironic genius-hero. but the truth--i know that i'm really just full of crap, shallow and callow like everybody else. i want to marry holden caulfield, and i want to watch london bridge burn down.