I feel dead inside. I’ve felt this way for a few weeks now though. I wonder what it is.

I wish someone would pick me up and carry me to bed when I’m too tired to do it myself. I remember loving that as a child.

I need some physical contact with someone. Just a hug, even.

For the first time in a while, I am crying. It is not because of you though. I’m learning too much about myself.

I think my biggest complaint about life is that I will never get another chance or be anything different. I will not be a child again. I will not run through the jungle as a leopard or fly like a bird. I will never get a second chance or a way to fix mistakes or make up for lost time or do something differently.

I loathe reality.

I’m too picky about people, places, things, or ideas that I find acceptable.

I wish I was more tolerant. I wish I was happier tonight than I am.