Whatever good left once died

February 8th, 2009.

hi, um, whatever, so, yeah.

I guess that sounds enough of what I'd be saying right about now, as of the writing.

But you know. It's kind of sad. And kind of nice. And pretty.
I don't know if I could handle this every day. I don't think I could.
I start to fall apart after a couple of cigarettes, kid, I'm sorry.
Fuck, I don't know. I guess this is my innate sense of self-awareness telling me
"Hey, J--, it's not really you saying this."
or if it's saying something like
"Hey, just fucking tell her you love her."
but then I don't. Because then I feel like it's just the drugs talking, stalking.
And like, as tiedyeheadbandwearingmotherfuckersittingonafieldwithacousticguitar as it sounds,
I really do love you.
There was a conscious attempt at making this even a little bit more meaningful.
I ignored it (which I of course doubt).
But honestly, I don't know if I could take anything much more meaningful than saying
I love you, D-- M--.