"Oh! Nice and long!"

So she exclaimed, before she started snipping. My hairdresser then went on to shampoo, cut, and praise my hair. You know - the usuals. She said my hair was soft like "silk", and so when I came home, I ran my hand through it, but I still don't think so. You would also be glad to know she talked me out of a complete hair overhaul i.e. chopping more than half my locks off. So here I sit, with only slighty shorter hair I still need to get used to, with a Halzelnut latte gorging on 250grams of Famous Amos cookies. Man, I need to get over myself! Center Stage and the suicide scene is still haunting my head; what happens when you find the catalyst you were always looking for, that surge of courage you always needed? Would you do it? Would you kill yourself, for whatever reason? Would you plan it, or would you do it in the spur of the moment? This will be no ordinary moment, because this moment will immortalize itself as your moment. Oh morbid thoughts - away! If only my memory of Plath and her depressing, sullen works can be erased...

Dying

Is an art, like everything else.

I do it exceptionally well.



I do it so it feels like hell.

I do it so it feels real.

I guess you could say I've a call.

Anyways, speaking of pain and suffering, I am about to experience my first threading session. Oh my obsession with perfect eyebrows brings me far!


Collapsing much softer, yet falling always hurts.