"You're too tired to be in love."
I honestly sometimes think that my brain is controlled by a crazed German neurologist, tampering and tinkering with my emotions and thoughts to experiment on the teenage mind. He's a sick man. He's about 40 years old, with a white beard, round black glasses and a cigar in his hand. He's Sigmund Freud. He loves to watch me cry, loves to see me drift into dead thoughts and very much alive ones, loves to see me dance in pain, loves to watch me lie in painful and silent reverie on my rock bed.
Now that I'm done prosing it up, I'd like to report the facts. Today, I took an essay on my Summer reading even though I am still not finished On the Road by Jack Kerouac. I read enough to write the essay, though, but my language was a bit tired and my ideas sloppy. Ah well, It'll do. I had some coffee. Now my keyboard lies on the face of my AP English in a blatantly rebellious manner. I bought two bags of Animal Crackers at the dollar store when my dad gave me a twenty and said to go crazy. I was also wearing pink crocs. I also went to Artisan's like this and I saw people from school chuckling. I had also nearly broke my toe when it got caught on one of my steps. It still hurts. I'm listening to Coldspray. She's not laughing. She's not smiling at all, in fact. Hold my heart, I'm walking.
I'll swiftly scribble your name
So you can take all the blame
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