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Monday, March 31, 2003 @ 9:14 PM
Today I had a very hard time getting out of bed. I was still moaning internally about my surreal weekend. And I went to work, and to a group meeting, and to Spanish, and to Com, and lunch after math was cancelled, and then to choir. And I didn't remember to bring a notebook, so I wrote a poem in my agenda. I don't like what that poem is about, I don't like the subject matter. But I do like this line:
I wrote the angry poetry I didn't even know I had in me, and now I'm feeling better, out of spite.
I wish that I could sing and play guitar, because the music in my head is so pretty. Dan and I were talking about how he's going to make his children play guitar. He'll say, "No, you can't play outside! You're going to learn to play guitar! Trust me, you'll thank me for this later."
I still don't feel right. Everything is getting to me. But I'm trying really hard.
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