i fucking hate hope. it rides on my back with a stick and a carrot and digs its spurs into my back, which i also hate. and i fucking hate myself for time and time again trying for that goddamned carrot. fucking hope.

and incidentally, fuck psychiatrists. bullshit posturing.

and fuck your yankee blue jeans.

i pulled a muscle in my left foot while walking (feet have muscles?) and somehow i got a splinter under my right foot, even though our floors are either tiled or carpeted. not a good day for feet.

album du jour: francine 28 Plastic Blue Versions of Endings Without You