Bleak

There is just about nothing I loathe more than cold weather, on the bright side it is pretty warm in my room.

My hand hurts every once in a while, sometimes when I type, sometimes when I'm holding a pencil and writing. (Well, these days both hands hurt at different times)

I'm just waiting until the day I can move to California, granted that I don't go completely insane before I get there

Then again, there's always italy, france, australia, all sorts of countries with weather that would make me happier than I am here.

As for what I'll do when I get there? Whooo knows. I'm determined to figure out what the meaning of life is, and why we're all here, and what our purpose is. Maybe I'll write a book, a manifesto, about how backwards everything is, and how it should be. It has to be better than this. This decade is all wrong for me. Even in elementary school, I remember being consistently disappointed, alone a lot. Wishing I could grow some wings and fly away, fly right over Slaten field at recess and leave this place.