Sigh...

I just don't know how to be sometimes...

I just think things to death, I guess.

It is nice out, though.

If I could just be myself without all of this pretense, everything would be alright. Even this diary is more self-indulgent than I'm really comfortable with. Contentment and anxiety just trade places so quickly, and it's hard to tell which one which one is barging in where it has no place. If I could just pour half of each into one glass, and stir them together with a spoon...

It is really nice out.