Pardon My Mess.

I guess you can call me goddamn Holden Caulfield from now on. I just can't seem to get out of whatever spell I fell into. Don't get me wrong, I'm not manic nor am I angry. It's just that my thoughts of home just depress the hell out of me. I can't seem to piece together the pieces, but I guess that history is just a bit of something that could be either creased or grungy or faded. Something that isn't as pretty as it used to be. I can't quite put my finger on it; it's like I've left my house behind and everything inside has become stagnant and lonely. Only it's numb to it now--it's gotten quite the hang of it. Which is something I could never do. And it bothers me till my hair begins to fall out. My family doesn't have a history of balding, but I might be starting a new trend in fashionable toupees if I stay home too long. I love home, I really do. But maybe I just need to start something new. Maybe I'll take up smoking. Or fencing. Something extravagantly insane and unfamiliar. I don't know. For now, I'll stick to incessant blundering and pasty, battered thoughts on something that resembles a beat up, paint stripped clipboard. And blatant lying. Yeah, that's good.