scatter-brained and fat as hell.

scatter-brained and fat as hell.


i finally found an appropriate adjective (alliteration!) for my disease : scatter-brained. as of now, my name is miss tan woan scatterbrain tyng. how rad's that.


accounts went like bloody shit today. i know i suck at journal entries (AND JUST ABOUT EVERYTHING ELSE. erhm.) now, so i shall work work work on it. after the speech on wed (which i havent started on. so unprepared it's fucking my brains.) and stats ica thurs (i am desperate for a breather.). both morning. both damnation to the max, yo! but i am deemed on getting a pretty good gpa for the real papers coming up. and this time, i have to quit the scatterbrains fo' shizzle or it's doom's day and ciao for your lovely me.


i need to focus. i need to work. (but my head and heart says fuck fuck fuckity fuck, i feel like i am in south park.) i need to get the fats off my body so i can be hot and sexy. i wont use the word "thinspired" but i need motivation and drive right now. to exercise, to do work, to focus, to forget, to not expect, to remain sane.


toppity : i finally mustered the courage to sit alone at the pavilion near the fountains where the people in the fast food canteen can easily see how kooked i am being there all alone. but nah, i was feeling for some zen when i trudged into campus at 8am for a 9am lecture. though it is hardly zen-ish there, but there was a tinge of tranquility after the whole 48 minutes under the shade, with the splashing of the fountain drowning all sound and, secretly from me to you, i think it's a perfect place to practise your pitching as in singing. if you sing loud enough to cover the water that is. haha. i didnt say i sang to myself.




well. i am kooked. seriously. and i think tonight's gonna be wasted on pondering about again. speech is fucked. i dont want to do it.



Too much to feel, So much to say, No one (I will publicly allow) to understand.

why do i check my msn contact list every 10 minutes to see if you're online. why do i have to wait so long to im you. why cant i act like me. why am i becoming a lifeless twit.







ta-ta.

xoxo.

What if no lines are drawn so I wouldn't be able to cross them and blur them and fuck things up. What if possibilities and choice run into infinity; If on a scope of 1 to oblivion, nothing ever ends.