Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-28428152-20180130053920

Friday, August 2, 2002 

Found this journal in the bathroom at church today. We were having a lock-in at church, but I got sick and had to leave. It was lying by the toilet, soaked with water, but I took it anyways. Actually, now that I think about it, that’s pretty fucking gross. Well, at least I know it’s not soaked in piss, because there’s no stains or any weird smells, just water damage. It looks like somebody already wrote in here, but it’s kind of hard to read because of the water damage. I guess I can try to read it later, but I don’t really feel that good right now.



Sunday, August 4, 2002 

             It seems to me to be some kind of story somebody was working on. Kind of a weird story to be working on at church, though. Oh wait, I bet it’s Rob’s. He’s all into that horror shit and talks about horror movies and Stephen King all the fucking time. I guess whenever we go to church later, I’ll ask him about it. And if it’s not his, then I guess I can give it to John, our youth pastor.

             Wait… why am I writing in this? I don’t know what the hell came over me. I probably just messed up someone’s story. Oh well.

  

Monday, August 5, 2002 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">             It wasn’t Rob’s, and I took it to John and he said that he didn’t know who’s it was. I asked if there was a lost and found, but strangely enough, there’s isn’t. So… I guess I’ll just start using it for myself? I mean, I’ve already written two other entries in here, so I don’t really see why not. Still not sure why I started in the first place, though. I just did it without thinking.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">             Anyways, school starts up again on Monday. It’s gonna be weird, going from Stoneview Middle to Woodgrove High. I’ve heard it’s nice there, so I’m not that worried. Well, I guess it’ll be better than the move from Maysburg in seventh grade. At least I’ll have friends this time. Man, Maysburg Middle was rough. The teachers didn’t give a fuck what the hell went down there. The Janitor, Mr. Hopell, was the only dude who seemed to care, and he didn’t even teach anything. There was this one gang of bullies that everyone was afraid of. Their “leader” was this really fat kid named Charlie Johns, but for some reason everyone called him “Buster.” I never really had any problems with them, but they were pretty bad. The teachers basically let them do whatever the fuck they wanted to, because Buster’s gang had parents who were important or some shit, I don’t know. Maysburg is a small town so having important parents can actually mean something, I guess.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">             But yeah, about to be in high school. Oddly enough, I’m pretty excited to go back to school this year. Usually I hate going back, but I feel like this is going to be a really good year.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">  

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">Tuesday, August 6, 2002 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">             Went to the mall today while my parents got school supplies. Stephen and Travis wanted to hang out there, so my parents just told me to tell them what I needed. I mostly just got clothes and shit with some money they gave me while they went to Wal-Mart for the other stuff. My friend Travis got the new Green Day album that came out last month, Shenanigans. I didn’t even know they came out with one until Travis picked it up. It’s a compilation, though, but it has like covers and shit, so that was pretty cool. I got In Utero by Nirvana, because it has All Apologies on it, which is like on of my favorite songs. I also got Fatal Frame. Can’t fucking wait to play that game.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">  

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">Sunday, August 11, 2002 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">             School starts tomorrow. At church today, Rob was saying that he heard that you can actually listen to music in the hallways and stuff. Good thing I got an iPod for my birthday, it’ll be so much easier than the Walkman that I had before. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a nice cd player, but I don’t want to have to deal with taking out and putting in CD’s all the time, not to mention that if I drop it, it’ll fuck up the disc. Hmm… I wonder if I could sell any of my CD’s? I’d just have to rip them to the computer first. I bet I could sell the My Chemical Romance album I have for at least ten bucks.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">             I’m kinda bummed out, though. Stephen’s moving away this week. He’s moving to fucking Denver. That’s gonna suck. It’s gonna be weird without him here.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">             Oh, and by the way, Fatal Frame is fucking great. I’ve been playing it the past few nights. Kind of a cheesy intro, but whatever, it’s still a good game so far.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">  

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">Saturday, August 17, 2002 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">             <span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">Well today fucking sucked. I found out that my parents are getting a divorce. About an hour ago my mom came into my room and told me. She also told me that they agreed that I would have to choose one of them to live with so that I could grow up in a more “stable environment” or whatever. Fuck that, man. I don’t want to have to do visitations and shit or choose between one or the other. I love both of my parents equally, and sure, they fight a lot, but I don’t see why that means they have to fucking get a goddamn divorce. You know, they think they’re being all high and mighty and shit by trying to decide what’s best for me or whatever, but nobody thought to actually fucking ask me. Fuck it, I don’t feel like writing in this stupid fucking piece of fucking shit. Fuck journals. That’s like baby stuff for little fucking girls. Fuck all of this, fuck my life and fuck everything.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">Sunday, August 25, 2002 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">             <span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">We didn’t even go to church today. They went down to the courthouse yesterday to get the papers or what-the-fuck-ever.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">  

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">Saturday, August 31, 2002 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">             <span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">I’m not so angry anymore, just bummed out, mostly. My mom picked me up from school today because I got sent home for screaming at this kid for spilling milk on me, and in the car, we talked about it. She got me to see that the divorce is for the best, not only for me, but for them, as well. I guess I never really wrote about the fights, but almost every night they start fucking screaming at each other in their bedroom, and my dad would start hitting on the dressers and walls and shit. He never hit her, though, so that was always good, and I never was afraid that he would. My dad’s a good guy, I guess just something about my mom pisses him off. It’d be over the stupidest shit, too. One night they literally argued over how to pronounce Matt Groening’s last name.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">             I’m starting to feel a little out of it, too. Like I’m not really present all the time. It’s weird, I know. Probably because I’m upset about the divorce, on top of Stephen moving away. Luckily, it’ll take about six months before the divorce goes through, but Dad’s already looking at other places he can move to. He said that he’ll help pay for this house so that my mom can keep it. Like I said, he’s a good guy.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">  

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">Sunday, September 1, 2002 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">             <span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">Today was alright. After Church I went to Travis’s afterwards and we played some Xbox. I really suck at Tony Hawk Pro Skater. Had fried chicken for dinner with grandma. Still feeling kind of out of it.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">Monday, September 2, 2002 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">             <span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">We had the cops called on us today. After school, I was with Travis and some of his friends, and he was trying to teach me how to do an ollie (I’m a lost cause with this shit). We were having fun, dicking around, and I finally managed to do an ollie. Then Travis’s friend Ryan asked if we wanted to get drunk. Naturally, we were like, “Fuck yeah, man!”

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">             He took us up to this old abandoned building nearby with dicks and swastikas spray-painted all over the walls. We went to the basement, and Ryan pulled some Jack out of a broken dresser that he stole from his dad, who’s apparently an alcoholic. So we drank the Jack and pretended to be drunker than we actually were. Ryan also gave me a cigarette for the first time, too.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">Anyways, out of fucking nowhere the cops show up. Some neighbor heard us, I guess, but we freaked out and tried to run, but failed. When they got us they then called our parents and told them that we were all drunk and that we’d also been smoking. As I’m sure you can imagine, my parents were pretty fucking livid. They grounded me from everything for two whole months. This shit is going to fucking suck.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">Friday, September 6, 2002 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">             Day 4 of no video games…. My fingers are starting to twitch, and I’ve been jumping at loud noises.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">             Just kidding, I’m not that bad. I’m just incredibly bored. Dad said to read a book or something, but that’s even worse than sitting around doing nothing. I guess I got it lucky, though, because not only did Travis’s parents just ground him, but they’re also making him go to the library every day after school and write a thirty-page paper about the effects of smoking and shit. Like, goddamn.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">             Besides that, though, my parents have been fighting even more since that little incident on Monday. They seem to blame each other for it and they keep arguing over who gets to take me when they finally separate, so I guess I can say goodbye to getting to choose for myself.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">Sunday, September 8, 2002 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">             All this fucking screaming and shit is really fucking getting to me. I just want to fucking rip my goddamn hair out. It’s affecting my concentration at school, too. I can barely remember what goes on anymore. I’m also getting paranoid. I keep feeling like something’s watching me. I swear to god, at this point I’d just rather them go ahead and get separated so they’ll quit fucking screaming at each other fucking day and night. I don’t even think we’ve been to church at all since they started this divorce shit.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">Wednesday, September 11, 2002 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">             Shit, I feel really, really fucking sick. Stayed home from school, and my mom stayed home to take care of me. Of course, this caused a fight between her and Dad, because she wanted to know why he couldn’t stay home instead.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">I also missed the 9/11 memorial service they had in the gym today, which I’m not necessarily going to complain about. Don’t get me wrong, I still remember when it happened vividly, but I also have a small butt, so those bleachers really hurt after a while, and this thing was supposed to be at least three hours.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">God, I feel like I’m gonna fucking puke. It also feels like there’s fucking bugs and shit inside of me, biting and scratching under my skin. My mom made me wear mittens because I wouldn’t stop scratching.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">Saturday, September 14, 2002 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">             Man, that shit was fucking nasty.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">             Wait a second… I just read over my last entry and I’m getting a really weird feeling. I feel like there’s something outside my window, but it’s broad fucking daylight and I can clearly see that there isn’t anything out there. Maybe I should check anyways.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">             No, nothing’s there, but for some reason when I went out there I zoned out really bad. Like, I don’t even remember coming back inside. Except… now it feels like there’s something in here, with me. The feeling’s getting more intense, and I don’t know what to do except to just keep writing in here. I can feel it watching me from my closet. I know I closed it earlier, but I just know that if I turn around and look that something will be there. I can’t fucking look up, and I’m afraid to say anything out loud. I just have to keep writing.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">             It’s left the closet.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">             I can’t hear anything, but I can feel it creeping closer. I’m scared. I’m really fucking scared and I don’ know what to do except keep writing but I’m running out of things to say and I don’t know what to do. Maybe if I read over old entries, that’ll help.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">             I read my entry from the eighth, and that seemed to make it feel like whatever it is stop in it’s tracks. I guess if I just keep reading then maybe I can make it go away. Maybe if I go back to the one from the eleventh, since that’s when I started getting the feeling?

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">             Something seems really weird about the entry on the eleventh. Something’s off about it. I can’t really tell what it is, but it has something to do with the date on it.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">             I kept reading back one entry at a time, until I got to the short story at the beginning of the notebook. I was about to give up, but then I couldn’t help but think to myself…. And it was true. In the story, on September 11, 1992 there’s an entry about the character being really fucking sick. And I kept going further back, and I couldn’t believe it, but every entry that I’ve written has been on a same date from the beginning. To a fucking point, even today’s entry. And in the story, the character even began to get the same feelings of dissociation and paranoia that I’m getting.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">             But it has to just be a story, right? I mean, there’s just no way. But I can feel a little voice inside of me telling me that it’s true, but I can’t tell if it’s my own paranoia or something else, intuition or otherwise.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">Monday, September 16, 2002 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">             <span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">I can barely remember the past two days at all. All I can think about is that story in the notebook…. And I can’t help but obsess over whether or not it’s just a story. And being cut off from all of my friends except in school has left me feeling really depressed and alone. Even at school, it’s hard to bring myself to act happy.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">Thursday, September 26, 2002 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">             The only things that I can really remember from the past week are the screams of my parents and the buzzing of the fluorescent lights at school. Just day in, day out. Same old, same old. Get up, think about the story, go to school, think about the story, come home, think about the story, hear my parents screaming, think about the story, go to bed, stay up thinking about the story, not remember anything from the day, repeat. Sometimes if a day is interesting I’ll start getting the feeling again that something’s watching me, and I can’t ever help but be afraid that it’s that Prophet thing.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">Saturday, September 28, 2002 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">             Found out that Stephen died in a car crash yesterday morning. Didn’t really feel like writing about it until now. His parents called mine since he used to come over a lot. I told Travis. He tried to hide it, but I could see that he was starting to cry after a minute. I didn’t see him for the rest of the day. There’s going to be a funeral in a few days. Stephen’s parents are paying for Travis and I to fly out there, since we were his best friends.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">             Fucking Christ. First my parents are getting a divorce, then I get grounded for two months, I start getting fucking paranoid and shit about this fucking notebook, and finally fucking Stephen dies. Fuck life. I fucking hate life. What’s the fucking point?

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">Sunday, September 29, 2002 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">             I blew up on my parents today. I just couldn’t fucking take the fighting, what with one of my best fucking friends dead. I told them to just shut the fuck up once in a while and for Dad to just fucking leave already. I felt really bad and started crying, and they sat down, and my mom held me while I was sobbing into her arms and apologizing over and over again. I told them that I don’t want them to leave each other, but that I also don’t want them to fight so much, and that I was just really upset about Stephen. They seemed to understand. I’m still pretty embarrassed about it, but it still felt good to just let it all out, I guess.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">  

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">Sunday, October 6, 2002 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">             The funeral service was today. It was really nice. I didn’t really say much, and I didn’t cry, either, which I feel really guilty about. We’re staying in a motel right now. I would elaborate more, but I don’t really feel like it.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">Tuesday, October 15, 2002 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">             It was Travis’s birthday yesterday. He turned fifteen. We celebrated it on Saturday, though. It was just me and my parents at his place, and then I stayed the night. We pretty much just played video games while having leftover pizza, birthday cake, and Coke. I kept getting the weird feeling that I was being watched from the windows, but I couldn’t really see anything. And when I asked Travis about it, he said he didn’t see anything.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">             It was really hard pretending to be happy. I honestly felt worse after the party than I did before it. Nobody mentioned Stephen at all, but I could tell that we were all thinking about him, all thinking about how empty it felt without him there.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">My memory is getting worse. I don’t even remember the memorial service they had at school for him.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">  

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">Thursday, October 24, 2002 <span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%; font-family:"BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">             My Dad’s moving out soon. I heard him talking about it with Mom in the kitchen. I don’t see the point in caring anymore. Mostly because I can’t. I haven’t felt happy in I don’t know how long. I just feel like I’m stuck in a hole that just keeps fucking sinking and sinking. I feel like I’ll never fucking get out.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">             I cut myself for the first time, today, too. It felt good in a way I don’t really understand. They weren’t deep, which kind of makes me feel like a pussy, but I don’t care. I just want to fucking feel.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">  

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">Thursday, October 31, 2002 <span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">             Travis is missing.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">He was supposed to come over today to play some Fatal Frame with me for Halloween, after I begged my parents profusely. We both agreed for him to come over at five, but he never showed up. He also never came home from school, according to his parents.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">             His parents called the police, and we tried to search for him, but nobody could find him. I’m really worried about him, especially he’s been acting strange the past couple of days, too.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">  

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">Monday, November 18, 2002 <span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%; font-family:"BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family:"BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">             <span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">I’ve been too depressed to write in here the past couple of weeks. I found Travis the morning after he went missing hanging from a tree behind somebody’s barn. He fucking killed himself. Both of my best friends, gone within a month. Plus, my dad moved out last week. There is no hope. There’s nothing left for me, I just want to die. I just want to fucking die, I don’t want this shit anymore, having my friends dying all the fucking time and shit. I don’t want to see his dead face every time I close my eyes anymore. I don’t want to always feel like shit’s watching me and not being able to remember anything, I just want it to all end. But at the same time, I’m too scared to actually do anything about it other than slice up my fucking arms.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">             There is no God.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">  

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">Friday, November 22, 2002 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">             Uh, I don’t know how I never saw it before, but I found something written on the journal. In tiny black letters on top of the black part of the back cover, parallel to the spine, is written the name of the original owner of this journal. And it’s not my handwriting either, so… I don’t think I wrote it. It says, “Property of Sullivan Jones.”

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">             That’s my fucking name. That’s my fucking name. Who in the fuck else would happen to have the name “Sullivan Jones?” Nobody has “Sullivan” for a first name, much less “Jones” as a last name. And with all the entries still being on the same dates as they were in the 1992 entries even though I try not to, I just don’t see how it can simply be a coincidence. Something’s going on, and I’m scared. I never wanted any of this, I just want to fucking die already.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">             On one hand I feel bad for so rashly denouncing God in that last entry, but at the same time, I can’t help but think to myself that the God I grew up being taught about would never allow this to happen. And I can’t help but hate Him for it. I have dreams about Travis and Stephen every night, and every night I wake up cold, sweaty, and crying. I’ll whisper their names and just hope that they can hear me, but I don’t know if they even can.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">SUBMIT AND KNOW THAT I AM WITH YOU AND WITHIN YOU

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">  

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">Sunday, December 1, 2002 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">             <span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">No, no, no NO! This can’t be real, I must be crazy I must be crazy I must be crazy. It doesn’t look like my handwriting, but I know if I write it out that it will be.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">             SUBMIT

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">             I wish I hadn’t done that. I’m fucking insane. There’s no point to my existence anymore. If I could keep the thought in my head long enough, then I would just fucking kill myself today, but my memory is completely shot to shit right now. I feel like I’m constantly in a dream. I don’t have a single memory since that last entry. Nothing.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">             God, if you can hear me, please: I just want to die. I don’t want to live anymore. Cutting and burning can only bring me so much pleasure. I’ve stopped cutting my arms because I don’t want my parents to see, so I’ve been cutting my legs. Really convenient that it’s cold out, so I get to wear pants without looking suspicious. All can think about is how to kill myself and the next time I’m gonna slice up my legs.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">   FOR YOU MUST HEED THE PROPHET.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">  

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">Friday, December 6, 2002 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">             Can’t. Remember. Anymore. Anyone. Anything. My life is meaningless. Nothing left. Parents separated. Don’t know what I’ve already written or not, but I don’t feel like going back to look. I don’t know if I’ve seen Dad or not since he moved out. No way to tell. Can’t ask Mom, she might catch on. Can’t let her catch on. I can’t be sent to a hospital. Then they’ll know. Too many cuts. You can’t even tell there’s skin on my legs anymore, just look like big scabs. I think it’s getting infected. Good. Let it spread.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">  

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">Monday, December 16, 2002 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">             Memories of yesterday flood into me. While today is just a blur, yesterday is clear… memories of eighth grade year. But not from last year. No, they’re from ten years ago. But I was just a little kid ten years go. How can I have memories of being fourteen ten years ago when I just turned fifteen in July? It doesn't make any sense. Can't be real. But... they aren’t completely clear, more like snapshots, if that makes any sense. I just remember being terrified of something. This Prophet thing, most likely. It's all still a haze. Why is it called "The Prophet?" Prophets are supposed to predict the future, but this thing, whatever it is, only does that once at the end when it says, "FEAR NOT, FOR THE FEAST MARKS THE DEATH OF THE OLD AND THE BIRTH OF THE NEW."

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">Doesn’t make any sense.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">DO NOT RESIST, AS YOU CAN NEVER OVERCOME THE DARKNESS

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">  

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">Sunday, December 29, 2002 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">             Hello, there, old friend. Come to take me away again? I’ll gladly accept your offer. I can almost hear your whisper in my ear.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">  

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">Thursday, January 2, 2003 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">             <span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">The Prophet is growing bolder. I can see it around me, scuttling and scurrying out of sight wherever I go. That’s all I can remember, is seeing it. No clue what we did for Christmas. My life is just a black hole of nothingness. I simply exist without meaning or purpose. I despise what I’ve become. I hate myself, and I hate my life. My cuts are getting pretty deep, now. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll cut too deep. So then I cut even deeper, savoring the pain and lapping up the blood as it flows from my wounds.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">             The Prophet tells me to do it to others, though. The things that I do to myself… sometimes worse. I’m sound enough in my mind to not do it, obviously, but what makes me feel even worse about the situation is that… well… the way it tells it, these things sound like good ideas. God, what am I becoming?

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">  

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">Tuesday, January 7, 2003 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">             I woke up in the bathtub a few hours ago in a pool of blood. I don’t know where it came from, but The Prophet keeps telling me that it rescued me from a very bad dream. That was about midnight.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">  

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">Sunday, January 19, 2003 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">             I can see it better, now. It grows bolder… creeping up ever so closer. I can see it’s pale gangly shape out of the corner of my eyes, though I still can’t ever directly gaze upon it.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">             Also, <span style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif">an idea occurred to me: the reason it’s called the Prophet isn’t because it predicts the future, but because it makes the future. And the Prophet tells me that I’m right. How I’m right, I don’t know, but it tells me I am.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif">             I wonder if to look upon the face of The Prophet is to look upon the face of God. No, stop it. It’s all in my head. A product of stress and depression. And now I’m crazy. Wooh, I really love being fucking crazy.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif">             Why do my parents even love me?

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">--THE FEAST: SO NIGH YET SO FAR.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">  

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">Wednesday, February 12, 2003 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">             It’s been visiting my dreams, now. Fucking Christ. Not only does it follow me all goddamn day, but it’s gotta be in my fucking dreams, too? JESUS FUCKING CHRIST! WHEN CAN MY LIFE JUST FUCKING END!?

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">             I’m gonna do it. I’m gonna fucking kill myself. Maybe not tonight, maybe not tomorrow night, but I’m gonna fucking do it. I can’t fucking take this fucking shit anymore.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">  

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">Friday, February 21, 2003 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">             I can barely sleep, now. Actually, can I? I don’t think I can. All I can remember now is sitting up in bed, the light turned off by this monster, and being forced to stare into its tiny white eyes that shine in the middle of a massive silhouette perched at the end of my bed. I would just not sleep there anymore, but I don’t really have much control over my actions anymore, other than when it watches me and during the random few minutes of lucidity I get every week or two.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">             I think I remember something about the divorce finally going through. Jesus, was that already six months ago? It feels like it was only a couple of weeks ago.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">  

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">Monday, March 3, 2003 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">             <span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">And to think that ten years ago I thought I could actually escape from this nightmare. No, of course I fucking can’t. There is no escape from this thing. Maybe suicide would have worked, if The Prophet had let me. But it's never once, in the past one hundred years, allowed me to die by any hand other than its own. I can remember, now. 1992 wasn't the first year that I experienced this nightmare. No, it was 1902 when it first happened. I was five years old. Then, in 1903, it devoured me. And that happened again in 1912... 1922... 1932.... Every ten years it happens again, only except I'm one year older than I was the previous time.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">But… if this is some sort of sick, twisted reincarnation cycle, then how is it that right now I’m fifteen years old, but ten years ago I was five and fourteen years old at the same time? Is this curse just dumped onto some new kid named Sullivan Jones every ten years? Is that it? Or… or is it somehow possible to be alive in two bodies at the same time? Can a soul be in two places at once? Can it be divided into two souls and then rejoined? Or maybe it constantly flickers between the two bodies until one body dies. I don’t know. I don’t understand, I just fucking don’t. But it seems that by this thing, this Prophet, eating me, it is then able to put me into a new cycle later, which leads me to believe that it deposits my cursed soul into a new body. But if that’s the case, then what happens to the soul of the new body? Does it die? Does that Prophet thing eat it for food? Or does it become fused into the new one? Is my soul just some sort of fucking Frankenstein conglomeration of other souls? <span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">  

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">Wednesday, March 12, 2003 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">             <span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">I know what I have to do. I mean, I wanted to do it anyways. I’ve been fantasizing about it for months. I have to kill myself before it kills me. I have to fucking do it. And I have a fucking plan, too. I just hope this fucking ends me once and for all.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">BUT FEAR NOT, FOR THE FEAST MARKS THE DEATH OF THE OLD AND THE BIRTH OF THE NEW.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">  

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">Saturday, March 15, 2003 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">             <span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">Can’t die. Can’t die. Can’t die. Can’t die. Can’t die.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">             It failed. Oh, it fucking failed, alright. Wouldn’t it just be my fucking luck that Dad made us go for a walk by that old Civil War battlefield right before fucking sundown. And wouldn’t it be my luck that today supposed to be the end of the fucking line. But nothing can stop it now. Nothing.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">             It was getting dark, I wasn’t really saying anything, just depressed and surprised by my oddly lucid state. I kept hearing things rustle in the leaves, but nothing was ever there. Shapes, too. But never there when I used the flashlight. It was driving me fucking insane, but I kept quiet. My dad couldn’t know. Dad… I love you.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">             I eventually had to pee, and so I was pissing on a tree when I heard Dad screaming behind me. I turned to look, and stared, frozen.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">             That fucking thing had him. It was on all four legs, pale, naked, and devouring him. It was big, too. Maybe as big as a horse, maybe bigger, but after a second, it turned its head and stared at me, that same face that I watched while petrified in bed every night. Except this time, I could see the shape of its cavernous mouth, dripping with the remains of my still-screaming father.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">             I ran. I don’t really remember what happened immediately after that, but eventually I found myself in a tool shed, listening intently out the window as I heard it slowly stalking and sniffing around the shed. A great beam of light burst open before my eyes, and I saw figures rushing in to help me.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">             I’m in the police station right now. They don’t know where Mom went, but she’s gone. Dad’s dead. I’m just waiting to be questioned right now. I don’t even know where the journal came from, I just looked over, and it was sitting on the bench next to me.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif">

<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif">What else should I be/All apologies/ What else could I say/ Everyone is gay/ What else could I write/ I don't have the right/ What else should I be/ All apologies

<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif">In the sun/ In the sun I feel as one/ In the sun/ In the sun/ Married/ Buried

<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif">I wish I was like you/ Easily amused/ Find my nest of salt/ Everything's my fault/ I take all the blame/ Aqua seafoam shame/ Sunburn, freezer burn/ Choking on the ashes of her enemy

<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif">In the sun/ In the sun I feel as one/ In the sun/ In the sun/ Married/ Married/ Married/ Buried yeah yeah yeah

<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif">All in all is all we are All in all is all we are All in all is all we are All in all is all we are All in all is all we are All in all is all we are All in all is all we are All in all is all we are All in all is all we are All in all is all we are All in all is all we are All in all is all we are All in all is all we are All in all is all we are All in all is all we are All in all is all we are All in all is all we are All in all is all we are All in all is all we are All in all is all we are <ac_metadata title="The Journal of Sullivan Jones Part II (Unreviewed) (~5,600 Words)"> </ac_metadata>