Ahh diary, just when I started writing about my time living life, I get everyone needing something from me, urgently...hence, no mating ladybug stories, or graduation ramblings. No discussing weird pregnancy dreams that make me want to be pregnant too... No lists of all 15 events that must be done this month, and somehow still accomplish an intensive Final. No lists of fears and complaints about hot weather. At least not today. Perhaps this weekend, when i will add sunburns and looking for a certain species of weaponry adorned ants to feed and fears of class presentations to my extensive number of college adventures stories. No acknowledging that I am a beholder of knowledge in counting and estimating populations in biology and the needed formula.

Really, all I want to do is write, and send cards to people who haven't acknowledged my existence for years, and read Sylvia Plath and books on dying. And play with my pens and ink, and buy dresses and shoes to distract me from all of this craziness.

I feel like a bad lover...and my diary weeps for my company, as I drown in social obligations with others.

~e