I feel like it's been long enough to digest things and write here without seeming juvenile. If you ignore that I'm writing in a pink/purple window called "DiaryLand" then ignore the fact that if you go back far enough in these entries you'll read about me having a bad day in high school, okay, then it's not juvenile.

Food stopped tasting good a few weeks ago. I keep consuming, waiting for something that I'll enjoy. At first I thought it was stress eating, because, well, shit got stressful for a second. The food I'm surrounded with is the same, I come home and my mom has made something (again with the juvenile stuff...) and I'm hoping so badly that I'll taste something. Quantity isn't an issue, I'm not out of control.

I'm losing sight of the things that I'm blessed with, which isn't to say that I've lost sight of them. I'm disgusted with myself for even approaching this path again. I'm feeling impulsive, feel like moving away and working a shit job and finding happiness in nothing. I guess that's the manic part. The depressive part is coming home from work at 9:30pm and watching Mad Men because you sympathize with the white protagonist that has everything but feels empty inside.

Some small hope that I've been clinging to for five years just fizzled out. Auditioning, what not. I want to say that it's not all my fault, but it mostly is. I really let myself down, and that weighs a lot. It weighs more knowing that everyone was hoping for me to fuck up.

I would couple this drivel with some poignant picture, but I literally have not taken a picture in almost four months. Stagnant. I literally have no idea what to do with myself.