Do they leave notes in heaven?

I told myself I wouldn’t write an entry so I could write a script, but it didn’t work, I wish Chuck could still read this.

I’m so lonely. I was talking to a girl who’s emo and works with me, we talked online, and I told her that I can’t cry anymore, that I feel the sadness on my chest, like it’s eggs frying on a baking pan, and it hurts, and it only comes out like once a month, If that.

(Remember when we’d cry every night? Remember when we had someone who cared so much? Ah, dependent youth.)

I sit in this room, and it’s dirty, and that’s all I could come up with for my script.

CHRISTOPHER MICHAELSON sits on his chair as if it were an island, with trash and paper and a dirty room surrounding him. His legs are curled up on the seat and he holds up his chin with his hand.

I’m just so good, you see. This is why I guess I’m just not a good writer. I love emotions, damn You, (not God, didn’t mean that by the Uppercase You) and I just can’t get a story, a good story, started from my sadness, from my loneliness, which is a selfish thing, I told this girl that I had pent up love to give and that’s why I was sad, then realized I just wanted to give it to get it out, not because I mean it, not ‘cause it’s real love.

I just have no one anymore to talk to late at night, and haven’t since Jenn, But Before That, let’s go there, because I don’t even know if Jenn counts, probably, but let’s go further: Melissa, who I used and Abused, like I do Jenn now (Jenn of Publix, Jenn of tickling fame) Melissa Vasquez, who talked to me on the phone as I cried to Fiona Apple and the Magnolia soundtrack. Who gave me part of her lunch everyday, until the day I stopped hanging out with her because others started paying me attention.

I used her to cry to her, not because, I don’t know, you get what I’m saying? Selfishly I cried.

Tonight, one of the people who were the group that thought I was an asshole in high school, the one’s who thought I was a jerk and big on myself and, just, Bad somehow, he told me that I’m really not as bad as everyone thinks I am (present-tense) and I didn’t really know how to respond, because in a way I knew it, but he was the first person who actually told me. I gave a weird face, like a half smile, half droopy-dog, and said thanks.

He meant it.

I wish I could cry to you right now.