I hate ink.

I’m sad. It doesn’t feel like Christmas eve, and my mind has been many other places today, and I wrote Sarah a letter in her gift IN INK. This is the worst thing to do when you, let’s say, have a lot to get out. For someone, and I just feel so embarrassed about it, and it went on for pages, and…

I shouldn’t open up anymore. It just gets me thinking too much.

Otherwise, I’m going to go down to Park Ave for the ring of midnight, where no one (hopefully) will be, so I can be alone.

That’s one great thing that I love about becoming less dependent on friends and hugs, the alone time (the good alone time, not the lay in bed eating time) and anyway, I just need to be alone, and to smell the cold air, and clear my head.

I become self-centered when I think too much of something.