I feel like writing.

I feel like writing a fucking novel. Not an actual novel, but a novel nonetheless. 

"It was her wrists. They were beautiful." I never really understood that line until now.

Why the FUCK will blogger not let me paste things while on a Mac? Why the fuck not, you goddamn asshole?

I could be mean. I could be angry. I could be just like you. 

Sometimes I wish we lived right next to each other. You have no idea how much I need you right now. It's so lonely here, and yet it isn't any different from what I'm used to. I don't know if I could explain it and make it fully comprehensible.

You thought you'd sit inside me. You were only in my way . . .

Starálfur. That's the song. And you know exactly at which part we would, too. Everyone does. I'm sure it's something everyone thinks of. 

Wrist feeling. It's a weird sensation. And sort of doesn't make sense, given my previous explanation. The fuck is wrong with me?

That was the dumbest question I've ever been asked. Ever. Not really, but this is what everyone says whenever they get asked a stupid question. And yes, there are such things as stupid questions. How can you not know off the top of your head? Do I not tell you enough about my life? Do you not have enough insight? For God's sake, you're right here. with me. every day. We're always talking. How can you not know? Do you know how much it hurts that you honestly don't know? Do you ever care? Do you even pay attention? I know you do, I just don't know to what extent . . .

I don't even know how to answer that question. (The question you asked.)