three in the morning productions

take five

It's nice to have my older brother back home. Because he makes me listen to country music. Because he flexes his muscles in front of the mirror and thoroughly showers himself with praise. Because I've learned to humor him, and he... to laugh with me, and at himself.

Even though his dismissal from OCS was doubtlessly a blow against his pride (and he is proud) I think at last he's found his passion. There's a glow of pride in him whenever he speaks of the 'Devil Dogs,' and it's even more evident when his humming carries him off to 'The Shores of Tripoli.' What surprised me was his lack of dejection and hopelessness and misery (which for me would have been very present)... He's not moping around the house and lamenting over his worthlessness--instead he's looking ahead at another, even better shot. Good for him.

My sister on the other hand frustrates me. She's back again with her boyfriend. Before that, she made me ~swear~ I would slap her if she crawled back to him. I guess he's an addiction she can't keep away from, and they're both dying from each other.
I'm afraid of becoming that needy of anyone.

But God, I'm tired--, so tired of being afraid. And God, I miss him badly. I want to see when I make him smile; I want to be by his side; I want him to wrap me in his arms and in his kisses so I can fucking stop the fitful putting my head down on my desk sighingly and getting in trouble for staring out of the window already.

Damn. And what's more, I'm also tired of this diary. I'm tired of being a fucking Free-Show-For-All. So I'm reverting back to my old journals (you know, the kind where you actually write on ~paper~). With these words go now and find disciples among you, because everyone should be blessed with whatever the fuck it is I've been afflicted with.

G'dday.

02.26.03 - 10:38 p.m.

	take five It's nice to have my older brother back home. Because he makes me listen to country music. Because he flexes his muscles in front of the mirror and thoroughly showers himself with praise. Because I've learned to humor him, and he... to laugh with me, and at himself. Even though his dismissal from OCS was doubtlessly a blow against his pride (and he is proud) I think at last he's found his passion. There's a glow of pride in him whenever he speaks of the 'Devil Dogs,' and it's even more evident when his humming carries him off to 'The Shores of Tripoli.' What surprised me was his lack of dejection and hopelessness and misery (which for me would have been very present)... He's not moping around the house and lamenting over his worthlessness--instead he's looking ahead at another, even better shot. Good for him. My sister on the other hand frustrates me. She's back again with her boyfriend. Before that, she made me ~swear~ I would slap her if she crawled back to him. I guess he's an addiction she can't keep away from, and they're both dying from each other. I'm afraid of becoming that needy of anyone. But God, I'm tired--, so tired of being afraid. And God, I miss him badly. I want to see when I make him smile; I want to be by his side; I want him to wrap me in his arms and in his kisses so I can fucking stop the fitful putting my head down on my desk sighingly and getting in trouble for staring out of the window already. Damn. And what's more, I'm also tired of this diary. I'm tired of being a fucking Free-Show-For-All. So I'm reverting back to my old journals (you know, the kind where you actually write on ~paper~). With these words go now and find disciples among you, because everyone should be blessed with whatever the fuck it is I've been afflicted with. G'dday. 02.26.03 - 10:38 p.m.