For I am not the one.

I walked out of the shower in a towel, the big green one, that says SRVHS Class of 2003. I walked briskly across the room (there were two boys in it) and I went to shut the door to the bedroom to change. The door got caught on the Manchester United rug that always seems to migrate across the room for no particular reason. I tugged it and then felt a throbbing painful sensation in my foot. The door got closed, but my foot got a giant gash on the side that, even after half an hour of applied pressure, was still bleeding profusely.

That has been my day. What a perfect closing.

I really wonder about myself sometimes. My lips are naturally slightly down-turned, and throughout highschool, because of this and because of severe social anxiety, everybody thought I was just a little stuck-up. Here it made everybody think I was too cool to talk to. I usually would bet money on my first impressions - are mine just better than everybody elses? Because everybody else was totally wrong.

How am I not myself?

These walls act as tin-can telephones - the sound travels, muted, through the white plaster walls and also jumps from windowpane to windowpane. It's like my little Scottish ice skating coach - an older woman, under 5 feet, who you could hear talking from the other side of the ice rink. That was amusing. This is not. I'm upset that it's too cold outside now to sit there for any extended period of time. To attempt to write would result in my fingers breaking off like brittle.

I don't know about you, but I don't think that'd be pleasant.

And as much as I'm scared about the time dwindling down here, I really want to go home. I want to see my little brother, who doesn't like his life right now. That's really difficult to hear.