In cruel and ridiculous irony, life has granted me a rare burst of impassioned creativity, with no substantial time to exploit it.
Killing. Me.
Artist parental units, send me your pearls of wisdom.
I sometimes feel like the right woman in the wrong timeline. Or the wrong woman in the right timeline. Does that make sense?
Mike thinks that means I’m out of out of sync. But with what exactly? Myself? The universe? Time itself?
Do you believe in a multiverse?
Or perhaps this is a simulation and my programming is buggy.
I’m afraid this caption is also out of sync.
Disjointed.
Or more like the journal entries I used to write.
Dear Livejournal, I miss you. The internet used to have heart, right? Right? I hope I’m not the only one who remembers. That sweet sweet openness we could all relate to.
P.S. Pour your heart out please. Be raw. Strive for that vulnerability. You have no one to impress. Trust me. Just trust me.