October 21st. Dot dot dot. Dash dash dash. Thought thought thought.

I've only cried two times since that fateful haircut in early August of 2001. The first time was December 29, 2005, a few hours after Kat broke up with me, lying in my parents' bed at 346, and realizing I'd never get to hold her side-blubber again. I guess even back then I was a slave to the little things.

The second time was September 17, 2007, two or so days after the first break up with Steph, when I finally watched Finding Nemo, sitting on the living room couch at Claremont, and the cover of Beyond the Sea came on over the closing credits and I just lost it.

Number three is right around the corner. I can feel it lurking in my head, waiting for the right moment. I don't think it'll take that much to set it off anymore. I don't even have anyone that can break up with me. I'm just really fucked up these days.

I have my first midterm of the semester in an hour. After that disaster of a Milton quiz who the hell knows how this'll go. In my head, everything's pretty clear, but.

I haven't done a word of Windswept in over a week now, I think. It's starting to gnaw at me. There's still a timidity to it, but it'll grow.

Days like these and suicide—no matter how distant how far down the line—feels increasingly the only option. Some life.

And in the background: phone calls from no one, and my throat's gagging full of neo-Platonism and

a chorus of voices singing together happy

"We could dance all night..."