I sitting on the concrete of my soon-to-be-re-done backyard writing yet another blog. My hair washed, and un-straightened, with the blue dye fading already. The make-ups worn off, smeared half way down my face- I don want another glance of it. The fear of being on my own yet again is weak. The want out of this house, which every single day attempts to take on more inch of soul from me, is strong, however. My friend count is looking low, and I don care too much. My neck is sore, but my back is worse- I should really go take a rest in bed for more than an hour. My theropest is still in regnant?mode, and I need someone to talk to. The scars are old, but I still am not happy.
          Why wouldn I be? Eight days until Christmas- four days into my Christmas break- one year of school left.

          So why aren I smiling?