i've been trying to write again lately, but it seems that i've become such a perfectionist that nothing comes out anymore. or i'm just bottling it all up inside. i went to italy in january thinking that i'd be able to string some words together, but anytime someone spoke to me, i just became mute.

i guess its time to write again because i'm very unhappy. life in general is good, but work is bad: i graduated a year ago with another unemployable degree and no connections or experience in anything i really want to do. i pick fights with R because i'm unsatisfied, but i need to sort my own shit out before i will be able to see clearly if any of that is really to do with him.

i feel like i've lost the essence of my life. i still feel me, but less and less connected to my favourite parts of me; less and less the person i would like to find if i cut myself down to the wick. i need to meet new people, and try new things, and take some well-calculated risks, i'm just too fucking scared, and i hate it about myself.