29th June. Am.

Jun 29, 2008

There is a song playing, filling the room. There is black make-up smudged beneath my eyes and across my cheeks. Waterproof, it says on the tube, but it doesn't say tearproof. They should warn you, the people who make these stupid products. [b]Don't use if you're going to cry[/b]. Or, don't even bother to make yourself look pretty.
He's singing about Amsterdam, and a woman who broke his heart. I wish I had a plane to catch this morning, to take me as far away as possible from all this smudging and emptiness and waste. I feel like a canvas portrait, a cheap, rough [i]something[/i] or [i]anything[/i], a mess of blackness and whiteness.

You should feel honoured, proud even. Not many people have reduced me to this.