I ran out of things to express. That's a dirty white lie, and you know it. Surprisingly I'm still content with myself (what is this mess? Something must be off). The reconstruction of Jesus' face on t.v. looks like a 50-year old man. I don't get it. I suppose I'm not supposed to.

I had a thought to aspire to be a writer for a bullshit magazine. Writing for something like National Inquirer would force me to contort my mind to an extent where it just might not be possible. It could be fun though, some food for my thought.

I'm so afraid to say I love you to him outloud. I am always smaller than him, physically and mentally, but I still remain a carbon copy of everything he is. His mean streak is meant for nothing but protection, his choice of well-put words meant for nothing less than care. Why I can't tell him that I love him, I don't know. When he hugged me as I arrived in Arizona on Tuesday, it was strange. For the first time in over a year, my father hugged me. I am his daughter, his only one and the oldest. Maybe one day when I am strong and not feeling so feeble I will tell him. Daddy, I love you.

The day we shared tears together, I can say that I did less than understand. When I hear the trainwreck in his voice that signals possible crying (which has only happened once), it's terrible. I sink so low into my seat, I feel like I should disappear. My always, rock-solid father...to hear a man nearly in tears. What should I think? Someone let me know.

Fuck, I have something to say, and now I'm having the worst time getting it out. I suck. Welcome me!

And I found myself a beautiful boy. Rememeber the boy? He found a butterfly with the colors of blue and black plaguing her delicate structure. When she was too weak to sip the nectar from flowers, she fell to the cold ground, her body caving in so heavily upon her soul. He saw her lifeless body on the ground and began to drown her in his tears. How sad he felt for the tiny creature. The boy picked her up in his hands...

9:19 P.M.
I wouldn't care if it didn't hurt so much, if I didn't wake up in the morning nauseous from purly having opened my eyes. If the pain in my heart didn't well up everytime I was awake, I wouldn't mind so much. Little by little it's making me sorry more and more. And I know he sees it in me, because he feels it too. I don't know if I'm the source of his unhappiness. But when everything feels so right...That's why I didn't want to come back. I didn't want to confront the inevitable.