Sometimes when I get lonely, I lie on my bed and stare at the corner of my ceiling where the dinosaur purple of one wall and the odd shade of green from the other that I painted with the exchange student from France this summer meet the cottage cheese and I can almost feel myself melting through the sheets and the blanket wrapped around my waist, down through the mattress. I pretend that I can feel the coolness of the fake wood floors my mom put in when we first moved here against my feverish face. My hands will be splayed however they fell from my laptop across my bed, always either very warm, or very cold. Never just room temperature. My hair usually falls halfway across my face, framing it closely on either side. Darkened on the bottom layer, it contrasts my pallid complexion, though not so pallid today. Still a little flushed from my outbursts in French class actually. It was the kid's fault he got called out. He shouldn't have told me to fuck off. Je suis desolee pour le "interruption" madame, I'd said.

I imagine a great mirror above me. I can see my green eyes staring blindly back at them. They aren't a bright green, or a very dark green but just dark enough that unless you looked, you wouldn't notice them. I see one of my baggy long sleeved shirts I always wear to bed in the fall. I haven't changed out of my skin tight jeans I wore to school. My socks don't match. My legs are crossed even though I'm laying back. They're too long to let them lay straight out. The bed is only a full size afterall. The pillows are at the opposite end, but I don't want one. I'm sulking and I want every discomfort I can endure. In my reflection I can see the notes I wrote on my hand in fourth period. Green and purple ink, alternated. Science and English essays it says. I've done neither and it's already 9:30. Another zero in the grade book. It'll come back to get me tomorrow. I wish I cared right now. The scarlet sheets are giving me a complex. Out of the corner of my eye I'm always seeing red. Oh, It's the painting I did for Diana's birthday present. A green man with a red heart on a red background. A black stethoscope leads from his red heart to the opposite side of the canvas, and music notes pour from the earbuds. A splash of white for contrast. Her birthday is on Halloween, and I've had the painting I my room for 2 months. I love it. I know she will too. On the other side is my octopus collection, all 43 of the pointless things. To the left of that I spy with my little green eye, the 9 rolls of duct tape, all different colors.

Lonely in a crowd of people. What a shitty cliché. That guy from Love Actually said it best "And my wasted heart will love you." "but who could love me I'm just out of my mind, throwing a line out to sea, to see if I can't catch a dream". "oh the humanity!"

good God. My speech patterns have turned into non-stop allusions. When will I ever learn to speak for myself?

So I begin to sulk even more.