i felt sick.

but in a good way.

there was blood on my hands.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

here we are. yet again. 

it's the first day of senior year.

i have to be the therapist yet again . . the doormat.

have you ever been tired of hanging out with the same people?

every fucking year?

that's what's been happening to me.

but fuck. what would you know? you're just a diary.

name's sal fisher, by the way. and i'm turning eighteen this december. as a kid, i had always said that after 18 life was aimless. and fuck.

who knew that little 12 year old me was so smart?

my life is the same. it's always been the same. weird stares from people, paranormal activity . . . i'm getting sick of everyone. i'm getting sick of the fucking ghosts i talk to.

on the topic of sick, if ash opens her mouth one more time i think i'm gonna rip out her vocal cords. 

"sal, you're bein' so quiet!" 

there it is. that stupid nasally voice of hers.

sal closed his diary.

"right . . sorry, man. i didn't get a good sleep last night . ."

"as always," larry slapped sal on the back.

shut up. shut the fuck up.

"yeah, i really don't know what's up! are we almost at school?" sal replied.

"there it is." todd pointed a lanky finger at the school building up ahead.

sal wasn't looking forward to this . he never did -- it was school, and who was he kidding-- no one was looking forward to school, let alone the first day.

god, help me.