I thought I was an open book, but I'm not.  If I am a book, and an open one at that, then I am a book so heavily encrypted that I can't even read myself.  I'm finding out that I'm not as mature as a had previously believed myself to be.  I am simply a practical and logical head covered by a pretty face and an ever-present smile, all covering retardedly juvenile emotions, which I have no idea what to do with.  I really am happy for you, and yet I find myself very much unhappy for myself.  I'd ...
Continue reading ...