It's 805 now; I feel like I'm playing who wants to be a millionaire, waiting for the time to change. Yeah. Really that's what I just said. Why is my roommate talking to me? She knows I'm doing this assignment. Ahhhhhhhh. That was really annoying, I'm not sure if I just meant my roommate or me. I sometimes think I don't know the meaning of half of what I say (even though I didn't say that) I just completely lost track of what I was writing cause she talked to me again. Blah blah blah. Why do I do that? Anyway, I want to have more dreams. Really bad. Good dreams where I don't want to wake up; like the one I had when I was little and it was so cool there were these lonely French 12 year old kids in it and I was standing outside their house window or something; they remind me of mafia and the untouchables; my secret song that I swear is about the untouchables. I wish I knew what song it was. That would be great. I wonder if I'm making too much of my friend 'coming out'. Like I'm ok with it, and most everybody is ok with it, but I might be trying to sound TOO ok with it. I don't know. My roommate's parents don't like me, I don't think. But I'm not entirely sure so I shouldn't even think that, let alone say it. Or write it. Aren't I supposed to be typing about my feelings? Ok, I feel like I keep trying to prove myself to my friend Angela, just cause she is so wonderful and I don't feel too wonderful myself a lot of the time. But I don't try to prove myself to her; I did to my friend Ali, but not to Angela. I don't even know what I'm talking about right now. I hate that; I'll think something about somebody just cause I had thought it about someone else. And I don't know if that's bad or good or whatever. I'm typing too much too fast; I keep getting myself confused and backspacing. I wonder if I should just leave all the misspellings in here; it might make sense so far as the paper goes, since maybe that would suggest that my mind's confused and jumbled, the way handwriting is supposed to tell about you, but I don't know at all. Cause we're supposed to correct our misspellings. The Buddy Holly song is in my head. Does that mean I should sing it to the paper since it's in my head and whatever's in my head should be going down here? No, I don't think so; it's kind of like background music; jazz to Kerouac type of thing. I wonder if I'm as important to Grant as he is to me. That goes with all my friends. He should be here soon; no tape for me. This makes no sense, I'm sure; I sound horrible, like Adrian Mole, except for I keep criticizing myself as Adrian keeps complimenting myself. My back hurts; I wonder if my doctor who I went to once was right when I said I was going to have neck and back problems later, just cause I don't have the greatest posture in the world. I mean, my philosophy professor said today that if pleasure is virtue then he was virtuous in smoking, and he wasn't lying, but I don't think that there is any virtue in slouching. Is this what fist person books are supposed to be like? Cause characters would never be able to write this much; no, what I meant was that it would sound dumb and pointless and rambling like this, unless they had some superb, Staten island computer guy like mind. Like that last reference wouldn't make any sense at all to anyone but me; in books they describe it. I don't know. Like Kerouac I guess. Bless you. There, I said it in response to my roommate's sneeze on here at least. I don't think of her as Elizabeth, cause she's not, she's my roommate. Elizabeth's a dead girl who used to laugh at a camping trip where she got sick on the day of a campout; no a bonfire; who used to like peanut butter. Elizabeth did, not the peanut butter. Why is everyone homesick (or my roommate). I'm not; I want to talk to my cat though. He's going to hate me when I get home. Like, it'll be like when my mom took him into surgery and he would run away from her. I hope he doesn't die. I'm missing all of the little things in between these thoughts; the thoughts I have while I'm typing. I would try to type those things too but then there would be things while I was typing that. I hate paper, I miss trees. There goes my roommate complaining again. But I'll stop, cause she might come over and read over my shoulder or something and I'll have to stop like I did the first time I tried to do this exercise; that was horrible, it was only 2 minutes into it, but still. But she came close to here, and I don't know. Good, she's on the phone now. I'm staring at the little monitor light on my computer; it looks like some alien symbol for sex or something; I don't know what I'm thinking (tip of the tongue) but its weird whatever it is. I want to be in Rocky Horror. I wonder what it's like to be in it; just in the movie, not the little plays during it. Yesssssssss, noooooooooooo. I don't know. It's 8:22. Why the hell did I type yessssssssss? Remember on the Wonder Years, and they would have to go to typing class; that's what I think my mom's childhood was like. My lips feel like they're about to fall apart if I smile again; not because I've been smiling too much, because they're really chapped along the edges. Two minutes left. Yess. I did it again. I want to go out to breakfast; real breakfast, with eggs and pancakes you don't have to tear apart with your teeth to cut. I'm looking at my chopsticks now; I wonder why people are so fascinated with them, why I brought them, I don't know at all. And I'm feeling bad about having a goodluck elephant made out of ivory, cause doesn't that go against the good luck of elephants?