black jack davey

142. My blog is now so huge that I can't envision anyone ever reading it from the start.

I am a dylanite through and through. Sincerely.
I'm trying not to cry over this.

I spent Thanksgiving feeling miserably sick in a house of seven, six of us speaking Spanish nonstop. I felt awful. I kept curling up in corners and falling asleep. I thought I would pass out in the shower. I locked the door and slept naked in my parents' room and then put on my bathrobe and fell asleep on the couch and then got dressed and fell asleep on my bed, currently my abuela's bed. I knit a hat that's too big. I stuffed myself with French turkey and Mexican side dishes and Renata's apple pie, after skipping lunch and dinner the day before from fatigue. I painted my nails and wrote three more scenes. 4/9 is almost halfway done...

I feel very isolated. And sick.

I hate that I don't know how to carry out a conversation any more. There's nobody left that I like who I am with, not even Renata. I need to fix this. Soon.

I was talking with Harry today about fashion and whether I consider myself fashionable. I guess I like to think of myself as a little fashionable but with more of a personal twist. I like feeling elegant. I like evening dresses and belted sweaters and swept-back hair and silk scarves.

I went to H&M with Elena yesterday and felt disgusted by the hip-ness of the place. Forever 21, though somewhat lamer, produced the same effect. I opened an Allure magazine today and found myself turned off even by Miu Miu and Versace. I don't know why, but I hate mass-marketed style. I want to dress my own way.

I'm officially 100% thrift-shop-dependent. I want to look the way I feel. I want to wear clothes that are utterly unique. If I have to make them myself, so be it.

I wish I had something more interesting to say. I feel kind of dead. I want to get healthy again. Physically and mentally.