I wanna write a book, but none of it would make sense. It would be random and emotional and draining. But I wanna do it. I don't know what it'll be about. Maybe my life, my lack of breakfast, or my love for anything weird and colorful.
I hate my room. It's the epitomy of me, as an 8th grader. Had barely any friends, though I was so hungry for attention...my walls are hot pink and lime green. I'm starting construction next weekend. Doing a little fung-chua and painting over these God-aweful walls. Chalkboard paint on one wall. So I can just scratch down my feelings whenever I want. One wall white, and I'm going to wrote quotes and draw random things on there...don't entirely have my vision, for that. And the other walls just really chill colors. I don't know why I'm writing about this.
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