Jan. 16, 2004 @ 2:59 p.m.

Why is it that I’m constantly catching you trying to keep a conversation through your teeth? Everything once tasted like a freshly baked vanilla cake with strawberry icing and cute little swirls of chocolate aligning the edge of some beautiful, crafty masterpiece. The smell of your lies are like ten thousand roses sinking in the middle of an ancient, smoldering tar pit. The black pit is you and those sweet, drowning roses are me. Your stink surrounds me, swallowing my freshness whole, just like someone had opened a rotten carton of meat, dated “Best used by:” followed with a slight font change displaying a date older than my unrealistic perception of you. Today I was asked what happened and do you know what I replied? "Smoke and mirrors, Man. Enron had nothing on this girl."