Because I canít dye my hair purple or become white Iíve settled for some sort of obscene version of my own Ďgoodbye 05í paragraph. Actually not really, but I havenít updated xanga in 59 days and became absolutely giddy with the people of elite skills. I skipped the mcr concert from fear of being trampled on by the obese punk girls lurking here and there like it was a Jenny Craig seasonal party. Everything I remember becomes either foggy or nonexistent from before summer. And thatís only because Churchill is shitty and Tom Baines was shittier. And yet, I survived kids. With scandalous Japanese rock and time well spent with wifey. And even with all this crap spinning around, the manic depression fails to erase or even fade slightly. With each sunrise and sunset itís become such a routine to lie in bed drawing circles on your ceiling. And weíll go to school clutching our textbooks and test marks like it really matters to all of us. And weíll go to sleep, tiredly dreaming about ecstatic holidays and conversations. And thatís it, since nothings worth staying up for other than maybe sharing alcohol with another lonely friend, scribbling mediocre literature on Kleenex, and laughing about Bobby leeís penis on MAD TV. Iíve had my thrilling share of conversation while whispering secrets into the dim lights of the basement. Iíve sat on the floor of school and subtly made references to everything and anything to arrogant strangers. Weíve tried escaping our predictable days by making ourselves look smarter and more interesting. And were getting carried away with unrealistic futures and unstable lovers, and itíll never pass, since were ignorant and naÔve, since we could never finish our resolutions by today or tomorrow, since this year is done and another just started.