103 words. Just now. Fat lot of good that does anyone; I don't even know if they're the right words. Piffle.

Lennon's sick. ([livejournal.com profile] teinedreugan, this is your first-order reminder to call the vet.)

I'm not doing so hot myself. Stupid damn guts.


It's hard not to be consumed with pointlessness, distracted by anything other than what I ought to be doing. Those impulses of self-immolation surface again, licking at the inside of my skin; I could be doing better. I should be doing better.

My fault, my failings; burn, burn, burn.

Helpless-hopeless-useless.

Burn.


[ Editorial note: Bonfire's being polite enough to share front. We let him write. Part of the consumption of pointlessness was getting him a user icon, anyway. ]

[ Song output oddly ironic. ]

[ Stormy addendum: Rar! Let me *snarlteeth* post this damned entry. Maintenance. *manyteeth* ]

[ Addendum addendum: fuckitgoingtobed. Game over, try again later. ]
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