Blah. And "Why do you fuckin' care?" and my other voice translates that primly into "You are going into a self indulgence mode which is detrimental to your mental health." As if with so many voices in my head I am not mental already.

Bah humbug. Maybe Ophelia just had to be baptized in a cold watery bath before she emerged from the water as a Miranda. Where is the turning point in my life? Maybe there were several turning points. I don't know. I have a headache from thinking too much about this. That is a psychological defense mechanism I have created. Thinking too deeply sometimes about the depths of oneself can drive anyone insane, not to mention people who are already prone to imbalances.

I think I'm still in my Kore stage or as Britney Spears puts it, "Not yet a woman yet not a girl" or something like that. I like her music but for the life of me I can't remember the titles of her songs that have more than three words in them or the proper way to spell her name. I have to go check that.

I'm still in transit. But the prettier side of things is that at least I'm in transit. Not stuck in that dank airport lounge listening to Muzak and feeling lonely and cold and depressed. Am I going on the plane soon? I hope not. I would hate it if the plane crashed. It could, you know.

On a slight tangent, I read recently that people who keep diaries that consisted of happier or humourous entries tend to gravitate towards the happier end of the spectrum. That could account for the shift in my mentality.

But yes, I like the idea that I made someone laugh. It makes me feel (how pathethic!) that I am contributing something to the world, to spread a little happiness. And I like the fact that writing chirpier entries makes my mood buoyant, a different sort of cathartic therapy. I like seeing the bright sun over the pale moon.

Yet, I can't help but think that sometimes I like walking in the night better than in the day.