Second Post
Well, it's 12:34 am, and I have no idea what I'm doing up at this ungodly hour of the morning. My OCD meds wore off and I just made the most perfect couch-bed anyone could ever ask for. The sheets are so tight I was able to bounce a quarter off of them. I almost thought I could be proud of it, but I wasn't. There is never any sense of pride,
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I'm sorry you didn't feel well last night. I'm sorry that I can't help. I know it must be a horrible feeling you get and you had it that one week and you just seemed really sad. I wish I could help when that happens but there's not a lot I can do, is there?
Your parents are rediculous with you and your grades and if I could I'd give them hell for it. Four A's and three B's, so many other parents would be perfectly happy. And if you really think your father likes your brother more than you, then he's doing something wrong but 'maybe i'm just being critical' as my mother says to me. I really hope you feel better today.
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OH, FUCK HIM.
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