It's 2004. I've made hardly any entries. Yes, burn me now.

I just haven't been able to write lately; inspiration has left. I'm trying to regain inclination, but I just end up sitting, with a pen in my hand, but nothing to write.

I need to be more honest in my writing. I've probably only ever constructed a handful of things that were comepletely honest. Sometimes I manage it, but most of the time I'm just a bit to the left of absolute truth.

I'm so fucking pretentious.

And I will gladly repeat that sentence, until somebody thinks I'm interesting for stating it in the first place.

I'm positive that that's actually quite normal.

...

I buy new clothes and it makes me feel better. I spend £5 on a dress and I feel like I can walk on water. I buy a dress which shows off a little cleavage and I'm on top of the world. Is that shallow? I'm afraid that it is, but that the shallow things actually make me feel better than the deep aspects of life.

The deep things make me sad.

Very well summarised there. Deep = sad. Shallow = smiles.

...

G-g-g-g-ranville, it's been a funny old day.