Upset because I can't write it out of my system. Because I can't sit down and just tell a story. Why can't I just sit down and write it out? I'm always stuck, always blocked. Lots to write about, no tongue to do it with. Perhaps I've overestimated my abilities in the past.
Time to rethink my future major.
Irritated because I live in this town. This conservative town. Because all the girls I like are straight. Because I can't write her out of my system.
However, pleased that I have a "tolerance" sticker on my car now. That I got to spend my Sunday in my environment [that is, around a lot of gay people at Long Beach Pride]. That I have a best friend who can relate. That she is truly my best friend. That I was nominated for winner in our school's writing contest [seems to contradict my irritation].
Pleased that the author of the second best selling novel and I have something in common. Go, Daphne Du Maurier. But I'm very sorry for your boy trapped in the box all your life. Thank god for Gertrude, I guess.