Very bored right now, even too bored to sleep. It's 5:50 and there is absolutely nothing to do. Reading is becomming a constant surce of gloom since the story's mood is resigned and sorrowful. I hate these long summer days and the weather even more. I'm also angry because I can't seem to write even one word and feel satisfied. It's all junk. It all sucks. I am supposed to know how to write but truth is all that I write is miserable and pathetic. I might as well invent a new form of art and call it "self pity"...oh well that is all...complaints,complaints,complaints.