Six months.

This past Monday has been six months.

Half a year already.

And I'm still wishing, hoping, and praying that you would just walk through the door like you used to.

I held that camera you gave me randomly some time ago. I liked that you always believed in my passion for photography. I miss that.

I thought about giving up photography because I feel that I'm just not all that great. But I won't because you believed in me.

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I've completely shut myself off this past week. I just haven't felt like talking to anyone. I think the last person who wasn't family I talked to was either Liza or Alex. I just don't want to talk to anyone. I don't want to deal with anyone else's problems; I don't even want to deal with my own problems.

I don't know where I'm going, or where I will be in a year or a decade. But I'm 22. I'm getting old.

Sometimes I wish I had just had a normal teenage life. Being fat and ugly and being a right-wing conservative crazy christian just made my teenage years shit. I wonder where I would have been now.

I fucking hate my life.

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I've decided to achieve my master's in England, or somewhere in the UK, but seriously would love London, England.

I need to get moving with photography projects.