Bed.

Obviously, bed is the greatest place to be in the world.
It is the only place, in my experience, where nothing bad ever happens.
Nightmares don't count as bad because they're not real.

I can be as pathetic, and melodramatic, and upset as I want, and no one will ever know.

I don't talk to my parents about anything. To be honest, I don't really talk to anyone about anything. I guess having outward feelings of sadness or similar sentiments is not something I've grown up with. It's kind of like a don't ask don't tell policy.

I've been a bit curmudgeonly lately due to my current predicament, and my parents just keep asking me about it, which only makes things worse. I can't really help it. I never have been good at telling people what's wrong. Unless, of course, it's something they did. I'm not one for beating around the bush with that type of thing.

So now I'm in my bed, pretending to be writing essays and listening to songs that illustrate how I'm feeling - like I Want You (She's so Heavy) by The Beatles, Iris by The Goo Goo Dolls, We Belong Together by Mariah Carey, and Teardrops on My Guitar by Taylor Swift.

I'm now going to burrow into my blankets and hope I disappear.