I went to Popscene last night. It was fun. Chad got me in for free, and gave me a few free drinks. He's so super sweet. I can't tell if he's friends with me because I make him, or if he actually likes me. I know he probably hates Popscene, so I hope he doesn't hate me for going there. Whatever, I overanalyze everything. I like him. I didn't sleaze on any guys last night. I just danced with Frank and his friend, I forget her name. I ran into Bobbo and Megan again, and the girls I went to the wharehouse with last weak. I finally figured out their names: Alicia and Julie. Julie is cute; Frank wants to hook it up. Whatever, the blow by blow of last night isn't too exciting. Dancing, drinking, not enough sleeping. That's all. Darkroom went okay yesterday. I printed conceited self-portraits. All self-portraits seem conceited to me. These especially. They are extremely clich�d. My shirts off, and I'm waving a pellet gun. They really are good photographs, and they make a sweet series. I felt like I had to put a disclaimer next to them though. It just says I'm not a violent kid and I'm not going to bring a gun to school or anything. It also makes fun of the fact that I'm shirtless and looking kind of gross. There's something so gratifying and conceited about printing pictures of myself. Kind of the same thing with this diary. I don't know.

I'm proud of myself, I've only gotten drunk once this week and I've only missed Bib Lit once too! I haven't been particularly responsible, but not irresponsible either. This is wasting my time. I'm not writing about anything anymore. I'll come up with something better at a later date. Fuck this. Boys suck. Shannon's not gonna happen. I'm angry. Chris is busy. Friend's are gone or out of the fucking picture, out of MY fucking picture at least. Fuck it.

Anger is such a fucking great thing.