Call me Ghandi.

Was it Ghandi who gave up speaking? Or did he just give up food?
Bah. Nevermind.
Just call me Anna.

They say humans are creatures of habit. Maybe that's what my problem is, I'm in the habit of being unhappy. So I'm done.
Goodbye, habitual depression. Hello, cock-eyed optimism. Because all this stress is starting to affect my skin clarity.

I can't wait to get out of this town. The importance of "where," exactly, has fallen to second place because of the importance of just leaving in general. I need new people, a new start. Don't get me wrong, I love my friends. Very much. But the routine of highschool life is wearing on me. I'm so busy all the time, I have no time to be myself.
Whoever that is.

If I make it to the end of next week without (another) breakdown, it will be a true miracle. All state honor choir is lurking in the front of my brain like the creepy man at Walmart. Lurking. Stressing me out.

I went to music today, and one of my teacher's old students, who is now very successful with a minor in music/Latin, came to hear me and help me with my Latin pronounciation.
I opened my mouth to sing, and almost cried when I heard what came out of my throat. I was flat, I was sharp. I was terrible.
My voice has quit on me.
QUIT. GONE. GIVEN UP.
So I'm not going to utter a word for the next 24-48 hours. I need my voice to return. Like, by Monday.

I'm texting this guy my lovely girl Amber is trying to set me up with. He's a little more ghetto-ish than I usually go for, but he's fun so far. I'll let you know how it works, or doesn't work, out.

I'm spray tanning and painting my nails. Hit me with your best shot.