I'm slipping again. I know I've learned how to fight it, but it all feels wrong. I'm not supposed to fight it. I'm not strong enough to fight it. And my awful doctor won't refill my birth control prescription for another month and the change in my hormones is just fucking with my body and subsequently my mind. Have I become the definition of passive? I've started reading Steve Martin's Shopgirl and I can't find anything in myself to stop the web of connections between Mirabelle and myself. I'm lost inside myself, unable to create those unending what-if possibilities filled with hopeful dreaming that hold the balance in my happiness. I keep writing this dark poetry, nonfiction, fiction - all lacking any semblance of hopeful dreaming. My room is a nest of scraps of paper. I'm a scavenger.