JOURNAL
Seeing as I’m in the looney bin biz now because I’m considering this shoe box of a measly, not my mansion square feet, nice, it’s about high time I admitted something: I’m really enjoying my time here despite the lack of lackies to attend Snixx-slay-matics classes when I’m feeling particular insecure and wanna ‘round out my suckage onto other people. Anyways, speaking of channeling my inner Quinn Fabray, I’m feeling...
[there’s a brief pause, that elongates into a few moments of silence until she reminds herself she’s allowed to be vulnerable with Rizzoli - if anything]
....insecure. Pops is pissed at me, mamma is pissed at me, my ‘friends’ aren’t talking to me, and I’m not sure if Sam like, likes me. And the last one kinda bothers me most of all. He’s an idiot, but kind of a cute idiot. Like really cute idiot, who I want to sit on and side-eye constantly.
God, I feel gross, like Bloated Jones Diary or something. I hate this, I hate......whatever, I’m out. I’m going to spend a couple hours getting myself ready to look like I didn’t get ready and cook some dinner for Sam.
