Dear Diary,

I call myself a writer. Heck, my graduation present from my brother was an (expensive) rookie Mont Blanc pen—because his sister calls herself a writer. I guess I call myself a lot of things; I label myself a lot in my mind. But what's the point of labels when you don't live up to the labels? I don't write. I haven't written something with true substance since May. We're in July right now, so what's the delay for?

Short & Sweet: "I Miss You," Incubus

To see you when I wake up, is a gift I didn't think could be real
To know that you feel the same, as I do, is a Three-fold utopian dream
You do something to me
That I can't explain
So would I be out of line, If I said
I miss you.
I see your picture, I smell your skin on, the empty pillow next to mine
You have only been gone ten days, but already I am wasting away
I know I'll see you again
Whether far or soon
But I need you to know, that I care
And I miss you