Merriam-Websters 5th Edition Makes Me Cry.

stayed up balling this morning. I have a funny form of i guess divination, a ouja board type of answering my tuffest quests. I take my Merriam-Websters 5th edition 1938 dictionary, hold it, clear my mind and ask silly consciousness things. today the first question i asked was "if she could tell me something what would it be?" i open and my thumb lands on "expiation: The act of expiating; atonement."my heart definitely panged that fucked up thing it does when u feel a lot for someone.i asked a series of questions and cleared my head of most worries. after crying a lot (holding my dictionary, pathetic image ain't it), the silliest question i asked is why it hurts so much (i'm not used to this hurt feeling, i turn that off usually), i forgot the answer but it was scarrry. now, it only works when there isn't a doubt in my mind about the relivancy of each word. it's a matter of connectiong the words definition, to the question, a lot of multidimensional thinking.anyway, i keep a track of these in my computer, of which i fucking broke the other day, note to self: don't let skeevy porn clips be on loop for too long...ops.i'm too lazy to figure out how to fix it, i'm also too lazy to clean my room, and too lazy in general. i'm tired of things, i'm tired of this, i'm tired of getting lost and losing.over the years, (i don't conceit) people often fall in love with the idea of me. (I know this because i've done this a couple of times the idea is an illusion that is created by the desire for perfection as we all know, impossible.)they find that i'm not this idea i've made, a weird approximation of what i want to be. Because of their own deceit, there is an awakward realization that they can't love me the way i need to be loved...i guess i'm not so ideal because i need not just to be loved, but lots of fucking understanding or at least the scrutinzing attempt of... i don't know. but its in here somewhere, it's a matter of who has the will to pull it out and who i'm willing to let do this, fucking vastness. i'll find it when i stop looking, as they say.i've been loved in many many different sorts, unconditional being the most desperate. the thows of passion, being liberating as it seems, is the most constraining of the emotionally restrained. i know things with my heart more than anyone i've ever known. and i know this- i don't know shit. can i just start over?