I'd rather not tell my parents. I love them and all, but I don't get the feeling that my feelings are taken seriously. It's like I'm being childish or that I'm being over-dramatic. I was a cry-baby when I was little and it seems to have carried over into the rest of my life. I've been accused of being over-sensitive, so I'd rather go to someone who's suppose to listen to my drivell. I can't carry my baggage anymore. It's getting too heavy for me. I have lots of tension in my shoulders, and I believe that we carry out hidden feelings in parts of our bodies. Mine have been in my shoulders and my back for so long, it's made of marble. I don't need firm them up, for you could play raquetball off of it.

A diary isn't enough; my new friends aren't ready to take the full-on impact of my neuroses and my family isn't very receptive, as much as they would like to. I'd rather sneak around to see professional help then tell them about it. They'll be judgemental, I know it for certain. I don't want their eyes to look at me differently.

I have to get to bed. I hate lying awake to await sleep to hit me. I come home from work, and food is the last thing I'm thinking of. I'm surrounded by "Meat Juices" and splashed cooking oil that the whole carnivorounsness of it all makes me want to barf. I use to worry I'd revert to chomping down on a burgers, especially the chicken burgers [one guy told me he was a vegetarian except he ate fish and chicken!], but that hasn't happened. Before work, I bought a submarine sandwich, a veggie light with no cheese or mayo: a salad on a bun.

As little an appetite as I have, I feel gluttonous at night, so I popped some popcorn, enough for my dad to have, but he's asleep.