Comment on this entry, and I will:

1. Tell you why I friended you.
2. Associate you with something - fandom, a song, a color, a photo, a word etc.
3. Tell you something I like about you.
4. Tell you a memory I have of you.
5. Ask something I've always wanted to know about you.
6. Tell you my favorite user pic of yours.
7. In return, you must post this in your LJ.

This is with the intention that no one will post. No one even knows I have an LJ account, and I post so little. Oh well. One day someone will realize who Destinee Carols is an alias for; my cover will be blown, and I will be in trouble, ohhh hell yeah will I be in trouble.

What the fuck ever.

I was completely craving Tessa last night.  For all those who have not read my stupid retarded angst excuses of a poem on my FP account NOT under the alias where I write gay crap (am I going to burn fuck what sort of a good girl am I?) Tessa is dextromethorphan, commonly found in Robitussin, which we have dubbed Tessa.

But damn.  I poured the eighteen gels out and counted them and rolled them around in my hand.  And today I am so, so tempted to start up again.  And not stop.  Because I want to get out of here.  And what's my legitimate excuse for wanting to do so?  I'm lazy.  Of course.  I'm always lazy.  Don't want to apply for scholarships, don't want to study, don't want to practice, don't want to write, to work, to clean, to get off my fucking ass and try to do ANYTHING.

I am also feeling slightly nauseous.  Again.  Maybe it's because of ever since that time back in about June or end of May and I just shut down.  I wish I'd shut down all the way.  

To be, or not to be - that is the question;
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
And by opposing end them.  To die, to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to - 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd.  To die, to sleep;
To sleep, perchance to dream.  Ay, there's the rub,
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must gives us pause.  There's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time
Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th' unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country by whose bourn
No travellers return, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than to fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pitch and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.

- Act III, Scene I

Man.  I loved Hamlet.  It just made so much sense.  I really need to memorize this thing.