So I don't write enough, huh?

Seeing as people are giving me a hard time for not keeping up with my live-journal, I've decided to force this entry into the fray. I don't really have anything inspiring to share with the micro-masses that from time-to-time refer back to my journal. The only real revelation I've reached in the past few days is that back in the day when I was a suicidal child living in Wrightwood, I came to the conclusion that I suffered from clinical depression. I was given pills to placate my somber feelings and sent on my numbed-out dumbed-out emotionally barren way. I don't think I've ever suffered from chronic depression. I think I just couldn't handle living in Wrightwood. It's hard to be happy when you're hated by the student body simply for being a little different from the rest of the flock. Santa Barbara was a sort of middle-land. I grew to seeth that place, but I am probably giving myself a little too much credit. Had I gone straight from the tiny tales of Wrightwood to the explosive dynamo of San Francisco, my head would have probably exploded and I'd have returned to Wrightwood, blasted like a shotgun shell. As difficult as it is to say this, thank you Santa Barbara, you've helped me to deal with the real world. You held my hand as I escaped from the vacuum that stifled me for the first 18 years of my life.