June 9, 1999
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I get in these wacky reading and writing moods every so often. Tonight is one of these nights. I've been writing for three hours straight, getting up only to grab water (and consequently, visit the bathroom). Yet when I need to write, I can't. It's only when I hadn't been planning to do anything useful that I start spewing adjectives left and right.

This is my room. My roommate's bed is in the background, and also visible is our ugly turquoise door. It is covered with thick paint, as is the radiator next to my bed. This building is a testament to shoddy worksmanship and half-assed repair jobs. So metimes the elevator doors won't shut, and although some tenants risk the ride, I walk down seven flights. Hello, my name is Annie. I live on the seventh floor.