The girls and I had supper after carolling practice. I was inclined to be bitchy, and really narky.

"I'm sorry, y'll."

"That's okay, Liv. You're entitled to your off days."

"It's just so urgh tonight. Must be that time of the month again. I feel horrible."

Practice was horrible, for me, tonight. Nothing came out right. My pitch was off, my timing was off, my notes were .. eugh, I couldn't get a satisfactory tone. It was just horrible. Every note that the sopranos sang grated on my nerves, every note that the tenors bellowed was a damn annoyance. The songs frustrated me no end. I had no patience with the rhythm, I hated every single song we had to sing. I couldn't hear myself. I was dissatisfied with the way I was singing. My throat clagged up, I was not breathing right. Everything was just plain sucky for some strange female reason.

My head aches with unshed tears of strange unsourced frustration. I long for the nerve to be dramatically violent in a public space. My hands are fidgety with nervous tension that is unfounded. The wall, the floor, everything but a person's eyes, is suddenly a source of such fascination. The world is abuzz with voices, when all I long for is thick blessed silence of nothingness.

"I saw so much potential in him. He had so much potential. He could have been great. He could have done so many things, be so many things. Then, for him to descend to such pettiness, and slide into stupidity just like that, it's disappointing. I'm not bitter, now. I'm just very disappointed, very hurt too, I guess. It's such a waste of a person. There was so much potential there. It's such a damn waste."

It hurts to look at the light.