I recently acquired a tattoo (homemade, of course) of the Deathly Hallows symbol on my ankle. I love it. Looks real cool. I'm super-excited for H-BP. Looks really good. Holy shit. The Inferi look horrifying. Right now, I'm re-reading the book so I can pick apart the film. Like that's anything new. If they get Dumbledore's death wrong, I'm gonna eat one of Christine's rats. I swear. I mean, they already fucked-up Sirius's death. Ugh. Oh, and I love how my grandparents decide to pick fights with me ONLY when I'm out of cigarettes. This summer is extremely non-productive. I need a fucking job. Christ. Then again, who in their right minds would hire a sixteen-year-old GothFag? Babysitting would be nice, but no one wants a goth kid babysitting their child. Rrg. I know that eventually, all of my friends will leave me to to better things, make better friends, and I will be all alone. I'll never find a boyfriend. I'm too shallow and picky. Which leaves me the ultimatum of killing myself at 30. If you've got nothing to live for, why do it, you know? Alas, this is probably just my boredom-induced, nicotine-deprived mind talking, so don't take this too seriously. (Even though it's totally gonna happen.}