tales of the franco-martin household





i made sure to choose very unflattering pictures of myself because they amuse me. stories behind every one, none worth elaborating on.

i'm feeling trapped in myself, in the words that i write. i don't think a single soul on earth could say they honestly cared about me. strangely, this isn't so much a catharsis or cry for help as a relation, and one that doesn't really matter. i bought a twelve dollar italian vogue. i can't really say that i care much about anything anymore, the lack of human kindness in my life has turned me into a doormat. even when people try to talk to me i reject conversation because i've forgotten how to socialize at all. c'est la vie.