So go on and sleep darlin'. (Why don't you pretend we were just a dream?) It's cool, baby. It doesn't matter anyway.

I've decided that being a sensitive person isn't fun at all. When I was younger, I used to cry at everything. EVERYthing. Someone would look at me funny, and I'd feel the tears well up. I don't know why this is, exactly, and I'm certain a psychiatrist would have a field day with me, what with that added to all the other issues I already have.

I've mentioned that recently, I've been feeling everything a lot more strongly than I used to. I feel like I'm reverting back to my childhood of everything making me cry. I don't actually cry, because I've become pretty good at holding it in when I feel it coming on (did you know that if you pinch the skin between your thumb and pointer finger when you feel yourself about to cry, it'll stop it? It's true.) But what happens instead is that I get this awful sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, and it just doesn't go away. That's where the O part of my OCD comes into play. Most people think that having OCD just means that you have to have a certain number of things together or that you have to lock a door fourteen times or else you'll think something bad is going to happen or something like that. While that can be the case sometimes with some people, another aspect of it that gets overshadowed by the "compulsive" part of it is the obsessive part of it.

What happens is, I start thinking about something, and I can't stop thinking about it. I try, but I can't. I think about nothing else but that one thing and I just can't get it out of my head. People say, "Sarah, just stop obsessing over it," and I want to punch them in the face and say, "I CAN'T. Do you think I LIKE obsessing over things? I don't, but I can't stop it.

So the fact that I decorated Dennis' desk before I left and then his wife came in with even more balloons to an already ballooned desk Friday? That bothers me. I can't stop thinking about how much that bothers me. I wasn't trying to take anything away from whatever she was doing. I didn't even know balloons were going to be involved. I just always do the balloon thing for people's birthdays. And now I'm wishing I hadn't done the balloons, but if I hadn't, that would have been weird, and then I would have felt badly about NOT doing it, and THAT would have plagued my thoughts. I KNOW how dumb it is and I KNOW that it has nothing to do with any other aspect of my life, but I can't stop thinking about it. I think there's a wire crossed in my brain or something.

This diatribe has a purpose.

The reason I'm in Raleigh this weekend that I couldn't say before, just in case, is because my mom threw my Sdad a surprise 60th birthday party. The Sdad's birthday isn't actually until December, but that's what made it such a surprise.

My mother has literally been planning this party for more than a year. I believe the count was 13 months. She had more than 100 people say they were coming, she had enough food to feed an army, and she had this place rented from 6 to 11. People came from as far away as Maine. My sister had helped make mix CDs. All the makings of a basically awesome party.

As far as I'm concerned, it was a success. However, almost all the people left in mass exodus fashion by about 8:30. And there was all this food left over.

I'm not making a lot of sense, I don't think, but the basic gist is, I think my mom is really disappointed by how it turned out, and that is absolutely killing me, because I know how hard she worked on this party. I've felt pretty much on the verge of tears since most of the people left. I'm not sure actually why I haven't cried yet. I just feel really, really badly, even though a lot of people came.

I told her it was a good party and she said, "Yeah, until about 8:30." And

I can't talk about this anymore.

I had fun, but I know she was disappointed.

Oh, and I don't know if my brother has ever read this, I'm fairly certain he never has and never will, but Johnny, if you're reading this? You are a fucking ass. You left even before the exodus, having drunk how many beers? 10? 12? I don't care if you are a fucking Marine. You just wanted to go with your stupid, stupid friend and your skanky whore of a cousin to. . .wherever the fuck it is you went. You were late getting there, you didn't help at ALL with cleanup or anything. I'm pretty disgusted with you. And I don't care who knows it.

I miss Raleigh so much. I don't want to go home. It's going to kill me a little leaving on Monday.

I'm more unhappy right now than I realized I was. Sorry, y'all. I know I'm a downer. I tried to keep it upbeat, but maybe I should just stop blogging for a while, until I can get back to not talking about how unhappy I am all the time.

Sorry.