May 21

vulgar words are the only thoughts I have when someone says

"Happy Birthday"

Birthday. Birth day. Day of Birth.

shit.
excuse my language, please do.

But, If only that bitch-of-a day didn't exist. I wouldn't be here staring at my wrists. Yesterday, when I kneeled down to pray I was at a loss of words. I bent my neck and stared at my hands.  I opened my mouth and moths flew out, dancing around with my sorrow on their backs. This caused my stomach to drop, because those sorrow moths were what kept it up. All I could think to say was, I hate you. as I sat on my haunches like a prisoner of war being put to death.  I rubbed and rubbed and rubbed my bottom lip. Why did he save me? Why. Tell me. Did I really choose this? I forget that I'm holding my breath and I let it out like a sigh so forceful, it could bust through my chest.  Hate you? do I hate you? Shit, I don't even know you.  I look to my left and see the layer of dust on your book. The anger keeps filling me up. How long have I been kneeling like this? Motionless... In the silence. As a war breaks out in my head.  I'm so confused. I push my hair back as if it will stop the attack. The battle rages on....

"Happy Birthday"

happy birthday.

forgetting #2

three months. twenty two days.

That's how long I've been away from you.

three months. twenty two days.

                     So now I'm going to release three months and twenty one days worth of emotion out on you guys. ( the last day I'll keep to myself because I don't want to overwhelm you with three months and twenty TWO days. That would be a little overboard.)

Here we go then, three months and twenty one days worth of my life all in one little blog post (spoiler alert, it will probably be a poem):

I keep forgetting to button the last button on my shirt.

I keep forgetting to finish that book I started last summer.

I keep forgetting Mumford and Sons got popular

and I keep forgetting where to go for third period.

I keep forgetting how long I like my bread in the toaster

I keep forgetting that girl's name in my english class

I keep forgetting I don't like british accents as much as I thought I did

and I keep forgetting you don't love me.

You call me up every few months to tell me about a new girl, then you tell me I look like someone.... someone you think is pretty.... and my heart swells. curse you.

I keep forgetting how much I like facebook. 

I keep forgetting I hate cats

I keep forgetting I love cats

and I keep forgetting I have a cat...

I keep forgetting that my face automatically forms a smile when I'm dozing.

I keep forgetting I'm actually depressed (probably because my face is tricking me)

I keep forgetting to eat lunch and dinner.

and I keep forgetting my mom was actually in love with Martin Kokol once and that he wasn't just a sperm donor as I often wish he were. 

I cry so quietly, and yet you could probably hear the tears splattering on my shirt if you listened hard enough. But who am I kidding? You don't know what the L word is. curse you.

I keep forgetting what to say when someone says "thank-you" (are you allowed to just walk away?)

I keep forgetting that I want straight A's

I keep forgetting to brush my teeth

and I keep forgetting "no shirt, no shoes, no service"

I keep forgetting I can't draw worth a darn.

I keep forgetting to write in my journal everyday.

I keep forgetting what I wanted to blog about.

and I keep forgetting how breathtakingly beautiful you are.

I never realized how much I liked holding hands until you held mine. and I'm just curious, do you know the spot on my cheek where you kissed me still feels warm?

I keep forgetting the pact I made with myself to not smile until my braces came off.

I keep forgetting that I hate my long hair.

I keep forgetting others have a harder life than me.

and I keep forgetting you have a girlfriend who is actually your age and not a baby as I am.

The words that you say pound in my head. "I don't believe in love, but it's all I'm really looking for and I don't have faith in god, but he's all I really believe in." and I sit and I hurt because your words speak to me. Yet, all you see is a fifteen year old girl who thinks she's seen the world when you hear my poetry. So I'll just rip up what I felt and glue it all together into a big fake smile dripping with wet paint. Look at me I think, but no one does. My little craft tricks you well, So that when you see me all you think is SAINT. However, remember kids saint stands for Shut Anger Inside Neat and Tight the burden is heavy but the guilt is light.  I watch my future slip like the sand in my fingers. the crashing of waves drowns out all noise, too bad shutting things out doesn't always last. Because the question I have keeps forming, Are my problems chasing me, or am I just running with something that's been long in the past?

I guess it's time for sleep, if I even can. Sheesh I keep trying to determine if I'm hurt or just completely numb.... wait let's get real. I'm just a misanthrope.

Conversations through the Bathroom Mirror

Everyone about to read this
Hey. So I wrote this about a month before school started (if you don't believe me look at the closing remarks) and a lot of these opinions have changed since I'm a little older and a little closer with some of you. (Jerem) And a lot of the fights are waaaaay waaaaay in the past. (Sarah) but for some reason I feel like I want to post this.  I swear this isn't exactly how I feel anymore.  There are still some things that stand true (Keaton), but a lot of it is old news and dumb drama.  So I thought about updating.... but I didn't.  Mostly because I've written and re-written this post so many times that I'm sick of re-writing. So if you're about to read this, don't.  Just turn back now while you still can.  Run away, because this is the worst post I've ever written and I hate it, but like all my other posts, it's apart of me and I can't sit on it forever. Actually... I could, but that's just not my stile. So without further ado. Here's a horrible post written by a me many many months ago. (please stop reading here)

Camri

Dear Cam. I've had countless conversations with you in the mirror.  Some that involved me yelling at you and asking you where you were when I needed you. Some are of me asking you if you're okay and if you need me.  But most are just me asking  begging you to be my friend again.  Usually this conversation ends with me crying, in my bathroom, realizing I'm alone and you'll never want me back as your friend.  Occasionally it ends with me saying, "Well I'm glad you are happy now, sorry I wasn't cool or pretty enough." and storming away to get ready for another grumpy day at school. But then there are those few few times when I look in the mirror and see your huge green eyes and all I say is "I'm sorry about your dad." and camri, this is what I want to say to you most of all. I'm so sorry about your dad. I'm so sorry. 

Ben

Ben. I've had one conversation with you in the mirror. Just one. I've had this conversation a million times, but it's always the same one.  It's pretty much me declaring how much I've always liked you and handing you a book entitled "go ask alice" and saying, "Is this how you feel? because sometimes It's how I feel and I haven't even gone through most of what you have."  Sometimes I'll even imagine myself kissing your cheek. Then I just walk away.  If I had the courage to do this, I still wouldn't. Because even in my messed up imagination, you reject me. Even when I have the power to make you want me in my head, you don't. And I know in my heart that is how it would be in the real world too. And maybe that's why I've had your conversation so many times, because I want to change it so that you like me. But oh ben. You never will. 

Sarah.

I haven't talked to the mirror you in a long time. But when we were first going through our fight I would verbally abuse imaginary you almost everyday.  Then I'd cry to you and tell you everything through angry tears. Everything. I'd tell you what happened to my sister, I'd tell you what happened with my dad, I'd tell you about Lisa. But knowing only the fake you in the mirror knows what I'm talking about, this will probably just confuse you. And anyway I don't want to talk about that stuff. I want to talk about the last conversation I had with you in the mirror. This one started out as usual, me being mad and saying things like, "I'm not dramatic!" (classic, a girl with tears streaking down her face telling a mirror that she isn't dramatic... hahah) but then I steered down a weird path, instead of me asking you in an angry voice "You don't know what I've been through, Do you know about [insert ridiculous family issues I'd never actually tell anyone]??" I said. Sarah. I don't know what you've been through. But whatever it is, whoever it involves, whenever it happened, I am sorry. And then I ran away from my bathroom and I cried but instead of anger pulsing the hot tears to my cheek, it was out of pure and honest longing to say those words to you and for them to come out as pure and honest as they are.

Koda.

Your conversations hurt me the most. Because I never cry during or after them. I just stare into my reflection (seeing only your face) and say that I hate you. I hate you because you made me drift from my best friend. I hate you because you are handsome. I hate you because you promised you'd always listen and be there for me. I hate you because you made me think I was attractive to you. I hate you because you left me in the dust feeling ugly and repulsive. I hate you because you gave me self confidence and then ripped it out of my hand telling me how hideous I looked as you did it. I hate you because everything I do I still think, would Koda think I looked pretty doing this, would Koda think I was interesting saying this. Would Koda think, Would Koda think..... And then I don't even leave the bathroom. I sit in there and hold my phone. and stare at it. And then I look up and your face is gone. replaced by my tired reflection. And I realize that I don't hate you. I hate me, because of you. And then I usual ask you for my confidence back, but you're gone and I'm left with my tired face. Ask me how confident that makes me feel. 

Jerem.

Jerem. Oh Jerem, Jerem, Jerem. The only conversation I've had in the mirror with you is funny and I laugh every time I think about it so much to the point I can't converse with the fake you in the mirror anymore. I don't actually know why it's funny to me... but it is. It's just about your blog. and that post that you talk about the 5 girls you've loved. And mostly the conversation consists of me guessing who the five girls are and getting it right (Saren, Megan, Layna, Sarah, and Chloe that's usually what I guess incase you were curious). I think I've only had this conversation with you because I don't know you. Not that I know any of the other people I've written about (especially not Ben hahahahaha what a hoot.) but I know how I feel about them, and I truly don't know what I feel about you. Mostly it's just the feeling of rolling my eyes at how funny you are. But sometimes it's anger because I don't feel like myself around you and I really want to. so many people have told me that they feel like themselves around you and that makes me jealous. I want to feel like myself around you Jerem. Why don't I? and sometimes I ask you that in the mirror... which I guess makes me sound like a liar because I said I haven't had any other conversations with you, but I didn't lie because you never answer me. And an unanswered question is not a conversation. 

Tessa. 

Usually I just ask you why you took Sarah's side. and cry. Then sometimes in my head you say "what the devil" and I hurt even worse. But lately I've just asked the fake you to forgive me because sometimes I'm positive I hurt you worse than sarah. Because while sarah and I talked on the phone trying to work things out (and occasionally fighting it out), you just sat by not knowing what was going to happen next. I should have tried to work things out with you too, but I didn't. That was really selfish of me. And for that I am so sorry. In a way I chose sides with Sarah too didn't I? Wow tessa. I'm really sorry. 

Keaton Henson.

You are my idol. And usual I stare at you through the mirror and tell you that. And in my mind I hug you and kiss your cheek and ask you to sing for me. And sometimes You even say back "Maybe I'll write a song called Katie major" and I cry. Oh I really really really want to meet you. 

Goose Girl.

Sorry yours is last dearest stranger, but I've been trying to think of a way to write about you in this post since technically I haven't had any conversations with you through my bathroom mirror because I don't know what you look like and the whole point of conversations through a mirror is to see others, not yourself. So instead of writing about our nonexistent conversation, I'll write about how wonderful I think you are. I really don't know who you are, which probably is so mean of me! I'm sorry. If you are a dear friend of mine, I'm sorry I didn't know you had a blog. if you want, you can tell me, but sometimes I hope you don't. I like your mystery. The second you followed me, I blog stalked you until at least 2 in the morning trying to find some hint of who you were, but then as I read each post I forgot about my search, I started focusing on your beautiful, BEAUTIFUL writing. Wow. I'm in awe at your writing skill. If you really are a stranger to me and we've never met, thank you for following me. If we have met, thank you for following me, but who told you about my blog??? ... anyway. sorry. Okay so you're a beautiful author and after that 2 am S.S. (stalking session) I wanted to write about you. I wanted the whole world to know about your blog. But then I thought if someone did that to me (which would never happen) I would be embarrassed and cry. So instead I had imaginary posts going on in my head that I have done no justice with this silly scrawl of words. I promise this all sounded so much better in my head. well just know I love you stranger or not. You are talented and lovely. 

 and now you all know why I look so crazy. Because when I look in the mirror, it's not to see my reflection or to do my makeup, it's so I can talk to you all being completely and entirely myself.  

But since High School is starting in less than a month I want to get my real self out there. So no more bottling things up. No more conversations through the mirror. Just radical honesty. Sorry if this hurt any of you. oh no. I really hope I didn't hurt any of you. 

Maybe being myself isn't the best idea. 

The clock is striking thirteen

November is here.

All that has ever meant to me is this:

Scruffy men and Thanksgiving feast

I don't count the things I'm grateful for or complain about the weather.
No.
I count the number of times I am planning to eat my weight in yams and complain about my lack of skills in talking to attractive men who are willing to grow hair on their perfect faces.  I count how many friends I have and complain that I can't get past 0 in that number. I count the hours I'm in school.  but I don't complain...

I count how many times you kiss me in my head.

I count how many times I think about you.

I count how many times you talk about the girl you love.

and I complain.
and complain.
and complain.

I count my steps from l to 100 and 100 to 1 million.

I complain that you've come back into my life.

 Do you count all the times you lied to me? Do you complain that you don't see me anymore?  Do you count the times you told me I had pretty eyes?  Do you complain that I said I love a boy that isn't you?  Do you count how many minutes it takes to get from my house to yours?  Do you complain that it's a lot?  No.
You count the things you're grateful for and you complain about the weather.

I count
I complain

you came back.

November is here.

and all that has ever meant to me is this:

You.

Cheap words are never worth the price. No matter how Inexpensive they are.

once a beautiful girl told me i was a mystery.
a game.
a puzzle to be solved
but ever evading resolution

i tried to grasp onto these words as my throat closed off.
they were coming
as the man with the lies spoke
with his fake profundity

they began to spill as his superficial voice grew
i began to tremble and i said to myself
you are a closed book
don't let him read you

and the tears wet my face as i tore the phone
away
from my ill-fated ear
i tried to lift my drooping heart

it sagged to the floor
i left it there
as i tore him apart
searching for what i had come for

they would not win this time
they would not rise up to save him
i would get them
and only then would i be solaced

his lies were cowards
they ran as i attacked
i hoped they wouldn't return
but not even i could dream up such an unreachable task

they would be back soon enough
along with all his other
fabrications and
ever continuous words



the latter were back sooner than expected



he spoke of the pain he's felt
and i sensed the tears falling
i almost felt for him,
as the wool began to darken my sight

he asked
"do you think we could learn about life from death?"
and the illusion was
shot

his words wouldn't have even been scripted in the tackiest film

did he really think i would credit this---respect it even?

this tawdry sentence 

sickened me 

it played

over

in my 

mind

"do you think we could learn about life from death?"

his words are always so cheap

so innocent 

it's hard to resist stopping to ponder the merchandise 

it's a good thing i've learned not to buy

because though the show is dazzling

the performance 

always. falls.

short.

but now i'm rambling about a conversation

that never happened

not to me anyway

because i wasn't there

my body was, yes

but me, oh the elusive 

me

who i really am

was gone.

whisked away by the wind

as the phone was torn from that



ill-fated ear 

"We're all individuals!"....."I'm not"....

I really miss my playlist singing to me.  It was so comforting to log onto my blog and hear everything that ever meant something to me play along with my writing. All the anger and pain I've felt, I would just listen to it, and type along to the beat, as the guitarist strummed the strings of my heart and the pianist struck the keys in my head.  Cheesy no?  Well that's my life. I like cliche statements, and sappy lines now ahh-days.  I talked to my beloved sister, Ari, about it and we've come to realize a few things.

Things My sister and I have Realized:


1.  Cliche statements are only cliche, because they are repeated.


2. Cliche statements are only repeated, because they are true.


3. We like Cliche statements and sappy lines.




I finished a book today.  Doesn't that feel good?  yes. yes it does creepy conscience asking me questions. Please go away now.  Anyway... It feels good.  I love those books that you can't put down until the very last chapter.  The books where you get to the ending lines and you let a gasp escape your crusting lips--- you've licked too often while you were in such concentration over the plot line--because you've almost reached the end and you don't want it to be done.  Ah so many people have written that line. Haven't they though?  So many avid readers who leaped into Alice in Wonderland and attempted to enjoy the silly decisions made in Gone with the Wind.  So many have written about not wanting a book to end.  So many who've not wanted to come back to the shining, sun lit, world of reality; where the glare of the bright light fuzzies up the line between right and wrong.  They want to stay in the world where the protagonist knows exactly what is right, where the villain chooses wrong for all the right reasons.  Where you can still have pitty for the bad.  Ah so many that want to stay in their books.  How cliche.  (:  


In the thesaurus it has a sentence before all the synonyms of the word cliche, it says "a good speechwriter will steer clear of cliches."  What a shame, I guess I'll never be considered that good.  I love how true cliches are, I can't steer clear of them.  It's like when you see what someone else is wearing and you think.. wow I like that, I'm going to dress like that, and when you do, suddenly you aren't being yourself you aren't "original" and you are claimed to be a copy cat (meow).  It's like that.  You were still being you, you liked what that person wore, YOU did, but because someone else has already worn it, it therefore CANNOT be yours.  Thats how I see cliche statements.  They have been said by others, so therefore it's not your opinion, even though it really is.  How sad.  How sad that suddenly in this world, where we are all considered individuals,  we have become an individual.  Singular.  One.  We are all one, and not in a good way.  


Is my train of thought on schedule?  
did you catch it in time...or were we too quick, too early?
because sometimes I really don't know if I make any sense. 


......anyway.  This sucks.  It sucks that I finally want to write and the words just don't come out right.  


I want to be an individual, 




















but isn't that just another cliche?

Golly Gee, You really don't need me...

clarity

keeps clouding my mind.

I can see things so easily, it's confusing me.

You don't like me, you like the idea of me.

And we're only friends because we have a common enemy.


These realizations keep occurring to me, and it makes me sad.

It's as if I've eaten a Bertie Bott's every flavored beans and I've gotten the taste of


Defeat.


ah well.
I don't care if we're Just friends; I'll just read a book instead.










I'm old enough now to pretend.

Man up.

I type to fill the spaces.  Hearing the click of the keyboard is better than music.  It makes me feel productive, and doesn't make me cry as much.  I don't cry anymore.  

Crying is for girls, and I've made a discovery, I am not a girl.

Maybe that's why Mr. 3 letters will never like me.  A good friend of mine told me I was "one of the guys."  Thanks man.  

...........I wonder if you know the boy I love and you told him that...

Oh well, it doesn't make a difference.  I am a guy.  Might as well start acting like one. And that means no crying for me!

When I was a girl I cried.  

I cried when my dad would hurt me, I cried when my sisters were hurt, I cried when I hid, and I cried when I didn't stand up for myself or my family.

I cried when we weren't friends anymore.  

and I cried when you wrote about me, hurting you. 

And i wanted to cry when i wrote this, but I am a boy now.  

And boys don't cry.  

I cried when I realized I'm no better than my dad.  I'm no better than he is.  

So i might as well be a boy and just become him.  

Just call me Martin Jr.

 I am a boy and even worse, I am a boy with no heart.  Just like my Senior. You taught me well dad.  You taught me well.  I guess that makes sense seeing that you are a teacher.  And since you are a History teacher, you know that History repeats itself.  

Well tip of my hat to you sir.  Your history has been repeated. Thanks to me, your heartless son. 

So I'll just forget about tears and focus on more manly things, like hurting people.  

Because that's what boys do best.  

Boys with no heart. 

and no friends

and no dad.

I miss my smile.

 who am I?

To the "Observer"

Sorry love, i've quit your game.
but it's true some things will always stay the same.


you cheer for her
and
my trust for you will, even now, be unsure


death brings me to my knees
so you could just let me be if you please
i'm sorry you think i don't try
but it's really just that my empathy has run dry
you think you're just an observer
but i must disagree and state my demurrer

you take sides
so obviously her friendship overrides

maybe you're right, and i will never grow
but at least now i know.




you cheer for her.
and my trust for you will remain to be


unsure.

stupidity.

Well when you call out  to me
in the halls
wistfully

it doesn't sound quite the same.
so now I'm compelled to write to you,
 the boy with the three lettered name.

you seem so serene,
untroubled, at peace.
But do you know what i've seen?

you can't hide from Ms. invisibility
and you don't understand
your culpability.... for my stupidity.

I lose my words, my protection
my walls fall down
and I've forgotten my direction.

I try not to look, but you slip into view
and when i'm not thinking
i cant help but think of you.

oh the boy with the three letter name
can't you see what you've done
 you set my heart aflame






You wear a tail
and when i see you
i sail.

oh the boy with the three letter name.
you are to
blame

you spoke to me like we were friends
but all good things 
have their ends.

My nosy search for the truth
must have made me
seem uncouth

now dear boy with the three lettered name
i hope you never find this
declaim.

please don't find this declaim.

because you're the boy with the three lettered name

and all i feel now is shame





because i know you don't feel the same





oh trying to write about a boy is lame.  <----- (and that my dear boys and girls is what i like to call a run on rhyme)  


Sincerely,
Never Writing Again.

P.S. This was for learning intentional purposes only....... kind of

Perfection

These aren't secrets, they're just moments in my life i never want to forget no matter how vaguely i explain them.

Please read and feel free to remember a time when these have happened to you and hold onto it forever; because perfection is something you don't come by everyday.  and trust me, these are all perfection.

When you and a stranger lock eyes, you smile, and they smile back.

When you tuck your hair behind your ears.

When a song steals a page from your diary.

When you say all the wrong things.

When you hear a weepy sniffle followed by a broken laugh.

When you have nothing to say, but you keep talking anyway.

When you wake up with the smell of dreams resting on your pillow.

When you hope a boy will call you, but a friend calls instead.

When you laugh whole heartedly and then cry because you're mad things can't be that funny all the time.

When you laugh at yourself for crying for the previous reason.

When you finally realize you don't mind being ugly. (this one most likely has only happened to me since all who read this blog are beautiful beyond description.)

When all the answers evade you so you respond with a joke.

When an entire class laughs at your joke.

When just one tear falls, and that's enough to sooth you back to sleep.

When someone hugs you and you don't want to let go.

When you give someone a goofy grin with your face stuffed and food falling from your lips.

When you smell his cologne before you see him.

When you watch a smile break across a shy girls face.

When you trust someone.

When you finally find a band that can solace your breaking heart.








P.S. feel free to share your own experiences... i might elaborate on mine eventually, or maybe not, oh actually having a choice! perfection.

For someone more beautiful than words could contain.

Today was a regular day.

A regular day where I got up and groaned at the face in the mirror.

A regular day where i held back many a tear.

A regular day where i huffed angrily at a woman i adore

A regular day where i sat near a man whom i always ignore

A regular day where i felt regret. 

A regular day i most likely will forget.

A regular day it was today.  Until it was no longer a regular day.

A regular day it remained to be when i stared at pictures of others having fun.

A regular day it was indeed where i envied everyone

A regular day where i opened my blog to release what was repressed

Then it was not a regular day. Because today i was blessed.

********************************

Today a girl made me sigh.

Today a girl made me laugh.

Today this girl opened my heart and nuzzled herself right inside.

Because today a girl gave me a compliment more meaningful than she could ever understand.

Well, because you see,

Today this girl made me forget the mistakes i see in my mirror.

Today this girl let me release all my tears.

Today this girl even had me eat humble pie

Today i will never forget.

Because today Sarah Janelle Thueson made me cry.  (in a wonderful way---not sadly!)

But what does sadden me is that she could be so kind and not understand that i'm not as wonderful as SHE. 

If only this lovely girl  could understand that i wish to be ANYONE but me.  

Oh couldn't she look in the mirror and see what I see??

Sarah you can be you!!!! why on earth would you ever want to be like me?

I should send my blog to a Dry Cleaning service....

I must apologize for my previous post.

I realize it makes absolutely no sense.  Yet i cannot bring myself to delete it.  So there it will hang like a wet cloth next to a dryer.  (because i could just as easily delete that post as i could dry a cloth sitting next to a dryer.... did that connection make sense...?? )

 I seem to be developing a pattern of writing quite obscurely.

darn


Haven't you ever done something that was just so heart felt and so true, you couldn't get rid of it no matter how awful it was?

If not, you obviously don't own a blog.

 because that's pretty much the whole scheme of this thing.
If i didn't put my heart and soul into each one of these posts, most of them would be deleted by now.

because most of the things i type are so silly, but so true to myself i can't just throw them away without feeling anything.

Here's what I'm trying to say:  i'm utterly ashamed of my blog posts, yet completely proud of them at the same time.  Therefore the delete button goes untouched.




and my blog hangs. 


soaking wet with embarrassment 




























and i believe it will hang there for quite some time.  






why do i do this to myself?

Sharing necks

If you opened up my neck you would find unspoken sorrow, bottled for years on end.

The pain would  spill out, dripping, sticky, and wet on your hardened heart, softening it up, gulping down your barrier and chewing, carefully, thoughtfully on your unsuspecting empathy.

You are a kind person underneath that shell covering your soul

and this makes you weak to the monster in my throat.

If you opened up my neck you would find rejected tears and piercing breaths. 

The tears would soak you to the core and seep into your bones.

You would feel no chill, but the fluid resting on your bones would be unsettling.

You would feel pain.

My weapons would stab you.  My breath.  My forgotten breath.

They would whisper in your ear and tighten your lungs.

Constricting your flow of angry blood and penetrate your thoughts.

They would tell you to feel.

Feel for this girl.

Feel for yourself.

just feel.

But you would reject it at once; fore this thing that speaks is evil.



.....




Isn't it?


.......

If you opened up my throat you would hold onto your walls surrounding your heart as tightly as you could.

Because the monster would slowly be finding you. The true you.

It knows you have feelings and it has seen your heart.

You would barricade the remaining vulnerable things.

But it would be too late.

The Monster would shred the last bit of your shield.

Then you would look down and see all the things you've hidden from the world.

Without the protection, without the walls, without any coverings at all, alone and frail.

And finally you would look down and see who you were, who you are, and who should've been all along.




If you opened up my neck you just might find yourself again.

Retreating

I feel it's time to return to my journal. A place where my thoughts can be secret, and where my tears can hit the page to be kept forever (instead of making my computer sizzle.) For now my heart is to heavy to share with the world. And my words are to sharp to reason with friends. Back to the sloppy handwritten letters to a future self that may never come to be.
Back to the forgotten pages replaced by a screen. Because I'm tired of trying so instead I think I'll go back. Back

to being me.

Slowly, but Surely becoming a Cat Lady

Can you tell that I'm feeling quite

cynical,


pessimistic,


disenchanted,


jaundiced,


and


sardonic today?




Because if you can't i think you need some serious help.


Remember when the world was full of hopeless romantics? Remember the times when men were truly chivalrous and woman wore clothing that actually covered their body?

 Because i don't. What happened?  Was this generation truly raised in a sleazy, sordid, and immoral world?  (sometimes i feel redundancy is needed.)

I don't know if i can take love seriously anymore.

I'm not saying that's a bad thing, i guess.  It's just disappointing.

Most people don't take love seriously.. 

I just never thought i'd be like most people.....

Oh well.  I guess my broken family has corrupted my mind into thinking love doesn't exist.
Not that i blame them or anything....(: 




Who knows though? Maybe i'll find a handsome cat that's just as loving as a human husband... maybe even more loving(:

this is what the holidays have commenced.

i have seasonal depression,

and therefore;


I have writers block.  So instead of writing about things that are interesting and you actually want to read, i will write about my problems. (i apologize in advance, feel free to stop reading at any time, i tend to get carried away...)


I haven't talked to my mom in a total of 5 days.

I've never been in this big of a fight with her, and to be honest,

I don't want to apologize.


I mean it's not that i'm not sorry, i really am! It's just, I'm tired of being the first to express my regret.

I am beginning to loathe the taste of humble pie.




and to make it worse....


Our fight is sort of ruining Hanukah. . .  and Christmas too i guess.  So it makes it even more terrible that i chose not to put an end to my family's suffering.

I am a horrible person.




Needless to say, i've cried a lot... so i'm not entirely sure why i said it if it was needless....   


wow my writer's block must be worse than i thought.




But anyway....(not anyways, because that is improper.)


i'm not happy.

In fact. I'm never happy around christmas time (hence my seasonal depression, hence my writers block, hence my incessant complaining)

so maybe i should be complaining about the holidays instead of my ruinous humanity..... hmmm.....









apologies are difficult.

and sometimes i wish....

This is beautiful advise for any man who ends up reading my blog. It is written by Rosemarie Urquico. Try on my shoes, take a walk through these words in my mind, take a walk in these words, and see  what makes my heart swell.


here are my shoes and the words. Go forth.


"Date a girl who reads. Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes. She has problems with closet space because she has too many books. Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve.


Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag.She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she finds the book she wants. You see the weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a second hand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow.




She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the book.

Buy her another cup of coffee.

Let her know what you really think of Murakami. See if she got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Understand that if she says she understood James Joyce’s Ulysses she’s just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice.

It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas and for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry, in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality, but she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does.

She has to give it a shot somehow.

Lie to her. If she understands syntax, she will understand your need to lie. Behind words are other things: motivation, value, nuance, dialogue. It will not be the end of the world.

Fail her. Because a girl who reads knows that failure always leads up to the climax. Because girls who understand that all things will come to end. That you can always write a sequel. That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two.

Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Girls who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilight series.

If you find a girl who reads, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you. She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are.

You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time she’s sick. Over Skype.

You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots.

Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads.

Or better yet, date a girl who writes."

Today i thought my cat was famous.

I was looking on the internet for a scarf i liked when this picture came up of a girl using her cat as a scarf! and this cat looked just like spoctopuss (my little feline friend)




so i couldn't resist. i wanted to take a picture too.




Mine certainly isn't as beautiful because obviously i am nasty but i'm proud of my darling cat for looking like a model.




He is fluffy.




anyway... i just thought i would share that with you.




I promise i don't usually take obnoxious, dramatic, look into the distance type of pictures, but i couldn't stop myself... i really wanted to look as photogenic as my cat! Darn.. i guess i'll never be as graceful as spock.... what a man! ....cat man.... manlike cat? ahh i don't know.. i just like that frisky dude.




annnndd cut!

This my friends...

This is the epitome of me settling on something to wear....
........well in a perfect, fabulously gorgeous model form....
(i'm not exactly a what you say... "interesting to look at" kind of girl..... more of a  pass by, do a double take, and vomit in the nearest trash can type....)   (:  anyway back to the point.....

oh why?  Why on earth do i go through this every morning?

i could just wear sweats... but no! My silly Vogue-ified mind refuses to give into that comfy alternative.

CURSE YOU FASHION!

you have trapped me in your perfectly sewed web, and now i am sitting here waiting to be consumed by your spidery self!

....do you hear that?  I think it's the fashion spider coming to feast on and destroy my helplessly trapped sweat pant fetish.... Will I ever wear them again?

Tell my t-shirts i love them!