Sometimes my past comes flying at me when I least expect it. I'm walking along in my happy oblivion, maybe in an unexpected setting, enjoying the numbness that now resides in my chest when suddenly...POW...someone traipses back in, wanting forgiveness, wanting acknowledgement.

"...it's so good to see you. How long has it been? Are you still..."

And usually the end of that is a question about Eric. Two years of a young life. Ages fifteen, sixteen, seventeen. Eighteen, nineteen and almost twenty, for him. It's been six months since I left him, taking only what was left of my shredded heart and my dignity. In teenage time, six months is practically a lifetime. Why are they still asking? Keeping tabs? I haven't seen his face in months...multiple...I don't even think I dream about him often anymore. I know some mornings I wake up with my jaw sore from grinding my teeth in my sleep, or that sometimes I cry thinking of the security I lost. I know that sometimes it feels so right to alter myself now that I can, to change things, to not belong to him anymore.

A few days ago I found myself driving along, crying, talking as if someone was in the car with me. I kept repeating that I missed him, that if he wasn't so sick things could be...

I don't know where that thought would have gone if I wouldn't have caught myself. I dried my tears, reminded myself of my place. I am strong...I'm supposed to be...

I'm so damned weak.

-B.

Sometimes everything just goes silent and in my head I can hear water dripping as if it's actually happening. I just sit in the dark, focusing on that sound that isn't there, thinking about soothing, wistful melodies. I play "A Warm Place" over and over and try not to dream...about you.

I paint my nails blood red. I cut my hair again. I put on a white blouse to go to class. Nothing helps. I cleanse myself daily, multiple times if it feels right. Only not much feels right, anymore. I eat and it makes me sick, I don't eat and it makes me sick. I scratch open the scabs on my ankles, wrist, chest, and I drown them in peroxide. It doesn't even burn, just bubbles. 

The silence crushes me. I can't stand to be alone, anymore. I call people, I drive places, anything to keep me from that...inevitable...slow...spiral...down into that fucking darkness, that fucking sleep that I can't seem to wake up from.

Class calls...end.

The memories are too vivid. The feelings are too strong. I can still feel your hand, the curve of you. I can still hear your voice, always hesitant, always low. I can still feel that spark, the heat. I can still remember the softness of your hair, your movements. I can hear your laugh. I can recall with startling clarity the first time you uttered your feelings towards me, the butterflies you inspired. I can count how many tears I’ve shed over you, out of love, out of rejection. I can still feel the full weight and the pain of your last revelation, the undertones allowing me to know that you are happy without me. Happier without me. I dream about you and call you beautiful. God knows, you are.

And that is why “just being friends” can’t always work.

There I stood, beneath the moon, alone. The leaves rustled. A lunar eclipse. You were inside, having one of your random unpredictable mood swings. Despite the romance and your so-called dedication to your…to our…religion, you stood in the kitchen, staring out at me staring up at the sky. It was so crisp, so autumnal. This was before all the fighting, before things were so broken they couldn’t be fixed, before the hatred and the fear, before I told you everything you needed to know…

I should have known then.

Tonight I stood out underneath the moon, alone, wondering at the brightness, literally in awe. I thought of you, of all the times you left me standing alone out of selfishness. I thought of my jealousy, of your temper. I thought of all the things we could have been if you had been willing to give more, and I had been expecting to receive more.

I thought about that marriage we had planned. I thought about the life we were going to lead. I thought about that child, that little boy that we were going to bring into the world. I thought about the trips we were going to take and the home we were going to keep and the cars we would have driven and all the mundane daily things that could have been so fulfilling…I thought.

I thought about the fights we had. I thought about all the times I cried, you cried. I thought about all the fists and wrists and screaming. I thought about all the voiced accusations, about the rules you made up for me to break, about your obsessive need for control, about my obsessive need for you. I thought about how, in the end, I despised your weakness and my own.

I stood alone under the moon and watched it darken. Here I am. Where I should be, where I shall be.

Goodnight.

"I Don't Believe"

by Stabbing Westward

"I'm such an asshole
I'm such a stain
I just keep fucking up again and again

I don't believe
I don't believe
That I could be so stupid and so naive
I don't believe
I don't believe
That there is nothing, nothing left for me

You told me that you loved me
You swore that you loved me
And I believed, now I know it was a lie

I don't believe
I don't believe
That I could be so stupid and so naive
I don't believe
I don't believe
That there is nothing, nothing left for me"

 ...

I was listening to a man talk this morning. He was whispering in an intense, heated, and overall passionate manner. He talked continuously in his low, peaceful monotone, only pausing to draw breath. When his voice did change pitch or tone it was like a bell tolling in the distance. I enjoyed his syrupy whisper, every "t" a precise "tock" noise that crisply resounded in my head. A voice like that never fails to send a shiver down my spine.

...

Somedays my headache won't go away. I smoke, I lay down. Nothing. I take aspirin. Nothing. I take Advil, Tylenol. Nothing. Darvocet calm, Percocet high. Demorol. Nice, slow warmth spreading through my brain, veins, chest, throughout my whole being. I'm fine. I'm well. I'm flat lining, I'm floating. I'm underground, where I should be. I’m on the beautiful part of an acid trip. I'm calm.

...

"You can't personalize." That statement is a reminder of my generation. Anonymous opinions, anonymous posts, anonymous meetings. Casual sex with a casual friend, no strings attached. "I'm not involved with anyone" - when did words such as these become part of love, of sex? Where does the word "interested" belong in those flooded emotions? Where are the "undying's" and the "beloved's"? The "beauty"?

...

I want to make love. I no longer want to "fuck"; I have no interest in "having sex". I don't want to "bone" or "screw," or get "laid" or "nailed." I don't want to feel the cold, white plaster against my back, I don't want to press my face into a pillow, I don't want to punch anymore headboards...at least for now. I don't want to grind, I don't want to writhe or moan. I want slow, sweet softness, gentle sighs that are a mere gasp of air in passion, rather than a show of animal lust. I want candles and acoustic guitars, whispered words of a lover instead of the quite muttering and battle cries of an insatiable warrior. I want many pillows and soft bed sheets, I want promises of everlasting. I want perfumed air and half-lidded eyes, not heavy with drink or intoxicant. I want held instead of grasped.

"...if you don't want me set me free..."

"I haven't been able to stop thinking about you."

And it was all crash and burn from there.

Don't make me not respect you through weakness, through eagerness. You need to not need me.

I walked in and there she was. It's been about two years. She looked colder, and heavier. She smiled and waved, I smiled and walked over.

"Hey, how are you?"

Her whole face trembled, eyes wide, pupils perpetually small. Her pretty face looked dismayed as she stared into me and replied, "My great-grandmother died yesterday."

Shock hit me. I knew that she lived with her grandmother, and was unsure of what this statement meant, if it was relevant to my thoughts that she may be homeless.

I wanted to hug her, to comfort her. I tried, instead, to look gentle as I asked, "Were you close?"

Her eyes welled up, crystalline tears forming. Her skin looked so white it could have been frost covering a body chipped from ice.

"We're Irish-Catholic. We're all close...and we all hate each other," she threw in a small, desperate laugh. She glanced down at the bag of chips she was buying. "I'm going up to my buddy's to drink. MY consecration," her laugh became higher, a little more manic.

"I...uh, I hear Eric is fucking Heidi."

She looked down at her feet, or the floor, "Yeah, he called me the other day. He said he wanted to get rid of her and was going to try to."

"I believe it...I guess you heard about us breaking up...and him going crazy...?"

"No," she continued to stare at me with her empty, rolling eyes, but didn't seem surprised as I retold that worn tale. When I finished she nodded and said knowingly, "That is Eric's style."

The Cure was playing. "Love Song." I sent him the lyrics to that, once. I meant them like they were my own. I smiled sadly, "Listen. The Cure. It's like a bad joke."

She smiled back, the pain still splashed across her face," I guess I'm kind of numb, still," she glanced around looking rushed, "I gotta get going. I need to get up to my buddy's house."

I held my arms out and said, "Yeah, me too." Our hug was hard, cold, almost tinged with sourness.

I walked away. She walked away.

"Good Friends And A Bottle Of Pills"

by Pantera

"I fucked your girlfriend last night. While you snored and drooled, I fucked your love. She called me Daddy. And I called her baby when I Smacked her ass. I called her sugar when I ate Her alive till daylight. And I slept with her all Over me, from forehead to ribcage I dripper her ass. Sometimes I thought you might be spying, living out some Brash fantasy, but no. You were knocked out. But we were All knocked out you know. In a way I serve too many masters. We didn't know you'd break the bottle that the magic Came in to use those jagged shards to slit our wrists And neck. And you'd do it too, you're that kind of dude. But you wouldn't know what you were doing because I didn't, your girlfriend could have been a burn Victim, an amputee, a dead body. But god damn I wanted To fuck. I'm serving too many fucking masters. [I told you. I told you motherfucker]"

"USER FRIENDLY"

by Marilyn Manson

His name is Brian. I haven’t known him for very long.

The first time I saw him I wondered if he was a beautiful girl, or a beautiful boy.

“Is that a boy or a girl?”

“How much does it matter?”

I watched him dance for months before I found my inroad. I had always wanted to talk to him, to be part of his circle. I watched them hug, kisses on the cheek, him grabbing everyone’s ass like it was all fair game. There was so much affection, so much laughing. I wanted to be a part of that so bad…but they had all been there for years, or lived in the South Side.

Now we’re friends. I hug him, we kiss, he slips a hand up my skirt, I laugh.

Last night he hugged me close, leaning towards my ear. He glanced over at Jaymes, who was dancing a basic bump-and-grind semi-erotic ass-wiggle. He looked so sad right before he went out of my line of vision and whispered in my ear, “Here I stand, wishing to be younger.”

I almost wept for him. He is one of the nicest, most decent people I’ve ever met, and I’m no stranger to longing…

How can one wish to be younger at twenty-three?

.tnemom elbarenluv tsom ym si siht

I'm falling so behind.

I haven't been able to sleep in days. I have so much energy that at night and I lay in bed, shaking, watching late night TV. I hate it. I cry for no reason at all. I take multitple showers and sometimes change my clothes twice an evening.

I have no religion and no opinion. I have a lot of fear and very little lust.

I can't stand all these people staring at me.

I'm never going to understand that fascination. I've asked my grandmother so many times over - "What the fuck is everyone staring at?" I can wear blue jeans, a black t-shirt, chucks, have taken out all my piercings and have my hair up in a ponytail and still half the fucking room looks over at me. "It's because you are a little taller than the average girl, and all that hair." Is that it? What is this big, physical flaw? Do I just radiate some type of vibration?

I'm so tired of playing the envy game, keeping myself in a comfortable rut because melancholy just can't be beat. I’m done watching.

I want the suicideboy to be mine, I want to be the suicidegirl. I don’t want to be “against the odds” anymore.

I can change, I can change, I can change…

Do it.

"Harvest"

by Opeth

"Stay with me awhile
Rise above the vile
Name my final rest
Poured into my chest

Into the orchard I walk peering way past the gate
Wilted scenes for us who couldn't wait
Drained by the coldest caress, stalking shadows ahead
Halo of death, all I see is departure
Mourner's lament but it's me who's the martyr

Pledge yourself to me
Never leave me be
Sweat breaks on my brow
Given time ends now

Into the orchard I walk peering way past the gate
Wilted scenes for us who couldn't wait
Drained by the coldest caress, stalking shadows ahead
Halo of death, all I see is departure
Mourner's lament but it's me who's the martyr

Spirit painted sin
Embers neath my skin
Veiled in pale embrace
Reached and touched my face

Into the orchard I walk peering way past the gate
Wilted scenes for us who couldn't wait
Drained by the coldest caress, stalking shadows ahead
Halo of death, all I see is departure
Mourner's lament but it's me who's the martyr"

Went and saw Cradle of Filth on Monday. It was incredible. Unfortunately I had to stand through Bleeding Through, Himsa, and Arch Enemy before I could enjoy the divine noise that is *growl* Cradle of Filth. Yes, it was very good. They played “Her Ghost in the Fog” and I almost lost my voice (and my top) singing along. I got Adrion’s drumstick at the end of the show! I had to plead with him for it, but it worked. And I got to meet James (Germ) again.

Last night I went and saw Cannibal Corpse. I’m not a big fan, but Vader was going to be there, so I figured what the hell? I may as well pay for my comic entertainment…Vader sucks. But anyway, the pit was fucking awesome, got my ass kicked, it was totally worth it. I never feel so violent and aggressive as when I’m helping some tiny blonde girl fight a huge ass group of drunk guys from getting to the front of the stage. What a fucking rush.

I have to stop partying…I’m averaging two hours of sleep per night…and have been out every night since Friday (except Sunday).

I’m drinking whiskey this Friday. Then, it’s all straight and narrow…I swear. 

It should be against the law...for beautiful people...to congregate...and talk...because when I watch them...

...I can't stop staring.

"...just a fading fucking reminder of who i used to be..."

You were what I wanted badly, you were what I thought about throwing everything away for, you were what I fantasized about and you were that fucking reminder of who, of what, I was.

And now here you are, standing in front of me. How can I be friends?

Another night of insomnia. I can already feel it. Three nights, four. I can feel the energy coursing up through my legs, up my spine, the back of my head tingling. My eyes are watery, bloodshot.

Today, after the exam, I cried. She came back in, rubbed my back, asked me quiet questions about why all this was happening right now. Why should I be crying over a simple intrusion, and a normal one at that? And, worse yet, why would I tell lies to cover my motives? I let my tears drip down my face and onto that paper gown, trying to cry quietly for the sake of privacy. In comes another woman, this one with cards and phone numbers. “You need to get help for this.”

She’s gone, don’t you understand? And I can’t start all over again, I cannot explain all this to yet another person, and I cannot break my mother’s heart again.

I drove and drove, barely watching the road, discussing with myself all that has happened, all that I’ve thought about and not voiced. Things I have yet to deal with, things nameless and faceless that I have nightmares about. “Is it always like this?” Yes, it’s always like this, and this is why it’s always like this. Here I am, stripped of everything, and you ask me if this is how it is. How could I lie? You could see it all, the mutilation of my soul, years of torment inside and out, the tears leaking out of my eyes as I repeat again and again that things are fine, just fine. I hope you didn’t expect eye contact.

And love, what about love? I am such a fickle individual, and constantly need a challenge. Sometimes I think about the final, the settling down, the stability and comfort that must come from such things, and I cringe inside. The boredom, the safety, words like acid burnt into my brain. Starch and tranquilizers, these seem like a similar option. And the proverbial ‘lover I don’t have to love.’ They’ll keep me on my toes, but I’ll know that they can leave me at any time, that my jealousy will be kept bottled up because the calm exterior is all that I will give them. And I will give them my body, sparingly, because making love involves love and fucking just involves an orgasm. Love is wind chimes and acoustic guitars, sighs and candlelight. Fucking is…what is done.

You aren't so perfect right now.

You see how easily you fall in and out of favor?

She is being deployed to Iraq in less than a month. She’s getting married before she leaves to some man that she met in Texas. I always knew she would marry young. I don’t know if I will ever see her again.

I remember our best friendship, all the nights we spent sitting up, watching movies, eating chips, talking about love and life. I remember walking around after dark, made up as if we were actually going somewhere, secretly hoping that the older boys would ask us to join them at their beer party. They did, and we would lie about our ages, upping it two, three years so that they would see us favorably. I remember her steadfast sobriety, her helping us home, laughing at our stupidity. I remember her blind, selfless love and nights spent under the stars, weeks spent living together.

The last time I saw her, really saw her, was my sixteenth birthday. We had finally grown into those ages we lied about, but somehow we’d also grown eons apart. Her concerns were foreign to me, her conversation disconnected from everything my life had become. We looked one another up and down – her blue jeans, striped t-shirt, frizzy hair, light make-up and my Beavis and Butthead t-shirt, baggy jeans, long dark hair. She looked so much the same, except her eyes were older, colder, more resigned to not loving. She glanced away when I talked about love or when I referred to some personal joke and our conversation was stilted, plagued by silence and unhappy fleeting looks.

I’m sorry Racene. I’m so damned sorry.

So, this weekend was full of interesting little stories, tidbits and strangeness.

Friday night I went up to the mall, bought some tiny little 20 gauge hoops. I went home and pierced the left side of my nose. It seems to be working out quite well, and I like how it looks, so other than a little blood and needing to clean it with peroxide all the freaking time…

Saturday came and I went and picked up Sean, also picked up a nice little fem-on-fem ring. Bobby, Sean and I had a very decent time just hanging out around the mall, because there was an art school guy at my house talking to my sister. Finally we went, picked up Jaymes, and went back to my house to get ready. I showered, changed about eighty times, ended up wearing my vinyl corset, bondage sweater-shirt thing, and regular pants.

So we go, I feel abandoned a lot of the night, Ryan is there and is being a total douchemonster with some fourteen-year-old girl sitting on his lap (grow up! stop hitting on the underagers!). Big Rob and Little Rob were both there, so was Justin. I meet this girl named Rae who thinks I’m cute, I end up talking to her most of the night, she goes home with my phone number, and right before she leaves she pulls me into an unexpected kiss. I blush and run off afterwards. She wants to take me out, show me the South Side, the shops.

We take Justin home after Ceremony; treat him to coffee at Denny’s. He makes it all worth while by telling us stories involving urine, masturbation, swinging, deep-throating, humiliation, scalping, hydrochloric acid and multiple other odds and ends. We finish taking him home, go visit Dustin, who was wearing eyeliner at work (again). We talk to him about his motherfucking peeps.

Today I go back to the mall to drop Sean off, end up talking to Doug forever about ugly girls and fat girls and blow jobs. He’s actively cheating on his girlfriend (the one out in Arizona) and I hate to say it, but I want to be on that list. Just for the experience. I’ve felt that way for so long…and I think showing up at his place drunk and horny is just the way to go about that interaction. I went and talked to Meagan’s emo boyfriend too.

Now here I am, all quite and alone.

"Get Me Off"

Basement Jaxx

"Give your body to me
Give your body to me
Let your body be free
Free your body, your body with me

Give your body to me
Give your body to me
Let your body be free
Free your body, your body with me

I want to undress you
Wanna caress you
Don't wanna be coy
It's time to get me off

Come on my baby, thrust me, trust me, get me off
You're my poison and I cannot get enough

Get me off
Get me off (get me off!)
Get me off (games, games)(get me off!)
Get me off (get me off!)
Get me off
Get me off (get me off!)

- You got to get me off

Give your body to me
Give your body to me
Let your body be free
Free your body, your body with me

Give your body to me
Give your body to me
Let your body be free
Free your body, your body with me

I want to undress you
Wanna caress you
Don't wanna be coy
It's time to get me off 

Come on my baby, thrust me,trust me, get me off
You're my poison and I cannot get enough

Get me off
Get me off (get me off!)
Get me off (games, games)(get me off!)
Get me off (get me off!)
Get me off
Get me off (get me off!)


- You got to get me off

Give your body to me
Give your body to me
Let your body be free
Free your body, your body with me

(so good, move it)

Give your body to me
Give your body to me
Let your body be free
Free your body, your body with me

'Cause the music's pumpin' and I wish you'd do the same to me
(you know you can do it,you know you wanna do it)
You're so freaky, treat me, make me come (give your body to me)

You got to
Get me off
Get me off (get me off!)
Get me off (get me off!)
Get me off (get me off!)
Get me off
Get me off (get me off!

Give your body to me
Give your body to me
Let your body be free
Free your body, your body with me

Give your body to me
Give your body to me
Let your body be free
Free your body, your body with me

- Its time to get me off"

Somehow...I ended up with a CD with The Tossers on it...and I'm so happy...

I <3 Irish political punk/folk.

Rae finally called me yesterday. And I missed it.

I'm not sure how I feel...

"I Am the Wooden Doors"

by Agalloch

"When all is withered and torn

And all has perished and fallen

These great wooden doors shall remain closed...

When the heart is a grave filled with blood

And the soul is cold and haunted shell of lost hope

When the voice of pride has been silenced

And dignity's fires are but cinders

...their grandeur shall remain untainted

It is from this grandeur that protects the spirit within

From the plight of this broken world, from the wounds in her song

I wish to die with my will and spirit intact

The will that inspired me to write these words

Seek not the fallen to unlock these wooden doors."

When I left the house tonight I thought about smashing my car into every tree, every telephone pole I passed. I repeatedly tried to play “…a Distance There is…” by Theatre of Tragedy, but my damn CD is shot. I cried anyway. Sometimes all I could hear was the purr of the engine and my constant sniffle.

I get to the mall, walk in, go down to the optometrist. I pick up my contacts and decide to walk around for a while, as I am out of alcohol of any kind and was hoping to find some charitable adult to pick me up a bottle of Wild Turkey. I dread facing a holiday sober. Everyone in the whole mall is staring at me. In Pittsburgh I am nothing special or unique, two facial piercings and a tongue stud aren’t anything…but this isn’t Pittsburgh and I hear plenty of, “If my daughter…”.

I leave the mall and go down to Regency (dirt mall) to look through used CDs and Goodwill. I find a DVD, “Helter Skelter,” and buy it for my mom. I talk to the cute guy behind the counter and he uses the term “dickcheese” during the conversation, which makes him endearing. I go to Goodwill, find two skirts that I like, don’t feel like paying the full price. I steal the more expensive one and buy the other for $3. I know, I’m a poor kid, but it wasn’t just that…it was the rush. Because when I walked out of there, I felt better.

I wonder if there is something wrong with me…

I saw her before I even saw you. I knew she had to belong to you, because why else would she be standing in the kitchen dressed the way she was, looking more than a little confused.

She looked like me, only younger, dimmer, with long blonde hair where mine is dark. Our chubby faces could have been related, our figures probably within ten pounds of one another and very much shaped the same.

I did what any natural, jealous woman might. I made her my friend, exchanging screen names and promises to keep in touch. I hugged her and told her she was cool. I didn’t pick the fact that she “hates to read” or has questionable music taste and worry it, I didn’t make any comments about her sexual statements or anything else. I sympathized with her, went inside to see what made her tick.

Because I want you. I sat there and talked to your long-term girlfriend because I want you; because I knew you were watching me, not her.  I made jokes, made eyes at you over the table while she sat beside me, babbling. I excluded her then.

We’ve always been like this. She’s (and there have been multiple she’s) always been the odd-man-out.

“So, do you still hate me?”

You laugh, look away, smile. “No. You didn’t bring him.”

“Him? He’s gone. About eight months ago. Haven’t you heard?”

Don’t replace me with her. I’ll be with you, stay with you, and it isn’t going to turn out perfect, but damned if it won’t make us better, together. Maybe it’s a sickness, maybe we are a disease – when we aren’t together we roam, destroying lives, pining to be reunited. I only feel better when I’m with you…

But that isn’t true either. I just want a chance…

"...walking the tideline

I hear your name

it's angels whispering

something so beautiful it hurts..."

When I play music that makes me think of you, of us, I have to turn the volume down.

I was walking up the road in the dark, underneath that cold, hard moon with the moonlight shining on everything, so bright I didn't need a flashlight and I stared up at the sky and thought that we should be standing here together, that you and I should stand here, maybe not touching, but together. I shouldn't have come home alone and you shouldn't have gone home with her and we should have kept ourselves together by any means possible because I know you think about me too.

I can see you crying already. I can feel your body, warm, responding, but I can see your eyes and how you will look after, how you will look at me. I will be comfortable, casual, sensual and you will be a wreck, a shell, for a little while. I will pull you to me, hold you with my cold hands and you will shutter when I press myself against your back. How could this be so wrong for you? It isn't, my dear. The music will blast on in such a generic way, trying to make this act less meaningful, trying to enforce the idea that the taboo hasn't been broken. But it has, darling. We will knock down these walls...

The looks afterwards will be short, but repetitive. The gaze will linger slightly on my throat, my mouth. I will stare at you outright, hoping for eye contact. I will be what you want me to be. Not her. You know she is simply a substitute; that you have sex with her, but you and I could make the most beautiful love. You know that you feel like I am missing from your life, I saw you staring at me today from across the room as I pumped her for information. I was sending out a predatory message, letting an essence of rapacious scent linger. You and I have always been close, haven't we?

I saw you look up at me, never to her as she sat beside me, and stare with those cold eyes that have always been a striking feature. I felt you touch my hand, teasing me, when I asked you to hand me something. I felt you brush past me, and I noticed your hesitance to hug me, something I wasn’t going to question. I stared at you as I hugged her, always so intent, my look always so dark and cynical. You don’t prefer her to me, I can see it in your body language, feel it in your gaze.

Touch me and we shall become pure flame.

"My Sweet Prince"

by Placebo

"Never thought you'd make me perspire
Never thought I'd do you the same
Never thought I'd fill with desire
Never thought I'd feel so ashamed

Me and the dragon can chase all the pain away
So before I end my day remember
My sweet prince you are the one
My sweet prince
You are the one

Never thought I'd have to retire
Never thought I'd have to abstain
Never thought all this could back fire
Close up the hole in my vein

Me and my valuable friend
Can fix all the pain away
So before I end my day, remember
My sweet prince
You are the one

My sweet prince
You are the one
You are the one
You are the one
You are the one
You are the one

Never thought I'd get any higher
Never thought you'd fuck with my brain
Never thought all this could expire
Never thought you'd go break the chain

Me and you baby
Still flush all the pain away
So before I end my day, remember
My sweet prince
You are the one

My sweet prince
You are the one
You are the one
You are the one
You are the one
You are the one
You are the one
You are the one
You are the one
You are the one
My sweet prince
My sweet prince"

I have no idea what this song is, I just happened to come across a live version of it on a burnt CD from a friend. It touched me, so I wrote down what I could of the lyrics.

(... = no clue what's being said)

"I am stretched on your grave and will lie there forever

With your hands held in mine I'd be sure we'd not sever

My apple tree, my brightness

Tis time we were together

'For I smell of the earth, and am slain by the weather

When my family thinks that I'm safe in my bed

From night until morning I am stretched at your head

Calling out to the air

With tears both hot and wild

...for the girl that I loved as a child.

The priests and the friars behold me in dread

Because I still love you, my love, and you're dead

And would still be your shelter

From rain and from storm

...with you...the cold gray...

I could not sleep..."

I promised a boy today (I always promise without knowing what I am getting into)

that I would sit here, tonight (forgetting all my obligations)

and write him a mash note (for those of you not familiar, this is mundane for me)

about necrophilia.

I am in the business of selling fantasies. I wonder when I became a whore.

"Alcoholic kind of mood, lose my clothes, lose the lube..."

I am addicted...to the beautiful people...

They are my opiate in this world.

I scroll through myspace, through faceparty, through vampirefreaks...in admiration, in awe.

A night to remember.

“What is your consumption?”

1. joint with Gerrick (pure fucking coolness, that man)
2. 2 lines of mescaline (thanks again, Gerrick)
3. too much rum
4. too much cocaine
5. not enough concentrated LSD
6. multiple bongs

Tough, rough, tumble night.

Oh, and I met someone. Her name is Ashley, and she is sweet like an fetish film with a body and soul to match.

Aside from being entirely tired from this grueling marathon of debauchery, I'm doing quite well, holding up quite magnificently, really.

In the past couple of days I've kissed two girls...allow me to invite you into the problem with this.

Ashley seems to be what I want. I mean, she has all these attractive qualities - she is who I've wanted to be. She's confident and strong. And she's fucking beautiful. We share the same vices - drink, drugs, and the occasional cock. We just...clicked. And the passion was so intense...there is no description.

Rae is sweet. I'm not physically attracted to her, like I am with Ashley, but I see someone who would be there when I needed her. And she really cares about me, wants me to be happy, is willing to change a situation on my behalf.

I kissed Ashley and felt that intensity, that blatant sexuality. I kissed Rae and it felt so damn perfunctory, so bland.

"You're a good kisser." 

Sometimes I feel so damn removed from you...your friendly chatter, your comfort level.

I once had someone reply to a journal entry of mine, saying that they couldn't believe how different our lives were. Sometimes I can't, either.

I was born, just like you. Raised by parents, better than some, worse than some. I have a job, a car, go to school, just like you do, or did. When did we become these separate entities? When did I become lost in the woods? Or did you?

Am I tottering down the road less traveled alone?

Last night…I broke several resolves. It’s hard to believe that only a couple hours ago I was drunk, slurring, loving, rubbing drunk on rum and vodka. Yesterday was long, last night even longer. Gerrick’s house, too much dope and moonshine, and crack on the aluminum foil, and I just keep thinking about every cliché I’ve ever uttered. Crack has always been a joke drug, but here I am with my lips wrapped around the tube like it was a revolver.

We get in the car and we drive, get lost, drink some more moonshine out of the Cherry Pepsi bottle. We find the right road and go to Joe’s, hoping for more drugs, and Ashley. We get there and split up, I end up sitting in a circle on the floor making promises with friends I rarely keep, pledging undying’s to guys I hardly know beyond fucked-up friends. Joe, someone and I lick coke and heroin off a crate top. Brent keeps trying to get me to sleep with him, promising that it will be the best and that I won’t have to wear my fem-on-fem ring anymore. Denied. We test the limits of everyone’s bisexuality (something I’ve always wanted to be involved in). Long night indeed.

But by 6:50AM I’m well aware that sleep is unattainable and that I’ve now walked, talked, and kissed my way sober. The alcohol is gone and has been, the drugs are gone, and everyone settles into a haze to watch a movie. I doze sitting up, but can’t get comfortable, so we leave. I take you home. I go home.

I still haven’t slept.  I still haven’t eaten.

But I won’t say that I didn’t get a perverse satisfaction out of the fact that as I drove home after such a night, I passed my sister’s school bus. Heh. I wonder if there really is something wrong with me…

Last night Brandon's girlfriend kissed me and I kissed her back. I'm not sure how I feel. I should talk to him about it, but it would seem that there truly are no answers.

"How do you feel?"

"I don't know."

In the past couple of days I've kissed three girls. They've all told me the same thing - I'm beautiful, I'm "hot", I'm sexy, they want to be with me. I don't think any of them are lying, I don't think any of them are telling the truth. Ashley, drunk, pledging love, telling me what Richie doesn't see won't hurt him. Rae, apologetically, desperately trying to talk me into a date, telling me I'm a good kisser. And finally, last night...Jess...with Brandon in her eyes, kissing me, telling him that she likes me. I just...don't know, anymore.

My outer shell...is thinner than it looks.

"We have to have sex."

[laughs] "Uh huh."

"No, I'm serious..."

"Yeah."

"I want to have sex with you."

"Because I'm drunk and available." [laughs]

"No. No. I've thought that since the first time I saw you. That I wanted to have sex with you."

[blackout]

Boys...

I almost died approximately eighteen minutes ago.

On my way back, with Brandon to my immediate right, I went to ash my much cherished Marlboro menthol out the window. The result was this – the entire lit cigarette flew back into my face and hair, then landed (still smoking) in my lap. As all this is happening, my passenger side tire is slowly creeping off the side of the road. Of a speed of about sixty miles per hour on a wet road, the car begins to swerve dramatically. I look up, startled, and over-correct, which spins us sideways and skids us forward down the road. I see the side of the hill, and over-correct again, which swings us completely around, still sideways, now facing the other direction. I cut the wheel hard and we are straight on the road again. I tap the brakes, fuck the clutch, and stall out. I sit there for a moment.

And then the laughing began. We pulled off the side of the road, retraced our whole experience, laughing. Sometimes I think that is all I can do to not cry.

I have an ear infection. I can feel it. I have two issues; I will have to miss school. And I'm not sure that I can stop fucking around long enough to get better. I want to party, and party, and party.

Addict, anyone?

I haven't updated in a while. Things...are shifted.

I have a girlfriend now. She's sweet, and simple, and so not my type. She is also Brandon's girlfriend. Huh. I wonder how long the peace (piece? Hm.) will last. She said the same things; beautiful, hot, sexy, I want to be with you. Oh, and a new phrase has been added: "You're good." Yes, that's right. One more of my interests has been pursued - I've had sex with a woman, and surprisingly was not found lacking.

I have a psuedo-boyfriend as of last night as well. His name is Scott, he's a big man, an EMT, has his life, his shit together. I think that's why I'm with him. A strictly security issue. Damn shame.

"Why don't you just ask me out? I know you like me. Or did you want me to ask you?"

"Uh...what? I don't date anyone exclusively...I'm sorry..."

"Um, well, that's ok."

"How do you feel about open relationships?"

"Uhhh....with you? Ok, I guess..."

"Would you be ok? I mean, with me fucking other people? Including Brandon's girlfriend?"

"Yeah...but I'm just going to fuck you, ok?"

Charming, charming. Who says romance is dead?

"You Can Leave Your Hat On"

"Baby, take off your coat, real slow.

Baby, take off your shoes. I'll help you take off your shoes.

Baby, take off your dress. Yes, yes, yes.

You can leave your hat on.

You can leave your hat on.

You can leave your hat on.

Go over there, turn on the light. No, all the lights.

Come back here, stand on the chair. Ooh, baby, that's right!

Raise your arms in the air, now shake 'em.

Give me reason to live.

Give me reason to live.

Give me reason to live.

You can leave your hat on!

Suspicious minds are talking. That's right, they'll tear us apart.

They don't believe in this love of ours.

They don't know what love is.

They don't know what love is.

I know what love is.

You can leave your hat on.

You can." 

I did it. I broke the one rule you set down, the one request. I swear, it wasn't intentional.

I showed up expecting to find you, to talk to you about all those rumors about us. I got there and had just missed you. She put her arms around me...

Nothing happened. I swear. We just layed there, side by side. We only kissed a couple of times, and I promise it wasn't open-mouthed. I hope you can forgive me.

So there you are, and here I am, and here we are once again, all of us engaged in this delightful little fuck-up. Only this time I'm odd-man-out and it has never suited my personality to be. I watch you take it slow, trying to stare me down and show me the flourish of the operation all at once, I stare at her, but she's so damned intent...

I'm sitting on the floor, the third party of our three-party system, feeling empty, feeling alone. Threeway, threeway, straight sex, gay sex...what can I say? That I am, in fact, a sensual individual? Or maybe the truth - all the cheap, tawdry afterglow sex has been a denial, a physical way of proving that you didn't damage me beyond repair. Look, a normal sex life. As if normal is the word.

I haven't loved anyone since I loved you. I realize that. I've tried, failed, faulted, found fault, found doubt, and substituted instead for cheapening us through the occasional blowjob. It isn't sacred anymore now, is it?

I'm so fucking bitter...I could cry.

I went to my first punk show last night. I've been a fan of punk music for quite a while, a practitioner of punk ethic forever. It was great, much more thrilling than I expected. I went into my first circle pit (an all-girls one, for that matter - yay, Lars Frederiksen and The Bastards!). I pogo-ed like a lunatic to "Switchblade" and made friends with multiple dirty people (ah, my people). I sweated stage blood all over everyone around me, but no one seemed to care. I love the idea that I can go into a punk show without brushing my hair, without bathing or worrying about how I look. I smoked, coughed, spit on the floor, got smashed in the face, then did it all again and again.
I woke up this morning and my eyes were crusted entirely shut. Huh. I cleaned them out, went back to bed and didn't wake up again until 3 this afternoon. Fourteen hours of sleep. I think I'm just a little sick. Maybe, if I can stop coughing up mucus, I can go to the other show, tomorrow...

"You're closet punk. Just deal with it, Bailey." -Brandon

I swear...this song was written just for us.

"The Viking"

"Well how do you do
My name is Lars
I'm from Cambell, California
you might know that by now
I'm of Danish decent
for that I'm proud
see my father was a nomad
I havent seen him for awhile
lost a brother
still got a mother, I ain't motherless
for some of you out there
that might be hard to believe
see I've been up and I've been down
I smile and I frown
I've made every gesture
that a young man can steal
and I know that I'm married to the sea
well I know I'm married to the sea
you see some people are on lockdown
and some are free
but I know that I'm married to the sea

Well I've been rich I've been poor
spent it on whores
got married and divorced to the girl thats next door
stolen fast cars, dated pop stars
been around the world
slept with underage women
turned tricks for a thrill
tried sucide but didn't die
well I'm here to tell
I dont know a heaven
but I've made peace with hell
been shot at, been stabbed
been beaten up real bad
survived everything without being killed

and I know I'm married to the sea
and I know I'm married to the sea
some people are on lockdown man
some are free
and I know I'm married to the sea

slept in fancy hotels, eaten from garbage cans
been down every highway, I've grown into a man
see my best friend die right before my eyes
aborted a baby and shed my tears
been strung out on pills, slammed my share of dope
I drank all your booze, and snorted your coke
I've been loved, I've been hated
to me it's all the same
embraced by a lover or your cursing my name

and I know I'm married to the sea
and I know I'm married to the sea
some people are on lockdown
and some are free
and I know I'm married to the sea

and I know I'm married to the sea
and I know I'm married to the sea
some people are on lockdown, sugar
and some are free
and I know I'm married to the sea

I'm married to the sea
you see the great big ocean
well thats for me
Sorry ladies I'm married to the sea
I'm married to the sea
I'm married to the sea

but I'm free, yea I'm free"

And I thought this year would be different, finally, a time without that dead feeling. I almost had myself convinced that it was you that made me feel this, that our draining, straining relationship was behind my near-suicidal winter depressions. I kept assuming that our all-consuming obsession with one another had something to do with the lonely longings, the midnight walks in the snow. But now I think back, before we were together, and remember other walks, other thoughts, other cuts, all before you. No matter how much I would like to think you led me down this path like some docile little lamb, I would be lying to myself. The truth is I was bounding down the path myself, and I let you hold my hand and tell me it was the right choice.

I hear the music, I feel that distance. The stars, the moon, I'm unworthy of it all, yet I sit and embrace it, drink it all in. I feel so noncommital when I stare out at the vast expanse that is the galaxy, and I think of all the things I wanted to be when I was younger, things that I still want to be now.

I never wanted to be a ballerina, or a doctor, or a happy housewife. I wanted to be Lydia from "Beetlejuice"; I wanted to be Gordy from "Stand By Me"; I wanted to be Edward from "Edward Scissorhands". I wanted to be beautiful and miserable, introspective and secretive, distant from humanity, entirely self-involved, talented, eccentric. I wanted to be a writer locked away in my room; I wanted to be a photographer, darkroom in the basement. I wanted to be alone but in love, something beautiful and unattainable.

"Beauitiful and unattainable" has been a running theme in my life, my weakness. Once I have something, the thrill is gone. It's mediocre (and I wonder if that is because the mystery is gone or because I am the one who now has it) to me. Everything in my life that I have wanted and gotten has been accepted, then rejected, lackluster, bland, boring. Everyone that I've ever wanted has become less attractive to me, sometimes gradually, the more I possess them, know them. Eventually everyone is the same, no better, no worse, and all I can see is what I don't enjoy anymore. Being comfortable feels unbearable to me. Having something become familiar makes it intolerable, makes it...less.  

Give me a new place, give me an affair, give me a fight...god, just don't make me deal with the mundane.

http://www.blunttruthgame.com/takesurvey.cfm?uid=7592621

I lied. I hadn't realized it until this morning. I said that I hadn't loved anyone since you...and that was a lie...but I loved him before I loved you, so perhaps it wasn't such a lie? I'm unsure of how that would work.

I dreamed about him again, last night. The forbidden lover. In my dream we kissed in front of everyone; one of those small, dry pecks that holds the promise of passion, quick, with a smile after. In my dream, I took him by the hand and we travelled from room to room, searching for privacy and a bed. We were so filled with desire, we couldn't keep our hands off of one another.

When will I stop dreaming about him?

Went to another punk show on Friday. I met a man. His name is Dave Z. and he called me "Pretty" all night. Not as in, "you're pretty" (which he did say, also) but as in, "hey, pretty, how is the show going for you?" He asked for my number, and has called (and missed) me twice. I'm going to go home and call him, I think.

Spent some time with Gerrick and his baby. He's a really great father. For someone who parties like he does...he is an excellent father. He doesn't even smoke cigarettes near that child.

I made Scott (the pseudo-boyfriend) really angry last night, angry enough that he left the club in a huff with a promise to call me. He tried to pick a fight with Brandon, and I think the last straw broke when he came upstairs and I was sitting in a stool with Brandon in front of me, both of us (jokingly, mind you) performing some type of burlesque act. That was about when he left.

Ron and his high-strung, highly intelligent and highly sensitive girlfriend were there, and somehow Brandon and I ended up in the back of an SUV with John the Thing, smoking their pot beside an Eat-N-Park in Squirrel Hill. Quite the experience.

Ron looks so much like Eric that everyone (meaning myself, Tonya, Brandon and Casey) could hardly stop staring at him in the restaurant.

I miss love. But that's another entry, soon to come.

So, as I was bitching, I miss love. I know how cliche and cheesy it sounds, but I do. Despite my attempts to be a world-weary jaded cynic, there is something profoundly lonely about not being loved by just one person, not feeling for them what you know you can feel for a person.

Here we go; Bailey's 486th trite goth moment: I was watching The Crow yesterday. Ok, stop laughing. I remembered watching it a long time ago, with you. I haven't watched it since, really. And then we laughed and made love while The Cure played, while the storm turned the day twilight early. Your room, that half-digested feeling of those blue curtains keeping out the sunlight, our candles lit, mattress down on the floor. Were we really so in love? Were we so intoxicated with one another? I remember exploring sex with you, because it was new between us, and clean, and perfect. I miss hearing you whisper that you love me, I miss the way you would rub your face across my skin, as if you couldn't be close enough to me. Do you remember, us bursting into flame together? I wonder if you ever think about it. I wonder if you ever think about me whispering into your hair, the soft and breathless "I love you". I remember. I think about our concern for one another, the laughter that we seemed to be sharing, all the warmth and love we radiated. Everyone thought we could make it, babydoll. Including us. Maybe we shouldn't have tried to make it out to be so perfect. Maybe we should have dealt with our problems.

Maybe we could have made it work if we had seen the sun, once in a while.

I may always love you. I just hope that I won't let that stop me...from breathing.

The day after the day after Christmas. Yes. A Monday. Perfect. And that is what this is all about, right? Perfection?

Xanax. Used to treat anxiety and tension. Motor tension, trembling, shaking. Panic attacks, like the ones I used to have. Ironically enough, it's used to help with agoraphobia.

It sounds so clean, doesn't it? Four days, maybe more, spilling brandy and Bailey's Irish Cream all over everything, popping Xanax. The peach ones, those are the ones I need. Four sizes, four days. Sustained on orange juice with vitamin C, curling into crunches because, damn it, not matter how hard I fight to be who I am, who I am isn't who I want to be.  

I'm so damned shallow. I know it. I talk about being beautiful, surrounding myself with beautiful people, and that part is true - I do. My lovers have all been beautiful, my potential lovers are beautiful as well. But I am not. I see the extra weight, even when it wasn't there I could see it. I'm not comfortable in this body, and I'm too weak to do anything but pop Xanax, drink, and wait for it to melt off, which is what will happen. Four sizes...I will almost be normal. Perhaps I can go a few more days, not just four, but more.

And why shall I go through this, my babies, why would I want to do this? Because thin is beautiful and beauty is what I worship...I want to be my own deity.  

It never truly leaves me. It's always there. Under the surface. Barely hidden. Always eating away at me.
As a child I blamed myself for everything that happened. As young as four, five I was blaming myself for what adults did, were doing to me. It was always my fault, I never fought hard enough, never did well enough. A child trying to please. Never succeeding, even when I did my best, even when I fed the egos and appetites. It would seem I was raised to do that. Seems that is all I'm still doing for most. Yes, at age five I knew with certainty that everything that happened was my fault, that Santa Claus wasn't real and that God was in heaven, watching and judging. By nine I had figured out that God wasn't there at all, but still there was that original judgment, still the shame and guilt. Twelve and thirteen were hard years, all those memories flooding back as boys became people too, and all the pressure smothered me. And now, now I learn that there is no redemption from this feeling, I can never make it all better. But I've come to another realization too - fuck making it better. I don't want to make it better, anymore. I've tried to smooth everything over too many times. There is no clean surface, no do-overs. Everything layers - even emotions. I can love someone and hate them at the same time. I can despise a best friend. I can feel shame and do nothing, say dreadful things without conscience telling me to think before I speak. I do my best, and it still isn't good enough. So fuck the past, fuck making it all better, fuck medication and therapy and religion. I can't take all these things trying to erase the wrongs, trying to erase human nature. Forget all your troubles, give up your scars and your identity to feel better for five fucking minutes. No. I'd rather be scarred and unhappy and frightened and insecure and unsure and used and fucked-up than obliviously contented with a world that doesn't deserve it.

I wrote this when I was fourteen. Four long years ago. I was still in love with Sol, then, and maybe I always will feel something for him. That was then...and nostalgia isn't kind.

When I was fourteen someone slicked himself with oil and oozed into my life under the cover of night, his shadow never to be dislodged from my existence. He was older, twenty-two I believe, but it seemed like both more and less - he was wise, but treated me as an equal. He was a self-proclaimed "gothic prince," a dark individual, full of hatred for "the mundanes". He picked me out of a chatroom because we both liked Jack Off Jill, and he thought I was someone else. We had a conversation, got to know one another, exchanged our basic information...and the infatuation was born inside of me.

He wrote, and I got my first online journal (which, if you are interested, you can still go back to and read through - www.livejournal.com/users/funeraldrum). We exchanged poetry and prose, we talked for hours and hours on end. We spoke of life, of love and lust, the undeniable fact that he was a dominant, and so I became the perfect sub for him. I don't know if I would have made that decision otherwise. We spoke of sex often, my limited experience allowing him to show me an entirely other life than the one I was leading, a world of restraint and trust and leather, not fumbling sweaty hands. He gave me a world of hard, cold steel, of snow, of night. He lived alone, slept during the day, spent his nights online with me, or drunk and alone, walking. His hair was longer than mine and was perpetually getting tangled, like mine does now.

My life at home was crumbling and I was at the height of my misanthropy. He reached out a finely manicured hand to me, promised to save me. He offered me a life with him, something tangible and for a few minutes we talked of marriage, as a way to make my escape from this country. We played with innuendo, used language like handcuffs and had our fun together. We spoke of blood and carnage, plans for others, what we did to ourselves.

He was temperamental and unable to deal with the bondage of commitment. I was young, obsessed, hurting, pining. We stopped speaking. He had found a girl who was more than personality and text. I found Eric.

Years later, right after things had exploded, he happened to be on. We spoke, bitching about our (ex-)significant others, talking about life in general and how strange everything felt. I asked him about my letters, he told me he still has them, all of them, including my hair. I cried. I told him about losing that naive part of myself and suddenly I realized...I had become him. Through years of work, of wanting him, I had become him.

My hair tangles easily because it is so long, now. I have to untangle it. My life revolves around avoiding the mundane, looking at the world as cold metals, cold nights. And I wonder, just for a moment, if we could have been something incredible together...

God, I hope you come back for Christmas. You would never believe how I miss you when it snows.

"Would you like to see my cuts?"

"Yes, I would..."

"There you are."

"Those are long...longer than any of mine."

And some of them were for you....

So, I was rambling about being shallow a few entries back. Well, it's true. I am. I really thought about it today as I checked my myspace. I'm averaging about one band a day - and when I say that, I say it with pride. These aren't bands that I am a fan of, or in some cases have even heard of, and they are adding me. Meaning they sought me out and added me. They were asking me to be their friend. Do you see the subtle difference between that and if I had been a desperate fan, begging to be added to their friend's list?

And here is the other half of the ego trip. The last two bands to do this (Slaverace and some punk band) have only been adding girls, and not just any girls. You have to make the cut. And some of these girls are absolutely incredible, drop-dead gorgeous, some fetish models, some just regular beauties. And not only are they attractive, they have to have interesting profiles, similar music interests - this grueling process of elimination showing that some thought when into this, and that I wasn't found lacking.

Imagine...

If I ever found a boy who could match me in scars, in piercings, I would explore every inch of his body slowly and methodically.

If I ever found a boy who loved my scars and piercings as much as I do, I would hope he would do the same.

Why do I need you? Why can't I be completely indepedent, alone, sterile, away? Wanting you is like longing for a hole through my skull. Needing you is like dying a little bit inside. Being alone...can be hard, too. Sitting here, thinking about you, dreaming about you...

If only I knew who you were.

That kind of love, that kind of all-consuming, selfless, giving love. Perhaps there is a love like that for everyone, and only some take the time to look. Maybe looking doesn't do any good and you have to wait for them to trip over you, run into you, sit down next to you on that bar stool. And when you find that person you have to tether yourself to them, give them everything that is you, sell yourself for them. You have to expect betrayal and you have to expect anger and forgiveness, and you have to be willing to both receive and emit these emotions, these acts. You have to be better for them, give them the best part of yourself, for it's all destined to go down in fire.

Why do you think the best romance movies have a sad ending?  Kill yourself for love, kill them for not loving you, kill others to support them.

We sat on the leather couch and watched the two of you kiss, I stared at your pretty face until I couldn't take it anymore and I looked away. You're always watching me, waiting for the reactions that I refuse to give, the smile that I mask with a hand to my face. You think it's a sign of weakness or embarrassment, me covering my eyes to blink out everything going on around me, but it's simply a gesture to keep your face, your body, from contaminating my eyes and making me unable to concentrate. If I looked directly at you for too long I would lose my senses.

You've always been the prettiest thing I've ever seen.

Alone. I watch them love one another. I am a voyeur.

My friends, my beautiful passing random people, all couples, all in love. And my relationships; I don't love any of them, most of them I don't even have feelings for, or at least nothing beyond fondness, or lust. I see nothing in our future beyond temporary comfort. Emphasis on temporary, because I don't love you, therefore I won't stay with you. It's easier if I think of it as over now so that when I deliver the final blow I won't feel a thing.

"I love you, I love you, I love you." All I hear all day long, through phone lines, whispered into an ear, said casually as we're pulling out of the driveway. "I love you." I wonder if they all mean it, I wonder if love is being able to deal with someone day after day, or if it's feeling lust after being together for a period of time more than a few days, weeks. I'm envious of something I don't understand, refuse to understand. Is love being caught up in something, in someone, so deeply that you cannot untangle yourself? Can love be casual, something to give sparingly, temporarily? And if it is, what about the happy couples I see around me, people who have been together (and outlasted us...) for years and still kiss at the table, still hold hands, still have that tiny flame of passion when speaking about one another, that hint of jealousy.

"...lost in the desolation of love

the sorrows we reap and sow

lost in the desolation of life

this path that we walk..."

I sit here with these scars on my wrist and dream of you.

"Reach out and touch me if you need to," he said.

"Please, just touch me, touch me," it came out as a damp moan.

"I don't like people to touch me," I said noncommittally.

"Touch me...here," an instruction.

"If you keep touching me like that...," he promised.

"And what if, one day, I just reached over and started touching you?," he pleaded with his voice.

"I just...don't want anyone to touch me right now," and my voice cracked.

I wish I still had religion. I wish we were still drawing, carving triangles.I wish we still went out into the fields at night to dance. I wish I could feel the cold, harsh wind against my naked body.

All it does now is numb me.

I'm in love with this song.

"I Wanna Be A Kennedy"

by Kill Hannah

"I wanna be a Kennedy
I wanna be a big heartbreaker
live fast and for real
and you can follow it in the papers
I wanna be a Kennedy
I wanna shake hands with heroes
and kiss the girls of centerfolds on the tongue
and die young

I'll be brave tonight
either live or die
I'll be brave tonight
standing tall and bright
such romantic eyes
got me hypnotized
and if I had my chance I'd never let you go
and if I had my chance I'd never let you go

I wanna be a Kennedy
I wanna be tall and handsome
I'd conquer the world
and you'd see me on television
if I could be a Kennedy
if I could be a big heartbreaker
I'd watch you crash into my arms
with the stars under the barrel of a gun
we die young

I'll be brave tonight
either live or die
I'll be brave tonight
standing tall and bright
such romantic eyes
got my hypnotized
and if I had my chance I'd never let you go
and if I had my chance I'd never let you go
and if I had my chance I'd never let you go

I'll be brave tonight
I'll be brave tonight
I'll be brave tonight
I'll be brave tonight
I'll be brave tonight
I'll be brave tonight
and if I had my chance I'd never let you go"

It's so easy to fall in love with you when your eyes look like that.

Sometimes I hate you.

I'm not attracted to you anymore. At one point I was, beyond belief, but it's gone now. In fact, sometimes you disgust me.

I'm not sure why it hurts so bad when you ignore me. Maybe it's the fact that I'm not used to being on the other end anymore.

You are so selfish it's hard for me to talk to you.

I think you're beautiful. At one point I thought I was in love with you. Now I just try to wish you the best, no matter how badly my heart aches.

I feel like you take a lot from me. I don't think you respect me very much. I'm not sure why I think that.

I'm grateful to you for saving me.

Sometimes I feel more alone with you than when I'm by myself.

"Christfuck"

by Wumpscut

"When I saw you there in the shadow of the setting sun
When I saw you there in the shadow of the setting sun
You looked so beautiful
You looked so beautiful

When I saw you there I couldn't resist your tender kiss
When I saw you there I couldn't resist your warm caress

You had so much to give
You had your time to live
Christfuck christfuck

I will bring us through this

As always I will carry you kicking and screaming
And in the end you will thank me

You had your time to live

Cry cry cry cry cry cry cry cry
Cry cry cry cry cry cry cry cry
Cry cry cry cry cry cry cry cry

Christfuck"

I want a boy in a black T-shirt who will take me to Kennywood. I want warm blankets and hugs, a simple gesture, a loving comment. I want a caption under a picture; I want sentimentalism. I want the "you're beautiful" in the early morning, even when I'm certainly not. I want the tenderness of a caress. I want reassurance. I want someone who will hold my hand and kiss my piercings, someone who will come with me when I get my tattoos.
I want...I want...I want.

I laid it all on the table, bluntly. I tried to pretend that I was ok with everything, that this turn of events was fine, just fine, with me.

Here is what I left out: since I was arrested, I've only been able to sleep in two hour clips. I cried hard enough yesterday afternoon that my nose started bleeding. I've apologized so many times, and to so many people, that even saying "I'm so sorry" sounds trite. I feel as if I'm giving up my whole life, and all due to one stupid second of time. Sometimes I wake up and I've almost forgotten, or I can almost believe, for a moment, that it isn't true...but it is.

What I haven't written about is the night sweats, the jagged cries, the nightmares about my body being carved up, the restlessness, the fear of not knowing. I didn't write about the fact that I've considered suicide several times over, that the notion of putting a bullet through that vast space behind my eyes has been entertained more than once in the past couple of days. That when I eat I feel sick and guilty, so I vomit and feel sick and guilty some more. I didn't write about how I may sell my car, and how I may go back to my job at TNS. I need the money, there is no way for me to work this off at home (despite what my mother thinks).

I'm going to sell two of my books today, too. I need the spare money, and it's going directly into the Fines Fund.

What I haven't written about is all the fucking hate...that's inside of me. For myself.

"And how do we punish those whose remorse is already greater than their misdeeds?"

"The drugs are comsuming you, and you're becoming dreadfully.. un-popular."

When I read this...it suddenly hit me...

I'm in pain a lot of the time. I get motion sickness, which I was never particularly susceptible to before. I have nightmares, and my head pounds, I feel hot inside, as if my veins are pumping pure acid instead of the poor abused blood that's being battered through them.

I haven't so much as looked at a controlled substance in days. I feel a little sick when I think about doing anything...I fear drug testing; I fear my time at the Open Door. I wonder about the questions they will ask and I contemplate the one-on-one "therapeutic experience" I will be receiving.

I can't sleep; when I do, I can't wake up.

How can the world keep spinning? How can things from before keep showing up? Life-changing experience - what has changed? Everyone still calls me. The same commercials play over and over. My room looks the same, the new things I bought or received. I can hardly bring myself to use them, look at them. In fact, it's been a real chore just to change my clothes. I was in the clothing that I wore when I was arrested until yesterday...today I put the jeans back on. I feel like I'm contaminating the other clothes when I put them on. These ones are filthy with failure...and that's comfortable right now. To wallow and not think. To slosh around in this bluish pain.

I am calm. I'm...optimistic?

I already have about a hundred dollars socked away for the first of the fine payments, and by keeping house for my mother I will be earning more money (instead of being a slovenly little dirt-monster). I'm basically living the same life...sans drugs, thus far, and soon to be sans car. It isn't going to be as bad as I thought.

Maybe it's time for things to come full circle - time to clean up a little. Slow down. Not settle down, but slow down. I'm sure I can do it; I think I already am.

Thank you all for reading this. Thank you all for your comments; supportive, inspirational and otherwise.

Special K

by Placebo

“Coming up beyond belief

On this coronary thief

More than just a leitmotif

More chaotic, no relief

I’ll describe the way I feel

Weeping wounds that never heal

Can the savior be for real

Or are you just my seventh seal?

No hesitation, no delay

You come on just like special K

Just like I swallowed half my stash

I never ever want to crash

No hesitation, no delay

You come on just like special K

Now you’re back with dope demand

I’m on sinking sand

Gravity

No escaping gravity

Gravity

No escaping…not for free

I fall down…hit the ground

Make a heavy sound

Every time you seem to come around

I’ll describe the way I feel

You’re my new Achilles heel

Can this savior be for real

Or are you just my seventh seal?

No hesitation, no delay

You come on just like special K

Just like I swallowed half my stash

I never ever want to crash

No hesitation, no delay

You come on just like special K

Now you’re back with dope demand

I’m on sinking sand

Gravity

No escaping gravity

Gravity

No escaping…not for free

I fall down…hit the ground

Make a heavy sound

Every time you seem to come around

No escaping gravity

No escaping gravity

No escaping gravity

No escaping gravity"

I'm going to Pegasus tonight. Yes, it's a gay club.

I'm going to have fun. I may smoke a little dope, loosen up, dance, then walk back to the dorms. Tomorrow I may sleep late, then Brandon and I will take a bus to Oakland. Maybe we'll go see some people, or go to the museum, and then we're going to Ceremony.

So this is it. Life afterwards. I can go more than five minutes without feeling like my stomach and brains are imploding.

Dan comes home from the hospital tomorrow. The surgery went well; they stapled his lung (it collapsed). He's well enough to bitch, so he's coming home. It's actually a huge relief. It's been weird without him.

I don't want him to hate me. I hope he doesn't.

So, I spent all weekend being a dorm whore. It didn't really hit me until I realized that I was signed into two separate dorms (as in buildings, not rooms) as an overnight guest.

I went to Pegasus after ingesting only a slightly indulgent amount of illegal substance. We didn't dance, but instead made friends with the staff, who in turn loved us enough to take us out to Eat-N-Park with them in the early morning hours, after the club closed. Nick and Greg are two gorgeous drag queens, Greg taller, statuesque; Nick is short and chubby with a sweet baby face and the filthiest mouth of just about anyone I know. We drank water, smoked a joint in the car, and went to C. John's (after we had ditched him at Pegasus to hang out with the staff). I slept on a love seat, missed Racene's wedding the next day, slept on Brandon's dorm bed (once we made it back to his dorm) for two hours and then got up to get ready again.

We stole Rebel (Brandon's roommate) and he came with us to Ceremony. He made me swing dance through this great big group of goth dancers (you know, just grinding and "carrying the small box"). It shook them up some.

After Nick and Greg brought us back to the dorm, we went inside and started getting ready for bed, a time during which Rebel almost got the infamous topless Bailey show. Actually, he just sort of walked in on me while I was cleaning my piercings, but...what the hell. Then he spent the next two hours simultaneously harassing, abusing and trying to seduce me. After he finally passed out then I could sleep.

Yes, I realize this is a little incoherent. I just kind of wanted to chronicle the happenings as opposed to writing about feelings. There will be other entries about my feelings...

"The best?"

"The best...I mean..."

"No, no, wait...give me a minute...the best? What do you mean?"

"I just mean that she, you know...knows what I want."

And then they fought, they fought about me.

"I'll just go to Nick."

"Fine, then I'll just go to her."

And then they made love, apologetically, both having said things they did and didn't mean.

Pretty boys (bois?) with pretty faces, hair as long as mine and piercing eyes. Classical backgrounds, photoshopped into real life. Dressed in black, in vinyl, in leather. Faces smooth with youth, eyelids darkened with eyeshadow and lips shining with paint. Ugly words, "slut," "cunt," "faggot" and such beautiful boys. They come (and they do come) with guitars, with drum sticks, with microphones and notebooks.

And girls, now, the discussion of girls. Girls rarely capture my attention let alone my heart. Girls more often end up somehow arriving on my list of hatred. Girls and their vanity, their expectations. It's painful and awkward to deal with girls, their eyes rolling about in their vacant heads.

I walk the horizon alone in the early morning, staring out at a world covered in mist.

So you beauties of the world, you perfect people carved from marble, I love you. You don't have to tell me you don't love me.

I haven't thought about him in years.

I met him my first day in group therapy; an idea that I resisted wholeheartedly.

I walked into a room where no one's problems were even remotely like mine; depression rarely came up, self-harm wasn't even a topic. The other people in the group were Angie, a morbidly obese blonde caught up in a religious frevor; Zeke, the romatical moron, who had a wicked case of ADD; and Micah. Social anxiety, I believe.

He wanted to be with me. Badly. He looked me over, but what he saw was a dirty magazine, a means to an end. He wanted me because I was different, because he thought I offered something exotic with my talk of sadomasochism when most people my age were just desperately trying to lose their virginity. I must have seemed so calm and collected, and mature, knowing what I wanted.

I get sick when I think about him now. I feel ill with relief that I did not give in.

You held the mirror (your grandmother's mirror) steady for me as I evened out my eyeshadow. I tried to hold it myself, but you insisted.

You grabbed my wrists and forced me to swing dance with you through the crowd. You threatened an cajoled me, made an ass of yourself and made me laugh.

You whispered your booze-sweet secrets into my ear and captured my attention. And now I'm thinking of you.

I had a dream about us last night. The way we used to be, back before it all went so sour, back when I knew with naive certainty that we would make it.

I don't know why it cropped up last night...

I could still hear your voice, feel your hand upon my cheek.

...you know something is wrong.

"So, you play guitar really well, huh?"

"So, you really know [insert famous or relatively famous name here]?"

"So, your dad does [this]?"

"So, your girlfriend is [who]?"

"So, you think you look like [who]?"

I can't stand paying this lip service homage to these people that should be grateful I talk to them. Maybe you aren't supposed to feel superior to people, but I do. People enjoy me because of my comapny (I think...hope), not because I tell them anyone is my third cousin, not because my dad is rich and gives me money, not because I boast about my wallet, my talent, or my genius (ok, not often). It can't be that hard to be yourself. I mean, certainly everyone takes a stab at making a first impression...

So few hold my attention.

"Her Ghost in the Fog"

by Cradle of Filth

"The Moon, she hangs like a cruel portrait
soft winds whisper the bidding of trees
as this tragedy starts with a shattered glass heart
and the Midnightmare trampling of dreams
But oh, no tears please
Fear and pain may accompany Death
But it is desire that shepherds it's certainty
as We shall see..."

She was divinity's creature
That kissed in cold mirrors
A Queen of Snow
Far beyond compare
Lips attuned to symmetry
Sought Her everywhere
Dark liqoured eyes
An Arabian nightmare...

She shone on watercolours
Of my pondlife as pearl
Until those who couldn't have Her
Cut Her free of this World

That fateful Eve when...
The trees stank of sunset and camphor
Their lanterns chased phantoms and threw
An imquisitive glance, like the shadows they cast
On my love picking rue by the light of the moon

Putting reason to flight
Or to death as their way
They crept through woods mesmerized
By the taffeta Ley
Of Her hips that held sway
Over all they surveyed
Save a mist on the rise
(A deadly blessing to hide)
Her ghost in the fog

They raped left...
(Five men of God)
...Her ghost in the fog

Dawn discovered Her there
Beneath the Cedar's stare
Silk dress torn, Her raven hair
Flown to gown Her beauty bared
Was starred with frost, I knew Her lost
I wept 'til tears crept back to prayer

She'd sworn Me vows in fragrant blood
"Never to part
Lest jealous Heaven stole our hearts"

Then this I screamed:
'Come back to Me
for I was born in love with thee
So why should fate stand inbetween?'

And as I drowned Her gentle curves
With dreams unsaid and final words
I espied a gleam trodden to earth
The Church bell tower key...

The village mourned her by the by
For She'd been a witch
their Men had longed to try
And I broke under Christ seeking guilty signs
My tortured soul on ice

A Queen of snow
Far beyond compare
Lips attuned to symmetry
Sought Her everywhere
Trappistine eyes
An Arabian nightmare...

She was Ersulie possessed
Of a milky white skin
My porcelain Yin
A graceful Angel of Sin

And so for Her...
The breeze stank of sunset and camphor
My lantern chased Her phantom and blew
Their Chapel ablaze and all locked in to a pain
Best reserved for judgement that their bible construed...

Putting reason to flight
Or to flame unashamed
I swept form cries
Mesmerized
By the taffeta Ley
Or Her hips that held sway
Over all those at bay
Save a mist on the rise
A final blessing to hide
Her ghost in the fog

And I embraced
Where lovers rot...
Her ghost in the fog

Her ghost in the fog"

I was so drunk on vodka and you were Robotripping. Let's have sex. And it was good, too.

You said, "We're all adults here," and yelled at me for giggling, held my hair when I puked and gradually talked me into, convinced me of the necessity of us having sex, incredible sex, excellent sex.

You were right. It was good. It was tingling, painfully good.

Yesterday as I hurried down a snow-covered road, as I rounded a bend, as I breathed my customary sigh of relief my car fish-tailed. It slid to the left, the right, the left again, and then spun out of control, slamming the back end of it into a tree, then a fence before it finally rested, defeated, in a ditch.

I climbed out, walked partially into town, some nice man gave me a ride down to a pay phone where I called my family who came and extracted me and my car.

The tree that I hit had fallen over. The fence also fell over. The damage to my car is so insanely minimal - I lost one tail light.

So, my anger...comes from my pain...which comes from...I'm beginning to believe...my boredom...and my inability...to be compatible...with most people.

I walked alone last night, in the moonlight, in the cold. I thought about what I wanted out of a companion.

I want someone who will cry over the night sky, who will understand when I need, desperately need to be alone, someone who will walk through the wilderness with me, not speaking. Or wait...do I need someone who will talk when I need them to? Someone complimentary? Perhaps...am I not seeing the full picture?

And, dearest one, am I who you thought I would be? If I sent you my picture now, would you recognize me, would you know who I was? If you saw the hair, the metal, the expression, would you know that I am that girl you used to know, all grown up, legal and everything? Would you even want to know me now?

It's still real.

Sharp, cold, sterile words; rehabilitation, probation, sentence, court. Advice and knowing glances. Comforting words followed by the clash of anger, of disappointment. I know. I know.

Somedays...I wonder about death, about an end to the disappointment. Could I fix it for you? The panic hits me, the crying jags. I'm so sorry, so apologetic, and it's all authentic. Remorse...

Him, the appearance, the ambience of his pictures...

...he has what I want. He is from Pennsylvania. Perhaps...please...let this be a sign.

http://www.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewProfile&friendID=109674&Mytoken=20050121073715

Sometimes standing outside of the the porn shop, waiting for the bus can get a little surreal. I've been courted by middle aged black men, stalked by a retarded individual once, propositioned and harassed. I've been insulted, I've been kissed at, I've had people stomp on my things and my feet.

Sometimes just sitting here feels that way. I know that a lot of these people go home to children, some to spouses. I know that they have had regular jobs, some having worked for years, and that some have jobs right now. I know that some have lived, truly lived, and are paying for it now.

I revel. I want to live freely. I do not want this stress, this tension in my muscles. I am tired of my brittle bones cracking, the bruised ribs. I'm tired...

"What kind of stupid bimbo would cut herself?," he asked loudly, across from me, looking at me as if he expected me to agree. And perhaps some small part of me wished to show him, but only briefly, not even a long enough notion for contemplation.

I live in fear. I fear lifting my shirt. I fear wearing tank tops and shorts. I fear scratching my ankle, or taking off my bracelets, or even just moving the wrong way. There were days when I have been terrified of bleeding through my shirt.

My scars cover my torso, too intricate, too many to be confused for anything but what they are. Scars create a mound of tissue on my wrist, intentional. A horseshoe burn on my arm. Another on my thigh. Words written all over my body, "remember" across my ankle, "desire" across the other.

"I have scars."

"I do, too."

"No, you don't understand."

And when I showed them, they gasped. They have always been surprised at the numbers, the significance.

I am afraid.

Once again, another hazy weekend, spilling Jack Daniels, vodka and dope-smoke all over my life.

I saw Dan for a brief period, which felt slightly uncomfortable for me, although he was jolly, making jokes, acting terribly casual.

I fought with Brandon about being selfish and self-serving. It's always the same fight.

I walked back to Downtown, Pittsburgh from Oakland. It was a 2 and 1/2 mile walk, or something along those lines. Booth and I took it on like champs.  

And I stared at you, sitting across from me. Your cheekbones, you're mismatched contacts, face full of last nights make-up. You were still in your clothes from the night before, having passed out and then coming directly over. Black and red and leather. Black and red make-up.

You bow your head like your embarrassed, I say something stupid, you laugh and nod. You address all your comments to me from across the room (this isn't a room, it's a tent, a foot, two maybe, that's all that stands between us), looking too deep at me and I think it's just because you are nervous around strangers and you know me. I wonder if averting your gaze is the right thing to do, but I just can't seem to do it and stare soulfully at you.

We hug and hugging you feels so good, it's like finding an old friend, it's like hugging what I want. Does it matter that we're high? Does it matter that I've said some stupid things? Does it matter that we all have, today, tonight?

Look at this man and you cannot tell me I'm worthy. Look at us.

http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v61/frailty/BaileyandMark.jpg

"...and I find it kind of funny

I find it kind of sad

the dreams in which I'm dying

are the best I ever had..."

I found an old CD last night. I wasn't sure what it was, being it was one of my generic burnt CDs and without thinking, I popped it into my stereo. On came Switchblade Symphony and a flashback hit me so powerfully that I dropped onto my bed in total shock. I lay there, listening through "Chain" and remembering...what it felt like to believe.

I watch my fluctuation between the unbelievably unreal and the tragically earthbound. I read about vampires and Midian monsters and witches and night breeds, things I can only believe in when in a mind-altered state. I believed...when I was younger, more naive. Maybe not in those exact things, but in the ethereal (and the surreal) and I could find beauty and just a few minutes of peace, thinking that someday, something would change and validate my belief.

I lost all that seemed so dreamy, filmy and untouchable. I became obsessed with being real, and physical. I fed my brain drugs and tried to die, just to prove that immortality was a joke and that the only monsters that existed were party monsters (I hope someone gets that...Tonya? Jaymes?) and I was going to be one of them. I slapped glitter and fake blood on, bought wings and horns and ears and tails, all to prove that I don't believe in anything that isn't me or something that I can touch, covet, buy, sell or steal. I took the time and made the effort to be profoundly shallow and self-absorbed, all under the guise of glamour. I became human, then primal, all so I wouldn't feel so lost without faith in anything. Eat-fuck-sleep-it was all about me and my schedule and what I wanted or needed to do and damn it all to hell if you thought I was selfish.

Now I'm somewhere else. I'm in between. I'm aware that I'm not the center of the universe and that maybe things will never change, never validate any part of my existence and all I can feel is this...pulse that beats in my wrists and in my head. I have old songs, love songs, I have dried blood and soft clothes, I have what used to be and what will be, I have tattered novels of fiction and the confessions of serial killers, I have toys that used to be yours and I have toys that never came out of their packaging, I have the glitter, and the blood, cat's ears and horns, a tail or two, wigs and gloves and high heels.

"Where is my mind?"

You left me...empty, but beautiful. I wondered if my eyes rolled around in my head the way yours do when you feel that way, when you put on the facade.

"Vicodin on an empty stomach...," those blue eyes, rimmed with black. Too much, too much.

Cheery night full of jokes, taking fake pictures and watching everyone dance. I should start dressing like a girl more often.

I'm so tire that I keep seeing bugs. My job began last night. I sleep in the evenings, wake up at two, drive until six, come home and leave at eight-thirty to begin my day in school. Interestingly enough, I ran into Jackie Holmes about four this morning. I told her to have her brother call me.

I really don't do that much.

I sit here. I sit over there. I listen. I observe. I pray for phone calls that don't come. I avoid some that do. I write here. I write there. I look at beautiful people. I consider stalking them. I want to be them. I listen to people laugh. I listen to people fight. I type. I think about dying my hair. I reject the idea. I think about cutting my hair. Reject it. I feel listless. I feel useless. I give bad advice. I get too optimistic. I try to help. I fail. I feel a little sick. I get on the bus. I pay for things I wish I didn't have to have. I covet. I long for a little peace. I read. I fix my contacts. I pretend to brush my hair. I pretend to sleep in.

Ugh. It doesn't add up to much, does it?

I'm sorry everyone. What a pointless entry. 

"Queen"

by Ram-Zet

"Where did she take me
I can't see a thing here
I try to move but my body doesn't conform me

Just try to rest soon we'll start our journey
then why am I looked up in this cage
now someone opens up the door
I think I've seen this face before
or is this just a fantasy
but in the moment of a blow I see his last journey
then someone other's in control
why did you kill him
his blood is on my hands to I did not want this...failure...
I want to free you from all your soreness
It is too late 'cause I am dead

I'm the queen for one day
I'm the queen for one night
I'm the queen of your fate
I will teach you to scream for silence

Stop what you're doing
it's far too late to rescue me and you
ought to know cause you're the "healer”

Just give me time and I'll give you freedom
you claim my freedom but I'm trapped
so now you want to set me free
still I'm the one that should not be
I really should just fade away and what you're doing
makes no sense cause
I'm lost forever don't try to guide me to utopia
white plastic gloves removing my blanket
and then she tells me
we shall go

I'm the queen for one day
I'm the queen for one night
I'm the queen of your fate
I will teach you to scream for silence"

If, while living your truly authentic lifestyle, you step on a few people in the process, who is to blame?

I long for modesty, but I just can't stick with it. I love the creative and conceited. And they love me back.

So I shoplifted when I had the money. I stole that from you when you probably would have let me borrow, use or have it anyway.

I needed it.

I wish I could give up lust, but the struggle is too much, and being numb isn't worth it. The high is.

I need to live up to what I've been meaning to. Starting today.

If you look like that...

...and you live like that...

...and you dream of that...

...then I was always right.

Beauty is what is real, what defines us. I should clean up my body, clean up my skin, my scars, my mind and soul and flesh and blood. I don't belong here.

I want to be pure. I long to be clean. I need to be worthy.

Perhaps if I lived in Turkey, smoking hashish with beautiful long-haired people, contemplating astrophysical travel and psychology; but maybe if I lived in England and we all stayed beneath our sheets as it rains and drank absinth in the evenings beside fires, talking of politics and running down cobblestone streets in the dark; or I could live in Germany near a forest, own a chunk of land or live in a sublet, stalk through the woods in the snow with my comrades and we wouldn't speak, we would communicate by looking at one another; or in Norway, perhaps Norway, and we could stand on cliffs and stare out at the vast horizon and discuss mythology, hang pots and pans from the trees to ward off evil and sleep in a cabin, huddled together for warmth; or Australia, where it's warm and the scene would be huge and we could snort K and talk about the unnatural and the paranormal and consort on acts of vandalism, we could wear dark clothes all year round and I could shave the back of my head if I wanted; what about LA, the city of angels, we could roll or trip and dance and sell our souls and we wouldn't talk at all because we'd be busy sipping water and contemplating our appearance and when we did talk it would be asinine; or Japan and we could stroll the strips and they would copy our outfits and the scene would embrace us, we would have our own cronies and groupies and they would follow us, speaking broken English at us while we exchanged snide comments and witticisms...

...anywhere but here.

I'm tired of wandering around in this desert, this dry plain; I'm tired of the blasted silence that settles in at night and that I long to hold someone warm to me; I despire the leaves greening in the snow and I can't stand the sound of the ice falling from my roof. I can't stand my own skin, I can't stand your face, and I would come see you if I could just stop loving you, even a little.

A boyfriend. Hmm, now there is something I haven't even considered in the past year. I've talked alot about one-night stands and gratification and animal intent, and I've talked a lot of undying love and unending passion...I've thought about being too casual and not casual enough, discussed not talking and talking just too damned much.

A boyfriend. Someone to hold my hand. Someone to have something just a little more with, something just a little more special. Comfort. God, I miss comfort and safety and maybe that's boring, but I'm so damned insecure right now, and I'm so sick of feeling like the last single, undesirable girl. Yes, one-night stands up your statis, you are "getting layed" but it's actually worse than being single. It's...cheap and tawdry, it's neon and a dark alley...it's sweat and cigarettes and vinyl. It's someone's fucking fantasy, or someone's height of the night, or someone's rubbery spasm...

I want something a little more intricate. Not much, but some affection would be...worth it.

"The Girl"

by the Beatles

"Is there anybody going to listen to my story,
All about the girl who came to stay?
She’s the kind of girl you want so much it makes you sorry,
Still you don’t regret a single day.
Ah girl, girl.
When I think of all the times I tried so hard to leave her,
She will turn to me and start to cry,
And she promises the earth to me and I believe her,
After all this time, I don’t know why.
Ah girl, girl.
She’s the kind of girl who puts you down,
When friends are there, you feel a fool,
When you say she’s looking good,
She acts as if it’s understood,
She’s cool - oh.
Ah girl, girl.
Was she told when she was young the pain would lead to pleasure?
Did she understand it when they said
That a man must break his back to earn his day of leisure,
Will she still believe it when he’s dead?
Ah girl, girl."

Last night my headache (finally, finally) became so bad that I could hardly move. I can feel the threat behind my eyes; last night it was strong enought o gag me, to drop me to my knees, to make me wimper. It did all that in the course of three hours; three hours spent driving, then walking, then laying on my bed. The whole back of my skull exploded multiple times and I was left with a dull throb. I pressed cold palms to my temples, praying for  relief.

It's getting worse. Whatever is praying on my system is getting worse.

I've had multiple nosebleeds these past weeks. I sleep all the time. My gums bleed every single time I brush my teeth. I have so much trouble concentrating. I...I feel...run down.

Today's smell, taste, sounds are the epitome of my season. Rebirth, rain, floods, skeletal trees. Uneven ground and wet leaves. The crisp smell of the air. This is my freedom season. I walk during this time, trudge through the mud and into the woods. This is my time for starvation and introspection. There will be no glam, there will be no sparkles.

I think that is why my hair isn't making me happy anymore. I know that winter is over, my time to collect and use, is over.

I'm scared. I have always faced this season alone, utterly alone. I shut off from everyone and take the time to find whatever it is that I'm searching for. But this year...I have friends, I have obligations.

I feel like I'm ripping apart at the seams. I don't know what I want, anymore.

the fog is beautiful-i need money, more money, i'm broke again, i knew it-i'm running out of time-my last weekend as a free individual-damn-i hate this-i feel like i'm going to cry-i don't want this to happen-i'm scared, i'm so fucking scared, i'm scared of court, i'm scared of the rules and the punishment-i'm scared of losing everything-i'm not ready-i don't know enough-i'm so fucking stupid-if i could take it all back-i feel sick, i feel sick, i feel so damn sick-i think i may throw up-god-what am i going to do-what the fuck am i going to do-don't think about it-don't-don't-it's all going to happen whether you stress or not-stop it-stop it-calm down-breathe-focus-this could turn out to be the best thing in your life-you could use this to turn everything around-you could use this-i could go to westminster like i wanted-i could go into their communications, theatre and art program, where i wanted to be-or english and public relations-i'm sure i could-maybe this is my shot-god, things could be so good-i could forget about all this-i could block it out-it wouldn't exist-probation, god-if it comes down to probation for six months or three days in jail-i don't know-i just fucking don't know-will they let me-will they let me keep my piercings-will they strip me-will they search me-god, the fines-i'm so broke-fuck

I'm falling apart; I'm breaking steadily. I feel things just crumbling around me. I'm doing my damnedest to both stop and speed the process; I go to half my classes, skip the rest, then do a flurry of make up work so that I don't fail and die. I come in early, don't do anything, then spend my break typing as fast as I can, trying to get all my shit togehter. I'm fucking with everything and all I can think about is getting out of here. Don't get me wrong, I'm not going to be like another fucker I know and just fucking give up after sinking in money and time and everything, but...god...

I want to go to Westminster. I want to major in English. I want to take film critique courses. I want to do...what I was meant to do, instead of what has been handed to me.

I woke up this morning to a constant thumping, up in the attic. The left half of the house had lost power for reasons unknown and it was decided that we should take this time, this morning, before I was fully awake, to fix it. That was all right, I left an hour early, caught the bus with my (pretensious) friend Tim. He sat with me and we talked about everything and I found all sorts of interestings ties between us, all the way back to the AMC (he's a friend of the Palmers' and knows Wes..er, Wej). He knows the Rally Alley, he knows Mike, he even knows (Black Metal) Dan. He's a partier in the truest sense, and he wants to party with me.

...I gave him my number. I wonder if he'll call.

Face it, I say to myself everyday. Relive it, deal with it. It happened.

Deal with it, I tell my brain as it struggles to compute, as it recounts how fucking unlikely I thought all of it was, how it was not something that would happen to me.

Fucking live it, and I do, day after day.

I Drove All Night

by Roy Orbison

"I had to escape , the city was sticky and cruel
Maybe I should have called you first
But I was dying to get to you

I was dreaming while I drove
The long straight road ahead
Uh-huh, yeah

Could taste your sweet kisses, your arms open wide
This fever for you was just burning me up inside

I drove all night to get to you
Is that all right?
I drove all night, crept in your room
Woke you from your sleep to make love to you
Is that all right?
I drove all night

What in this world keeps us from falling apart?
No matter where I go
I hear the beating of our one heart
I think about you when the night is cold and dark
Uh-huh, yeah

No one can move me the way that you do
Nothing erases this feeling between me and you
I drove all night to get to you
Is that all right?

I drove all night, crept in your room
Woke you from your sleep to make love to you
Is that all right?
I drove all night

Could taste your sweet kisses, your arms open wide
This fever for you was just burning me up inside

I drove all night to get to you
Is that all right?
I drove all night, crept in your room
Is that all right?
I drove all night"

Last night I broke down, pulled out all my piercings and stared at that face in the mirror, the one that isn't anything special. I hated myself.

Eleven, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, leave the tongue in, take the one out of my cartilage...there. I'm ready. Nails unpolished. Tonight I'll dye my hair. And my fucking idealism shattered. Isn't that the idea behind becoming an adult anyway?

I couldn't stop crying, just sitting there bawling and thinking about...well, about the fact that Tuesday...it's all fucking ending, isn't it? Isn't this the end of the world, the end of my life? Humiliation like none I've ever known? Should I just, you know, die?

And the sad part is, I am ashamed. There is no joke, no punchline. If Brandon still gave a fuck maybe there would be. I was tempted to call him last night; he's the only person I know who was there that night, who went through all this and could still give me a little hope. He's gone though, abandoned me for whatever reason, but I'll ruin something of his for revenge if I can, because I'm an evil person.

So, some fucking good news finally, something bright and shiny (if not a little pre-packaged and metallic). Some fucking joy for someone prone to misery.

First bit of good news: they dropped my drug charge. Yay! Do the Bailey-ain't-going-to-jail dance!

Second lovely bunch of delightful news: I will either get a DUI or an underage. Yay! No crazy-ass double-sentencing bullshit!

Third delicious little piece of goodness: I may only have to go to the Open Door once, for my evaluation (as long as they don't deem me an addict, or something...guess I better take care of those track marks, huh?).

Fourth thing-that-made-me-not-want-to-cry: my FastTrack was approved by Jen Rega! Meaning I have a fucking chance to get through all this with the minimal punishments and I will be able to get it taken off my record! Hurray! Yay PennDot, motherfuckers! I'm still going to lose my license...but it shouldn't be as bad as it could have been.

Now, with all this positive shit floating around, how am I supposed to be melancholic today?

Ashley called me again and again. I haven't picked up.

Blonde bombshell. I know you just want to fuck me, then fuck me over. There is nothing enticing about being used this time.

I had a dream last night that Tonya and I were at some type of boarding school. We had to wear these strange uniforms, and between classes we had to do garden work. It was unpleasant. She kept fighting with me about my tongue stud, telling me that the mistress of the school would see it and make me take it out, so I told her I would take the top off and the woman would never notice, but Tonya kept fighting me about it until I told her I'd just leave the bar in and no one would know. But oh no, that didn't make Tonya happy either, so we just kept fighting until it was nighttime. (What the fuck?!)

So it's nighttime now and we want to go to Pittsburgh to a club, and we can take a bus from our boarding school. Only something happens and all these girls (who were decidedly lesbianish) wanted to come with us, so we ended up going in someone's pickup truck.

The end.

Now make something of that...

So...I almost vomitted on this lady on the bus this morning. I got a sudden case of motion sickness which came from nowhere and for a very real moment thought that whatever is in my stomach (probably Ginger Ale and acids) was going to coat her quite appropriately. She would have deserved it. She was staring at me.

I raced the Holiday Park Flyer this morning, thought I missed it but somehow managed to beat it by about eight minutes. Fucking kick ass. So here I am in Pittsburgh.

I'm actually in a pretty good mood. Would you like to know why? Even if it makes me sound like some little bimbo full of green-girl giddiness? Ok then...

Mark called me last night. Wait, I don't think you understand - Mark called me last night. Not called me back, not told someone to call me to give me his new number. He called me last night to give me the new number of his cell phone. He could have waited; we'll see each other on Saturday. He could have had Sean (or Shawn) let me know; I see him often enough, and keep in contact with him besides. But he called me, you know, just to let me know. And he said he may come and hang out with Sean today, after I asked him what he was doing. I'm just...excited. That he considers me important. Yes, ok, it looks like I have a self-esteem issue, but who can honestly say they've never done a little social climbing?

So, in closing, I'm in a damn good mood, even though I almost took my car off-road this morning.

P.S. My car is not an off-road vehicle.

"I Would Die for You"

by Garbage

"I would die for you

I would die for you

I’ve been dying just to feel you by my side

To know that your mine

I will cry for you

I will cry for you

I will wash away your pain with all my tears

And drown all your fears

Ah ah ah ah ah

Ah ah ah ah ah

Ah ah ah ah

Ah ah ah ah ah

I will pray for you

I will pray for you

I will sell my soul for something pure and true

Someone like you

See you face every place that I’m walking

Hear your voice every time I’m talking

You will believe in me

And I will never be ignored

I will burn for you

Feel pain for you

I will twist a knife and bleed my aching heart

And tear it apart

I will lie for you

Beg and steal for you

I will crawl on hands and knees until you see

You’re just like me

Violate all the love that I’m missing

Throw away all the pain that I’m living

You will believe in me

And I can never be ignored

I would die for you

(Ah ah ah ah ah)

I would kill for you

(Ah ah ah ah ah)

I will steal for you

(Ah ah ah ah ah)

I’d do time for you

(Ah ah ah ah ah)

I will wait for you

(Ah ah ah ah ah)

I’d make room for you

(Ah ah ah ah ah)

I’d sail ships for you

(Ah ah ah ah ah)

To be close to you

(Ah ah ah ah ah)

To be a part of you

(Ah ah ah ah ah)

‘Cause I believe in you"

So, um, as a South Park character I have my eyes downcast, my mouth is a surprised little O, my hair is black and stringy and not nearly as long as it is, I have bags under my eyes, and I'm wearing a blood-splattered corset and black gloves and bracelets. There is this huge red inverted pentagram on my corset. Oh, and I'm walking through the town like this (as I picked the town for my background).

So it's just about like my weekends.

I'm really very lonely. For a relationship. I think about it and part of me recoils, is terrified of becoming bored, or growing too attached, or the danger and the fear and the hurt and the smothering that could come with it. But the honest fact of the matter is...I'm lonesome, and I'm too scared to try and get into a relationship because I don't think anyone would want one with me. I mean, a one-night stand doesn't mean anything, another notch in the belt, maybe an orgasm if your good. A one-night stand can be smoothed over, forgotten about, explained away...but a relationship is something you remember, other people remember. A relationship involves complex emotions, feelings, promises and compromises and as much as I'd like to claim that I want to be in control, it's a mutual thing. Which I don't know how to do, anymore. I don't know how to compromise, to go out and not be single. I've been pimping myself just as hard as I could for the past year, making sure everyone knew that there were no strings attaching me to anyone...but that's just it. I seem to have very few morals and ethics, I bounce around too much for anyone to think I like them (god forbid I show a weakness, they could use it against me) and even if I really like someone, I have to walk away because I know it will just be rejection and that's one of those things that devastates me. When Dustin told me he wasn't looking for a relationship that day, I literally blacked out. I don't remember anything. See how well I take rejection? And I'm so terrified of it. I've gotten into fights with friends over my fear of being rejected, of them trying to make a little forward motion for me, but the point of it is the man has to make the move for me to understand that I'm not being rejected. If a guy comes up to me to talk to me, I feel safe, but if I approach him I'm already prepared. If I get blown off, my ego is so damaged that I simply cannot try again. I cannot follow someone around to prove I like them, cannot come after them. I would like to call it dignity, but it's terror, pure and simple. And I take it all so personally. I mean, I know I wrote about Mark calling me and my optimism and everything else, but I know Mark doesn't like me because guys like Mark don't like girls like me, no matter how often we pop up. I could fool myself and think that it meant something, but it doesn't. Well, it means that we're friends. And that's the way it's going to be. Before you know it, he'll ask to talk to me about a girl problem and I'll promptly want to shoot myself in the fucking face, and he'll date her and I'll have to see her and I'll hate it.

Same as before, same as always.

I'm not good enough. I'm not thin enough. I'm not attractive enough. There is too much metal in my body. They is too little metal in my body. I have too many scars. My hair is too long. My hair isn't long enough. My hair isn't shiny or pretty enough. I'm not pretty enough. I'm not smart enough. I'm not charismatic enough. I never say the right thing. I leave long pauses. My jokes are off-color and out of time. I'm too loud. I'm not loud enough to be heard. I don't speak up. I say the damnedest things when I do. I'm humiliated. I want to die. I'll never be glamorous. I'll never be right. No one gives a damn. I don't know.

Sometimes I wonder if no one cares...or if they act that way because they think I'm self-sufficient.

Which is basically what I've been running on for about a week. I missed everything this past weekend which left me feeling more than a little cut off from the outside world. I worked two paper routes nine hours apart and it made me feel awful. I have this horrific fucking cold-death-plague thing on top of it and went to the doctor's yesterday.

Today I went to the Open Door for my evaluation, where I lied through my teeth about a lot of things.

I had to. It was necessary.

I can't seem to get anough shit in my system to feel better. I've taken Coridin and NyQuil and my antibiotics. Nothing does any good.

I'm going to go home, take ten Coricidin, trip balls, and then sleep. G'night, my babies.

"Can We Still Be Friends?"

by Todd Rundgren

"We can’t play this game anymore
But can we still be friends
Things just can’t go on like before
But can we still be friends
We had something to learn
Now it’s time for the wheel to turn
Grains of sand, one by one
Before you know it, all gone

Let’s admit we made a mistake
But can we still be friends
Heartbreak’s never easy to take
But can we still be friends
It’s a strange, sad affair
Sometimes seems like we just don’t care
Don’t waste time feeling hurt
We’ve been through hell together

Can we still get together sometime
You know life will still go on and on and on

We awoke from our dream
Things are not always what they seem
Memories linger on
It’s like a sweet, sad old song"

Mark is "in love" with me. Something that he claims is completely valid.

He wants me to be "his". I'm not sure if words of ownership should be in this conversation. He calls me his "princess".

It would feel good to say these things again, let a feeling of security engulf me.

He's coming down sometime next week. I'm excited and scared. Maybe things will work beautifully. 

So I had this affair with Doug the other day...

...and it was great.

The sex was...

...intense.

...nonstop.

...strange.

...excellent.

The sex involved...

...ropes.

...bondage.

..."The Egg".

...lots of oral (for me).

I have...

...bruises on my thigh.

...rope burns on my wrists and ankles.

...bitemarks on my neck.

I think he sent me a text message this morning. I should really visit him again.

...Mark would not be amused.

So I got depressed last night. I'm not sure why. I sat in my living room and listened through my Nine Inch Nails instrumentals and my compilations and ended up with "Holywood" on, which is no way to cure depression. I speak from experience.

So I get this brilliant idea. I take the rest of the Coricidan. All sixteen of them.

I wait. And I wait. And I wait.

I dial Doug. Nothing. I dial Mark. Hmm, this call is not authorized. Huh. I lay there and think.

And then I slept.

"Angel"

"I've tried to take this all just one step at a time
I'd love to reason but I'll end this waver signed
'Cause it's so lonely I feel like I have died
I thought angels never learned to say goodbye
Angel

I've felt emotions like I've never felt before
Felt such devotion that it's spilt upon the floor
Now I'm so empty there's nothing left to hide
I thought angels never learned to say goodbye

I've got to find you, and remind you how it is
My life's been shattered but inside I've found love exists
Now I'm so frightened, Im so afraid to die
I thought angels never learned to say goodbye.
Bye bye,
Bye bye.

Angel, Angel.
Now I'm so lonely, I'm so afraid to die.
'Cause I know that all the angels say goodbye
Angel
Angel
Bye bye, Angel.
Bye bye."

I'm spending too much time with Doug. I know it.

This will all crash and burn says the eternal cynic.

So. The sex is free, and good, and carrying on this clandestine affair (that everyone knows about) is interesting. Things between us are strange and sometimes feel quite desperate. He clings to me like I'm someone he lost and I hold onto him like he's my salvation.

I don't think us fucking on the futon is a religious experience. If anything it's an experience in blasphemy, the taking of this act of love and setting it to such a rigid tempo, such a flurry of mindless self-numbing activity...but then again, I've become well acquainted with fucking the Devil. Mercy for my soul...?

Mark has run off to Cameron County. I've laughed about it because in it's own goofy way it's quite amusing. I wonder if I'm hurting him. I wonder how hurt he would be if he could see me right now, bruises on my knees, neck, and chest, rope burns around my ankles and wrists, bitemarks and scratches. I wonder if he would even understand the significance or if he would chalk it up to self-destruction, or clumsiness. Perhaps it excites me, the idea of him finding out, the shouting and fighting. Perhaps I want him to make me tell him what's been going on. But he won't. He'll be busy, being suitably hurt and upset.

I went to Ceremony this past weekend; just Jaymes and I. That was fun; it resulted in a lot of interesting conversation and I got to see that side of him that I enjoy so much. I love his intellect which I consider his "light that he hides under a bushel". God, what's with the biblical thing today? My downfall: Robbie said some magic words to me. Of course I want to drink. But then he let the phrase slip that should have, could have ended my night: "...and some coke." God, baby, you are better than Santa Claus. So I spent half my night indulging and hugging strangers and friends, of whom I seem have many.

Last night Mark (Fuckably Manson) called my house and, hysterically enough left a message on my family's answering machine for me. I have to call him about when Trish's party is, but unfortunately I didn't get ahold of Jaymes last night to get the information (he has my invitation) and couldn't call him back.

Phone calls I need to make (an inspirational list):

Point Park (to set up new interview with Phillip about my transfer)

Chris Welch (to find out about my driving school classes, etc)

Mark (to let him know when Trish's party is and to ooze appropriately)

Sigh. We socialites have to keep our calendars full.

"For the Longest Time"

Billy Joel

"Wo-o-o-oh for the longest time

If you say goodbye to me tonight
There would be still music left to write
What else could I do ?
I'm so inspired by you
That hasn't happened for the longest time
Once I thought my innocence was gone
Now I know that happiness goes on
That's where you found me
When you put your arms around me
I haven't been there for the longest time

I'm that voice you're hearing in the hall
And the greatest miracle of all
Is how I need you
And how you needed me too
That hasn't happened for the longest time
Maybe this won't last very long
But you feel so right I could be wrong
Maybe I've been hoping too hard

But I've gone this far and that's more than I hoped for
Who knows how much further we'll go on ?
Maybe I'll be sorry when you're gone
I'll take my chances
I forgot how nice romance is
I haven't been there for the longest time
I have second thoughts at the start
I said to myself: 'Hold on to your heart'
Now I know the woman that you are
You're wonderful so far and that's more than I hoped for
I don't care what consequence it brings
I have been a fool for lesser things
I want you so bad
I think you ought to know that
I intend to hold you for the longest time" 

"Can We Still Be Friends?"

by Todd Rundgren

"We can’t play this game anymore
But can we still be friends
Things just can’t go on like before
But can we still be friends
We had something to learn
Now it’s time for the wheel to turn
Grains of sand, one by one
Before you know it, all gone

Let’s admit we made a mistake
But can we still be friends
Heartbreak’s never easy to take
But can we still be friends
It’s a strange, sad affair
Sometimes seems like we just don’t care
Don’t waste time feeling hurt
We’ve been through hell together

Can we still get together sometime
You know life will still go on and on and on

We awoke from our dream
Things are not always what they seem
Memories linger on
It’s like a sweet, sad old song"

1. A "relationship" with a quivering man of little decision.

2. A waning affair with a workaholic.

3. Dreams about beautiful underage boys, their piercing blue eyes and their delicious tones.

4. Unrequited lust for a girl I just met.

5. A drug habit that I can't seem to shake for more than a few weeks.

6. Two empty cups in my car that used to be filled with alcohol.

7. A wounded ego.

8. A desperate need to not hurt those I care about.

9. A cut on the bottom of my tongue.

This morning as we came out of a tunnel I glanced over and saw a magnificent shaft of sunlight. This beautiful crispness bathed the whole world in golden light that seemed to illuminate it all from the inside, a special kind of glow surrounding everything, every blade of grass in it's utter perfection. I stared out my window, mouth gaping and realized what I am; unnatural. I glanced down at my sallow skin which used to be pale but is now just yellowed, glanced at my worn clothes and bag and all the synthetics that make up who I am right now. And then it was all gone, the sunrise, the light. We were barreling down the highway, all dirty morning light reflecting off the cement and blacktop that creates that oppressive expressway. We jettisoned on towards the city, where our lungs will congest and our eyes will sting, where our ears will be assaulted simply by the natural noise of it.

I feel disconnected.

I just pimped the shit out of my myspace. Yes, indeed.

So, wow, I feel like I just got kicked in the stomach. I'm thinking about running to the bathroom to vomit, but the idea of doing it in front of all these people certainly holds it's own bent appeal.

So, I guess all that shit about being friends was a fuck-all, huh? And all the shit about "being there for me" even though Brandon wasn't? It would seem I was just a stand in while you waited for your "real friend(s)" to come back. Well, I'm glad she's come back to you then. I mean, I thought we were close, but obviously our "bond" or whatever we had isn't nearly that strong. And that's ok. But you never had to lie to me. I realize that I don't have many friends; I'm used to that. The thing that bothered me is that you had me believing that you honestly liked me, enjoyed my company. This came as sort of a shock.

Well, I should have expected it, I guess. I mean, you were always writing these entries about how shitty all your friends were and how you hated everyone of us and how you were always left at home. So I did my damndest, didn't bitch about it, and came and picked you up every time I could. I took you to Lea's, made sure you made it to a show if you wanted to go, took you to the mall to buy earrings and took you to Ceremony every weekend you were up for it (even after you blew me off a couple of times, which made me feel like shit).

I know I'm not the best person out there, and that I went to Penn Commons during the weekend for a couple of weeks, but it was never anything personal; never anything about our friendship. I know that there have been times when I've been busy. I know there have been times when I just couldn't do something. But this...this isn't right. I've tried to be a decent friend, tried to give you all that I could. If you can find an argument for that, let me know. Maybe my bias is allowing me to overlook something.

So I sat around last night and Robo-tripped for the sheer fuck of it. It was excellent. I didn't get tired (which has happened in the past, almost every time) and instead blundered around and forced my sister to entertain me. I called up Jaymes and made him talk to me, which struck me as incredibly great, especially when he told Jamie (sp?) that I didn't like black people. That was priceless.

My stomach still hurts and I still hate all this shit. I feel so damned unresolved. But fuck it. I don't want to sit here and dwell on it like a douche.

So, anyone remember me meeting a guy named Dave Z. a million years ago at The Exploited show? Yeah, well, somehow I found him on myspace and emailed him and it turned out to really actually be him and he wrote me back twice already; once to tell me that he remembered me and thought I was awesome and the other to let me know that he thought and still thinks that I'm beautiful. Shock of a fucking lifetime, he's only nineteen. He looks older.

Last night was the night of the drunken phone calls. Mark called, totally fucked and told me repeatedly to "behave, for the love of god, behave". Then we hung up, after he promised about eight times to call me back in a while, after he went home. Then Doug started texting me and I called him and we got into an hour-and-a-half long conversation involving oral sex, booze and anecdotes about necrophilia. The words "my balls" were used multiple times. It was sort of sweet, though, because when I went to get off the phone (at two in the morning, as I had to get up at five-forty) he asked me if he could call me back, like tomorrow? I told him of course, he could call me any time. We've already had a text message conversation this morning. How horrible. And then Mark finally did call back around 6:30 am, but I was driving and couldn't talk long anyway. He was all hung over and apologetic for calling, but not hearing from him for a while made me sympathetic. I found him irresistibly sweet this morning. I will continue to encourage him to come down, if only because I need the cuddling, the cute stuff. Oh, and as long as I'm on the "look, boys!" rant, allow me to say that I just was contacted by a twenty year old guy from Pittsburgh telling me that I'm cute and that he likes my style. He's pretty cute himself.

Right now I feel good. I won't deny that that  paragraph was written specifically to boost me up. And it worked. I'm high on my own ego.

Seeing Suicide Girls naked no longer impresses me. Seeing anyone naked no longer impresses me. I'd be more shocked, more interested, in seeing them shoot heroin.

I'd like to say that I've never left anyone behind, but that would be a lie. I'd like to say that I've never instigated, agitated or otherwise picked a fight. I'd like to claim ignorance and innocence, or pretend that this tight spring-coil in my stomach isn't my body's cold substitute for anger.

I hate to believe in the things I might have. It's more fun to think it's cancer as opposed to carpal tunnel.

I was given a cookie in exchange for my blood. I haven't given it yet. I wonder if they will come and take the cookie back. I wonder if I could repossess my blood.

I want it and it's mine.

9:01 AM - I send Dave my phone number(s) and say that we should hang out sometime.

12:01 PM - Dave calls me back and says that we should certainly go out, am I busy on Thursday?

The man got back to me within three hours. Not to mention I received an enthusiastic email ("You bet I want to hang out!" ). I'm flattered by all the attention.

I had forgotten it was St. Patrick's Day. I wonder if I will make it to school on Friday...?

So I talked to Dave on the phone yesterday, and he somehow talked me into hanging out with him today, too. We'll also cuddle, spoon and make-out. That was our plan as of yesterday. That and getting married, meeting each other's parents and the other stuff you have to do before you get married.

I'm shocked at how intelligent he is. I'm used to meeting guys, finding them attractive in one way or another, and slowly finding out that they are stupid, silly or ignorant.

He's majoring in history. Aw, instant boner.

I'm meeting him at the porn shop at 1:30pm. Everyone wish me luck.

Mark called me last night and informed me that he loved me and that if I left him for another guy or cheated on him, he would kill the guy. I found this funny. I then told him I wasn't worth homicide and with a tired sigh he asked me if we had to go over this again. I picked that point in time to tell him that I made out with Bethany and that I liked her a lot. He was relieved and told me that it was better it was a girl.

If only he knew.

I broke up with Mark last night. I doubt it will last very long. I still need to learn to play the guitar.

Strange happenings with Dave Z. I'll give a full account in a while.

Ron was at Ceremony. Ron + Bailey = bump o' coke? Sure.

Robotripping isn't overrated.

Bethany is gorgeous. I waited until I was fucked up, then told her so.

I need to go to class.

"Do you want to have sex?," when he said it he looked so damned earnest.

I fumbled, looked down, stuttered and finally asked him if he was serious even though I could tell that he was. I thought of the "precautions" I had taken to avoid this situation, the personal mantra I had repeated where I told myself not to have casual sex with him. God, was this going the way I wanted or backfiring horribly? Could I possibly fix this mess before it got any worse? Would it just be easier to do it? Would everyone be happier?

"Um, we really haven't known each other that long...and uh...," so ungraceful and naive. God, what did he think I was? I stared at him and it came out an accusation, "That isn't why you asked me over here, is it?"

"No! No," but it didn't seem to be the truth. So there we were, in bed together but not.

We grappled around like fourteen-year-olds for a while, made out, touched a little. I felt awkward and I didn't think to ask how he was feeling.

Perhaps the night ended on a down note, but it sure was a hell of a ride.

*I timed my Robotrip perfectly for Saturday night.

*Ron showed up with some party favors. I may have kissed him on the forehead. Or perhaps it was just an impulse.

*Everyone seemed more fucked up than usual.

*I told Bethany all of how I felt about her, and I kissed her. I think I spent a lot of time touching her face, too.

*The beautiful boy, the pretty boy is now known as "Cuban B". He stole Bethany and Jaymes's handbags, returned the ManBag, but made off with Bethany's. He's an evil little man and in the light looks disturbingly like Prince. I informed the police that he wore Cuban heels. Interesting. Oh, and he'll "remember my face". Good. Remember my ass sitting in your car, remember my boots stomping on your CD's, remember me telling you that she mattered more to me than you or your opinion about me or my friends. Yeah, remember me you little fucker. I've known bitches bigger than you.

*We all ate some food at Kings as the sun came up.

My cold is getting worse. I feel horrible. Somehow all my cold stuff is missing (I took it all when I wasn't sick - damn the temptation). I don't have anything to take for this cough, the congestion that makes me chest feel like it's caving in.

Mark called me around 7AM this morning as I waited to get on my bus. He asked me if I was ok and I said, "yeah, basically; I have to go." And then I hung up on him. He deserved it. I can't, I won't live with this right now.

He also sent me an email saying that I'm "just as guilty as he is of misunderstanding and withholding". Which is bullshit. I've been extremely honest with him (about everything except Doug, which is understandable). He just doesn't listen to anything that doesn't concern him. And my life had a way of boring him very quickly, unless he could find something to be jealous of. So, therefore, he can thankfully lick my righteous balls.

I'm just kind of zoning out about Dave Z. I'm not really sure if I can make anything out of this situation or not. I actually kind of hate him for making me like him and then doing this to me. I mean, could he seriously be this pissed about a simple rejection? It wasn't even a hostile one, more of a "let's wait". But, whatever. There are plenty of other cute, interesting, intelligent...wait, who am I kidding?

"I hoped you'd see me,
I hoped you'd understand,
Or crucify me for my failings,
my cruel ambition,
hardly justified,
and the pain inside will ... stop."

-taken from "No More Good Guys" by Skindive

And he replied:

number one, i knew you had some drug involvement before, but not as major as you made it sound the other night, drugs every once in a while, fine, but the other night you made it sound like your whole world revolved around it, number two, i knew you had piercings, but not as many as you said you had, and before you assume that i have a problem with piercings, to let you know, i dont, i have some for the love of god, im not saying you have wronged me, that makes it sound like withholding that sort of info is such a crime, i was just shocked thats all, im over it, im fine with it, i told you i would stand by you, i dont even know why we are bickering about something that is 2 days old, i mean, what exactly do you want? point was made, its not even a big deal, so lets just kinda drop it...email me back when you are over it, even if it is within the next 6 months..if your going to hold a grudge over something this stupid, then stop listening to alanis morisette (the mother of all grudge holders) and just talk to me, without throwing everything in my face, there is no need to, for i have admitted fault, but i think you need to do the same, and dont even say that you are faultless, granted that my flaw was a bit worse, you are not exactly innocent.

Marc

So I wrote:

I use drugs on a more-than-weekly basis, usually. I do use them often. But I don't get so fucked up I can't move or speak or function. But this is besides the point. The point is that you don't know me at all. I've told you a lot about myself, and you can't tell me anything about me. I can tell you all sorts of things about yourself, because I was interested in knowing because I cared. I can't be a sounding board for you to talk at - I have a whole life happening here, which you don't seem to have any interest in whatsoever. You don't want to know about my friends, my past, my future, my present. Everything makes you so jealous, and I can't handle that kind of jealousy over me, Mark. I'm not about to hold a grudge forever; as a matter of fact, I see you as someone to hold a grudge, not myself. You are the one who can't handle ex-lovers or ex-friends, not me. I usually can't stand to hold a grudge against someone I care about, but the fact of the matter is, you didn't even try to make this acceptable, you hung up on me, treated me like shit, and then expected to smooth it all over. Well, it doesn't work that way, and when you make jabs at me (like that bullshit about Alanis Morrisette or whatever) it doesn't make me even want to hear you out. Try being less hostile, and when you can stand that I live this life, let me know.

God. My righteousness is so fucking hot.

But I can't. I refuse your phone call. I turn the ringer off. I just want to go take pictures, get them developed, and go to bed. I want my scanner back and that's all. Nothing to do with you, baby.

I don't want you. I don't really want anyone. 

I have NAH-MOAN-YUH. I had to go to the hospital. I have antibiotics and an inhaler and a shit-ton of other stuff to make me better. Wish me luck.

To Tonya: That song , the "where is my mind?" song that you said someone sung and you couldn't remember who? It was The Pixies. I heard it somewhere and wanted to you to know.

 So here I sit. I left the house today to deliver Joe's Easter basket (cheerfully decorated with spiders and scrawlings and "Happy fuckin' Easter" written on it) and a plate of muffins that Casey and I baked for Joe and Tez Miller (baby). It seemed appropriate.

These steroid things make me stay up all night. The inhaler makes my chest sound like a compressor. The syrup makes me so tired I can barely function. Oh, and I feel sick all the time. But I'm fighting, killing the infection.

I talked to Marc/k last night for a while. He's coming down to teach me how to play the guitar. He's also bringing me a guitar. Somehow this doesn't seem right, but I'm not about to complain. What would be the point? I'm not in the mood to fight with anyone, anymore.

I was supposed to go up and spend the weekend with Sean (or Shawn) at Penn Commons, but due to my illness I think I'll be putting that little venture on hold for a while. At least for now. Oh, and I think I'm staying with him the night of MSI, too. He wants me to go with him, and I need someone to go with, and it just seems to fit. We get along pretty damn good, though. Today he told me that putting on eyeliner to cry was emo. He's right.

Hmmm, hmmm, other pointless stuff to report...uh...oh, um, via text message conversation last night I came to find out that Doug misses me and if his date doesn't work out tonight he wants to start fucking again. Considering that makes him using me about as much as I was using him, I found a rich kind of irony in this, and totally agreed. That and I haven't gotten laid in weeks. And frankly, that just isn't working for me. I have a high sex drive.

I need to find something to do this Friday. Something close to home, so that I can come home after. I'm too sick to be staying out all night.

So I toook another hit. And another. It just seemed so fitting. I'd feel a little sick and take another hit. A little sad, the same. A little shame and pain. It all adds up. I am a drug user.

I feel like I'm getting better, though. I only have three or four more pills to take, another doctor's appointment. It isn't that bad. I think it's almost gone.

I went to Curwensville on Wednesday night. I spent the night with Marc. We did not sleep together and he treated me like shit most of the time. I got along with his friends better than I got along with him, which made me sad inside. He ignored me a large part of the time, when he wasn't introducing me like I was a prized horse. The only time he was interested in me was if someone else was. It wasn't a pleasant visit, and I left at 7:45AM on Thursday morning. It was too oppressive there. He didn't even get out of bed to see me off, nor did he say goodbye.

I'm quitting school. I had a long discussion with my mother yesterday about how my actions aren't making anyone happy, how I'm an economic drain on my family. I also cried and told her how unhappy I've been at school recently and she said that she had realized that when I started skipping as many classes as I did. She fed me the usual lines of "you can always go back" but I'm not sure if I can believe it. Maybe I will go back, next year, or something. Right now...I need some freedom and some independence. So today I go job hunting and start saving up to move out. I do not want to be one of those people who have bounced from home to boyfriend and back again all their lives with no notion that anything else goes on. I think I need to be a little more on my own. I need to do my own dishes and run my own household, to a certain extent. I need different freedoms.

Now I'm just drained. Time to go help take down the storm windows, then it's off to Indiana for applications. Huh.

I have my computer back. Yes, after four months or so. Yes, we're very happy together.

Everything is weird right now. I haven't talked to Marc in a few days. I'm not upset, more surprised. I thought our big "hanging out" session would have made him all the more possessive. I guess I'm not that great in person. It happens. To be honest, I wasn't especially impressed with him, either. Amazing.

MSI is on the fifteenth. I'm very excited. I decided to try out an outfit idea for the show last Saturday, the theme being pink animal print. It was sort of hot. It was strange to be using so much color, and Rachel's comment for the night was "Oh my God, you're pink!"

I need to go put new pictures on myspace. I pimped it, and somehow I have this strangely fitting picture...

As if things couldn't get even a little more strange...

Last night around 12:12AM I received a phone call. From Doug. Who is currently in a relationship with some normal-formal middle-class girl with dyed blonde hair that he lovingly referred to as Chickey. He called me to talk about sex and love and relationships and necrophilia and sociopaths and movies. He sang snippets of some song to me, something about "your love has always supported me...everlasting friendship...too blind to realize" while I tried to tune him out and not get the wrong idea. At 1:30AM (when he was finally tired) he told me that he would call me tonight. Now, pardon me for being blunt, but not even when we were fucking on a regular basis did we make plans to call each other, let alone two nights in a row, unless one of us was horny. Sad, but true. Text message conversations about what time both of us were free, maybe, but never repetitive phone calls.

We're planning on making plans to "watch movies" together at some point. Now, in the past, that was code for "let's put a movie in, pretend to watch it, fuck, and then sleep". I wonder how much of the code has changed.

I got an email today from some kid, some boy on myspace. Some 22-year-old boy. From New Eagle. Which is just south of Pittsburgh and about an hour from here. Some kid who thinks that I'm the hottest thing in chains around. Some boy who wants to make me scream.

And I find it kind of hot to be propositioned.

It's 5AM. I have been on here all night. I wish that sleep was a reprieve from what I've been living, but the fact of the matter is...

...I still have eyeliner caked around my lids.

“Hyacinth House”

by The Doors

My jaw is already sore; all from tensing it as I slept. Someone I slept beside once told me that grinding your teeth while asleep is usually a sign of an abused child. Hm. I think this was just due to my super-tension, my fear of going to the doctor's today. I don't want him to tell me that because I'm coughing the infection isn't gone. I don't want more antibiotics, or more advice.

My body hurts from sleep on that couch, but no more than if I would have slept in bed last night. I feel sort of swollen and tender.

I shouldn't be this stressed. What I really need to do is clean this whole mess up (if you could see the area around my computer, you too would be ashamed), get something to eat, go home and shower. I need to be ready to leave by 12:40PM. Hmm.

“A Friend In Need (Pure Morning)”

Placebo

“A friend in need’s a friend indeed

A friend with weed is better;

A friend with breasts and all the rest

A friend who’s dressed in leather

A friend in need’s a friend indeed

A friend who’ll tease is better;

Our thoughts compressed which makes us blessed

And makes for stormy weather

A friend in need’s a friend indeed

My Japanese is better;

And when she’s pressed she will undress

And then she’s boxing clever

A friend in need’s a friend indeed

A friend who bleeds is better;

My friend confessed she passed the test

And we will never sever.

Days, dawn and…

Skin’s crawling…

Days, dawn and…

Skin’s crawling…

Days, dawn and…

Skin’s crawling…

Days, dawn and…

Skin’s crawling…

Pure, morning…

Pure, morning…

Pure, morning…

Pure, morning…

Pure, morning…

Pure, morning…

Pure, morning…

Pure, morning…

A friend in need’s a friend indeed

My Japanese is better;

And when she’s pressed she will undress

And then she’s boxing clever

A friend in need’s a friend indeed

A friend with weed is better;

A friend with breasts and all the rest

A friend who’s dressed in leather”

I never quite believed in the persona enough to bring it to life. Name changes, melodrama; it just never touched me in the way that it should have. I never looked up when you said "my" name, never clung to it and allowed it to grow on me because, despite how much I wanted it to be something from you, it had to be mine. And I hated it. It was ugly, bulky. It was a punishment to carry around, embarrassment to speak it.  

I never kissed your ass quite to your liking, either. It was never my mission, nor would you let me be a part of it. You were so unsure. That one time, that one night it all fell together and it was so perfect; you ruined it by making me stand on the sidelines, by not even letting me applaud. I look back on the chronicles I kept for you, for us. I tried to cover things up and even in private praised you.

You were never as great as you thought; and I fed that ego. And I'm sorry for it now.

I'm no longer afraid.

I wasn't aware of that fact until just a few seconds ago. I am not afraid of the world anymore. I'm not afraid of the police or my drug tests, of probation or anything surrounding my arrest. I'm worried about raising the money for my fines, but I'm not afraid. I'm not afraid of the Brian Nash’s of the world and his switchblade or who wants to fuck me up and why. I'm not afraid of the drugs, anymore. I was always terrified of heroin and more than a little apprehensive about cocaine, but the fear is gone now. All that is left in its place is an innate need to live and to be free. I want to be uncultivated in my own ways; I want late nights and lines. I don't want to turn things down because I'm afraid, anymore. I want to live bigger and better than you; I never want to be in a sports arena of any kind ever again; I never want to set foot inside of another trade school. And college...who knows about college? I can't imagine caring, at this point. I used to be fearful of not going to college, but I can't feel that anymore. No matter what I do now, I know I will survive.

It's almost as if...it's almost as if I have nothing left to be afraid for.

Nothing important. No bursting, breaking revelations. No insight. No changes. I guess this goes under the "chronicles," those rare days where I simply write about what's happenin' (yes, dyn-o-mite).

I cleaned my room. Most people wouldn't get the significance and are thinking, "This self-righteous bitch is trying to impress me with the most menial of tasks. Well, fuck her." But if you've ever been in my room, you would be in the utmost state of amazement humanly possible. I hauled three boxes of random things out to put away in the attic. I hauled out four or five garbage bags full of things to be burned as if they had the plague. My shelf (a ten foot deal that runs about a foot below my ceiling along one wall) was cleared and cleaned, and I removed everything but my antique cameras, bottles and a memento or two. My desk was cleared and cleaned as well. All the books were removed from my book case (a little over six feet tall with five different shelves) and it was wiped down and rearranged. Everything is clean, shining, soaped and scrubbed and Windexed and polished. The last item is to vacuum my carpet again, as I moved some things around after the initial job, thus creating more clutter. All the drugs are in the drug cabinet, the clothes are in the laundry or in the dresser and closet, the blankets are on the bed...let's see how long utopia lasts.

Dan (my stepfather) went back to the hospital today for follow up surgery. He had a piece of his lung removed and stapled. It was completely necessary and we all knew it was coming. He handled it remarkably well, with minimal bitching about not smoking, and is currently locked in the depths of a morphine-induced sleep. Interesting.

I have a wicked headache, which I believe is being caused by TMJ. My neck and jaw were sore all of yesterday, and today this headache just keeps compounding. It's near my temples and isn't throbbing, the way they usually are. This one is simply just pain and pressure.

I called and finally spoke to Todd Sturga today. My meeting with the dean will be on Monday. I didn't believe that I could have myself together by tomorrow. But allow me to expand...

You see, I haven't bathed or washed my hair since Saturday. I haven't changed my outfit (with the exception of adding a layer or shedding a layer [usually a hoodie]) in about two or three days. I have been wearing these particular pants since Sunday. I haven't brushed my hair since Monday or maybe Tuesday. I just keep it pulled back and no one has said anything. Basically I've cut it down to brushing my teeth and deodorant. I don't even care; all I've been doing is cleaning, so what was the point?

I'm happy, though. That's the funny part. I can smell the air and it's clear and fresh. I haven't fallen into a depression. I'm not sleeping well, and when I do sleep it's disjointed, broken into one hour fragments with bizarre fantasies and fears mixed in. Too many phone calls lately to sleep properly, I guess. It seems like every time I break down and sleep a little someone's ringing wakes me up...

"Reptile"

by NIN

"She spreads herself wide open to let the insects in

She leaves a trail of honey to show me where she’s been

She has the blood of reptile just underneath her skin

Seeds from a thousand others drip down from within

Oh my beautiful liar

Oh my precious whore

My disease, my infection

I am so impure

Give it

Devils speak of the way in which she’ll manifest

Angels bleed from the tainted touch of my caress

Need to contaminate, to alleviate this loneliness

I now know the depths I reach are limitless

Oh my beautiful liar

Oh my precious whore

My disease, my infection

I am so impure

Oh

Oh

Oh my beautiful liar

Oh my precious whore

My disease, my infection

I am so impure

Oh my beautiful liar

Oh my precious whore

My disease, my infection

I am so impure"

I somehow just managed to talk a guy named Kaz from Australia into sending me free demos and merchandise. He sings in a metal band called My Dying Wish and thinks I'm some sort of groupie mascot. Allow him to harbour whatever fantasies he wants about what I do to get backstage.

I want the free stuff; and I want it all signed. 

"Pretty When You Cry"

Vast

"You're made of my rib or baby
You're made of my sin
And I can't tell where your lust ends
And where your love begins 
I didn't want to hurt you baby
I didn't want to hurt you 
I didn't want to hurt you
But you're pretty when you cry
And the moon gives me permission
And I enter through her eyes
She's losing her virginity
And all her will to compromise 
I didn't want to hurt you baby 
I didn't want to hurt you 
I didn't want to hurt you
But you're pretty when you cry 
I didn't want to fuck you baby 
I didn't want to fuck you 
I didn't want to fuck you
But you're pretty when you're mine 
I didn't really love you baby 
I didn't really love you 
I didn't really love you
But I'm pretty when i lie
You hurt me baby 
I hurt you baby
If you knew how much I love you
You would run away
But when I treat you bad
It always makes you want to stay 
I didn't want to hurt you baby 
I didn't want to hurt you baby
I didn't want to hurt you baby 
I didn't want to hurt you baby"

Not breathing. Mucus, pus. That taste like pennies. Choking on my own saliva. The emergency room. Passing out. Someone talking in my ear, forcing water down my throat. Choking. Burning. Tears rolling down my skin. The smell and the sweat. Disease. A needle prick. The numbness of painkillers. My IV. Vision rolling around the room. Soaking through the hospital sheets. Choking. Boxes of tissue that I couldn't take with me. The CATscan, the X-rays. My earrings shining in an empty sample cup. Long, metal instruments being forced in my throat.

The antibiotics that didn't work. The Motrin that I had to take to breathe. The vomitting from not eating. Those seventeen pounds I lost in two weeks.

Infection.  

I went to see Sheep on Drugs and Pigface. It was an excellent show. I touched a lot of people.

The man from Sheep on Drugs signed my tits. I was so proud, that I thought I'd post links on here:

http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v61/frailty/Picture21.jpg

http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v61/frailty/Picture19.jpg

Feel free to look at my breasts. They're going to be famous, even though they're small.

Yes, it's Mothers' Day. Happy.

I'm not about to sit here and type a long-winded entry about why, exactly, I'm a little bitter towards my mother, or about all the things that have been happening while I haven't been writing. I don't have the time because I'm due at a family picnic to celebrate this wonderous day. Ok, so "a little bitter" is an understatement. I mean, the woman gave me life, and I'm grateful; she's also a double-standard nazi and a drug addict. You balance it.

I'm still fairly sick, but it isn't anything like it was. I'm still feeling run down, but that might be because I only got three hours of sleep, and that was in Greensburg this morning/afternoon. I'm still carrying on an affair with Doug, although now that I'm not with Marc I don't know if it can still be called an "affair". And everyone seems to know. Including Mario, which was strange.

Oh, and I have to work the merch (for those of you who have never been to a concert/don't enjoy music/the tragically square, this means "merchandise") table for him so that I can get in to his over-twenty-one show. I'm also street-teaming (word?) for Skot, and have a meeting for it on Monday. It's going to be a long, LONG week.

 I have this friend, ok, she isn’t really a friend, more like someone that I know, and she’s this total slut, right, and she was doing drugs the other day and fucked someone that she probably shouldn’t have in the back of her car on her way to fuck someone else that she probably shouldn’t be fucking either. And then, instead of leaving it alone, she fucked the other guy (the guy that she’s been fucking) and she didn’t tell him she was on drugs, didn’t tell him about the other guy at all, then went and fucked the other guy again last night. Tonight she says she is going over to the first guy’s house, but she’s taking the other guy with her too.

What a slut.

 So, during the past week all I've done is snort mescaline and smoke pot. Oh, and I go to work. My day goes: wake up, go to work, finish, go to Gerrick's or Holmes's, get fucked up, come home, sleep. Or sometimes I go to Doug's and sleep there. I'm supposed to be doing that tonight, after he kicks Claudia out. Yeah.

I rarely eat anymore, which is kind of funny in its own right. I can only eat a full meal if I'm completely blitzed. Otherwise I don't eat at all or can only eat something tiny without gagging or feeling like throwing up. My gag reflex is horrible anymore. Just thinking about eating can make me gag.

I fell off the wagon on Mothers' Day. It was kind of stupid, really. My grandmother decided that I had broken her camera on purpose, despite the fact that she's had it back for two weeks; it worked when I gave it back and I haven't touched it since. After a bunch of fucked-up arguing I decided it would be simpler and more pleasant if I just left. I went home and just couldn't shake all the anger. I searched until I found a razor hiding at the bottom of a drawer. Some days I hate this life.

May 23rd is the day that I have to go in for my drug and alcohol pre-screening. That should be fun. I love talking to shrinks about what my drug of choice is. Delightful. It's mescaline when I'm tired and acid on weekends, and I'd thank you to stay out of my personal affairs. Let's see how that goes.

The club life goes on. I party with Dani, Tony and Mallory every weekend, almost. It's running me down a little, but it's nothing I can't handle. Oh, and I had sex with Mallory a while ago. On top of Joe, when Joe and I were still on friendly terms. It's funny. I laughed.

"...and the coke..."

"...a teener."

"...wait, how much was..."

"...well, I could..."

"...that eightball last time..."

"...you totally missed..."

"So...how long have you known Ron?"

"Ron?"

"Party-boy."

"Um, not that long."

"You know him well?"

"Not really. I just met him..."

"I saw you. I'm disappointed."

"Yeah, everyone is."

"I expect that stupid shit out of him. I was disappointed in you."

"So...how much are you looking to spend?"

Eden

by HooverPhonic

"Did you ever think of me

As your best friend

Did I ever think of you

I’m not complaining

I never tried to feel

I never tried to feel this vibration

I never tried to reach

I never tried to reach your Eden

Did I ever think of you

As my enemy

Did you ever think of me

I’m not complaining

I never tried to feel

I never tried to feel this vibration

I never tried to reach

I never tried to reach your Eden"

I can forgive the other women. Aren’t we all in that rat race, struggling for someone, sometimes anyone, to love us? Even briefly? And how silly and tangled up we get when someone shows us even some minimal attention, and how horrid we can treat one another, fangs bared in that perpetually feminine way. I couldn’t even bring myself to hate her…but I’ll be damned if I’m going to spare him.

Doug kept Claudia there last night. With me. We all slept in one big bed. Like we liked it.

"You're too bitter."

"I know. I have to be bitter. It's part of my charm."

"You're too bitter, though, Bai. And I, uh, have some news that might...hurt a little."

"...Really?"

"Yeah...but you have to promise not to hurt him or kill him or anything. He's still my friend."

"I'm not going to hurt him...I love him."

"Uh..."

"Did he get someone pregnant?"

"No..."

"He's getting married? Right?"

"Uh, yeah."

"To...?"

"His girlfriend. The one who looks like a short Asian."

"Oh. Well, I wish him nothing but the best."

I'm not ashamed to say that I do.

I hope she can give him everything that I couldn't, that the crying jags and paranoia isn't too much for her, that her unwavering loyalty lasts longer than mine could, that he won't crush her soul, that she can deal with him.

I'm not ashamed to admit...I cried. 

Today is going to be horrible. I can feel it already. I think I should prepare as if this were some kind of disaster waiting to happen, some tropical storm, hurricane or tornado searching me out; seek and destroy. I should close up the hatches of my life and hide in solitude. I should store the kindness that I've been given so far and look for no more.

Fifty dollars. I have fifty spare dollars.

I see a change in the weather; I see...snow.

And as life went on...

...guess what?

I'm moving. Out. To Pittsburgh. To the South Side. With Mario. Without you, and without them; without her and without him.

I have nothing back here. I mean, the few friends I have managed to keep...I don't want to fuck up their lives anymore. And they have a lot more going with me far, far away, without my drugs and my bad ideas.

I feel lost. Earlier I felt so sure about things, picking out towels that I'd want and pitchers and glasses and everything else that I could fasten myself to to ignore the fact that I'm really and truly doing it; I'm leaving home. Sometimes there won't be clean towels and I'll have to do a load of laundry before I can shower. Sometimes the only food is going to be stuff that doesn't necessarily tempt my palate. Sometimes there isn't going to be enough money to do all the fun shit and no one around to borrow it from. Sometimes I'm going to be sick and there isn't going to be my mother or grandmother to sit there and fix me Ramen or make sure I don't die in the night. I'm going to have to buy shampoo, and peroxide, and silverware, and all that other shit that, for years, has just magically appeared in my house.

I wish I still had a friend left from back, before. I would love to tell Lixa, or Sol, or Ian that I was moving out on my own, going to be an almost-adult, living a Bohemian lifestyle (for a while, anyway). I wish there was someone who could be proud of me; someone who wouldn't follow my announcement with worrying and warnings. I just want one person to be excited and pleased.

I have to start getting my things together. I already quit my job and have a van to move things with. The last few things involve the transfer of my car title and decisions about the insurance. I need to pack my things, close out my bank account, figure out what type of things I'm going to need there...and then actually move.

God. It feels so big. I just don't want to cry.

"Selfish Man"

by Flogging Molly

"I don’t eat I just devour, everyone in every hour

All is me, is all I need and that’s all that I care

Propelled through all this madness by your beauty and my sadness

I’ll never change or rearrange ‘til I’ve finished what I’ve started

And if life leads me here

It shows me, I have never really loved no one but me

Like the time you slipped through my hands

I’ll never understand why I’m such a selfish man

Walk around me, not before me

I’ll pretend not to ignore ye

But I’ll compromise if I realize that you can do something for me

I’m ugly and you know it, but you think that I’m a poet

So I’ll keep the rhyme if I feel in time, it gets me where I’m going

And if life leads me here

It shows me, I have never really loved no one but me

Like the time you slipped through my hands

And I’ll never understand

No, I’ll never understand why I’m such a selfish man

All I heard was an unearthly silence

Apart from the violence, explode in my head

Where all at once was this moment of beauty

No more since it slew me, no never again, again, again

No, I’ll never understand

No, I’ll never understand why I’m such a selfish man"

These sweet little sixteen-year-old girls keep telling me how hot I am...

...what is a boy to do?

I know. So typically teenaged, this "I'm emotionally abused" title. I'm just...having some reservations about the friendships that I've made. It stuns me a little that I had so few people to inform about moving. I guess I thought more people would care. I could be sarcastic right now and type something like, "guess I thought wrong," but what would be the point? There are only two people whose silence plagues me.

Cas, I don't know what to say. I wish you all the best in everything, and I want you to know that you are an exceptional young woman, and I know that someday you will be someone great. Hell, you already are someone great. I wish things could have been differently with this friendship; I wish I could hear what you had to say now. I blame my own intentional ignorance and vain hope for that. I apologize to you, and I want you to know that I am always here, even if I'm not. You can always reach me, but I'll understand if you no longer have the inclination to.

Tonya. I miss Tonya. Deeply. I keep telling myself to call her, let her know, not let second- or third-hand knowledge seep to her, but I imagine it's already happened. I know that it could hurt her, the fact that I didn't call to tell her myself, but the truth of the matter is...I can't really face her. I don't know how. The night of the missed concert we got along, exchanged phone calls the next day, but I just haven't been able to deal with it since then, and don't know how to confront my absence now.

Those are my apologies, or regrets. These are things that have kept me awake.

I saw him the other day. Not by accident.

He's twenty-two now, a grown man. The same age as Doug, only a year younger than Mario. I told him I was moving and he seemed stunned, then resigned as I explained where I was going, what my mother thought, and everything else perfunctory that goes with that particular talk. I couldn't quite look at him and instead stared around as if I was worried. We laughed and he asked me what time the beer distributor was open until. I told him I had no idea and he just stood there, shocked. We spoke for a while longer, him explaining his workday and complaining about moving back to town. I walked away and kicked myself for still feeling for him.

The next day we drowned my sorrows with Vicodin most of the day. Then, since it was Brandon's first show that night we decided to purchase some amphetamine, you understand, just a little pick-me-up. We spent all day caking our nostrils and choking on foul drippings of mucus, but not daring to spit a single bit of it out. The rush, you understand.

Brandon did his show. It went well. The last band was excellent, covering Billy Joel and Nine Inch Nails during the same set. The bald man, Jeff, was a man after my own heart, obviously.

Hat hooked us up with some pot afterward from Ob, who I am fairly afraid of. We smoked a joint on the fire escape and Mario didn't even bitch (too much). We watched movies and played the "truth game" for hours.

I slept from around 10AM until 3:30PM (with only minor interruptions), woke up, ordered pizza, and then called Dial America about jobs. I'm such a productive squid.

While packing I came across a relic from the past. A razor, yellow handle, the kind of generic set you buy at a dollar store. The blade was rusted and covered in blood and as I stared down at it I remembered something important. I checked the handle and there it was, engraved: “I love you” with my signature trailing it. I wrote that on each on of his razors so that he would know that I did.

I swear it's true; I used to feel things.

I bought a pipe today. For the new house.

I feel trapped.

I wept today. For being a miserable, pathetic drug addict. For being alone. For having no willpower. For being such a goddamn spineless, quivering asshole. For giving in and thinking it's fun. For pretending it's my choice. For every time I've held in a cough, or sucked back the snot, or drank after vomiting. For every guy I've fucked. For every girl. For every time I've settled for less because it's easier.

For needing it. For needing you.  

Coldness. Inside of me, creeping from my mind, that dank pit, down, down into my blood and bones and marrow. Into all the things and people I have loved. Each of them has left me willingly, sometime gleefully, I think and I wonder if there where ever any feelings there at all. Certainly love, real love, cannot be so easily dismissed? Did you love me briefly? That pain that pierced my heart was for you, darling. This coldness is simply my mind losing you slowly; I always was more sensitive than the other kids. My tears are for that warmth you brought to me, that rush I can barely remember. You made me blush and feel tender, you took something so abused and neglected and made it bright once more; briefly, always briefly.

When I see you I won’t know how to not touch you. I don’t know if you could resist.

Horrifying mindblends, my brain is simply mixed paint, spilling, spilling out of my broken skull and into the streets. It oozes out, down the steps of the Chatham Apartments where Virginia lives, out into the streets. I toss and turn in a stranger's bed, trying to get comfortable where I know I never will be. Trying desperately to conceieve why human mating is so intensely intimate. Trying to fathom the depth of the living room which doesn't belong to me. The phone calls and echoes. Getting lost on the bare street, no coat, light filtering in like a soft mist and there is the Chatham Apartment sign again, we don't even live here.

I wash the dishes at home, in my kitchen this morning and try to decide what my body is doing. I have to work in an hour. My time is running out, my time to be totally fucked up. I'm waiting for my dinner-plate-sized pupils to go down, for the shaking to be over.

Last night I made friends, made peace, with that demon in the mirror, that lizard hiding beneath my skin. I realized that all those people I've fucked, thinking they were evil...what I was seeing was simply my reflection in their glassy eyes.

Note: Holly and I took two hits of acid last night.

"We haven't made out since...um...I don't know, when we first..."

"I could disprove that, but I won't."

"How? You couldn't."

"The night that Claudia was there..."

"Uh huh..?"

"...we made out after she fell asleep."

"Bullshit. Bullshit.What?"

"Yeah."

"I was asleep."

"Yeah, well, I'm sorry you were asleep."

A subtle hand upon my back, fading circles being traced by unfamiliar fingers down my spine. There is a slight hesitation at the waistband of my jeans followed by a sudden plunge; I can feel him trembling against my skin even as he pushes further. He begins pulling down my jeans with urgency while also trying to scramble out of his own clothing. He throws my clothes on the floor along with his own, and then darts down to search through his pockets. He returns triumphant, condom in hand, and we begin what will eventually be the commencement of this strange interlude.

He's on top of me and the couch is uncomfortable. I touch his body and find myself unusually impressed; he appeared so skinny, but naked his body is all one taunt muscle. I hold the back of his legs and am shocked by the difference in our skin tones, his being the outdoor tan and my body, long and white in the light that is filtering through the door. My shirt comes off and I am naked, one leg trailing off the bed, the other being held against the wall.

And I could make it sound romantic, but where is the romance in fucking on your room mate's couch with your best friend sleeping two feet away?

Agnostic Front. Tonight. At the Rex. 7:30pm. Fifteen dollars.

I found money and now I get to go. Yay. I wish Brandon would get ahold of me. Then he could go, too.

Hey now there. I went to Agnostic Front which, despite the hardcore kids windmilling and ninja-crab-kicking, was fantastic. I have bruises all over my arms and shoulders from the pit. The pit, sadly, was rarely a circle pit, much more often a hardcore pit full of assholes in gym shorts and trucker hats. Damn trendy fuckers parading around.

After the show Erin (Hat) and I went to buy some pot with our five dollars (we're sooo poor). We actually bought a decent amount from his friend Scotty, and then we went back to Mario's and smoked most of it on the fire escape. We tried to get Mario's electronics to work so that we could watch some of his movies, but we were entirely too stupid to hook anything up properly and Erin ended up getting my dissertation on the progression of Tool, Aenima as an album, the meanings behind several songs and Maynard James Keenan's likeness to Jim Morrison. Poor boy.

Then we fucked on the couch all night. After the second time and a shower, we realized that we could hook up the PS2 and watch DVDs on it, so we started watching "American Werewolf in Paris" which could not hold my attention. We had sex a few more times, threw one of Mario's towels off the fire escape (if he ever finds out...) and then went to sleep.

Erin woke me up at 10:30AM to ask me if I wanted to go to his house because he had a "big comfy bed" and the couch was killing everyone's back. We did a wake'n'bake (which I haven't done since I was, like, fourteen) and went to his house, had more sex, took another shower and had more sex. So, all in all, we each got about four hours of sleep. And that was yesterday.

Tongith Social D. is playing. Mario wants me to go. I don't know if Erin does or not. I might go, if the tickets are cheap. Oh, yeah, and I'm moving a bunch of my shit in today. This should be my last weekend anywhere near home.

It's too damned early. I need to get so much done today that I really can't see a time to sleep. Maybe tomorrow (today?) after I move my things. My car is packed full and, although I haven't said goodbye to everyone (something I've been putting off) almost all my shit is packed up, with the exception of the lava lamps and other random items that I haven't bothered to unplug and fuck with.

I ran into Chrissy yesterday while I was doing laundry and realized why I have to get out of the area, why I need somewhere new. It's so confined here...and, frankly, the idea of running into one more person that I know or that knows me particularly well makes me feel a little sick. (Now, don't take offense...)

Somehow my intake of tequila and beer cancelled one another out and I'm as sober as 7AM. It's depressing, somehow. The birds are outside, awake already. The sun is up and all I can feel is empty and alone. I'll wake up alone later on today if I sleep. I feel like Hat is avoiding me, or avoiding being alone with me. I'm not sure if it's just my normal paranoia or the truth.

Tonight I am supposed to go to a party with Matt for a while, and then I plan on going to Ceremony after I get thoroughly sauced. Robbie (GRR) is supposed to come with me. Last night he invited me to his hosue to drink with Mallory and I ended up turning it down, seeing as it was Hat's birthday. I bought him beer.

This came from Mario:

i am mario not alf

Scared and homesick already. I know, it sounds silly and stupid, but it's true. When planning all this I thought I would be exploring the South Side with Brandon during my first days there, maybe going and hanging out with some of the people I moved to be closer to. Instead I spent Saturday moving, then fell asleep and didn't go out (to Matt's or to Ceremony) and I spent yesterday sleeping then cleaning. I barely left the apartment, except to walk to the drug store and to my car. I'm so damned lonely.

My phone has been dead so I couldn't even call anyone and ask if they wanted to hang out or anything. I was just stuck alone in this apartment; Mario sleeps during the day (and you can't go in the livingroom or his bedroom while he sleeps, so I'm stuck in my room with no TV and the kitchen) and goes to work around 10:30pm, so I'm sneaking around during the day and then totally alone at night. Erin (Hat) has gone MIA so I really am totally alone.

I talked to Doug last night out of shear boredom and longing for a warm body; he was "killin' people" and was rather pissy to me on the phone. I basically gave him a "fuck you" and hung up.

Strangely enough, I miss my mom a lot. More than I thought I would. We didn't part on bad terms, there was no fight where I said, "That's it! I'm leaving!" It was a very mutual move, but if I think of her for too long, especially when the apartment is empty, my eyes tear.

Well, wish me luck in the big bad world.

I look around me and I see the obsessive, the delusional, the jealous. I see the addictions of others; drugs, alcohol, sex, cheap thrills, near death. I look down at myself, down at the damage cut into my flesh and the scars seared into my mind and I see my own addiction is degradation. I do it the way everyone else does and always have – I tear along my flesh to expose to you what is underneath, I open my legs and allow you purchase to the most intimate gift, I rip off the bandages over the oozing sores on my psyche, I shovel mind-eating acids up into my nasal cavity and then stare in shock as my nostrils expel blood. I can only love someone with the same vices, so they cannot hold anything over me. The trouble with that is that it’s impossible to trust a drug addict, a sex addict, someone addicted to self-mutilation or self-gratification. You cannot trust the selfish and the weak.

You'll never love me...

The way my mind is fluttering from one subject to another forewarns me of the tears that will come later. When I know something is wrong I do my best to prolong the period right before the inescapable truth. Tonight I could pick from a million ailments and worries; instead I shall focus on just the one, right now.

My loneliness. My need for romantic love, the promise of faith, the seduction. My yearning for something new and beautiful, without all the filth that normally surrounds my escapades and mistakes.  The sacrifice and affection. I want the lust. I want the comfort.

Tonight these are the things I want; tonight I want to give up Doug and Hat, end these tawdry clandestine affairs now. I want to feel as if I could be clean and new and young again, that the right man might magically return my virginity to me and I could once again feel curiosity and enjoyment. The jaded and empty feelings behind my sex would be gone, replaced by shining delight. Tonight I long to roll through a misted grass with someone who could make me feel animated once more.

I’m tired of the drugs and the one-night stands; I’m tired of feeling judged by every bored guy who happens to get in my panties at the right time. I’m tired of fucking people just to watch their reactions and to retain a little adoration. I’m sick of sucking the lives out of men and women, drop by drop, because they must want me; why else would they give themselves to me, allow me to take them? Genuine attraction isn’t necessary. I cum from the adulation, the more intense the better.

So, Will is coming up from Arkansas. Possibly sometime this month. To see me. And smoke pot.

I'm making plans, right now, to meet some boy from Portland, Maine. His name is Kilo. I think he wants sex.

Emails coming back and forth between me and Jake. And me and Bilespiller (AKA the guy from skulldeathgutcorpse) about me living or not living in Pittsburgh. And me and Bethany. Because guess what?

She's going to go out with me. I'm going to take her on a date. Just her and I. She may come to Ceremony this weekend, too, hopefully. She's so beautiful. I can't wait to see her, just to be near her...

I moved out of Mario's today. I just couldn't handle it. I thought I could, I thought I was ready; I'm so far from what I thought that it amazes me how blind I've been. Here I am, back where I'm comfortable, back with the trees and the air, no more nightscreams, no more garbage. Clean.

I'm going home right now to take pictures with my sister. I want new pictures for myspace, and I've got some cool ideas for my hair right now. We pulled the world's greatest dine-and-dash today at Denny's, in protest of our bad service.

I want a boy who will kiss other boys. I want one tied to my bedpost.

http://foxweb.marist.edu/users/emily.dovi/album5/album5

“…I scream your name, I scream your name, I scream your name…”

…only you never answered. I think you were already too far away from me…

…and I never touched you again. I could never break that glass wall between us…

…but in those moments when it wasn’t so hopeless…

…I screamed your name.

My parents, my stepfather to be specific, found my pipe this morning. In my car. But, as an adult, I figured it was my duty to explain.

"There's a pipe in your car."

"Yeah. It's mine."

"Who was smoking dope?"

"I was. It's mine. I had to bring it home from Mario's."

"There's a bag of weed in there too." - there wasn't; empty baggie.

"Well, I couldn't leave it there and I couldn't just stick it in the van."

"Oh."

Yes indeed. You thought I could quit. You told me I was stronger than you. But I'm not, and have never been.

Floating, floating. The sensation won’t leave my brain. I feel so unanchored. The car is dark and foggy and I can only make out some of your face, all of your white shirt. I can see the beginning of your hat. You’re only a few inches away from me; occasionally our arms touch, or your hand accidentally brushes against my leg. You apologize and I wonder if anyone else is feeling this tension.

As he walked down the hall away from me, he lifted his shirt revealing a brief glimpse of his tattoo. I melted on the spot. I could only stand there, staring with damp eyes until he walked back, cigarettes in hand.

When I had walked in I hadn’t actually been expecting him. But there he had stood, blue eyes blazing in a way I’ve never seen anyone else’s. He looked over at me and cocked an eyebrow. I knew something was going horribly wrong because my stomach began to churn, and my mind began buzzing out of control, thoughts becoming static as one thing after another paraded through my mind, none of them fit for verbalization. I knew when we finally spoke something silly and shallow would come out; it happens every time, no matter how well planned my confrontation is.

While he spoke I stared at his ears, his hairline and cheekbones, not listening but nodding in assent. When he would turn those flame-blue eyes on me I’d feel a sudden lightness behind my heart and when he spoke for me, about me, my skin would break out in gooseflesh.

As I sat in the car hours later with the cool manufactured air rushing past me, my mind wandered and I saw quite clearly his back and tattoo, smooth skin sticking out from underneath a clean white hotel room sheet. I inhaled the fresh hotel smell, and saw the rest of his naked body outlined in linen. He’s breathing deeply, asleep. He’s at peace with himself and I am marveling at his perfection.

But it’s just a fantasy and the door is open, spewing hot air into my world.

Here it is. I've come full circle. The impending insanity and dread have arrived, finding the holes and cracks in my facade and permeating my existence. I saw the signs; first the procrastination, then the insomnia, the hallucinations, the apathy, and now the destruction.

 I seem to be the only one able to stand the heat. Long sleeves.

I needed to bleed and contemplate this horrifying pressure bearing down on me. I followed this with three or four tylenol with codeine, left over from my throat infection. This will be a long night.

I'm not sure if I ever want to see or speak to anyone again. Everyone I know is gone; driven away by my need, or having simply discarded me as passe. I don't blame them. I needed someone tonight, but there was no one left.

I want to weep, but it would take too much effort to write, too. I didn't realize how bad this had gotten until I walked outside today before the storm and found myself feeling that familiar gaping hole in my soul that I've been constantly trying to fill. I knew then that things had gone wrong again, and that all the fast-paced activities of my life in the past year were simply trying to numb my mind, keep me unaware of the life I'm meant to lead. It's all been an attempt to distract.

Last night/this morning Erin was inside of me and he said, "Oh god, you feel so good." It was as if someone had finally come back to feed me. I felt sick with myself because it felt so good to hear it, because that's what I've been waiting for since I lost Eric. I think of him often and what we had and how I'm so damned alone now.

After writing this I passed out on my floor. There was blood all over my journal this morning.

"Breakdown"

by Tom Petty

"It's alright if you love me
It's alright if you don't
I'm not afraid of you running away,
Honey, I get the feeling you wont

There is no sense in pretending
Your eyes give you away
Something inside you is feeling like I do
We've said all there is to say

Breakdown, go ahead and give it to me
Breakdown honey take me through the night
Breakdown now I'm standing here can't you see
Breakdown it's all right
It's all right
It's all right"

I knew with utter certainty that she was breaking into the safe again. The hot water and suds of the dish soap that surrounded my wrists didn’t stop my curiosity about what our odds were. I gave us a fifty-fifty shot of finding usable drugs. Well, maybe a thirty-seventy shot. Several times all that was left was shake, or homegrown garbage.

She found a bowl’s worth of halfway decent pot and we smoked on the porch while I played Tom Petty. She didn’t complain about it even though I kept playing the same song over and over. She likes to see me happy, and I think my breaking down scared her.   

I push these sunglasses up my face and wish everyone would stop staring at me.

I’ve met a boy, a soft romantic boy made of light and air. Long dark hair and ruby red lips spell out lust as he spills his problems to me, dear, sweet, sensitive boy. So much alike, his bitterness, my grudges, our rare and particular brand of pain and shame and self-hate. I told him he was beautiful and he told me I must have been looking into a mirror. The swoon.

How I long for you to be with me.

I’m bent over the edge of the bed, my feet on the floor and my hands resting on the sheet and mattress. I feel him press into me and for a second I’m scared and insecure and then I remember; I’m a whore, and whores do these kinds of things. He presses the whole way into me and it hurts and I’m shocked. Then it feels right and he’s slapping me, staining my sensitive skin temporarily red. He grabs my hair and asks me if he can slap my face. I comply, and he starts talking but I’m not paying attention until he slaps my right cheek. Again. He pulls out and spins me around, onto my knees.

This strange interlude in my day is suddenly over.

I’m mechanical. I am what will replace humanity.

I would like to talk to you, to discuss why you feel this way, but you’ve already made up your mind. I can’t change it. I’d like to; believe me, this isn’t some idle topic for me. But, just as in love no one can “make” you happy, in friendship no one can make you secure. You have the right to believe whatever it is you want.

Yes, I called you dramatic. Yes, I believe that you enjoy creating drama and problems around you for excitement. I believe that you are treating this subject in a particularly childish manner, but that’s just my opinion. You can take it for whatever it’s worth, as you obviously have taken the liberty to do so with my opinions before (i.e.: me telling you that I think you’re dramatic leading to you believing that I hate you and am talking about you with Mike and Bobby and Tonya and half the county, or whatever it was). I thought that me telling you that I disliked all the controversy you were creating would perhaps allow you to see what it all looks like from outside; I was wrong, obviously. Look at the current situation we are in. Overreactions, dramatic assumptions, coded talk and secrets. I’m not playing spy games with you anymore.

Here is the truth: I tried to talk to you Saturday night/Sunday morning about being dramatic because, quite frankly, you came off like a bitter cunt the whole night, Jaymes. You criticized over abundantly and made half my night hell, trying to play referee between you and half the room. I defended you when people talked about you, even though I thought you were going quite above and beyond with your analysis of the Bobby and Mike situation, which honestly isn’t any of your business anyway. I love you to death, but it’s the truth.

I want you to know that you thinking all this stuff about me is hurting me. But I really can’t do anything about it, you won’t listen (as you’ve written several times) so I imagine anything I say to be totally ineffectual. You babble about friendship and betrayal and yet you won’t even listen for a response. Judge, jury and executioner. How can you possibly feel that that’s being a good friend?

I want you to know that I haven’t ever said anything behind your back that I didn’t say to your face. Except now I see what saying things to your face accomplishes. So I guess we’re finished. It’s a damn shame, too. I really liked you, but I’ve lost enough friends to understand losing one more. I’m sorry that you didn’t want to try and work things out.

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Everyone killed themselves at my party.

It couldn't have been any more of a smash if it was at Jonestown.

Thank you for coming.

I'm actually sitting here waiting for comments on myspace.

Some of them I deserve.

Over two hundred dollars worth of metal and steel has gone into looking the way I've always wanted.

It's the 4th of July and Holly, Paul, Brandon and I have decided to make the most of it by ingesting LSD.

I'll write more when I have my brain back.

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I spend all my time, all my evenings...

...getting stoned and worrying.

Court is in a couple of days, next Thursday.

Holly stuck by me.

I'm going home to dye my hair and get stoned some more.

Long warm days stretch out ahead. The swings in the dark, the headlights.

The grass is wet.

We're anything but making love in the backseat, shoes on, shirts on. Birds are out; it's morning.

I'm spinning round, losing my gravity and balance.

Everyone I know settled into bed last night, alone, or together, comfortably. 

They slept like the dead with no dread, no despair for tomorrow.

They medicated themselves before bed but after the pity for me.

It’s ok; I understand.

If I wasn’t in this quicksand, I wouldn’t feel it either.

I love you; don't leave me.

Empty. Meaningless. Pointless.  

One friend helping another, one hand washing the other, and we’re all adults here, and, and, and…

The truth.

I hate this situation. I hate the present. I hate the future. I hate eating and have chosen starvation. I hate sleeping because it feels almost masturbatory, those few seconds before I realize that today is just going to be another exercise in humiliation. I hate sex because it’s a weakness and a manipulation tool and all it’s brought to me was anxiety and worry. Ecstasy, no matter how great, cannot come at such a price.

I despise my feelings for him. I opened myself, only to have my words, thoughts, feelings, heart shoved back at me.

“He’s the first person that…,” I thought.

“She would be perfect if only…,” he said and, imagine, he wasn’t talking about me.

I know what’s to become of us. We’ll become good friends; you’ll bring your problems to me in that particularly painful fashion and I’ll care too much to turn you away, or respond with anything but sympathy. Underneath it my soul will be suffering in silence; suffering through the great, excruciating art that is caring about you because I like you, because I’m too weak to indignantly give you up the way I feel I should. Every jealous moment was spawned by you, every downcast eye an indication of what’s happening inside my mind.

Now things are never going to be right again.

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By the way, if you have negative comments about this, feel free to write them down on paper, tape the paper to a brick and shove that brick up your ass sideways. It's my journal, my expression, and I'm not forcing anyone to look, merely giving out a link to pictures of my own sleepless nights.

Tomorrow is my birthday. I will be nineteen.

I'm in Frank's bedroom, preparing to finish getting drunk.

Wish me luck, kids.

Your lips are warm, your skin is warm, and I'm sinking, sinking into something soft, something sweet, something so comfortable I'm not sure who I was before. I wake up thinking of you; I wake up next to you. I'll wait for you the way I wasn't willing to wait for anyone else.

I'm staring down at this ring, too symbolic, but it seems perfect. This seems perfect.

I was walking along last night, through the dew and the chilly wet air, through the grass which left tiny perfect drops of water clinging to me, through the moonlight...and I was thinking of you. I was lost in these thoughts as I walked through the woods where there was no light; rain splashed down on me from overhead branches and I wished you were beside me.

I stood perfectly still for a moment and imagined what it could be like; you and I, together in this.

Worse than feeling hopeless I sit here feeling restless. I long for something that ins't here. But what could be missing?

I have my books. My music. My collection of movies. My notebooks and pens, in case I'm inclined to write. My paints and blank canvas. My box filled with clothes that need mended, or altered.

I have the night air. I have the sound of the forest at 1 in the morning. I have the cold, sterile air. I have the cutting moonlight outlining me.

I have my words which have yet to fail me.

I don't have you. And it's making it hard to focus.

I filled out a million applications. Finally, out of desperation, I sat down stoned and filled out one for Glassmart in Blairsville. I went in for an interview today and got the job immediately. I start tomorrow at two.

FUCKING A.

As gay as all that sounds, I'm really happy. Allow me to list the benefits of this particular job.

1. I don't have to take my piercings out.

2. I can wear jeans and a Glassmart t-shirt that I won't have to tuck in.

3. The pay is $6 an hour. Very decent.

4. My schedule is flexible.

5. I'm applicable for raises and bonuses and stuff.

6. My boss is as lazy as I am.

7. And she told me she doesn't care if I do drugs as long as it doesn't become something she "has to take care of".

8. I'll have money, motherfuckers.

Two nights, three, I fall asleep thinking of you. You're close enough to touch. I find myself reaching for you.

And sleeping alone last night just wasn't what I wanted.

I miss you.

I got offered another job today.

At the Halloween store (Spirit).

I'm thinking of accepting and working for them during my days off.

I am a happy Negro.

I'm sick from too much Oxycotin.

I don't want to vomit up my soul anymore.

My head is waning and waxing, much like the moon.

So, I went to work today and felt the dread effect of rapid drug use come down on me with a terrible wrath. I mean other than the vomit, the nausea and the loss of balance and basic motor skills, the euphoria that follows just seems worth it.

"You do it because it's better than sex, or it makes sex better. You do it for the rush."

Or some approximation of that. I've read that book so many times but it never really made sense until recently.

We share that rush.

You allow me to be myself, and that's the most important thing you can do.

The combination of you and this freedom satisfies my needs, my desires.

I owe myself to you; but I give myself willingly.

I love you, Frank.

Numb. No, wait, that isn't the word or the feeling. Cold, perhaps. Tinged with sadness, and fear, and the feeling of that deep overwhelming void.

I usually won't let people get close enough to touch me, let alone hurt me.

I listen to your voice and hear effected apathy and indifference; a mirror to my own behavior with everyone but you. I would be a liar if I said it didn't hurt.

Then there is the matter of the drugs. The drugs. The stress over drugs, the stress over money from drugs, for drugs. That headache that doesn't go away on it's own. The rush and anxiety. My stupid, sodden face, tears streaming down it.

Because I love you, because I miss you, because I'm afraid...

...that you don't feel for me.

Life goes on.

Work is...well, work. I stare through double-plated bullet proof glass as the last of summer escapes, watching the green in the trees wilt and fade, die off. Soon there will only be branches for me to stare out at and the long, gray expanse of highway with it's endless line of fat, mewling, bitching truckers. The smell of diesel and bitter black coffee permeates my hair and clothing every day, every night.

But I get paid on Friday, so aside from the poetic complaining...everything is fine. Normal. Can things be normal?

Hat (Erin) called me last night. It was unexpected. I haven't heard from him since...well, since we stopped fucking and he went into seclusion. He came back from binge drinking "in the woods" with green hair and no job. Strange how this world works.

We talked generalities, his fight with Ob, the blood and guts and gore, the beer dumpster memories. We talked about how the state of Pennsylvania is trying to assfuck me, about how I lost my license and when I get it back. I mentioned Frank and he got a little quiet, but my casual talk soon had him conversing like a normal human again.

Me: "So, uh, we should hang out sometime."

Him: "...really?"

I couldn't figure out if I should pity him for his hopeful tone or consider a relapse. I always was fond of him.

Lately I have been having this in unrelievable case of insecurity. It's the same thing, that same mantra that repeats in my mind all the time, that courses through my veins and beats in my heart.

I am inadequate and always have been.

People don't want to know me, and I can't blame them.

I look better from across the room than I do standing right before you and my conversation skills tend to lack.

I click when I get nervous and everyone makes me nervous.

If being beautiful gives you the ability to walk between the raindrops...then I am soaking in the downpour.

Last night we drove around shooting things with BB guns. It was strangely satisfying.

I'm about to take my Vicodin.

Oh, and after reading everyone else's secrets...I'm tempted to post a couple of my own.

Drinking vodka.

There is nothing better than fucking you in your basement, quietly, covertly, on a rickety chair, my pants around one ankle.

There isn't anything else to say.

I feel so lonely.

Frank is passing out on the bed, drunk, coming down. I'm awake and sober, thinking about havng to go home, having to work tomorrow.

Some nights I feel just too tired to go through with all this.

I can't be enough for anyone. I'm empty; shallow.

I have nothing to offer except my form, my body and most are willing to take because it comes with no attachments.

At the end of the day I am still broken. And I am still not enough.

<img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v61/frailty/lessdigital.jpg" alt="Image hosted by Photobucket.com">

"you've never seen me so digital"

<img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v61/frailty/synth.jpg" alt="Image hosted by Photobucket.com">

"the actual synthwhore"

<img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v61/frailty/so.jpg" alt="Image hosted by Photobucket.com">

"so what if i'm that chick who fucked your boyfriend?"

my.heart.isn't.there.anymore.

...and why is that?

because...

.it's.fucking.smashed.

I never thought you could do or say anything that would make me cry.

...I'm so fucking naive.

i.am.nothing.

[kill.me]

[too.late]

It's like my eyes are clotted with thick film; I keep blinking, but nothing seems to help. It's 5:31 in the morning and I'm still awake. Four drinks, five was enough to knock you out, but I'm still here, alive, awake and coherent.

Have I forgiven? Forgotten? I don't know. All I know is that it was too hard to keep those promises, to turn off the feelings that I know shine through my eyes, to speak that monotone. It hurt much more to try not to touch you.

I didn't sleep well last night, for some reason. Broken, incomplete, I awoke several times. Imagining, perhaps.

My head hurts a little, but there are few signs of illness.

(x) been in love
( ) been dumped
(x) shoplifted
( ) been fired

(x) snuck out of my parent's house
(x) had feelings for someone who didnt have them back
(x) been arrested
(x) made out with a stranger
( ) gone on a blind date

(x) lied to a friend
(x) had a crush on a teacher

(x) skipped school
( ) slept with a co-worker
( ) seen someone die

( ) had a crush on one of your MINDSAY friends
(x) been to Canada
( ) been to Mexico
( ) been on a plane
(x) thrown up in a bar

(x) purposely set a part of myself on fire
(x) eaten Sushi
( ) been snowboarding

(x) been moshing at a concert (smash dancing)
(x) got drunk

(x) been in an abusive relationship - verbal, physical, or emotional
(x) love someone or miss someone right now
(x) laid on your back and watched cloud shapes go by.
(x) made a snow angel

( ) had a tea party
(x) flown a kite
( ) built a sand castle
(x) gone puddle jumping
(x) played dress up

(x) jumped into a pile of leaves
(x) gone sledding
(x) cheated while playing a game
(x) been lonely
(x) fallen asleep at work/school

( ) used a fake ID
(x) watched the sun set
( ) felt an earthquake
(x) touched a snake

(x) been tickled
(x) been robbed
( ) robbed someone
(x) been misunderstood
(x) pet a reindeer/goat..

( ) won a contest
(x) ran a red light
( ) been suspended from school

(x) had detention
(x) been in a car accident.

( ) had/have braces
(x) felt like an outcast
( ) eaten a whole pint of ice cream in one night
(x) experienced deja vu
(x) danced in the moonlight

(x) hated the way you look occasionally.
(x) witnessed a crime
( ) pole danced
(x) questioned your heart
( ) been obsessed with post-it notes

(x) squished barefoot through the mud
(x) been lost
( ) been to the opposite side of the country
(x) felt like dying

(x) cried yourself to sleep
(x) played cops and robbers
(x) recently colored with crayons/colored pencils/markers
( ) sung karaoke
(x) paid for a meal with only coins
(x) done something you told yourself you wouldn't
(x) made prank phone calls
(x) laughed until some kind of beverage came out of your nose 

(x) caught a snowflake on your tongue
(x) kissed in the rain.

( ) written a letter to Santa Claus
(x) been kissed under a mistletoe
(x) watched the sun set with someone you care about..
(x) blown bubbles
(x) made a bonfire

(x) crashed a party
(x)Have Traveled more than 5 days with a car full of People
(x)gone rollerskating/blading
(x) had a wish come true
( ) humped a monkey
(x) worn pearls
( ) jumped off a bridge
(x) screamed penis in public
(x) ate dog/cat food
(x) told a complete stranger you loved them
(x) sang in the shower
( ) have a little black dress--
(x) did it in a park 
(x) had a dream that you married someone
(x) glued your hand to something

( ) got your tongue stuck to a flag pole
(x)kissed a fish
(x) worn the opposite sexes clothes
(x) sat on a roof top

(x) had sex at a church
(x) screamed at the top of your lungs
( ) done a one-handed cartwheel (it hurt)
(x) talked on the phone for more than 5 hours
(x) stayed up all night

(x) didn't take a shower for a week 
(x) pick and ate an apple right off the tree
(x) climbed a tree
( ) had a tree house
(x) are scared to watch scary movies alone

(x) believe in ghosts
( ) have more then 30 pairs of shoes

(x) worn a really ugly outfit to school just to see what others say 
( ) gone streaking
( ) played ding-dong-ditch
(x) been pushed into a pool with all your clothes on
(x) broken a bone
(x) been easily amused

(x) caught a fish
( ) made a porn
(x) caught a butterfly
(x) laughed so hard you cried
(x) cried so hard you laughed

(x) mooned/flashed someone..
(x) had someone moon/flash you
(x)cheated on a test
(x) forgotten someone's name
(x) slept naked.

( ) French braided someones hair- tried to aleast
(x) gone skinny dipping in a pool
(x) been kicked out of your house

I have this pounding headache, one that I had planned on killing with the last of the alcohol. That, of course, is sitting up at my house and even if it was here I don't think I'd partake. I'm too tired.

Thom (the weird wrestling coach with the big dick) got online and weirdly propositioned me. I think he wants me to feel like him fucking me would be doing me some kind of favor, but he's the one who hasn't gotten laid since. I told him I was virtually overstocked in the sex department. I find it amusing that he is the one who comes crawling back to me; he's a well-built, attractive-in-a-frat-boy-way man with a decent job who lives in a college town and yet here he is, asking me to see him tomorrow. Sorry, Thom, I don't need you or your lust or your determination to dominate me. No, you may not stick your cock in my ass. No, I won't let you piss on me. No, you cannot take control of my body. I don't trust you and I don't really find you that attractive. Good day, sir.

I'm on a stranger's computer in a stranger's house. I don't know anyone, but I'm wide awake.

Beer and Southern Comfort usually make for a lethal combination, but last night I was spared. I sat and drank and talked, watched movies, just like one of the guys.

And now I just want to go home. I wish someone else would wake up.

I sat down at the table a little late, feeling cold already. Every Tuesday morning from ten to twleve I sit in the same room with four or five or twelve people, rarely the same ones, and listen to the sermon and lecture of Cyndi Van Ryn.

Only this week was different.

After sitting down and filling in the sign-in sheet ("date," "are you employed?," "date of start of sobriety" and "name" ) she picked up a sweetner box filled with little pieces of folded up paper. An activity?

Mine had a P on it.

"Now," she started out, smiling, "who has an S?"

Three people raised their hands. I wasn't one of them.

"And who has a P?"

The two of us felt awkward.

"Well, today is random drug test day. Those of you with an S will give a saliva sample. Those of you with P's will give a urine sample," how can she keep fucking smiling like that? Sadistic bitch.

A million thoughts ran through my head as I sat there, casually chewing my nail. I could never have processed everything.

Everyone with the saliva tests finished up. Not one tested positive. Oh good. Now we've determined that no one was drunk this morning and that no one had toked up in the parking lot.

Nate went to took his test.

"Should I be worried?," she asked, that same sarcastic smile, "Anything I should look for?"

He shook his head.

She made small talk and then slowly pulled the strip back.

"Really?"

He looked frightened and replied, "Shouldn't be."

"Well, there is. You want to admit anything?"

"I relapsed this past weekend. My friend came into town. I don't want to talk about it."

Cyndi looked down and then back into his eyes, "What drugs were you using?"

"I'd rather talk about this in a private session," he insisted even as we could see her getting geared up.

Long story short:

"...cocaine and marijuana..."

"...didn't want him to do it alone."

"...lies that keep you held back..."

"...sponsor..."

"...sobriety."

"And you, Bailey, are you ready for your test?"

I woke up...and I woke up...and I woke...

This filthy mattress, this rancid squalor. This house and what it has become. The way I always feel like sleeping there doesn't do much, doesn't give much rest to anyone. Every day melts together; the slanted light in the livingroom around dusk, shafts created by the partially pulled curtain; the bedroom upstairs, the stifling heat in the attic; faces coming, going, changing; the chess set, abandoned on the dining room table, surrounded by garbage; how surreal (bordering on 'unreal') everything is.

I never feel quite so lonely as when the city begins to slow down at night; the cars slow, the shouts die down, the music gets louder and everything gets cool. Smaller noises begin whatever nightly schedule they need to keep. The house shuts down, slowly, the night ending when the last head falls, stoned, stupid, down onto whatever cushion it can find.

Having read back, back, back through my journal I've come to realize that things have changed. I refuse to sit here making some kind of simpleton list for everyone about how I've grown and changed as a person and how much better my life is now, because in all fairness things really aren't that significantly different. I imagine the change in content, context and fluid language all comes back to the fact that, at this point in time, I'm relatively happy.

Yes, my life has it's problems. I owe several hundred dollars to the State of Pennsylvania. I couldn't pass a drug test if I bribed someone. I can't maintain a relationship because, in all fairness, I don't have my shit completely together. I accept all that.

I believe this general feeling of well-being comes from some inner source, some feeling of satisfaction that I'm not a total waste and fuck-up, that the things that I've done are being gradually repented for. Eventually my slate will be clean, and I guess I've come to consider that for all walks of life. Eventually, in some way, my slate will be clean again.

So, I was randomly conversing with this photographer. I showed him my pictures, the ones I've been taking on my shitty, cheap webcam and editting with my unlicensed PhotoImpressions. He told me that if that was what I could do with such cheap material (he meant the camera and software, not me) then he couldn't imagine what I could do with a real camera. Which is about the time that he offered to let me borrow one of his cameras.

Goal one accomplished.

We continued talking and I told him about my random egomania and rare form of exhibitionism and he came back with compliments and asked if he could photograph me. Of course I immediately complied because that was really what I wanted all along was for someone to take professional photos of me.

Now, the kicker. All this thinking about professional photography and the like gave me an idea, a little nagging idea that wouldn't go away and kept worming it's way into my brain. Perhaps...just maybe...I could be a suicide girl. So, what does anyone think?

I can't quite figure out how I keep missing the mark.

<img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v61/frailty/newfriend.jpg" alt="Image hosted by Photobucket.com">

Isn't that damned obnoxious?

...if Pennsylvania state laws would allow me to pose nude while I was still under 21.

WHY DO YOU WANT TO BE A SUICIDE GIRL?

 When I first heard about suicidegirls.com (several years ago) I was immediately intrigued by the idea of a site dedicated to alternative forms of beauty. I enjoy my appearance and have a lot of confidence in it. I realize that I'm not exactly the portrait of the established, conservative view of what "beautiful" can mean, but I think that my face has an interesting symmetry, enhanced by piercings (and occasionally make-up) and I would like to join this site as one of your models to determine if there may be a market out there for it. I've been doing my own photography and photo editing for a couple of years and it's a hobby I enjoy. Not to mention, I'm something of an exhibitionist, so a site like this would allow me not only to display my pictures but to get feedback from the individuals looking at them. Although I put “no” to having done nude modeling, I have done topless modeling before and am completely comfortable with a competent photographer (which, as someone outside of the range of your normal photographers, I would be happy to find independently).
In conclusion I believe that I could make a valuable asset as another SG and I hope you feel the same.
-Bailey

Me, being not-amused: <img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v61/frailty/hjg.jpg" alt="Image hosted by Photobucket.com">

I'm sitting here wallowing in a rare blend of self-pity and self-loathing stemming from self-pity.

Hardly anyone is online. My phone isn't ringing, either. Imagine. For a social climber and parasite, I'm feeling pretty abandoned. I mean, what happened to all my friends? I realize that a lot of them are still here, still around; hell, some of them I even talk to on a regular basis. For the most part, though, everyone really isn't in my life anymore. At least not regularly.

I realize that I don't have a car. Well, actually, I don't have a license. Same thing. But I can't imagine that being a justification for totally abandoning someone. So it simply must be me. Again.

It is early morning once again.

I stare at the ashtray and pick up another cigarette, search for my lighter, hack out that damp cough that won't seem to leave. This book is still sitting open in front of me; it seems as if I've been trying to read for days. My drink is flat and stale, like this room.

Your phone is still off. I wanted to call, wanted to tell you that your birthday meant something to me. You're more of an adult now than I am, having moved onto that state that is beyond twenty-one. You can go places I can't; you can buy things I can't purchase. But not just those things, not just the chronology or the changes or the sentimentalism. I'm not sure what it is, but I'm sure it's more than that.

The truth is the kindness you showed me (not on, but) about my birthday meant a lot to me. And even though you are probably sitting in a haze right now doesn't change that I wanted you to hear from me tonight.

"...I wish to die with my will

and spirit intact..."

.........................................................

The air is gently perfumed by the dead leaves, a simple breeze, somehow accented (instead of destroyed) by the taste of menthol each time I inhale. It's early in the morning and once more I feel as if my chest is constricting. I haven't been sleeping again.

I spent all day behind this random veil of apathy, trying not the let that rage slip through, trying not to become that monster that I so despise. I know I have the potential. So I kept my voice in check and tried not to make eye contact with anyone. All I wanted to do was get through my shift (one in the afternoon until midnight) and come home where I can smoke and hide in peace; where I can brood in silence and despair without actively annoying anyone. Which is the whole goal: misery in private, apathy in public. So as not to inconvenience anyone; this was the fault with my whole “truth” plan. The "truth" tends to hurt people far more regularly (and with far more startling accuracy) than glazed eyes and a noncommittal, pre-formulated smile.

Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever adapt to the cold.

...just like masturbation feels clean, just like isolation feels clean, just like cutting feels clean, just like starvation feels clean, just like alone feels clean, just like insomnia feels clean, just like blood feels clean, just like depression feels clean...

...and sometimes clean almost feels...right.

"...I can paint my face

and stand very, very still

it's not very practical

but it still pays the bills..."

It was darker tonight as I stumbled, staggered over unseen obstacles, the stale glow of my cigarette seeming the only tangible thing. I was too angry to try and make out the shape of trees, follow the worn path that my feet understand so well and I found my arms held in front of my face for protection. At least the forest allows me that particular consolation you didn't, or couldn’t.

Beams of light upon me, I’m on the road now and that steel façade is quickly, quietly breaking.

“Why can’t she love me?”

Tears, warm and liquid, slide down my cheeks; the blowing wind chaps them. My hands feeling heavy, I wipe the water away from my eyes and pledge never, never again. This maternal betrayal; I will not live this way. I cannot. Your eyes glaze when you stare over me, through me. Your small presents, your dim interest, none of it means a fucking thing to me anymore because your love and affection have been withheld for so long.

I wish I had never come out of you. I should have been another seed pearl of tissue spirited away by clever doctors. My conception was pure accident and my birth further proof of your incompetence. You should have been sterilized long before that.

I made it. I was accepted to suicidegirls.com.

Meaning, officially....

...I'm fucking hot.

I wonder as I walk through the dark again, only tonight it's dampness everywhere.

The whole way I see lightning bugs, every few feet, their feeble lights blinking on and off. They are stunned, too cold to move, too weak. Such a shame. The metaphoric tragedy failed to stop me from my destination.

My snake is dead. Now there is nothing left to nurture.

I'm leaving. Without theatrics, without melodrama or showmanship. I'm leaving.

You win.

The only place I have ever found comfort or peace...

The only place I have ever called "home"...

The only family I have ever had, and love so deeply...

CRUSHED.

I'm in Pittsburgh. Again. Indulging. Again.

I don't feel so guilty, anymore. I realize that this is my day off and that tomorrow I will go back to work, go back to life and that my escape isn't nearly as profound as it once was. I'm fitting into my life quite nicely.

I think I'm going to buy mushrooms tonight or tomorrow. That should make for an interesting "next day off".

.etauqedani os ma i

.eruliaf

I slept last night, the first time in two days. I awoke today and didn't feel any better.

This relief, this release I've been feeling...I know it will be gone by the end of today, not even "the end" but by midday. Depressing, that I won't be here.

As if that was the word.

"But I'm a realist, so our opinions of life probably vary quite a bit."

R G: putting others before myself even though it hurts me is one of my flaws
R G: not BREAKING THE LAW
Bailey: Well, would you like a cross to go with that martyrdom?
Bailey: And, for reference, one of your flaws is actively trying to cram "virtue" into people you think need it.
Bailey: For the next time this conversation comes up with someone.

R G: You don't mind the risk, however small, of STD transmission?
Bailey: If I was completely terrified of STDs, I wouldn't have sex with anyone at all. Much like I wouldn't leave my house for fear of being hit by a car.
R G: You know, there's something wrong with you.
R G: Going outside
R G: is different from WALKING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE HIGHWAY
R G: There's a slight change in the risk factor
Bailey: Well, walking on the sidewalk is much different than standing in front of a bus and still better than hiding in the house.
Bailey: I would rather take my chances of some freak accident than allow myself to become some spinster who is afraid of life itself.

Bailey: Living encompasses all those dangerous things; trusting other people with your food, transportation, health in general.
R G: your logic is flawed, my dear.
R G: Altho i think that goes along with the lacking morals and all

See? I was right all along. There really is something wrong with me...

...an asshole told me so.

We'll go sideways, we'll go up, we'll go down...

We'll take the pills and stay up, move quicker, talk faster. We'll smoke pot and roll around in bed. I'll smoke my cigarettes and you'll ask me why I started smoking. We'll walk down to the park around midnight and talk about all those things we've done that we're ashamed of.

My money will eek out, slowly, and you'll watch. I'll be glazed when you come home, when you are home, when we're leaving. I won't nod off before you do even if I've been fucked up for twenty more hours.

GWAR is on Thursday. I'm excited, but completely and totally out of drugs until then, which is vaguely depressing. It won't matter. I've already sunk a considerable chunk of change into having a good time on Thursday.

I wish I could call Tonya. I'd really like my shirt back, especially after I heard about Krystal wearing it to school and stuff. I like to know where my things are, especially if they aren't going to be with someone I lent them to. I have her Manson shirt and it's been sitting here all clean and folded for months. I think she has a pair of my jeans, at least one of my skirts and a bunch of my shirts and coats. I could really use that stuff back, but I can't find my cell phone to get her number to call her. :(

My cigarettes diminish; my head aches. I chew off all my fingernails again. All because I hung up on you.

Some of the hardest things I've ever had to say haven't been, "I love you". They have simply been, "You're stupid."

Oh, don't get me wrong. I've told many, many people what I thought of them and their lackings, why I believed I was so much better than them. That never bothered me in the least. Now, telling someone of similiar intelligence that you find them stupid...well, you need to have a reason, backing of some sort. So I'm sitting here, comprising reasons and explanations.

Your Stupidity:

1. If you hate her, stop talking to her. Don't allow her to come over and then call me to complain. I love listening to you, but you aren't a martyr and you aren't going to fool me into believing that the whole reason you keep her around is because you feel that "brotherly obligation" too. She feeds your ego just as well as anyone else, and that's why she still is welcomed by you.

2. Other people's secrets have nothing to do with you. I understand that they involve your friends; that's no excuse to get all tangled up. When you discover a secret that may hurt one of your friends you have two options: inform the people or not. Simple. Don't make this into some type of game.

3. Don't blame me for things I don't control. Don't try to make it my fault when something happens or doesn't happen. You do it under the guise of openness, but all it really is is blame shifting.

4. Openness doesn't mean agreeing, it means understanding. You really don't know me as well as you think.

Yes, sometimes you are in control, but more often than not I'm playing you like a goddamn fiddle. And I'm sorry. You knew what I was when you met me; I was you, only better. I'm what you should have been. I'm you without the same deadly, ragged edges; I'm a smooth oval, I'm sterile, I'm white powder set out in lines on a silver tray. You may be more appealing, but I am far more beautiful.

So, I'm due in at work in about three hours. The house is empty, except for me. I can taste this stale bitterness on my tongue and I wonder if you're thinking about me too.

I may get angry, annoyed, scared, intimidated, saddened, scarred, rejected, pissed, upset and a lot of other things with, at or by you. It happens. I'm a particularly emotive individual (and not even in that oh-so-trendy way) and it's only natural that some of those things are going to be directed at you. 

I may be blissful, happy, accepted, loved, cherished, adored, content, safe, pleased and a lot of other things with or by you. Much like a sounding board you may just have to wait through the shit for it. For that I truly owe you an apology.

I was doing a lot of introspective thinking today. I miss you.

And when did kainmoore arrive on this particular scene?

I kill and eat those less interesting than me; I know you can keep up.

I'm sure that once or twice, sometime during my righteous waxing, someone has been hurt. Not that I pay attention. Not that I keep tabs, or anything.

Self-preservation gave me just the opening I needed to build a fantastical wall, reinforced with all the pain and shame, rejection and hurt, ignorance and failed innocence and all the other bullshit that makes up a real good excuse for being a fuck-up. There really isn't a door to speak of; the flaw in my grand design. No, no poetic melt into dead melodrama; it's simply hard to find a way to escape.

Saw GWAR and Devildriver last night. Awesome show. I'll have a picture, soon, of what I looked like this morning (think: zombies).

I touched Dez. And got my nose crushed, again. It bled...again.

"Why is she still a part of your life?"

I'm not the only one who asks.

She calls, again.

I'm here, again.

...and there just isn't much more to say, is there?

I felt so inadequate, so useless, so unfulfilled. I wept; tears fell silently from my face, soaked into the cloth of your bed. My shoulders and back shook, but I was sure you were already asleep.

I got out of bed, sat down on the floor and packed my bowl. I wasn't going to take this issue on sober. In fact, I think sobriety was the furthest issue from my mind. I was trying not to think of you lying there in your serene slumber, satisfied with this. I couldn't bear the idea of you being content in a situation where I find only frustration, rage, fear.

Hours and hours slipped by, another day, more smoke. I didn't question, took what I presumed to be your rejection and managed to slink away with my last torn bits of pride clutched tightly in my hand. We melt into another night. We lay side by side, Monsieur Celibacy and Sister Mary Frustration, hampered by some unknown force.

"Is it me?"

I sit on the floor again, stoned again and smoke more than everyone else. I smoke until I have no fear, no expectation. God, just an answer. I need to know.

i've lost my faith.

"...see the blind man shooting at the world..."

...as a stoic you should not feel this despair, this hurt, this pain...

...as a stoic your jealousy shouldn't matter...

...as a stoic you shouldn't care when it happened...

...as a stoic the gun to your temple shouldn't be anything but precious pressure.