Becoming what I am not.

haha... and again:

-pheasant feathered headband
-peacock feathered headband
-plain silver ring
-bajillion sparkly bracelets
-bajillion multicolored bracelets
-shimmery green eyeshadow
-shimmery blue mascara
-glittery gold nailpolish
-black knockoff wayfarer sunglasses!

I woke up at 2-something this morning and never passed back out.

I want to grab a soda out of the kitchen, but I'm hiding and avoiding my SUPER-LOUD aunt from Texas. Imagine my loud mother, plus a Texan accent, and amplify that by like ten.

I'm watching CSI: Miami and wishing I was David Caruso... but handsomer and more effeminate, minus dumping my pregnant girlfriend.

How would you feel if I looked like David Caruso?
How would you feel if I acted like him... every day?

um... so yeah:

-silver lamé leggings
-black lamé leggings
-gold sequined shirt
-grayish shrug
-purple alligator skin purse
-bright pink ruffled hobo bag
-blush pink heels
-black and fur bomber hat

thanks, Target! You make blowing 150 bucks seem effortless!
... Minus the crazy amount of dressing room scandal.

I was given:

-cherrrrrry red michael jackson bomber jacket
-argyle cardigan
-argyle book tote
-black woven jacket

NOW I NEED:

-vests
-obnoxiously large sunglasses that are not pink (or white) and do not make me look like a baby
-MOCCASIN BOOTS
-an ugly cuff watch
-scarves
-a cloak
-more makeup!!!
-a fur coat
-platform boots
-false eyelashes
-petticoats
-kilt flaps
-a corset
-a denim jacket that I can tear to hell and back
-top hats

...I also want a Victorian collar made of exotic bird feathers, but I can make that myself.

I want to be a rainbow, one of oil-spills and shattered neon lights. Trust me, I can handle this.

I will wake up soon.

Glitter coats her eyelids like a thin layer of ice,
while her lips are doused in fiery paint,
and she is beauty if I’ve ever known it.

Shadowy irises like a room without windows and lights,
there is no glimmer of hope lying there.

I’ve never tasted the fleetness of her tongue,
the basked-in lightness of her mouth,
but I have seen the gossamer mysteries of her words.

I will never touch the toxic veil of her skin,
and never keep less than one breath of distance,
for she will disappear.

Sweet Nevermore,
what would I do without you as my muse?

Yours is a waltz,
plunging deathly into pits of writhing bodies,
each torn asunder by their own ecstasies.

Yours is no more a swagger than a prance,
something resting between a slink and strut,
with your hips not as much swaying as snapping—
snapping like the branches of a weeping willow.

Her grace resides in the way she smokes her cigarettes,
with her wrist unkempt and crooked,
while she compulsively taps the ashes away.

Hands bejeweled by heavy rings with hollow faces,
she sprinkles a little more glitter on the mirror,
just every once in a while.

Encircled by celluloid footprints of her platform heels,
she fakes sleeping uneasily in a patchwork fur quilt,
sewn together from the body of many beasts.

Her hair is like the lifelong work of a sable silkworm,
woven from the bloody black heart itself.

She moves with energy that cannot be contained,
with the sun’s light and the moon’s reflection,
with her head held high and her hands flexing.

Those fingers belong to an artist,
like a name belongs to whomever it is given,
like a gift from God.

Creations of fur,
silk,
and leather all line her closet as if needed.

Corsets,
bolero jackets,
ankle boots,
cloaks,
petticoats,
top hats,
and anything else she has found.

Dressed-up in her filth,
she is a forgotten doll,
someone else’s plaything.

Underneath the grime,
she is my muse.

With a twist of her heel,
the cigarette is out.

With a curl of her lips,
the audience gasps.

With a twirl of her hands,
she is on top.

With legs stretched as towers wrapped in fishnets,
she curls around the microphone and screams,
her blood flying in tiny droplets onto many faces.

Those faces…
all open and gasping for air,
for an ounce of recognition in her eyes.

She snarls and her teeth are sallow,
biting into the air as she weaves her dreams.

I hold out my hands and she spits in my mouth.

Oh my goodness. The Killers' new album? Yes yes yes, please! Thanks, Walmart.

I think I really need to acquire all musical pieces containing even a trace of glamour.
Glam-everything makes the days (and nights) a little more bearable.
Haha, this probably makes me incredibly lame. Do you think I give a damn, or a fuck?

I'm really starting to appreciate the glory of soundtracks, especially the supposedly shitty ones. My father is helping me with this by supplying me with an entire terabyte of randomly amazing shit.

Now, let me brag:

Soundtracks, movies, television shows, albums, books, etc. So, um, how about Hedwig and the Angry Inch as well as Rocky Horror Picture Show?! Yes, please. The entire set of Home Movies (my dad doesn't know that in my mind he is Coach McGuirk and that first episode KILLS ME with hilarity) and Harvey Birdman, along with Venture Bros. and a shit-ton of other vague stuff. How about Dogma? C'mon guys... DOGMA. Alan Rickman in eyeliner. How can you not love my dad? Not to mention, I've been trying to find that XTC album, "Skylarking," and voila! Like fucking magic. There's even the Christmas special for Venture Bros. Bahahaha. MY DAD IS AWESOME. Plus tons of Captain Beefheart (sooo like my father). Enough Eno to kill a bitch.

Aphex Twin. Eels. Beck. Smiths. The Cure. Sonic Youth. Roxy Music. Robert Fripp. Elastica. 10 CCs. Honestly, the list goes on for quite a while, but holy shit holy shit holy shit! If you ever wonder where I get my musical tastes, just look at my father and listen to his music. I don't think this is all music he likes as much as it is music he knows I like--which is awesome. GAHGAHGAH.

Now, a side-note: This Killers album is fantastic.

I have to work tomorrow. On the bright side, I will be thirty-five dollars heavier, and listening to all of this crazy shit if at all possible at all times!

When the hell was that picture taken? WHEN? Was it 10th or 11th grade, goddammit?

Why do I give a shit? Look to the far left, above that chick's shoulder. There I am, with my red-as-fuck hair and in my old QOTSA shirt while carrying my old hobo bag. For the love of all that is good, please please please tell me I don't look like that anymore. I FUCKING THOUGHT I WAS A GUY IN THAT PICTURE. That has to be the beginning of my junior year. It can't be the second half... it just can't be.

Gross.

p.s. There's Nastia in her mauve sweater, and a girl that I think is you in a dress? Same hair at least, and a familiar-ish dress.

p.p.s. I look so so so FAT in this fucking picture.

I'm so terrified right now. I really let things get out of control. I have so much work to do, and I'm just not sure if it's even possible for me to do it all. At this point, I'm in a corner. A very small and dark corner where no one can reach me, and it's all my fault. I should have known better. "Should" is a horrible word, and I know it doesn't solve anything. Yes, I could have done things differently to avoid being in this predicament, but I can't waste time now by hating myself for it. I just need to do what I can, and I'll be alright. I'll be fine, no matter what happens.

I just spent 2 1/2 hours picking holes into my skin. I fell into the self-harm trance, where nothing really feels like anything and time passes indescribably. I just... panicked, I guess. I've been doing so well considering, so why now? Now that I just can't afford to be wasting my time hurting myself. It's not even a cry for help. It's a punishment, a form of controlling and fixing. It just gave me something to focus on other than the hole I'm in.

I'm just going to do the best that I can. I can only hope for the best.

I will be ready.

I have not been awake for over 24 hours... yet. However, I was awake and writing the entire night, which makes me feel just as crazy.

But here I am eighteen fucking pages, a couple of "goddammit I'm crying while typing"-moments, and over twelve hellish hours later. I am actually done in one of my classes. Thank Jayzus!

...even if it is only Creative Writing and I could have just shit on a piece of paper in defense of my "revisions" and turned in my "revised piece."

Now, only two papers for lang 120, six pages for education, and two exams plus a paper for health!

woo. hoo.

Why do I feel like I just wasted over twelve hellish hours, a couple of "goddammit I'm crying while typing"-moments, and eighteen fuckings pages of energy on something that doesn't fucking matter?

Because it's fucking art, and fucking art doesn't FUCKING MATTER.

Gahhhhh. I just want to be a mathemagician, a.k.a. an Americanized English-speaking narwhal dressed in wizard's robes. Remember that, bitches? Yeah well, at this cracked-out point in my mind, I do.

I FUCKING REMEMBER YOU, MATHEMAGICIAN.

NEVER FORGET!



(gahhhhh!)

I just left dinner, and before that I managed to have a conversation with one of my professors (you may be able to guess which one) which turned into being about my desire to be a dominatrix.

...What? Don't look at me like that. It was all in good fun.

I have sneezed over sixty times in the past hour, and probably more like over seventy times. I type, I sneeze, I blow my nose, I type, I sneeze, I blow my nose. It just can't be very sanitary, even if I'm not contagious. Then again, think of what weird sneezing-disease I might have suddenly developed. Also, a note to Miss Hannah: if you somehow gave me this weird sneezing-disease and I end up coughing blood or with Mega Mono... I will give it back to you once you are better. That's not a threat, just a promise. :D

I am enjoying writing this final essay so much that I fear I will never leave it be. I'm already around the page requirement and I still have so much to write about, including answering the other half of the questions asked in the assignment. Literally writing literature about literacy isn't literary genius or literate qualification. Seriously, guys, please stop me. I'm losing my mind. I took another ritalin and two more provigil just a little while ago (or what seems like just a little while ago) and I feel like I have to keep writing and writing and writing. I must keep doing something that at least feels productive even if it isn't really. So I'm writing this.

I need to...

(Academic Writing)
-just get this paper over with
-write the next ones
-cite the sources for the first one
-read for FIT responses!
-write the FIT responses!!!
(by the 10th?)

(Health and Wellness Promotion)
-talk with professor on Monday
-do the makeup exam
-write the two-page paper
-study for the final exam
-bullshit a fitness log
(by ???...?)

(Creative Writing)
-write review of Creative Writing
-find out if new story will work
-revise the old story if not
(by the 10th?)

(Education)
-write five-page letter
-write one-page review of semester
(by the 15th!)

I just realized that if you rearrange the first letter of only the first word of my class titles, you can spell ACHE. Isn't that so nifty and slightly ironic? No? Too bad, because it's true, and I am never going to say that something is "true" ever again without thinking of this amazing/awful essay.

Dears, please save me from this hellish week that has managed to sneak up on me. I honestly just want to keep writing, and what I write doesn't matter as long as it's holding my focus. I am NOT going to let things get to this point next semester. I mean, shit, how could I after this? And this is just the beginning!

Woo! Only roughly fifty to seventy more pages to go!

I didn't really go to my Education class today. By saying "really," I mean I went and stayed for five minutes before I lied by telling my professor that I had a phone session with my old therapist and I didn't want to disrupt the other students' presentations by being in class when she called me, then left. Whatever, I know what I need to do to pass that class anyways. I went to the writing center instead and left the story I wrote yesterday along with a little note explaining to my professor that I'm hoping he will accept it instead of a revision of my workshop piece. For the most part, I just don't think I could get back into the manic mindset to properly revise that piece. It is/was a pretty crazy story. I also emailed the story to my professor.

I'm actually feeling pretty good right now, even though I was feeling pretty groggy and exhausted earlier. I took two ritalin a little while ago, read to a friend the story I wrote yesterday. She said she liked it but wished the main character had done something differently, which is alright because that was kind of the point of the story and it's understandable to wish that when things don't turn out the way you had hoped they would. But, as I was reading the story to her, I realized that there were a few typos concerning tenses, which is a bummer considering that I wrote it as a final draft. Hey, they're typos and I wrote the story in a matter of hours, so no big deal. It's not due until next week or so anyways. My writing may be one of the only things in my life I'm truly proud of, but there's really no need to be a perfectionist.

The main thing I am worried about right now is all of the work I have to do from now until exams in order to pass my classes, especially Language. Other than that, there's the fact that I'm falling back into substance abuse, one of my closest friends (despite the fact that we rarely hang out other than before or after class) may run away with her ex-ex-boyfriend, a lot of my friends have either left or are leaving, I may be on academic probation next semester and unable to take all of the classes I want, I have agreed to work for my grandfather over winter break even though I loathe working there, and I'm not sure what the fuck I'm going to do with my life other than creative writing. What do I want to do? Fix my life so I never have to: do work other than creating my art, take classes that aren't interesting to me, worry about basically everything, hurt myself, and get hurt by those I care about. I know I don't have to do some of those things, but it's fucking hard to cope with reality. No one is perfect.

After I finish writing this, I need to run down to my room and call my mother, then get started on that almost-five page draft on "literacy" that's due tomorrow in Language, then do whatever else I can manage before I have to pop another ritalin. SO MUCH WORK. SOOOOO. MUUUUUUCH. WOOOOOORRRRRK.

I hope I can still eat with all of this shit in my system because I'm not enjoying this feeling of stomach acid eroding my stomach.

Would anyone like for me to post the story I wrote yesterday on this blog or facebook, or upload it to a website so you can download and read it? I don't really need feedback, but I'm always open to it. I think it's actually pretty good (or as good as I can find my own writing), even if it's somewhat different than my regular style. It's mostly an exploration of my idea of "parallel portraits" as well as an exercise in developing this character I've been working on lately. She's basically the new form of Good Ol' Miss Monstrosity. I know some of you might remember her.

I haven't actually written anything (including poetry) in my black journal for a pretty long time. It's been even longer since I actually journaled anywhere other than this blog. My journal lasted about six strong months, I think, and I still have it around. I don't want it to fall by the wayside, but I just don't write as much poetry lately unless it's on my computer or in my notebook, and I mostly journal here because it's so much easier. Plus, I can post pictures here, and who doesn't love seeing my gorgeous face?

Now,
MUST CALL MOTHER. MUST DO WORK.

Good morning, darlings!

I actually went to every single one of my classes yesterday, and managed to talk to two out of three professors for the day. That means there's one left, because I already know what I can do for creative writing. I just need to... do it... I guess.

What makes courage meaningful to me? What makes me courageous? I am willing to do what it takes to overcome, and I am willing to take chances. What makes anyone courageous? The power to speak up, to disagree, to agree, to leave, to stay... really, the power to thrive and not just survive. It's easy to drift through life, and I understand that it's necessary sometimes in order to keep living, but when the time comes... who is willing to take the chance and overcome? The warriors.

It takes sacrifice, something I know about quite well. It takes commitment, something I've rarely given a second thought.

I'll write more later.



Alright, a few hours later and that piece of writing is done. Thank goodness, because I must have written at least four drafts, each in a completely different ideal. I think it's beautiful, or at least as beautiful as I can find my own writing, and the first stanza begins with "Lovers are born to suffer." Thanks, Depeche Mode!

I didn't go to my education class, but that's mostly because I am so far behind and was afraid that it would be painfully apparent and shameful. On the other hand, I did go talk to the professor, and she was a total sweetheart and said that if I turn in a 5pg letter to the presidential office concerning improving the school system, I would be in the passing range... as long as I also turn in a recounting of my first semester at UNCA. That should be fun. Either way, it is a huge weight that's now been lifted off of my shoulders. I love, love, love when my educators are so fucking understanding and caring.

In other news, I'm considering dropping teaching as a career goal and being a school counselor instead. Eventually, I might be a private counselor, but that's for later. Although, I would love to go into art therapy--visual as well as written and musical. Wouldn't that just be fantastic? For everyone involved, I hope. I just don't know what I would specialize in. As a school counselor, I would definitely want to be working in high schools. As a private counselor, the more obvious choices would be preteens, teens, and young adults with eating disorders, substance abuse issues, or anything that relates to my other diagnoses or interests. The problem? I think I need a masters for school counseling and probably a doctorate for private counseling, and I am so fucking sick of being a student. It is, of course, comforting since I have spent most of my life in the school system, but it is also really tedious when I feel like I have all of this creative and intellectual energy and potential already capable of being released. My dad put it quite nicely, saying that with me being a Gemini (yes, my father halfheartedly follows astrology), it's basically unfair of society to chain me down to such rigid requirements, and that I thrive in a chaotic routine of creation and intellectual stimulation. It actually makes sense to me. I am highly intelligent. My mother told me that before I had even turned 10, I scored with a 130 IQ. The problem with that? I currently only truly apply myself to doing what I want to do, which excludes math and things that I consider busy work and/or bullshit. What do I care about? Vague stuff. Fun stuff. Meaningful stuff. Rarely is any of it practical. I basically have to force myself to find a career that fits me, when I already feel I have a basic knowledge of what I want to really DO with my life. I want to help people, in any way I may. I want to create my art, whatever it may be. I want to share everything I have to offer with others.

A note on the side, I could never be a social worker. I probably couldn't last a single bad case without curling up into a little ball and crying for days and days. I would be completely useless. Too theoretical, too impassioned, too straightforward. I don't want to have to deal with the bureaucratic bullshit and the horrifying situations. Recently, my mother told me about a kid that was so underweight for his age that he didn't even fucking REGISTER on the growth scale. That's fucking terrifying, and I would want to swoop in and rescue him. I couldn't handle the restrictions. At least as a counselor I can call a social worker to help me out. I mean, come on, that's just sick. I don't know how my mother does it and stays halfway sane.

I can't chop my hair off... I have to work for my grandfather over break. FUCK THAT. I want my mohawk now now now!

I love you, babies.

p.s. telling me I can't do or have something just makes me want to so so so much more.

I SHAVED MY HEAD. :O













JUST KIDDING,

but seriously, yeah, I am definitely considering doing just that. On the other hand, I love just how fucking curly my hair is lately. Fuck feeling obligated to straighten my hair, because my cherubic hair is plain adorable. But, I feel like I need a change, something drastic. But, I want to grow my hair out. But, I want a mohawk. But, I hate the upkeep! I mean, what doesn't require upkeep? Long hair. What don't I have yet? Long hair. What do I love/hate? That quite possibly awkward growing stage. Besides, what if I don't look good with a mohawk anymore, or with a shaved head? What if I grew out of being able to pull off all of that crazy shit? Is that possible? Do I really give a shit? I think that's the misconception concerning mohawks and shaved heads... despite how it seems, you kind of have to give a shit to keep shaving your head and spiking that motherfucker. Gah, and all the fucking product you have to put into your fucking hair is ridiculous! I can't decide if it's worth it or not. Eh, it will work itself out. After all, it's just hair! I've done it before. Short pixie cut? Check. Dykey soccer mom hair? Check. Fascimullet? Check. Relatively long hair? Check. Shaved head? Check. Mohawk? Check. Half-shaved head? Check, but kind of too much. Anyways, I am not going to curl up into a tiny ball and cry if I dislike my haircut. It's just surface bullshit, just another way to express myself.

Last night I got incredibly shit-faced/wasted/plastered/druuunk and spent around an hour (at least) curled up in a friend's bathroom, just fucking puking my poor fucking guts out. I had only had seven shots and one full glass of wine. It was completely ridiculous. At one point, I think I was hunched over the toilet, puking with my undies down because I had just peed, and my babygirl walked in to check on me. I think that's what happened. I don't remember a lot. I know I puked outside and acted like it was no big deal. Later, I went outside with a plastic bowl in case I threw up again, just so I could have another cigarette. God, I haven't been that bad in forever. There was abso-fucking-lutely no way I was driving home, so I had to spend the night, and today my mother freaked out at me because I hadn't even called.

Bright side? Ritalin, bitches! Getting at least a D average! Taking the rest of my meds! Cutting throats and shooting dope!



GAAAAHHHHHH. sorry, crazy, my bad.

love me, love me.
say you do.
let me fly away
with you.

we are creatures
of the wind.

wild is the wind.

give me more
than
one caress
to
satisfy this
hungriness.

we are creatures
of the wind.

wild is the wind.

you touch me...
I hear the sound
of mandolins,
baby.

you kiss me...
with your kiss
my life
begins.

like a leaf
clings
to a tree,

baby, please
cling to me.

we are creatures
of the wind.

wild is the wind.

you touch me...
I hear the sound
of mandolins,

and

you kiss me...
with your kiss
my life
begins.


I heard that song covered by Cat Power for the first time a few years ago off an album my father had given me. When I heard it, I wanted to cry, but I couldn't. I was made of stone, and even with all the cracks running through me, I did not break. Back then, I couldn't afford it. Can I afford it now?

I am such a strong person. I can handle this... I can overcome!

Next Semester Schedule:
-Weight Training (at fucking eight in the morning)
-Nature of Mathematics D:
-Fiction Writing Workshop
-Queer Fiction
-WI Intro to Poetry
-Advanced Poetry Writing?

I might drop that 8 a.m. weight training class if I manage to get into Advanced Poetry Writing, which I most likely will. I really would like to get back into weight training, but I think expecting myself to wake up previous to eight would be a little unrealistic. Maybe. Or maybe I can get back into the habit of waking up ridiculously early and just taking bunches of naps when I'm not doing anything. Ehhh. We will see, because as of right now... I just need to get my shit together.

What I Need to Do for College:
-speak with professors concerning what I need to do to manage a D average (so I can at least come back next semester)
-make a list of work that needs to be done
-do the "ransom work," as my mother likes to call it
-if "ransom work" is completed, do whatever else I can
-FUCKING GO TO CLASS.

What I Need to Do Otherwise:
-take ALL medications (both day and night)
-eat and drink well regularly
-get some exercise
-quit smoking when I can
-set up appointments with a new therapist
-write write write and write some more.

Tonight, as I sat outside smoking a Newport I had bummed from a friend (or maybe he's just an acquaintance and I really do need to reevaluate my definition of a friend), I prayed to God. I prayed for my pain to be taken away, because if my pain disappears then surely I can quit hurting those who care about me as I try to numb the pain. I don't remember the time previous to that when I prayed. I feel awful about that--not praying as much as I feel I should. Instead, I'm the kind of person that just asks for help when I want it. Not even whenever I need it, just whenever I want it. I am thankful, but I don't know if I make that apparent like it should be. I have so much to be thankful for, I have my entire life to be thankful for. I feel so selfish that I can be torn apart so easily by something that in the long run will mean nothing to me. Will I even remember this event years from now? I don't imagine that even if I can or do, that it will signify anything other than how easily wounded I was. Yet, there I was just yesterday (was it really only yesterday?), researching which pills would take the pain away... forever. I hate that I have become this way, and perhaps that I have become this way again. I won't deny that I have wanted to end my life before, but I like to say that I am past that. Really, the only things keeping me from disappearing are my fear of Hell, my fear of hurting those who care about me, and my fear of pain. Thank God that I still feel fear.

Did anyone expect things to get this bad again?

I am so wide-eyed in fear of my own life right now. I feel like I have completely lost control of myself and everything around me. I'm sitting here at midnight, after having not slept in what is now around forty-eight hours (I don't feel like remembering), shaking uncontrollably and breathing in a way that I can't make myself believe is regular. I feel very unstable and very unsafe, and I think I currently pose as a danger to myself and those who care about me. This is not fine. I don't know how I thought this would fix things, because now I am actually worried that I may have dug my grave a little (if not a lot) deeper by not facing my problems head-on. I don't know why I thought delaying reality would make this any easier. If anything, now I have to deal with the original problem and the problems I caused by my reaction. I wanted to avoid caring for however long I could, but I didn't even manage to escape for a little while. The thoughts just raced a little faster and circled a little closer. The feelings were dimmed, but even then they were powerful, and I feared then just as I fear now how intense everything will end up being when I can't avoid it any longer. I am frantically trying to solve what is going wrong, but there is this constant droning in the back of my mind that reminds me that I am no longer in control of the situation. I gave up control when I made those commitments, the ones that now hold me to the goals of remaining friendly and loving. I gave up control when I offered my unconditional devotion, because even though I didn't name it, that's what it was. I will do everything in my power to make things right. I didn't think that expressing all of this hurt would have helped at the time, but now I can't even speak my mind with any purpose. No one is listening.

It's a very bad sign when you do something, hoping that if it doesn't make you happy (or perhaps empty?)... that it may kill you.

Tonight is (was?) a very, very bad night. I feel like a terrible, weak person.

I am not beautiful enough. Not pretty, smart, funny, kind, etc... nothing. I am nothing. I do not mean enough, I lack substance, I am insubstantial.

This is what happens, baby. This... you end up here, time and time again. This is what happens when you allow yourself to feel.

Am I really this worthless?

I just paid with my self-respect and the trust of others for a few hours of calm . Way to go, dear.

This is pathetic. I am pathetic.

asdfgklkjhgfds...!

jan's house t-shirts. what what!


(in the butt)

p.s.
home
again.

The way you can make me feel is astounding. Throes of agony and ecstasy, moments of unadulterated joy and perhaps others of the adulterated variety.

How can your words do this to me? You can't do this to me... can you?

I want to make this promise to you: I will never hate you. I may very well tell you that, sooner or later. Preferably while I'm feeling something akin to this, whatever it is that I'm feeling. Maybe I will say that the next time I see you. It's strange that I'm afraid to say this, but I hope I see you soon. I really do.

I wrote you that note in health class, thinking that maybe I could work up the courage to read it to you--either face-to-face where I can watch your reaction, or over the phone where all you can feel is the realness in my voice. But, I'm afraid of what it might mean. I was honest, of course, because I'm doing so much better where being truthful is concerned. So, what if you're concerned that I'm getting in too far? If I'm being too emotional? If I'm finally going to say "I love you?" If that reaction on your face will either make or break the future? Because I will never hate you. I know that no matter what happens between us or even around us, you will remain a good friend to have. You are so many things, and I know I can turn to you. Yes, it would be better than nice to have a relationship with you, but I can't do anything to sway your hand in making this decision. If anything, I would want to get into your head, to understand what truly makes you happy so I could point you in the right direction. Because I don't want to be with you if being with me makes you unhappy. I want to see you happy, and if I get hurt, so be it. That is what I deserve and it will make me even stronger, because yes, I am a very strong human being. I am indescribable. These adjectives that people throw around me in an attempt to cover me in such a soothing blanket, in the end they mean nothing. If anything, I am just a good person. If I ever wish anything ill against anyone else, I know I would never see it through. Those thoughts mean nothing, because I am loving. That is the word that comes closest to describing me, because it is indescribable in itself. Loving. What does that mean to you? What does it mean to anyone? I feel safe, a glow of soft pastels echoing outwards from my chest, somewhere deep inside that I will never understand. I can see what you mean when you say that we are so similar. We are so caught up in loving everyone, it's hard to remember to love yourself, isn't it? I think that this is why we are in such a difficult situation together. You know that you need to be happy, to be a little selfish, but with so many feelings at stake otherwise, you are afraid to take that step, to make that choice for yourself. But, I want what will be best for you. If we are so similar, you should know that I will understand. I will know that it is best if you are with someone else, because we can be friends still. We will still be the same people, just without the label of being in a relationship. Being with you doesn't make me happy, but I let myself feel happy when I'm around you. Does that make sense? Because you can't make me feel anything. I am allowing myself to feel these emotions, and that is all I can do. I can be open, honest, giving... but that is the only help I can offer for the most part. I can still suggest that you do what is best for you, and if you can spare hurting others in the process, that's great... but, in the end, you are the one who matters to you. Other people can't make you happy. Being with someone can let you feel happier if you allow yourself to be. Just being... I guess that's what I want for you. To stop having to fret about something that in the end will not change things. Yes, there will be a difference, but I will still love you. People change, but I don't think this can change us.

You will still mean something to me. Don't worry about me. Worry about yourself. You can hurt me. After all, I've made myself vulnerable. I knew the risks, because I've taken them before, and of course I got my hopes up. Neither of us can change that now, but please just understand that I only want what's best for you, and being with me is not that, then so be it.

This is what is making me smile today. This is what is making me wear my heart on my sleeve: something someone I don't even know wrote, but it means many things to me. I have to remember to thank them for it.

This is a mantra for all the girls and boys who tried but found they never could, who dreamed but never touched the stars. The outcasts and misfits and broken hearted heros and witch babies. This is a mantra for those who said "cannot" but never meant it- who kept on dreaming and trying and being, past failures and mishaps and worlds gone wrong. We are the broken ones, the confused lilies growing away from the sun, we are not quite right and not all there. The world will try and convince us of our failures, give us reasons to cry. The world will scorn us- they will make us believe we have done something wrong. "You are not a poet, a dancer, an artist, a dreamer. You are a failure. Stop trying, quit."

And maybe they are right. We are not poets or dancers or artists or dreamers. We are so, so much more. We are creation and imagination in their human forms, we are the sunlight and dust motes streaming in through Saturday windows. We are the high notes and choruses and soaring voices- we are bass notes and guitar riffs and melodies and drum beats. We are slant rhyme rhythms and abbreviated sayings and we are lace and velvet and rose gardens. It is as if our souls were dipped in ink to scrawl lovely sentences across the page. It is as if we are created to be seen; lovely girl paintings covered in oils and pastel wax. We are not poets, no, we are poems. Love poems, epics, haikus. Every word and syllable carved into our DNA, you can hear this whisper of poetry when we smile and when our hearts beat. We are not dancers, we are the very dance. Can you see the pirouettes and shuffles and tangoes in our irises, Degas' girls ricocheting through our souls in little tutus? Can't you see that we are so much more? We may not be millionaires, with published books and houses full of fine art and craft workshops and ballet studios baring our name. We may not walk runways or design clothes. We may not see our photographs on the cover of Vogue. We may only find the fruit of our work in handmade journals, locked key diaries, websites and flyers, but if you saw us, if you really saw us, then you would know. We are the dreams, the dance, the art. We are the light and the shadow, the photograph pixel. We are not the poets, we are the poems.

If you cannot be the poet, be the poem. - David Carradine.

That, and this.

Please read them. I hope they will make you feel something, even if it's nothing like what I feel. Please, just feel.

Red Mike,

did I ever really know you? Better or even as well as the rest of us? We who are the early morning miscreants and late night vagabonds, traveling from one state of mind to the next... we will miss you. You, the safe words and kind looks that got me through quite a few nights. That feeling of having someone who has known you longer than you have been alive. When you told me that you saw through me, past the smile that so rarely reaches my eyes, I thought that you would always be there. The rough hug that left me smelling of your cologne even as the night faded to morning and so on. These are the things I will remember you for. The fact that you let me start a tab and knew that I would come back to pay you whatever I owed. Sometimes you said no, to just take it and forget about it. Because you were my friend. You told me you had been thinking about me--missing me. But, I couldn't stay in that purgatory that was all I had ever known as a real home, when it was just that. All I had ever known. I went to you, looking for something that would let me be numb to how fucked-up life could be, but what you gave me was different. Such an unconditional friendship, telling me that if I ever needed anything, just to swing by and you would do anything for me. No questions asked, no explanations needed, no apologies warranted. I don't think I have ever met someone so ruthlessly gracious, unconditionally careful. How often did we say we loved one another? And, somehow, we meant it. You told me that if things had been different, we might have been for each other. But, I was too young and you were too crazy. I like to think that we were both just too fucked-up. I'll admit it, you made mistakes. You weren't the most forthright of people when it came to proper business, but you loved. You loved us, and that was taken away from you. I don't want to think of you as how you were under all of that stress... taking care of so many families, so many children, even if they didn't belong to you by blood. I know you took me under your wing. I spent so many hours behind your counter, smoking your cigarettes and listening to your music. Now, what will happen? I feel awful, but not for myself. You gave me what you needed to. But what about the lives you were forced out of? How will they go on? I have to think that your presence will linger forever onwards. You were too great a person to disappear entirely. Everyone should take notice: bad shit happens to good people. You weren't perfect, I know. I will be one of the first to say that when everyone is throwing a pity party for you. You seriously screwed-up a good number of things for yourself. But, underneath all of that, I know you. You don't want me to dwell, to wallow in this despair. You were good, and I just wish that everyone else can carry on well enough without you. I can barely imagine what it will be like. No more swinging by at odd intervals when I visit, no more catching up on what has happened since I last saw you. No more calling my station wagon a ball-crusher, no more calling me Meow Meow, no more free cigarettes when I really need them, no more telling me to fix myself up so I'll get a nice guy or girl. You will be missed, I'm sure of it, but I know in my heart that you would want us to keep living the good life.

-Your Meow Meow

You're hurting, baby. Everyone can see it, and you wear your heart so proudly on your sleeve. You're feeling broken and alone, but don't worry too much about that, because it's not true. Your friends still love you. They will be there for you as long as you let them, and they can give you what you need right now. What you need to do right now is focus on yourself and be a little selfish. You have every right to feel the way you're feeling at this moment. Used, hurt, betrayed, manipulated... the list seems to go on forever, doesn't it? But it's not those feelings that you should be even giving a second thought to. Yes, tend to them, but let them go. You're worth more than just pain. You deserve to be happy just as much as anyone else, and if you honestly believe that you don't, you're wrong. You're wrong, sweetheart... you're a beautiful person, all around. Anyways, what can you do about it now? Just take some time to sort yourself out before you go trying to make other people happy. They're right: no one expects you to take care of anyone other than yourself.

He means a lot to you, it's true, but what does that even mean in itself? How did this happen? You were attracted to him the moment you saw him, maybe just because he's beautiful, too. Then came the flirting, the play-fights and innuendo. Those pieces of time where you looked into each others eyes, and you felt as if you were watching glaciers melting beneath the sun's good light. That tender playfulness, even that ruthlessness, has always been so appealing to you. He's your type down to the bone, and it's painfully obvious. Those first talks in his basement, in his living room... lighting the understanding between the two of you further. But, that first time his lips pressed against yours, you fell in headfirst. The embers roared to life, didn't they? That night, you felt the threads slowly slip around the both of you, pulling you in tightly. The physicality brought up so many things, of course, and that certainly complicated the situation. The nights he spent in your bed and you felt completely comfortable, nurtured, and stable. Of course, you hadn't been expecting any of these things to happen, so how could you possibly have known that this week would happen? You couldn't have, it would have been impossible to foresee. What you could have done was listen to your friends, to heed their words of warning and be far more cautious. It's just now that you've really started understanding the stark possibility of his dishonesty. But, the time has come and gone for those precautions. You made yourself vulnerable, and he took advantage of that, whether or not he meant to do so cruelly. You gave him a chance, but now is your time to claim your ground and stand it. He has no right to hurt you any further, and you owe it to yourself not to let him.

Fool me once?
Shame on you.

Fool me twice?
Shame on me.

No, really... Everything will be alright, sweet girl.

Don't mind how complicated things seem. Just take it slow, let it flow, let it go. They may not see what you see in him, but your intuition has never led you that far astray. Has it? Honestly, he can see himself with you. Is their any higher honor than that? To be held in such high esteem as to be a potential partner? He is worth the wait, and if he decides you two can't be together, than that's his decision. You can't force him to feel the way you feel. You're an intense person and you know what you want and you would like to get it as soon as you realize what it is, but that doesn't mean you can't wait for this. If he's being truthful, and your feelings are true, than it will turn out just fine. At the very least, you will share with him something that is very special--those moments, those touches, those feelings, those words. That openness cannot be replaced between the two of you. No one else was there, they don't know how it happened, how it even felt to be there with the both of you. That silence that you share is precious, and it's something that you've rarely found with another person. Only those closest to you have been there with you in that silence. It isn't like you're the only one to have seen a different side of him, but those moments are your own. They belong. You're a wonderful person, and he can see that, but he can only understand as much as you let him. You have to let him in. The risk is worth taking.

Don't get your hopes up, babygirl. This could go any direction possible, so don't start wishing now. Save your optimism for later, when you can't get hurt. It's best to just get it over with, so you don't have to worry. Don't freak out, it's not worth it. No one is worth hurting yourself. You probably won't hurt him, so why hurt yourself? He should be fine, so why can't you be just as well? He will care about you no matter what, and you will care about him just as much from now on and you do presently. You and he will be fine. You're very similar... don't you remember him saying that? Perhaps very different as well, but everything will work out. This doesn't have to be just good or bad--there is plenty of grey in a situation like this. Don't blow it up to be so much bigger than it already is. Honestly, this will not be the end of your world. You're an amazing girl, and everyone can see that. You're fun, beautiful, talented, smart... so many great things! Besides, you love everyone. Even if he doesn't care as much as you do, you're used to that by now. That's what happens, and you can handle it. You're a survivor, a very strong person, and you will be alright.

Everything will be alright.

What is this? I know I have feelings and that he may as well, so why am I making the situation even more difficult by making these unwise decisions? I should know better than to give in to compulsions. Apparently he likes me a lot, and I like him too. I'm afraid that I'm going to scare him away. I feel like my emotions, to quote the Dead Kennedys, make me a monster. After all, it's been no more than five days and I'm already so fucking invested. But in my defense, the attachment began the moment I met him. I knew I was attracted to him immediately, and then we just get along so fucking well. Still, there is no excuse for doing what I did tonight. It is definitely at least half my fault.

Just because I care doesn't mean I need to start writing sappy poetry. I'm going to resist that urge, at least.

I can hardly dare to breathe.

Barack Obama is
our next president,
and (less importantly?)
I've talked to the boys.

Thank all that is Good.

(thank God)

I feel that I am letting myself down. I know what needs to be said, but I don't want to say it. I feel week. I feel like I no longer deserve these feelings, because nothing has been done to warrant them.

So this is it. I need to get my studies together, work up the motivation to achieve what I need to, what I want to. Everything else should be secondary, except for my own health and well-being. I have so much work to do, and it needs to get done as soon as possible. I've never been very good at this final cram, but I can do it. I really can. I have to.

The guys and the drama are completely optional. I know that, and I've got to act like I know that. Stop obsessing, Mia!

I'm quitting smoking cigarettes and weed, drinking, and popping pills. I've already started quitting the pills and weed and alcohol, and smoking will come after the final stretch of exams, etc., when I can manage to go briefly comatose during winter break.

glurrrrrggggh.

SNAP OUT OF IT, MIA.

Life can be pretty intense, I will admit. I can handle this, I swear it.

Are these people love interests? Is that what this is? I don't want to trick myself into thinking I love them, or rather that I am in love with them, because I honestly love just about everyone. At the same time, I can't lie and say that I have no feelings and am nothing but a collection of hormones and physicality. I am somewhat mixed-up is what I guess I'm trying to say. One guy is very interested in me and I've told him that I'm interested in him, but to be truthful, I told him that I'm also interested in another guy. He doesn't seem hurt, but I know the first guy can be quite sensitive. He's just like that and it's part of the reason I love him--he's just so open with me, and we do share a lot of commonalities. We get along really well, but there's something missing as far as chemistry goes. The second guy is probably one of the sexiest people I've ever met, just with his aura, behavior, and looks. His personality is so attractive to me, and we get along pretty well when I'm not intentionally being a bitch. The problem with him is that he is still pretty whipped by his ex and is generally pretty flirty. We've been pretty intimate, which is kind of a problem considering how little I really talk to him, not to even begin to mention the fact that he's basically with my roommate. That could end up being slightly awkward. He just makes me feel so good, like when I'm tucked against his side and I just feel so safe and comfortable. He doesn't seem too disinterested in me either, so there is a slight possibility that things could work out, but I don't want to get my hopes up. I feel that anxiety like I am just entertainment, pleasure, a toy... but he wouldn't be so openly affectionate if he didn't actually care about me, right? He kisses me in front of my roommate and her other friend, and then sometimes he puts his arm around me we're walking next to each other. I'm just scared that things are moving too fast again. I feel like I never have control of my body when I'm attracted to someone. Actually, that's not true... it's just when they reciprocate. I've been in actual love with people before and I've been fine for the most part. But, when I know they are attracted to me as well and are comfortable being intimate with me, it's difficult. I just don't want to get hurt again, I want something to work out for me as far as intimate relationships go. I know I need a partner, and I think I've reached the point where I'm stable enough. I just need to stop being so fucking impulsive.

GAAAAH.
FUCK MY LIFE... kind of. Sometimes it's pretty nice.

Deerboy,
have me on my hands and knees.
Please,
make me feel these crazy needs.

O LAWD, I think I had forgotten, or rather pushed to the back of my mind, just how "caring" I get when I'm drunk. And goddamned honest, too.

HOW DID FIVE SHOTS DO THIS TO ME? HOW HOW HOW HOW HOW?!

So, I've a new resolution: quit smoking, sprint more, then drink less more often. Sounds like a solid plan to me, am I right?

I just need to avoid mixing most pills and liquor. The side-effects can be numbing at best, when even then I don't get the good-drunk feelings, and I have to come down later. Fuck that.

LIQUOR-LUST FOREVER.

Tonight/Yesterday I had:
-1 starbucks vanilla doubleshot espresso energy drink
-5 shots of sour apple vodka mixed with sprite zero
-1 very drawn-out lustful interaction with a pretty boy

Tomorrow/Today?:
-wake up in 3-4 hours
-do hair and makeup
-eat breakfast
-study for exam
-take exam
-clean room
-pack
-catch a ride with my roommate and her emotionally stunted guy friends and go home

Weekend:
-hookah?
-new tattoo?
-birthday party?
-MAKEUP WORK D:

I am beautiful, and not just because of my appearance. I'm a mixture of so many intense traits, it's really no wonder that some people just can't handle me. That's what I feel like believing right now, because it feels true. I would rather live by that right now: feelings and beliefs, rather than thoughts and facts. I feel grey.


I am always moving forward, although the lines I cross on each side cause some to believe that I am moving backwards. I promise there is no reverting back for me. I am pretty, even if in an outlandish way. I am highly intelligent, intellectually and creatively. I am so compassionate, to the point of a fault. I'm cute, smart, caring... funny, loyal, devoted, entertaining, open, etc. I will listen to your words for hours, even if I get nothing in return. I will defend you to the death, even when you betray me. I will love you with all of my heart and more, even if you break mine. I will do so many things to just make sure you are happy.

More than anything, I am strong. I am a struggler, a survivor, and there is absolutely no taking me down. You may watch me stumble, but even when I fall, I will get back up.

"I've gotten so much braver, can you tell?"

How could I allow myself to let people with so little value in my own life make me feel worthless? I don't know them, and therefore their presence in my life is minimal and insubstantial. These connections I feel are probably a mixture of pheromones and a desperation to repair my own loneliness. A need to be fulfilled by others who seem so carefree, and yet so inexplicably incomplete. As if I could even begin to complete them. I feel this need to satisfy others, and when I cannot or they are not interested in allowing me to complement them, then I feel completely and utterly inadequate. I feel that the parts of my whole will never sum up to be good enough. I feel like I am not beautiful, smart, mature, funny, and et cetera enough. But, I care. I really truly do, and I'm afraid that this is going to keep happening. I don't like to think that my life is going to be led along by me trying to devote myself solely to other people. I want to be comfortable enough with my own identity that I don't compromise my own expression. It would be entirely pointless to expect someone to enjoy me for who I am when I am unable to convey myself.

As it is, I wrote today for the first time in quite a while. I also drank fifteen shots of straight vodka, which apparently just doesn't hit me like it used to, considering that I also took a xanax. I cried for quite a while about things that really won't matter in the long run, such as guys. After all, why should I waste my energy wanting what I can't have when it's really their loss to begin with?

I don't want to start drinking beer again and doing all of the stupid things I was doing before. I'm probably going to buy 750mL of Ketel One and that should tie me over for a bit. But holy shit, if I keep drinking this much vodka as often as I am now, plus the price of cigarettes (even in a carton), that is over fifty dollars for about two weeks. I can't do that, right? That's like two-hundred dollars a month, plus all of my other expenses. So, I either need to smoke or drink less. I think I could honestly do both. I don't know how I manage to smoke a pack a day. That doesn't even compute with me. I need to work out a game-plan for cutting that number in half. I want to be able to drink just a few shots a day and smoke just a few cigarettes. I just feel like I need to set up rules.

ideas for cutting back on smoking:
-first cigarette after breakfast
-one cigarette after each meal
-one cigarette to and from class
-one cigarette break per hour

I'm really hoping a smoother vodka will allow me to stay inebriated longer because I won't have to chase it. Doubtful, but hopeful.

back to my roots. it's true--that's exactly where I'm going.

I am listening to the music of yesteryear, and it's the same with my hair, etc. Bringing everything back around... it's what I'm good at.

Last night I took a little time to pick out what I was going to wear today. It includes: a neon green Volcom tank, Kelsey's torn grey skinny jeans, my grandmother's black ankle boots, and a black belt with three rows of silver studs. Because it's cold, I'm also wearing Kelsey's plaid jacket. I darkened the makeup around my eyes and darkened the color of my lips. I styled my hair a little differently. I felt good about how I looked in my clothes again--or rather about how I look in general. I didn't think that my hips are too narrow and my shoulders are too broad, my lips are too big and my nose is too small, my belly is too big and my calves are too thin. I felt strong again. I felt positively about myself.

My class discussed gender and sexuality in H&W today. Gender stereotypes, different genders, gender identity, gender expression, different sexualities, harassment and bias, heterosexism, breaking gender stereotypes, and the changing tides of gender and sexuality in the modern world. I absolutely love talking about those things. I am always so outspoken when it comes to those topics, and a guy even talked to me after class about what I identify as and what some of my theories are. It was very engaging. I think that if I didn't go into teaching English and CW as a career, I would be a gender and sexual rights political activist. I feel so strongly about equal rights for everyone that I honestly can't label myself as a feminist. Feminism has served and still serves a purpose, but gender rights is the way of the future. So I'm pansexual and I express myself differently from day to day. My gender is primarily feminine and matches my body quite well, and I like to switch between femme and androgynous in my appearance. In the end, I don't usually even both to label myself. I often will say I'm a "dyke", but I just feel that word fits me for some reason. It's not a huge deal to me because I have always been surrounded by people who are supportive of me. My mother told me when I was younger that she would support me in loving anyone, and my grandparents tell me all the time that they just wish me the best (whatever that may be for me) and happiness. My father may never understand, but he does whatever he can to make me feel comfortable with who I am. I also know that my friends love me for who I am, not what I am. I can and will accept everything that comes with being myself.

Who is my idol, my ideal? Brody Dalle of the Distillers.



She's my hero. She has battled a lot of the same shit as me, and now she is a totally amazing badass. Her voice expresses all of the things my voice is too soft to say and let's me know that one day I will say them. I think she's drop-dead gorgeous and people who know of her say we look a lot alike. It helps--it really does. When I found out how much she weighed, it helped me learn that I don't have to be thin to be beautiful. I look at her body and think: she has a belly, she has hips, she has thighs... why shouldn't I? But, if you will also notice, she is quite muscular. She's a strong woman in every sense of the word. That is what I would like to be: strong. She is filled with so much power, and her aura exudes an intensity that can hardly be described. She isn't the modern beauty, nor is she the classic version. She's a mixture of the two, kind of like me, and that gives me hope. If I could just tell her one thing, it would be this: your words are real to me.

Beating the odds: How often do I manage to do just that? I've overcome so much, despite and perhaps inspired by the obstacles in my way. My past does not claim who I will be tomorrow, or even the next day. These are the hands of creator, these are the hands of difference. I am not who I used to be, and I will never need to be that person again. There are similarities, of course, but when you look in my eyes... don't just observe the broken soul for its surface, because that's not who I am. Hairline cracks may run through my body, through my mind even, but I am still together as a whole. Fissures have yet to split me entirely in twain, and I doubt they ever will. Please, don't tell me that I can't achieve my dreams, because I know that's a lie. I make my own future possible and, God bless me, I will have what I want.

I'm about to do homework and write some poetry. Go me!

I feel something different today. Perhaps not "beautiful," but something so akin to that word that it is uncanny, and even more so unlikely. It's surprising how much better I feel about life in general when I take care of my appearance and get things done. I just take a shower, put on fun clothes, wear a little bit of makeup, straighten and fuck-up my hair, pick out cute shoes, and smoke an accomplished cigarette after I eat. I go to class and do the work the best I can and explain my situation to my professors, and they actually care. Life can be fantastic in those little moments. Just really amazing.

Hallo, loves.

Today I cried in front of my new therapist and roommate for the first time. It felt okay, almost good, just knowing that I am surrounded by people who can't completely empathize but still care enough not to judge me. I am very, very happy with my new roommate. She's quite awesome, and not nearly as judgmental as my last one. Today when she was upset, we talked. When I was upset, we talked.

I'm really trying hard to work up the motivation to do well. I understand that I can, but shouldn't, go back to my symptoms. They're just not worth it, considering how shitty my life used to be. I mean, I'm not perfectly happy and symptom-free, but I'm doing so much better. I wouldn't wish my old ways on my worst enemy.

For the time being, I've emailed and discussed and scheduled with my professors concerning my attendance and make-up assignments. I can do this. I just need to go to class, make up my work, and do the work I owe them. Not a huge deal, just a lot of effort on my part, especially since I've never been good at either of those things. Somehow I just usually get out of them. Ehhh, it was bound to happened eventually. Just like getting busted in highschool. Fuck that, man.

I'm going to write more poetry, etc. soon, I promise. For now, I have to write a poem in iambic pentameter. Bleh.

p.s. I'm taking such better care of myself. I'll be fine. I know I will. I have to be!

"if you cannot be a poet, be the poem." 

-David Carradine

Can you even imagine what this means to me? I can barely put into words just what those words make me feel. I knew immediately after reading it that those three words would belong to me for the rest of my life. They will be a part of me forever, and therefore I will have them tattooed onto me. I'm not quite sure where yet. Perhaps in the space where my rib meets, that peculiar conjunction of bones and organs. Perhaps beneath my collar bones, where I will wear it as proudly as the heart on my sleeves. Perhaps on the delicately soft flesh of my inner arm, and I will know that there is a purpose to construction. Perhaps in the small of my back, where I know it is and few others see it--unless my pants slide down or my shirt rides up or something.