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.