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!)