Internetted!!!!
we have internet! amazing! too bad kathryn and i already had to drop our online classes. pooh.
here is tim rutili:
do you see that? in his eyes? that's his love for me. and crazy herion grunge country. can't beat his banjo.
well, i guess that's all for now.
when i was in the fourth grade a poet lady came in to our class and had us all write poems. i wrote a very, very long one. i need to find it. it was the only time my parents ever seemed to realize they might be doing something wrong= that i was either fucked up and needed medication (a threat my mother poured on me ) or just strange as fuck. my poem was about my voice, my lungs. i don't know. i feel like that right now.
that's what i felt like all the time, growing up. like i was very, very alone and no one else could climb inside, ever. i sleep in the same bed.
they entered me in a million contests. i won all of them. they asked me to talk into microphones and i would say things.
i was the palest, longest fingered family member ever. that poem was the title of some book i do not have. i tried to rip the wood panelling off our walls. i took about four square feet of carpet off the floor before my father found me. my feet were bleeding from the carpet tacks.
i cannot remember my mother ever saying once that she loved me. i remember the day i stopped caring- i was downtown, in front of the cinema 9 my sophomore year in high school.
that year, the counselor at school told my mother i was suicidal. i don't think i was any more than i had been since the third grade. i just had some marks on my arms and some stupid friend who watched too much lifetime TV. my parents bought me a mini disco ball from davenport. i still have it, somewhere. the mirror ball of noncommunication.
and you know what? at 21, they bought me computer. the first one i had, paid for by myself, died several years ago. a reward for 'not being like your brother and joining the navy.' right.
she always says 'you used to be so creative.' is that what you call it? that's why i never talked. i wasn't stupid. i still can't talk about anything that's not a joke.
so i guess i'm just like everyone else, now, huh? my parents fucked up and i'm sitting in my bed, four thirty am, on mushrooms, thinking about the fourth grade.
don't tell me you read this. i'll just be embarrased and delete it, like every other journal i've had.
here is tim rutili:
do you see that? in his eyes? that's his love for me. and crazy herion grunge country. can't beat his banjo.
well, i guess that's all for now.
when i was in the fourth grade a poet lady came in to our class and had us all write poems. i wrote a very, very long one. i need to find it. it was the only time my parents ever seemed to realize they might be doing something wrong= that i was either fucked up and needed medication (a threat my mother poured on me ) or just strange as fuck. my poem was about my voice, my lungs. i don't know. i feel like that right now.
that's what i felt like all the time, growing up. like i was very, very alone and no one else could climb inside, ever. i sleep in the same bed.
they entered me in a million contests. i won all of them. they asked me to talk into microphones and i would say things.
i was the palest, longest fingered family member ever. that poem was the title of some book i do not have. i tried to rip the wood panelling off our walls. i took about four square feet of carpet off the floor before my father found me. my feet were bleeding from the carpet tacks.
i cannot remember my mother ever saying once that she loved me. i remember the day i stopped caring- i was downtown, in front of the cinema 9 my sophomore year in high school.
that year, the counselor at school told my mother i was suicidal. i don't think i was any more than i had been since the third grade. i just had some marks on my arms and some stupid friend who watched too much lifetime TV. my parents bought me a mini disco ball from davenport. i still have it, somewhere. the mirror ball of noncommunication.
and you know what? at 21, they bought me computer. the first one i had, paid for by myself, died several years ago. a reward for 'not being like your brother and joining the navy.' right.
she always says 'you used to be so creative.' is that what you call it? that's why i never talked. i wasn't stupid. i still can't talk about anything that's not a joke.
so i guess i'm just like everyone else, now, huh? my parents fucked up and i'm sitting in my bed, four thirty am, on mushrooms, thinking about the fourth grade.
don't tell me you read this. i'll just be embarrased and delete it, like every other journal i've had.