Day 1, French Fries and Flirting
Robin Williams is a terrible criminal, and I'm afraid I'm not the heroine I make myself out to be.I'm 20 pounds overweight & live through the words of others because my life is complex and rather dull. If anyone can help me, take a number, stand in line, then get the fuck out. If I've learned anything, it's that only I can save myself. But I can't. So I fall in love with eccentricities, not people. I'm in love with sad endings, I'm in love with broken clocks & white cotton sheets. I'm in love with the science of things. 18 years, and I'm still trying to define myself (I'm not sure if that really ever stops). Maybe it would be more accurate to say I'm waiting for someone new to come along & define me. In reality, thats what we all do ... Tell me, someone, anyone, what do you see? Daughter? Poet? Patient? Lover?
The newest craze in my sparkle and rust parade has an understanding for my need of liquid poetry, and a fascination for my emotional masochism. On the surface he's calm & seems to grasp the truth behind my eyelids. He can make my toes curl (though I guess its good that he's still not sure how) because he has a dazzling array of oddities about him. I love his voice because it always hovers around a B Flat; his movements always seem so languid, so slow, and he keeps my eye. And he seems so sad. I have a weakness for sad-eyed boys, so we'll call him Opportunity. Opportunity has a cloud of sadness about him, thick with Salton Sea & Kurt Cobain. And little Ms. Emotional Masochism can appreciate that fact, if for nothing more than a real-life version of all hte characters from all the books and movies that I love, and love to live through. I like a challenge, but hate a fight.
So I just sat at home, self-rightous flaming indignation & self-pity. Smirnoff & Popcorn, Dogma& Salton Sea. White Oleander & Pajamas. I've listened to that same old message 3 times now, and I'm crying because Amy never called me back, and all my life has been wasted nights and a fear of public places. Love me, anyone, because my faith needs to be reaffirmed by your lies. boy pretend they love me, girls pretend they care, and I pretend it doesn't hurt. But it does sometimes, late at night, when all those dark thoughts come at once & I cry till death comes. I've dies a million times, resurrected a million and one, and it's your turn to destroy me so I can recreate myself. I want to get lost in the stars, sleep in fogged windows & broken headlights, and dream of something better.
I still believe
The newest craze in my sparkle and rust parade has an understanding for my need of liquid poetry, and a fascination for my emotional masochism. On the surface he's calm & seems to grasp the truth behind my eyelids. He can make my toes curl (though I guess its good that he's still not sure how) because he has a dazzling array of oddities about him. I love his voice because it always hovers around a B Flat; his movements always seem so languid, so slow, and he keeps my eye. And he seems so sad. I have a weakness for sad-eyed boys, so we'll call him Opportunity. Opportunity has a cloud of sadness about him, thick with Salton Sea & Kurt Cobain. And little Ms. Emotional Masochism can appreciate that fact, if for nothing more than a real-life version of all hte characters from all the books and movies that I love, and love to live through. I like a challenge, but hate a fight.
So I just sat at home, self-rightous flaming indignation & self-pity. Smirnoff & Popcorn, Dogma& Salton Sea. White Oleander & Pajamas. I've listened to that same old message 3 times now, and I'm crying because Amy never called me back, and all my life has been wasted nights and a fear of public places. Love me, anyone, because my faith needs to be reaffirmed by your lies. boy pretend they love me, girls pretend they care, and I pretend it doesn't hurt. But it does sometimes, late at night, when all those dark thoughts come at once & I cry till death comes. I've dies a million times, resurrected a million and one, and it's your turn to destroy me so I can recreate myself. I want to get lost in the stars, sleep in fogged windows & broken headlights, and dream of something better.
I still believe