(no subject)
i can't sleep. i rock here in pink underwear and a little white camisole as if i'm five years old again. only now i have curves. full curves. the kind of curves that some girls get made fun of for having. nobody tells me i'm skinny. nobody says much of anything kind to me, actually.
i'm trying to transform myself into someone i can love. it's much harder than i thought it would be. late-february, and i have lost six people in the past year -- to distance, to ego, to death.
a month ago, i could write for hours at a time. i would sit here, determined, except in pants and a sweatshirt. (my room is always so cold in the winter). no need to push the power button to my dell because it was always on, my english breakfast tea would be in its white coffee cup to my left, and i'd have godspeed softly playing, for inspirtation or for distraction? either or, it worked for me. my own publication seemed tangible and certainly simple. my story, about a girl who was undeniably very much like me, fled from my fingertips into this computer, increasing in length and in sadness every night and always saved under "she.exe." the graphic bloodied details and perfected misery seemed to set the story in it's exact direction: to open eyes, scribble over arrogance, and shun our society.
i don't sit here for hours and write, anymore. i hover my mouse over the sentences, maybe some editing and revising here and there, but nothing more. the end seems so far away.
i used to enjoy our weekly parties. we would drink bottles of soco, kaluha, and malibu rum, free of charge. we never asked who bought them or where they came from. we'd put our lipgloss on and either swank our way up and down sunset boulevard as if the billboards exposed our faces or into zachary alcerro's house as if the party had been dead until we got there. honestly, i never felt as stupid as i looked. in heels & my frilly mini-skirt, i was convinced i was fashionable. no matter how heavy my head felt and how many cups i had thrown into the air, carelessly, and how bad my feet hurt, i was happy.
it took me awhile to realize how ugly everything was. the drinking was always excessive and you know, we all couldn't put our jack's down until we could stand each other. and even then, the jack's would keep coming because the more unaware we were, the more fun the party was. cigarette in one hand and beer in the other, this made people happy.
my right hand always neglected the cigarette and i couldn't really tell you why. i drank like a fish but figured since i didn't smoke, i was healthy. it was more than being healthy though, i figured not smoking made me a good person. i was superwoman. hypocritical, i know.
i was the only sober one on new years. i watched girls lose all respect for themselves and fling themselves onto boys who remained nameless. i watched boys lie in their very own vomit, without any care or intuition. i, feeling ashamed, rubbed their backs and got them water. i was thanked by the spilling of guts onto my hand and pants.
i can't trust anyone, that button is no longer opperative. i can sure as hell blame my history, my experiences, my exfucks for that, but i won't. because untrusting people isn't something new, it's our surroundings. it's the way things have always been. it's the people at our parties before they are inebriated. we are a billion lonely souls who can't help but fucking hate each other. give me more alcohol with the highest alcohol count you've got, and i'll enjoy your company.
i'm tired of changing. i know that growth is essential but i don't feel like i've grown. i feel like i've reverted back to some infantile state while at the same time, nothing is new to me anymore. i feel eighty-three years old. i feel childish. i feel death around me, everywhere, waiting. i feel abandonment, pointing at me, laughing at me, from the corner of my bedroom. i am uneasy and growing tired of keeping a tally of everybody that i've lost.
all that i have/need/want is this brand new life waiting to seduce me. the life where i wake up in the morning with the embodiment of compassion and beauty in bed next to me. the life where i can look at myself in the mirror and not feel overwhelmed with guilt for having a thick waist. the life that isn't about the vodka. the life that isn't just about me. because i've had enough of me for a while. i don't want mirrors and introspection -- i want lillies, trips to museums, and reassurance.
i'm trying to transform myself into someone i can love. it's much harder than i thought it would be. late-february, and i have lost six people in the past year -- to distance, to ego, to death.
a month ago, i could write for hours at a time. i would sit here, determined, except in pants and a sweatshirt. (my room is always so cold in the winter). no need to push the power button to my dell because it was always on, my english breakfast tea would be in its white coffee cup to my left, and i'd have godspeed softly playing, for inspirtation or for distraction? either or, it worked for me. my own publication seemed tangible and certainly simple. my story, about a girl who was undeniably very much like me, fled from my fingertips into this computer, increasing in length and in sadness every night and always saved under "she.exe." the graphic bloodied details and perfected misery seemed to set the story in it's exact direction: to open eyes, scribble over arrogance, and shun our society.
i don't sit here for hours and write, anymore. i hover my mouse over the sentences, maybe some editing and revising here and there, but nothing more. the end seems so far away.
i used to enjoy our weekly parties. we would drink bottles of soco, kaluha, and malibu rum, free of charge. we never asked who bought them or where they came from. we'd put our lipgloss on and either swank our way up and down sunset boulevard as if the billboards exposed our faces or into zachary alcerro's house as if the party had been dead until we got there. honestly, i never felt as stupid as i looked. in heels & my frilly mini-skirt, i was convinced i was fashionable. no matter how heavy my head felt and how many cups i had thrown into the air, carelessly, and how bad my feet hurt, i was happy.
it took me awhile to realize how ugly everything was. the drinking was always excessive and you know, we all couldn't put our jack's down until we could stand each other. and even then, the jack's would keep coming because the more unaware we were, the more fun the party was. cigarette in one hand and beer in the other, this made people happy.
my right hand always neglected the cigarette and i couldn't really tell you why. i drank like a fish but figured since i didn't smoke, i was healthy. it was more than being healthy though, i figured not smoking made me a good person. i was superwoman. hypocritical, i know.
i was the only sober one on new years. i watched girls lose all respect for themselves and fling themselves onto boys who remained nameless. i watched boys lie in their very own vomit, without any care or intuition. i, feeling ashamed, rubbed their backs and got them water. i was thanked by the spilling of guts onto my hand and pants.
i can't trust anyone, that button is no longer opperative. i can sure as hell blame my history, my experiences, my exfucks for that, but i won't. because untrusting people isn't something new, it's our surroundings. it's the way things have always been. it's the people at our parties before they are inebriated. we are a billion lonely souls who can't help but fucking hate each other. give me more alcohol with the highest alcohol count you've got, and i'll enjoy your company.
i'm tired of changing. i know that growth is essential but i don't feel like i've grown. i feel like i've reverted back to some infantile state while at the same time, nothing is new to me anymore. i feel eighty-three years old. i feel childish. i feel death around me, everywhere, waiting. i feel abandonment, pointing at me, laughing at me, from the corner of my bedroom. i am uneasy and growing tired of keeping a tally of everybody that i've lost.
all that i have/need/want is this brand new life waiting to seduce me. the life where i wake up in the morning with the embodiment of compassion and beauty in bed next to me. the life where i can look at myself in the mirror and not feel overwhelmed with guilt for having a thick waist. the life that isn't about the vodka. the life that isn't just about me. because i've had enough of me for a while. i don't want mirrors and introspection -- i want lillies, trips to museums, and reassurance.