(no subject)
School is constantly taking up my time. I want to maintain and better my grades. Right now, I have 3 As (99, 97, 94) and 3 Bs (88, 88, 89). There may not be much in this journal for a while, I'm not entirely sure about that. I have a standalone I'm working on, but it's kinda... meh.
Here are two old visuals of mine. For those who haven't seen them, I hope you like them.
Description: All Chester wanted was hope.
All I did was ask for help, for forgiveness, for hope. I just wanted hope for us.
It was too hot in the room. I was lying on my bed, just in my boxers, my sweaty skin dampening the sheets and making them stick. I was talking to myself. There was no one I could call. He hadn't paid the phone bill, so I couldn't call anyone. The electric bill got lost in the mail, so that's why there was no air breezing through on what had to be the hottest day of July. I blamed it all on him. And there was no escape. The bus workers had gone on strike and we didn't have a car. I somehow managed to make the worker's strike his fault too. I just needed someone to place everything that grated my nerves, he just happened to be nearby.
So I stared at the ceiling, barely blinking, and finally got tired of it. I closed my eyes and a solitary tear fell down my face.
I started talking to myself, or maybe to the walls, or maybe to God. Who knows? I just started rambling.
"When did things get like this?"
"When did he become so careless?"
"Why am I still here?"
My questions just seemed to hang in the heat but I kept asking them.
"Is it bad to wish he was someone else?"
"Why is it all so hard?"
Even though no one replied, I found the answers. It was just as much my fault as was his.
"All I wanted was something perfect. Doesn't everyone want that? Perfection? And I swear when I saw him I... I... knew it existed. Or at least I thought it did."
I didn't say anything for a few minutes. I pondered if I should go out to the store. There's air there, but I found myself too tired to move from my spot. Plus, I had so much to say, even if I was saying it to no one.
"He said and did so much. He promised so many things. Should have known he was a liar. I was so fucking stupid to believe."
I was yelling now. My voice cracked because I was crying too. There’s no one to talk to, no one to hear me scream.
I sniffled so pathetically and laughed. I was pretty sure I had cracked. Then I realized it was a bitter and sour laugh. It almost killed the humidity.
"Michael, the liar; Michael, the whore; Michael, my lover and my friend. You've fucked me up so much, and I still love you so badly."
He heard all of this, every single word. He was there in the corner, almost lifeless. Almost.
"No one can hear me, Mike. Yeah, you're here, but you don't really count. When you're around it's just like talking to no one. You’re the 'he' I was referring to is you. Yep. You. Fucking bitch. So fucking beautiful. Red looks so good on you, honey."
I was looking at him, and then looked at the wall. Red splotches everywhere. They were all around the room. My hand was sticky from sweating, and from the blood he had shed. He made me bleed. I wanted to make him bleed too.
"Someone help us. Goddamn, someone come and save us."
I had never begged so furiously. I looked to see Mike; his eyes were closing slowly. I had gone too far. I couldn't call for help and I was too paralyzed with shock to run outside and get it. I didn't mean to go that far. I didn't mean.... His eyes closed. And they stayed that way.
I just want forgiveness. I just wanted a little bit of help.
*
Description: Chester knows he's not good enough for him. *Chester/any member you want*
Have you ever watched the most cheesy movie and it made you seriously think about things?
I was watching Where the Heart Is. You know, that movie with Natalie Portman where she's pregnant and lives in the Wal-Mart. Piece of shit, I swear. It goes through every fucking dramatic cliché any C-grade screenwriter could come up with.
Anyway. There was this one scene at the end where she finds the guy that knocked her up years ago in a hospital without his legs. He said that he had lied. Natalie's character asked why he did. He asked her "Why does anyone lie? Because they're scared..." Hmm.
Well, I'm scared shitless. I lie, to myself, to others, all because I'm too damn afraid to face what's real. I can't bear to take what definite and intangible. And as I see him go about his everyday business I tell myself that I'm good enough for him. But this story is all about lies, right?
He was sitting and reading a book. He always had his head in a book. He was so damn smart. He could talk with anyone about any subject. He seemed to have knowledge of it all.
And here I am. I'm watching a football game on television, clutching a Budweiser in my hand, the very definition of trailer trash: trash being the key word.
In the movie, Natalie's character had lied because she thought she wasn't good enough for the guy she was in love with. In the end she found him and told him that she really did love him. That guy said that he was good enough for her. How nice. If only life did turn out to be some big mistake that we could correct with just three simple words. If only.
But the thing is, I know that I'm not good enough for him. This is fact, and he knows it too. You're probably wondering why someone who knows they deserve better deals with the shit they go through now. I'll tell you: for the same reason people lie. No matter how many times I say 'I love you' to him, it'll never really mean anything. Those words might have held some kind bearing in the beginning, but he soon saw this relationship for what it really was. It was just a need for one human being to cling to another. It wasn't love, just a strange devotion. No one wants to be alone, I sure as hell didn't.
But one day, I saw what the devotion really was - pity. And I knew that, just never admitted it to myself. All my life I've been given pity, and I hated it. It managed to disguise itself behind the man reading a novel on the beaten-up, brown sofa. But now, I think I've developed a need for it.
He was never supposed to know I needed what he gave me. This gives him too much leverage. He could break me without saying a word. What do I do about this? Nothing. There isn't anything I can do about it, so I just sit in front of the television, putting down the beer to go through my mind while picking up a cigarette.
"Chester, secondhand smokes kills, you know," he says.
So does your pity.
Here are two old visuals of mine. For those who haven't seen them, I hope you like them.
Description: All Chester wanted was hope.
All I did was ask for help, for forgiveness, for hope. I just wanted hope for us.
It was too hot in the room. I was lying on my bed, just in my boxers, my sweaty skin dampening the sheets and making them stick. I was talking to myself. There was no one I could call. He hadn't paid the phone bill, so I couldn't call anyone. The electric bill got lost in the mail, so that's why there was no air breezing through on what had to be the hottest day of July. I blamed it all on him. And there was no escape. The bus workers had gone on strike and we didn't have a car. I somehow managed to make the worker's strike his fault too. I just needed someone to place everything that grated my nerves, he just happened to be nearby.
So I stared at the ceiling, barely blinking, and finally got tired of it. I closed my eyes and a solitary tear fell down my face.
I started talking to myself, or maybe to the walls, or maybe to God. Who knows? I just started rambling.
"When did things get like this?"
"When did he become so careless?"
"Why am I still here?"
My questions just seemed to hang in the heat but I kept asking them.
"Is it bad to wish he was someone else?"
"Why is it all so hard?"
Even though no one replied, I found the answers. It was just as much my fault as was his.
"All I wanted was something perfect. Doesn't everyone want that? Perfection? And I swear when I saw him I... I... knew it existed. Or at least I thought it did."
I didn't say anything for a few minutes. I pondered if I should go out to the store. There's air there, but I found myself too tired to move from my spot. Plus, I had so much to say, even if I was saying it to no one.
"He said and did so much. He promised so many things. Should have known he was a liar. I was so fucking stupid to believe."
I was yelling now. My voice cracked because I was crying too. There’s no one to talk to, no one to hear me scream.
I sniffled so pathetically and laughed. I was pretty sure I had cracked. Then I realized it was a bitter and sour laugh. It almost killed the humidity.
"Michael, the liar; Michael, the whore; Michael, my lover and my friend. You've fucked me up so much, and I still love you so badly."
He heard all of this, every single word. He was there in the corner, almost lifeless. Almost.
"No one can hear me, Mike. Yeah, you're here, but you don't really count. When you're around it's just like talking to no one. You’re the 'he' I was referring to is you. Yep. You. Fucking bitch. So fucking beautiful. Red looks so good on you, honey."
I was looking at him, and then looked at the wall. Red splotches everywhere. They were all around the room. My hand was sticky from sweating, and from the blood he had shed. He made me bleed. I wanted to make him bleed too.
"Someone help us. Goddamn, someone come and save us."
I had never begged so furiously. I looked to see Mike; his eyes were closing slowly. I had gone too far. I couldn't call for help and I was too paralyzed with shock to run outside and get it. I didn't mean to go that far. I didn't mean.... His eyes closed. And they stayed that way.
I just want forgiveness. I just wanted a little bit of help.
*
Description: Chester knows he's not good enough for him. *Chester/any member you want*
Have you ever watched the most cheesy movie and it made you seriously think about things?
I was watching Where the Heart Is. You know, that movie with Natalie Portman where she's pregnant and lives in the Wal-Mart. Piece of shit, I swear. It goes through every fucking dramatic cliché any C-grade screenwriter could come up with.
Anyway. There was this one scene at the end where she finds the guy that knocked her up years ago in a hospital without his legs. He said that he had lied. Natalie's character asked why he did. He asked her "Why does anyone lie? Because they're scared..." Hmm.
Well, I'm scared shitless. I lie, to myself, to others, all because I'm too damn afraid to face what's real. I can't bear to take what definite and intangible. And as I see him go about his everyday business I tell myself that I'm good enough for him. But this story is all about lies, right?
He was sitting and reading a book. He always had his head in a book. He was so damn smart. He could talk with anyone about any subject. He seemed to have knowledge of it all.
And here I am. I'm watching a football game on television, clutching a Budweiser in my hand, the very definition of trailer trash: trash being the key word.
In the movie, Natalie's character had lied because she thought she wasn't good enough for the guy she was in love with. In the end she found him and told him that she really did love him. That guy said that he was good enough for her. How nice. If only life did turn out to be some big mistake that we could correct with just three simple words. If only.
But the thing is, I know that I'm not good enough for him. This is fact, and he knows it too. You're probably wondering why someone who knows they deserve better deals with the shit they go through now. I'll tell you: for the same reason people lie. No matter how many times I say 'I love you' to him, it'll never really mean anything. Those words might have held some kind bearing in the beginning, but he soon saw this relationship for what it really was. It was just a need for one human being to cling to another. It wasn't love, just a strange devotion. No one wants to be alone, I sure as hell didn't.
But one day, I saw what the devotion really was - pity. And I knew that, just never admitted it to myself. All my life I've been given pity, and I hated it. It managed to disguise itself behind the man reading a novel on the beaten-up, brown sofa. But now, I think I've developed a need for it.
He was never supposed to know I needed what he gave me. This gives him too much leverage. He could break me without saying a word. What do I do about this? Nothing. There isn't anything I can do about it, so I just sit in front of the television, putting down the beer to go through my mind while picking up a cigarette.
"Chester, secondhand smokes kills, you know," he says.
So does your pity.