On a niland.
Today was interesting. I rather enjoy hanging out with the people in 2nd period Art, but I was rather frustrated because I want to join in on the projects, despite everyone saying what a nuisance they always are and how Mr. Oyenarte is a neo-Nazi. I think I could make lots of interesting things, or at least I could have today. I'm not too terribly creative on any off days. We talked about Star Wars, and I laughed a lot. My laugh is so loud and wicker.
I'm also frustrated because I saw a ten-second clip of this neat-looking band, the Raisinettes or something, on TV, but now I can't find any music. It's okay, though, as it will probably amount to nothing. 10-seconds clips you hear on the V are usually not that good, anyways. I blame visual interference.
Man, just when I thought my body couldn't get any more uglier than it already was, it surprises me. My mother called me selfish today and that irked me, and I realize, yes, I was selfish, but I still kept fighting with her. I hate it when she knows I am right, and I hate it more so when I know I am. Luckily, it breezed over, but I still feel pretty damn horrible about it all. I am the worst at arguing.
And I am selfish, or maybe I'm just attached. I just don't think she understands at all right now. She threatens to take my father away, now this. I hope she knows that I will find my way to a guillotine, no matter what. I hope she knows I will not fail to stamp out that last part of me, under the skin and darts of veins, toward that still pulsing core. I will cut it out of me. I will cut the child, the baby, and its selfless cries all out of me. I will erase you, expel you, Mrs. Eider, until you have no more blood to tint my own. I just hope she knows, the greatest revenge is self-infliction.
Oh, but that's just being hammy, Ilsa, Ilsa Eider. She is being completely insane, completely ridiculous, and I do not believe her. I do not believe her, either. I don't believe her one bit. In fact, I've never liked her. In fact, I've only pretended. If only we were friends, Ilsa. Ilsa Eider, I once loved you. Ilsa, you had the beautiful hair and when you flaunted soot that once time, I'd kiss you in the park. I'd kiss you till your face bled. I'd latch on to you in the park, Ilsa, because I cared for you. And the old man might have frowned, Ilsa, but I swear I've never felt the same about you since.
I am not alone.
We keep sinking, sinking, sinking, and becoming more broke, and the insurance agent called today, and she had me make a recorded statement. I felt very much a floozy. For some of it, though, I was very official, very pinstriped, and I answered promptly. I think she found me to be quite intelligent and cooperative; luckily, she did not meet me.
I was thinking a while ago about last year, when I wore all those crazy clothes; I always saw myself with the same, dreary monotony. Even when I dressed up as a clown that one day for no apparent reason, with pink platform shoes, hot pink capris, rainbow stripe shirt, pigtails, etc., etc., I still felt the same. I didn't really feel any different about my reflection. I still always see myself as that mangy girl in the mirror, dumb as a post. And I would arrive at school, everyone all riled up, and I think that might of been the only reason I did it- to scare my friends, I mean, and to make myself look more social, maybe. Not really. I'm not sure. The point is, I've never looked at myself any differently, and I find it impossible to look at myself objectively. Of course, I can't really look objectively, as far as aesthetics go, at anyone else, either. I think I am incapable. Where is my libido? Where is my libido? I think if I were ever to have sex it would be after death with a pillow to my name and a bandage on my wrist.
I do not like men for now. I do not like people for a long time. Just because I am supposedly free, they think I am interested. And this freaks me out, because I am disgusting-looking. And gross. If I had any hair about my nipples, you might call me a man. I don't understand at all, really. Anyways, I'm working on getting fantabulously skinny this summer (god knows you all are laughing), and attempting to be pretty. But it doesn't work that way; some girls are born with it, others aren't. I think if I live in this household any longer I am set to erupt.
I want to recruit you all, any one who wants to major in Creative Writing. I think Andy was interested, but then again he was probably just humoring me. We'll go to college together and not be as scared. It would be tremendous. I don't know what is going to happen when I'm gone, but my parents have wasted an entire education on me. And I am going to die one day, and I don't understand why anyone would care this much about a child. We just die in the end; It seems so fucking futile. I don't know. I've been thinking about life too much, and I can't say I have any long-term goals, except to die. I'd rather be in control of my death than have it stolen from me, wouldn't you?
It is the Raveonettes. They leave a bitter taste in my mouth.
We talked about writing today, several times, and it made me nervous. Talking about writing turns me far from any previously approved directions. And flattery makes me weak. I'm not so sure I like people calling me creative; I JUST WANT HELP DECIDING WHAT IT IS I NEED TO DO. I just need someone to slap me and scream at me and tell me I have no talent, and that I should be a scientist because "it's the most secure job and, besides, you can always ask your parents for help". I just think I need that. OR a good treatment.
I have not been sleeping. And when I do, I have live-wire dreams; I am always one footstep away from consciousness, and the slightest thought scares me to death. I flick on like the electric click of an insect. Not to say that I don't dream. Even when I'm awake I dream, and I think not being able to draw is hindering something. I've been stopping myself from drawing, even if just doodles, because I'm trying to take myself more seriously. But I am a fallacy, really. I think I'll wear the Grecian for a while. When she called her a Greek goddess, I could feel nothing but livery spiders and cursed fingernails. And when she called you an angel? Darling, I knew it wasn't true.
I'm also frustrated because I saw a ten-second clip of this neat-looking band, the Raisinettes or something, on TV, but now I can't find any music. It's okay, though, as it will probably amount to nothing. 10-seconds clips you hear on the V are usually not that good, anyways. I blame visual interference.
Man, just when I thought my body couldn't get any more uglier than it already was, it surprises me. My mother called me selfish today and that irked me, and I realize, yes, I was selfish, but I still kept fighting with her. I hate it when she knows I am right, and I hate it more so when I know I am. Luckily, it breezed over, but I still feel pretty damn horrible about it all. I am the worst at arguing.
And I am selfish, or maybe I'm just attached. I just don't think she understands at all right now. She threatens to take my father away, now this. I hope she knows that I will find my way to a guillotine, no matter what. I hope she knows I will not fail to stamp out that last part of me, under the skin and darts of veins, toward that still pulsing core. I will cut it out of me. I will cut the child, the baby, and its selfless cries all out of me. I will erase you, expel you, Mrs. Eider, until you have no more blood to tint my own. I just hope she knows, the greatest revenge is self-infliction.
Oh, but that's just being hammy, Ilsa, Ilsa Eider. She is being completely insane, completely ridiculous, and I do not believe her. I do not believe her, either. I don't believe her one bit. In fact, I've never liked her. In fact, I've only pretended. If only we were friends, Ilsa. Ilsa Eider, I once loved you. Ilsa, you had the beautiful hair and when you flaunted soot that once time, I'd kiss you in the park. I'd kiss you till your face bled. I'd latch on to you in the park, Ilsa, because I cared for you. And the old man might have frowned, Ilsa, but I swear I've never felt the same about you since.
I am not alone.
We keep sinking, sinking, sinking, and becoming more broke, and the insurance agent called today, and she had me make a recorded statement. I felt very much a floozy. For some of it, though, I was very official, very pinstriped, and I answered promptly. I think she found me to be quite intelligent and cooperative; luckily, she did not meet me.
I was thinking a while ago about last year, when I wore all those crazy clothes; I always saw myself with the same, dreary monotony. Even when I dressed up as a clown that one day for no apparent reason, with pink platform shoes, hot pink capris, rainbow stripe shirt, pigtails, etc., etc., I still felt the same. I didn't really feel any different about my reflection. I still always see myself as that mangy girl in the mirror, dumb as a post. And I would arrive at school, everyone all riled up, and I think that might of been the only reason I did it- to scare my friends, I mean, and to make myself look more social, maybe. Not really. I'm not sure. The point is, I've never looked at myself any differently, and I find it impossible to look at myself objectively. Of course, I can't really look objectively, as far as aesthetics go, at anyone else, either. I think I am incapable. Where is my libido? Where is my libido? I think if I were ever to have sex it would be after death with a pillow to my name and a bandage on my wrist.
I do not like men for now. I do not like people for a long time. Just because I am supposedly free, they think I am interested. And this freaks me out, because I am disgusting-looking. And gross. If I had any hair about my nipples, you might call me a man. I don't understand at all, really. Anyways, I'm working on getting fantabulously skinny this summer (god knows you all are laughing), and attempting to be pretty. But it doesn't work that way; some girls are born with it, others aren't. I think if I live in this household any longer I am set to erupt.
I want to recruit you all, any one who wants to major in Creative Writing. I think Andy was interested, but then again he was probably just humoring me. We'll go to college together and not be as scared. It would be tremendous. I don't know what is going to happen when I'm gone, but my parents have wasted an entire education on me. And I am going to die one day, and I don't understand why anyone would care this much about a child. We just die in the end; It seems so fucking futile. I don't know. I've been thinking about life too much, and I can't say I have any long-term goals, except to die. I'd rather be in control of my death than have it stolen from me, wouldn't you?
It is the Raveonettes. They leave a bitter taste in my mouth.
We talked about writing today, several times, and it made me nervous. Talking about writing turns me far from any previously approved directions. And flattery makes me weak. I'm not so sure I like people calling me creative; I JUST WANT HELP DECIDING WHAT IT IS I NEED TO DO. I just need someone to slap me and scream at me and tell me I have no talent, and that I should be a scientist because "it's the most secure job and, besides, you can always ask your parents for help". I just think I need that. OR a good treatment.
I have not been sleeping. And when I do, I have live-wire dreams; I am always one footstep away from consciousness, and the slightest thought scares me to death. I flick on like the electric click of an insect. Not to say that I don't dream. Even when I'm awake I dream, and I think not being able to draw is hindering something. I've been stopping myself from drawing, even if just doodles, because I'm trying to take myself more seriously. But I am a fallacy, really. I think I'll wear the Grecian for a while. When she called her a Greek goddess, I could feel nothing but livery spiders and cursed fingernails. And when she called you an angel? Darling, I knew it wasn't true.