AND TEAR OPEN YOUR HEART SO I CAN LOVE YOU AND YOUR DISEASE.
let me anoint the lust inside you, please. please. please.
Why I even write in here anymore baffles me. I realized that no matter what they say, what they write on papers, it means NOTHING to me. Absolutely nothing.
I'm not writing in here anymore. It's been compromised by people looking to be entertained. And you know what I say to that? Hey, kid... FUCK YOU.
At 10:30am this morning Children's Services called me. I talked so hard I thought I might melt into the phone, speed through wires, and convince those fucks that they are ruining lives. Exacerbating.
EXACERBATING THE SITUATION, RIGHT, SHAUN?
I don't really care for things right now. I decided to get my Ph.D. after looking at grad schools. And Holly got in to UCLA, so maybe we can go together. Or maybe we can't because I'm a fucking retard that will never get in EVER. EVER EVER.
Self-loathe. Self-loathe and sober and going to take pictures to make a face of trying. Make of face of a face so that this real face can die die die die die die.
Tomorrow means riding bikes, means seeing Robbie, means reading good books, means writing a paper, means means means. It all MEANS something.
I am feeling a rash on my back. It scares me. Things like... things scare me. I squeezed something on my arm today... and it exploded. It wasn't a pimple. I hope it was cancer, but cancer doesn't explode in such a disgusting manner. Also, it is maybe the 15th month since I've gotten my period. I hope the cancer eating my eggs is growing bigger. I hope it gets big enough by graduation.
A secret: I actually hate you and am trying to get away.
A lie: we can be friends.
The truth: WHY?
Right now: I am listening to Jimmy Eat World tell me to KICKSTART MY ROCKIN ROLLIN HEART! and crimson. and clover They want to fall in love tonight, but I don't. I never do. YOU CAN NEVER TAKE MY FREEEEEEDOOOOOOM. Ever. Never. And Mel Gibson agrees.
Why is Will Pugh such a self-righteous asshole? OH. Because he has the voice of an ANGEL. That's why.
I can't stand it/here/you/this anymore. I am at a weird stage in life. I describe it as curious. Curious is the perfect word to describe this.
I am having some irrational thoughts. Please leave me alone.
I know. I know I should not be doing this. But I cannot force myself to do what I know I should be doing. It is a selective paralysis of the limbs, engendered by the thought of being ALONE in front of people UNALONE. It is typically not this bad and/or ridiculous, but today it is unbearable. Perhaps it is because of the horrible event at Virginia Tech, but I am no good with conjecture at the moment.
I thought, naively, that this condition of self, of soul, had magically fixed itself. I felt it would no longer be a problem. I could do it before… why not now? Does this even qualify as a PROBLEM, the refusal of one’s body to nourish itself out of real or imagined fears? I don’t know what I think they are thinking. Maybe they are thinking NOTHING and they are merely LOOKING. But that looking is enough to put me off food and society for weeks without end. It is because I am unsightly, and I know that. Despite what changes I am making, or what you say, or what he said, or what she said… I am unsightly and it turns my stomach. Not because of what it means to ME, but because of what it MIGHT mean to THEM. Or YOU. I don’t want to be the flaw, the one thing wrong with an otherwise pleasant scene. I don’t want to repulse you, to make you lose your appetite. But I fear I do, and so I’ll hide here in this little cocoon of disgust until you are finished eating dinner, all of you.
I promise I thought it was fixed. It’s not even proper self-hate. I know there are things that I don’t find completely ridiculous… but there are many things that I wish I could obliterate, even if these things might incapacitate or disfigure me for life. I am unsettled here, in this skin. The kind of unsettled that begs for absolution, for punishment. The kind of unsettled that begs for destruction. WHERE DOES IT COME FROM?
From you, maybe. Or from the me that never sleeps, the me that was beat as a child, the me that had an alcoholic father, the me that internalizes criticism… the me the me the me. I can go on, of course. There are a million reasons I might feel this way. But whatever they are, it doesn’t change or alleviate the fact that I DO FEEL THIS WAY. Horrible, hateful, furious, disgusted, starving, mute.
It’s not even proper depression, since I am not in the slightest. It has morphed into something else, maybe the learned helpless form of depression. I cannot figure it out. I have to search the room for a suitable meal and read Sacher-Masoch’s “Venus in Furs.” Maybe have a drink. Maybe write. Maybe do nothing.
Why is it that being home, every time, is the best time? I love it here. I have the best family and the best friends of anyone in the entire world. That is how it feels, every time. Even with drama and homework and the government knocking on your fucking door, it is still the best feeling in the entire world, this home. Having a place to call HOME. The best fucking feeling in the world. So that I have a billion pages to read for class and they have court on Tuesday and Holly just left... and so that even past all of this, it is still amazing.
I love my life. Right now, I love my life. I love everything in it. The procrastination, the long nights, the meals, the loud house too early in the morning, the way the cat hair clings to every little thing, the way the shower doesn't drain properly, the way things change and manage to stay the same.
At 4pm I'm leaving to attend Kathleen's going-away-party. She's joining the California Conservation Core for five months. Her father and step-mother live in a geometric flat in La Canada. I call it a mansion. It's the best house ever with the best pool ever. The architecture is impeccable. Soon I'll be drinking wine in it. I should be reading some tripe by Heinrich Hurtz, but instead I am going to party with strangers. She rented a bounce house! We are so adult. We are so adult, and I can't stop smiling.
Instead of doing real things, I SORT OF did something related to homework and zoned out in SecondLife.
The funny part is this: the first two people who talked to me were ASIAN LIKE WHOA... like, to the extent where they had to apologize for their "not so good" English. And the third person, who I'm actually having a full on CONVERSATION with is from SWEEDEN! ISN'T THAT CRAZY?! His city is called Linkopgen or something, haha with umlats and crazy dots all over the place.
He just complimented my real name. "It's a very beautiful name. If I was in an American city I would name my daughter that." HAHAHA. His name is PER, dude. He also is called PELLE.
The Internet is an amazing invention, srsly. So is the MacBook from which I am updating right now.
Also: My dad is probably going to spend three years in prison because he was pulled over by cops and was found with paraphanelia and he's not supposed to have it because he's under probation and I heard the judge say at the sentencing that these are grounds for the revoking of the Lesser Sentencing thing they have him under and so I cried and cried and went on SecondLife to forget my FirstLife woes.
SEE. I did it real fast, like ripping off a band aid, so it doesn't hurt as bad.
Per has two kids that he loves very much. He says they're eating candy because it's Easter. When I was a kid I ate candy on Easter. I always got a basket full of plastic eggs and ugly stuffed rabbits. One time I remember being in San Francisco during Easter. We went to this ornate Catholic church.....
AND some annoying French people interrupted our conversation. They're speaking FULL ON FRENCH, man. The one guy was like "Hi, do you speak French?" and I was like "A little" and he was like "Je suis ou?" And I was like WHAAAT, "You are where? I dunno!" And then this other French chick showed up as was like JE PARLE FRANCAIS BLAH BLAH. And then the French bitch even ASKED, in french to the other french dude, WHAT LANGUAGE PER AND I WERE SPEAKING. I was like "Uhhh, Je vous comprend." BITCH.
Anyway. This rocks. I have so much homework it is retarded. Alex Gaskarth rocks my soul. Per just asked if he could add me as a friend because he had fun talking with me. LOL.
So how about the part where I drove home on Tuesady night to find that Skyler sprained his ankle.
And how about the part where yesterday my dad bought me this basically undeserved Apple MacBook that is glorious but I actually might return it because I feel g-u-i-l-t-y.
AND how about the part where yesterday I saw All Time Low and they were hilariously and ridiculously amazing.
AND ALSO the part where Hit The Lights brought the rock and the bassist handed me his pick after the set.
AND NOT TO MENTION the part where Mac Oliver walked into my class today and told me he wants to TAKE ME OUT TO DINNER. YEAH, MAC OLIVER. ME. DINNER. WTF!
So we could talk about how stuff like this only happens in movies (as in: sexy teaching assistants who are eight million light years out of my league wanting to take me out), or I could do some HOMEWORK!
so instead of doing other things not involving books after i finished city of bones, i picked up meyer's twilight. AND IT WAS INCREDIBLE.
seriously. edward cullen. new literary bf. too much anti-hero for my puny mind to asorb! first jace wayland, and now THIS! it's AMAZING! it's so seriously amazing that i am BRAIN DEAD from it.
see, i'm back at school and I DON'T EVEN CARE! it's an amazing feeling. i'm in for a good quarter, anyway.
anyway. chilled with lukas haas at sprinkles right after bruce willis ashed his cigarette in our direction. devoured some pinkberry and felt extraordinarily proud of myself, braving the streets of rodeo drive/little santa monica armed with nothing but a cellphone, a wallet, and a red velvet cupcake (aka "red chocolate revolver"... lolz).
uhhh, so. since when did imaginary boys get so hot? harry potter, you've been usurped. (not that THAT didn't already happen with one Draco Malfoy... but honestly, wtf.)
i finished City of Bones last night/this morning at 3:50am. DUDE. duuuuuuude. it's like.... amazing.
there is this part of me that hasn't been fed in a long time, the part that sits with thick books and reads them for hours without stopping. the part of me that can take a 800 page book and devour every last word in one sitting. it's been hard to find the time, to be honest. the closest i've come to that feeling since Harry 6 was Eldest (which was surprisingly good, since i disliked Eragon). i read it without wanting it to end, flying through the pages that were intense and then going back to read them slower. it's the kind of reading that blots out the sun, that silences hunger, and makes your voice raspy with disuse. and while it gives you headaches after seven hour stretches, it also kills off all thoughts not of its world. it obliterates every voice in your head that isn't the narrators or a characters. it IS escapism, but the kind that saves your life,. not the kind that keeps you from it.
i have been running down a dark alley, eyes clouded. i have been running and there has been someone after me. with what, i don't know, but this someone was running fast. City of Bones helped me escape. To help me get lost in its world and involved with its characters. INVESTED. EMOTIONALLY INVESTED. it was the best book i've read in far too long a time, with beautifully realized characters with SO MUCH LIFE you'd think they were real. with so much life you'd think you could reach in and take a hand in yours, pat a shoulder, gift a caring smile. it's real real real more real than people who are supposed love you and be there for you in THIS world.
it's safe, it's true. but it can also hurt. it can hurt worse than your friend not calling you. it can hurt worse than your father speaking to you with acidity in his voice. worse than arguing with your mother. it can hurt. but i still love it. i love getting lost in that world, helplessly and utterly slave to each new page.
thank you, cassandra clare. congrats, it's a keeper.
It is always so difficult to update at home. There is too much life going on, and if you pause to get on retarded lj, you miss out. I, however, have luxuriated in the glory that is Cassandra Clare's City of Bones all day, and am updating primarily to say how TRULY AMAZING it is. Whoever the fuck it was that said Jace Wayland is like Cassie's Draco is obviously an idiot. Being hot, smart, witty, sexy, arrogant, and having a pet falcon DO NOT make two people the same. Redeemed!Draco will always be the love of my literate life, so I know the boy in and out, and Jace is not him. Similarities, yeah, but Jace is missing what Draco has: THE EVIL. And the evil always makes you 120937102938 times more irresistable. SO. It's good. Pick it up.
Grades for the quarter are also in. Mine look like this: A A A.
Yes, even in Faulkner. If I said I wasn't shocked, amazed, and horribly proud of myself, I would be a dirty lying rat bastard. But no one likes a bragging pretentious asshole. SO! I'm going to take a shower, get trashy, and claim the night.
The day doesn't really start 'til 10pm. Get hip to it.
I'd forgotten about this completely. We were supposed to take any character from Walpole's The Castle of Otranto and write a biography. This isn't a biography, per se, but it's the most fun a girl can have at 1:43am the night before her last final... without taking her clothes off. And your answer? BUT IT'S BETTER IF YOU DO. Thank you, Closer. Thank you, also, Panic! at the Disco.
It was said that Manfred was so pleased with the birth of his son that he threw a feast of such grandiosity that the strain on the kingdom’s livestock was felt for the next year. Manfred was so pleased to have a male heir that he finally began to acknowledge the existence of his firstborn, Matilda, a girl given unto him by his wife, Hippolita, three years prior. In his first two years of birth, Conrad was the most loved and doted upon child that ever was. Conrad, however, did not remember these early years, as many people do not, the smiles and tender caresses of infancy burned away by time and the slow tempering of life.
Conrad’s earliest memory concerns dogs. As a five-year-old child Conrad was annoyingly small, his weak arms and legs struggling to chase after the yapping foxhounds. His mother had dressed him warmly in miniaturized hunting clothes, and she was beaming from ear to ear with the thought of seeing her son off to hunt with his father for the first time. Fluttering crimson stains this memory, the folds of his father’s cloak billowing as he strutted down the entranceway of the castle.
“No,” Manfred had said; simply, idly.
“Oh, but darling—,” his mother began, her hands held up appeasingly.
“No.” A statement this time. Conrad didn’t understand. He looked skyward toward his father, eyes straining to meet the towering figure. Manfred did not look at his son, clapping the dogs to his heels as he strode out the castle doors. Conrad’s mother would later explain that his father only wanted him healthy and safe, and as hunting was such a dangerous sport… he would just have to wait.
And wait he did. At fifteen-years-old Conrad had never been hunting with his father. Pale and sickly, he shied away from the sun’s rays, never having learned to love the dance of warmth on skin, nor the sweet thrill of the breeze tangling fair tresses. Conrad could count on two hands the amount of hours he had spent outside the castle grounds. Sheltered and protected, Conrad felt special, a trophy to be kept safe. He often admired his reflection in his chamber mirror, noting the sharp curve of his jaw, the way his collarbones strained delicately from below his neck. Though pale, he was proud, mouth set in a defiant smirk. Conrad had grown to love his father’s unlove; the all-encompassing unlove that provides riches and trinkets and future wives. Conrad smiled, walking through the castle courtyard, thinking of the lovely Isabella. He would be married to her in a few short moments, he acknowledged.
Fifteen is not so young, after all, Conrad thought, his hands clasped together eagerly. He was pleased to have recovered from his cold so quickly, and he silently damned Matilda for persuading him to stroll with her through the forest a week ago. He just never seemed to have the stamina nor resistance for certain types of things. I’m delicate, he thought indignantly. I’m delicate and can’t be made to parade about on a horse chasing foxes and dogs all the damned day! Conrad had barely conceived this thought when unfathomably excruciating pain instantly struck his body. All thought of crushing bones and unyielding pressure ended abruptly after a quick intake of breath, the moment of terrifying inhalation lasting an unspeakable millennium. But the breath was caught by the wind and blown away; Conrad’s shattered asthmatic lungs useless as blood and body merge and slowly ebb into the crevices of the fine Italian marble.
i feel SO MUCH BETTER. i must edit this faulkner paper. i must do laundry. i must study. then i must take the restoration lit final. then i must clean the room. then i must pack. then i must PEACE OUT!
i have never been more ready for the quarter to end. a handful of weeks ago i wanted it to never end. it is funny how things change, and not in the ha ha way, but in the ironic wtf was i thinking way. because while i'm not prepared to graduate in june, i'm also not prepared to prolong torture. lolz.
i am going to hang out with skyler and gatsby until my eyes bleed. i am going to luxuriate in smiles and hugs and dancing in the garage to silly bands and the sweat and the filth and the LOVE OF IT ALL!
two days, baby. two days until second stars and straight on until home.
Macaulay Oliver. Aside from giving you the BEST NAME EVER, God was being far too kind when he gave you that smile and those hands and that passion for words that singes eyelashes and makes knees weak. And a Catholic, too, undoubtedly. With a day school and a congressman father and a Connecticut house with an east wing. I like the way you never shake, steady and sure. With chapped lips, coffee, and the surprisingly absent cigarette. And how you load on praise to the worthy. And how you load it on me, in front of jealous eyes and tired pens, ravaged paper. You load it on me and I suck it in; parched, embarassed, greedy, proud.
Yeah, proud. Proud that you noticed. Proud you've accepted me into that imaginary club of raised eyebrows and biting remarks. S-a-r-c-a-s-t-i-c comes close, but none of the connotation. We could lean in, right above a whisper, and intertwine narratives on the Eclogues and miniskirts, consumerism and Chaucer. Without skipping a beat. Because I've found that charm, quotient, and nonchalance can trump all.
So, seriously. Rich kids grown up into disaffected intellectuals = sexiest boys ever.
OMFG, I LOVE YOU JOHNNY RHYS MEYERS! ten like whoa, OMG OMG OMG OMG OMGGGGGGGGGGGGG. Seriously. Like. SERIOUSLY.
Well, I mean. At least I'd like to think so. But we get tolling bells every once in a while. And Hemingway can read it so well.
It's time to tip the scales in my favor.
riding bikes with Jesus Christ and bff. things are looking up. dave melillo understands my plight. but we both know that talk is cheap. you sing it, baby boy. kick your drummer out of your band, but keep writing the hits.
sometimes you have to stick to what is real: these keys beneath my fingertips, the sweetness and the sorrow speeding through tiny speakers, the best fucking voice i have ever fucking heard through 150 miles of static and freeways, night wind kissing cheeks hello and goodnight, and imagined wings.
yesterday still holds. we are up in arms and armed. bringing back old loves and making them remind me who i was when i wasn't right. ian musgrove still holds the key and jason gleason still brings the chills. it takes one night to change your life, sitting in a car and breathing deep the smell of home and longs nights. i miss you and it and want city lights now so bad i can taste the proximity. homesick, baby. the countdown starts now.
So the idea is that I don't actually care. I mean, about THOSE things. THOSE things can fuck themselves. I felt unspeakably terrible today, so terrible that I actually updated lj in the LIBRARY. But everything always works out. Abstract terror and depraved joy are not as different as we think they are. And the house is not fucking winning this time.
I'm running high on two hours of sleep. And the sick part: there is a tickling in my guts that loves this tired feeling, loves this trashy and broken and retarded feeling. Because when you're basically asleep you are fucking UNTOUCHABLE. The negative part: the crying, the no homework, the can't focus. Tomorrow is about writing a paper that is begging me, even now, to spill out of these hands.
And how about the part where all my favorite bands are breaking up? R.I.P, The Early November.
And how about the part where there's still this penny on my windowsill, sending luck 24/7.