Njosnavelin

Why wasn't I enough?

Why wasn't my love and my support enough to keep you from hurting yourself?

I didn't want to call 911. I didn't want to call emergency services. But you were hurting yourself, and that was hurting me...and I had to. I love you, Meaniepants. I love you so much. You're my best friend. You've been my rock for ten years. You and I -- we were the world. From Mr. Caldwell's class to Moore's yearbook room, you and I were together. It didn't mean the end of anything when you left Platteville. I was angry for a while, but only because I missed you so much. I was never very vocal about it, I think...and I'm so sorry for that. Maybe if I had been, you would have known how much I needed you. How much I needed my Grand Duke General.

And I do need you.

But why wasn't I enough?

Why was I 'too little, too late'?

I didn't want to get you into trouble. I didn't want to make you angry, to upset you, to make you hate me. But I had to call 911. I didn't want to go to the funeral of the only person on Earth who loved me unconditionally. I would never have forgiven myself if I'd have sat here, doing nothing to help. Don't be angry at the policeman who found you. He's an angel. He looked for you for almost three hours, and he called me three times so that I knew what was going on. He's an angel. A wonderful human being, an incredible policeman. Don't be angry at him. If you must be angry at someone...be angry at me.

But only because I love you too much to let you go. To let you hurt yourself.

I don't know what's going to happen now, but I ask for your forgiveness. I ask that you forgive me for interfering, for doing the only thing I could think of. I was hysterical, you know. I was crying, pacing, asking a God who doesn't exist for guidance. Asking something or someone to protect you. To protect you from yourself.

"Desperately I try to fight this overwhelming sense that I may never find the strength to change how hopeless we've become."

Forgive me. Remember that I'm your Spunky, and that I need you. That I love you like no one else.

Hurting (black-eyed angels)...

12:17 AM

They're there. I can feel them stretch like long-held notes. I can hear them unfurl...and now I feel them creeping, wriggling, sneaking beneath my skin.

The vine-feelings have blossomed again this night.

I haven't found my defoliant quick enough.

Too little eating, too much growth, too few comforts, too many fears. I see Bernini's 'The Ecstasy of Saint Theresa' and desperately wish that such pious, pure rapture would enfold me.

Just once. Just this once, while I struggle against the urge to bleed. Just this once, please.

I want very much to be completely blanketed in sound. I wish I could wrap a melody, a song, a few lyrics around me and over me...I want so very much to be completely immersed in a sea of sound. Maybe then I could silence the guilt and the sorrow. Everything I do is wrong, everything I say is hollow. Every action I take is suspended in time like an insect in amber, and those actions are hurled back at me with all the dexterity and swiftness of a lead bullet (when the sniper sees fit, mind you). I do my best to comfort those who act as their own wardens in grey mind-prisons, but I think I come up short. I think I dive into the static waters, but like a weight I help them to sink.

"I'm drowning in nothing;
Nothing's real...
Nothing's left...
Nothing."

I can't give you what you want, you know. I have nothing left to give.

I am all bitterness. All lost faith. All lost love.

12:33 AM

My head hurts. Too much thinking. Not enough sleeping. Like I do a lot of that, anyway. This last night I got about three hours. There. The 'Pyramid Song' again. I needed that.

"I jumped into a river and what did I see?
Black-eyed angels swam with me..."

I'm so tired. So very, very tired. Lulled into complacency by keeping house and cleaning up after four children, a mother, and a stepfather. They have the nerve to ask me, then, why I think I need to go out every night. I'm sorry...but I won't be kept home for the sheer sake of providing them with some small measure of comfort. I don't have comfort now. Why do they think they deserve it? I'm home all day, worrying about whether my sick mom will be able to make it through work without having a panic attack, worrying about whether anyone will get angry because I hung the clothes out on the line and they got a little stiff, worrying about whether I'll be able to do the dishes and not relish the feeling of a chipped glass against my palm.

Isn't that pathetic? I'm disgusting.

Still waging a war against what's hiding in the bottom pocket of my backpack. The house is cold again. Last night it wasn't nearly as dead. The little orange light still shines, my back still aches, and my room is in complete disarray. I jumped into the river. Black-eyed angels swam with me. I moved along the crumbling sand...and clawed my way further down. Good night. The victor has been decided. I've lost the battle.

Senseless

"What was it like to see
The face of your own stability
Suddenly look away...
Leaving you with the dead and hopeless?"

"My shadow's...
Shedding skin and
I've been picking
Scabs again.
I'm down
Digging through
My old muscles
Looking for a clue.
I've been crawling on my belly
Clearing out what could've been.
I've been wallowing in my own confused
And insecure delusions
For a piece to cross me over
Or a word to guide me in.
I wanna feel the changes coming down.
I wanna know what I've been hiding in..."

I don't know what to do. I don't know how to feel. I want to be angry, but there's no one to be angry at. I want to curl up (fetal position) and drift into a state of utter numbness. I want to cry, to sob, to rail against the wrongs that have brought this sickness on...but I can't. I have to be strong for the family, Bob says. I have to be strong and help out when he's not there, Bob says. I have to don the guise of strength when Mom's crying in her room because she's afraid...and I have to pretend that I'm not afraid.

Oh, but I am.

I'm terrified.

This is the third time I've had to grow up quick amidst cruel circumstances. I had to grow up at nine, I had to grow up at fourteen, and now I have to do it again. Do you know what it's like to have to take care of your brothers and sisters when you're nine years old and afraid that your mother's going to die? Do you know how much it screws with your psyche when, at fourteen (fourteen), adulthood is pushed upon you because there's no one else around to help you shoulder the burden? I was cooking dinner and cleaning at nine. I was helping with homework and making sure everyone got to school on time at fourteen.

At nineteen, I'm giving up my summer so that our family won't fall apart.

But I want to fall apart. I want someone to keep nailing me together...because I'm going to fall apart.

I don't believe in a God, but my family does. I suppose I'm glad they do. Our pastor (warm, loving, Scottish darling that is) and his amazing wife are spinning another web of hope for my mother and this family to fall back on. I'm so grateful that those two can provide some glimmer of faith, because I can't. I couldn't.

I don't want one person to tell me that there is a God. How could a RATIONAL being inflict this upon my kind, fragile, adorable mother? How could a benevolent, celestial father tear apart this family? Why the hell is this happening again? Why does she have to suffer through cancer again when a child molestor who lives just a few blocks away remains unscathed and gloating? HOWHOWHOWHOW?!

I'll tell you how. Because there is no God. The religion that they instilled in when I was six is just superstition. And now that I've figured it out, I'm brittle and terrified. But wiser.

I'm so ashamed of my own weakness right now. I need someonesomethingsomedrug. I need to be held. I need to get away from myself.

"At night I hear it creeping;
At night I feel it move.
I’ll never sleep here anymore...
I wish you never told me.
I wish I never knew.
I wake up screaming...
It’s all because of you."

Why?

I feel like I have been eviscerated.

Everything is numb. Question marks are pooling.

Two words gutted me. Right in the middle of my parents' room.

"It's back."

My parents were in Madison all day. I didn't know they'd been at the hospital. My mom had a biopsy done for a lump on her side. When they came home I was cleaning, and my stepdad told me to wait a minute...to come into their room. I went in, asked how everything was. He told me to sit down. And then those two words came.

They were like snakes. They bit me. In the middle of my parents' room.

The lump is a tumor. A softball-sized mass of cancer.

My mom has cancer. Again. For the third time.

"It's back."

Now I know there is no God. Now I know religion has no place in my heart. My mom's tiny frame will be wracked with sickness again. She will lose her hair again. She will spend the next part of the year -- perhaps longer -- throwing up and being injected in the hospital. Again.

Againagainagainagainagainagainagainagain. This is happening to her again. To our family again. Right before my sister graduates, before she leaves for the Air Force. Before I start my second year of college. Before my little brother starts his senior year at high school. I won't be singing old Led Zeppelin songs with my mom as she plays the piano this summer. I won't be care-free, I won't be smiling, I won't be, I won't be, I won't be.

I can hear her now, crying in her room. Because she's in pain. I saw my stepdad cry again, because she's in pain. I cried. My little brother cried. The other three don't know yet. But they'll cry, too. And there's nothing we can do about it.

If I knew there was a God, I would tear him limb from limb. If I knew why he was doing this to me, to us, to her, I would slaughter him. WHYWHYWHYWHY?

I need somethingsomeone right now. I need them to keep me from myself. I need everything to go back to how it was a day ago. I need to know why. Why?

Please, bestrafe Mich.

And again sleep flees.

Recovery often comes with a revelation. As it rained tonight, the revelation hit without recovery. I'd love to wrap myself in synthetic dreams and while away eternity in a cocoon of induced bliss, but it seems I've been denied all those things that would remedy this loathing. Oh? And the revelation...the revelation. The revelation.

I'll never make sense.

Not to you, not to myself, not to the casual onlooker who twists his neck to get a better view of the trainwreck. I watched the rain fall in white-grey sheets that disappeared in the neon haloes of streetlights, and I thought to myself: 'to what degree of depression will I sink into tonight?' Droplets on the windshield cast shadows that will never, ever be reflected while free will reigns. According to Vonnegut's Billy, individuals on Earth are the only creatures in the universe who talk of free will. How unlucky for us. "Come on, baby. Don't fear the Reaper." Beautiful song, isn't it? Reapers and free will and rain. Such things constitute an evening for me. If only I'd a black gown, a liberal amount of decadence, and an umbrella. Then I'd traipse around the foggy backdrop of a village at dusk, luring children with my piper's song. Luring and alluring are quite different, as one would guess. I'm no good at either.

Allow me to press against your eyelids.

Am I not making sense again? Here. Look at this and giggle. In pain, pain, so much pain right now. I'll shrink back and double up. My heart that shattered the night before has wounds tore afresh. By you. Mad bastard. So hore doch! Bestrafe Mich. My sister studies German. I dabble in her notes. Those were pretty words that tell a truth. So did the title of that last pathetic entry. Nie mehr das alte Leid. Nie mehr, indeed. Now I'm wanted elsewhere, but I can't go for fear of desertion. You were a priority. Was I an option? An option? Your option? There begins the pain. Hurting heart. Beating bloody cavern. We'll never make another memory. You said, you said, you said. I let you see a side of me I never share. Now I remember why.

I get it now. I am not somethingsomeone special to you. Watch as the sobbing starts.

"Irridescent eyes of the sea horse rise. Treasures she loves, others despise."

"Nie mehr das alte Leid"

1:13 AM

It's crawling underneath my skin again. Feelings like vines, creeping beneath my fingernails and into the spaces behind my eyes...hollowing me out like a virulent affliction, a malicious cancer, a sneaking disease. This is the fifth night in a row that I've been kept awake by the wriggling. There's too much noise in the silence of this sleeping house. All that's left to me in the early morning hours is the empty, orange light of the little shell lamp near the bathroom door. Into that sad luminance a realization lumbers.

I'll always go back for more.

I'm sorry to be so human, so sensitive, so given to emotion. I'm sorry for feeling guilty. According to what I believe, guilt is clearly a tool of the weak. This modem glow is too much for eyes who have seen too little. I am blind, obviously; I have given up those things that would comfort me for other objects that reek of degeneracy. And were it that I could reek of degeneracy, too. All too easily these creeping vine feelings would wither. Shamelessness could be my weed-killer. If only I didn't care so much. I'm sorry for caring. I'm sorry for not taking such things in stride, and I'm sorry for folding up under your gaze.

I'm not like that, really.

I am strong. I am eloquent. I am acidic and I am addictive. I am raw. I am forward. I am sensual and I am suffering. I am beastly. I am savage. I am frightened and I am fake.

1:31 AM

Fear keeps me quiet when the line opens. Fear of saying something stupid, saying something that doesn't fit into the shape of my silhouette. The vines flower afresh, and thorns uncurl between my teeth. I blink, and those same song lyrics cling to my eyelashes. If only you would have let me linger without you. I wouldn't have seen the colored lights, and still I'd be speaking to you unabashed. I'm sorry for being so depressed when nothing calls for it. I'm sorry for raining when you'd rather me shine. I'm sorry for wanting to see you bleed.

I'll be a blue-eyed suicide for all the world to eat.

We'll never make another memory.

And what am I doing that is so bad, anyway? Curdling my truth-stock with the vile breath of lies, lies, too many lies? I've only ever told the stories that would make them love me. I am afraid right now that all I've constructed will come crashing down around my head. I am afraid that the whistle will be blown, that I will end up alone. I'm alone anyway, I suppose.

You're going to tear it out, aren't you? You're going to laugh as the
Pulsations
Pulsations
Pulsations
Stop.

1:46 AM

And at the end of the fairy-tale, I will be plastic-wrapped and drowned. The feeling-vines will creep as always, my heart will shatter, and I will be better of because of it.

I write too much and think too little. If only the creeping, wriggling, crawling would end.

Fifth symphony, first movement...

Listening to: "Sally's Song" by London After Midnight
Reading: Kurt Vonnegut's "Slaughterhouse-Five"
Feeling like: I should be doing something more productive...


My mom finally got her sheet music for Beethoven's 'Fifth Symphony.' Oh, how I love it. And 'Fur Elise,' of course...she played that once when I was a little girl (before we got rid of the first piano) -- it was midnight, and I woke up to that haunting melody as it floated across the darkness along with the moonlight. Have you ever had an experience like that? It's never really forgotten. Sometimes I wish I could play the piano just so I could do that, you know, so I could wake up at odd hours and play Beethoven to my heart's content. God, I love the sound of Beethoven on the piano...its achingly beautiful.

I've found that the weather is very, very chilly at two in the morning. Since coming back from college, I haven't been able to re-adjust to anything yet -- not my sleep tendencies, not my self-control when drinking, not my penchant for off-limit things. I need a vacation from my vacation. Laura, pull out the couch...as soon as I start work and get some cash, I'm coming for a visit. And no, I haven't been able to assert my willpower...I had another significant relapse today. Should I just tattoo "Moron" on my forehead?

There's a cat sitting on my lap, and I really should get up to go read some more of than Vonnegut book. I'm too lazy to move though, I think. I could possibly slither over to the TV and play some 'Chaos Legion,' but even that would be a stretch. I haven't been home all fucking day (hallelujah for joy-rides and free Happy Meals) but already I want to leave again. And for some reason, I'm reverting to girly-ness lately. Yeah. Wore a skirt twice in the last two weeks, getting my hair cut on Wednesday into something infinitely more girly than the spikey thing I did in high school, finding myself harboring the thought of changing my hair color -- and actually caring about the end result. Oh GOD, I need help. Maybe I'll sit around and be slobbish all by myself for the rest of the week.

I have the house to myself until the weekend, by the way. If anyone wants to hold their nose and journey to this po-dunk town...by all means...please. Pleeeeeease.

So, I'm done rambling. I may do that slithering away thing now...towards the TV. Behave yourselves, children.

Home again, home again...jiggety-jog

Listening to: "Phantom Gate" by HIM
Reading: 'A Rudyard Kipling Collection'
Feeling like: A caged rat


Once again, I've found that HIM is peerless when it comes to doing song covers. Take Sentenced's "Excuse Me While I Kill Myself," for example. Ville does wonders with it. Yeah, the lyrics are graphic and they certainly lack in the eloquence department, but like Murderdoll's "Motherfucker, I Don't Care," it's got an extremely energetic beat...and it just makes you want to sing. I'm not kidding, punks.

I'm stuck in a rut, I think. I've been home for just four days, and I want to bash my head into the floor again and again and again. Josh got a new apartment with Jamie, and I've been there twice -- it's a nice place. The first time I was there I basically cleaned the kitchen -- washed the dishes, decided what cabinets they went in...some serious Betty Homemaker crap. Hopefully the next time I stop over everything'll finally be order. It gets a little frustrating when you've got a walkway that's only about a foot and a half wide to maneuver around in. Have to go back to the South Wayne Mart (collective groan) to pick up my schedule soon. Should have done it early this morning, but I didn't get up. Rough nights will do that to a person, you know. Watched 'Fellowship of the Ring' with my mom this afternoon, even though 'Naked Lunch' almost ruined Bilbo's innocence for me (long story). Now re-read this paragraph and TELL me I'm better off being home. I dare you.

And now, Plath.

Amnesiac

"No use, no use, now, begging Recognize!
There is nothing to do with such a beautiful blank but smooth it.
Name, house, car keys,

The little toy wife -- Erased, sigh, sigh.
Four babies and a cooker!
Nurses the size of worms and a minute doctor
Tuck him in. Old happenings

Peel from his skin.
Down the drain with all of it!
Hugging his pillow

Like the red-headed sister he never dared to touch,
He dreams of a new one --
Barren, the lot are barren!

And of another color.
How they'll travel, travel, travel, scenery
Sparking off their brother-sister rears

A comet tail!
And money the sperm fluid of it all.
One nurse brings in

A green drink, one a blue.
They rise on either side of him like stars.
The two drinks flame and foam.

O sister, mother, wife,
Sweet Lethe is my life.
I am never, never, never coming home"

"Rhapsody on a Windy Night"

So, T.S. Eliot is an absolute genius. Thus, I've decided to post this newest treasure I've discovered.

"Twelve o’clock.
Along the reaches of the street
Held in a lunar synthesis,
Whispering lunar incantations
Dissolve the floors of memory
And all its clear relations
Its divisions and precisions,
Every street lamp that I pass
Beats like a fatalistic drum,
And through the spaces of the dark
Midnight shakes the memory
As a madman shakes a dead geranium.

Half-past one,
The street-lamp sputtered,
The street-lamp muttered,
The street-lamp said, “Regard that woman
Who hesitates toward you in the light of the door
Which opens on her like a grin.
You see the border of her dress
Is torn and stained with sand,
And you see the corner of her eye
Twists like a crooked pin.”

The memory throws up high and dry
A crowd of twisted things;
A twisted branch upon the beach
Eaten smooth, and polished
As if the world gave up
The secret of its skeleton,
Stiff and white.
A broken spring in a factory yard,
Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left
Hard and curled and ready to snap.

Half-past two,
The street-lamp said,
“Remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter,
Slips out its tongue
And devours a morsel of rancid butter.”
So the hand of the child, automatic,
Slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along the quay.
I could see nothing behind that child’s eye.
I have seen eyes in the street
Trying to peer through lighted shutters,
And a crab one afternoon in a pool,
An old crab with barnacles on his back,
Gripped the end of a stick which I held him.

Half-past three,
The lamp sputtered,
The lamp muttered in the dark.
The lamp hummed:
“Regard the moon,
La lune ne garde aucune rancune,
She winks a feeble eye,
She smiles into corners.
She smooths the hair of the grass.
The moon has lost her memory.
A washed-out smallpox cracks her face,
Her hand twists a paper rose,
That smells of dust and eau de Cologne,
She is alone
With all the old nocturnal smells
That cross and cross across her brain.”
The reminiscence comes
Of sunless dry geraniums
And dust in crevices,
Smells of chestnuts in the streets,
And female smells in shuttered rooms,
And cigarettes in corridors
And cocktail smells in bars.

The lamp said,
“Four o’clock,
Here is the number on the door.
Memory!
You have the key,
The little lamp spreads a ring on the stair.
Mount.
The bed is open; the tooth-brush hangs on the wall,
Put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life.”

The last twist of the knife."

Gorgeous, hmm?

I've got nothing important to impart. Tomorrow marks the last day of my first year of college. Tomorrow night marks the beginning of summer job/money/freedom/wild exploits. I've got stripey purple socks and big boots on. And a red fishnet shirt. I'm exceedingly worried about the Victorian Literature final I have in half an hour, and I can't seem to find the time to return my text- and Nietzsche books. Supposedly I'm attending an end-of-the-year grill-out tonight, but we'll see if that happens. I'm thoroughly anti-social and it's getting worse as the year progresses. Is there any medication out there to cure a loathing of those people I'm not well-acquainted with?

I've got to finish packing tonight so I can get the hell out of Porter Hall tomorrow. I've got to finish "The Jesus Mysteries" soon so I can return the damn thing to its rightful owner. I've got to win at least one more time on Final Fantasy 9 so I can forever box up Zidane and his crew. I've got to end this stupid post so I can cram-study for Professor Hickey and his questions concerning James Joyce, T.S Eliot,Virginia Woolfe, and an assortment of authors from the Victorian period.

Ta.

In all honesty...

Someone pointed out that my last post smacked of "blog grumpiness."

Yeah, that's true.

Someone else pointed out that I was doing my damnedest to push everyone away from me with scathing words.

That's true, too.

That blast of heat needed to be released, people. Get over it. I'm not going to apologize for what I said. The manner in which I said it may need to be apologized for, and I feel marginal remorse for alienating some of you...but let's face it -- purgative therapy works rather well.

Some of you have actually stepped up and offered to help me (Laura, you're incredible). Some of you bristled and snarled in response (Klein, it's too bad). Others of you have carried on like always, which is (in all reality) a damn good thing (sorry for being caustic, Poison Girl). I'm over the grumpiness, at any rate. Allow me to confess that my ideologies have changed...for the better. No more sugar-coating, no more feeling guilty (in fact, I'm going to do what I want when I want...regarding all things), no more feeling weak in this horrid human shell (thank you, Nietzsche), and no more relying on others to make me happy.

It's working, by the way. I feel better already. I had no idea that some of you people visited this seedly little plot from time to time. Imagine my surprise at finding out I'm watched by more than three people. Oh, I can finally die enraptured.

In closing, let me say that I'm going to rescind my decision to cut myself off from you people. Those aforementioned individuals are worth my time, and those other lampreys -- Joe, Ali, Johnny, Brian...you're still worth my time, too.

0

Love doesn't last. Let me tell you all that right now. I'm sick to death of everyone tittering and sighing about how "in love" they are with significant others -- and how they proclaim, declare, disgustingly assert that they will be "in love" for the rest of their lives.

It isn't going to happen! Wise up and quit behaving like drooling fools!

I thought the bliss would last, just like all of you. I thought things would be absolutely perfect...just like all of you. A friend warned me that the first year in a relationship is heaven -- and then it starts to go downhill. I didn't believe him, out of sheer stupidity and lack of concern. But guess what? Things went downhill. So to all of you out there swooning over love and choking on the sugary things that crawl out of your mouths -- I'm warning you. I don't give a damn if you believe me or not. Just remember: it doesn't last, and someday you'll end up ruing the day "love" slithered into your vocabulary.

And another thing, while I'm feeling exceedingly open and cutting: my friends have turned into the worst strain of scum imaginable. I feel shortchanged. I feel ignored. I loathe calling you "my pals." Don't you ever whine to me about not keeping in touch. Don't you ever complain that we're not as "tight" as we used to be. Some of you have moved away and, in the process, moved out of my heart. Some of you have found surrogate buddies. Some of you use me out of convenience, and some of you call me only when you feel the need to be coddled and kissed. I can count those people who haven't yet betrayed me on one hand, and it feels pretty horrible. Note that I used the word "yet." I'm sure it will happen. Oh, I'm almost certain the rest of you urchins will betray me. I wouldn't be surprised if, in a year, I'm completely empty in the 'friend department' because I simply can't entertain, amuse, indulge, and dandle all of you anymore. I'm sorry I can't accomodate all of your nonsense. Really. I am at my WIT'S END when it comes to all of you. Thank you for semi-understanding and pseudo-being there when I needed you people the most. Thank you for giving our relationships a half-assed attempt when they were circling the drain. Thank you for deserting me when I needed you the most, and thank you for coming around only when it was convenient for you.

I'd be more content to live life as a hermit right now. I'm angry with everyone. I'm angry with myself. Laura, you "invented moody?" Get over yourself. Klein, you consider weed "barely a drug?" Wise the fuck up and do some research. Ali, you consider yourself a "realist?" It's called behaving like an prick. Brian, I'm sick of you attempting to prove me wrong in every conversation; remember that Cradle of Filth argument? There's an exceedingly good example of just how full of yourself you are (you'd never even seen the band before and you wanted to argue with me over where the fuck they're from?). Joe, you think you know all there is to know about everything? I'd just as soon bash my head in with a dictionary than listen to you ramble on about the things you think you know. Thank you to all of the people who don't comment in my DeviantArt gallery anymore. I can grow and progress with all of the critiques and encouraging words I don't get -- you're all so fucking considerate. Savannah, my darling, if you're such a loving person, why the hell haven't you deemed it worth your time to call me in the last six months? Erik, thank you for jerking me around by the head. You're strangely sweet (almost human) when I'm there, but when I'm off on other endeavors I'm ignore-able; that's what "friends" do, is it? Shandra, I know you're dealing with a death in the family right now, but learn some god damned human courtesy and CALL me if you have to cancel plans. Do not just leave me hanging for DAYS on end -- I know how you love to do that. Johnny, what happened to the sweet kid I used to love? You're an asshole to the nth degree now. Did you think I LIKE to be ignored? Rest assured, I won't be answering my email anymore if you can't grow the balls to answer your phone. Greg, fuck you. Just fuck you. Thank you for screwing up my emotions like a top and then letting me go like nothing ever happened. And by the way -- I see right through you. You're not cool because you pretend to like "obscure" bands and because you're a self-proclaimed "emo/fashioncore" kid. You come across like an anal-retentive chubby bastard with some serious attention-whore issues.

Am I supposed to feel needed anymore? Every other phrase in your last entry was "Aaron and Laura," Klein. It gets sickening to hear about the wonderful fucking time you're having up in La Crosse. Not that I ever hear about it anyway. Why is it always up to me to call? You've got a fucking phone. Perhaps you should learn how to USE IT. Everyone in my entire contemporary life sucks more ass than a lamprey on a donkey. Except Joshua. Oh, that's right. That's the ONLY MAN who hasn't abandoned me. The ONLY MAN who's willing to listen to me grunt, complain, and cry about things he has no expertise in. Here's a resounding 'piss off' to all of you people who urged me to break up with him. I see now that he's the only person on the face of this writhing ball of dirt who's going to be there for me NO MATTER WHAT.

You all suck. Hardcore. Fuck off.

Feelings Unidentified

"Help me if you can. It's just that this is not the way I'm wired..."

Why was it snowing yesterday? Eh? EH?! Why can't it be sixty-ish forever? I hate cold weather and I hate too-hot weather; I think weather in general sucks. Give me thunderstorms and mild temperatures, and I'll be set for life. I love a good storm -- there's nothing like it in the world. Especially when listening to it through a window thrown wide open...or when walking through it at twilight. I think I'll stop a minute now and dreamily recall such storms.

...

Alright. Done. Tossed back into the chaotic whirlwind of college and those few remaining days I have here. You know, I'm not entirely sure I want to leave. I love having my own room, love being able to go about and do whatever I want (whenever I want) -- and I adore having people over whenever the mood strikes. Hoo yeah. Haven't heard back yet from my sister or my mom even though I emailed them yesterday and last night, respectively. Hmm. I smell bratwurst. Where the hell is it coming from...? Anyway, yeah. Haven't heard back from them yet, and I'd really LIKE to, seeing as how I need them to move out next Thursday. Apparently I'm going home this weekend (DAMMIT!) because my family has a Mother's Day thing planned. Eugh. I really would have rather stayed here, but it was my grandma who called (aww), and I couldn't say no to her, now could I?

In other news...well...there isn't any news, I guess. There's some loud moron sitting next to me. Wanted to run out of the PSC in a panic when having lunch because Nathan left me with Greg (that wasn't so bad) and then like, fifteen of Greg's friends stopped by -- and two of them sat with us. I am so deathly afraid of new people. I was actually too terrified to get up and leave because I didn't want anybody to pay attention to me. Instead, I buried myself in a book and attempted to ignore their insane amounts of stupidity that flowed across the table. And while we're on the topic, I have to say that I loathe a certain poetry-subject prig. Hah. That's his new nickname, by the way. Oy. I have a headache now.