I think i probably spend too much time alone. It’s easier though than having to bother with others. And the truth is, my tolerance has become intolerant. I find myself grinding my teeth every time someone else speaks. They ruin a silence, the gap in conversation where my brain can sort things into some kind of cohesive mess that’s slightly more appealing and understandable.

My friend interrupts me now. Every time I pick up my phone to text, she immediately flings a bunch of questions my direction so I can’t type without long pauses. She’s jealous, I suppose. It’s strange to see. I tire of her attention seeking. She mentioned recently that she hoped we would crash into the bottom of the ravine while we were driving. She said that at least that way we would have more trauma to talk to with our therapist. I’m not sure what to say to that, not even now. And at the time, I said nothing.

She’s slipping further and further into her lies and I watch with lackluster interest. I told our therapist that I was sick of her constant stories with their changes. Every week it’s the same story with altered details, precariously placed in some kind of effort to intrigue me. She has told me she fears getting boring to me. She’s been listening to different music and constantly makes jokes about how “when we’re married” or “when we’re rich”, we’re gonna do _______. I’m not even sure where to go with it. I’ve discouraged her, but it makes little difference.

Then she told me the other day that she wanted me to tell her what I remembered from her doctor’s visit the other day because she “sometimes gets ideas and then thinks of them as part of the memory/story”. In other words, she knowingly lies.

This sudden insight into her own behavior is peculiar; she tends toward ignorance, willful and not. She’s never been particularly self-aware, if anything she has a strong proclivity for bragging and exaggeration. It just so happens that the previous week, I had a conversation with our therapist about her lying, then of course she suddenly says this.

I know for a fact that he (therapist) uses my words for her therapy. She has told me things he’s told her, and I have to stifle a laugh when I realize he’s feeding her my concerns. This should maybe be a warning sign of his untrustworthiness, but somehow I appreciate it. It’s been making my life easier.

I’ve grown tired of company. My current situation is frustrating at times. I find myself away more often than not. I go off by myself for hours and I don’t look back.


Calculated Mistakes


I fucked my ex boyfriend in his car on the side of the road. He still has a girlfriend. He still thinks he’s done nothing wrong. Life could be better today. I had an extra session with my therapist since I went full-blown hysterical on Tuesday, and that seemed to pave the way for even more blatant stupidity and poor decision making. Because what do you do when you’re surrounded by chaos and feel overwhelmed?

Make more trouble, of course.

Bored boring bore fucking bored

I feel like the volume is turned down and one of those awful news channels I had to watch as a kid is playing. You can’t tell what they’re saying, and it doesn’t matter anyway because you don’t care. You just sit on the couch listlessly as your dad downs whisky and your mom washes the dishes with the obnoxious clanking that all cheap dinner plates seem to make.

I got this girl’s phone number and she’s less interesting than watching paint dry. One of those closed off sort of people that think they can’t say anything to anybody, which in turn makes no one interested in talking to them. I’m not 15 anymore; I wholeheartedly admit that I have no tolerance for the race slowly won, not unless the prizes are to die for. It’s so rare to find something that lasts more than a few days, because everything is so studied and mundane. I can see the pattern already, and it’s worn and tried. Tried too many goddamned times.

I kind of want someone to cut my skull open, take out my brain, and toss it in a deep fryer. I feel like that might drown out some of the mumbling in the back of my head.

Through time

I came across an old email today. It’s strange to look back at who I was then and who I am now. I have to ask myself if we really are so different as I pretend. We were the same once, weren’t we? The direction my life took does not pain me, however the way I dealt with it does. It disgusts me to think what a desperate, lost soul I can be, clawing to the one thing I believe made a difference.

How could you not see it what what was drowning you, I wonder?

I can only hope I have become vacant enough to handle such an encounter again. I lost myself, I lost what I wanted to be, and thought that someone else could live it for me. But the truth is, we are all alone, no matter what they might say. I am the only one who will shoulder the weight of my own burdens, and when I stumble and fall, there will only ever be my own willpower to get me to rise again. I expect you to spit in my face and laugh, or run away scared; I’ve see it all, sweetheart.

I’m smiling now. In the end, is that so truly terrible to be abandoned? What should a monster really expect?

If I saw you again, I think I might discover that I still love you. But that love, ah, what a thing it is now. Is love what makes me want to rip out your heart through your chest and eat it? Oh god, and I would.

I’d love to hear you scream. You think me sick now, I wonder? But I think you already did. So I thank you, I thank you for taking the worst part of me and making it so obvious, because without you, I’d have never been able to get to it. I’ve cut it out, you know, burned at it, ripped at it with my fingernails. I’ve drank it away, I’ve starved it away, and now it’s this shriveled vile thing, so perfect for the rest of me. I was never good enough, and now it’s all not good enough. And you know what? That’s just how I like it.

I will never be good. I’ll always be the child to you, the one you found so petty. But I see now what I could not see then. With all your so-called righteousness, I never thought to look deep, but I see now what you didn’t want me to see. And god, aren’t we so ugly on the inside?

And now I’m laughing. So goodbye my sweet friend. I’ve decided I am through with you, for good. You were my hardest lesson, and I am sorry to disappoint, but I am still here.

Oh, and motherfucker? I’m not leaving until I’m done.

Never to sleep

The schedule I’ve been keeping is killing me. I can’t seem to sleep when I need to, so I settle for staying up all night and a good chunk of the day until I reach that crashing point of no return. I keep waking up at 7pm, and though I’ve tried to change my internal clock, it doesn’t seem to be working. If I go to sleep earlier, I just wake up at 5am, can’t sleep, and go until noon, which means back up at 7 again. It wouldn’t be a problem if my living situation was different, but as it is, I am the total opposite of everyone else, and I sleep so lightly that their everyday noises constantly wake me.

Every couple of days I just drug myself for some reprieve. I’ve been trying to work on my artwork, and have been messing with oil paints. I’m still terrible, but at least it’s something to do besides Skyrim or obsessing over my fish tanks. Besides that, things are relatively normal, although it looks like our house-hunting is going to be put off yet again, as the main car has decided to start acting up. Fortunately, mine is still going strong, but my boyfriend can hardly afford to drive it, as it requires premium fuel. The mileage it gets isn’t bad, but for how far he has to go, it means 65 dollars every 4 days. Not exactly economical.

There’s a good chance we’ll get a new car before the house, just so we can have one vehicle that has a warranty. If the housing market goes up even slightly, our chances of getting a house will more or less be dashed, which is why we have been focusing on getting into one as soon as possible. More setbacks, as always. Every time we get to a point where we can buy, something comes up.

At this point I’ll settle for a shack not by the railroad tracks. I guess we’ll see.

Into the Cold

I always enjoy October. It’s the time of the cheesiest of holidays, but more to that, it is also a time of change and darkness. Night falls sooner, and the blanket of night seems to smother in its inky blackness. The stars end up blotted out, as the night sky fills with impenetrable layers of clouds. The moon gets that glow about it, a glow that only seems to come in winter. It’s that foreboding kind of appearance that causes you to shudder if you stay out in the woods too long, just long enough to catch sight of it through the tree branches, seemingly skulking about.

Things have been looking up somewhat. I’ve been consciously trying to rid myself of the poisonous thoughts that threaten to chip away at my resolve. I’ve found it’s harder being unemployed than it ever was to be so; the judgment is funny. I have been making enough money without a so-called ‘real’ job, but it is more or less my dirty secret. I’m venturing deeper and deeper into darker territory, with no plans of returning soon, if ever. The secrets, which once were so esoteric and beyond me, are now mine to grasp. I’m no longer afraid of going too far. I find keeping myself so locked away is appealing; I can stand back and laugh, because in the end I have an evil little secret, and it is all mine.

I’m caring less and less about things that I once considered important. I don’t know whether these things will return or not, but for now everything is so fucking inconsequential. I don’t care how I look, I don’t care how I feel. Most days I don’t bother to fix myself beyond showering. I neglect my hair so much that it becomes matted and unmanageable. I was blonde for the longest time, something I spent several hundred dollars achieving, then a month ago I decided I couldn’t stand looking at it. I cut it all off and dyed it black, halfheartedly. Now, again, I find that I hate it. I hate dealing with it, and I hate having to brush it before I go anywhere. I hate having to find clothes that aren’t dirty. I’m to the point where I now walk over to my boyfriend’s side of the closet and wear his clothes because they are loose and baggy and I feel like when I wear them I don’t have to think about it.

I don’t want to be beautiful or memorable or anything. I want to be someone who walks by and is forgotten about, so that I can get on my way. Going to the store feels like an exercise in patience, where I’m forced to grudgingly speak to people I can’t stand. Each time I leave the house I run into three people I know, all wanting to know how I am and where I’m working now. It didn’t matter to you before, so why should it matter to you now? I know you don’t care, that’s why I’m standing across from you, completely uninterested, but going through the motions so that I can continue pretending like I’m normal and nothing is odd about me. You all believe it, because it’s that fucking easy. I can be an asshole and you still believe it. All the small talk is an exercise in futility, because no matter how far you try to dig, I will not give anything away.

I like being able to go home and sleep next to someone who doesn’t expect anything of me beyond some dinner and a few hours of time together. I didn’t know that it could be like this, that there could be someone who will just…be there. Even my parents failed me miserably in that respect. There always seems to be conditions when it comes to love and loyalty, which is probably why I loathe both so deeply. Something is always expected, no matter what. Nothing comes freely, especially love. I didn’t understand it at first, his complete acceptance. I thought it was a lie. I still question it at times, yet as the days pass and as I continue to stagnate and lose myself in art, he comes closer instead of farther away. Somehow, our relationship is deepening, getting closer to the core, even as I seem to be slowly losing my battle to stay away from all the darker things that I desire.

It’s funny, but I once offered someone this same existence: do what you will, if only to be with me. And now that the tables are turned, I find it so much more frightening. I’ve known desperation, I’ve known that feeling of absolute insanity, where it’s either you have this person or there’s no reason to go on. Somehow, this is very different. I love, certainly, but it is measured and sane. It means more because it is level and true.

Or is it? I fear at times that I have reversed positions, becoming the apathetic partner to the clingy one. But I know that I am not him and things are different. My partner is not me, and he will not degrade himself to the point of desperate acts. I look back now with a sense of dread. I never again want to be in such a position, where I allow someone to become my lifeline. We all must stand on our own, regardless of how difficult it might be at times. I have always been the stronger one, and at times I faltered with that. It was my own doing that I allowed myself to weaken to such a point. I am ready now, for all things, and going into that blackness doesn’t scare me anymore. It is what it is, and I have the scars to show for it.

It’s strange having someone wait for you at the end of the tunnel. I am not stupid enough to expect it, but it comes as a welcome relief, and I will treasure it while I am lucky enough to have it.

Nasty whore disease.

I’m starting to think I look suspicious, or have some kind of aura that automatically makes me prone to meeting rude individuals. I seem to get treated like shit even when I make en effort to be kind and polite. I’m at the point where I want to snarl at the first person who looks in my direction.

I’ve been sick for over a good month now. I have this hacking cough that won’t go away and this stabbing pain in my side that makes sex and sleeping semi-unpleasant experiences. I’m hoping it’s not pneumonia, but who knows at this point. I could have caught the nasty whore disease from someone at work—it seems more than likely, really. Every time I leave a drink somewhere I come back to find someone else slurping it down. Even if I write my name in black sharpie it doesn’t seem to make a whole lot of difference. And they wonder why sickness spreads so quickly? I’ve taken to tossing out my cups after I down a good half of it; not much of a choice when it comes to that.

I’ve been eating nothing but shit too. For some reason my mood is much improved. I wouldn’t say I’m not depressed, m0re that I’m in a distant state of mind. I’m trying not to think about the fact that I’m getting a little rounder in the rear and my clothes are becoming snug. It’s a combination of seriously not giving a fuck, pure arrogance (something I never thought I’d have), and knowing that no matter how disgusting I get—-

I’m still fucking getting laid!  Therefore, what the fuck does it matter? 

It’s the Audis and the Versace sunglasses and the New Rocks. I’m becoming one of those label consumers that used to make me disgusted. Somehow, I don’t care. It’s like a veil has fallen over my sensibilities. I want to eat rich food—anything cute and cuddly swaddled in baby fat—fuck as much as humanly possible, watch as many bad horror movies as Hollywood can possibly produce,  read and watch as much porn as I can fit into the ten hour period I’m allotted, and mostly I want to sleep like a king in my cave-like loft with a sheepskin under my naked body. Somehow, this is the only way I have staved off that beast that has been haunting me since I was ten. LaVey would be proud.

My demons are always with me, but through lawless decadence and leather furniture they are sated.

For now.