happy endings are stories that haven't ended yet

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tomorrow's the last day for seniors.
and yesterday was my last performance with him. somehow prior to warming up in the midst of the banter, the subject of graduation came up. i faintly registered that i never wanted to see him again and said brusquely that i wasn't going to go to graduation. "thanks," he replied in that slightly sarcastic,, pseudo-indifferent way of his. and i looked at him straight in the eye for once and asked him "do you really think i'd go for you?" and he acknowledged that i wouldn't. then i asked him out of spite, "if our situations were switched, would you come for me?" it was meant to be rhetorical. "yes, actually." and at that i simply looked away and shook my head. lies. still his. but i don't blame him anymore. i really don't. but just because i don't blame him doesn't mean that he's not an absolute immature prick, right? i understand that what happened wasn't either of our faults, or it was both of our faults. i was barely breathing at home, about to move out, coming home late and doing crack and drinking before zero period. he had to deal with the death of his father. it was a really horrible time in both of our respective lives, and unfortunately they happened at the same time. that's the only tragic thing, really. because we were so centered on what was going on in our own lives we couldn't be there for each other as much as we expected each other to be. and that, probably, encouraged a loss of faith, and so on. all these thoughts rushed through my head again as i sat there. but i still didn't want to go to graduation.
after that i just looked at kevin and told him that i don't like his earrings, but later when he left to talk to jacob i said something about how he's gotten so much cuter over the last two years. i think i'll actually miss him. he makes me laugh.









the future becomes the present, the present becomes the past, and the past turns into to everlasting regret. and there's nothing we can do to stop it.

return of the

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the door remains locked
as i reject the patience
heaven offers, seething,
breaking,
allowing

emotion to surge forth
and bring to my lips the
battle cry against my own blood.

my bones are your bones;
we breathe in the same anger.
our marrow is of the same red
that paints our vision.












today was fun fun. i went to jessica's house with joann and ashley. karaoke, baby.

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you used to make it alright to be me.

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sleep if a bloody piece of shit. it's fucking five in the morning. i haven't fucking slept since thursday and my eyes still won't fucking close.


the morning can go fuck off.











i have a problem with constancy, weight, smoking, and anger. i'm being eaten from the inside out, some jagged teeth carving out my stomach.
there's nothing left to drink but the dregs. you swallowed the fucking key.




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they used to dance

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glowing sun. the nerves of the earth swell with heat. the skin of the land perspires. i am suffocated by the humid air that thickens the blood of my veins.



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better education. please. i'm begging you.

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There are things that you do during the day that squeeze at you're insides like a bitch. Like smoke way too many cigarettes. Or fuck the wrong person. Or realize that you're becoming more and more pessimistic and that you're slowly slipping back into old habits.
And you have no idea why.

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Today I went to the bookstore with Rick. He is not a bookstore person. But he did actually purchase something-- Sartre's Nausea.
Impressive.
Sort of.


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It is OVER!

AP French: I... mentioned Mick Jagger in my oral. That pretty much sums it up.
AP CalcII: I sat next to Dineth, thought about how handsome he is and then died during #6 on part B of the free response.
AP Physics B: ... After the test, it felt like I had literally TRANSFORMED INTO A PILE OF STEAMING SHIT AND I WAS JUST THERE, STINKING UP THE PLACE.
AP Art History: Wrote a lot about feminism. Pyah!



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I feel like I am swaying in and out of everyone's life. And when you are doing the swaying, and everyone else is also moving, feet pattering like mice, where is your constant. It's not in my head, and therefore nonexistent?

And like I said before, once or twice, I can do all the loving; more than enough for two. That's not what I need, really. I just need someone to provide emotional bandages and kiss my hand and smell the lotion, not the cigarette smoke.














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inside my brain. the world creeps in.

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today i said,
"you know what, i think i've finally got it figured out:
life's a bitch, see, but so am i. and the entire point of my existence is trying to figure out who's the bigger bitch."

and ryan said,
"that was beautiful. i'm going to quote you on that."


















the following is about sex. and it's not pretty sex.
i warned you.
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when i say that fucking is an out of body experience for me, i don't mean to imply that it's that pleasurable.
i mean to say that as opposed to it being of the body, it's very much in the MIND. i don't feel anything; i'm barely conscious of my physical reaction and at times i'll touch myself and be shocked at the fact that i can feel. my BODY. my mind only registers the movement and the matter-of-fact ministrations of the two of us.
oh, he's sucking my breasts.
oh, i'm licking his cock.
would you look at that, i forgot to shave.
there's nothing deeper than that. occasionally, i'll grimace in self-conscious physical insecurity or be vaguely aware of sounds. the moans that he makes, sometimes, but mostly the false, calculated half-whimper, half-moans that i cry out. you have to be submissive enough to keep his ego intact and yet dominant and sexy enough for him to be aroused. his curiosity needs to be piqued, his sexual fantasies goaded.
you can do a lot of that with sounds; and words.
oh yes, baby, i want your fucking dick thrusting into me.
fucking shit, i need your cock.
focus all that energy into the head below the waist. he'll turn into putty in your hands. spunk in your hands.
and all the while, i'm thinking of this, measuring as i mew, calculating as i cry out. it's not an art form, fucking--it's like math. A plus B equals C. Manipulation of equations to arrive at the final solution: orgasm. for him, of course. not for me.
because god knows that i'm not brave enough to have an orgasm. cumming is ultimate pleasure and a confirmation of a loss of control. i don't do that. i can't do that. and yes, i've tried.
fucking is cerebral.
if you want you can make part of it fun by making predictions. how fast can you make this guy EXPLODE.
just make sure not to get caught up in the fun, or before you know it you'll be lying next to him dazed with pleasure, and that physical JOY will slowly mist your eyes and numb you with affection as you feel him breathing, smell him, know him, love him.
trust me, it's not all fun and games. and that's why i keep fucking as an out of body experience. once removed from the physical, you are more rational--my body is too vulnerable, weak and too responsive to male attention.
it's your battleground. and your head is the war.



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cup cakes as you silk stain... lies vs. skilled syntax

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the other day i was going to say no to his lusting, and then i realized that afterwards i would have to what-if everything. so i got to the controlling, grounding, pounding.
we're watching rockyIII in calculus, and i'm flirting all the time with boys to old/young/idiotic.
stupid fucks all of them.
really, all i want to be able to say is, "i want you to take care of me."


life's too short, we all work too hard; at least there's what, boxed wine and cocaine? and WHAT. we do this because we're all afraid, at least i have the will to starve myself for five days, but damn those cigarettes.

i want it all to stop.
but i feel that no halt will be gratifying enough except death.
but the dead can't dance.

i want louis garrel and eric chang.
one night of love to put my head in a mess.
but those who come are not of their height or their frame, their habits or their hair.
the other morning i got really scared because i haven't gotten a nosebleed since freshman year, and while i was washing my face before going to class, my nose started pouring with blood. the entire sink was red. i locked the bathroom door and waited for it to stop. i was late to class.

listen up girl, and slow down.





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puddle.

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i tend to fall in like with all these boys that i shouldn't, either because of age or innocence or indifference.

fuck.



to recap the week,
on monday... i don't remember what i did on monday.
but i do remember that i didn't sleep since i remember the colors in my room turning lighter and lighter, watching them as i listened to sigur ros...
and on tuesday, i didn't do anything special, but i came home at around 3am, took a shower, worked some more and then went to school, slept for around an hour during 0-1 period. the teachers didn't say anything, go figure.
fuck physics.
then on wednesday, i didn't come home until 5 because i was studying. on thursday i didn't come home at all. i studied until 2-ish, then rick picked me up and took me to csuf where white people supposedly accumulate and drink and smoke pot in the restroom. then we went to the arboretum around 4-ish and climbed a tree, talked for roughly 45 minutes before going to his house. i spent the rest of the night there and he took me for coffee and then school.
and on friday i crashed, having had two hours of sleep since monday and around 3 packs of cigarettes and a few light beers.
it has not been a very good week.