2005-02-24 - 9:53 p.m.
"So long to common sense again. You've lost your mind, you've messed it up again. Don't call, don't write, don't bother me." - The Stereo
Dear life, if you wanted to break my heart, you accomplished your goal. You know every way to fake me and break me. Pretend you don't have feelings. Pretend you're tough and your scars are your armor. Just save all that pain and let it fester. It turns to anger, to resentment, to hatred and fear. They say that females in this family are feisty, strong, sassy, and sharp-tongued. Caustic. No real self-restraint when it comes to the truth. I do suffer from the affliction, though shy, quiet, and hesitant. My mouth and mind are inconsistent with my nature.
What a lie. And a headache. I need medicine. Were it someone else, you'd say they have problems. These addictions ravage my body. THe front of the shirt should say "Bitch" while the back says "Get me some coffee". Perfect. Every time you look, you die. If you don't want people to look, then don't advertise. I simply can't compete. Go for vapidity if you must. It's how to survive - mindless, numb, no diatribes. Girl, don't you know you're invisible? I do. I do. Dry eyes, loathsome (and loathing) heart, and a body that's constantly scurrying away from all the problems. I stay away because I'm so easily hooked on what I like - poker, burritos, Project Runway, black everything, coffee, spider solitaire, and maybe even you. No, not you. Scared senseless that my entire life is one big addiction. Adrenaline junkie, and it doesn't take much.
"I'm so addicted to you, and you're such a dick to me" from that Lit song. No, that's not quite fitting. Yeah, I'm addicted to life. Life. Death. To cause embarrassment to oneself. TO blush and stammer inwardly while the glare appears on the outside to ward people away. To feel hunger, but also to encounter that block where your mind can scream much louder than your body, and the things it says aren't pretty. To feel sick, disgusted with every word or action or insinuation. That smell, it brings you back to when you were five, cute, innocent, and somewhat normal. No, you wrote even then - diaries with locks, and little red plaid, hardcover journals. You wrote about injustices in your daily life, and of wanting to run away to outer space. Little did you know that twelve years later, you'd sit in a UC Berkeley classroom guffawing at a guy who took your five-year-old solution and ran with it: "Professor, can't we just take all the mess we've made and send it to outer space?" His "mess" was literally trash, as was his suggestion.
It's the way you say we need to go against the flow, but we're just hypocrites who masquerade as intellectuals. We have no shame. The point is to make you think how pathetic I truly am. Look into my mournful eyes and trick yourself into thinking they really are reflections of my soul. Sometimes I wonder how long I can live this way, relying on scars and scribbles, instead of stars and hearts. My shooting star fell down; my heart's gone to pieces.
"My hands are tied, but my mouth is wide open. It's all you need for a life of devotion. I'm drowning, straight down, man. Should I just give up?" - Enemies, "151"
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