2005-04-05 - 7:45 p.m.
"I see the anger in the back of your eyes. I know the vengeance running through your mind. You're up on the cross with a heart full of nails, hanging your head low whenever you fail." - Descendents, "Ace"
Excerpt from the real-life, notebook-y hateful notebook:
It should state that one of my goals in life is to caffeinate myself at an alarming rate. Shake shake shake because you're losing ground. Perhaps a disclaimer would be appropriate - one that says, "Yes, this girl is a bit odd, but probably not as insane as you think, for her ramblings are not much more than word association." Yes? Good?
Darn. My knuckle has been spliced but I cannot recall any pain or incident which would account for it. Boy oh boy. I really am a somnambulist, eh? Local tie affair completely destroyed by waves of crimson and pride. This twang in my head and the images it brings. Annoying, at best. Scalding coffee and burnt tongues. Yes. Please. The cover reeks of lipgloss and black. It describes you quite well, too.
Let's admit it. This pity party works, and as long as it does, we'll never face our own problems. You'd think that my appearance would scream a warning, but it's true that people are oblivious. Little girl, hateful girl, you're in the back(ground). Visions of normalcy all around and nobody even noticed. Tiny black dot in a perfect mosaic. Who'd notice at all?
It's funny how you cradle this natebook while gnashing your teeth. He was staring at you, a notebook in his hands. Minutes ago, he was just as immersed in his writings. Could it be that he, too, has a hateful notebook? Seems so. Welcome to your salvation, buddy - enjoy. There was a genuine moment of panic one day when I realized I had no hateful notebook. Then, for less than a dollar, a new one took its place and the planets aligned once more. Somewhere in here, there's a line that'll burn me, and one that'll be the one I'll cling to for the rest of my life.
Another half-hour until you plunge into torture and mediocrity, so save a dance. Freezing. Brain in pain. No more rhyming or alliteration, for it's dangerous. Does he still read the hateful notebook? Too many do, and they're worse off for it. We'll call it TDM and be done. In a way, it's more insulting.
I say I hate, but for the life of me, I can't think of one thing that I truly do hate. It's not a hatred. It's a withholding of my love, my little carbohydrate. And I do tend to love things rather freely: Bassists and writers. Things that sparkle and shine. Green. Black. Frozen desserts. Libraries. Broad shoulders. Mechanical pencils. Tacky jewelry. Lipgloss. Colorful hair and personalities. Hot sauce. Nipple rings and other perfect piercings. Nice hands. Sharp objects. Dancing bass lines. Nature walks. Warm showers. Sad lyrics coupled with catchy tunes. Fruity-smelling deodorant and body spray. Impassioned speech. Hercule Poirot. Honey mustard. Men who aren't afraid to wear skirts, tight flares, and/or eyeliner. Furry animals. Little old ladies who solve murder mysteries. Nerd(y) rock(ers).
You see, I do love, and probably too much. That is an incomplete list.
"The real truth of youth is - innocence is a blessed and cursed simulcast. The simple fact is that I'm sick of every song that dwells on the past. But still I go on writing - how long can my discontentment last?" - Limp, "Eighteen"
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