I'll ask again.

Why?
Why do I do the things I do?
Do I like hurting myself? Am I a masochist?


Really?




I've been insulted before. I didn't cry then. Nor will I now.



Better to be hated than loved for what you're not.



I know. You know. So let's just shut the fuck up.

Often, I think of completely withdrawing, just to scare you shitless.

 They're annoyed with me. I keep them trapped behind my eyes all the time. It's been at least two years since I've really let them run freely.


Yeah. I typed up three paragraphs and was only halfway done when I realized it's not even worth it.

I'd just like to put this thought in your head.
If you could choose which extreme I could be on, would you choose the other end? The opposite of who I am now. Would you rather me fit too well in the box?

I know, I know.

You wanted one who would fit perfectly. Or else exactly the same way you did.

... 

Maybe it'd serve me right if I did blow away. You can fucking keep Toto. I don't need anyone.

... yep.

So. I'm on it again. First time since grade 7. And it works better than I remember.

I also know that I know things. I didn't know that before.

I'm smart. I'm pretty. Outside.

But inside.
Is it bad to think I'm beautiful?
Because I kind of do. Really.
I feel reassured today.


All is not lost. Some is still salvageable.

Hope is a strange thing.

I couldn't find a good picture because I never thought I'd need to take any to remember.

It's because there's hope then.

There are moments when anything can happen.
Anything at all.


And I just realized we had our last real Christmas dinner without realizing it. It's no longer a tradition.
It's a memory. And I am sad.

Because when I think of winter
It's that scene.
That room, that house.
The tree, the lights, the food, the people, the grandma.

And the music. There was always music.



And now there's not.

It's like when you drop your ice cream cone.

It's the same feeling.
You're kind of angry that it happened, but also sad. Partly because you don't get to finish it and partly because you know it'll just lay there. Ruined.
And you can't fix it. You can't put it back.

And you know you're a big kid now but you want to cry anyway.

Hmmmmmmm.

A tornado already ripped off the roof. So it's been cold for a while.
Bricks are often kicked out of the walls, but I'm used to it.
There's still burn marks too. Everything smells like smoke.
And water damage, when I leaked.

The floor is still holding steady. And I took comfort in that.

But last night a whole wall fell. A whole fucking wall.

And yet I still see it there. I want it to be there so badly that I refuse to accept that it fell in the first place. That it shouldn't be there in the first place. I'm not even sure if it actually fell or not, because I know I'm crazy to begin with.

I don't want to have to ask if it's still there. I don't want to admit that my sanity was gone a long time ago.

Because that would be awkward.

Please just don't. Please.

So I'm officially losing it. Everything. It's all I can do to really exist. I force myself to converse with regular human beings. And it's actually a hard thing to do. I think I'm doing it wrong. I always think people are judging me, or otherwise reading my thoughts, or somehow knowing exactly what I think and feel, leading me to withdraw and internalize everything.

Just so you know, when you make stupid jokes, or talk to me when I seem tired and I seemed to get annoyed, I probably am. I don't mean to be. But when you continually interrupt my thoughts without even knowing it, the judgmental part of me thinks you're extremely dumb and ignorant. The bitch part thinks you're dumb and doing on purpose to piss me off. The tired part of me thinks you're dumb and wants to sit myself down right then and there and close my eyes and not open them again for years. The melancholy part of me thinks you're dumb and is trying very hard not to cry. 

So when I seem like I don't want to talk, I probably don't. So don't try to make me. Because I might just explode right there.

Goddamn Arms Race

The pearl runs a close second.


The clam hurts though, if you want the pearl bad enough.


And no. You won't get it until you hurt.

Indiana Jones

Mine is missing his whole arm. Not just a little hand. So I win.

Now, I have no way of knowing if that thank you was for me. Nor do I have any justifiable way of finding out.
But if it was, you are so very welcome.

If it wasn't, then know that I have been trying my hardest. I promise.