REPORT A PROBLEM
Ignorant, closeminded people. Being woken up by said people. Getting out of bed in the morning only for a bowl of cereal and discovering you have no milk. School mornings. Homework on Friday nights. Having to do your homework at 1:30 Monday morning because you wasted your entire weekend partying. Stupid people and the songs they play at parties. People who always listen to the same rap songs while driving. Driving with my mom because she won't let me turn up my music. Nonsensical rules. People who make those rules. Ignorant, closeminded people. [These are a few things I hate.]
Today, buying bread and milk at Albertson's with the last of my money, I felt so old. I saw two girls running through the store in socks, laughing and sliding, and I wished I could have slipped off my sandals and chased after them. I remember the days they're experiencing; first kisses by the river, responsibilities building up between sleepovers, beginning to realize that nothing is eternal so you've gotta hold onto every piece of innocence you can. I am nothing but shattered words, vows that I broke a long time ago taunting me still. And I want everything back.
It's incredibly tough to change what you worked so hard to establish; it's next to impossible to dispute your blemished reputation. Every day I get reminded that even in pink Abercrombie shirts people see me as just another stoner.
I got really involved in the discussion in history class yesterday and afterwards I was asked what I was sucking up for. No one understood that I was actually interested, and that left me wondering if maybe it wouldn't just be easier to give into their false perceptions. I want to be taken seriously but maybe I'm just a serious fuck-up.
I went to visit Aden's grave yesterday. I saw flowers there, still fresh, and interspersed through them were random tributes from friends who will never forget him. There were rain-faded notes and small souvenirs from individual lives, but most memorably, there was a salt shaker dressed as a person. Wheat emerged from the top, resembling hair, and the creator [I'd like to think it was his best friend Reynolds] had drawn a face on it, and inserted a short stick in its mouth-hole to resemble a joint.
I hope people remember my personality enough to leave tributes like this behind.
I am struggling to breathe in this smoky air, wondering why I'm not getting high off the toxins that must be floating around. The only thing I feel is a nostalgic ache, a craving for the secure depression that has carried me through the past four years safely. The nights of crying at my best friend's house and learning to drink, days of searching for anything to get high off of because we needed it. Shit, I still need it. I'm resorting to the surrounding air only because there's no other high available.
Today is a fuck-it kind of day.
Isn't it said that eating chocolate produces the same endorphins in your brain as having sex? I think so. And if not, I can apply the same concept that lies behind placebos- as long as you don't know any better, the remedy still works.
I had a completely shitty day yesterday and by the end of the night I just wanted anything to steady my emotions. I haven't figured out if it's the birth control or just everything that's making me unstable, but either way it's hormones.
Sex and chocolate.
I think today will be an big improvement on yesterday.
I've never figured out why, but it's hard for me to fall asleep in someone's arms. Early this morning I went to a party and ended up staying at a guy's house and lying awake in his arms while he slept. I just can't let my guard down enough to sleep next to someone.
[However, I got drunk and fooled around with Christy at three in the morning once. We've never mentioned it but it was magical because the room was spinning and her eyes were sparkling when I pulled away. And I fell asleep in her arms that night.]
I'm craving, always craving, for some beautiful release. These days I don't even know what I want to liberate from my heart but there's something inside me- a puppy, if you will, scratching persistently on the walls that place themselves in front of me.
Words flow through my head at ease but they don't fall onto the pages right. Songs have beautiful melodies but they're always a little off-key nowadays. Anything destructive would not seem right, anything perfect would not seem fair. So I sit here in sweats, staring at the cursor, waiting for something to ease these constant cravings.
Scientists analyze REM patterns and, solely on the fluttering of eyelids, conclude that dreams last for only fractions of minutes. But I disagree with their data; I'm positive that dreams occur in real time. Some of my dreams are so vivid and detailed that it would be impossible for my mind to produce those fragments in a split second. And even the youngest child, with no concept of time, could tell you with confidence how long their dream lasted. Fuck all the evidence; I dream at a speed constant with the waking world as certainly as I dream in color.
Today is my dad's 44th birthday yet I feel like crying. I feel like he's already dead and this is a day of mourning rather than celebration. And it makes me feel tons worse that I bought my mom, whose birthday is also today, $60 in presents but I didn't even manage to send out my dad's card in time. What do you do with a birthday card you forgot to send? After the event, it's no longer special.
I'll cry in my sleep tonight- some for that unsent card, but more for my dad, who's suffered 44 years today.
Facing forward, reeling backward, my blood heavy with nicotine. I keep staring at the whitish sky riddled with clouds, wondering why I always feel enclosed. And all I have to say is I wish that I could give every single person a hug that was somehow involved in the tragedy of 9-11-2001.
It's funny though, I say that I'm sorry whenever someone mentions that they lost someone in the terrorist attacks but the more I think about it, the more I wonder why I'm apologizing. I'm just a girl in Montana, no more responsible for it than the next person.
There's so much magic to be found in a Montana fall and after ten years, I still haven't tired from basking in the cool light that radiates from everything around me. This autumn seems especially gorgeous because I've finally grown enough to appreciate all the beauty that surrounds me.
And I want to have someone around me who could realize the poetry in every trash can knocked over, every misplaced strand of hair. It's windy and cloudy and gorgeous here and I want to share every minute of it with someone.
[in script, on a postcard- wish you were here]
Days are falling away like crunchy autumn leaves and calendar pages filled with daily humorous anecdotes. But I barely see these passages of time go by; I am too busy waiting for Friday night to arrive.
It's not what you think, though. I'm not anticipating indulgence in booze or weed like I did freshman year. I'm waiting for the next football game, filled with anxious cheers and invigorating pep band music from the sidelines.
[And this year our team is proving to be incredible. Yesterday's score was 71-28- a record for the books, a circled date on someone's tattered calendar.]
Requiem for a Dream is, without doubt, the most intense movie I've ever seen. Love it or hate it, but don't deny me the truth that it's one of the most emotionally powerful movies that exists. Risking confrontation, I'll even call it triggering, and I mean that in both ways. It's anti-drug, anti-addiction message is so clear but at the same time, I feel my own addictive spirit pulsating as pills are popped and highs are attained. And that sense of raw identification and the hard, visual truth makes the movie incredibly moving.
If you've never seen it, rent it.
What makes me happy is eating pizza at midnight in my own idiosyncratic way- pick off the toppings, peel off the cheese, lick up the sauce, then savor the dough. Each part of the pizza has its own unique taste, meant to be enjoyed separately, with just a hint of the other flavors that surrounded it.
What makes me happy is watching grunge videos on MTV2 at 1 AM after talking to the guy I'm falling in love with, knowing he's watching the exact same thing from across town. His personality is pizza-like; every day I taste a little more.
I'm not sure why, but I find the art of a mother protecting her children one of the most beautiful things in the world. I remember this summer, I'd see it everywhere. A youthful looking woman holding their toddler's hand in the baby pool, an older woman buying her daughter breakfast and coffee and stubbornly refusing to take any compensation from her. Years pass and circumstances change, but no matter what, you never have to look far to find a strong mother-daughter bond somewhere around you. This world is so ugly and fake sometimes but this is constant, always beautiful.
Kiss this mask, eliminate these fears. I want so much more than your company, I want you to reach inside me and taste every bit of my beautiful radiance, choke on every jagged flaw within my soul. I want you to know me inside and out and then probe deeper, forcing me to unleash all my secrets, and I want you to hold me after this masochistic rape of sorts and tell me it's all right. And I swear I could stroke your hair with longing forever; please, just come a little closer. Please, I know you love me too.
There is a group of sophomores who smoke at lunchtime in the alley behind my hours. Upon seeing them one day, I invited them into my yard. We have a casual bond, like the ones formed between kindergarteners, but that's what makes it beautiful. Friendship without attachment, relationships sealed with the phrase "you got a lighter?" They know almost nothing about me and I know almost nothing about them and I love that. But at the same time, it makes me miss The Rocks, which was the smoker's hangout my freshman year. Nothing will ever be able to rival it.
Last night was great. And I never thought I'd be saying that in a sexual way- as strange as it sounds, I really don't enjoy sex all that much. I get physical satisfaction but it's never something I mentally crave unless I'm intoxicated. But last night was great. I drove dizzyingly fast out of town and we pulled onto a side road and had sex in the backseat of the car. The world around us was completely pitch black, and all I could feel was adrenaline and satisfaction. No stars, no streetlights, just two meaningless bodies engaged in passion. Bliss.
It comes down to this sometimes. A harsh reality, but there's no doubt it exists. Her hair is flying unconsciously over her shoulder as her eyes shine desperate brown and she throws various articles of clothing across the room.
"Ha!" she cries, and produces another quarter that was hiding in the champagne-colored carpet. She throws it into the pile of change and returns to searching the depths of her closet, oblivious to everything except her need for money.
It comes down to this sometimes. And in another two days, she'll be out of cigarettes again and repeat the same cycle.
My dad told me once that he can see me as a flight attendant when I grow up. He casually disregarded my dreams of fame and superstardom, commenting that no one makes up their mind at the age of seven. And the older I get, the more I agree with this statement. When I visited him this summer, I was the same confused teenager that I still am. But it surprised me when he said I'll be a great flight attendant, especially because many of his past predictions have come true. Lately I've thought it would be a good memoir.
Tonight the sunset was almost as vivid as if it had been summer, and I imagined that perhaps time had begun receding, and in another ten years, I would be back in kindergarten instead of having to face the world and make decisions.
However, after allowing the night to roll in, slowly but certainly, I've come to the conclusion that there's no other now I'd rather reside in. I'm nowhere near content but the intense stars and cool breezes that fill these recent nights evoke a raw, primal sense of perfection. No matter what, time moves on. So do I.
I stopped by Mike's locker today, waiting for him so we could walk through the halls together. And before anyone asks, I'm not attracted to him, I just like talking to him. Anyways, he's a wrestler who would never pass a drug test, and he's always at school either drunk or hungover. I like him, although I've concluded that he'll never do much with his life. But today, while waiting, a book fell out of his backpack- Carolina Moon by Nora Roberts. And my perception of him changed a lot when I discovered he read romance novels. Everyone is beautiful.
He told me today that while I'm not a hypochondriac, I tend to dramatize things that don't need to be, and all I've done since is sit around and wonder what the difference is. Could I have brought this outbreak of strep upon myself? Was the test merely a mistake, and could I just be lounging around my house because I'm mentally miserable and physically lethargic? And it goes further. Am I depressed because I want to be? Am I a bitch because I think I'm better than everyone? I have so many questions, and only bitter words answer me.
I remember, years ago, all my insecurities could be signified with a checkerboard. It was beautiful, however, something special to look back upon. I'd sit around in my oversized t-shirt and wait for my dad to come upstairs. Then I'd pull out the checkers and ask, "black or red?" My dad always started the game with eight or nine checkers opposing my twelve, but somehow he always won, leaving my hopes in a pathetic pile by the side of the board. But I was always determined, always sure I'd someday win. This eternal hope defines my childhood more than anything.
I pierced my frenulum Wednesday, which for those of you non-piercing freaks, is the little web under your tongue. I had it before, but took it out due to infection.
I don't know what it is about piercings that fascinates me but I love them, and they all carry a significant memory with them. My rook is my last year's Christmas present to myself, my tongue was my fourteenth birthday present but it's also symbolic of being a stoner in the past. This one, number thirteen, is a nice fuck-you to the people like Chris who think piercings are disgusting.
I can feel it already. The excitement, the chaos, the adrenaline. It's only 5:30, and the Bisonettes haven't even begun their practice yet, but I feel it. In about an hour and a half, the stands will be packed with people anxious for the kickoff. I have so much to do still- take a shower, find something to wear, finalize plans for tonight- but that's okay. I can imagine the brilliant stadium lights upon me and hundreds of other screaming Bison fans already, and knowing that in two hours that will become a reality is enough to relieve the stress.
Words. Beautiful, flowing, gorgeous words that captivate my mind and loosen my tongue until I'm muttering perfect rhythms under my breath in public; words that override my attitude towards my physical existence because I'm too busy dancing on syllables in my head. Her words are so fitting, and they fill me with complete happiness, yet her words make me cry alone at night because they're so bitterly honest. The more I read of Sylvia Plath's writing, the more complete I feel. I wish I could have gotten the chance to meet her, yet that would change the perfection of everything.
I spend a lot of time waiting for a perfect moment to come along so I can capture it. They're so rare but so beautiful, and I could write paragraphs about every one. Perfection inspires me. A strawberry shake from McDonald's at the most opportune moment, blushing faces in bowling alleys, two hour car rides with the soundtrack to our lives blasting the entire time. Perfect birthdays, perfect holiday memories, perfect summers that I reminisce about every day. Perfect people, the perfect look for just the right occasion, words that perfectly fit the situation. It's all preserved in my mind.
Please, stop this. There's all this tension and I can't take it anymore. Names and faces and places and memories float through my head every day, leaving me with guilt, and you always bring more onto me. You're always criticizing, reminding me that I'm not good enough, that I'm not nice enough, that I don't love well enough, and it's impossible to stand it any longer. Yet for some reasonI can't leave you. Even in the midst of nasty words, bitter comments, and jealous glares, I still love you. There's nothing I can do to change it- so stop this!
The Tip Jar