And I Want Her, Need Her

Chapter 2.


He had brown hair, I think, maybe it was blonde at that time. and I'm pretty sure it was curly (at that time.) He had golden brown eyes and I chased him around the playground like a starfish. I thought I loved him. Once, during clean up time, I drew a picture of us as stick figures, on opposite sides of the paper, with a line connecting our lips touching.
I was four.
He's basically my brother now.

As for the next boy I had a crush on, he was tall. And, he had a bowl cut. His hair was sandy blonde and one time we were having a class party and he was telling me a story about a kid who could only say no. A man told the kid, "If you don't stop saying no, I will kill you!" And the kid said, "No! No! No!" I laughed and moved my desk around and loved his name.
I was seven.

I came to a new school. In that school I met a boy. He was around my height, and had brown, shaggy hair, and one day during Orchestra he came in late. He wore Mavs jerseys and sock hats and I thought he was beautiful. He played the bass. One time, on the bus ride home, I told him that I thought his Gameboy DS was ugly, and he retorted, "Your face is ugly!" I hid my tears by turning back into my seat. I cried about it a few week later.
I was nine.

And this angel visited me in the fifth grade. He was tall, he had blonde, curly, wavy hair, and he had baby blue eyes. He loved the Beatles, I think, and just about every single girl in my grade wanted his dick. He ended up going out with both of my best friends, and he almost went out with me. Almost. One time, I sent him a note in science. It said, "Do you still like me?" He never replied, and he actually left it on the desk. My science teacher, who happened to be a total bitch, took the note and showed it to my parents.
I was ten.

On the last day of school in fifth grade, me and the boy I liked in the fourth grade shared a headphone. We watched Spiderman. I liked him all through that summer, and we talked all summer. He then asked me out. We went out for two or three months, and then he broke up with me. A month later, he asked me out again. We were together for a year. He was my first kiss. It happened on my birthday. The next summer, I broke up with him.
I was twelve.

The two boys I broke up with him for are two completely different stories. The one I liked more, with the blonde, shaggy hair, and the blue eyes, and his height and converse and taste in music, did NOT like me back, but liked my best friend. The other became the love of my life. He lived in Georgia, so we had this whole, oh-my-god-I-love-you-but-can't-go-out-with-you thing going on. I loved him more than I thought I'd ever love anyone. He was half-Mexican, he had ADHD and ADD, and played the guitar. He was a jackass to everyone but me. And then he moved back to Dallas. In that time, I went out with him for four months. And then, he broke up with me.
I was thirteen.

The blonde, shaggy haired boy with the blue eyes stopped being my best friend. Georgia boy broke up with me. And my other best friend stopped talking to me, and my grandpa died.
But I don't like to talk about that.

The next boyfriend I had was younger than me. He had glasses and blue eyes and brown curly hair and he played hockey. He listened to the best music and we only went out for three days, but I got to make out with him twice. To this day we are still awesome friends. We went out in the last few days of my eighth grade year.

Then I finally let everyone know I liked girls.

And she came along. I can't say much, except for the fact that I really liked her. She was perfect and she had brown eyes and long brown hair that I'm pretty sure was just styled to stay in her eyes. She was my height. And she talked real quiet, like you had to really listen to hear what she had to say. So you could care. And it didn't happen. And I was hung up over it for a while. I made fun of her a lot because I liked everything about her so much. And it didn't happen.
I was fourteen.

And I'm still fourteen.
And I met this girl, who's really too tall for her own good. And smells amazing. And can play pretty much every instrument on the planet, and she has a beautiful voice. And she's in a band. And she has these awkward long skinny fingers and when I don't pay attention to her it's because I'm thinking about how I want to kiss every one of them. And for sure, she's one of the only people I've ever wanted to make the happiest girl in the world. And I write her songs and make her gifts. And we're together because that's what awesome people do. She's jamaican. And I could honestly list off every fact I could, except I don't think you'd care.

The truth is, I care.

I care.

Let's Start With The Details, Then Hit The Basics

Chapter One -

I've always had this affiliation with bruises, or some kind of physical scarring. To me it shows everyone around you you spent your life doing something, or spent your life getting abused, or spent your life just fucking living.
I've always thought that any kind of physical scar is one of the most attractive things on a person.
I'm pretty positive I don't like what most people like. I'm pretty positive that I'm a little different, but if that makes me the same, then I don't know what I am.
I think that in the grand scheme of things, you really don't need to know what I am.
You just need a few scars, a few bruises, a few pockmarks just to show people, yeah, I may not know what I am, but I know what the fuck I did and I know I fucking loved it.

I got my first scar of real consequence in kindergarten. I was in the bathroom, waiting for the big stall (the handicap stall, as you may call it) and probably thinking of fucking ponies. I was leaning against the heater, sitting down, cause that's not gross at all, and it fucking stung.
That's one of the best things I've felt.
It fucking stung. I remember looking at my arm and walking to my classroom, I was in KE, and I held up my arm and pointed at the burn, which was turning red and bleeding and cracking a little bit already. I didn't cry.
The scar isn't there anymore, but I know I lived it.
When our memory fails us, what'll be there to remind us?

Even now, I have random scratches and cuts and bruises all over me and when people ask where they're from, I can honestly say, "I don't know."

When our scars fail us, what'll be there to remind us?

Bone Machine: Part 3

So you start to think back, you say, hey, let's think back, where did this start?
So you start to think back.
The morning after, you had left. You remember leaving. Walked out of your own house and hoped she would find her way out, before you would come back.
Hours after, with your legs dead and heavy and your head collapsing because nothing was in it, you walked inside.
There she was. She was sitting on your kitchen counter, she had pulled herself up, she was pulling down a bowl. She had a gallon of almost sour milk and Trix.
She was still naked.
And you remember, you coughed, because you didn't want to say anything but you wanted her to know you were there.
And she was naked on your counter.
You remember feeling slightly dissapointed but slightly glad she didn't leave.
She turned to you and smiled.
She had no right canine. You didn't remember that.
She slips off your counter and comes to hug you.
You did not expect that. You did not expect to feel that shock in your heart when she wrapped her arms around you, pressing against you and whispering something you don't remember in your ear.
And as soon as she was there, she left. She came back with one of your tshirts on and a pair of your underwear and your socks.
She had made herself present in your life. She was not leaving.

Her name, at that moment, was Aydan Lipnicki.

You wonder what it is now.

Bone Machine: Part 2

Where Is My Mind - Pixies

You wake up the morning after. The pounding, blinding, screaming soaring headache pounding against your eyelids is enough to stop you from getting to the toilet, and if that wasn't problem enough, you currently have your legs and arms and body intwined.
With a girl.
And so the memories come flooding back - last night, the laughter, the forest green, the Smashing Pumpkins and god, did you take like 100 shots? So you pull yourself away from this girl, this sleeping carcass, green loving, half-Mexican hellcat, and stumble to the bathroom.
You look long enough in the mirror to realize you are naked.
You look long enough in the mirror to realize what you did last night.
This takes place in a total of .85 seconds, you applaud yourself for a job well done.
Opening the cabinet, you grab the little red capsules, pour four out into your hand and down them without water.
Why not just walk back and take a second peak?
Even when you aren't wasted, you can tell she's gorgeous. Beautiful. The way the sunlight casts against her bare figure as she's covered in your Power Ranger sheets is enough to send you back into bed with her, to sleep for a few more hours, to wake up and make her breakfast.
Instead, you grab a piece of paper and a Mariott Hotel pen, the one you stole because you can, and write down an excuse for you being gone for a few hours.
You place it on your nightstand, you place your socks on your feet, your jeans over your jegs, your shirt over you torso.
You place your mind over your heart, and you leave.
Let's see how long you can stay away until she leaves.

This is the endless cycle.

WRITERS BLOCK, GONE!

this excites me like no other, for fucking sure. got into a spat, wrote a song, and it's OUT. I CAN WRITE FREELY. :)
this is the product;
"you say you were pissed
when we missed the ending
and when i held your hand
and hiding the winks you were sending
to those other girls
i never did see
i tried and i tried and i tried to have you like me
but it's been way too long
for me to care anymore
and i'm laughing right now
just happy you left
because for a while i just
missed you so bad
and i cried and i cried and i cried
well that's shit
because it's wasted tears
and i wish i had used them
on something more important
because i met some real friends
the ones that do care
because after you left when i had nothing there
i was out and desperate,
bare and alone
and it forced me to make
some friends of my own
so thank you for leaving me
and thank you for making me cry
and thank you for being immature
and getting high
because i've been over you since the day
you left and i'm almost i'm almost
almost ashamed to say
we were in love.

Bone Machine: Part 1.

Music: Where Is My Mind? - Pixies


You know you've had one drink too many when you wonder what it would be like to try and fly off the cliff right behind your house, fly and go to Canada, fly and go to Aruba.
So you take another shot.
You're giggling and laughing and muttering and you can't feel it, but there is drool dribbling out of your mouth and on to your empty coaster.
You haven't put down your drink in 3 hours except to get another.
And you knock the 20-something girl next to you, you knock her drink out of your hand and you lean over and pick up the shards of glass. Every single piece pricks you but you keep on going because cleaning it up is what you have to do get everything better. The pain is worth it.
You look up, study her. She's 4'10 or '11, maybe, dark brown hair. She's tiny everywhere and you can see it. She's got this, something in her eye - you can't put your finger on it. The way she looks at you almost gets you half sober for a second.
So you take another shot.
You start to talk to her, and you figure out her favorite color is green, but not forest green and definitely not lime green. Her favorite band is a three way tie between Iggy and The Stooges, Radiohead and Smashing Pumpkins. She's half Mexican.
So soon you're asking her back to your apartment, and you don't quite know if you remember where it is.
But she says yes, and you realize you've never even been with a girl before.
You stand up, grab her hand. Every inch of you is on fire. Your skin crawls and you can feel it when your heart starts to pound.
So you take another shot.

Breathe Me - Sia

Someone I know told me you usually feel like this when you are about to change. Something in your life is about to change. Someone I know told me that they feel like this when something big in their life is about to change.
Last night I was laying in bed about to throw up, listening to a crappy sampler cd from Urban Outfitters and I couldn't change it. Because if I moved, I would throw up. This is something I'd like to call stupid.
Because I don't want something bad to me if I change is how I take it, and that is how I really am. I don't even really like my life.
How do you make you like your life? I think that answer is you change. But I don't want to change because I don't want to here.
This is something I'd like to call a catalyst.
Would you?
I can't say much next because there are so many thoughts running through my head I can't really type them all out. You get that feeling, ever?

"Ouch I have lost myself again
Lost myself and I am nowhere to be found,
Yeah I think that I might break
Lost myself again and I feel unsafe"

waiting on an angel.

when you want to be alone
but can't stand your own thoughts
when you want to cry for her
but can't shed a tear
oh what do you do
now what do you do
when you listen to a song on repeat
you know it gets you somewhere
you know it gets you nowhere
oh what do you donow what do you do
because crying without covers
is crying without safety
and lying without lovers
is lying without laughter
so i'm dying without anything
and i'm crying without safety
and i'm not going to let you get to me
but what do i do
now what do i do?
i want solitude
but i need to be surrounded
so i don't have to know
i can't stand myself
i can't stand my own thoughts
now what do i do
oh what do i do
now what do i do

I've come to realize

That seriously, the word 'love' gets tossed around way to often to even mean anything anymore.
This isn't a joke.
I'm pretty tight with this chick who falls in "love" every few weeks with a different boy. Granted, she's in like, the 7th or 8th grade, so she doesn't really understand it, but... I was only an 8th grader like, 8 days ago and I still understood how important love was.
I just refrained from telling someone I hadn't talked to in months I love them. Because I don't love her, really.
Do I even love half as many people I say I do? I think not, I think I tell many people I love them when I know I don't. When it comes down to it, I probably truly love only around 4 or 5 people, family not included.
And to be honest, what is love? I hear scientists are actually trying to figure out love scientifically. I think that ruins the magic.

The other topic I wanted to brush on: Death. That is the scariest thing in the world. They, whoever the fuck they are, say that when your father, or someone really close to you dies, you end up going through the motions. Not really crying, not really affected until after. Post-funeral, post-burial.
The day I figured out my grandpa, my best friend, someone who I underappreciated my whole life, died, I was coming back from Colorado. I was in the car with my cousins. I, for some reason, chose not to drive with my parents. Probably just to be with my cousins. Me and Christine and Rebecca had some burritos from Chipotle and they dropped me off at home, and my parents followed me into my room. Saying, Lizzy, we have some sucky news for you, Grandpa passed away.
You know that feeling when the shock renders your body and your head is absolutely like a feather?
Imagine that times twenty. This is the first time I've ever written in detail about it.
I didn't even give my dad a hug. I gave him a side hug. And then laid in my bed with the lights off crying for hours, probably. I could not breathe for motherfucking shit.
My boyfriend at the time called me. I couldn't even stay on the phone with him.
I remember the second hardest I've ever cried was at his funeral. My dad started crying, too.
My brother didn't cry. But I tried my hardest not to.
With death the kind of loss is a lot different than breaking up with someone. It's worse, it's seriously heartwrenching, because you'll never be able to talk to that person who died ever again.
My grandfather was my everything.. And I only wish I could remember what my last words to him were.
And isn't that funny, that suddenly when someone dies, all you want to remember were what your last words to that person were? Why does it not matter what your first words to that person was?

It's a lot of thinking this blog has created in my mind..
My week had been mostly amazing until today.
Well, until tonight.

I'm going to wait because that's what I do.

prompt: passenger seat

The bend of his arm curves with the wind, making constant waves and you're finding it difficult to keep your eyes on the road as you seeevery time he lifts his right arm to rest on the window the bottom of his shirt rises up, leaving a pale patch of skin and a trail of dark hairs leadingdown, down down.The piano curves in and out of the windows and flies wherever it wants, you're driving fast enough to leave but slow enough to stay just a little bit longer.Ben Gibbard's voice carries you far out as you consider possibly holding his hand, gripping it for a second and maybe feigning surprise when he squeezes back.The sun is fading purple, his eyes are bright blue and incandescent. They seem to not mind the song on repeat, soon enough quietly singing along and smilingwith his eyes.In the gaps of silence, you ask him if they collide, but this time, he doesn't smile.He slowly fills the gap that was between you and him and it's all lips and warm breath and the bursting of your heart, his hand in the curve of your waist andBen Gibbard saying everything you would have wanted to say yourself but you can't.

prompt: superstition

research available by: http://www.oldsuperstitions.com/general.html
prompt given to me by: zark trottier

It started out simple. When you walked down 3rd street on the way to work, you sidestepped the ladders. While doing so, you soon developed the habit of jumping over cracks in the sidewalk. Fuck, who wants to break their mothers back?
Soon, you never cut your nails on a Friday. You bought plastic plates to avoid breaking ceramic ones - and you gave the uncracked ceramic ones to close friends. If you heard the lingering echo of footsteps on your apartment staircase, you would sprint back up to your floor and be stuck with paranoia that would invade you like a plague. If someone were to give you a bouquet, perchance, and there were red and white flowers together, you'd politely decline, no, no thank you, I'm allergic to bad luck.
Every morning, you got out of bed right foot first. You never put your left leg in your pants before your right, your right shoe must be located on your foot preceding the left. You got rid of your candles for fear of them falling over.
You stopped answering your phone, frightened at the thought of bad news, you threw out all of your mirrors (although they were wrapped in packaging kernels so as not to shatter) and burned all your umbrellas.
You'd like to call yourself "threat" free.
We'd like to call you crazy.

and when you realize lies are for liars

the best part of believe is the lie.

I hate finding out people who you thought you trusted are completely different people. Liars. Cheats. Drama loving, loud, annoying fools.
You know that feeling?
When someone you somehow trusted so quickly, you realize thrives on your conflicts? Loves the turbulence?
I know that feeling. (I just asked myself a question and answer it. Yay for completion.)
I know when someone I trust, love, care about almost more than anyone on the planet is someone who you realize loves to lie. To just fucking fight with you. Why do they fight?
Because they want more people to think they are experienced, I guess. Stronger. Smarter. Faster. More scene. More hardxcore. More brutal.
I'd guess I pride myself on being a drama free, generally chill person. I'd like to say I get mad in two situations: One, I'm PMSing. Two, that person fucking deserves it.
When I'm in a relationship with someone, I'd like that relationship to be completely drama free. Happiness all around. Being a reasonable person, I know no relationship can be perfect. But I know that one can be close to it.
So why do I surround myself with a person who just loves to fuck me over, in all senses? I'm not sure, at all, actually. Part of me not leaving that friendship is the feeling that I don't want to hurt her. I love her, still. I just can't stand her.
I feel like a week off from her couldn't cover it.
I don't know what to do, dude.
I also pride myself on bullshit free. As in, no fakeass makeup. No bullshitting to anyone. I don't talk to people I don't like. I talk to people I like. I (for the exception of a few) tell people how I truly absolutely feel about them, in every literal sense.
Why be shady when you can be upfront? This is a question I do not answer, but because I know the answer.
And I ask because I think you should, too.
I think this is the end of my blog.

i'd spend all night losing sleep.

Something is beyond missing here. Lately I can't find inspiration for anything. I can't pick up my guitar and make a sound. I can't open my mouth and say anything profound. I miss people I shouldn't be missing.
I'd have to say I'm feeling things I shouldn't be feeling.


When do you know when to stop feeling?


It's summer. Does it feel like summer? I feel like this summer was a wrong time. This summer, started at the wrong time. It should have waited a month. Yet at the same time, I feel differently. I feel that I need to just curl up in a ball.
Need to stop feeling.
Music can't match my mood, I can't eat without throwing it all up, I can't smile without having to frown. I feel like... I can't change.
Everyone tells me to change myself, for me. I can't change for me. I can't change. Not when my body is fighting against myself.

Red Kool-Aid is pretty delicious.

I miss Zak. He's amazing. I'd have to say he's one of my best friends. For some reason I feel like he has me on this string.
Like I'm his puppet.
I would honestly do anything just to get his attention for one second. I'm pretty sure that's not healthy. Something in his nonchalance kills me just a little bit more. His hugs, a lot more. His hair.. Consider me in the grave.


I'm actually, seriously listening to Hey There Delilah. Fuck me in the asshole.

It's not that bad of a song to begin with. And then it's like, fucking stop it. Stop it.


You know how every good band comes close to getting poisoned?
What if every good band was like every good person?
What if you found the person you couldn't live without, and they got poisoned, changed, ruined?
Would you still love that person?

It's what you do to me.
How do you deal with a person telling you that they aren't pulling back, but you know they are? That they aren't half as crazy about you as you are to them, how do you deal?
How do you live? Why, in every blog, must I go off on a tangent on questions that can't really be answered?


I became just another to him. Another. Conquest. Whore. Girl. Slut.
I don't know.


I don't even know what I am.

and in less than a week

i've hit rock bottom. it's a strange feeling i'd have to say. going from conquer, to conquered. i have a deadweight in my stomache that's not coming out anytime soon no matter how many times i try to throw up.
it's summer, and i couldn't be less happy. i don't know what to do. i want to act happy.
i take it out on my good friends, apparently.
this dead weight is like.. i guess the only word is culminating.
i'm trying to find art in something but all i see is dizzy.
i've stopped eating.
i've stopped thinking, too.
i can't make my head into thoughts, into words. i can't, just live.


i'm into my old cycle that i worked months to get out of..
get happy, get fucking sad thirty minutes later, lose a couple good friends, stop sleeping, dead weight, no eating, no happy.
get happy again. crash again. lose people again.
this was the hardest thing in the world.
what the fuck am i going to do with my life? does anyone ever ask you that?
what the FUCK are you doing with your life.
what are you even doing reading this blog? does this enlighten you? to do what, post another just like this? to tell your friends about it? i don't get it. i don't get any of it.
why do we do what we do? what are you going to do with yourself?
what am I going to do with myself?
i try to do all these things and never get around to it. why? i'm scared. i'm a pussy, when it comes down to it. i try to act badass with cuss words and hanging out with older people and taking pain with a dose of salt... but what am i, really? what are you? what are we?

and don't say human.

on the "bright hand," DCFC is in 12 days. that's something i'm happy for.

and the beat goes

with our hearts.
i have been feeling so creative lately that i think the creative is like tiny blood platelets in the color of a rainbow. one more, and the rainbows will come spewing out of my eyes and nostrils and ears and mouth and fingertips and the whole world will be in the beat with the hearts.


and rainbows.
people change like fucking crazy. people i thought i trusted turned out i can't trust at all. people i thought were my friends evolved into something more. people, people are the strangest things, and i'm finding lately my dog is way more fun than other people.
a good way to be able to sit indian style in a jean miniskirt is to put a jacket on your vagina!
i feel guilty. but then again why should i? if it's i want, i should do it.
i feel accomplished.
i feel like i can conquer.
i feel like i can do anything.
this is self confidence i haven't had in almost over threeyears.
go fucking diego go.
i feel like running forever. i feel like bursting out music and dancing around naked. i feel like fucking just having fun. fuck everyone else. fuck the haters. fuck everyone who brings you down. fuck everything thats ever brought you down.
and i fucking mean it. in all probability, you are gorgeous. you're strong. you're tall, you're shirt, you're skinny, you're everything and only three or four people are trying to hate you. not because they are jealous. because they are blind.
over one million people in the city of dallas. and somehow we all know eachother. we see eachother every day. we met eachother. how? meeting is strange.
with andi, i met her on the school bus when i was 9. she was 11.
i met jenna in the fifth grade. she did not like me.
i met zark at my first no comment show.
i met davis at my second.
i met everyone i know by some crazy coincedence.
whether we talk about pretzels or fucking crayons, we find the people we found for some reason. whether it fate, i'm not sure i believe in it. whether it chance, not sure ever.
i'd like to say i believe in just BEING. in, in something thats greater. but not spiritual.
science is the answer. strive for something. i can't strive for anything, i'm not good at anything, but i can try.
i can conquer.
"the best kind of art is the art you don't understand."
-davis austin williams.
i may not have been there. but i read it. i love it. i believe it.
do something you don't QUITE understand.
do something you know you shouldn't.
kiss someone who wants you to, you know you shouldn't.
hug someone who doesn't want you to, but you know you should.
introduce your two groups of friends. watch new paths be made.
one million, and you can conquer.

i'd have to say right now

i have nothing to say.
this weekend was indeed a good one. friday night i hung out with davis and zark. we wrastled and ate taco bell and played around with some music, and just layed around and got deep and got stupid and farted on eachother. i think that was an amazing thing to do.
saturday [today] i was at andi's. for her birthday. it was alright, i mean, no friday, but good enough. slip and slides galore! i figured out a few things about myself.
i think something changed. i was sitting there playing smother me by the used [great song] in front of the whole congregation of partiers and everything was different because that was a real moment.

even though i sucked balls.
people suck basically. i have recieved a hate note. which is uncool. very uncool.

i honestly can't say anything without giving myself away, i feel like. i would enjoy keeping myself to myself.


except i want to cuddle.

get out your party hats

it's my mom's birthday.

insomnia episode.

i've been thinking a lot lately. none of it good. one of the things i've realized will change me forever. and i'm afraid to tell anyone. why? i'm not sure. i'm really, really not sure, but i don't want people to think of me differently.
i really hate how i care what people think of me.
i've had so many fucking insomnia episodes lately it's driving me up the fucking wall... i can barely even see anything anymore. every second i close my eyes it wanders and i'm fucked up further. sleep is not even real to me. just... a dream. no pun intended.
and some people who i thought i could honestly trust. turns out i can't.

"i think u r fat and insecure bout that and u really do care that people call u fat. i also find u horrific and disgusting in the way that u look and act. u r an attention whore and a bitch. u r very annoying. i dislike havingtosee you so much. im glad i wont have to see u ever again after this year. i dont know why people like u. gross. i hate you.
i like yur myspace song though and im sure u have a kinda nice personality but i really dont like u. no hard feelings or anything just speaking my opinion.
maybe that wuz a little to harsh. oh well its jus wat i think."

that pretty much sums up my personality, y/n?
yeah.
i've been missing my ex... a LOT, lately. like, rediculous amounts. i wrote some shit about him i guess.
"i can barely keep my eyes open. everything is out of focus and far away... these are the moments i miss him. because when everything is fuzzy, it reminds me of us together. laying on my bed with my head on his chest. or kissing him while he played the guitar.. or him calling me beautiful and babe and i believed it because it was him. and knowing if he was here, i wouldn't be so tired. he was my lullaby. i would be happy. he was my heart. i wouldn't be almost crying. i miss his kisses. his smell. his calloused hands. his hugs. his, "i love you's." how against alcohol he was then, and how now he isn't. how pretty he thought i was and how pretty i knew i wasn't. him keeping me up late and waking me up early. his music. his laugh. his voice."

the worst part is, this is the him i fell in love with.
not the him who he is now.
and i'm not in love with him anymore. i'm in love with who he was, but i'm standing on the halfway line once again of moving on or staying to him.
even if i haven't talked to him in months. which is so fucking stupid...

i hate myself. i honestly do.

i'm getting laid by the strong dick of addiction

okay. so this posting shit is kind of addicting.
so i thought i'd describe myself to myself.
just to get everything out.
i've been single for about 8 months and i think i know why, but everyone constantly tells me reassurances that i know aren't true.
i really, really love music. if there is one thing that will make me connect to a person besides rocket power, it would be a good conversation about music and the failing music industry, about r.e.m and the underground electronica scene that's sending shockwaves through my body just right now, how my parents won't let me go to two shows a weekend anymore, and my punishment for bad grades is no shows at all. i'll talk about how one metallica riff could be the same exact one as another, just with a different tempo and one single note missing. i could talk all night about third string productions and how much the world misses blink-182, about meeting tom delonge and working merch tables.
i'm not one who's big on myself, because music is better and deserves more attention. it's done more and saved more lives.
i'm a person who likes to help& listen to everyone else but occasionally i have my moments.
i'm extremely fucking paranoid of losing everyone i know.
my brother is the most amazing person even if he does make me cry a lot.
and i also think that jewelry is gross. i'm a pretty easy lady to deal with.
i really like movies. my favorites would have to be; i heart huckabees, rocket science, the squid and the whale, fight club, the whale rider, happenstance, amelie, nanny mcphee, juno, pocahontas, speed racers, babe, selena, collateral... it's just a growing list.
my pet peeve are people who put themselves down just for attention.
all of my friends have left me/abandoned me at some point. i trust them without knowing what they could possibly do.
like any person, i have a few deep dark secrets. and like any person, i don't talk about them.
i'm known to be mature for my age. i get that alot. i wonder if it means i'm throwing my childhood away.
and that's all i am so far.

my very first post?

i've been writing a lot lately, whether it be good or not, and a friend told me to post/make this private blog thing for him. so here goes.. criticism allowed/necessary.

Will I Breathe

and in your right ventricle
i'll make a bed out of your tissues
and blood and oxygen
and live quite uncomfortably
because i need to be known
all the time
so you can't
forfuckinget.
so when you run out of space for me
will i be able to breathe?
your doors will close on me
my answer is yes to most of
the questions i'd wish you to ask
so when you run out of space for me
will i be able to breathe?
because i left my stuff at home
but my heart is nestled by yours
so you'd think i'd have more
space
but when you talk to me
yeah, you know
i
cannot
breathe.