fifty two days and im gone. so can we be done with this? please?

...on my pillow

if i made the executive decision to be mad instead of sad, then why can't i stop crying?

wine and cheap perfume

Lets recap on the most mind boggling day I have ever had, ever.

 

1.     Wake up late
2.     government paper refuses to print…meaning I could potentially fail the class and not graduate
3.     lie to the nurse and tell her that I am eighteen so that I can get an off grounds pass for senior ditch day….i am only 17 and ¾
4.     go to breakfast with people I hate and see the tallest woman I have ever seen
5.     to home to clean my room, but I end up watching the bachelorette and eating Swedish fish
6.     find out that the ritzy  hair salon I am getting my prom hair done at is going to charge me 100 fucking dollars…and Audrey isn’t paying.
7.     Go back to school to work on the last thing I will ever do for the drama department.
8.     Get my nails done at some new hip place with the lamest name ever. I see some girl who I was best friends with freshman year, she acts like she has no idea who I am, nice.
9.     Go home to try to clean some more. Watch some more bachelorette.
10. Decide to try on my prom shoes and walk around in them
11. Stumble upon my mom listening to a voice mail from my English teacher
12. Note to self: never make photocopies of class notes and lend them to a “friend” to copy…because that friend could just turn in your notes in our eight hundred point notebook saying they are hers which ends up in YOU receiving an ethics violation on your personal record, and a failure notice from one of your only two required classes to graduate.
13. FREAK THE FUCK OUT. Because now I might not graduate and I also might not go to college because I have a cheating penalty on my record. sweet. just what i wanted.
14. Get yelled at and grounded by Audrey…never fun.
15. Pam Jennings calls me back and tells me that I should come to school right now (6:00 pm) to discuss this situation.

16. I go. I cry. I apologize. I cry. I cry. I explain. I cry….and I RARELY cry. Fuck.  She tells me that I will prob just get a C or a D and have to do Saturday school, but I MIGHT still be able to graduate.
17. I go home and report to Audrey.  She guilt trips me and tells me how my actions have led her to feel like a failure as a parent. She brings up a sore subject and cries. I begrudgingly hug her.
18. Ten minutes later she tells me that bath and body works is hiring and I need to get dressed and do my makeup and go apply. So I do.  
19. I come home to find her and four of her friends getting drunk by the fireplace. She invites me to join.
20.  I join and they give me martinis.
21. I forget that I have job training tomorrow for fucking beach camp.
22. I write this.

 

Welcome to my life.

Fun stuff.

the moon's premonition.

Sugar coating this wouldn’t make it better. 

You make me feel guilty. You make me feel guilty for caring, for feeling, for thinking. You make me feel guilty for trying, and apparently failing, to fulfill your expectations. But I don’t understand your expectations; I don’t understand your reasoning. I don’t understand the words that don’t come out of your mouth. I don’t understand the choices you make or the actions you take. 

 

I can hear you, even when you think I cant and your words burn.  I had made it my duty to comprehend the vastness that is you, but I can’t unravel it.  And I am exhausted, this quest has consumed me for far too long and I am worn out.  I don’t need to rest, I don’t want to stop, but I am attempting to remove myself anyway, because I know its what you want.

 

Can you blame me for trying?  I guess sometimes the broken is truly unfixable, which is sad.  And it makes me hate myself for wasting so much time, effort and thought.  My apologies.  I’m done now.

for nothing

two weeks gone to waste.

damn it.

how pathetic.

What do you want?

a simple observation

My hands look so small right now. I see them and I try to fathom them, short nails, untamed cuticles, two gold diamond rings. My fingers, which typically appear pudgy due to many years of knuckle cracking, seem slim, frail and weak.  Somehow there is a faded heart drawn in pen, on my left hand.  How it got there, I am unaware.  I stare at them, busy at work. They glide over the white and grey letters, making something. Creating something useless. Something pointless. They bend. They hurt, they ache right now. They are wrinkly like my grandma’s used to be, they are tired.  Six freckles, so small, hardly detectible. My hands are a mystery. How can they do the things they do. How do they express everything and nothing.  They are just hands.  But I have somehow suddenly realized that hands, my hands, your hands, are capable of far more than we ever thought possible.  Hands hold others, make them feel safe and comfortable, wanted and loved. Hands hurt others, they shoot the gun, cut the skin, stab you in the back. Hands are beautiful, they are disgusting. They hide things in their plams, keep secrets, keep me warm. Mine are soft.  Blonde thin hairs, barely visible.  Palms fleshy, cold and clammy. Each crease like a scar, forever there, never to leave. I see veins, blue and purple. I squeeze my palms shut, digging my the tips of my nails into my skin. It might hurt, but I don’t feel it anymore. I want to see the crescent shape my nails make in the palm of my hand. The little half moons that only remain for a few minutes, reminding me of my presence. Then they fade, forever gone.

 

I need a more permanent reminder.