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divorced's Journal

History

16th June 2002

8:55pm: I really dont know, I really dont care
Hand in glove.


I sit here, at this computer screen.
I write here, in this livejournal. For everyone to see.
I drink here, my soy chai. The one I bought when I saw a cute boy and burnt my tongue.
I listen to the Smiths here, I feel warm but empty.
I feel so amorous and I could really use a good snogging.



There was a letter left for me upon my porch. You have no idea how romantic that is, even if it were from a old homeless woman asking for money. Letters, written letters. Taken up to your door, left in your mailbox...written for you by hand...fingers that have touched your skin, they remember and think of you, they write the words you want to hear. I made my father drive me by there, I made him go out of his way, I thought my mother would be there to let me in. She was not. I was tempted to call her and have her read it to me. But I think it could be from him, I do not want her to know. And I want to be the one to read it, in case it was made to break me.

I wrote a letter for him, it is gushy and says I miss him terribly. Strange thing is, I do. I miss life, I miss the world.


I only made two cuts, two was enough. I did not want pain, I wanted proof. To show myself, to remind myself, to keep myself from falling again to a point of utter broken despair. I think two is enough. But as I sit here, depressed, alone in a house full of people, I think of the pretty patterns I want to cut. A heart. A cross. A letter. Pain. I think I wont, I know I wont. I wont cut. I do not hate or want to hurt myself. I love myself. I am okay. I think two was enough.


I think I am getting to a brink. I think I will go to the rink, tomorrow morning. I think so. I need to skate, with my head-phones...space out with my music...skate. I hope the rink is lonely and empty. Just me and my ice. I think I am dying without Jane. I am just weird without her, I do not need a break from her. She is my rock. I feel like a little patch of dirt without my rock.



Why are we all so sad and lonely? Why can't the sad girls my age be with the sad boys your age? I think the problem is, is we are all such good catches, and at our age we are looking for love...and the boys our age are looking for a lay...and boys your age are looking for love. We should all just get together and stop crying. My tears are worth nothing when they are empty from a soul that has never been loved. Not by a boy, not by someone worthy of a good cry. Or a scribbled entry of sharpie in a journal. Or a cut.


Who is worthy of all this pain? God. Yes, I suppose he is, but truly he gives no reason to be sad. So, we should try our hardest to cheer up. Let's try. Oh, I do try. We will be happy. I can see it now, glasses and smiles. Black hair up in joy...my golden locks in the breeze. Emo into Hemo...the happy emo.


Yip Yip
Current Mood: horny
9:23pm: fuck no emails
I can not stand no emails.
There are people that I wrote.
Sure, they have lives.
Sure, some can not write back.
Sure, I only wrote a day or so ago.
But...I love mail. I feel loved in mail.
Actually, seeing as I just wrote in this a minute ago...a song ago...I can tell I am just avoiding the fact that if I am not doing anything I will wallow. I will get anxious. Anxious for the letter I hid under my pots, under my stairs...for him. Anxious for the letter on my bed that I could not get to without my key. Anxious for trying to attach when I really can not and do not want to. Anxious just because that is what I do. I wish I could see the therapist when I am like this, seems I only see her when I am happy or Lord knows a tad content. What about now, when my breaths seem for nothing and the Smiths play and my heart works so hard to beat. And I wont sleep, and I long for anyone that speaks...I am lonely. But, I do not waste my words on things that will not give back. I refuse to waste something from myself. I think that every piece of me is special...every word I say. I will conserve those too. I think, like Mersault...I will only speak when I have something to say. Really something to say. I will write, like this...everything. But, I will only speak when I really have something to say...to someone who can hear it. Ironically, I am listening to "Big Mouth Strikes Again" By the Smiths. Wow...strange how that happens...like Jane's little horoscope.


The smell of mangos engulfs me, this is the little bit of joy I feel. A good smell.


At least I can get up on the little things.


My father's fiance is lovely and I like her. She is what smells so nice. I can not wait for them to wed. I can not wait to wear a long dress for me to twirl...and hide the person beneath. I can be a princess for the moment. Silently, it will sway...and no one will know the girl beneath. That way, I will be oh so safe. Plus, since our dresses are long...we are wearing flip flops. That is superb. She will wear white ones...because you know...it is a wedding.


That is great.



I could marry someone today.


Today, my dad helped a girl move. She had a cute little flat, minus the fact that she used to have rats in the walls, on Slater street I think...$800 a month...I thought that I would like to live on that street. Bring Stella with me, or get a old cat...or maybe I would just let Stella get old in it. I thought, a job, school, a job where they would feed me the left-overs.

Then, I thought, I am so young...but these are the things I think about. This is the level I am on. I think about where I will rent...in the present...who I will be with now...forever. I am older than him, I am a twenty-something year old girl...my mind is beyond me. I am fucked. I am too old for my birth. Though I am unexperienced in the ways of sex and relationships...I am fine like that. I am so old, I hope my soul does not die before my body. That worries me.



I need to go get in pjs and space out near my dad and his breath...the sounds...just that. I need to relax and space out with horrible TV humor. Or, I could listen to the Smiths, The Cure, and that sort on my walk-man (true yes, I listen to tapes...I own records too but I have no where to listen) while writing in my true journal and reading Camus (I finished The Stranger and now I am reading The Fall, I love him)...and maybe later...if I still feel this sad...I can cut that heart. Yeah, that sounds good. I am glad I am not alone, in the literal sense, because they would never let me do that. They will make me watch the TV, a savior from scars that I will someday wish to forget. They save the emotions that spurt in my heart...they will rinse them with their silences and muffled laughs...Adam Sandler's slap stick humor may just be my anti-suicide. No, not that much...I am not wanting to die for years...from a natural death. I just mean a savior from wallowing in depression. It will now be oppression, oppression of my feelings...yip yip.


"How could someone so young write words so sad?"--The Smiths
10:02pm: I like Dashboard Confessionals actually, strange, but yeah. I do I do.
My father is laughing at the movie: Big Daddy.


I am listening to a CD I have not heard since 6th grade. Cropduster. Does anyone...someone who would be in their thirties...know them? I would marry Brian Fitz-Patrick (spelling) in a second. If I were older, and there was no Sally or little ones. He is such a catch, my mom and I always talk about it. We swoon.


Now I remember, this song...about JB...this was the one I liked. It is wow, it is kind of emo...the emo song on the country-esque Whiskey album...was I sad then? I think so. But yeah, I picked this one to love. This one, the one written for the dead friend. It is such a good song, great in person...squashed into Red Devil upon its opening. Barry nice and blushing. Those were the times...when I fell in love with boys on book covers at 8, crying when I heard Depeche Mode...crying for my love for a person on the cover of a Nickelodeon book. Crying for that. I think, I yeah. I love the fact that I can cry, I almost could not cry. Not for the good things, not for awhile, not for him. Not for anyone. I would not, could not, I just did not. Our fights, my mom and I, they were a savior...they made me cry and weep and let it all out. They saved me. Minus the fact that I made my mother cry, that I sick. That is death. Never make your mother cry. Never.



You want to know something sweet? (wow, this is the third entry tonight, in like an hour) The Gold Bikini is an underlined interest on livejournal! Because both Jane and I put it in, that is so funny. Already our fake band is underlined.


Want to hear our line-up?

Well there is Benny...who I keep hearing has a drinking problem...on Viola, then my pal Ian...who is in a band and has a girlfriend...on guitar, then Jane...on vocals...maybe a keyboard...can she play?, my dad's old-man roommate on drums...Todd (har har this is a laugh) the dj for the Fox, and then me...for the sad lyrics and la la la.



This song is called: Ugly Girl. Wow, it is so funny but it sounds deep, if you do not know English.


Got to go. I got to change this CD...and get away from this screen, my eyes are going to fall out of my head.


K.
10:19pm: ----Groovy Times----
Note to public:

I recommend buying: "Black Market Clash" the album of The Clash. It is a mix of hard to find Clash songs...or weird re-mix or old songs that no one but like twenty people that were smashed into a little club in London ever heard...that kind of music. And of course, old favorites. But, still, it is pretty good. Especially after a long period of Cure and Smiths. It is a refreshing lift. Shit, or wow language, but still...this is like my fourth entry in a night. I need to go DO something.
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