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(no subject) [Nov. 19th, 2009|08:50 pm]
_bleed_out_
Tonight is the ten year anniversary. Usually, I would write in my physical journal about this, as I've been doing for the past few years, but I wanted this properly dated.
November nineteenth. Around eight o clock PM.

I was going to the Wilton-Lyndebourgho Cooperative Junior-Senior High Harvest Ball. I'd gotten a special blue velvet tube dress with a little pouch on a sparklily cord around the waist, so I could carry my ticket.
I was going because I wanted to see Mark Wrona. I liked his eyelashes. He didn't show up but that is not an important part of the story.
So I got there, and this being a middle school dance there was a great deal of pop music and very little dancing. Well, I never have been much of one to choose dignity over fun, partially because I knew making that choice scared people.
They were playing Larger Than Life. As I was out in the middle of the floor, breaking it down and shaking my groove thing, or at least as much of a groove thing as a twelve year old girl has, when I realized that I wasn't alone on the dance floor.
There was a boy.
He was in a suit with the collar open so that the lapels made me think of disco suits, and he had short black hair with gold highlights. Even in ninety-nine, who highlighted their hair? I danced slightly closer to him, enjoying the fact that I wasn't alone. That someone else was dancing. That someone didn't care.
He caught my eye, and his face was caught in this bemused expression that I didn't yet know was so very... well, him-ish.
He raised a hand towards me and made a queryitive little closing motion with his hand. I wouldn't have been able to tell you it at the time, but looking back on that moment, it was like his fingers were closing around my heart.
I danced with him all night. I slow danced, I'm not even sure if I had ever done that before.
I forget so much. So much important stuff. But that I remember.

Then, on Monday, after I remembered that night fondly, someone decided that they wanted to ask him out for me, and I didn't find out about it until the terrified boy had a huge buffer of emotional support to back him up as he turned me down. I was too embarrassed to talk to him for a year.
Which is unfortunate, since I was in love with him. But then again, I was twelve, and I was confident that any sort of love-like emotions I could have convinced myself I was feeling would go away soon enough if I just ignored them, and then I could talk to him and be his friend, which I really looked forward to since he showed every sign of being a really cool kid.

That was ten years ago. That was Tom.
I think maybe I should rethink this "not talk about my emotions and hope they go away bit."
As I said when I was about sixteen, unrequited love sucks royal hairy monkey balls.
Alot has changed. I've watched him go through girlfriends and usually reacting badly. I've spent so much time looking at them and trying to figure out how to be like them, how I could ever with a lifetime of effort be worthy of his attention. I knew I would never deserved his love. At least not until I at very least liked myself.
When I met his most recent girlfriend, I stood ready to compare myself to her. I was ready for her to be prettier than me, smarter than me, better than me in every way.
And then she turned out to be Shannon. Boy, was that anti-climatic.
It was fucking weird as I tried to build her up in my head as this wonderful person completely and totally worthy of the love of the most wonderful person I ever met. I focused on her best qualities and wrote off what bothered me about her as jealousy, and convince myself that she was the only logical person for Tom to love.
And then she was Shannon.
There's nothing wrong with Shannon. I think that's it.
She isn't ugly, or really stupid and she certainly isn't crazy, she's easily the happiest person I've ever met, and she isn't stuck up or rude or mean or bad to Tom or anything.
That's it. She wasn't anything.
She isn't pretty, she isn't smart, she is sane enough as to go out the other side. She's so boring it's scary. It drove me nuts for months, after I finally realized that I didn't like her because I didn't like her, not because Tom loved her, but because she was so fucking dull she terrified me. Talking to her was like talking to a cocker spaniel. She's always happy to see you, but she doesn't have anything to say.
For the first time since I'd met him, Tom was not doing better than me. This of course was made difficult by the fact I am a just-cute nutjob with a bucket of other issues. I felt so free. I was working to be better in every way. I was practicing sword and dance and getting my voice into a range I didn't hate, and trying so hard not to be crazy.
For the first time since middle school, there was a question of doubt. By the time he was finished dallying with Ms. Boring, could I be sane enough to admit that I was in love and for the first time in my life, just try to do the stupid "I like you and want to be around you" thing. I guess that's called dating. All I needed to do was wait.

And then, he proposed to her.

That was a month ago, now. This has been the worst month of my life. I have cried myself to sleep every night since. I've gotten really sick of it.

I made it to ten years. I would be more impressed if it was a conscious choice.
However, living ten years, dealing with all the normal shit, and being in love with someone who you knew from pretty early on wouldn't have you and not killing yourself... well, it's harder than it looks. And I've been told it doesn't look easy.

It could have been worse. It could have been someone other than Tom.
He has had so many opportunities to be a dick about this. But he hasn't. He's tried so hard to be my friend. He has been my friend. I don't think I could have made it this far without a friend like him.

I love him.

It's been an interesting ten years, Tommy. See you in another ten.
Really. I do love you. A great deal.
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(no subject) [Mar. 19th, 2008|08:06 pm]
_bleed_out_
Image and video hosting by TinyPic

I feel like my sternum's been ripped out. I've felt like that for weeks, and the hole's getting bigger.
Fuck.

I tried to tell Willow and mother today, and sure they were concerned, they tried to help in their own way; but Willow refuses to admit the possiblity that it's connected to my emotions. She thinks my new pendant, which I'd been wearing a month before this problem started, tore a hole in my aura or something.
Fuck.
There's no way to discuss this without sounding like a flake.
I stopped talking about it, but I've just been getting worse and worse. There's no real reason to tell anyone my problems, because it will upset them, but they won't even try to help me with the problem.

There's a fucking hole in my chest! It started over my heart and it's getting bigger and I'm scared and no one cares.
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(no subject) [Sep. 21st, 2007|12:02 pm]
_bleed_out_
Fucking hell.

I don't WANT to go to the beach. I hate the beach. It's hot and it's sunny and it smells funny. I'd just sit in a shady corner all day wishing I could go home.

So it makes a great insentive for me to do something I don't want to do. Right.

On the other hand, Willow really really likes the beach, but she can't go until I do my stupid illunation. I have nothing againt illumination, but I have serveal other projects that I have an actually interest in that working on will not force me to go to the beach. But Willow wants to go so I should do it for her sake, quick while it's still warm enough. And its not like anyone cares if I start updating my yearly monster story on time. It sucks. People wouldn't read it if they weren't in it. If there was no chance of anyone they know dying, no one would read Zombies in Wilton.

Fuck. I'm only on page twenty and it looks like it will be another hundred page story, and it needs to start updating in October. Not to mention the animation which will be pretty pointless in November. And the print, also pointless in novemeber, and protesting violently to being colored.
But who cares about that. And I should be doing more around the house than I am doing.

I should just do the fucking illumination and the dishes and sit in the corner of the beach, looking for a shadow, sulking, and wishing I could be animating.
I fucking hate this, but I know I'm going to do it anyway.
Fuck....
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(no subject) [Dec. 3rd, 2006|06:58 pm]
_bleed_out_
[mood |sadsobbing]
[music |The Galaxy Song- Monty Python]

Real friends help you move bodies.
People who pathologically hate you and think your childern should be impounded and shot help you move.

So yesterday I helped Catsama move. I fucking hate her, and resent the fact that everyone around me was using my name to refer to someone I hated. And my own damn sister, one of the few people who actually still speak to me, used MY name, my fucking name with this person I hated with more affection then when she spoke to me.

The worst part is, I think she (Christine, there, take that fucking name bitch) thinks I like her because, in person, I'm terribly polite all the time. Especially when I hate someone, I get really formal, and she goes from bitch to fucking bitch, so therefore anyone being civil must like her.
This woman is a horrible mother. Her childern are horrible monsters without so much as an awareness as to what control is. Her daughter, thirteen is a fucking whorebag, with no respect for anything but her own warped little opinions. And the whole fucking world thinks she's more mature then me. Why? SEX!

SEX SEX SEX FUCKING SEX! I'm trying to actually be a good person, get solve problems, you know try despreately to figure out how to make money with no skills, an inablity to be within ten feet of people, and the attantion span of a goldfish. I take responcablity for my actions. I take responaclity for things I had no control over. I take responcity for other people's actions!
But no, I don't want to jump into bed, so I'm an immature little shit.

Why doesn't anyone respect me? I try so hard be be good, and skilled, and mature, but all anyone ever thinks of me as is "cute" or "twitchy". No one really cares beyond that. I don't actually have friends. Friends want you to actually answer when they ask how your doing. Friends have actually been known to ask on occasion.
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parnoid rambling [Jun. 26th, 2006|01:05 pm]
_bleed_out_
[mood |pissed offpissed off]

And I'm fucking pissed off. It's not me, it's not the knives, it's something else. I tried cutting other things, and the knives cut beautifully. I pressed into my skin with all my strength and it didn't break. I tried it on leather and cloth and the knife cut fine. I beat myself with a blunt object, and my hands where all to willing to do myself damage. It's just for some reason, those knives won't cut me. That pisses me off. I think someone bound me from cutting myself. That means they thought I would do it. That means they didn't trust me not to do something as stupid as self-multiation. Admittedly, I just tried it, but if no one wants to help I'd like to think it's because they think I didn't need it. Why wouldn't they just pay attention to me rather than bindng me if they idn't want me to hurt myself? Is it a conscience thing?
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(no subject) [May. 22nd, 2006|12:21 am]
_bleed_out_
I do love you.
One day I'll love someone who loves me.
But today is not that day.
And you are not that person.
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"It hurts..." "I'm sure it does dear. Pardon, now I'm busy.." [Jan. 27th, 2006|05:30 pm]
_bleed_out_
[mood |pessimisticmiserable]

I'm having full out hallucinations.. it's not so bad when someone's here, but no one's here. I keep hearing things and seeing things that aren't... the noises are the worst, because some of them are much more real... the fainter whispers and the bangs... I finally told somone how often I see things I know aren't there, and though she seemed concerned, she didn't do anything. I'm really lonely. I'm so lonely, recently I got sick. The subconucous has alot to do with these things, I figure I got sick so that someone would take care of me.. because I was taking care of them before. But after a day they abandoned me... because I was sick... I'm in a empty house with things I know aren't there but I can still see and very lonely. Sometimes I wonder if actually preforming self-multilation would convince them that I actually am upset. I keep stopping breathing, and there's no one here to help me.
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(no subject) [Sep. 11th, 2005|06:56 pm]
_bleed_out_
It was very interesting.
I saw Tom today, and we talked a little. All I could think about was my fumbled sucide, and I thought about telling someone, but fuck it, we were at a fair. Everyone was so happy, how was I supposed to bring up sucide at a time like this. Just like at graduation, everyone was happy, Tom was happy, I couldn't tell him I loved him because he'd stop smiling, and I'd hate that. I've said it before, and it's true, his smile is a beauty I could not create, and there's no way I could stand to destory it. It was just weird seeing someone who, the last time you saw them, you tried to kill yourself. Just fucking weird.
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Might as well tell the third secret already [Sep. 7th, 2005|12:18 am]
_bleed_out_
[mood |blahcaring takes too much effort]
[music |"Down with the Sickness"]

A few years ago, I tried to take control of someone that I loved. I thought that doing so, and making them love me, would make me happy. It didn't work, and no one knows about it, but the guilt that I did it even though I knew it was wrong still lives on inside of me. The worse part is that I proved so many people right by doing it. People who saw stupid things about me. The people who said that's what I'd do to him, the people who said that I stalked him, and then years later I started to. The people who joke about how I look like the type to slit my wrists any day, and my trying to die. I hate to prove them right. That's why I'm not a cutter. Today I actually bared my wrists and shoved them in someone's face to prove that I didn't do that. My forearms are so pale, so cean and pure. They are so completely, and strangely unscarred. I wonder if they look strange to me because whenever I draw them, they have cuts all over them, and they don't in real life. They just look to long and pale. I can see all of my veins.
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Last Words [Aug. 2nd, 2005|12:59 pm]
_bleed_out_
[mood |blankblack]
[music |"Black" Rolling Stones]

What my last words would have been if they weren't "What, are you fucking crazy?!" I say fuck alot. I'll work on that.

Walk into the storm. Scream until you have no air left in your body, scream until you collapse. Grip the pavement as best you can.
"Oh, that this too, too solid fleash would melt..." look down at your wrists, then sir on your haunces, your wrists held before you as you imagine what they would look like slit.
"To be, or not to be..." laugh, "That is the question." toss your hair as you shout into the sky, "Whether tis better to bear the slings and arrows of outragous fortune...to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing, end them." stand up. start to walk. hear a car. act on a half-baked idea. Bang bang caw fuck I'm dead.
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