This is the tounge of the dead man:

Se fue.

2008-03-31T17:12:09Z

I have reached out to press my palm on the figures standing before me and felt only air, then cool cement. These shapes are not human; they are shadows. I turned around to find the face casting such a long shadow, but I only found myself blinded by the sun behind me. This is what I must now walk among. Shadows. They dance and crawl like an enemy or companion, but they are not real. They absorb the light in front of me and toss back only darkness onto my face. They are cold and their edges are not clear. Some of these shadows I ignore. Some, I will chase forever.

Although I am surrounded by moving shapes, dancing in their dark, toying with the light surrounding, I am ultimately and devastatingly alone.

Alethea.

A year later.

2007-11-20T19:53:49Z

The entry three down on this journal was written almost exactly a year ago. This has changed. My life is changed. None of the change necessarily applies to myself, as can be noted in my repetitive entries and complaints, none of which have budged from the time I went through puberty. But my surroundings have changed, and my relationships. It's not quite what I expected, but I found someone to care for me and who I want to commit myself to completely. Things are often rocky, I don't always feel secure or sane, but there is beauty nonetheless. When he yells, I cower and comply because there's no point in worsening things. It took me three years to find what I have. And when he finally throws up his arms and wanders away for good, I'll know that I did everything I could, and loved him with everything I had. And then I'll just have to wait again.

you crawled into my bed
like some sort of giant insect
and I found myself spellbound at the sight of you
beautiful and grotesque and all the rest of that bug stuff
bluffing your way into my mouth
behind my teeth, reaching for my scars
that night we got kicked out of two bars
and laughed our way home

that night you leaned over
and threw up into your hair
and I held you there, thinking
I would offer you my pulse
if I thought it would be useful
I would give you my breath
except the problem with death is that you have some hundred years
and then they can build buildings on your only bones
a hundred years and then your grave is not your own
we lie in our beds, and our graves
unable to save ourselves from the quaint tragedies we invent and undo
from the stupid circumstances we slalom through
and I realized that night that the hall light
which seemed so bright when you turned it on is nothing
compared to the dawn
which is nothing
compared to the light
which seeps from me while you're sleeping
beautiful and grotesque, resting, cocooned in my room
that night we got kicked out of two bars
and laughed our way home
and I held you there thinking
I would offer you my pulse
I would give you my breath
I would offer you my pulse

Alethea.

I drink; therefore, I am.

2007-09-14T07:41:55Z

Oh, how much clearer my thoughts seemed as I was collecting them through a cigarette in the cold.

I'm drowning again. I'm a vibration, rather than a solid. I've had a little bit too much to think tonight. And to drink. I'm fluid. I'm choking on fluid.

I looked in the mirror tonight and I looked old. I sounded old. I felt old; I feel old. Oh, but what am I? Yes, ladies and gentlemen, it's one of those nights. Existentialism with Alethea. All those reverberating insecurities have surfaced and LET'S GET READY TO CRUMBLE!

FUCK! Nothing has any fucking merit anymore because it's all been done before! Someone beat you to it and of COURSE you could never live up those standards. You don't deserve any of this anyway, remember? Remember eleven-years-old screaming through your teeth with just a thin stream of air between an exacto-kinfe and your wrist, waiting for the courage follow through? Remember how that hatred burned through your insides and singed your skin?

FUCK! I have always been a wreck! I have tried to supress my emotional distress through violence and fantasy in my childhood, through physical pain in my adolescence, through sex in my teens and then physical pain again and then sex, sex and more sex. None of which helped me, gained me practical experience, security, or confidence. None of it! I'm fucking fourteen-years-old again OF COURSE when it fucking matters!

FUCK! How did such a pathetic act of desperation just make me hate myself even more? I never felt sorry for myself. Never! I hated my weakness and ignored the catalyst, only four years later to take it a step further and still survive on account of my immature miscalculation of how to disappear completely, only four years later to still dwell on my ignorance and replay every beautifully sickening memory of what could have been my melodramatic end.

FUCK! I am pitiful! I try to consider myself an adult, but instead of weeping these morbid thoughts to a friend or lover or trained professional, I once again write in this hollow journal that no one reads because my hand is too drunk for paper and the idea of speaking makes me blush and nauseous. My words are meaningless to another individual, but I will gladly write to myself so that I can read this later and reflect on what a disgrace I am.

FUCK! I am in constant fear of myself. Whether it's the fear of losing control and spiraling into chaos or the fear of the control I do possess that is only applicable to my self-destruction. These intimate affairs can only be a distraction from my depression that is never-ending and all-encompassing. Happiness could not possibly exsist because, oh, ho! I am incapable of it! I will beat the dead horse he rode in on until I am comfortable once again in my self-loathing.
I will always fall victim to others, strangled by jealously.
I will always fall victim to myself, strangled by doubt.

psychosomatic addict insane.

. . .

- - -

. . .

Alethea.

Forbidden From Memory.

2007-08-21T07:38:33Z

I received four letters today
each with your name in the corner
but they were not from you.

the first was written in grass painted green
from the color that fell out of
your eyes :
‘wish you were here’
beneath a shroud of bright blue.
they say yours are now grey
as a rain cloud.

the second was written in blood
heaved from your mother’s lungs
as she lay dying
in a bed
in a room
in a house
no one’s entered
in a hundred years.

the third was written in charcoal and twilight
breathed from the shadow
of my solipsist.
oh, peter pan!
no threading will hold you
no longer any angle of daylight
reveals your mutilated silhouette.

the fourth was damp and thick and salty
sent from an ocean not on
any map
and as I tried to open it
the letter
fell apart
and stuck to my fingertips
but from the scraps, I heard two voices --
one was mine.

and so staid I sat
mourning the losses you refused
enveloped by the loneliness of your
enveloped discards;

all of us forgotten.

____________________________

I wrote this.
There was [too] much poetry in my life at the time.

Alethea.

___resolve @ 2006-11-19T06:16:00

2006-11-19T10:16:02Z

Who is going to run their fingers through my hair, finally soft? I swear I'll wash the makeup off my eyelids if you'll kiss them as I tumble into sleep. Place your lips on my fingertips; warmth breath on my palm delivering my downfall, caressing my surrender.

Perfect intensity and a cold description.

2006-11-11T10:06:33Z

red flags and long nights.
sick of trying to find a way inside
sick and tired of all the after
sick of trying to find a way to slide
even though it always ends in laughter
it's never hard to tell when things are done
he looked into my eyes and a voice said RUN
he says that I'm a mess but it's alright
whether it's two weeks, two years or just tonight

you can occupy my every sigh.

monologue.
kissing a strange hand
my city like streetlamps fade
on the edge of an answer you way lust
beginnings are made
forgive me, my guilt is my only crime
and I'll carry it round 'til it breaks me down every time

we will take love and swear upon the things that we just can't keep.

someone must get hurt.
please don't touch me, I've come to far to let you bring me down
he thinks that I'm easy, but try as you might, you can't have me now
these tedious dances we run through, but I've memorized them now
I quietly melt down and consent to you if only just to bawl
as I stare through you and I stand quite still
and a alarm sounds just up the road
I can tell you'd like some company, but I can't fix you and you don't want me

how can I trust you? how could you need me now?
it's getting to be so cold; old.

she loves me, she loves me not.
I saw you only yesterday
we shared a smile, then went our separate ways
perhaps one day? nevermind.
all the nights we shared, were we just killing time?

___resolve @ 2006-10-25T22:09:00

2006-10-26T02:10:50Z

When I'm around you, I can't stop imagining you undressing me.
You're a lovely idea wrapped in unthinkable circumstances.

___resolve @ 2006-10-19T00:06:00

2006-10-19T05:08:08Z

Because I think in contexts, consequences, and compromises.

When is the last time you apologized?

___resolve @ 2006-10-01T03:54:00

2006-10-01T08:01:49Z

he's not an asshole.
he's not a mystery.
Euphoria
we are all
we all fall
hopelessly. helplessly. desperately. IN LOVE

and that's all I can remember.
and that's all she wrote.

I'm a ruin. I'm in shackles.
I'm not alright.

alone and lonely and alone and alone and
abstraction
assimilation
apathy
anti-
aspiration
admonition
FUCK what does that one mean?
I obliterated my alliteration.

and I can't spell.
way to go drunken psychotic(literally) english major.

It's all about the A
Why am I so obsessed with A?

___resolve @ 2006-08-18T19:34:00

2006-08-19T00:44:20Z

I can't sleep. My body is hot. My limbs keep pulsing and weak moans crawl out of my throat. I feel skin touching mine, hear breath next to my ears. It's an incapacitating sickness.

Sex. Fucking. Kissing. Wanting. I'm restless, so restless.

___resolve @ 2006-08-05T01:58:00

2006-08-05T07:26:09Z

I pull into my gravel driveway, singing along to my intensely loud music. I cut the stereo, still singing loudly, but my voice falters even though I know I'm the only one that can hear me. I walk towards my house with its pitch-black interior for the first night in over two months. Frsit door. I slip my shoes off instinctively and open the creaky door to the kitchen. Then, it's up thirteen creaky steps in the comforting and unsettling quiet. I fumble with my door knob and walk into my room, cautiously stepping over boxes and hangers and shoes until I find my touch lamp.

And it's mostly exactly the same.
I suppose my life is just a fluxuation between various defaults, differentiated only by time and circumstance.
And I suppose that it wouldn't be that horrible, were it not for the fact that I am continually displeased with my surroundings and disappointed by my direction.

I have better things to do than to spew loquacious bullshit.

Alethea.

I love The Audition.

2006-07-19T06:51:27Z

Don't be so hard on yourself
The name of the game is humiliation,
And thanks for your admiration.
I never thought I'd say this:
The way that we play has such confrontation:
And guilt by association.

"Hold me, hold me..."
"If I were to..."
"I can't, can't, I swear I can't let you."
"It's all in your hands, but I'll do what I can so you can do what you have to."

I've been thinking a lot about Tom lately.
It's the music he left on my iPod that kills me.

I don't feel like myself. I love my body right now and that's not like me. I just want to show it off and dress up look as old and as great as I feel. It's incredible to look at my legs and my stomach and not be incredibly disgusted.

Emily tells me I look like a whore sometimes and she just doesn't fucking understand. I'm never this comfortable in my skin. And maybe she's right that my skirts are too short, but all I can feel is angry at her. And I get defensive and think horrible things about how she doesn't know any better and she never dresses half as well as I do and I start nit-picking at what she wears, but God-forbid I ever say anything to her about what she's wearing.

But this isn't about her. It's about me. It's about how I'm so self-dependant right now. And I bet everyone thought I'd be all hung-up over Jonah and that I'd be writing all this emo-bullshit about how "my life is so predictable and I should have known this would happen because everything always goes wrong for me". But I'm not going to. Because that's not how I feel.

You know what I have to say about him?
Eh.
Oh, well.
We had fun. For a couple weeks, I had someone to kiss and spend the night with, but that's it. I got to open up again, I got to hear someone else's interesting stories. And maybe now things are mediocre. I know that we only ever hang out if I ask to when he comes into Manos or if I call him. But whatever. He's his own person and he's got his own life and I know how hard it is to become friends with someone who's already comfortable with the people that they know. God, why do you think my ring of "friends" is so incestual? No one wants to find anyone new.

So, I'm thinking about Tom because I never got what I wanted. And I'm thinking about Ty because it's NYSSSA season and I miss him in all his hilarious, alternative glory.

But I'm really alright. I'm content. Sure, I love sexual intimancy and I love having plans to spend time with people other than myself, but things will come to me. I'm not disgusting and I'm not uninteresting and I'll have a clan again soon. Maybe even someone special. I'm not in a hurry. I'm still so young.

Maybe I'll even find people who care enough about me to call me by the correct name.

Alethea.

Letting go of tonight.

2006-05-01T09:14:51Z

never forgot the time you made me feel alive
when death was on my mind
or when you held onto me
when the world let me fall behind
you were love to me, rather than just a word
a friend was all you were
and it changed my heart
stood next to me through the storm
felt the wounds and kept me warm
something I had never seen before
and I thank you

Another person in and out of my life. It might not have been worth it and it may hurt, but I can't change it and I guess I just have to keep going. That's just the way life goes, the way my life goes. Alethea.

two.

2006-04-20T09:17:55Z

The air through the vents feels hot,
so I turn down the heat.
It still feels the same.
Maybe I can't feel.
I move, gear to gear,
gas and then brake.
Red wine pounding through my veins;
God, I hope I don't hit a deer.

The half-moon is big
and it's bright.
I turn off my brights too late,
but it's okay because I'm irate
and I'm tired.
Work ended hours ago
and I'm forty dollar more rich,
but I'm still a bitch
and seveteen years poor;
two years, a whore.

He's lying with her.
He's kissing her now.
You ask me "what's wrong?"
Oh, where do I begin?
I guess it's because I can't feel
and I'm about to fall asleep at the wheel.

one.

2006-04-20T09:05:31Z

Peristolsis is pushing everything through
my body. I could end it, I could throw up my food.
Like the Chinese women who used to bind their feet,
I could kill myself and end my life before it's complete.
I could eat meat.
Who cares how long I've been a vegetarian?
Giving up and giving in is the American
way. Not to say some people don't succeed,
but they rarely give out to those people in need.
Those people on the street;
those people who can't eat.
While we build million-dollar summer homes
and complain about the heat.

Oh, our endless numbered days...

2006-03-15T08:42:59Z

It's strange to think that, technically, I leave work and return for my next shift in the same day.
It's strange to see how long my hair's getting and my natural color showing through.
It's strange how intimidated I am by the thought of making new friends.
Mostly, it's sad to think that the only thing I have to look forward to is drinking on the weekends.

This is my life. No photography. No sewing. No adventure. No love.

Alethea.

Just for you, anonymous commenter.

2006-03-02T09:40:06Z

How sad it is that I walk around the diner between the hours of ten and three in the morning, checking out anything young with a Y chromosome.

"How are you doing tonight? Can I get you something to drink?"

But it's never the young ones that care. It's the men old enough to be my father, missing teeth with at least a hundred extra pounds packed on. The men that just stare at my chest and couldn't give a shit less about what kind of music I like or how crazy the past year of my life has been. So, I avoid the older ones because they make me uncomfortable. I feel uncomfortable about my chest and my make-up and how they stare at my ass when I walk away. I try to make cute with the young ones in the window booths, but they couldn't give a shit less about any of it.

I get home, feeling exhausted and unsatisfied. I take out my contacts and try to fall asleep for awhile, dreaming up perfect men. I wake up in the early afternoon and watch TV, steadily eating. It's the same old, same old that I can't break out of. It's the desperate phone calls leading to drawn out, awkward trips to the coffee shop and the driving around and the waiting, hoping that a miracle will walk through the door and give me the "I want to get to know you" smile.

And how sad it is that I get come on to so much and I still feel ugly. I look back on my past relationships and I wonder what it was that kept people with me before. All I've done for the past year and a half is draw men into bed one day and then go about life as normal the next. They don't call, they don't tell me I'm beautiful and it was all somehow okay. It was all normal. But it's not okay anymore. I can't even get a ncie guy to talk to me anymore. Am I losing it? Is growing up talking its toll? I think I'm nice. I can be pretty. I have a story or two to tell. What does everyone else have that I don't?

It's all T.V. and work and sleep and family tension and cigarettes and shopping for shit I don't need.

I think my fire is burning out.

Alethea

___resolve @ 2006-02-07T15:24:00

2006-02-07T20:30:16Z

Sick, barely falling asleep, thinking of days when I was thinner, prettier, and could breathe out of my nose.
How sad I've become. How hopeless.

What a thing to is to grow older and less desirable. After 40, understandable. But for God's sake, I'm still a teenager. I should still be beautiful. I shouldn't be so lonely.

Remembrance.

2006-01-31T10:57:32Z

I sometimes forget. No -- I forget a lot of things. I forget I have this safe haven where I can post anything without judgement or fear. I forget a certain perfume I used to wear all the time. I forget to brush my teeth before I leave the house. I forget that omelettes come with toast and what kind of toast do people want. I forget a lot of things. Mostly, I forget love.

It's odd, to have loved so young; to have lost my ability to decipher emotion. I know nothing of patience, regret, compassion. Get a little alcohol in me and instead of throwing myself at men, I lash out at them, tell them exactly what I think of them covered in a thin layer of my insecurities. I don't know if I know how to love anymore. I don't know how to find the good in people. For as compliant and satisfied as I sometimes seem, I am filled with so much anger.

After all, what is love anyway? What does it mean to be in a relationship? You have coffee together, tell each other exaggerated stories about your lives. You kiss, you call, you get jealous and you hold it in because you don't want to ruin a good thing, right? You don't want them to think that you're flawed, right? So, you try to hide your bad side. You hide all the anger and jealousy and habits that you know the other person hates and desires you don't know if they'll share until you search for understanding or love in another person or you get into a big fight and everything you've been holding back comes out and both people feel lied to and betrayed and you know that your friendship can't survive all this and you're forced into unanswered calls and awkward conversations.

But you still feel it. After one year, two years; you still have the longing for togetherness. Whenever couples show up in a TV show, it's the water works and the constant sighing because even thoughit isn't real, you find their life together beautiful and sometimes tragic. You forget that your life isn't a TV drama, but for an hour or so, that's okay.

All it takes is a harmless question, a familiar smell, a certain kind of cigarettes and I'm fourteen, fifteen again. All it takes is a warm winter's evening or an old song and a strange silence sweeps over my body as I become less and less aware of myself and my surroundings. It isn't my body that longs anymore; I am not filled with lust. My heart yearns for comfort. I want so badly to be told that I'm beautiful like the flawless actresses on television. I'm tired of looking in the mirror and saying "I guess this will have to do." I don't want to keep putting in makeup and pretty clothes when I know deep down that no one will notice me, even though I am always hoping that someone will. I'm usually alone for half of the day, but I'm lonely all the time.

Something filled up my heart with nothing;
someone told me not to cry.
But now that I'm older, my heart's colder
and I can see that it's a lie.

Alethea.

Akimbo

2005-12-25T07:11:27Z

what dreams cause me
to abandon my pillow each night?
push away each of them, in fact
since there always seem to be more than one
then wake to aching stiff neck twisted
tits and face smashed against the mattress
legs and arms akimbo
like the high pitched body of a jumper
waiting for her chalk outline
finally at rest

Akimbo, Ani DiFranco.

First personal writings from Portland, Oregon.

2005-10-25T04:54:54Z

I’m angry. I’m angry and I have no one to tell, nowhere to put it. I’m angry because she’s a teenager and I’m old and no one seems to notice. I’m angry because she’s immature and bouncy and goo-goo ga-ga. And she’s loud. She’s loud and inappropriate and prodding, prodding, prodding and telling people things that maybe they ought not to know. She tries to impress people by stretching the truth and being a little more edgy, then a little more cutesy and it makes me angry.

Now I hear their voices out in the living room; the low murmurs disturbing my much needed silence. And I’m sure they’re sharing stories. She’s swooning over his slight accent, playing the odd words over and over again in her brain as he rambles about music and people she knows nothing about. Smile and nod, kick your head back and throw out your chest as you laugh. And he thinks to himself how sweet and funny she is. And he knows he has to go home, but calling her again has made his list of things to do and they part ways -- all smiles -- while I sit on the mattress on my floor, angry.

Tomorrow comes the play back and statements of the obvious just because she wants to talk about it and has nowhere else to put it. And I’ll smile and nod as she rambles on about sincere emotions and connections that I know nothing about, or have perhaps forgotten. Then I’ll shuffle around in my bag for a good excuse and step outside for a cigarette or two\because I’m angry. I’m angry and no one seems to notice.

__________________________________

There are twenty four hours in a day, but only twenty cigarettes in pack so I’m gonna head on over to my local grocer and then smoke until my voice cracks.

And fuck. Growing up is hard, but being up is harder. You run around with three jobs trying to make ends meet and when you find the time to look down you realize that your feet aren’t really on the ground. ‘Cause your shirt’s caught up in the family tree. You know, this isn’t just a story about me.

__________________________________

his body and my memories
completely separate
vulgar

Alethea Rudd.

Two different thoughts.

2005-09-07T00:20:18Z

People. They don't even listen. They don't get it.

.

Isn't it strange how some memories you share with others and some memories are only yours?

Alethea vs. Caroline

2005-09-03T02:20:24Z

I sat down on the steps with my cup of coffee, fumbled for a lighter and lit my last cigarette. A woman sitting near me groaned and asked if I had to smoke right there. She sounded impatient. I offered a polite response, picked up my things and left. I spent the rest of today thinking of all the nasty things I should have said to her instead. And yet, the response I gave was my first instinct. I was so angry thinking about the incident later on, but my inherent response was to politely move. Does that mean that people are, in fact, born genuinely good? In the absence of others, when caught disconnected from our alter-egos and our pasts and basically our personalities, do we instinctually do the right thing? How do we know what is the right thing?

I drove through the small section of campus on which I lived for a month. It was jam packed with cars and students starting new lives, or possibly living those which they had always dreamed of. With all the bustle and clutter, the space felt alien. I stared at the balconies and sidewalks and watched as recent friends and memories materialized in the style of an old flim, then quickly dissipated as I drove on by.

I pondered the significance of the event and fought the hot tears that formed behind my eyes. I emerged no better a photographer with no deeper understanding of art. What's left of my friendships is a bastarded collection of cryptic online entries and bulletins. We keep tabs through comments and away messages because we all have our own lives to live and no time to speak.

What of the teachers and students I left with no resolution; no goodbyes. What of the boy who undressed me and then ran.. quite literally. What of the dozens of tears and hundreds of cigarettes butts that we dropped on the ground and nobody bothered to clean up? What of passion and devotion? Are they that expendable? Am I that expendable? Are our lives?

I have slept with six boys in my life, only three of which were on more than one occasion, only two of which I was considered to be in a relationship with. And out of all of them, only one can I imagine that I will ever come looking for after I leave; only one do I ever wish to speak to again. Three of these boys, I very well may never see again. What does that mean? Is it merely as significant as never again speaking to the girl who rang you out at the local grocery? Does it really matter that little? What have I lost and what have I gained? What does this make me?
On the days that I throw my hair in a ponytail, forego makeup and dress casual, I'm one of the girls who's peers look ather and wonder how it is that she's gotten around so much. I mean... look at her! But as soon as I take a flattening iron to my unruly locks, fill in my eyes and brows in that thick European way and slip into a pair of heels, I'm jailbait and I am a whore.

I never know what to say to people. I ask them how they are in a cheerful way, but when the question boomerangs, I'm caught full frontal. Do I echo their response? Do I quickly lie to move on or end the conversation? I never know whether or not people actually care about my well-being or if they're just acting on instinct. But if it's instinct, doesn't that make them inherently good and that they do, in fact, care?

At what number of exceptions to the rules do we finally admit that the rules no longer exsist?

My stomach is puffed out like a woman near the end of her first trimester and I'm afraid. I don't believe that I carry a child inside of me and I am sure that I would beat it to pieces or cut it out myself if I was found to be wrong. But my stomach is swollen in a way that makes me self-conscious. A one-night-stand once told me that my tummy was 'fantastic' and I am afraid to lose that. I'm afraid that once my body starts to go, my self-esteem and motvation will as well and I will roll downhill like a proverbial snowball.

What is feminine and what is beautiful? Because I seem so sure that I am neither. My breasts are now too small, my stomach and thighs are too large and my shoulders too broad. I feel like the product of a philosopher's first human sculpture attempt. I'm made up of deep thoughts and good ideas and good intentions, but without any foundation or experience I'm left awkward and falling to pieces.

Who am I to you? If you saw me crying, would you assume that it was trivial or that I truly felt pain? Would it make you smile to see me do so? Am I a jungle or a brick wall? Do I intrigue you? Do I make you squirm?

I sit in my room at night and try to perfectly imagine the sound of my crunching bones and the searing pain that would spread through my body if I stepped off a high place. I ask so many questions because I keep hoping that an answer will grab me by the wrist.

I want nothing more at this moment than for a man to touch my cheek, wrap himself around me and place his lips on the very bottom of my neck. I know exactly who, but Alethea doesn't kiss and tell.

Sex.

2005-08-20T06:53:03Z

I'm cold in all the places where my body is just fat; I'm sticky soft and dripping with anticipation. I lay awake for hours with you on my mind and brownies on my breath. This is why it's called an addiction.

I should have told you that it would be more than just casual.
I should have told you that you'd have to make it up to me.

I'm not finnished.

Full-circle self-affirmations. Realizations; comtemplations.

2005-08-03T05:09:18Z

_self_evident
November 9th, 2004. [7:01 pm]
This is my resignation. Crying now. I'm giving up. I've said it before, but my mind somehow found a loophole and that's not OK anymore. I am now in silent mode. I am effortless and alone. My words and actions are not needed in this world. Since I can't seem to find the strength to die, I might as well act like it. Maybe I'll someday disintegrate into the wind and no one will ever know.

Damn these emotions! Damn men! Damn women, as well! What is it about me that no one understands, that no one accepts? Four is not a large number and in the same situations, you would have done the same. Damn high school! Dispell me from your thoughts and rumors. Who I am is none of your concern.

. . .

Who sits awake at night and thinks of you?
Does my face tickle under someone's eyelids?

We are trapped within ourselves. We spend all day thinking about people and events, unaware that others do the same thing. People think about you. People think about me. It's not narcissism, it's the simple truth. For every time that you mention a person you dislike, someone is saying the same of you. We have our faults. We clash. For every rumor you spread, every secret you tell, your name is sliding off of someone else's tongue. We giggle. We are appalled.

We will waste an incomprehensible amount of energy on the things we do out of habit, not logic. Enemies are overrated. A good person who does a bad thing is not necessarily a bad person. You can't hate someone for the decisions they make if that person believes them to be just. Opinion is not all-encompassing. People have to live, they have to explore, they have to find their niche. Not a single person in this world is obligated to satisfy you. That is your responsibility. If you want to be happy, even if for only a few short minutes, take the world on your shoulders and do with it whatever you please. You do not have the right to blame anyone but yourself.

This is my resignation.

It's takes two to tango and you're always the other half. A fight wouldn't exist without you. Whenever you are in an arguement or an awkward sitation, rememeber that you're adding to it. You always matter. If something is affecting you, you are affecting something.

Sulking is pointless. If you want something, fucking go for it. Who cares how impossible it may seem? You are not allowed to sit around and be angry because some guy didn't call you. You want to talk? Call him. If you don't, your misery is your fault -- not his. You can always do something. Your only options are to do something about your problems or move on. Thinking real hard and brooding will get you nowhere.

If you want to know the answer, ask the fucking question.

I want to see him. I want to be close to him. I don't care how he feels; I want it. I'm going to drive the two hours because I want to. I'm going to talk to him face-to-face and I am going to find out exactly what he's thinking because I want to know. I will be shameless because that's the only way to get anywhere. None of that "what will they think" bullshit. I had sex with him. Yes, I did. And the girls and boys spewed the gossip like vomit and they rolled in it. Our names hit their tongues and they laughed and gasped. And I am not ashamed. He was the 5th. I'm not even seventeen-years-old. Who cares? Who cares if she calls me Jailbait Columbus? I don't hold regrets. I didn't lock my cells together; I wasn't birthed from my own womb. I grew up and I made decisions that people didn't agree with. I lost a lot of friends. I tried a lot of shit. But I did it. And whenever something beautiful happens to me, I'll know that every little experience and everything that people have hated about me added up and allowed that beautiful thing to enter my life. And knowing that my past woes will contribute to my future happiness is all that I need to keep me going.

So, let go of your enemies. You only hate them because you tell yourself to do so. When their name comes up, you waste so much time and energy filling your head and the air with negativity when you could just remain.

I have felt so negative towards people who's names end in 'a'. Laura, Aurora, Jessica, Emilia, Sierra, Maia. Well, my name ends in an 'a', too. My real name. And if I'm going to hate you, then I have to hate myself. And the truth is that I don't hate myself; I don't want to hate myself.

Shotgun that, ladies. I don't hate you. We may have done things to eachother in the past that made our throats close up and our hands shake, but we are both at fault. So, I'm canceling out the blame. I don't blame you or me for anything. What's done is done. I'm tired of dwelling. I'm tired of the baggage attatched to your names, so I'm dropping it. This is my fucking resignation.

If you think I'm full of shit, I won't mind. My opinion is not the end-all and be-all of human nature. However, I would like you all to remember one thing.

Everything is always happening.

Alethea Rudd.