Some thoughts on a sleep deprived Saturday afternoon.

It's something I've always known, in a way. I was never going to be that. Normal. Beautiful. An Instagram Tumblr girl. A theatre girl. A singer. A genius. An angel. A princess. It was always going to be this. A skinny, hook-nosed, wide-lipped mess of a human being, curled into a ball underneath a Snuggie, listening to quiet, loving music that feels light years away and reminiscing about the days when I tried and failed to be a human being. Headaches. Shockwaves running through my body. A light head. Frail. Delicate constitution. No matter how many squats I do, how many planks I hold, how many minutes I spend in that split, it leaves. Muscles fall off. Skinny fat prevails. Frizzy hair in a bun or whatever the fuck you can call that nest on my skull. Bags under the eyes. Pimples. A permanent frown. Chipped nails. So much hair. No boobs. No ass. Bones. Sticking out. Go away but I can't eat enough. I can't work out enough. Skinny bitch. Boys like the curvy ones. The pretty ones. The sweet ones. The quiet ones. But not creepy quiet, just quiet. Not pensive. No brain. You can't have that. All I have is my brain. I'm trapped in it. I'm not smart enough but I'm still there. Black. Black. BLACK.





Nails, clothes, shoes, merch. Soul. Heart. I can't love you, or anyone. Once you rely on me, once you care, I hate you. I'll chase you and cry over you and complain that you don't love me and dream of you and once you do I can't stand you. You repulse me. Why are you so clingy, God. This isn't real, can't you see that? I don't actually care. You're a dream. And then you woke me up and I realized you were a person and now you disgust me. Text me, I dare you. I'll give you hope then squash it. OBLITERATE it. Cry about me, I'd love it. I'd drink your tears if I could. Tell my friends how you don't want to be around me because I hate you. You're right, I detest you. You're afraid I'll leave you and rightfully so because I'll promise you up and down, to the heavens above and the hell below, that I'd never leave you because how could I? Then the next day you don't see me. Then the next day you do but I don't speak to you, but I speak to everyone else. And then you know I lied. And I did it to hurt you. And then you're erased from my life as if you'd never been there. Because you weren't really there. No one was.

Daina said I don't trust people because I had to rely on myself. And I do, this is true. But do I not trust people? Or is it that I'm just not a person? How could I be a person? My life isn't real. My dreams are real. My daydreams are real. I live through them. I don't step a foot outside or out of my bed for five days in a row and I feel as though I've lived the fullest life in my own mind. Nothing could compare. I have ideas spilling out of every orifice and filling my empty soul with temporary euphoria. How could you come anywhere close? How could the entire universe come anywhere close? A cute boy in a leather jacket who's perpetually awkward and won't say hi to me on an empty bus because his earbuds are in and then I hate everything that's led me to this point. You're not even real. That night I'll dream of us running from a monster and kissing in our final moments, only to find that the monster decides against our demise and we dance off with a beautiful jealous girl looking on. How could you compare to my brain's image?


What do I see?


The sun was blotted out. The moon fell out of existence. The stars fled in fear. Darkness. It's always been there. I won't live to 80, or 64, or 39, or 23. I'd be shocked if I lived to see the next election and vote in it. I was always meant to die young, a dumb, troubled teenager who didn't know how to live with just the littlest thing going wrong.

Flames or ice?

It'll depend on how much vodka and Xanax I swallow, I suppose.

Not as exclusive as the past.