Stop reading my blog, it's not worth it.

If I don't know love, then why does losing whats lost hurt so badly?

And if there is a man out there who knows death better than I do, I'd like to meet him.

I'm tired of waiting for my blog to become popular. Prince Charming isn't coming for me, and i'm never getting asked to prom.

Something about my teenage life grows heavy when the sun gives up on keeping me warm.

This is not a diary,
I just have no one else to talk to.

So I apologize in advance. For the curse words, and half hearted blog posts. But please understand, black market anti-depressants are expensive and my parents are in denial.

This is one emotional roller coaster I would enjoy getting off of.

Call me the crazy train.

I faintly remember laughing, and grass stains. Sometimes I think I can smell the tea on my table.

Sometimes I think I could get there again. You could have friends Sally, your not completely hopeless. Your mascara looks even today& I think that boy might have looked at you a second time. Sometimes my skin doesn't feel so dead. Sometimes my bones don't ache to escape.

Sometimes I think I could rollerblade the board walk, and go by Jay.

Because let's face it, as dull as winter makes me seem there is a body under all these layers just waiting to be free.

...

Furniture assembly is easy.

This is my tutorial. Or how-to... This is my explanation, my warning, my instructions? This is a series of steps..
No, I'll be honest. This is my botched attempt at being a writer. This is my eulogy to dreaming. An ode to the dead romance of notes in class.

This, is a real guide to being invisible.
An outline of my life, not a read for the faint of heart. Because being a teenager is not the picture of perfection Boy meets world painted in my head.

Some of us are lucky. Being invisible comes naturally, no amount of cover girl cosmetics can change that. (Others have to put in countless hours of work to achieve such invisibility; If you'd like to learn about that, go somewhere else.)

Time spent invisibly tends to pass slowly. Always be prepared. This is a great opportunity to do many things. •Talk to yourself.
•Contemplate running away.
•Catch up on missed episodes of reality t.v shows.
•Read.
•Punch the wall.
•Take copious amounts of pain killers to deal with the pain of teenage angst.

Sometimes I think I should write a book. Or kiss a boy..
If thoughts like this occur, file them somewhere safe.

It is best to avoid all activities, places, and people that come with the possibility of disappointment. When invisible, expectations are almost always to high. Not to worry, you'll get used to the let down. Onion rings, and watching the movie Juno multiple times relieves most symptoms.

Kit-kats and water replace eating.
Info-mercials and MTV replace sleep.
Sweatshirts and trolling replace love.
Daydreams often replace reality.
Embrace these things, without them life is to dull to deal with.

Am I being helpful? I almost hope not. But that's not surprisings. I'm invisible so being cynical is implied and surprises are an urban legend.

I get dressed every morning hoping to get a whistle so I can be hostile towards the boys that are to cool for lunch. They make leaning on the wall look equally time consuming and trendy. They never whistle. This is a typical invisible-to-noninvisible interaction.

Writing is futile. Waiting for someone to read your blog is like waiting for the pizza delivery guy. Who is the closest thing you have to a boyfriend. His mustache is growing in nicely though.

Invisible anonymous meetings are held Tuesdays, on the corner of messy hair drive and bruises boulevard. Never an invitation only event. Please don't R.S.V.P, Be late.

Remember, sarcasm is essential to survival.


Maybe I'm psycho. Maybe I'm brilliant.
Maybe someday someone will notice me and I'll give seminars. I'll be sure to thank you all for buying my version of "Being invisible, for Dummies."


Maybe I'll overdose on coffee and self loathing.

We don't stay together; because we put love first.

Bloody hands are hard to hold.

I felt him leave before he even let go. And I'll never admit it, but my heart sighed in relief. Pain had become a pill I took everyday, and I denied my addiction. But the reflection in the mirror was the hardest to swallow. My face held so many secrets. But I couldn't hide behind mine like he hid behind his.

I was nothing.
Bread crumbs.
A ceiling fan light bulb.
Toothpaste.

I was nothing, and to him breaking me was a flawless plan.




In that flawless backwards way it was him that fixed me. He plunged his strong hands in my chest and ran off with my heart. And that heaving bloody mess he left behind, has found herself. In words and willow trees. With screaming fury and a lifeless hope. On mountain tops and infinite flights of stairs. She is me&she is free.

This post is pointless and Karma's a Bitch.

You see, life, i'm kind of bitter.. Because Karma texted me like a million years ago saying she was almost here. So I put on my new lipstick, and my cute shoes. But she won't pick up her phone, and I can't waste a good hair day. I swear she is such a liar sometimes. Her whole bitch routine, Is getting old. Seriously, when is she coming? I can't live until she gets here. I just can't! And I'm going to go crazy if I have to keep this whole "living" thing on hold.

If life's about living why do we have stop signs? What are yellow lights, and who the hell thought it was a good idea to countdown how long people have to walk across the road.

What's with locks?

And mirrors?

And high-end boutiques with snotty cashiers, and dressing room curtains? Yeah, nothing makes me feel more alive then flashing the blond refolding cloths when the furnace kicks on.. Her icy death glare is almost as refreshing as all the zeros on this price tag.

Living isn't looking good. It's feeling good. And believe it or not, I can look terrible, and still feel good.

Sometimes.

But being all dressed up, with no where to go, doesn't feel so good. It feels familiar.. In the pathetic sort of way.

Well life, I guess for now I'll slide out of my red dress and wait for Karma to come around.

She can't take to much longer.

Blacked; out.

This Monster

this monster

Is eating me away

s a d

miserable

me, an odd combination of all three crippling symptoms

lack of,

don't believe,

all gone

..perfect

 

 

 

Who I am

What difference could

one writer

make?

 

 

Freefall

We stop living.

Because wondering,

what

and who

you are becoming

is always too hard.

Confessions of a blogaholic;

 
In my house its not okay to cry, it never has been.
In my schools its not okay to be different, it never will be.
In my head its not okay to give up, and I don't ever want it to be.

My parents bark at me and I'm forced to deactivate my force field and take my headphones off. They give me a list of expectations.

• Be on time.
• Stop missing seminary.
• Do more chores.
• Blah
• Blah
• Blah

They can't see that my plates a little too full. They choose not to care, and that's okay because it's what I am used to. But they act confused when I act like myself, and that hurts because I know they don't know me. They don't want to. So I don't let them. I don't let anyone.

I layer on the paper mache and create something presentable. Acceptable. A protective layer to protect this fragile person inside. I paint a pretty face and cover the scent of fear with my most expensive perfume.

I keep the facade simple. Smart, but not a genius. Creative, but not insane. Pretty, but not gorgeous. Alive, but not living.

But this fire inside me rages.

I want to pierce my ears a few more times. I sing in the car. I find the wind inspiring. I eat way to much food. I want a tattoo or two. I'm sick of acting like I care about the weather. I'm a decent painter, and I have a damn good right hook. I cried at the movies the other day. I hate math. I wish it was early out fridays, not monday. I want a bunch of kids someday. On certain nights I walk around my room in heals, and sing into my hairbrush. I'm good at video games, sometimes. I don't mind presidential debates. I'm self conscious about how big my feet are. I can cook. No amount of money could sway my opinion on something. I listen to every kind of music there is. I fall in love at least once a week. My hair is impossible to control. The bike jump scares me to death. I wish I had more friends at school. I constantly want to learn a different language. I will always enjoy watching Jackass. I re-wear my socks, because my mom "does" my laundry. Family is everything. I prefer pens to pencils. Running is hard for me in the winter because of my asthma. I hate the dress code.

I want to be a writer.

A writer.

And no one knows.

  

My childhood is missing.

The good things come back in flashes, and the bad things in floods.

I remember the way our ice cream cones melted faster that summer. The rec center was never to far, and breathing underwater was almost second nature. Shoes were never worn, and hands never washed. Mud became a welcome accessory, and sleeping inside was cruel and unusual punishment. Grass fields were freedom, and flying didn't seem impossible.

But the air got cold, and freedom faded. I remember feeling uneasy. The leaves crunched under our feet as we walked out of view, but I didn't know any better. I remember each and every time, even if I don't want to. I remember not knowing. But I'd rather not remember, because now I know.

I force myself to think about bike rides, and road trips. I read my chicken scratch stories and pretend I was creative. But no amount of forest exploring blocks out my lost innocence.

Dear childhood, I miss you. I'm sorry you had to leave so early, it wasn't my choice. I would have let you stay, but dark questions and self hate took your place. I remember wanting to call. But I had packed my barbie flip phone away. I want you to know,

 I remember you, that all that matters.

Remembering is all there is now. I sit on my desk, and feel a little more alive. Someone brings up Power Rangers and I remember all those days after school. I smile, and remember fighting invisible villains in the back yard. But even in Paris, remembering turns into hurting.

I remember crying into my pillow.

Now I cry onto my keyboard.

I search for green grass fields. And somedays I feel a little closer.
My kite is gone, and my fairy wings don't fit..

But flying doesn't seem impossible.