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.