I love yous

I've said "I love you" to guys before. I always thought I meant it. But I was green and thought I was pretty clean, but honestly, I was just clouded by the thrill of experience. Everytime "I love you" came, it was with a feeling of expectance...like you conciously thought "now is a good time, 'I love you, XXX' ". But I've had this new feeling where...you're not always so concious of how much you really fucking love someone, and suddenly there's one thing that this one person does that triggers it- you're awareness- you're awareness of how much you are in love. And I'll be honest, love is more pain than pleasure. The rush of extreme love that goes through your veins has this like...warm low burn, and it's startling the first few seconds. Then it cools and you are so happy and warm, and willing. You're absolutely willing to do anything for them, you're willing to open your heart to them and that's when you declare it, declare the ultimate feeling for someone, "I love you." And that's 100%. Kinda like what everyone is looking for. I've felt that.

See this?

When I was signing his name, it kinda felt like I was signing my life away. And it was exciting.

I can't think of a title.

I literally feel it down to my very core. It's this really distant, slipping feeling, but it makes my stomach feel so heavy. It's like the heaviest feeling, but doesn't actually scream out any distinct emotion. It's just...weight. Weight in my back and neck. Weight in my eyelids.


Whatever. It's not a big deal. Everyone goes through this. I'm just sick of it already.

Nineteen

I felt you in my life

Before I ever thought to

Feel the need to lay down beside you

And tell you:

"I feel you in my heart,
And I don't even know you",

And now we're saying bye.

Bye bye.

I was nineteen.

vfbhvlen;a

This is not a good feeling.

Why do I feel like crying?

Why!?

So like this is the 4th time these girls from this church have randomly come up to me and invited me to a 20 minute bible study. Just talking about God casually and reading a scripture. And I always kindly lead the conversation elsewhere and talk to them for 2 minutes about a part of my life...and they then ask again. And I'm so repelled by it. And I wonder why. I always leave them with a maybe- 4 time already and not once have I gone. And I just don't get why it's so...impossible for me to want to go and somewhat be offended by the idea of it. And I'm guilty for it too. I have this...awkward distance with religion. And I just don't get it.

Story 7

White, cork ceiling tiles, metal rods and starched cotton. As she was slowly wheeled down the hallway, which is much more surreal feeling when you're the one laying, she tried counting the tiles above her. "How many tiles between my room to the surgery room?"- a thought.

Heart surgery. She was less than thrilled. So invasive. And how did she know he was a good surgeon? How did she know if he was going to do his best today? He didn't know how special she was, how much her life was worth living.

She saw the doors ahead. Not intimidating.

But the ceilings were. As she was pulled into the room, the ceiling became higher, much darker and very ominious.

"That's a mood killer"- a thought.

Now presently on her new bed, her surgery bed, nurses began piling her with blankets and crowding around. One nurse was fiddling with the IV, another fliting around some other crazy alien medical contraption.

She looked around for the man who would cut her open. "He must be glowing"- a thought.
No glowing anywhere...

"Who's my doctor?"- a question.

"That would be me, miss"- he smiled and said it in that way that you know he's a chummy doctor, but probably really good.

"You're cutting me open tonight. That's so freaking scary for me to think about. I can't imagine what it looks like; what I look like...inside. It's crazy. Just...be careful." And she paused,"You'll be the first to touch my heart."

He looked down at her, one side of his face darkly shaded and the other over lighted from that one white doctor light over head. She watched him pull back a gulp or grimace, she smiled and so did he. The clear mask covered her nose and fuzzied her vision, but the images right before where burned in her mind. Forever. And she knew that now she'd become special- to him. And she worried no longer.

OAAATMEAL.

So I'm trying to start this healthy eating thing, which is IMPOSSIBLE to do here. (Here is Norfolk/College) But I'm doing this low-fat dairy, lean meat, fresh fruit and vegetables, fish kind of eating habit. Screw me, it's not going well. But this summer I'll start learning recipes for healthy foods. I screwed my body over hard this year. Drinking, smoking, no sleeping, lots of sleeping, not moving...



Shit, how have I survived? That just sounds like death to me. But anyway, I'll be working alot this summer and I need to be healthy and be eating nutritiously. So that's what's going on right now. But the one part of my new diet is oatmeal. OATMEAL. How I loathe oatmeal. I fucking hate it.

It's gooey and chewy and clunky and chunky. And it all just BLOBS together and then is a melted ball in the corner of your bowl. Gross.



And of course you say, "Don't be dramatic, you don't have to eat it." and I say obnoxiously "Well duh, but I want to like it cuse it's soooo fucking good for you!"

So another thing this summer: I want to learn amazing recipes for oatmeal. I want to make oatmeal good. And I think I could. Cuse I'm imagining right now how oatmeal would be good.

Yes.

Okay, so that's another thing that's going on.



Ew. Oatmeal. Bye bye.

Say this 10 times fast.

Known a gnome.

Oh my goddddd!!

Holy shit my heart is beating 850

So like...I saw what I was becoming- this once was pretty girl who got to a point in her life where she was much less pretty. She grew into the type of woman who has one kid from another point in her life where that just happened. It was great that it happened, but it did just happen. And she still smokes cigarettes and does a little weed, but she found some creative way to have a creative job, it doesn't make much, but it does enough. And she's just mildly living...forever. And the colors are really gray, and when you look at your child, they're so much more..bright. And you wonder if she's imagining childhood like you did- bright, wild, and beautiful. It's all you can hope for. And it just breaks you apart. But that's all you can hope for. Mildly living for that one bright star...but it's also so sad to know that you've lost that.


And after all that, I just had this thought of...what if I was becoming my mom?

This was witty.

This makes me giggle a little bit everytime. Kinda like with the old spice commercial. It's just too good.

Kimya Dawson

I can't say I'm a big fan of all her stuff, but this one song is just...kinda great feeling- makes me feel good. Now, I'll admit I just looked up pictures of her. I was shocked. This is one of those cases where the voice doesn't match the face.

















And that's one of her more flattering pictures... D:
I hate admitting that since, I don't know, I feel cruel for somewhat insulting someone while trying to praise them. Well anyway, just watch the video below and listen to the song if you like. Listen to it while you're reading all of this or other entries :}

Dream a Little Dream

Fuck THAT screenshot.

Story 5

There was a girl who tried to make all her dreams a reality.

She was one of the most lost people I've ever met.

Too bad

that I don't have time to say things like "Tell me what you dreamt last night, and the night before, and the two days before that. I want to know everything; every special thought that passes through you. Come, tell me everything."

I think about it so often. Am I the biggest fool ever?

Little French Girl

If you're impatient then skip to 1:40. I hate Lady Gaga, but this cover is the shit.

Story 3

There was a girl who lived in a mess. Piles and piles of things surrounded her. Each piece reminded her of great things- of the spaces between fingers, of a warm lightbulb in her hand, the smell of cooking, the nights she snuck out to run in rain...

She filled every open spot around her so that it filled the empty spot inside her. Having company never worked when there was no place to sit, and so no one would stay.

She realized her unconcious addiction. She didn't have piles and piles to keep all her old memories, but to keep out people and new memories. She was stuck in her past and realized her things caused more pain then happiness.

One day she took out trash bags, hundreds of black, stretchy trash bags. As she threw away her piles; her memories; her vices and regrets, she kissed each item.

She set the bags outside on the sidewalk carefully, breathing deeply, she rid her life of old things.

As she lived alone in emptiness and whole new emptiness opened up inside her- the kind that wants people and craves experience. Everyday someone new came over. Everyday she had a different conversation, a different laugh, a different smile, a new memory. And she found that people completed her more than any of her things did, people filled her more than the contents of those trash bags.

She'd never go back. That mistake was done and she'd saved herself.

Part of Story 2

*Please, no one get pissy or uber flattered. Alot of this is just fictional shit that I think of when I'm high.*

I just regarded every lip lock to be a silent gift from him to me. Sometimes I imagined lips having what we wanted to say most written on them and when they'd touch, we could read and tell each other our biggest secrets. Like the electricity generated by two pairs of lips made the messages transferable. At least, that's what I felt like when I was kissing him. I was telling him everything I wanted him to know.

But he never got my message. Maybe he never cared to know.

And basically, I got all of his, even when it sucked to know.

He was the boy with the lips that I so wished to see the words "i love you" printed in them.

Story 1.

*Please, no one get pissy or uber flattered. Alot of this is just fictional shit that I think of when I'm high.*

There was a girl who would write texts to tunes, so that each text was a personal song to herself. She felt safe in secrets. Each song text was another thing to keep to herself and further distance herself from others.