something stupid.

Some days you just want it all to go away. And on those days suicide is suddenly an option, suddenly a way out, some way to make it all stop abruptly. And whatever it was that was crushing you just disappears, and you can walk down a road without feeling as if you are suffocating. True despair is worse than any disease. It’s staring out of a window at nothing and wanting to off yourself with a big knife. It’s not about seeking help anymore. After a while, you don’t want the attention. You just want it to fucking all end.

Because life isn’t a box of chocolates. Life isn’t even a brown paper package, or a bloody rose. It’s a fucking mess. Life throws you curve balls at every turn, and burns your soul with a lighter. Life doesn’t give a fuck about how you feel, or what you want.

Some things make it better. Like sitting in a quiet, clean room without any sound, just the dripping of a faucet. Or sitting in the middle of a green field that doesn’t smell like dog shit. A few friends at a dinner party. A boy with green eyes who kisses you gently.

But sometimes, not even those things can make it better.

And I hate to think of this as wallowing in self pity. Because really, I know my life is wonderful. I have nothing to complain about: I have a wonderful family, plenty of money, an education, a dog. I have the ‘American dream’.

And that’s why I can’t complain to anyone. They wouldn’t understand. I’m not ungrateful; I’m not. I love my family so much, and my life is beautiful. And when things are good, and I’m not depressed, I can see so much beauty in the world. But when I’m depressed, it’s like everything is gone and I can’t see anything at all.

And when I do try to tell someone how I feel, I’m told “oh it’s just a teenage thing, you’ll be fine in a few days”. Try a few months. I’ll be fine in a few months. I spent most of July in a fucking hole. I couldn’t breath, couldn’t hear, and it affected my work. And people could tell.

“Is something wrong?”

“No.”

How on earth do you explain that you’re wanting to kill yourself for no other reason than that there is something strange haunting you. And how do you tell people that you feel as if your soul has been ripped out?

I’m not a fucking emo. I don’t wear pitch-black eyeliner and die my hair black. I don’t listen to Panic! At the Fucking Disco, or the Used, and I fucking don’t pretend I’m hardcore.

I like my life, I really do.

But sometimes, death is the only thing I can think of to just end this mess inside my head. I want to scream obscenities at the top of my lungs just to be heard. But I can’t.

And I hate that I’ve come so close to actually doing the deed, and then I chicken out, oh because, how would my parents handle it?

Two years ago, I came so close. I was about to plunge a butcher knife into my gut when my sister walked in. I was scared more by the look on her face than the fact that there was a very sharp knife millimetres away from my belly button.

I’m sorry for being so fucking weak.

In a few days, if I don’t get really bad, I’ll be fine again, and it won’t get this bad for another few months and then I’ll be where I am now.

But I’ve managed to get through it before, and I fucking hope I’ll be fine. Because I really hate being weak. And I hate being at the mercy of something I can’t explain.

whatever it is in the world that hates me

Please stop.

I'm going crazy.

damn it.

My best friend just "stood me up". It wasn't a date, or anything, but that's the only phrase I could think of in this situation.

Needless to say, I'm infuriated. I put aside a perfectly decent Friday afternoon to spend with her, and she just BLEW it off. You're probably wondering why I put that in all caps... Well, it's because I strongly suspect she is off covorting avec le boyfriend; hence the reference. Which is incredibly bitchy of me, but I couldn't care less right now. Okay, yeah I do care, but I figure that she'll never read this, so what she can't read can't harm her.

I really really hope she's in a coma or something, or has an equally legitimate excuse.

ridiculous things.

After watching about half of the second season of Project Runway, and watching my darling and dear love of my life, Daniel Vosovic, lose to Chloe Dao, I sat down and wrote a song. And was promptly ashamed to be wasting paper on fashion—because I can’t dress to save my life.

I have always been puzzled by my complete and utter fascination with fashion, partly because I dress like a drunken mixture of a ho-bag and a bag lady. I have never matched, and I’ve always been too poor to dress like I mean it. The extent of my fashionableness is Target. I own two pieces of clothing by “high fashion” designers: a pair of capri jeans by Michael Kors (which are the love of my life), and a green chain mail like shirt by BCBG Max Azria… which has a hole in the fucking sleeve.

Anyhow, I will admit that I try. I really do. But my parents can’t afford to dress me well all the time—so I have a handful of shirts and one pair of jeans that are nice, and I wear those as much as I can, and when they’re in the wash, I look like white trash. Which is fine, I’ve accepted that.

But it makes it that much harder to watch something like Project Runway, and think “what would I kill to get to design clothing, for a living?” And then I always start looking back into applying to places like Parsons, or FIDM, and I get so excited again. And then I look down and remember that there is no way I would ever fit in at a place like that. And I could never afford to go there. Which is even worse, because it means that that road is closed to me. That opportunity isn't even there, because I'd have to sell my soul to the devil in order to go to a private art school. And they say America is the "land of opportunity".

And I'm even one of the lucky ones. My parents can afford to send me to community college. And so many parents can't even afford to do that for their kids. Fucking land of opportunity, my ass.

And I have pride, which is the worst thing of all. How could I have pride when I have nothing? I don’t understand myself. But I have a hard time shopping in thrift stores. Although, I think I’m going to have to start doing it more often, if I ever want to dig myself out of my fashion rut.

And I wonder if I’m just being ridiculously shallow and horrible. Because there are children starving in Africa. And while I may not dress to impress, I eat every day. I have clothing on my back. I have running water and a television to remind me of what I don’t have. And I remember what I do have, and I’m grateful. And I wish to god that I didn’t live in a western country, where I have to look to find suffering. Hell would be nice compared to earth, I think.

Strange how watching a couple hours of television can bring me to tears and frustration at myself, and at the world.

I’m thinking too much.

hard to be heartbroken

I hate myself.

I saw him today, that boy. The beautiful one with the pale white eyelashes that make me melt into a puddle, the one who I've thought was beautiful since I first met him in eighth grade, the one who I hooked up with on Saturday--

did not even recognise me today when I saw him in the hall.

And I feel stupid for allowing myself to be touched (literally and metaphorically) by him. and I feel so stupid for letting his icy blue eyes get to my heart, so much so that I haven't thought of anything other than him for a while now.

which is so stupid. He's a year younger than me, is a pot head, and probably isn't a nice guy. not only that, but he's only interested in me when he's stoned, and when I'm likely to put out.

MEN!

no pants dance

So, I went to a No Pants Dance on Saturday night, and even though we didn't stay out all that late, it was awesome. It was in this guy in my art class's garage, and there were so many people there. He played mostly euro-trance and there was a strobe light going, which makes everyone look beautiful, and it was so trippy. It was so hot that the walls were sweating, and I soaked through my bra and underwear within five minutes. I danced with this one guy, and even made out with him for a second before realising that I knew him, and that he was my boss's half brother. Whoops.

Otherwise, good times... We plan on attending the next one. The only upsetting part was that the Obscure Object brought his girlfriend, who really wasn't all that cute, and he was showing her off like she was something to be envied. But I wouldn't tap that, personally. She was blonde and sort of stupid looking, and that's all I have to say on the matter.

I forgot to mention, I turned seventeen on Friday. Pretty exciting. I'm now able to go watch NC-17 movies and R rated films. That much closer to independence and age of consent.

Raphaël

One of my favourite musicians, Raphaël, is coming to Los Angeles. And I can't go see him. Needless to say, I'm really really disappointed. But since I'm getting to see Snow Patrol later this summer, I really shouldn't complain copiously... But he is so amazing. And I really am disappointed about missing out on his concert...



But I got to see Mickey Avalon live last weekend, and I think Raphaël will live longer than Mickey, so I guess you have to pick and chose your battles. And Mickey was amazing... I almost died when I got to touch his arm.

In personal news, the Sex God fades in and out of my life with alarming speed. He was demanding the lyrics to my latest song last week, and completely forgot hours later. It was amusing. I think drugs were involved.