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It's six o'-fucking-clock in the morning. What the hell am I doing?
Excuse the blatant use of the word "fucking" but it is rather late, isn't it? Certainly too late to get maudlin on an Internet diary that I haven't written in in forever.
So, Diary dear, I'll fill you in:
My life is hell. Hell. Hell. (What's changed, you may ask? I'll tell you: nothing. Another year older. As Stephen King put it, Same Shit, Different Day. Splendid, no? Beautiful succinct phrase that is, SSDD.)
That's right, I'm sixteen now, have a driver's permit, and still have an unhealthy obsession for living in my non-too-peachy past and am increasingly anti-social while presenting a nice exterior of remote normalcy. You see, Diary of mine, I've learned to hide the crazy even more than before. Now, no one knows (save for you and whatever poor fool may or may not be reading this) that I can hardly stand to face each new day and cry myself to sleep almost every night.
I may take a moment, of course, to send my regards to My-Diary, as it was through this service that I met a now-dear-to-me friend whom I've been talking to for almost a year. Thank you, My-Diary! Now, go away...I'm writing.
I find myself living in an ever tightening vise (thank me, Diary: I could have written frightening, tightening vise, but I spared you that humiliation) that becomes increasingly more difficult to cope with. I'm going to be a junior in the fall, and I don't know how to be a junior! I never learned how to be a sophomore! Or a freshman! There's too much to do, too much to say, too little time, too few people who care to listen!
At any rate, I will re-introduce you, Diary (and readers?) to my dear little accompanying actors in this stale drama called my life:
Mother: Vada Kazee. Short; four feet, ten inches (she used to be four feet and eleven inches but she is already shrinking). Her face is all wrinkly and she looks much older than she is. Thinning, blonde (dyed) hair. She's going to turn forty-two in December and I think she's regretting a lot of her life decisions. We found out in January (February?) that she'd had three strokes; she's still numb in her left hand. Because the strokes numbed her mouth, she doesn't eat all that much and has lost a lot of weight. I am considering having a stroke. Mother becomes increasingly annoying as I become increasingly reclusive. I'm not her dream daughter with pink, frilly ribbons in my curly blond hair. (I'm a brunette.)
Father: Ronald Kazee; aka God. At least, he'd like to think so. Father copes with his so-called life by fishing and bitching. Wow, that actually sounds profound. No, no it doesn't. Anyway, Father likes to complain about how he works all the damned time. He's tall - probably about six feet, two inches tall, but because I refuse to get within six feet of him, I am not a reliable judge. As long as I've been alive, Father has had a moustache; it is now gray, while the rest of his hair - which is thick - is still brown, though his hair line is receding.
Brother: Kenny (Kenneth, really) Kazee. Lazy, dirty son of a bitch. Kenny graduated with the class of 2001, but he has yet to have EVER obtained a job. In nineteen fucking years, my brother has never ever had a job. Sad? Yes. What's worse? He's the favourite. Kenny is short-ish (about five feet, ten inches I would guess) and fat, though not as much as he used to be. His hobby? Drinking. Kenny is harsh and moronic. He lived for football during high school, but since then has resorted to living for drugs and alcohol.
Me: Erin Kazee. I don't know. I'm short - about five feet one inch - and pudgy. So fucking attractive!! Like my brother, I have perpetually red cheeks; you'd think that with all the "blushing" I do, there would be no blood supply to my brain. I read most of the time, and my wardrobe consists almost entirely of blue and black. I'm most often called "Kenny's sister" or "Kenny's Little Sister" or "Vada's daughter" or "Wanda's granddaughter" - never Erin. I have no solid identity. I wonder, do I exist? I have never made a "B" in any class that mattered (think: I got a "B" in gym my freshman year and that has destroyed me), am on the Academic Team, feel like I'm living in a lethargic Sno-Globe half of the time, and am constantly screaming on the inside. My internal throat is raw. I don't like people. At all. Fuck people. What have people ever done for me? But I still try to be nice, because...well, why the hell not? All we have is life, and that could go at any moment. Why fuck it up by making enemies, I guess? If it isn't ridiculously obvious, I'm a cynic. My brother says I am too cynical for my age. That's okay, because I say he's too damn stupid for his.
I'm convinced that we are all ruled by our baser instincts, as all of our so-called "good" instincts are never really good because terms like "good" and "bad" are just words made by men to impress social conventions upon society. The point of life is living: whatever you feel your purpose is in life, it cannot be achieved by dying!! Thus, we strive to stay alive and all of our actions are accordant with this, rather than by a desire to be 'good' or 'bad'.
At any rate, it's early/late and I don't want to write anymore. Ha! G'night, Diary. Sleep tight. Don't let demonic clowns get you in the night!
Rest Well everyone else,
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