Ad 2:
2016-04-10 22:50:29 (UTC)

How Long To Live?

"Body" by Mother Mother [chose this song after I wrote the entry – it just seemed to fit]

Take my eyes, take them aside
Take my face, and desecrate
My arms and legs
They get in my way

And take my hands, they'll understand
Take my heart, pull it apart
And take my brain, or what remains
And throw it all away

'Cause I've grown tired of the body
A cumbersome and heavy body

Take my lungs, take them and run
Take my tongue, go have some fun
And take the ears, take them and disappear
And take my joints, take them for points

Take my teeth, tear through my cheeks
And take the nose, go and dispose
Oh would you go dispose
Just go dispose

'Cause I've grown tired of this body
A cumbersome and heavy body
And I've grown tired of this body
Fall apart without me, body

April 11, 2016 Monday 12:16 AM

I feel really anxious, ugh. So much for no school stress. It's touching me all over.

I am up this late for one reason: an essay that was due at least two weeks ago. I am determined to finish it tonight. I don't know why it's so hard for me. It's just a history essay. I guess I have a hard time putting words together, though. I'm never sure if my thoughts are in a logical order, or if the claims I'm making are even valid.

Most of my essays are actually bullshit because of that. They say you're not allowed to waver – you must choose a side. No "maybe's" are allowed. This, I dislike. I am all about the maybe's. I'm all about the "well, I think this might be true, but I'm not 100% informed so it could be that instead." But that's usually advised against when it comes to New York State regents test.

Not that this essay is for English. It's for history. But still, I've kinda gotta make a claim – gotta support an idea that I'm not sure I DO support. I mean, this is just one article on the subject of World War I, from a relatively "radical" guy I guess. So someone should give me a conservative historian's paper as well. And then maybe an in-between dude's paper. So I have a wide range of opinions to choose from and I can support the one I find to be most likely based on my knowledge of US history.

I just feel like in my essays, I'm never sure what I want to say – and so I end up taking one side, like it's all black and white. I worry I sound way too adamant about it, too, because I know I used emotional words. That's not something a gal should do while writing an essay, I think, depending on the subject matter.

With history, I should not be inserting emotion. I should be trying to be as unbiased as possible. Trump uses emotional words, y'know. It gets a reaction out of people, appeals to those volatile feelings.


God, I felt weird earlier. I wanted to murder everyone, sort of. I wasn't angry exactly, but I craved violence in a way. There was energy bouncing around in my arms and legs – tension, fight or flight. For what?


I hate this. I hate feeling this much. Fuck whatever I said before – because I still don't care about important, big stuff, and now I cry when my parents yell at me. I shouldn't be crying! I'm a god damn sixteen year old girl! And everything is o-k-a-y!!!!!!!!!

And yet. I'm feelin' super angsty, super ready to dismiss the world as some giant clusterfuck of which I am a part of.

I'm so mad, I want to smash my skull in! I hate that people are the way they are – more than that, though, I hate the way I see it. Because it's not like I can ever know what is true about the way I perceive everything, since everyone sees it differently and no one is wrong or right. Majority rules, woo hoo.

And, and, and.

I'm reluctant to become one of those lame, cynical people – they're not terrible or anything. But they just seem so unhappy with their intelligent opinions on phonies, and their dismissal of everything as a consequence of human stupidity. If you know what I mean. Maybe those words are as meaningless as everything about me.

I will be up forever, I will be up until the lining of my stomach wears thin.

My brain is black comedy, is what I have sort of decided. Because I laugh at general death and cry at a personal insult. And because I'd rather dissect a human body than live with strangers. I don't know. It's not connected right. Nothing is...

It's just what I laugh at, is what I'm saying. I'm pissed off at myself. But I like the world, despite everything terrible, and I think it's funny. Really funny. All of it. And it'll keep happening.

So pissed at myself, though. Geez, these things keep going over and over in my head, rolling rolling rolling – maybe they're like clothes in a dryer, maybe they'll shrink if I don't try taking them out, if I just let them go.

Gray matter. I think I know how it'd feel under my fingers. I think it'd be a lot like the dark boxes you'd put your hand in on Halloween at the elementary school where they held a kid-friendly haunted house

(it was only the length of a hallway and the line was way too long, like the wait for a roller coaster... you'd walk down it and some volunteering sixth grader would sit up straight in a coffin, going, "AHhhh!" and as a kid, you'd nearly shit your pants and grin. And they'd give you candy at the end, and you'd wish you could go again but they only give people a certain amount of tickets)

it is not spaghetti.

it is firmer than that, duh.

I know what kidney meat looks like. I'm always a little awed at the fact that organs are real, solid things... I guess I always imagined them to be hollow, with giant particles floating visibly around in cytoplasm, doing whatever it is they do with little labels attached to them.

But I mean. My mother cut a sausage yesterday night and I told my sister, "That looks like a kidney," when we cut it lengthwise in biology. Because it did. Meaty, crumbling, moist.

Mesentery in between folds of the intestines – thin, delicate, and I cut them apart with a scalpel. That was my favorite fucking unit... They looked like wings.


(Hey Veronica)


(Stop thinking about that, please. You don't even know what happened to the person, so stop thinking that it had anything to do with you – stop being afraid. You're not going to die)

I hope I won't die but I think I'll start locking the doors.

(Yeah. Do your essay now)

Hah. God. God fucking damn it. Worse than running two miles, I swear.

(Of course it's worse. It requires thought.)

Yeah. Basically. Gee, you're pretty nice.

(I'm always pretty nice to you.)

True. You take care of me. You're mean sometimes, though, and it used to be always except for when you were asleep and dragged my body with you.

(Yeah. Shut up.)

Yeah. Okay.

(Do your essay. You'll be up at 2 if you start now. And are lucky)

Sometimes, I really wish I were worse. Simply so I could have an excuse. I've been thinking and I think I'm going to write down the most terrible thoughts and wishes of mine – I'm going to bury them. So they're in two places. My head, where they'll have been consciously acknowledged (god, that'll hurt like a bitch) and in the ground, where they can be dug up by some person in the future, where they can frown at me and I'll write my name there on the papers so there's no way I can hide from the dirtiest parts.

Even if I'm dead.

Ghosting is something I have done before. I am sort of a piece of shit. A real fucking piece of shit. Ghosting has cost me a lot. It's not even on purpose – but it is what it is.

(Stop calling yourself a piece of shit. It seems harmless, but it'll get into the cracks–)

It's already in the cracks, dumb ass. It won't ever go away. Wait, no... That's a totally stupid thing to say. I dunno why I ever try to say things, say thoughts, like they're proven.

(blink blink blink blinkblinkblink)

Yeah, okay. Time for the essay. When I finish, I'll be able to breathe – until I wake up in the morning and frantically read through another history chapter and do another lecture and scream until my eyes make a break for it, jump through the "windows to my soul" – only my optical nerve won't be on board with the plan, so they'll just slap wetly onto the skin of my face and it'll just be unpleasant for everyone and I'll be shivering since, finally, a breeze through those eye holes, and the cooling of a mucus trail on my cheeks were the eyes rolled themselves.

People say my eyes are pretty. Maybe they'll snip 'em like flowers, hang 'em upside down on the walls so they can dry, so they can be a Forever.

It's fun to think about this stuff, makes me giggle in that absurd way, but I'd feel trapped in life if anyone ever offered to make this a reality. This is my way of saying: please don't kill me.

I'm going to go lock the front door.

I am pretty afraid.