Streaming Thoughts

“Her life had not been kind to her.” He whispered into the night. From the dim light of a street light afar his eyes looked black, demon like. He continued “Her father had died in the third world war before she was even born. Her mother, a waitress at a Japanese bar, was addicted to opium.” He scratched his knee wearily, the crusted blood drying under the jeans. I could see the sadness on his lips, the choked tears in his throat. “She never had a real chance in life. I…” He lowered his head in pain; the others in the van looked around staring at the carpet or outside the windows. I watched him. “Why does everything go to shit? I don’t understand why! We were not meant to live like this.” I warily put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s just the way it is.” He looked up just as a Flash grenade went off. Like lightening everything became bright and clear, his eyes the color of an overcast sky seemed to dig into my heart and then it passed. He jumped up and grabbed some of the guns behind him, barking orders like nothing had happened. “Some how they fucking found us, Dave lets get going! Molly, John take these.” He handed us both cold heavy metallic guns, the others in the van were already firing at the cops while I was still trying to find the safety. The van screeched and made a hard left turn out of the abandoned parking lot just as more pigs rolled up. I figured I would never get to hear the rest of the story about his mom.

She sang her lullabies in the air, I cannot see the sun. Bleeding from the veins in my teeth. Life is a roller coaster. You see these tears running down my tongue? And they have your name floating inside. My life and mind are pretty fucked up if you are my thoughts. I cannot stop typing until I don’t know what to do next but I force my self, I am right now and then I cant think of any thing and I say strange crap like puppies are yummy and Jesus hates you for killing those starving people in that country. You all will get aids and die eventually. We serve under the foot of god. I cannot stop talking about religion for some odd reason when I do this. Thanks mom, thanks dad, give me splendor, give be pain flash give me utter remorse flash but if you have never read invisible monsters you would not understand that small part of life. Look at you hands, do they feel like your hands? Do you have a mom and dad who love you? Or do you have no one. You fucking sheep need to be sheared of your identity. Then it will grow back and we will have to shear again. Look at my eyes and do you not see the universe. How can I hold you without breaking you? How can I speak to you without screaming your ears to a bloody pulp? Look at these teeth; do you see the flesh on them? Look at these feet; can you see the dirt on them? Look at these eyes; can you not see the hurt on them? So many songs, beautiful songs. I am so sad I have the world in my eyes and I keep on closing them. Mom why did you let my brother hit me? I love you mommy but stop punching me please. I love you mommy. Don’t hurt me mommy. The sounds of gun shots are so annoying but you get used to them after a while. I need to get used to them again. Look at this mouth; can you see the tears I have drunk?
Dried match stick. The flame licks and sucks all the moisture away. So dry in my eyes. Eyes mouth hands teeth tongue feet. Bonus points if you hit the couple. 30 points. Look at them all kissing and holding each other. I want a body to hold onto. Like a phantom limb you feel sometimes but it’s not actually there. I like the movies they make me forget about the entire world. Get a fucking job or die. And you will die if you don’t go to college. Look at this life of ours. Does it not seem useless or am I the only one questioning existence. End of line.

The pitter patter of rain. So over used. Life is over done and the bass keeps me company. Strange world we live in. one sentence at a time I’ll keep on writing as long as this song does not stop. Too much time and so few seconds, I need my rice to have margarine on it. I am making no sense and I can hardly spell when I’m high. It amplifies the nostalgia in the heart. Too many dusty eyes never able to blink twice. They cannot see though those cataracts to the clear blue sky. We are all angels in hell. Look at this life we live in. all of us fester in tiny holes in the universe of which is our existence. Look at the babies all dying in our arms, the mother Mary is screaming to let go of her heart. I see bloody hell in her eyes. God is a child with a microscope and we are all the ants. She eats her babies until she is full. They cry and scream in her stomach until the eaters come to destroy them. This is fucked up. And I love to fuck the lion said to the hyena. And they danced until the cows came home. Life is a joy ride and a drive by shooting. Line ends.

Black background is a lot better I think, I hurt my eyes less and I think my contacts will like that a lot better. I like Microsoft word though, very smart program.
We almost hit a woman while driving about an hour ago. We were driving around aimlessly for cloves. Once we had found them and were driving back a slow jeep was in front of us so we moved over and suddenly a woman was in the middle of the street walking. We had to swerve into the other lane to avoid hitting her. She never looked up or even walked faster. She was in a different world. I thought someday I will do that same thing. But my rational thinking tells me no, that I will get hit and die.
E never read these; I read your romance novel chapter right after you sent it to me. You are very egotistical; don’t you think that’s a bad thing? I can’t understand why someone would choose to have a bad trait and not try and improve on one’s self. Do you respect me at all? I always have gotten the feeling of you always being higher than me. I’m sorry I’ll think about something else because I still love you.
Actually I don’t really want to change the subject. It’s so rare that I think “I love you”. I feel like the absence of those words are an illness, something that needs to be cured. I can’t even remember you saying that to me. Depressing.
I’ve had a head ache for the past 4 hours; it comes in and out though. A pulsing soft pain on the right temple. When ever I type I hurt my wrists because I lay them on the edge of the table. Pretty bad, I know. Can you get carpal tunnel syndrome from typing? You are not exactly doing the same action over and over again... but, well... I don’t know.
Stay in the same fucking font I say. Word seems smart most of the time but god dam it at point’s it’s a real bugger. Or fucker. When you say curse words does it make you seem less intelligent? Because you didn’t use a more descriptive word. I think that’s kind of absurd. I keep on changing my font, never happy with one in this black and white 2D world.
In these thought streams I think that sometimes I come up with some really good phrases at points. Catch phrases and such. He he, I like to say “...And such” I think its pretty fun. He he…
We are bullets being shot out of a womb-gun. Flying and spinning through the universe not knowing when we will explode into a billion pieces.
I found it amusing that warren said he was stupid. He was talking about how he didn’t know how you could make the moon spin faster. We got a bunch of e-mails back explaining it and he said something about “see, I’m actually not that bright” and so on. Such a good writer and he say’s he’s like the rest of us. The sheet of being famous pulled back and there is a tweaker trying to punch out a living for his girlfriend and daughter though a Handspring Visor Platinum. Humans are interesting creatures I must say. Type a few buttons and you could be living comfortably for the rest of your life in England or where ever you want. Or in a shitty dorm with no meaning to your life and no idea where you’re going. When we are born we were all the same not including traits you inherited. We were all mix clones. A clean slate of pure happiness or pure pain. Now the world has cut and scratched and molded and enhanced that clone into being an individual as different as a snowflake. You’re original, just like everyone else. Shoved out into the cold, confused and lonely, naked with no plan. We huddle in groups to keep the cold loneliness away. Blank stares and quiet whisperings of memes and the end. Some cry and rock back and forth, away from everyone. Most find solace in the bright glow of a screen, be it a computer or television. Everything is a distraction or denial of the truth: life was a lie and no one will ever love you. We wish we were never born but create others and put them through the same because that is the reality of it all. We must create more that will somehow let a small part of me continue on. Replicate and move on. No one cares if you keep yourself distracted; just do what you are meant for. Enslaved by our parents. Life: a sexually transmitted disease, always fatal.
Life was beautiful when I had someone to distract me. I can focus my self on one other person, no focus on my self. But it seems every time I try and keep someone they betray me. Sometimes lying and leaving or sometimes using my weaknesses for their own means. I have no faith in my god any more, because the god I loved threw me away. They all do. All I want is something to hold onto, to keep me from falling into the abyss of insanity and death. Yes, I know. I’m very depressing.
From now on when I am talking about someone I know or have met I shall shorten their names to the first letter. Even though I doubt anyone will have the patience to read this I just don’t want to accidentally hurt someone. These are my thoughts without much censoring so I hope you can understand.
Should I become an average girl? Fucking who I want and random one night stands? Maybe if I pretend to be detached I’ll eventually become detached. I have friends that are practically sluts and I have a tendency to look down at them for that. Maybe it’s wrong for me to do that or maybe it’s wrong for them to do that. Life is confusing like that and in asking my self these questions I hope maybe it will make me think about it more and hopefully come up with my own personal answers. When I see a cute guy on the street walking or things like that I imagine them naked. Sounds like a normal thing to do to me. I don’t always do that, it’s not a constant thing. When you think about it sex is pretty disgusting, fluids exchanging and sweat. But if you think that’s gross you can pretty much make everything else normal humans do obscene in your head.
I think about what I want to write about next but this should be pure thought streaming like the first one I did. But now that I have paragraphs and I’m actually telling people about my blog I feel the need to censor and make my thoughts more logical and linear. Staying on one subject even though my mind wanders to other things. I was told women think differently than men. Men think more visually and graphically and women think about one thing, which reminds them or this other thing and continued to infinity. I will pause and look at what I have read and read it over again. Maybe this is the evolution of streaming thought or maybe it’s already something else. Me babbling about random shit, but that really is thought streaming. I don’t know, I confuse my self a lot.
I’m listening to Seefeel Ch-Vox, strange stuff. Sounds like it should be the soundtrack to a movie.
I am so tired; it’s hard for me to force my self to keep on writing. I can’t think of anything good to write about. Sorry.

We walked with closed eyes. We never ran for long periods of time. It felt awkward and goofy. You could keep your eyes closed for a long time before your curiosity would force you to open them again. We never really feared of running into things because we only walked in strait lines. People hardly noticed because no one looks at your face any more except for a glance. People usually feared us any way. A smile played on our face when people would cross to the other side of the street. If we cannot be loved doesn’t it feel as good to be feared? Talking, chattering. We like to stay in book stores. The constant movement and thought. A warm feeling, soft and playful. Sometimes we like to focus on one, see into their minds. It’s like reading a book in the book store, we like to read but we don’t want to keep them. We come there for entertainment. It makes us feel for a short time that we are one of them; we are a book in a huge library and not one of the readers. Eventually they notice and we have to walk again, back into the darkness away from the white saturating light of civilization. Sometimes people stop us but we don’t like to be kept long and no one is strong any more. Some books need to be burned and that is why we are here. We love to taste and sample but some we must destroy no matter how long or amazing the story is. None struggle for long, eventually they will all give in.

She sang, she sang so beautiful. I can still imagine her voice in my ears. Sweet like honey pouring out of her mouth. I watched her lips and throat as the bump moved up and down. She had cracked lips and poor skin but she was still beautiful. Her eyes were so dark, like dark matter made its home within her skull. They looked like black holes but they were not empty, in fact they were the opposite. She held the universe in her eyes. I remember she would squint so much; the sun seemed like her eye’s enemy. Her eyes would become knives, pointy and thin as a sheet of ice. You could still see the glint, the star in her eyes. She would smile the smiles of dreams, to touch those velvet lips. Her tears tasted like beautiful ocean rain. She would smile and cry as she moved against me. Her sleek silk skin that I could never hold onto. The tears washed me of my sins, small crucifixions of the heart. I held her hand in mine, so fragile and soft. A porcelain doll that sings and smiles. Sometimes I’m afraid I will break her some day, the cracks slowly growing under a concerned eye. I never noticed them until they were digging deep. She still smiled and sang the most beautiful songs of nectar. Her eyes held the world in a tiny light, among the darkness. Skin the color of crème, hair the blue black shiver of a raven’s wing. Sometimes I couldn’t pull my eyes away from her, the figure of her body burned into the back of my mind. Like music she was, graceful and quiet, a muse of the highest order. If I had the talent I would draw her. I would draw her in every pose and in every style, every size and every template. Only the heavens have the pigments I would need to create such a work of art. If only I could remember, if only I had taken pictures. She is locked in my head; I am the only one that keeps her alive. The doll has shattered but the memory remains. If only you could see the universe in her eyes. My sins remain burned on my dry flesh, cracks and holes of a desert screaming for the rain. The sun never relents but I still remember the rain, I remember the doll that sang in my ear.

I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but it’s not that big of a deal. I promise I’ll fix it, I swear. It’s just a button any way. All I need to do is find some white string, I only have black. I have needles though, more than I need actually. I’ll fix it soon, when I get a chance.
It’s cold in my room, I've had the window closed for 24 hours now and it’s still cold. Maybe because the window does not seal totally. But it gets hot sometimes. Because it’s only me, because I’m alone it stays cold. No warmth. I’m always cold. Maybe it’s because estrogen lowers women’s body temperatures. Or maybe because I don’t exercise. No circulation. My feet are always cold, never really warm when they are outside shoes. I’m just a cold person. I need warmth but I can’t take the heat. I guess I like the cold, it’s familiar and usual.
I've been in this room for such a long time, I only left in the past 8 hours to get paper, give a cd back and see if the TV was available. I never gave the cd back and they didn’t have paper. The TV was taken. When I’m here I stay in my room for such a long time. When I’m down south I am never home. I’m always with my friends or reading at the mall, I have my car. My car is my escape. Freedom. When I am up here I cannot leave school. Who would ever think of dorms? Being unable to leave the school premises. Heh, and I thought high school was prison. At least I could go home. Now my home is school. I’m just making my way to become an efficient cog in the American dream. I want to leave, see if there are places better than this. There must be.
My first thought stream was one paragraph. But I figured I would help you readers out and every time I change the topic I’ll make a new paragraph. Ok? Good. Should I pretend a lot of people are reading this? Or should I just have it for me. But why do I need to read my thoughts? Will it make me understand my self? When I read my last one I liked it, a lot. But I think this type of thing is only good for me. So maybe no one should read this. Is this a diary or something like it? Well... a diary would have me explain what I did today and such. I did kind of do that {see above paragraphs} but no, this is not a diary. Diaries pretend that they do not want to be read, that’s why there are locks on them usually. But if you write it down then you want it to be read, by someone. I sure as hell do.
I read warren Ellis’s book available light and it’s amazing. On one side of the page is a picture and the other is a story about the picture or something to that extent. He is such a good writer, and it’s amazing that if I want to talk to him I can. I wish he would write a real novel, not a graphic one. But it’s his preference so it doesn’t really matter.
Why do I like Nine Inch Nails so much? Because it reminds me of Erik. Because it evokes emotion and so rarely do I feel emotion. Because it’s beautiful. Because he’s sexi. Because if I don’t focus on him who would I focus on? Most people pass NIN off as teenage angst and such but I see it as so much more than that. His lyrics are part of a bigger picture. A whole album is a story. The music that accompanies his voice is wonderfully crafted and laid out, it has meanings as well. NIN is something that I have cried to more than any other music. I listen to it when I’m depressed. It has a purpose to me. It is a part of my life.
I’m white, very white. English and Scottish and so many other things. I’m a mutt with freckles on my knees. And on my nose, and on my elbows, and on my shoulders, and on my wrists. Being white makes me feel separated from all other colors, but that’s not an unusual thing. Because I’m a mutt I feel I have no ties to my family history. If I was only Scottish I would feel a tie to being... well an alcoholic? I don’t know what it’s like to be Scottish really. Not really English either, I have no English accent and neither do my parents. I don’t normally say “bollocks” or “bloody” in my sentences. I feel like I’m most English though, because people in Brittan are mutts too. But not as much as in America. Americans have the identity of having no identity if you know what I mean. The “salad bowl” or “soup”, whatever. The identity of no identity. Interesting isn’t it?
If I was famous or had lots of friends on the internet; people would read my blog, not just my ex boy friend. What would happen if I promoted my site? If I told people about it that I know in real life? Would they read it and see me in a different light? When I see them after they read it would they look down upon me or would they appreciate what I’m doing? Opening my thoughts, letting others into my head. They would probably not react. They would pretend they never read any thing about me and it would never be mentioned. Or maybe, if I keep on doing this for a long time and then get a job and my own domain name and move all of these thoughts onto there people would start to come and read. And people would talk about how they feel on the subject matters I think about. Maybe it would become a hit and everyone would love me. Hah!
The changing of the cds’ always a nice break for me to sit in a more comfortable position and to start a new paragraph. A breather for you and me. I can never seem to find a comfortable position, when I’m sleeping or sitting at the computer or standing. I must keep on moving always. Which relates to how I feel; I need to move every few years. When I become accustomed to a certain place I feel I need to leave. But now that I've left I want to go back. And when I’m there I want to leave again. It’s pretty bad. When I first came up here I was so happy, all my stress that had weighed on me for 3 years straight became no more and I was really happy. My skin cleared up and I felt content until I got into another bad relationship up here and that stressed me out too. But that weight has never totally been put back on. I just needed a break from my family and friends. Eventually it will come back and I’ll have to move again.
I just talked to my friend brad on AIM about the party last night. It was amazing not giving a shit about any one. Because of the shrooms I could see though people. It was pretty enlightening. For instance when this girl P talked to me I fully understood why she wanted someone to hear her, to listen and not ignore her. She needed to be heard. Now that I think about it I should not have looked down upon her for it but felt sympathy. But like I said before I didn’t give a damn about anyone. I also thought in different ways, but that is a lot harder to explain and it was right before I went to sleep. I was afraid though, I was afraid I would never be normal again. Shrooms are amazing but I know that was not the only thing affecting me that night. The mix of shrooms and alcohol and lots of pot gave me an intense insanity I've never felt before. When I was going to sleep I only had my red light on in my room and my mirror is right across from my bed and I stared at my self for a few minuets straight watching the room move around me, feeling like I was changing the physical world with my eyes. It was a truly amazing experience.
America is fucked, and that’s that. It was always fucked; it started because the rich wanted to get richer and used the poor to do that. There is no such thing as freedom, only security. If we lived in freedom there would be chaos. The government was made to take away freedom. But the few things that we are allowed to do in this country are being taken away slowly yet surely. We want it to stay the same. We don’t want it to become more secure than it is. If that happens than we will live in a police state. And yes, there are better places to live than America, and worse. But we’re not the best and you fucking morons better get that though your thick skulls. Damnit.
I’m tired. Tired in the sense that my body wants to sleep since it’s almost 2 am. I’m also tired in the sense of life, I have no straight line to where I’m going, no long term goals, the longest goal I have is to get to a 4 year college in the next few years. I’ve been in college since I was a junior in high school. I graduated in 2002. So technically I’ve been in college for a year and a half, but I dropped out after I got out of high school so technically I guess a year only. I feel like I’ve been in it for so long. I feel so much older than everyone; I have more experience than these straight-out-of-high school kids. But I am really not that old or experienced. Life is strange and you never know who to trust or which opinions are truly correct. I may already be dead or maybe my life is one long dream. It’s too confusing to even think about.
I hope someday someone famous or brilliant, someone I admire reads these.

Look at this, this line of words? What do you see within these lines? Space? White? Or something deeper? How does one try and understand this shit? Thoughts spilling out of my head like Trent and his blood. No one can understand this except me. So many errors I’ll have to go back and change it 3 or 4 times just to correct all these red lines under my words , and don’t forget the green one’s such a beautiful zig zag of a line. Spilling out of my head.. fucking warren makes it look easy like les Claypool. Fucking assholes. I was brought up believing I would have a wonderful life, a wonderful boyfriend who turns into a wonderful husband. Living in a nice house after meeting him in college. This sentence for the blind and a song for the deaf. Life was a lie and life’s a bitch. Then you die. None will understand me and none will ever understand you. We all live in a desolate and unknowing world. All of us are in denial of how this universe, this atom really is. Erik, I know you will someday read this, be it tomorrow or in a few years. I love you; I want to say it every time I talk to you. I know you hate it, I know you care about me, but I’m not satisfied and you know this too. It makes me want to try when I speak or in this case type my true feelings. You’re a bastard that stole my heart and it’s stuck to you like superglue you can’t get it off. It’s so annoying and ugly, my heart stuck to whatever part of your body, a bulge a bloody bulge for people to stare at and ask among themselves why it’s there and why you still have it there. But can do nothing. Nothing at all. Life is hard to get though. And speaking my mind is hard to do. Typing it is even harder. I don’t even look at the screen just the keys for minuets at a time. The music has stopped. I need noise…………..sex, it’s nice I like it. I cry sometimes when it hurts too much, those are the best times, when it hurts and makes me spill tears on them. I miss you I miss having a body by me. I never want to send this to you now; you will get mad, or depressed. Either way it will disappoint you that you were right about keeping those feelings I have about you alive. That heart is still stuck to you. That bloody mess of a heart. That blackened and shriveled blob. So many scars of when I gave them to other people and they smashed it twice in a row is too many for me. I am afraid of men now. Except for you, I know you. I know you care about me and that is why my heart is super glued to you. I was not meaning to have this thought type be about you but it ends up doing that because I am passionate about it. “Without pain there is neither the reason nor the desire to think or create” I don’t know who said that but I know tool quoted them. Or was it nin? No, I think I was tool. Tool, such a wonderful band.. I think I’ll listen to them……..I think my laundry’s done……fuck one of my underwear, the ones that had held all of this globules of blood clots at the primus concert had so much blood in it that it stained my clothes. Tool. This cd makes my computer’s cd drive sound like a small airplane engine. That’s very strange. But it still plays normal. Strange days. I like fire, candles are beautiful and romantic and scary all at the same time. Once I took a bath and had lots of candles and I burnt my hair, it wasn’t good. When I see what I’m writing it makes me feel like a child. Such simple thinking and sentences. So badly written. A jumble of ideas, memes, what ever. Southern cali. Is on fire. Burn tinsel town, burn. No one knows that that means Hollywood. But I didn’t at one time. People like to lie about what they know, but at some point you did not know this and it struck you or someone told you, you were not born with most kinds of knowledge. At one point in your life you found out what the word “fuck” meant. At one point in your life you figured out something that today seems extremely obvious. I ask a lot of simple questions and maybe that’s why people see me as not very intelligent. I know I misspell my words all the time I know that I have too many run on sentences I know that when I Wright stories they all have “and then” too many times. Fuck, I know! I know my writing is terrible; it has caused me so much grief and pain in my life that no one will ever know or understand. It’s a true handicap; I should get a fucking plate on my car for it. Fuck. Fuck all of you laughing at me. Fuck you for already going through the shit I have and doing nothing about it. Fuck. And I can’t think of any more descriptive words than fuck. Why am I still doing that? I’m getting so depressed and mad. All of you laugh at me. I wish I could leave it all behind. I wish I could make one good song describing all of my pain and tortures of my life, have every one I’ve ever me hear it and understand it. And then die. All I want it someone to understand me. I had an abortion. And abortion 5 days ago. And I want your pity I need you pity, I eat your pity. I’m hungry. Let me fuck something up in my life to have people pity me for. I don’t really do these things to my self consciously, but I might unconsciously. Consciousness I can’t spell it for the life of me and I never will. I hate my brain, can I have yours? You are so smart, or at least you seem to be. You Wright so good and speak so well and your hand writing is beautiful and you’re not depressed and you have a love and someone loves you back and I need that, give me yourself. I want to be you. Take me away. Give me television, give me movies, and give me literature. I don’t want to spell check this; it will take too fucking long. Skip, skip, skip, and skip, fuck. Suck a wonderful word in my vocabulary. I use it too much but it gets that point across, or at least I think it does. Pity! You fucking fool. Look at you, crying while you type so many meaningless words that no one may ever see. Pity! Pity! You fucking fool. If I could send this though e-mail to everyone I know most people would be confused or annoyed or not even read it at all. I have mail…………ok, I don’t fuck you then. Any way, what was I talking about? Bullshit? Oh yea… so any way I hate my self and I hate all of you. I guess that means I just hate. Fuck you for reading this, this opening into my mind that I have forced upon my self, non stop writing, well maybe not totally non stop but these are pretty long blocks of me writing. My fear is naked. So look at these words, this letter, this pixel, and with your brain processing them into meaning and understanding... well maybe that’s asking too much but slight understanding and look at me, I am here, and I’ll be here for a while, try the salad, or not. I know none of you get it. And “you “meaning who ever reads this. Yes you, ya fucker. And that means me as well, when I read this over again and again. Actually I never want to read this over again. It’s crap and if I do I’ll probably cut all the good shit out. Which would be bad because this is me putting my thoughts into letters>words>sentences>paragraphs… well maybe not real paragraphs, if it was then there would be a lot of fucking paragraphs but I don’t want to deal with that fucking shit. Why should I have to make it look nice and legible for you? If you don’t like it then you probably would have stopped by the time you get to here. Jesus even if you try and read this whole thing I bet you’ll get so bored with this confusing crap that you would have stopped after a few lines from the top. So? Why go on? By writing this I knowingly want someone else to read this, but I’m also afraid of that... maybe I should throw this away. The television looks ghostly with a candle in front of it. The interaction of technology and something very basic. Beautiful. A beautiful picture. I see so many beautiful pictures all around me whenever I don’t have a camera. But that’s life, or something like it. Tap tap tap of the space bar. Could you ever make music from the noise of a keyboard? That would be interesting. Don’t steal my idea though or else I’ll do something. Fuck all of you who would put something clever there. Like my “sick my flying monkeys” of “pink Satan” or that clever shit, I can’t take it. You’re all so fucking clever, so get over it all ready. But no, we have to eat it up like pie, and try and do the same. Fuck the clever. I like that “fuck the clever”. I think I’ll Wright it down………argh. I wish I could go back in time and take the talent I had for writing and use it again, but by myself. Description. Is that the point of writing? It seems to be. Am I writing? Confused? The best writers have wonderful descriptions, beautiful; they put you in the shoes of the main character or such. What is the purpose of writing? I am doing this to get out all the things I have wanted to Wright and I haven’t the nerve or something like that. I miss being able to get out my thoughts to someone else. I like to do it in person. This way I am opening my self up to any one, people who don’t know me might judge me on this. But wouldn’t that be a good thing? Because this is the uncut me? Aren’t we just our thoughts? This is all nice and philosophical. But I don’t really like to think about philosophy. Or any thing like it for that matter because then I’ll get into a argument and I can’t argue about a pencil in my hand and a another person saying it’s a pen. That doesn’t make a lot of sense but I don’t care. I’m bad at arguing. People that know me here only know a very small part of me. I would not know how to let them know more about me though. I’m incapable of doing that. Or at least to their faces. If I let them know who I am we would all see how alike we really are. Or maybe that’s false. We will never know. I wish I could open my self to someone. But I can’t trust. They would probably just think I’m a weirdo and never talk to me again. Or they would tell other people who I am. But seeing this it’s strange. I’m afraid of it. I can’t believe how afraid I really am to let someone know me. Erik, you don’t know me. All of you don’t know me. No matter how many thought writings I type. It’s so mysterious... isn’t it? Or maybe it’s just annoying. Fuck you. My computer keeps beeping at me. I hate you. No one shall ever understand any one. Argh. I’m lazy. And a procrastinator. I really should start my projects so I don’t fail all of my classes and end up a bum on the streets. But of course I don’t really think that would happen, that’s just what I was conditioned to think. And that’s why it’s so confusing to see Erik not really graduating high school. Never going to college and hating everyone. But I guess he doesn’t have everyone any more. Now he wants friends. But what do you expect? Jesus are you that blind or are you just feeling sorry for your self. Fuck Erik! Open you fucking eyes! You alienated everyone from yourself, I don’t know if you mean to or not but that’s why you “have no friends” I swear to god, if you keep on fucking whining about that... ug, I just want to slap you awake! Maybe I’m getting a little carried away with this. Sorry. But you did. This music makes me angry. When Erik broke up with me the 1st time I cried and he said that was the first time he had seen real emotion come from me. That affected me so much. I never really noticed that before and it made me think, a lot. Fuck my computer! Technology is fucking evil, but also really good. Man and they sure are weird. Pretty unpredictable if you ask me. But oh well. Clever or cleaver? Ok, I spelled it right. Now that I’ve done all this shit with my computer I feel like not doing this any more. “Good” you think, “maybe she will finally shut up”. the screen is bright and is the brightest light in the room, the few candles you have sitting around don’t give much light and more of them keep on going out. Your eyes sting and the back of you neck hurts. You look at the period and stare at it for a few seconds and then shake yourself from the screen. The air is still and it’s cool inside your small room. Papers and books lie strewn across the floor. A school book has a bloody knife laying on top of it. You were cutting yourself again. Cursing, you pick up the knife and book quickly, but making sure no blood drips on the carpet or any thing else. You grab a black shirt from your dirty clothes pile and wipe the top of the book rapidly. A look of annoyance on your face. If you were bleeding a lot you would have already noticed it but you hadn’t this time. You get most of it off except where it stained the paper, not very noticeable. You wipe the knife off and feel you arms to see where you had cut. “Fuck” frowning, you cut in a more noticeable place than usual, past the sleeve line. A perfect oval is cut into the top of your hand, it’s not bleeding as much since you had cut it an hour or so ago. There is a stain on your pants from where you hand had lain while you were reading. A sigh of relief as you look around where you had sat and see no bloody puddles. You go into the bathroom and turn on the light. The uncovered bulbs above the mirror slightly blind you, squinting, the medical cabinet opens and you grab the anti-bacterial spray and gauze. Cringing, the wet spray digs into the cut with a billion tiny knives, killing the evil bad bacteria. You wish that you never felt pain instead of not always feeling it. Some times months at a time you would not be able to feel any thing. It was shocking to feel the real thing. Sometimes you would savor it, but that was rare. Usually it was annoying. With such an unusually high tolerance of pain you would have to cut some really sensitive places to really feel it at all. Thinking back, about all the times you had scraped your knee, cut your elbow, broken a finger. Walking back to the house, blood trailing behind like a dried up stream. You mother coming out and with a look of shock and then anger on her face she would pull you into the house and scold you. Saying you should notice that you’re hurt and why she had such a strange child. She never took you to the doctor, you had never been to a hospital, and mother had always said how they knew nothing and would take you away from all your friends if they found out about you. With anger and sadness you lean on the counter and look at yourself in the mirror. So average, so normal on the outside. The oily long back hair covering most of your facial scars. But they stood out to you, they is why you put on makeup to cover them up. You got pretty good at make up, since you started in Jr. High. Those were the worst years, living in Arizona and having to wear long sleeve shirts in 109 degree weather. Such a skinny twig of a boy. Unable to defend yourself. They would punch you and kick you and you had to act like you were in pain. You could never force yourself to cry, seeing other kids get hurt they almost always cried. But you could never squeeze out a tear. The first and last time you ever cried was when your mother had died. You never even cried when you were a baby. But college is a lot better, and since your father had died after your mother you get a check for three thousand dollars every month for the rest of your life. And that’s why you’re in an apartment in Westwood, California. Walking back into the room you squint at the bright flat screen with rubbish typed all over it. A smirk comes across your face “fuckin’ teenage angst shit” you press the button to turn off the screen and flop down on the bed. Pulling off your shoes and socks and the rest you think about tomorrow, Halloween. What the fuck am I going to do tomorrow? You think as you bury yourself under the covers and look at the ceiling. The back image of the computer screen burned into the back of your eyes when you close them. A smile creeps across your face and you turn to blow out the last remaining candle next to your bed. A plume of smoke floats into nothing.