Yes, I did just post a blog moments ago.

I did not, however, take it at all into the direction I had hoped it would go. Which could prove a point, but maybe not.

Oddly enough I feel mildly better at the moment. I found myself caught up in other blogs and paintings I wish I had the talent to create. I have so many that are half finished. And my mood swings are a tad ridiculous.

Now, where was I going.

I'm not sure, but it as absolutely stifling in here. It has to be at least 80 degrees. And It's eleven o'clock. That doesn't work for me. This is Oregon.

I want to write a book. An autobiography. I sort of have that started in my other blog, but I'm honestly terrified to write it. "Chapter 1" was easy pie. Easy easy easy pie. But there are much harder things to write about. To remember and actually put into words. I've told the story a million times, but in a robotic way. An emotionless way. I've read the script, but put no emotion into it. I've almost never gone into detail. And if you want a book to be worth reading, detail is an absolute must. A story without detail is like a birthday cake without candles (Speaking of, I somehow managed to have my birthday this year without blowing out a single candle? How could such a horrid thing happen?).

This book will need a title. But what.

Previously thought of options (and their problems):
+Fake it 'Till You Make it. --->Works perfectly in most aspects, but no originality whatsoever.
+Because, etc. --->I don't know where this came from, but it works. And I kind of like it, but is it

Ok, so I forgot the rest. But basically if I had to choose between those two it would be the second. Even though it isn't very colorful, vibrant. But I guess my story isn't exactly a pocketful of rainbows.

It's so hard.

That's what she said, but seriously.

It is hard. It's hard to listen to all of everyones accomplishments today. It's one of those days. The day were you feel forgotten. The day were your originial plans get canceled, then someone else makes plans with you, then cancels, then you cancel on someone else because you end up in such a shitty mood that you don't even want to leave your room, but you want more than anything for someone to come pick you up and ask you how you are. It isn't that no one asks, it's that the people you want to ask, the people you want to care, don't. So then, you're miserable. Because they are the only thing running through your mind. Over and over again you replay the good nights. The time she figured out you actually read. The time you both agreed that Edward never should have left Bella, and she should have stuck with Jake. The night you called her Bella. The night you told her about your bad dreams, and your good dreams. The times you held her hand, the days you pulled her closer, when you kissed her-in public. Yeah, those were the days that she wants to forget, but would hate if she did.

What kind of a 17 year old girl gets mixed up with a 19 year old who has a baby. Really.

I hate self control. I want to give up again. But seriously. Is it worth the hospital again? Am I willing to start over at zero after not doing it for eight months? I hate therapy. I don't want to go back. One time is never just one time. Never. You'd think it would get easier, but it doesn't. Not even close.

I regret you.

But that's a lie. No matter how much I know I should regret ever speaking to you in the first place, I don't. Because I'm that kind of a person. Two days ago you told me I ruined your life. You told me never to talk to you again. You told me I knew nothing about you, and that I'm just a scared little girl who can't wrap her head around anything. You told me you were going to have my ass beat.

You told me things that made me hate you, for a day at least. I allready want to tell you I'm sorry. I want to apologize for everything I said, and for not being good enough. But I can't. Because if anyone found out I did they'd bitch at me. But they don't get it. They don't get what kind of a person I am. They don't realize how much it takes for me to hate someone. How far I have to be pushed for me to realize how terrible they are. I don't work like everyone else. I can name people similar to me, but no one like me. I'm like a fucking dog. But then again, even dogs bite back.

I just want you to get me.

I don't know what I'm trying to prove.

I really really don't. Yes, it is mostly the day-after-break-up-miserablness that's the cause of this I'm sure, but still. I don't know what I'm doing, or why I'm doing it.

Ok, I'm doing nothing, that's what I'm doing. I spent an hour and a half scraping paint off the deck and my hand ached for another hour after from holding the scraper thing so tight. I got $20 for it. Which is totally helping me trying to quit smoking. Which it seems like I basically gave up on. I was good yesterday. Until, of coarse, he finally decided to text me back.

This is only like the third time anyone's ever broke up with me. Unless you count the times when I was too chicken to dump them so I just turned into a bitch, but I don't. Why wouldn't he be attracted to be anymore. We may have only dated for like three weeks, but we've been basically together for months. What changed? The more he talked to me the more he felt it slipping. He's hardly talked to me at all in the past week. How does that work. Really. Seriously.

I want ice cream. And brownies. And everything terrible for me. And I want to dye my hair pink because I know he would hate it. I want to go sit in front of his house with some other guy, just to see if he feels anything. I want to change his Myspace password and fuck his whole account up. No, I don't. I don't want him to hate me. I want him to text me. I want him to ask me how I am. Ask me anything. I don't even care. I had to hear is bullshit about feeling guilty last night, if he really feels that terrible about it, he would ask me if I was doing ok. I don't want what he said to be bullshit, but I have no idea what to believe. I'm not texting him first. I don't want to be her. That pathetic obsessive depressed ex-girlfriend. I just really wanted us to work. I wanted him to care.

I don't get it. Before we happened, he said he was gonna be alone forever. We got together finally, and he said he always knew it would happen. Now we're this. We're right back where we started.

I need a cigarette, a friend, and vacation.

It's 3 AM I Must Be Lonely, And Upset.

Well not quite. Almost.
Ok, it's 2 AM.

I would just like to say that I appreciate you lying to me about why you wanted to end it. It really makes me feel great. Sorry you aren't attracted to me anymore. And sorry I don't live close enough. I'm even more sorry that she lives closer, and she's as big of a stoner as you. I'm sorry you got back into it, I tried to help you. And for a little while it was really working. You were a great person. But now you're just a jackass again. I mean seriously.

Yeah I'm upset, yeah you hurt me. Sorry if you didn't want to, but it's pretty much inevitable. You know how much I care about you. You know how much I did for you, but you threw me away again.

I guess it's my fault. Everyone told me how big of a jerk you were, and how you'd just break my heart. I had to try and convince them that you changed, you were a better person. And you were. Before we started dating you were sweeter to me than after. You told me things then you don't tell me now.

Then you gave up on staying clean and outta trouble.

I don't want to miss you all summer. And I don't want to wish you'll ask me for it when you need it. But you probably will, and I'll probably give in.

I'm not a city girl.

So, there was this birthday party, of this two year old who is the daughter of my aunt and uncle's friend, who I had never met. Anyways. It was sort of downtown, and I again realized I do not belong in the city. Yes, the night lights are beautiful, and the people are unique. However, it makes me feel just a teeny bit claustrophobic. I like back yards, and front yards for that matter. I don't like the noise of cars, and I have a fear of crossing streets. I do not at all find the brushing of your shoulder's against a random strangers invigorating or at all pleasant. It's awkaward. Crowds are no where near my favorite place to be, and whether or not I have terrible allergies, I would much rather spend my day at a quiet park with swings and grass, then the waterfront with drug dealers and the smell of dog shit.

It is partially because I'm extremely paranoid. I stand between the skyscrapers, and cross my fingers hoping to God they won't fall and crush us all. I'm scared of strangers, and I don't trust the food. Sure, the people who paint themselves gold and stand impossibly still are interesting, and I like the garbage can drumming, but it's not my kind of lifestyle. I don't necessarily want to live all up in the mountains, and hermit myself away, but I don't want to be squished. I don't want to see needles scattered across the sidewalk. And I'm not into the club scene.

I like horses. I like barns. I like the smell of the outside, and walking barefoot in the mud. I don't like worms or spiders, and I scream when I see bees, but there is nothing better then being outside in a thunder storm, or feeling the heat of summer rain.

A Million Things.

I have a million bazillion things running through my mind right now. I could write about my dissapointing weekend, but I don't want to. Sure, some of my friends did get caught drinking by my mom. Sure, he brought his girlfriend. Sure, we got yelled and cursed at and called ghetto by a bunch of trashy people for drawing a penis in the road with chalk. Sure, I did finally break down and cry in front of them. Sure, I pocket-called my friend while I was sobbing pathetically and freaked her out.

But that's really all there is to it.

Today, today was something. Today was one of those days, where it doesn't feel like you. It feels like you were supposed to be acting as someone else in a movie, or a show, but you forgot to memorize the script, and were too embarrassed to admit it, so you just went out there anyways. I get that feeling alot, but more so today. It had something to do with the color of the sky, and the bilboard I saw.

On the way home from her ultrasound I was in the backseat smoking a cigarette. We were out a stoplight, and I looked out the window. Up against the bright blue sky was a bilboard advertising the lung cancer treatment at some hospital. A Killers song was on in the backround, and the music just fit. This sounds dumb now that I think about it, but I suppose you had to be there.

Other than that, what's new? I'm getting over it. I really need to. I really want to. I'm tired of it, of everything. The pictures she put up of them together didn't seem to bother me today. Maybe because all I could think of was how he ended up with such a nasty girl. Which I feel bad for saying, but it's true. She just doesn't look like she tries. I guess if he's happy with that then whatever. He could just do better for himself.

I figured it out. I don't want him back. I want the old him back. His brain's so fried from drugs, that even after a month sober, he still isn't who he used to be. He isn't what I want anymore. He's so much more defiant. Rebellious. He doesn't seem to respect many people anymore. I miss who he used to be. But that boy is never coming back. So I'm done.

Now I'm stuck chasing after the other boy. The one who tells me he's destined to be alone, but can't seem to keep away from me. He'll cause trouble. But hey, I'm still in high school. I'm aloud to be reckless. I want to find someone to love and be loved by. It's time for an adventure.

My Cat Ate My Homework.

Maybe if I were to rub kitty treats all over my attempted paragraphs and papers, then one of my cat's may attack it, and destroy it. That would be lovely, and keep me from having to lie.

Basically, I'm re-writing scene 10 of the play A Streetcar Named Desire for my American Drama class. We were given many different options of assigments to do, and that is the one I chose.

For those who don't know, it's the seen where Stanley rapes Blanche. And for those of you who don't don't know, Stanley is married to Blanche's younger sister Stella, who is actually giving birth to his child during this scene. And for those of you who don't don't don't know, this play is where the famous "STELLLLAAAAAA!" came from. For those who still need more information, I highly suggest reading the play. Anyways.

I chose this scene to re-write, because it didn't go at all the way I wanted it to. I was shocked when I read it, because I really expected Blanche to be doing the raping (or attempting), not Stanley. I don't like him giving me more reasons not to like him, when I really want to. Blanche is a terrible terrible character. That's not how it was supposed to go. It was supposed to be Blanche, dancing around the room trashed. Stanley would then come home from the hospital, SOBER, and Blanche would throw herself at him. Stanley would then call her a whore and such. However, I can't decide if I want the scene to end by her vomitting all over herself, or by her stripping off her clothes, screaming at Stanley when he won't succumb, then proceeding to accuse him of rape, orrrr maybe a doctor will come running through the door to tell Stanley his child has been born. I really can't decide. The second choice will show her true colors better then the others. I feel like I would find some smug satisfaction in picturing all the alcohol and stomach acids pour out of her mouth and all over her dress. Ohh, and perhaps she should lose consiousness and fall right into the vile puddle.

The two more assignments that need done are two similar paragraphs. We just finished reading Brave New World in class. I am supposed to write one paragraph stating the similarities between drug use today and drug use in the book, along with what I believe Huxley was trying to warn us about. The other, is basically the same, only instead of the topic being drugs, I get to choose anything. Some people chose materialism, others chose sex. I don't want to do either of those, because everyone chose them. They are without a doubt, the easiest topics. I tried entertainment, but really didn't get anywhere. The one I was really thinking about, was basically-We will be working for the values of the government, instead of the government working for our values. Which I like, but I cannot seem to come up with anything about today. I suppose that statement could be the warning. Huxley could have believed that to be truth. It still isn't working though.

I don't want to go to school tomorrow. I'm scared I'll throw up tonight anyways because apparently my lab partner puked after school today. I have an irrational fear of throwing up. Therefore, when anyone near or around me even complains about their stomach not feeling good, I instantly feel nauseaus. I also don't eat if they actually puke. I don't go to restaurants either, because I could get food poisening. We once ordered chinese from a take out restaurant. There were like ten of us. I didn't see it, but I heard my cousin say, "Grosssss, he just puked."while we were all eating. I walked as calmly as possible to the bathroom. I still had food in my mouth, but I spit it out. I remembered my aunt once telling me she got food poisening from this particular take out place. My hands were shaking, I broke out in a cold sweat, and spent ten minutes in the bathroom trying not to throw up. All I could envision was ten people with food poisening from that damned restaurant, puking all over each other. When I realized that no one had really made a fuss over the barf, from what I could here, I dared to leave the bathroom and risk vomitting on the floor in front of everybody.

It turns out he gagged on an orange skin. No one had food poisening.

I need some culture.

I would like to go to Europe today. Or perhaps Africa. I feel like indulging in the unfamiliar. I'm getting rather tired of the fact that the weather is muggy. It's Oregon. Since when is "humidity" part of the forecast? It shouldn't be. It doesn't help that my hair is very frizzy today, and I have really made no attempt to make myself look good. Not that I need too because I'm home alone for the time being. Had I made an effort to look especially delicious, I would have been annoyed at the wasted good-looking-ness.
Where did delicious come from?

I threw S. a suprise birthday party last night. Unfortunately he somehow knew about it. While we were all hiding behind the couch waiting for him to come through the front door, someone came in the house through a window and was hiding. After we had spent a good five minutes trying to figure out if it was S. or a psychotic killer, I took the sidedoor, went around the house, climbed through the window, and at last, found him hiding in the shower. So, obviously, I turned on the faucet. Sadly the shower part wasn't on, but just the bath part, so only his shoes got wet. After that we had strawberry short cake, and I recived a nice shot on the ass from the realistic looking air soft gun. I have a nice welt.

A. is coming over tonight to "babysit" me. It's not exactly babysitting, but more my mother not wanting me home alone all night. I'm not sure if she's more concerned about someone breaking in, or me having a party. Probably the latter.

I feel like a real blogger today for some reason. But now I'm going outside to smoke my racist cigarettes. So far I have been told two things that are making Marbs look more and more racist. But I haven't been able to get my usual Camel Wides lately because I can no longer be picky about what I smoke considering the continuously raising tax. Before we know it you'll have to pay twenty dollars for a pack.

My birthday's in seventeen days. I'm not as excited as I feel like I should be. Oh well.

Weekend Warriors

Well, the song was true. Our song was true. "This can't last forever". For some reason I didn't believe it, or realize it. I thought our weekend adventures would always be the same. Oh, how wrong I was. Three weeks in a row, I've been by myself on a Friday night. Simply because I am not willing to forgive your best friend for grabbing his girlfriend by the hair and spitting in her face. I said he wasn't going to be at my house anymore. Now, I'm alone. Because everyone else seems to accept his apology and be over it. I'm not. He's eighteen years old. He needs to learn to grow up, and think about what he says and does before he acts. You're my best friend. You have been for a year now. But lately everything's changing. It's not just what he did. It's that girl you say you're in love with. I don't hate her. I've never even met her. However, the stories I've heard don't encourage me to be fond of her. You speak of her as if she's an angel directly sent from heaven. She isn't, but she sure thinks she is.
I asked you if we would ever all hang out together, the whole group, and her. I also asked whether or not you would act differently.
"Probably, but I'd just be more mature."
I asked who you really were.
"I like who I am when I'm with her."
If the real you is who you are when you're with her, then you've been lying to all your bestfriends.
You said she "keeps you in check". She doesn't like you hanging out with other girls. She won't date you until you're both graduated. What's gonna happen when you graduate? She's going to college. What are you doing?

"My grandparents, and everyone at school like her. You're the only one who has a problem. Figures."
"I'm sorry if you think I'm drifting. But I'm not going to pass up a great relationship because my friends want to go egg houses and smoke pot."

Before you and her were all lovey-dovey, you were doing both of those things.
Where was she when you told me you couldn't even listen to a song without crying because it made you think of her.
Where was she at your mom's funeral. Everyone who cared about you was there.
She made you a card, how sweet.
All your best friends tried to be there for you at the funeral. But you didn't sit with us, or your brothers or your sisters. You distanced yourself from everyone else.
You need to cope. And I want to help you, but you won't let anyone.
I love you. But everything's going down hill.

It's still not clicking.

Nope, I still can't believe it. My best friend who is barely 19 years of age, is five and a half months along. I'm not sure why it won't go through my head. Most likely because she's also my most immature friend, and least responsible, but I still love her to death. It's just extremely hard for me to picture her as a mother. Cooing and cuddling a little baby boy.
Perhaps I'm bitter, or jealous. Yes, bitterly jealous. Most people see her as having nothing right now. I, however, see her as having everything in the world. She has a boyfriend who puts up with her, and at times can be rather sweet, and a tiny little boy in her big belly. Pregnancy is without a doubt one of my biggest fears, if not the biggest. The thought have vomitting every day, and pushing a large object out of your jayjay does not at all sound appealing to me. Neither does being up every two hours of the night after he's born, or changing diapers and wiping spit up off your shirt all day. The thought of being completely and utterly responsible for a life other than your own is the most horrifying thought.
But then the jealousy hits. At the first ultrasound, it was not the tiny little peanut on the screen that brought me to tears, it was the look on her face. I had never seen her look happier in all my years of knowing her. Her smile lit up the dim room, and you could feel her excitement in the air. She has never been truely happy in her entire life, and we both used to dream of our futures. She got hers, and I'm still waiting. Of coarse, I am a little over two years younger then her, and I don't want to have a baby in me. But the thought of having something that's all my own, that will love me no matter what (until the teenage years of coarse) is the most appealing idea. To have something to care for.
But I will have plenty of caring to do come September. Little Aiden is going to tire his mommy and daddy out. She asked me to be his God-mother, and that is all I could ask for. The advantage to not being a parent, is I get to spoil him all I want, and buy him the loud squwaking toys. THEN I send him home to the parents, who get to thouroughly enjoy all the beeps and buzzers. I fully intend on being the best God-mother ever to that little baby, and I can't wait.

The Outside Looking In.

Have you ever been in one of those rooms, the rooms they interview you in, the rooms that have that mirror on the wall, the mirror that is actually a one-way-window. I have. I usually feel like I'm in the room, being interviewed, but lately, I'm on the other side. I'm watching the people come through, and hearing what they have to say, but they can't hear me or see me. I'm invisable to them. They don't know who I am, what I look like, or whether or not I like long walks on the beach. They don't care that I'm listening, but they don't care enough to listen. The world has gone deaf and blind to me. I feel very small. Too small to be of an importance to anyone for anything more than a child's toy. That's what I am, a doll. A little useless doll. You can make me do whatever you want me to do, but I won't be your favorite forever. If you break me, there's super glue, although I won't look as appealing after.

What if,

What if all phones had invisable, indestructable, untouchable tiny little wires attatching each one to the other? Itty bitty little wires, that stretched out of your phone into everyone else's. From the sky, if they were visable, it would be a spider-web of connectivity. Everyone would have everyone, and no one would be alone. Unless of coarse, you traveled under a bridge or between some mountains. During those times, your connection momentarily snaps, but that wire comes back together again once your clear of anything for it to snag on.