how to screw yourself over without really trying

the last sentence in a Hemingway novel

2011-07-28T20:18:00.003-04:00

“Oh man, I can’t remember anything without you.” –The Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

I can. And it sucked. It was boring. And then I met you. It wasn’t just you; there were a lot of people that made things change. But you stood out. And then you went away, and I then I went away. And I went to school and started to drink. I drank a lot. I drank far too much for my own good. When I got drunk I would text you. And we would have really funny conversations. Sometimes I would text you things I’d regret saying in the morning, but it was okay, everything was cool. Sometimes I would pretend to be drunk just to have an excuse to text you.

I’m not stupid. I know you probably didn’t give those stupid texts a second thought. But they meant a lot to me. The next fall when I went away they meant even more to me because I was alone.

I don’t know, I don’t know what I’m trying to say here, or what the purpose of this almost incoherent ramble is. You’re obviously never going to read it. I’m not stupid enough to show it to you. Here’s the thing: you’re the first person I want to text when something funny happens to me. You’re the first person I want to text when something bad happens to me. And honestly, right now, you’re the only person I want to be with. And yes, I am fully aware of how naïve and ridiculous and cheesy and sappy and STUPID that sounds. And I am fully aware that I will never get a chance to tell you this. I’m not even sure I would want to. It would ruin everything. But right now, sitting on my bed, typing on my laptop, I wanted to write it. I don’t think I realized how serious I was until I typed that just a few seconds ago, actually.

So there it is. Maybe you’ll magically come across this anonymous blog and read this. But that isn’t going to happen. I just needed to say it.

bacardi lemonade 6% alc content

2011-05-13T17:59:00.005-04:00

For me, love is something you earn. I just don’t hand it out willy-nilly. Do people even use that expression anymore? Whatever. The point is, I don’t understand how people love others, or fall in love with others, so easily and so often. It seems like a weakness to me, giving into love without making one earn it from you, without making them work for it. So when I do decide I love someone, they really earned it. In my mind that means they’re worthy of it, and most people aren’t. So that’s really saying something. But when someone I love betrays me, when someone I love abandons me or leaves me, it hurts so much more than it should. Because in my mind I regarded that person so highly. I had such respect for him. Was it all an act?

Was being my friend, one of my best friends, all just an act to get in my pants? Was that the whole premise of the friendship? That sucks. I mean that really sucks. You were important to me. Your friendship was important to me. I liked you as a person,; I respected you. And I don’t respect many people. Most people I look down upon or am disgusted or disappointed in. I thought you were different. I’m done with love. It is for the weak. And yes, I am fully aware of how bitter I sound. But that’s what I’ve become, a bitter cynic. A realist.

fuck

2011-03-17T10:12:00.000-04:00

I had a wonderful, amazing, profound dream last night.

In the dream, someone loved me.

“It’s all going to be gone soon.” I said to the boy in the dream.

Then my alarm went off. Seriously.

chicken

2011-02-28T19:04:00.006-05:00

She was dangerous, that’s what she was. She was violence and chaos. She was a loaded pistol, ready to put a bullet in your heart (or her own) at any second. She was cynical and jaded, and had been fucked over more times than you can count. She was the big bang; she was the beginning of the universe, all the stars exploding into raging flames. She does not believe in falling in love; she considers it bullshit. But the fact that she considered it bullshit made her sad.

She was the knife wound that struck an artery, she was the remark that struck a nerve. She’s the one you imagine having conversations with in your head, and you go over the dialogue again and again.

She’s read every book that she can get her hands on. Salinger, Bukowski, Hemingway, this is what keeps her going.

She’s a silent twister you get sucked into, and you try desperately to find the eye of the storm to find some calm, but it seems impossible. Everything whips around you at perilously high speeds.

Do you fucking dare get near her? Do you fucking dare to get close to her; to try to understand her?

Please don’t. Because, if by some miracle you do manage to get close to her, you will eventually leave. Just like the rest of them. And she can’t fucking handle that anymore.

ten-second chug

2010-10-09T20:32:00.004-04:00

Do you think that maybe it’s supposed to be this way, that you’re supposed to be so unhappy? You’ve never felt a sense of belonging; you’ve never felt at home. You always feel pulled apart in a million directions, struggling to get through the day without breaking something.

Is there a person you could see yourself with right now? Yes. Yes, but he doesn’t take me seriously. I’m just a joke. No one sees themselves with me. I’m the girl you want to fuck, not the girl you want to date. I’m the girl you want to get drunk with, not the girl you could see yourself in a relationship with. Is it bad to be sad about that? Does it make you weak? No, no, I don’t think so. I think it makes you human. All these people and their problems feel so little, so petty, so idiotic. Don’t they realize we’re only on this Earth once; that we only have one chance to inspire change and provoke thought? I want to create, to write something beautiful. Words that give you a high just from reading them. That’s my favorite kind of high, when I read something beautiful and poignant. It’s better than being drunk, it’s better than being stoned on Xanax. You can’t recreate that high with substances. You can try to imitate it, but you’ll inevitably fail; you’ll fail terribly. Because that thing you’re chasing after—that intangible, elusive, nameless thing you so desperately crave—can’t be found at the bottom of a liquor bottle or in the container of Alprazolam. It’s in Bukowski. It’s in Hemingway and Fitzgerald, it’s in Salinger and Kerouac. But you don’t look for it in books anymore. You go straight to the vodka and you force it down. After a while you can’t even taste it anymore.

a ghost over ground

2009-07-01T14:29:00.004-04:00

Even racecar drivers knew not to drive so recklessly. But it didn’t matter now, it didn’t matter. That rollercoaster feeling was the goal, that rollercoaster feeling was all that mattered. Lose grip of the wheel for a second and your heart leaps and it’s ecstasy, it’s ecstasy. Let’s have that feeling again and again. A smile creeps up on your face, it’s genuine, it’s real. Could it be? Something true, something authentic? Let’s have more of this, please. You want the truth, you want life. Above all, you want life. See the flashing blue police lights, hear the sirens pass you on the other side of the median. The sirens wail, they’re singing. Not for you, though, not to worry. Tonight you’re golden.
You think it would get boring after a while, that you would lose your lust for hugging the curves of the road so swiftly and carelessly at some point. But the affair continues on with no sign of stopping, and that’s fine by you.
You couldn’t ask for more. You honestly couldn’t. At times like this, a soundtrack and your car are the only essentials for a life well lived.
The volume is as high as it can possibly go, there’s no way you’d be able to hear your cell phone ring. But fuck it, fuck it, he can go to hell. That undeserving piece of trash that treats you like shit. Fuck him. Tonight you’re golden, remember? Try to keep that feeling close, try to hug that feeling to your chest, long after you park the car on the driveway. That feeling that you’re part of something bigger than yourself, that this will all be okay, more than okay, and you will conquer. Wonder will fill every aspect of your life. It’s not naive, you’re allowed to feel like this. You deserve it, you deserve it, goddammit! This is what makes you feel alive, so grab it, fucking grab it, and hang on like your life depends on it because sweetheart, it kind of does. Find what makes you feel alive and go with it, and that’s all you’ll ever need. Things will hurt and tears will fall and holes will be punched in walls, but through it all you must remember this feeling. Life is fleeting, and these moments should be treasured.
Speed limits are casual suggestions; traffic lights magically turn green when you approach them. You have a spark in you tonight; you’ve got something special here. You would think that something much more complex would be necessary to create happiness in a creature such as yourself, but this is all it takes. A half tank of gas and your blue car.

pools

2009-07-01T14:29:00.001-04:00

These things shouldn’t matter. You step out of your body, take a look around, and almost feel the urge to laugh. What are you so upset about? Why are you crying, why is it so hard for you to be happy? It doesn’t have to be this hard, you want to say to yourself. You’re making it worse than it really is. You don’t laugh, though. Because it’s real, and it’s happening to you. It’s not so funny. Just a little heartbreaking. Take a look in your closet. Look at all the shit you have. Read the brand names out loud: Marc Jacobs, Juicy Couture. It sickens you, you sicken yourself.
She has pretty much the exact same genetic structure as you do. Why is there such a vast, dramatic difference between the two of you? Why isn’t she severely clinically depressed, why isn’t she socially avoidant, why isn’t she addicted to Xanax? Who chose you? And why? There must have been some sort of reason, some intention, some secret purpose in giving you this sickness, in giving you this car crash heart.
You grow sick of analyzing everything, in searching for underlying meanings in the everyday and mundane. Not every thing is worth it.
You’re so nervous about going back in August. Just thinking about it causes an actual physical pang in your chest.
Cannons are firing through your system, battleships and grenades are exploding in your wreck of a heart, in your goddamned heart. Through it all, you recognize that there is something good in the sorrow. You have a gift; you have a gift for love. To be affected so much by so little, there is beauty in it. There is pain and loneliness but you’re ALIVE and it’s BEAUTIFUL, even if you can’t remember it sometimes. Take some pride in your catastrophic hurricane of emotion. There is something significant in it, I promise you, it has significance. There is a reason for this.

based on a true story

2009-04-07T14:07:00.002-04:00

She couldn’t breathe. She grabbed her keys and sprinted to the garage, pausing only for a minute to swallow a Xanax. She sat behind the wheel and turned the key and LEFT. The music is “Doris Day” by Jack’s Mannequin, and the mood is volatile but uncategorized. She wasn't angry or depressed or anything recognizable to the naked eye. It was a pang in her lonely, lost little self. Like a cigarette craving, only much, much worse, and seemingly irrevocable. Incurable, insatiable. A hollow emptiness that made it difficult for even the best actress to fake a smile. The left rearview mirror was smashed. She had accidentally hit it on the garage door a few days ago. She had immediately started cursing and then had punched her father in the neck. But that was then, and (she supposed) irrelevant to the current situation.
Driving her car was what her therapist called a “coping skill.” For Erin, it was the closest thing to exhilaration. There was a freedom in it, a sort of connection to the ancient heavenly machinery of the night. It was foggy and rainy and she loved it. She said a silent thank you for the crazy torrents of rain and the inability to see past fifty feet. She was going 60 mph, and her insides, her outsides, all of her was alive. She felt bigger. She felt like she could do a back flip, despite not having the necessary athletic skills. She wished she could go faster, but she didn’t want to get a ticket. Jack’s Mannequin was at the stereo’s highest volume: “Don’t go, don’t go so FAR AWAY,”
You don’t have to go.

boxes

2009-02-20T13:00:00.001-05:00

She sat there on the floor, surrounded by her pretty, glittering expensive things, all laid out neatly around her. All shiny and new. Each object looked as though it had been placed so meticulously in the position it was in. She wasn’t sure what to think of. She added up the numbers in her head. Two-fifty for the jeans, three hundred for the shoes. The jeans didn’t look good on her. She had lost too much weight; she was far too thin. It wasn’t intentional. She ate when she was hungry. None of her jeans looked good on her anymore; they all sort of just hung there. What she wanted was a hug. A great big bear hug, the kind you feel safe and desperately happy in. Not from her mother or her father (even though she never hugged her father anyway) but from a friend. A friend you can talk to. A friend who cares about the things you’re talking about, not because they’re particularly interesting, but because it’s important to you, so it’s important to them. She would like to feel safe. But there’s a big difference between safe and trapped. There’s a big difference between safe and smothered, safe and scared, safe and terrified shitless. She wants to be part of something bigger than herself; she wants it so severely, but she dared not tell a soul about it. She wasn’t needy, she wasn’t weak, how dare you look at her as though she’s lesser than you.

San Francisco

2008-11-28T23:56:00.003-05:00

I miss the city.
That day I went there, walking to the bookstore, it made me feel like a person instead of a patient.
It was a day of being alive. But then I went back to my house, back to the east coast. And now I miss California.

this is from maybe 2 years ago? I don't remember.

2008-05-15T17:24:00.003-04:00

I like beginnings. I'm good at beginnings. I have a million different beginnings in my crazed head. I'm scared to do the middle because I'm scared it will be boring. I'm reluctant to write the ending because I'm scared it will be cheesy and cliché. I say these words a lot: "cheesy", "cliché", "average", "generic". I pronounce them as my greatest fears; the worst thing I could ever become. I don't want to be average. Or any of those words. But if that means that my ex best friend and her new friends talk about her big birthday plans that I'm not a part of in front of me, I wish I were average. When no one talks to me at lunch I wish I were that cliché high school girl who smiles and carries on a conversation even though she doesn't like the other person. The impeccably dressed girl, who, well. I'm looking for a word to describe her, to describe me, but I don't have the slightest idea what to write. Maybe stubborn. Kind of. Maybe angry. Maybe lonely. Maybe just plain old deranged. I don't like these words I picked to describe myself. They don't make me happy. And I am happy, much happier than I've been in a long time. I've been working hard, and I should be proud of myself. Stubborn and angry and lonely and deranged? I don't like these words. I don't like them but they're true. Maybe you could say stubbornness goes along with passion. holding grudges, sticking to your principles, going for what you want when you want it, never backing down. But if sticking to your principles means losing friends then I don't want to be so called "passionate." But you know what, I don't even know if I even am. Dressed to the nines, having a charlie brown moment. A peanut butter and jelly sandwich doesn't taste good when you have no one to be happy with.

waiting has never been my strong suit.

2008-04-17T09:35:00.002-04:00

My dad's past (as far as I know) wasn't really that shady. I mean, he had a normal childhood, played a lot of sports, was a pretty popular kid, whatever. It wasn't really that shady at all. But I feel like I'm missing something. I feel like there must be some hidden event in his past that I don't know about, because normal kids don't turn out the way he did. He's a fucking psychopath. No one believes me. He's in denial about being an emotionally abusive alcoholic with rage issues. When I was in and out of hospitals for a couple years a while ago, I swear, at least four different DOCTORS diagnosed him with alcoholism. And he was in there in the room, being agreeable about it. But maybe his brain blocked that out. I don't know. It's fucking bullshit. He'll get so mad if anyone says that about him; you have no idea. A couple years ago I had to go see a neurologist, and he drove me there. We were both sitting in the waiting room while I quietly filled out a "new patient" form. You know, why are you here, what is your family medical history, etc. So there was a box you had to check if anyone in your family was or is an alcoholic. Obviously I didn't say anything out loud to my dad (I'm not an idiot) and checked the box and wrote "father" where I had to say who it was.
He saw me do this. He was PISSED.
He started ranting about how my mom and all the doctors "BRAINWASHED" me to think that of him, and we were all PLOTTING against him, or some shit like that. Loudly. In the middle of the fucking waiting room.
It was not pleasant.
This incident is barely the tip of the vast, HUGEASS ICEBERG that is all of the psychotic, horrible screwed up things he's done.
So, I think you can understand why I'm wondering if something sketchy happened to him when he was growing up. I'm not being paranoid. I just don't understand it.
Where did it go wrong?
Is it going to go wrong for me? Has it already gone wrong for me?
And if so, how do I change things?
I can't end up like my dad.
I wish he hadn't either.

I can't think of a title right now

2008-04-05T15:08:00.000-04:00

She started screaming, rapidly, belting out dangerously harsh and hollow shrills. It was as if every drop of blood in her veins was in an electrifying, terrifying state of hysteria. She screamed so loud that no one could hear her. Sometimes, if a thing is so awful and horrifying, the human mind will block it out, and not even realize it is occurring. This was the case that night. The demon that was her scream was blocked out by every soul on Earth.

This place is a fucking prison, but the people standing and talking a few feet away from me are happy.
I guess it’s my mind that’s a prison. That’s no new revelation; I’ve known that for years.
I'm in a huge motherfucking waiting room with bad music and smelly people, and all the food makes me sick. I'm always uncomfortable and awkward, and never say the right thing. I am always alone.

our newest protagonist

2008-04-03T14:00:00.000-04:00

I don’t know who she thought she was kidding, seeing herself as some sort of hero character.

She thought the way she could get through life and truly come out the winner was to not feel emotion and/or not get attached ever. She viewed encapsulating her heart in a bulletproof armor of steel as the ultimate tool to salvation. Every action she performed, every thought she expressed, every decision she made; she mentally categorized them as evidence of a hero’s traits, like in some modern/slightly twisted Greek play. However, what she forgot is that each and every hero character has a tragic flaw (or sometimes more than one.) These tragic flaws lead to ultimate doom and the demise of our hero, if the hero is unable to overcome them.

She was not exhibiting heroic traits; she was not saving anyone. She was playing the part of the hero’s worst enemy, the Tragic Flaw, searing inside their heart. She confused one for the other. This was her mistake.

It was an unfortunate mistake, really, if you consider how whip-smart this girl could be.

innate pussy

2007-12-31T15:05:00.000-05:00

I'm terrified that passion isn't enough; that having only passion isn't enough. It scares the crap out of me, because I honestly don't know if I have anything else to offer. That above statement has been stuck in my head for a really long time now; longer than I probably realize. Now that I'm beginning to realize it, I feel like throwing everything away because it never works out anyways; it never has and it never will. Pessimism has taken my brain hostage. I realize this, and I realize how unhealthy the situation is. But somewhere along the line, the line between pessimism and logic has grown thinner and almost impossible to see. Now I'm confused, because I don't know if my negativity and cynicism is valid, or am I just doing it to be a complete pessimist, like that "Debbie Downer" sketch on Saturday Night Live.It's escalated to the point where I think the universe is out to get me. I mean, not to the point where I'm a paranoid sketchball who thinks someone is actually out to get them, but the feeling that I'm generally doomed is sinking in and being absorbed too easily for my liking.

it's in your best interest to tell me that this was all a bad dream

2007-09-12T00:31:00.000-04:00

The future freaks me out.
It’s like, no, now I can go back to middle school and start over again, because now I know how to deal with it; I know how to do it right. I could change everything. It’s like, come on, how could this not have been a test-run? Surely I can’t be expected to let my decisions over the last nineteen years stick with me for the rest of my life, right? Right?Freshman year, sophomore, junior, senior, first year at college; I can do it now; I know what went wrong. Let me try it again, I know for a fact that I can do it differently. If I think back I would change almost everything. Which leads me to wonder who I would even be right about now. I wonder if I would like that person better. I probably would. It’s like one of those “Choose Your Own Adventure” books you read at the library when you were a kid. “To open the door to the secret passage to escape the pirate, turn to page seven. To use the wizard’s sword to fight him off, turn to page 20.” Something like that.

Jake

2007-06-20T04:25:00.001-04:00

Jake was a boy who was very scared and extremely exuberant at the same time. People thought of him as someone who dared to be different. But in reality, he needed to be different in an exact way so that people would like him. He’s the kind of person you’d describe as having charisma, although acting in a weird, offbeat manner prevented him from becoming one of those high school clones of good-looking people.

One day when Jake was in elementary school, he was standing by the swings during recess. He heard someone whispering the words to his favorite song. The softest voice, but somehow the strongest he had ever heard. He turned around to find the source of the voice, and saw a girl in blue swinging, mouthing the words so they floated away in the sky.

The teacher blew the whistle and recess was over for the girl’s class, so she slowed down and casually jumped off the swing to get in line to walk back to class.
Do you remember that, walking in lines in elementary school? I was always scared I'd get in trouble for talking.

Umbrellas

2007-06-20T04:11:00.001-04:00

Cassie was the girl who dreaded recess, because she didn't really have anyone to play with. She wasn't a social leper or anything; she just wasn't close enough to anyone so that it was just assumed they would play together at recess.
The one part Cassie did like about recess was the swings. She loved playing on the swings, swinging dangerously high so it felt like she would almost flip over the swing set, or just soar towards the sky. She always felt like singing when she was swinging. But she knew that would seem strange, so instead she just whispered the words and they floated away in the air.

Annie Waits

2007-06-20T04:07:00.001-04:00

Almost indescribably, swaying down with the elegance of a bulldozer falling from the sky, came Annie’s mood. This wasn't surprising, considering that (a) Annie’s father is in a maximum security prison in Australia, (b)Annie got rejected from her first choice college, and (c)Annie forgot to take her mood stabilizers this morning. She caught her reflection while walking past a mirror, and stopped to glare at it. Then she took the mirror off the wall and put in the garage so she'd never have to see her pathetic face again. The other option was to gouge her eyes out with a protractor, but her mom's a bitch when it comes to bloodstains on the carpet. Plus Annie wouldn't even know how to. She sucks at math.

written in January

2007-06-20T03:58:00.000-04:00

The calendar says the 31st. 3 in the morning, 3 at night. If somebody said it was very Andy Warhol-esque, I'd want to throw up. People are so finicky about satisfaction these days. This guy named George Sheehan said I've met my hero and he is me.
I'm terrified of the climax; I'm terrified of the test. For those keeping track, I'm keeping the green shoes, they make me smile.
In my old house in Burke, my dad and my best friend/next door neighbor's dad built a tree house in our backyard. Well, technically it wasn't a tree house because it wasn't in a tree, but it was like a club house or a gym set playground or whatever. I remember using sandpaper to smooth the wood. There were huge woods in my backyard, and we'd find stuff. I moved from that house when I was five.
Here in my neighborhood now, there's this huge hill where kids go sledding, and at the bottom are these humongous woods. We’d go exploring, and find stuff. There were creeks, and we found parts of an old car. One time when it was snowing my foot went in the creek and my boot came off, and it was freezing. Nowadays when you hear about little kids going into woods, they're raped and murdered. Thinking back, the woods by my old house probably weren't even that big. I’ve memorized a lot of my lines. I want a blizzard because I don't want winter to end, because I'm afraid for spring to start. But when spring starts, it'll be fun because I bought a bunch of new spring clothes. Not to mention those shoes. I’m afraid of forgetting to live. Or maybe I'm just afraid.

really old, written in December (views have changed, but I like this one)

2007-06-20T03:50:00.000-04:00

"Having a true faith is the most difficult thing in the world. Many will try to take it from you."
-Steve Prefontaine

This is a favorite quote of a friend of mine. (She’s a badass, by the way.)

I never used to think that having faith was important. Actually, I didn’t really ever think about faith, period. My mindset was pretty much: be brave and take risks to achieve what you value.

And that’s not a bad mindset or anything, it’s just not very…stable, I suppose. But what happens when you fail, when you know you might fail, what happens when you’re not taking a risk and life beats you down shitless? It’s scary. You feel unsafe; you need some protection of some sort.

Ugh, you know what, I was trying to go somewhere with this but now it sounds so fucking sappy and ridiculous. Fuck that. Bottom line: these days, faith is the only thing keeping me going. Faith that a lost loved one is happy, faith that there might still be a tiny amount of good people in this world, faith that I can do this without fucking up so bad. Faith I can do this without giving up completely.

By saying faith, I’m not necessarily talking about religion. I actually don’t have a religion. I do believe in God, or some higher power, I just have no idea what to call it or the specifics. You can have faith without having a religion, though.

Faith is pretty much, trusting something or someone that can’t be seen. I guess that’s sort of an odd way to phrase it, but I’m just spitballing (or whatever the phrase is) here, so bear with me. Trusting something that can’t be seen is the hardest thing in the world. Logically speaking, so many people would say proof is needed in order to believe a theory. Or whatever.

I have a point, I swear, I’m getting there.

If you do have faith; faith in a higher power, faith in a person, faith in love, faith in yourself, faith in anything at all; you’ve got guts. You’ve got perseverance. Because a million shitty things are going to try to break down that faith into tiny pieces.

I have faith that things will work out for me. I have faith that I can beat these fucked up things going on in my life at the moment.

It turns up when you least expect it, or at least it did for me. Invisible ideas can lead to steadfast courage. They’re funny that way.

Miss Lanaheim’s Prada Escape

2007-06-16T00:24:00.000-04:00

I walked briskly out of New York City’s finest museum, clutching the Elizabeth Diamond in my hand, extremely nervous. It was the first time I had ever experienced being nervous. Can you imagine? Twenty- six years old, and only nervous once? I can, for I led a fairy tale life, and I was the princess of Fifth Avenue. Everything worked out for me, and I had it all: money, brains, and classic good looks. I never had anything to worry about, for my charmed life oozed with perfection. I had everything I wanted, except what I was holding in my hand: The Elizabeth Diamond.

I had seen it in the newspaper exactly one month ago, captivated by the soaring headlines, “Most Precious Jewel in World After the Hope Diamond.” After calling the owner of the private museum in which the diamond was kept and learning that it was priceless, I devised a plan to steal it. I get what I want. No one says no to Isabelle Serena Lanaheim.

So there I was, clutching the diamond, panting with anxiety, and bursting with pride. I hailed a cab and stepped inside. “The Plaza, please. Quickly.” I glanced behind and noticed a foreign green car right behind us. I recognized the man driving it. He was the owner of the museum. And he was staring right at me.

By this time we were at the Plaza. I threw some cash at the driver and sprinted into the elevator. Strangely enough, the museum owner was nowhere to be seen. I scurried to my penthouse apartment, walked out onto the balcony, and watched for the man. There was no sign of him or his little green sports car. My heartbeat returned to its normal speed, and my hands stopped shaking uncontrollably with fear. I was no longer nervous. The museum owner was gone. He had no idea who Isabelle Serena Lanaheim was, or where she was. The uncomfortable and unattractive feeling of fear had left me, and I was no longer scared. There was a knock on the door.

It all came flooding back into me: the fear, the anxiety, the nausea, the shaking hands, and the sweating. The museum owner was there. I had to hide the diamond. “Just a minute!” I said in a singsong voice, in an attempt to disguise my true terror. I opened my hand that was so tightly balled up in a fist. My hand was empty. The diamond was gone. I had left it in the cab. I opened the door. It was the maid, Martha.

“Come in, dear.” I said. “Did you know that for a few minutes today, I had it all?” I walked onto the balcony and smiled. A horrible smile, filled with greed and reminiscence and power. I had it. It was in my hand, Martha. The Elizabeth Diamond was in my hand. It was all mine and only mine. I was the Queen of Fifth Avenue.”

“Would you like me to vacuum, Miss?” inquired Martha.

“The Queen!” I yelled. I was hysterical. Uncontained, I put my Prada encased foot over the balcony railing, and hoisted myself over. I was standing on the ledge.

“Miss Lanaheim!” Martha screamed, in hysterics.

“I had it all. No one ever says no to Isabelle Serena Lanaheim.” I smiled. Martha was screaming. I looked down at Central Park. It was beautiful. I let go of the railing, and jumped.

Kate

2007-06-16T00:05:00.000-04:00

"Even if we never talk again after tonight, please remember that I am forever changed by who you are and what you meant to me."

But Kate had nothing to reciprocate this with.

"I like too many things and get all confused and hung-up running from one falling star to another till I drop. This is the night, what it does to you. I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion" (From On the Road)

Could a kid like her leave an impression? Could a kid like her ever change a tiny part of a person's life forever? It's not the ultimate goal.

A self-assured, clever person with little room for the mundane, and an overflow of original ideas. And genuinely friendly. But if you consciously try to be these things, the whole thing is just plain bullshit, isn't it?

And suddenly she feels like a lame ass clone with nothing to offer anybody except her confusion.
Except: Kate understands how things come together, how things click. She innately knows the cadence of words in a monologue, the rhythm of sentences in a story. Songs and books and scripts and dialogue. Kate had a thing for words. Not by choice, and she never ever focused in on it or took note of it. She didn't try for it; it just turned out that way. Whether she was born with it, or it was unintentionally built by the mounds of books she read as soon as she learned how and ceased to put down as a child, was unknown.

She knew passion from cheesiness and the classic from the cliché. Unfortunately, this little talent for words didn't really do crap for Kate. The only thing it did do was enable her to narrate and analyze every aspect of her life silently in her head, whether it be subconsciously or on purpose. It let her watch her life from the outside, observing the main character at a distance. This was usually a bad thing, because she would constantly judge herself, and worry about what the other characters thought of her.

Kate wasn't a crazy person or anything; her imagination was just a bit overactive.

This little "skill" she had was important to her, even if she appeared blasé about the whole thing.

But it doesn't do crap for you in the real world. So all you have is this confused person, being tossed from one star of an abstract idea to another.
She was fed up.

they say she sabotages herself repeatedly

2007-05-17T02:18:00.000-04:00

I really want to go drinking with people; with beautiful people. Even through my 19 years of “maturing” and “not caring what other people think”, I still always want to be seen with people who are attractive, and I’m part of their group, and people would not only approve of us, but envy us, and elevate us to a status of unsaid, understood superiority. The need to always be doing what the pretty girls are doing has been an issue that grew in me my entire life.
Because of this “snobby” attitude, I developed an “all or nothing”, or “go big or go home” approach to friendship. If I couldn’t be friends with the pretty, popular girls, I wouldn’t be friends with anyone else at all. I isolated myself, hoping to make the people I found below me jealous, and think that my friendship was out of their league. Thing is, I wasn’t really friends with the beautiful people I aspired to be part of. I would take pride in walking with one of them to science class, or talking to a couple by my locker. But I would never go to a party with them, or see a movie. The goal was for it to be assumed that I was automatically included in the group. This goal stuck with me throughout middle school, high school, and my freshman year at college.
I absolutely hate this part of me. I like to think that I scraped most of it off, but the hollowness is still there when I’m having a conversation with someone, always watching out the corner of my eye for “better” people to be seen with.
When I was 17, my “go big or go home” attitude turned into a dangerous extreme. If I couldn’t be a part of the group I deemed “above me”, I wouldn’t be a part of anything. I wouldn’t be a part of life, at all. I made about three suicide attempts during the time between junior year of high school and freshman year at college. The third suicide attempt was December 12, 2006. I overdosed in my dorm room, and apparently in my drugged state called my mom to tell her I loved her and goodbye. She immediately called the school. The RA and campus police had to break into my dorm room and take me to the hospital. I don’t remember any of it. I just remember the doctors and nurses forcing me to drink the charcoal, so the pills wouldn’t be absorbed any more into my bloodstream and shut down my heart, killing me. It tasted like shit, and I remember telling myself to drink it fast and chase it with the ginger ale they gave me, just like taking a shot of Absolut. Other than that, I have no recollection of that day past noon.
Today, it’s almost impossible to distinguish a pang of loneliness from a craving for a cigarette (which I began to “socially” smoke in college) or alcohol. The three have meshed into one constantly existing hollow hole in my chest; my cravings for friends, alcohol, and cigarettes becoming synonymous with each other.

Textbook hippie man

2007-05-11T08:18:00.001-04:00

"Good morning son. I am a bird wearing a brown polyester shirt." –Ben Folds, “Still Fighting It”
Every time she feels like this she wants to do the same exact thing. Run away. Too logical not to? Too smart not to? Too cowardly not to? Too brave to? Or too brave not to?
"Good morning son. In twenty years from now, maybe we'll both sit down and have a few beers." –Ben Folds, “Still Fighting It”
"Well baby, you're already in that cage; you built it yourself." –Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Well, she doesn’t like it. Then quit complaining and do something about it. She doesn’t know what to do; where to start. She thought she had started, but
"I'm sorry I know that's a strange way to tell you", ...what exactly? What does she have to say for myself? She’s quit eight sports throughout the last 18 years.
She just needed to write. And then nothing comes out except random pieces of crap floating around in her head. Her pills, she forgot her pills this morning, and she’s fraying at every possible seam. She’s not sure what she’s feeling. But for some reason, she’s unable to cry, so just wipe away these words with a Kleenex and throw it away.
When she was younger, a.k.a. up until a year ago, every time we went on a vacation and bought souvenirs, she would buy a box. A box covered in seashells from the beach, a polished wooden box from Switzerland. She always knew that the object that would go in that box would have to be so important to be deserving of the box. Because boxes hold secrets. She had wanted exactly one box where the most important belonging would go; something that represented her. It was her secret goal. Maybe she just wanted to be remembered. She doesn’t know what the hell people are going to remember her as. She doesn't care anymore, because she doesn’t base her self worth around other people's opinions. Easier said than done, though. She doesn’t want to be a what’s-her-face. She’s incapable of being described because that box she worked so hard to obtain is empty.
She guessed she just wants to be a mystery, and she wants someone to solve it. But there's no mystery to start off with. There are just a few words aimlessly floating around.
Writing’s not working this time. But she can't throw more objects at my walls, because there's still stuff there from the last time.

I held on to some old crap

2006-11-17T03:10:00.001-05:00

“I'm sorry I know that's a strange way to tell you that I know we belong.”
-Ben Folds, The Luckiest

Flipping and clicking through the ghosts of the past. God, God, God, she reaches for it. She reaches for them. Even though she knows it's her last chance.

But then, wait a minute. She never has to see these people ever again. All the people that somehow hurt her, who somehow worsened a day for her, who caused her embarrassment. She never has to see any of them ever again if she doesn't want to. Reassuring. Then why did all the kitchen cabinets wind up opened?

The kid didn't go to graduation. She was passed out from the pills she took. She was messed up, she is messed up. In The Catcher in the Rye, Holden never went to his brother's funeral. He never got closure. He never got to say good-bye.

“Bittersweet” is a word echoing in her head, but never being actually said, worsening the pounding. Get out.

Sometimes I think things would have been better if I hadn't thought so much. If I didn't think so much. If I don't think so much.

“Man it takes a silly girl to lie about the dreams she has. But lord, it takes a lonely one to wish that she had never dreamt at all.”-Dashboard Confessional
I painted that on canvas when I was there, during the first time. I have a love-hate relationship with it.

You know what I think every single person wants to know? What exactly goes through other people's minds as they enter the room. Before they speak. In one glance. Every single person wants to know what's perceived from that first glance.
Completely superficial/judging a book by its cover, etc. and it's probably not all people. Probably just me. For some reason, I want to know what goes through a person's mind when I first enter a room. I don't mean appearance wise, although it could be mistaken for that. I used to care about what everyone thought. Now I only care about the perceptions of select people I care about. But still. Sometimes I wonder what it'd be like if I knew.

So close that warped day. They were in my hand. Orange and green and pale blue. By not taking them, I felt like a coward, even though it was the strong thing to do. Sometimes I think situations would be better if I didn't think so much. And now we're right back where we started. Or the middle. But the order doesn't really matter now, does it?

“Strange. But even when you know it has to end, when it finally does, you always get that inevitable twinge: Have I done the right thing?”-Jude Law in Alfie.

Why does it always come down to another person? Another person to save you from yourself, a person to solve the mystery that is you. A person to make you rediscover you, a person who finally brushes away the darkness so you have the ability to spark again.
They talk of it in the last lines of “Breakfast at Tiffany's”. That's what I tell people my favorite movie is. “Fight Club” and “Breakfast at Tiffany's”. My actual favorite is “The Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.”

It'd be interesting to see what another person would do to the cracked dynamic of my life.
I need to stop thinking so much.

When people don't smile in pictures, what exactly do they want you to see? Maybe the mystery's hidden in the photo somehow.

wrote this in high school

2006-02-17T23:05:00.001-05:00

Well behaved women hardly ever make history. But at the same time, you've got to be clever. But she's got that covered. The tough part is restraint.

She worked for her...well what, exactly? Charm? No way, that's way too ladylike. Let’s just say hers is sturdier than your base of plastic cups.

She would have some plastic cups, but beer pong's never given her a proper invite.

She'll find the biggest, most glamorous glittering party there is and CRASH it, and somehow end up being the belle of the ball. It’ll be her night. No one will know how she did it. And if she does tell you, she'll leave out the most crucial part, leaving you craving the mystery of her crime.

Because that's what she is, you know. A criminal. The worst kind possible: she steals hearts.

blankets

2006-02-16T10:32:00.000-05:00

I'm not sorry. principles can end up bending when someone steps on them. throw it in your face beat you up smear that new reduced trans-fat margarine all over your carefully flat-ironed hair. laugh and laugh. psychotic/crazy. vs. not psychotic/crazy. hmm. well, at least the first one's not boring.it's not going to be like, it was too good to last, and then it just crashed. it's just another piece of crap you have to deal with. my point of view never stays constant on these things.I just don't want to make it official. I'm not sure where my stance on goodbyes is.maybe there should be some grand, august ending to this seemingly illogical verbal regurgitation. perhaps something bittersweet, with an unexpected twist. I hate stand up comedians because they try to be funny. I hate writers because they try to leave an impression on you. I'd rather do it by accident. doesn't make much sense, does it?