Non-Fiction fumes are FREAKING me out.

You told me I was beautiful last night and for the first time in a long very long time, I actually felt beautiful. It didn't matter that I was wearing sweats and covered in paint wrapped up in my ratty blanket. It didn't matter that my make up had rubbed off hours before and my hair was having a party without me. You told me that is the reason you stare. I always thought it was because of the ridiculousness of my life. I run into walls constantly. I look drunk when I walk in high heels. I dance as I unload the dishwasher. I can't hold still. Ever. I'm the annoying girl that shakes the desk in class. I can't even hold still when I sleep. The things that keep happening to me appear to be a work of fiction. But this is not fiction. This is my life.

I snuck back into my house last night at 1:49. But my parents didn't notice. They thought I was my druggy brother-if they actually heard me. But according to my stealth, I don't think they heard me. I crawled up the stairs and tiptoed to my room with exceptional talent. This has nothing to do with anything. But it took me a long time to fall asleep and then I woke up before the sun did. So I started to paint. (When I can't sleep, I paint. Which is why I'm always covered in paint.) And I got high off all the fumes. I did not enjoy that.  So I ate some toast. Which is my sanity. Toast is now my sanity. I really, really love toast. And fun fact, my mom does not have the ability to make toast. She can't do it. The toast she makes is terrible, no matter what.

I'm watching Gossip Girl right now. I hate it. I really, really hate it. But I'm still watching it. Please judge me. You know what else I REALLY HATE? Throwing up. I really, really hate it. The hate I have for throwing up puts Gossip Girl to shame. I pretend I'm okay with it because I don't know what else to do. I pretend I'm okay. I'm not.

I never planned on living this long. I really don't know why. I just thought that I would be the kid that died young. Doing something stupid, getting some rare disease, being murdered, falling down a mountain. I don't know. I've come close to all this crap. But I'm making these STUPID decisions for my future, and I don't know what to do because I never planned on having to make these decisions. Though it doesn't matter anyways because my parents are making the decisions for me. You know, because they think I'm a slut. Which sadly, I think I am okay with that.

I apologize for this post. I've been in a closed room painting way too long today.

Damn the fumes.

Black Markers and Newspapers

                 

Adult consciousness is indecipherable. change intoxicated our apologies. Actually, desire is fear.

Find me the nicest mental hospital.

Did you know that this is my sanity? This is my sanity so basically I am not a sane person. I just want to be in a really nice mental hospital. My parents are rich and care what people think, so if they actually knew I was crazy, they would put me in a really nice mental hospital. So I'm considering letting them know about my craziness. It's there. It's there. It's there. Because I just want to be in a really nice mental hospital. I'm thinking a white fluffy bed and pretty plants and craft time every day at 4:30 with meds coming every three hours.

I've been trying so hard to keep it all together.  I haven't cried in months. I do my hair everyday. I shower more than the average person. I actually like shaving my legs. I wear expensive clothing. I always make my bed. I laugh and smile. So the last time you saw me, I probably looked put together. But I'm not. I've just been trying to keep these things inside of me under control. You probably think I'm a nice person. I'm not, just letting you know. And I don't know who this YOU I'm talking to is, so basically I am talking to myself again. Mom, start calling around. Find me the nicest mental hospital.

Remember the first time we talked all night? That's when I decided my life goal is to end up in a really nice mental hospital. Is there a college degree for that? Oh yeah, it's called creative writing. Because all the best writers go insane. But we talked all night and I'm in love with you, thought I'd throw that in. This was not meant to be about love because I am sick of all the shit about love. Love love love. But this is now about love because everything comes down to love. How can the word love even fit in my mouth? How can the word love even come out of this mouth that tells so many lies? At least my lips are pretty. Can lips be pretty?

We're swimming, but not in the lake. We're swimming through life. We're swimming in this life and I think I'm drowning. I'm drowning in this sea of supposed good news. I drown when I look in your eyes. But I like your eyes. Your eyes are my poison and I've been frantically staring at them all along. But this damn drowning makes me feel alive so I'm not going to look away. How does the word ALIVE even begin to explain this? Alive doesn't explain it. Alive can't explain it. But maybe love can. Maybe love can explain everything. But the word LOVE doesn't even fit in my mouth which we already talked about and hey, I'm repeating myself again. So Mom, start calling around. Find me the nicest mental hospital.

And please hurry.

Of Chairs and Despairs

Title a chair? Thanks for the crumb, Nelson.
Just kidding. This was kind of nice. 
Yes, nice. Oh the generosity I am feeling with my adjectives tonight.