6.7

She said that I needed to write about identity.
I realized identity is fake.
We are our actions. Our actions are life.
but then there is all this bullshit in our head.
My issue with identity?
I can't recognize myself.
In the morning, it is "to whom do these legs belong?"
Catching myself in windows feels more like "CREEPY STALKER, oh that's me"
I guess I wanted her to pull a Tyra and force me to look in the mirror and name 10 nice things about myself. However, this never happened. Instead she formed this habit of placing her palms under my ears and staring sweetly into my eyebrains. This really ground my gears. All I could think of during this caring moment of self acceptance was how much neck fat I had lost in order for her to be able to feel my jaw (along with "how much longer can I get away with seeing her?"). I felt bad, but really there is no way to be able to explain.
It is like phantom limb.
but phantom body.

9.12

I really want to be a shaman.
I would love that life.
I keep seeing a voodoo project in my future, but my future comes at me in flashes of light and sometimes texture or sound.
The clacking of claws and bones haunt my steps.
There is chalk on the floor.
She steps in time with me, for me, as me.
and I lose it.
I hope it visits me again tonight so that I can bring it into existence outside myself.
What if we are just vessels for our thoughts? and the realities are inside us?
We are parallel evolutions of that same first cell of life
and we are awful for it.

 Here is a rehearsal of my "Dream King" character.
 That cape has gotten twice as big.

I would like the record to state
that I do not condone the eating of pancakes,
and that I only ate two,
and they were bitch'n.

Next project preview!
None of this is going in my mouth.

 Thank you, Dollar Tree Stores, for making dreams come true.

Have you been to a thrift store lately?
Cause I am there every week.
And it's pretty great.

 It felt terrible to handle all this "food".
The texture of candy is not something we should want to put in our body at all.
Just look at it closely next time.
RedVines smell like icing.

8.21

The thing about school is that it is a bunch of shit.
I am finally able to take the classes I am interested in, and learn the things I actually want to learn and understand, but I only have a year. I guess I have taken a few other classes in previous years that I enjoyed but, for the first time, I actually want to know what my classes can teach me. I get why we have requirements but damn! I know that going through that shit is the only way I have matured to be able to realize this. I guess that is the catch 22 of growing up. Only after you have grown can you realize what you should have done.
But I am a pretty hesitant person.
Largely invested in feeling and emotions.
You telling me "what you wanted to happen" means nothing to me, and I must come to the conclusion myself. Since when did we believe forcing people to have similar shitty experiences as us would generate the same person. That is physically impossible on a universal level.
And the bullying?
Still?
Geez, guys!
and why are people still taking things personally? I know everyone has bullied. I know everyone has been the person to make another feel awful. Even if it was unintentional, we have all hurt each other's feelings in some way or another.
I'm not arguing that peoples feelings are invalid or worthless, but everyone should have a grasp of life's tragedies by this age. Yet, I feel celebrities come forward with these "I was bullied" claims to humanize them. These claims fail to humanize them because the rest of us "humans" were bullied and don't use it as an excuse.
Yes, teasing can be awful and snowball into larger, more serious issues.
No, there is not an excuse for being disrespectful and mean to others.
I'm saying that this is a part of being human.


I can't tell if she is saying things like it on purpose so that I have to guess, but by this point she can't hide it anymore. Her car pulls up the driveway, and I watch her collect her things and lower herself out of her car. As she approaches the door, I continue to stare through the window. My fingers trace the green velvet of the chair as she opens the door. I look at her, then at the dye work on my jeans. My heart cowers in my chest. She greets me and smiles sweetly when I don't respond. I watch her put a bag in the kitchen, and I try to memorize her hair style so I don't have to look at any other part of her. She tells me some thing about how lunch went with her mother, but my subconscious fills in any gaps in her story with a few "oh yeah?"s and "well, thats good"s. She sticks her head around the corner and smiles again. "Mom was really happy", she whispered smugly as if saying it loudly would disprove it's truth.
I smiled and my shoulders became lead.

6.10

I think of all these beautiful things to tell you. and I always forget. Always.
I spend all my time doing homework, thinking about homework, eating so I can stay awake for more homework, and laying in bed "dreaming" of homework. It's more of a staring at the ceiling type dream.
I had a bad experience after making so much progress. My mind was more fearsome than I had imagined. When faced with a landscape of infinite creation my mind decides to spend its time proving what is reality and what is fiction.
I am always told I am a black n' white person. It either is or it isn't. In short, I am always told I am a bitch.
But how are things not what they are or are what they aren't? I either have a notebook or I don't. Now, I might go get a notebook. There is a 50% chance that I might go to the store and pick out the biggest and thickest notebook possible, but that doesn't mean I have 50% of a book. I still don't have the book.
If I feel sick then I am sick. I'm not kind of sick. If I am not well, I am sick.

I call this one, "I've lived in this apartment for two years. I'm an American."

I call this one, "I'd rather be murdered than do this again".

I call this one, "Spots on the nose go down to the toes".

I call this one, "If you steal this fucker, I will murder you".