So the Asylum has fallen.
I feel like I could quote a shit ton of EA's lyrics and throw them back at her, but I'm refraining. I WILL be mature about this, I WILL... lashing out solves little to nothing...
Why does this bother me so much? It's just html. It's just BBCode. Pretty, but that's basically it. I guess I felt as though we had finally achieved utopia. You know, the Asylum would have been just fine if she went and left it alone. But in the end, it's her house and we were all simply guests she invited in. Now she's taking her house back. I guess when she said 'we're taking back the asylum', she was talking about herself. Who knows? She could refer to herself in first person plural, just like I do.
This is hilarious. It really is. It's book worthy and I think I will do something with it. It's tragic, it's nerve wrecking. God, who cares WHY this is a bad idea for her, we ALL KNOW why this is a bad idea. But I won't be some bloody musician's plaything and financial support if she just reats me like SHIT. I'm stronger than that, I'm BETTER than that.
God damn, what have I feel doing. Idolizing a woman who can shred on violin and write good music. Yeah, you know what? She's good. But I'm good also. Hell, I could be better. What have I been doing, standing still in time. Going broke buying her shit when I could have bought a Korg by now.
The truth? When I become famous, I will NEVER do something so horrible to my fan base. I will treat them properly with the respect they deserve. NOT like pets. NOT openly using them for marketing purposes.
I am stronger than this. I am so much stronger...
Monday, May 31, 2010
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Age?
There is a misery in being old that I never wish to understand.
My father and I went up to CT today, but stopped off to visit his Aunt and Uncle along the way. Aunt Esta and Uncle Wally are rich. Rich rich rich. They live in an upper floor apartment on Park Avenue and have servants. They tour places in Europe whenever they are bored. Of course they'd be members of a high class country club in Weschester county.
No car in that lot was under $60,000. Everyone was high class. Everyone. The place was real ritzy, the majority of the servers were from Europe. And they were ALL gorgeous. Two of the girls were even my type and made me blush whenever I looked over which is AMAZING because I am incredibly picky. One red head from France and a girl with Indian origins from the UK. (She even had a London accent!) But I get off topic.
Anyway, we were eating with my Aunt and Uncle. The entire time, Aunt Esta was talking about people who had died. "Well, my best friend had died from cancer last year in November and see that woman there? That's so-and-so and her husband died three years ago. And that woman there is So-and-so, I invite her to eat with us because she's widowed. This place has really changed. Back in the day, I would dine regularly with all my friends, but they've all died or moved to Florida to die." And so on.
After eating, they decided to lounge around outside by the pool. I was watching my Aunt tremble as she walked (for, she was diagnosed with cancer and the chemo has taken a toll on her) when we bumped into her friend Tippi. She joined us and we lounged around, the servers fawning over us, always checking up on us. Bringing us drinks and being amazing. I was shocked over how my Great Aunt and Uncle were complaining about the service - we were being treated like Kings.
My Aunt complained about a lot of things. The kids in the pool and the fact that Tippi wasn't covered by the beach umbrella - she called a server over there to adjust it a few times. Tippi finally said:
"You didn't have to do that Esta, I'm fine."
"I'm here for you, Tippi."
"I know, and I treasure that more than anything in the world."
"You have no one left, Tippi."
"Yes but, what can you really do about it?"
My father and I went up to CT today, but stopped off to visit his Aunt and Uncle along the way. Aunt Esta and Uncle Wally are rich. Rich rich rich. They live in an upper floor apartment on Park Avenue and have servants. They tour places in Europe whenever they are bored. Of course they'd be members of a high class country club in Weschester county.
No car in that lot was under $60,000. Everyone was high class. Everyone. The place was real ritzy, the majority of the servers were from Europe. And they were ALL gorgeous. Two of the girls were even my type and made me blush whenever I looked over which is AMAZING because I am incredibly picky. One red head from France and a girl with Indian origins from the UK. (She even had a London accent!) But I get off topic.
Anyway, we were eating with my Aunt and Uncle. The entire time, Aunt Esta was talking about people who had died. "Well, my best friend had died from cancer last year in November and see that woman there? That's so-and-so and her husband died three years ago. And that woman there is So-and-so, I invite her to eat with us because she's widowed. This place has really changed. Back in the day, I would dine regularly with all my friends, but they've all died or moved to Florida to die." And so on.
After eating, they decided to lounge around outside by the pool. I was watching my Aunt tremble as she walked (for, she was diagnosed with cancer and the chemo has taken a toll on her) when we bumped into her friend Tippi. She joined us and we lounged around, the servers fawning over us, always checking up on us. Bringing us drinks and being amazing. I was shocked over how my Great Aunt and Uncle were complaining about the service - we were being treated like Kings.
My Aunt complained about a lot of things. The kids in the pool and the fact that Tippi wasn't covered by the beach umbrella - she called a server over there to adjust it a few times. Tippi finally said:
"You didn't have to do that Esta, I'm fine."
"I'm here for you, Tippi."
"I know, and I treasure that more than anything in the world."
"You have no one left, Tippi."
"Yes but, what can you really do about it?"
Monday, May 24, 2010
I'm incredibly frightened right now. I have to monitor my mania because I keep going up. I...
I really want to get laid O-o
I seriously want to fall in love right now and have mind blowing hard core sex. I am slightly horny, I just feel so efhuikjnesdgfhviukjewgdsvihu;kjwesd
I just booked a trip to phili today that I can NOT afford. To take pictures of the VKA. I signed up for all these fic exchanges today all due in the same week. God, I want to get laid.
Like, now.
And I'm at the state where I will jump on the first person who introduces herself to me.
Fuckkkk.
I really want to get laid O-o
I seriously want to fall in love right now and have mind blowing hard core sex. I am slightly horny, I just feel so efhuikjnesdgfhviukjewgdsvihu;kjwesd
I just booked a trip to phili today that I can NOT afford. To take pictures of the VKA. I signed up for all these fic exchanges today all due in the same week. God, I want to get laid.
Like, now.
And I'm at the state where I will jump on the first person who introduces herself to me.
Fuckkkk.
I've been thinking.
I had always been good at acting. My face would shift into any facial expression I could conjure, my voice could quiver with withheld agony and I'd create a dozen new people to take on. I never noticed all that could slip away. Hell, up until recently, I could cry on cue.
Yesterday, I was out with a very good friend of mine on a friend date. All was well, we were merry. It was great seeing him - I hadn't seen him in months. Then the topic of my ex was somehow brought up. That's cool, she's not an alien topic to me. I talk about her all the time between mutual friends.
I told him I had never put my hands under her shirt. He paused and he was like "I did" and I paused but then died laughing. (He meant prior to when she and I were dating). So, I laughed, told him he was wonderful, but and uncomfortable feeling settled inside of me. I felt it all the way home and it kept me up last night while I was in bed.
Why did I care? I dislike her immensely. The fact that I ever wanted her disgusts me. And yet, muted within, I feel that same hollow echo. Not as green as envy, not as red as anger... but brown. I realized that I hadn't felt this way for a long time, not since he told me it would be best if I just stopped thinking about her. Slowly, I began layering myself. It was the only way I couldn't live in a maddening agony every second of my life.
But...
Now I'm this. I can't shift my face, can't quiver my voice. I'm slow to think, my memory has gone to shit. I don't think at all, I just am. I push away all thoughts as if they will be the end of me. I scream my current feelings in all caps but forget about them moments later. Like I have two selves - safe and cold, or lively and agonizing.
Can I really handle being lively at my current state? Sometimes, I feel as though these thoughts are just the mania doing its job. I don't want to wind up worse off than I am.
I will admit something though - I'm mostly afraid of turning warm again because something inside me tells me I will fall back into infatuation with V_ again. Though it makes no sense. She's a bitch, lazy, taking, fair weathered, a liar, self absorbed, selfish... What IS it about her that drew me to her?
Damn damn damndamndamn, as I type this, I feel my self destructive agonizing me clawing at within my chest.
See my predicament? God damn. Like the only way I could get over her is to throw myself at someone else.
Fucking mania. GO AWAYYYY.
Wait, actually.
DON'T GO AWAY. NO, DON'T LEAVE ME PLEASEEE
I had always been good at acting. My face would shift into any facial expression I could conjure, my voice could quiver with withheld agony and I'd create a dozen new people to take on. I never noticed all that could slip away. Hell, up until recently, I could cry on cue.
Yesterday, I was out with a very good friend of mine on a friend date. All was well, we were merry. It was great seeing him - I hadn't seen him in months. Then the topic of my ex was somehow brought up. That's cool, she's not an alien topic to me. I talk about her all the time between mutual friends.
I told him I had never put my hands under her shirt. He paused and he was like "I did" and I paused but then died laughing. (He meant prior to when she and I were dating). So, I laughed, told him he was wonderful, but and uncomfortable feeling settled inside of me. I felt it all the way home and it kept me up last night while I was in bed.
Why did I care? I dislike her immensely. The fact that I ever wanted her disgusts me. And yet, muted within, I feel that same hollow echo. Not as green as envy, not as red as anger... but brown. I realized that I hadn't felt this way for a long time, not since he told me it would be best if I just stopped thinking about her. Slowly, I began layering myself. It was the only way I couldn't live in a maddening agony every second of my life.
But...
Now I'm this. I can't shift my face, can't quiver my voice. I'm slow to think, my memory has gone to shit. I don't think at all, I just am. I push away all thoughts as if they will be the end of me. I scream my current feelings in all caps but forget about them moments later. Like I have two selves - safe and cold, or lively and agonizing.
Can I really handle being lively at my current state? Sometimes, I feel as though these thoughts are just the mania doing its job. I don't want to wind up worse off than I am.
I will admit something though - I'm mostly afraid of turning warm again because something inside me tells me I will fall back into infatuation with V_ again. Though it makes no sense. She's a bitch, lazy, taking, fair weathered, a liar, self absorbed, selfish... What IS it about her that drew me to her?
Damn damn damndamndamn, as I type this, I feel my self destructive agonizing me clawing at within my chest.
See my predicament? God damn. Like the only way I could get over her is to throw myself at someone else.
Fucking mania. GO AWAYYYY.
Wait, actually.
DON'T GO AWAY. NO, DON'T LEAVE ME PLEASEEE
Saturday, May 22, 2010
I'm not going to assume I know what's up with me.
My mind is racing. I'm immortal one moment, helpless the next. I want to say that this is still part of a very long 'mixed phase', but I feel as though I've lost all knowledge of those words.
I'm going to exploseeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee he heh ehehehehehehehehehehehe fuck.
My mind is racing. I'm immortal one moment, helpless the next. I want to say that this is still part of a very long 'mixed phase', but I feel as though I've lost all knowledge of those words.
I'm going to exploseeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee he heh ehehehehehehehehehehehe fuck.
MY LIST OF AWESOME
1. Make this list. Do not get distracted.
2. CLEAN YOUR ROOM. It's a hell hole and something tells me that this just adds to the reasons of why I'm so glitchy.
3. Set up a space for sewing. The sooner I start this, the sooner I can dress as I was always meant to dress - as a woman from the 1920s and 1930s
4. Do friend's essay that he is paying you to do
5. Study music. You wont get anywhere in life if you don't prepare for your dreams
6. Mind over matter. I know it's tiring and it makes you want to hang yourself, but if you don't think about it, nothing can go wrong.
7. Don't downtalk yourself. Don't say "This is just another burst of mania that will leave in a second" because even if it is, oh fucking well - you're doing SOMETHING, aren't you?
Alright then!
Oh, and also - get some fucking clothing on.
2. CLEAN YOUR ROOM. It's a hell hole and something tells me that this just adds to the reasons of why I'm so glitchy.
3. Set up a space for sewing. The sooner I start this, the sooner I can dress as I was always meant to dress - as a woman from the 1920s and 1930s
4. Do friend's essay that he is paying you to do
5. Study music. You wont get anywhere in life if you don't prepare for your dreams
6. Mind over matter. I know it's tiring and it makes you want to hang yourself, but if you don't think about it, nothing can go wrong.
7. Don't downtalk yourself. Don't say "This is just another burst of mania that will leave in a second" because even if it is, oh fucking well - you're doing SOMETHING, aren't you?
Alright then!
Oh, and also - get some fucking clothing on.
I want to break shit.
I really, really do. And I've always known I wanted to break things, just never realized that this impulse is constant.
My tightening grip on a door handle, the aggravation when I push open shower curtains, how I tug the covers around me when I go to bed, yes. This is what it's like to stop yourself from destroying everything in your wake.
Upon more thought, I am considering a conclusion of this being one of the reasons I self injure and one of the reasons I am immensely suicidal. It's when I want to rip things apart the most that I begin wondering how painful it would be to hang myself and start shredding my leg to bits.
It's been implanted into all of us that when we're in a house or restaurant, we must use our inside voices. We must be careful when handling knives and we must be gentle when handling fragile objects. My remaining impulse has always been to shatter them, but I've controlled it. Of course then I would turn to destroying myself.
I'm violent, I will admit. I enjoy rough housing; I've always enjoyed sparring with people and when I'm alone, I fight graphic battles in my head. I sometimes ask people what they imagine doing when they're angry or upset. They reply that they beat people up in their minds. I wonder what they'd think about me if I told them I torture my victims, whether innocent or guilty, in graphic detail before killing them. It's the only thing that can calm me down.
But after a while, I run out of energy and my father calls me to do chores around the house and every object I place I want to simply throw down, to see it shatter into hundreds of pieces before turning to the walls and beating them in with his antique metallic jugs or chairs. Destruction, destruction destruction destruction! That is what I want, what I need! I feel as though it may be the only thing that can save me from myself.
I've been eying more plastic bags, I have them laying around my room now just in case. I left a suicide message on the answering machine of my stepmom's cell phone the other day before I attempted. But the endorphins kicked in and I ripped the bag from my face - it's amazing, the defenses your body sets up. I had been expecting it the third time and STILL I ripped the bag from my face. It's as if deep down, I don't really want to die.
"Life gets better" they say, yeah, but then it goes to even worse shit than before. "But you have so much to give" but you aren't giving me back as much.
Fact: I'm a brilliant writer.
Fact: I'm a brilliant singer
Fact: I pick up on things faster than others
Fact: I am hilarious
Fact: I make people feel good
Fact: When I dress up, I am gorgeous
Fact: I am talented enough to influence the world
Fact: None of this helps me at all.
Yes, this is all wonderful. But none of it makes me happy. Not for longer than a day at most. Everyday I am living an infernal existence and I have NO REASON for feeling this way. I am miserable. I force myself out of bed, I force myself to stay AWAY from bed (right now, I am failing), I cant tell anymore when I'm up or down, death seems like a much better option that life.
Sylvia Plath once called this sort of existence a 'bell jar'. And you know, she's right. I don't think she could be any farther from the truth. I'm always being watched, you know. But this predicament is one sided and I can never join in.
I really, really do. And I've always known I wanted to break things, just never realized that this impulse is constant.
My tightening grip on a door handle, the aggravation when I push open shower curtains, how I tug the covers around me when I go to bed, yes. This is what it's like to stop yourself from destroying everything in your wake.
Upon more thought, I am considering a conclusion of this being one of the reasons I self injure and one of the reasons I am immensely suicidal. It's when I want to rip things apart the most that I begin wondering how painful it would be to hang myself and start shredding my leg to bits.
It's been implanted into all of us that when we're in a house or restaurant, we must use our inside voices. We must be careful when handling knives and we must be gentle when handling fragile objects. My remaining impulse has always been to shatter them, but I've controlled it. Of course then I would turn to destroying myself.
I'm violent, I will admit. I enjoy rough housing; I've always enjoyed sparring with people and when I'm alone, I fight graphic battles in my head. I sometimes ask people what they imagine doing when they're angry or upset. They reply that they beat people up in their minds. I wonder what they'd think about me if I told them I torture my victims, whether innocent or guilty, in graphic detail before killing them. It's the only thing that can calm me down.
But after a while, I run out of energy and my father calls me to do chores around the house and every object I place I want to simply throw down, to see it shatter into hundreds of pieces before turning to the walls and beating them in with his antique metallic jugs or chairs. Destruction, destruction destruction destruction! That is what I want, what I need! I feel as though it may be the only thing that can save me from myself.
I've been eying more plastic bags, I have them laying around my room now just in case. I left a suicide message on the answering machine of my stepmom's cell phone the other day before I attempted. But the endorphins kicked in and I ripped the bag from my face - it's amazing, the defenses your body sets up. I had been expecting it the third time and STILL I ripped the bag from my face. It's as if deep down, I don't really want to die.
"Life gets better" they say, yeah, but then it goes to even worse shit than before. "But you have so much to give" but you aren't giving me back as much.
Fact: I'm a brilliant writer.
Fact: I'm a brilliant singer
Fact: I pick up on things faster than others
Fact: I am hilarious
Fact: I make people feel good
Fact: When I dress up, I am gorgeous
Fact: I am talented enough to influence the world
Fact: None of this helps me at all.
Yes, this is all wonderful. But none of it makes me happy. Not for longer than a day at most. Everyday I am living an infernal existence and I have NO REASON for feeling this way. I am miserable. I force myself out of bed, I force myself to stay AWAY from bed (right now, I am failing), I cant tell anymore when I'm up or down, death seems like a much better option that life.
Sylvia Plath once called this sort of existence a 'bell jar'. And you know, she's right. I don't think she could be any farther from the truth. I'm always being watched, you know. But this predicament is one sided and I can never join in.
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