I’m literally sitting here. Literally. I’m figuratively doing nothing. This time allows me to think. Contemplate; the future of this mess we call adolescence. You look at the clock. Tick tock…kids stepping over my feet, as I literally sit here. Figuratively doing nothing. I’m breathing. Writing. Forming a collection of words in this memo. They don’t fit together, realistically. I would go for a smoke, but I have no cigarettes. I am a sixteen year old, who is too awkward too phone her boyfriend’s home phone, and too awkward just to pop round. I have to see miss in an hour, there’s a kid who’s sad and I have to talk to him.
   Apparently I am confident. I’m not. I just listen to powerful music which makes me feel like I can be a queen. That’s the idea. To feel comfortable you need to not care, and look after yourself. You are queen, you care for your subjects. You rule with fair point. You go out and buy yourself a crown, or shoplift one. I don’t know, just whatever makes you feel like the main *****. Find what you like about yourself and spark it. Make what you like stand out. Find the things you dislike about yourself and show it off. I don’t like my **** but hey, just shake it a bit and it’s like simple twerking. I have thunder thighs which consist of a fair amount of muscle; I have perfected the **** drop. I have become stronger because of what I put myself through. I am the only one who can hear my thoughts. So if at first you’re thinking ‘******* I’m terrified, what if I look like a ****’ fake it.

After acting like this powerful alter ego you can become her. She takes over at times. I can switch between quiet, shy Sophia; into the proud, queen ***** Patricia. Patricia the stripper. I admit this is my alter ego. She wears red lipstick, a leopard coat and thigh highs. She owns a tiara and blows bubbles in her gum. She struts to punk music and breaths arctic monkeys. She dances to jack white, ***** wiggles and all. She sings Kate Nash and the kooks, because she needs to keep her showgirl ship with class and talent as well as outright hot radiation. She has no idea what she is doing, as long as everyone is happy and entertained; she is satisfied with her life. She loves everyone because they all contain a characteristic she adores.

I also have another alter ego who has no name. This is the first time I’m referring to her as her own alter ego. She’s like a ****** of crows. An unkind of ravens. She wears dangerously applied dark makeup. She always wears full black. She’s pretty much a Goth who thrives on shock, horror and Edgar Allen Poe. Her favorite author is Stephan king and she has murderous thoughts. She pouts. She is, oh so pouty; with darkened lips of a cherry flavor. She makes sassy comments which sometimes come out as unintended bitchiness. She scares people, but they call her cool. She’s a bass player, with a strong stance and a black bra and thong set. She smokes like a chimney. She has ash-ened dark lungs like her mind. She’s my biting ***** ego. She hates anything that’s negative in the human spectrum of life. Ironic. She can’t stand hate but embodies it. She smiles at kids playing or people busking. Under the black shell intended to scared, she has the interior of a marshmallow. Fluffy hair, pastel teddy choker, and a love for giggling. She smells or strawberries, cherries and bubble-gum. She is actually really happy; this drives people mad as they can’t label her…neither can I, unless this pinkie paradise is one of her own. Like all my egos…she is happy.

I don't want
To break with you.

Can't we still be babies
In a tub,

Tattling to our mums;
Watching our worlds end,
And still falling asleep as friends?

I want to still be
The angle-face good one,

To your fantastically beautiful spiky one,

But you see, with age,
Comes bitchiness and a sense of

Self respect.

I never had that before
Around you.

Oh, I was your good little dolly,
Darling of your heart

But you like to beat that muscle well,
Don't you?

Much harder than necessary.

So why then
Do you think that
This constriction and skipping of a beating
Was a surprise attack of the heart?

they call it the intellectualism of a tumbleweed's
worth worth of attention...
      they call it jargon,
or gnarling, or showing your teeth weather smiling
or teeth kept to a gnashing of bone until reaching
marrow - as they say: if a tartar steak (which
is raw, there's no medium or
well-done to speak) has not marrow
juice for glue... forget it...
i'm eating the horse.
they call it difficult and they call it
jargon because they forgot the Kantian
key... oh sure, the keyhole
is Hegelian pop culture, Hegel is pop,
Kant is antiquity... but in terms of what's deemed
"difficult"? at the end of the day Kant said
0 = negation...
            what symbol could engulf affirmation?
and what symbol would affirm doubt?
  would = proposition and could = preposition?
i'm sorrowful to say: prepositions are still
taken to be grammatical units,
while propositions evolved from aye & nay
into maxims... a sorry state of affairs.
      so Hegel is pope... of ****... pop...
and Kant is an antiquity...
fair enough, we have Nietzsche to thank
for calling him an idiot... i too had great ambitions...
such writings are akin to arithmetic,
what i'm interested in is not a Dostoyevsky
narrative being prescribed for huddling from
the cold in Siberia...
     a        the              's, or how to bypass
the elephant man in staging a language
to be said, avoiding the language thought of,
the plural and the possessive usage with
the distraction of the hanging comma:
its (anger at the l.g.b.t. community
    for any pronoun usage deviatory to the cause)
      and it's (such that English is, Cockney rhyme
or modern urban slang... Becca instead of Rebecca...
Liz instead of Elizabeth...
   no wonder people started calling their children
Peaches)... which is shortened for the drool of it is;
i know they discriminate against these caravan
hobbit inhabitants of Shropshire, but the earls
really do write like these Pikies speak...
trolley trolley bumblebee black bitchiness boo...
    the r that's a trill becomes almost curly...
           well this is an x-ray of all things fleshy,
it doesn't / or should go to the bone...
            you talk to your mother with that tongue
and lick the privates of your ******-coo
             maiden too?
probably not... some called them gypsies,
some called them the ironed shirts...
which was ironic because of the many problems
that Middletons spotted in terms of creases...
         libido though? i'd spotlight a **** for
a gypsy girl... as i said: i'd **** anything that
moves and only hanky-panky my palette
on oysters if i had to... it's called the rebellion
against feminism: or ****** oppression to
endorse kiddy fiddlers in dog-collars getting away
with it and us, "men" having to make
the hand entwine the **** into a boa constrict ion
to imitate: a experience of a ****** i never wish
i had... that's transgender: i've got two
organs... one's a bit android, but **** needing
to necessitate a **** to get the kangaroo pouch
of feeling it, mmm.
              well, if it's too hard, then i'm obviously
employing a darwinism of some sort:
intellectual selection; i put the effort into
writing it, you put an effort into reading it,
the plebs get their stake... and everyone's happy.
     but no one gets away with youtube
regurgitated murk of someone promoting a book
   and then having to reduce it to quote,
while the book if waved about like a brick
about to be lodged into the Library of Babylon...
well... we know what happened with
the library of Alexandria... there's not a single
dittohead to encourage revising what was there once.
as we "speak", this is Latin written in Arabic,
i.e.: right to left, rather than left to right...
  but hey, no runes, so the crucifixion of Juan
at Golgotha wasn't all bad after all...
            look at how Arabic squiggly and Hebrew
proto survived, we could have gone down the route
of hieroglyphics (ideograms, but still the Mandarin
survived), but unlike cuneiform... there were simply
too many holes to be filled with Latin...
but i still don't get why they wrote a shortcut for
U using V, given O... i guess the shortcut for
O had to be •, Omnium Vampirism stake to the heart
of the stone for an indentation...
    i'd cite you the mea culpa if i could only use
another phonetic encoding, but i can't, i'm still
using Latin encoding... it's beyond dodo, it's the one
sound-encoding that could create the technosphere
of digitalising papyrus.
so Hegel is pope because non-economic Marxism
is pop... but i leverage with W. Burrough's
cut-up and Tzara and cabaret voltaire...
   and how revitalising Kant is crucial in saying:
but he already mentioned a thesis and an antithesis
disciplinary coercion in a moving-forward of
mutually-progressive antagony... why is
Hegel the one to take all the credit?
               why not say akin to: Leibniz & Newton
said some about calculus... ah ****, i forgot,
all the Ferraris and bling and *******...
                           let's just settle for the fact that
Hegel brought about the mingling of thesis
and antithesis to create a synthesis that
culminated in Marx, and Kant brought about
the mingling of thesis and antithesis to create
an analysis...
                           i bypass Nietzsche on this point
for insulting Kant, and having been overtly
influenced by the French...
la Rochefoucauld, is, after all, the antidote to
Machiavelli, and that's my pardon;
but that's beside the point, some people want it
easy, but language does take toward
being nurtured sometimes, like a flower as a seed
as later blossom, as later a fruitful in abounding
colour...
                 language doesn't have to take the route
toward a bestseller preacher-style dross of
congregational assimilation and a "shared experience",
which is why i abhorrent that words had to be
invited into an l.s.d. experience,
                        absolutely no c.i.a. transparency...  
it was all up-in-the-air and never personal...
if i write about something personal i'm writing it
because people in the 1960s went beyond the person
experience of hallucinogenic drugs, and the reason
why i wouldn't take them: is because they wrote
about them and ***** the whole case of wanting
to experience it... as the shaman don juan said:
it's your own; once it has been ascribed words?
    it's commonly shared down to the pinpoint
of a plumber and a toilet... once it has been contaminated
with words / accounts of such an experience?
it has become generic, it has become a poem that
can no longer retale it's status as l.s.d., thanks,
***** beatnik, *******.
    well... if a piece of writing is hard... treat it like
if it were some venture into arithmetic,
    and given the parallelism of space-time 1
                with time one, and the Kantian
0 = negation... you'll deny it, because it's too complicated
on the basis of, so what's the equals?
             like that cartesian result: i think therefore i am...
   therefore i'm still thinking... well the + is that
you're still intact and not shrapnel of wonder ascribing
fascination for prefixes suffixes conjunctional *****
        and diacritical marks as once thought of as
rebellious angels in Milton's theology, redeemed,
ruling over ulterior suggestions of dissecting words
for the correct rhythm.
   if a piece of writing is difficult: it's a version of arithmetic,
the only question is whether you can complete the sum
  of the arithmetic and, obviously enough, return to
yourself as your "self", in that you are intact,
having experienced a "self" or the cognitively active
other in the reflexive sense of yourself, which in turn
props of your self, in what's to be of you in the reflective
sense; that's the equivalent of arithmetic,
hence we have encyclopedias and dictionaries as
being equivalent of calculators... i still don't understand
why complex writing isn't deemed equivalent of arithmetic,
i'll probably die not understanding this...
yes, yourself is reflexive   and your self is reflective...
English really is a battlefield of pronoun use...
let alone revitalising yourself with an archaic word...
   thus said: Kant will never reach the populist status
of Hegel.

***** you look like you drink black coffee, coffee, coffee
If you valued your face, your bones you would back up off me, off me, off me
***** you look like you drink black coffee
So cold and black on the inside
Trying to appear nice and warm on the outside

You are nothing but a stupid ***** bore
Come on ***** keep your ill-temper and hateful spew down
No one wants to fall victim to your turmoil and bitchiness when you’re around
When you come in, go straight to your office
Everything that is evil, chaotic, and wrong in this place, you’re the culprit
Give me all the blank angry stares and unsympathetic words you got because you’re such a ***** bore and you don’t like my edgy style
Come on, let’s keep bumping heads, and make this place worth my while
***** you look like you drink black coffee
I can’t stand to look at your face, when I do my anger begins
When I first met you, I knew you be a ***** like that
You ******* bore
You ******* ***** bore
I can feel round two coming on, you’re coming back for more
You’re as dull and evil as they come
Humor, fun, and excitement is obviously not where you come from
My fist, your head, the desk
Let’s put this ***** bore to rest
Let’s get excited
Come on
***** you look like you drink black coffee
We don’t want no *****, ***** bore ruining are workspace anymore
Let’s not stop revolting until the tyranny is over
We are taking over
You stupid ******* ***** bore

And she walks around like we’re so inferior to her, oblivious to the fakeness and tyranny she puts us through
And tells us we should be grateful for all that she do
But you’re not going to back me up against a wall with nothing in my hands
***** you better back it up, back it up, back it up right now
Your time is coming, the end is near
How disappointing, how disappointing
So much time wasted in despair
Now whose back is against the wall
You’re still cold, so cold
***** you look like you drink black coffee
You stupid ******* ***** bore
******* ***** bore

You try your hardest to devastate my reputation
but in veracity my dear, your slowly degrading
your  individual own,
that sickly corrupted image you hold.
bit by bit you will disintegrate,
then “****”
you renovate to non-existence.
your gone.
I express amusement.
your **** won't be taken,
yet it was never received.
that bitchiness you held was never understood.
It was negativity only prepared from jealousy.
What were you ever thinking in that conniving little conscience of yours?
Did you ever discontinue to think if it was even worth it all?
I throw on a half smile every time I think of your failures
The way you tried to fail me.
The difference between me and you my friend..
Is that your dead.
And I am alive..

There is a bubble shooting out of my hand,
And it's made of plastic hurt and loathing,
And it's as see- through as I am,
And it grows and grows and covers you,
All of you, and your loudness, your rudeness, your obnoxiousness,
Your stinky cloud of perfume and ridiculous eyeliner,
And your burnt hair and bitchiness and stupidity,
And now you're inside of it,
And it's shrinking and shrinking and making you as small as you seem,
The size of your brain,
And you're tiny next to me.

Im officially depressed
That's what the doctor said
And as I write this
I don't really try for it to be art
I just want someone to know
I feel alone
Nobofy is there and I wish somebody is
This depression
since iv known
Is as clear as anything ever had been
I can see the radical mood changes in myself
the bitchiness
Everything but as I see these things they dim out other yhings
Please this is me asking yiu to help
Its selfish needy and desperate but can someone please make this better
Its not like I did something
Or is it
But as I said
I want you
Whoever you are
To help me coz god knows for once in my forsaken life I deserve it

i mean, i'd love to have an English girlfriend... if she could cook.*

elitism? no, hardly, it's because you're
not someone walking past a beehive
dressed in flowers, doesn't mean anything,
it's not elitist, although poetry naturally
became a snobbish artefact drifting
among easily recyclable material of fond
farewells and petitions to vote and whatnot.

me? i quiet like the gay bitchiness of
Frank O'Hara's poem about the health of
Ginsberg - i imagine all those performers,
the umbilical cord cut from their essence,
having to entertain, repeat, entertain,
repeat, memorising their works
for a rapping cascade, mm yeah, mm, yo,
mm, yeah, *******, mm, yeah, in da'h 'ood,
mm, yeah... i can't forgive them,
they entertain and pulverise their one
potent act, then repeat, Stockholm (repeat),
Paris (repeat), Berlin (repeat), New York (repeat),
to affirm yourself like plagiarising
puppets - it must be horrid - to have
a plughole in you, in you that you require
to block - art becomes more like boxing,
dodging punches of the new, comfortably
sofa, artistry pre-readied to entertain,
no stumbling blocks of a **** poem,
just the continual revival of the true one,
the only one - lost themes of conversation,
no conversation at all, poetry lost to
Spartacus addressing the feeble minded
but eager in heart to ride an elephant for
Hannibal - Aesop biting his nails rather than
cutting them - long live the memory of
a few odds and black sheep -
Frank being ****** - mentions
Auschwitz symphony no. 1 a# of Adolph
Deutsche in that poem *fantasy -
hey, my pride is on the line, every show i turn
on, after Pope John Paul the 2nd became a
traitor i hear of Eastern European ******
everywhere - by god i too like to ****,
but ******* became a 110m sprint with
scaffold to jump across - prostitutes eased
the problems, no rabbit chase -
i ****** then played Monopoly to ease the flirting
mechanism - categorising man as mammal
breeds man categorising himself elsewhere,
a woman: mantis, a woman: black widow...
once you start categorising yourself as a mammal
and then build a telescope or shove a satellite
into orbit you'll be slightly confusing -
so what's what?
i just bypassed the printing press, nullified editors
and publishers, no one could experience such
freedoms in the 20th century, there's no question
of profit, it's... A MAY ZING...
it's a multiple ****** just now... who gives
a rotten egg's worth of omelette these days?
you see what's getting printed? you've seen the ****?
it's not even worth the softness of toilet paper,
i'm not surprised it's written like a tonne of lard's
worth off heaviness, there's no sprint technique
in the writing, it's a marathon of procrastinating...
a volume concoction of ADHD uno having a trip
flicking a lampshade switch on / off / on / off / on / off
for a month or a week... a real page turner...
well, that's that... sarcasm is dry gin and tonic
with the humours... self-indulgent, but i like that...
i'm just waiting for the trained monkey
to read me the encyclopaedia while cartwheeling...
so if you hiccup that saying: all eastern european
girls became ****** once the iron curtain was lifted,
you're probably right... and being a castrated ****
more or less i'm getting the giggles...
like that time watching a Dutch boyfriend spitting
in his Polish girlfriend's face...
well... if these girls are ******... western men
are *******... leech kiss my entry with this point,
leech kiss more clingy that Judas' -
wankers wankers... wankers.

I have yet to find the kind of love that I’ve been searching for.
I’ve found someone who loved my sadness, someone who loved my bitchiness, and someone who loved my happiness…but I need to find someone who can love all of those things that compose me.
I need more than just one or the other.
I need full, accepting, gut-wrenchingly deep love,
that knocks me over and pounds me against the rocks like an ocean wave, before bringing me to rest on the soft, warm sand.
I need the kind of love that rages like a summer storm, with torrential rain, gutsy winds, and booming thunder, that ends in a rainbow.

I need the kind of love that takes my breath away.


But I don’t know if I’ll ever find it.

These two aches of mine
Need not be felt
But dare to distort my vision
Removing all rationality
So I'm squirming in angst
And inane anger for even trivia

I'm boiling in bitterness
As they curdle pananoia
And brew me with tension
Tainting me with madness
My thoughts can't be trusted for now
And I've no time for trusting

So stay safely away
Or be wise to forget
To remember me today
Or for the next few
For these bggers haunt me
And steal sense and reason

Leaking all logic away
I'm punished by my own fertility
So try desperately to hold strength
And let it be known no offence meant
I but bleed bitchiness
But believe me it's not me

Excuse not made fairly
But these bstards don't play fair
So know for now
I know I'm beyond difficult
And in temporary madness
But at least my womb works

does Darwinism has to be the only truth?
the glue of glues...
the... gravity of conversation?
Darwinism wasn't vogue among
continental thinkers in the 19th century...
it's still not vogue among
continental thinkers in the 21st century...
i'm not... an islander... it's not that i don't
have respect for English thinkers:
i certainly have more respect for the French
literary genius... there's none in English...
Charles Dickens can **** a volume out:
he's never going to be a Stendhal...
cotton-mouth: eating the dead...
but Darwinism is no ******* vogue...
too much biology... apes and giraffes...
**** similis is not my friend...
it's true: but i'd love to debate...
an ape... sitting... in a Parisian cafe...
sipping an espresso... too: to boot!
no chance of that..
throw some **** at me:
straighten out a banana for me!
imagine a pike from
a branch of a tree...
grow me a sikh turban while you're at it!
****'s sake...
Darwinism never made it into
the Enlightenment because:
not because it came too late...
no one likes to complicate something
overtly obvious...
it's thought-robbing...
Darwinism belongs in the unconscious...
19th century continental thinkers didn't
like it... i don't like...
Darwinism belongs in the collective
unconscious...
let's just pretend to "forget" facts...
the Copernican reinvention of perception
allowed some: furore...
but... speaking Lord with a tongue lodged
in an *** of a monkey?
what next?
woke brigade tells me:
i have to **** black ***** to appease
the rot that's history?!
appeasement *** *****:
wilting former girls of beauty...
now... well... thankfully i'm "sharing"
with a few Turkic ol' raven hairs...
she owns the harem...
i pay her £2 per minute... not bad, no?

i know the stereotype of litening
to vide cor meum...
i just... can't listen to...
Pergolesi's stabat mater...
in the dark of night when it rains...
i'm crippled by the bounty...
of what's still considered beauty:
i'm touching glass while it shatters...
eh... only some Patrick Cassidy...
****** name an even ******* surname:
just like mine... akin to ******... Stalin...
or... framework of surnames in
Pakistan... almost all ending with:
Khan...

i wonder who's who...
no... Pergolesi: primo...
all that Bach and the Goldberg Variations can wait...
for: for ever noble savage...
there's this one piece of the puzzle
that's forever antonym:
the civilised brute...
i am...
            a civilised brute...
there's no escaping it...
it keeps a balance of forthcoming conversation
and philanthropic affairs to a tidy:
corner... kept...
it's... passive-aggressive without
a woman needing some
spice of bitchiness... it's such a lovely
waiting game... when there's no gsme
to begin with... it's...
a feud of blood... and...

should i feel.... emasculated for wanting
to keep a tidy household?
in the musings of: return to the medieval times...
i'd be the inn-keeper...
not some warrior...
as i wonder...
                     a man would take charge of
the inn... impossible now...
while i took charge of keeping the house tidied...
a cat took a **** into the shower
but not his "sand on paper"...
the stench run fowl...
i had to wash the better portion of
its... "understudy"...
fair enough to the washing and towel...
but once the blow-dryer came into play:
he turned into a fur-ball of GREMLIN
wicked demon of wind and
gymnastics in the air...
i still own three proper scratches
at the wrist from him...

some noble savage: this civilised brute...
agony of tears at:
open the gates!
thankful for *** "starving"...
it's not even like i'd want your women...
to have these half-lings
halved-lingerings...
romance of ******* Iberia...

i can't listen to Pergolesi when it rains...
the ache is too important to deviate
from it...
it's such an acute pain: i pretend to:
i actually kneel with both of them
but cannot rise to expectation...
since there's none: beside the self-evident critique
concerning all that dares
to happen in the circus of priming up
games of footie...

not the father supposedly raised from
the abyss one might expect?
how fire was stupid enough to not
bow before water...

he scratched me proper: thrice...
i'm becoming bored of being alive...
i'm becoming bored of being alive...
i want to be dead in order
than the affairs of the living keep me
as recluse: and deaf...
i'm scratched...
but since there's enough life
in these limbs with joking at additional
antics...
i won't joke...
here's who "bled": here's who washed
his hands clean:
and slurped his bones... drier than...
expected of...
phantom figurines of lost
expectations...
who was who and who was to "come"?

i really came late to this party...
                                                    honest to god,
youtube was my h.m.v.,
   my field of strawberries,
a few bushes filled with berries,
i had to become a cultural
forager - nay, a ******* burrower!
a mole aiming blank
into new music...
         but then a recommendation...
hmm...
   what's this?
******* are in full swing!
   they're already moved into bitchiness...
never argue with a drunk woman
when you're drinking a pint
with an heavily autistic-man...
or offering a cigarette to a homeless
person you've met before,
sitting down on the pavement
with him, asking him: you doing o.k.?
ooh noo noo... not in a irish pub
do you get to argue with a drunk
irish woman...
you just wave you hand and say:
i'm not going to argue with you
like some ******* jedi mind trick
with a stormtrooper...
why bother the hassle?
   i don't even know how to haggle
to buy something at a cheaper price!
ooh, but blood's boiling...
it concerns two "characters"
millenial woes contra sargon of akkad...
and this is the ****** bit
that probably annoys everyone...
really? numbers?
    (i'm siding with the former):
these mundane egoists really care
about numbers?
    how about giving them
an auschwitz tattoo? cover them at
the end of each month, with how many
new subscribers entered their ranks...
that'd be fun...
  what?! we're number-centric...
   numbers tell us unfathomable
secrets of those in the minority of
a few...
    oh yeah... i really see a lot of views
concerning heidegger...
           nietzsche?
       i think he's been *****-slapped
and dipped in wax and set alight by
the mob... basically over-quoted...
  basically senile, basically less the case
for pondering, and more of
shock-value: provocation teacher tactician:
yes yes... teacher of tactical provocation.
          i'm trying to keep the lowest
imaginable profile at this party...
  i missed the s
yeah... the scots always seemed the most
continental in their approach to "things"...
    of all the tribes on these isles...
   the scots are probably the most prone
to engaging with continental thought...
   the english? head up uncle sam's ***...
welsh? head up uncle jack's ***...
                 irish? head up uncle sam's ***...
norther irish? dunno...
           peter neeps & mary tatties
    on the quest for the holy four leaf clover?
     don't ask me...
but like i said... i really, really came late
to this party... thank god it has distintegrated
into an **** of brutus et al. - i.e.
back stabbing and *******...
           'cos' conversation... sorta dried, up!

I slipped and fell from reality
Going down, I saw the silhouette
of myself waving back from the cliff of reality
getting smaller and smaller

My fall carved the air
with a bundle of chaos
dense with fear
and weightlessness at the same time

I am lost
between letting go and wanting to go
everybody goes at some point anyway  
between waving goodbye to what's better
and saying hello to what's bad
between loving to love, and loving being loved
or both,
I am lost between loneliness and aloneness
between confidence and bitchiness
between opening my heart and keeping it
and giving it to you, naked, want it?
between sobriety, and faking it
I am scared of changing and I am attracted to change
of walking away, when walking is my favorite hobby
I fear losing something, when there was nothing to begin with
I am addicted to turmoil, I lather my skin with recklessness
I inject my veins with the soothe intoxicating taste
instability
I question my lust for instability for chaos
for heartbreak and heart-mend
for unreciprocated love, for ... everything that doesn't make sense
I question my fabrication of a future, before I even say hi.

I am confidence wrapped in anxiety, that wears me like a gala dress
hugging my curves, with self-doubt
I am fake, a hypnotized being, programmed to smile
to blend, to speak less, to love less, love like that,
to compare, to compete
I am tired

07/14/2020
02:05am
Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present to you myself.
clapping ensues
Thank you, thank you. First, I’d like to thank my mother who, no matter how repetitive and annoying my rants are, listens to me always. My sister, for keeping me humble and showing me that, no matter how cool I think I am, she's cooler. And my lovely fiancee who I’ve mercilessly tortured with my indecisiveness, stubbornness, and overall bitchiness. Thank you for loving me. Don’t know why you choose to go down this path but I’m very grateful.
Now, I really didn’t think I’d make it to this age so relatively unscathed. Not to say that I don’t have my fair share of relationship baggage, emotional scarring, childhood trauma, and a wild collection of bad decisions...but I honestly thought it’d be a lot worse. Could be dead! Ha ha ha…. Right, not funny. Death jokes don’t seem to be a crowd pleaser. Hm. Who would have thought?
Anyways, I’m twenty years old now. Basically almost on pension. I wanted to have a good record of my twenties and so decided to commit to keeping a journal. I was going to write an entry on my birthday but didn’t and here I am, more than a little late.Don't know how late exactly because I don’t really want to count write now. Also, I wanted to do this on paper but I hate hand writing things and J said it's better to do it online. Who’s J you ask? Well, J is my dearest cousin who I’ve very recently befriended. We’re about two weeks into it and already he’s had the most terrible influence on me. It’s shocking really but what can I say? He’s got a way with words and he wears all black.
You know how they say that drunk words are sober thoughts? Well I think the sleep deprived mind is also quite the truth serum. The words are a bit more coherent. And I can type without spelling mistakes! Mostly.
I think I can be quite clever with words. I really like my own original quote about history that I wrote to that one guy on whisper. And then my gold phrase about diary entries being like pictures of our thoughts. J appreciated that one. I am truly a genius. A remarkable but undiscovered philosopher of the 21st century. I am also very humble.
I am such a terrible procrastinator. I was supposed to write a thing in January for New Years and I still haven’t. It’s been more than half a year. What is wrong with me? Like seriously. What kind of person does this?
I’m tempted to start a blog. I feel like I’m entertaining enough for that.
I just looked up how to start a blog and it seems not that difficult. But I’d have to buy a domain name and website and a bunch of stuff and that’s like a commitment so I don’t know. Maybe. I also need to open a credit card. Preferably American Express.
And who even reads blogs? I guess some people do…. Just because I don’t doesn't mean it isn’t a thing that people do.