Size 9 people are just as beautiful, if not more, than size 3 people. It's all about carriage and attitude.
I can't sleep tonight (rather, this morning. I've been plagued with this awful insomnia. It got so bad that last night when I finally could sleep I slept a solid fourteen hours and ended up yelling sleep-addled nonsense at my cousin who I never see when she tried to communicate with me in the morning.
I found out that Lil Johnny lives in Benicia and wants to be a lawyer, and will soon be leaving his bus-boy post. Alas, it was not meant to be. He seems like he'd be a politician because I watch him at work and he is the king of schmooze. I notice though that he only initiates conversations with men whose hair has begun to visibly gray.
One of the people to whom I was the closest in high school has decided that he would like to attend a certain event that has me ecstatic. My mother told me that he would only say he would come, not that he actually would. But he told me he'd love to go. He just has to make sure that it is all right with his... folks.
I have to keep it quiet that I'm right because mothers hate it when they aren't right.
I am disgusted by the fact that while I get endless joy out of listening to music on my wonderful headphones, the pressure under which my head is placed by them causes me to hear every beat of my heart. I think veins and heartbeats and blood and pupils are revolting. I like to pretend they are not there and I am just a misshapen chunk of wax or some such.
I have unexplained bruises on my legs. My father says it is from hanging out with my friends. I don't get it.
He knocked on my door earlier this evening and said, "Your mother made some spaghetti, but I wouldn't touch it because it tastes disgusting."
I came out into the living rheum and said, "Mom, dad is saying weird things to me." I thought he said this merely because he knew I was drifting in and out of consciousness and wanted to mess with my head.
She asked me what he said and I told her.
She began to laugh in such a way that you'd think I cracked the funniest joke you'd ever heard. She told me that my father hates pasta, and that's why he said that.
In all of this time, minus the years he was in re-hab, this was something I never knew about my father. I find it amazing that I didn't notice something so simple. But honestly, when do I monitor what my father eats?
I am deeply enamoured of a male specimen. I would love to sing his praises to everyone in the world, but this is an impossibility, for many reasons, seeing as how a lot of people know who he is. Anything I reveal about him can be turned around and used against me, and it might also be able to incriminate him, though I am almost certain the devotion is one-sided. He tells me things that make me feel like I am flying, and I have said many words in his defense to stupid people who challenge him or take him for granted. Things between us have changed a bit as time has passed, and I find myself able to be more open with him, and some of the boundaries between us have disappeared. The way he talks, and the faith he has in me makes me feel like I want to cry. Something this good shouldn't have to be kept a secret, though sometimes it is better to keep it under lock and key. There are only a privileged few who know the entire history of myself and this male, and I know that one of them doesn't even take my affections seriously.
My point is, affection knows no age, no race, no gender, no time.
My cousin told me that anyone who is interested in me who is over 24 has some sort of mental problems or is a pervert.
"What is someone that age doing hanging around 18-year-olds?" she said.
There are certain circumstances under which this is acceptable. There are some cases in which it does not purely revolve around lust. If it did, it would have fizzled out by now, but here it is, still burning strong.
Feelings so deep that I didn't know they even existed within this soul of mine, who thought it was through with love.
It is becoming more and more apparent that I prefer unrequited love, the biting of the lips, the silent yearning, the insatiable wait. All of this has been going on for four years. I watched as he was happy, and sad, and worried, and mad. I watched when he left, I watched when he returned. I watched when his father died. I watched when he made the terrible mistake of wearing sandals with socks. I watched when he was pre-occupied, and I watched when I was pre-occupied. I watched when he asked me, in his own way, not to kill myself. I watched when he introduced me to his friends, and even to his acquaintances, like I mattered. I watched when he gave me gifts. And I listened, when he told me that he thought about me all the time.
When Lauren stayed with me over Christmas, she was amazed at all the notes she found from him all over my rheum. Even though I cleaned it, they were still everywhere. I kept every one of them. One is posted on my window, another put up over my Nintendo. There are others in drawers, others in folders. There is one tucked away in a book, one up by my stereo.
Most of the time I can go a day and get away with not thinking about him, but today was different.
My eyes are starting to burn, let's change the subject. Let's go back to the part about me being right and my mom being wrong. This happens a lot more than she'd like to admit. Oh well, I can't blame her for having dementia.
I came home from work on Friday with an aching spine in need of a good cracking, an empty tummy, throbbing feet, a severe lack of sleep, and elephant-sized junkie bags.
My family was out getting dinner while I was commuting. They bought food for themselves, and I asked my mom to make me some spaghetti. I was so tired I could barely see straight, let alone cook something for myself without dying some horrific death due to burns and such.
She tells me no, also makes it painfully clear that there is no food for me in their goodie bag of fast-take-out. I ask her instead for money. I figure if I die trying to drive somewhere to satiate my hunger, it was meant to be. She grumbles something about giving me too much money, so in my most irritating voice I beg her to make me some spaghetti. By this time, I am so hungry, and so sleep-deprived, that tears start forming in the corners of my eyes and my throat starts making this hacking noise as if there are sobs trying desperately to explode from my chest. I keep whining until she tells me to go away, and then I go into my room where Stefan is on the phone. I tell him through gritted teeth that I hate the circumstances.
Being hungry is one thing. It means your blood sugar is probably low and you will most likely get angry and murder anyone between you and your food.
Being sleep-deprived is another. It means you are tired, your judgment is off, and you either get very angry or very depressed in a flash. Either way, it happens all too soon.
I was both. You can imagine the sort of time-bomb I must have been, though admittedly I was too tired to explode... what a pity.
So anyway, after about twenty minutes, my mom starts to feel bad for 1) Ignoring the misery I was in 2) Forgetting about me while buying dinner for the 'whole family', and 3) Not being in the mood to make me spaghetti. She leaves ten dollars on my dresser. Chills are making me shake and shiver beneath my blankets and making me even more pissed off.
Stefan tells me he will take me to dinner to cheer me up, and I don't have to drive. We go. I am dressed in track pants and other ugly clothes. I am slightly happier and more energetic.
After dinner, we go driving, and I lose my voice screaming obscenities out the window.
Later on in the night, I do more screaming. Enough screaming to where, here it is two days later, and it still hurts to swallow. During all of this screaming, my voice went back to perfect. How disappointing. It just proves that I should scream all the time. And I need to learn to yell using only my throat, not the kind that comes from your guts. The kind that comes from your guts obviously does not destroy your voice.
Stefan: "Where's Nathan? How come he hasn't been downtown?"
Mike: "He is too busy sucking his brother's dick."
I am glad I do not have a big brother to idolise and waste all my time with, and I am glad that the little blank that they call my brother does not try to spend time with me. I would kick him in the teeth. He tries to jump out of cars when they are moving, but not when they are moving fast. You see, if he did that shit when it was going fast, it would be ok, he would probably die or be paralyzed. But he does it when you are going like 10 mph, and all it does is satisfy his bastard needs to take off his seat-belt and destroy the driver's nerves.
I would love to use a sledgehammer on his useless skull. Maybe not though. I would hate to get stuck cleaning up that mess. I just wish that he could be blinked out of existence. The world would be one step closer to perfect.
My, my. Someone is negative and tired. I should think about the one I love. I should remember the way his face looked when he told me he thought about me all the time.
Such horrid and tender feelings within the space of ten minutes.
I ended up cracking my back wonderfully on Friday. I love cracking my spine.
This is good.
Elderly Man: Yeah?
E M: Yeah?
Cleo: All right, and what city are you calling me from?
E M: I beg your pardon?
Cleo: All right, and what city are you calling me from?
E M: Who? Who are you? I ain't callin' you, lady!
Cleo: I'm Cleo.
E M: WHO ARE YOU?
E M: Cleo who?
Cleo: I'm Miss Cleo.
E M: Huh?
Cleo: All right, go ahead.
E M: You, Cleo who?
Cleo: What you wanna be askin' me darlin'?
E M: Uh, yeah. Yeah, ok.
The elderly man hangs up.
Young Man: (answers phone) Praise the lord!
Cleo: Hello, how are you today?
Young Man: Why do you keep calling here?
Cleo: All right, and what city are you calling my from?
Young Man: If this call come up on my telephone bill, you gon' be in a bunch of trouble.
Don't do this no more.
He hangs up.
Oh my god. This is great.
Miss Cleo is getting sued because she is from Brooklyn and not Jamaica. She will be missed.