trystec

Today I am, gosh, so bored with life. I feel less disconnected, more sinewed, less distracted by the little bits of love which keep me heaving.

While I was rummaging through all the litter in my room today, I stumbled upon my old Aussie journals. I slipped my fingers through the pages and found my brain tumbling under memories, then words, then sound. I can't be back there with that sole topic. I can't be uprooted from this irksome desensitization.

I'm so cluttered with drugs these days; perhaps that's why I've a lack of care for intelligence. I don't care to seem or be. I exist as some rigid nothing. I'm just ebbing anything.

I keep considering romanticizing up my life with an excellently fascinating book to read, a clutch of friendly imagination to string along, but I find I never have the time. If there's any pattern to this nonsense, it's sewing, then socializing, then work.

I'm being forced to learn Java, but I'm honestly quite resistant. It might get the boss expecting I'll telecommute while in college. I'd rather spoon out breakfast and drizzle coffee for the new world.

I've so many goals to reach. I planned on having written it before having turned 19, but it's been on an 8-month long hiatus. I have 3 weeks until I turn 19, until everything starts getting old. Two years ago, I never liked growing older.

It makes me fit a right failure.
A tight stump in a tart's outfit.

I've recently been acquainted with head aches and crippling spinning.
If there's a sole thing I despise, it's medication. I reject that I need anything. Yet, yes, it may be true that I am less swelled.

The one who called me "the office blow job."
Because I'm a femme.

Right. I want to fucking gut his lungs out.

Your clear eye is the one absolutely beautiful thing.

It's too unstable to be making choices. Why did I have to choose the path of relationships? I can't truly recall being out of a relationship for longer than 3 months during the past 4 years. I've too much a heart, as much as I hate to admit it. I'm too in love with mingling out sentiment and dripping on feelings. I'm too draped in a cape of myself.

She's all cursed with shambles, nicotine patches, and sprints of long red lines. I can see your veins as your legs bend.

It would have been better to have let it settle, to let myself be happy in a relationship. Now I'm hesitating, making a fuss that no one knows about, getting involved, and slipping back to the cold. That comfortable spot, the area no one knows about. If only I could have a journal on truth-- it hardly ever happens.

And so, I'll speak in lingo. Untongued, the splits of cryptic mind tricks. I cannot bear to tell you.

I know I usually tote about some "lovely" muck of imagery on letters for you, but my mind is too much fucked for today.

I mentioned it was my anniversary a while ago and never quite followed up on it, likely due to that awkward responselessness, or not really feeling a response would state more than the obvious. It would morph up like chit-chat for bimbos.

In any case, I finally settled upon ending it with him today for various reasons I'd been mulling over. That, and I'm going crazy, Matt. Despite everything that is so logically wonderful in my life, despite the fact that this is absolutely the most comfortable relationship I have ever had, not to mention the longest. My eyes are swollen & red. I've been seeing things, mostly faces in the walls or raccoons when I try to sleep. I looked up the logistics and I also fall under the category of a serious bulimic, despite the knowledge that it IS NOT EFFICIENT.
Despite Despite Despite

I've no ideas as to why I feel this way, either; I've one of the most amazing lives in the world. I should be happy, not just in bits but in tendrils and absolute sanity. I should be much more than I am.

It was horrible. I know I'll come off as awfully naive by saying this (which is not entirely new-- hah, a pun), but I've never actually broken up with someone in person, face to face. And what an awful tete-a-tete. He was crying, I was crying. I've never been so myself with someone, not enough to cry. It was wound-ripping, full of spitty kisses and the truth that
I do not want to leave you.

I don't know why I did it, but I've got to get away. And now I'm absolutely thrashing in my misery, as my head pounds and feels dampened by clouds. My face is thick with that yuck of a puff and my skin is clung to dried lines of tears.

I'm sorry for all this, really. It's honestly even a bit unusual for me to turn to you, even if we once did this all the time. We haven't talked in so long; I'm too fearful of being a nuisance all the time. I don't know who to turn to, or even if I should.

Suicide does not seem appealing, but ceasing does. I do not want to die, ever; I prefer simply to vanish. For you and all your dangers.

There is a battle in my mind between what logically should be and the pin-prick impulses of what could sink on in.

Often, it will hit in glimpses. I'll be fine, dawdling nearby the sewing machine, when slashes of blood all weeping out of me will cut straight in. And in those moments, I lose sight of who I am. They're tiny quips, of course, but they are so powerful in nature and possibility that I can't help but fear for my life and the mental demons trepanning on in. My life is in the hands of someone else, someone I do not know. It is only getting worse. I have started to segment.

I can't do anything but cry, scream, and wriggle as it pounds through me. That someone else, that ragged fear.

I don't like to talk about it. I don't like to admit insanity. I often wish I could take to ignorance and match beauty in each surrounding, but I can't fake that well.

-Liz Shaw
(No Reply Necessary, As Usual)

To be interesting and even more risky, I'm going to get one in every country I live in from this point in time.

I will probably catch AIDS.

But it's better than a life full of laxatives.

Flatten your attention-- today I've silly news.

My palms are sweating out the roof. I popped two pills again, and I'm not nearly as twitchy as I was the first time I downed them a couple of days ago, but I'm definitely more "uppity". I don't like the slickness in my palms.

I became curious about it, to see where I stood, so I looked it up. I am of the "serious" bulimic category. I am the curtsy, the bow, and the sticky fingers. It's apparently not natural; I'm apparently overly queer.

I took pictures of my navel piercing today, stared at the viewfinder, and saw thinness. But then I actually had the chance to grab so thick into myself, it was sickening. It's a gross stare, a rotund "if only I could" prickling back in soggy waves. I can't bend without a mind clot.

Apparently, it usually happens in the late teen years (me) to the 20s, after which it becomes a habit. But I don't want it to. I'd rather be anorexic so I didn't have to stick in this ritual. It's easier to eat, it's convenient to purge. Anorexia would be more effective, anyways. But it makes me feel better, to relieve the weight, to douse it all out. I miss the control of anorexia.

It makes me angry that clothing chubs me up; I cloak myself. I'm never without sleeves or a jacket. I'm still paranoid of pudge.

Too personal. Too petty.

I have so much music I want to share with everyone-- it's all so beautiful. And I'm so crafty, and I sew nearly everyday though I'm still a novice. And I love the things which make me happy. I love chatting about cephalopods, playing Dance Dance Revolution, and my mother laughing lovingly when I say "I can't see this invisible thread". It's all so completely un-narrow. I'm not completely hollowed.

Sans respect for myself, I'm tripping down with vertigo. I can't get there anymore; I can't feel a string of this.

I'm a cheater and it's wrong for me.

(Side note: These pills are insane. I'm physically shaking with caffeine, ephedra, and sweat. I can't stop twitching, I have to get up and jump jump jump. My house is clean, my apartment. Red ribbons are everywhere-- I cannot sit still.)

Ordered.

Sick of flab, sick of bulging skin. The way the meat flings in me when the closeness wraps as snugly as wet noodles. Such smugness, the way I kiss a shower stall and fiddle down the muck. I wonder if flies sprout from my food, or if my eyesight gets damaged from having to hover over browning hives.

She's sliding down the neck of a drain.
And there is nothing that I wouldn't do.

The sky's a piece of ice, and I'm someone down the lines.

I've been shaking out of my skin this whole day, and I've no idea as to why. The day was fine for any ordinary tale: my friend spent the night, we watched a good ol' horror movie, she left, I sewed. But I kept piercing to the blues. Even the night before, when they left me alone in the car, I tried to suppress the wavering vocals and streak-filled face, but the sobs wallowed out of me.

And I don't know where they're coming from.

Today, out of the middle of nowhere, I felt it pulsing in, amidst my fits of linens and pumping sewing machine when I should be having the time of my life. It just took me over. And I shout, "Stop it, I can't see," when I try to pull your threads, but I had to give in. To one hour of bed-wretching sobs amongst entangled bedsheets.

It gets in the way of my productivity. I hate it. Nothing was accomplished today, despite various efforts; it always came back to bog me down.

Today is a good day-- I've not really had a bad one in a while. It seems all I do is crouch about my sewing machine and sew line after line while occasionally piddling around on the computer.

I'm excited as I finally developed the perfect format for my cereal box purses. I'll stick with this design, as it's good enough to sell at Satchel's, but add interesting features as I see fit, such as closures, zippers, and ID compartments. So today I made a Trix purse and a Berry Lucky Charms purse.

Very sleek, very crafty. And the handles are made of neckties.
Sometimes, I fall under the false assumption that, really, I'm too intelligent. Where do I get my ideas? I look at objects and transform them. For half a year, all I saw was faces in walls.

A girl I knew gave me a flower and I could not peel through. There are many interesting things happening in my life that I probably could talk about. I'll leave for another, I believe: a more vacant, human me. It's jumbled in my mind. It's not good for me to feel so deprecated.

But I don't. It's more I should, but it irks me most that I'm lied to and don't snap at the back with energy or gag down those jittery pins, those skin twists and flexes of love. I'm at a flat state of happy, a point where I don't see the point in making such a mess when I'll be leaving in a couple of months for ever, a point where I know I can't gain anymore.

We'll see.

I'm really in love with a band called Coma Savant. I visited my parents today and was playing the CD out loud through my laptop, and, just as I was getting giddy over how much I liked the song that was playing, my mother blurts out:
That's interesting music.
You don't like it?
It's... interesting.

And that's about all I got. But I suppose I was a bit selfish in that I continued to play it as it was making me so happy. Perhaps I was born unusual. Perhaps I'm content being weird.

On with the spew of this year's batch, the college decisions. My first letter has just arrived. Perhaps it's fatigue, but I picked up the paper and could see myself there, content and in love with incisions, as a medical illustrator. RIT is definitely something to consider. Perhaps it's what I should do.

I can't imagine anything that would really suit me better. I have livid dreams of it, hot sweats of romance. Two days ago, the inch-thick skin of my leg could be removed in one clean chunk, like a board. I was showing people these fascinating ringlets and bubbles of bacteria above my chunked muscles and knobs of bones. I kept comparing it to a diagram, the broccoli-headed blue fungus, and wondering if dousing it with Listerine or Hydrogen Peroxide would eat through my muscles. And then I was in some fish-eyed aquarium, toting it around.

But it's fascinating to indulge in the one part of life which has always brought me fascination. Perhaps I'd be happier there.

Ontario for the weekends, New York for the grunge.

Fuck Adam Thermos, fuck Jill Dygert, fuck these joker clients.

I cannot be the only one handling these massive design projects. I'm thinking of asking for additional assistance, a new employee.

Everything is so demanding right now. I had to drive to Ocala at 9 AM for a meeting to seal a $5,000 deal. A nerve-wracking gab of beans, rice, and horse's lard, my face rouging as pink as my tee every time I talked. I told myself to think in terms of marrow, but the silly thoughts wouldn't steady me. In the end, the meeting accomplished practically nothing-- in fact, it only left everyone unsettled.

This is a massive amount of programming. Complex, interwoven, and associative. It's not terribly difficult, simply stressful & time-consuming. Once again, with life, I don't feel challenged, just timid and given to escape. Perhaps it's fine I didn't take to college when I should have; I'm still stuck in the same slough.

Ryan unexpectedly stopped by my apartment this afternoon and we decided to stroll on down to the pharmacy together for some milk. On the way, we ran into some of my friends, protesting Bush & the Iraqi War at the largest intersection in Gainesville, and happened to be right next to a mutual friend in line for the freeway. It was one of those moments where I realized I knew so many people, who really do quite like me, and I've not really much reason to bog down inside myself.

I often wish I had more talents. I fervently demand it. But then there's always that shimmer of thought, a quip of logic to stroke egos, which lists them all out and tries to sinew on the individual; You're glorious, your smarts & shimmer. Then a lapse to ridicule, a but then you're this and loops of if onlys. For the reason was I used to have that; I used to have all I could.

He's a major twitch to my heart, it's awful. I'm cautious about being near him now, for I know something catastrophically love-ridden might happen. One and a half years, my longest relationship, and I'm backing off from the cheating sleaze of it all. Perhaps it's more moral to avoid emotion.

( I keep making excuses. )

Ungluttoning is going well. The more often I hack it in, the more glum I shed. I feel more in control, much better about myself. It's easier to platter up for free.

Slipping back into the lingo; it's a bit alien to be here again. I've tried several times, with several names, and have so far only managed to keep up with one journal, the one with no interests, no friends, no trace. I can gush, bash, and be honest without real worry for consequence. It's a nice set-up.

I'll need to re-involve myself, to love to write and hear about others' tales. It'll be my MySpace replacement, hah.

I remember I tried to write a book in Australia and only stretched half-way. I should try my hand at that again, for I feel a right flunk.

I've been insanely creative over the past 2 days, all because I finally found cheap vinyl and then went purse-making crazy. Then a tetris necklace, then a LP purse, then a woven magazine purse, soon a map purse. I'm worried I won't feel this wonderful again for a while and it will all vaporize off from into me.

I also have so much responsibility in my life now, a hazy sort of newborn notion to me. There are too many websites to design, all the while juggling phone calls and server problems. The good thing, however, is that I just received a raise.

Heck yes, rich me.

Why, oh why, is this entry so mundane? And slightly pompous.
Welcome home, me.