A Collection of Spectacles


next time i’ll see everyone it’ll probably be in school. eww. we’re growing up. (note the lack of maturity in those sentences. i’m not giving up my youth yet.)

in other news: i explained everything. i used plain language. described it all without the poetic rambling that’s found here.

i asked for something simple. a yes or no. yet, that seems like the most daunting task ever. like a chore. whatever. i’m not jumping to conclusions yet. i’ll wait till after school starts (when there really isn’t an excuse) and then i’ll just make a couple of assumptions and move along.

now i know. i need to resolve one thing before moving on to the next. otherwise, i end up in onesided exchanges of emotions. interactions where i take and take but don’t give. that’s not fair to anyone and i end up looking back on such memories and feeling as if they were dull and boring, at best. 

not anymore. i’ll do things differently.

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i’m told that this is when i write most. okay okay i guess it is.

i dreamt last night. it wasn’t anything but sex. except it wasn’t meaningless for once.

maybe it’s possible to fuck and fuck and fuck and fuck and still not get anywhere. it’s possible to screw a lot of people and still feel horribly unfulfilled. i used to dismiss some people who thought this. write them off as silly unrealistic romantics. i thought fucking was everything. 

i think it’s important to be genuine and truthful with everyone you come into contact with without deviating from your feelings.

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we are going to move forward or stop existing. there’s no other way.

i can’t take anything else. 

i saw a clip from this little known movie the other day. two men were in a restaurant. they had been lovers once. one was a poet, the other lived off of being pretty. the pretty one said, “do you love me?” the poet nodded yes. “then put your hand on the table face up.” he took out a blade and made it dance on the poet’s palm. all the poet did was close his eyes and wince, waiting. the pretty one stopped and kissed the open palm. he never planned on slicing the poet open. he just wanted to know where he stood. 

(i’m waiting i’m waiting i’m waiting i’m waiting)

it sucks.

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“The mind of the dreaming man is fully satisfied with whatever happens to it. The agonizing question of possibility does not arise. Kill, plunder more quickly, love as much as you wish. And if you die, are you not sure of being roused from the dead? Let yourself be led. Events will not tolerate deferment. You have no name. Everything Is inestimably easy.”


i want to live like the dreaming. without fear.

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i know. i keep posting every two seconds but i have a lot to say. 

i’m going to change myself. 

i mean, i’m going to try and fix the flaws i have.

i told my parents today that they can’t treat me like shit anymore. i have the choice to go take a walk, to go lock myself in my room. i’m going to be 18 soon. they can’t expect me to sit there silently all the time. 

and the other thing? issue, whatever. it just is. it’s completely not up to me anymore and i don’t care. i was nice. i did my part. i asked something the other day. no response. just wanted to show i’m not a shitty person. i’m not a shitty friend.

i don’t know if you even remember this but you asked me once if i’d written anything about you (i said i hadn’t, something like that. that was the truth at the time). now i do. you’re like the indelible muse. 

i wonder if the favor has ever been returned. 

you asked me to write something for you. i wonder if you kept it. i mean, i thought it was shitty. i still think it’s a sappy odd piece of crap but i wonder if you saved it somewhere. i think i told someone else that you had said that and that it was kinda weird but i really thought it was cool because it was kinda weird. because it was the weird type of thing that i would’ve done too. i had this feeling deep inside that we had the same quirks that i could be my odd little self around you say offbeat things call at odd hours and that it would be alright. 

now i’m starting to question that. i’m starting to think i was horribly wrong all along. 

you seem to like me more when i act like you’re nothing but when i stop doing that i feel like you don’t want anything to do with me. 

on a side note, if you find a de sade book, it’s mine. can i have it back? 

this is strange, that i talk through this. normal people don’t do this shit. i’d say this by phone or something but i feel like you wouldn’t accept that call. in fact, i don’t want to even try for fear that you might not. i feel like a nuisance a fly in your ear a mosquito on your leg. it’s okay. just thought i’d try caring again.

i just, kinda wanna talk it out. really. please. then it’ll be completely out of my system. i realized that’s what i need to really consider it a closed chapter. open offer. take it or leave it.


i really have problems with confronting people and with expressing myself in person. i’m stubborn. one of my biggest fears is appearing inferior or inadequate or weak. i change my mind often, as far as my feelings about people are concerned. i enjoy attention (sometimes to an annoying degree). 

i know i’m also a nice person who tries to be fair and who doesn’t really hold grudges unless the offense is serious. i try really hard to be decent towards everybody. if i care about you, i’ll let you know it. 

i don’t have to simply accept anyone’s treatment of me if i think it’s unfair. i’m going to try and be a little more vocal. 

see? i’m trying to admit things.


edit: i keep going back and adding/changing things on this one. i’m trying to say that this is the last post for a while before i force myself to get my shit together and start feeling better.

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it’s four thirtyish but i really can’t sleep. what i mean is, i went to bed at twelve and woke up a while ago. i felt bad about the previous stuff. i mean, i don’t even know if it makes a difference. all these apologies and all the statements i retract. i simply know that i have this more so for myself than anyone else and that it all helps me feel better. 

i’m going to be truthful. completely honest. 

i say mean things because i’m immature and horribly smitten (and because that is how childish people deal with affection). i also still feel hurt sometimes and it shows. 

that’s a more accurate portrayal. two sentences sum it up.

 i’m tired of feeling lonely. i think.

edit: i lied before. i extended myself. it was awkward. in fact, i’m somewhat awkward.

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this time i’ve managed to make it to the computer before sobriety kicks in (the state to which i always wake. always return to. the one that’s becoming all too unwelcome).

my head is spinning. 

i’m thinking about re-titling this blog “a thousand love letters, dedicated to a few unfortunate souls” or, at the very least, having that as a subtitle. or something.

again. again. another night during which i scraped what’s left of my innermost feelings and smeared them on claire’s bedroom floor. am i a burden? i feel like i can be sometimes. with all the things i say that don’t add up to much. with all the things i say that contradict one another.  why is my inner self always marked with such unmistakeable sadness? 

what did i say this time? yes. 

“i love i love [blah blah blah].” this is the truth but i’m not reprinting it here. it’s our secret. correct? 

i’m (admittedly) an unfair biased journalist.

oh yes but here’s the point. the reason why i’m here. 

i’m stubborn and hate appearing weak so i’m never going to be the one to initiate anything. i want to feel wanted. no, i deserve to feel wanted. does this mean anything? if not, try singing it again with a bottle by your side. capture my current state of mind and then (please oh please) forgive this. dismiss this. if it still doesn’t make sense.

tell me things that no one else knows. let me stroke far away distant long ago forgotten memories. pieces of your being that you threw away …this is devolving into the bullshit ex-romantics live off of. 


i was originally going to simply say fuck off but i realized that i can’t. i have more to say.

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i scribbled this stuff on some paper last night. (horribly trashed). found it this morning. i fixed it a bit and here it is.

let me write this before i get too sober to wish i hadn’t. wish i didn’t have these. these vices are the only means by which i can feel anything worth noting. 

see, at the heart of it all i’m sorry. i don’t know what for exactly but i know that i am. which is a new feeling. geeze i’ve sent out a lot of apologies (both public and private, whispered in the dead of night) lately. i just don’t want to be forgotten. i can be a mess.

“i can stop drinking so much,

i can start listening, i can say hi

i can feel something good.”

now i’m (mis)quoting songs. readers may scream “cliché” from the rooftops. 

how come i can’t tell you i miss you when i do? nothing personal, i just say that to people i care about sometimes but i can’t now because i always have to watch my words watch how i feel. 

Claire came outside sat next to me and said, “how are you, i mean, how’s your heart?”

“it…hurts but it always does,” or something to that effect. i think i asked her to hug me or hold me because that’s what she did. i just don’t like being alone. no, i don’t like the fact that i always have to leave the people i want to be surrounded by always and go home to spend every moment wishing away the people i’m stuck with. 

then she told me about her meteor shower sighting and all was okay. dear, can you promise me things? i’m imaginative. i live in dreams. it doesn’t matter if they don’t come true just promise me everything. i wanted to say this. i want to say a lot.

i write and write and write about nothing. this is all probably about nothing in the end. 


note: if you post this, when you post this, please omit the following lines…


this will stop when morning hits. 

or is that when it’s felt the most?

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Where do i start? i’ve been really really busy lately.                                                 i went on a cruise which was fabulous. i’m not going to go into too many details here but I had a lot of fun, to say the least. i still wish that the friends i made lived closer to me.                                                                                                   i stayed in Brooklyn for a while with my grandmother, which is always enjoyable. She’s really sweet and if i didn’t have such a relatively short time left in my current house and if i didn’t have such great friends i’d probably move in with her.                                                                                                                   

my father’s been unusually nice lately. oh wait i didn’t mention this. a few weeks maybe a month ago he had the first of a series of related talks about how abused he was by myself and my mother (example: i left for the cruise and expected him to do something a simple as feed the cat) causing him to explain that he was going to leave me alone, begrudgingly, and that if i wanted anything i had to go to my mom. he’s like a child sometimes. during the most recent one of these talks i told him about how his unique brand of yelling and berating (see, when he’s mad at me i’m a part of everyone who has ever wronged him. when i was a child who made childlike mistakes, i was on the same par as his mother who used to beat him) annoyed and hurt me. etc. etcetera. cetera. after i came back from ny he changed completely and complained only of how much he had missed me. at this point he’s either smothering me with affection or ignoring me completely, occasionally commenting on what a brat i am. although he’s now willing to do things like give me rides places i’m doing everything in my power to avoid him.  

i’ll write more later.

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