I can't write. I can't eat. I can't think.
Oh my god this is awful and there seems to be no end in sight.

"why doesn't santa have any kids?"
"They threw his balls on the tree!"

you know how you think it will never happen to you?

well, it happens to me a lot. want it?

"I'm sitting here in the boring room.
It's just another rainy Sunday afternoon..."
The music crackled through the radio. I sat in the waiting room, under the glare of flourescent lights. The walls were that wood paneling and the carpet bore the marks of several stains. There was a fake plant keeping the magazines company.
I hate doctors. I always have. They tell you you are fine when you know full well there is something wrong. Then they prescribe you some unheard of medication and send you on your way. It always happens, at least it always happens to me.

And that's just what happened again, except with a psychiatrist. I feel so freakishly mental at the point. Seems a bit contradictory, a mental health specialist making you feel mental.

I step back outside into a town God himself seems to have forgotten. This town, desolate and obscure, is a blemish on the face of the Earth. I lack the courage to go abroad.

It's late October and the dying leaves are shivering in the wet cold. The weather continues to annoy our small population with its bi-polar behaviour. I'm in a sweater and scarf and chilly, yesterday, the high was 62 degrees!

Getting into my car, which acts older than me, I ponder whether of not to even drop off this prescription. He told me to call him in two weeks with a followup, so I may as well, but medication is so damned expensive.

Her glasses sat on the desk, a habit she had picked up from the drummer who occupied her thoughts too often. Not that she minded.

Isn't it odd what you are willing to do to get a person to like you, then you spend all of your waking moments wondering if they return your feelings?
It seems so corny and unnatural when you think it over. You usually present yourself as composed, whether or not you are is your own decision to disclose.
What corrupts the balance? What sparks those gushy thoughts that embarrass you when you think about them, about how silly they are.

You know it won't last but you don't care. Is this universal?
Then again, you aren't thinking about the universe. You are thinking about yourself and the variable, the X to your real life equation.

You don't even mind the self-conscious effort of changing to form what they want you to be, or at least what they think they want you to be. You don't even seem equate the fact that they like you for who you are. Unless they only see the mask you put on yourself and like that instead.

And then you worry again. You wonder if it is all in vain, then when you are around them those thoughts fade into assurance. And then the cycle continues.

Love. The one thing we all need to thrive, yet all of us are not supplied with it from the start. The things we take for granted, such as laughter and family. I know I seem dark, and to be honest I am dark. In the end, I did gain my identity.
But what I want, what I truly want...Is someone to be there for me. Someone to tell me that my thoughts are irrational and to tease me till I know they care.
I want someone to realize my incessant babbling is my protection against lingering silence. Silence leaves time for thoughts to grow and morph into something grotesque. It's terrifying.
I don't have siblings and my parents are never around. my mother is a lazy bum and my dad carries the weight of the world on his thickened shoulders. Me, I sit there in the silence.
What if I did have someone to talk to? What if they cared? Would they notice all the imperfections I associate with myself? Or would they help me realize that there is a side to the world not run by greed and hypocrites? A place where you are not forever impacted by your surroundings. I doubt there is such a place, but I wouldn't mind looking for it.
What I'm saying is, well... I'm not entirely sure. I can't hide from reality, trust me I've tried.
What I want is a shield. Something, rather someone, to numb me from all of the horrible things in my life. I want a comfort zone and I envy those who have it. They talk freely of love and warmth, yet speak only of dysfunction when their family is the topic.
It is bizarre to me that you can feel alone is a room full of people. But that is another story, one of human frailty and paranoia. I do wish my thoughts ran in unison, but their disjointed manner leaves a gap that makes me long for the closure I deserve. Or, simply, for someone to fill the silence.

He looked up from his desk, startled by the sound of a tap on the glass window that sat before him. Cautiously, he rose and opened the door.

"Hello?"
"Hi. I'm looking for William Halloway."
"I'm Will, how can I help you?"
"I'm your sister."

why is it that when you ask a question, people find the need to point out its faults instead of being helpful?

Sorry I haven't written in awhile.
Things have been.... Intense. A part of me still hopes we will find Mike... alive and well. It's been eight months now and everyone but me has given up hope. I know he is out there somewhere. I have no proof but something just tells me he is okay.
I loved him. I still do love him. There is an ache and an emptiness that can only be filled by him.
I know I sound crazy, but it's all I have. When you've lost nearly everything, hope is all you have.
Sometimes I think of what life would be like if he were still here. That day... the fire. It would have been so much less painful had he been there to hold me and tell me it was all going to be okay.
I don 't know what to think anymore. The police closed the case. They said he was dead and that was that. Nobody was ever discovered, and that is one of the few things that seems to keep me going.
God I miss him. I miss his laugh, his smile. I miss the way you feel like you are the center of the word when you are around him.
That all changed when he got addicted. I wish he had never tried it the first time. Then again, not all of us are strong enough to fight peer pressure. I thought he could....
In any case, I'm grudgingly getting along without him. I would give anything to get him back though.
God, I'm, rambling. I'd best sign off then.
Love,

Anna

dr4281129: game over moron, resign
dr4281129: i will kick your stupid ass as soon as i mate you


ah. the downsides to modern technology. i suppose he was not hugged enough as a child.

“This can’t continue.” I said as I sat down, bracing myself for what I was about to admit.”I can’t keep lying to you like I have been. I love you too much and each day has been a struggle with myself for how horrible I have been to you.”
“You’ve been wonder...”
“Please. No. I haven’t. I just need to say what I need to say. You need to be angry at me and we have to never speak again. “
He sat down, obviously confused.
“I... I’m not who I say I am. I know this sounds cliche. I am a scam artist, on the run. My name is not Trudy Owens, it’s Samantha Hayes. I stopped my list of horrid deeds just long enough to fall in love with you. That fact that I hurt you is destroying me inside. You are the reason I decided to come clean. I love you too much to keep you. You’re free. Please, I can’t bear to look at you. I hate myself more than anything.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“I do. Tell me you hate me and that you never want to speak to me again. I want you to. I deserve it.”
“But I don’t hate you. You loved me when no one else did. I’m grateful to be honest.”
“Grateful! It was all lies! I hurt you! Why aren’t you angry?”
“I told you. Please, calm down. You had your reasons.”
“STOP JUSTIFYING ME. I am horrible.” With that, she burst into tears that shook her.

A single rose braved the harsh autumn winds. She watched in appraisal.
How had things gotten so out of control? Life had proven once again that it had the upper hand.
She thought back to her treatment of Joshua. How cold and awful she had been to him. All he had wanted was closure, all she had given him was disregard.
Now she was alone and that terrified her more than anything.
Her secret desire was to be loved. For someone to be attracted to her mess... How childish. Life was not a romance novel.
She stared at her reflection in disgust. Insomnia and stress had left her face gaunt and her hair lank.
Natalie collapsed on to her bed, head in hands. Within the past two months, everything she held dear became lost or was jeopardized.

I’d best explain how my misery started. I guess I’ll start with the day I met him.

I was 20, a junior in college. He was an infatuation gone wrong.
I was on break in between classes, sitting in a cafe, mindlessly staring out the window. He walked in, passively, nothing extraordinary about him. Except his jawline. Odd as it may seem, I go for the jawline. It defines a person’s face and finishes off what may seem plain.
He carried a messenger bag and appeared to be a typical college student.
Time ensnared my futile staring. I didn’t want him to think me some sort of stalker, but I was far away, my body and mind innocent passerby’s. This occurred for a week, me spending my time hoping to gawk at this man.
There was a sharp whoosh from the frigid wind and the clang of a door. I looked up from my laptop at his back. Finally, I decided to go talk to him. His image had been possessing my thoughts, controlling my day. I started with a cliche “hello” and introduced myself as a nearby student. He smiled politely, yet seemed guarded. I boldly sat down across from him and studied his laced fingers as if they would reveal an important secret.
His name was Josh, he was a sophomore destined to major in journalism. He wanted to travel. He talked some more and his voice seemed to float through me. How could I obsess over him like this? Was it a longing to know what made his eyes the cold blue that they were or why he seemed to hold back? A fault of the human mind? But here we were, talking about mundane, average aspects of daily life.
We parted as acquaintances, knowing full well we would see each other again.

Two years had passed since she had met him in the cafe. Time had seemed to slow down for them, letting them fall in love. She just had to go out an ruin it all, didn’t she? Now that it was all over, time speed up to make up for itself.
She had lived in a dreamlike trance through it all, abusing every aspect of it. Stupidity and love seem to go hand in hand. Her paranoia had kicked in, because for once in her life, things were going well.

Disgusting plastic society.

I hate the smell of everything in Bath and Body Works. Call me what you what but everything is disgusting. Truly... disgusting. Half the stuff smells like straight chemicals or what my grandmother's house smells like after it's been cleaned. Malls in general are just places where too many bad things mix. Too much noise, too big, too many people.... Just too much going on. You spend your time whirring your head around trying to take everything in. And you miss out on why you went in the first place, because the sale in Old Navy has caught your attention.
You go in and spend twice as much as you had planned. Then you pop into a bunch of overly glamorous, over the top places that shout for attention.
Hunger pains and your grumbling stomach then decide to kick in. You head to the food court. Bad plan. It's like standing in a cosmetic aisle trying to decide the best product. Fifteen restaurants come into view. The usual stuff. Sushi, pizza, two Italian restaurants and an Indian place. Of course there is a person with free samples wandering down the crowded walkway, trying to make it that they are the best possible decision. All the smells, delicious on their on, melt into a gagging aroma.
You walk past an ice cream stand on the way to get pasta salad from a group on non-English speaking workers. Then you change your mind. You want pizza, do you? You are still unsure about it. This is crazy! Spending 10 minutes to decide over what will take you 5 minutes to eat.
Pizza it is. With extra cheese and mushrooms. Ahh.. the sweet taste of caloric intake. But now it is time for dessert. Oh no! More deciding time! You were already supposed to have gone in, gotten done what was needed and left... an hour ago. Well, I guess it's ok. You don't really have plans for the afternoon and your friend did change her plans to tag along at the last possible second.
Nothing like the taste of a day-old, cold cookie to break up your thoughts, as you wonder why you would buy such a thing in the first place.
Well, you think, I'd best get what I need. How I hate Christmas shopping. They push the season too much, its no longer religious, it's commercial.
A new razor you know your husband won't open, Ipod's for the kids, a mortgage loan for your house due to what you end up spending...
Ah! They long day is finally over, what did it take, 3 hours?
Getting into your mini van you scold yourself for being to frivolous.

Life is simply a meter of how long you have to brighten someone’s world. Don’t busy yourself with nonsense you’ll forget in five months. Make the most of each day while you still can, before the time you ignore takes hold of you. In the end, you have to see how well you did. They say life flashes before you eyes at the end. Make it worth watching.

1. This is how it began, honestly. I swear.

2. I never saw him again after that fate full summer night.

3. She smiled at the rose that braved the harsh autumn winds.

4. The laughter of children haunted her, she could never face her past.

5. Natalie was alone and that terrified her more than anything.

The laughter of children haunted her, she could never face her past. It had been 16 years since the accident. 16 years of living a lie. Maybe not a lie, but a secret so deep and dark that it threatened to ruin her very existence.

Work. The thing you dread but it also keeps you going. The safety of routine.
Getting up too early. Going to bed too late. No time for fun. No voice of your own. You are a robot, programmed to do the will of your managers and bosses.

This is why it’s good to work under the table for as long as possible. Be an office gopher.

So here is my story.

My name is Maggie. I have some sort of biblical- colonial name. Magdelyn Edith Parrington. My brother Gideon had the worst trouble out of the three of us. I think my parents are sadists to be honest.
Back to work. I’m 24, and a social outcast due to my name. I’ll stop. In any case, I am an intern (nice way of saying office bitch). I’m going for my 19th degree, at least it seems that way. I have so much to do these days it is insane.

I work at a law office full of Polish names I can neither spell or pronounce. It’s been a month since I’ve been here. Two months to go. I am counting the days.
I enjoy my chosen line of work, and I enjoy money even more. I just hate THIS PLACE. I hope no one sees this. This is just one of those things I need to write before my cycle of going mad is complete.
I reside in a glorified closet. It’s filled with clothes. And kitties. I spend half my day questioning why I got the cats in the first place, and the other half neurotically checking my clothes for fur.
My job seems to consist of doing whatever needs to happen. There is no rhyme or reason to the tasks I have to perform. That mixed with the befuddling disorganization of the place leads me to involuntarily twitch. Perhaps it is not that serious, but it feels that way at times.
I get there at 8, leave when I can escape. My way home is a mess of darting across never-ending streets and climbing the flights up to my fourth floor walkup.Then feeding my cats and cleaning up after them. I usually plop some frozen thing into the oven and stare at the TV. I’m lucky if I get into bed before 11.
So this is my life for an unidentifiable period of time. Odd as it may seem, I don't think about it too much. I'm too busy. So busy it fills the space in bed next to me, making me forget I am indeed alone. Excluding the two purring cats who refuse to acknowledge me.

One of a variety of creations.

I don’t even know where to start. Well, Monday I tried on her glasses, Tuesday I watched her try and put her leg behind her head, then moan about her arthritis and how flexible she used to be. Then there was the conversation involving bestiality and maggots.
Today there was the incident involving the table. I can’t even begin to… Oh my god.
Oh and the thing with the 35 year old guy. Eww.
Art is a test of strength, not mental, not physical. Just strength. Because we all contribute to each other’s madness. I doubt it’s intentional; it’s just our way. We can’t change.
I learned the great lesson that glitter and Styrofoam are the STDs of the art world. That fact will really come in handy some day.
Life is a series of events where I try to shield myself from the perverted freaks and end up becoming one myself. I guess it can’t be avoided.




High school: all the things you hate about your life spawned into reality. It's a bit like an acid trip, but only some of the people are on drugs. The noise can get deafening, time seems to freeze, and, of course all the equally annoying things you learn to ignore. They kind of become the melody of daily life; buzzing, slamming, people talking at, instead of to each other. The reminds me, have you noticed the temperature is never comfortable? It's like a real version of Goldilocks without the talking bears.
This education, deemed necessary, becomes a place to practice your survival tactics, in a manner of ways. You rush through it half-heartedly, oblivious at times, often intentionally.

It becomes a way to numb yourself through.

If you do stop for a moment, say, as a way to take as long as possible to get to your next class, you begin to notice the things you tune out. Graffiti, unidentifiable substances, and mysterious odors, suddenly spring out at you, as if waiting in the shadows for you to notice them. Then you spy the sicking glare of the fluorescent lights on the tile. You question why they bothered to use tile in the first place. Cost effective, or as a way to enhance the dungeon-esqe feel?
You suddenly snap out of your reverie because some oaf with an over-active pituitary gland slams into you and, without hesitation, continues on his way.

The joys of daily life.

So you advance to class, with your newly bruised shoulder. You couldn't care any less about this class, but you care about school so you attend it. So you sit slouched and listen to a man as old as the history you're learning about, talk about something you don't need to know. Shifting a bit, the seat won't give. Oh, right! No freedom to move in those horrid desk-chair offspring. Something guaranteed to drive you mad.

Or has it already happened?



Cynical. That's how I'd describe myself in three words or less.
I observe though, I sit and I watch. or I crack jokes that get the nerdy kids to smile.
I don't forward to anything and no, I'm not suicidal, abused, or anything for that matter. I like to think of myself as someone you can never place, free and fluid. Perhaps it's just my aspiration. I'm everything you find written on a bathroom wall, in rumors and in practice. Random philosophies you create when you are too bored to focus.
I'm sorry I don't fit into your teenage stereotype. I'm just who I want to be, I shock, I amaze, and I scare the hell of out people. It gives me my kicks.
Yes, I'm still wincing under the glare of the flourescent lights, one of the few things that will forever remain stationary.
That oaf who crashed into me, I saw him again today in the hall. He near knocked over a freshman. Poor kid. And of course, he kept going like nothing happened. I hope karma bites him in the ass. Yea, I sound cold. Whatever. Can't be bothered with self reflecting. There are too many tests for that. Ha! Standardized tests are to blame for society's inability to give a shit. Sorry, I'm in a weird mood. Weirder than usual, not that you can tell.
I envy the people who complain they are boring. I don't view normalcy as boring. You are jealous of what you don't have, I don't have anything normal affiliated with me, thus, I long for it.
There ain't nothing like my friends. The art freaks. I have this love-hate relationship with them. Lately, they have only been able to make my queasy. It's nice being able to have an innuendo free conversation. That's not the case with this bunch. Then again, and and insanity seem to naturally go hand-in-hand.
I wonder if it's possible to be creative and not cut your ear off. Okay, so maybe not that drastic, but you get the idea. All the famous artists were insane, and then became famous after they died. So I guess that' my plan. I didn't really have a say in it, it seems predetermined. I'm to paint melting clocks, with my moustache, which might me difficult to grow considering my gender. Then I die poor.
You are wondering why I talk this way about art? Well, I have already told you I'm cynical. Mix that with my freak friends (and yes, they admit to it) and you are left with a putrid mess.
Madness is amusing though. I don't know what to think though. I have no flipping idea, and society is telling me I should be taking the SATs and thinking about college. I can't even remember what I had for breakfast!
You're not listening are you?

Life is simply a meter of how long you have to brighten someone’s world. Don’t busy yourself with nonsense you’ll forget in five months. Make the most of each day while you still can. Before the time you ignore takes hold of you. In the end, you have to see how well you did. They say life flashes before you eyes at the end. Make it worth watching.

what a marvelous and mysterious world

how does one go about correcting their faults

subconsious or not?

why internet and not books? are we that desprate for constant movement? mental, not physical................ obviously

running from reality was her favourite pastime. her dreamword was all she had.

reality could get to be too much at times. 

but when does imagination become a problem? 

when you are too scared to face yourself in the mirror?

natalie felt so small and insignificant.

something about the way he said her name drove her mad. he was but a mere stranger, eventually to pass without a memory.

yet she yearned for more

mindless ponderings

Have you ever noticed that from July to November, the months spell Jason?

What defines listening versus waiting for your turn to speak?

Everyone, at some point or another is unknowingly a;
Hypocrite
Coercer
Thier own worst enemy