okay, i think it's reasonable that i've just had a mental breakdown after holding back on every possible emotion for so long

okay

we're okay

it's just that i've been focusing on being happy so much that i forgot how oddly appealing it was to be angry and bitter and sad and passionate

i know you can be passionately happy, but i'm just not

not today, not lately

[to be finished recounting at a later date - too lazy]

wow. katie's party was a ride.

we sat around the glass square table, all of us in our scanty lingerie
little paper ketchup holders brimming with dark, red, vodka jello shots, cups of mixed drinks, and a giant bong occupied the central space
the pipe was passed around the table, the base of the hookah slowly rotating with each hand-off
music played in the background as


"I want to be inside your head..."
"But you are..."
"You know what I mean."


"Stop giving me those looks!"
"You started it"
"Ah, so I take the blame?"
"Yes, you do."
"Alright, I take credit for the looks then. I can deal with that."
"Credit? Only a few seconds ago you were taking the blame!"
"Yeah but..."
"Yes. Well, either way, you're right. It's credit."
"It's credit."

a midnight phonecall

pallay is perceptive as always.
he just said that since she was my first ever reciprocated crush (and that's one out of two instances), this was why i put so much emphasis and meaning upon it. the first "real" kiss, the first surprise in finding out that someone could possibly be interested in me, the first realization that i had the power to hurt, and then by extension, the vulnerability to be hurt back, but worse...

ah welz
(im too tired to carry this thought any further, but i just needed to document the feeling. ha. you know.

anyways, goodnight. )

lackluster

you know why i think i have this necessity to write all the time?
i think it's because i need to feel like events in my life actually happened,
and that emotions i've experienced were actually, at some point or another, in fact, experienced.
it's a mental problem i have. i think it's the fact that i'm a nostalgist, and that my memory is bad. so, thus, i need to record what i feel, and what i've experienced, so that i may look back upon it and experience things once again.

feelings are so ephemeral that sometimes it's questionable as to whether or not they were actually ever there. and they were. and they are. and they're changing, all the time,
but
their fleetingness does not dismiss their existence.
and it is this which i must remind myself of.


so here goes:
i'm scared.
of what, i do not know...
i'm scared she hates me / is bitter towards me / is disgusted or turned off by me
but more than all of that, i'm scared she's indifferent and that she's completely moved on.
it's athazagoraphobia, i guess...
hmm
how tragic this all is.


at least i have taylor, who i think is incredible.

"you keep giving me these looks!"
"haha, yes, i know. i know i do. and sometimes they mean something and sometimes they don't, so you're just going to have to deal! :)"
"haha, alright! well, you'll keep me guessing then, i suppose."

she was very touchy with me tonight. i suppose so was i. in an intimate way. not necessarily sexual, not necessarily friendly. on the straits, really.

man, i like this. a lot.

i wonder how tomorrow night will be. or, well it's after midnight now, so how tonight will be. fuck. fuck
fuck.
fuck.
i'm worried.

oh well. in the words of kelsey, i will just roll with it.

the end. and i will keep writing, i promise.

fact of the matter is, i fucking hate andy warhol. i think he was a pretentious, fake little fuck. i hate his philosophies, i hate his face, i hate his art, but i specifically hate how you like him so much. he was nauseatingly cliche, and you are most certainly not, though you pathetically strive to be.

i don't know.

blessure

you don't understand how fortunate i feel to exist. i'm alive. i feel like an open wound. i feel sensitive to everything. i'm always hurting. i bleed with reckless abandon.
and my god, how i hope i never heal and turn into a scar. i never want to be encased in tough skin that doesn't feel. i want the vulnerability. i want the raw emotions. i want. if i were a cold, unfeeling, numb scar, would i ever want? would i ever desire? would i ever feel passion?

i'm an open wound, not a scar. i'm tattered, busted flesh, flapping in the wind. i'm the soft, new skin below the surface, suffocating from the exposure to uncomfortable amounts of fresh air.

lick me up, kiss me, rub the pad of your thumb along me. i want you so close that i can feel the subtle up-down-up-down of your fingers as the texture of their identifiable patterns find solace in the nooks and crannies of my own stinging, throbbing physicalness.
("physicalness"? who knows. will fix eventually.)