So Pam

I wish you would stop asking so many questions. And twenty of them come within the first couple seconds I wake up. Calm the hell out. Leave me alone for a bit. I know you noticed I wasn't happy today, you asked me, naturally. You KEPT asking me, actually. It's funny too the way dad can come in in the morning and be as quiet as a mouse while making coffee and then you come in and it sounds like a goddamn bull in a china shop. Inconsiderate sometimes I take it. You're sweet as pie sometimes, Pam but really... think for a second before you slam the fridge door, or drop a plate onto the table, or start whistling and speaking like you're on stage. Someone is sleeping on the couch, probably dreaming of a nicer vacation than the one shes actually having.

It's almost as if last night, as I lay there unaware of the relationship, that admired silk shirt that loyal itself to me always, made a bond with my hair. Each thread finding a lone strand of hair to love forever always.

....Short for saying,my hair was oddly soft and silky today.

Ting Ting Ting

Smiling is like a tiny hammer against my cheek felt over a million times. Smiling, for how long? Minutes. Laughing for minutes. That tiny hammer has been so busy lately I'm afraid it might break instead.

Raisin

I find that hearing my mom's voice mail makes me want to throw every dish around the house and slam my fists into the wall. There are times where I was just talking to her a couple minutes ago and I try to call back because I had forgotten something, no shock there, and I get no answer. What catastrophic event happened in those few minutes that's causing you to ignore my call when you know what I nit-pick bitch I am. Sometimes I actually hope the house catches on fire one day and she doesn't answer the phone, only to come home to NOTHING. Maybe she'll answer he phone more often, hum?
This all sounds a little crazy, but it's only with her that it makes me this livid. Friends - it's fine. Other family - S'alright, don't care. Mom - AKSLJDALKJSDFUCK.
On another note I've been to exhausted lately and my mouth feels like a desert every few minutes. I keep having to press my tongue against the top of my mouth to rehydrate my mouth. How about my mouth kick it up with the generating of my saliva. Hello up there? Are you a seepa brain? Are you sleeping? I wouldn't doubt it considering how my grades dropped recently.

Ah it's so warm. I could just.... pass ou--Zzzz.

Family

What if I told you that in favor of a stem I would return it with a flower? You can't share it since one stem cannot hold two flowers, but instead you can put it together with my flower. It's petals are soft and full of pollen, a smell of overly fresh spring with the notion that it is covering up a soiled deed. The stem sturdy and supportive, a perfect touch against the receptacle. And the leaves perfect examples of the puzzle created before it.

Choo Choo

I want to feel his chest pressed against my back. Our calves running against each other in hungry friction. The tips of his fingers pressing into my hips in a simple action of command; stay. I need to feel what hot sighs leave his mouth to brush against my neck, just as he needs to hear mine escape with every endurance of him I survive. I hope to bare what sign of him I can either in human form or in limited eyes vision. Youthful as we are the string of thought lingers for weeks, months, and at times those seconds that feel like years. He is a nameless train, as I am an unbuilt tunnel. It is unknown when construction begins, how long it will take, and how beautiful it will end, but there is a promise of construction.

Mom, why must you be right?

I suppose I'm just not feeling adequate today. I'm not sure why. It's been a while since a swing. I felt overly fantastic this morning but then--that's what did it, the guy on the bus. "You're a girl, right?" "Yeah." "Sor--" "No it's fine." No, it isn't fine. It's questioning the little femininity that I have. I don't wear make-up, I don't have boobs, but you'd think my facial structure might give it away. It isn't manly, not to me. Just when I was beginning to see a little beauty in myself and notice how I was growing up and into a woman I get gender questioned. I never realized how much it was affecting me.It's not like I could change the clothes and be done with it, I don't want to have to.
I would like someone who could make me feel like I might actually be attractive, or that I might be a good person, because now I believe neither of those things. I don't want someone online, someone who has never met me in person, someone who has only seen the pictures I pose for and get ready for and make as pretty as I can. Someone who can see me move, see my facial expressions change, see my mannerisms and see how unique I used to think they were. Someone who, for once, will ask "how are you" before I can ask them. Someone who is as interested as I am. Not just doing life because it's a chore.

I can't focus, I'm done.

Caramel Snow

On my way home there is this dog Rick. This poor fella' sits outside day and night, day after day, year after year. But even after all of these grimy years of being outside I still hold him as the most beautiful dog I've seen. He has eyes like melted caramel, melted.. hardened, it's dark caramel. Burnt from the inside and it grows out and explodes over the glossy white surface of his sclera. It's like the caramel star gone Nova. His fur is whiter than cotton. Its purity penetrates you when revealed. It's almost as if the bible in the Devil's hands. His fur makes the paper you work on off white, it makes the clouds of a fairytale day seem gray. I sometimes am afraid to pet him because I might be sucked in by what I'll refer to as his "white hole." I'm not sure what to name this trait except a dog's anticipation, but on those rare occasions that I do walk home he seems to sense my feet padding against the sidewalk. I see his shining white head pop up from the fence as if a child with a head like the sun. I'll stand a few minutes with him, scratch his ear, pity him, pity his backyard set home and wish deeply that I could take him with me someday. That maybe he'll get the strength and courage to lunge over that fence and find his way to my house.
If I did believe in God, I've believe it was him, Rick. God can take the form of whatever he likes, hes everywhere if even a little, so says those bible thumpers. But if I really could believe I'd believe most of Him was there in Rick.

Planner Post

In school I sometimes get the urge to write, and being the lazy fool I am I'll take out my planner instead of a sheet of paper and scribble away. This will be the first time I share something actually from my planner. I wrote it in Japanese class when a girl was being promiscuous, however it came to life later in the day in AP Psychology when we discussed "intimacy".
"Vulgar. Sexual. Craving. Deprived. ... Disgusting but unchanged. Natural. It's all over the place. At times it infuriates me, stops me cold, provokes a protective mold around me. Other times, lone times, I wander in scenarios. Hypocritical, for me. I feel blind, stupid, unopened. Untouched. Ridiculous. A fools mind. I'm fighting in me to find the right way to criticize it, to do it, to like it."

Continuing..

It's human nature but sometimes I get a tick from hearing about people wanting to do it, about to do, already doing it. Does it make me controlling that I wished they'd waited or would? Or does it make me moral filled. Is it out of fear of guilt or is it out of fear of pain, performance awareness, or the reality that I might not like it and relief will never come? Strong will? Whatever it is, I know I'm not ready, I don't have the time, the stability, the... I haven't chosen anyone worthy in truth. Not worthy in the prospect that I'm superior or full of worth, but in the equal sense, or close to it. So far as style, needs, wants, and so on continue.

I'm cold. I'm going to go lay down and PONDER.

A Minuscule Event

I was laying in bed reading, and as always every couple minutes I will close the book and think or look around before I continue reading. Well, I looked around and what I saw caught my attention, pulled out my amazement and the words began to form in my head. It was like my own colorless Northern Lights show. I inhaled deeply before exhaling what I felt as a circular cone of breath. It disrupted the dust particles in the sunlight with a domino effect. Sparkles of dust rolled like dust clouds against each other down the line, and as it moved the dust behind it would cease to roll. As I continued to watch these tiny souls would slowly fall, rise, and glide in and out of life, in and out of the sun light. It is like a thin, fragile wall of mini suns moving at their own freewill; gravity ignoring their existence. My fascination is unexplainable except for the acceptance of beauty. When I die I want to be as beautiful as these minuscule events.

I Just Wanna Tear Out Your Stomach And Get My Food Back

Why does the universe absolutely hate my guts today? I went to the doctor's around 2:50 today to have her tell me that I have swimmers ear once again. Cause? A bath. Apparently my ear tubes are shaped weird making me more vulnerable. However, I was damn glad I went in today because if not it could have spread to my brain and given me a brain infection, turning me into a stock of celery. I just hope these pills work, because something she said made me think they might not. "If you have worse pain tomorrow, go straight to the ER." "If". She had the thought that it was a possibility and within that, had only faith in the pills.
On another note there's a minuscule little mouse in my closet snacking on my bagels, ramen, and gram crackers. I've got a hunch this thing can jog around my palm.

I can't find anything else I really want to add in except how self conscious I'm going to be lately. I'm a fool to smother and complain and I feel like shutting up and backing off. So let the temporary change commence.

Keys To Life

So I listened to a friend play piano on skype and, for lack of a better phrase, I felt opened to something new. After listening to Wesley compose in front of me his songs full of absolute misery, David's music was almost like something you'd find in a movie where two people are beginning a type of bond, or even a happy ending song. It was the opposite of what I had listened to with Wesley.
In my honest opinion I find music a better emotional communicator than conversation. Music takes the inner personality that we either store away or ignore and it brings it to noise, to attention, to awareness. When you make something you make it out of familiarity and what it means to you is entirely out of nature and nurture, past experiences and the such, making music and art the best way of expression. There is no one person who can't feel music, some feel it better than others, like a cold wind that has filled you from your toes to your finger tips, or even like a thousand soft petals pressing against your skin. It all might be a bunch of cornbread to you but music moves me more than movies, more than art, more than most writing and much much more than any conversation I will ever have. At first I felt like I might be the oddball of such feelings but I've come to find, through reading The Awakening, that it is natural to feel music, even if only a little.
The smallest piece of music can send someone into a reeling escapade of emotions.

Woodchuck

Would you still be mad knowing the things I do are out of immense fear?