| I also had a dream that mostly involved trying ot talk to peopel at school or in a movie/airplane thing...funny how things never work out quite right, even in my dreams. Jamie Spooner, Neil Sterling and Joel Griffith had a crane and they kept putting our cars upside down and I had to yell at them. Then, the Katz's were Scott Longpre's half sisters and I kept complaining about that. Jp had an om tattoo (symbol, not word.) I'm terrified of someone being right outside my window- especially at night. Someday I'll have thick curtains. It's silly, because I'm more afraid of them being out there than of being raped or killed. Somewhere I read that a lot of people fear spiders more than death. Humans are so messed up. I wish we ran on logic that made sense. And just because she didn't get in doesn't make it a bad school. It makes it too good of a school, if anything. You're loyal to the point of ridiculous, but in an immature way. I don't mean to offend, but don't be so silly. I feel sick, nauseas, light headed. It makes me physically ill to think about you two. I feel like a knife's been stabbed into my chest but refuses to kill me all the way. The pain is so internal and even crying can't help it. I hate things incurable and this could only be cured by death or maybe time or loss of conciousness. Even if every ridiculous measure was taken, if everyone did everything to help me, the memory of it would linger and it would come back. I'd remember what had hurt and the fact that it ever happened would be enough. You never loved me, I can't believe you, it all feels like lies and I wish I'd go into shock and feel nothing, doctors would never prescribe drugs for this type of pain but no type needs them more. Look at me, so stereotypical, so cheesy, making everyone who reads this thing "get over it, buck up," but to them I say "Fuck you, FUCK you, you're not me and you don't know because if you did you wouldn't be so quick to criticize, fuck you, go to hell." Though I'd never ask for them to die because what kind of punishment is that? That's why I'm against the death penalty. Maybe this is my purgatory, if I believed in that. After this, will I go to heaven? I can't imagine heaven being able to help me, not completely, not unless my memory is erased. I hate you, as it's only natural to hate a liar (even if they weren't lies to you either at the time) and if I could only wholly hate you I'd be okay, but I don't, and the opposite of love is indifference and that's not in sight. I need to leave, another year in Chelsea could kill me. If I could only know, have any idea, what will happen next year, I could make the decision to go to a different school. But I don't know, instead I hope, I have a list of hopes and I have to stay here to see if they'll come to reality, and I want to stay with my friends although making new ones wouldn't be so bad. You tell me. Would you miss me if I were to go away? To talk to you only occasionally on weekends and see you never? It wouldn't be so different from now, would it? But I was hoping next year would be different. I don't want to force it to be the same by leaving...but I don't want to wait and find out that it is anyway. And then, there's new people- who says I'd care about you? Ideally I'd forget all about you, but I don't really want that. I want to forget the pain, but not you. I don't want to run away and never see you again but I feel like I'm being driven away, like I might be healthier there. You tell me. Tell me what you'd have me do. Stay: tough it out, probably annoy you, but give us the chance for another chance, and I stay with my friends and the people in the world who give a damn about me, and at the very least I could work through my "hope list" and see what becomes of that. Or, I leave: lose most all contact with you, lose any hope of another chance ever, never see you again, not enough to count anyway, never rebuild that friendship, but also not annoy you, do you proud and live my life without you- I have little life left in Chelsea once I cut you out of it- and to my benefit there are new people and a chance to start over, which I'm looking forward to in college. So you tell me what to do. You're opinion is not the final decision but I want it. The only way I can successfully live my life passively, like you want me to, is to leave. But I don't want to leave. I'm not passive, just full of useless impuslses and action. Why is it now, too late (and too early), that I get romantic inspiration? Useless! You always say you don't know what to say. Say what you feel. Anger is fine but apathy, silence...it's so cold. Say what you feel. You can never feel nothing. The air is so stagnant and heavy and still today, unless you're right on the beach. It's poison. It's frustrating to have no one to do things for but yourself. I don't need to find a nice gift or souvenir- only things for myself. No one I need to call. No postcards, unless I buy one for everybody. I could bring everyone something little but it's not the same. Against all popular opinion, I do not only care about myself. I like doing things for other people. Ladies! (and men too I suppose). When your nipples begin to point to the ground, you're too old to go topless. I painted a pot today at a booth run by an old Mexican man (whose coughs rang of dying) and a woman I presumed to be his daughter. They carried on in silence or in Spanish, I'd like to think he was sharing with her vast art wisdom but I'm sure they wre only gossipping and laughing at all the burnt Americans in the bar. A distinctive rank smell hovered over them, one I associate with foreign artists but which probably has more to do with strong spices and poor hygeine. A big fly with stained glass eyes tried to bite me. We're on an ATV trip through the jungle. It's very scenic, although I've been paying more attention to the roads. We're swimming now in a cave-thing, but I opted not to, I didn't wear my suit and don't feel like changing in the brush. I'm very dusty. There are a bunch of heavily highlighted, heavily annoying teenage girls with us. I like ATVs- but then again I like driving in general. Power trip. The girls are southern, in accent and manner. The white ones are the same color as the black (perhaps mulatto?) one. That can't be healthy. When I was riding I could see in my shadow (who is always more attractive than me anyway) that my hair was blowing back and all over and I felt sort of proud- I'll never have it short again, I think. I also have a more serious attitude towards the dust bowl. I can write on my arms and legs and grow trees in my eye sockets. I'm a lovely shade of brown, though. In Mexico, the family car is a Vespa. It's okay to put your wife and two infantile children on your scooter with you. Traffic signs are only suggestions. Do you think I'm being melodramatic? You make me chuckle. I'm not. |