i hate February. hate it with a passion.
we are one month into 2010. nothing really interesting has happened. it's like we are leaving behind something, like we are feeling for a limb lost. it takes time to get used to this new year.
blah blah.
the weather is absolute shit. cold, icy, dry, completely barren. the sky is gray, not even hinting at blue. the people suck too. everyone's in a shitty mood. their hands are numb, their backs hurt, they can't sleep, they're stressed and need a vacation. they're tired from this endless winter. their asses are bruised because they slipped on an icy patch of sidewalk.
it's always been ironic to me that Valentine's Day occurs durring such a dismal month. but perhaps it happened that way on purpose - to break up the monotony and misery of February.
still; don't you think it would make a lot more sense for Valentine's Day to be in the Spring? let's say . . . April or May?
anyway.
tired tired bored bored. don't want to go to sleep, yet again.
i've had a terrible weekend. my mother wouldn't let me out of the house because we had to "clean" (all we really did was sit around and watch TV - we're all a bunch of procrastinators haha). my friends got drunk and had fun without me. i was upset, but got over it. i though to myself: well, now you get a chance to fast undisturbed.
yeah.
fat chance.
friday night, i purged. then ate nothing.
saturday started beautifully. i ate clean nothing, cept a handful of rasins and my coffee, and i even worked out a little. i was feeling amazing, really productive and on the right track - when some asshole ordered chinese.
i wolfed that shit. BINGE. so then i just said, fuck it, and threw the towell in. i ate two yogurts, all the raisins, a piece of toast. then i went out and bought frozen yogurt and ate that too.
i felt terrible and ugly and fat. i poked my stomach and all i could see was myself waking up the next morning, ten pounds heavier.
sunday, today, should have been a day of penance. and it sorta was. again, just like saturday, it started out well. nothing, nada. the bit i did eat, i puked in my friend's bathroom. i used her scale afterwards and found out that SOMEHOW, i'd lost three pounds. i was 111. i was very very pleased.
then i went home. avoided dinner.
and then for no reason whatsoever, i just went down stairs and binged. carrots and chips and salsa, cheese, grahm crackers, and GASP, Mallomars.
nasty.
i am nasty.
i have to be strong. i must get through just ONE DAY where i do not eat. where i succed. i'm so tired of these failures. they're fucking with my head. i feel so good, my body light, and then i drown it with food, and it can't breath and it becomes fat with the need for less, showing me that i am excess and we need less, less, nothing. please, feed me nothing.
i will subsit on air.
i need to starve.
okay, my ghoulies and ghosties. 36 hour fast anyone?
let's do it.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
i should sleep more.
no. really. i should. i have this terrible habit of forgetting that it's a weekday and going to bed at, like, 3 in the morning. which is just STUPID, because i never DO anything. it'd be one thing if i was up late working on my novel. or even doing homework. but really, all i'm doing is effing around on the computer or re-reading a book i've already read a thousand times before.
sometimes, i sneak out onto my roof and smoke. it's too cold now. i can't wait for spring to come. for this winter to break.
so. i'm looking at the clock now, thinking: GO TO SLEEP YOU FREAK.
i need it. i've got bags under my eyes and i'm all strung out and irriatable. my stomach's been giving me hell these past couple days, and i'm beginning to suspect it's all the caffiene i've been consuming. i've had five cups of coffee today - and for a 14 year old who hasn't built up any stamina, that's a lot. i'm jittery and achey by nightfall. i start going nuts, writing and jotting shit down. then i stop, slow, nap.
the only thing i've eaten today besides the coffee, was these three little dutch cookie things at lunch. my stomachs growling in the very best way.
my head hurts and my nose is stuffed.
i'm getting sick.
i'm really fucking with myself.
oh, boo.
yay.
i'm pretty proud. i desperately want to get down under 110 pounds. i'm 114 now, and i think that is CERTAINLY doable. my ultimate goal is to be 100 by the end of the year. pretty possible too, eh?
show choir tommorow. fun fun fun fun
NOT.
ms. teacher keeps teasing us with promises of ROCK and ROLL and fun songs, and then she teaches us a boring Beatles tune (not to diss the Beatles, for they are GODS) and this retarded 1960s pop hit, "Ain't No Mountain High Enough".
ew.
you know what? i have to sleep.
goodbye ghosties.
no. really. i should. i have this terrible habit of forgetting that it's a weekday and going to bed at, like, 3 in the morning. which is just STUPID, because i never DO anything. it'd be one thing if i was up late working on my novel. or even doing homework. but really, all i'm doing is effing around on the computer or re-reading a book i've already read a thousand times before.
sometimes, i sneak out onto my roof and smoke. it's too cold now. i can't wait for spring to come. for this winter to break.
so. i'm looking at the clock now, thinking: GO TO SLEEP YOU FREAK.
i need it. i've got bags under my eyes and i'm all strung out and irriatable. my stomach's been giving me hell these past couple days, and i'm beginning to suspect it's all the caffiene i've been consuming. i've had five cups of coffee today - and for a 14 year old who hasn't built up any stamina, that's a lot. i'm jittery and achey by nightfall. i start going nuts, writing and jotting shit down. then i stop, slow, nap.
the only thing i've eaten today besides the coffee, was these three little dutch cookie things at lunch. my stomachs growling in the very best way.
my head hurts and my nose is stuffed.
i'm getting sick.
i'm really fucking with myself.
oh, boo.
yay.
i'm pretty proud. i desperately want to get down under 110 pounds. i'm 114 now, and i think that is CERTAINLY doable. my ultimate goal is to be 100 by the end of the year. pretty possible too, eh?
show choir tommorow. fun fun fun fun
NOT.
ms. teacher keeps teasing us with promises of ROCK and ROLL and fun songs, and then she teaches us a boring Beatles tune (not to diss the Beatles, for they are GODS) and this retarded 1960s pop hit, "Ain't No Mountain High Enough".
ew.
you know what? i have to sleep.
goodbye ghosties.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
shit damn
lemme introduce myself:
my name is Sylvia. Sylvie. whatever.
i'm fourteen.
i'm . . .
christ. i dunno.
i want to say something utterly poetic and insightful that will draw you in and make you love me and follow me and blah blah blah - but the words escape me.
story of my life, i guess.
right now, right here:
dead of winter, lost. a bit crazy, running around and getting myself hurt, trying to starve my flesh away. so very, very loud. there's a boy at school who's in love with me. my friends interrogated him for me, a typical bff favor. they asked him WHY DO YOU LIKE HER?????
he answered: "well, gosh. i think she's really pretty, and funny. and she's really hyper. she's really wild."
omg.
i heard this and went: ehgad.
he doesn't know the first of it.
i'm muthafucking nuts.
i'm insane.
not in the pleasant way.
i'm running and skipping and singing so very loudly, saying crazy things, saying wise things, saying things for attention. i'm baking and bombing tests and drinking in class. i'm hungy. i'm angry, happy in my anger. sighing and exposing skin, lighting a smoke and talking fast fast fast about why i need to GET OUT.
i'm manic.
i don't know how much of this is something more, or just my own fucking bullshit. regular teenage bullshit (i need to LIVE, i don't NEED YOU, i'm an adult, yeesh, so lemme go get drunk), regular ME bullshit, people bullshit - the search for something more, something better. getting so lost.
glorifying everything, because we are so scared of slipping away.
cuz we are such fucking cowards.
my name is Sylvia. Sylvie. whatever.
i'm fourteen.
i'm . . .
christ. i dunno.
i want to say something utterly poetic and insightful that will draw you in and make you love me and follow me and blah blah blah - but the words escape me.
story of my life, i guess.
right now, right here:
dead of winter, lost. a bit crazy, running around and getting myself hurt, trying to starve my flesh away. so very, very loud. there's a boy at school who's in love with me. my friends interrogated him for me, a typical bff favor. they asked him WHY DO YOU LIKE HER?????
he answered: "well, gosh. i think she's really pretty, and funny. and she's really hyper. she's really wild."
omg.
i heard this and went: ehgad.
he doesn't know the first of it.
i'm muthafucking nuts.
i'm insane.
not in the pleasant way.
i'm running and skipping and singing so very loudly, saying crazy things, saying wise things, saying things for attention. i'm baking and bombing tests and drinking in class. i'm hungy. i'm angry, happy in my anger. sighing and exposing skin, lighting a smoke and talking fast fast fast about why i need to GET OUT.
i'm manic.
i don't know how much of this is something more, or just my own fucking bullshit. regular teenage bullshit (i need to LIVE, i don't NEED YOU, i'm an adult, yeesh, so lemme go get drunk), regular ME bullshit, people bullshit - the search for something more, something better. getting so lost.
glorifying everything, because we are so scared of slipping away.
cuz we are such fucking cowards.
faith in worldy affairs
You lose your faith in the world all the time.
In fact, you woke up this morning and you could barely get out of bed, the weight of the whole world was so heavy. You are so tired, you are so scared, you just want to sleep or die. But then your mom strolls in and places a cup of tea on the desk next to your bed, and you think, Caffeine. Reality steps in and you shake off your shit and get up, because you know you have to deal, or at least try to learn to.
You refuse to be a pile of snotty failure that wraps itself up in your sheets and pillows and never leaves. You want to live, even if you live shitily.
So you get up and put on your clothes, look in the mirror and think, ew, fat. You drink your tea and do your makeup and leave your messy house. You go to school. You sing in chorus and deal with the teacher that loves to hate you. You bomb a billion math tests and suck at handing in your science homework. You say hello to friends and try to make everything okay. You feel closed off, disconnected, on the outside looking in.
Life goes on. The seasons pass. I suppose that even when you’re living a life you hate, it is important to note that time shows no mercy. It is always moving us forward.
So now it is summer, and you are, so suddenly, without any warning whatsoever - discovering yourself.
You move the furniture around in your room on an impulse, and suddenly, you see you in this space. You smoke a couple cigarettes and drink scotch with your uncle. You take some trips with friends, go swimming, get the lightest of tans. You sell lemonade and finally just say fuck it, and unleash yourself. A friend cuts off your stringy hair, and you are alive.
Summer comes to a close and here is September. Here is Autumn and boys and friends. You talk and smile. You are happy. You get a solo and you bring down the house. You write and feed your soul with the words. Your hair grows out again, you lose weight. You dress yourself in heels and jeans and low cut shirts and you flirt. You are so excited and young and breakable, so beautiful to your own eyes. Really, they are the only ones that matter.
You feel ready to fly, so strong. But then, there is still a part of you that longs for drama. You decide to starve yourself.
Fuck you know it sounds crazy. Honestly, that’s exactly what you want it to sound like. You want to go crazy. You want to get high. You want to be so close to God you could touch his beard.
So you do this, and then decide after a while that being a skinny rack of bones can take the backburner while you DEAL with your LIFE. In the weeks of calorie counting, you’ve picked up a few odd eating habits. You eat carrots with mustard, apples and yogurt and granola, healthy things you hated before, but now can’t live without. You don’t each lunch. Well, actually, you sugar load during lunch. Then you go home and have no less than five cups of caffeinated tea, a smoke when you can sneak it, some booze perhaps. You are jittery and sleepless well past your bedtime. You keep the radio on, and you type tirelessly by the light of your computer.
You write weird things; stories about children just barely grown up, drinking and driving and thinking. These stories have no plot. They are simply snapshots, broken smiles and melancholy and sex, sometimes. You buzz in a state of hyper active activity, going too fast to slow down and recognize how sad this is.
Then you start craving something. At first, you don’t know what it is. It’s just a nameless hunger; you have a lot of those, so you don’t think much of it. It grows. You become more vapid and jumpy. You figure it out after a while; you are dying to get high.
You want an extreme, more extreme, dying, living, breathing and stopping something ANYTHING to get you above everything, to lift you to a faster, better, stranger plane of existence. You feel mad as a hatter, and you only want to go deeper. You only want to get worse. You disregard the signals. You’re slipping. You don’t give a fuck. You’re dying for it, literally dying for it. They tell you no, no, please, no, rethink it please and thank you. Pity, those poor darlings, they’ll never understand. Those fucking shits, they don’t deserve to understand. It doesn’t matter anyway. You only want to try. Just a little, just a bit, I’ll be back soon, you promise. Sink to a place so dank and dark you think you’re back in the womb, and you know that everything is okay, because you know exactly what you want. You only want to feel less tired. You only want to feel better, stronger; you only want to go insane.
In fact, you woke up this morning and you could barely get out of bed, the weight of the whole world was so heavy. You are so tired, you are so scared, you just want to sleep or die. But then your mom strolls in and places a cup of tea on the desk next to your bed, and you think, Caffeine. Reality steps in and you shake off your shit and get up, because you know you have to deal, or at least try to learn to.
You refuse to be a pile of snotty failure that wraps itself up in your sheets and pillows and never leaves. You want to live, even if you live shitily.
So you get up and put on your clothes, look in the mirror and think, ew, fat. You drink your tea and do your makeup and leave your messy house. You go to school. You sing in chorus and deal with the teacher that loves to hate you. You bomb a billion math tests and suck at handing in your science homework. You say hello to friends and try to make everything okay. You feel closed off, disconnected, on the outside looking in.
Life goes on. The seasons pass. I suppose that even when you’re living a life you hate, it is important to note that time shows no mercy. It is always moving us forward.
So now it is summer, and you are, so suddenly, without any warning whatsoever - discovering yourself.
You move the furniture around in your room on an impulse, and suddenly, you see you in this space. You smoke a couple cigarettes and drink scotch with your uncle. You take some trips with friends, go swimming, get the lightest of tans. You sell lemonade and finally just say fuck it, and unleash yourself. A friend cuts off your stringy hair, and you are alive.
Summer comes to a close and here is September. Here is Autumn and boys and friends. You talk and smile. You are happy. You get a solo and you bring down the house. You write and feed your soul with the words. Your hair grows out again, you lose weight. You dress yourself in heels and jeans and low cut shirts and you flirt. You are so excited and young and breakable, so beautiful to your own eyes. Really, they are the only ones that matter.
You feel ready to fly, so strong. But then, there is still a part of you that longs for drama. You decide to starve yourself.
Fuck you know it sounds crazy. Honestly, that’s exactly what you want it to sound like. You want to go crazy. You want to get high. You want to be so close to God you could touch his beard.
So you do this, and then decide after a while that being a skinny rack of bones can take the backburner while you DEAL with your LIFE. In the weeks of calorie counting, you’ve picked up a few odd eating habits. You eat carrots with mustard, apples and yogurt and granola, healthy things you hated before, but now can’t live without. You don’t each lunch. Well, actually, you sugar load during lunch. Then you go home and have no less than five cups of caffeinated tea, a smoke when you can sneak it, some booze perhaps. You are jittery and sleepless well past your bedtime. You keep the radio on, and you type tirelessly by the light of your computer.
You write weird things; stories about children just barely grown up, drinking and driving and thinking. These stories have no plot. They are simply snapshots, broken smiles and melancholy and sex, sometimes. You buzz in a state of hyper active activity, going too fast to slow down and recognize how sad this is.
Then you start craving something. At first, you don’t know what it is. It’s just a nameless hunger; you have a lot of those, so you don’t think much of it. It grows. You become more vapid and jumpy. You figure it out after a while; you are dying to get high.
You want an extreme, more extreme, dying, living, breathing and stopping something ANYTHING to get you above everything, to lift you to a faster, better, stranger plane of existence. You feel mad as a hatter, and you only want to go deeper. You only want to get worse. You disregard the signals. You’re slipping. You don’t give a fuck. You’re dying for it, literally dying for it. They tell you no, no, please, no, rethink it please and thank you. Pity, those poor darlings, they’ll never understand. Those fucking shits, they don’t deserve to understand. It doesn’t matter anyway. You only want to try. Just a little, just a bit, I’ll be back soon, you promise. Sink to a place so dank and dark you think you’re back in the womb, and you know that everything is okay, because you know exactly what you want. You only want to feel less tired. You only want to feel better, stronger; you only want to go insane.
why, hello there . . .
it's funny how i went straight for the black layout.
chuckle chuckle.
care for a cup of coffee while we giggle?
my mother tells me i can't drink coffee. i do anyway. since our coffee pot has broken, i've been in mourning. i feel like i'm cheating on my joe with ol lipton.
but shit. a girl needs her caffiene.
the tea burns my tongue. Later, I will examine the pink flesh, go AHHH in the mirror, stroke the irritated bumps. But for now, I gulp like a maniac. Thoughts humming, mind jabbering: CAFFIENE CAFFIENE. More more more caffeine.
So much to do, so little time. A white rabbit, scampering toward the deadline, the deadline for the paper, for the life that I live so very reluctantly, the life that i refuse to give up.
Deadline for me, deadline for weight, must lose those last five pound, must finish the story, must do the math homework.
Can’t.
A string of curses.
Friends have abandoned me, all grounded on account of a midnight outing I was not able to attend. I regret this. Instead of running around in the dead of night, movie jumping, laughing and drinking – I went out to a diner with my mom. I ate a tuna melt and French fries, and two cups of coffee. Felt fat. Felt huge. Felt happy. Was very ashamed of this.
So then i went out and bought a tub of frozen yogurt, which I devoured. I comforted myself by telling myself that my friends could not possibly have had as much fun as they would if I had been there.
Still. I worry. I wonder what they have said about me, because, Jesus. Someone must be talking. I’m starving for the attention, the gossip, the DRAMA. It will mean I matter, if they talk about me behind my back. It will mean I matter.
i can't not matter.
chuckle chuckle.
care for a cup of coffee while we giggle?
my mother tells me i can't drink coffee. i do anyway. since our coffee pot has broken, i've been in mourning. i feel like i'm cheating on my joe with ol lipton.
but shit. a girl needs her caffiene.
the tea burns my tongue. Later, I will examine the pink flesh, go AHHH in the mirror, stroke the irritated bumps. But for now, I gulp like a maniac. Thoughts humming, mind jabbering: CAFFIENE CAFFIENE. More more more caffeine.
So much to do, so little time. A white rabbit, scampering toward the deadline, the deadline for the paper, for the life that I live so very reluctantly, the life that i refuse to give up.
Deadline for me, deadline for weight, must lose those last five pound, must finish the story, must do the math homework.
Can’t.
A string of curses.
Friends have abandoned me, all grounded on account of a midnight outing I was not able to attend. I regret this. Instead of running around in the dead of night, movie jumping, laughing and drinking – I went out to a diner with my mom. I ate a tuna melt and French fries, and two cups of coffee. Felt fat. Felt huge. Felt happy. Was very ashamed of this.
So then i went out and bought a tub of frozen yogurt, which I devoured. I comforted myself by telling myself that my friends could not possibly have had as much fun as they would if I had been there.
Still. I worry. I wonder what they have said about me, because, Jesus. Someone must be talking. I’m starving for the attention, the gossip, the DRAMA. It will mean I matter, if they talk about me behind my back. It will mean I matter.
i can't not matter.
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