Monthly Archive

 (I wrote this about a year ago for no reason. Thought it was kinda interesting. So now you can read it.  Half the names are changed to protect the people I no longer associate with.)

   

I have a hard time reading. 

Don’t let me lie, I mean, I am an expert reader.  I read fast, I retain everything, and I can comprehend at a twelfth grade level, or even higher. it’s good considering I’m twenty-one.

But reading.  I like to read. I love to read. I love to write. I love talking about books.  But if the book in my hand does not pick me up and drop like I’m a fucking hot frying pan full of burning oils in the first paragraph, I will set it down, and never pick it up again. 

But still, I will tell people I read it.  Because who’s too say that I didn’t?  I read the first paragraph.  And where you may not be able to judge a book by its cover.  You can by all means judge a book by its first paragraph. 

So I am sorry, young reader, if you are not compelled to keep reading.  I did not do my job as a writer, and for that I will be an adult, and I will apologize. 

I should have probably started out with a fast paced story line. Or maybe I should have described my first sexual experience in graphic detail.  After all, that is what keeps us interested.

I’m already losing you.  I can tell.  The problem is that I don’t know where to begin.  It’s been a year.  And if I don’t start writing now, I may never fully remember what I am trying to get across. But where to start?

Wait. I got it.  Sorry.

December thirty-first, two-thousand and five.

Imagine a parking lot.  Enough spaces for a couple thousand cars to be parked on a Sunday afternoon.  Street lamps.  Snow.  Some falling, some already stuck to the ground.  I am wearing a pink coat from Banana Republic.  It’s classy.  My hair is cropped short, because my sister wanted it to be that way. It is dark brown.  I have a Grande White Mocha from Starbucks in my hand.  I’m sitting in a parking space, alone inside my free, 1993 Jeep Grand Cherokee Laredo.  I am waiting for Amanda.

She gets there late.  As usual. Amanda is always late.  Amanda is never on time.  This is Amanda.  Five foot.  White teeth.  Green Eyes.  Long blonde hair.  I hand her a Grande Soy Chai. 

We talk.  About nothing. About everything. We talk about Dana.  Dana is a useless concept to go into right now.  I do not care to talk about Dana. 

The night before this, Brandon asked me to be his girlfriend.  I want to talk about that.  No one has ever asked me to be their girlfriend before. 

I guess Brandon even made me a Christmas CD for my car.  All that has been playing in my car for the past month has been Depeche Mode, “Violator.”  I guess I shouldn’t listen to Depeche Mode during the holidays or something.  So Brandon made me a mix, a nice gesture… He gave it to Dana to hand off to me.  Dana has never given it to me. 

I’ll never know what he put on that CD for me.  I think Dana destroyed it.  Or she listens to it.  Either or.  It doesn’t exist to me.

Amanda and I sit in my car in the parking lot, there is black unlit building behind us.  We are facing the trees that divide the corporation from the residential area. The Corporation behind me is my home away from home.  The corporation is my church.

We sit and talk.  I don’t know where to go tonight, because I don’t want to go to Brandon’s house.  Because he asked me to be his girl, and I want to say no.  Because he never asked me out on a date, he just jumped straight to boyfriend/girlfriend status.  And he is kind of creepy.  Because his favorite Depeche Mode song, he tells me, reminds him of a child molester that never gets caught. 

“Amanda,” I say, “The only reason Brandon is having a party is because no one else wants underagers at their home, and I am twenty.  He wants me there.  So he is willing to not go elsewhere, if only to have me there.”

“Don’t be crazy, Alyssa.”

I’m not lying. I’m not crazy.  Because on Christmas Eve he stared me down inside the church lobby.  Then he walked up to me and told me that he was having a party.  And that I had to come.

“If I go, I don’t want to kiss him at midnight. And he’ll expect that.”  The party is in my honor.

I have been kissed four times before.  My first kiss I was eighteen.  I was drunk.  My second kiss was at nineteen.  I was loaded.  My third kiss was at twenty- I was roached.  My fourth kiss was with Matt. A nice, cute boy with goals and morals, he took my shirt off, but he asked nicely, even when intoxicated.  I told Matt we should just be friends.  He bored me, and hung on to every word I said.

I can’t imagine kissing Brandon.  He is a skinny boy.  About 5’9”, he likes Elliott Smith and Beck, which is fine, just an observation.  He enjoys Kevin Smith movies as well as the type that make you think, like Magnolia and American Beauty.   He spends a lot of his time bashing Christians and conservatives.  I fight him, because he never has a good argument and I am good at knowing both sides to every argument, so I am good at fighting.  He likes that about me.  He has an appreciation for young girls that speak their minds.  Innocent yet mature. 

He wants me to be his girl, because I speak my mind.  Because I am eight years younger than him, and he’s known me since I was thirteen?  I guess he likes that, the party tonight, is for me.

I don’t like him because he’s a liberal scumbag.  I think extreme liberals are stupid, if only because they are cocky and always think they’re right.  Liberal’s don’t know how to win debates, they only argue to hear themselves talk.   They don’t ever have valid points.  They just lead everyone around in circles and then raise taxes.

I don’t like Brandon, because he is a dumb, skinny asshole that will fight me about the Native American’s when I obviously have no knowledge on the subject.  But he likes me, for that reason, and invited me over.  “So maybe we should make an appearance?”

“Let’s stop at Tim’s first, and then we can go over there.  Then we can go to Kristine’s or something.”

   Amanda needs to do something.  It’s New Year’s Eve.  We need to be out “partying like rock stars.”  I. personally, would not mind spending the evening with my parents, eating Chinese food, and passing out before midnight.  But then again, that sounds lame on a social resume. 

“So let’s go to Tim’s then.”

Tim has been my friend since we were both fifteen.   His friend Sky was my first kiss.  Sky was ugly.  But his name was cool and reminded me of Marlon Brando from Guys and Dolls. Sky played Radiohead and Collective Soul on his guitar.  He was a sloppy kisser, as was he a sloppy guitar player.  Tim was five feet away, passed out on the floor, when this happened.  When my first kiss happened.  I’ve never really talked to Sky again.

Tim is a “nice guy.”  Tim loves me when there is no one else better around.  That is why I love Tim.  Because I know where I fall.  He’ll have my back, unless I fuck with someone that he cares more about.  I know who they are, so Tim will always have my back. 

He has a big house.  I spend a lot of time there because I am his sister’s small group leader for church, she is a senior in high school, and you might call me her spiritual “mentor.”  She and a few other girls will be at his house.  They will be drinking from the keg in the bathroom that I will never go to see.   I will come, stay for twenty minutes, and leave without drinking.  But I will be seen by a lot of underage church kids.  I will be seen by Tim’s parents who are upstairs wondering if it was smart to purchase their son a keg. 

Tim’s dad is on the board at church.  My life pretty much revolves around church. 

Let me run through this again.  I know there is a keg in the bathroom.  I do not go in the bathroom, because I don’t want to drink their beer, and I never have to pee.  I never see the keg.  But I am seen by a lot of underage church kids.  I am not fazed.  I never see the keg.  It does not exist. I am about to leave and go somewhere else to get trashed.

I walk in.  I am greeted with joy.  Jacey, Amanda and Dana are by my side.  My brother gives me a hug.  I run to the kitchen with Jace’s hand in my hand.  Lets get fucked up.

Everyone is already wasted.  Everyone except for them.  Sara, Stephanie, Sarah.  I wish I made those names up. 

Sara is pissed because she is crazy.  Stephanie is sad because she is pregnant and cannot get drunk.  Sarah is a depressed suicidal that should kill herself.  They are all mad that I am getting myself an amaretto stone sour from Keel.  They are mad because I am twenty.  I don’t care.  Brandon wants me here.  It’s his house.  I am the guest of honor, they just don’t know it yet…  They just won’t know it ever.

I see Brandon. This is what I say:

“Are you drunk? You’re not?  Why not? Oh… you want to be responsible. You haven’t drunk since when?  3 hours ago.  Sober.  I see.  Well, I want you to know that I don’t want to date you.  I don’t want to date anyone.  I need to be single.  I like it.  And Brandon?  When I get drunk tonight, don’t try and kiss me.  Why? Because bad things happen when I get drunk.”

I cannot comprehend anything.  I do not know what is going on.  I don’t know what I drank but it was 10:00 and now it is midnight, and I missed the countdown, so we do it again.  Then we sing our own bad version of Auld Lang Syne.  Brandon comes up to me. 

“Kiss on the mouth?”

I peck him.  I do not like his taste.  He is still sober.  He might have had some of Dana’s Champagne though.

I black out.

 (so i’m 22 in college, and this is my first paper to receive a grade.   i got an A-.  no big deal.  even though i am certain that it sucks, and like everything i write, lacks organization and any real point.  whatever. i got an A- and it’s double spaced… haha)

It’s ten to four.  The TV in the bar is blasting headline news, as men, women and wait staff, watch the helicopters fly past the screen.  There has been another school shooting, but this one is closer to home, in fact, only an hour away- Northern Illinois University, in Dekalb.  The shooter has already died, and the rest of the families and news crew are picking up the pieces.  Brittany, a slender, young bartender, walks through the double doors, smelling of smoke, and not looking anyone in the eye.  Her sister is in Cole hall, the same place that the earlier shootings took place.  Is she okay to work? It does not matter.  People are in need of their corporate, mid-grade Italian food on the second busiest day of the year.  It’s Valentines Day.

I stand up at the podium, fifteen feet from the front doors.  I look like a Catholic priest, dressed in all black, stationed behind a wall that looks more like a preacher stand then anything else.  The phone is ringing off the hook with last minute reservations, and I will say that it brings me great joy and pleasure to tell every last person that we are currently “all booked.”  “Better luck next year with the reservations,” Valentines Day is always on February fourteenth, It’s not like Hallmark didn’t give you fair warning.

I hang up the phone for the hundred and twentieth time tonight, when a young man walks up to me, and like a shy little boy, asking for seconds on chocolate cake, asks, “Is there a wait for a table?” I stare him in his pleasant, blue eyes, “Currently no, would you care to be seated?”  He smiles and says, “In a second, I’ve got to get my girlfriend.”  I sigh. Obviously he has a girlfriend.  Obviously, for the next three hours the only men to walk into this joint will be with a girl.  The average number of people per party will be two. And in about twenty minutes we will be on an hour wait.  It’s Valentines Day.

I would imagine that suburban, middle-class men and women in their twenties would choose Romano’s Macaroni Grill as a great Italian dinner, but not those white collar folks. But today, everyone looks classy, or looks like they tried, at least.  The cutest couples to be seen are the unfortunate seventeen year olds, who don’t know how to walk in tall shoes, and don’t know the proper etiquette, like holding the door open for the lady when she walks in. But I think in my head that they are mainly cute because they assume that this restaurant is nice.  And they would never assume that you don’t have to wear more than jeans and a t-shirt when attending an establishment like ours.   

Behind me people are eating.  In front of me, they are waiting; they are sitting on benches designed for this occurrence.  The wait for tables tonight is long; not too many couples will walk out and go somewhere else when quoted an hour for a table.  People respect their food, and will wait for it. It’s also cold outside and the majority of women are wearing skirts.  Once you’ve stopped in, you don’t really want to go back outside.  I watch the hand-holding, the smiling, and the communication that goes on between the different couples.  In my head I make bets, I bet myself how long each couple has been together.  I always win.

Sometimes between seating tables and answering the phone, I look into the bar and watch the news again.  People have died for no reason.  Then I am angry that people would choose to ignore this, and still go out on the town, and still take advantage of such an over-processed holiday. Not that the world should stop, but it does make me wonder whether or not it would be ethical for it to.  But now, an elderly couple, dressed up like it took them hours, come walking through the door, and I remember that maybe all of this is just a symbol of love.  And there is nothing wrong with an excuse to get dressed up, even if it is for a dining experience at a corporate restaurant on a hallmark holiday.  It takes a brave soul, to sit back and enjoy love, when the world around them is falling apart.

i think i need my head checked.

all of life is painful. i wish i could look at it and move on. i have a problem with justice. i think the evil ones should be prosecuted for their evilness. i think illegal aliens should be deported. i don’t care where their from. i think sex offenders should have to wear signs around their neck that say, ‘keep back. i had sex with a twelve year old,” or whatever their respected crime was. i’m not much of an individualist. more of a social cleanser. call me hitler. but i have a method for my madness.

kill all the human race.

we are all criminals. we should probably all be prosecuted. i have an unpaid parking ticket, and i made out with a couple guys that were in serious relationships. two years ago i didn’t do my taxes at all. take me away.

one day, we’ll all be seen for what we are. so if we’re all gonna find out eventually, i don’t mind showing you what i am, or what others are now. i guess thats why i am so bad with secrets. we all suck. if we could just be a little bit more honest, maybe we’d all gain a little bit more self-confidence.

i hate everyone running for president. i think obama sucks the most, because he talks like tom brady after he wins another football game. (props to rosey).

“the economy is bad and needs a change. i think we just need to go out there and change it. and thats what i’m gonna set out there and do. change it. like i’ve planned.”

i’ve been told i look exactly like princess caroline. her husband is ugly.

when my mom is home, there is always coffee brewing. she like me and my sister jane, brother and dad, have serious problems with coffee.

a year ago, in another one of her health attempts, my mom went through a phase where she didn’t intake caffeine. it made my life difficult, mainly because i didn’t know how to work a coffee maker.

me, who loves coffee, espresso, and everything in between, was twenty-one and unable to use a coffee machine. by looking into this situation a little deeper, i think you would find that most people are like this, if you have no reason to learn something, you just don’t learn it. my mom made coffee for me, why would i need to make it?

 i don’t know why i would.

well, i learned how, during that troubling time, and in fact, i’m really good at it. i make great coffee. obviously. i mean, it’s not a talent.

(i am currently enjoying home brewed, french roast, starbucks coffee, and listening to the orginal motion picture soundtrack, based on the orignal broadway musical soundtrack, RENT, based on the hiv. it’s so exciting. measure your life in love.)

i hate my mom’s health freak weirdness. i never am able to find food in the house, because you have to make everything from scratch. no easy mac, no diet coke, no fuckin’ white bread and skippy. my life is pain. i ate a roast beef sandwich on wheat with grey poupon an hour ago. i always forget how much dijon honey mustard sucks. it burns my nose. i always throw away half the sandwich, because i can’t take it anymore. i don’t know why i keep forgetting how much i hate it.

my brain fails me in this area.

my mom has never allowed junk food in the house. she actually blends black beans with our brownie mix, because it makes them more filling. sadly, my mom is right, and they still taste good. i’m really surprised that my family is not like really perfectly thin. furreal.

my sister jane wants to be a beautician. she could do that. she’s going to cut and color my hair today, she’s been cutting my hair since she was thirteen. jane could do well in most endeavors. she’s an uncommonly gifted individual.

do you think genius is inherited? both my parents are geniuses. it’s a weird thing, i mean what measures genius? my brother might fail an iq test, but who’s to say that he is not a musical genius? he is incredible and well above the rest. my sister, clara, is going to med school in another year. ever since she was little, biology and chemistry have come so easy for her. both clara and adam were also insanely talented at sports. my brother opted out of college football, when he realized that music to him, was more important. clara stopped running cross country, and took her bi-lingual self to germany for a year- and now they are on to something else.

i have two russian sisters. one of them is bi-lingual, and supermodel looking, and is the 400m 800m queen for track and field. and she’s adopted. my parents are so genius, they even know how to buy them.

the best thing about olivia is that i showed her the last paragraph i just wrote, and she burst out laughing. sense of humor can be the same in any launguage. 

i love talking about my family. we are all psychotic, crazy, bi-polar, ocd, adhd, undetermined lazy-asses. but, we are all so freaking cool, funny and beautiful, it’s fun to talk about.

my mom and dad are probably the most fucked up of us all. but they are also the most intelligent, gifted individuals i have ever met. they have everything they’re kids have and then some. i think thats why the one unforgiveable sin in our household is premarital sex. they don’t want us all ruining our lives by getting pregnant and the feeling obligated t0 marrying the wrong person. why would they want us to squander our brains the way they did?

me and jane blast Dido and Jewel, and dance around our rooms. only crazies dance to easy listening music.

Sometimes I look at her from afar. She is curvy, not angular like what is beautiful now. Her body is not extraordinary. Her body is a little peculiar. maybe unproprtioned. She is afraid to be seen naked. She is never naked, but she walks as though she feels that way. That everyone sees her naked.

Sometime I hear them ask her why she covers her body in scarves and turtlenecks like an uptight, preppy bitch. Why she wears her hair long to cover her face. Why she is afraid of her sexuality. She says she knows she is not ugly. And you can see her. She is not ugly. She is beautiful. And you can see her look in the mirror, and on occasion be intimidated by what she sees.

Sometimes I can look at her for hours. Her face, younger and more abstract than her peers. She is not necessarily more beautiful than anyone, but she is prettier than she used to be. Some say she was that ugly duckling that became a swan. She says that she was never ugly, and she always kinda wondered what it would be like to be seen that way. Maybe be seen as a man, or an ugly old woman, only looked at for wisdom, and not for her beauty. But then again, ever since she was a little girl, she has respected beauty above anything else. And maybe she couldn’t handle not being somewhat attractive.

maybe.

when she says she’s tired, she means she’s afraid. when she says she’s lonely, it means she feels left out of the normal world. when she says she’s angry, it means she’s sad. when she say’s she’s afraid, it means she’s intimidated. when she tells you to leave her alone, it means she loves you. when she says she’s happy, she means that she wants to be happy, but doesn’t know what it means.

maybe.

i remember what she wore on new years. a maroon shirt up to her neck. a navy blue v-neck over that. a black bra from victoria’s secret that cost her forty-five dollars. jeans from abercrombie and fitch. white socks. she left the hospital in sweats, wearing less then she came in with. and she said, “i wonder why i didn’t just wear the purple dress, the one that came low in the front. i changed last minute, because i was not comfortable in barely nothing.”

some say she made up the whole thing. if you knew her, you saw it in her eyes. the pain was real.

i’m sure it doesn’t come up in conversation all the time, or even torture her like it used to. but i know she thinks about it at least once a day. changing her opinion on what it really was. on what it could have been. and what she thinks about her friends. the ones who left. who stayed. who gave. who took. she was not left with nothing, and has so much left, and so much is better. but she is still scared.

she is much different then she was ten years ago, or even two. but somehow when she is talking to you, she still feels like a twelve year old girl. and on occasion, she’ll look in the mirror to remember what she looks like, and acts surprised when she sees a woman. but whatever her reflection shows, she is convinced, she’ll always feel like a girl.

when she breaks down, and lets you down, i hope you know, she doesn’t mean you.

amanda told me that we’re all weak.

i think she’s right. but i might be the weakest.

“…when all your love is gone, who will save me from all i’m up against now in this world?”

i’ve been cleaning up my itunes for three straight days now. we have some illegally downloaded songs on there that don’t make any sense whatsoever. and when i say we, i mean, me and jane. i feel like she goes on there every day and duplicates a file, whether she needs to or not. it’s a mess, and since i had all this extra time considering school was cancelled, and i decided against work, and i got too drunk to function on tuesday, i thought i’d tackle this task. now ask me, do i feel good?

yeah, i do.

a little relief is going through my body right now. i deleted all the shitty music, and rescued the right duplicate files from being terminated. oh yes- i’ve also listened to some music that i haven’t heard in awhile, and for some reason that just does it for me.

i wish my itunes downloaded cd’s a little faster.

i went to jimmy johns today. now they make your sandwiches fast!!!!!!!!!!! omg. like yeah. totally.

i have no deep thoughts and absolutely nothing interesting to say. i probably should have opted against sharing all that with the internet.

“maybe in five or ten, yours and mine will meet again.  straighten this whole thing out. maybe then honesty need not be feared as a friend or an enemy- but this is the distance, and this is my gameface…   there’s really no way to reach me. i’m already gone.”
–the fray

the format broke up. i never got to see those boys in concert. i never got to appreciate them up close in personal. come to think of it, i haven’t gone to a concert in months. i need to do that. in 2006 i saw everyone from dave matthews to kelly clarkson to local to unheard of signed bands. last year i worked, smoked and trained for a marathon. i ran the marathon then started smoking again. cigarettes are interesting. i like them, but it ain’t so hard for me to go days without them. but then sometimes i just want one. i have it, i might have 20. then i swear them off.

my mom and sister, janey, are in germany. luckily for them, there is a starbucks within range of the convention center that they are volunteering at. i drove in the snow with my part time four wheel jeep drive to get starbucks today. it was exciting. it’s all i did. i called off work and got called off school. i am so bored. i need something to pre-occupy my mind. i’ve been crying all day. my stomach actually is in pain from convulsing. i don’t need to inform you of why i’m crying. but life sucks.

my mom just emailed my dad, and he is cracking up from something she just said. i love that. my parents don’t have a lot in common, but they make each other laugh so hard they cry. it’s beautiful. and if anything, laughter is really what holds them together, that and they are both conservative and like mitt romney. speaking of that, i forgot to vote. i was wasted until about four o’clock yesterday.

here is a list of my favorite albums of all time:

1. breaking benjamin: saturate
–back in my hard rock days, i might have listened to this cd on repeat for an entire year. i can still listen to it, sing every word, and not get tired. i’ve never been angry at someone for putting the cd in. it eases my mind.

2. matchbox twenty: yourself or someone like you
–probably the first cd i’ve ever loved. rob thomas can write about girl pain, the way no man can.

3. jason mraz: waiting for my rocket to come
–jason mraz might have the only voice ive ever labeled as “orgasmic”. his wordplay is incredible. his live cd’s and mr.a-z are great too, but there is so much simple depth to his first cd.

4. the format: interventions + lullabies
–trouble with life and relationships and figuring out how to live, gets easier everytime you hear this cd.

5. alanis morissette: jagged little pill
–a classic tale of hatred, hurting, and hangovers. i love it.

6. lovedrug: everything starts where it ends
–his voice is incredibly ridiculous. the lyrics are so deep and they send chills up your spine. to think someone could be saying everything you’ve ever thought, but through metaphors, not spelling it out.

7. breaking bejamin: phobia
–ben burnley’s vocals rival jason mraz for the orgasmic crown. not as hard as their previous two cd’s make this one easier to share with people who are turned off by the occasional screaming.

8. radiohead: the bends/ok computer
–hands down my two favorite radiohead cds. i took a vacation to california by myself and the only thing i listened to on the ipod were those cds. looking at the ocean, listening to high and dry. nice.

9. maroon 5: songs about jane
–if you want to cry, these songs will transfer your hurt into a giant “fuck you world.” it’s nice.

10a. the killers: hot fuss
–perfect blend of rock and dance that happens to steal your soul at the same time.

10b. wax on radio: exposition 2
–it’s tie between this and the killers. mikey has the most amazing voice that sounds even better live, great lyrics, interesting sound.

runner’s up:
the format: dog problems, dido: life for rent, matchbox 20: mad season, breaking benjamin: we are not alone/so cold ep, jason mraz: mr.a-z, lovedrug: pretend your alive, maroon 5: it won’t soon before long, coldplay: a rush of blood to the head, radiohead: amnesiac, david gray: white ladder, bush: goldenstate, evanescence: fallen, dave matthews band: entire library, oasis: (what’s the story) morning glory, snow patrol: final straw/eyes open…

that was fun…

and now for something completely different.

it’s strange that good people will end up alone, wandering and wondering what they did to deserve it. then rapists, and child molestors can get married and feel good about their suckiness.

a girl like me shouldn’t meet guys at bars, but nobody at church wants me. i’m walking down this middle road, and for some reason nobody’s walking towards me. maybe i gotta be extreme like everyone else, no one wants a wishy-washy girl that knows a lot about god and a lot about sex, drugs, rock and roll, and doesn’t necessarily care for either.

somehow he is capable of making me inflict pain on myself. it must be so easy for him. he doesn’t have to feel guilty. he lets me do this to myself.

“Its killing me to see you,
Just tie the rope
Oh and kick the chair
Just leave me hanging there,
Gasping for air
Yeah dont mind me three feet from the ceiling
You’d rather watch me drown,
Then see your hands get wet
You took the plot from stage to screen and turned it to
Epic scene
So whisper it once, tell me again
C’mon whisper it twice,
I cant stand to see my whole life flash before my eyes
When i’m with you, there’s
No point in breathing.
And I think I know
Why you never get too close
Its cause you’re too scared to
When im with you there’s no point in breathing.”

r.i.p. the format…

i was thinking that maybe.
me. and you- we could get together.
weather. permitting.
sitting. close on pier.
there. we could stay.
way.
away. staring at chicago.
no. it don’t know me like you do.
too. soon we’ll be gone now.
how. time has come so fast.
last. it never does.
because. nothing is forever.

we’ll only let us down.

“i should drink less, cause lord knows i could use a warm kiss, instead of a cold goodbye.”
–the format

quitting love is like quitting smoking. as soon as you light back up again, tomorrow is day one.
i seem to try and quit both at the same time, everytime. it’s really fucking up my timing.
i need to hire a hit man. he can come after me or him. either way- it’s over.

normally when i write titles to these entries i pull them out of my ass before i even write anything… and then, while writing, i have no idea what to say, i just write and hope whatever i wrote made sense… sometimes i’ll read something later and be like, “wow, alyssa you are awesome.” othertimes i’m like, “i can’t believe you are that stupid. you wrote the wrong form of ‘to’ again, and nothing you wrote makes sense to anyone not even yourself. fuckhead.” i don’t really delete it if it’s bad, i figure that i was borderline retarded for some reason, and maybe it would be okay if the internet knew it.

speaking of the internet. i’ve wrote on the internet for sometime. and you know, i am a fan of “blogs” or “blogging” (even though i hate the word with an insane passion, and i feel stupid for even saying i’m a fan of it.) but whatev. i enjoy writing to a void. i know there are people i know who read it, unless your rosey or john, i don’t know that you read it, and therefore you are stalking me. but thats cool. mostly if you’re reading this, i don’t know you. and thats also cool.

maybe i can give you insight into my life. i know a lot about things like being a “psychopath” “insane” “borderline retarded” “grammatically challenged” all those horrible things… by reading what i write maybe you’ll become depressed, maybe encouraged, maybe you’ll just know me a little better. maybe, just maybe, it’s the best way to stalk me. but i keep writing here, because the internet saves what i write, and my mom stalks my word documents. and sometimes it’s nice to vent to people i don’t know.

at this point in my entry, i will either change the subject completely, write song lyrics to the song that inspired to me to write today, or end on some tragic note about how my life sucks.

maybe today i’ll do something else. maybe i’ll tell you exactly whats going on instead of writing a poem that you can interpret anyway you want to.

i have to leave for work in 15 minutes and i don’t have make up on. i have a friend that i like, that i mess around with, that is dating someone else. i don’t know where to go with that. except that every other day it sucks and i hate him, and every other day i want to mess around with him again. it be better if i just didnt like him. but it’s hard when he makes me laugh. i love when he makes me laugh.

i have an eight year old boyfriend that went to build a bear and built me a cream colored bear. he named it after himself, i call it snuggles. he loves me the way an eight year old knows how. one day he’ll grow up and figure out what everyone my age already knows: all love is a lie, and i, alyssa, am a psychopath.

i had a thirty-four year old boyfriend. well, he was never my boyfriend, but i liked him enough that he could have been. he was good to me. and he wanted me to be his girlfriend. it ended up that i didn’t take him, because it seemed so for sure and real, and it scared me. so i fell back on a douchebag with a nice back, because i knew that THAT would never be real. that it would continue to make love a mystery, and that’s what i wanted.

a boy i dated two years ago just called me this morning. we’ve been friends since then, but i haven’t talked to him in months. he was always smart, good and beautiful. but he never made me laugh so hard i cried.

there’s only a few people that can make me do that. and thats all i really want. that, and to say that i’m 22 and actually called someone my boyfriend, instead of calling him just another guy that liked me, or that i liked, or that i messed around with.

there’s alot going on, i don’t need anyone, i never have. and now, i work over fourty hours a week, i go to school full time, and one day, i’m going to be too good to hang around with myself.

ring the alarm. there’s a fire on the roof.