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People are strange.

I am people.

Tell me, what do you do when you man tells you that you haven't been doing enough?  That your relationship is unfair because he gives you more than you give back.  That he knows that you have no money but that that's not it and he can't tell you what you're doing wrong... but that he just knows you're doing it wrong.  Tell me, what do you do?

What can I say to that, when I know that he gives me so much... that I don't give nearly enough.  What can I say to that when I know that I can't give to him because I am scared that he might hurt me.  Still scared after all this time.

What can I say to that, when I know that I'm selfish.  When I know that I don't deserve a guy like him.  When I know that he is everything I want.  What do I do?

What can I say when I've given him all that I can, because I can't give anymore?  What do I do?  When all I have to give is not enough... When I can't give anymore because I'm stuck at a wall.

What do I do? What can I do?

I hate myself.

What would it be like if I could create a world that was totally controlled by me?

Interesting.

Things I want to do before I die

1. Ride a motorcycle
2. Put money in a drag queen's thong
3. Get in a bitch fight
4. New Orleans on Mardi Gras
5. New Years in Times Square
6. New Years in Vegas
7. Visit Japan
8. Go on a cruise
9. Learn how to swim better
10. Write at least 2 books (fictional + autobiographical/memoir)
11. Go to The Burning Man

Why is trust and faith in a person so easy to lose and so difficult to gain? Why are negatives always a simpler path?  Why is it more difficult to strive for the positive?

Why do we not all take the simple path?

My nails are too long.  Way too long.  Long enough so that sometimes when I type, the letter above the one I'm aiming for gets hit by mistake.  I'm beginning to wonder how I wipe my ass.  Note to self, make sure to wash hands/fingers/nails with extra soap and care.

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I was talking to this guy today, and he kept telling me I was hilarious.  I'm not sure if he was making fun of me, telling me what he thought I wanted to hear, or if I am actually really funny to talk to.  Really, I can't tell.

I wasn't even being funny, though.

...must be my body odor.

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On another note, I'm totally in love.  Im in love with a boy who buys me balloons.  I'm in love with a boy who buys me beautiful roses and lilies.  I'm in love with a boy who buys me chocolates.

The funny part is, I was in love with him even without all the buying of things.

The proffered gifts are still quite nice, though.

I'm in love with him because he smiles for me.  Im in love with him because he talks nonsense with me when we're alone.  I'm in love because we can lay in silence together.  I'm in love because his lips are soft and his words are sweet...sometimes.  I'm in love because he pushes me to think.  He pushes me to feel.

I know I'm in love because I even think his back hair is cute.

It's the last sign I need, I think.

It's weird, when I used to write every day, I felt stifled and out of ideas -- but felt the need to force myself to write anyways.  As I write less, I am filled with more ideas than ever, but am filled with a sense of complacency to writing them.

Ideas for writing later:

What I have been up to since out of the public eye

Review Utada Hikaru

Embellish on depression as a comfort zone

Taken from k10k.net:

"Have you ever thought about the concept: Many artists today want to have freedom of expression, but once they create their own art piece, they don't want others to copy it?"

My response: Interesting argument, but is my freedom of expression being infringed upon when someone has stolen my thoughts?

It's not about not taking inspiration from others, it's about getting credit where credit is due.

Ever since I was diagnosed with pneumonia a couple weeks ago, I've had this constant feeling in my lungs that I'm drowning.  Last week I got prescribed with an inhalor, and since I've been using it fairly often.  Today a new development formed -- no longer is there just a wheezy feeling in my lungs/bronchial tube, there is now definately a weird sound that gets emitted from my body if I lay the wrong way.  It sounds remarkably like pieces of flesh stuck together with viscous liquid that has air being blown through it.  Like a small scale wet fart on the inside of my chest.

Needless to say, I find this pretty disgusting.  Not quite as disgusting, however, as the hollow sound my chest makes when I'm coughing.  Especially when you can hear the chunk of phlegm bouncing around on the inside.  People have told me that when they hear me cough, they want to do something to help me push whatever is inside there out for me.  Nasty to hear, even nastier to feel it bouncing on the inside of my chest.

Remarkably, despite all these gross occurances, I feel much better than I actually sound.

There are distinct differences in writing for yourself and for others.  When you write for yourself you never need to explain yourself -- even when looking back, it isn't hard for memories to be jarred by simple reminders of the writing itself.

Writing for yourself you don't care very much beyond the basic instinct for the gramatically correct, you don't care as much if you make a mistake, your ears don't burn in embarassment when you discover a mispelled word.

Thoughts don't have to be completed, special formatting doesn't have to be made.

It's freer, yet more restrictive in a way -- if no one's looking, what's the point of pushing the envelope of creativity?  What's the point of going the extra mile, when enough is enough for me?

Where is the happy medium?

Stories of death and suicide always bring chills to my spine and unbidden memories to my mind.  I can't escape what I once was, though I try so hard to convince myself that I've changed.  Some days I feel myself slipping back into that old comfortable sleeve of depression.  How do I get out?  It's a place I know so well, that once I'm there, sometimes it feels easy.

It's funny, that depression can feel easy.  Sometimes it really is, though.  Easier to be depressed than happy.  Depression I don't have to work at, depression doesn't take extra thought, extra care, extra effort.  Happiness is something I must constantly fuel with things, people, activities.  Alone and left to my own devices, my mind easily falls back into the place in which it is most comfortable.

The funk of lonliness.  Emptiness.  Hopelessness.  Confusion.  Anxiety.  Apathy.  Hatred.  Angst.  Tears.  Silence.

Always, the silence is deafening.