It don’t take an educated head to know
Oh, hi Blog. It’s me again. Remember me? It’s the person with a growly stomach and still no job to speak of.
A lot’s happened and I guess I’m feeling too weird to really blog much. Justice loves me and I’m not so blindingly obsessed with him that I have to be in love with him too. When you think hard about it and decide that you’d leave if it turned sour you know it’s love. That’s how I decided. So yes, I’m in love with Justice and I’m in love with the idea of being with him. So that is that.
I wrote my Uncle a note and handed it to him while he was still in the casket. The church was kinda hot so he didn’t have that strange corpse-y coldness that doesn’t make you cold so much as take away your heat. It made sense because Uncle Glen never took anything from nobody when he was alive, so why would he do it after he died?
He was buried on the oil field, with an oil drill on his headstone, and that was that. An Oklahoma funeral in a nutshell.
Destinee and I made up, although I guess we never made down, or what have you. I had just assumed that she outgrew me, had the fun heartbreak you only get from being ditched by a best friend, and now we’re in our 20’s and I’m going to visit as soon as I can.
So that’s my life right now. You know about as much as I do.
I AM A DRUNK I WANT TO DIE
The top search for my blog this week has been the phrase “I AM A DRUNK I WANT TO DIE” and, yeah, that is the general battle cry for drunk, heartbroken women. But why not “I HAVE AN UNHEALTHY FETISH FOR REDHEADS”, or “I’M A SPITEFUL, BITTER CUNT”?
Before I start Googlewhacking and making my top search all sorts of fucked up, I have a question for the people who searched for such a strange, random term. Couldn’t you have worded it better? I mean, were you too drunk to write it in the form of the question: “I AM A DRUNK WHAT ARE CONVENIENT WAYS FOR ME TO DIE”?
Do you still want to die, now that you’re (supposedly) not drunk anymore? If so, why?
Go ahead and comment; I wanna know. Thanks!
Now, for the Googlewhacking:
I peed for two straight minutes this morning. Mustache rides! Mustache rides, $5! I’m on my period. There is is alcohol next to my desk. Vodka, blackberry brandy, and light beer which is gay. Gay. Gay, gay, gay. Gay boys in tube socks. FEET!
Open Letter #1
Last night I heard noise outside my window and thought it was you. My heart skipped a couple beats and I almost dropped the book I was reading, but it wasn’t you. I knew that it wasn’t but hoped it was you, because when I was 16 and you would come to my window at night, it was better than red toenail polish, stealing my first vibrator, and drinking chocolate milk, all at once.
Every once in a while I think of you, and there are several things and places I have to avoid all together because they either remind me of you or I’m afraid of running into you there, with a girl, and know that will make me want to die a little inside because it feels wrong.
When I found a photo of you when we were happy together, I really lost it. Throw it away? Burn it? Hide it in the sock drawer?
I put it in a big frame with pictures of my friends and family, because you were once both. Suxxor. Now I get to look at it every day and feel embarrassment, anger, spite, and missing you, all at the same time, and it is hella confusing.
I keep getting this sneaking suspicion that I’ll never really get over you, and it hurts. There have been two people I have ever been completely comfortable around and when we were on good terms, you were one of those people. Around the end I honestly would have felt better if one of us would have just thrown a punch already.
Stupid us and our case of the crazies. We’re worse than Frida and Diego, but at least they were famous. We were just stupid in love and stupid in general.
If you don’t love me I feel like I’m going to die. This is an extreme case of the emos and I thought I outgrew this a long time ago, but apparently not.
Four years and an engagement, man. I’m so pissed off and still in love with you, it’s not even funny.
Or it is, but in that “Wow, that’s sad” and not “Ha ha” funny, although I can see both sides.
I found myself randomly thinking about you and immensely missing you. I don’t think that’ll ever change. Do you ever wonder about me?
More stupidity
I’ve been nursing that damn vodka all night and took some Klonopin. I’m not dying, just have that feeling that I am, and it’s annoying.
I hate how alcohol sneaks up on you. So fucking nauseas.
I don’t care about Hollywood, but I care about me
I have an obsession with celebrities and the magazines dedicated to them. I love to read about their tragedies and dramas, their pregnancies and divorces, but mostly I like to be jealous of their beauty and general fabulousness.
Questionable tattoos are mandatory, though.
Whatever the rules or reasons are, I find that I’m more obsessed with them when I’m at a hump in writing. I want to write and I need to write. But I can’t write.
These people don’t inspire me any more than the Burnett’s Raspberry Flavored Shit Vodka, or the long talks with my dad, or all the nagging plot bunnies in my head. I’m going to have to work to the bone to find a good job and get the fuck out of here, leave my celebrities and Burnett’s Raspberry and Dad behind, and dedicate myself solely to those damn plot bunnies.
Or lay out some traps and OK magazines or something, I don’t know.
