Orgasm of Death-Autoerotic Asphyxia and the Psychological Autopsy

I found myself doubled over, clinging desperately to the broken cat-post, sobbing to the point of hysteria, feeling myself sick to my stomach with the horrible urge to puke everything up, as I cried miserably to myself, unable to stop, and all I could think was;

‘What does it feel like to be sad?’

Because as hard as I tried, even through the pain my mind was telling me I was feeling, the agony of the truth of the matter–

I found myself feeling nothing. Nothing at all. The pain I had read about that was suppose to be crippling, the pain that was suppose to be deep and horrible and beautifully blue like the ocean…

It just wasn’t there.

I think I used to feel something like sadness, like depression. But I have no idea where it went.

And in the midst of a sobbing hysteria fest–my thoughts only drifted to another thing.

‘How can I make this a story? What characters can I use for this? What plot fits what’s happening now?’

And for the first time in my life, I found nothing. Nothing fit in to the tragedy of this new truth. Nothing could comfort me, and I struggled to make it unreal.

For an entire day, I stayed in the reality of the truth, horrified.

Because all that matters, even during the darkest hours, is using whatever happens to me, for my characters, my stories. And my mother’s madness–her being in a mental ward–nothing fit with it.

For a few days I then struggled with making it positively unreal–it took up all my time, being half in reality. I had to focus everything on making myself better–meaning I couldn’t ignore the objects as much, and I was easily subjected to Mischa’s demands. Which meant I couldn’t ignore what floated about.

And yet like my mother, I found it all the same. Easy to laugh and joke around while inside I was eating myself alive with the single thought running through my mind ‘How do I make this unreal?’. Acting, or being, happy is the easiest thing in the world. Laughter comes naturally. It must.

Because my mother’s words are clogged into my brain, jammed, unable to leave. Appearances are everything.

Fake it until you make, she says.

Somehow through all these years, I lost a lot of feelings. I can’t remember what it is to be sad, and I don’t know how to be angry. I feel no reason to do anything but be cheerful. That’s how people know me, and this cannot change.

Years ago, I declared how I hated the ‘preps’ and the ’skaters’ and the ‘Jocks’. I hated them, and their “evil” ways and everything they did.

But now, I don’t… care. Whatever they do, it’s their life choice, they don’t effect me, I don’t care what they wear, who the date, and what they do. At all. They’re not even real to me, I don’t normally see them. They’re just people in a giant mass of other people, and they aren’t my friends, so I pay them no mind.

And my horrible truth, what would make me Slytherin, is for the fact that most of the people I know, the people I hang out with…

I don’t feel anything for.

Yes, I’ll buy them things, go to their birthday parties, stay on the phone with them, listen to their problems, help them out, laugh with them, go to the mall with them, sometimes even take them on expensive vacations, stick up for them and make sure they’re always happy–

But I might even actually dislike them. It’s expected for me to act a certain way, whether or not I feel anything. I’d even take a blow to a head by a lamp for them.

When I was younger I daydreamed about killing them off–but that stopped when bad things would happen to me soon after I thought such things. Karma always knows.

It wasn’t until 8th grade that I ACTUALLY started understanding friendship, and half way through 9th grade I became social with the phone calls and such.

From first grade until 6th, I had a best friend named Jessica. I took her everywhere, did everything with her–but I never felt anything but mild annoyance.

Now I sort of like her.

I find that its extremely hard for me to like people. I usually feel indifference or appreciation. And I’d rather admire the pretty nerds then actually befriend them. Most the people I befriend I use them for stories ideas and plot lines.

I would get married and have a life with children and a husband just for the sake of a story.

There’s a few people that have come into my small circle that I’ve come to care about. I tell them I love them, but I’m unsure what love is, so it must be so.

I don’t love them as much as my stories, though.

But I care very deeply for them. Out of everyone I know, it’s only five people. Sometimes six. Though I don’t think Kaggy or Mai should count–they’re very different. Kaggy is like a sister, and Mai..

Well.

That’s a different kind of love. I think she worries about our relationship sometimes, that maybe I’d find another. I think that’s silly. I don’t love people normally, but her glow made me love her.

Then there’s Venny. She’s always been there, dunno why. And she doesn’t ask for much. She doesn’t expect much. She doesn’t acquire much. She doesn’t cling either–and she understand better than a lot of people. She knows I don’t love people. And she makes me happy.

Plus she steals me things, and I’m always extremely grateful.

There’s Nathan–but it’s different with him. I dunno if he likes me much. I’m just happy to look at him and hear him belittle me with his vocabulary. Mischa’s in the same boat.

Now, I’m trying to be honest with myself. It’s hard, because, well…

Because I lie to my diary, and even to my blog. I lie because I need the illusion of the appearance to carry through.

Dennis, as much as it irks me to say it, isn’t loved, but has something of mine that makes me more loyal then a dog. We’re not talking about those darker days.

If I said I loved Wife, I just might not. I don’t like being depended on, and I haven’t talked to her in awhile, so I don’t remember how I feel.

Then there’s Billy. I trust him, but I don’t know if I care about him. He’s still a boy, gay or not.

This leaves us with Cap. Snarf. She’s selfish, which is very good, I don’t like it when people care too much about my stuff, but she’s very pretty in the way that she tends to take care of me. Plus we’re best friends. 8D I like her, as much as I like Venny, because she sometimes reminds me of Elizabeth and she’s got a drama filled life that I can take so much from.

So there.

Venny, Cap. Snarf, Billy…

Mai and Kaggy.

Wife, sometimes? Because I feel as though its what should be.

Eh. I’m sort of annoyed that I care about so many people. But out of all the people I know… this is such a small number.

I’d always love Nathan. :3

I Feigned Insanity For a Bag of BBQ Chips.

[I r Kira LOL: -Wants to make a D shape---o.o
I r Kira LOL: D: I'm stealing that chapter name.
I r Kira LOL: I'll credit you, but I'm taking it.
I r Kira LOL: In fact...
I r Kira LOL: TEH CHAPTAH: xsilentxshoutx: Chapter One: I Feigned Insanity For a Bag of BBQ Chips
I r Kira LOL: And people would be like
I r Kira LOL: "D:<"
xsilentxshoutx: XDDD
xsilentxshoutx: xsilentxshoutx: Chapter One: I Feigned Insanity For a Bag of BBQ Chips and Then Gave Rin My Blessing to Use This as a Chapter in Her Own Book]

The cash register and I aren’t friends, just yet. Saturday The Smirking Bastard decided… ‘To hell with opening the door!’. And I gawked at it, slamming my hand against the cash drawer, angrily. What a smug human-hating bastard. I think technology just has it out for me, because when I traveled over to 734’s house to escape the realization of Genetics, her keyboard REFUSED to type the words onto youtube for me!

My GOD. Selfish hoodlums. The lot of ‘em!

Right, so yesterday at 734’s, as we’re now calling her so the Government doesn’t figure out who I’m talking about, house, we found out that Elizabeth bleeds Monster. It was extraordinary.

Elizabeth: -Gets cut, green liquid pours through, starts licking it and flies off the wall, hyper.-

And so, 734’s downloading all the episodes of Yuu-Yuu Hakusho onto her computer with–ah… Somethin’-or-other? It’ll take about a week and six hours… or days or something. I’m excited for her. And she made her mummy buy me that…

THAT FAKE STUFF IN A CAN! Chef Boradee… or however its called. Yaaay. I was never allowed to have it when I was younger. …Like the Barbie Princess van that I so desperately wanted to drive around in. Another shattered dream.

Anyhow. Work. I don’t like it when it isn’t busy, because than it leaves me time to think about all the things that are going on, and I don’t like standing around doing nothing. I don’t like giving myself room to suddenly plunge face first into a sink of paranoia and delusion–which happens easily at Pondarosa. There’s so much things that leave room to other things.

The music that may or not be there, the cackle of the Smirking Bastard that whispers things–the dishwasher in the back telling me everyone is plotting against me… I really don’t like that dishwasher, and the, well, I’m pretty sure some of the things that happen, really don’t.

“Don’t worry, Sarah, it’s just the anxiety…”

Yeah, it’s always the anxiety. That’s all it ever is.

Right, so last Saturday made me really happy. I guess it was the people that I met, and the fact that I’m starting to shrink out of the shell of shyness. I don’t think it’s shyness, I just don’t really remember how to relate and talk to people. I think myself as a House Elf sometimes, and grin to myself in all my cleverness.

Just a half an hour into my shift, in sauntered a pair I think I’ll never forget. The man was 6′7″, with shoulder length mousy-brown ’shaggy’ hair, and small round purple lensed glasses. His wife was a stout woman about no taller than 4 foot, her thin hair balding, and an ugly scowl printed across her winkled squashed face.

She then handed me a credit card.

And they stared at me.

And I waited, uncertainly.

“Er… can I… get you something?” I offered sheepishly, with a friendly smile that appeared whenever someone stood in front of the cash register.

There was a silence, then…

“Buffet.”

It was croaked loudly, and angrily.

“Fruit punch!”

Croaked by the now frog-faced woman. I nodded, and did two orders of both, swiping the card. She then jerked her head upward to the man.

“SIGN IT!” She barked, sounding rushed. He looked casually around.

“Where…?” he wondered in a laid back tone. “I don’t see anything to sign…”

“Just sign it! Sign it!”

And he continued to look around in a dazed manner until I ripped the receipt out and slam it onto the desk.

“Look, there it is!” I cut in quickly and, in a Dumbledore manner, he bent down, and began to sign his name.

“Everything feels so small…” he murmured, amazed. “I feel so tiny… ever feel that way?”

“Sure, all the time.” I replied with a smile and he lifted his head, amazed.

“Really?”

“Yeah…”

So I was ecstatic. These two, I decided, were cool. So I bounced into the back where Liz and Tom were–and for the first two minutes, nobody knew who I was talking about, nor saw them, which freaked me the hell out.

Because someone who has been told “It’s only in your head” a lot, gets a little skittish when nobody else sees the object of said person’s sight.

Finally, though, both Liz and Tom saw what I was pointing toward–both not understand what I found so extraordinary about him.

“HE’S GONNA BE MY BEST FRIEND!” I declared cheerfully, placing my hands up my hips, striking a Snarf-Pose.

And now, distracted from my memories, all I can REALLY think about is…

Liz and Tom.

Oh god dammit, you’re hilarious.

Liz. What could that possibly be short for? Yeah. And she’s a little… lacking in the smarts, right?

Like mine.

And Tom. Oh Tom, what were the chances of that, huh?

Aha. Anyway.

So Tom turns to me and asks, “So you like druggies? You do Drugs?”

“No, I’d never.” I reply. “People already think I’m rocket high just by how I normally act, I’d be horrified how I’d be on drugs. But sure, drug addicts are radical. They understand what I’m tryin’ to say, you know?”

“I think you just go high in the back.”

“Wh–No!”

“Yeah, you’ve been smoking a little. So you think that guy is hot? You wanna do him?”

And this is when I declared we were best friends.

Suckerpunch to the gut, hello New York Regents.

Yesterday was actually the first day of the PART-ONE of the English. It was… amazed to say, easier than I had previously considered. Which, obviously, unnerved me a little. My mind automatically claiming that it had to be a trick, somehow. Could it truly be that simple? And in thinking such a thing, had I jinxed myself?

As usual, they had us come to the school (7:30 AM) and herded us like the sheep we instant become once within a 5 mile radius of any educated-inclined building.

“They’re teaching us LIES in the text books! Lies! As we sit on those chairs! Those chairs actually have marijuana being injected into you through them, so you become ADDICTED!”

-Linda. One Gym class. :3

Anyway. They did something unusual. They gave us… BUBBLE-SHEET THINGS. I freaked out, because… WHERE WAS THE SCANTRON? Dude, no. I couldn’t handle that. And I REALLY don’t remember yesterday.

Expect I’m pretty certain that my English teacher will be around the corner looking to behead me. 8D Yaaar. Second essay was about the sun. Which I fear. D:< I PHEAR DA SUNZ.

So right.

Today.

…Well, besides the noise that went away or Mischa rambling in my ear until I mentally threatened to take away chocolate… I think I utterly failed.
FAILED.

Because the second essay… ‘…it is Human lot to fail…’

Was the quote, and I was cracking up silently, stuck in a Gym with the entire 11th grade writing around me. Haha. By David someoneorother. I kept thinking it was Mark. MAAAARK!

STELLAAAAAAA!

Anyway.

Ahem.

I swear, Mr. Burns’ll kill me when/if he reads my essays. I mumbled a little something on how ‘David had a bowl of sadness for breakfast with a crappy marriage that ended that morning as he skipped off to the New York Times’.

We had to take two books and compare them to the quote. I obviously picked Harry Potter. I might have gotten side tracked about how the people waited with bated breath for the boy-who-couldn’t-die-in-a-childrens-book to be killed off, and when he didn’t, burst into tears setting the final book on fire while clinging to a Cardboard cut out of Voldemort screaming, “No, master, no!” in all their muggle glory.

I then went on to say that Voldemort was EPIC FAIL GUY.

For failing.

Again and again.

So once that was all done with, Jess K, Sango and Dennis all left the gym together. Surprisingly we all finished at the same time! (I think this is somehow cliched, and I’m looking into a logical explanation)

Here comes in the car ride. Ehh, if Laura ever found out I’d be screwed. Sure, it was a minute-long ride, up the hill, to the side store fer food…

XD And Dennis blasted the music.

o.o and then I panicked and climbed out.

D:< I CANT THINK IDA EDIT DIS YATTER

Apples. I don’t believe in them, because…

He was sometimes always never there forever, but only at certain times, if you catch my meaning. A stout man that only existed from the half of the bridge of his nose and down, to his mid-belly. A creature whose fat exposed him to the light rather than the darkness that usually hid the others. I could still remember his face–the part that I could see–the orange like tan that married his sagged cheeks. Maybe it was from only mouth down, because I could never remember what his nose looked like. Only the sweaty bumpy skin of the large beast, and his hitched deep breathing that filled the light like smoke. He wasn’t old, but he wasn’t 30 either. A timeless hag stuck without anything but his apple. There was that laugh, that wheezy ‘rich’ chuckle that made it clear he was having trouble breathing but chuckled anyway. His clean-pressed dark blue expensive-appearing suit jiggling and bouncing with his slow prolonged laugh, the black buttons bulging against his stomach, glittering against the light. His large fat fingers twitched around the red glowing orb, lifting it to his mouth where his over-sized pink lips met the smooth shiny flesh, a ring on his plump almost purple finger glinting off the light as his teeth sunk in. A terrible loud crunch cracked through the air as he pulled the gushing damaged lie away, dabbing the evidence of his crime off his lips and chin with a navy blue handkerchief. His large laugh erupted cruelly causing bits of apple to spring into the air from his mouth.

FALCON PUNCH!

The small little thin-black-outlined computer clock…it’s all I can stare at. It’s well shaped numbers make me angry in a way, and I’m not too sure why. Maybe because they’re just there, and I’m not sure if the Government is just messing with me and playing around with time. It wouldn’t matter, I hear the UK has it worse when regarding Big Brother, so it’s all cool. Twelve Twenty-Five AM. Midnight. So right now its Friday, and I should be sleeping. After all, it’s the last bleeding day of school. God forbid it if I were tired.

And I should be doing all the work I haven’t so I won’t fail. Laura says she’ll be angry if I have to go to Summer School. I think I’ll be emotionally unavailable when school ends. But that isn’t important to me right now. All I can focus on is in Two Hours and Seven minutes. The anxiety is eating my gut up and I’m thinking about shoveling down the pretty white bread from downstairs. I think I’m excited. And I know I’ll end up staying up to see this Ebay bid through.

See, last Friday I had lost my adored Snake Bracelet that Venny had so elegantly stolen for me. I’ll never figure out how she does it. One moment things are where they are, the next we’re walking away from the store, and she’s pulling out all sorts of items. They’re gifts, and I hate jewelery. I never wear it.

I figure it’s because I never want what I already have. See. It’s human nature to want what we can’t have, and if I didn’t pay for it, or have someone else pay for it, it’s not really mine. So I’ll always want it. And I’ll only wear things that define me as a person. The Snake represents my love for serpents… and mostly V.

Or Tom Riddle. Mostly for Tom Riddle and my small big sort of huge obsession with Hogwarts. I’d like to be a Hufflepuff, but I know I’d end up in Slytherin. Too bad I’m a muggle–which is something I pretend to believe. It feels degrading to me to call myself such a thing. Sometimes I wonder if I get cut, would blood come out or dirt? But never mind this.

Back to the bidding. I need that bracelet, see? It’s extremely important to me, and I’m nervous I’ll be so disappointed when someone else out-bids me. I’m even thinking about tracking that said person down and killing them. I know I won’t, but right now it’s a seething need to send this one person threatening Ebay messsages. ‘U stp bidin or i kil u’.

That’s my darlin’. :3 Ugh. I really don’t like feeling so anxious. Those little swarming fleas in my stomach just rumble together like a string of never ending curse words uttered from a crazed cheated on lover of Seventeen years. I need that bloody item. My wrist feels so neglected and uncared for without it. Bah.

So in sheer panic, when I realized someone was betting AGAINST me, I upped the price to Ten dollars and felt sickly satisfied, smirking in my glory. Yeah. Take that you horrible fiend. I OWN THIS BID. It’s bleeding mine.

Right, so…

I had work today, which also brings in most of my anxiety. I’m the cashier at Pondarosa. It’s amazing, because I’m horrible at math, and counting in my head. If it wasn’t for [  ], I’d be doomed to bloody hell. He whispers the correct amount I should be giving out most of the time, and for the rest, I’m learning just fine.

I don’t like saying [  ]’s name anymore. I feel that Jayden has disgusted me long enough, like Rose had. Though the guilt will never fade for Rose. It was her fault anyway, she shouldn’t have gotten involved. Never mind, this isn’t proper. But it’s ugly now, Jayden. And I feel like a liar every time I say his name, because it isn’t that way anymore. But I’ve got to be careful with my well sorted out secrets that I pretend to mold into lieful truths. Because everything has to be coded, I don’t even know how to tell Ak-47 or T34. I don’t like talking about it much.

Oh well.

It’s the steady hum of the cash register that bothers me, as it grins sarcastically up at me, with its horrible teeth and smug little bastard attitude. A smirking bastard. That’s what it is. Because the Smirking Bastard talks to me now. I knew it was trying to before, and now it does, and I’m not sure how to take that. I don’t like that it makes me feel so nervous and trapped behind the cash register desk/counter.

And when customers order, it’ll play games with me. It’ll say no. And I’ll refuse it’s refusal. Sometimes it won’t print receipts for me. Or the cash drawer won’t open.

Or… oh, this is my FAVORITE… it’ll change the numbers. It’ll say 23. 87 and then it’ll become 21.66 then after I do that again and I’ll try and get the change, it’ll say I owe 60-something. It’s always laughing at me.

I guess it bothers me that I have to always half wonder if the people ordering are actually there. Sometimes I feel like they’re reading a script to me. Sometimes I feel like they’re just not there, just cliched extras coming in to fill a part.

Customer support fails at Grammar. :D

I’m anti-medication to such a degree that I’ll even refuse to take Motrin for a headache or whatever it is that is bothering me. Because I’m clever, you know, I know, I know, that it’ll mess with me somehow. And how could it not? I’m not a paranoid dunce. There’s chemicals in those pills that flow through you to ‘fix’ whatever it is that  has suddenly gone… wrong. I don’t want it playing around with my mind. Medication also lowers your immunity… after a while you’ll have to take twice as much just to get rid of a simple headache and you’ll get sicker more often. Bah.

So I decided to do my seven page research paper against the whole ‘medication advertised on the telly’ fad. School ends in two days. Oh good. The pressure is on, just how I need it to get anything done. Humming along to Aquabats, Meltdown!, as I scan the government-tracked Google, the things I came across only fueled my disgust for medicine.

I do the things I can.
There is capacity
For I am a human
Cars and radios
Television codes
Noisy animals
Jam transitions
I will go to work
Just like captain Kirk
I will hear the noise
The standard feedback
I will smell Chee-tos
That is how it goes
And then the nachos in my head explode, yeah!

Perfect music for my search, ne?

And then… I found it.

Buy Nolvadex Online

Lowest Prices
Safe and Secure Online Ordering
Guaranteed Worldwide Delivery (including USA)
Different Payment Methods
Live Support

NO PRESCRIPTION NEEDED!

(…And then he had a meltdown
He had a meltdown
He didn’t wanna
He didn’t wanna
Have a meltdown
But he had one
And then he had a meltdown
…)

Important Warning: Tamoxifen may cause uterine cancer, strokes, and blood clots in the lungs.

That’s GENIUS! YEAH! Let’s buy this stuff ONLINE.

Just click and buy folks.

‘If sent by the standard unregistered mail the order will come in a plain envelope without any reference to content. The envelope will be left in your mail box. There is no need to sign for it.’

So I decided to talk to someone. It couldn’t be TRUE.

Elizabeth:
I’m rather confused. These medications need a prescription, don’t they? Is this site suggesting that one isn’t required? Just click and buy?
Customer Support:
no they don’t!
Customer Support:
Just order online with creditcard
Elizabeth:
I’m pretty sure most anti-depressants need a shrink to prescribe them.
Customer Support:
its not medication who require a script but your local pharmacy and FDA
Customer Support:
you may order indian generics without a script
Elizabeth:
But isn’t that a little… illegal?
Customer Support:
theres nothing against the law to order from internet
Elizabeth:
Yes, but still, some of these medications can be harmful–or even sold for money if they aren’t needed. There’s a ton of side effects. It just doesn’t seem so safe to me.
Customer Support:
i c
Customer Support:
we’ll the ingridients are absolutely the same considering to brandnames
Customer Support:
formula,dosage and all the stuff
Customer Support:
the only difference is the way they look like
Customer Support:
if you have the med perscribed you may refill online without a script
Elizabeth:
Oh. Well… that’s really different. Thank you. Bye now.

I was so disgusted.

D:< I wanna take these bastards down.

Henceforth, DRAMA!

It’s rather extraordinary. I’m flabbergasted at my ex-therapist. I had been thinking about leaving him for a while, now. He just didn’t seem to be the one for me…. and besides, as Cap. Snarf says…

“I think we should see other people…even though you already do, YOU WHORE!”

:D Yeah. Anyway… Jayden was getting angry when I went to him–I guess spilling my secrets, that blabbing away at Jayden’s secrets fell into a ‘no-no’ for him, thus he expressed his undying rage, letting it hit me like waves, utterly ruining my weekends. And it was odd, because I had only been seeing this man, who I shall call Mark, because it’s his actual name and I don’t wish to spite him with my cruel name-calling, for four days, telling him all sorts of things. Mark said I was fine.

He just sat there, nodded, and scribbled things down on a pad. I turned my head away to laugh because, well, Cap. Snarf had said at Study Hall that day that whenever Mark was writing he was actually writing down, “SCHIZO SCHIZO SCHIZO!”

“Are you laughing at me?” He inquired curiously and I tilted my head in his direction.

“No, Kelsea said that whenever you write something down you’re actually writing Schizo, schizo, schizo.” I replied gleefully, deeply amused. His horrible beady eyes flicked to the end of the couch then back to me.

“Did Kelsea just say that to you? Is she here now?” His gaze shifted back to the couch and only answered him with more laughed.

Obviously she wasn’t, she was at home, playing the game I couldn’t even dream of.

But out of all my friends he wanted to meet Nathan. Which I found… odd. Why Nathan? It’s suspicious, isn’t it? So on the 5th meeting I announced…

“I’m leaving. Quitting. Jayden is angry.”

To which he replied with,

“I think you should consider medication.”

That was a shock. For what? What the bleeding hell would I need meds for? I had told him when we met that I wasn’t that way, I would never. He was trying to trap me. To get me to spend money… and then he said three little words that ruined me.

“It isn’t real.”

“They aren’t real.”

“You know, right?”

What? What wasn’t real? It struck me dead in the chest as over the next few weeks, and a shrink later, I was diagnosed as a Schizophrenic.

A bloody nut. After all the teasing and laughing over all these years that I just might be crazy, I am. I had pinned Nathan to be the Schizophrenic, not I. Funny how that works out. I hated the way Mark said those things to me.

“Your worlds” he’d say. “Those… voices… You know they aren’t real, right?”

Voices? Is that what Jayden’s reduced too? A ruddy voice? He’s his own self stuck inside of me. It’s strange, I suppose, but its true. Half the things that make me happy are “delusions”… “Hallucinations”.

Imagine growing up with someone–only to find out that you’re “Sick” and its “all in your head”. Imagine your best friend just being some type of delusion. And with a pill a day… that can all go away. Your best friend, the music, the noise, the whispers… half of you. Jayden isn’t a voice, and I don’t think medication can make that sarcastic melodramatic asshole leave. I wouldn’t want him too.

They say Nathan isn’t real either. Venny says that Nathan’s probably just some kid who breaks into my house from time to time.

So after arguing with a Shrink who only known me for 20 minutes, telling me that I was sick, that I wasn’t normal, that I’d never be able to function right and I was suffering terribly and a therapist dead certain I was going to end up killing myself…

I decided….

I need a new therapist to talk about my old therapist.

Here’s the facts.

I’m bloody happy. In fact, I’d be as bold to say that I’m one of the happiest people that anyone would ever meet. I’m such a freakin’ ball of sunshine that I tend to annoy my friends in the mornings.

I go to school. I go to work.

I get fairly good grades. And I’m a good worker.

I function nearly better than most “sane” people.

So why do I need medication? Why am I called sick? Why is my reality unacceptable? Why is your reality better than mine?

It’s true, some days I can’t even get out of bed because my anxiety is so high I can’t even think right. Ever since I was young, I was dead certain that the school is made of a system, that we’re being controlled and being prepared for a secret war. I can still remember the dragons looming outside of the window. At work my cash register talks to me–the numbers are constantly changing on me, and sometimes it’s angry at what the customers order. I know that people license plates are spelling out messages in numbers, I just haven’t figured the order, one of my best friends is a 15 year old boy from 1943 that somehow visits me, I hear whispers, sometimes I hear people telling me to off myself which makes me laugh rather than agree…

If you aren’t my friend, I won’t look at you, because you aren’t real… and I won’t really know if you are real. I have memories of things that I’m certain didn’t happen… I’m positive that the government somehow takes and gives memories… Sometimes I can’t write things because I KNOW my characters are listening out side of my house. There’s 12 green monsters from 2,000 years ago that live in water following me.

Yes, its a struggle, yes sometimes I go to school not really knowing what reality is or who people are.

But I’m damn happy, and I live my life the way I do. And I’m doing a bleeding good job of it.

So don’t tell me I need to be medicated.

Blogging? Me? Oh, I’m so cliched. :D

Right, so I’ve started this grand hullabaloo after telling myself, for years, I was above such peasant rants–seeing as I could just post them myself and then delete them later after realizing that it’s a bunch of teenaged hormonal chatter. However, here I am, blaming it on Kelsea–who I’ll end up calling Snarf, ’cause I like that nickname. She’s got a blog of her own and I really admire her, so I’ve got one too.

…I’ll probably lose interest or forget about this. I always do.

Hm. You know. I really don’t know how to blog. Do I just rant about how I feel and then expect strangers to read it? Gosh. That’s why I go to therapy! Mmm, so I just went to google, god bless that devil’s work, and typed in ‘how to blog’ like a reject. I’m actually pretty insucure like that, I have this compulsive need to do everything right–because what if I’m doing it wrong? And god, now I’m worried if I spelled “insucure” wrong! I’m a writer, see, but my spelling is one of a caveman’s–and speaking out loud is worse. I slur my words like a drunk fool, stammering and stuttering and my sentences crash into one another like a horrific car accident. I also have a bad knack of making up words and re-inventing them as I speak out loud. Feh. But I’m small (still 4′11!) and childish looking. A 17 year old that can pass, no lie, as 10. So I get away with a hell of a lot. It’s “cute” that I talk like an uneducated moron. I also lost interest at looking up how to blog. Thank Science for making up ADHD and convincing me that I have it!

I had some of Venny’s Energy drink, you know? So why aren’t I hyper…? It’s monster and that stuff turns me into ruddy Jack Sparrow! Hurm! Must be ’cause I’ve gotten myself sick again. It’s a simple cold, really. However, I’m pretty proud. That’s two in one month–and I haven’t gotten sick in four-three years. I’m really happy, I hope I get a fever. I’d like to stay home. Though, perhaps that sentence is misleading to most who know that teenagers usually “hate” school. I just want my mom to fuss over me. And turn this “cold” into a fatal illness in my head so I can lie on the couch, hacking and coughing, narrating dramatically of how it was my “last moments”. Oh god. Such ideas!

I rather enjoy school. The people, the drama, the chaos and the hormonal break outs and crazed rumors. Oh god, it’s art! I’m short, as I mentioned carelessly before–my doctor won’t believe I’m 4′11.

Her: Stand up straighter.
Me: I am.
Her: ….Oh. Well… -Measures again.- Straight, dear.
Me: …Okay.
Her: -Measures again, frowning.- Well… we’ll just say you’re 5 foot, okay?

Yaaay.

Where was I? Oh. Yeah. Wonderful school. I’m short, it’s an EFFORT to look up at the many faces of my fellow peers, who all assume I’m a highly depressed “emo” child, ’cause my hair is naturally black and I’m usually too lazy to cut my bangs. I’m also very fair skinned. I don’t really mind that they call me that, it’s interesting they take time out of their lives to notice me–I’m secretly flattered!–and put me into a group when I haven’t really noticed them at all. If you aren’t my friend, chances are, I won’t see you in the hallway at all.

My friends are always nodding in other people’s direction. “You see that?”, “That person gave me a dirty look!”, “She’s staring at you.”, “Hah! He just got pants”.

Yeah. I don’t notice any of that. I don’t see anyone. Maybe if you have glasses my head will do a 380 and I’ll watch you–I’m often attracted to people who are… odd looking. Glasses, mostly–what people call “nerdy”. I have no idea how I spot them. It’s like Spiderman’s “senses”, I guess. Oh, yeah, I should mention.. I’m a Justice League fan–and, yeah, I know. Spiderman=Not DC. Eff that. I don’t like Spiderman anyway.

This brings us to Jesse. He’s a jock at my school, and since 8th grade, I’m now in 11th, he’s felt the need to find me and mock me. Oh please. Don’t give me that “he must like you” runoff that I’ve been hearing for years. Nah-uh. Not happening. See, when I’m “bullied”, I don’t do much about. I’m not upset, I don’t glare, I just shrug and go home happy that someone I don’t know yells things at me. Yay, fun! Righty, so, 8th grade, RANDOMLY, this big tall kid just walks past my locker and screams “GOTHIC” at me. Shoot, I was stunned, I gawked at him, blinking rapidly.

And for the next month, everyday, at the same time, he’d say it over and over again at me. I’d just blink at him. So I started saying back, “I’M JEWISH!” I’m just a Submarine Jew, I only surface for the holidays. Which I’ve quoted from Kristen. I miss her. Anyway. When I hit Highschool, I found that he was in at least one of my classes, every year, with a group of three or four of his football buddies. And that’s when he’d talk to me, when they were around, and he’d get them to “be my friend”, but only for that period. Or he’d point to one of his buddies and try and convince me, for the entire year, that his friend was in love with me. Trust me when I say this, Jesse does this because I think he feels bad about himself and just takes out his frustration on someone who won’t do anything, who accepts the “bullying”. It’s a power thing. He has “control” over me, right? I’m his “look I can make fun of that girl”.

God, I lost my train of thought. Why? Well, in between reading cheesey fanfictions and being on myspace–oh, it’s not what you think, I roleplay! I somehow forgot what I was even talking about. That’s fine. Jesse is pretty boring anyway. I think I should mention that I call him Velveeta. Yeah. Like the cheese. Haha.

I have to say, another large thing that anyone taking a peek at this, should know. I have no idea, at all, how to judge anyone anymore. I remember being in 6th grade, all “gothic” calling people “preps” and “Sluts” or “whores”, as my friends and I sat in the corner of the gym, giggling at anime characters and how we had “sex” all the time, when we didn’t even kiss.

“We used to be obsessive brats. Now we’re obsessive brats with more opinions.”
-Kaggy

I just can’t look at anyone anymore and see anything wrong with what they do. I don’t know them, right? So why should I even really care? They dress nice, that’s fine, they deserve to be pretty. Preps? I can’t tell anymore. Emo, Prep, Gangster. Everyone is just a blurr of color and images, nearly faceless. I suppose I’ve become so involved with myself, I’ve stopped noticing others. If someone wants to sell themselves, or join a gang, or throw up their food–that’s their choice. It doesn’t apply to me or my world. It really, REALLY, bothers me when we’re standing on the snack line at lunch and my friend Sango turns to me and says, “Oh my god, she’s so fat, why is she wearing that?”

…What? And I look. The girl, who my table dubbed as “The Fat One”, is a freshman who is extremely over weight, but she makes herself rather pretty with her clothes, even if it does make her look fat. She’s got really pretty hair and a nice face–she’d be drop dead beautiful if she was skinnier. When I look at her, I can’t help but respect her. You go girl, just because you’re big doesn’t mean you can’t be beautiful! So I’m really stunned. How do you look at someone and think negatively about them?

See, this is what happened near the beginning of the year. Snarf was complaining, something she’s lovely at doing, almost better then me sometimes!, about the unholy math homework. I thank my last math teacher for shoving me into Business Math, which deals with no Algebra. The table of freshmen in front of us are usually rather loud, always screaming across the lunch room to friends. Captain Snarf was flailing her arms crying out in a loud distressed tone,

“Math! Math! Anyone know Math?”

One of the girls screams back, “Shut up you’re bleedin’ annoying!” Only she didn’t use the term ‘bleeding’, if you catch my I-DON’T-WANNA-SAY-EFF drift. Capt. Snarf just flailed. This, of course, led to worse things–somehow we’re in… Table war with them?

A day later Sango turns to me and whispers, giggling, “The fat one looks like she has herpes!” Because she had acne, horribly acne, all over her chin and mouth. Capt. Snarf hears this and points to the table in front of us, saying rather loudly,

“Her?” Point. “That one? SHE HAS HERPES? THAT FAT ONE?”

I couldn’t help but sniggering into my sleeve with Sango as Capt. Snarf stared at us innocently. To say the least, the girl noticed what had been shouted, and turned to give us one hell of a pretty glare. I can’t help it, she has such pretty eyes! And when she glares, they get this glass-like tint to them. I wonder if she knows she’s beautiful? Anyway. She yelled back,

“You ruddy floozy, you have AIDS!” Only it wasn’t worded as nicely, but I like my version better.

My school system as a very odd way of putting their days. It use to be “A or B” days, because there were so many kids and so many classes. For an example, you might have a double period of labs on a A day, or have gym on a B day and a study hall on the A day. Now we have “A, B, C, D, E & F” days because–well, they just keep adding extra classes you can take. I’m telling, you my reader, this, because certain people at my table don’t always have lunch with us.

It was most likely an A day. Cody and his partner in crime, Fran, were at the table that day, and so were the usuals–Alex, who the tabled re-dubbed as Freshman and mocked him for being a 9th grader, Courtney, Capt. Snarf, Me and Sango. I’m not really sure how the conversation fell toward the table in front of us–And I can’t even claim to be even upset by this. Which brings me to what Capt. Snarf told me Thursday.

We picked the girl out of the group–well, Cody did.

Cody: Someone should do something to her.
Capt. Snarf: Who? The fat one?
Cody: -Laughs- Yeah. Her.
Sango: Like what?
Cody: -Holds up his water bottle.- Like pour this on her.
Capt. Snarf: Hah!
Cody: I would pay you, do it, Kelsea.
Me: …How much?
Cody: Dude! Yes. 50 bucks.
Me: 50 bucks?
Cody: Fine you twit [I assure you, he did not use twit], 150.
Me: I’d do it for a 150.
Sango: Such a Jew…
Me: What? I want a 360! But I want the money in my hand.
Cody: Fine, I’ll start saving. Do it at the end of the year, like the last day. Just pour it all over her.
Me: I’ll pretend it’s an accident, and trip.
Capt. Snarf: And you look so small and innocent, they’d believe you!
Courtney: Yeah, let’s keep shouting loudly about it, I’m sure they hear us.
Cody: I want every last drop of the water on her, or you aren’t getting the money.
Sango: -Throwing M&M’s at her.-
Cody: -Throws his empty water bottle behind him, hitting her.- Oops!

Yeah, I know, it’s awful. Plotting to pour water on her. I couldn’t help but say I’d do it–only because I loved the idea of the joke, it was hilarious. I had, while telling them I would, no intention of doing any such thing.

“Everyone is plotting everyone elses downfall.”
-Capt. Snarf

I said I wasn’t. I said there wasn’t a single person I wished bad on, I told her I’d never, ever, want to do anyone harm. Because I don’t. She shook her head to me and said, “You plot your characters downfall.” I gawked and rejected that notion.

I said it didn’t count, she said it did. She said I plotted them, it was worse. And I realized… smacked across the face by a brief smack of reality, that I do, indeed, have times when I plan terrible tradgies for my characters.

Ah. Another thing whoever you are should know, that I think I might have briefly mentioned. I’m a writer. A rather obsessive one at that, and I’m dead terrified of the day I lose function of my fingers or eyeisight. Everything I do, or say, or think about–half of it is me living and the other half goes through a sort of filter of ‘Can I use this for a story? How would this help my characters? If I do this, would it work?’ I steal conversations, quotes, and actions sometimes of other people. My entire world is based around my stories, around my characters. I wake up thinking about it and go to bed dreaming about it. There is NEVER a moment in my life where I’m thinking for just myself. Even now, as I type, I’m figuring away to work it into something else. My reality, like yours, is warpped to fit my lifestyle.

I’ve got a simple truth: Life is tragic, tradgy is beautiful, beauty is art, art is fleeting, and fleeting is freedom.

I’m non-stop about my characters. I’m also studying Quantum Phsyics and the many theories in them, mostly MWI, the many-worlds interpreation to prove Elizabeth’s existance. Elizabeth is extremely important in my life, I’m downright obsessed with her. She’s my favorite character and I’m completely convinced of her existance–perhaps on another plain of reality, but she’s as real as I am. I did not create her, I stumbled across her. She found me.

“Elizabeth isn’t as real as Voldemort, Rin. Voldemort is known by more then half the world, his existance is larger then unknown Elizabeth. He has more of a chance of being on a different plain of reality.”
-Venny

“They’re both on the same plain of existance!”
-Me

Elizabeth, you should know, is hardly like me. And she’s so ruddy dimwitted it’s beautiful! Snappy and rude, floating about without a care of who she insults. God… I love that twit! She’s got this pudge that I just love to poke at. She loves it too, and talks with it sometime–and her hair is worse then a rats nest. She hardly sleeps so she has dark rings under her eyes and her clothes are baggy. She’s a walking abomination!

So I’m trying to pair her off with bloody Vincent. I hate him, only because he can’t stand Elizabeth. Strange, right? And he’s a rather pretty boy stuck in a hate-lust thing with my darling Elizabeth. I love their interaction most of all. But I can’t get them together. I’ve been trying for two ruddy years, and still, nothing! He’d say something sweet and she’d insult him for it. Tsk.

Vincent: …You know, I couldn’t stop thinking about you yesterday.
THIS IS SUPPOSE TO BE AN AW MOMENT!
Elizabeth: That makes you a faggot!

Ahh, the failure!
Mmm.
Faggot=Bundle of sticks.

Speaking of ‘faggots’, I’m bisexual! I was bisexual when everyone thought it was gross! Now it’s a fad? Huh. Yeah. Amazing. Just like being “emo”. It’s cool to see no point in life! Oh golly.

Here’s another important thing about me: I was raised by Lesbians–sorry, ‘Gays’. My mother, my birth, mother announced at dinner a few nights ago that she doesn’t like being called a lesbian. I was half asleep and rather cranky, tricked into waking up. She said it was pasta. It was Eggplant!

Mother: I’m not a lesbian! -Raises a fork in the air.- I’m GAY.

She SHOUTED it at me. She and Laura, her life partner, met when they were 14, in the bronx. Laura’s family, a large insane group of Italians, moved a lot, all over the city, so Laura was always going to a new school, and she met my mother by asking what bus she was supposed to take.

Everyone knew they were gay before they did. Laura’s father once said, “Birds of a feather, flock together!” To which Laura angrily retorted, “I’m not that way!”

They’re 56 now.

My mother realized she wasn’t so straight after she had me. Well, whoops. My dad lives in Alaska now. He’s a drunk. :’D I was 3. My mother has the sanity of the Joker and Laura could beat anyone up, she’s one hell of a tough cookie.

Everyday is an adventure for me, and right now I think I’m going to try and figure out how to sit like L, then write a story till 2 AM. That’ll give me four hours of sleep and then off to school I go. (Maybe I’ll get sick. <3)