And Sarah, you take my blues away!

Rin! Is this how it feels? To not know the difference between reality and fantasy?

It’s remarkable how a few words can cause me to fall hurtling towards reality, bounce back on the thin layer of need to run from it, and shatter into the nothingness of the forever of why.

I don’t know, Snarf. I just don’t know. If I remembered how to be real, I’d tell you. To not know? I guess. Maybe you’ve been pushed into it. The madness, I mean. Because I get confused too. Which part of the pretend is the pretending part of false realness reality in my fantasy?

I can tell you, though, when I remembered it fading. The line, when I noticed it. I was in 5th grade, and I told someone. “You know the line between real and fake? It’s getting thinner. The fantasy is overlapping, flowing into everything.”

Such words and I feel like I’m shattering. Not in a bad way. But in a “WHY?” way. We’re all broken. We’re all mad.

They say when you’re in love, you become crazy. I guess that’s why I feel so sane and right with Molly. There’s nothing left to take away.

I don’t have the answers for you, Snarf. I don’t have any advice left to give, because I don’t know. I flatter myself thinking I’m brilliant, that I’d be a good therapist, but sometimes, I just don’t know anything. I need more information. I don’t know why he’s doing what he is. I don’t know why. But I know why you take it. You’re submissive. And you love him.

Nothing is real, Snarf. Because nothing is fake. Reality is based off of fantasy just like there is truth in lies. Make it your own truth. Find a way to cope. You love him, and you don’t have to let go, and you won’t, because your heart will cry. And maybe he’ll see you really do love him. And it’ll be good. But then it’ll be bad. Because we’re all human.

But if he ever fucking breaks your heart, I’ll kill him. You tell him that. Short Jewish Schizo girl will force feed him his own organs.

I live on the corner of Win and Science.

Okay. I’m not angry.

Maybe annoyed. Mildly so. I can’t find the chocolate I bought. It’s 3 AM. I want it.

I assume mom hid it.

So the thoughts running through my mind are these: Destroy the kitchen. wake her up and demand where they are. Kill her horribly for doing this to me. Cut up my arm.

I’m not a cutter. Never cut in my life before. But there’s always that little voice.

I’m not a murderer. I’ve stopped thinking about killing the people who love me years ago. I feel awful for admitting that it crossed my mind. I feel bad, because I think the word is ugly. I feel bad because I love my mother.

But I want my chocolate.
Funny thing is..
I hate chocolate.

Smallville to Metropolis: 22 hours, 16 minutes.

My resistance was something that never really existed; no matter how hard I struggled with shoving it from my thoughts, the idea of it all lingered in the back of my mind for days.
Days.
I’m completely and utterly helpless to the feeling that keeps rising, and although I feel as though it’d be a betrayal to what had originally started, to how things are suppose to be, I’m finding that I’m caring less and less about that. My selfishness ruins deeper than I had first imagined, and the sort of damage that this will cause–I doubt I want to think about it. Sometimes it hurts to think of you.

I’m afraid it’s boarding obsession, and the realization of just how far I am is shattering. You’ve hooked me, snaking yourself around my mind until you’re all I can think about, high of my own idiotic giddiness, plagued with the stirring ache that I doubt what I want will happen. That I’m afraid to make it happen. Like I had said, I’m terrified of the backlash it would cause. I’m torn between decisions. Between how forbidden the situation has quickly become. I’m almost ashamed.
Where has my loyalty gone?

A sickening thought, was it ever there?

I find you’re presence is seductive, luring me from the safety and certainty to questionable bounders, and I question all motives behind this desire.

Manderson Cooper’s Mother.

Maybe I’m dramatic, or needing a reason to explode. Yeah, that’d sound about right. Lack of Molly–put there’s something more, isn’t there? The rage lurking beneath the easily placed lazy smile. The hurt and anger and the darker type of sadness that spurs up like a flare of heated rejection only to simmer when realization is formed.

But I don’t think it’s very funny to fuck with someone whose confused with reality to begin with. I’m a little bit more than anxious over people’s ability to know just what it is I’m doing and writing without being there, and for a long time now I’ve been trying to tell myself that nobody could see what it is I’m doing, that I wasn’t constantly monitored.

I don’t think I’m a freakin’ crazy person. I think everyone thinks this way. And I think I’m pissed off.

It could be the obvious reason too.

Forever, apart of.

If there’s anything that I hate, it’s feeling sorry for myself.
I don’t do mopping, I don’t do emotional. Nah-uh. Like she said once, yeah, I’m the master of happiness, whether I feel that way or not, and fuck this, I’m not going to drag myself into agony of an obsession.

Over my pining.

Over you.

Darlin, I may want you, but I’m not going to cling to the pathetic hope and constant desire that I’ll take that forbidden leap. Plunging face first into this new adventure may be something that will destroy any hopes of having everything simple, and God knows I’m already complicated to boot. Though my aching need will always be there, and you’ll always be strung through my thoughts like the snake you are, slithering your way into my life, consuming what I used to know.

I’m going to pull an Elizabeth. Yeah, I said it.

Crazy and obliviously happy.
Mark, you might have FUCKED UP my life, but you can’t break me. Your words are nothing but a leaf floating in the breeze.

[...Look at me, look at me, look at me, I'm a winner;
You're a winner!...]

The hell, anyway.
We’re all mad here.

I’ll keep pretending my lies aren’t truths of fictional reality.

And so…

‘…The thought of that makes me feel ill, that you’ve mastered how to fake happiness like that…’

Out of all the things I do, of the lies I spin out of love of the fictional, of the facades I play with, like my mother wished, I became the master.

‘You’re hiding it somewhere, but you’re hurting …No amount of pepsi or silly songs will ever change that. ._.’

Even through the long drawn out conversations, my mind half distracted with the agony of the psychological abandonment issues, there is only one constant thought, only one objective.

Is this flowing with a story idea? Can this work?

‘…Yeah well, your health and happiness is worth a fucking shitload more than a story.’

Maybe, but its how I get by. I don’t think that’ll be something you can understand. Maybe my ability to make myself crazy and turn everything into something fictional has what helped lose my sense of reality. Maybe it’s me who made me crazy, and I should stop blaming genetics.

But I grin to myself, and I laugh. Through the tears of it, I crack myself up.

I’ll later tell myself it was Nathan that made me cry, not my mom. Not her fucking abandonment. I marvel at how easy it is now to pass off being okay.

I marvel at how nobody fucking knows, except Molly. She doesn’t even see me everyday, but she knows me better than anyone else. Even Jayden. And I go to school. And I laugh and laugh and laugh no matter how I feel.

I laugh while I’m crying. I laugh and laugh and laugh.

Just because my mom leaves me, and I cry over it, doesn’t mean I’ll wallow in it. I’ll just laugh. What else can I do? All that matters is the plot line. Half this blog is dedicated to the lies I can’t stop saying. It’s another facade in a series of them. And I wonder to myself…

Where is my reality?

Fuck. I hate this fucking shit.

I say I don’t understand. I say I can’t grasp the concept of why anyone would want to kill themselves. At times like these I wonder if I’ve been lying. Imagine hating your life so much you just want to end it all.

So maybe I lied. I might not understand wanting to die….

But so help me god, for as long as I can remember I’ve wanted to suffer. Because I’ll never be good enough for you, mother dearest! Fucking never. You always yell things at me.

“That’s it, I’m leaving! You can be here by yourself!”

“I’m leaving for the mountains!”

“I’m leaving, I’m leaving.”

That’s all you ever do. Is leave. Is fucking leave me here. It isn’t sadness I feel, I’m passed that. But the pain is unbearable.  You’ve broken me so many times, and then I always get so hopeful. And I’m always, always waiting.

Whether it’s me being the last kid at camp, waiting. Or the fact you forgot me at the babysitters house. Again. I understand you have to work. But what about the other times?

Your absence is the only thing that makes me sob upon thought of it. Why won’t you just love me like you should? You’re the one who was fucked, you’re the one who had me, so you’re suppose to take care of me. Stop trying to make me grow up.

At one simple sentence you have me miserable and broken. ‘Change of plans, I’m staying over…’

I’m not coming home, you’re saying. Again. I feel betrayed. And my tears won’t go away.

But that’s okay. I’ll use it for a story. I’ll pretend Nathan made me cry instead. I’ll pretend Elizabeth and Vincent got into a fight. I’ll pretend everything is alright, because that’s what you TELL me to do. So I’ll grin. I’ll grin and fake it until I make it.

Invega.

I want to burn. I want to burn with you.

I say only crazy people can commit acts of dark deeds, of murder, of rape. I say it because I’m afraid.

I’m afraid. I justify all these actions for you. I justify them all. I say I don’t believe in evil, only crazy. Because than what does that make me? Evil? No. Neither are you. I justify it because I want to believe we’re both good. It’s a silly hope and I cling to it.

I won’t believe in hell, because he killed himself.

I won’t believe in hell, because they’re gay.

I won’t believe in hell, because she steals.

I won’t believe in hell, because she fucks.

I won’t believe in hell, because of what you do.

I won’t believe in hell, because I made them kill themselves.

I won’t.

But I still want to burn with you. Like you said, at least we can roast marshmallows.

Hey, I never said this before…

But I fucking hate marshmallows.

Audi R8. The drunken dance of idiocy.

Infatuation. The term I’d never put lightly, because it’s mostly obsession that fuels the things I do, and the things I like, scratch that, I don’t do like. I do obsessions. Either good or bad, but it’s never an extremity like love or hate. Why? They’re too close to one another. Love and hate are so completely opposite that they end up making a circle, nearly touching one another. The only thing that standing between that thin line is obsession.

In the back of my mind he stirs. A cold echoing cackling, telling me I just don’t understand, nor will ever feel, love. He has though. But I took that away from him.

Good. Because I proved him wrong. While I’m unsure if it is love I feel–what is love anyway?–, I know I’m very devoted. As long as she’s happy, it’s all I care about. But other than her, the only other thing that makes me feel the extremities, is the beautiful melody of words dancing across the page, alluring me with their seductive nature. I’m utterly obsessed with my own stories, struggling most of the time to separate them from reality. Laura says its dangerous that I can’t.

So this all brings me back to the infatuation. It’s dangerous. Because if it was love, I would be screwed. Big time. I can’t seem to stop shaking. I just can’t. And I feel so stupidly giddy. I just feel like I need to jump around singing, screaming, dancing. I’m just so… unreasonably happy.

And it won’t stop. The startling realization stung like a kick to the gut, but that won’t keep my heart beat from stuttering like a hopeless fool, slamming against my ribcage like something out of a clichéd romance novel. I just want to scream until my throat bursts and my chest rips open. I want it out of me. Because it hurts. It hurts because it feels just so damn wonderful.

I’m infatuated with something that could very well destroy me. Suddenly every obsession that never faded makes sense. Bakura, Tom Riddle, even Lex Fucking Luthor, at times.

I’m obsessively infatuated with ‘the chaotic mindset of a man driven to the brink of lost sanity’. Not the desire of power, or of money. But of the mere desire of chaos, of anarchy and the maniacal games. Just the big giant game in which there is no rules. Just playing for the hell of it. Just sheer malevolence and ravenous lust for disorderly madness.

The unstoppable crazy. It was The Dark Knight’s Joker that made me realize just why I loved the Batman series the most, it was the Joker that made me realize. The Laughing Stock helped me without a doubt, growing deliriously giddy with every word splattered across the page.

It had been long since the days in which I had felt the lurking desire of horrible destruction and the longing to end the lives of the two who I deluded myself into believing trapped me. In a way they did, the pair of them, and with a grin, I believed myself I was waiting for the moment when I could be rid of them, and watch them suffer for the wrongs they inflicted upon me. But those days have long gone, those days back when I stilled believed I could destroy everyone in order to find peace. The hatred I supposedly knew flickered like a candle’s light, and soon only the brimming cheerfulness was all I could understand. Sadness, anger… they fled.

In a way, I think I must have snapped. Past the point of understanding my own feelings, past the point of seeing badly of other people. It’s been a while since I placed them in those classes like I did in my youth. I just stopped seeing people like I did. I just stopped caring enough to give them anything other than polite interest when addressed. They didn’t mean enough to be cared about, or to be hated. Hardly anyone did.

It’s always been that way, as far as I can remember, the love of the manic. The secret admiration, the obsession, with serial killers, or characters with lacking sanities. Now the only remaining question is why.

Whores; pterodactyls swarming.

I’m getting pretty sick and tired of the missed used term of the word ‘whore’.

1. To have unlawful sexual intercourse; to practice lewdness.

When you sell yourself for money. And I’m getting real ticked off at everyone’s, “Oh I’m such a whore!” Yeah. Okay. Sure you are.

“Sorry, I scarred you, but that’s what happens when you fall in love with a whore.”

Guess again, sweetheart, you’re not a whore at ALL, so STFU.

“Example two: when she was at the rave, she would go up to RANDOM MEN, complete strangers at that, and would dance on them. Not with them, ON them.
Yea. She likes to act like she is some sort of whore.”

No. That’s not a whore. She’s fucking 13, what the hell does she know of sex?

What does everyone have against whores? I’m so sick and tired of everyone bringing the word into their vocabulary. I’m getting so fucking pissed off at how everyone just parades the word about like it’s fucking okay. So what does everyone have against whores?

Everyone has to make a living, don’t they?

Whores do not have sex because they want too, or because they want the feeling.

People, it’s about the money. THE MONEY. I’m on the verge of tears, practically sputtering with anger. Just shut up. Unless you know someone who actually is a whore, like I do, then you have no fucking right to even talk about it. And Lydia was one fine hell of a girl. She was never up front about what she did, never called herself a whore. Just said she had some business to take care of that lasted an hour in a hotel room.

“It’s like afterwards they can’t see me anymore. I could walk by them and they’d never notice. I’m invisible to most people…”

She was amazed that we had even seen her. Amazed. She said that usually nobody could see her, that we must’ve been special like her too, that she was surrounded by a bubble that only allowed people to glimpse her for a moment.

At seventeen she ran away from home, left school, to there, Alaska, and worked two jobs, living with five other people in a small apartment. Sometimes in her car.

She never threw herself at men. Never went looking for attention or sex or anything of that sort. She was just a cheerful twenty-five year old woman that believed in magic still, believed she was still able to make it out of there.

Just because any of you parade around flaunting yourself doesn’t make you a whore. It doesn’t make you anything. It’s the choices we make that decide what our futures will be like, and I can bet a shit load of money that you’ll never actually be what you idiots say you are.

You can talk shit all you want, have sex with as many people you can find, dress real tacky, have absolutely no self control or self respect and you’ll never know, never ever know, or have the privilege to call yourself a whore. It’ll never be a want, but a have to. A need to survive by giving away the only thing men want, what absolute strangers want–sex. There is no self benefit or great pleasure. You don’t even have to be pretty. But it doesn’t matter, because you’re hungry.

aristocracy; Machiavellianism.

I had lived Seventeen and a half years of my life not realizing that I was dancing along the string ‘high class society‘. My mother was a single parent, often leaving me to the care of babysitters, always telling me;

“Sarah, it doesn’t matter how you feel, it matters how people see you.”

I was always the well mannered proper child, even at age of four. Never ask. Don’t speak unless spoken too. From a young age I set classes up for people, and decided just who to speak with and who to impress by the status I viewed them in. Always remembering to be nice to everyone, because they just might grow up and be something. I didn’t have to even like them, but if they wanted to be friends, then I was expected to be the best damn friend they’d ever have.

I’m flabbergasted as to how I never saw this before. How I didn’t realize. How I couldn’t have realized before that the whole “appearances are everything” was part of this little system I was a part of. Never let anyone know how much money we have, Sarah, they’ll shun you.

Everyone had a class, and I put myself at the bottom. I wanted to be there. I always pretended to be a lot stupider than I was, I let my friends win at chess games, or I’d draw something and let my friends take the credit.

Remember to always laugh at jokes, Sarah. And stop saying you love me. If you had a boyfriend and you did that to him, he’d leave you.

There was a flaw. I was, and still am, most likely missing a few screws in my head. I set up classes, sure, but I saw things either in an animal system or in clans. Everything was always warped.

I had a constant urge to make people think they were better than me. To flatter them endlessly, to shower them in compliments, to agree with whatever it was they wanted to hear.

Because inside… inside…

It had to be that way.

Aristocracy, plutocracy, meritocracy, autocracy, oligarchy… I was obsessed with it all. The classes. The systems. The ranking system. The beautifully well sculpted lies of the rich dance.

The game was remarkably easy to play. Words strung together and flowered elegantly. Meanwhile every secret, every piece of gossip, was manipulated, retold, addressed.

Backstabbing. Betrayals. The secrets. The dangers. The affairs.

And I wasn’t even out of middle school.

Deoxyribonucleic acid.

For a very long time I knew the source. Of what threw me other the age. I knew the source, and I knew why I’d get in a rut the way I would. I knew what, back then, caused the tears.

And then there was a period where I forgot. My denial. No. It wasn’t so, I just simply… forgot. Pushed it all away. And it became my truth for three or four beautiful years.

But I remember now.

You are. You always have been. You’re the only one with the ability to break my heart, to make me cry right on the spot of remembering it, you’re the only one with the power to break me so I can’t fix myself or escape reality.

Whatever reality means.

Everyone always talks about the romances of their lives, and being ruined from that. Not so, I think. I think the broken up relationships just reopen wounds from our own parents. Because nobody can hurt us like they can.

And I don’t mean the ‘You can’t do this, you can’t do that’ bullcrap.

The silence.

The lack of.

The drinking.

Parents ruin their children. And we love them. Most of the time they don’t even mean too.

I hope you never know how much you’ve destroyed me. Because it’d destroy you. And that would kill me.

The secret organizations operating in the hotel…

So the lions want to date me. Which means I’ve been trying to get away from my house. Every other night I’m at someone else’s. Because I can’t be here with the lions.

[xsilentxshoutx: Tell her to bug off, you have zebras to eat.

xsilentxshoutx: Lay down the law! Too many zebras to eat, too many safari tourists to frighten, too little time to play games with a fellow lioness!]

Lately I’ve been feeling… bad. Which is exciting! Could this be… sadness? I’m a little confused about it, but the confusion isn’t as big as usual. Maybe because I’m not crying. I’m pretty sure its like self pity attention-seeking comfort me, yet leave me alone type of thing. I just feel… bad. Awful, really. Like…

Left out?

Yeah. Like feeling left out. But I’ve been lying about the reason to everyone. So chin up. This should be exciting.

And it’s also… GENETICS!

Yay, science!

…And how!

Practice, Practice, Practice…!

I r Kira LOL: I’m…
I r Kira LOL: Roleplaying as a Lion
I r Kira LOL: DON’T JUDGE MY LIFESTYLE
I r Kira LOL: and my Lion is black in color.
I r Kira LOL: BUT IT STILL SOUNDS SO RACISTASFAS.
SkankinSnarf: I don’t question your insanity.

Damn right!

So yesterday was the Fourth of July. And I’m madly in love with that holiday–oh, no, not because I’m thrilled we’re free from England. That’s lovely too, but not what I’m ecstatic over. It’s the Fireworks. And, I mean, technology the war ended 1783, November 25–but hell. That’d be like having Bondfire night and Independence Day all in the same month, so fuck it. England and America can’t share a month! Garh!

Right, so. Back to being madly in love with the Holiday. It’s my favorite you realize. Fireworks. Boom. It does something to me… everything is suddenly more magical. I can’t explain, and I won’t.

So I made sure I was at Venny’s house. I was avoiding the fireworks. Because I knew I’d be thrown into a sort of depression if I was home, hearing them go off–and of course I wouldn’t want to be there. It’s tricky to explain, but I can’t wait for next year!

I showed Venny my lion rp myspace.

She’s disgusted.

“What’s the world come too? GOTHIC SIMBA?”

The world is finally right with itself.

Work went swell. I like them there when I remember to socialize. They think I’m a cute little girl, so its all sweeeeell.

I’m excited about Snarf. Tomorrow she and her boy go out for a non-date because he’s 20-something and she’s not. He’s so silly, and paranoid, and is so badly aching for the forbidden fruit that I laugh on the inside.

I hope he kisses her. Because she deserves her Prince Nerd. Not at all like the other one. He was sweet for her, but I didn’t like him, he had no spark, he couldn’t make her happy enough, I thought. And I don’t like him all for the sake of needing someone to not like.

So, her boy is taking her to Ruby Tuesdays -Smacks Billy- And a Movie. WALL-E. <3 I’m really thrilled. I hope she doesn’t throw herself into a depressive anxiety over it, or worry and ruin it with her dark thoughts.  I’m sure she’ll pull through fine. Maybe he can convince her that she’s pretty. Because our words won’t be anything in comparison to his. Their romance is beautiful, too.

She’ll get the milkshake, and maybe they’ll share it. A small cute little booth for them two. Then a movie. And it’ll be dark. The world will be forgotten. Resistance falters. He’ll only be half consentrating through the movie. Maybe they’ll hold hands. Maybe she’ll lean her head on his shoulder. Maybe he’ll kiss her.

If he does, he’ll be hooked.

Walter Adolph Georg Groupius.

“Well my Walter Adolph Georg Groupius can kick your Walter Adolph Georg Groupius’ butt!”

Laura thinks its time for me to be put on medication, and I think I should feel betrayed and hurt, but I don’t, I just feel the light feeling of confusion. And all I can wonder if she actually said it and if they’re making her say those kind of things.

Being paranoid while gushing blood out of my vagina lead to two things–

Feeling sick as hell.

And the lurking self-pity.

Sometimes there’s moments at work when there isn’t a single customer for an hour and forty minutes.

Which, of course, is bad on my part. The term “bored’ doesn’t exactly fit into what it is that I’m having trouble with–I don’t feel bored, I never have. It’s just when I have nothing to do, nothing to distract me…

I start thinking things that Laura says is… ‘unnormal’. I’ve always thought and felt this way, and now suddenly, I’m actually noticing them. Before I just assumed everyone got paranoid. I’m trapped, I can’t talk to anyone because I start thinking that all the waitresses are talking about me, or that they don’t like me.

Things start to creak. Shadows are everywhere. I’m in a crossroad of emotions–horror and paranoia, all the while telling myself, logically, nothing is going on. But I just… those thoughts don’t help ease me at all.

I have no idea what to do, to put it flatly. It gets bad enough that I’m in a stuck awful place, paranoid and upset. At times I wish I had a cellphone with me–to release my panic onto a friend. Maybe I’d even call one of those hotlines.

It’s not that I want to kill myself, I just… I don’t want to die–I just, my brain just… well, I need an escape, and for some reason that’s where I go, into a desperate panicked frenzy, feeling a bit sad about everything as pressure builds up as the noise raises and the paranoia overtakes me entirely.

And then a customer walks in, and all I want to do is flee.

But a smile forms. And I’m suddenly sounding happy and friendly. And poof, I forget how I felt.