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Quick kiss of honesty.

I would start out saying, ‘I should come clean’, but to be honest, there isn’t anything to come clean about. I’m going to just spill my guts, and tell it how it is.

Molly;

You’re the girl that showed me that its okay to care about people above a fictional sense. You’re the girl that kept me up until the wee hours of dawn laughing about shit that probably isn’t funny to anyone else. You are my darling, the person I can see myself growing old with. Someone who–even if it’ll be a struggle because of our different views–I see myself raising children with, having a messy/clean house with, having fights with. I do want to have fights, I want to have everything with you. Your happiness has always been the most important. You don’t think you’re pretty at all, but I think you’re beautiful. You’re my best fucking friend. And nothing could ever change that.

And yet…

You get so down, you go to a place that it seems harder and harder to get you back from. You hurt so badly–sometimes over silly things. But I’d always be there, and always will be, to help you up.

And I just can’t stop crying, and I don’t want to stop, and I must be so pathetic, because, grimly, I realize I can use my own pain for a story–a fanfiction, maybe. And that’s what it always comes down to, doesn’t it? I can’t seem to want to stick in one reality long enough, I can’t seem to stick with staying in pain if its mine. And I try to make everything alright. I try to make everything perfect.

And maybe I try harder then I should. Maybe I cling so tightly because I think you’ll be like Daniel. Poor, poor mad Daniel I never tried to help him, I let him jump. Am I just clinging to you because I’m guilty? I do love you, that part isn’t a lie, but will I throw myself into a marriage because I’m trying to save someone who is already dead? And I’m not just talking about Daniel. You’re almost dead too.

Maybe I think you’ll be the only one because you seem to be the only one able to stick around after I went nuts–after I am nuts. You’d love me like my mother couldn’t.

And holy fuck, is it so easy to pretend to be happy, to make sure everyone thinks its okay. Good lord, I’m a horrible person. Is that I all do? Run away from everything?

I just want everyone to be happy. I just don’t want anyone to feel the way I had, or still do.

I’m not sure why, but I just love to act like nothing is wrong while I’m hysterical. Tears clouding my eyes, I replied to texts and IM’s like its all alright. Because it is alright. Being upset isn’t the end of the world. What difference would it make if I was crying my heart out or laughing my head off?

And the guilts fallen down.
And its a struggle to stay sad.
And I might as well ruin everyone around me and get over it, its what I do.
And I don’t know what to do or say.
And its hard to have something going on without be able to seek advice from your best friend.

Protected: Dressed in all your fancy clothes.

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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.

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.