Shock and Resignation

I guess I finally have something to write on this page after desperately doodling on it all day. Not that I'm happy about it. Not at all, actually.

It's just... She was the last person you would expect this of, but also the first person too.

When I heard, it was brief shock and then resignation. I'm not sure where between those the tears started, but I did cry, and fairly soon.

I'm not sure I even HAVE the right to cry for her. I mean, yeah, I knew her, went to middle school with her, laughed with her from time to time. But I didn't KNOW her at all. Just enough to know she seemed to be perpetually happy, and that she was nice to me when other people weren't.

What could be so bad that she'd not just want to die, but actually take matters into her own hands? I know that's what people always ask, but I really want to know. I've walked that edge before, been just about to let go, but I've always had the hope to keep on living, to get better. What could make a girl who seemed as cheerful as she did stop hoping?

I don't understand.

I mean, I really just can't wrap my mind around it. How could she just be... gone? How could that bubbly blonde just be cold and still? I can't quite accept it. She can't be... dead.

There, I said it. She's dead. She killed herself.

I don't know how she did it and I'm not sure I want to know.

What Jaclyn must be going through....

What her step-sister must be going through....

I don't even want to think about her parents.

I remember between seventh and eighth grade, she went from being a little toward the plump side to being a complete stick. She seemed to become popular overnight. I always sorta wondered what changed, but didn't really think about it. I didn't let myself think it was an eating disorder, or that people really were so shallow as to ignore one of the nicest girls in the school because of her weight. I still don't really let myself think about it.

Is that what's going to happen to me? To Zach? To Charmee? To Stephanie? To Angie? To Kyle? To Briona? Are anyone of us going to fall down so far that we'll start thinking we'll never see the light again and just stop looking for it? Are we going to kill ourselves too, and seem happy to the casual eye all the way up until then?

She was the last person you'd expect it of, but also the first person, too.

Oh, Casey... Could no one save you?

Untitled in Apathy

I really want to go curl up in a corner and die. I'm pushing everyone away, loving and loathing every little touch. I should move, dance, distract myself from this insidious melancholy. (Why did I leave my romance novel at home?)

And there's no real reason for it, but for a lack of salvation. I could help him if I didn't love him, because then I could be detached enough to ponder it on through in all its multi-colored possibilities. But I love him, and my love is not enough to save him.

It's not enough to save myself, either. I'm bubbling in a sea of confusion, and confusion leads to apathy leads to depression. Whatever. I don't care. (Transition one: check.)

I don't even care enough to finish writing this.

People Are Stupid

The above is an epiphany brought on by company too invested in an outcome and a party far from dispassionate, eager to coax a volley of Romantic sentiments from a cynic's pursed lips. I am referring, of course, to a GUY. (Bet to HELL you didn't see that one coming.) I mean, what right does he have to come around me, unsolicited, to re-incite such confusion among my affairs? (Keywords: reincite, affairs.)

"What are we to each other?" he asks me, so earnest and perplexed. "Why have you done this, this, and that?" OMG, I don't KNOW! That's why I'm avoiding addressing the issue! (Because that solves every problem.) Do like the rest of society - push it under the rug, burn it, hope it goes away! Just don't wave it in my face and make me deal with it! God!

I don't like the hypocrisy of his arms as he claims that he'll never bind me as his. He makes such fanfare about how chivalrous he is in refraining from kissing me as he exaggerates the issue, but speaks and acts without respect. (Maybe he's "kind" in not meshing our lips, but what the fuck is his arm doing around my waist?)

He entreats me to trust my situation to one who knows nothing about it. (Namely: him.) He is so hellbent on protecting me from myself, that he will not listen to the victim's testimony. (After all, she's in shock - how could this one witness understand what she's endured?)

This entire soliloquy is just another way of avoiding the larger issue. I so want to deny the problem merely because the topic was brought up by one who only vaguely grasps at its currents and whose motives are dubious (at best).

*sigh*

People are stupid.

Free Write 10/16/08

It's alright, it's okay - we shall live to dance another day. Don't call me young and don't call me vulgar - there's a splash of moonlight for your tastes. I want someone to be mad at, but it all makes too much sense, so I'll just sit here and rage at myself. (No wonder I have the occasional bout of intense self-loathing.) I want to work on symbolism, take my story from entertainment to literature. I don't want to be just another name to be forgotten. I found my inspiration in a list of authors and titles that should be known. I'm going to try and do it all and I'm not sure I'll succeed, but why ever not? Living in my mind is not so awful as one would think. I like the solid ring that resonates in my head. Rubies and garnets are not without significance. Can you read me this and understand my gist? Just recall that I'm constantly improving. Maybe I'm a poser, but I firmly believe that I don't think so. I'm raring for work, but not responsibility. As soon as I get my license, I'm down on 21 at eighty miles per hour. If nothing else, I will enjoy myself.

I'm confused about love and I don't know what to say, except that I remember what happened the last time I felt this way. I don't want that this time around. I understand where she's coming from, 'cause I been there myself, and I can only pray that she'll play it smarter than I ever thought to. He's kind of cruel to dally this way, because deep down, all three of them know better than this high school drama scene. But maybe not. I hear the World is just the same. I'll prevaricate and call it human nature. But, still. Don't get your hopes up, Breezy, don't entrust your heart to his skillfully clumsy hands. He'll put Tamora's face on you at every turn and it will lodge in your stomach and hurt like flame. Tu ne joues pas au basket. And, Tamora. I told you not to make the same mistakes that I made with John and failed to mention that getting back together with him was one of them. My bad. But don't do this to Alex, I beg you. He's trying to rebound and move on, so let him. And, you, you too, Alex! Please stop playing pretty and show your hand in your heart. We're not dumb, but nor are we all powerful. Though this is your social position at the moment, please don't be a tyrant and crush all your circling wolves at will. I know the power is heady, but cruelty cannot be justified by that sensation. A solid block of writing marches down the page, confusing and unorganized, but I just can't restrict to one topic today. I'm a sea of contemplatias, happening all at once and I'm trying to convey these processes, but there's so much going on. I'm a miasma of stifled rage and virulent hope (go bacteriophages!) and I only want it to work out. I want a diamond perspective on everything in life, a cleansing of arsenic, to put it matter of fact blunt. I'm mixing adjectives for nouns, trying to be original but only managing odd, maybe bombastic. I've always seemed pretentious, with an obsession to control and detail. And there it is. I said it myself. "Control freaks are the ones most often helpless." And I can't wave a magick wand and make this entire situation disappear and be forgotten. Cause I don't think Breezy can really trust you now, Alex, you were so ready to turn back time. And I intervened once or twice before, if you'll recall. I didn't know you so well then; I only knew Tamora. But I was so sure that you were the best thing for her at the time. She was in love and I could see something similar in your eyes. I knew even then that it would end like this, though I ignored myself and hoped that life would surprise me. How bitter... No such luck in that arena. Tamora and I, we are so much the same in so many ways, though not interchangeable parts in the same machine. And she made my same mistake(s). And maybe I'm in the process of committing those same mistakes once again. I am nothing if not honest in my hypocrisy. Breezy and Alex will end, too. I don't know when and I don't know how, but I see it in their future. (Why are people so predictable?) And I can predict everything but myself. Or, rather, I can predict myself, but I'm too scared that I'll be right. My pathways are just as obvious as that of everyone else, but for the way I obscure my vision. It's rather sad, but it explains a lot. I'd rather be self-aware, but that does not amount to safe over sorry. I won't go so far as the other way around, but I could see it without squinting. There are so many stories and so many facets to a side. Crystalline may be clear, but it is complicated. How does one choose where to look through? (It's that ethics BS coming back to haunt me soundly.) I can see what he is thinking and I am debating how much I care. I've bound myself to him in a few soft swoops and I don't know if it is healthy. I've got to deal with all of this, so censorship would be counter-productive. I must treat this as I would any other. My wrist is beginning to cramp with the ferocity and velocity of my word flow. And I'm just getting started. There's this vomit of consciousness staining my notebook and I'm not entirely sure it's in the business of making sense. I'll write until I'm stopped, then volunteer to stop someone else. Do I really want to work so closely with the Bat? I'm volunteering myself for such prestige, though I know it spells frustration. But why not? Anything for that perfect college application. Don't harangue me with these constant reminders that I've got the world at my fingertips, because I want it in my fist. There may be no such thing as perfect, but my ambition won't believe it. And part of it is competition. I can't stand to come in anything but first, and I see backs in my field of vision. It's a dangerous compbination - apathy and ambition. I'll kill myself with the pressure to overachieve. And I don't care. I'll raise myself a race of people just as drunk on success as I am. And there's the bell. Vomit of consciousness ended.

Flashing Fang

Go ahead and call me out, take me down, pin me to the carpet for all to look down on, and I'll smile. I'll smile with fangs and an evil intent, and that'll be that. You'll have gotten your wish - I'll be devoid of all emotions, I'll have given up all attempts at giving, and I'll turn to stone. It's all you need - for me to be even colder and less caring than I've ever been before, and it's already a well known rumor that where my heart should be, there's a hole. Go ahead - call me out.

Make me the epitome of all that shocks and disgusts, and do it with a grim 'for-the-better' visage. I'm all too familiar with your brand of concern - I call it 'persecution'. Tie my hands behind my back and toss me in the river for a trial. There's only guilt to be gathered from where you stand, and I can't show you innocence. So go on - flog me like the well-chosen scapegoat I am.

And when I'm back to being your favorite Southern arctic bitch, you can smile and vaguely wonder what might have changed. I won't tell you that - I won't tell you anything then, except with an icy contempt that shows how little this life was worth it. So shrug and glance away, just happy that I'm no longer the same - never mind that the change wasn't for the better. I'm down on the carpet, pinned for everyone to look down on, and you can see my fangs with my smile. (Hey, why should I bother to give a care for my damnation?)

How Badly

How badly can we scare each other? Me, with a bleeding-scared slash to the wrist, and you with morbid thoughts of "what-if" when looking towards the trees. Both of us smiling, hiding, and not saying a word until it all breaks down with the softly empty statement. ("The knife didn't slip.")

How badly can we scare ourselves? Rock back and forth with tears down your face, staring at the phone and wondering if you should dial, while across town, the other's doing the same hesi-moment thing. Roll along the carpet, body over body, holding the rope and worrying yourself back into your head. ("It almost feels like rape to me.")

How badly can we hurt each other? Bites in every kiss, like a baritone between our heads. A struggle on the floor for dominance and pleasure, a game of who will submit first and how far will we have to go before we get there. ("I'm always hurting you.")

How badly can we hurt ourselves? Holding ourselves separate behind mental walls, reaching through solid brick for comfort. We rot within our insecurities, our thoughts as acid in the veins of our logic. ("You have to trust that I'll catch you when you fall.")

How badly, darling? How much can our flames flicker, and fan, and burn us?

"I spent the week thinking about driving into a tree."

"I'm afraid to be blind."

"These marks aren't just from my baritone case."

"I'm fine - I was in complete control."

"You scared me last night."

And the unsaid words - ("You hurt me.")

Panting-Smiling-Glaring

They rolled across the carpet and came to a stop with him on top, face to face, panting-smiling-glaring at each other. His hands encircled her wrists as she was pinned to the floor, his pelvis resting in the cradle of her hips as his knees held her thighs apart. He came down to claim what was (at the moment) his to take.

But she tossed her head to the side to avoid his kiss and in a feat of flexibility and lower body strength (thank you, marching band!), got her feet on his ribs and pushed him away. In seconds, she was on top of him, the tidewater tables having suddenly fallen into Luna's sway.

She pulled the handcuffs from her jeans and got them behind his back, slamming them into place with the ease of practice and passion. He groaned and surrendered as she straddled his back and chuckled in his ear, her red-stained hair forming a momentary curtain around their faces.

Then she kissed him, finally (briefly) gratifying him, before her lips began to nibble a path down his neck, behind his ear (to make a chorus of his moans), and then down his spine, taking pains for symmetry of pleasure. She smiled wickedly as her fingers played him and plucked at their mutual puppet strings.

And then he twisted beneath her, deftly working the safeties on the cheap restraints, catching her and switching the situation as quickly as they fade. But she managed to swing her arm about his waist before she was wholly captured.

They rolled across the carpet, face to face, panting-smiling-glaring adoration.

Update of Overanalyze

Don't be so sure that everything's fine, 'cause I'm fallin' short on every line. I'm searchin' for words that just aren't written, and my masterful improv... Well, let's just say it's been a while since I last took the stage.

I'm a whirlwind balancing act of do this and do that - never ever let on that you're stressed. There's a word for what I'm doing (or maybe it's a phrase...) - "Deception grin to bear it." And who am I deceiving? Myself, but not anyone else. (They all know how little sleep I'm getting.)

Would you stop calling me 'love' when it seems to be falling apart? We've no more to say and so resultingly scream 'romance'. I can feel the gulf growing large and I'm not sure what to do. (Is it not ironic that the control freak is the one most often helpless?)

We are the contrast, the highlight and the shadow, the OCD and the ADD of people. We balance, we turn, we dance, we tumble. And I think you're winning. What the HELL'S going on?

I tell myself to trust, to stop doubting, to let go and ride on out to the end destination (wherever that may be.). But I am just too scared. I once said I was the Queen of Overanalyzing, and it's truer than ever. I want to know what's happening and why and I know it'll be the catalyst for my decadence. (It doesn't mean I can stop.)

Are you resorting to nonexistent scripts, too? 'Cause I don't think everything's fine, but maybe you're blind or the folly is mine. (What's going on?)

After School Enthusiasm (Go Band!!!)

Gaaah! I don't want to go to band practice today! I mean, for once, I have minimal homework, so I could have spent the time squirreling about with my friends, but, no. A force of nature called Hurricane Hanna has to intervene and get tomorrow's football game moved to tonight. And, for some reason, the band director thinks we're a source of school spirit and finds our attendance to these things to be mandatory. So, damn! After school band practice. Yay! (Such enthusiasm.)

Instant Relationship

It's pretty damn convenient, wouldn't you say, to find out that she's bi only yesterday? Within hours, you ended that first affair, and then texted her to make her yours.

What the flying French teacher??? I don't believe I've seen you speak two hundred words to each other before then!! So, allow me to paraphrase your thought processes.

YOU: She's bi!!! OMG, she's so hott!! I didn't know she was bi!!! My girlfriend isn't as hot as she is... And I'm really only going out with her because she's one of the few lesbians in this school.... Hey! I'll tell her that I just want to be friends and ask THIS girl out!!

Fae nough, on your part, if slightly on the shallow side of the pool. Now here's her part of the bargain.

HER: She's a lez, and she asking me out.... Hm, since my last boyfriend dumped me I haven't had anyone all to myself. And I've been lonely. And, hey. She's lez. And the guy I ACTUALLY like needs time to mature.... Why the hell not?

There you have it. The substance of your instant relationship. (Seems kinda petty when put like that, does it not?)