vomit

Today, I lay on my bed with my best friends ultra-amazing puppy, Heidi, and took a nap. She just looked so cute and peaceful asleep that I figured maybe some of it would rub off on me if I lay really close to her.

It did.

You know when you're asleep, you kind of drift? Well, I was drifting and then a dream happened. I saw Hotmail, and I saw myself clicking on the unread messages tab where it said 1 unread message. I saw his name in the sender's name place thingee, and almost peed myself (not in real life).

The email was short.

It said something really close to but not word-for-word like:

"How could I not love someone who says 'crazy bastardly benifits'?
I love you."

And I woke up right then.

But, there was a huge smile on my face.

Until I realized it was only a dream.

That crash back to reality hurt like hell.

So, because I can't stop thinking about him, I checked his myspace (just a few seconds ago). He was on 4 days ago. He felt adventurous then, or whenever he updated his mood.

I (stalker) looked at the few pictures he has. One is a tag from me, from his Mormon prom. I'm really tempted to untag him. It doesn't seem right, now.

As I was looking at the other two, I felt the urge to vomit.

It hurts so bad.

I couldn't sleep.

So I drew a picture of someone I thought would be his dream girl.

She looks nothing like me.

She is beautiful.

Her hair is wavy, and soft and floaty.

Her eyes are huge. And she has a really pretty smile.

Damn my art.

She's almost perfect.

She's wearing a cameo. Not that I know he likes cameos. It just seemed to fit her totally feminine persona.

You know. . . a girl who would never wear skinnies. A girl who's favorite color was dusty pink.

Wow.

I'm totally scaring myself.

I swear, I'm not a freaky stalker girl. I've never done this before and it's even creeping me out.

Ouch.

His birthday is in 3 days.

18.

I'm a moron.

Goodnight.
Shoot me.


<3

happy birthday bastard

Hello Bastard,

This is your birthday note. Happy 29th birthday. I hope you have a blast. I hope you remember all the good times.

I hope you remember your youth group. Your devoted followers. How we looked up at you like you were the center of the universe.

I hope you remember the first time I called you daddy. You were caulking the bathtub. Hell, even that was an omen, huh?

I hope you shrug on your worn leather jacket that reeks of you and remember that I used to wear it. I wore it home every time I'd leave school after lunch. Remember?

You came to find me once. I had locked the door. Locked and bolted, because my goal had to be accomplished. I had to be clean. I couldn't let you find me with red eyes and smelling of puke.

When I walked out to the enclosed porch I could smell you. Aftershave.

You came to save me. Or something like that.

Big strong youth pastor to the rescue. Taking care of the flock. Nurturing the sheep. Loving the unlovable. Planting seeds (what kind of seed?).

Remember your daughters birthday? She was one. Her face had just been mostly cleared of chocolate cake and I said I'd take her to bed while your wife was talking to my parents and your other two were playing downstairs. She was being so good. You weren't. Helping me, huh?

How could you do that stuff while your daughter was in the room? She wasn't old enough to understand, but it felt like she was.

How about your wife? She is beautiful. But she wasn't enough. She was insecure. . . so you found a girl who puked her guts up for self-esteem.

She was a faerie, your wife. She was my best friend.

And you were a vampire. What are you now?

Have you repented, like you told the judge? Forgotten your sins; let Jesus clean your heart? Psalm 51.

Happy birthday.

Do you remember the night I came over to figure out a plan to stop my cutting and purging? You showed me all the pictures you could find on Google images of deathly looking people. You read me the symptoms. Heart attack. Death. Infertility.

And then you put a condom in your pocket, just in case you got lucky with a 15 year old girl.

Bastard.

And the thing is I don't hate you. I feel sorry for you.

I feel sorry for you because you wore holey briefs and you stunk of sweat and cheap hair gel. I felt sorry for you because your phone kept vibrating as your wife called. I felt sorry for you when you finally got done because you were ruining what you said was everything to you.

Everyone reminds me of you.

Everyone with funny fingers, funny faces, funny noses. Everyone who cares.

What really hurts is that I haven't been able to move past you.

Everyone who touches me has your deformed hands and your glassy eyes. They all fake love.

When you carried me home in your arms after I'd OD'd, was that because you didn't want to see a girl die, or because you liked the way a vulnerable, quaking little girl felt in your arms? When you endured smelling like puke as you waited in the emergency room, was it because you really wanted to make sure I would make it, or because you wanted to know that I felt like I owed you something?

I question everything, you should know that.

I also say I'm sorry too much.

Did you choose me because I was someone who you wanted to get to know, or because I was the most vulnerable? Did my writing really intrigue you, or was it just another way to gain my trust?

You were the best and the worst thing that ever happened to me, Joseph Aaron.

I hate you.
But I can't hate a soul.

You must be tormented. At least, I hope you are, or else there's no hope for you.

How can you look at your children and not feel pain? You deprived them of their father for years. They don't know what happened now, but sometime in the future they're going to ask why daddy has a criminal record and why they can't have their friends spend the night. What will you say?

Are you going to tell them that there was a girl named Annie who wrote sad stories. Are you going to tell them that I loved them more than anything? Or are you going to tell them that there was someone; there was a mistake, and she's gone now?

Was I the mistake, or were you?

Life's unfair.

But you know, I'm happy.

You taught me that no matter what happens, even the worst thing I could dream up, it all has a purpose. People become stronger when they're faced with challenges, and when you break, you eventually heal.

I think.

And now, PJ, I can smile when I think of that year, because it was also my best. I met friends in the weirdest places and it's all thanks to you.

Really. Who knew loony bins were so darn cool?

Who knew I'd learn who I wanted to be?

Or that I'd finally fly?

Screw you.

And thank you.

And I'm sorry.


Happy birthday.

-Mistake.


P.S. The kids from Bethel still talk about you. You're a legend. They will never trust again, and half of them don't want to step into a church. They've lost the faith because the one who showed it to them lost himself.

I found myself through your breaking me.

I hope you've found yourself, or something.

Say "Hi" to Trish and the kids. I think of them constantly.

for you, poet boy

This is stubborn.
This doesn't want to come out.
This said it will kill itself before giving up.

This said it hates me.
This told me it was because I am fat, ugly, worthless, stupid, a liar, a whore, a liberal, Christian, female.

This hate that I'm writing this.
This knows I tried writing this blog 40 times in the last 3 weeks and 2 days.

Everyone's telling me I can do better. I can find myself a prince that glows in the sunlight and will sweep me off my feet.
I hate that. I hate it when they say "you can do better".

They are wrong.

I can't do better than you.
You probably invented the word better. In my world, you certainly did.

You did sweep me off my feet, and you do shimmer and glow not only in the sunlight, but also in the moon beams.

The emo quote girl inside me says: You've taught me one thing if you've taught me anything, poet boy. You've taught me that I have a heart, because I can feel it breaking.

It's never been like this.
It's never been insomnia, hungerlessness- it's never been. . . love?

I said I wouldn't fall. I said I didn't fall.
But I had fallen so far down I couldn't hear myself scream.

I think of you when I brush my teeth, when I blink and especially when I check my email.

For a second I wondered what I was supposed to do. How does one act when this happens?

I thought of stories I'd heard. Suicide.

Then I thought, no. It would break you. And I would never do that to you.
Then I thought again, and I said, I don't even want to die.

And I don't. Not only because dying would hurt you, but because I know, for the first time ever, I tangibly know that there are people that love me.
I don't because I have a purpose.

One thing really bothers me though.
It always has.
I never cried.

No. When I finally realized what was happening, I just stared in front of me and focused on the pattern of breathing. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.

And I'm not angry.
Ok, yes I am.

But not because you just stopped. No. I'm not angry because of that. It's your right.
But it's my right to know why. Just a reason. Nothing more.
"Because you're a whore."
"Because you're too fat for me."
"Because I changed my mind."
"Because you're too clingy."
"Because I could never love you."
"Because I'm going off to college, and there are plenty of better girls there."

Anything, damn it.
Just a reason.
That's why I'm mad.

I'm mad because I thought you were a man.
I still think that.
Contrary to any evidence otherwise.
Like the fact that you just ignore me.

Why can't you just stand up and tell me the truth?
Or is that too hard?

Write me a poem then.
Write me a poem and tell me I'm a cyst.
A ball and chain.
A weight.
A menace.
Something.

Oh, but what hurts the most is that I still love you.
Not as a lover, because it was never that strong in that way,
but as a friend.

For a while, I considered you in the top two. Because Rachel could never be trumped.
I thought that we were soulmates- if not in the usual sense, then in the sense of I wanted to know everything about you. I wanted to feel your soul. Because I loved what I saw.

Well,
All things must come to an end.
Even good things.

I am sorry if I'm anything wrong. Any of it. If I was too touchy-feely, or if I told you too much.

I'm sorry.

<3

bad (pt. 2)

Maybe, like you did me, you will mold her; shape her into the girl of your dreams.
Maybe you'll tell her to get contacts, to change her eye color, or to get highlights, and wear cuter clothes. Maybe you'll shove your hand in the back pocket of her jeans, too, because a girl's a girl, no matter which one. They all have the potential to be yours- all they need is a little trimming; a little fixing up, and they'll work fine.

We all have boobs and a butt and pretty hair. We can all have deep eyes if they catch the sun right, and weight can fluctuate depending on how high you let our self-esteem go.

You were an angel, and a terror.

Sex, drugs, music, and pretty girl at your side, right?

Well, lemme tell you this, honey, my favorite color is green, because it's the color of life, and life is something sorely missed many times.

My favorite TV show is Gilmore Girls, and I wish I was as innocent as Rory in her early days, before she became a woman.

If I don't feel fat on a certain day, I feel ugly. It's very rare that I feel half-way pretty, and that is in part to you.

I always wear colorful underwear, usually rainbow or polka dotted, because it makes me happy to know something no one else knows. On occasion, I'll show my underwear off.

I once held my breath for over two minutes on a dare.

The New Yorker fascinates me, and I do things most people consider boring on a regular basis.

Did you know any of those things? I bet you've tried to guess my bra size, but never even wondered about what my favorite color is.

Good riddance.

<3

good (pt. 1)

Don't forget to remember me, okay? No matter what happens, where you are or what you're doing.

You told me I wasn't just another girl, that I, I was special. You said I had fire in my eyes and that when I danced the trees stood still and when I spoke they listened. You said "You'll go far, girl", and you stared into my eyes like they contained the answers to mysteries long perplexing.

I miss you, and sadly, I don't think you remember me.

Do you remember holding our breaths as we spun in a circle, each holding on to the others hands and focusing on the others face so that we wouldn't get dizzy? Do you?
Do you remember how you'd run your fingers through my hair and tell me it was okay, you thought it was pretty.

But those were just words, and I understand, if your world got bigger and your horizons widened. It happens to everyone, I suppose.

Did you meet a pretty girl? One with the deepest blue eyes and the silkiest brown hair? Did you stare into her eyes too, and tell her they held something (maybe ice? Fire sounds more poetic, but I do believe it works better with brown eyes than blue). Did you tell her that she was beautiful, even when she felt ugly? Or maybe she didn't feel ugly. Maybe she knew she was perfect, and flaunted it. Maybe she was better.

Will she go as far as you said I will, or will she go farther? What's the standard, boy?

"my soul lingers over the skin of you"

"And I don't know,
don't know,
if we belong together or apart,
except that my soul lingers over the skin of you
and I wonder if I'm ruining all we had,
and had not. . . "

-Anne Sexton

It is silent, everywhere. Outside it is getting dark, a bluish sort of dark; the calm before the storm, or tornado. On the radio, the Black Eyed Peas are telling me that they're 3,000 and 8 and I'm 2,000 and late, and even though I am swaying and spinning, I wonder what that even means.

We danced to this song, and it got stuck in our heads. He kept singing it. "I'm so 3,008, you're so 2,000 and eight" and I'd join in "boom, boom, pow". Maybe if we practised, we could actually sound good. Synchronized.

I've never waited before. It's always been moving as fast as it possibly could, untra-sonic speed.
It's different now, though, and I have this weird feeling, that I should wait for him, encourage him, and just be a friend. I've never felt this before.

I told him that Walking Alone, by Anne Sexton, the poem up there ^ fit. He said it did to, and asked what the title was.

There are pictures documenting our night, though they are terribly unoriginal. I think we felt weird, standing in front of a camera, me in my prom dress and v-neck t-shirt, and him in his suit and borrowed yellow tie. We just stood there and side hugged. The photographer lady said it was ok if we touched, so we did. I wondered, silently, how much touching.

I would wait for him till the end. Which scares me, because I have never said that, or thought anything remotely close to that, ever.

<3

call me mashed potato girl.

I am sitting in front of a brightly lit screen with a pot of mashed potatoes, garlicky mashed potatoes, cheesy and garlicky mashed potatoes off to one side of the screen.

There is a wooden spoon in the mashed potatoes, and also a smaller metal one.

Just a second ago I was staring at this screen, with the smaller metal spoon in front of my face. I was licking it, thinking I could star in a porno about mashed potatoes. I laughed at myself.

It was all about fun, and I really don't have any weird fetishes about mashed potatoes.

Viva la Vida was playing, and I turned it way up. I love Coldplay, and I especially love Viva la Vida.

I finished a book today. It is called "The Perks of being a Wallflower".

I was shocked at the ending, but as I thought about it, it all made sense.That's why he was scared to have sex with Sam. Yeah. Makes sense.

But he loved his Aunt Helen.

Just like I still love Joe. But Joe killed me.

I wasn't exactly scared of sex. (Pokerface, by Lady Ga Ga is on now. How do you wake Lady Ga Ga up? Poke her face.)

Maybe it would have been good if I had been scared of sex.

Then it maybe wouldn't have happened. Especially without a condom. Who does that?

Seriously?!?

That's not even that bad. But knowing the sperm donor for only 6 days before settling yourself down on the piano practise room floor. Wrong. Wrong. Me.

(Let's face it. When it's come to size, there is one thing that really does matter. I'm talking about diamonds of course. Be Iced Jewelers.) What?

Oh yeah, and I thought I was pregnant. Because that would be convenient. And just my luck. I kind of wanted it though. Rachel and I went to Walmart, and I grabbed a liquor bottle. . and pretended to drink, and then I thought I couldn't, because it could cause birth defects.

Then I made her promise she'd never, ever let me wear sweats during the whole 9 months, that she'd make me dress cute, no matter how much I didn't feel like it.

That got me thinking about clothes, so I begged her to go to the maternity section with me. No go. I looked at it longingly though.

I wasn't.

Pregnant, that is. I was so relieved, when I found out. Right before Art class, I went to the bathroom, and there it was. The woman's plague. I was like "Geez, I wish I was pregnant. This sucks." But I was only half-wishing. Half.

I don't know why I am saying all of this. I was actually going to talk about something way different. I was going to talk about Curtis, but I started talking about Charley in the book, and Aunt Helen.

So, here I go, talking about I was originally going to talk about.

I went to prom this Friday. I also went to after-prom on Saturday, with Rachel. We drank way too much coffee, and stayed up longer than Rachel had ever stayed up. We went to Denny's, which is my favorite restaurant place of all time, because they have the best Bocca burgers ever. I said that, and then started laughing. There was all these random girls I'd never seen, and we sat with them, and I couldn't stop laughing. I've never done that before. It was great. I felt so high. It was ridiculous. I got coffee. And mozzarella sticks. (Mozzarella is a really weird word.)

But, on Friday, at prom. . well, it wasn't actually prom. It was like, fake prom. Or. . Modest prom. Or Mormon Prom. Choose one, it works.

We had to wear sleeves, because Mormon's are OCD about all girls having sleeves on. I looked ridiculous. Curtis took me. He looked at me as I opened the door and told me I looked weird. And then he said he should say I look beautiful, but he's really tired. 44 hours of no sleep, because he was thinking about marijuana.

Well, he was writing about marijuana. For a research paper, he wasn't just randomly thinking about it.

But he was honest, and out of it, so I decided that that night was the perfect night to ask him what he thought of me. I mean, if he liked me.

He said: "Yeah, sort of."

For a poet, he sure knows how to not say things poetically. Maybe it was because he was tired, because he always says things perfect, except for then. He amazes me.

I told him that I liked him because his writing gave me shivers. I wanted to write like him, but I never could. I wished I could have ran my fingers through his hair.

He was scared he had hat hair. Because he wore a hat. A pin stripped one from Walmart. It cost $10. He told me.

I wore it alot of the night. At one point, we both wore the same hat, because someone else had the same one.

We danced.

He twirled me.

And I was terrible.

At one point, he did this dance move that he really wasn't supposed to, because he was Mormon, and all these older Mormon psychiatrists and psychologists and presidents and business dudes were watching.

He twirled me so that I landed with my back right next to his chest. I said "I can see why this isn't allowed", but what I really meant was I could feel why this wasn't allowed.

I think Mormons aren't allowed to kiss.

Shame.

Maybe some day, because I'm willing to wait. And wear sleeves. And not swear, and not kiss him. Or even, if I have to, not run my fingers through his hair, even if it's just to convince him that he doesn't have hat hair.

And I don't love him just because he's a nice guy, but because he's honest, and he has silky arm hair and funny fingers. But I love it. I love all of it.

*Sigh*

<3