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[29 Aug 2008|10:28pm] |
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I just grow my hair for the drastic chopping off of it.
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[09 Mar 2008|08:33pm] |
I realize I never finished a christmas story I started on January 13th.
I suppose with the daylight savings and the noah's ark amount of rain
not snow
it's a little dated.
but maybe it will translate better on a sunday night in march then it would have during My winter hibernation.
I don't claim to be numb.
but eventually, events situations happenings turn to fact.
My own personal fucking history book, if you will.
or maybe more of an ann frank sort of deal.
maybe.
I don't feel it's of any interest to anyone really but loose ends lead to conclusions that I never spoke.
or wrote.
to sum it up:
all of my presents were returned because I bought her a pair of cartoon underwear.
so that's that.
but right now I'm wondering if I have never spent anytime in any home
if you care to call it that
alone will that fuck Me up in the future?
questions are best left unanswered if there is no experience behind the guess that becomes the answer.
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[06 Feb 2008|12:50am] |
i am alive,
whatever.
i'll be back.
she stole my spacebar.
nolie.
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[13 Jan 2008|04:12pm] |
it has been long enough to lift the emotional lens and now see such atrocious holiday "traditions" as facts.
and only as facts.
I don't have a job. I don't even have a career in mind.
Therefore, My employment lies within the tone of My voice when I call him and say coyly
"Pleaaaase?"
this is how I buy presents for joyous occasions such as christmas.
ever year he gives me a decent wad
to blow on
people
I don't like and don't think deserve the economy boost wrapped in some tacky snow scene with a bow.
but I am a product of my environment and if butter wants that video game, butter must get that video game or My worth as DNA will decrease in value rapidly.
and so on and so forth.
I spent every penny on presents that I put a whole day's worth of thought in.
so you can understand why I was particularly excited to see the snow scenes ripped to fucking shreds
and to be rewarded more self worth via smile.
what a love-ly holiday.
butter and I couldn't afford everything she wanted.
we are 13 and 16
and we not only don't have employment-we are not allowed by her to apply for such a necessity.
zoom in on christmas eve. 6 vodka and gingerales in.
crankin' the bing and and the king like we are having some sort of grand event.
there are three (3) of us.
before I take off with him for My usual christmas eve escape from the drunken grinch of the east
presents must be opened.
and she MUST get all of hers.
I spent the majority of My hardly earned flow on her
anything to shut her the fuck up.
anything.
every snow scene torn
ten (10)
ten snow scenes and some glorified shoe laces
and not one (1)
one
smile.
every rip, tear and reveal made her sip a little harder
her comments
oh, excuse me, her thank you's
a little more bitter
butter gets her a giftcard and she seems the most pleased with this
"at least now i can get something i actually want."
butter and I get three presents each.
santa ho-ho will provide us with the rest.
one of My gifts is a re-used christmas bag with a handful of .99 toiletries from the pharmacy down the street.
because I always love a bottle of shampoo that lasts 2 fucking days.
thanks!
another is a tacky, awful bath set by calgon.
also, from the pharmacy down the street.
retail value: about $10.
now, the price of the gifts is not what matters to Me, not at all
but I am hoping you are catching My drift on how amazingly thoughtful and sweet the gifts given to Me were.
I spent about $100 and managed to purchase six (6) things that I truly believed she would love
or at least fucking like.
the final gift is one that she calls "the heart gift"
butter and I have been receiving a "heart gift" every christmas since we were small
butter gets a teddy bear or some creative variation of the fictional animal.
this is because he is adorable and blah blah blah blah
Raven gets a clown.
this has resulted in a subconscious predisposed self image that I suppose I am starting to finally embrace.
this has also resulted in a fucking TON of porcelain, hideous fucking clowns posed facing My bed, watching Me sleep.
I never had the heart to tell her that I fucking hate clows, I hate her, and I hate christmas.
and I hate that she thinks she can give away "heart gifts" when she has no fucking heart.
whatever.
facts, Raven
stick to the facts
well, this year
last year rather
I receive a small stuffed ball that resembles a snowman and a penguin
confused I stare at it quietly until she notices that she must explain her abomination of a "heart gift"
" it's wearing a silly hat. like a clown."
it ain't no fucking clown.
it was also purchased at the pharmacy down the street.
I am so confused and hurt that I don't notice that butter has opened his gifts
a beautiful porcelain teddy
a new video game
and two (2) action figures
"exactly what i wanted!"
exactly what he wanted,
exactly.
so she's in the corner pursing her lips and muttering insults to everything that we
well,
mostly I,
gave to her.
I stare at the calgon cheap shit crap and then peer over the lip of the christmas bag
the fucking price tags still on, read .99 and glow a mocking orange hue.
I have had it
bing starts to tell Me to have a holly jolly...
"you are a fucking ungrateful bitch."
stomp stomp
slam
scream scream
stomp
smash
blah blah blah
what a love-ly holiday.
this is just christmas eve.
and only the beginning.
but if you'll excuse Me, I need to get away
and take a fucking calgon induced bath
I will return with more facts when I smash more of the lens.
smelling of carribean bullshit coolness.
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[29 Dec 2007|09:42am] |
I didn't get presents from "santa" this year
the fucked up thing is "santa' bought them and then threw them away in front of Me
because I bought "santa" underwear with snoopy on it...
more later.
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[13 Dec 2007|02:54am] |
if future Me
could talk to
little Me
she'd say:
"do it
You're not missing anything.
a few fingers in Your pussy.
a dick or two in there too.
(or eleven)
it's nothing but a cheap fix for You.
it's nothing but something crave-able after a few green bottles
it's nothing
it's nothing.
You're something
but
You'll never be enough to avoid being
nothing.
(but drunk and a hole or two)
get married young
and just do
what
You've
got
to
do.
(to save Yourself from what I've done)"
if you only knew,
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[10 Dec 2007|01:53am] |
these are silly-but I never "do" silly. so I will...
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[07 Dec 2007|02:31pm] |
I've been spending nights under the duvet
and days on the 22
sometimes when I have a minute I wonder how I get away with this.
(because people are stupid and My eyes can be honest)
I'm not writing enough. not in here necessarily but in general.
I write papers and essays and am force fed topics and thesis statements.
here's a good one: this cheesecake factory is a fucking joke and a half.
You have a flair for writing. i want you to focus more on the subject of the paper.
Your style and creative execution is impeccable.
creative execution?
who would have thought going to a factory for the creative arts
would execute My creativity.
I should write back
you have a flair for teaching. I want you to focus more on the subject in your class.
your style makes Me nauseous and this creative execution is suffocating.
I am like this everywhere I go.
how many more transfers will it take to prove to them that I am not factory material.
institution-I may let you argue
but factory? no.
this cheesecake palace is pumping out the same citizens as the others
but because we are learning "art" and "expressing ourselves"
we have the right to walk away with our slips of paper claiming to be artists
and rockstars
and guitar heroes
and break dancers.
this is nothing but the ghetto with extra funding for paint brushes and sheet music.
the supply of marijuana is endless.
I haven't made many...if any "friends" here.
I haven't tried to
nor
have I wanted to.
same story, new building, same attitude, new year.
same ideas, new journal, same lack in willingness to take the cap off the pen and
execute My creativity onto a page that won't get graded
or seen.
I don't have many true aspirations.
probably only one of them is honest.
I laugh when I say it
when I think it
and when I dare utter it to another ear.
but, I guess writing a novel
a memoir
a something some young dumb thing would write a report on
and get red pen scrawled on every page
shattering their dreams of
ever
being a valuable contribution to the american literary cannon.
a something someone will mass produce
and make people read it
would be nice.
whatever.
until I realize how irrelevant my aspirations are
to what actual cog I am supposed to be in the system
I'll keep writing a sentence or two
and the scribbling over it
like My very own personal fucking professor.
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[12 Nov 2007|03:21pm] |
this fucking weather gets Me every fucking time.
every
fucking
time.
I am not one for sentimentality.
I just needed to get that statement out of the way.
I saw weld and he cut his hair.
this would normally not even matter to Me
but
it's forty degrees and I was wearing the sweater with the thumb holders
and a scarf
and he was just walking up the avenue
and I was just walking down the avenue
running around making people feel stupid
holding hands because the BFF factor is always a good excuse
an excuse
any excuse
the taste of cocoa and black and mild tobacco
the subway stairs and the over held stares
using the temperature as an excuse to be held
tighter
closer
drinking more
and more
and more
to
make it happen
make it
make sense
I don't like feeling this way.
I feel idiotic.
I feel blinded.
I feel good.
bittersweet but
good.
to begin to write it now...
where is this going?
how long will this last?
this dive into some sort of sense making sobriety
I never knew what a duvet was until I was under your's.
the feathers make Me sneeze.
My fall shape taking form-skin and bones-fur on My face
My throat burnt from the acid
shaking
shaking
weather or not
whether or not
orange little tablets of destruction and fucking freedom
anything for Me to notice.
escape the fucking reality of a feeling stronger than Me.
this is going to be a fucking struggle. a back and forth back and forth back and forth
fight after argument after disagreement after fight after fight
if I could hold this moment, jar that moment, stay forever
if I just knew what would come and what is coming
how it would (never) end
I won't stop loving. and only I know that.
years, honey, years.
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[02 Nov 2007|11:39pm] |
I wore the obligatory fishnets.
no razors in the candy, just calories.
survival.
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[22 Oct 2007|10:49pm] |
I wish I knew what moments have defined me.
and what moments will.
I wish I could see what's going to add up and make Me a fucked up adult doing fucked up shit while running around blaming it on so-and-so or what's-his-name or him or her or the mean man who left Me on My bedroom floor age three....
facts learned in hospital rooms...twelve years too old to be anything more than a blip on the page
but the blip is there...
"that's very uncommon at that age."
huh, gee...I wonder what that could mean.
let's poke and prod and see what she says.
oh.
there's not some explainable bubble bath reaction or some "okay i need to break something to you."
no...just a
"Gee...they still have that on file? That's surprising."
well, what the fuck happened? how am I supposed to remember scratching and itching, complaining and whining at age three
who remembers age three
besides what's documented in pictures..
and then you're just guessing how to feel and how it was and you hear stories and you're practically there.
this was one of the only situations
one of the only stories
that I cannot place an actual Raven at.
"Well, You kept itching and complaining that it hurt down there. i didn't think it was anything but sensitive skin. we brought You in to the er and they kept telling me it was abnormal and had anything happened. and i didn't fully understand what they meant until there was a police officer in the room screaming at him and trying to accuse him of such a thing. so we just grabbed You up and brought You home."
oh, okay.
SO WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED?
"i don't know. but a few nights before we went out and Cat was in charge of watching You. well, she had people over and when we came home we found You in Your bedroom all curled up in the floor. oh, and a pane of glass on the french doors was broken."
THAT'S IT? THAT'S ALL yOU HAVE?
wow.
just.
wow.
three year old girl
screaming
crying
itching
burning
in places as undeveloped as her mind
and then cops
and doctors
and accusations
and fleeing the scene
to go back to the scene of the crime
where no questions are asked
and nothing is said
until Her legs are spread wide and held high in the gyno office
and the nurse firmly puckers her lips
and reads from My file
a story I was never meant to discover
or know of
and
yet
there
I am
legs spread
just like when it happened.
I'd like to say I'm thankful for not remembering.
And I was
until I was told there was something to remember.
shit's gotta be layered on somewhere in that sub conscious.
always wanted an explanation
as to why
I constantly felt
dirty.
there's more to know.
there's more to say.
and I just don't want any part of it.
it wasn't the happening
it was the knowing
twelve years too late
(and 15 too early)
now thats
D E F I N I N G.
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[11 Oct 2007|11:48pm] |
I skip classes consistently.
but I am still at the Cheesecake Factory everyday (unfortunately)
(mostly to see that guy)
that guy is nothing but attractive.
and I mean
NOTHING.
there's a gaping hole between the front of the head and the back of his head
(you know, where the brain goes)
he is predictable
he is emotionless
and he's always hard.
you win some
and
you lose some.
he listens to absolute drivel for music.
screaming noises and throaty growls.
none of the words are actually audible.
I pretend I understand and I bop along accordingly.
he is "straight edge"
he is a "scenester"
he is "fucking cool"
like I said,
I bop along accordingly
and by bop
I mean fuck.
I appreciate the fact that his clothing fits me.
and
that these "scenester" folk have "impeccable style".
so, you know, I got a new wardrobe out of the deal.
oh
and he pays
for
EVERYTHING.
I would rather have someone I wasn't insane about
paying for everything
than
someone I really enjoy
but
is poor
(I don't give a FUCK how that souds)
so I have a supremely attractive, well endowed, douche bag, robot to pay for things and fuck Me.
I'd say things are looking up for Raven.
(up and down up and down up and down)
I wish I enjoyed fornicating more.
but
it really does pass the time.
To be totally honest:
I just like making out with an incredibly gorgeous person...
that's
like...
it.
SEX does nothing for me.
SEX
actually
hurts.
and SEX is just a way for me to exercise My power a$ a woman.
plus
when I fuck someone
the entire event is
carefully scripted
(by Me)
(in My head)
and it makes it exciting satisfying
the scene going from
start to
finish
without breaking the script or the character.
but, whatever.
it's not like a shrink would
have a field day with that
or anything...
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[01 Oct 2007|01:54am] |
I had a birthday.
I'm sixteen now.
Once I finish coping with whatever that means I will smoke a joint and write.
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[25 Sep 2007|09:46pm] |
"I adapt to my surroundings easily.
I just need a sense of what color My chameleon hair turns
and
what form of camouflage I need to
cover
My
ass.
there's a part of me that is shameful
and yet
being ashamed is far better than
being
....
?
and I can't really mean it.
No way I could mean.
Only fools mean it.
reassure yourself now we can't have any of that
...do I mean it?
that is a question that has plagued
is plaguing
and will forever fucking plague
this unfeathered avian
I can only distinguish the lines from the lies from the truths from the tales
during the monologue mirror rehearsals
Alone.
This isn't trying to sound glamorous
or haughty
or hol-ie-r than thou
but I just can't say what I mean
to whoever inquires
about anything in particular.
I have some sick fetish
some twisted
fucking
desire
to lie
without lying
fib
without fibbing
be
fake
vague
secretive
manipulative
without being caught.
I pride myself
(I think)
in what I am capable of getting away with
with everyone....
This actually, while seems like it is an aspiring writer/singer/songstress/actress/tabloid item/asshole/millionaire
's
dream,
leaves you quite empty
and unsure
of what in the hell it is you are doing.
reassure yourself now we can't have any of that."
this is what I think
when I have "boyfriend"
this is not normal
16 year old
behavior
?
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[11 Sep 2007|10:50pm] |
I go back to La(t)La(t) land almost everyday.
that has to s-t-o-p.
I don't have very many pals chums people that I can stand at the cheesecake factory.
I am the minority...
how curious.
there are 12 caucasian kids-really-in the entire school.
and
then those 12 are divided by
major and
high shcool clique
so here I end up with the five most immature and
fucking idiotic boners that
I have encountered while in high school.
(one of them I am fucking out of sheer boredom for everything else)
good lord...the students here are nothing like the freaks at La(t) La(t) Land.
I am already consistently skipping a concert choir class.
I am already being sent to the office.
I am already fucking.
bored.
I haven't even been singing as much as I was promised.
(perhaps, the mouth must open for that to happen)
It's hard to emote and hit nothing higher than a b
while chanting about
chillens'
runnin'
from dah devil
uh huh.
I sing Bach.
I sing Haydn.
oh, who am I kidding, I knew this singing thing was never right.
doing it forever
never
makes it right.
when I was younger she would put on bahhhbrahhh
she would sip a few vodka and gin ger ales
the lights
dim
and eventually, I would be called upon
to sing bahhhbrahhh
perfectly
for hours.
while stopping and starting the old 45
over again when I didn't
hit a note
or
get a minor bit of blocking
right
or didn't give it enough
"umph"
for hours.
the same song too,
never another.
I'm wearing second hand hats
Second hand clothes
That's why they call me
Second hand Rose
she never came to any of the performances
but
she made me think she would be there
so I always had to be perfect.
it is impossible
im
poss
ib
le
to be a perfect. singer.
I don't care how hopeful you are.
I hear the same about writing.
acting.
making art.
dancing....
I'm sensing a pattern the cheesecake factory hasn't...
exit stage left
real
soon.
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[31 Aug 2007|01:11am] |
I haven't mentioned that I met a boy at freedom week orientation.
I guess, these sorts of "normal" teenager activity get left out when, deep down, you don't really care.
it'll be something to occupy My time as a sophmore.
he's really attractive.
definetly a nice piece of arm candy.
a little too quiet...
but that means they're easy to walk all over.
which, when I am ready to take this pseudo coupling to the next level...
I will do.
I am a terrible, terrible person to be in a relationship with.
seriously,
awful.
if you haven't thought of me as a bitch yet, you may......
....
....
now.
(I call it realism)
I am, according to the average high school student standards of beauty:
"drop dead fucking gorgeous"
well, in La(t)La(t) Land they knew how to compliment a gal with three words
at the Cheesecake Factory it's just
"sexy."
this high school super power has gotten Me pretty fucking far.
I haven't been "picked on" since the sixth grade.
and it's not because I "became cool".
I hated "being picked on" so fucking, fucking, fucking much that by the next year, at the new school I knew exactly how to not be "picked on."
being "hot" was luck. no thanks to her. but she is a pretty decent looking broad.
so by eighth grade I had a pretty good run of the class
(300+ students!)
but I digress...
so, yes, I am "hot" and in high school that gets the boys to become so engourged the zipper flies of their jeans begin to rub against them and leave marks resembling burns.
or, boners.
boners and the ability to have all of your boner getting friends see you with a boner giving (and hopefully relieving) girl...
well, you're fucking royalty if you can find said coveted treasure.
and being king is good.
so
you want to be king for as long as you can and hold onto the crown any way you can.
this includes but is not limited to:
spending all of your money, allowing yourself to be primped and fussed with (extra points if it's in front of the boner getters), getting a car and becoming somewhat of a teenage limosine, pumpin' iron to keep that lean, fit 125 lb. teenage frame of your's....
eventually, from My experience, there is a new shiney crown that the king needs in order to stay the king.
this sometimes results in wearing two crowns,
which, blinds the boner getters and makes you even MORE of a king
but,
also makes you look very silly to everyone else.
so, what I do, as a well educated somewhat heartless teenage boner giver
is
reap in the benefits of sitting atop that fuckers head for as long as I can
and
find other potential kings along the way and make them princes.
honestly, no one really gets hurt in high school.
when you're 20 if you're hung up on so-and-so "cheating" on you in eighth grade...
something is seriously fucking wrong with you.
I don't want you to think that I am above all of this teenage pageantry.
I am not even close to 20 yet.
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[26 Aug 2007|12:39am] |
I am sixteen in about a month.
I'm not sure what that entails. (Probably, absolutely nothing.)
the only birthday that I will ever look forward to is eighteen.
and, I guess, twenty-one..but who knows how long that will take Me to see.
(Ha.)
the past week I've been at orientation for My new, improved...easy as FUCK high school.
you know how people will say someone's class is "a piece of cake"?
or teacher
well, I was lucky enough to be accepted to an institution made up of cake.
delicious.
easy.
cake.
I guess it pays to be the most talented kids in the city
but
there a lot of kids that are there that will definetly still be C-D-F students.
I'm one of three people there who has attended La(t)La(t) Land.
the vocal classes are intensive...
for gospel singers.
hmm...inner city school
and
every song is gospel?
well, slap My ass and call Me Sister Act Two.
this little light of Mine...
the instrctor insists on putting our section through bootcamp.
we are forced to run a circle of 4 blocks.
I stop at about block 2 and smoke cigarettes with one of the only other caucasian girls who "got" that this was an easy ride and a load of bullshit.
I'm making an attempt to do some hard workin'
but we'll see how long that lasts.
although,
the writing classes and requirements here are pretty interesting for high school classes.
orientation consisted of a scavanger hunt through the city.
embarassing,
awful, boring,
but insanely refreshing to the view outside My bedroom.
i stayed in the city as long as I could every day after "bootcamp".
"studying at the library"
yeah, in August.
I hung at the church steps for hours running into people with no running whatsoever eating fast food and smoking snipes while we kicked around the sack.
you would think she wouldn't believe Me when I tell her My new school is so intense it runs from 10am-5:30pm.
(10am-1pm)
For once, I truely believe I am going to enjoy something.
and
All in all, I am excited to be going to a brand new place with brand new hopes and goals and dreams and enthusiasm
for skippin' school in tha' ci-tay.
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[21 Aug 2007|07:23pm] |
I know, I know, 2 entries in 1 day.
(it takes a lot out of Me too)
but I went on the hunt today for some valuable (yet free) reading material
and acquired a solid amount of 'friends'
so I feel I should do the rundown entry.
before I get ahead of Myself.
A lot of the times I don't want you to fully understand what I am saying or what I mean.
nothing personal,
I'm just that kind-a-gal.
but why would anything I write be interesting
(it isn't)
if most of the facts were missing.
consider this the character development in the book I am could be writing.
Disclaimer: This could be a long one. This could be a boring one. This could ruin the surprises. This is only an assortment of what we offer.
Raven.
Old Enough to know.
Boston is the most interesting place I ever want to go
or know
Just picture having every possible terrain you could ever crave.
(in My backyard).
I can't steal from establishments but I have no problem stealing from her or him or even butter.
but mostly,
her.
who is her?
her is her. that's all.
and who is him?
him is him, see above.
and butter?
butter has my D N A
butter
butter is never on My side
but that is common in this city.
I am a serial high school student.
I am a average student.
below
below average attendance.
below average test scores.
below average homework.
below average attitude.
I am usually left to slip through the cracks of the public school system.
(yet both high schools I have attended have been based on grades, test scores, essays, auditions, interviews....)
I am a really good liar.
above
I am an average person. (which is why I always get into these well reputed establishments)
above average standardized test scores.
above average vocal abilities.
above average writing skills.
above average artistic talent.
I often find this note scrawled on my report cards, homework assignments, notebooks...
" Raven is a bright girl with a lot of potential. Unfortunately, She will not apply Herself to things that do not interest Her."
and that is nothing short of true.
I write down everything.
and
I save everything that might even pull one shred of a memory from Me in the future.
(perhaps, I subconciously fear Altheimer's disease.)
I am fairly sexually active.
but I feel relationships that I create and am not born into are of no importance to the big picture.
(and that promotes My inability to be faithful).
I do like feeling as though I am lovelorn but only for the emotions it evokes from me.
I am constantly told I am attractive.
I have the oddest eating habits.
My blatant honesty is often considered crude
and in turn
the crudeness is considered promiscuity.
I am not popular.
I am infamous.
everyone who knows Me has a story.
but let's just listen to Mine.
okay?
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[21 Aug 2007|02:04pm] |
when I was 8 years old (right after DJ died)
butter was in and out
and in and out
and in and out
of hospitals.
seizures, autism, we even thought he might be deaf...
learning disabilities, ADD, physical therapy, texture issues with his tongue
his hospital file is thicker than any book I have ever read.
one night he started gushing blood from both ears.
it was worse than you could imagine.
when I was 5 or 6 she was out helping the landlord with something.
(that's how she earns her keep. I'd say she performs more sexual favors than actual maintenance.)
we were in the bathroom and he started acting strange. very strange.
he dropped to the floor and flailed more than any fish I have ever caught
(I've caught one).
he was making strange gurgling noises and I was terrified.
I grabbed the phone and called 911.
she came back in time to find me crying on the toilet hovering over an unconcious butter.
he was in the hospital for a long time after that.
as a reward for "saving his life" I got a troll doll from the gift shop in the lobby.
(it was fifty cents and I still have it today. I see the purple haired 2 inch beast as a medal of honor).
I keep it in a tic tac container filled with water (no idea why.)
well, because butter took a lot of the "spotlight" off of Me she actually did something reasonable with a suggestion from My PCP.
she enrolled Me in the "BSLSA".
lonely adult women semi-adopting lonely little girls one day a week.
I was terrified she was going throw me into the harbor the first day we went out.
we went to the Children's Museum downtown. It was the most exciting thing I could ever remember doing in My eight years.
in the gift shop she said something I will never forget:
"You can buy one thing. But don't get used to it."
I bought a "make your own jewelry box" kit that she would later fill.
I never got used to it but as our outings increased and as I grew older I would come home with more and more shopping bags filled to the brim with toys and crafts and clothes and candy.
I will never understand how I was blessed with a faerie godmother.
she is wealthy. very
very
very
wealthy.
she is the senior vice president of some corporation. she works on the 32nd floor.
(the higher the floor the more important you are).
she is infertile.
she was born into money.
people died and left her more money.
then
she married into money.
and then
she made her own money.
I will never have as much as she does.
Ever.
I got lucky and she took a liking to Me.
every nice thing I own was purchased by her.
now that I am older I am getting even more beautiful and expensive things
and she is starting to think that giving me that oppurtunity to have somewhat of a life at 8
was a bad idea.
I am spoiled, she says.
I am grateful, I say.
well, this weekend FGM took me to the outlets to buy Me school clothes for My birthday (which is soon).
I spent $500.00 on shoes and shirts and jeans and skirts and amazing things with labels I never thought I'd own.
she didn't take this very well because she can "only" spend about a hundred dollars on butter's new school clothes.
but I am in high school.
and it is a warzone if you don't have the "proper" attire.
he could wear a paper bag and not even notice
(or care).
I brought the clothes home and modeled them for her-outfit after outfit.
to a few things she would say I looked nice.
but mostly
"that's too tight."
"you look fat."
"that's a little out there."
"that's slutty."
then she proceeds to take every bag away from Me and lock them in her bedroom.
I am not allowed to wear them until school starts.
I scream and scream that this is unfair.
That I want my clothes now.
I am not five.
I am not going to ruin them.
Today the bags were transported into My closet.
still not to be touched.
I am missing a few t-shirts, a pair of jeans and a skirt.
I question her where these items ended up.
her response?
"They're in the garbage, you only deserve what you need. and it is unfair to butter."
I'll never tell my FGM
it's just too embarassing.
I should be reduced to tears and screaming and door slamming.
but I don't want another month added to my imprisonment.
maybe if I had a seizure
I'd get them back.
or atleast a bigger troll doll.
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[20 Aug 2007|06:02pm] |
when My bedroom proves to be a stressful retreat
I'll fill my bathtub and lock Myself in and soak
and try to drown it out of My mind
and My body
there is shampoo but I can't use it.
the bath filled with water and only water.
if I can I will sneak a droplet of one of the many bottles of soothing bath bubbles she has
but if she walks in
(and she walks in at anytime, everytime)
and sees bubbles
something may be thrown at Me.
once it was an old fashioned coke bottle.
you know, the light blue ones with the label etched into the glass.
the bottle smashed and I sat there in the tub, fingers bleeding
turning the water into a tub of shark food
I cried and I cried and I bled and I bled
I needed stitches.
but
I got no stitches.
so the water is usually stagnent to avoid any future bottlings
and I don't fit in the tub
and the water gets cold in a minute or two
it's not very relaxing
but I do it
anyways
she has shampoos and conditioners, bubble baths and body butters, custom made soaps and eau de toilets
if I even so much as smell the scents kept inside the bottles I am screamed at.
we will be out of shampoo for days
and she will make Me use a bar of Irish Spring
with a few stray hairs from god know's what part of who's body they belong to.
no place is sacred.
nothing is sacred.
not even the soap.
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herbedroomeyes's journal