I don't understand people who cut themselves and take pictures of it to post on the internet. There is a LiveJournal COMMUNITY for this. It's infuriating, when I still have these scars on my thighs after I haven't hurt myself in ... almost three years? I want them gone. I regret ever being sick. I regret it as if it were a choice, when it wasn't, really. It was and it wasn't.
I simply do not understand why certain diseases and conditions are celebrated. I was never proud of hurting myself. And now I have a right thigh that while almost faded, almost three years later still says, "Why not?"
I smell AWFUL! I've been aware of this since last night, laying down in sand in the back of an art museum, surrounded by Lord of the Rings-loving people dressed as hobbits and princesses. Maybe it was everyone else, or maybe it was the enveloping smell of beer and popcorn, but you know when you can smell each part of your body because of its own, specific sweat smell? You know what I'm talking about. You totally know that your armpits, breasts, crotch, and behind-your-knees have different sweat-smells.
I like how today's adventures were so totally intense [read: I read comic books and woke up late] that the only pictures I have to show for myself are from me and Kerry's COOKIE PARTY. I also like how I was just telling Don I'm going to start cutting back on sugar and dairy and then forty minutes later me and Kerry are eating sugar cookies and drinking milk. I'll start that tomorrow.
Black pearl in my mouth. Today I picked up a confused chinchilla whose cage was dropped on The Boy's kitchen floor. We were all very surprised and covered in dust.
Headache, bought "business slut" clothes, attempted to drive around a teensy resedential area only to have my mother shoot my nerves with her grabbing for her seatbelt as I rounded corners. I wasn't even horrible. She's just nervous.
Also there was a pre-pubescent morbidly, morbidly obese girl sitting on a skateboard in the middle of the road. Really, that is such a great sentence and mental image. It is also true. I had to pull into the left lane to avoid hitting her, as she could not move very fast since she was a) smiling up at me in the car instead of realizing I could have hit her if I was not paying attention to the road like a good girl AND b) She was trying to escape my path by ROLLING TOWARDS HER FATHER USING ONLY HER HANDS TO STEER AND PUSH HER. I just... I'm not a mean person, or at least, I like to pretend I'm not. Also I'm overweight so I'm not one to say "HEY FATSO!!" and also it's not something that BOTHERS me or comes up a lot but I make fun of everyone? And when you're 12 and weigh much, much more than I do (170 lbs.) and you sit in the middle of the street SMILING at cars and using your arms to roll yourself out of harm's way instead of activating your Fat Kid Easy-Maneuvering Skills (we have them! It's true!)? I had no choice but to loudly address the fact that she should stop eating cupcakes and learn about safety.
Walk to see Napolean Dynamite with Don at nine thirty PM but get to the shopping center around seven. The obvious answer is ice cream. Daiquiri Ice ice cream with 7-up for him and a waffle cone with one scoop bubble gum one scoop strawberry birthday cake for me. We buy two donuts but can only nibble a little bit on them before we feed them to birds and ants. We still have time left, so we go to an old persons' bar near The Colony. The woman who runs the bar has a glorious cockney accent and calls everyone "love" at least twice per visit. The Boy orders a rum and coke or a gin and coke or something and we watch drunken old people. It's so odd. I wonder if they always visited this place. The Boy tells me that when he was in high school, he would tell his mother that he had to work on a project at the lake he worked at, and would actually really walk down to this bar and smoke and do his homework and look at old drunk people. Anyway, we don't get home until late, so I sleep over his house. And by "sleep" I mean lay in his bed as he snores. We have always fallen asleep at the same time and so we never noticed we had night "imperfections." His snores aren't normal at all, more like choking and a few times I poked him so he'd stop.
I finally fell asleep around five or six in the morning, and dreamt about trying to go to sleep in a closet while people were robbing the house I was staying at. In my dream, Don came over to keep me company and brought Junior-the-chinchilla, who wouldn't stop running on his excercise wheel, which makes a lot of noise. In my dream, I was begging him to go downstairs and shut the chinchilla up. I woke up at seven to alarm clocks and Junior rocking his cage out because of his ever-so-noisy wheel. Don took a shower and got dressed for work and we just laid in bed for a couple minutes with his head on my back and then he had to go. I watched court shows and talk shows and had eloquent conversations with the animals and decided to go to Jason's Deli at around 11am to munch on salad and ginger bread muffins. Eating alone is a strange thing. And now I am home and wanting to buy brightly colored clothing and Don's stereo but I do not think my mother wants to go to Target right now ever.
mohawk-craving teeny-craving late-pill-taking abilitiy now can't help picturing cocaine in teacups tiny gifts for tiny people dreamt of something disturbing end of the world listening to the tank girl soundtrack wanting to kiss people on the forehead genitals puppies-on-the-forehead DRIVING I drive too close to cars on my rightand uhmm I'm going to go dress up as a vintage slut to take my mind off of things.
THERE WAS A POINT TO THIS, but I've since long forgotten.