HACKERR!

Yeah, I'm back. Unfortunately for you.

No, not back in Hillsdale, or back at PV. I'm back on this blog, but only for a little while, and only to update you all.

Things are going pretty well for me. For one, people aren't bitches at my new school. Nobody talks about me as if I don't have feelings, and people actually respect me as a person. I have heard of what's been floating around the school, and I'm happy to say if you have taken part in it, you will be answering to the police very soon.

I have a new boyfriend and a group of friends who are much nicer than all of you ever were. People here have more respect than you ever will have.

THOSE PICTURES ARE NOT ME, YOU ASS.

"Well, it's the end, isn't it?"

I stared at her through tear-wet eyes. She was hurt by my bold and unrelenting expression, I could see it in her face.

My cell phone rang from the table across the room. We both ignored it. I opened my mouth to let a cry escape, but the words "I think this is the end, Nancy" replaced it.

"You'll stay in touch?" Her eyes were glassy as she raised a delicate hand to her cheek. A tear was inching its way across her skin. "Please tell me you'll call as much as possible."

The first tingle of remorse pulsed through me. I spared a weak smile.

"Of course."

I didn't mean it. I wouldn't have enough time to call. And even if I did, I doubt the new family would let me call her. She's a detriment to my health. Ask her to teach me about the Spanish Inquisition, and you'll have no problem; but tell her to coach me on life, and I'll end up in a speeding car off a cliff.

I looked at her, the miserable and lonely person who was not my Nancy, and I turned away. I could hear her crying behind me as I retreated from my house. The door suppressed a soft thunk as she threw something against it.

"Kristen, please don't go," she called from inside. "Please don't go."

It's for the better, I thought wistfully. I love you, Nancy. But I can't live like this.

She was still screaming inside; I could hear her from the top step of the porch. "What about me?" she was shrieking. "What about me?"

I made my way down the front steps and into the darkness that unfolded before me. I was going home.

This is for you.

So, basically, everything I know and everything I have come to terms with is down the drain. Everything I've grown to appreciate and respect and cherish: it's all gone. I'm living with my dad now. I probably won't see any of you ever again.

Yeah. Be sad, be unhappy. I am. It's the death of a saleswoman. Things I know and are familiar with have been turned upside-down. As of Sunday, the 8th of November, in the year 2008, I am no longer Kristen the weird girl who goes to your high school. I am Kristen the weird girl who goes to a high school an hour and a half away from you. So, basically, you all got your wish. I'm gone. See you later -- but probably not.

I've been told by people that this world would be a better place if I wasn't in it anymore. Well, you got half of your wish. I'm not in your world anymore. I am now part of a six-person family residing in rural New Jersey. I am sorry to all the people I hurt in this process. Take it up with the mother that threw me out, if you have serious issues with this. None of this was my fault. All I did was tell her I didn't think the greeting card she was looking for existed. And this happened.

Call it defeat, call it a white flag, call it giving up. I call it change, and change isn't always a bad thing.

This post is the first of several that will merely keep you updated. I can't write in my free time anymore, due to my father's inability to update his home internet connection to DSL, and his wife's restrictions. I can't write in this anymore unless I'm with my mother, and since she kicked me out, that probably won't be for a while.

I'm in my dad's work office right now, which is the only reason I'm posting. I wish you all the best of luck in whatever you do.

Expect to see my name in print sometime in the next year, with the dedication that is meant for you. Yeah, you. The person who denied me of happiness. The person who told me I'd never be who I am today. The person who broke me down, beat me up, and left me in the middle of nowhere with no cash and no hope. Yeah, you: the person who brought me to tears with inspiration and glory; you who told me I could be something more. You who told me to keep going, to keep living, to keep thriving. This is to the person who loved me so much that she couldn't handle living in my grief. She's me, but she isn't me anymore. I needed to escape. I needed to break free from the chokehold that was my old town.

Expect to see my name in the news sometime soon. I'll be doing what I always wanted to: I'll be living, sure as hell I will.

Expect to see me flourish and thrive. I will most certainly not care about the past, nor the future. I'm living for Tuesday, November 18th, 2008, in my dad's office writing a blog entry, probably the last one for a while.

Expect me to be your memory. I probably won't visit much. I live an hour and half away from you now. If this hurts you, if it damages our relationship, I'm terribly sorry; people like you make me reconsider while I'm awake at night, lying in a foreign bed in a foreign room that will soon be called mine.

Expect to see me cry. Oh, yes, there will be sadness. There will be anger. I will have second thoughts more than once. But the instability and lack of structure at my old house made it just that: not a home. I can't live with myself anymore. So I reconstructed "me." My name is Kristen, & you better believe you're not going to bring me down.

I start the local high school tomorrow. Wish me luck: hopefully I won't get lost on my first day and be late to class. Although, knowing me...

"Until you get that kid out of her environment, nothing will change." My old friend said this. I love you, Nancy. The next post is dedicated to you.

This is to everyone who never believed in me. Thank you, and keep in touch.

SHE RETURNS.

I'm fine. I promise. I really am. I'm with my dad, at his house.

I start school here on Wednesday.

Wish me luck.

I miss you all terribly.

To hell with pain.

Share with me the joy of being a lost teenager. Share with me the agony of walking through a crowd of people and wishing every single one of them would stop looking at you like you like you're a walking plague. Share with me the tense silence of being given up on, the loneliness of being the odd one out.

I want to be the girl who I pretend to be. The girl who laughs loudly and giggles quietly and smiles broadly, and doesn't mind when people talk about her as if she isn't a beating heart. The girl who doesn't care about love, or being loved, or lack of love. She doesn't care how she looks, though she always looks perfect.

My best friend is the enemy I've concocted. She's beautiful and carefree, and easily manipulated and easily manipulates. I thought she'd be gone by now, but she's still standing beside me, hearing me talk badly about her. She's mad at me today, I'll be paying for this later. But I don't care if she knows whether I like her or not. Her sister is the one I like more. She's the real person who struggles to keep her head above the water. She can't swim. She can't swim.

May my downfall be the moments I let reality slip. May this neverending current of flowing pain that I call my game rip people away from their lovers, rip people's purity from their fingers and their necks, rip the coths of people's decency, and turn their lives upside-down.

He's the magician who coaxes me out from beneath the bed. I'm hiding in fear of the truth, and yet he still lures me out of hiding with just that. I feel so small, so miniscule, in comparison to his power. He's not the person you want to be. He's the person you used to be.

My mom gave up on me. She said so herself. "I've given up, Kristen," she said to me a week ago. "I don't know what you want me to do anymore." I want you to listen, Mom. I want someone to just sit down and listen to me, to look past me and see the lonely three-year-old who crawls into her corner of the universe and stays there for months. I want someone to coax this girl out. She just needs to be loved.

I want to be loved. That's all I want. I want to love and be loved and not have people tell stories about me in locker rooms, because I know they aren't true Sally, they're never true. All you wanted was to love and love and love. All you want is to be loved and loved and loved.

She wears blue eyeshadow and smoky stockings. She used to laugh with her best friend against the fence of the schoolyard, but ever since the friend stopped calling, she just leans against it alone with her head tilted to the sky. Her eyes are as green as envy, and her father says it's dangerous to be so pretty. Her father says it's dangerous to be so flighty. Her father says it's dangerous to stay in her life. Her father thinks it's too dangerous to help her.

To hell with this. To hell with the hushed voices of parents looking at me in disgust, to hell with the loud calls of hatred from across the cafeteria. To hell with the people who don't care why I do the things I do. To hell with hell. To hell with pain.

I'm in a corner of my universe, I'm in a corner of my mind.

I squint as the bright lights burn into my skin. It's the difference between myself and my actions that separates me from the girl sitting in the seat across the room: I know this.

The girl stretches and sighs. The pencil is in her hand again, she's scrawling down her thoughts; they seem to flow so easily. Her hand must grow tired, I wonder, from moving so quickly. How does she do it? Her handwriting is thin and beautiful. I search through the files in my brain to remember her name. Kristen, I think; yes, definitely Kristen. She looks up, almost as if she heard her name in my head, and stares at me. I feel the urge to look away, but something prevents me from doing so. She looks so friendly, her smile brightly burning a hole through my wicked conscience. She looks so worn down; I can see the strain in her muscles as she turns back to her paper.

It all comes back to me with a jolt of electricity. She's the one Stacy was talking about, I remember. It's so strange how this girl, this Kristen, sitting in front of the teacher's desk with her head bent parallel to the paper on that table, is the evil witch that Stacy despises so much. She looks so friendly.

It's been a while since she's been in school; that's why I have such difficulty remembering her name. Something happened with her brother, I think. He was that kid who was expelled for--what was it? Gang involvement, I think that was it. He was hit by a car, or something like that. She's tutored at home now. Wait; what's she doing in school then?

She shifts her weight uncomfortably in her seat. She can feel my eyes on her, it's evident. Looking up, clearly flustered, she stares back at me. I can't break the gaze. God, her eyes are so sad. Sad and green, they're boring a hole right through me.

I feel a small tingle of something I can't describe, it slides through my spine, it's thick and it hurts. I want to shove myself up from my chair and run to her side, tell her to explain. I need to take her in my arms and stroke her auburn hair, tell her things will be okay in the end. Her eyes harden and her gaze turns to fire. She rejects my help, she wants nothing to do with me or my affection. 

I feel your pain, Kristen. I am human too. What happens to you happens to the world; you are one significant grain of sand in a desert of pain. We all have our stories, Kristen. We are our stories.

Kristen's shoulders lose their edges and hardness. She draws her leg up to her chest and gently drops her head to her knee. When she looks up after several seconds, I see that her tears have left a gentle patch of moisture on her jeans. The eyes that once bore a hole into me are now soft and tired. I watch her hand hastily wipe away the ever-present stream of conscious pouring from the green creeks in her eyes. Her lips part. My lungs tighten.

"I have no story," she screams, so quietly I almost don't hear. "I am not a sob story."

The music is so loud.

I can't hear myself think. Nancy is staring at me again.

"He left me, Nancy."

"Well?" she asks, her voice loud over the music. She slides the pencil behind her ear. A smug look of appreciation on her lips alerts me that she isn't joking around.

"You were right," I admit.

"Yes, I was, Kristen." She folds her arms across her chest and looks at me for a few lyrics.

The ball's in my court. I take time with my response, look at her cropped, wavy, brown hair; her dark-coffee eyes, her tattoos, her eyebrow piercing. She's everything I wish I was. Her lips are being pinched by her sharp incisor teeth. The same teeth that bite me in the ass day after day.

The music grows softer with the ending of the song. I wish I could express to her the agony I feel, that these men express in their lyrics. Their voices howl the words that won't surface in my throat. I can write everything down flawlessly with a pen and a notebook, but ask me to speak out loud, and I stutter.

Nancy raises one eyebrow. She wants an answer.

I wish I could melt into a puddle of remorse.

I light up a cigarette. "What now?" I reply coolly. I inhale deeply, let the smoke roll from my lungs. Mom's gonna kill me for smoking in the house again, I think. Oh well.

"Nothing now. Now we wait and we see. We observe the mess that occurs, and the happiness that divides. We listen to the rain pouring on our rooftops, cold in the winter, hot in the summer, and we love as if we've never been through it all. We forget the "what if" sequences and we breathe through baby lungs. We look to the sky and think, 'dear god, I'm alive.' That's what we do next."

I stamp out the cigarette, watch the ashes smother themselves against the concrete, watch the smoke swirl above the little dead body that was once alive and dancing between my lips. I look back at Nancy. She is staring at me.

"Maybe I'm not meant to wait, Nancy. Maybe this isn't for me. Maybe this entire life isn't for me. Maybe I was dealt the wrong hand. God or whoever's up there, he's smacking himself on the forehead and thinking, 'whoops, I screwed up on that one.' Nancy, you don't know how difficult it is to be me. Don't look at me like that, it's not like I'm going to go run off and do something stupid. In reality, I'm stupid. How could I possibly still be here, living through this stupidity?"

She keeps looking at me.

"I think we've made major progress today," she says finally.

I roll my eyes. "Can we please get back to my math project?"

A soft chuckle, and she's got the pen down from behind her ear, scribbling corrections on my paper. Her handwriting is so soft, so feminine, preaching but still modest.

Thanks for making me start all over, Nancy, I think.

Her head, bent downward to the paper, lifts slightly. Her smile is wide.

Not again.

"Love isn't something you say. Love is something you feel."

I'm sitting on my bedroom floor, the middle of the world, a corner of my universe. I am a being. I am a being.


I'm thinking about today in a retrospective truth. Did today even happen? Was yesterday in my past? I am the beginning. I am the end.


I'm thinking about yesterday in disbelief. I'm unwinding before I can build myself back up. I'm the little girl in the corner of her universe, insignificant to all except herself. I'm the little girl in the corner of her house, the corner of her room, the corner of her mind. I'm unwinding before I can build myself back up.

My throat is sore with the acidic burning of recurring vomit, and my stomach is churning, and my head is spinning in time with the music. It's pouring out of the speakers, it's going to explode, I'm going to explode.

It's been made fairly clear to me by now that screaming and crying does nothing. The most I can do is keep living through this, living through all of the mishaps and mistakes. "It'll pay off one day," they always told me. "It'll pay off when I'm gone," I'd always think.

It paid off.

Waiting a year to find someone better, someone who would care as much, someone who would nurture. Waiting a year for the tears and sadness to end. I'm so thankful. I'm so lost. I'm so helpful. I'm so angry.

I'm shivering in a frenzy of excitement. I am a being. I am a being.


I'm shivering in a frenzy of enlightenment. I am his being. I am his being.

To the lovely person who left the message on my driveway:

I'd like to say a very gracious "thank you" to the wonderful person who wrote the lovely message to me by means of shaving cream on my driveway. Thank you so much. I admire your maturity and your respect for people's property. I also am so very disappointed that I couldn't see the entire message, due to my mother's washing it off with a hose this morning in an attempt to spare me the pleasure, but thank goodness some of it was visible. Again, thank you so much! It really made me feel so warm and tickly inside. I just wanted to return the gracious message that was so lovingly bestowed upon me.

Happy effing Halloween, jerk.

Recollection.

I found this in an old, seemingly-unused notebook that was lying under my old school books. Make with it what you will. I, personally, believe that it's my most powerful piece.

I'm lying in a hosital bed and I'm so lonely. I think that I'm going to blow up into ten thousand tiny pieces. I'm coming undone. I'm unwinding. I need to write. I need to write.

"i get up and walk to the window. i feel all eyes upon my back as i lift the blinds. my teacher calls out my name, asking what in goodness sakes do i think i'm doing, but i'm not listening; i'm already punching out the screen. i look to the first row, last seat, to the boy who is staring back at me; from between my lips slide the words "i love you," and before i know it, i am in free fall.


the drop is only two stories, and yet it feels like a full minute that i am falling. twisting, slipping, curling over on myself. i can hear the screams and screeches of surprise from above me, and all i can see is a blur of brick, grass, concrete, brick, grass, concrete.

i feel a surge of energy pulse through my veins, and i think: "dear god. i'm dying."

the teacher above me leans frantically out the window, her hands in her hair, screaming, "stop! class! everyone, back..." the class has crowded around her, wondering what in god's name is going on; the only person who remains in his seat is the boy.

he brushes off his jeans with his palms and rises from his seat, meandering to the last window in the room. his electric blue eyes scan the faces of his classmates, and as he sees their terrified, confused expressions, he tosses his hair from his eyes and lets out a laugh of pleasure. he looks to the window, lifts the blinds, and looks down at my falling body. he smiles to himself.

i am inches, parts of inches, centimeters, from the concrete when something inside of me snaps. i can feel bone splintering, skull contorting, body twisting, moving; flying.

i scream, but the scream is caught in my throat and from my lips emerges a soft song; subtle, but boasting; and meaningful, and powerful. it's the song of a phoenix, and as i am propelled off the ground as if there is a force preventing it, i spread my wings and burst upward. feathers are tickling my body and and i listen to my voice sing songs of wisdom, of worry.

i am flying, i am expanding, i am growing. i am shining, brighter than the eyes of two lovers, brighter than the cries of the widowed mother. with three pumps of the wings that make me soar, i am level to the window. i look inside the room for the briefest moment; and inside i see the teacher, dialing phones while at the same time trying to control the now-panicking students; and i see the boy, sitting in a corner, smirking and defiant. a flutter of feathers, a superficial song, and i am gone.

i am floating, high above the window that i dropped from, higher than the school i hated so much, higher than the sky, higher than the heavens. my throat bellows songs of praise, power, pride; lust, love, anger, angst. my wings pound against my body and as i look down upon the town that caused me so many tears, i wonder. i ponder, "what is it that made the caged bird emerge?" as i look down to the earth, hearing all the grief and giddiness, my phoenix insides begin to churn. i could be so much more than just a sob story, a success tale. i could float to the ground and walk the earth, and i could build a new one. i could build a ladder to the heaven of truth, and i could see the world burst open, flourish, and fly."

I'm frozen in place with IVs in my arm and tubes town my throat. I could be so much more than a sob story.

"Post-traumatic stress is a war within for military and civilians" response

I've had several near-death experiences; I suppose it would make sense to say that I have used up pretty close to all of my nine lives. However, I do not suffer from PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder), unlike many other people who have survived through something mentally scarring and severely damaging. The diagnosis, much like Schizophrenic disorder, is extremely difficult to diagnose. Don't listen to me. I'm not a doctor, nor a therapist, nor a psychiatrist, nor a mental health specialist. But after reading this article, I am more aware of the causes, symptoms, effects, and treatment of PTSD.

Friennemies.

After reading everyone's blogs about "friennemies," which I'm assuming we discussed in class today or yesterday, I was inspired, and decided to do my little letter to my own "friennemy." Enjoy.


Dear Kristen,

Yeah, weird, I know, that I'm writing to you. But it isn't really me that I'm writing to. I'm writing to you. Because with each passing second, I am a different and changed being. Every little thing that goes on in my life has an impact on me, no matter how small. So I'm writing to my 8th grade self. Here goes nothing.

I hate you. Yeah. That's correct. You heard me right, sister: I didn't stutter. I didn't slip up or say that to be funny. I honestly do hate you. I hate the way you talk to people you don't like, and I hate how you pretend. I hate the way you press your tongue against your cheek when you're annoyed. I hate the way you dress, and I hate the way you shake your hair out of your eyes when you're nervous or when you're anxious. I hate your teeth and I hate your weight. I hate the way you giggle quietly to yourself when you think about your old jokes, that you used to giggle about with him. I hate the fact that you're still thinking about him, I hate the fact that he's been gone for a year now, and I hate how it's all your fault. I hate when you cry and I hate when you laugh. I hate what you look like in the morning before you shower, and I hate what you look like in the morning after you shower. I hate how you talk too much. I hate how silence makes you uncomfortable. I hate the way you react to people's pain, and I hate the way you attempt to make other people react to yours. Your perfume doesn't cover up how disgusting you smell after you've worked out for three hours straight, and I hate that smell. I hate how fake you are and I hate you for setting me on the wrong path for the rest of my life. You bother me to the point of exasperation, frustration, and ferocity. I hate you for saving me.

I love you for saving me. I love your strength, and I love your vulnerability. I love the way you bat your eyes at your mother and pretend to have a halo above your head when you want something from her. I love the way you carry yourself in front of people who don't like you. I love how people don't like you: it means you actually stood up for something, or that you actually made a mistake. I love your smile and I love your handwriting. I love your mind, and the way it works, even if it's sometimes a little cloudy up there. I love your capability, and I love your passion and talent. I love how you walk with ease down a hallway crowded with people you don't like. I love your weakness for men with long hair, and I love your weakness for men who don't care. I love the way you smile at children and watch them grow and change. I love your silhouette in the doorframe, watching the sky turn and curl. I love the way your hair sticks up in different directions after you're done showering. I love the way you sumo wrestled with that old boyfriend of yours, in the moonlight and in the rain, back in the summer. I love the color of your eyes when you're happy, and I love the way your cheeks and forehead flush when you cry. I love how you try too hard to change yourself for other people, and I love how they all see who you are anyway. I love you for what you're worth: not for what you will become.

I hate you, because you are a part of me. You ruined my life.
I love you, because you are a part of me. You saved my life.

Yours,
Kristen.

Am I the end?

I want so desperately for me to be the end of sadness in this society. After all of the pain I've struggled through, I don't think anyone deserves to live like I do. Not one single person in this life deserves to suffer through the pain of losing someone. Not one single person in this universe deserves to suffer through the pain of having your first love, first kiss, first everything, be snatched away by complacency and greed.

There have been nights of pleasure and passion, and laughter, bliss, and ease; I will spare you that notion. Although I won't remember these nights in their entirety, due to my nights of pain and anger, they still exist, or at least existed at one point. It's much like that philosophical question, "if a tree falls in a forest, and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound?" If I don't remember something, who's to say it actually happened?

Too many a night I have spent wasting my lungs and my heart and my blood. Even my joy is coated with blackness, with tar, with selfish relief that comes with being a lost teenager. I have spent too many nights wasting myself away, wasting my life away.

I have spent too many nights curled up in a small corner of my room, surrounded by walls of plaster and tears, walls that press further into me with each passing day. I have spent too many nights crying myself into a fit of rage, such that I don't return until the next day. I have spent too many nights with my face contorted with the anguish of sorrow. I have spent too many nights wishing the nights like this would end. Well, my friend, they end with me.

Yes, I've hopped on the bandwagon.

I am currently reading Twilight.

And, surprisngly, I'm not ashamed to say it.

I'm on page 54 presently. So far it's been like every other targeted-to-teens book I've read. I guess it picks up. I hope it picks up.

You never had the time, because you moved too slow.

I'm just another one, I'm just another one.

Am I the end of this? I told my father yesterday through the tears that I just want to be normal. It feels like I'm crawling around in the dark, no end or light within view.

Is today the last day spent in a lie? I sit around and I jump around, I bounce from relationship to friend to relationship and back again, I attempt to be myself around other people, but most of the time it doesn't work; and the only person I could ever let loose around is gone, gone for months, almost a year.

It's chilly outside, chilly enough to freeze my perspective. I am not the person I promise you I am. I will never be the person you think I am. I wish I had the life you think I live. Listen: it isn't that simple.

I was as reckless and selfish as you.

I'm sitting in my dad's office, still half-awake and still slightly frazzled. Little crumbs litter his desk, all produced by yours truly in my attempt to constuct a breakfast with very few supplies.

Of all the things that could've happened, this is probably the most unexpected. I expected to end up in Connecticut again, or New York. Maybe, I was hoping, Pennsylvania. But here? I can't even really remember much of what happened. One minute I was sitting in school, then I was in the hospital (again), then I was in my dad's car, then at home, then at Nancy's, my dad's car, then my dad's house, then a hotel. It was the most absurdly random day I've ever lived through. But I did live through.

I'm listening to a song that makes me want to cry: "Still Around" by 3OH!3. It kind of reminds me of an old situation I was in, but it was so long ago that I barely remember how I felt. I don't know. It just is such a beautiful song, that I felt the need to say something.

My mom basically told my dad over the phone that it was his turn to parent me, that she's been doing it for twelve years and that he should "step up to the plate." Like I was a piece of meat. "Ian, it's your turn to cook it, I tried but it's still tender in places and tough in others." I hate when she does that. Which is actually quite often.

The tip of the iceberg.

It's pleasantly chilly: just enough to keep you awake, but still cold enough to freeze the tips of my fingers. My laptop is warm on my lap, and the birds of summer no longer chatter from their perches. They have already flown to a warmer, calmer place. I wish I could fly along with them. Sometimes I wonder what it would take to be reborn as a bird. It's such a calming thought to think about. What if I was born a bird? What if my arms weren't arms, but wings, allowing me to soar to wherever I wanted? I wouldn't speak words to myself that were unnecessary and unhealthy. I'd sing songs of praise and wonder. I would be free to roam the globe, to reach the corners of the earth rarely touched. I'd love to be a bird. The freedom and carelessness of the idea is what appeals to me. The notion that I could just get up from a situation and move to somewhere else makes me so calm. I wish I could do that.

55 Fiction

I paused to look at her, offended by her short tone. My constant complaints about things I need to do and things I wish I hadn't or had done are beginning to take their toll on her. She loves me, but she's a human being. I don’t realize how much I hurt until it’s done.

Rebirth.

I sat there for probably close to three minutes, just sitting and looking at her. For where I was in my mind, it felt like hours. She stared boldly back at me, waiting for a response, a blink, a flicker of my toe. Anything. I wouldn't spare her the satisfaction.

"I sense a wall between us, Kristen."

I surprised myself by not laughing. "A wall? When is there not a wall, Nancy? You don't know me half as well as you think you do. You know what I tell you of myself. But you don't know me."

"I still sense a wall. More so than I did on Thursday."

She's so clueless. She pretends to know me, to know how to help, but she doesn't, and she can't. She listens, nods her head in agreement, laughs at my jokes, doesn't judge, and doesn't help.

Somehow through all of this she has kept me breathing. She must have said something right in order for me to still be okay. But whatever she's doing that doesn't involve "saving my soul," it's the most irritating tactic one could use.

I left about half an hour later. On my walk to the local stationery store, where I was to be picked up, I began to ponder...

It's so unreal.

I can't believe that I'm sitting here in lunch. It's too real, it's so bright, everything is too clear and clean to be tangible. This life is too beautiful to be mine. Is this really a life that I'm living? Is this really the world that I'm in? Is my name really Kristen? Am I really here, right now, right in this very moment?

I so wish I could see this world through blind, infant eyes. Imagine the purity that that child must live in. I want to not know what a color is, nor what a person looks like; only what he or she sounds like, how this person feels beneath my fingertips. I so wish I could rewind and make the entire world dark and black, but only for me. I think this world would be so much more beautiful if only we didn't have the sense of sight. It biases us; it distorts our view of the world. I wish I could go blind, not only so I would see the beauty that this world has to offer, but so I wouldn't have to watch this fiasco terminate itself. I wouldn't have to watch myself drift from the young and gifted person that everyone sees in me. I wouldn't have to judge by the mirror, or by appearances in general. 

Insomnia disgusts me.

I'm leaning against the wall, half-crying and half-laughing. It's all over, it just started. A door is opening while the one behind me closes.

It's dark in my room, it's dark in this small and pinching room, something's on my chest I think I'm gonna blow oh god oh god what just happened?

He said I need to hit rock bottom.

I hit it a while ago, I replied, through the tears and the heart breaking all over again.

No, he said, it usually happens when something inside you dies.

I have no idea. What is it that I am feeling? What is it that I am supposed to feel? I'm so confused, I'm so sorry, I'm trying really hard to leave you alone. You seem so happy with your life without me. I'm trying to be happy with my life without you.

You made me whole. I hope you know that. You make me sit on therapists' couches and cry in the fetal position, you make me weak, you make me tremble, you make me so ridiculously angry but I guess that's love. You broke me. You make me whole.

To say I would give my right arm to have you back isn't quite right. I'd give my entire body. I'd give my body and my mind to have you sitting near the pillow I recently drowned in tears, I shredded it to bits, you're gone and you're happier, how long ago was it that I made you happy? How long ago was it that you promised everything would turn out fine? How long ago was it that your hand slipped into mine, how long has it been since you said you loved me? How long has it been since you meant it?

My Chair

My chair is a tired plastic blow-up chair. While it is appears light, while it appears to be insensitive and carefree, it is very heavy. It is white under black, under silver, under red. It has been painted so many different times that it is unaware of its true shade. The various array of paint coats don't allow one to see the blackness of cigarette ash mixed with the blood of a dying wound. My chair is heavy, heavier than it is old, and it is uneven. It is thin in places, while at the same time, it is too heavy for its own liking. My chair is eroding against the constant waves that pound against it. It has wheels, for people to bring it wherever they please, but its wheels creak and groan in angst whenever touched. It is unbearably puckered with the pockmarks of worry. The edges are smooth, its planks rough and angry; and while the plastic sings and whistles in the wind, it sags with age and with weariness. It has been around the world of pain more than once, and there is so much more to it than it will ever tell you.

My chair is hopeful. It has been knocked around, inflated, deflated, molded, remolded, remodeled, punctured, taped back together; and yet it still stands erect, it still stands for people to place themselves upon it. My chair is one that has been battered and beaten, but my chair is still standing tall. It is not proud, and it is not elaborate. But my chair is the most delicately--and beautifully--intricate chair that this author has ever seen.

Third post of the day.

I see the hallway surrounding me, but I don't feel the locker against my back, or the keys of my laptop as I type out my story, or the wind that the small crowd of alumni whip up as they flutter about the school, reminiscing and laughing.

I can't remember the last time I felt alright.

You took me there, too. I bet you don't even remember. You're so pathetic. It was less than two years ago and yet you act like it didn't happen to begin with. I bet you don't even realize how destroyed I've become. I bet if you did you wouldn't care. You don't care. You never cared.

I'm at a loss of how to begin. I don't want to start, and I don't want to stop, I just want to go back to the way things were in 8th grade, they were so much simpler. With the simplicity, I suppose, comes the pain, but I still wish I could go back. I wouldn't live in this disaster if you paid me three million bucks. I'm a car crash. I'm a sellout. I'm a fraud. I'm a loner. I need someone so badly, just to tell me that I'm going to be okay, but I need them to mean it. 

I'm sitting in a hallway, in a corner by the photo room, I probably should have gone back to Chem but it's too late now. I see an old friend of mine, we were golden, we were so close, we were best friends. I miss her. I look at her, her pride and her success, and then I look at the body that is below me, the stained jeans that are growing bigger and the lungs that are growing blacker, the nails that are getting sharper and the disaster I'm becoming. You could argue that I'm being dealt a bad hand. I would argue back that I've done this all to myself.

I don't know how long I stood there,

palms facing the darkened sky, icy droplets chasing each other down my neck, my back, and my legs, gathering in vibrating pools at my ankles. I can feel the mask of makeup slowly draining from my pores. I watch the pigment soak away into the night, it's the end, it's the beginning, it's both, it's neither. I watch my body curl under and over itself, surrounding the clothes that contain me and restrain my body. A scream ripples through my chest, my mouth doesn't open to let it out, I choke, I fall to my knees. I need a fix, I need a fix, I need a hoax, I need something to wash this madness down the storm drain. His limp figure is lying at my feet, on his side and at his end, and I'm falling just as fast.

I'm gone if he is, we're siblings, we're friends. He was just walking around with me, he was just laughing, talking. He was just alive. He was just alive.

The car is gone now, it's been gone for minutes or hours, one of the two; it had left mere seconds after its headlights disappeared behind his body, then reappeared as his body was catapulted above the windshield, over the hood, on the trunk, hit the ground, the car sped away, it's gone now, he's gone now.

The night air is moist with the scent of fresh rain, as are the bloody clothes that I wish to tear off so desperately, but still I walk. He's still lying on the pavement, limp and cold and bloody. His scream still pierces my ears, they ring louder than they did after he shot the gun, he's screaming my name, he's screaming my name. Through the blanket of moisture and precipitation, I emerge as the being he once was. My brother, my brother, where did you go?, you were just here with me, you were right there. I can still see the spot. It's right here beside him. The gun now lies there instead, black and dripping with rain, but I can't see it anymore, it's behind me now, I'm thrusting myself forward, my legs aren't listening but I'm trying to control them anyway. 

I waste away as I lean into the rain, sharp and metallic, like nails, drilling into my soft body. I waste away as I lean into the pain, sharp and crunching, and I'm on the ground, I'm lying in a puddle of his blood and this rain, mixed with the tears that won't escape my eyes.

Rest In Peace.

Vacation house & feminism.

I'm going to my vacation house today after school. Thank god. I'm so sick of this town, this house, this school. I miss D, and I miss the chilly, crisp air that brings me such relief. I miss lying down on the lake's shore, the sun beating down on my browned legs, listening to the waves smack and recess against the dock. I miss the summer. No, I miss last summer. The summer before this past one. It was so much more fun, so much more laid back. Summery. It was the summer after everything died down, the summer that made me think things will finally be okay. It was the summer I met D, Z, K. It was the last summer that I spent thinking like a child.

I don't really care so much about acting like a child, as opposed to acting like an adult; in my experienced opinion, either are acceptable in society. Look at the celebrities in the news today. Thirty-year-old mothers are running around, partying like they're in their early twenties. And yet, we still call them our role models. "They live how they want! They're doing so much for the environment! Who cares about their three kids! That's what live-in nannies are for!"

It bothers me and scares me how deeply in love our society has fallen with stupidity and selfishness. What has happened to compassion, to self-confidence, to the power of simplicity? 

What happened to good-old feminism? What happened to the glorification of women's sexuality? Why do women fight to survive in a man's world by making themselves more aggressive, more power-driven? I just read an article that explained perfectly what I'm trying to say. Check it out, it's a really well-written explanation of feminism in the media. 

Why does the widely-popular, fashion magazine Vogue advertise itself as a feminist magazine? I've always been so confused by this. Yes, as a whole, it does glorify women and their sexuality in a way that doesn't make all feminists look like bra-burning radicals. But look at the ads that Vogue publishes. In general, we have skipped from one extreme to the other: the first being the belief that tiny-waisted, big-chested, blonde women are the perfect example to aspire to be. If those ads aren't the epitome of sexism, I don't know what is. Basically, what the ad with the skinny, beautiful, clear-skinned, long-haired, small-waisted, small-chested, big-eyed model is telling you is, "In order to be beautiful, you must first look like this." Outward beauty is the product of an inner glow. 

Personally, I think that the argument most designers use ("My garments look better on thin models") is complete BS. Close to no one is as thin as the model wearing that Versace gown, or can afford it; since nearly none of us look like that model, how are we supposed to buy it? If what it looks like in the ad was the main spur to try it on, and it doesn't look like it does in print, then how does this marketing tactic work?... I understand that the idea of high fashion and cutoure is that the garments aren't really wearable anyway, but still. What should a ten-year-old think when she watches the beautiful (yet really really puffy) evening gown parade itself down the runway, worn by a thinner-than-is-healthy model?

"Let's race right off the cliff, they will remember this."

Brendan's dead.

I'm so close to the edge, of what I don't know. Am I even really awake? Someone wake me up, pinch me, do something, something, anything, to awaken me from this slumber. I'm spiraling down this plastic playground slide that will catapult me into a pit of razors and cigarette butts instead of mulch. I'm the little 5-year-old that lived with her father and stepmother in Ohio. I'm the elderly 70-year-old who has lost everything, seen everything, done everything, it's out of my control, it's out of my control. I'm so unaware of the irony in everyday life that sometimes it has to smack me in the face before I realize it's there. Read my last post, the one about the girl who wakes up in the hospital. Ironic, it's all very ironic. I got out yesterday. Brendan didn't.

Brendan's dead.

I listen to the sounds of my music, pouring like an endless inferno of flame through the speakers, and I don't even hear what the lyrics are telling me. The only person I can bring myself to be around is my neighbor. And he doesn't even know how shredded I am on the inside. I see my family, I see my computer screen, I see the torn bits of paper scattered across my floor, I see my room, same four walls, same four walls, I just remember the first time we met. It's so dark, it's 9:30, he's dead, he's dead.

Brendan's dead.

I didn't know him all that well. I met him maybe three or four times. But we had spoken. I always wondered how he was still surviving through all that had happened. Cancer took my maternal grandpa, it took my paternal grandma, it took my friends' parents, and now it took my friend. He's gone. D's so miserable. I'm a 2-hour drive away and I can't do anything to comfort him. I shouldn't even be complaining, I'm trying really hard not to get upset about this, I barely knew him for god's sake.

Brendan's dead.

D's more upset than I expected, and I expected him to be upset. For heaven's sake, he was going to visit Brendan the day he died. He was driving to Brendan's house with K when he got the call. I'm lucky, and he is too, that he didn't drive off the road. He probably did. He's okay though. Brendan isn't.

Rest in peace. You were a soldier; I can only aspire to be as strong as you were.

I was in the hospital during the funeral.

Brendan's dead.

I don't want to write anymore.

Daily Planner 5.

This weekend was horribly fun and horribly terrible.

Fun:

Slept over a friend's house on Friday, went into town on Saturday, then went to a party. She slept over my house on Saturday night. Sunday we went back into town, then went to the mall with my uncle. I found my favorite pair of jeans, thank the high heavens, I missed them so much.

Not Fun:

Oddly enough I think I'm headed down the same path that I embarked on in 8th grade. I now begin to realize what I'm doing after it's done. 

Prime example: take a teenaged girl who is the epitome of the American dream. She's gorgeous, she's smart, she's talented, she has a good job, a loving boyfriend, a great family. She's miserable. Her eyes are the eyes that smile at her boyfriend as he tells her he loves her. Her eyes are the eyes that weep oceans at night, in the morning, in the afternoon after she returns home from school, in the bathroom at lunch. She doesn't realize (or doesn't care) what she does to herself, because she doesn't know who "herself" is anymore.

A month after her fifteenth birthday, she wakes up in the hospital. She doesn't know what she's done to herself, why she's lying in the intensive care unit, how in god's name she got there. Only after learning how she accidentally overdosed on her diet pills, she finally realizes that her life was spinning.

That's pretty much the best way I can describe it. I'm not that girl, since I am not a made-up character and also since I don't consider myself any of the traits I used to describe her. Sometimes I think of why people always tell me I'm her. I think it's mainly because she's a good example of what I could become in a year, or more, or less. Maybe I should worry about my direction. I suppose I don't really care enough.

Whiparound 1: To all those who hear me all too well.

I'm begging to hear your voice, flowing out like

endless rain, I'm begging to love me too, I'm

telling you I've got nothing to prove;

I'm begging you to answer the questions

in my heart. Where do I belong? The bar is

lengthened, can I put the drink down? 

You never were at your best when you were

sober. Why haven't you taken my life too? I'm so

done with living in the moment, I'm so done with

"so alone." The sound of your voice telling me

the speed I should be traveling, those summer nights spent

splashing through the sandbar and singing 

to the campfire. I'm living life without fear. 

You dropped out of high school, so I hear. The simplest 

things in life they scream, such a shame for

us to part. Take it slow, take it slow. Don't be too

fast to trade your passions for glory. 

And still I feel black inside. Take me back to the start

of the hope that someone sits with you. It's not always easy,

and life can be deceiving; we always always

see those churches on TV. We never would've said forever,

if we knew it would end so fast. No longer,

this is home: the sky's the limit.

km

Daily Planner 4.

I'm sitting in lunch right now; I most likely should be doing my spanish homework but I'm too inspired.

Have you ever listened to a song after not hearing it for a very long time, remembered that you liked it, and began liking it again? Well, that's what just happened. That's the beauty of iTunes shuffle.

"There's No Sympathy for the Dead" by Escape the Fate has 

horrendous lyrics (it's about the apocalypse) but the guitar riffs, solo, and screaming in it are superb. I don't think I'll ever grow tired of this song. Escape the Fate's new album is

 terrible, though. Without 

Ronnie, their addicted-to-heroin lead vocalist, they're basically nothing. He made the band for me. His vocals were the icing on the cake, except the icing made up more of the package than the actual cake did.

It's really depressing that he was kicked out.

Somehow this turned into a music review. It was supposed to be a planner. Last time I checked, a planner involves me giving a boring account of my daily escapades. 

Oh well. Ronnie's worth it.

"Where are your feet, Kristen."

"Well, they're right here, on the ground, right?"

"No. What time are your feet in."

"Now?"

"Exactly."

I paused to look at her, slightly offended at her short tone. I think that my constant complaints about things I need to do and things I wish I hadn't or had done are beginning to take its toll on her. She loves me, she's my best friend, but she's also a human being. She has limits as to how much she can take.

I listen in depth to the lyrics she writes, to the things she says, but it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter, I'm still the little kid in the corner of her preschool, confused and shy.

Move on, move on, I don't listen. Move on to the next big thing. Move on to what I "need" next. I'll move on, alright. I'll move on.

"I'm a rolling stone, Nancy. I'm not meant to sit in an office and do the same thing every day. Why do I have to live according to other people's desires? Why do I have to live for other people's approval? I'm not a politician, I'm not anything close to being perfect. No one is perfect, Nancy, and yet I try so hard to achieve it. Because in everyone's opinion, perfection is equal to greatness."

She looked at me with an astonished face, thinking so hard I could hear the gears in her brain squeaking, creaking, turning.

"Kristen, your feet aren't in here, in today. They're here, in my office right now. That's what I was trying to get at. Take one step at a time. Planning is good when you're dealing with parties or weddings or recitals. Planning isn't good when you're recovering."

I hesitate...

Generally speaking.

Generally speaking, I've got this in the bag.

My world has become somewhat of a freak show. I had a friend over Friday, and we were greeted by angry voices when we walked in the door. I am now kind-of-sort-of dating someone who lives two and a half hours away from me. My been-there-for-me-since-birth great grandma's getting fairly close to being so senile she forgets her name. My best friend is mad at me and probably will never speak to me ever again. And through all of this, I've maintained a smile.

It isn't a fake one, mind you. It's a legitimate smile. I'm happy, for probably the first time in my young-adult life. Which is mildly ironic, because there's an intense chaos going on right inside my small, young world.

Things that used to calm me are now stirring me up. Not in a negative way, but they just make me restless. They make me want to get older so I can escape this town, this area. It's nice for some people, but not for me. I wasn't meant to live here. I was meant to be untamed.

What If?

Tap, tap, tap. My foot never stops moving. I'm sitting in my Honors Spanish Three class, wondering about why my foot never stops moving, and writing about it. Why does it jiggle as it does, never pausing to take a breath? Why must I ask so many questions about pointless, mindless subjects that have no depth?

I'm introverted, I'm extroverted. I'm stubborn, I'm malleable. I'm impatient, I have too little time. I don't believe in a higher power, I want so desperately for this to not be the end.

I don't believe in heaven or hell, per say. I don't believe in any higher power, nor do I believe in "sins" or "forgiveness." I believe in human nature. Human nature, for me, dictates how we do what we do, and why we do what we do. Naturally, since I believe that "heaven" is an eternal sleep (you don't really know you're dead; it's much like falling asleep, you can't note the exact time it happened), I am unafraid of death. Of course, I'm not sticking a piece of raw meat under its nose and taunting it, but I understand that it will come regardless of whether I try to bring it closer or push it farther away. You're probably wondering why I'm rambling on about death. Stick with me, here.

While I don't believe in heaven or hell, I do believe in the power of love. I do believe in karma, and I do believe in negative and positive energy. I believe that one can channel energy through their emotions, actions, expressions, and bodies. Every single thing we do has an effect on every single thing around us. Whether the effect is positive or negative is up to the action itself, but I strongly believe that nowadays, most people have lost the benefit of simplicity.

With all of the extravagance and lavishness we live in, it's hard to stop and realize that these things aren't necessary. Do we have to live with TVs in our rooms, and iPod headphones in our ears 24/7? Don't get me wrong; as a typical music-loving teenager, I'd probably go clinically insane without my music. But what if we lived without all of these "basic necessities?" What if we lived without the Starbucks coffee for a while, and looked at all of the people who don't have food, who don't have school, who don't have clothes, who don't have medicine to cure their diseases? What if we gave what we could to help these people? Don't you think that giving a mere half of what we don't need to people who need it more? 

As my career, it's always been my dream to work with teen parents in an urban environment. I'd like to be a social worker in inner-city San Francisco, and I'd like to retire building hospitals and homes for people in underdeveloped regions of South America and Africa. I want to spend my last few years giving to people who need things more than I do. Yeah, it'll probably be uncomfortable. It'll be buggy, humid; I probably won't have a decent bed for the remainder of my visit. But I believe that after coasting through life, coasting through school, I should try for once.

Always watching.

I just typed and retyped this first sentence several times. I think that this is writer's block. I've never experienced it before. Maybe it's writer's inspiration. I have so many ideas flowing through my skull, out my fingertips, and on to the page. They're always teeming, always reeling. Always building. I'm always watching.

I am not observant by any means. Ask me to keep track of what a girl's wearing every day of the week; I'll either forget to do it entirely or I'll miss some marks. I don't care about the little things. I care about the bigger meaning. I don't give half a rat's you-know-what about the way you multiply these numbers to get this product; I care about how it works.

But I'm constantly watching. I guess you could say I'm very introverted. I have my moments of extroversion, and I appreciate being around people. But asked to do a project solo or with a group, I'll always choose myself. I have too many ideas, and I'm too set on them, to just agree with other people on things, or even compromise. I usually want to take charge in a group setting, and since some other people are the same way, I get intensely frustrated and immediately lose interest in the assignment, even if I was at one point ecstatic about it and brimming with ideas.

I'm not sure why I'm writing all this. I think I'm in dire need of a creative output. I've stopped painting since this past summer, and I've stopped taking personal walks. I don't really care that much about my "self-time" anymore. I kind of gave up the ghost. I don't really enjoy being with myself anymore. So many people have broken me down, watched me crumble, and told me that I'm worth nothing by means of actions. I don't understand how I am expected to regain confidence after being told that I am nothing.

Daily Planner 3.

I'm working tonight. Forgive me, but I'm getting really tired of my job really fast. People can be so rude sometimes. And everyone wants everything in such a hurry. I'm sorry, but where do you have to go that the world will end if you're not there thirty minutes before you're supposed to? Are you that ridiculously late that you can't even stop to realize that you're hurting the poor little cashier's feelings when you yell at her as if she's just beaten your wife? In my opinion, we should all slow down a little. Not to smell the roses, and not to realize where the fire is; but to listen to the wind blowing, to listen to the leaves falling, to listen to the music the world makes. To see the things that the world is presenting: yes, there are roses, but there is so much more, so many more things to explore. They're sitting there, in their little secret places, sitting and waiting for us to realize them.

Okay. So, Bert McCracken. He's in my profile, he's on my desktop wallpaper, he's on my actual wall, he's everywhere. He is my hero: no lies, no jokes. His music makes the world I live in a little brighter. The melodies he creates, the lyrics he concocts, they inspire me to the point of despair. I love his music, so much, it isn't even funny. He is a former drug and alcohol addict, and after several suicide attempts, he has made it through to the other side of the darkness, emerging as a well-renowned musician.

I find it very easy to relate to people; I guess you could say my empathy meter is through the roof. But he's one of the people I can relate to. Not because he's a former drug addict, or because he suffers from depression, but because he has made it through rough times and now is successful in what he does. Now that's a success story. Not all that Britney Spears junk. Her story isn't one of success. What darkness has she made it out of? Mistreating her kids? I'm sorry, but I don't see the power in her. I see the potential, as I do for everyone. I believe that every single living thing has potential, for something, but for what is up to them...

But, anyway, I think the period's ending fairly soon, and my fingers are getting slightly drowsy from typing so much so fast. So, as usual, I'll post when I get home, just like clockwork and just like the tides.

I wonder if he sent my camera yet... Hm.

Quote of the day: I have a new philosophy. I'm only going to dread one day at a time. -Charles M. Schulz

Alexandra.

Pencils on the right side, pens on the left; make sure your right tail signal is always working before you drive; listen to the cop when he tells you to stop talking back; talk back when necessary; pay attention when the teacher tells you the homework at the end of the period, it isn't always going to be online, goodness, technology these days; don't drink too many sugary drinks, they make you unable to think straight; stay away from seedy men, they will take your dignity and your money; have the courage to change the things that can be changed, the serenity to accept the things you can't change, and know the difference between the two; pretend you know nothing when you're too lazy to do something yourself; suck in your stomach when going to a job interview; stand up straight!; take out the lint from the dryer, do you want the house to catch fire?; don't get married too young, see the world before you're tied down; once a man cheats, he'll always be a cheater; friends come and go just as much as boys, don't trust anyone; pull up your shirt!, you think a well-respecting college would accept you looking like that?; hang your shirts on the shower rod to get the wrinkles out; remember to flip through all the pictures when buying a car without a man with you; forget the health of your ears, they have hearing aids for a reason--listen to your music as loud as the speakers allow; hold your head high when walking down a hallway, even when everyone is sticking their feet out to watch you fall; be who you are when no one's watching, when people are watching; remember that people are always watching, always watching, always watching...

Daily Planner 2.

So, yesterday, I went to the mall with my mom. It was really nice, since we hadn't really done anything together for a long time, just the two of us; the most time we've spent together recently is our two-and-a-half hour long drive to our vacation house, and that usually isn't what one would call "quality" time. I listen to my iPod. She drives. End of story.

But, anyway, we went to the mall, and had dinner at my favorite restaurant. We talked about everything that's been going on. We talked about my upcoming birthday. We talked about school. But for some reason, it felt genuine. Most often, when I talk to my mom, it feels like she's just asking because she feels obligated. Last night was different, though. It was nice.

I'm going out to dinner with my dad tonight. I'm really excited, actually. Ever since our visit in the hospital, I feel like we've grown a lot closer. He watches me more carefully when we're together, but even still, I feel like he cares more than he used to. Sometimes it takes a tragedy to create a comedy. That's my opinion, anyway.

I'm listening to my favorite song again! It reminds me so much of this summer, which I suppose shouldn't be a good thing; somehow, although, it is. This summer was a summer of pain and of happiness. Both are beautiful, I guess. Both are things that everyone experiences at one point or another. I just experienced both at the same time. I grew up very quickly over this summer. I grew up more than was expected of me. I'm proud of myself for making it through with my head held high. Sure, there were times I gave up the battle. But in my opinion, giving up isn't admitting defeat; it's saying that you've had enough.

I don't think I'll ever get enough. I'm ninety-nine percent positive that I will never stop being the person I am. People always tell me I need to grow up, I need to have more fun, I need to be more this, I need to do more of that. I don't think I'll ever listen. I will never give in to the expectations or molds that everyone around me has laid out on my table. A person can't be defined according to other people's expectations. A person needs to define herself. I'm in the process of doing just that.

It just brings up the infamous question of "who am I?" I don't think we ever truly know. We were reading an article in our PSAT prep booklet yesterday in English about artificial intelligence, and consciousness, and the difference between the two. It fascinated me. What is consciousness, anyway? How do we know that what we live in is the "real world," and that our dreams are "imaginary?" What if it's the other way around? I was thinking about this on my walk yesterday evening. How can we be so sure that we've reached the "final frontier" of science; how can we be so positive that there is pretty much nothing else we can master? I think that we are so primitive in ourselves; much like infants, we think that anything that disappears from sight is no longer in existence. We think that there is nothing in the world but the single beam of vision, the single beam of consciousness, that races through the darkness. That metaphor was used in the article we read yesterday. It's brilliant, isn't it? I love complex ideas such as this. They fascinate me.

Well, 5th period is drawing to a close, and so is my inspiration. I'll write later.

Quote of the day: Poetry is language at its most distilled and most powerful. -Rita Dove

"She Is Just a Glitch" by Sky Eats Airplane

Something you once told me:
No regrets, no wasted efforts.
I'm left in the wake of your returning glory.
You looked so confident in your decision,
For the light of your indifference.

So pure in your deception,
So right in your mind,
This is just my luck,
It's always been my luck.
Come closer so I can see you.
You're cold to the touch,
Hasn't anyone ever told you this is just my luck?

Say what you will.
You're no longer the death of me.
This whole shipwreck has been sent to sea,
So go ahead and take what you will from me.
It doesn't matter.

And I am running out of words,
And I am running out of time,
To explain to you what we could have been.
Now the chance is over and I'll admit that:
I am just fine today.
You won't bring me down again.

-"She Is Just a Glitch" by Sky Eats Airplane

My English teacher told his students on the first day of school that they will find a book that speaks to their souls; a book so deeply sketched in our minds that we will never forget it. I found my book a long time ago. As an ever-developing music lover, my song is always changing. Most recently, it is the song listed above: "She Is Just a Glitch" by Sky Eats Airplane.

Some songs make me feel very empowered, very real. They make me want to get up and dance in whatever manner I wish. Some songs make me want to curl up and cry until I have no more tears left in me. But this song is completely different; this song makes me want to do both of these things and more. It makes me want to stand up in a world of sitters, to keep trying in a world of quitters. I listen to the lyrics, to the beat, to the guitar, and I want to do something so powerfully active that I'll never remember ever being dormant. I love this song so much. It is my song. That is clear.

I think this song is about a sour relationship (what a surprise) that was once beautiful, but is now worn down and exhausting. The narrator is feeling angry at the fact that his partner was once the light of his eyes, but now is only a burden. It reminds me of a situation in which a person remembers all the beautiful things that once were included in the relationship. In my opinion, it's about moving on from someone, all the while knowing that the journey from grief to acceptance is a long one, and realizing that while he will, at one point, be over his ex, the ex will never leave his mind completely. I hit this point of realization once in my short lifetime. I was in a year-long relationship with someone whom I loved more than myself. Around my birthday last year, we ended up parting ways, and it broke me. It took me seven months of missing and wanting and crying and anger to realize that my life is too short to wallow in my pain. I packed my bags, picked up the pieces, and continued with my life. I did not forget about my ex, but instead came to know that he shouldn't control my life anymore.

I'm on better terms with myself now. It has taken me a long time to learn to let people in again, but I somehow did it. Right now, I have things under control. I am fully aware that things are quite possibly going to change over time. Although, isn't that the beauty of it?

Daily Planner 1.

So, basically, hospitals are very fun.

But not really, since they stick needles up your arm and IVs in your veins and feed you lousy turkey sandwiches with no cheese. Long story short, it stunk.

I don't remember a lot from today. I remember mainly up until 6th period. I remember sitting in chem, then getting up to go to the nurse. I remember everything seeming very far away, and the noises getting really loud, and then I don't remember anything. The next part that I can recall is lying on the stretcher in that weird room, with Mr. Erickson standing over me, and Mr. DeMaio, and about what seemed like fifteen EMTs. They were all laughing, but it was nervous laughing. I think it was about something I said. But I don't remember that too much, either.

I blacked out again, and then woke up in the ambulance, then blacked out, then woke up in the hospital surrounded by nurses. I hit my head when I fell, apparently, and tore something in my neck, so they had me in a neck brace so that I didn't move it. It was really uncomfortable, and very stiff.

My dad showed up, which is a surprise, since I haven't spoken to him in a while. He took me out to dinner at Mara's once I was discharged.

So now I'm sitting in my living room, my backpack still in school and thus rendered unable to do homework (pity), tired out of my mind, and cranky beyond belief. My arm is still sore from where they were trying to find a vein to put in the IV. PAIN, I tell you. Pain.

Quote of the day: I do not think that I will ever reach a stage when I will say, "This is what I believe. Finished." What I believe is alive ... and open to growth. - Madeleine L'Engle

It's quite ironic. Being alive, and all.

Am I really alive?

No, really. Am I?

Wow. I'm breathing. My heart is pounding, and music is thundering in my ears, and I'm sitting in a lecture hall in my high school. I'm not dreaming. I'm alive. I'm living, I'm burning, engulfing. I'm not a fake. Because, in the end, if you're faking something, you're still you, right? You're still plowing on at this great road more commonly known as "life." It's such a shame, that I've wasted fifteen years being someone who wasn't me. I am a beautiful person, as we all are; I am such a great story to tell. I deserve more than a premature obituary. I have a beautifully crafted story to tell. Who should tell it but me?

I'm Not Okay.

I, Kristen Marie MacMillan, am absolutely and definitively terrified of spiders. I can't stand people who pretend they know what they're talking about; when you put me in front of a hunk of steak, I will gag; I am very extroverted, and I am very fake.

Every single itty-bitty thing about me is one big lie. No, not everything I say is a jumbled mess of fabrication; I have many truths in the words I speak, and I attempt to be as straightforward in my tactics of living as possible. But every emotion, every single "I'm just fine (enter smile and laugh here)" is one big huge joke.

I am the farthest thing from fine 99% of the time. I am frustrated with the direction my life is pointed in, I am angry at myself, I am angry at everyone around me, I am angry, angry, angry. Sometimes I feel like I'll make it out of this wreck of a rough spot. Sometimes, I feel "okay." But most of the time, I just feel like a big phony. I feel like a fraud.

I often wonder if everyone else out there in the world is like me: faking smiles, pretending to be okay, pretending that nothing affects them. I wonder, do people see through me? Do people pretend as much as me? Most importantly, what would happen if I stopped being "okay?"

The music I listen to, and the people i surround myself with, are from all different ends of the spectrum. I have one friend, who lives in New York during the summer and Utah during the school year, who likes completely different music than most people. He's really interested in movies, and wants to become a film star/director/producer/rap star/homemaker/husband/whatever else he can think of. I have another friend in Pennsylvania who likes the same music as me, but is into completely different activities; he is a sponsored skateboarder and likes working at the local jail (don't ask me, I would NOT be able to explain).

It is only with these two things that I am myself: my music, and my friends. I do not consider acquaintances friends. Heck, I don't consider most people I'm friendly with my friends. I have five true friends in this world, and I love them all more than I love myself. Things have been slightly rocky with these true five ever since this summer; I changed drastically since May, and my friends noticed it. None approve of this new person who morphed from the old Kristen we all used to know and love, and none realize that I can do nothing about it. 

Dustin, my long-distance-boyfriend-slash-best-friend-slash-Pennsylvania-mentor, is the person who accepts me the most. I know that Dustin is aware of my "mask" situation, and the thing that strikes me most is that he doesn't care. He knows that the mask will only fall off when I'm ready and fully willing. This is why I care about him so much. He is the most insightful person in my life right now.

Just because I am a masked person, does not mean I am a faulted one. In my opinion, everyone wears a mask to an extent. I don't really understand all of this to its fullest. I don't really understand myself most of the time. I just know that I'm a fake. And it doesn't look like it's changing any time soon.