billybillybilly

Here we are again, so much to say, and none of it would be new I guess. I'm guessing. I'm assuming. I'm not exactly sure, and right now I should feel better, that would be the normal reaction.

I've thought a lot about your list, friend. I've thought a lot about what I love and hate. And I think I hate myself, at least in certain ways, but not the wrist slashing kind. So we'll start this off like a thousand other times, with some lyrics. Proportionate to my secrets:

These are from the song "anecdote" by Ambulance Ltd.


you pin the medals to your chest
and settle down for seven minutes rest
you dim the lights, administer the cure
you tried it several times, you're still not sure

you take the first one for free
and pass it on to me
i don't refuse
baby, if you only knew
but i don't think you do

you take the lines from ordinary books
you're disappointed in the way she looks
you cut the circulation to your hand
and calculate the motion of the land

then you, fall back asleep
and wander down the street that losers use
don't say you feel the same way too
honey, i don't think you do

you cut the worms and bait them on the hooks
you cast a line towards the closest brooks
you meet the girl who says she knows the plan
you act impressed and say you understand
'cause you, like to believe, that all that love is free
oh, someone like you, will never be lonely, or get the blues
but darlin', it's not true

* * * * *

There has been some controversy around here, circling me. It's the quiet kind whispered. I doubt it will ever be understood. Even I don't understand. What do you think these journals are about?

The air is cold in here and I was supposed to feel better. But I don't, I have too many secrets or not enough. Seems everything I do lately is just making me worse. I don't know how else to put it, but I dwell on things. Every things.

Item number two on the list:

Mistrust, beyond just understanding what happens. And why would I? These actions are not normal. I don't know what's happening, even when I do there are so many other variables, and I hate that you could give me up so much more easily than I can give up needing your help. I use the possibility in hopes you'll feel the same way I do. My torture. I hope you feel that.

#3.

Cigarettes are the only weapon I have. I've become very good at them.

"I want to fuck everyone in the world." That line repeats, and I'm not even sure if it's correct. And I've hated writing these journals at times. I love to read my own journals. I read them as if I hadn't written them. I fucking hate writing them. I fucking hate their interpretations. But I love to read them.

Bad habits.

FOUR

Stretch out, and I love it.
Don't stop doing that thing.
I've picked this up from you, and my arms and legs twitch, next to involuntary.
I even love it when you're convulsing.
When you laugh and laugh unconscious, your face changes shocked, you've been stabbed or hurt, what a great reason to shake you.
Waiting angry, walking in, and my face lights up.
Can't be without it, don't know what to do with it.

"
_it won't do
_to dream of caramel
_to think of cinnamon
_and long for you

"

We're up to five now.

I can't leave, and there is no peace in this. How long can I be protected before I'm finally on my own? How much will a ticket cost? How could I give this all up? I love everything and hate that I'm attached to everything, even you. Reading this. You. How can I give you up?

* * * * *
And on this, our sixth occasion, I revert to childhood. I usually do. Things usually end up this way. Here we are:

The friends I had, including the person with whom I shared my first sexual experience are sitting in a room. We, the six of us if memory serves, are alone and all our parents are singing to God, they're singing to Jesus, and their singing loud enough and can't here. And the five of them, they stare at me, and they break me down. They tell me about how they've seen me turning red sitting in the bench. Next to mom, sister on the other side, and my hands are in my pockets, they're putting 2 and 2 together.

They're telling me how stupid I am. They're telling me how I'll never be as interesting as I think I am. They're breaking me down. One by one, getting out of their seats on the opposite side of the room. They walk over and one of them punches me. Another spits near me, but misses. Threats. What are they expecting?

I'm sitting here and I'm watching them, and I'm planning an escape. I don't know how to leave. It's an inquisition. They're judging me, and all I can do is listen. I can't turn away or show weakness, I don't even know how to. I'm looking at two of them and wondering how they can do this to me. I'm thinking back, about all the hours we've spent together, and all the things I've given them, the places I've shown them, and I'm wondering how they can do this to me.

I'm looking at the biggest ones. I'm looking at them and knowing that I could kill them. I don't know how, but I know at that moment that I could, and I'm deciding that my will is stronger than their own. I don't know what to do, because they would overpower me if I made a move right now. I'm fucking livid, I can already taste their blood. I want to bite their faces and tear them apart with my bare hands. And this room is so sterile, I could paint the walls and what would happen if I did?

I look at the last one, the closest in my life at this point to a lover. "How could this happen, how could you say these things to me? You are supposed to be my best friend!"

sixsixsix

Plagued. These thoughts, and how I know the world will end, and animals always act most sketchy before storms.

7

"D'arcy, if you don't eat you'll never gain no weight!"

Eight? Fuck eight. Nine however...

I'm horrible at writing letters. I should have called you, but I don't know what to say.

And then...

I'm done, and I've no idea where to leave this. Make peace with old friends. Think about someone you've lost. I'm remembering funerals right now, and I understand that this is coming off much sadder and more helpless than I'm actually feeling.