kelland

Shame shame shame.

I fucking. Uh. Hate. Hate everything and anything and all things and people and places and events. Nouns and adverbs and interjections. Vegetables and fruits and grains and black and white and grey and the whole fucking spectrum of color. And happy and sad and angry and calm. And naked and clothed and cold and hot and ugly and beautiful and full and empty and every. fucking. thing. I hate.

In the future, I can see myself falling. Out of love. And the memories, I can see them collecting dust on the shelf. I can see myself forgetting your name. And your birthday. And your favorite colors and foods and songs. And I can see myself. And I'm not at all happy, and I'm not at all sad. And I'm listening to the Smiths, and you hated the Smiths. I'll remember that.

Can you see my pocket knife?

Tonight, this guy I work with made me a pizza I ordered myself for dinner. He put a shitload of vegetables on it. I ate it. Oblivious. He then later told me that it had tiny pieces of pork sausage on it. And I wanted to fucking rip his face off. I was irate/upset/infuriated beyond logical reason. Miah found out and yelled at him and made him apologize to me. It didn't matter. He invaded me. He thought it was funny. I wanted to cry. No one understands why that would upset me.



My car died two times in the past week. On Monday, it was raining in the morning and I was going to school with Jessica. I was coming out of her alley. It died and began rolling into the street. Luckily, a cop drove up and helped us push it to the curb. He wasn't much help otherwise. In fact, he sucked. I came to school late and wet and annoyed. The car is fixed for now. It's driveable.

My parents are discussing where we are going to live in a few months. That is how serious the situation is. Don't think that's not a reason to be upset right now. It's a pretty good fucking reason. We could potentially lose everything. Not like material things matter in life. But having a place to live does.

Sometimes I look at Miah and realize how sad I am that I can't be with him, just to make his life better. How I'd like to take him in my arms. How I'd like him to want me back. And how I would even put up with the smoking and the laziness and the overall apathy of his persona. I would honestly make love to him, no questions asked. That is not something to be taken lightly. That is not something easily said. And not easily confronted in even my own mind. I would give up myself to make him feel even an ounce of love and worth and closeness. That might sound crazy. But you should probably know I am.

I took this picture so you could see my close-up imperfections. My imperfect pores and bumps and skin and face that is, in fact, not so great without layers of cosmetics. Everything is magnified and razor sharp. Everything I am is so bland. I am so bland. You don't know me like you think you know me. You don't call me because you care, but rather to rub your prospect and success in my face and hear abour my heartache and failure and lack of resources. That is seriously how I feel. I won't succeed because I don't care anymore.