Updates: Media (lyrics) has a new layout. I could never figure out how to lay it out, but it's easier to navigate now. I'm still working on a better duplicate Mamblog mod. I'm trying to make submittions easier but the poetry form died for some reason. Quizzes are also on their way from the old site. Joomla content isn't very code friendly so I'm having to rewrite old code. You can still click on News > AH v21 > Screen if you wish to use the quizzes.
The day was spent in hoplessly heated rooms kept that way by heat confining fans, blowing endless newspaper clippings of printed death. John Smith, Died June 28, 2002 in his home in Los Angeles. Mr. Smith is survived by his murdering cheating wife and three ungrateful children. I once felt the need to call our local publisher and add my name, just to see what would happen. Just to see if anyone would call in fits and sobs and beg to know if what they read was true. Of course I'd blame my childhood classmates of stupid hurtful pranks and wash my hands of the whole ordeal, adorning a teethy grin from ear to ear from the satisfaction of knowing that I had been mistaken, that someone really does care. But then of course if no one called, if the telephone ringer was endlessly silent, my suspitions would have been proven, no one cares if this hopelessly self obsessed putrid body with the scarred and faultered soul lost it's will to live, she wasn't worth loving anyhow. But then again, when all is said an done, who is?
in days of watery pinkish seedy fruits the fact that I can't weather the heat in stone washed boot cut denim and long sleeve wrinkled cotton surfer tees makes the label perfection seem at a farther reach than freedom, health, and happiness. even days when the murcury drops the timeline summer prosmises it won't stay there long. even when I drift away, when my mind hides behind white noise in times of fear and minor distress, it seems I'll never find a way out, like the streets paved with gold really don't exist and never will. everyone says perfection isn't real, something you can touch and feel and see but I know different. perfection resides in minds content with how things are, how they were, and what they might become. while right now, these present hopes, thoughts, and memories are deathly riddled with a plague to end all plagues. it keeps you alive and distressingly conscious, experiencing the most awful pain ever wrought upon a human soul. if only valium came in thoughts, a tiny floating glowing gift bag stuffed with clear sparkled tissue paper knawing at my childish curiousity. with contentment I envision such perfection for myself that even the what if's I dream up while imperfect bring me farther down than I started out. I guess I'll go rest my will to persevere before i lose it to dream destroying all consuming speculation.
Partial today was a little more than I could bare. In processing everyone seemed to think my problems would be solved if I took a self defense class, not really knowing what they are of course, when I'm sitting there curled up in my chair wondering what would have happened if I had tried to defend myself. I fear the outcome would have been worse. Group got a little too close to finding out what happened to me today. I would never had said but if someone asked I wouldn't have lied. At one point I was even ready to get up and leave the room, things just got too intense and I refuse to cry in there. I think the facilitator noticed I had had all I could take, asked if I was okay and when I nodded after a long pause she told the group we were moving on. At lunch I hardly ate a thing, maybe a few small pieces of lettuce and picked at my salad while talking the remaining part of the hour. This one guy commented on how little I was eating and that it wasn't enough. Then in cognitive it was my turn and he ratted on me to the facilitator. I don't think she really cared though. In the final group we had group therapy and I played DJ. To annoy this one guy I brought Bach and everyone was in on it. Of course I spent the group curled up in a ball as usual and I think the facilitator kept looking at me when she did evaluations but I was dissociating so I was in and out, I only once looked her way and caught her looking at me. I don't know what's going through her head but I doubt it's anything positive about me. I can pretend to be happy for a day but that's about it, an entire day of laughing when jokes aren't funny and ignoring jokes from the freak of all freak shows wears me out and the rest of the week I'm myself in every way possible when you've got professionals breathing down your neck to get better. I think I'm making a friend but she only has a few days left I think and I'm afraid the new arrivals Monday will turn everything around. I'll no longer be the loved little girl. Right now everyone's twice my age or more and I don't want that to change. I was fairly comfortable to a point this morning when the topic turned for the worst and if the average age decreases, I won't be so comfortable anymore. That's why I didn't talk in the beginning. I think I need to isolate this evening. Maybe I'll go out for a little bit to wear down some anxiety (twisted I know) and then go to bed early. I've had about all I can take of people today. My defenses have been shot down and the only way to rebuild them is to spend some time alone, even though isolating is the last thing I should be doing. Unfortunately I can hardly leave my room like this much less the house. A muted cry for help is all I have because to be seen as weak is worse than any other label.
The stupid thing is, the ink that drips off the pen never forms any reasonable thoughts. And when it does hold meaning, I don't believe any of it. I have this tendancy to see the worst in things, and if I can't see it, I'll find any way I can to get it there even if it means going there myself.
Anxious hands fall to where you where you stand awaiting shameless peoccupation, solace from a world of flawless calculations. Immobile and yet filled with such regret. Feigning life through blood splattered lenses numbing hearts and all the hardened senses. Through empty doorways hearing voices, in loneliness make fucked-up angry choices. Time to confess all your sins to anyone who'll listen. Uselessly convincing friends and foe of the uselessness of life. All its sorrows snowball into life consuming empty senseless death. The food we eat holds no rewards for one who sees no purpose. The body holds no need for such trivialities. The trials we face are useless tests of faith withheld with calming grace. Withheld conflictions take their place in life's great freak show parade, when nothing else holds violence at bay for many days. Lost traits show through in the skeem of things like "all the world's a stage," but strength confides no jealousy or rage.
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