Dear Robin, I am pleased to announce that you have been accepted for enrollment....

"Okay" ?

what the fuck does that mean, "Okay" ?

not even an 'ok, alright, whatever', that's a condescending "okaaaay" with the upturned, "why are you even telling me this" question mark at the end

the tone I didn't expect to hit me so hard

that left me so shakingly angry i couldn't calm down

even after grinding my teeth, and the gutural screams in the car on the way to the restaurant

where the girl behind the counter concentrated on the lip of her neon green visor, and gave me a free brownie

to make up for the fact that she couldn't meet my rigid eyesockets with a complimentary smile.

I didn't know you could dissappoint me this much;

or that you had this much sway.

But seriously,

after years of wanting, work, applications, and scholarship bullshit

you can't say

"Congratulations"?

Most would try harder

for their oldest daughter.

I don't know why we're created, but I know that I know why I'm dying

I'm an emotional driver. Anger just brawls through my system like no other time in my life, through hands clenched around the steering wheel, down feet and to the pavement. rushing faster, faster, faster, until that maddening, raging, heavy slow stop that happens just too fast. stuck. behind an ancient wood paneled station wagon. or toes jammed on the breaks to keep my silver p.o.s. from demolishing the precious little shits in the back seat of the hideous forrest green minivan. seatbelt rubbing at my collarbone, ever so slightly. They don't know. that every time it's a struggle to keep from pressing down harder on the right pedal instead of releasing. that every time the break is just a little bit more difficult to hold down. that sometimes i just want to see what happens. if i let everything go. pedals under the lead foot of fate. so...bam. front bumper ravaging through the temporary tag of that brand new escalade. glass shattering. fumes leaking. metal bending. snap of the seatbelt, forehead through windsheild. music still playing. bam.

Where the sunshine slows

you know that feeling where that space between your collar bone and kidneys aches uncontrollably? deep where it can't be reached,

bettered, or worsened,

because it's right already. the feeling that's brought on by finical sights, sounds, songs, smells, phrases, tastes? memories like tobacco smoke downtown in December five o'clock sunlight through the trees on the back road or McDonalds coffee, late in a 24-hour superstore after feeling the autumn albums bass beats push the ache through the bones in your shoulders and down with adrenaline to dehydrated fingers that feeling knows why every listens to the same songs in the fall and why they're still only ours as they flood through tinny speakers and out open windows away with the air it drives, and sings, studies and pushes forward and backward

And nothing really changes but the weather, and the way people talk.

my brain is too FULL of NOTHING

mood swings, stress, and paranoia are killing my sanity

and i'm about ready to quit this

but i'm kept busy, and don't notice, most of the time

i'm just worried about what happens when i do

notice, that is

how can a head be so empty when it's "learning" so much?

176 days left

the countdown begins

180 days, and i'm done.

the pipes are calling

world on edge, rain's blowing sideways, and gas is back at $4 Fay? what a bitch. and she's delaying the inevitable start stretching stress past it's breaking point I need something loud, busy, and violent to flood my head fill my skull with pulsing distraction, and suffocate brain cells so I can't think. or panic Damnit.

heart of darkness

so it's done, and i'm lost again. it's beggining, 8 more days. i'm spazzing already.

modern life is war

"The grass was never green.

There was never purity.

Some say it's all over... stupid fucking jaded burnouts.

Young ones: carry on. Destroy and annoy.

Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey!

Fuck The Glory Days!

We don't care what you think.

We don't care what you say.

You don't get to decide It's ours.

Go Away. Shut up."

i'm nervous, and terrified, and i just want this over with. i want to be comfortable, with being out of my comfort zone.

also, i lied. i've never felt that 'sizzle' because i've never felt that. i've never done, and i'm jealous. i just want it over with, so i can stop being on edge with that conversation, and maybe that sizzle will be something i know.

but how do i make that happen, when i can't even look them in the eye

you know how i know that i'm no good at relationships?

i can only interact, be my self, and flirt with boys i know i'll never see again.

they're what clicks,

but hey, bright side - i'll always have a future in prostitution.

anxiety. anxieties.

old journal entries sum up present day fears so well, are you ready to remember yet? am I?

" The Glue holding us together is crumbling. Gone. We were always together. Siamese twins, joined at the hip. But Siamese twins can be separated. and are. And I notice it, but you don't. You keep moving on. Maybe I was the only one who saw us like that. Siamese twins? What happens when the connection is broken? I'm replaced, again, I'm replaced. And you forget. But I can't. Why can't I forget? My entire life is memories now. Maybe to make up for all the memories you don’t pay attention to. But why me? Why am I forgotten? replaced? burdened? These memories should be yours too. Can they be erased? I know it’s too late to start over here. Can I go somewhere else? somewhere far? somewhere where you’ll know how much you’ve taken me for granted. But i know it wont happen. Because I’m always there to be taken for granted. And I don’t know how to change. I don’t know how to erase the memories. I don’t know how to replace you. I don’t know how to crumble the glue myself, instead of letting you do it all. I don’t know how to separate. how to change. to be gone. "

it's such a cold december

i like how my hair is thick and sticky, with sand and salt and air. i breath easier and i've never been this anxious to get started before. still they're put off for last minutes and panic attacks that i know are coming. can i handle it? how fast will it go? 9 days until i see her again; i'm scared and exited; it won't be the same, but it will do. i've missed her, badly. i just wish sometimes that we could go back and do it again; maybe there would be more appreciation. or maybe i'm just remembering golden days. bury the scar moments; out of sight, out of mind. i think. 4000 songs, californication, matt costa and the blue album lost bellyring balls 'why so serious' and wafflehouse at 11 icees in a rival schools back yard and towel dresses in the gas station august 22 and it's all over

i was bored before i even began

the build has begun

a rushing list of to do's

casually preparing for a climax

that none of us are ready for

-

i have no idea what to act

now or ever

boredom isn't a choice now,

my mind is empty of option and inspiration

-

i am lost within myself, and safe within my pillows

a two hour staring contest with white canvas isn't helping

and my confidence is chipping

you know, again.

-

and the baby steps taken cross football fields of time

hurling forward, stretching backward

terrified and terrible

empty

-

always empty

mad

in my self

fingertips catching and clawing at the edge

-

the dirt nestles under nails

flung in my face

falling over my options

obscuring my answers

-

i don't like sister's friends

because she's too much like me

and i don't want her to feel

what i have felt

it

I have had an epiphany. I think this is where insanity starts. It/is/what? all/nothing/more/less/is/was/will be hold me.

Turn if you may from battles never done

3:45 is the best part of my day. Bookbag in passenger seat, truck cab 90 plus full of Evergreen scent-- chewing gum melt in its aluminum on the dash. I take the long way. Charging through suburban sprawl, silk slip slides to the floorboards, jacket in the backseat, hair down, flying 60 past cross guards and catching the green across Racetrack if I'm lucky. Slow to the mandated speed, windows down, sky empty blue. The air rushes through , up forearms and to cheeks, meshing sunlight, calvin-klein specs and curls in to a screen of moving copper-gold. Then in a flash, 50-odd seconds of pure unadulterated bliss. Curve past walls of vinecovered picket fences, gaurding cookie-cutter ranches from nothing dangerous, and they send the aura of sun-heated jazmine. This is what happiness smells like-- hot jazmine, winterfresh Extra, and dashboard dust on the breeze; 50 seconds between 'out there' and 'home' . But it's like a headache, you never quite when it's gone. Soon it's through the roundabout and flying 90 on the backroads, past the four-way stop. Tires roll in to an oil-stained cull-de-sac. I take the long way. 8 minutes a day that hold my sanity.

I know there's better brothers, but you're the only one that's mine.

sigh of relief, and the countdown begins. yet again I am disgusted by my gene pool, the gene's ive been fated with don't fit quite right is it weird that at times my father reminds me of the president? ( and oh, william )

go back to the places you will be from

if only it were that easy.

the nailbiting has begun, and my brain has given up to useless grey matter

28 days? 30 days? who knows

the early photo albums have fallen open again,

nothing represents innocence better than a 4 year old boy in drag and rollerskates

could any of us have turned out any differently?

snippets pop up now and then, in the oddest places, and i wonder.

so now, when i'm feeling reminiscent, i'll con the Weekend section and see who i find.

lets make some music, make some money, find some models for wives

sunned

rested

tired

sheltered

unprepared

final stretch, we're almost through

and then on with the start of the rest of our lives

Il est interdit d'interdire

a massive body so many brains joined at the ribs feet upon feet marinate together at the top of their lungs we leave bruised and exerted falling to pieces at the seams of our smiles ready to keep living and the night to keep giving killjoys at the coroner of the mind pushed behind the curtain it's amazing that aching so badly makes you feel so alive i'm ready to start roasting.

This is what living like this does

my countdown is always off, and those little red numbers tick by like cold molasses but i can see my horizon, and that is getting too close too quickly i'm living with the sweetest dream killer you've ever met. the " you are pathetic "s are wrapped in discount cotton, and that bless-your heart tone makes me feel naive you're right, i'm not ready or worth enough. i'm hoping that this rubber to road thing works out, cause i can really see this blowing up in our faces. like, bad. maybe we'll have night, the sun always sucks the fun out of everything. call me Peter Pan, but can we be nine years old again? just for one week? I'll pray for you all, and this because this sinking guilty feeling is the only thing that can make me cry so(ul) raw and pathetic it's not my fault it's just day by day from this point out recount

the storm is new to me and old.

30 minutes a morning inching along three miles of hell. Hundreds of people, and the problem won't be fixed. Hours a day. that desk, that hall step in step out, same combination over the same tiles no eye contact, and the problem won't be fixed. 40 odd weeks. Same thoughts, same results, same reaction; no motivation, empty head, clawing for an idea. Frustrated, and the problem won't be fixed. The electromagnetic field isn't descending quick enough, something needs to shake this up. You frustrate me too. I'm resisting the urge to be a trade in friend "Why yes ma'am, we can trade in the Camry for the Prius, should we toss in the complementary air-freshener with that?" look at me. don't apologize. have an opinion. don't be afraid to be wrong. Shriek for something, please? baked turkey on white, one green apple, one strawberry granola bar, one brown paper bag. I feel like japanese. 50 brown paper bags to go.

i will redeem myself

i'm looking into the sun, and these two days will leave my face brown and smiling week ends are the only endings i like a soul splinter of jesus meanders past traffic to school walking and waving, everyone's greeting behind his teeth grocery bag full of food and a upturned thumb goodwill and goodfortune everyman's boy, every mom's favourite, goldenchild, every peer's best friend and he's all ours we should know our luck he knows everyone's name 56 days

spending all your nights growing old in your bed

oh creepy yoga pants man crank your engine and be jealous of youth and nothing wasting life. averting the future. I wish the power would stay out forever, so we could stay here singing at the top of our lungs. remember us (?) 57 days left

Rain down your waiting world

Light filters through opaque cloud blankets, reflected in the rear view mirror tree's vivid green, street line's yellow, and black tarmac pop, saturated up to my irises At one point in time a pot farm on the pottery teacher's property would have shocked me. My mother is disgusted, other teachers angry, and I'm oddly detached. It's no big deal, he just got caught, he wasn't hurting anybody, and when will he come back. but it came out of nowhere, and it shakes. I want to die dreaming, but I have no dreams. My organs must be rotting. You're like a paper-shredder to my patience. 63 days

and open your arms to the swarm.

Kaleidoscope . too much wind, and light, and thought to process Is this what you aim to feel like? always waiting, chest cavity soul, heart aching, breaking numb intensly sensitive to the ambit I'm going out of my head, paused and left to idle. Oh won't you be surprised I'm running on empty, and don't want you over tonight. 64 days

come now what's your name again

Over the past 76 hours or so I've heard the phrase "none of this matters in the real world" put on repeat. Sadly, I still don't know what "this" won't matter, because they were all referring to something different when they said it. Four hours to go. I'm 294 words in to a 1000 word paper on the Weimar Government and someone's eaten all of the sourcream pringles. The worlds is ending a little bit, and I spend too much time watching my nails grow, trying not to listen. I've come to the conclusion that I'm a complexly simple person. 68 days to go.

hold me down, sweet and low, little girl

It's so clear. wind whipping past, eyes watering, preset in a row. what should happen happens. banter over bread and butter frustrations and show giggles lead singer and backup she smiles, her eyes flash, and he falters like we all knew he would. clarity doesn't fix anything, super(villain)hero* and sidekick. * (same thing? is a hero a hero if they have only one redeeming quality? a heart encased in kryptonite?) 69 days left. purify

Yeah you were right about me,

" You're feeling vicious today. " so what if I am? Vicious isn't bad to feel; it's like invincible, only followed a few seconds behind by regret. Much better than overwhelmed, or emotional, or apathetic; somewhere between vindictive and alive, happy enough to be a high. I'm searching for a common thread. One that's applicable anyways. Have you found one yet? He doesn't like me better, but I already knew that. Rainy and cold doesn't help my prospects. 78 days

you suck so passionately

antichromatic

one phonecall more comfortable long distance digitally two new people damn but, what happens if he likes me better? or like, at all? 'cause i like him and he smiles at me in the hallways now, sets me off gaurd i'm jealous of your nothing, and your likelihood of something

Oh man what a beautiful thing

$1.98 in nickles and dimes, three pennies from the cup holder

i'm too young to be stuck in that past, but it won't let alone.

the breaths were deeper, bass louder,

atmosphere stretching on forever, navy blue,

the streetlights safest on curb and asphalt;

if i'd known that wasn't infinite, i would have walked home slower,

and memorized every crack in the pavement

between your house and mine.

83 days.

I miss you too, you whore.

point me toward the morning

the ventilation speaks russian and cantonese

go giants

I hate my birthdays. The family dinners, family pictures, staged surprise, public present openings, awkward thank-you's. And the song. That damn song. I'd rather sit in the dark corners, where the candlelight doesn't go and the camera flash doesn't reach. I don't want the attention, it's just another day. Seventeen's not big anyway.

I'm so tired of dreaming without falling asleep.

success. it's so much easier without you there. Every once in a while I'll have the most bizarre dreams. Dreams I should wake up exhausted from, in which I can feel tangibly, experience things I've never done in reality, and wake up in the morning remembering only the adrenaline filled details. I swear it, once I felt teeth under my tounge, cheeks under my hands, fingers behind my neck; I couldn't look at them the same for weeks after I came to, not quite trusting that it was dream instead of a devious joke involving heavy cold meds and cruel intentions. I had another last night, probably the third I remember. It was all imagination, I'd never met those involved before, but I could feel vividly. I should have bruised wrists and raw lips, the car door was cold red and the interior was cheap older carpet under an open top. The backdrop and buildings weren't recognizeable, but my plams still remember how it felt. I wake up still expecting to be there. 88 days.

Throats raw from screaming and I haven't said a word.

Awkwardly nervous? more like ridiculously nervous, pathetically nervous, and all for nothing.

Well, I guess now for a different nothing . I've been kidding myself, thinking that it won't matter to me. I've also been kidding myself in thinking that I was ready for this. Why is everyone saying two years like it's infinity? Unprepared is my cliche middle name.

I just hope I come out looking okay.

( it seems that this is always about ' I '; bitch, bitch, bitch -- disgust !)

Scared of the imminent, and praying for change.

88 days

But I stand before you, upon these same selfish feet.

So, I've got a thing for bassists. And dreads. (ugh, eye contact) I wanna stay like this forever, (or something like that) climbing cold fences with cold coffee, feeling alive and not thinking. (I hate not caring now, 'cause I know I'll care later) I'm so awkwardly nervous. 90 days left

I took up croquet today, and I'm on fire.

dream maker, heart breaker

Baby, I keep telling myself, you got nothing but your dreams; and they’re not going to help. Plus, I hate being called baby unironically. But, now I’m free falling. I’m no small town girl but that city’s still longing ( these suburbs just aren't satisfying). Steel guitars sliding on the radio, I’m desperately trying but: lord knows, I can’t change. My sneakers will slap the pavement underfoot, if they have to; and these tests scored might just give me a shot. I'm through with caring about my 30 year problems. Right now getting out of here is all I’ve got to keep me breathing. Worrying about right now is enough. ( head spinning grip too tight control slips through my fingers and heartbeats racing three times faster head's too full to think ) 95 days left

do it for me now

hopes up motivation down inspiration still at zero. 96 days left.

hm.

codename: Gork-E

Shit. this is my reminder to never procrastinate again. And talk about the most bizarre break ever? Chris x2 blast from the past has me thinking of what ifs. And an MIS undercover agent in was I thought was a crazy backwoods great-great-Uncle? who knew. but bless you Uncle P, wish I could have Known you, I bet you had some stories to tell. And I'm working hard to have one killer funeral, 5 isn't enough for me; I'm working hard to have people care.