|
happylandfill
|
read my profile
sign my guestbook
Name: ♥
Gender: Female
Interests: Cartoons, nature, mannequins, fairy tales, rag dolls, magic tricks + Silent Hill
Expertise: Pretending; holding grudges
Message: message me
Member Since:
7/26/2006
|
|
SubscriptionsSites I Read
|
|
|
|
| "I'm too fucking gorgeous to sit around like this," I think was what I said--and later typed in an e-mail. How much more fucking rude could I get? No, you know what, hush, I am. I found my corset, it was hiding underneath my over-sized black hoodie. It still is, but now it is also crushing my ribs. It's OK, though, I think I deserved it.
Sorry, Xanga, you've sort of failed me. I hang out at other places now.
| | |
| I hate sitting next to him because I just want to glare at him and say something like, "You're an asshole," which isn't nearly as much as I should say, or maybe it is too much. I should know better. It's obviously over, that friendship, and with it went all my little secret feelings and regrets and all that other stuff. I wasn't trying to toy with anybody and I wasn't trying to come off as a psychotic bitch--I was just so shy I'm so fucking shy and my eyebrows make me look like I'm always glaring at everybody.
Who am I kidding? I probably am, anyway. And rolling my eyes, too.
| | |
| I hate this weather now because it's making my hair look like shit and then I feel like shit and I hate that. Sometimes I secretly imagine being able to run away to another place, and start over. And be a different person. Because I just screwed up on myself too much, at least, I feel like I did. I'd dug myself a rut in grade school and then I laid down in it and I watched everyone else walk over it... that's how I feel most of the time.
Lately, it's gotten worse. It's not just a rut nowadays, it's a damn grave. I wonder what the epitaph is or what my obituary would be. I swear if it was something like, "My tattoo artist," or "So creative and/or artistic!", I'd want to come back as a zombie and eat everyone's faces. I get so tired of hearing that... if I was so creative I could've done something so much better... I could figure out how to fix my hair so it looks pretty again.
AAAAUGHHHHhhhh.
| | |
| "Well, then I don't believe you," I responded hotly to what she said (by the way, what she said was that she felt bad, that she was sad, too, and that she was sorry). Then she asked me why. I didn't reply this time, I mulled over the right words to say and naturally, nothing came to mind quick enough.
But for the record, I don't believe her because maybe, I'm tired of doing this. The past two years have changed my life, they made me happier and they made me into the most miserable, angry girl that I never thought I'd turn into. Wary of trusting people but still stupid, still crying into cups of tea alone in the bedroom. Listening to music that we shared, it makes me even more upset, but I still listen to it. Again and again... even if I'm tired of doing this, I do it anyway. Please don't leave me, girls, boys.
I might not believe you... but you'd better believe me.
| | |
|