As shallow as it seems, I'm hoping the new locks will inspire me to bypass the bullshit. Ian bullshit, family bullshit. I'll be the cute red-head who mans the coffee at Yobo's. Thirty-something guys in ties, or the breed of commuters who smoke once a year at the annual Phish show, yeah, they'll love me. They'll hold eye contact and leave a nice tip with their blackberry pin frantically scribbled besides Mr. Lincoln.
Ian didn't care about it at all. He's deemed himself too good for my insanity. Fuck him, my insanity is endearing. Fuck him. He's deemed himself too good to date a fat girl who drinks herself into a stupor. Nobody will love him as much as I can. So fuck him. I hope his dick gets chewed off.
My parents did care. My hair infuriated them. Impulse makes them absolutely livid. Their argument is that I lied to them, I borrowed $15 which I claimed was necessary, and spent it all on cocaine and hair dye. The usual weekday purchases.
Both parties will apologize soon enough.
In the mean time, fuck them. My hair looks awesome.
This cough does not sound good.
Friday
Chloraseptic and cherry cough drops are first class. I'm too attached to nicotine and overpriced coffee. Two lesser habits to replace the worst habit.
Tonight. I see what my mom and dad see. Ungrateful, destructive. Once a little girl with trophies and a collection of Happy Meal toys. Once a cocky fifth-grader who openly pled in front of an auditorium of other ten year olds to never drink or do drugs. Scary surgeries. Dead grandparents. Sad family.
My dad was my date to the annual father-daughter dance. My mom would let me wear my Easter dress and mascerra, hair parted sweetly to the side. Dad wore a suit and Old Spice. He keeps a picture of us above his desk. We both have the same shy grin.
I did my best to mimic his confidence.
I woke up restless. Too many dreams about uncomfortable things.
Creep downstairs and walk into another stressful morning in motion. Doing my best to blend in, I fill up the kettle and place it on the burner.
"Good morning." my mom says quietly. It's 12:30 in the afternoon.
"Good morning." Fake merriment. Tea or mate? Coffee? I decide on coffee.
Walk upstairs. Ignore the outer realm that is littered with traffic and bitterness. It's too damn cold. Sighing, bundling up, contemplating more sleep. I am always exhausted. Depression, go away. I can't fight you today. Maybe tomorrow, but not today. (Oh, Jesus. I've emulated Kurt Cobain enough this evening.)
I meet up with an old friend after dinner. One of the very few people I hold dear from when I was younger. We've always joked about how bizarre our friendship is: he's a blonde-hair, blue-eyed army boy of the Ordained Heavenly Bro-ness and I'm, well, liberal, largely unnoticed, proudly carefree. My past self.
It's only a matter of time before I am enclosed by smoke and mirrors. The mirror reflects a group of strangers. I observe them. I study them. In the middle, starring directly back at me, is the strangest of them all.
Ian didn't care about it at all. He's deemed himself too good for my insanity. Fuck him, my insanity is endearing. Fuck him. He's deemed himself too good to date a fat girl who drinks herself into a stupor. Nobody will love him as much as I can. So fuck him. I hope his dick gets chewed off.
My parents did care. My hair infuriated them. Impulse makes them absolutely livid. Their argument is that I lied to them, I borrowed $15 which I claimed was necessary, and spent it all on cocaine and hair dye. The usual weekday purchases.
Both parties will apologize soon enough.
In the mean time, fuck them. My hair looks awesome.
This cough does not sound good.
Friday
Chloraseptic and cherry cough drops are first class. I'm too attached to nicotine and overpriced coffee. Two lesser habits to replace the worst habit.
Tonight. I see what my mom and dad see. Ungrateful, destructive. Once a little girl with trophies and a collection of Happy Meal toys. Once a cocky fifth-grader who openly pled in front of an auditorium of other ten year olds to never drink or do drugs. Scary surgeries. Dead grandparents. Sad family.
My dad was my date to the annual father-daughter dance. My mom would let me wear my Easter dress and mascerra, hair parted sweetly to the side. Dad wore a suit and Old Spice. He keeps a picture of us above his desk. We both have the same shy grin.
I did my best to mimic his confidence.
I woke up restless. Too many dreams about uncomfortable things.
Creep downstairs and walk into another stressful morning in motion. Doing my best to blend in, I fill up the kettle and place it on the burner.
"Good morning." my mom says quietly. It's 12:30 in the afternoon.
"Good morning." Fake merriment. Tea or mate? Coffee? I decide on coffee.
Walk upstairs. Ignore the outer realm that is littered with traffic and bitterness. It's too damn cold. Sighing, bundling up, contemplating more sleep. I am always exhausted. Depression, go away. I can't fight you today. Maybe tomorrow, but not today. (Oh, Jesus. I've emulated Kurt Cobain enough this evening.)
I meet up with an old friend after dinner. One of the very few people I hold dear from when I was younger. We've always joked about how bizarre our friendship is: he's a blonde-hair, blue-eyed army boy of the Ordained Heavenly Bro-ness and I'm, well, liberal, largely unnoticed, proudly carefree. My past self.
It's only a matter of time before I am enclosed by smoke and mirrors. The mirror reflects a group of strangers. I observe them. I study them. In the middle, starring directly back at me, is the strangest of them all.
