I am a little overwhelmed.

I have been walking for seven days toward everything that will let me approach it. I carry with me an empty white head and this thin-lipped, watery victory that sours like milk when I put it back down, I don't put it back down, when I put it back down I don't know if I am walking to or from something. I just know that I am walking in heavy boots.

Yesterday Doug and I were driving through the east side and we saw Mario Hilario just standing around being perfect on the corner of College and Benefit. Doug screamed I LOVE YOU MARIO while I just waved like an idiot...and Mario Hilario, he turned his immaculately manicured head towards us and waved back.

It was the crowning moment of my week.

"I was too stunned to tell Ashley how much I'm going to miss her. I'm afraid she doesn't know I love her. Tell her I love her."

Ok, mama. I think she knows.

Maybe all of the things that are bothering me aren't concrete problems so much as offshoots of this restlessness of mine. "Pazienza, Alessandra." I don't have any of it anymore.

My father is the only person left in my immediate family who does not know that I am a base and despicable human being. Soon, at my mother's urging, he'll get it too.

This is not me fearing  punishment. This is me fearing alienation. If I can't redeem myself I will be cast out, I will become the Bla of this family except without the unwavering support of a fascist mother.

I am a bitch. I am unworthy of my circumstances. I cannot handle my mother's condescension, the way she inflicts her superiority. I cannot handle how little respect she has for me, I cannot handle much of her personality or the knowledge that I will end up embodying all of her worst qualities. But at the end of things this isn't her fault. This is my fault.

I am not yet eighteen and I have allowed myself to develop into the sort of creature that will drive everyone away.  I am repulsive.

Today I realized that I need to start keeping this journal again.

I also realized that if I don't stop eating what I'm eating the way I'm eating it I'll be dead before long, and that my sister will always consider me largely unworthy of her consideration.

I am crabby and I gained four pounds, something needs to be done about this.

mood: cranky

YOU'RE DEPRESSED, YOU'RE CONFLICTED, IT'S HER FAULT.
YOU ARE PUTTING OUR RELATIONSHIP ON THE LINE
OUR RELATIONSHIP
YOU BASTARD, I'VE LOVED YOU FOR TEN YEARS.
TEN FUCKING YEARS,
I'VE LOOKED AFTER YOU, I'VE STOOD UP FOR YOU, WE'VE HAD THE BEST FUCKING TIMES OF OUR LIFE TOGETHER.
THERE WERE TIMES WHEN YOU HAD NOBODY ELSE,
BUT YOU STILL HAD ME.
THERE WERE TIMES WHEN I HAD NOBODY ELSE,
AND I STILL HAD YOU.
YOU'RE MY FUCKING BROTHER
AND YOU'RE LETTING THIS MEANINGLESS GIRL MANIPULATE YOU INTO LEAVING ME
(LEAVING US, YOUR BEST FRIENDS).
WHAT CREDIT HAS SHE EARNED TO OUTWEIGH A WORD THAT HAS ALWAYS BEEN GOOD TO YOU?
HAVE HER PAST MISGIVINGS TAUGHT YOU NOTHING?
HAVE MY PAST KINDNESSES TOUCHED YOU AT ALL?
AND HOW DARE YOU,
HOW DARE YOU INSINUATE THAT I AM BEING UNKIND TO HER,
HOW DARE YOU CLOTHE YOURSELF IN THIS INCREDULOUS, SELF-RIGHTEOUS BULLSHIT AFTER TURNING A DEAF EAR TO MY PLEAS FOR THE RESPECT OF A
RESPECTABLE
HUMAN BEING.
THE FIRST SIX MONTHS OF OUR RELATIONSHIP WERE NOTHING BUT MOCKERY FROM YOU AND YOURS,
AND YOU EXPECT ME TO FEEL BAD FOR A COUPLE OF MISCONSTRUED, OVERBLOWN AND, IN MOST CASES, UTTERLY FABRICATED ACTS OF ALLEGED UNKINDNESS?
WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING, MAN?
SHE'S NOT EVEN YOUR GIRLFRIEND
SHE'S NOT EVEN YOUR GIRLFRIEND
SHE'S NOT EVEN YOUR GIRLFRIEND.


DO YOU REALLY THINK SHE'S WORTH ALL OF THIS?

you poor naive son of a bitch.

























I'm going to have to give up, aren't I? you would think I am angry from reading this but really I am crushed.

polar bear, you are breaking my heart.

you fuck with my best friend
you fuck with my sister
you fuck with me.




















bitch, it's on.

"[mother], you bastard, I'm through."

Eric Fisher, on days like these, enjoys pretending that he is an Eskimo. Cocooned in the clutches of his plain blue bedclothes, wrapped tight against the crushing tides of the banal, he fortifies himself for the oncoming day by escaping to a fantasy land of igloos and seal hunts. It is something he has done since childhood, likely the skin shed by some beloved bedtime story as it slithered away to be forgotten forever.

 

 

I hate this. I'm supposed to be writing a story about toast. TOAST. Instead I'm going on tangents that 400 words aren't going to allow me.

I was a writer, once.

How many teenagers can talk in the past tense like that? I'm quite pathetic.

I'm frozen and lonely. Someone please buy me a cat.

mood: glum

MOM
STOP TELLING PEOPLE ABOUT THE BROWN/RISD DUAL DEGREE PROGRAM.
IF THEY DON'T KNOW ABOUT IT, THEY WON'T ASK ME ABOUT IT WHEN I DON'T GET IN.
20 FUCKING KIDS IN THE PROGRAM. 20. I WILL NOT BE ONE OF THEM.

I AM SO SICK OF THIS.

Boston, MA: Familiar people with familiar accents sharing the same familiar unwillingness to stop their cars for pedestrians. Bragging Irish flags, St. Christopher medals on hairy Sicilian chests, Red Sox hooligans, lobster paraphernalia, heavily commercialized American history. Milling college students snaking through the T as it snakes its way beneath the milling feet of yet more milling college students.
Nothing foreign, nowhere far.
Some 40 miles, an hour by train, a day or two in the mail, mere seconds through a computer.
Hardly a journey to the end of the earth.

Still, my God, I'll miss her so much.

I wasn't planning on crying like I did, for the record.

mood: blue music: the cliks : oh yeah

AGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH


good GOD any more of this delusional self-righteous bullshit and I'll probably kill myself.

"And it's the same world, honey, that has brought you down
As the one that's gonna pick you up."

music: maria taylor

I'm going to France in less than 48 hours. I have so much to do, but...I'm going to France. Really, me, Paris. I can't believe it.




1. Tell me I'm yours
2. Tell me you're mine
3. Tell me I'm anything but fine
4. Tell me a story
5. Tell me the time
6. Tell me a lie.

Answer anonymously, if you'd like to. Or not. Whatever.

mood: a little anxious

Additionally

Right now my mother is telling my father that I once "kicked my sister to the ground." She is describing it as though I am a sociopath, as though I am a shamelessly violent trainwreck of a person, as though I am incapable of feeling compassion and just fly off into brutal fits of rage against innocents.

What really happened was this. We were bickering, and she smacked me, so I kicked her. Meaning to hit her shin, I instead got the back of her knee. It had been raining out, and she was wearing wet socks on a hardwood floor. She slipped and fell. That was all.

It was immature, yes, and both of us immediately acknowledged that we were being douchebags, but it was hardly a matter of Clockwork Orange-style violence. Also, I felt horrible, even if it was just a misplaced kick.

I don't know why she has to try and make things a little bit worse for me all the time. I don't know why she says the things she says to my father. I just know that he loves me and he's no fool, and I have to hope he doesn't ever start believing her.