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02.09.05, 8:29 PM
simple love.
Being friends with him is like intentionally slitting my wrists.

The fear before the first blade strikes across my pale skin. The beaded red bubbles that appear across a dark smile. The drip drip dripping leaving track marks down my arm. The stains left on carpet and towels. The purple bruise like dark petals beneath my skin the morning after. The medical wrapping that smells like hospitals around my wrist. The pain shooting up my arm all day as my muscles stretch. The long sleeve shirts I have to wear in a California heat wave as I'm hide-hide-hiding.

It impales me and I grow weary. Some friendships shouldn't be worth this. But he's not the one that's making it so hard.

I'm doing this to myself. I'm starting awful arguments. I'm picking fights with him. Why am I doing this?

I feel like he owes me something. Like I should fight him every second that I get because he died and left me all alone.

...Woah. That was a revelation if I ever saw one. Get a grip. He's not Jesse. He owes you nothing.

And as I'm typing up this entry, an IM window pops up.

"Hey, Emily?"
"Did I ever tell you how much I love you?"

I don't understand how I can possibly get mad at THAT almost every week.

There's gotta be something wrong with me if I'm rejecting such simple love.
02.04.05, 4:17 PM
i want to kill you.
There are a lot of entries in this journal. Most of them are sad, nostalgic, or twitterpated.

Well, here's a big angry FUCK YOU, WORLD.

I've been so aggressive lately. SO FUCKING AGGRESSIVE. You know how every once in a while, you have this really violent thought of stabbing the person you hate? Well... I've been having those thoughts, way too frequent as of late. I'm thinking of stabbing, breaking, hurting anyone, anywhere, anyway.

I might be talking to a friend, or just someone I know. And suddenly I'll feel this short, hot urge to HURT them. The world will disappear for a moment and I'll just be assaulting this person. When I come back from it, I'm usually shaking.

Last night, Xander wouldn't type up some Physiology notes for me. He forgot to give them to me earlier in the day, and he couldn't type it up for me. I was so ANGRY. He couldn't type up like, a page of notes for me? I'd have done the same thing for him. A PAGE OF NOTES?? "It's too long..." WTF. So, he says, "I'll show them to you tomorrow morning before the final." I say, "Whatever. It's alright. I'LL JUST FAIL." And I got offline.

This morning I ignored him. He sits next to me in this class. I borrowed some notes from someone else in one of the other Physio classes and used them on the test. As I'm reading over my friend's notes, Xander's like, "You wanna copy my notes now?" So, I'm like, "NO. GOD, I ALREADY HAVE NOTES." And he doesn't say anything to me for the rest of the period.

I'm mean to him for the rest of the day, and just... glaring at him. Later, we discuss things, and apologize to each other.

Yeah... so, I kind of went off on a rant there. I really must be angry. I can hardly write. Everything just seems so-- breakable. I WANT TO BREAK EVERYTHING.

I was mad at him for no reason, and I made him feel horrible about it. I felt like choking him with a ruler earlier. Just for some stupid notes?

Everything in the world just seems so INTENSE.

Then I'm yelling at Jones for telling Daniel that I was asking who he liked. What kind of reason is that? I felt like throwing a glass bottle of bleach at his nuts until the bottle broke.


But other than that, nothing's wrong. I'm totally fine.
01.26.05, 4:47 PM
goodbye, benji.
And then I hear it.

A squeek. A mewl. I knew it was Benji.

I ran to her and held her in my arms like a soft soft baby. She cried and screamed in black draped pain. She's dying in my arms tonight. I held her so delicately. Afraid the broken pieces cutting. I listened to her because there was nothing else I could do for her.

I was useless. And there was really nothing I could do.

I stroked the bunny mohawk I always loved about her with the backs of my fingertips while she stretched her jaw like bands, choking gagging coughing. She screamed like children choking on razor blades and newborns breathing their last breaths. Piercing my ears cold hard sharp. Each one sounded like a last breath while lungs collapse.

She shook and rocked with heaven-splitting violence. I didn't want to leave her alone so I stayed and held her. I thought that something on this earth shouldn't die alone.

Her shakes stopped and she lied there in my arms, looking up at me. Twitching her little pink nose at me. And then, one. Loud. Long one.

Then she was quiet. Still alive. Not moving. Not screaming. Nothing. Boogaloo started crying.

Her eyes rolled back and her head went limp and I knew she was dead.

Isn't that something. To know the exact moment when something dies.

She'd been sick for a while. She couldn't move her feet so we kept her in some blankets in a low box. We thought she was getting better. But today, I was trying to feed her, and she just wouldn't take any. Like, she'd just given up.

She kept her mouth shut tight. Like, "No. No more. I want to die."

I want to die.

If anyone was wondering why I've been so touchy the past few days, it's because I loved this rabbit, and I knew she was sick. Just a plain old sickness. I've been taking care of her, along with my dad, who has, just a plain old sickness.

My dad is a touchy subject, as most everyone knows. Because I love him so much, but I'm never able to express that and he's very old and always sick nowadays and he's just--so--unhappy. I'm afraid one day he'll shut his mouth tight and say, "No. No more. I want to die."

I want to be a packet of blood cells so I can at least keep one person on this planet alive.
01.24.05, 4:08 PM
I am perfectly content with being this private and alone.
01.21.05, 7:32 PM
the gunshot.
Everytime anyone asks about how Jesse died, I always lie.

I can't understand why. I just blurt it out. Not many people have asked me how he died. But everytime anyone does, I always say that he O.D.ed.
That he slit his wrists.
That he hung himself.
That he swallowed poison.

I just can't bring myself to say that he shot himself in the head.

Rooney says, "All the lies you've said are ways that can lead to him being saved...and the reality is so un-like the lies."
01.20.05, 11:05 PM
streetcar named cemetaries.
I had a dream.

Xander and I went dancing. I had this 60's white dress with black polka dots on that goes just below my knees, the short sleeves, the bow around the waist, the long black and white beads, the black flats. Bright red lipstick. Kohl-eyeliner. Red Hibiscus behind my ear. Simple hair. He had on a white button-up collared dress shirt, untucked, sleeves rolled up, unevenly buttoned, black slacks, black chucks, black suspenders. A red tie, loosely tied. Damp soft brown hair.

We went dancing in this hall. It was a beautiful hall, darkly lit. Iridescent white decorations. Red flowers everywhere. Sweet wet fountains pouring bubbling splashing. A photographer's dream.

There was this jazzy swingy bluesy band playing on the stage. We were spinning and twirling and turning and floating. We were laughing and flying, jumping and dipping.

And suddenly, SO suddenly. Out of nowhere, I look at him in the eyes and say "I know! I saw you! You disgust me..." I blurted it out like a streetcar named desire. He looked at me once and ran outside. And then--a shot!

He'd gone and shot himself in the head. Everyone gathered near the edge of the lake around his body.

I woke up shaking, sobbing, and sweating. I threw up from the disgust.

I told him about it later. He asked Do I disgust you. I said Yes. He said But I'll never do anything to hurt you. I said I know.

But it's never quite that simple, is it?
01.16.05, 11:58 PM
oh look, we have created enchantment.
"I don't want realism. I want magic! Yes, yes, magic. I try to give that to people. I do misrepresent things. I don't tell the truth. I tell what ought to be truth."

She was insecure of age and beauty. She depended on the sexual desire of men like insanity. She lied to make her life appear as it should be rather than how it is. She was caught up, oh, how she was caught up, in fantasy and not reality. She was in love with him when he shot himself in the head. She believed she'd be rescued so she waited, but he never entered the scene once.

This ain't a streetcar named desire.

This is me.
01.04.05, 3:02 AM
Bright teal mascara. Shimmery turquoise eye shadow. Bright bold vintage red lipstick. Soft damp brown wavy hair. Freckles and beauty spots. Turquoise glitter nails. White to light green gradient Gardenia flowers contrasting with dark green leaves. Dark turquoise vintage dress. White rubber slippers.

Someone to match.
01.02.05, 12:01 AM
if you're wondering who this letter is for, it's not for you.
Dear Ol' ArtHands.

It's been a year since I wrote you a letter like this. I only wish you could read it. It's been a few months since I've even talked to you. I only wish you could remember me.

Tonight I went to Denny's to eat breakfast that was dinner. The waiter looked like you. He had the quaint smile and porcelain dish eyes and moonlight skin. I thought he looked like you the first moment I talked to him. But I'd still choose you over him in a heartbeat.

I made this friend that wears a leather jacket and surfs on Saturdays. His laugh sounds just like yours did. The awkward polite fuzz of it. But it's still different.

My last boyfriend had everything about you that I loved, but maximized. He played guitar like a demon. He could draw monsters and details better than you could ever try. He loved to drive and he loved wild things in the nature and he could be sensitive when he needed to and he was spontaneous and he had all the time in the world to be with me and even if he didn't he would make it so. He was ready to give me the mountains and the river and the desert and the stars and the cliffs and the ocean and the sunset if I asked him to. But no, no one can replace you still.

Because still, no one can see the things that you saw like the things that I saw. And that's my only excuse.

It's getting unhealthy, it really is. I can't go on with my life like this.

But I don't know how to end it.

You're not everything I say you are. You're just what I want you to be. Because you're not here to stop me.

This has got to end.

♥, Ol' SadEyes.
12.29.04, 1:13 AM
life. is a funny motherfucker.
There was once a time when you said "hands off, she's mine" about me.

Now I'm just a ghost again, aren't I?
12.28.04, 9:58 PM
13 years.
I know this girl named Tanya.

I met her in elementary school. We both liked "Buffy the Vampire Slayer", strawberry Lip Smackers chapstick, and "Glycerine" by Bush. She became my first best friend.

And, now, here we are, thirteen years later, soon to graduate from high school together. We may have drifted over the years, but no matter what, I still like "Buffy", I still wear strawberry Lip Smackers, I still like "Glycerine", and I still like Tanya.
10.03.04, 10:50 PM
dramatis persona.
Characters of LuckyEmoJazz:

01. MOSH: sweetass rock, conservative republican, hardcore RPGer, games games games, gamestop employee, sci-fi nerd, boyish, checkered vans, serious blue hair, huge white square-rimmed sunglasses, red boardshorts, big sweaters, korean-japanese-okinowan. my best friend.
02. CHELLE: classical/pop/yanni, liberal democrat, academically rad, bisexual, cop-in-training, school spirit, flirty girly, green chucks, french hair, jeans that are probably french, green shirts, french-black-white. my best friend too.
03. JONES: simple rock, ranter, religionphobic, homophobic, insecure, thick black square-rimmed glasses, harry potter look-alike, harry potter lover, carpet hair, green-blue-yellow eyes, mervyns clothes, dominican. my reluctant best friend.

more to be added. later.
10.03.04, 6:52 PM
a few breaks.
I will take a few years.

I will take a few breaths.

I will take a few hits.

I will take a few sips.

I will take a few.

Before I get over you.
09.22.04, 7:39 PM
we wear our shoes too big for our feet.
i felt like a walking movie. i felt like being invisible. i felt like not using caps.

wandering around the house i grew up in, like a ghost from the past. in at least a month, this house will be inhabited by a stranger. a foreigner to this land of nostalgia and childhood memories. there, right there, me and napua sat in that very spot when we were 5, in this very hallway. that spot will be there forever, but who will be here to remember it? i want to be a ghost tour guide and sit there forever, telling people who once sat in that spot. i want to drift forever, like the ghost i am, never making new memories, only dwelling in the past.

napua and kehau rush past me, all grown up, excessive makeup and trendy clothes. kehau picks up her 2-year-old daughter, taylor, and says, "mommy has to go hana. see you later, baby."

taylor objects. "NO!"

kehau kisses her on the cheek and says, "put on your shoes and go with nani to the restaurant. we'll meet you there. love you."

napua and kehau go in the car. taylor runs into kehau's room and comes out wearing kehau's bright teal pumps. the backs are slapping as she walks and making flopping noises. they're too big for her tiny feet. she waddles down the hallway as fast as she can towards the front door. flip, flop, flip, flop. she presses her face against the screen door. kehau and napua have pulled out of the driveway.

"no..." taylor says, her little fingers sprawled out on the door. "mommy..."

i watched her. little taylor, wearing her mother's pumps and a tiny hawaiian print mu-mu. she kept saying NO and grasping her little fingers at the screen. i watched all of this.

i watched, and this is how i felt inside.

i was baby taylor, wearing shoes too big for my feet. feeling so small and helpless in the world. watching the things i love leave me. not being able to chase after it. not understanding. feeling like it's so unfair and constantly objecting.

taylor, you and i are not so different.

i watched her and wondered if i had ever done that when i was young. my face darkened. big. dark. cloud. suddenly, taylor looked right at me, the first to acknowledge the ghost who had drifted into the house. i felt awkward and suddenly aware of my physical existence. she kept staring, as if looking inside of me for help. oh, sweetheart, don't look to the ghost for help.

"go by nani." i said it coldly. like, i don't want to look at you anymore.

"aunty!" taylor scolded.

"go by nani." i said it again. surprising me even more than the first time.

she ran towards her grandmother's room. i heard a faint "NANI!" come from somewhere in the house. i stood there, waiting. taylor's grandma came from her room.

"hi, aunty." i said politely.

"hi, emi. you ready?"


"are you ok?"


"ok. taylor! wiki-wiki!"

taylor came out, wearing her own shoes. she said bye to the dogs. "bye-bye, hoku! bye-bye, poi!" we scrunched ourselves into a small car, my two uncles in the front seat. we all met up at some chinese place.

maybe i needed a night off.

so i went out with my cousins, etc. after dinner, the "kids" (us) went out. even though the kids consisted of seven 17 - 25 year olds. the old people and taylor stayed at the restaurant. we drove around. i took a nap in the van, while everyone else smoked.

mmm. death by second-hand smoke.

maybe that thought calmed me down enough to sleep.

haven't slept for days.

can't stop thinking.

can't stop breathing.
07.09.04, 5:06 PM
It's a mad world.
Last night, sleep avoided me as rudely as the back of a magnet. I lay there on my unsatisfying bed, the sheets undone like messy hair and smeared makeup.

I'm still totally connected to him, even in my wide-awake dreams. I lay there, my dusty caffine-pilled eyes, restless. I wasn't asleep. I was widely aware of the stiff summer breeze the angry freeway outside my eggshell chipped window breathed. The sugarflake floating treble clefs in my ears, coming from my pink sticker clad stereo, playing our song, "In Other Words" by Ben Kweller. The smell of bubbling burning human flesh drifting in the hot air from the crematory down the empty street. I wasn't asleep. But I dreamt that we met another night. Another night where I died. I died in your arms.

I think it's kind of funny. I think it's kind of sad. The dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had.

It was how it's always been. I was choking and sobbing. And he was right there, choking and sobbing with me. Sometimes I wonder if we're even different people. We're like Laurel and Jack.

I knew it wasn't a thought, because I had no control over it. I knew it wasn't a dream because I was entirely awake.

I was dying and he didn't want me gone. I didn't want to leave. I don't even know why I was dying. It was cold. It was raining. I was lying on wet sand. The beach. The same one. He held me in his arms, and there was blood everywhere.

I told him to lie. Like Wesley. He told me he loved me. And I died that night.

It kills me. How I miss you like I do. Maybe we really did meet that night.
06.25.04, 11:47 AM
This letter is not for you.
Dear boy who's so insecure with himself that he fucks everyone before they can fuck him. Here lies the letter that you will never read.

You know. I don't fucking get you.

You broke up with me, and now you're trying to get pity out everyone else.

"Everyone said she treated me badly."

Maybe that's because you only told your side of the story, you pity-leech, you.

Yeah, I avoided you. Maybe 'cause I needed some fucking space but you were too fucking scared to lose me.

There is a mountain of stress grief sweat pounding on my back. I haven't choked a word of it to anyone. I kept all my complaining air inside me. I suffocated myself for the sake of you. I was quietquiet. You were loudloud.

You let it all out. You let everyone know how you felt. You thought that everyone shows their emotions on their chocolate-covered exteriors. Well. I don't.

You don't know the shit I feel everyday everynight everytime. I tell everyone that I don't dwell on the past. That it's the past and nothing more. Oh, but dwelling is my life.

I have to say and act like it's finejustfine because no one else will. You wrote in several of your blogs how I treated you horribly and acted like I broke up with you yeah, you're the fucking victim here. Go ahead. Make me a fucking monster. You only write in the blogs that you know I'll read. Well, I know you don't read this one. 'Least I'm considerate.

So, I stopped being in love with you. Not like I could help it. You did things that made me hate myself. And you didn't care. It's all so about you.

If I didn't listen to you long enough, I was ignoring you. If I didn't kiss you, I hated you. If I didn't hold your hand, I was embarassed to be seen with you. If I didn't have more fun with you than with my friends, I was being a bad girlfriend. If I didn't follow you around all day, I wanted to break up. If I had my own life, I was being selfish.

I think the issue here is that you hate yourself and you were so insecure that I'd leave you, so you decided to leave me first.

I wasn't treating you badly. I was fucking sad. I was trying to have fun with people who make me happy, and you weren't one of them.

Yeahyeah. I'm the monster.

To tell you the truth, I couldn't give a shit less whether you went to ELCO rather than CSULB. You blew that out of proportion. When I said I was sorry, I meant I was sorry that you didn't understand me. I was sorry that I stopped falling for you, but that wasn't my fault. I meant it. But I can see now that that flew over your head.

I didn't break up with you for so long because you needed me. Because I thought my dislike of you was just a phase. I told myself that I loved you, despite the fact that I felt nothing for you at all. But maybe. The phase was that I ever fell for you.

When I ran away from home that day long ago, and I showed up on your doorstep with tears on my face and mascara in my eyes. I went to you because I loved you. Loved. Ed.

But now. I didn't know you could be like this. I haven't said a word in spite of you since you broke up with me until now. And you've said a thousand.

You said that I don't know what life is. You said that life isn't a bunch of pictures or the "emoshit lyrics" I write in my book. First of all, they're not lyrics. I don't plaugerize other peoples work because my words aren't good enough, like you do. Second, that is my life. That means everything to me. My pictures and my words. How would you feel if someone told you that the things that mean everything to you are suddenly meaningless because they said so. And don't go deleting entries on me, acting like they were never there. I see them on my screen at 3AM. And I am mad as hell. Don't tell me I don't know what life is. I've seen more things than you will in your lifetime.

You were my best friend. I've known you since I was three. The railroad tracks lay between our houses. The cemetary to the north. And that means absolutely nothing to me anymore.

I stopped loving you because you just weren't. You know. You weren't that indie geek. You said we have so much in common. You don't like indie pop or lounge music. You like emo. You don't appreciate 3AM like I do. You sleep early. You don't see the color scheme in Peter Pan. You think it's "gay". You can't smell the grass in the morning and you can't see what the music looks like when it's playing and you can't sit outside for hours and you can't take risks and you can't paint with your eyes closed and you can't runaway and you're not artistic and you don't see what I see and you can't go on adventures and you can't be the one that I love because you're just not him.

Randy. You will never be my Allen.

Not saying that I'm still in love with Allen. I don't even believe in "in love". But Allen will always be the only one who I ever connected with. He saw what I saw. He was that indie geek. He could taste the jazz and hear the colors and see the pangs of heat and pain. You'll never be that.

And for that. I'm sorry.

This is it. And I won't be sorry if I never see you again.

Love, girl who once had a secret agent man, but he was replaced by just a boy.
06.15.04, 8:56 PM
High school times.
Today was like popsicles in a bowl. Rad.

The bulk of the day was horrible. At school.

At around 1PM, we went to a plaza on 190th. We all split up, because we wanted different lunches. Frank went to Taco Bell and got a burrito and nachos. Stedmond went to Carls Jr. and got one of those artery-clogging Western Bacon Cheeseburgers with fries. Kyle went to Subway and got a Veggie Delight sandwich. Randy followed him and got another sandwich. I went to Starbucks and got a brambleberry tea and a plastic container of fruits. We all met back up at Taco Bell and ate lunch together on a handicap table.

After lunch, Kyle decided that we should go on an adventure. There's this HUGE, totally empty lot on Francisco Street. They were building a Walmart there, but it looked like they haven't touched the spot in quite some time. So, we followed Kyle along a great fence. He finally found an opening in it, so we didn't have to jump the fence.

We slid under the fence, and walked around the lot. It looked like Richard and Stephanie's backyard, that Forrest Kline took pictures of. Sadly, I didn't have a camera on me, and Stedmond was hogging his. I am so regretful. But, that's pretty much what it looked like.

Aside from all the dry brush and weeds, there were giant piles of broken cement that we climbed on like mountains. Randy didn't want to, so the rest of us climbed it and died. There were also these deep, gaping holes filled with metal bars pointing upwards that I'm guessing construction workers dug, and just left there for people to fall to their deaths. Tiger trap.

The whole lot looked like there was heavy construction going on, but it seemed as though everyone just dropped everything and ran off. Like the end of the world. There were bulldozers and cones and pipes. Looks like we won't be getting our Walmart anytime soon.

Kyle peed in a bush. It wouldn't have been complete without Kyle peeing on something. We also found an underground level, just full of rocks and dirty water. Frank and Stedmond lowered themselves into the cavernous layer, while me and Kyle and Randy threw rocks at them. Kyle went looking for lizards and rattlesnakes, but I doubt that any could really thrive in that place. I think the soil was toxic.

After we had fully explored the great plain, we trekked back to the fence we slid under. There were pokey plants that stabbed us through our pants as we walked. Ouch. Weeds stuck to our shoes and spiders crawled up our legs. We came out, all prickly and tan and dirty. It was awesome.

We all walked back to Kyle's house, and everyone made Randy jump in the pool. I put my feet in, and realized that I had gotten frostbite in those few seconds that I had them in. Jared showed up, then Chris, then Chris's friend. Derek showed up, and Kyle, Frank, Randy, and Stedmond left.

TSR practiced without Kyle. Practice was fun, for once. Kyle came back an hour later and they all practiced together. Kyle learned how to throw his guitar around his body and catch it. Yeah, then I got a ride home. And now I'm here, wishing I had that camera.

This blog entry totally would've been cooler if I had pictures.
06.04.04, 3:42 PM
I want to buy a boat.
I'm at Charlie's house right now. We're about to go to the movies.

Yeah, I keep feeling this bad feeling inside. Going through the motions. That's all it is. But sometimes. You just can't help but feel. Different.

I know it's just a phase. But everything is off-key.

Maybe I should stop stressing and just. Breathe.
05.30.04, 9:28 PM
All my life. I prayed for someone like you. And I thank God. That I. That I finally found you.
Last night was prom.

That thing was there. You know. That thing. That feeling. That...this is what you're supposed to do. This is what's supposed to happen.

We're in high school, and that only happens once.

(I saved the last dance for you.)

The last dance was the best. We all danced to that one. And we don't dance. So it was something.

I'll add details about it later.
05.26.04, 12:33 AM
Man, I had fun today, for the first time since the BK show. Everything's been stressful these past two weeks. I haven't been sleeping. So, I'm quite tired, but today was fun for me.

After school, I met with JR, and we walked to his car. I was introduced to Carlos the car, whose speedometer is on the RPM gauge, and whose fuel gauge goes from full to empty in less than ten seconds...and then back. We drove to the mall and shopped for prom shoes, for maybe the seventh time this week for me. I went with Amanda, with my mom, with Mosh, with Chelle, even with Hector. JR's probably the most patient person to go shopping with.

We rushed through, though, because we bought tickets to a movie as soon as we got there, so it would motivate us to hurry.

So, I ended up buying uncomfortable white shoes for 10 bucks. The end.
05.16.04, 7:53 PM
I have a fever of 104.7!

05.16.04, 2:50 PM
Last night, I had a fever of 102.2, and Amanda hadn't slept for more than 26 hours.

But that didn't stop us from seeing Ben Kweller, French Kicks, and On the Speakers at the House of Blues in Downtown Disney.

And it was so worth it.

Man, Ben Kweller is a ROCK GOD.

No one else can bust "Milkshake" by Kelis on an acoustic guitar quite like Ben can.

My legs are killing me, and there's a distinct ringing in my ears, but I love it.
05.12.04, 7:25 PM
I've gotta write.
To-Do List:

1. Start a jazz band.

2. Go on an adventure.

3. Run away; see the land, the country.

4. Write a book.
05.10.04, 9:49 PM
Quitting on the spot is the most invigorating feeling ever.
So it finally happened.

We finally broke up.

And, yeah, I really did love you, but now...

I want my stuff back.

I want the microphone, the drumsticks, all the money and time I spent on you.

I wasted it all on you.

Yeah. It's over.

N.M.E.-GO and I broke up.

It was fun while it lasted, but...I want my stuff back.

They really had the potential to grow into a great band, but imaturity and stupidity got in the way. And I would've made sure that they succeeded. But being an asshat like that just cost them their manager. I quit.

Goodbye, N.M.E.-GO. You just got dumped.
05.09.04, 2:14 AM
Days like this get extra-long entries.
Hmph. Caleida, you sexy bitch. You spin me right 'round, baby, right 'round like a record, baby. I'm just going to talk about my day, and such, and be totally interesting because I never update anymore, so savor it while you can.

I shopped at a vintage store in Torrance today called Ultra Bettie. It was so Bettie. I found a prom dress. It's retro and seafoam and '70s. Yeah, I didn't buy it though. 'Cause it's not perfect and I can't settle.

Amanda and I then drove to Hollywood, talking about our female role models, Gina Crosley and Hope Sandoval. You know, there's this giant mural of the stars, corner of Vermont and Russel, on the wall of Greco Cafe. 10-foot Uma Thurman in "Pulp Fiction", with her giant fuming cigarette between her goddess fingers and brunette bob. Charlie Chaplin's mustache as long as my arms. Vivien Leigh, towering over tourists, strong and beautiful and powerful.

We walked past Los Feliz Theater, and went into Skylight Books, where a orange-striped cat lazed in the window of the bookstore. Reading all the latest books, I suppose. Amanda bought some Francesca Lia Block books like buying candy. We walked down Vermont a bit more, past Skylight Theater and Drucker's Jewlrey Shoppe, to Squaresville, another vintage store, on the corner of Vermont and Melbourne. Tasty, but surely not as delicious as Ultra Bettie.

I was dying to go to Y-QUE, a trading post in Hollywood. It's full of odd little trinkets and unique T-shirts. We bought some awesome T-shirts. I bought one with a picture of a keyboard on it. Amanda bought one with a picture of a drumset on it.

She wants to start a band. She said she'll buy a drumset and be the drummer. I suppose that means I'll be playing keyboard, since that's all I can do. I have an Old Kraftsman acoustic guitar, but I haven't made an attempt to play it in months. Amanda wants it to be an emo pop punk band. I want it to be a jazz band. Jazz bands rock it, and to play in one would be like popsicles in the shower. Maybe we'll be able to settle someplace in the middle.

After that, we went to X-Girl, and Amanda bought an X-Girl T-shirt (that was ridiculously overpriced) and a Milk Fed (Sofia Coppola's line) notepad that was the same price as about sixteen cartons of milk, which is totally false advertising. Then, we went to OOU, a clothing store which makes even France look innocent.

Drove back to Gardena and ate some sushi and yogurt smoothies at the Japanese supermarket. We picked up Randy and drove towards Long Beach, only to get halfway lost and end up in Compton. Finally, we got to Lakewood and went to Peanut's Revenge, the new scenester store, with red walls and Dickies and 50's-inspired dresses. Amanda bought funky pink heart-shaped earrings from Torrid, and we returned to Gardena again.

Amanda went to work, so Randy and I watched "Peter Pan" at my house. No more secret-sneaking, but he's still My Secret Agent Man, no matter what.

Today was a complete kind of day.
05.08.04, 11:16 PM
One of those "catch-them-at-the-train-station" moments.
Randy and I are "dating".

Whatever that weird word really means.

All I know is, he's that guy, and "dating" and "couples" and "Ilikeyou" really has no meaning, because he's everything, and those words are weird. It's been two weeks now, and we'd been sneaking around for a week and a half before we really told anyone. Kyle was kind of the first person in the group to know, because we've both known him longer than anyone else, and it was painful to keep a secret from him. I really wanted to tell Michelle. She's one of my best friends, and everytime I saw her online, I wanted to say something, just anything, but I couldn't, couldn't, bring myself to do it.

She used to date him, and yeah, she really doesn't care, but it's weird sometimes.

Randy is my best friend. He lives on the west side of the railroad tracks. I live on the east. I've known him since I was three. And it's like. Boy-next-door. Best friend and tree houses and beaches and movie nights. His mother always calls my mother by her last name, never her first. My mother never says his mother's first name without the word "that" in front of it. In short, they hate each other. Like fire and ice. It's all like a sappy romantic movie with a predictable plot and a witty screenplay. Oh, like you just know that she won't fall for that other guy, and she's gonna get together with the best friend and it all ends in a kiss. Oooh, surprise, surprise. Well, hey, I was surprised. And I like those kinds of movies, so, go blah.

I guess happily ever after really does happen in real life.
05.03.04, 7:29 PM
Kiss me, baby, I'm all yours.
And you kissed me in the alley. You kissed me in the backseat. You kissed me in the back of the restaurant. You kissed me in the loading dock. You kissed me in Kyle's house. You kissed me inside my pain. And made it all go away.

Let's do this one more time, you said.

All I know is you.

The only thing separating our houses. Was the railroad tracks. Since I was three.

You're my best friend. You're My Secret Agent Man.

Our mothers hate each other.

The Montagues and Capulets. All over again.

Yeah, you're the boy-next-door. No, it's not like a bad movie. It's a beautiful movie. About forbidden love and best friends and secrets like no one knows.

Maybe one day I will write a movie about this.
05.02.04, 1:33 AM
Hold hands under the table.

We got caught kissing, in the back of a restaurant called "Merlin's Magic Dinner Theater", by a middle-aged woman who works there as a barwench with a faux-English accent, with nothing hiding her Boston-accent except for a smoking cigarette between her lips.

Oh, the James Bond of it all.

It was our unofficial one-week anniversary. I got him a card. There's a sweet picture of a boy and a girl on the cover of the card, watercolor blue, with yellow star in the sky above the boy and a blue raincloud above the girl, and they're standing on a see-saw, with a heart in the center. It says, "Boy meets girl. Girl wants to run like the wind. She's had her share of heartache. But she stays. She discovers Boy's had his share of heartache, too. So they both stay. And they learn to trust and love. And that's a good thing."

And that's love for the first time.
04.30.04, 7:58 PM
Potatoes are a scene-theen(g).
I'm in love with scenesters from other cities.
04.30.04, 7:31 PM
Andifyou want me. You better. Speakup, I. Won't. Wait.
2004-04-30 19:31:00

I could be worried. I could be sad. I could be confused. I could be stressed. I could be envious. I could be unsatisfied. I could be nervous. I could be scared. I could be angry. I could be unstable. I could be snafu.

But, oh.

I'm in love.

I saw J.J. today, riding his jerk bike. I tried to hide my face, but I knew he saw me. I just kept walking.

The funny thing is, I hardly gave a shit. Because I had just come from My Secret Agent Man's house. I realized that the life I had before, before My Secret Agent Man, before Boogaloo, before that summer, before Jesse, before Del, before sex, drugs, and rock n' roll, before, just before, everything, everything went snafu, everything was just... low...

And now. It's all just. Nothing.

Dust. Meaningless. Before. That's right. The past. Not now. Not after. It is nothing.

My screenname? Imissthelowdays? I don't miss the low days. Because now... the low days aren't the same days that I missed when I made that screenname. The low days are the days when I made that screenname. And I don't miss those days.

Maybe I'll change it to "Ilikethenowdays".
04.29.04, 7:12 PM
I blew an eyelash for you. My wish came true.
He makes me smile like you don't know.

And you don't know, no you don't know, 'cause no one knows.

We sneak around, like sneaky squirrels, and kiss behind Algebra 2 books and hold hands only on empty streets and smile at each other when heads are turned and make out on our best friend's couch while he's practicing with his band in his garage.

It's oh-so-secret ops. Like black-clad spies and fantasy rendevous. It's so impossible. It's like a dream; much too fanciful to be a reality.

Oh, but it is.

And it's happenin'.

And it's infecting me like a love-struck spring fever.

This is the way high school should be. Sultry affairs and AP Exams. Movie nights and graduation. Tracing the lines on his hands and prom night.

Today, he kissed me for the first time. And it's like. Woah. Stop. Breathe.

Wow. I've never been kissed like that.

You know. Kissed with love.

But. I pulled away. Because I remembered the last person who kissed me. That wasn't a kiss with love. God it wasn't. Pain surged through my mind. Tears ran down my face.

I hadn't thought of it in days.

And I just wanted him to hold me and tell me everything would be okay. Everything is gonna be alright.

He brushed away a tear with his thumb and kissed me and told me that he'd always be here, and that none of that stuff even bothers him, and he'd always be my best friend, always.

Yeah, you know how I used to be so bitter about couples? Such a jackass, throwing pennies at them and laughing? Lonely and depressed and over-emotional and sad?

Yeah, this is so much better.
04.28.04, 11:44 AM
Last night, I fell in love with Azure Ray and Rilo Kiley.
It seems like everything has just been put into this "SHUTUP" mode. I don't have to hear it. And just smile, ol' blue eyes.

Last night, I listened to my new Saddlecreek Records CD. I heard Rilo Kiley and Azure Ray for the first time. Listening to "With Arms Outstretched" and the twinkle lights on. The California summer wind in April slipping through my white chipped-paint window. 10:17. Sultry heat is cured by the breeze of the rushing L.A. freeway.

And I. Was. Content.

Like a lazy stretching cat after a bowl of heated milk.

For the first time. In a long time. I'm happy.

All thanks to my Secret Agent Man.
04.26.04, 1:12 AM
I'm gonna start a jazz band.

I love today like checkered ice cream.

I love him.

It's all so. Secret Agent Man.

I've got my very own Secret Agent Man. Everyone should have one.
04.25.04, 1:10 PM
Just do it.
Fuck it, I've gotta stop worrying so damn much. "This is what you want, and you're afraid to lose it, so you're ruining it anyway."

Nike says, "Emily, stop worrying so much. Just do it."

In other news, I am watching Nascar. Jimmie Johnson is bitching at Kurt Busch for nearly clipping him, and Jeff Gordon says, "Nascar is just a great big soap opera. Drama queens."

God, I love those racecar-driving drama queens.
04.25.04, 2:38 AM
You've got this silly way. Of keeping me. On the edge of my seat.
Shivering from the cold and nerves.

I haven't been nervous like that in a while.

This is a change. I hate change. But. I like this one.

It's just. Scary.

(It's worth it. Like that delicious sandwich I had at USC. A week of allergic reactions for one sandwich = totally worth it.)
04.24.04, 9:12 PM
And where will your wings take you?
please: otherwise, i have no life, as i'm now back in the country..

please: wee.

snarrl: where were you?

please: in the non-rural part of oregon city.. where it actually is city.

please: now i can look outside and see cows.

snarrl: hmm, how exciting!

snarrl: here in the city, it's like, "what's a cow?"

please: woo! and now i have pet ducks again!

snarrl: ooh, ducks!

please: they're my little friends.

snarrl: did you name them?

please: one is named cassius clay. until she discoved the black muslims. now she changed it to muhammed ali.

please: and.. i'm weird.

That made me smile.

The Michelle's are at my house. Yay. Party.
04.24.04, 3:55 PM
I am waiting for you to start it.
Today, at USC, class was held outside. Today is one of those days that I'd name California. Outdoor picnics for our first class, eating sushi in the campus grass, squirrels chasing students, students chasing deadlines, deadlines biting you in the ass. Lovely.

It was a lazy Saturday. I like those. Except for that one thing. That was like...WOAH. Yeah. That one thing. That one big fucking thing. STRESSSTRESSSTRESSOMFGSTRESS. And I hate it.

...I'm so full of shit. I love it.

Oh, and happy birthday, Charlie. I know, it's all, WOAH LIEK ANOTHER YEAR, but just as good things pass you by, great things come up and slap you in the face so you won't miss it this time around. Great things is fiesty. Yowza.
04.24.04, 1:46 PM
"So if you wanna say 'I-I-I like you', I might feel just like you."
Just as scared as you.

You first.
04.22.04, 11:42 PM
It seems like a perfect moment. Bound for failure.
He won't run away, he says, he says.

"You don't understand. The moment you cross the line, is the moment everything changes."

"Then, you have to ask yourself. Do you want things to change."

"...I never liked change. But maybe that's because the only things that ever changed in my life. Changed for the worst."

"Do you think this will be one of those changes?"

"...I don't know. I can't say anything for sure."

"Well, what are you doing?"

"Waiting. I just wish everything had a safety net."

I know he won't. But nothing will ever be the same. It's not that I can't. I'm just afraid to take that risk. That first pitfall.

Danger was never really for me.
04.22.04, 2:40 PM
Sha la la la la la la la.
Happy Birthday, Me.

I woke up this morning, and I thought to myself, "WOAH. You're seventeen. WTF. Where'd the time go."

Instead of thinking, "WOAH. One more year till eighteen." Or, "WOAH. One more year till graduation." I thought, "WOAH. Seventeen."

You know that feeling you get right before you're about to die (well, I doubt you do) and you're like, "WTF, there were so many things I wanted to do." Well, that's how I feel.

Not like I won't be able to do a lot of things, it's just. There were so many things I've missed out on, and now it's just too late. Everything moved too fast for me. I was sitting on the bullet train, and all I could do was watch everything speed by.

Someday, you will get the best of me.

UPDATE!: Thanks to everyone for my presents. ♥♥♥.

Jones. You kick like WUH-PAH. Atari kick starts my rock n' roll heart.

Chelle. I hooked up that electric thing. Boogaloo touched it with her nose and got scared. Hahahawaii.

Mandy. She gave me 17 CDs for my 17th birthday. (Including Death Cab for Cutie, a rare Mazzy Star CD, AND THE NEW MUTHERR FUKKN BEN KWELLER CD!!! OMFG!!) She also gave me a stack of books. My sister is the coolest sister ever.

Mosh. Money says ♥ better than words.

Kyleen, Franko, Jedi, Zero. It's so cute that you all scrambled up bits of pocket money and handed it all to me in a wad. ROFL. I don't even care how much it was. It meant a lot.

Charlie, Chelle, Jones, Jimmy, etc. (Whoever chipped in for the cake.) Hahahaha, no plates. I love how the cake is just sitting in my refrigerator, half gone, collapsed, little spoon marks taking out it's side, smushed, and flipped over.

Charlie. You big teddy bear. I ♥ you.

N.M.E.-GO, Michael, Kazu. LMFAO, you're all wusses. And you're all getting it big time on your birthdays, fruits. But thanks for the hugs.

My dad. It's his birthday today too. We never get anything for each other, but that's good enough. I love my dad.

And...Randy. I love you. Thank you. Yours is the best present. And I'm not patronizing you, because I know you're like that. But truely. I love it. No one else could've given me a better present. I mean it.
04.17.04, 8:36 PM
I won't let you go.
I hate being harsh with you. Especially when I'm itchy. But you needed it. For once, I gotta tell it like it is to you. Maybe if you loved everyone else like you love me.

People don't die if you show that you love them. This isn't some sci-fi movie. Your love doesn't have superpowers. Hate to slap you with a reality check, but your love is no different from anyone else's. I'm not gonna go all "Fight Club" and say that you're not special and shit like that. But you gotta know. Everyone is the same.

You know those people that I loved that died too? They didn't die because I loved them. They died, and because I loved them so much, it really hit me hard. Not as much as it would if I had pretended I didn't love them, though. They are two different things that could never affect each other. The reason why they die, will always be lost on us, but I know that we have nothing to do with it. We are not part of the bigger works. We are practically nothing.

So, stop making everyone else suffer for your long lost pain. I know what it's like. And don't, for one second think that I don't. That I forgot. That I don't think about it every day of my life. But I've learned that what's dead is just a memory, and what's alive is something I should be thankful is alive. Dwelling on the past just fucks up everything that you have now.

Let it go. It wasn't your fault. And I am not going to tell you that it wasn't your fault anymore. Because deep down inside, I know you know it wasn't. So just let go. You won't forget. I promise.
07.11.04, 12:50 AM
I went on a road trip to Northern California. I'm back now.
I'll stop the world and melt with you.

I'm unpleasant. Don't waste your feelings on me.

I'm not very tolerant of others. You can tell the moment I take a knife to someone's cornea. Slice. Orange fizz.

"Oh Tara" by Cio Cio San will be our song always.

Sorry. My ♥ belongs to someone else.

I'll. Stop the world and. Melt with you.

...In other words. I should say. There are no words.

When I was at the Santa Cruz boardwalk during my trip. I walked around alone. Matt Fisch was putting on a concert on the beach. My friends were running around the boardwalk, from arcade to arcade to ride. I watched the lovers stride past me. "Melt With You" by Modern English started playing on the speakers above.

I missed you so.
04.03.04, 11:13 PM
Well this drink will do and girl you look alright and this band is playing like hell tonight.
I hate everything. I can't wait to leave you assholes on Monday.

Tired. Sick. Pissed. And sad.

So fuck you guys. I'll do what I want.

(FUCKI'msofuckingupsetbutI'mnotcomplaining noI'mnottalkingIwon'tcryIwon't.)

I wish life were like a fucking Portishead song. Yeah, portisheadsong, I don't get you but at least you're simple. I wish life really were like a fucking box of chocolates. Damn you, Forrest Gump, you fucking liar. I hate you.

And fuck you, Mr. Chris Carrabba, with your acoustic tonightI'lltakewhatIcanget shit on my playlist repeating and over and over and tonight I'll take what I can get and she drank all of the whiskey but she left me the rum and I hate you too.

And fuck you, Mom, we almost got along today but you fucking ruined it and I would've loved to be your friend for at least a few seconds and share a civilized conversation with you at Daphne's Greek Cafe, but you fucking ruined it like you ruin everything else that's good in your life and you do it for fun. You're the only person who deserves my hate more than anyone else but I can't give it to you because I don't think I hate you no matter how hard I try to. And I know you hate me but like I give a shit what you think because you're always wrong about meandIjustwantyoutoloveme.

Fuck it. Tonight I'll take what I can fucking get.
04.03.04, 1:57 AM
And somehow I'm blindsided everytime.
I am snafu. Snafu the tornado. I swirl and twist and fly and spin. Vicious and violent and chaotic. And I'm not trying to be rude, ripping out trees and throwing your fences. I'm just out-of-control. I've got the bends and they are overrated.

But you still fall for me. I'm a mess as you can see. And you can still fall for me.

That girl. When she lies awake at night, what else can she think of but you. She laughs and smiles and kisses the stars and oh. She wonders. If tonight you kissed the same burning star. That girl. That sleeps in your guitar and sometimes leaves her heart at the concession stand.

You make me lose my senses everytime.

I can't help falling for your pickup line.

But she's too snafu in the head. And who knows what she really wants. And sometimes I feel really sorry for you for falling for snafu the tornado because you don't know what you've gotten yourself into. You just threw yourself into her disaster willingly. She wrote it on her keyboard. And you fell right into it. You fell into it. You fell in it. You fell for it. You fell for her.

But, who knows. Maybe you didn't.

Let's hope you don't, because Snafu is too wild to hold too close. I don't think that you know.
03.28.04, 7:38 PM
When you hide your face from me.
I went to a funeral yesterday.

Funerals make you feel so. Alive. I hate that about them. So much more alive than that dead thing six feet underground. Under your feet. Under the gritty angry dirt.

And when I sat alone, on the side of the slippery white tub in the bathroom, soaking wet and wearing a lemon clean white fresh towel, holding out my wrist, he held the knife close to my skin. Close to that soft white slab of skin on the inner side of my arm. I closed my eyes. He whispered to me. How much is enough. Do you love him.

My skin, so tender and pale. Like a piece of white cake. A single soft bruise from where you held me. Bruises like purple flowers under my skin. Little purple and black fishes swimming beneath the surface.

His velvet lips so close to my tiny ear. He whispered again. Does it hurt. Tears on my eyelashes like salty wet webs. It hurts. I'm sorry.

He slashed. I gasped. Bright red blood like candied apples spotted across that soft white skin. A bloody gash smiled out of my arm. Dripping. Blood and tears and sweat and shower water. Stinging lips on mine. I'm sorry.

He didn't care. It's too late, he says. His mouth grazes my wound. Blood on his lips. I open my eyes. And he's gone.

And I'm sitting there alone. In the bathroom, on the tub, in my towel, soaking wet, bleeding. And I was holding the knife to my skin.
04.02.04, 10:33 PM
Why are you looking at my locker like that?
We played a prank on Jones. Yesterday. For April Fools.

Today, we got free ties. Chelle got two fancy ones. Mosh got a plain beige one. I got a black one with white squares spotted all over. I gave a pink one to Billy.

Yay. Free ties. Almost as fun as free pudding.
03.28.04, 2:08 PM
I miss you is so cliche.
Yesterday was different.

Morning was USC classes. There was a meeting for the No Cal trip. They gave us an itinerary. I'm doing a lot of stuff next week. We go from USC to UC Santa Barbara, to UC Davis, to UC Berkeley, to Stanford, to Santa Cruz. And when we get to Sacramento, we have to take a "State Capitol Tour". Bah. Like I care about that crap.

After the meeting, I went to classes and took three tests. Algebra 2, Chemistry, AP English. By that time, I felt very sick.

I got back to Gardena at around 2PM. I changed and went to Palos Verdes for Grandma Tsurui's funeral. My sister was very sad. I didn't cry. I wouldn't let myself. My dad looked tired, and my mom kept giving him shit. Sigh.

We went to the burial site and my mom made me count everyone that was there, so she'd know how many tables to reserve for the reception. At the reception, I wanted to kill myself, and probably, so did Kyle.

Brett kept talking about beer with Kyle's dad, and Brett's uncle started talking about the conspiracy of dollar bills with Kyle's mom. While he was talking to her, keeping an entirely straight face, she kicked my sister under the table, so as to say, "Oh, God, help me."

It made me sad that here we were, eating dinner, perfectly normal. Everyone is chatty and happy. A great happy gathering. Grandma Tsurui would never, ever eat dinner, ever again. No one else seemed phased. But me. The only one who didn't cry at the funeral. But. I can't think about these things. So I'll move on.

Ryan remembered me. He waved at me with a dorky smile on his face. I sat next to his ambiguously gay brother during the receception. Yeah, that was fun. I asked him why he didn't sit at our table, and he just smiled and said he was sorry. He stumbled on his words a bit. God, I missed that. He remembers me well.

After that, we went to Gradma Tsurui's house. The kids wanted me to tell them a scary story. I told them about a little boy who knits. They were so scared halfway through, they made me stop. No joke. They were scared out of their minds.

Then, I fell asleep at nine, even though Kyle and I planned to go out later. I fell asleep on Grandma Tsurui's couch. A couch she'd never sit on.

And she'll never breathe again. Ever again.
03.24.04, 7:44 PM
A rabbit's scream. That's how my heart feels.
A rabbit's scream is the worst thing I have ever heard, ever. Worse than bloody nails on a black corpse chalkboard. Worse than a gunshot next to your ear. Worse than that dial-up modem sound your slow-ass computer makes. It's like a child screaming before it dies. That low guttural noise. Like blood stopping your throat like a cork. Combined with a high-pitched, rasping, backwards scream, like bat sonar, burning my spiral praying mantis cochlea.

But yeah. That's not what I was thinking about.

I love you. And I hope you understand that. When you're hurt, I feel like a piece of me is dying. And when you can't tell me what's wrong, I want to cry and scream and hold onto you forever, until it's better, and even then. I want to heal you and be your blood cells. I want to run with you, awayaway. And I feel like I want to give you everything, although I know I can't. You are wonderful. I wish you could see for yourself.
03.22.04, 4:10 PM
I've got those Monday blues, straight to Sunday blues.
Good morning, heartache.

This morning, there was a dead body on the 110 freeway.

The other night, my rabbit screamed.

Next week, a funeral will be held for my friend's grandma.

In three weeks, I'm going to Northern California.

In exactly one month, I will turn 17.

And somewhere inbetween this big mess of things, there you were.

The body was a car accident victim. The body was once a real person with a real name and a real family and real thoughts and now it's just a body. Sal Mineo, Natalie Wood, The Black Dahlia, whatever your name once was, now it's Body comma The.

"Where was the body found?"

"Please do not disturb the body."

"The body was horribly mutilated!"

"The current body count is 23..."

Dead. Cold. Foul. Body.

There's a big, jagged, ripping hole like an exit wound in your windshield from where your body was flung like a hot bullet. Shards of glass shatter everywhere, on your hood, on the freeway, on your chair, in your skin like a bloody glitter blush. They stick under your skin like burrowed insects or searing hot embers.

Burn, baby, burn.

And there you are, smashed on the pavement, no real name, no real family, no real thoughts, not a real person, no, not real, just a smashed body on the freeway covered in thick, black, oily blood and rocky gravel and blue glass and a white white sheet to hide you, like, no, no one's here, just a white and red sheet, carry on, keep moving. And you look silly like a red and white striped candy cane and everyone's slowing down to look at your silly ass wrapped in a candy cane sheet and they all care so much to see what a dead body looks like 'cause that's what you are now but if you'd been alive they wouldn't slow down so much and by tomorrow they'll forget about you because right now, all you are is a story to tell over drinks.

Crash. And. Burn.

This is life. One minute, you're alive, and the next, you're Kibbles N' Bits on the freeway. If you blink, you'll miss it.

And you wonder. Why did I get a haircut. Why did I paint my nails. Why did care about wearing that skirt yesterday and why did I get a blog. None of it matters now, and all you did was waste your life. You could've been running barefoot at Redondo Beach and picking shells like flowers or eating strawberry ice cream in a waffle cone on Santa Monica pier or watching silent Charlie Chaplin movies at the El Segundo theater or dancing like a flapper to jazz and blues at Cafe Boogaloo in Hermosa Beach or laughing and kissing on the roof of your '53 Chevy under the stars in San Pedro. You could've been enjoying life but instead you decided to waste it on a haircut.

And, now. Click. Boom. And you're dead.
03.08.04, 11:08 PM
I want you to want me.
It's sultry like the summer. The L.A. heat wraps around my face like shiny crinkly candy wrappers. Sunshine glows on my olive-tanned skin. Everything smells sweet and hot.

The house was empty tonight. I love having alone, Hindu-cow, meditation time to myself.

I wore a plain cotton black tanktop with a teeny embroidered picture of a red horse near the right bottom, and I wrapped a bright salmon-orange saronge around my hips for a makeshift miniskirt. I went out for a walk, barefoot, little chipped red nail polish toes on the grass. I climbed up a tree to jump on my roof, laid down on the warm, gritty tiles, and read The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath beneath the stars.

He doesn't love me. Not. Like. You do.
03.19.04, 4:50 PM
Slow down, Chris.
Little smile. Little nod. Sweetish awkward. Oh, oh, sympathetic for me. Oh, humanity, pity me.


I don't fall for that anymore. I don't fall for you anymore.

River is dead, dead, dead, deathly dead of deadonia. Big black eyes covered with a milky film stare lifelessly from the bottom of the fishtank. His curved body rests against the glass, tattered scales and soggy fishflakes all around. I turn off the water pump and it's like calm after the storm. Silent, water's stopped bubbling. And, River, you're finally free.

It's funny 'cause, you think it's not happening.

Well, honey, it's happenin'. And I'm not the only one who thinks it.

My dad used to say, "Well, life's not fair. You can't have everything." And I used to think that was totally true... until I met you.

I wish I could trust everything you say. But I'm not in your head. I don't know what you're thinking. I don't really know what you're feeling. All I can see is what's in front of me, and even that is a little fuzzy.

But, from what it looks like from here, it's happenin'.
03.18.04, 3:56 AM
Take it all away.
Okay, I lied. I do care. And it does bother me. Irritates me, even. Irritating like repeating waterdrops on my skull for months. Frustrating like I can't find my other sock and I'm 10 minutes late for that job interview. Angry like shut up Mom I don't care if you hate me.

It was bound to happen. It always happens like this. Why am I so surprised. And then it's like, shut up, you, I don't want to hear it.

And you pause, like you're about to say something I don't want to hear and I won't hear it because I'm sick and tired and you can't do that and I know I can't have everything but I want it and oh, won't you please do what I say and don't tell me what I don't want to hear.

And you're like, I'm not leaving you out but you can't come in and I didn't know I was doing that but I secretly did and it wasn't to get back at you but it was for revenge and maybe I love you but really, I don't.

Shut up but don't because I still want to hear you.

Oops. I didn't know what was going on right in front of my face.

And you. You're no better. In fact, you make it worse. You smile and nod like everything's okay, but I know you're a liar and you know that I know that everything's not okay, so why do you act like it is if you know? I'm tired of you and your simple nodding and smiling, I don't fall for that anymore. You want someone to comfort you but, oh, it can't be me and oh, it can't be him and, oh, it can't be her, and oh, no, definitely not them. And I know you're not just tired and I know how you really feel so why don't you.

And if you think you know me so well and you know how I feel then why don't you go away because that's what you really want or is it you want me to go away? You hate yourself too much to love anything else except for, oh, that one.

Absolutely positively no smiling or happiness allowed in this dancery.

You regulate the rules and then you break them. Give me an ice cream cone?, NO, you can't have one, I fed the last one to the dog and you'll never ever get it back because they're all mine and I'll do what I want with them. But it doesn't give you a right to waste it, OH, it not only gives me the right but the sheer tingling pleasure of wasting something so lovely that you will never have. Well, fine, SO, you think it's fine now well then I guess I'll go kill your kitty too, oh, but you don't have one so I'll go buy you one and then I'll murder it.


I'm dying.


Go ahead and take everything I have all over again.

I have nothing and you have everything.

I've got nothing left to lose.

Wrong, kid, you got one more thing.
03.17.04, 1:02 PM
Know I'll die for you tonight.
Abe is leaving. I hate losing friends.

In other current news, my fish is dying.

What a sad and gloomy day.
03.15.04, 4:05 PM
Hey, lush, have fun, it's the weekend.
There's this new kid at our school. Abe. Kind of quiet and shy. He's alright in my book, so far. Mosh decided to "recruit" him into our group. Didn't work out so well at first, but he's warming up to us.

On the upside of things, River is still alive. I attached an air pump to the side of his tank so there would be some flow of oxygen in the water. I think he might just see the end of the week.

And it occured to me that I had taken credit for winning River in a Fish Toss game in my previous entry. Of course, I did not, as I have the aim of an old dying rabid squirrel with no hands and a hyperactive case of ADD. My new friend did, and he gave it to me, and named it River so that it would die. He sure showed you, Vincent. He's still kind of alive.

Point is, I made two new friends in two days. That's like some kind of record for Miss Reclusive-and-Withdrawn.
03.14.04, 6:05 PM
"No paparazzi, I want anonymity."
River isn't dead. I mean, my goldfish is still alive. Hmm, I didn't think it'd last the night. I ran to the pet store 10 minutes ago and bought a little can of fish flakes.

He's such an odd little fish. He always looks on the verge of death. He was the smallest fish in the bucket. He likes the blue and white bottlecaps I placed at the surface of the water to catch oxygen, as he swims around them and sleeps under them. No paparazzi, he wants anonymity. He is trapped in his fishtank, and the only way he can ever get out is if he dies. He is a prisoner of his own home.

River, you and I are not so different.
03.13.04, 2:36 PM
River is alive.
I won a little goldfish at USC in the goldfish toss game today. It was the Med-COR (mXc) Walk-a-thon Fair. I walked 5 miles in this 98 degree California weather at 8AM. It was refreshing. Then, I made a strawberry and pineapple smoothie at the smoothie booth and shared it with my new friend, who goes to Narbonne and worked in the massage booth. Why he decided we needed a massage booth, I'll never know. He named my new goldfish River. He said, "Because it'll die by the end of the day."

Yeah. Well. Maybe he's just sleeping at the bottom of the tank.
03.02.04, 6:03 PM
We're falling apart.
Everything is back to normal. Well, not entirely.

Everything outside is tinged with hot pink sunrays and cold blue moonlight, purple and orange rain comes from the indecisive sky. Something is wrong with the sky tonight.

Something is wrong here. Things have changed, whether we all want to be friends again or not. Am I the only one who feels it? We're falling apart. It's that thing that we never thought would happen. Like, we'd stay together forever, like on the night of the Key Club Banquet, or Macaroni Grill for Michelle's birthday, or Del Taco.

It's only high school; things like this are expected to happen... but you're never prepared for it.
03.02.04, 10:52 PM
Sun is shining in the sky...there ain't a cloud in sight.
Last night, Mosh and I went to look at puppies. Then, our tire went flat in Frank's neighborhood. I ran around in the rain trying to find his house for about a half an hour. And now I'm sick.

The funny thing is, when I came home, soaking wet and 3 hours late, Jayne asked me why I was so late. I said, "This is so stupid, I'm not even going to lie to you." I told her every single detail, right down to the Mexican family that wouldn't let me use their phone and gave me the wrong directions toward Frank's street. And she said, "That is the worst lie I've ever heard."

She doesn't even believe me.
02.24.04, 1:28 AM
The only thing I know is awkward silence.
Yeah, it was cold and wet and the California rain was crying down on us. Something in the air smelled sweet and toxic, like broken blades of grass and Hollywood street signs. We leaned against a damp wall, just in the shadows of the night between the lights. Don't cry again, I thought. Be strong.

I tried to be strong for you. But I knew you'd see through it anyway. And so I cracked, like the sound of lemonade poured on ice. I fell into you. Fell into your water-bottle-warm heat; the only warmth I'd felt for miles. When the world was cold as frozen peas and raining, I knew I could count on you for a fire. You held onto me, as if I'd slip, and maybe I might've if you weren't there to catch me. Tears skated down, and my air was choking. I left claw-marks on your T-shirt, trying not to slip. My ear rested on your chest. Thump, thump, thump.

"I can hear your heartbeat." I breathed.

"That's a good thing, right? It means that I'm alive." You were alive. For a whole a moment, you were alive. Just like Jesse was. Was alive.

I gotta let go of these things. These things from the past. I think you told me that. I don't learn as quickly as the rest of the class. But as long as you're by my side, I think I can still ace the test.
02.18.04, 12:10 PM
Funeral on Valentine's Day.
For Valentine's Day, I went to a funeral.

My cousin wrote the eulogy. She could hardly read it, through her tears and clenched teeth.
02.13.04, 1:31 PM
Cafe L.A.: A Great Part of Your Day.
I drink water. "Cafe L.A.: A Great Part of Your Day." It tastes better than anything. Better than the flakes of ash I constantly taste in my mouth. Sharp brown sticks coat the mucus in my throat. Seafoam sometimes gathers where there should be saliva. The water, the clear, sparkling pieces of glass in a bottle, makes me feel shattered and broken. But it's the only thing I can still taste. And it drowns me.

Am I going to bed earlier these days? Am I getting angrier quicker these days? Am I forgetting things faster than I usually do?

The days are getting longer. But not because of my classes. I know why. I know the answer to all of these questions. The throbbing pain, the vertigo spells, the rushing green sickness. It sounds horrible, I know. But maybe I'm just a little bit in love with it.

It's the art. The art is a white-hot, searing ember on the black tile floor; but cold, frostbitten, icy unthawed peas in the freezer. And, God, I love it.

Here in Gardena, there's not many beautiful things. Sure, it's L.A., but then again, it's not. It's in the middle of a beautiful, painful, artistic, dirty place, but it doesn't belong. I long for that beauty; that art. I don't exactly mean pretty people or fancy casinos or clean sidewalks. I don't mean that unartistic crap. I mean, the twinkle lights in indie cafes that serve afternoon coffee and spicy, rich, brown Indian curry and quaint, cold, sushi and warm, buttery crossiants. I mean, the Bohemians hitting their bongos on the corner while the hipsters snap their fingers and laugh and smoke. I mean, the maroon 1953 Chevys with wood-paneling and surfboards attached to the roof driving around Redondo Beach blasting KJAZZ until sugar and blue comes out of the stereo. I want that heat; that cold.

I can't find it. Not here at least. I have to make it. Like that guy in "The Spiral Obsession". He was obsessed with the spiral until the day he curled himself up into a spiral and died. Maybe I should start listening to the morals of fairy tales. Or maybe I live in one, and I have to learn it the hard way.
02.10.04, 4:52 PM
I can't stop hating myself like I do.
Stop trying to help me. Stop caring. You can't save me. You can't save everyone.

Michelles, I love you both. And I always will. But I need you to butt out. This is my life. I know what I'm doing. And I don't care if I'm slowly killing myself. You may. But for me, everything is over.

The thing that hurt me the most, was that you told Allen. Used him against me. I know you thought I'd listen to him. But all you did was make it worse.

You had no right to tell the whole world my business. You had no reason to tell Frank. Or Randy. Or probably Kyle. But especially Allen. I understand why you'd tell Randy, because he's my best friend. But there was no reason why you told Allen or Frank. You think that Allen "has a right to know". But he doesn't. I know why you told him. But it didn't work.

Allen, I'm sorry. For getting you into this. This isn't where you belong. We were fine the way we were. Everything was fine. You weren't supposed to know.

I'm sorry for asking you for an answer. For a yes or no. I wasn't prepared for an answer, but I didn't want to hold on to something that didn't belong to me. I wish you had said no a long time ago. I wish you'd have said no that night at the beach.

Allen, shit, I love you. And you know that. I don't care if you don't love me. But, I want you to back the fuck off. I'm making you feel like shit. I'm making you feel sorry for me. I didn't want that. Everything was fine the way it was. Everything was perfect. You weren't supposed to know.

Give up. You can't save me. No one can. This is what I chose. Stop telling me how much you all care. Just...give up.
01.31.04, 4:09 PM
It starts stopping when it stops stopping.
I ran away from home yesterday.

My mother. Is impossible. Last night, she slammed my head against the metal bar on my bed, just because I was brushing my hair. I couldn't take it anymore.

I tried to talk to her. She said she was watching "Oprah" and I can't never bother her during OPRAH. So. I grabbed my beat-up chucks. I grabbed my backpack. And I. Just. Left.

I ran to Randy's house first. He was the closest. I was soaking in tears when he answered the door. He was just putting on a shirt. We went into his garage and he held me. I told him everything. It was...something even I wouldn't be able to describe in words.

He said he'd always be there for me. I said, you'll always be the boy next door? He said, yeah, it's like a bad movie. After I stopped crying, we walked to Kyle's house. His band was practicing. And while they played one of the most emotional and fierce songs they have, I kept having flashbacks to a moment ago, when I was crying in Randy's garage. I saw it all like a music video.

Kyle's mom said that I had to be home that night. She talked to my mother, and my mother said I could go whereever I want, as long as I come home that night. TSR, Kyle's band, was having a show that night in San Pedro. I decided to go.

Everyone else showed up. And Allen. Then, we all left for Sacred Grounds in San Pedro.

Some bands played before Kyle's band. I stood in the back with Allen, watching the show. Only, I wasn't watching the show. I was staring at the floor. Allen wasn't watching it either. He was watching me. I could tell someone told him what happened. I said, I'm gonna go get some air. And I walked outside.

I fell against the wall with a sigh. Allen was suddenly beside me. We talked. He was different. He said, I wish there was some way I could take away your pain. I wanted to run again. I wanted to take Allen and run again. But I knew. He'd never. Oh. I wish.

We went back inside. We watched TSR's set. Scott took us home. The tires were flat so we had to stop at a gas station. Then the car broke down at Frank's house, so we switched cars. Allen and I sat in the back, watching the stars through the back window. I was dropped off here, once again.

I wish I could run again.
01.18.04, 4:21 PM
What can't stay goes away.
it was 3:07. i stood in front of my crayon gray locker. a yellow sticker that said "I am not a nugget" was in the center of the door. peeling beige-peach paint curling like lips at the corners. i stared ahead. hands in pockets. i reached for the combination lock. turning the white numbers. hearing the slight clicking. turn right. 0,0,0. 27. or was it 28? maybe 20. no, no, that was his combination. 20, 40, 24. remembering that sent me into a swirling whirlpool of wet emotions and incomplete memories.

running in p.e., his cheshire cat smile, his singing on my answering machine, running, his laughter on my purple tape recorder, the song he sang, his orange and gray vans, "why does it always rain on me?", running away, the brown paper bag book cover we passed notes on, the valentine's day dance, career day when we all chose the same classes, keep running, pizza hut, band class, the song we wrote, the concert, the cactus cooler you bought me, your james dean hair one day, just keep running, the purple frog eraser, the red pegasus plush, don't stop running, graduation.

he left me. forever.

it was screaming and burning and smearing. it was an intense 3 seconds. bright flashing images, screeching melting noises, cold hard sensations on my skin. and my last thought, was quiet, white-hot pain, a flash.

i slammed my red nailed fists against the locker. bang. bang. scratch. sob. i could feel the ocean tears in my eyes, but i dared not cry. not in this dress. my forehead rested against the yellow sticker. allen was standing beside me.

"opening your locker can be a frustrating thing," he said tentatively.

"it's not the locker," i whispered.

he knew. like he always knows. we walked away from the locker. he walks me to the fence everyday. i hate that chanlink fence. it means that we have to go our separate ways.

i didn't want to go home. i didn't want him to go home. i felt like i needed someone to be here for me. or maybe i just needed him.

but he said his goodbyes. it was his sundown. i don't like his goodbyes. with anyone else, i wouldn't mind. but with him, there's always something missing. his goodbyes are always incomplete. like there's something more he wants to say. but his words dry up and shrivel like raisins. like salt crackers.

if he were to die, i'd be incomplete. because whether he said goodbye to me or not, i would only remember him as incomplete. because his goodbyes were incomplete. like how his goodbyes were so reassuring. that you'd see him again. when he said goodbye, it was like saying that there will still be a tomorrow if the world ended today.

i remember saying goodbye to him at graduation. streamers and confetti and deflated balloons everywhere. the stadium empty. we leaned against the metal bar at the top of bleachers. we had just gotten into a fight and we hadn't talked for a few weeks. you wore that long-sleeve collared white shirt with black work pants and chucks. i had the charcoal "parachute dress" with pockets, as we liked to call it, and my black sandals. you were so close...but i couldn't feel you. we were quiet for so long. i could still hear the jazz and blues coming from jeff's stereo he left on the white foldup chairs scattered on the field. i could hear you breathing. so steadily. still alive.

(i'll never forget the sound of that.)

you hooked your pinky onto mine. and before i could react, you said, "promise me. that you'll never let go." i looked at you with my lashes bunching. wet webs forming on them. hot cheeks and cold tears.

"pinky swear..." i said so quietly, i didn't think you heard me. but you did. like you always would.

"cross your heart?"

"hope to die."

...once, i asked you what you'd do if i died. you said, "phh. i'd kill you if you died." you asked me what i'd do. i said that i would never let it go. then you said that if you died, you didn't want me to know about it. i laughed. you didn't.

you only called me "emily" three times. once when i first met you, once when i last saw you, and once when i heard your voice for the last time over the phone before you died. all the other times, you called me "ketchup". you clung so hard to the nickname, i sometimes wondered if you still remembered my real name. but you did.

i try so hard to fall out of the habit of referring to him as "you" everytime i write about him. but it's as hard as trying to quit smoking memories of him.
01.17.04, 2:27 AM
I said my goodbye's. This is my sundown.
I hate avoiding topics. So, I should tell you what's been going on here lately. That I haven't told anyone but one person how I feel about it so far.

Well, the first thing that comes to mind is that my Auto Mechanics teacher died. It may not seem as bad to you. But...he meant a lot to me. Sort of the last person to really believe in me. It wasn't that sudden. Well, I suppose it's always sudden. Even when my grandma was in her death bed in Hawaii, barely breathing...when she died, it was like a cold bucket of water falling on me.

The worst thing about it is, that I had to go through his things for the new sub. I had to find a key for another door. It was horrible. There's nothing worse than going through a dead person's things. Everything is left the way he had it. His glasses carefully resting on the desk. His ID hanging from a loose nail in the shelves. Papers scattered. There were so many memories in that office. His chair was moved just so.

I didn't want to touch anything. I didn't want to disturb its peace. There was this cold draft in that room. His office probably hadn't been open since he left for vacation. I wondered if some of his air was still left in the room.

I still haven't cried about it. Just watery voices and glazed eyes. I'm trying to be strong.
11.05.03, 4:51 PM
I'm a fighter, not a lover.
Jones was jumped by a couple black guys shooting dice in the school bathroom during 4th period. When he didn't show up for Algebra 2, I became nervous with all the rumors that he got into a fight. Kazu said that he'd walk me to the office to make sure he was okay.

On the way, we grabbed Michael and Luis from Chemistry. As we were walking towards the office, I kept seeing little red splotches of blood on the floor, leading from the bathroom to the office. They were getting bigger and bigger. Right outside the office door, there was a puddle of bloody tissues. My eyes were getting watery, but I didn't want to cry in front of the boys.

Before I even stepped into the office, I could see Jones through the window. I burst in and hugged him so tight, crying. He was lying on the hospital bed in the nurse's office. He said he was fine. The nurse shooed me out. Tears streamed down my face as I got back to class. Kazu, Michael, and Luis tried to make me feel better. But it was just so shocking. Like car accident shock.

I want to kill somebody. And I love him.

It's funny how you only realize how much you love someone when their life is in peril or something terrible happens. Love you, Jones.
10.19.03, 4:16 PM
That gold road probably just leads straight to hell.
I went to USC yesterday. Morning till afternoon.

Amanda came and picked me up. I cut my hair. I felt sexy. I grabbed my sunglasses and we drove to Hollywood. We shopped at designer store called X-Girl, a trading post called Y-QUE, and a little bookstore called Skylight Books near LACC. Ate at a small sushi place down the street from the Laundromat of Hollywood. Drove around Hollywood. Down Sunset and Melrose.

We saw a sweet gay couple, holding hands, talking animatedly, and walking across the street. They wore matching shorts. Really, you don't see that kind of happiness between heterosexual couples.

We drove back to Gardena and went to see "Kill Bill" with Julia and her boyfriend. It got late, and we went to Carrow's for breakfast. Julia's boyfriend, Jason, does pot and has the most interesting things to say.

And it was time for home. Always driving.
10.12.03, 4:08 PM
I'm resurrecting Zipopucker. My zine.

Anyone wanna join the staff? We've got a great team. A newsgrrrl, two ranters, a comic artist, a cover artist that I'm in love with, a show reveiwer, the Zipopucker jackass, a columnist from the Gardena Valley Newspaper, a sparkling webmaster, a sports columnist, and me.

If you've got questions, comments, advice questions for the advice column, fan mail, hate mail, whatever, send it to
09.28.03, 8:09 PM
You don't wanna say, dreams come true, don't they?
I slept for more than 14 hours.

And I woke up feeling bad 'cause yeah yeah yeah.
09.28.03, 3:06 AM
Get us away from tonight.
Today I went to Long Beach and spent the day with my friend. It was her birthday. I gave her an autographed picture of James Marsters. Our friend from Germany sent her a birthday present too. A box full of German chocolates and plastic spiders and mix cds. And we watched an indie movie called "Chance".

Later, I went out with Randy and Eric. We went to the park. Sat on the swings and played in pirate ships. Adventure. Went to Hermosa Beach. Eric made us climb up a bunch of rocks. Randy and I sat at the top of the rocks together and watched Eric. He jumped from rock to rock like a happy little boy. We listened to the ocean and watched the elderly dancing in the parking lot.

Eric drove us to Krispy Kreme and we sat in the Albertson's parking lot. There an Albertson's worker in the parking lot, rounding up the shopping carts, and riding around on them. On the way home, we drove by the high school, and there was something being filmed by the football field.

I love the movie life.
09.25.03, 6:53 PM
I think it's strange you never knew.
I even tried smiling, but the tears still blurred the edges of my eyes. I assure you, I tried as hard as I could not to cry, the hardest I ever could try. Mr. Ramos was right. Losing someone hurts like HELL.

At the end of 3rd period, Tanya started crying. Now, I should know what's wrong; she was my first best friend ever. We used to trade grape-flavored, Pocahontas lip gloss and shiny, rainbow, puppy-dog Lisa Frank stickers. We used to buy those fruit popsicles from the cafeteria, and the sticky-sweet syrup would drip all over our adolescent hands, and smear on our folders. We used to sit on the apparatus bars and play with our newly-won silly putty and paddleboards. But...I never saw this coming.

...God. It's so horrible. Her father is dead.

I used to go to her house with the fluffy white curtains and parakeets in the front all the time in elementary school. Her father was like a father to me. The last time I went to her house, I remember it was early in the morning, her brother was just waking up. There was a yellow tinge in the room from the rising sun, filling us with warmth. Her niece and nephew were jumping around on the springy couch in the living room. I had Rocky in a plastic ball. Their dog, Ricky, was wrestling with her father's feet while he was in his chair. It was the last time I saw him. It's the way I'll always remember him.

It was a perfect memory. We were all perfectly happy in the living room. Everything was perfect. But sometimes, reality just has it's way of beating you to a bloody mulch with the actuality stick.

I absolutely broke down when she told me. Usually, you wouldn't think this would hurt me as much as it did, but it was scalding. Too hot to handle. I tried not to cry, 'cause I knew that if I did, she would too. Like we always used to do. I tried to be strong for her. I could feel the saltwater threatening. I was quiet, because I was afraid to say anything at all. I chuckled. It was the first sign of my insanity. I chuckled to stop myself from crying, but tears were already making tire tracks on my face. I couldn't stop remembering that day that we were all perfectly happy in her living room. There was no one to take him away then. Why hadn't I cherished that moment more? Why hadn't I realized that it was a perfect moment?

Yeah, I've never felt more insane in my life. Laughing and sobbing at the same time. You insane chick, you.

Next to that, I couldn't stop hearing Jesse's voice in my head.

I thought I could handle it. But maybe this was the last red-and-white-striped straw I had left. I think I scared everyone at the table. I don't blame them. They were caught in an akward situation. When a girl you know somewhat reminds you of a neverending waterfall, you tend to be helpless.

After tornado-ing out of my 5th period, I cried more. And more. And was caught in tardysweep. But they couldn't turn off the waterfaucet. So, they sent me to the Healthy Start Clinic. Also known as the "Slut-Supply Shop". Or the "Retard-Fuck-Up-Kids Counseling Center". I could've lied to her, but that wouldn't have been as funny.

She asked me what was wrong with me. I told her, "WHY DOES THAT MATTER!?" She then checked off "easily frustrated/angered". According to her, I'm also "depressed/sad", "appears tense or worried", and "isolated/withdrawn". I'm also "emotionally distressed". I was a little offended when she called me "depressed/sad". It was like she was just calling me emo to my face. When she told me that I was depressed, I became irritated and said, "I don't like to call it 'depressed'. These days, 'depressed' is, like, a trend. I'd rather not be a gray-and-white, carbon-copied, mindless automoton, thankyouverymuch." But she checked it off anyway.

Hah. "Mental Health Services". Makes me sound like a crazy lun--oh wait. According to this sheet of paper, I am a crazy lunatic.

God. This is all wrong.

And to make it worse, Idama called my house to tell my parents that I've got "emotional problems". Everyone thinks I'm having "emotional problems". Well, HOW THE HELL WOULD YOU REACT?!

Someone is dead! Why doesn't anyone realize that?! And, a month ago, Jesse commited suicide! No, I haven't forgotten, I just stopped talking about it because everyone was so tired of hearing it! And a little while before that, my uncle died! And a year before this, one person commited suicide, one person died in a car crash, and one just got sick and died! And the year before that, my grandma died. AND EVERYONE IS DYING. Why can't anyone see it?

Why do I have to be alone?

Everyone, go ahead, just expect me to get over this. Expect me to shut up about it. Expect me to NOT care that 3 people are dying every year. Expect me to be okay tomorrow. Because you will be deeply disappointed.

And, yeah, I'm just being emo again, right? That's what you were going to say.
09.22.03, 12:07 AM
And I knew. That he meant it.
He knows. He has known. From before. And I thought he was stupid for not knowing. I was the stupid one for not knowing that he knew.

Also...I told him about "it". I've never really fully explained "it" to anyone before. Not even my best friend.

He asked me why I told him. And I honestly didn't know why. I just wanted him to know. I trusted him.

And he told me it was going to be okay.

He said it would be okay.
09.11.03, 9:19 PM
You made me cry today.

I wonder if you knew.

((I wonder if you cared.))
09.07.03, 1:16 AM
Summer was so excruciating. So. Starving. So. Impossible.

Summer was. Beautiful. Angsty. Angry. Painful. Wild. Perfect.

Full of choruses and sing alongs.

It was. The best I ever had.

But at the same time. The hardest.

The summer sequence.

I can't get over it.

My presentation for Contemporary Composition class. He told us to say our name, how our summer was, and something "exciting" that has happened within the past month.

"My name is Emily. My summer was the most beautiful experience imaginable. My summer was. Horribly wonderful. Starvingly incredible...

And. My uncle and my friend died."

It was. Full of love and death and hearts and skulls.

And I don't regret a minute of it.
08.26.03, 11:28 AM
Everyone is expecting me to write something about Sunday night in here. Some shit about how "magical" or "romantic" it was.

There's no way in hell that I'd write something like that after what happened. Not after I hurt three of the people that I care most about in my life. Mosh, Chelle, and Eric.

I'm going to save that for a rainy day journal. Not in this dress.

So, this is my apology. I'm not going to apologize to you in person, because whenever I try to say something meaningful to you in person, I end up stuttering or crying or some shit, and I work better in writing.

I've already apologized to two of you, but I don't know how to tell the third one how sorry I am. For everything. From the first entry of this blog, to the akward silence in the car ride home.

God, Eric, you don't know how shitty I feel right now. And it's gotta be pretty fucking shitty, because I hardly ever curse in this journal.

And I'm not apologizing just to make myself feel better or some bullshit like that. I'm doing it because I feel like, since day one, all I've done is cause you pain or anger or other horrible angsty emotions. And, I wish that all those emotions could just stop, for you. I wish that you didn't have to feel them on the inside. I wish that I could stop your pain, completely.

But, I can't. Not completely.

I can hardly even chisel away the marble exterior of it. And it's not enough. And I know this.

But there's nothing else I can do for you. Except apologize. Completely. From the fourth chamber of my heart. For every single wave of emotion I've ever caused.

I'll understand if you don't accept this apology. I mean, you've accepted so many of mine, given me so many chances, I don't even deserve another one.

But, I just want you to know, that it wasn't You-know-who's fault at all. It was entirely mine, no matter what he says, it was my fault. So, if you're feeling mad at the both of us, don't. Everything that happened between us that night is going to stay between us, but just so you know, everything that did happen, was because of me. The blame is mine, and nobody else's.

I'm sorry. I love you all.
08.18.03, 6:17 PM
Dear Boy with artistic hands,

I've got a pure nothing to give you. But I'm nothing but a 24-hour dreamer.

"I suppose I don't really do anything."

"Then, you're a dreamer. Like me."

"Will we ever wake up?"

"Well, I know I still haven't."

All I've ever been able to give you was the countless hours of pointless conversation that you had to bear.

"So, what's your story?"


"Well, everyone has a story, right?"

The only thing I have to offer is the poison-green grief that oozes from my sickening heart.

And nothing that comes from me is good enough for you.

I'm not good enough for you.

And that's the truth.

No more fairy tales and fantasy novels of scantillating dragons and falling princesses.

The truth is, I'm not good enough for you.

And the other truth is... that I love you.

Polar opposite confessions. I love you. I'm not good enough for you.

This is the speech I had prepared.

And it's not even good enough for you.

Nothing is.

You deserve perfection.

And that's not something I can give you.

Heart, Girl with Sadgrrl77 eyes.
08.15.03, 11:58 PM
I had a bad dream.

I was with someone. In the beginning. Someone I miss very much. And. We kissed. But, he came out from behind the thick blue curtain.

Mumbling that struck me like a lightning rod deep in my heart. I betrayed him, he said. I didn't know how he felt, he said.

He had his hair they same way as when I first met him. His undershirt -- the one he wore on the night I began this crush subway. And his overshirt...something I don't quite understand happened the day he wore that shirt. Three beginnings. Three strikes. And I'm out.

And then. The worst thing I could imagine. He began clawing at his chest. Speaking hysterically. Kept clawing. Digging into his chest. Ripping his shirt. Ripping his heart out. Thick, black, oily blood dripping. I backed into the corner of my bed. Crying. Couldn't breathe. Afraid the broken pieces cutting.

"Your time is up," he said. And I woke up in a cold sheet of sweat and terror, gasping for burning oxygen, shaking like electro-shocked.

I've been having the same image, of him, holding his shiny, slippery, beet-colored heart, invading every dream of mine. From the dream about me walking through a pineapple maze and finding him at the end. To the dream about me walking around in Target, shopping with October, my dog.

And he jumped out in every one. Squeezing his bruised heart. Telling me my time was up.

I've been waking up the same way every morning.

Sweat, gasp, shake.

The freeway has a surreal look about it before the sun rises. Lights, sweet air, mist, his blood.

I can't get it out of my head.

It's making my hair stick up a little in the front.

It may just be my subconcious. But I think I might tell him. Or I'll go insane. Just get it over with.

I keep telling myself, "You ask. He declines. You move on." But. I've got a burning sensation of impending doom.

I think I might die of cancer sometimes.

And, right now, that single thought is the one and only thing that's soothing me.
08.01.03, 4:29 PM
Jesse's dead.

I've cried my heart into a plastic Coca-cola soda bottle twice a day since Sunday. It's dripping down the clear green sides with salty tears.

Jesse, man...I miss you so much, I could string my pain into a shimmering beaded necklace. I could melt it down and pour a bubbling martini. I could paint my lips with it. I could mold it into a beautiful sculpture like electroshocked.

I've still got those audio tapes of his coffee-warm voice. The desperate messages he left and songs he sang on my answering machine. The 10-minute tape I recorded with my plastic purple tape player. I can't stop listening to it. I can't stop hearing his voice. Seeing his face. I've got all the letters he wrote to me in 2nd period about the memory-paved freeway on my brown paper bag history book cover.

His favorite song used to be "Adam's Song". There's this line in the song. "Sixteen just held such better days." It shatters my already-bleeding heart when I hear it. Because he just turned sixteen in March.

God, just writing this blog entry hurts me. He used to wear chunky, fuzzy, orange and gray Vans. He used to gel his raven hair forward, and it made a rake-like line stick out of his forehead. He used to call me "Ketchup". He used to sing. I cried when we fought. And the only time we did fight, we made up the next day at the Sadie Hawkins dance because "Adam's Song" was playing. I remember when he found a rubber purple frog eraser behind the computer and gave it to me in memory of my pet frog, Ryan. I spent the last day of school with Jesse, Frankey, and Teo, playing with Frankey's gray cards with blue swirly designs on it on the beige, cracked, grafittied table under the leaf-showering trees on the green P.E. field. We sang "M+M's" at the top of our oxygen-filled lungs in the scattered cafeteria. I borrowed a crispy dollar from him to buy a Coke at that concert we played at North High. That was the last time I actually liked soda. And after graduation, we hung out in the stands in our formal-wear, playing cards for hours.

I miss him so much, I think it would be divine to die from the pain.

I'm listening to the 10-minute tape again. But it's not like before. When I'd listen to it over and over again and smile because I loved you. Now I'm crying because I loved you. I wasn't there for you.

...I can't get over that he's really gone.

I feel so helpless. Did you think about me...before you died? Would that thought have been enough to stop you? Would I have been able to save you?

"Emi, you can't let anyone die. You can't let them die. You have to save them."

"I'm trying. But it's so hard. To be strong."

"You have to."

Run, Emily, run. You have to save them. You made a promise.
07.17.03, 9:39 AM
I miss my grandma. I miss her sweetly-wrinkled face. I miss her brightly-colored Hawaiian flower print fabric that felt soft as jacaranda blossoms when she'd hug us. I miss her lovely scent. Like strong perfume and green dishsoap and backyard plumerias and milky skin. I can hardly remember it. And I'll never, ever smell it again. (My hair is stickin' up a little in the front. Yeah, I'm losin' it. Just a bit.) I used to be able to smell it when I closed my eyes. It takes every fiber of me to vaguely remember it now.

I miss her.
07.12.03, 6:35 PM
The thing that I miss most about you is driving free on the open road with you. Listening to awesome music like Taking Back Sunday, Suburban Legends, Jimmy Eat World, The Moldy Peaches, Nina Gordon. It was so effulgent and indie. With the windows rolled down and the stereo blasting shimmery sweet. The cold wind brushing our faces like a salty tide. The incandescent moon, a spongy orb looming over us.

It was so. So. So. Lovely. Rad. Free.

I wish we could drive from coast to ocean on a cool summer breeze. Wish we could take off our Chucks and sleep in the glittering sand all night. Wish we could run around in our barefeet shoes, kicking, splashing seafoam on each other. Wish we could decorate your '53 in twinkle lights and surfboards and stickers. Wish we could drive from Hermosa to Hollywood like that, stopping only to grab bagels and smoothies, an abandoned couch, and a stray dog. Wish it could be so California that it hurts and fills my blood with beach-water. Wish I could see you again like this. Wish I could drive with you again. Wish you hadn't left. (Left to die.)

But now I'm here. All alone. Being that intriguing, mysterious sadgrrl77 with her swell sunglasses. Bleach-blonde hair. Kohl-eyeliner eyes. Chipped glittery-green nail polish. Starry bracelets and sparkling anklets. Dusty black Chucks. Awesome buttons. Vintage shirts. Writing in weird skull-clad notebook again. Humming delicious songs in her head. Beating her fancy magenta pen her dad gave her to the be-bop of jazz. The jazz that fills her shiny pink lungs. And wearing that lovely look of entrancement.
07.11.03, 5:52 PM
God, it's so sultry.

So. So. So. Sultry.

(I am so intriguing. Hyperballad said so.)

It won't be the same. Won't be the same going on without you. Make me a love-strung glowing star. String me a necklace of twinkling lights. Cry me a brilliant blanket of stars. I won't lie to you.

I won't lie to you again.
07.10.03, 1:51 PM
And I wear my Swell Sunglasses to hide my tearstained, puffy eyes.

It doesn't help.

Doesn't help at all.

(Because I still miss you.)
07.06.03, 4:16 PM
I opened the splintering, creaking, syrup-colored wooden front door. I stepped outside, to the cold, welcoming oxygen. It bathed across my skin, showering me in air. I could smell the wet grass, the ice-pavement on the freeway, the thorny roses brushing against the breeze.

He stirred in his cage, sniffing a blade of grass, sharp as knives. I went into the garage to him, my eyes, never leaving the nightlife in the sky. I petted his velvet hair. His hair, soft as jacaranda blossoms. His hair, quietly turning up into a silent mohawk.

I asked my bunny, "What is the meaning of life?" My fuzzy white mohawk bunny with glittery pink eyes that eats banana chips and listens to Eva Cassidy.

He ruffled his cloudy mohawk and nibbled on my nails with chipped green polish and embedded glitter in it. He said, "Breaking the peach skin."

(I wish my bunny were a real boy.)

I sighed and petted his face. I fed him some banana chips and sunflower seeds. He squeaked, "Punky choking goat." Which, I suppose meant "thank you" in mohawk-bunny-speak.

Those are words to live by. Lovely words. I love my little, jacaranda, mohawk, peach, Velveteen bunny.

My bunny's got a poetic soul.
07.05.03, 3:15 AM
It was Fourth of July. Amber came down from San Fransisco with her 1993 blue Mustang convertible and newly bleach-blonde hair. We went cruising around Los Angeles with the top down. We ate hot dogs and ice cream with our fingers from the 7-11. We shot people and cars and fireworks with our awesome new Supersoakers. We did extreme backing out a Carl's Jr. drive-in. We flew by the city. Then. We went back to Mosh's house and slept. And dreamt of ants.

The next day, Amber bleached my hair. Amber bleached Mosh's hair. We drove to El Segundo with the top down again.

The wind in our bottle-blonde hair. The surfboard sticking out of the seat next to me. Wearing our bathing suits. Smelling of suntan lotion. With our superrad sunglasses. The sun burning our skin. The Supersoakers absently shooting dumb kids. The Rammstein blasting out of the stereo. With our hysterical laughter and lovely California-look. We were hardcore-California.

And all that is what defines an awesome car-ride. Cruisin'.

We arrived at the beach. Amber surfed. Mosh rode the boogieboard. I body-surfed. (Okay, so maybe I just dived under wave after wave, but I was doing better than everyone else at the beach.)

The smell of the sea-salt breeze. The feel of the gritty, wet sand beneath my feet. The warmth of the blue-green horizon. The cold of the sparkling ocean all around me, glittering. The sound of the tide breaking. Of gulls calling. The touch of the radiant rays of sunlight against my skin. Freckling my feet, tanning my face. We laid in the sand until we were chocolate and cherries.

And so we cruised in El Segundo again. Found Aram sitting in his green Mustang without his contacts on. We ate peach and raspberry yogurt at his white-picket fence house. We went to Fantastic Cafe and ate A1 sauce with fries. And then, we drove home.

The day did have a lovely, lingering taste to it. (But it doesn't fill the void.)
07.02.03, 12:31 PM
You know how people don't remember the exact moment when their lives change? The exact moment when something pivitol happens, when they shut off the world. When they begin to give their bullshit lies about how they're "okay", how they're just tired.

Well, I remember the exact moment when it happened.

Yeah, it was a fine day. I was slightly getting along with my mom. Which is a lot. I had, what in her warped mind might have passed for a civilized conversation. My day was okay. It was an "Early One Morning" day. It was a vanilla-flavored day. It was a "Safety of Routine" day. It was just a day.

Then, as I was doing laundry. Just laundry. We got a phone call.

I remember. Her face darkened and the wind blew soundlessly through the window. I was holding three hangars, folding clothes.

"Oh my God. He's dead. He's dead."

I felt everything change. The molecules in the air thickened. I felt like I was suffocating. I felt like it was strangling me.

My first psychotic, insane thought was, "Maybe if we go back to Hawaii, he'll come back to life."

And then, as I reflected on that thought, tears rolled down my cheeks. I thought he would live. I thought he would live. I thought he wasn't dead. I was in denial.

My heart imploded. He wasn't dead. He wasn't dead. I'll keep telling myself. He's not. He's not. He's not.

But he is. I felt like it couldn't happen. Like he'd be around forever. Like inevitable wasn't a word. It felt so impossible.

I can't stop telling myself that he's not dead. That...if we just get that plane ticket, he'll be alive. That he'll live another day to eat sugarless poi. That we'll all be safe, at Grandma's house, eating take-out from Zippy's. But. Grandma's not even... I can't... This isn't even... God, I can't even finish this entry.
06.26.03, 1:01 PM
Oh God. He's dead. He's dead. He's dead.

It's actually starting to sink in. And here I was, worrying about crying to Eric about the new boy over a cellphone at Borders.
06.20.03, 12:37 AM
There is another boy. Right at the wrong moment. There's another boy.

Something's wrong with youknowwho. Something's wrong with youknowwho, right when there's another boy.

He's a brand new boy. A brand new boy with a brand new heart. His heart is untarnished, unbruised, unhurt. I would die if his heart would get so much as a paper cut. Which is why he'll never know. I wouldn't trouble him. Never trouble people with your feelings. It's crazy-talk.

Besides, if I say it outloud, that'll make it true to me. And we can't have that.

So say you, "You deserve some kind of happiness, at least." No.

And if he were to deserve something, it wouldn't be me. It would be a blank, tabula rasa girl. A clean slate of a girl, with nothing that resembles a past. A girl that makes me look like a cocaine-addict. That makes my past look like Charles Manson's criminal record. A girl that I'd pale in comparison to. A girl that doesn't have a youknowwho to worry about.

And if anything were to happen to youknowho...nothing would ever have meaning again.

...Mosh, take the steering wheel.
06.21.03, 3:01 AM
And there I sat, reading The Alchemist. Quiet as knives. With my awesome WWDN CD player on. Listening to Rufio, "One Slow Dance".

I felt like screaming until my shiny pink lungs gave in. I pounded my scarred fist with my coiled fingers with green nails on the pearly white table. My green nails that I painted the day before graduation. Graduation. The day when I wore my black T-shirt and reversible flowering skirt that I bought from Kohl's and my Chuck's. The day he wore a white dress shirt and black formal slacks and chunky skating shoes. And I kept thinking about him.

He was the set of deadly explosives in my brain that kept going off with every pang of wet emotion I felt. He was the tattoo on my mind.

I picked up my clear blue cellphone, clear like an empty bottle of Dasani. I ran through my list of phone numbers. I don't even have his phone number. There's only one person I know for sure that has his number.

Eric. The one person I didn't want to call. The one person I wanted to tell. The one person who could make me cry like he can. The one person I've ever fallen in love with. The one person I can hardly handle being around.

So. Feeling on the verge of tears. Feeling like there is no tomorrow. Feeling like I might never have the chance to tell him. To tell him that a love a brand new boy. I. Called.

Fear sank deep into the pit of my heart. Tears threatened at the corners of my eyelashes, smearing my chalky black kohl eyeliner. I tried to be strong. I told him that I wanted him to know that I loved him. That if anything were to happen, that he was my friend, and I loved him.

(It's so wretched how I use past tense.)

His voice. Was so. So. So. Cold. Cold like the wind that blew past me and chilled my insides like frozen peas.

I don't know why I began crying. Perhaps it's that I felt like I didn't want him to know anymore. Or perhaps it's that I felt like he wouldn't care at all if I told him. Or perhaps it's that whenever I hear his voice, I feel like crying.

The conversation ended. If there was no tomorrow...then perhaps it is better that he didn't know.

I know Billy saw me. I know he came to the table and stopped when he saw me crying into my lovely heart-shattering cellphone. I saw his feet, stop just at the stucco pillar, looking confused as his face would have looked. But I didn't dare look up.

I didn't move or speak while the tears came tumbling down, while oblivious people around me decided that this was the best time to ask if they could use a chair from my table, while I thought about smashing the glass wall in front of me.

After that, everything flew by me. Mosh came to the table and left. Amanda came to the table and sat down. I went to bathroom with my tear-streaked face. I went back to the table still looking wreckish. Mosh and Billy came back with their books. Billy's ex tried to walk out of the emergency exit.

And then. My phone rang again. I looked at the call ID. "Eric CELL." I didn't want to answer. I felt a surge of emotions crashing through me. I ran behind the stucco pillar to answer. So. No one would hear.

I wanted to tell him. Right then and there. Why I wanted him to know I was in love with the new artistic boy, I don't know. Perhaps to assure him that I was over him. But we all know that will never happen. He'll always be the first boy I've ever loved. He'll always be sacred grounds to me.

But. He didn't seem to care. He asked for someone else. Someone else who wasn't there. He called. Just to ask for someone else. He made my emotions do backflips and cartwheels. And he asked for someone else.

I hung up on him.

I like to call it "My batteries ran out." (I had at least three bars left.)

I guess he'll never really know how I felt. (There I go again with that devious past tense.)

And then. We drove home. Nothing more happened. (At the Del Taco drive-in, I found the paper crane made out of a dollar that Allen made for me in my pocket.)

After I broke down in tears on my plastic blue cellphone whilst sipping my double expresso shot in a small austere-looking teacup with a coffee-stained saucer, I'd felt as though the air had gone thick and the world had stopped turning enough to pause international recess. Nothing more could happen.
06.20.03, 11:58 PM
It was like a Friday-night-Killingtons video. We were having high school times on the last day of high school. We had a Supersoaker, a videocamera and Terminator sunglasses. It was like an awesome punk music video for Up Syndrome.

I came to school late. About 3 hours late. For the first time all year. I came to school late, for the first time all year, on the last day of high school. I came too late. Too late to see him.

I brought sushi for Filloy and a watergun for the dipshits. We played with effervencent goldfish and scantilating turtles in MacManus's science class. Then, we went to Filloy's class and began the AsatoDog and Nick Witch Hunt 2003. We searched for witches and soaked them with my beloved Supersoaker, obviously melting them. An idea thought up by the one and only R2K, also known as Randy from Finch. I got to wear the Terminator sunglasses and hold Monica's videocamera. AsatoDog and Filloy took turns shooting the witches with my supersoaker.

Filloy soaked Mr. MacManus AND Ms. Knight. His half-brother and his college buddy. Then, he shot Chelle (for being French), Bobby (For being a wuss), Mosh (For being hardcore), and James (For his "Euro-mullet"). Then, it was AsatoDog's turn. She knocked 'em dead. I can't even count how many witches she soaked.

It was an awesome day. We got free smoothies. We also got my Supersoaker taken away, but we still managed to punk the day up anyway.

I think the best soak was when I soaked Daisy. We were sitting at the table, drinking smoothies, when I said, "Man, I wanna soak someone and yell, 'WITCH! WITCH!' Like, so hardcore, man." And then, Daisy said, "LiEk DuNt gET MaI t~sHrT wEt LiEk tOtALiE sUx0rzz hEHe LOL OMG ROFL LOL JK!!!!!!!!!!!111111111" And I made a face smiliar to >:/ and I said, "Oh, I wouldn't soak you." And she said, "OMG rilLy k~ThNx hEhE LOL U r0x0rZZzzZz ROFL JK!!1111" And then, I soaked her anyway, yelling "WITCH! WITCH!" the whole time and causing a wonderfully chaotic scene in the cafeteria.

Then, Chelle, Mosh, and I did something only the superrad editors of Zipopucker can do. We ran over to an improv soccer game occuring on the grass and laid down in the middle of it. They all stopped playing and stared at us. And when we decided that we'd had our fun and let them get back to theirs, we got up and walked slowly away. But halfway off the grass, we suddenly turned around and ran back and laid down again. Then, when they had just about had enough of us, we grabbed their ball and ran away. It was awesome.

I filmed our Japanese teacher cussing us out in Japanese. I filmed Mr. Filloy quitting his job. I filmed AsatoDog punking Bobby on the wall and shooting him with the watergun, Nazi-style. I filmed AsatoDog chasing down little kids and drowning them with the watergun. I filmed James in his Terminator sunglasses, trying to look like a glamorous pornstar. I filmed AsatoDog holding my Supersoaker, military-offical, ordering two Snapples, and looking totally hardcore. I filmed Chelle beating Bobby to a shit-like sludge. I filmed us having the best times of our lives and rockin' out to Mr. Filloy's Dropkick Murphys CD.

It was a delicious day.

And it's Friday, June 20, 2003 at 11:58PM. I'm now in the outside cafe at Borders on the porcelain-white table with lovely painted designs that curl into soft Georgia O' Keefe-like flowers behind the flat stucco pillar in front of the icy glass door. I'm next to the hardcore graduate, with his badass silver laptop, his awesome reading-lamp, his audience-attracting bookstand, his superrad leather briefcase, his earplugs to block out the irritating ruckus of children too young to drink coffee or even know how to behave in a bookstore. Next to the stressed college chick, with her 53 course books, studying for her finals at the last minute giving dirty looks to any idiot who interrupted her. Next to the two awesome-hero guys with Anime-hair and golf shirts and Nikes, drinking coffee politely, deep in conversation.

Billy, Mosh, and I took a shopping cart from a store near the Del Amo, put Billy in it and walked all the way to Borders like that.

Are we totally awesome, or what?
06.20.03, 9:27 PM
(NOTE: This is just a cluster of thoughts that I thought about the different people around me while I was sitting at the corner table in the outside cafe at Borders.)


He's a simple man, they say. He spends all his money on fancy bookstands and studying things. They say he's never lived a day in his life.

But I say...he's hardcore.

Here he is, with his yellow earplugs and slightly receding hairline, his face, contorted with concentration and his eyes, focusing with every molecule of himself.

I could call him Bob, but that name seems so generic and horrifically bound to the common-name-coil. So I call him Dirk.

I watch from across the court, writing fairy tales about Dirk. He became a super hero in my mind within seconds. I imagine that Dirk has a wonderous vinyl record collection and a leather-bound journal he once wrote lovely poetry in for a girl. Dirk has a dusty guitar he played when he was in high school, in his rebellious teen days, and felt as though he'd win the girl's heart if he played with all of his. He has an old yellow AM radio that he'd once listened to be-bop jazz on. Dirk grew up near a park with one broken swing, and rolled in the grass with his best friend. He buys Palmolive dishwashing soap and Donald Duck orange juice, because sometimes he misses his home.

Abruptly, A flamboyant young man with a pierced ear and a silvery-gray long-sleeve shirt with a white stripe across it approaches Dirk. I'd like to call him Paul. He looks like a Paul.

"Where'd you get that?" Paul says, pointing to his bookstand.

Dirk takes out his earplugs.


"Where'd you get that there bookstand?" Paul repeats, blankly.

Dirk looks thoroughly irritated.

"Office Depot."

"Oh, really? 'Cause I always..." Paul trails off. Dirk has already put his earplugs back in. Paul walks away, stupidly.

Dirk is my hero.

The only other people in the court, A girl and two men, have been watching avidly, as though it were a worthy hour of television. I was scribbling notes about it. All four of us were ready to jump up at any point and protect Dirk just in case Paul decided to steal his bookstand. It's like we've become a family. I'm suddenly swelling with pride for us.


By the looks of her, I'd say her name is Greta. She somewhat reminds me a very modest Greta Garbo.

She has a wall of books around her. She's scratching her notepad with her blue ball-point pen, furiously. She's highlighting paragraphs at a time with her Major Accent aqua-colored highlighter.

If you look at her closely, you can almost see a ghostly trace of an emerald-clad tiara, with lovely white chiffon flowing from the back. If you look close enough, the books become a wall of bricks. Greta becomes a radiant princess, wearing a seafoam-colored silk gown and her Major Accent highlighter becomes a sparkling staff with emeralds decorating the base. She's absolutely luminous. Radiant. Effulgent. Which I don't say about many people.

A loud Filipino woman with a loud voice and a loud yellow and red dress suddenly comes stomping outside to our quiet environment that we've set for ourselves. Let's just call her Ethel. She's talking on a cellphone. She stops in front of Greta's table.

"No, I not want DAT one! I want fitch! FITCH! You know, dat FITCH dat swim in da OCHIN!"

Everyone stops what they're doing. We all stare at this new creature that has interrupted our peace. The peace we've kept for at least 4 hours together. I can tell that Dirk can hear her through his earplugs, because he looks as though he just might impale her with his bookstand.

As Ethel continues to order her skanky food, she begins leaning on one of Greta's stacks of books. Greta stops writing. She glares fire-daggars at Ethel. Ethel doesn't notice.

"What you mean, you 'don't sell dat'?! E'rybody sell FITCH!"

Finally, Greta just screams, her voice replete with frustration, "SHUT! UP!"

Ethel jumps back, looking surprised to find people sitting around her. We're all giving her icy glares; even Dirk.

"Uh, yeah, yeah. Dat orda good. Get dat. I got go."

She hangs up and walks back inside, looking utterly embarrassed. Greta has a look of deep satisfaction, as though that were the first time she's ever stood up for herself in her life.

Go Greta.


There's two guys sitting to my right, sipping their coffee so politely. One is wearing a plain green collared shirt and sunglasses. He must be Charlie. The other one is wearing a white polo shirt and neat little reading glasses. He must be Lucas. They're both wearing tennis shoes and naturally-faded jeans. Charlie has chocolate-colored, bottle-brown, wind-tousled hair, with bittersweet strands falling across his sunglasses. Lucas has raven-black hair that moves with the slightest touch, and has the smallest trace of gel in it. La Bella or L.A. Looks.

They've got a laptop open, and they're discussing an html code that's sprawled across the screen. They speak so quietly and politely, so as not to bother Greta or Dirk. Every couple minutes, Charlie would say something like, "Hey, remember that time..." And Lucas laughs a bit and says, "Heh, yeah, good times..."

They could be the best friends in the whole world.

I wonder if they've ever been to or or or I wonder if they knew each other in high school. I wonder if they pulled senior pranks and sang "Trogdor the Burninator" at the top of their lungs during class. I wonder if they've ever ran into the middle of a soccer game and laid down on the field so everyone had to stop what they were doing. I wonder how many inside jokes they have with each other. I wonder if when Charlie had his heart broken the first time, he spent a week at home chain-smoking and making mix-tapes. I wonder if Lucas will ever become a famous director. I wonder if they've seen each other through everything, if Lucas was there when Charlie had a drinking problem, or if Charlie was there when Lucas's first pet died. I wonder.

I'm starting to fall into the deep sea of unconciousness, so I think I'll ask Charlie and Lucas to watch my table for me while I buy some kind of pure-caffine, triple-expresso shot.

(And that's the family.)
06.14.03, 12:18 AM
It was akward and strange, floating in a sea of electric guitars and chucks and pre-rock gods. I felt out of place, like horses in the city.

It was Sign of Five and Thru It All's show at Fendi's Cafe in Long Beach. It was Friday the 13th. It was a week before school gets out. It was delicious.

So. I sat on a mafia-like chair in an almost-empty room. Or, as Allen put it, "A great chair to die in."

We sat on the floor, watching the show. Watching our friends become super-rock-guys. They were beautiful/rockin'/effulgent.

You know what it was. It was one of those nights. The nights where you can be whoever you aren't. Where you can be free. Where you can feel complete. Where you can lose yourself. It was one of those nights where Andrea videotapes Randy picking his nose. One of those nights where Frank pretends to get drunk on apple cider. One of those nights where Jeff hits on Allen. Those nights where I borrow a dollar from Marcos, the guitarist/backup vocals of the band. Nights where, at the end of the concert, we beat ourselves silly with cardboard rolls. Nights where Scott buys me an Americano, and Frank thinks it's French. Nights where I kick the lead singer in the head. Nights where Randy's only wearing one shoe. Nights where Key Club guys think that Kyle's hot. Nights where Michelle stays safe and unharrased in her yellow couch-chair. Nights where Andrea goes on the stage and plays the tambourine. Nights where Allen and I decide to mosh to acoustic guitar and bongos.

And I wish there could be more nights like that.

Here comes the summer. Bring it on.
06.09.03, 9:53 PM
Staying up late is bad for you, like eating rotten mangoes. I feel like I'm dreaming. Floating. Flying. And I don't want this feeling to end.

"I feel so light. This is all I wanna feel tonight."

After a while, everything meshes together, making it more like a movie, more confusing, more dream-like, better than a dream. Because you're awake.

Then comes the headaches and puking, signifying the end of your dreams, where you wake up covered in cold sweat in the middle of the night.

...I made a box. Yes. A box. For Allen. Covered it with magazines, like the walls in my room. Old cut-up photographs and articles of the 90's. The box, it meant a lot to me. Nostalgia and memorabilia and all that. It was an old box. I used it for wonderful things. Storing the shells I found at the beach in. Containing objects that sparked memories from nothing but the past. Watching over my feathers and buttons and glitter and confetti. Keeping my journals and secrets safe. Making shimmering sandcastles on the beaches in Hawaii. Housed my secret pet mouse, Rocky. Holding my heart in its wooden corners and rusty metal hinges. Squeaking "hello" to me whenever I opened it. I will miss you, dear box.

So, why'd I give it to Allen?

Well, because he's the only one who understood my art. Understood the way I express myself through boxes and words. He said, "Someday, you'll be something great." That meant a lot to me. That there was at least one person who thought I'd amount to...anything.

So, yeah. It meant a lot. And I won't forget it.
06.04.03, 3:53 PM
It was 2:38. I stepped out to reflect. To brood. To be alone. The wind blew past my hair like a cold tide washing over me.

"The pain radiates off you like a beautiful moombeam," he said, suddenly beside me.

He bit into his burger with all the suave of liting a cigarette. He leaned against the wall, smoking his burger-cigarette, reading me like a book.

Shocked, by his presence. By his poetry. By his grace. By his truth.

"I hate the way you do that," I whispered.

"Do what? Know you?"

"Like the back of your hand."

I hate the way he does that. I hate the way he knows me. I hate the way he knows when I'm in pain. I hate the way he's the only one who understands me. I hate the way he's leaving. And I hate the way I'll miss him.

He may have been the one friend who truly understood the thing that I am. And yet, he was never really a friend. But, he gets it. And I get it. And it's a silent get.

"I'm leaving, you know," he reminds me.

"I know," I say with quiet resolve.


I'm snapped out of my coma. "For what?"

"For leaving you. Alone."

"Who said I was alone?" I become defensive again.

"Everyone is. But us. And once I leave, we'll both be alone."

My mind was a puzzle. "What are you talking about? It's not like we were even close or anything."

He smiles. "We don't have to be close to understand each other. And that's a rare find these days."

I couldn't help but smile. "And there's that self-conscious smile you make that means you feel as though you've just been complimented," he said.

"How do you know me so well?" I inquire.

"It's in your eyes. They water, blink, and look away. One day, he'll see them. And won't be able to look away."

And that was all. I had never felt like I was in a movie more than I did right at that moment.

Then, people came pouring out like a theatre. Nobody knew the words we shared or what meaning they had. Everyone flooded around us like confetti. We stared at each other. Understanding.

And that's the way the story ends. The girl doesn't get the guy. She finds solace in the words of an unlikely stranger.
06.01.03, 7:30 PM
You know what I notice these days? Everything makes me sick. People, pollution, humanity, industries, mankind. These days, everything is corrupted. And nobody seems to notice. People are wasting their money on drugs and alcohol, cigarettes and soy burgers, heroin and Vegas, while others are dying of these things. The way I see it all people do is shoot each other, shoot up, or just plain bang their brains out until they can't feel no more. These days, everyone's delusional ideas of love cloud their already pain-impaired vision with beautiful lies that turn deadly at the last minute.

Everything I see is bursting with corruption. Even me. I'm drowning in it. I can't explain it in words. I can only tell you what I see. I see teenage girls, no older than me, being raped and murdered and dumped in gutters. I see angst-filled emo boys crying themselves to sleep and writing songs about rejection and ODing because of the girl that wouldn't kiss them goodnight. I see pain and torment flicker in every dark corner and air molecules. I see the elderly mope and dwell on the good old days when they were young and stupid, and the youthful whine and brood about not being legal or old enough. I see that nobody's happy. And just beneath everyone's sickly sweet exterior, there's broken teacup chips, cutting and scarring their insides to a mushy pulp.

Corruption is an undetectable, intangible disaster. Worse than Earthquakes, tornados tsunamis. It's a devious beast, it is. It breaks my paper heart 10000 fold. It's jagged pieces cut deep into my skin telling me that nothing makes sense anymore. Not even Love and Death. The two things that meant everything in the world have lost value. The only thing that makes any sense whatsoever to me the music. Music is the glue that holds my world together. It's what keeps me sane, keeps me just at the end of my tether, keeps me from falling off the edge of the square world. Without it, life would be meaningless.
05.29.03, 5:12 PM
Disneyland is supposed to be the happiest place on Earth. But everything has it's flaws. Death at Disneyland. Melting at the Wax Museum. Rotten berries at Knott's. Broken coasters at Six Flags. Plastic snow at Santa's Village. Jaws attack at Universal. Ride malfunctions. Closing time. Cramps in feet.

And yet. We try to find some way to escape this unbalanced reality. No matter what. Fleeting or flawed. This cold world is bursting with corruption and torment. We'd do whatever it takes for freedom. Bust free from this jail. And go. Home.
04.16.03, 11:24 PM
He means no//some//any//every. Thing.

Take me away. Rescue me.

This song is only wishful thinking.
04.12.03, 8:26 PM
I wanted to say it. I would've said it.

I'm sorry. For. Crying. Laughing. Living. Not being good enough. Being a great friend. Loving you.

I couldn't. Couldn't bring myself to say it. It would cause him pain. Never been much of a sadist. Even having the first moment alone with him in a long time. I couldn't. Head went dizzy. Mind went flowy. Wanted to. Burst. Couldn't. It was like I was allergic to it. Like I had rabies or was severly obsessive-compulsive. Even being dropped off last. Couldn't. Even knowing the fact that we only get so many words in this lifetime and I don't want to waste any. I felt like suffocating.

I won't. Like I said...I'm going to supress it. As much as possible. But Michelle says that it'll just get worse if I don't feed it. Like the opposite of a Gremlin. I don't feel like it could get worse. I remember what happened last year. I told him, and look what it did. Alcohol, drugs, sex, and regret. If it can get any worse than that, (andiknowitcould) then it'd be suicide. (andiknowitwouldbe.) So, I'll just keep quiet till it all blows over. And keep trying to get over it. (i'mscrubbingmyheartraw,tryingtogetoverit.)

I just need to. Stop. Thinking.
04.11.03, 10:56 PM
Laughing. Walking on glass. The worn-out Chucks. We're late. Call him. No, you call him. Shower with flashlights shining through the curtain. Del Taco. Pink dress. Self-consious, Tara-like smile. Hippee picking flowers. Oh god, it's JJ's house. How often do you think about it? Everyday. Whistle like the slut you are. Change. 60's Mickey T-shirt. Pick us up. Boys at the doorstep. Free open road. Mallrats. Thongs as slingshots. Bras on head. Drive. Drive. Drive. Carl's Jr. Me and Randy have Sars. Keep running. Empty street to die on. Shotgun. Drop me off last. Feel sick. Wanna go to a concert? Feels like High School. Makes my head spin. Are you okay? (noithurts) Yes. (hurtstobewithyou) Just fine. (butican'tstayaway) I'll be okay. (hurtstobeaway) You said "Goodnight". I cried "Goodbye". Dropped keys. Talked like it was okay. But no. It wasn't. Feels crazy. Sleep for now. Dream of it.
04.10.03, 1:53 PM
What do I want for my birthday? A question asked by nearly everyone I know. (Except you, the only one I want to ask me.) What I usually answer is "$19, so I can pay my debt back to my sister" or "nothing". But what I want to say is "happiness". That's all I want. One night of freedom and happiness. With you. The only one that matters.

I don't want a big, impersonal party. I don't want a party at all. All I want is to spend one night. With him. Because I know he never loved me...the way I loved him. But because it's my birthday, I figured, I get to have one day to myself. Where I can think what I want to think. I have an excuse to act the way I want to. To love whomever I choose. And to, for once, be happy. Just this once. Free from pain. Maybe free from life. Hopefully. From coast to ocean. It's all I want. The beach at night with the one who matters.

I won't say I love him. Because we've all been through that before. And It wasn't love last year. It was infatuation last year. But if it's love now...think of how it could destroy me. Last year, he destroyed me beyond repair. And that was just infatuation. If I love him...well, I just can't think about it, then. I'll supress it as much as possible. By the end of this year, it'll be so far pressed down, it'll fit in my pocket. Maybe.

God. Sometimes, I sound like Strong Sad.
03.21.03, 4:00 PM
I had an emotional breakdown. Again.

You know, it doesn't happen like it does in the movies. It doesn't just pop out of you and back like a Jack-in-a-Box. It burns through you. Excruciatingly slowly, it's embers consume your flesh. Until it becomes too much, and it bursts through your skin.

It started with Michael. If you know me, you know what happened. And I still feel ruined over it. You'd think I'd get over it...but my mind is a bottom-dweller. And...Michael and I were just talking. Speaking to each other. Things like, "Whatever happens, happens, huh?" and "I can't get over how much this hurts him." Nothing about us. Well, me, anyway.

Then came the Analyzation of Love Session 101 with Angel. I talked about life. With Angel. Hope comes from the unlikeliest of sources. He was insightful. I listened, for once. Soon after Angel's wise Yoda words, I sat down and thought. I can't put it any other way. I didn't reflect. Didn't brood. I thought. Then came a revelation. I don't know what I realized at that moment. Perhaps it was then that I realized my love. Or maybe I had realized that I was sick of life. But all I know is that I had a feeling of revelation. Then revulsion. Then rebellion. I felt angry, for once. Infuriated, actually. My jaw clenched and my fists balled. And came a sour, metallic taste, not unlike the aftertaste of blood. And I felt the first tears of torment threaten at the corner of my eyes. Michael told me to punch him. To get the anger out. But no. All that was left was the sadness. So, I cried on his shoulder instead. Gut-wrenching sobs.

And oh-so-suddenly...Eric came. Slowly, at first. Then, he noticed something was wrong and came running to my rescue. Michael moved away immediatly, knowing that I needed Eric at that moment. He ran towards me. I felt as though I had floated out of my body and was watching from above. I watched it like it was a movie. I watched as the angst-filled, film-loving girl was rescued by the dashing movie star, to whom her heart belonged. He hugged her. Hung onto her for dear life. As she clung with all of her being to be safe in his arms. He held her face in his hands and asked her what happened. Reassured her that whoever had caused this devious act upon her, would surely pay. She couldn't speak. Couldn't tell him that the one thing that had ever caused her enough pain to die was in her arms at that moment.

I cried for the girl in the movie. I cried for me. I cried for him. He held onto me still. Oblivious to the pain he was causing me, but also oblivious to the fact that I needed him more than anyone else in the world at that moment. He was scorching my skin, but I couldn't let go. No matter the efforts I put into running away, my heart wouldn't let go. And he stayed. Guess I know what Charlie meant when he said, "I'll be always there. There to the end. I can't do much but be your one true friend."

Eric walked me home. He asked me why I felt that the world had stopped turning enough to make me cry. I rolled up my sleeves. He flinched at the sight. A flinch full of regret and pain and guilt. At that moment, I knew he knew what caused the scars. Him. It really meant something. Meant just what I needed to go on with my life. That he cared. Doesn't mean he loves me. Doesn't mean he hates me. It means that he cared. And that's just enough.
03.07.03, 9:54 PM
You can end blog for now, but blog will never be done. What beautiful lies you've been told. How cold your body can be? Yeah, I need to be loved. With acoustic guitar and beautiful directing sequence and tears of the loveless. You can think and brainstorm all night and day, but you'll never get it. You'll be stuck at one thought forever and hear nothing but nevermore.

I'm listening to angsty-girly music. What am I, anyway? A girl, yes. An angst-filled girl. I understand that, but what am I really? A sappy, romanticalish, emo kid? A cynical, world-blaming, corrupted comformist? Am I a girl that caps all the time? Am I a girl that hates soda because of the carbonation? Am I a girl that puts angsty songs on repeat? Am I afraid of the dark? Do I put sugar in my poi? Do I tie my frizzy hair up and drape it over my shoulder? Do I count the stars? Do I worship James Marsters merely for the fact that the back of his neck is sexy as hell? [Well, no, because he has a perfect jawline and soft hands too.] Do I chew Strawberry Squeeze Bubblicious as often as I blink? Do I actually appreciate oxygen at least once a day? Do I obsess over the 90's and 50's? Well, do I? I don't know anymore.

Regret all you missed. Drive a car from the 50's. Wear your hair 50's style. Dress from the 50's. But remember the music of the 90's. Love things from the 90's. Mix it all in a bowl of milk and sugar. Burn the cookies. Scream when you feel trapped. Don't be embarrassed to hate, love, cry, scream, or be. Say goodnight. But cry goodbye. Write songs that will never be played. Pick flowers. Be a hippee. Spark your engine. Cry when your 1953 Chevy is taken away from you. Take a road trip to Modesto with your friends and a dog. Or bunny. Spend summer nights under the stars at the beach. Listen, for once. Hear things you've never heard before. Look around. See the beauty in it? It's there. Waiting to be seen. On a rainy day. In my head. Alone. Waiting to be noticed. Nobody understands. You. Or me. Or us. Do things. As if you'd die. Make a soundtrack to your life. Ignore things. Makes amends. Write pointless essays. Blog, and blog, and blog till you die. Wash my hands of you. Get to the bottom of this. This walk that we share together.

What if I'm really nobody? Can I not be a part of this Hollywood hallucination? No, she lives in this hallucination. And she sees everything full of beauty. She finds it in everything. Even you.
03.03.03, 1:17 PM
When John and I were going out. A few years ago. He bought me a fuzzy, little, rabid, white, stuffed bunny with brown spots for my birthday. And his younger brother had to bring the stuffed bunny to school in a glittery, shiny, plastic, pink bag for me. He bought me heart-shaped pencil tops and fluffy keychains. So what did I do? Broke his newly-bruised heart a week before our one-year anniversary.Could I be more heartless? Souless? Loveless? The answer to that is findless.
03.01.03, 3:08 PM
And now I understand. You can't record it. Feelings. You can't record or copy them. You can't replicate them. All feelings. They're all different. You can't have the same one twice. You can't carry out a feeling. They're fleeting. But. Somewhere. There's a little society full of feelings.

The feeling I used to get when I heard "Horses in the City" by Nina Gordon. The feeling I got when I first fell in love. The feeling I got when I met James Marsters. The feeling I got when I had my first kiss. The feeling I got when there would be a movie-of-the-week moment. The feeling I got when I first saw the trailer for "Winding Roads". The feeling I got when I fell in love with non-X-mas twinkle lights. The feeling I got when I went to the beach at night for the first time. The feeling I got when I finished my blog layout. The feeling I got when my sister came home with our bunny, Benji. The feeling I got when me and Toby used to plan to leave Gardena and move to Modesto. The feeling I got when I went to my first dance. The feeling I got when I heard my first Dashboard Confessional song. The feeling I would get when I'd find something so antique and magical. The feeling I got when me and Napua used to pick rocks and flowers out of the neighbors' garden. The feeling I got when I learned the C chord. The feeling I got when I finished my website. The feeling I got when I started my forever-unfinished indie movie. The feeling I got when I finished any Franchesca Lia Block novel. The feeling I got when we went to Disneyland that day. The feeling I got when something would grow in my $1.99 flowering pot. The feeling I got when Grandma gave me her Kuipo barrel necklace with the letter "Y" on it. The feeling I got when I'd walk alone on Manoa Road in Hawaii. The feeling I got when I popped my first firecracker on New Year's Eve. The feeling I got when Chieko introduced us to Anthony Kiedis's dad. The feeling I got when I stayed out till past 4:00AM for the first time. The feeling I got when I first rode in Aram's super-rad Mustang. The feeling I got when we were free. The feeling I got when me and Michelle died laughing when we were watching "Winding Roads". The feeling I got when me and Amanda and Nicole used to dance to The Flys and Green Day. The feeling I got when Uncle Clayton first brought me and Manda to Haunanuma Bay.

No wait, that was a scary feeling. Fish are scary.

The feeling I'd get when I see a scene in a movie that was directed well. Or hear good dialouge. Or see good set design. The feeling I got when I was in elementary school and we used to wait until 1:00AM every Friday just to watch an hour of "Are-Oh-Vee". The feeling I got when I first realized my passion for Hollywood. The feeling I got when I bought Rocky, the Wonder Mouse. The feeling I got when me and Amanda took care of Rocky and Benji the first night. The feeling I got when used to sit on the front porch at night and stare into the sky at the stars, just gazing...then Ryan would start walking over and I'd run back in the house. The feeling I got when me and Amanda used to talk about everything, all at once. The feeling I got when I realized that me and Amanda are best friends. The feeling I got when I used to go to the zoo, and I'd run straight to the pink flamingoes habitat. The feeling I got when I first went to The Black Olive, a little Italian cafe kinda thing. The feeling I got when Napua had her big sleep-overs and we wouldn't sleep. The feeling I got when I'd spend hours on my Star Wordprocessor, trying to figure out a plot for the script. The feeling I'd get when I'd pictured everything that I'm doing or seeing as if it were in a movie. With background music and everything. The feeling I got when I made my first webdesign. And, I suspect, the feeling that I'll get when I finish this blog entry.

They can't be recorded or written down. They can't be reproduced. Someday, I'll eventually forget them. But somewhere. Out there. There's a place. Full of these feelings. Another world of them. Where they live. I wanna go there. There to the place where emotions and memories and feelings live.
02.28.03, 11:35 PM
I can hear them. Through the walls. Talking about me. I hear a few words, here and there. "Suicide". "Alcohol". "Irresponsible". I can't block them out, no matter what I do. I hear them. Hushed voices and serious tones. The walls in this house are too thin. One day. Someday.
02.28.03, 8:44 AM
I have something to confess. I was a hippee in elementary school. Yes, a hippee. Full-on tree-hugging, animal-loving, Lisa Frank-wearing, flower-power child. But I don't blame myself. I was shifting. From simplistic-minded adolescence to full-blown angst-y, world-hating teen-hood. Which is what makes me the anti-philanthropist I am today. Because now, not only am I still shifting from adolescence to adulthood, but I'm filled with angst-filled, teenage-minded philosophies. And. I'm still afraid of heights. Yes, I'm still afraid of climbing the junglegym, only this time, the junglegym's name is Life, and I still stand at the bottom, looking up, afraid to go on. I still sit on the bench, watching Charles Flores draw comics of Sonic the Hedgehog, instead of playing with the rest of the kids. I dwelled on the past before I even had a past. I had insight before I even knew what the word meant. My first kiss. Pre-school. It wasn't a real kiss, of course. I still thought boys had cooties back then. The biggest cootie of them all? Ryan Kerr. It means nothing now, but back then. It was different. It was a happy time in my life. Back before. When sincerity meant sincerity. And virginity. Wasn't even a word in our vocabulary. Would my life had been different? If my mom had kept me at 186th Street Elementary School? But. I would've never met Michelle. If I never met Michelle. I wouldn't have known Eric. I wouldn't have known Phil. I would have known JJ. And his reputation. And I would've stayed away. From it all. None of this would've happened. So. Maybe it's not Eric's fault. Not Phil's fault. Not even mine. It's my mom's. Somehow. I knew it would end up that way. It always ends that way. Or maybe. Maybe I just need someone to blame it on so it makes more sense to me. Or maybe I just don't want to blame it on myself.
02.27.03, 9:01 PM
My eyes are just now drying from the broken sobs of not even 15 minutes ago. I cried. Again. Now I know why they call me emotional. They. Carbon-copied "they". Society of mindless automotons. I feel emotions that they could never understand. Although the tears have dried I still cry. Cry. Cry. In my head. In my soul. I can still feel it. A burning aftertaste of weeps. It's intangible, but it feels like a bat to the stomach. I look at the carousel music box my sister gave me at X-mas. I spell it with an "X". Not Christ. I opened the box. The first thing I see are the earrings Josh gave to me last year. For my birthday. I don't even have pierced ears. Golden. Bent at the corner. $11.99 to get it fixed. But. I never will. The box sings sweetly to me as Dashboard Confessional floats softly in the background. Hands down. Reminds me of Justin. Did he die just last year? I didn't even know can I feel this way? Is it because I forgot him? How can I miss him so much?

He was the lesson. He was our lesson. Our first lesson. Our last lesson. He would never teach again. Never smile. Never walk. Never ditch. Never run. Always. Running. I run from my memories. I try to lose it at the sharp turn ahead. But I end up flying off the cliff. Tricked by my own. The corner is so empty. So desolate. So bare. So quiet. Maybe I miss it. Maybe I want to hide in that corner forever. Lost in a white desert of paint. Lying on the wall. I want to fly away. Forever. It would be desperate, yes, but it would be forever. Anything done out of desperation is later regretted. A goodnight kiss. A last touch. A jump over the cemetary gate. A night of desperate cries. Wish I could regret. I don't care. Desperation is all that keeps me going. I cry. I cry. But. I can't wash away the hate. The fear. The desperation.

My eyes. All puffy. I cried. She laughed. And I cried. And she laughed. Didn't know what I was crying about obviously, by the way she was laughing. I wasn't crying about not being able to meet my rock-glory. I wasn't crying about not having enough money to buy happiness. I wasn't crying over not being able to have a silver-screen high school experience. I wasn't. What was I crying about?

Everything. Everything above. Everything below. Everything inside. Thought of Eric again. And I always cry about that. Thought of Michael. Thought of JJ. Thought of Justin. Thought of the loveless. Thought of this walk that we share together. Thought of the end. And cried. It didn't matter. In her eyes, I'm just an angst-filled teenager that doesn't know anything about the world around me. Just my world.

But. Reality just finds you sometimes. Whether it taps you on the shoulder or kicks you in the head. It's there. Reminding you. You can cry all you want, but it'll be there. Until you die. And even's there. Somewhere. Life. It really is like winding roads. But with better dialouge and more plot. And a mission statement. And the mission statement of your life? Death. Death is what we breathe from the day we're born. So, you can be a dreamer or a doer. I'm a dreamer. No matter how hard I try, it's always gonna be that way. My dream of becoming a doer and not a dreamer was murdered by my Nazi mom. By my own blood. So, you decide. You can spend your whole life crying in your bedroom, writing long blog entries, or you can open the window. Pack. Get out. Get gone. Do what you never had the guts to do when you were a dreamer. Get rescued. Just leave. No matter who or what you're leaving behind. Be desperate. Regret it. Do what you want to do or the chance will just. Pass. You. By.
02.23.03, 10:54 PM
This is my secret. I'm afraid. It may not seem like it...but it's who I am inside. Fear. I'm afraid...of all this big scary life-stuff. I wish it were over. But. No. There's no breaks here. If you look inside me, you'll find it. Fear. Anger. Sadness. Angst. So why am I still here, you ask?

For love.
02.23.03, 10:46 PM
What would you think of me now? So lucky. So strong. So proud. I never said "Thank you" for that. Now I'll never have the chance. May angels lead you in.
02.18.03, 5:05 PM
He wants to make me feel. Pain. Wants it to hurt. Not to forget. He'll always be there. Crys of jumbled words between wails of angry screams. The past is not the past. It interferes with what's now. Living. Killing.

So, why'd you do it? Why'd you hurt me? Why do you have to destroy everything in your path? Why are you still here? It hurts, you know. Everytime. So why?
02.17.03, 5:12 PM
Why not? Why can't I be a part of it? Why can't I have it? Why can't I be free? Everyone else is. Free to be independant. To be who they want. So what's wrong with wanting just a little bit of it? No. Anger. Hate. Pain. That's all you get. You have to cry and slice and die, and in the end, nothing will change. All you can do is cry. Cry. Cry.

I wish I could cry it out of me. Cry the memories away. But. No. It's there. No matter what I think about. Bathwater. There he is. Laundryroom. There he is. Tears, blood, and lip gloss. All lead to this. Creeping over my shoulder. Whispering what I can't hear. Telling me. Over and over. Killing my soul.

One mistake. Haunts me forever. Hate myself for it. ...But. Never again.
02.16.03, 2:05 AM
It hurts. Every single second...I'm thinking about it. Thinking about that day. The day I got wasted and had sex with some guy that lives down the street from me. Everytime I hear anything by No Doubt, even the old stuff, I'm reminded of it. Which is why I hate No Doubt now. I mean, I would've hated it anyway, but now I hate it with a passion. Even when it's completely quiet, like it is now, I can hear it. I can cry all I want in the back of my head, but it'll never go away. This pain. This...suffering. Bitter. And cold. I wish it would be dead, like how I am inside. Constant reminders. Little things. God, I hate it. If you could slit my throat, I wouldn't apologize for bleeding on your shirt. I'd apologize for living.
02.15.03, 1:38 PM
Valentine's day was yesterday. I hate it. Last year, at around this time, was when I first started drinking. It's been a whole year. A whole year since my life ended. And what's worse, than this horrible recollection of memories on such a joyous occasion such as this, is all the couples. Everyone. Couple here, couple there. Everyone's so. In love.

Love. When I think about it now, I feel like I wasn't really in love with Eric. But then again, who's really sure? Who's really sure that they were in love? Maybe they were, and it's just their kind of love.

Great. Valentine's. Happy fucking Valentine's day.
02.12.03, 6:00 AM
It's 6AM. I woke up at 3AM. Blah. Well, I hate everyone in the world. It's morning. In the morning, I feel like Death when I first wake up. I feel like killing everyone. Like I have control over everyone's death. Then, I go back to sleep.
02.07.03, 7:02 PM
I went to visit Yvette's grave today. She died four years ago. I haven't visited her grave for four years. For four years, I walked by that cemetary everyday, and she had been lying in the ground, without one visit from me.

I don't know why I chose to visit her grave now. I just felt like it. I stayed late at school, so, on the way home, I saw the graveyard, and took a detour. I remember exactly where they buried her. I wish I hadn't.

It was painful. I just walked right up to her grave. Sitting there. Silence. I didn't know what to say. So, I turned on my CD player to "Good Night, Sweet Girl" by Ghost of the Robot. I put one headphone on top of her grave. After the song was over, the sun was already setting. The color of the sky was intoxicating. Yellow, red, orange, blue, purple. All melting together to eventually form one big blanket of stars. I sat with Yvette and watched the sun slide down the sky into the horizon, like a Sex Pistols vinyl record raining from above. I still didn't know what to say. An old man with death-watching eyes came up to me and told me that cemetary was closing. I looked up at him, tears welling in my eyes, blurrying my vision. He smiled apologetically and said I could stay as long as I wanted.

I sat silently with Yvette for a while. Finally, I said something. I whispered, "Eve, I'm afraid." It was silent for a while after that. I wasn't expecting an answer. Just some feeling of hope, maybe. I remember when we were little, she asked me if I was ever afraid of anything. I said, "I'm afraid of the dark." She said, "You shouldn't be. The dark won't do anything to you. It's life that you should be afraid of. It's always changing." Of course, I was so young, I didn't know what she was talking about. But even then, it seemed as though she knew more than she lead on. More about life. There was something there. Something right beneath the surface.

She was sparkling. She was something we could never be. She was someone who didn't deserve to die. I would've given my life for her if I'd have known. She had so much more to give than all of us put together. The great ones are always the first to go.

After the long silence, I said, "I'm afraid...I'll forget you. Forget your face. Forget your words of wisdom. Forget your life. I don't want that to happen. I don't want to lose you, Eve." Somewhere in my head, a sick, twisted voice said, "You already have." And it echoed. Over and over. It began screaming in my head, under my skin. I was unable to take it. I broke down. Right then and there. I cried. I was waiting for someone to comfort me. But no. I was alone. Lost. An empty shell. Like Yvette.

I heard her voice. Not her real voice. I remembered things she'd said to me in the past, all come rushing back to me, like a cold rush of air, a wave breaking the tide. Her laughter. Her smile. Casual conversation. Times when she'd see the world, and times when she wished she hadn't.

"B.F.F.? What does that mean?"
"It means we're best friends. And it means it lasts forever."
"So, it's forever? You mean, it can never stop, even if I wanted it to?"
"No, it can never stop."
"But, what does forever mean? What if one of us dies? Is it still forever?"
"Always. If one of us dies, it'll still be there."
"[Holds her hand to her heart] Here."

I almost feel as though she knew. She knew what was to come of her in the end. She was so young...but she knew so much about life. About the cruelty of life. About how everything changes. Nothing stays the same.

"What should I do?"
"Do what you want."
"But, I'm afraid."
"Do it anyway. What if you die tomorrow? If you die, you'll never do it. Why waste your time on being afraid? Life is short. Go on."

I remembered everything. I mean, it's not like Eve put it all in my head at that second. I just remembered certain things we've said. Memorable things. She was noble. She was brave. So much promise in her eyes.

I said, "I'm sorry." I could feel a memory of her, saying, "It's okay." It wasn't her, but it was my sub-consious talking, so I figured it was the closest thing I could get to talking to her. I said I was sorry for all the things I've done. It's not like I was begging forgiveness, because I'm not religious, I'm agnostic. I guess...I just wanted her to know or something. I told her everything that's happened to me in the past four years. Alcohol, drugs, sex. Everything bad. I could see her disapproving face in my head. Then I told her everything good. Bobby and Erika's wedding. Kehau had a baby. I met James Marsters. I told her everything. In the end, that strange sense of peace that's supposed to wash over me never came. I cried all my tears, laughed all my laughs, and said all my words. She, however, was still six feet below me. Her eyes would no longer sparkle with winks of happiness. Her ears will never hear the music her bravery composed. Her lips left all the words of life, she would never taste again. But I loved her. And as long as I keep loving her, she'll always be here. Right here.
02.04.03, 3:34 PM
This weekend...was the best weekend of my life.

I met James Marsters, my rock-'n'-roll-heart-kick-starting movie//rock star. He's sort of the only thing in my life that actually makes sense to me. This feeling of simplicity that he comforts me with will always be the one thing that I ever understood.

His (Ghost of the Robot's) concert will always be the first concert I've ever been to. His carefully-chisled, Greek-statue cheekbones and bleach-blonde hair will always be the first crush I've ever had. His show ("Buffy the Vampire Slayer") will always be the first TV show to show me the way to my love for Hollywood. That night will always be the first night I've ever felt free. He'll always be the brightest star in my pocket full of sky.
02.01.03, 2:22 PM
LUCKY: "He deserved a second chance."
BIANCA: "And your kid?"
LUCKY: "[Not believing] What?"
BIANCA: "Did your kid deserve a second chance too?"
LUCKY: "...You...think I'm responsible for that."
BIANCA: "I never said that. Sorry, I didn't want to overstep or anything-"
LUCKY: "[Angry] Well, you did."
BIANCA: "It wasn't you. I know. It was that guy that raped you."
LUCKY: "[Quiet] But the abortion. That was me, wasn't it?"
[She doesn't answer.]
LUCKY: "[Emotions blow up, she starts crying] You think I WANTED that?! You think I could've prevented that?! You think that I wasn't so proud at the idea that I could bring another life into this world? That I didn't CARE about it, huh? Do you think I didn' it? Didn't hate myself for taking it's life away? For killing the one thing I ever loved in this life more than Eric? No. You're wrong."
BIANCA: "Abortion is wrong. You should've come to my church on Sunday. We talked about--"
LUCKY: "I don't give a shit! Church is for people like you! Insecure people who actually think some hero-type is gonna swoop down and save us! That's bull. People like you need a reality check."
BIANCA: "You know, talking isn't really not going to save it. If you really want to do something good for it, you should pray. Pray to your anonymous unknown higher being or whatever. Just pray."
LUCKY: "That is such bullshit. Praying's not gonna save it. Taking a vow of silence is not gonna save it either. You're so naive. You think all this religion shit helps. You believe in it because you don't know what to do."
BIANCA: "Okay, fine. Someone you knew died...whether you felt it or not, someone died. I'm not blaming you and I realize it wasn't your choice."
LUCKY: "Then what the hell did you mean by that?"
BIANCA: "But please understand that it happened and I'm not trying to...what? By what? Your kid? That?"
BIANCA: "Oh, mourn But why for some guy you don't even know?"
LUCKY: "My kid. We are talking about my kid. My dead, forever-unborn child. The kid that could've been something. I don't know. But something would've been good enough. A little girl ballet dancer. A young boy with artistic hands."
BIANCA: "But when you mercilessly killed it, you didn't seem shaken at all. When you told me you were just like, 'Yeah...okay.' I had no idea. You never told me how it affected you besides that your family didn't trust you."
LUCKY: "Oh, so, now if anyone dies, I'm supposed to tell everyone and share it with the world? I'm sorry if I don't like the idea that I'm always supposed to act the way I feel. I cover these things up so the universe won't know. If your mom died tomorrow, would you tell everyone in the world?"
BIANCA: "Yes. Talking makes me feel better. It helps to talk."
LUCKY: "Bullshit. You know why you'd tell the whole world? Because you want attention! Because you want PROBLEMS! You're making problems for yourself because you want attention. If my mom died tomorrow, I wouldn't share it with anybody. Talking makes me feel worse about it. Because I already HAVE problems. I don't want anymore."
BIANCA: "Then, why'd you kill it?"
LUCKY: "I didn't. My mother did."
01.20.03, 3:00 PM
I miss the low days. I miss the days that we would walk home, talking about guys that didn't exist. I miss the days when we didn't know anything about the world, and the world didn't know anything about us. I miss the days when we cried over spilled milk. What happened to those days? I miss the days of simplicity. They twisted my words.
01.19.03, 12:08 PM
He said, "Aren't you afraid of forgetting?"

I am. Afraid of forgetting someone after they die.

It doesn't mean I love them any less. It just means that I can't remember things as well as I used to.

But...I don't want to. Forget them. I forget a lot of things. Keys, money, homework. But people shouldn't be one of them. Especially one that I loved. I don't like that I don't remember. I don't want it to leave me. Oh, don't deceive me. Never leave me. How could you use a poor maiden so?
01.18.03, 11:22 PM
BOBBY: "What would you do if your mom died?"
LUCKY: "Well, I suppose I would just go on with my life. I wouldn't be that sad about it. And then I'd be guilty that I'm not sadder about it."
BOBBY: "Well, now you've given me something to be guilty about."
LUCKY: " that I think about it, it's actually totally depressing. I mean, she'll never hug me again. I'll never smell her perfume in the morning. She'll never tell me that the music I'm listening to is simply noise. She'll never try to make everything right anymore. She'll never have coffee anymore. She'll never brush her teeth, and she'll never put on make-up anymore. She'll never...breathe again."
BOBBY: "I guess...but why is that sad?"
LUCKY: "I don't know. When my grandma died, I had thoughts like that. I thought, 'She'll never have orange juice ever again.' They're natural thoughts and actions. We forget phone numbers when it's clearly on speed dial, we can't figure out what to wear to the funeral because we're trying to find the shirt that the deceased once commented on, we cry in the school bathrooms, we punch in walls."
BOBBY: "Well...isn't that depression? Or the modern way of mourning?"
LUCKY: "No. That's how you react when someone you love dies. Anger. Sadness. Pain. It's all part of the package."
BOBBY: "Well, I don't get why orange juice would cross your mind."
LUCKY: "Well, have you ever lost anyone so close to you?"
BOBBY: "No. So, I guess I wouldn't understand, then. Sorry."
LUCKY: "Well, just think about it. I mean, does your girlfriend hug you?"
BOBBY: "Yeah."
LUCKY: "And you like it when she hugs you, right?"
BOBBY: "Mmmmhmmmm."
LUCKY: "Think about it. What if you never felt her hug. Ever again."
BOBBY: "...Okay...I get it. So, with that strong point you've made, I see I'll only care about one person if they die."
LUCKY: "Well, hugging was just an example. Like...Justin. I never hugged him. Yet, his death makes me the saddest. I'll never see him again. Never see his smile. Never hear him running from security. Never see that dorky gray shirt he always wore. Never."
BOBBY: "...Well, you shouldn't blame yourself."
LUCKY: "I wasn't."
BOBBY: "You just said, 'I never hugged him.' Did you think you could've prevented it?"
LUCKY: "Well, I'm sure that even if I had hugged him, it wouldn't have stopped him fr-from killing himself."
01.18.03, 9:46 PM
What it is to be emo? Well, I suppose it's being emotional, if that's what you mean. It's music. It's passion. It's pain. It's memories. It's lying on your floor, listening to soulful music, crying your heart out, writing his name with your finger on the ceiling. It's not a fashion statement. It's not thick, square-framed, black-rimmed glasses. It's the good and bad of the world. It's the reason why some of us are here, and why some of us aren't here anymore. It's why we dwell in bed, cry at night, customize our blogs, and write songs for our dead friends. It's sneaking out of the window at 3:00 AM to lie in the grass of the cemetary, telling your childhood best friend a bedtime story. It's being all alone in the world in a crowded room of people. It's losing your temper over the slightest thing that brings up the past. It's trying to drink your pain away, and having it come back twice as hard. It's slitting your wrists with a picture of your dead boyfriend on your bloody lap. It's staying up late with your best friend, playing guitar on your front porch. It's loving something so much, you'd give up your life for it. It's...something that I can't understand, but live everyday. It's falling off your bed.
01.12.03, 12:21 AM
My bedtime story is not one that little kids dream about. It's more like the nightmare you wake up from at 4:00am, gasping for oxygen. The beginning starts like any other would. Love, kisses, hugs, and all that happy-shiny crap. Then comes the pain. The hate. The death of your life. You're forbidden to see anymore of that phony illusion that your family and friends cast out to protect you. Never have you known suffering like this. This is life. Someone will eventually scream "Welcome to Thunderdome" in your head and you've got to battle the rest of your existence on your own. It caught me in my unawares. As it would anyone, I suspect. What caught me by surprise, you say? Well...

Eric did.

He was the love of my life. They always are. I had never known love before him. It was shitty, though. He didn't love me back. Ain't love grand? You're probably thinking that it wasn't that bad because it's not like he lead me on and broke my heart. No, it was much worse. He jumped out of nowhere, ripped out my still-beating heart, cut it into a million shattering pieces, and left me as a hollow mockery of human condition. I didn't even get the memories of a true relationship. I got the after-taste of pain without a before-taste of love. After Eric, I had emotional breakdowns all the time. I turned to alcohol. Alcohol became unprotected sex. Unprotected sex became pregnancy. Pregnancy became abortion. Abortion became therapy and rehab. Therapy and rehab became anti-depressant pills. Anti-depressant pills became pain-killers. Pain-killers became cutting my wrists. Cutting my wrists didn't become death. All my friends ever wanted to talk about anymore was intervention-time. I hated my life. I wanted to die every second of everyday. All because of Eric. Who knew that one person could change my life the way it did? Eventually, I got over it. Lost a lot of friends. Got a bad rep at school. Then, everyone just started dying. I don't know where it came from. It's like they were all being picked off, one by one, like grapes on a vine. First Chieko. She had diabetes. Then Grandma. She had cancer. Uncle Wally. Got sick one day, and died before we knew it. Josie. She got in a car crash. I never got to apologize to her. Then, Justin. I think Justin's death hurt me the most. He commited suicide. It really makes you think. I saw him. He seemed fine. Ditching, smoking, all lead to this. Death. And Eric...he lead to how I am now. Dead to the world. Jaded. Cynical. But on the inside, crying. Hurt. Pained. Suffering. Eric was the death of my life. The moment I fell for him, my life ended.

...It will never be okay, will it?