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12 February 2003 - 5:42 pm
o fool.
there are little bits of glass on my desk.
//
once i shed the whole of me then i'll be smiling
//
i remember in middle school i was sort of friends with the class loser who everyone hated and made fun of. i talked to him on the marble steps outside of the school waiting for the bus to come and pick me up waiting for my mother and he would come outside and i would sit there and talk with him unless someone happened by in which case it looked like he was talking to himself. good old peter legrow. he had issues. we all did. his were more apparent. we called him monkey-boy because he had a fat face and funny ears. and he kinda looked like it. swinging upside down on the monkey bars. monkey boy, we called him. cut out "peter : vulgar; penis" from the dictionary and glued it to his desk.
i'm one of those people who, when he went to his house and cried his eyes out to his mother, who comforted him, she said "don't worry about it, honey. they'll get theirs someday. remember. what goes around comes around. it's okay, you'll be fine."
i laughed raucously throughout most of social studies. got stuck in the remedial program for kids who have "troubles" and that carried into high school. (he cursed himself)
these journals are all for pity. it's a good way to get pity, a good way to see the inner you. i sat here this afternoon writing shit i didn't remember while mark and jason talked about gender roles behind me. pieces of glass on my desk. i thought all of this was done. i broke down last night (jesus fucking christ) to jason and that was it. woke up and i was fine today. it was so good.
and then it came down again. attention chicken little. (once i shed the whole of me) and i have to go to portland tonight and i don't think i can make it. i don't think i can make it. i think i might throw up. i'm not going to dinner, i'm not going to repeat the same mistake i made last night, i'm not going. not with people. not again. i better get used to this isolation. of the not-caring. because everyone is inherently self-centered. and that's how it is. we're all alone.
and so it won't matter how much i am cutting myself. i don't care, why should you? pieces of glass from the thing that lauren ashmorgan gave me one year in highschool. "you will because you can" it says. three layers. someone reaching for a star. glass front. i took it apart, dropped the glass on the floor. it shattered satisfyingly. kind of ironic, eh?
(trailed by a mess)
i am so fucking attractive! the hottest thing alive is a sensitive young writer, isn't it? isn't it? oh how sensitive i am and so sensitive that i bleed for you! no, i bleed for me. I CUT. THIS IS FOR PITY. do you see? do you see? this is for PITY. SO PITY ME. or don't. i don't give a fuck.
"going to dinner?" (shake my head) "okay seeya." door closes. they walk away. this is fine, this is fine, i understand this, this is fine.
YOU FUCKING LEFT ME ALONE AT ARIEL'S THAT TIME. CURLED UP ON THE FLOOR ALONE. I THOUGHT I WOULD DIE. NO I HAVE NOT AND WILL NOT FORGIVE THAT
i hate all of you so fucking much. so much. and it's so much easier to hate me back, so i wish you'd just do it already. (once i shed the whole of me)
do whatever you want. i am that person. the one who is "getting his" and the one who will not recover. i get closer every night. i am malade. je suis malade. mal a la tete. ceci n'est pas une tete. ceci n'est pas une vie. quelqu'un vie? de rien. rien. bonne chance, pendejo.
pieces of glass. how easy. how hard. no one would find me until later. what a ghastly shock. i don't want to die. and i do. and i don't. i want parts of me to die. i want everyone else dead. i want that window to explode.
like in the dream i had last night. everyone i have ever known and do know in a movie-theatre with me. there is a fire alarm, we all go out. i return inside when it is over and no one returns with me. on the back of every chair, their coats lie draped. in the centre of the house, i see a bright yellow one. mark's. the projector fizzles and goes out.
& there is darkness.