Why am I so unhappy?
Why am I so jealous of those who I should be happy for?
Why am I so angry. All the time?
Why do I never do the things I really want to do?
Why do I feel alone even when I am surrounded?
Why can't I see outside the worst?
Why couldn't I beautiful? Be noticed? Be adored?
Why couldn't I be fearless like I want to be?
Why can't I forgive and be forgiven?
Why can't I have money instead of all this empty longings?
Why can't I feel love the way others do?
Why do I feel so lost even when I think I've finally found some bearings?
Why don't I have talent or something that makes me feel worthwhile?
Why does everyone who I love leave me?
Why can't I stop thinking about ending my life?
Why can't I get over my past?
Why can't I stop killing myself about my future?
Why does everything I let myself trust in fall apart on me?
Why can't I just stop worrying and allow myself to be who I actually am and not who I wish I was?
Please lord relieve me from all this. Please save me. Please please save. I do not know my way the out of myself. I do not know if I will survive these inner battles. Will you love me when even when I've give up? Will love me when I am nothing? Will you love me even when I don't believe in anything but death? Will you love even when I give up on you?
I am sick inside and I am terrified I will never get well.
Tuesday, 31 May 2011
Tuesday, 24 May 2011
Canadian Cliche
BIEKSA BIEKSA I WANT YOUR BABIES! The Vancouver Canucks, who have not been to the Stanley Cup finals for more than 15 years, just won the semifinals tonight! THE STANLEY CUP IS NEXT NUCKERS!!! No that was not a spelling error for "fuckers", I mean the Canucks dipshit.
Thing is I've never been a hockey fan, not even close. But for some reason this year I've become one of those tardoes that watch every game and yell at the T.V and cheer and hoot like a drunk when we score. Shit. I'm really becoming a Canadian cliche. Drinking Molson and watching hockey eh?
Whatever. Kevin Biekska scored the last goal after TWO damn overtimes and a game that went on 4 hours. Hence again I say, BIEKSA BIEKSA I WANT YOUR BABIES!
Monday, 23 May 2011
Travelling Settler
Sorry. I've been gone. Although I'm just apologizing to myself cuz no one reads this shit anyways. Christina says she's sorry. I like this third person point of view. Christina likes cake. Christina likes music. Christina likes dancing like a whore when no ones looking. Christina likes to learn valuble things like how to make pot brownies....Okay I'm finished my little weird rant. For now.
Anyways remember that "friend" that came to visit me. He was visiting for about a week and I had him stay over and go gallivanting round and doing the general touristy shit. Thing was I was the tourist. I realized how beautiful this place is because I finally went around and really checked out places cuz I was forced to. I had to navigate and plan things to show my friend since obviously he wanted to see what Vancouver was like. We went to Alouette Lake in Maple ridge which is this secluded lake high in the mountains. It was one of those rare sunny days and the air unusually warm. When we went through almost an hour of windy roads through endless rows of trees we got there. It was so gorgeous and unbelievable I can only say it was so damn perfect it looked like we stepped into a post card. The ice cap mountains, the rocky shore, the ice blue water, and thousands of evergreens chilling all around us. We even had a picnic. Yes. I thought picnics were pussy but hey, anything involving food and lying in the sun is hella good.
I took him round Stanley park, and we walked along the whole Vancouver coastline. From English bay all the way down to Third Beach. I introduced him to my friends (which was quick cuz we established I'm a loser). We talked, and joked, and had few petty annoyances with eachother (but I mean come on 5 STRAIGHT days with someone, thats bound to bloody happen). Generally it was a good visit.
Thing was, I realise how easy it is to have fun. Or at least how simple pleasure can be sometimes. The last Saturday before he left we decided to head into downtown. I suggested this bar down on Davie that had some pool tables and an old 70's rock band that usually played the golden oldies on weekends. We got to the city kinda early so we walked around and looked at stores and followed beach along the seawall. Just cruising and not doing much of anything but still having a good time together.
By about 9 it was finally nightime outside. You know it's summer when it gets dark so late. Eventually we went to the pub and ordered a few Molson beers (to give him a proper Canadian experience I said) and listened to the band's first set. Sitting at a bar table we sipped our beers and sang along to "Message in a Bottle" by the Police. Eventually my hands itched to play pool and we set up the balls on the green felt. Under the soft yellow lamps we played round after round. Usually he won, and usually I just cursed. And all along the music kept pouring out of the band so when we weren't having a turn hitting some balls, we'd use our pool sitcks to air guitar along with the music. I was having a good time doing nothing. I felt relaxed in a way I had never been before. Like everything was good. Like I didn't need anything more than this stool and person and ocassional sips of hearty Canadian juice.
So my advice to those who lived in a place for too long, become a tourist again. Look up cheesy attractions people usually see and actually see them. Get out of town for a bit. Go exploring. Even if it's just on foot. Look up parks. Find rundown pubs. Go shopping with no money. Trust me you haven't seen and tried everything where you are. Even if you've been there your whole life, there's always things you miss. Things you didn't notice or bother to look at until you had to show it to someone else. Be the touring citizen. The travelling settler. The visiting resident. Get outside of your house. Get outside of yourself. Or at least go get a Molson.
Just realized how good a commercial line that would be. Maybe I should pitch it to the beer company?
Anyways remember that "friend" that came to visit me. He was visiting for about a week and I had him stay over and go gallivanting round and doing the general touristy shit. Thing was I was the tourist. I realized how beautiful this place is because I finally went around and really checked out places cuz I was forced to. I had to navigate and plan things to show my friend since obviously he wanted to see what Vancouver was like. We went to Alouette Lake in Maple ridge which is this secluded lake high in the mountains. It was one of those rare sunny days and the air unusually warm. When we went through almost an hour of windy roads through endless rows of trees we got there. It was so gorgeous and unbelievable I can only say it was so damn perfect it looked like we stepped into a post card. The ice cap mountains, the rocky shore, the ice blue water, and thousands of evergreens chilling all around us. We even had a picnic. Yes. I thought picnics were pussy but hey, anything involving food and lying in the sun is hella good.
I took him round Stanley park, and we walked along the whole Vancouver coastline. From English bay all the way down to Third Beach. I introduced him to my friends (which was quick cuz we established I'm a loser). We talked, and joked, and had few petty annoyances with eachother (but I mean come on 5 STRAIGHT days with someone, thats bound to bloody happen). Generally it was a good visit.
Thing was, I realise how easy it is to have fun. Or at least how simple pleasure can be sometimes. The last Saturday before he left we decided to head into downtown. I suggested this bar down on Davie that had some pool tables and an old 70's rock band that usually played the golden oldies on weekends. We got to the city kinda early so we walked around and looked at stores and followed beach along the seawall. Just cruising and not doing much of anything but still having a good time together.
By about 9 it was finally nightime outside. You know it's summer when it gets dark so late. Eventually we went to the pub and ordered a few Molson beers (to give him a proper Canadian experience I said) and listened to the band's first set. Sitting at a bar table we sipped our beers and sang along to "Message in a Bottle" by the Police. Eventually my hands itched to play pool and we set up the balls on the green felt. Under the soft yellow lamps we played round after round. Usually he won, and usually I just cursed. And all along the music kept pouring out of the band so when we weren't having a turn hitting some balls, we'd use our pool sitcks to air guitar along with the music. I was having a good time doing nothing. I felt relaxed in a way I had never been before. Like everything was good. Like I didn't need anything more than this stool and person and ocassional sips of hearty Canadian juice.
So my advice to those who lived in a place for too long, become a tourist again. Look up cheesy attractions people usually see and actually see them. Get out of town for a bit. Go exploring. Even if it's just on foot. Look up parks. Find rundown pubs. Go shopping with no money. Trust me you haven't seen and tried everything where you are. Even if you've been there your whole life, there's always things you miss. Things you didn't notice or bother to look at until you had to show it to someone else. Be the touring citizen. The travelling settler. The visiting resident. Get outside of your house. Get outside of yourself. Or at least go get a Molson.
Just realized how good a commercial line that would be. Maybe I should pitch it to the beer company?
Tuesday, 17 May 2011
Somehow
Had a good day. Vancouver is beautiful in the sun. It's a brand new place. It feels different. And it feels good.
I'm living there. I'm going to somehow. Fuck it even if I have to become a whore/bum/song player at bus station person. I have to do it. Because it's what I need.
I'm living there. I'm going to somehow. Fuck it even if I have to become a whore/bum/song player at bus station person. I have to do it. Because it's what I need.
Monday, 16 May 2011
It's all Different
I came across a picture today. And like every other day I had a mini breakdown (yes I know). Another one.
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| Grad 2010. from left to right: Sammi, Michelle, Sarah, me, and Ali |
I can't help it. Looking at these people, these girls, who were once very important to me makes me sad. Because in honesty this was probably the last time we saw eachother, and were happy. That happy. That wild and reckless and ready to take on the world. Sticking our tongues out at life and basically saying screw the shit, we're gonna be on top of it all. Together.
But only after a year it's all different.
Sammi went away to business school and with that brought her life with her. She traded in hangouts for glamourous parties. She traded in brunch catch up dates for maybe a quick phone call between mall time. And she traded me in for a better version of what she wanted.
Michelle, moved to Kelowna. And it wasn't so much the physical distance that drove a wedge between us, but an emotional one. She won't speak to me anymore. We had a fight about something I can't even remember, some stupid trivial shit that matters in the moment but means shit dick later. But I loved her. So I phoned her. Every day and every night. For a month. Apologizing and begging for things to be okay again. And she ignored every single one. Finally one night I cornered her. I got her aunt to put her on the phone. I said I miss you. I said I love you. I said I want to fix things. She was quiet and at the end asked "Anything else?" like I was just finished telling her a grocery list. Knowing I was losing her I said "I don't know how to fix this..."
"Well I'm tired and I had a late night the other day. So good night."
Click.
When I told Michelle I loved her, she didn't care. To say that night was one of the worst nights of my life would be an understatement.
Sarah found God. Before in high school we joked and laughed at those overly religious people. The ones who could only talk about Jesus and who constantly threatened us "You're going to hell unless you devote yourself to Jesus. Find God now, turn or burn! Turn or burn!"
We'd just smile and cockily call back, "We've already got a pent house suite reserved in hell. We're all set thanks!"
But then her brother died. One of those freak car accidents that you don't believe actually stole someone from you. I was in shock. Sarah was devistated. She couldn't cope. And like an ever ready Christian ready to pounce on the smallest sign of weakness, her born again Jesus sister-in-law converted her. Sarah. Wild, unstoppable, independant, free thinker Sarah became a Christian. She no longer talked to me. But preached. Her mind was like a baby. No thoughts at all. Just spewing lessons and teachings in Christianity.
I couldn't talk to her anymore. All she did was judge and critize me and the way I lived. It was all guilt. If that's religion, if thats salvation, then they can fucking keep it. I'm not guilty of who I am, and I don't think God is either. Like Michelle I lost her, and there wasn't anything I could do.
I took a year off after graduation. I thought it was going to be for travel, and living, and figuring out who the hell I am and what I want to do with my life. But my dad set it. With his critical abuse and constant interrogations I had no choice but to learn about money. I had to get two jobs. Bussing tables and folding shirts. Sometimes I worked 7 days a week. And always I would cry myself into sleep. And here I am now. Still months later. Alone except the company of hate and desolation.
Ali. She still lives nearby. Roughly in the same position as me, (working and still at home). We're still friends and I still see her from time to time. But I would be lying to say we're close, or at least as close as we used to be. When we're together it's not fun anymore. We squabble, or sit in silence, or I try and get her to perk up. Because there is nothing joyful about becoming an adult. But how can one drowning man save another drowning man?
I am spent. I have no more energy to give to others. I was the clown, the jokester, the wild child. I gave everyone my love, my energy, my attention, and they stole it all. And walked away. Being around Ali and her monotone blandness, just brings that fact up fresh again. I'm tired. So bloody tired of having to lick the wounds given from beatings.
I look at this picture of graduation and all I feel in lonliness. Emptiness. And longing. I wonder if they remeber of me at all? Miss me at all? Even just a passing thought of wondering where I am. I want to matter. To someone. I want to be able to stick tongue back out at life, and not be terrified someone will chop it off.
But most of all I wonder
Will I get out of here in time to save what's left of me?
Sunday, 15 May 2011
Lied to a Friend
What is wrong with me. I find a friend, and I hide.
Let me explain. Through email and skype I have kept in contact with one of my best friends from New York. Since he lives in the far east it kinda made it hard to see him. In truth we never actually met. Until now. We met through a friend and clicked instantaniously. And from that moment on I told him everything about me. Yes everything. My bad habits. My secret bad thoughts. My hatred towards my father. My fragile wishes. And even about being a loner. And he listened. Then he told me everything about his life. In short, a friend. A fucking real friend.
And he's here. He decided fuck it, let's meet. And nervously I said yes.
What if he doesn't like me in person? What if I don't like him?
But he arrived. It was awkward at first. But I gave in, and we hugged. Everything always makes a little more sense once you've hugged. So we went out to lunch, and my knees swished back and for the whole meal. I wanted to listen to what he was saying but I was too worried about whether this sloppy ass burger was dripping down my face. Let me clarify, I don't like him. He's like a girlfriend. In fact more girly than I am (which is pretty easy since I say screw off to basically anything pink and feminine).
But then why couldn't I relax? Why couldn't I stop getting word constipation and laughing when I didn't think it was funny? Why wasn't I actually listening and talking effortlessly like we have on skype every night for the past year? Eventually this charade I was putting on was making me exahusted. So I lied. I told him I had to work. When I didn't. So he left.
What the fuck is wrong with me? I find a person who could have the potential to be my best friend, but I still end up making myself alone. I can't relate to people anymore. I hide behind screens, work, family, and I don't allow myself to trust in anyone.
You know you're really lonely when you realize you don't have anyone you can trust. Whether it was by my own design or not, my whole life I haven't connected to another person. I've seen glimpses or had nights that had hope, but the next morning they're gone. Like it never happened at all.
I wish understood myself. I wish I had confidence to be happy. And I just bloody wish I hadn't lied to a friend.
Let me explain. Through email and skype I have kept in contact with one of my best friends from New York. Since he lives in the far east it kinda made it hard to see him. In truth we never actually met. Until now. We met through a friend and clicked instantaniously. And from that moment on I told him everything about me. Yes everything. My bad habits. My secret bad thoughts. My hatred towards my father. My fragile wishes. And even about being a loner. And he listened. Then he told me everything about his life. In short, a friend. A fucking real friend.
And he's here. He decided fuck it, let's meet. And nervously I said yes.
What if he doesn't like me in person? What if I don't like him?
But he arrived. It was awkward at first. But I gave in, and we hugged. Everything always makes a little more sense once you've hugged. So we went out to lunch, and my knees swished back and for the whole meal. I wanted to listen to what he was saying but I was too worried about whether this sloppy ass burger was dripping down my face. Let me clarify, I don't like him. He's like a girlfriend. In fact more girly than I am (which is pretty easy since I say screw off to basically anything pink and feminine).
But then why couldn't I relax? Why couldn't I stop getting word constipation and laughing when I didn't think it was funny? Why wasn't I actually listening and talking effortlessly like we have on skype every night for the past year? Eventually this charade I was putting on was making me exahusted. So I lied. I told him I had to work. When I didn't. So he left.
What the fuck is wrong with me? I find a person who could have the potential to be my best friend, but I still end up making myself alone. I can't relate to people anymore. I hide behind screens, work, family, and I don't allow myself to trust in anyone.
You know you're really lonely when you realize you don't have anyone you can trust. Whether it was by my own design or not, my whole life I haven't connected to another person. I've seen glimpses or had nights that had hope, but the next morning they're gone. Like it never happened at all.
I wish understood myself. I wish I had confidence to be happy. And I just bloody wish I hadn't lied to a friend.
Renouncing Kid, Sipping Adult.
I went to my first official club last night. And it was weird. And it was awesome. And it was mind blowingly crazy.
It's called Celebrities, and it's on Davie street in downtown Van. And for those who aren't Vancouverites, you won't clue in to the fact that anything on Davie street is Gay. The rainbow colored flags on each light pole, the thousands of hairdressers, and even a shop called "Erotic Dreams" for those with fetishes is present on Davie street. I love it all :)
The thing is Gay is happening. And also very stylish. So I'm no homo hater.
Plus the Gay guys are always nice to look at. Straight men should take some fucking grooming lessons from Homos. Maybe then they's learn nasty, stinky, and baggy ass is NOT hot in any form of clothing.
At 7pm my best friend Ali and I were both showered, spritzed, hair straightened, and bedazzled to full slut mode. I had on this little black dress with lace cups and a hemline short enough for heart attacks. Plus it fit my like a clothing condom and actually made me look like I had boobs (a fucking impossible thing seriously). Ali, who rarely gets dressed up had shocking opened her hobo jacket to reveal a black pencil skirt and blue frilly tank top. Very sexy chique. I told her I was impressed in my own fucked up way of speaking what I want to say.
" If I was Gay I'd totally hit on you" -me
"Thanks. I think."- Ali
Luckily Ali knows me well enough to laugh and understands the sentiment behind my weirdness.
Now at this point we were going to have to bus and skytrain for two hours. Dressed like hookers. But eventually I convinced Ali to drive us there. It took gas money to convince her.
Going there I was nervous. What if it sucked. What if I look to slutty? Too dressed up. Too young?
I had only partied illegally at people homes till now. It felt weird to actually be in a club where it's expected to drink and party. And legally too.
Since I still haven't had the will or time to get my drivers license (yes I am lame) I had to bring my passport for I.D check. Like I was fucking going to the border HA. I kept thinking what if they turn me away? Like I was guilty or using a fake ID. It just sunk in a little slowly. When we passed the bouncers and walked down the hall to this low lit dance floor and massive bar room it finally clicked. I am 19. I am 19.
I've been a kid for so long, watching my older sister getting ready for Saturday night partying, listening around the corner as my brother and his friends pre-drank before heading to a rave. I just always thought it was some kind clique I would never get in. But hey I am. And ordering my first margarita over the glowing bar and flirting with the cute blonde bar tender, I smiled knowing I'm in. FINALLY.
The dj was good. But mostly random beats music that tries to sound rave-ish but gets wayyyy too repetitive after awhile. But at around 11 it got more dance music. And loud. To the point where I actually covered my ears. So me and Ali and Cheyenne and the girls all danced. Like it hadn't been years, I loved it. I was so into the music I actually stomped. And grinded. And whiped my sweaty hair around like a lasoo. The smoke machine started blowing, making me lost and hidden in it's clouds. I felt unntouchable and very far away from being reserved. I danced like a slut. I couldn't help it. Give me rave music and heavy beats, and I'll give you a very wild girl. We only stopped dancing for piss breaks. Other than that we were on the dance floor the whole night.
Stupidly I was wearing my fav hooker heels (which also happened to be 4 inches high) and so by the end of the night I couldn't walk. My feet literally felt broken and bruised. But fuck it. It was worth it. Plus as satisfaction I saw one of my brother's old friends at the club. The last time I had last seen him I was tailing after him and my brother in a puppy dog t-shirt. Basically when I wanted to be noticed but was too small to notice.
I went up to him, and screamed "CODY?" over the borderline deafining music. He looked at me with narrowed eyes, trying to place me. After a moment he realized who I was and his eye widened to the size of golf balls. "TINA?" he asked unsure and shocked. We hugged and squealed like only mid drunks can. We talked briefly. Which I had done on purpose to look allusive and important. I think it had that affect. Cause for an hour or two later I could sense his gaze on my back while I kept dancing with my friends.
It just felt nice to finally impress someone. To shock them. To blow their image of you. Get a fresh beginning. Or at the very least a stare. I felt good. The dancing. The music. Yes even the three Long Islands and one margarita were helping. Although not my stomach. Just my set of mind. I was letting loose for the first time in a long time. I could see why people go out every weekend. Because even though I was renouncing kid, I was sipping adult. I wished I could feel that sexy all the time. That unleashed. But like every good night it ended. Going to bed exhausted and still buzzing, all I thought was yummm, tomorrow is sleep in Saturday. I slept in till 1.
Note to self: If going out, make sure no work shifts are scheduled before noon.
Friday, 13 May 2011
F.U.Blogger
This post is self explanitory. Blogger deleted or didn't post my last two stories because apparently it was "temporarily out of order". Thanks blogger for fucking me in the ass. Didn't know a computer could be Gay but thanks for enlightening me.
Wednesday, 11 May 2011
Winter in May
This is a prayer. A Canadian winter-for-too-fucking-long prayer. It has been raining for a week now. Now for you out of towners when I say Vancouver is raining, I don't mean the cute trinkle of wet air that makes the earth smell sweet and is welcome to quench the thristy ground. I mean it has literally been a monsoon of fat rain, grey, and can't-even-get-out-of-your-doorway-without-getting-pissed-on raining. For. A. Week.
My mind is full of palmy trees and warm sunshine, but it has become so foreign to this place, I don't think it even remembers the sun. I miss the heat. The feeling of lying with your nearly naked body in that scorching sand that bakes your skin. Or the way the sun makes the world behind your lids orange when you close your eyes. But mostly that feeling when you lye down directly in that sunlight and let the heat and the rays just massage your brain and pour over you skin like a hot towel. Hmmmmm. So fucking good I can taste the summer in my spit. But being an westcoaster I am cursed with winter in May.
So I am sending out a prayer. A crying, humble, honest prayer to the universe. I am not asking for money, or sex, or even that new mini BMW on the market. I am simply asking for one day of scorching sunshine in this month of grey soup. Please. Please. Please. That is all.
And PS. if you could maybe send me a Thunderbird 1975 convertible with one of those collapsable roofs to better enjoy the sunshine, well I wouldn't really refuse that either :P
Tuesday, 10 May 2011
Where there's birthday candles, there's fire.....
So I turned 19 yesterday as you know. And with my luck it was on a Monday and I was sick. Yupp. Good Ol Murphy is always present for my birthdays. If you don't know what that means, it's called Murphy's Law, and basically Murphy's law says "If anything can go wrong, it will." So when I say Murphy and I are real close, I really mean things go wrong in my life about 99.9% of the time. It's like those germ killer cleaning products on TV that say that get rid of 99.9% of the bacteria. Wish I had some spray bottle to kill the 99.9% of my shitty luck.
Oh well it wasn't a total bust. I still managed to get some birthday wishes. On facebook that it. My mom (well my step mom who might as well be my mommy cuz she's the freakin bestest) took me out and we had steak dinner and went to a pub for a long island iced tea (which are fucking delicious by the way so being an alcoholic is starting to look appealing). She was so giddy as well and to my embarassment bragged to the waitress about my bday, to which I was then given a shooter on the house. Guess what the shot was called? A porn star. And it tasted like one. Dirty, nasty, and made my stomach quiver. But hey at least the name was truthful :P
I went out with my girlfriends after for appetizers and more drinks. And you want to know the awesome thing? The seating hostess told us about the drink specials that night. For once I wasn't seen as a 15 year baby. I mean I'm shrimpy, and my boobs are microscopic, and I'm like about 5 feet, so I've even been asked going down a pool slide, "Do you need your parents to go down with you?" It's pretty frickin ball busting and I usually feel like slapping those tards but last night, on the night I really wanted to NOT be a pip-squeak, the seating hostess asked if we wanted to know about the "House drink speacials" and she wasn't talking about pop either. Take that mo!
Of course sometimes, it really is nice to still be thought of as young. Because you know how people freak out about white hairs or wrinkles, I have been one of those people since actually being 15 years old. I have and had middle age crisis' in my adolescence up till now. In fact the night before my present birthday I had kind of an emotional break down. Complete with visits to the ice cream parlor (aka my freezer), pill popping (tylenol, sleeping pills, and cough syrup, cuz hey they're legal), and fits of crying giggling and general psycho behavior. I didn't sleep. I tried to blame it on my cold or my anticipation. But I knew it was because all I could think about is I'm 19 and what the fuck have I done with my life? I mean I've travelled a bit, finished 12 years of emotionally damaging high school, and then worked at a shithole 9-5 job. Where had my 19 years of LIFE gone. Where was my novel that I was supposed to written? Where was my career goals? Where was the world tour I was supposed to have started? Where was those awesome friends and boyfriend my movie version of life scripted? And why do I feel the same as I always have? Lost. Completely. And utterly. Lost.
I wish I were a bimbo at these times. One of those pretty happy go lucky people. The ones that their only care in the world is their next hair appointment or if Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie are still together. Or just one of those positive people that live in this world of pretend where they see daisies growing out of landmines. You know those glass half full kind of people.
But I'm not. I think and worry too much. In fact as soon as I give my mind enough time and quiet to think, I begin to fear and question everything, including myself. Because to people who say "The glass is half full," I say "It's half full of shit then."
I am not afraid of dying. I'm afraid of not living. Or as my favorite dark poet wrote from the best movie ever (Dead Poets Society watch it or die stupid) “I went to the woods because I wanted to live deliberately. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life. To put to rout all that was not life and not when I had come to die discover that I had not lived.”
Is that not the most beautiful poetic dark thought in the entire universe? Henry David Thoreau wrote that. I think we could have been friends. Or at the very least aquaintences that talked about the demise of the world over tea and brandy. Those words are probably written in my bones because when I first heard them, I recognized them immediatly. In those few lines he spoke exactly my mind. What I feared and longed for all in one. Because I want to live. I want to go sky diving, and travel, and eat till I explode, or sleep for a month and only get up for a piss. I want to make love and not be counting the minutes till it's over, I want to go to concerts, and operas, and parties with one guest. I want to write books, and make movies, and make people smile. I want a friend who matters to me. But most of all I want to matter to someone.
But I don't have that. And I haven't done any of that. And all 19 means to me is another year in which I didn't suck the marrow out of life, in fact I lost my appetite for living. So like every year on my birthday, where ever there's birthday candles, there's fire. Because all my life goes up in flames.
The only consolation is that I'm still under 20. That birthday will probably be the year I upgrade from tylenol to mushrooms :) But fuck it. My life is not perfect. And I probably will never get to where exactly I want to be. I have to learn to live deliberatly and Carpe Diem the shit out of what I have. I mean I can fantasize all I want about being one of those hippie poets that just vacated their lives to go gallivanting, but then again they didn't have to pay bills, or vote, or get bikini waxes so this generation is a bit more complicated. So I think I'm going to start checking off my bucket list, starting with eating till I explode. Luckily there's some birthday cake leftover.....
Oh well it wasn't a total bust. I still managed to get some birthday wishes. On facebook that it. My mom (well my step mom who might as well be my mommy cuz she's the freakin bestest) took me out and we had steak dinner and went to a pub for a long island iced tea (which are fucking delicious by the way so being an alcoholic is starting to look appealing). She was so giddy as well and to my embarassment bragged to the waitress about my bday, to which I was then given a shooter on the house. Guess what the shot was called? A porn star. And it tasted like one. Dirty, nasty, and made my stomach quiver. But hey at least the name was truthful :P
I went out with my girlfriends after for appetizers and more drinks. And you want to know the awesome thing? The seating hostess told us about the drink specials that night. For once I wasn't seen as a 15 year baby. I mean I'm shrimpy, and my boobs are microscopic, and I'm like about 5 feet, so I've even been asked going down a pool slide, "Do you need your parents to go down with you?" It's pretty frickin ball busting and I usually feel like slapping those tards but last night, on the night I really wanted to NOT be a pip-squeak, the seating hostess asked if we wanted to know about the "House drink speacials" and she wasn't talking about pop either. Take that mo!
Of course sometimes, it really is nice to still be thought of as young. Because you know how people freak out about white hairs or wrinkles, I have been one of those people since actually being 15 years old. I have and had middle age crisis' in my adolescence up till now. In fact the night before my present birthday I had kind of an emotional break down. Complete with visits to the ice cream parlor (aka my freezer), pill popping (tylenol, sleeping pills, and cough syrup, cuz hey they're legal), and fits of crying giggling and general psycho behavior. I didn't sleep. I tried to blame it on my cold or my anticipation. But I knew it was because all I could think about is I'm 19 and what the fuck have I done with my life? I mean I've travelled a bit, finished 12 years of emotionally damaging high school, and then worked at a shithole 9-5 job. Where had my 19 years of LIFE gone. Where was my novel that I was supposed to written? Where was my career goals? Where was the world tour I was supposed to have started? Where was those awesome friends and boyfriend my movie version of life scripted? And why do I feel the same as I always have? Lost. Completely. And utterly. Lost.
I wish I were a bimbo at these times. One of those pretty happy go lucky people. The ones that their only care in the world is their next hair appointment or if Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie are still together. Or just one of those positive people that live in this world of pretend where they see daisies growing out of landmines. You know those glass half full kind of people.
But I'm not. I think and worry too much. In fact as soon as I give my mind enough time and quiet to think, I begin to fear and question everything, including myself. Because to people who say "The glass is half full," I say "It's half full of shit then."
I am not afraid of dying. I'm afraid of not living. Or as my favorite dark poet wrote from the best movie ever (Dead Poets Society watch it or die stupid) “I went to the woods because I wanted to live deliberately. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life. To put to rout all that was not life and not when I had come to die discover that I had not lived.”
Is that not the most beautiful poetic dark thought in the entire universe? Henry David Thoreau wrote that. I think we could have been friends. Or at the very least aquaintences that talked about the demise of the world over tea and brandy. Those words are probably written in my bones because when I first heard them, I recognized them immediatly. In those few lines he spoke exactly my mind. What I feared and longed for all in one. Because I want to live. I want to go sky diving, and travel, and eat till I explode, or sleep for a month and only get up for a piss. I want to make love and not be counting the minutes till it's over, I want to go to concerts, and operas, and parties with one guest. I want to write books, and make movies, and make people smile. I want a friend who matters to me. But most of all I want to matter to someone.
But I don't have that. And I haven't done any of that. And all 19 means to me is another year in which I didn't suck the marrow out of life, in fact I lost my appetite for living. So like every year on my birthday, where ever there's birthday candles, there's fire. Because all my life goes up in flames.
The only consolation is that I'm still under 20. That birthday will probably be the year I upgrade from tylenol to mushrooms :) But fuck it. My life is not perfect. And I probably will never get to where exactly I want to be. I have to learn to live deliberatly and Carpe Diem the shit out of what I have. I mean I can fantasize all I want about being one of those hippie poets that just vacated their lives to go gallivanting, but then again they didn't have to pay bills, or vote, or get bikini waxes so this generation is a bit more complicated. So I think I'm going to start checking off my bucket list, starting with eating till I explode. Luckily there's some birthday cake leftover.....
Monday, 9 May 2011
Sunday, 8 May 2011
Collecting Experiences
I've decided to take a break today from being my sarcastic bitter loathing the world self. Yes I know. Good for me. But then I was like well what the hell do I write if I can't bitch about something!?? That particular dilema was fixed when I relized, well what about anything?
So I thought maybe I should tell you about me. Or at least enough not to scare you.
Maybe even in kind of a number list type of thing too? Too cheesy? Well screw you I'm doing it anyways. Today is for cheesy. Tomorrow I can go back to malice and displeasure.
So I thought maybe I should tell you about me. Or at least enough not to scare you.
Maybe even in kind of a number list type of thing too? Too cheesy? Well screw you I'm doing it anyways. Today is for cheesy. Tomorrow I can go back to malice and displeasure.
- 1. My name is Christina Marie West. Never liked the name. I always wanted to have some hippy trippy name like Rain or Skye. Not because the weed has gotten into my head that much that it's making those decisions (well almost), but becuase I wanted something original. Apparently Christina is placed at #5 on the list of least original names. Although I was my parent's 4th kid so I think they just got tired and consulted that list.
- 2. The only thing that has literally kept my alive is MUSIC. When I say music has changed my life I don't say that cuz I'm being dramatic or sentimental. I literally mean I love it more than life itself. When I'm sad or moody, I listen to it. When I'm pissed or angry it gets my shit out. When I feel like today's going to be a good day I listen to enhance that feeling. I even bloody listen when I have a migraine. And I listen to the good stuff. Stuff that has soul. Al Green. Bob Marley. Beatles. Billy Holiday. Pink Floyd. Led Zepp. Cat Stevens. If you don't know at least one of these people, I can honestly say you don't know what music is.
- 3. I think the only thing that lasts is the people that make your life worth while. Whether it's a friend or famly member, you have to hold on. You have to treasure and love the shit out of them. Because money, things, homes, work. All that stuff fades and checks out. It's the one's you love and the experiences that you get to have with them that make this whole exhausting trip worthwhile.
- 4. I collect experiences. I don't collect things. Everytime I'm in that moment where everything is perfect, whether it's a night walk and I'm zeroing in on the soft taps of rain on my umbrella, or when my big family get together to get stuffed and everyone's laughing together about a joke someone said, or that feeling in a concert when the band is playing their last song and thousands of people are static with unleashed energy, I collect it. I fold in in my heart and keep it there until I need or want to feel that feeling again. I even tried as a kid to collect smells or more the feeling in the air. I'd bring these small empty jam jars around with me, and whether I wanted to save the clean salty air at a beach trip, or the smell of dewy flowers in my morning walk, I'd scoop the air with my jar and try and seal that moment inside of it. Of course it never really worked. I'd open the lids sometimes to see if that smell or presence was still there. But you can't physically save moments. It's only in the mind where you can truly savour memories.
- I have only one goal in my life. That is to find my passion. Sounds cheesy, but hey I warned you. Everyone has one. Whether it's art, or music, or writting, or hey cocaine. We all have something that gives us purpose that both grounds and liberates us. I am 19 in one day. And still for the past 19 years I've been almost angry at life. I think it's becuase I wasn't meant to be here. Or if I am, then I want purpose. Some people might say that purpose is God, or soul mates, or some other significant bullshit that we use to try and explain the randomness or lonliness of this world. But I think my significant thing is finding a way to wield that wildness inside me, and somehow unleash it. Not tame it or break it like this society constantly wears down on you to, but to bust out of the corral and fucking never turn back. I think what you could call it is internal freedom.
Okay enough of the heavy shit. I'm still that pot-smoking, self doubting, little girl. You can still count on me to keep bitching about life. It's all good. Besides tomorrow I'm 19. Only one more day till I can be legally stupid in Canada. Only have one prediction for tomorrow- and that involves a large martini glass in hand.
Saturday, 7 May 2011
Winners for Losers
So it's Saturday. The day of sleeping in and lazing around till party time. For me I was guilt tripped into coming to work for a weekend shift, which means at a clothes store, literally a shift from hell. If you can imagine combining mountain piles of clothes, bitchy people, and a fitting room line longer than an elephant's toliet paper roll after he's wiped his ass, then you'd have a pretty good idea of my day. Oh by the way if I didn't mention where I work I'll tell you now. I work at a place where they pay just above minimum slave labor. Seriously. They also have the biggest earnings as part of a multi millionaire corporate company. I work where the biggest losers go. I work at Winners.
Yes I aware of the irony. Or pun. Or whatever the fuck it is that makes me realize that truly Winners is for losers. But I work there. I also loathe it to the point where I actually in my mind, planned to burn the fucker down just so I wouldn't have to come in for work. Either that or I fantasize about punching the lights out of my fago boss, smashing the jewelry counter, and runing away with my loot. Needless to say I obviously haven't actually done any of that seeing as I still work at the place.
I can't help it. Every morning we have these group meetings or "huddles" before the store opens. They talk about what needs doing that day or where we're slacking. Basically all the bullshit the managers say to look like they have a role before I see them go back to their office and eat donuts and go on facebook. To say I'm exaggerating this corrupt system would be untrue. I've passed the door many a time to see them get real acquainted with Tim Hortons and discussing real important issues like "Rebecca just tried Vietnamese food downtown." Apparently she doesn't try new foods too often. Oh. My. God. Really? Holy fuck that is sooooo amazing! I came down to work at 7 am in the rain on a Saturday, but if this Rebecca tried some asian food lets fucking throw a party!
The worst part about these so called "huddles" other than just the critical lazy asses hypocritical speeches about "work ethic", but the outcome predictions and previous earning stats. For those who don't know what I mean basically the head office counts up the earnings made from the previous day for our store, and then based on that figure, makes a earnings goal for the next day. I stand there trying to not scream when they tell me, "Oh yeah we only hit 32 000 yesturday, so let's really push hard today to make sure we reach our 35 000 minimum!" And they all grin and high five and clink reading glasses with eachother. I just try and hold a fake ass enthusiatic smile while in my head I'm thinking, Well on the wages you pay me shit dicks, I could probably make 32 000 in about 5 million years.
I still think that is probably the stupidest thing for a store to do. Telling their minimum wage employees about the thousands of dollars they're making? That's like bringing a alcoholic into a bar and then telling him he can't have a drink. Or a white rich kid going into a black ghetto wearing diamonds. Seriously. Fucking stupid.
I talked to Karen about it. She's the only chick at work who's around my age and has enough brains to see my point.
Oh and then the cherry on the ice cream is that I finally had enough balls to corner my head boss today. I've actually been waiting to speak to him since the store talked about cutting hours because "insufficient funds." Coincidentally enough around that week my boss got vacation pay for a month in Europe. Hmm this doesn't quite connect the dots eh?
Anyways since I've been a good little girl for a year now working at this shit hole I made up in my mind to just ask for a raise. I mean they sure as hell weren't giving me anything, and they probably wouldn't unless I asked. So I finally just bit the bullet and asked him. After pleading my case and using evidence he still just kinda looked away and basically said, "We'll see." I had heard this phrase many times growing up. Once I was five and decided the only thing that would make me happy was a pony. When I asked my father if he could pretty please get me a pretty pony for "ma birfday" he gave me that same avoiding look and same answer "We'll see". I never got a pony. I got a Return of Jafar Aladdin movie from the dollar store with the sticker still on the back. What can we learn from this then? Basically "We'll see" is code for "Try NEVER sucker!"
So I again left Winners fantasizing about tearing that fucking building down, only this time I varied the scenario a bit. This time I brought ninjas in with me to tie the management down and kung fu there asses while I let them watch me pour gasoline on the racks. Yes I am trying to see a therapist.......NOT.
I came home and ate a big fattie dinner becuase when life gets you down, eat your feeling away I say. I noticed anything with chocolate or fat in it usually blocks out the most. I also watched the Canucks game to which we.....lost. Big shocker there. Although I thought the Canucks were bad when they lost to another team, but since tonight they scored on themselves, I have to admit they're taking suckass to a new level!
Again not a very interesting post. But hey if you had an interesting life you won't be reading this krap anyways. The morals of today
1. Stealing is not okay. UNLESS it's from big corporate money grubbing industries
2. When feeling depressed, lousy, tired, irritated, pissed, defeated, or stressed, resort to food. Or Purple kush.
Somehow I don't think I'd have any good lessons for childrens books.
Yes I aware of the irony. Or pun. Or whatever the fuck it is that makes me realize that truly Winners is for losers. But I work there. I also loathe it to the point where I actually in my mind, planned to burn the fucker down just so I wouldn't have to come in for work. Either that or I fantasize about punching the lights out of my fago boss, smashing the jewelry counter, and runing away with my loot. Needless to say I obviously haven't actually done any of that seeing as I still work at the place.
I can't help it. Every morning we have these group meetings or "huddles" before the store opens. They talk about what needs doing that day or where we're slacking. Basically all the bullshit the managers say to look like they have a role before I see them go back to their office and eat donuts and go on facebook. To say I'm exaggerating this corrupt system would be untrue. I've passed the door many a time to see them get real acquainted with Tim Hortons and discussing real important issues like "Rebecca just tried Vietnamese food downtown." Apparently she doesn't try new foods too often. Oh. My. God. Really? Holy fuck that is sooooo amazing! I came down to work at 7 am in the rain on a Saturday, but if this Rebecca tried some asian food lets fucking throw a party!
The worst part about these so called "huddles" other than just the critical lazy asses hypocritical speeches about "work ethic", but the outcome predictions and previous earning stats. For those who don't know what I mean basically the head office counts up the earnings made from the previous day for our store, and then based on that figure, makes a earnings goal for the next day. I stand there trying to not scream when they tell me, "Oh yeah we only hit 32 000 yesturday, so let's really push hard today to make sure we reach our 35 000 minimum!" And they all grin and high five and clink reading glasses with eachother. I just try and hold a fake ass enthusiatic smile while in my head I'm thinking, Well on the wages you pay me shit dicks, I could probably make 32 000 in about 5 million years.
I still think that is probably the stupidest thing for a store to do. Telling their minimum wage employees about the thousands of dollars they're making? That's like bringing a alcoholic into a bar and then telling him he can't have a drink. Or a white rich kid going into a black ghetto wearing diamonds. Seriously. Fucking stupid.
I talked to Karen about it. She's the only chick at work who's around my age and has enough brains to see my point.
Oh and then the cherry on the ice cream is that I finally had enough balls to corner my head boss today. I've actually been waiting to speak to him since the store talked about cutting hours because "insufficient funds." Coincidentally enough around that week my boss got vacation pay for a month in Europe. Hmm this doesn't quite connect the dots eh?
Anyways since I've been a good little girl for a year now working at this shit hole I made up in my mind to just ask for a raise. I mean they sure as hell weren't giving me anything, and they probably wouldn't unless I asked. So I finally just bit the bullet and asked him. After pleading my case and using evidence he still just kinda looked away and basically said, "We'll see." I had heard this phrase many times growing up. Once I was five and decided the only thing that would make me happy was a pony. When I asked my father if he could pretty please get me a pretty pony for "ma birfday" he gave me that same avoiding look and same answer "We'll see". I never got a pony. I got a Return of Jafar Aladdin movie from the dollar store with the sticker still on the back. What can we learn from this then? Basically "We'll see" is code for "Try NEVER sucker!"
So I again left Winners fantasizing about tearing that fucking building down, only this time I varied the scenario a bit. This time I brought ninjas in with me to tie the management down and kung fu there asses while I let them watch me pour gasoline on the racks. Yes I am trying to see a therapist.......NOT.
I came home and ate a big fattie dinner becuase when life gets you down, eat your feeling away I say. I noticed anything with chocolate or fat in it usually blocks out the most. I also watched the Canucks game to which we.....lost. Big shocker there. Although I thought the Canucks were bad when they lost to another team, but since tonight they scored on themselves, I have to admit they're taking suckass to a new level!
Again not a very interesting post. But hey if you had an interesting life you won't be reading this krap anyways. The morals of today
1. Stealing is not okay. UNLESS it's from big corporate money grubbing industries
2. When feeling depressed, lousy, tired, irritated, pissed, defeated, or stressed, resort to food. Or Purple kush.
Somehow I don't think I'd have any good lessons for childrens books.
Friday, 6 May 2011
Black Static White Peace
So today I figured out I'm a loser.
Not something worth sharing or even bragging about is it? I can't say that it's really all my fault but when it's a friday night and your eating stale cereal for dinner and even your father is out with his girlfriend you know you've reached the bottom level of the social food chain.
So I decided fuck it I'll write a blog. I mean hey there has to be other loners out there right? Or maybe I just thought I should write instead of commiting suicide by "accidentally" (as the newspapers would say) swallowing a cereal box.
I mean music definatly made money on that loner shit. Talking bout love and hope and longing. And hey the movie industry definatly milked that krap. Look at all John Hughs movies (which by the way are my fucking fav). Breakfast Club. Pretty in Pink. Sixteen Candles. All about being the misfit, being isolated as shit, but finding something or someone to hold on to. The stories always make being a misfit look cool. There's always cheezy but can't- help- but- singing along 80's music, and funky outfits, and random outburts of dancing.
But my life isn't like that. There's no soundtrack behind my daily life. I wear what ever is left of my clean clothes (which isn't much because fuck laundry seriously). And I certainly can't dance in front of people, although that never stopped me from pulling the curtains and blaring a few songs while I basically just jump and kick around the living room. Funnily enough I do that often. You know how they say everyone has their ticks. Things they need to stay sane basically. Some it's cigarettes, others its booze, some even fucking credit card shopping. For me if I feel like I'm going to either rip my bloody face off or punch a wall, I just blare a good old rock and physically throw myself around the room until I'm exhausted or the music ends. Whichever comes first. Some people smoke. I have crazy scary flalling outburts to music. It doesn't bother me.
However I think it does to other people. It was one day when I cut class to go home early and I was feeling particulary pissed at everything in general that I had one of these rocking out moments. I threw off my clothes and put on Led Zeppelin to the highest point of volume on my living room stereo. So there I was screaming along to "Misty Mountain Hop" and air guitaring with my hands. In my underwear. Only to realise that through my open window now at 3 oclock (school ending time for the retarded) that the main bus leaving froom school was driving by. And about half my classmates faces were peering out the window at me.
To say I ducked is a understatement. I dropped so fast the god damn Army would have been impressed with my technique. I lay there for about an hour. A little late to hide now honey...
I wasn't sure if anyone recognized me or if they even saw much. So the next day at school I decided not to pretend I had moved to Bosnia or that I had died from the some random disease (never decided on which one to use) and I went to class. It seemed okay. I passed unnoticed and irrelevant like any other day. Although I did get some sidelong smirks from a few strangers which mean my little Broadway show was seen at least by a few. Guess I can't be pissed more that embarassed here. Although the fuckers didn't even pay me for the viewing. Anywho hence my rule, when hit my the overwhealing urge to have my wild solo parties, make sure all windows, cracks, and openings are covered.
Sorry I rambled. I tend to do that. When I'm stoned. Or bored. Fuck it when I'm normal. Also sorry I say fuck alot. I think its the one word God put on this earth to truly capture my feelings. Also it just sounds fucking good. Woops sorry again.
Getting back to the reason I'm even talking or starting this blog....I like writing. I think its the one place I can disguise myself and play dress up. Because if I dont like the way who I am in the real world then I'll be a dragon rider in medieval Europe. I'll be a hot blonde riding her Harley into the sunset of the desert. I'll even be Harry Potter's slave boy if it'll get me into Hogwarts bitch. Whatever the reason I have this mind of unchained thoughts that while either destroy me inside or seed and blossom in my writing. So like my unihibited dance routines, I plan to write. Once every day for the next year. 365 days mofo. Even if it's just a line or a paragraph. Even if not one god damn person reads it (and family don't count). Because within my life of black static, there is only one white peace. And that is a new sheet of paper.
Not something worth sharing or even bragging about is it? I can't say that it's really all my fault but when it's a friday night and your eating stale cereal for dinner and even your father is out with his girlfriend you know you've reached the bottom level of the social food chain.
So I decided fuck it I'll write a blog. I mean hey there has to be other loners out there right? Or maybe I just thought I should write instead of commiting suicide by "accidentally" (as the newspapers would say) swallowing a cereal box.
I mean music definatly made money on that loner shit. Talking bout love and hope and longing. And hey the movie industry definatly milked that krap. Look at all John Hughs movies (which by the way are my fucking fav). Breakfast Club. Pretty in Pink. Sixteen Candles. All about being the misfit, being isolated as shit, but finding something or someone to hold on to. The stories always make being a misfit look cool. There's always cheezy but can't- help- but- singing along 80's music, and funky outfits, and random outburts of dancing.
But my life isn't like that. There's no soundtrack behind my daily life. I wear what ever is left of my clean clothes (which isn't much because fuck laundry seriously). And I certainly can't dance in front of people, although that never stopped me from pulling the curtains and blaring a few songs while I basically just jump and kick around the living room. Funnily enough I do that often. You know how they say everyone has their ticks. Things they need to stay sane basically. Some it's cigarettes, others its booze, some even fucking credit card shopping. For me if I feel like I'm going to either rip my bloody face off or punch a wall, I just blare a good old rock and physically throw myself around the room until I'm exhausted or the music ends. Whichever comes first. Some people smoke. I have crazy scary flalling outburts to music. It doesn't bother me.
However I think it does to other people. It was one day when I cut class to go home early and I was feeling particulary pissed at everything in general that I had one of these rocking out moments. I threw off my clothes and put on Led Zeppelin to the highest point of volume on my living room stereo. So there I was screaming along to "Misty Mountain Hop" and air guitaring with my hands. In my underwear. Only to realise that through my open window now at 3 oclock (school ending time for the retarded) that the main bus leaving froom school was driving by. And about half my classmates faces were peering out the window at me.
To say I ducked is a understatement. I dropped so fast the god damn Army would have been impressed with my technique. I lay there for about an hour. A little late to hide now honey...
I wasn't sure if anyone recognized me or if they even saw much. So the next day at school I decided not to pretend I had moved to Bosnia or that I had died from the some random disease (never decided on which one to use) and I went to class. It seemed okay. I passed unnoticed and irrelevant like any other day. Although I did get some sidelong smirks from a few strangers which mean my little Broadway show was seen at least by a few. Guess I can't be pissed more that embarassed here. Although the fuckers didn't even pay me for the viewing. Anywho hence my rule, when hit my the overwhealing urge to have my wild solo parties, make sure all windows, cracks, and openings are covered.
Sorry I rambled. I tend to do that. When I'm stoned. Or bored. Fuck it when I'm normal. Also sorry I say fuck alot. I think its the one word God put on this earth to truly capture my feelings. Also it just sounds fucking good. Woops sorry again.
Getting back to the reason I'm even talking or starting this blog....I like writing. I think its the one place I can disguise myself and play dress up. Because if I dont like the way who I am in the real world then I'll be a dragon rider in medieval Europe. I'll be a hot blonde riding her Harley into the sunset of the desert. I'll even be Harry Potter's slave boy if it'll get me into Hogwarts bitch. Whatever the reason I have this mind of unchained thoughts that while either destroy me inside or seed and blossom in my writing. So like my unihibited dance routines, I plan to write. Once every day for the next year. 365 days mofo. Even if it's just a line or a paragraph. Even if not one god damn person reads it (and family don't count). Because within my life of black static, there is only one white peace. And that is a new sheet of paper.
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