Can't see shit. Everything has that weird fade quality to it. If text happens to scroll over that dumb flower in the background I'm literally blind. I always love having to pick around for the text. Straight, easy readings are for pussies.
It's been four years. Four years since we've spoken. And then one night I call you out of the blue. Because I found a mixtape. I hope you're reading this again, because if this is a novel, it'll be a lot easier in small doses.
If this is a novel I'm putting it back.
Come to think of it it's been about four years since I had a ritual for new music. Open the package, read the lyrics on the way home, listen & read, listen & sing. All of this occupied the period of several hours and was (come to think of it *ahem*) a very spiritual experience for me.
Well your music list is shit, containing such award winners as Tool and Korn, so fuck you and your taste in music. Melodramatic ass.
I called you because I found a mixtape. For your ex-boyfriend who died recorded on the other side of the first (only?) cassette you ever made me. I haven't even seen a picture of you in over 2 years until that night.
Is this going somewhere or am I missing something? After skimming through the hugely long post, No. No it doesn't.
That's five minutes of my life I will never have back.
I woke up this morning with the realization that it may not be.
What may not be?
That genuinely frightened me and for a second the finality of death rushed over me again.
Oh Christ here we go again.
He was so in love with you, y'know. He told us both over and over again that no one would ever be able to love with the purity that he had loved you, and in ironic circumstance fate didn't give him the opportunity to be wrong.
Us or you or-- who is the audience for this? I guess it's like she (?) is writing to herself, about herself. Which if you ask me only confuses an already very confusing blog further.
He's in me now.
Tee hee
I know it. And if he's crammed in here with Mary, and Tim, and George Carlin, at least he's making good conversation.
ho ho ho where is this? Sounds pretty full up there in your ass or wherever this is.
Then some more melodrama and cryptic bullshit that I'm not reading followed by a poem that's seven stanzas too long.
More poetry.
More poetry.
Ah-- let's read that last poem. Why not?
My banana rama killed your pajama
You were the egg man I was the walrus
Sonic the Hedgehog cartoon. The darker one on ABC. That's what this reminds me of.
This furthers my theory that all poems are paragraphs with random breaks in sentences. It goes on from there but it's really, really not worth reading.
So this is the part where I finally kick my journal in the ass because I finally am miserable enough to do so. Misery isn't the word, it's just a running theme in this place. Somehow all of the glorious and beautiful moments in my life go unrecorded, whereas I find myself scrawling the most when I have those horrible itchy rotten feelings in the bottom of my gut.
Sounds like you need some Summer's Eve.
I am actually leading a very happy life.
You could have fooled me.
I did a tarot reading last night about you and Katie, (where you are, if you left intentionally, etc. etc.) I usually don't do readings without permission, but considering the circumstances I thought it was appropriate.
... Really? Tarot isn't a mystical practice. You did know that, right? They don't predict the future. You're supposed to do it, then read what it tells you, then you're supposed to feel better about yourself.
I'm fairly certain no one ever pretended they divined the future. Well, street performers did to fool children and stupids out of their money, but that's different.
Everyone keeps saying that the two of you probably ran off for some adventure; That's what the cards suggested.
I know all of the Tarot cards and can't think of any that suggest "adventure" outside of The Fool and The Magician, but that's more a quest than an adventure. See if you line the major arcana up in order it's the cycle of a life, and each suggests an impasse or a stage of being. Take The Fool, being in position 0 in the major arcana. Then he becomes The Magician, because he gained knowledge. See, then it passes through each until he's The Hermit, old and wizened. For all major considerations, consider 0-9 the transition of one individual, then 10-19 a similar, albeit large-scope transition. That's all that is. It's not some MYSTICAL SCIENCE.
I don't know. I'm more afraid that your dead.
You know the Death card doesn't mean literal death, right? Well whatever.
Or that something awful is happening. I wish you would send word soon. I sent myself a copy of the e-mail I sent you, a way to log how long you've been missing. I might delete or archive it though, seeing it makes my stomach churn in horrible unspeakable fashions. It doesn't help that I haven't even chipped the iceberg that I wanted to share with you. Every single second I am afraid, and sad, because the idea of you not saying ANYTHING to anyone doesn't sound right. But maybe I'm wrong. I would like to think that you'd at least shoot me another gonecrazybebacksoon. I can't really concentrate on anything else. The twilight zone factor of it all is just too difficult.
Good Christ all from your little Tarot deck you bought from the Borders? If it's going to do that to you put that thing away.
I just wish I knew where you were. Or why. Or when. Here's the real irony; it's one way to insure that you'll get a novel from me. Don't be dead though. If either one of you ends up dead I'll be mad. Not at you, absolutely blind crazy fucking mad.
Maybe I've sunk further into spelling nonsense, but to me "insure" implies measures taken beforehand, like insurance. Ensure, however, is a guarantee. Maybe that's just me. Further, what you describe isn't ironic. It isn't even a coincidence. Hell, it isn't even a coherent thought. Why would one of them dying ensure (insure, whatever) you'll write a novel?
Now she (I'm positive this is a woman now) is going on and on about... Something. I think it's about disappointment or some shit like that, but it's so wrapped up in what I can only describe as a personal myth that it's basically meaningless to anything not residing in her fucking nutty head.
I will admit, though, it is well written. It even has that "edge of interesting" feel to it that I so often got from the books I had to read in school. I'm sure this is a sentiment many can relate to: the book could have been really good and interesting if it didn't have its head so far up its own ass.
I have started talking to my biological father again. The first step in studying psychology is realizing that crazy people are crazy.
When I took the first step of psychology I learned the definition of crazy before I tried to willy-nilly apply it to people.
Let me see if I still have that textbook newness to my psychology knowledge and diagnose you.
Of my plethora of psychological problems the one thing that I wish to rid myself of forever is the sickening feeling that engulfs me when I have done wrong. Every social mis-step, every horrible decision, and essentially any time I have a reason to feel that I have made a complete ass of myself; the history of every mistake I have made washes over me in waves of horrible regret.
I'd say you have a pathological desire to martyr yourself. For what I'm not sure. You seem to loooove playing the victim.
You seem overly concerned with yourself. Every social "mis-step" is more about what you did wrong than how it affected other people. I don't think you lack empathy, though. I think, based on the tone of this journal, you try to disassociate yourself from the situation by treating your empathy as a third party observer, and it's looking back at you.
I'd also say you project a little (understatement) hard.
Imagine if every wretched or even mildly unpleasant experience in your life crowded into every corner of your mind. You're re-living them all. All at the same time.
Err I do. Most people do. You just have to toughen up, though. Remember no one remembers anything even a quarter as long as you do. It goes back to that whole personal myth thing I mentioned earlier: what seems crushingly important to you most likely won't be important to other people, because it more than likely only seemed important to you at the time. So while you carry these feelings of guilt and regret no one else remembers because they're so wrapped up in their own personal fable.
Your entire being seems devoted to fantasy and mythology, too. I can recognize this so well because it reminds me of me.
But while my interest has long since been academic, I'd say you are using it as a defensive mechanism. The tarot cards, the way you perceive your own life, finding any parallels?
When I was fourteen that feeling would leave me gasping between panic attacks. At times it would overwhelm me so severely I could only cower in the corner (or bed, or shower) for days. This was what drove me to self-mutilation.
Yeah I was just getting to that. You also seem to have a panic disorder. I'd tell you I can help, but I'm pretty sure you have to want to help yourself first, and I'm not sure you do.
There. I think that about sums it up.
I THINK I STILL HAVE IT.
So in conclusion, to not be like this blog:
MELODRAMA. TOO MUCH OF IT.
Try not to be so crazy. That can be really hard I understand, but try to put a manic spin instead of a depressive spin on it. That at least makes people feel better, or at least inquisitive.
Change your background. Can't see a goddamn thing.
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