I was just thinking about my three writing outlets and how different each of them are. I have this online journal, where I write in straight prose. My gratitude journal is very organized, I write the same amount every time, start it off talking about something that really sucks, go on about how I am a strong person and I'm going to beat this, and end it with something I am grateful for today, and why. My third one is what I often call my "real" journal. My black, hard-bound journal that has lasted me since January 2000. I tend to write in it maybe once a week, and they are usually really short entries. In fact, sometimes I only write 2 or 3 sentences for the day. It's a different kind of writing. It is not like this, where I write in straight sentences all the time and it usually makes sense. My real journal usually contains random facts or sentences that come out of nowhere, or poetry that isn't really poetry. It's very raw. So I was reading over my "real" journal, which I usually don't like to do because there is a huge section of "please kill me now" and suicide goodbye notes and stuff that I don't exactly like to re-live. But I do love it when I amaze myself. I don't remember half of what I write in there, because it is almost like it comes from a part of me I don't know very well, on some sort of subconscious or unconscious level.
Anyway, I thought I'd record a few things in here that I totally forget writing. I don't even know if some of these really make sense or not.
October 26/00
I'm killing myself and him at once, metaphorically. Double homicide. No, wait, homocide and suicide.
What talent.
Once I am gone though, he will still live. And he will be happy. Homocide while I am alive, re-birth when I am gone.
So I guess I am left with a suicide
Love is like a double homicide-suicide whatever-the-fuck. Love will kill both him and I.
Okay, just me.
So forget that whole double-nonsense.
This is about me. And how I hate my life, and how love is only pain and suffering for me.
I tried to drown myself. Sort of. Not really, it was an incredibly weak attempt.
As I floated in the bathtub, I felt as if I were floating on air. Floating through space, through time, through memories of the girl I forget how to be.
Dec. 8/00
I saw this blank space in the book and thought I'd just leave it blank instead of tainting it with this black ink scrawl of pain and suffering. I am nothing, so blankness is appropriate. But I want someone to uncover this once I am dead. They'll find it in the rubble of my house a hundred years from now and it will become a classic that high school kids have to read. Sort of like Anne Frank but better. Kids will write essays about me.
Look children, this is how teenage girls felt back then. Aren't you so happy you live during these times?
July 12/01
I am the she-devil, again. Oh, when did I stop being the she-devil?
There was a little love in my world 40 minutes ago, and it was precious, slight and it was jinx-worthy.
No new news here.
Extra, Extra - Krista still loves you and continues to screw things up royally
Sept. 1/01
Dreams, wishes, promises - they shouldn't have an expiry date. So why did mine?
"Please God, can I be with Cody?"
"I'm sorry, hon. Those wishes expired eleven months ago. Please choose another one."
Fuck you.
Sept. 15/01
My mind is a hazy wasteland. I used to be smart and I used to have ideas.
My mind resembles Fantasia, after the Nothing has swept through it and destroyed everything worth living for.
I believe the quote from that movie goes, "We don't even care that we don't care."
I hardly remember writing any of those ones from some reason. I usually write really late at night, before bed, while I am half asleep. I especially like that quote from The Neverending Story.
That movie is brilliant.
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