Wednesday, May 29, 2013

an exercise in being

Here's a great new exercise for all you fitness buffs: hold your breath and clench your jaw, pressing all your teeth on the top and bottom rows against each other, curl into the smallest version of yourself, and for 2 sets of 14 minutes, try to cry without making a sound. Incorporate your breathe into it. Make sure there's nothing distracting you from your inhales and exhales, these are important man! Inhale, contract your facial muscles into an easy path for the brine from your eyes, exhale, contract further. Don't un-tense, don't release, don't relax. Don't you ever even think to dare to, how dare you. Okay. Shudder to stretch. Repeat until you're dead.

I have this problem where I stop being happy. Or rather I'm never happy and once in a while I actually remember who I am. I have this problem and it's with myself and it's about how I still am, how I am still being (most definitely a problem, though I'm looking into remedies don't worry).

I wish I could be a happy person and I could have dream again and I wish everything I wrote didn't stink with the rot of my skull. Nasty nasty thoughts, how awful. How bad. How unhappy.


When I grow up I want to be an astronaut. I hope there'll be a great green light flashing in my face, a nice notice in the mail or a bubble on my screen to tell me when this happens. I hope someone would bother tpo inform me when I become a Grown Up. Maybe I should have had a big birthday party on my 18th, the type with all the ceremonies and the candles and roses and alcohol. If there was ever a tunnel that I could crawl through and emerge as a fully functioning totally not depressed adult, it would probably be hidden by the Powers That Be underneath layers of tulle. The tunnel would be guarded by trolls and a door locked twice but both unlockable with the point of a stiletto heel (also a great tool to stab the troll to death as well). Maybe I'm supposed to be a Grown U[p now, and by denying myself that fancy schmancy ritual I've denied myself passage into the Land of the Responsible and Okay.

It's alright, I spent my birthday the best I could. I went to the spa and all day I thought really really hard about why I should not walk into traffic. Maybe I should think really really hard again because I seem to have forgotten all the reasons I didn't write down but recited mentally. Except that I'm not thin enough to die. I should lose some weight. I want to go for a jog.

Oh here's another, I've just remembered: I want to be an astronaut. I want to see the world from outside of it. I want to see if there's anything worth going back to or staying for. I want to feel weightless, my god what I would pay or study or design or research just to float in the air. I want to be alone with nothing but nothing and then I want to die. Wait no sorry veered a bit off course there, nope. I just want to go to space.

Shortly after I fell sick and even less time after my father decided he was tired of having a sick daughter and I should just get better already since it was getting on his nerves, I decided I wanted to tell my dad that I wanted to be an astronaut, just to have some fresh material for car screaming matches.

Wow I sound like such an angry little brat.

It's a stupid dream but it's what I wake up for. A simplified chain of events after I lost my only reason for breathing (for the past 6 months it had been to lose weight and look skinny for prom) would have several steps, ending in Get To Space, each punctuated with a very very serious 'or die'.

But now I've gained back the weight and I should be talking about why I want to go to space, not why I want to lose inches and pounds. But here I am again, talking about a sickness and a sadness I claim to have but have no proof for. What's stopping everyone from calling me out and screaming liar liar pants on fire? Someone should. Stop letting me pretend that I have a problem when obviously I'm absolutely fine, a perfect healthy weight.

I want to get below 100 again. Then 90. Then 80. And then I will be happy and then I will not need to go to space anymore. But I wish I was stronger, I wish this was an exam I could study for since things are so much harder now and I am cracking and made of plaster and this weight is too much I want it gone. I can't I can't I can't and also I've forgotten to take my medicine and now I want to stop writing because this sounds ugly and I can't I can't I can't anymore

Monday, May 27, 2013

it's past my bedtime

My therapist has this theory about why, instead of nice lovely solid restoring sleep, my nights are filled with long gazes at off-white walls that enjoy pretending to be blue at night, with half-baked plot lines and sentences I swear to myself I will remember come morning but I never will, I know. She tells me her theory on our fourth meeting this month, it’s May now and there are five Sundays when usually there are only four and so this isn’t even the last time I’ll see her this summer, as we’re seated next to but still across each other on that brown couch of hers. Her lips are dry. She licks them as she pauses to read the speech she has written for me in her head. Out comes her tongue, wet monster that it is, as her eyes flick back to read the script she’s hidden in the dark space of her skull to read the next line, the next paragraph. Moisten, moisture, more more more. There are words filling the space between her and me, settling into the middle couch cushion and forcing it to sag as if someone obese is pressing their hips into the dark leather. There is a weight to what she is saying and it’s significant, I can feel it, I can feel it in my bones. Maybe it’s as heavy as I am but I doubt that since I’m no feather of a girl. I should probably listen now, or at least go back in my remembering to where I was listening and then begin to start telling, again from where I left off, what exactly the good mind doctor was telling me.

She said I was sick, she said, sicker than before, she clarified, she thought I needed help, these manic spells that seemed to seize me in a way nothing and no passion ever could were not a good thing no matter how I craved them, she looked at me from above me even though she was half a foot shorter, she paused here, and the best way, she licked her lips, was to drink these white pills. Wow what a wonderful and simple solution.

Down the rabbit hole they went, every night before bed. The rabbit hole here being my throat and the white rabbit being 300 milligrams of the finest prescription crap money can buy.

Fuck shit um.

This was supposed to be a bedtime story.

Hush little baby don’t you cry mama’s gonna sing you a lullaby and if that lullaby don’t rhyme mama’s gonna try some other time and if by 3 you’re still awake maybe it’s a good time to start walking around or start cooking breakfast no throw that away that’s disgusting maybe you should look for your journal from three years ago no no no definitely time to start writing about that boy you met at that thing who looked through you like you were the last flimsy piece of a lollipop he’d been carefully melting with his tongue for hours like you were the world but bent and twisted and orange tinted and flavoured yes that boy the one whose hands fit into the bend of your lower back like no pillow or kitten ever could yes let’s write about him and how he kisses you when he wants to and how that’s a terrible thing but no now let’s write a story about a boy who can’t go to sleep

Once upon a time in a land far away there was a happy boy (Do you see the importance of this introductory sentence? It distances the real world from the fantasy. No matter how fast or far you run, and I run fast and I can run far, you will never travel enough distance to reach somewhere where there are happy boys and happiness and boys who you want to tell stories about).

Ugh wait I’m restarting. I’m sorry but I, the writer of this here story, am not such a happy person. I don’t know how to write about happy things or happy people or happy stories even if I really really want to. This is me, the writer of this here story, saying sorry for not being able to write a happy story. I’m saying: I’m really trying very hard but it’s just not coming to me but it’s okay I guess but I’m sorry.

“Writing things comes easy to me even though my penmanship is terrible because there’s no filter, no barrier, no inbetween between the terrible ideas and thoughts in my head and the terrible words and sentences on paper. But writing happy things doesn’t come naturally because naturally I’m not happy but sometimes some times and some things and some boys make me feel happy and that’s unnatural but it does happen. But not now.” I say, I the writer of this here story, to you, the reader.

Continuing. Restarting. Here is your story, which I owe you because I ate all your dreams like a pig.

Once upon a time there was a boy. His mother didn’t like the way he flew around the house and how he didn’t know the best way to sit was on his hands. She didn’t like the hum that boys make, the vibrating note of their existence, and she wondered every night as she took off her reading glasses and set aside her book, why her body had chosen to betray her and give her a son. Perhaps it was because she didn’t run marathons.

So this boy, who was good at climbing things like slides and trees and chimneys, would come home every night covered in dirt. This was proud dirt, dirt with stories to tell. Children know the secrets of dirt and so it wasn’t surprising to see him and his sister, Lola, studying the grime and listening to their stories. The miles traveled and the weather faced and the feet of famous people, all these past things that became stories that were part of the dirt that was part of the filth that covered this one boy this particular day. Lola and him would crouch, bellies to thighs, backs of thighs to calves, feet to the floor, and just imagine the stories that every bit had to tell. The colors hidden in the brown were perhaps the best part, or at least Lola’s favorite part. And then he showered, alone, looking for an hidden secret sneaky wounds and cuts and bleeds underneath his earthy second skin in a fevered hunt that was his own hidden secret sneaky favorite part, and he ate dinner with his loving doting stable wonderful fantastic family and then he went to bed.

But his mother didn’t like how he woke up in the morning before the sun did, how the humming began before her dreams could even end. So this particular night, it was a Tuesday, she took a page from the Tricky Trick Book of her friend Ellen.

Ellen had four boys and no man or hair. Everything she had lost in life, she lost to closed angry fists. But no fists had touched her boys and for that she was grateful and, terribly but also more interestingly, irritated. So she had a stroke of genius, the type and severity of which hadn’t come to her since she remembered the name of the song on the radio, since she leaned down into her own mouth and ripped words off the tip of her tongue and flung them out into the air to be used to be heard to be relevant and less haunting. Ellen took a mortar and a pestle to the white pills given to her by her therapist, who isn’t my therapist and whose couch is covered in soft beige leather, pounding and pounding away, really burning fat and building muscle, toning and firming, working and pushing, until the magic of love and physical exercise turned the pretty pills into a fine white mist barely settled in a wooden concave plane. It was hard to contain the glee and the powder, both legally belonging to Ellen, though she tried her hardest to keep both lids tightly screwed on.

And so, like her friend, the mother of our protagonist mixed prescription sleeping pills into the food of her beloved children. It was the only sane thing to do, the only self-preserving option. The Right Choice. The Good Way. The Snooze Button. Let the children dream longer; let the mother pretend to be dead longer. It was the point in a seesaw that everyone tried to achieve, that point of balance where you are on even levels but there are no feet planted on the ground. Perhaps that it what love is: self-preservation and drugging and pretending to be on solid ground and pretending to see eye to eye.

So the boy, who ate three servings of spaghetti and four of potatoes and five of soda and six of dessert, ingested enough medicine to kill a horse and that night saw the world and the moon for the last time. Which is really such a shame since he missed such a spectacular sight. That Tuesday night, or rather Wednesday morning, the moon was knocked off its orbit by a rather large and angry seeming meteor, asteroid, comet, or maybe it was God’s rocky fist whatever. It spun around and terrified everyone and people prayed and people kissed and people cried but the boy stayed asleep because he was dead, remember?

The moon crashed through his house, smashing his skull into so many pieces that all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t have put him back together, destroying him so completely that all the crime scene investigators and professors and policemen or anyone else who supposedly has authority could never have known he had been murdered by his mother. In fact, they wouldn’t have known that there were three people, a mother and a daughter, named Lola, and a son, all with brown hair, living in the two story house on the street of the first left past the Laundromat, if you're coming from downtown. The moon had so completely destroyed their house, their street, the Laundromat, their country and everything that until that night had been cold hard fact, that policemen wouldn’t have given a shit about if they were blond or not. No one would ever know or care to know because, in the chaos that followed, no one survived.

The men on the moon became the men in the crater and they decided to take the blue planet as their own, after watching it for so long. The earth opened up and cried hot magma from her pores, showing everyone just how passionate and loving a mother nature is. People, when people still remembered that they were people, killed and loved and kissed and cried and stole and ate a whole bunch of Campbell’s mushroom soup.

The men on the moon had swords.

Isn’t that a cool little detail?

The end.

Wednesday, May 22, 2013

old feelings and habits, as well as other things that die hard

These are the things I miss about having long hair:

  • I miss having strands of my own dead cells brush against the dead skin cells of my shoulders. 
  • I miss tying my masses of hair, glorious and long and strong and dead and brown, into a tight bun. I miss the gathering, the binding, the pull on my scalp. I miss studying the angles and corners of my own face in reflective surfaces, skin pulled back and up and tight and neat by an elastic band. It was only through this method that I was able to be sure of what and who I was, am. This is how I see my face. This is how I know how repulsive I am.
  • I miss having something to hide behind.
  • I miss the smell of my shampoo, the smell of bathtime, the smell of being clean. Throughout a long and hot day, hair reminds you of your personal choices of products.
  • I miss braids.
  • I miss having bits of myself scattered on the floor and in hairbrushes, in my food, my pillow cases, looking like dyed black silk threads caught in the web between my thumb and index finger.
  • I miss dedicating too much time out of 24 hours to controlling, brushing, styling my hair. I miss the effort of trying to be pretty, of caring enough. I miss thinking about hair and if it's falling right and if I should rebraid it.
These are the things I miss about having a shaved head: 

  • I miss the feeling of the sun on my scalp.
  • I miss cool breezes.
  • I miss not having to care about what I look like. I miss the funny looks people gave me and how they saw me as a haircut and not a person.
  • I miss the way I looked in mirrors, angles and cheeks and eyebrows and lips. I miss the feeling of being a face, nothing but a face. I miss the certainty with which I knew I was repulsive.
  • I miss running my palm from my forehead to the little space were my skull and neck kiss, the way water flicked off stubby strands, painting the walls in front of me in a splattered pattern. Like clear blood. Like a waterpark crimescene.
  • I miss feeling aerodynamic.
But now my hair is like me, which only makes sense since I grew it myself. It's an inbetween, with strands and locks and bits and pieces falling out of the tiny bun I can make in the center of the back of my skull. My roots are growing out.

I wish I was not in the inbetween. I do not like it here. I wish my thighs did not widen at the top and my arms didn't turn to pasty, fatty flab as my shoulders draw near. I wish I did not need to be so round. I want legs like arms and arms like wrists and wrists like death. Why is it that we turn so circular, so full, so curved as we go near our center? I know the torso houses our inner bits, our vital organs. Are they so hungry that they need to draw all the fat and adipose tissue and energy reserves to them for easy access? Arms and legs are important, but not necessary. You can live without the feeling of sand between you toes but not without lungs or intestines, and you can do without holding the hand of someone when you are lonely but hearts breaking can actually kill you. I wish this wasn't so. I wish my center would stop being so needy, would put aside its appetite for a while and let me be. I wish the space I occupied was not immutable, I wish I could shrink down into a something, a girl whose legs do not round out or arms that do not curve. I want to be small and happy and have thighs that do not flatten and embarrass me against the seat of chairs. I want to be a child, to sweat like a child and to feel like something blissfully happily newly alive. I'm tired of being tired of being tired of being me. I want to be hands holding other hands, tendons and bones connecting through tissue and skin with the pulse of another person. I want to be efficient blood cells, fighting disease and sadness. I want to be swallowed pills, chemically altering the way the day comes to you. I want to be swallowable, gel-encased, dissolvable in stomach acid. I want an end in sight. 

It's summer now but I woke up early to do a thing and get a plant and now I'm tired but I can't go to sleep since my little brother needs me, or at least I can hope and dream and pretend he does and hope and dream and pretend that he wants me there, so I need to hide my life again in a closet, packed in boxes and bags. I need to move, to stop sleeping on this thin mattress and water this plant, which needs watering twice a day and I named it Butter. And then I will go and do things like a person should do. I will write the thing I have to write for my therapist, the thing she has asked me to write and the thing that I have put off because I had papers to make for classes and things to study for so I can have a successful future. Now I'm still putting it off, instead choosing to press the shiny new keys of my shiny new keyboard to type these sentences, which hold no therapeutic value.

Saturday, May 11, 2013


Do you know about plastic balloons? These ones. I hope you grew up playing with them or know someone who did or google them, watch a video, something, because it's a bit important that you know the what's-and-how's.

Lately I've been feeling feelings that are best relayed from my mind to another by comparing them to plastic balloons. I am a plastic balloon, is what I'm saying. I am constantly growing. Watch, gather round, ladies and gents, kiddies and whatever-you-ares, look at me! I'm an amazing expanding girl. Watch my waist and wrists and thighs and arms grow grow grow and bloat bloat bloat and then throw me into the ocean so I can float off and find another island with more ladies gents kiddies and whatevers to entertain. 

But oh wow here's the cool part: I am also deflating. Here's a question, which shall segue into my discussion/explanation/analysis/whatever: what are girls made of? Not the muscle and blood bile phlegm tears plasma or water. The thoughts, the dreams, the things that make them tick tick tock? Are there things that are common between all girls? What about all people? If there is, something like hopes for the future or  happiness or dreams or wants or feelings, then I regret to report that I am lacking these things. What serious medical complications can result from this? Her heart has stopped because of a deficiency of dreams. Yes, actually that sounds true. I am deflating like a plastic balloon that has a teenie tiny hole that no one can see. I am shrinking and no one, especially me, knows why. My hopes, dreams, happiness and sanity are flowing out of me, perhaps through my ears or piercings, and they are becoming part of the outside air. The big bad world. I'm becoming empty and wrinkly and I no longer reflect things in a pretty way.

I don't feel like being right now. Being is becoming a complicated thing. An elaborate process. A demanding routine. I don't like it and soon my back will break and the last straw will snap or catch fire or whatever. Soon, someday, some night, some afternoon, I will simply stop being. I will poof and I will disappear and I will maybe then be happy.

In the news section: today I went to see a brand spanking new shiny doctor. She was nice and she doesn't like her name either. I thanked her for sharing by loosening the taps of my tear ducts and flooding her office. My brother came with me, proving for all those who read this and everyone else in the world as well I suppose that he is sweet and nice and he didn't complain even though we were waiting for 3 hours. Now I am home all aloney on my owney in my dormroom, which I am beginning to despise. Well, I'm not all aloney. I have here with me a little goodie bag of drugstore treats. A brown paper pocket in which I will keep my brand new true blue bestfriends. 

Here is a playlist. It makes me smile and cry, but in a happy way. I know the difference.

Friday, May 10, 2013

baseless complaints

No one ever tells me that I need to 'eat a bit more' anymore, that I 'need some more meat on my bones'. I get it. I have a surplus of meat on my bones, I know. I can feel the added weight with every lift and fall of my feet. I can feel everyone who knew me when I was thin, I can feel them as if their stares were a part of me. Oh, they are thinking or whispering to the people who they like enough to let stand close to them, she's gained so much weight since last year. Maybe they will call me a poor thing. I don't want to be a poor thing. I want to be a thin girl, that is the adjective-noun combination I crave for.

Yesterday I didn't eat anything at all except three or four or five (my god no wonder I've gained weight, I'm so terrible at control) sips of a cafe americano. And water. And if crying and scratching and jumping out of bed to get away from nightmares counts as cardio, then I had a pretty good workout yesterday as well. I lost   a whole entire big fat kilogram.

But I look in the mirror and my thighs are still not small enough. The circumference of my upper arms when measured by graded tape or my own phalanges, it's not a number that I am comfortable with. The problem is compounded, the problem being how conscious I am of the surplus and how heavy and weighed down my poor poor bones feel, this problem is compounded by my idiotic glances into reflective surfaces. My god I need to lose more weight. I should never eat again.

Wednesday, May 8, 2013

reality check

For my next trick I will brush my teeth and comb my hair just like a real! live! girl!

Maybe that is what real girls do before they go to bed. Maybe that is what real girls do in the morning.  Maybe real girls never sleep and instead watch television all night. Maybe real girls sleep on thin woven mats on the floor. Maybe real girls eat real meals and maybe real girls do not. Maybe real girls have handbags not to carry lies and imaginary friends, but for things like lipstick or pocketbooks or wallets. And in these wallets, maybe real girls keep their coins secure and safe within zipper-lipped pouches, instead of placing them all soft and gentle on top of their swollen puffy eyelids and eyebags. Maybe real girls work real jobs or get real allowances from their real parents to buy pretty shiny happy bright things. Maybe real girls do not worry if they have enough spare change to place on top of their swollen puffy eyelids so that when they are in a boat in a river in the underworld, they can pay the toll fee and go somewhere new. Maybe real girls think about these things, maybe real girls do not. Maybe real girls only have pretty shiny happy bright thoughts, or maybe they have exclusively terrible dull ugly thoughts. Maybe they know what to do with these thoughts. Maybe they do not. Maybe real girls can sleep with all the lights off and they do not hear the sound of sadness, which is heavy with solutes but still nonviscuous, leaking out of their veins to pool in the spaces between their muscles and fat. Maybe real girls prefer to keep a light on or their laptop on or the screen of their phone on even though no one is texting or calling or greeting or talking when it is past their bedtime. Maybe real girls check their phone or computer screens, emails, social networking accounts, inbox, voicemail, to see if anyone has noticed how sad, yet real, this real girl is. Maybe real girls like real boys or other real girls or no one at all. Maybe real girls do not flinch when people touch them. Maybe real girls do not mind it when their thighs touch, or maybe real girls do not have thighs that touch or maybe real girls do not have legs. The important thing is that they are real! live! girls! They are tangible! They are facts! They are birth certificates and vaccinations and tuition receipts  They are proven to exist! They have real girl bodies that may be soft dry flaky oily, but my god they are real. They are 3-dimensional. And that is more than I will ever feel like. I am not a real! live! girl! but I like to pretend that I am. My body is fidgety, it either changes in size, composition or density. Sometimes it decides to not exist altogether, sometimes it won't stop reminding me. I am almost entirely certain that I do not have a body, that I am an It who is walking and talking and playing Uno with friends. I am not a real! live! girl! Real girls are constant, not liminal. I am barely even alive at all. I am not a real sound, I am an echo.

life lessons

Never have I wanted to joke around so very very much in my life. I turned 18 last Monday and every hour since midnight May 6 has been hell. How long do I have to wait before it's not ironic to die? Not that I'm going to try to, but just that I am tempted to. This isn't a countdown until, it's a countdown until the end of.

My feet are cinder blocks and I want to go swimming in the ocean. My arms are empty and I want to draw with red ink. My head is heavy and I want to cram gel capsules into it so I never lift it from my pillow do you understand do you fucking get it? I am sad a lot and alone a lot and I'd like to smile and tell a joke, like haha being an adult sucks I quit. But I don't know. I don't I can't I I I just I oh. What is the point of breathing when it's too hard? Because there is so much snot in both my nostrils and because my tongue is swollen from getting caught in the crossfire of my teeth who break up and get back together everytime my jaw fishes for the right words?

Oh right I had something important to say.

Lately I've been learning the value of words. I talk a lot but I've been falling out of practice. It's not my fault, I'm sorry I've been busy creating things and breaking things in my head and dreaming in black and white. Very taxing activities. So what I do with the surplus is: I save them for people I want to talk to. I collect them in my palms and my wallet and my pockets, but sometimes they spill out and shatter on the floor when I am busy looking down at my feet and someone greets me and I fucking hell I say hello back how fucking silly of me. I am collecting my words to spend here or with people who I want to spend on. Spend words. I will feed them my words. I will take my thumb and index finger and put them in my mouth where they will lift gently the word, which will taste like spun sugar, and then my wrist will take this vessel across a vast and terrible space and place it, my word my darling my dear, in your mouth where it will melt and you will drink it and die.

My stomach hurts. I drank down a lot of pills but I don't think I'm going to die tonight. They were the wrong kind of pills for a big big job like that. I think I'm just going to find out a lot of things like what my voice sounds like when I cry when sleeping and if rainbow nerds produce rainbow vomit.

I wish I was on a deserted island. Or a dessert island. I wish I felt like an adult already. I wish I was thinner, so much thinner. I wish I had a big ol' knife to cut off the loose fat of my thighs and arms and belly. I wish the people who I want to read this will read it because Jesus fucking Christ this is my cry for fucking help don't you get that? I am losing my mind I think and I want to know if you can hear me. Can you hear me hello hello

Thursday, May 2, 2013


Would you look down on me if I paid you to kiss me? I hope you do, down the bridge of your nose and at my eyes then my lips and then my chin, my neck, the place where the muscles of my throat segue into my shoulders. I hope that the next scene is the one where you lean down and kiss me and take my money and run.

I am growing stagnant, soon there will be mosquito larvae swimming in the whites of my eyes.  I am calcifying and becoming a tree in a simultaneous and painful process. Here, I shall stand for the next 200 hundred years, eyes blind and limbs unswaying in monsoon winds. Despite the time of day, my leaves will not respond, their stomata shall remain still. I will continue to feel the heat and my sweat will come from my tear ducts and it will burn like a concentrated base, which may burn just like an acid, and this is how I will die. I am shrinking and backing away and I can go whole days in multiples without having conversations. I don't want anyone to touch me. I don't want anyone to be around me. 

But I would like to be kissed once in a while (meaning every other 15 minutes or seconds, whatever is more convenient for you). I like kisses a lot, they make me happy.

Remind me again how and why fat floats. Rather, assure me that it does. I'm having the hardest time believing this, considering how underwater I feel. Autopsy will begin at 6 oclock in the evening, incision will be made to open the abdomen, laterally, and enough water to fill a kid's inflatable pool will gush out from my belly and burst lungs. I am drowning. It's a good thing no one talks to me because I don't to open my mouth and let more water in. I look in the mirror everyday, as well as down at the scale, and I am 100% sure, scientifically, proven, justified, backed, I do know I am obese and fat and disgusting and my face is the size of the moon and sometimes the saltwater leaks out again from my goddamn tearducts but this time the phenomenon is called 'crying'. So yes, why am I sinking when I should be gliding along the surface? What is dragging me down? Why are my pillows constantly soaked?

Kisses are nice and lovely and I think about them a lot. Well, kisses and suicide, as those are kind of complementary things. Or substitute things. I forgot. I never really liked Economics so much (or do I love economics and I forgot that too?) Anyway, I think  about kisses and I sit on benches and I think how nice it would be to be kissed, how lovely it would be to have someone hold my hand and not expect to touch my stomach and never say anything about how I look or ask why I'm crying. Disney taught us to make wishes but never how to make them come true so what do I do now? Someone teach me how to make someone kiss the sad parts away. Someone teach me how to not be sad, that way I don't have to kiss people anymore.

EDIT: Oh and beeteedubs, by kissing I don't just mean that lovely wet mess with the tongues and the sexy bits and whatnot. Not I just mean placing your lips on my skin, anywhere. My ears my neck my forehead, all those three are favorites, my knuckles my knees the place where my arm bends, the opposite of an elbow. Kiss me and let me pretend to be your words. Let me pretend to be something abstract, something not so concrete. Let me pretend to not have a body for a second. Kissing lets me die for a bit and I like that. I like that feeling a lot and that is why here, on the internet, I am begging for kisses.

But don't kiss me anywhere don't touch me anywhere don't you dare, unless I say you can. Don't sit close to me or pinch or poke or prod. Don't put your arms around me in the back of taxis or squeeze the soft flesh of my upper arms. Don't. I get so angry. Don't kiss me. Don't come near me. Stay the hell away. I will invite you, I will ask for the kisses I want and I will take what kisses are given in reply. But do not assume, do not ever assume. I will ask politely. I will not be abused.