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Tuesday, November 13th, 2001
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9:52 pm - i offer it. skin up.
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i think that i'll sit here and write nonsense. yes, i will. when i am finished, i will look back on this piece and say, "what a fine portrayal of a fuck-up you have made ashley! maybe, someday, you will stop being one." i hate paragraphs. this will contain no paragraphs, because that is what i said it will do. [no one is reading this.] in elementary school, my teachers told the students that mark twain once said that the ignorant and stupid use foul language because it is all they knew. i'm hypocritical because i dislike saying the words, [pronouncing them syllable and syllable on a rolling tongue can be quite a feat], but i have no problem typing them. i, too, am an internet fraud. i don't know grammar either. i'm very primitive, and yet i want to be the all-consuming writer girl. ha, a writer, a righter. i can't even write. let's chalk this up to my abusive household, shall we? that way, it's no longer my fault. it's the cat's. he mauled me when i was five, and left me catatonic. i'm not really typing this. i'm having the nurse author do an autobiography by "me" for me. even she is creative. i self loathe, deplore. maybe this will turn into a teenager. but, no, i am a teenager. i can't possibly turn out typed words that sound like i'm a teenager when i actually am one! i must sound mature, i must be a protégé. i must make art with charcoals and watercolors before even touching a pen. i must love myself. [bullshit.] this is all true, but i'm blowing it off because i can do nothing. i am one big, bumbling nothing. for years it was "i'm ugly. i'm putrid. no one likes me. no one will ever date me. everyone hates me." now i've come to realize that even if i am ugly and putrid, i will still get a date regardless because all people need to fuck someone now and then. i can play the blow up doll, the real doll, the dutch wife, the whorey mistress. i won't make a sound. [are you/him/her/he/she secretly masochistic?] the problem in present is my unwillingness to accept the idea that i am a failure in this stage of life. [and the next! oh, the next is bound to be worse.] no ivy league college for asches, no no. no sincere pat on the back when she graduates. lets say that i'm rich. filthy, blooming, bountiful rich. i'm hypothesizing that i'd be doing the same exact thing i'm doing at this moment. complaining. moaning. crying. bitching. am i a bitch, or am i just a dumb bitch? i will decline the invitation to be interviewed for your insulting pleasure. i will not let myself trivialize what i taunt but breathe for. i will listen to rachmaninoff and entertain the fantasy of dancing on oriental carpeted floors in a crème silk dress. i will not be the life of the party. i will lurk around the life of the party. i will not shut up. i will not die. i will be ignorant towards harrowing situations people are facing in the world because i am selfish. i will not be happy. i will be disgusted with myself. i will, i will, i will myself to *poof*. i want some ice cream. i need a car. maybe i'll dye my hair the entire light spectrum in a month to be capricious and free. i want to be free. i want whomever who has read this thus far to be free. i want you to be happy. even if i can't stand you. i'm feeling em[pathetic]. calling all intellectuals: let me wash your car for you. i'm quite sorry, but i will have to use the same sponge on all that apply. i need the karma fueled magma oil. i need the nitty gritty, the dirt. i need the panacea you can give; something to make me think. i need you, oh i need you -- so i can later burn my skin off with lye and drink draino for the lack of. the lack of, the big, bumbling nothing. you can jack into my brain to see what you'll find here. I WANT TO WRITE THE THOUGHT PROCESS! [which is stolen, from dd, but ... stealing is a minimal crime.] perhaps he'll forgive me. "to be a smart kid, you had to believe you were better than everyone else. you had to love jack kerouac and kurt vonnegut [whom I’ve never read] and know more than enough information about star wars and/or star trek to become an official "smart kid." i'm a dumb kid. slummy sipe sipes. i love you, but i can no longer love myself. i haven't been able to since i was 12. [puberty hit hard! har, har.] now that i've butchered myself, i will be going. i will be writing more. the problem is, i'm a teenager.
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| Monday, November 12th, 2001
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9:54 pm - i offer it. skin up.
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i think that i'll sit here and write nonsense. yes, i will. when i am finished, i will look back on this piece and say, "what a fine portrayal of a fuck-up you have made ashley! maybe, someday, you will stop being one." i hate paragraphs. this will contain no paragraphs, because that is what i said it will do. [no one is reading this.] in elementary school, my teachers told the students that mark twain once said that the ignorant and stupid use foul language because it is all they knew. i'm hypocritical because i dislike saying the words, [pronouncing them syllable and syllable on a rolling tongue can be quite a feat], but i have no problem typing them. i, too, am an internet fraud. i don't know grammar either. i'm very primitive, and yet i want to be the all-consuming writer girl. ha, a writer, a righter. i can't even write. let's chalk this up to my abusive household, shall we? that way, it's no longer my fault. it's the cat's. he mauled me when i was five, and left me catatonic. i'm not really typing this. i'm having the nurse author do an autobiography by "me" for me. even she is creative. i self loathe, deplore. maybe this will turn into a teenager. but, no, i am a teenager. i can't possibly turn out typed words that sound like i'm a teenager when i actually am one! i must sound mature, i must be a protégé. i must make art with charcoals and watercolors before even touching a pen. i must love myself. [bullshit.] this is all true, but i'm blowing it off because i can do nothing. i am one big, bumbling nothing. for years it was "i'm ugly. i'm putrid. no one likes me. no one will ever date me. everyone hates me." now i've come to realize that even if i am ugly and putrid, i will still get a date regardless because all people need to fuck someone now and then. i can play the blow up doll, the real doll, the dutch wife, the whorey mistress. i won't make a sound. [are you/him/her/he/she secretly masochistic?] the problem in present is my unwillingness to accept the idea that i am a failure in this stage of life. [and the next! oh, the next is bound to be worse.] no ivy league college for asches, no no. no sincere pat on the back when she graduates. lets say that i'm rich. filthy, blooming, bountiful rich. i'm hypothesizing that i'd be doing the same exact thing i'm doing at this moment. complaining. moaning. crying. bitching. am i a bitch, or am i just a dumb bitch? i will decline the invitation to be interviewed for your insulting pleasure. i will not let myself trivialize what i taunt but breathe for. i will listen to rachmaninoff and entertain the fantasy of dancing on oriental carpeted floors in a crème silk dress. i will not be the life of the party. i will lurk around the life of the party. i will not shut up. i will not die. i will be ignorant towards harrowing situations people are facing in the world because i am selfish. i will not be happy. i will be disgusted with myself. i will, i will, i will myself to *poof*. i want some ice cream. i need a car. maybe i'll dye my hair the entire light spectrum in a month to be capricious and free. i want to be free. i want whomever who has read this thus far to be free. i want you to be happy. even if i can't stand you. i'm feeling em[pathetic]. calling all intellectuals: let me wash your car for you. i'm quite sorry, but i will have to use the same sponge on all that apply. i need the karma fueled magma oil. i need the nitty gritty, the dirt. i need the panacea you can give; something to make me think. i need you, oh i need you -- so i can later burn my skin off with lye and drink draino for the lack of. the lack of, the big, bumbling nothing. you can jack into my brain to see what you'll find here. I WANT TO WRITE THE THOUGHT PROCESS! [which is stolen, from dd, but ... stealing is a minimal crime.] perhaps he'll forgive me. "to be a smart kid, you had to believe you were better than everyone else. you had to love jack kerouac and kurt vonnegut [whom I’ve never read] and know more than enough information about star wars and/or star trek to become an official "smart kid." i'm a dumb kid. slummy sipe sipes. i love you, but i can no longer love myself. i haven't been able to since i was 12. [puberty hit hard! har, har.] now that i've butchered myself, i will be going. i will be writing more. the problem is, i'm a teenager.
current mood:  aggravated
current music: the wicker man - iron maiden
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6:24 pm - i offer it. skin up
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who ever said life was supposed to make sense?
current mood: aggravated
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(comment on this)
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