It's the chapstick conspiracy.
Used on chapped lips and then there's addiction. The thought that the chapped lips will return unless you keep using it.

But little does the consumer know that the chapstick is actually drying out their lips so that they need more. They buy more at the check out counter thinking that it will remedy their dry, cracked lips. Poor blokes.

Sex, drugs, alcohol... it's all chapstick.

Is there even a point to writing other than self indulgence?

I'd like to think so at almost four in the morning as I procrastinate until the last possible second.

I have a creative writing assignment to finish but I'm typing all of my creative juices into this blog that only I read instead.

Foolish?

More like self indulgent.

I'm not sure I'll ever be good at making myself do things that I don't want to do.
It might be part of my self destructive nature.
For some reason, self sabotage is my biggest enemy.
I can succeed to a certain point and then for some unknown reason I will just stop.
I will fail on purpose.

A psychologist will have a field day diagnosing me with several social disorders and self deprecating thinking patterns.
Luckily, I know I'm not alone in this.

I know several other people my age and younger that have the same destructive tendencies.
It's quite sad how we can take a life full of opportunity and throw it away because we are afraid of success. Of what we'd have to be with that success.

I often wonder if I make any sense.

Excerpts from Ms. Leading's personal journal

1.11.09
"This is journal #5. I've been writing since 2003/4. One for junior year of high school, one for senior year, one for a college freshman, one as a sophomore-junior and now this one. A journal for a fucked up 21 year old with no motivation to live. People like depressing things. People would read this. It's terribly depressing. This will have no ending. I don't think people realize that most stories don't really have an ending. I feel like most stories that are told are stories about the beginnings of somethings. The start. New life. The year zero. Fuck this. I hate not being able to sleep."

1.12.09
"I hate that the fear of being alone outweighs being in a relationship that is just terrible. I don't get it. Or even in my case, it outweighs being mistreated in a "this-is-not-a-relationship" relationship.

I'm not sure I'll ever know about love truly. I'm not even sure I'll ever be loved back. Which is frustrating but what can you do but carry on? I'm not going to sit here and pretend that I won't be disappointed if it never happens for me. Because I will be disappointed. The reason I will be so disappointed won't be because I want marriage and a conventional family. It's because it's what seems to be the meaning of all of this- what makes waking up worth it. It's what's been communicated to all of us as truly living. If you never get that fairy tale love, you're just a shell of a person. How sad for you. Why is this the ultimate happiness? Why does this have to be what we're meant here for? If I never get that I'm just sure I'll be looked at as a leper or a TB victim. 'What's wrong with her?'

I'll tell you. Everyone blows. No one was able to handle my libido, my humor, my honesty and my refusal to settle for a half-assed relationship. I'm not the girl who will sit there and laugh at you if you're not funny. I'll tell you if you're an asshole. I'll tell you that I've cheated before. I'll tell you that I don't want to be a mother. I'll tell you that I hate PDA. I can't cook or bake and I only like sewing if it's making a purse or tote bag. I won't call you 'my man.' I won't have dinner ready for you when you come home because I'll also be coming home from an 8 hour day. I won't move for your job/career- only for my own. I'm assertive. I only love fully.

I guess love isn't meant for people like me.

Fuck everyone who made me and millions of others think that love is the meaning of all this. WE are the meaning of all of this; who we choose to be in this life. Not who we choose to share it with if we're lucky. I refuse to believe that life is for something as few and far between as mutual love. I refuse."

1.14.09
"My eagerness to serve others, to do good unto others, is just a guilty conscience covering up my selfishness and the bratty-ness I feel when I think I'm entitled to something. I had a break through tonight, as I whined and clicked and copy and pasted lyrics into my Livejournal account. How self involved I am. How incredibly vain I can be when I have the balls to make such a bold statement; to assume that I am so much better.

'He should've chosen me.'

How could I click and type and E-whine such an awfully narcissistic idea? No one in their right mind should ever keep themselves up at night with thoughts of what could've been, let alone thoughts that wreek (oh god spelling @ 4AM) vanity. I'm still such a child in so many ways.

- I feel I am owed something from everyone- when no one in this world owes anyone a damn thing.
- I want to kill myself at age 21. My prime. My equivalent to quality, primetime Emmy-winning dark comedy is turning into daytime drama- no offense All My Children. I still love you dearly when I care enough to catch up on who's sleeping with whose wife with amnesia and an evil twin that's actually a ghost.

Look at how 'indie' I am listening to Elliot Smith and writing in a journal I bought at a discount store. I'm trendy. Where's my chai latte and plaid scarf?

... I feel myself growing up a bit lately. Just these past several days. I feel like things are becoming a bit clearer. Almost as if the wet towel I've been wrapped and tangled in is loosening its grip. My handwriting is getting progressively worse."

Sometimes when I write I picture myself smoking a cigarette.

I wish I could fully describe how music makes me feel.
It's almost impossible for me to put it into words.
It's not like a roller coaster adrenaline rush.
It's not like sex.
It's not like getting high or drunk.

It's almost like when falling in love.
A smile just because.
That weird, fluttering feeling happens in the torso, right above the diaphragm.
Feeling as if breath will never be caught if it goes on for any longer.
But it doesn't matter because music is air.
Music is satisfying.

That's what good music does to me.
That's what I hope it does to everyone.

No man will ever be better than several hits, poptarts and Emarosa on a Monday night.

Flamingos are pink. How cool is that?

If I told you that I was a selfless saint, I'd be a ridiculous liar.

If I told you that I love adjectives, you can find evidence in this wretched blog to support the statement.



Is it too late to realize how horrible you've been to your life's potential?
Not to yourself. Not to your life.
You've been horrible to your potential; meaning you've been careless, thoughtless and negative when it came to opportunities that would better your life.
Content with losing*, for a lack of a better term.


Is it too late to start being the selfless person your Mr. Narcissism always wanted for your life?
Or are you too far down the road of wanting to be selfless so that you come full circle to selfish as you expect the world to owe you more than what's been given to you?
Selfless often teeters on selfish.


Is it too late to realize that you make absolutely no sense when you type a blog post or write in a journal at 4AM?

No.
No.
And fortunately for my writing's sake, No.
I'm not sure it's ever too late to fix these sorts of things.
No one is that far gone.


* Underoath song reference?

Strange & Beautiful

It's New Year's Eve 08-09.

9PM- You walk into your best friend's house and take off your snow-covered boots as unfamiliar people walk passed you. Your best friend welcomes you. You realize right away that you don't know anyone there and wish you were somewhere else. You give her your coat.
You put your bag in her room and look at yourself in the mirror- jeans, tank top, cardigan. Next to cocktail dresses, leggings and high heels, you're under dressed. You grab your liter of Captain Morgan and head to the kitchen.
More unfamiliar people you smile at and shake hands with. You pour yourself a drink, getting complimented on your liquor choice by some meathead with a name like "Brad" or "Ray."

Smile, drink. Smile, another drink. Sit, pretend to care about the conversation at hand.

10PM- People you know show up. You are now 3 drinks into the night even though you've only been there for an hour. You and the familiar faces isolate yourselves from the unfamiliar and play Rock Band. You're surprised at how coordinated you can be on the drums after the rum & cokes you've been drinking out of a plastic wine glass. Classy.

More drinks, jello shots, Rock Band, singing Paramore.

11PM- More familiar faces finally show and you relax a bit. You tell them that if they didn't show up, you would've kicked their asses. You get dragged into a room and you cry. Talk about anti-depressants. Drink Cap'n & coke during the lulls.

Drink and nod and cry. Hug. Wipe face. Walk downstairs.

Conversation, smiles, laughter, introduction to someone who you'd get along with because he's "also sarcastic," but you barely get to talk to him because you just don't care. His hair is pretty awesomely long but he stands in the corner, text messaging for most of the night. Whatever.

11:59:57PM - 3,2,1 HAPPY NEW YEAR.
Chug a glass of champagne, get tackled by friends, move awkwardly through kissing couples.
More rum & coke. Flip cup. Conversation you still don't care about.

You hear a rumor that someone is having sex in your best friend's room. You run upstairs to ask them to open the door. Meathead opens the door and laughs at you a bit, assuring you nothing is going on. He promises to keep the door open. You go downstairs.

?AM - Blur. Time passes. More blur.

Couple making out on the couch disappears. You hear another rumor about sex going on in best friend's computer room. You bang on the door, demanding they do not disrespect her house. Your best friend's roommate from school opens the door and screams about how she has a bloody nose, okay? She just has a fucking bloody nose and nothing's going on, slamming the door in your face. You ask politely to come in, the boy with her says to come in. She has her face buried in a pillow, you apologize and tell her you heard something and wanted to settle it and ask if she needs anything. She yells at you to get the fuck out. You take your best friend away from beer pong. She goes into the room.

??AM- 8 rum & cokes into the night, you run outside, leaning on your best friend's car in the snow and you cry. Cry. Cry.

You try to find the downstairs bathroom. Someone's in it. You collapse onto the floor as you're crying. You say sorry over and over. Your best friend tells you to stop as she gets cleaning supplies and places the bloody pillow case in the washing machine. A familiar voice asks you why you are crying. You don't respond. Another voice from behind you sums up the situation to the first voice. You're getting patted on the back. One person leaves the bathroom and another one of your friends is sitting on the floor facing the toilet. You go in and shut the door.

Voices outside the bathroom. Crying. Crying. Consoling.
Your friend vomits, you sober up.
Hold her hair back, wipe her face, get her a glass of water.
She's crying, crying, crying. Unrequited love talk- you're the queen.

4AM- The rest of the night you play mom.
Clean up vomit. Carpet cleaner. Kick someone out of the bathroom for a vomit emergency.
Someone calls you a "saint." You think about him and the day you stayed with him while he vomitted. He called you a saint that day.
No more thinking.
Stop.

You beg your best friend to just let you clean.
Scrub the floor.
Get your mind off of him.
Put people to bed, making sure that your friend does not get molested. You drunkenly admit that you've been molested.

Awkward laughter, voices, music, more friends vomiting.

5AM- Everyone's in bed. You're on the bathroom floor with two of your friends, while your best friend sits on the sink and apologizes for picking at her toenails. Talk about the night. Laugh.

You put your friends to bed. You sleep with your best friend in her parents' bed.

6AM- You wake up to someone sleeping on top of you. You wake him up and say, "Get off of me." He calls you by one of your friends names. You kick him out of the room. Back to bed.

7AM- You have a headache and a rash. Terrible. What is this rash from?

9AM- You stir. Voices. Everyone is up. You still have a rash. What is this from? Headache is unbearable.
Friends are awake. You see the bloody nose girl. Awkward. Grab your things. Realize you drank 1/2 a liter of rum. Get a ride home.

Find your dad's keys still in the door. Down some Benadryl and Tylenol. Pass out until 3PM.

10PM- Sarcastic long-haired boy friends you on facebook. Why.

All you can do is laugh at how terrible New Year's always turns out for you...