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Sunday, August 30th, 2009
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3:37 pm
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| Monday, November 20th, 2006
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11:14 pm
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Meg, I don't appreciate you talking to my mother about me behind my back.
Thanks to you I now get put on more medication and may get to spend Christmas break as a patient in a mental hospital.
So, thanks.
Because obviously I wasn't discreet enough about all the illicit things you were doing that your mother wouldn't approve of.
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(comment on this)
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| Wednesday, November 15th, 2006
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1:08 am
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Since my forced weight gain, I've gotten down to 115 again. I'm still gross but it's definately an improvement. Maybe I'll meet Christmas goal after all?
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(2 comments | comment on this)
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| Tuesday, November 14th, 2006
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3:47 am - My triumphant return
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Oh glorious night of giving! I have a lovely new black keyboard in front of me. Usually, I wouldn't let my Aryan hands be tainted by such a hostile surface but I suppose White Power has to take the backseat to my blogging needs.
In other news, I have a horrible flu-like illness that may slowly disintegrate my insides into a stew. Or something. I'm outstandingly pale like a fish that has been clubbed to death and left under a rock to die so my mucus problems leave disturbingly bright mottled red marks under my nose. To anybody up to a mile away from me I look like I either have Downs Syndrome or a huge coke problem.
Um, um, um. I tried to dye my hair dark brown today but it only came out a couple of shades darker than my normal color and is also sort of red-ish because I opted for "warm pigments". I don't know how I feel about this. Oh woe.
My birthday approaches in only five days. Now, at sixteen, I think my life officially needs to get exciting in the way of alleyway groping and general excitement. Perhaps I'll take up drinking more often or attempt to seduce a middle-aged man. Except, I think the only older men who like me are either homeless and vaguely schizophrenic or are named Russell and have creepy Jesus beards and work for Youth Groups. That's not exactly the mysteriously troubled upbringing I was envisioning.
Hmm, in other troubling news, my mother talked to my doctor about SUDDEN WEIGHT LOSS OF DOOM and I'm now on SUDDEN WEIGHT GAIN PLAN OF DEATH. And I get to be weighed in public once a week to prove that I'm being a good girl and doing as Doctor Jesus Fish orders. I've already gained 5 pounds-up to 118. And feel like my stomach is skinning itself in pity and guilt. I think they want me to stay from 119-138 which is completely ridiculous. I'm not even "underweight" until I get down to 111. But apparently Jesus will only love me if I'm fat and cuddly. :/
I'm sorry I've been torn away from the womb and comfort that is my computer screen and therefore unable to cater to your comment-whore needs. I love you all though and will try to at least skim your lives like the bitch I am. Even though my friends list is becoming an angry monster that beats me into submission.
So, you should tell me about any potentially life-altering events that have occurred while I was turning into a lard cake/dying of bubonic plague. In the comments. Yes.
So we burned all our uniforms
And let nature take its course again
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(7 comments | comment on this)
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| Friday, October 27th, 2006
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4:31 pm
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I'm down to 115 again. I'm glad I fixed the forced-gluttony of earlier this week.
I'm fasting today and hopefully can continue throughout the weekend but my parents might interefere with that. Or I could just screw up of my own accord like the disgusting person I am.
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(comment on this)
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| Monday, October 16th, 2006
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8:39 pm
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1) I seem to lack motivation for most things, including being a dedicated Liverjournal devotee.
2) My obscure Swedish relatives are here and they spend a lot of time miming and being generally adorable and foreign.
3) This song reminds me of Alex Roling. I hope he's happy always.
And when the wind blows
and there's a chill in the air
I hope someone is taking care of you
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(comment on this)
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| Sunday, September 17th, 2006
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12:54 pm
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Erase. Erase. Erase. Erase. Erase. Animal, caught in a trap. Gnaw away my stomach lining and every fucking thing beneath. I will not eat. I will not sanction this or me. Primitive awareness keeps me here-cold bones, stretched long I am the night which swallows itself. I am a moth in reverse. I miss myself, my structure. Ruleless, libertine. I make myself-my architecture.
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(comment on this)
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| Wednesday, September 13th, 2006
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8:04 pm
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Tulips
By Sylvia Plath
The tulips are too excitable, it is winter here.
Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in
I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly
As the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands.
I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions.
I have given my name and my day-clothes up to the nurses
And my history to the anaesthetist and my body to surgeons.
They have propped my head between the pillow and the sheet-cuff
Like an eye between two white lids that will not shut.
Stupid pupil, it has to take everything in.
The nurses pass and pass, they are no trouble,
They pass the way gulls pass inland in their white caps,
Doing things with their hands, one just the same as another,
So it is impossible to tell how many there are.
My body is a pebble to them, they tend it as water
Tends to the pebbles it must run over, smoothing them gently.
They bring me numbness in their bright needles, they bring me sleep.
Now I have lost myself I am sick of baggage -
My patent leather overnight case like a black pillbox,
My husband and child smiling out of the family photo;
Their smiles catch onto my skin, little smiling hooks.
I have let things slip, a thirty-year-old cargo boat
Stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.
They have swabbed me clear of my loving associations.
Scared and bare on the green plastic-pillowed trolley
I watched my teaset, my bureaus of linen, my books
Sink out of sight, and the water went over my head.
I am a nun now, I have never been so pure.
I didn't want any flowers, I only wanted
To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty.
How free it is, you have no idea how free -
The peacefulness is so big it dazes you,
And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets.
It is what the dead close on, finally; I imagine them
Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet.
The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me.
Even through the gift paper I could hear them breathe
Lightly, through their white swaddlings, like an awful baby.
Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds.
They are subtle: they seem to float, though they weigh me down,
Upsetting me with their sudden tongues and their colour,
A dozen red lead sinkers round my neck.
Nobody watched me before, now I am watched.
The tulips turn to me, and the window behind me
Where once a day the light slowly widens and slowly thins,
And I see myself, flat, ridiculous, a cut-paper shadow
Between the eye of the sun and the eyes of the tulips,
And I have no face, I have wanted to efface myself.
The vivid tulips eat my oxygen.
Before they came the air was calm enough,
Coming and going, breath by breath, without any fuss.
Then the tulips filled it up like a loud noise.
Now the air snags and eddies round them the way a river
Snags and eddies round a sunken rust-red engine.
They concentrate my attention, that was happy
Playing and resting without committing itself.
The walls, also, seem to be warming themselves.
The tulips should be behind bars like dangerous animals;
They are opening like the mouth of some great African cat,
And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes
Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.
The water I taste is warm and salt, like the sea,
And comes from a country far away as health.
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(comment on this)
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| Saturday, August 26th, 2006
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11:14 pm
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broken_charity's journal
