Crying Lightning

430am

It's storming and I am at Twaine Hart. Everyone is asleep and I'm watching Space Jam, regretfully. The movie selection here deems itself ridiculous yet I felt nostalgic for a second. But I'm drunk now and I just want to fall asleep. My friend is always too tired to stay up the unreasonably late hours with me. I suppose that makes me sad. But on the bright side, my late hours match accordingly with Ace's time zone. At least I have the summer of her homecoming to look forward to. I need some friendxcore FSU to get my shit together. I am in dire need of FSU. Where was I going with this?

A friend mentioned to me...no..not mentioned...asked me if I only blog nowadays when I am wasted. The answer is yes. Blogging, to me (nowadays), is dull. Mostly because I'm dull but regardless, the answer is yes. I'm thinking alcoholism isn't just a joke anymore. Just kidding nah, I'm still laughing. Now for example, I made sure to bring the last of my gin and I stupidly left my bag in the same room as Courtney (Mikal's conservatively judgmental sister) and I had to tiptoe in there to take swigs. If I wasn't such an idiot, I'd know better to take the bag that contained my bottle with me out to the living room where I can swig freely as much as I want. And with that written, I managed the will power to get up and do just that. Idiot. I am an idiot. Deadbeat dead idiot.

Fuck I should sleep.

Weeping and Puking

Greetings.
I've just spent another long night staying up. Several hours ago, I was cooking my specialty, Drunkard's Stew. I woke up from a doze and realized I'd burned the entire roof of my mouth along with my tongue. I always burn my mouth taste-testing wasted.

It's 831am and I'm starting to feel nauseas and passive aggressive at my reflection. The morning sun fucks with me. I feel like we haven't any chemistry. Needless to say, nothing will change for a proper while.

asshole

Should I stop being such a fucking asshole cunt?

Nah. I don't trust you hoes.

Shithead

In my pile of shit, I am currently writing stories about:

-the ambiguous murder suicide of a homosexual couple.
-bastard collective
-an apologetic rapist
-a hair obsessive serial killer
-an eccentric, intensely self-loathing introvert
-a deadbeat dead idiot
and a scattering of other fucking stories...that I cannot finish or even further elaborate on. Rut. Maybe I should make goals? Lul ya right ok.

Svedka Sprite Santa Cruz dat one time

Favoritism exists for a reason.

lol @ cris again

My all time favorite photo: Cristelle at the tender age of...sixteen? Sporting blue shades with a pink crossbody backpack. Braless with her stomach bulging and her belly button tryna hang. But lastly, her beloved puka shell necklace though. She admitted that at the time, she believed she was being fashionable. I've been begging custody of this picture since I first laid eyes on it. SHIT.

post-snowboard

THAWING

LOB

pre-plastered

But ye dis bitch though.

lol @ cris

I made the collage to make her mad.

drunk in front of a firepit

This was before (or after) Cris dropped my phone in the pit where she bravely stuck her hand in just to salvage it. What a fucking bitch.

granmablithevagmom

So relatively fucked

four forty three a m

I'm on the single bed again. Sometime around eleven a few hours ago, I pleasantly fell asleep. But I've been waking up every hour since then. When I awoke at three, I never found sleep again.

~bumping Bon Iver weeping sad about happy shit~

At least there aren't people fucking next door. At least I get a bed to myself. At least I'm letting myself be gay enough to share for a second.

my eyes burn. i hoped for a concussion today but things went a different direction. i turned out alright even after smacking my head pathetically on the slope. i ate five whole lobsters and innumerable amounts of big, meaty lobster claws. i may have eaten the most out of everyone. my lips sting from (i assume) the saltiness of the little bottom feeders paired with cups and cups of bloody warm butter sauce.

But really, I just wanna sleep and not have to do this.

Snow Ball Fight

next door

moaning and thudding and an altogether threshold of sounds and vibrations from the filthy intimacy of strangers. They're fucking next door and I'm staring at this fucking lamp wobbling every now and again.

3:38am
I guess if it was me on the other side of the wall, I'd do a far better job marvelling at my sounds of fucking.

We're very intimate, you and I, the reader and the writer. I expect to hear from you stories of strangers fucking.
3:45am I'm lying. I expect nothing of you. Just as you should expect nothing of me.

prostitutes downstairs

How did we end up in Reno? I do not like Reno. I do not like how my skin feels in Reno. Not literally of course. Never literally. Alright, sometimes literally. As tangible as the grime is, Reno is inspiring. The stories I'd been putting on hold received new light after arriving here tonight. Mostly the gritty stories, the ones I indulge myself in.

Shit.

I don't know. It's 3 in the morning, I'm sober, and I'm on a single bed with one pillow. There isn't really much to say. I guess there never really is much to say.

Tomorrow we're going to Tahoe. Dad said he couldn't book anything there for us to stay which is why we had to go out of state just so we can goddamn snowboard. That's kind of funny. I guess the best part is how my parents have walkie-talkies. Why...do they have walkie-talkies...specifically for this trip...

Take my teeth and leave me alone

The next day
The next day
The next day
The
next
day.

And after and after.

This is guideless and godless and gruesome and shy.

This is guideless
godless
gruesome
and shy.

Sixty then
twenty-four then
seven then
thirty
or thirty-one.

Then twelve then ten,
and I have twenty-one.

Several more
and I'll have twenty-two.

The next day, the next day, and the next day.
Then the next day
and after and after
then ...

coke friends

Eighteen times. 

welcome to my blog

Step 1: After three weeks of my mother's nagging, I finally decided to gather enough energy to put a fitted sheet on my mattress. I must've gotten very used to the feel of dust mites because a fitted sheet feels amazing against my unshaven legs right now.

Step 2: I should convince myself that playing Edward 40hands night after night (by myself I might add) is very bad for my liver. But also, whiskey night after every other night is also bad for my liver. Although, I never cared much for my liver and am excitedly anticipating the day a doctor tells me that it has collapsed. Also I like the pleasing combination that whiskey, cigarettes, and laryngitis does to me. It's like bitching as a different person. But not really because I'm staying away from most human contact. 

Step 3: Being head over heels in love with yourself is a very strange feeling. It teaches you not to take yourself for granted in fear that yourself might leave you. So you learn to curl up in bed, cuddled with your lovely self, having a drink with yourself (refer to step 2), and thinking of all the great times you have had, are having, and will have. It involves a lot of sleeping and a lot of varying inflections of grunting to replace verbal responses to other human beings. 

Step 4: With love comes hate. Being utterly and disgustingly hateful toward yourself is also a very strange feeling. My popularly adoring self-deprecating comments (although very amusing and accurate) are destructive to my so-called self-esteem. Right? I think? I'm clearly unsure about step 4 because self-loathing is a mighty beautiful thing. Nevermind. 

Step 5: Try your best not to wake up sleeping people with the crack of your beer can. 

Step 6: "I'm on the pursuit of happiness" followed by suicide (although cryptic) seems...sensible. Maybe not sensible. But it seems conscious. It seems like clarity. I'd never had to deal with anyone I know offing themselves. But now knowing of someone...and my bitching about the horrid, unbearable length of living... I don't know. I guess I feel weird. 

Step 7: Everyone seems sad too I guess.

To close this drunken ordeal (because I'm easily getting drunker by the minute), I'm taking things one step at a time. Just as I should. I may or may not be getting tired of trapping myself in here. We'll see. 

Me

that awkward moment when ace hugged us at the airport

Just because you're getting on a plane to leave us to live across the atlantic doesn't mean you can go around hugging people. Keep that in mind for future reference. Fucking creep.
It's been about six months and I'm still not over it. BECAUSE CREEP. Goddamn shit. Soft serve and shit. The fuck.