| Playing Russian Roulette with a trigger-happy manic depressive |
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| 09:20pm 03/03/2010 |
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mood:  crushed music: Suicide Note-Johnette Napolitano
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I don't understand why I'm so angry lately. Happy, yes, but a hair-trigger, shorter-than-ever fuse type of anger. I've been holding it in, only talking to one person, but they told me that I piss them off, so now I'm relegating my rants to online. Maybe it's the irritable type of mania this time. Either way, I hate mood swings, which mine just did. More like a mood dive, really. For the worse. Now I'm wondering where I hid the xacto blades during my spring cleaning spree, during which I got rid of over half of my stuff. Definitely mania-induced. Either way, even my getting nothing lower than a B for mid-terms can't pull me out of this abyss. I don't want to go to class already and it's not even tomorrow yet. I can feel myself slowing down and getting heavier. Sure signs of slipping deeper into the blue. And there's nothing I can do to stop it. Fuck fuck fuck. I hate my brain. |
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| Unlock the stars, hide your heart. |
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| 11:23pm 08/10/2009 |
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mood:  worried music: None/Japanese people talking
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I'm worried that I can no longer write anymore. I still get depressed, still get the creative urges, but I can't channel them anymore. I can't figure out what to do with those creative urges. I've been through this before, but never to this extent or for quite so long. I'm worried that I won't be able to make anything beautiful anymore.
In other news, I'm worried that my boy is only staying with me for the sex or for the fact that I'm available and present. I wonder...if I wasn't here, if I wasn't so easily had, would he bother? Would he even try to care? Or would he cheat/break up with me so he could bone some other hapless girl silly enough to spread her legs for what might be love?
Perhaps I'm just crazy. Lucky me. |
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| in dusseldorf, i met a dwarf... |
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| 06:45pm 17/09/2009 |
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mood: melancholy music: Idioteque-Radiohead
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who knew electronica could be so depressing? maybe it's just the beer. |
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| they're screaming in their hearts |
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| 12:36am 01/08/2009 |
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mood:  cynical music: 13 Horses-Alexander Rybak
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I sometimes worry that I hide behind certain pretenses. I mean, obviously, for one, I hide behind the moniker of "crazy". Duh. InsaneJournal, hi, my name is crazy person, may I join one of your asylums? Yes, crazy. Sort of a given. No, what I mean, is that I hide behind my labels. Perhaps they aren't really pretenses, nor are they simply labels. For better or for worse, I am all of the given names that I get. Whore, slut, cutter, bipolar, crazy (there's that word again), addict, alcoholic, musician, emo, punk, goth, reader, writer, artist, singer, girlfriend, best friend, nice (too much so for my own good, most times), sex addict, sex kitten, tease, lover, fighter, etcetc. All of the above. All true. All false. There are many facets to this girl. Don't be fooled by just one. |
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| Grotesque, cacophony, Schadenfreude. |
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| 12:31am 01/08/2009 |
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mood: depressed music: Song From A Secret Garden-Alexander Rybak
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She was lying on the ground, arms in the air, hands moving in a slow facsimile of beauty and trailing her fingers through the air in a grotesque cabaret of bones and blood and flesh. Her eyes shone, reflecting the streetlights of the city, her pupils so huge that they could swallow you in their depths. Her skin seemed luminescent, translucent as tissue paper but glowing white as sun-bleached bone.
The headlights of cars below lit up her body from beneath, casting her into oil-slick blackness. Her foot rolled off the edge, her toes barely holding onto her bright pink heels. She looked like a dirty whore, knees dirtied and bruised, hair tangled, clothes askew, lying on her back for all to see. Her eyes were puffy and red, as if she’d been sobbing for hours, as if the drugs weren’t good enough. The strange cacophony of voices in her head lead her to wiggle her toes in time with the songs they were singing, her lone shoe falling to the ground below. Cars honked, but no one slowed or stopped, no one asked her to come down.
I watched, smirking like it was to be made illegal. My Schadenfreudian leanings had me giggling as I watched her ribcage heave and her pelvis slam downwards, her spinal cord arching in a dark imitation of pleasure. She was coming down hard and fast, her bones smacking the pavement so brutally, I was sure she’d burst open, her periosteum shredding against the glittering wet tarmac, paralyzing herself so that she could never again have to deal with his body on her, in her, fucking near her. The best irony of it all was that she started to roll, left then right, back and forth, rocking her body on the precipice edge, razor sharp concrete shining slick and scarlet with the blood from her ripped back, her scapulae digging into the roof, and the only thing holding her down was the place where her wings were torn from her back. Slowly, as if I was watching it on a television screen in a dream, I saw her lose her balance, gravity doing its work, her body going completely limp as she finally rolled over the edge and fell down into the raging electrical storm of cars and people and thoughts and blood on the ground below.
No, that’s a lie. The best irony of all is that she thinks in the third person so she can forget that she’s me. |
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