Falling Off the Wagon

Ooops... I did it again.

I don't know what happened, or rather what is happening. For a split second, I lost control. Now everything's hazy. It doesn't seem wrong anymore. If it feels this good, then isn't it right?

The voice in the back of my head whispers the answer. I silence it.

I Am Not A Writer

I wanna take this moment to say that I do not deserve to call myself a writer. If I was, I'd be totally devoted to it. I'd do it more. I'd do it all the time. I was a writer once. I'd write as I breathed in, air and pen becoming the very things that kept me going. But these days I just sit and read. Rather than compose, I take in the compositions of others. They are good. And I am ashamed. I am ashamed to call myself a writer.

I am not deserving of the title. What I am is an old flame, that once burned brilliantly. However, I was doused with the sands of time, and what is left is not but ash. I rise from the ground. I attempt to put myself together, and continue as though what I am is what I was before. But there are wholes in this new person. There are wholes that were once filled with creativity. I wrap myself up tightly, trying to preserve the remnants of my past status.

I am much like a mummy.
A pull of a string, and I'd no longer be able to pretend.
A pull of a string, and everyone would see the truth:
. . . that the writer in me is simply make-believe.

Pen and Paper were once my lovers. The baring of ink on flat surface something I deemed more satisfying than the locking of lips, the insision of skin, the empty of hunger. I woke up each morn, searching for Paper, calling out to Pen. But one day I woke up screaming, lusting after something human. I severed my ties with Pen and Paper. I've tried to keep in touch, but let's be honest. They want nothing to do with me. Of that I am certain. One question remains. Shall I give up the ghost? Or shall I milk from my past all that I can?

Things That Suck

Things that suck:

-Definately not my boyfriend.
-Definately not my boyfriend's hella sexy abz.
-Definately not the attack I'm planning to stage on him. I will...
-The fact that he will not walk around shirtless :P
-My sister.
-My weight.
-My lack of cheez-its.
-Irresistable curry.
-Allergies suck male parts. Like seriously mine are going crazy.
-Tiredness. Really. Sucks.

I Love You. AAAHHH!

I know I haven't been writing
But there isn't much to complain about.

I'm really happy with Davie. Happier than I would've thought given the circumstances. (Generally I don't do well in non-physical relationships.) I don't know why, but I feel really comfortable around him. And when I'm with him I don't do anything I don't want to. I don't even talk if I don't want to. But that's just me giving him the truth. It's me giving him the real me (Michka), and not Amichka who regulates her emotions for the good of those around her.

I'm also really beginning to like myself. It took me some pretty bad situations for me to realize that I'm perfectly fine. My only handicap is that I'm a teenager. Along with that comes depression and the pressure, but those are things that I can handle, or will be able to eventually. There's still the urge to cut. I wonder if it'll ever go away. But ironically enough, I listen to songs about cutting, and the feeling goes away. Or is at least supressed.

So where does all this happiness leave my dear friend, Ed? I'm not very sure. I haven't given up on him, and believe me, I'm still trying. But with all my newfound contentment I think I can just stash him away until a rainy day. Until it starts raining meatballs, perhaps. But I will always love you. I love you. AAAHHH!

Fatty McFat Face

I know what you're going to say... Michka, you are not fat.

I'm not.
Fat.

But I am. Because I think I am. What makes me fat is not how much I weigh; what makes me fat is my lack of control over what goes into my mouth. Ugh! I said it... Control. I hate that excuse for eating disorders. But it's true. I want control. And I don't have anything.

No control over what I eat.

No control over my emotions.

No control over my... physical impulses? Aye that sounds dirty :(

No control over... Anything.

But back to the main problem at hand... I can't control what I eat without opperant conditioning. Cutting basically. So I guess I'll just have to be a fatass, because I cannot go back there.

(Please Don't Read) Anger Drives Away Writers' Block

I tried my best to be as objective as possible. I went through so much crap. Arrived at the realization that I was a young, naive, yet vastly manipulative bitch. That I still have the power to be a manipulative bitch. Over the past few months, I've tried to attone for it all. I tried to make myself a better person by placing all the blame on myself. I get it. I'm an idiot. I'm as imperfect as it gets. But eventually I realized that holding on to all the blame meant that I couldn't let go. (And if I hadn't let go, I wouldn't be with the most awesomest guy in the world right now.) As much as I'd love to entertain your childishness, I can't. Because you know what? Although I was completely wrong, I learned from it. Like think about it for a second. Our relationship wasn't perfect. You're not perfect. I'm sure as hell not perfect. We were both human, and there are lots of things that we (yes, mostly I) could've done differently. But you're an adult now. And I really think that instead of calling me a bitch to one of my best friends, you really should forget that I ever existed. You have the absolute right to be hurt, mad, whatever, but being pissed at me isn't helping you. And to think, I felt bad for you. But no, Syd. I don't hate him. I just think he needs to FUCKING GROW UP, DAMNIT! Help goes to people who help themselves and all that good crap... And now for one of my favorite phrases:

Fuck it.

Fuck it, and damn them all to hell.

(No more writers' block! YAY ME!!!)

Happy as a Clam

I'm so sorry, my dear blog, for ignoring you the way I've been doing. I guess writing requires more thought when I'm not complaining. And well, I certainly have nothing to complain about. My life is amazing right now. In fact, I quite often feel like dancing out of pure joy. I'm sure if I looked hard enough, I'd find something wrong with my life (like Akola) but really I don't wanna complain. I wanna bask in my love for my Davie.

My.

Dave.

Sounds so awesome! Sometimes I have to ask myself, "Is he really real?" It's so random that by some miracle I get to date him. Because I really don't deserve him. Thank God for getting things I don't deserve.