Sunday, April 10
I woke up in the foulest mood today. I fucking hate French Revolution time because it just fucking messes with my mind, and my body of course also. It makes me bloat to who knows how big, big enough for my mom to tell me to stop growing, and makes me the biggest fucking bitch next to Axl Rose. As a matter of fact, I am so much like that fat fucking bastard during this time. And I don't think I'm allowed to take Midol or anything due to already being on birth control. Sucks. Or maybe I could, and if I could, I would go beg my mom to go buy me some right now.

That's why yesterday while shopping at Paramus I wasn't in the greatest mood. Nothing is worse than going clothes shopping when you're puffy. Nothing. Gwar is out of the question. Nothing beats Gwar. But back to my point. Plus, my hair, even after washing it before we went, these stupid fucking baby strands around my hairline were sticking straight out. Straight out, like there were black needles sticking out of the left side of my head. I was like the mediocre asian Pinhead. Horrible name to go by indeed. It also really pissed me off when my mom wouldn't let me get a fucking milkshake. Milkshake, not Starbucks caffeine. Not even ice cream was what I wanted. I wanted a fucking milkshake. Nobody eats cheese fries and a smokey mountain stacker with jumb-o rings at Ruby Tuesday and doesn't get dessert. That's against the fucking law of Dining Dynamics. I would've asked for the brownie with vanilla ice cream and chocolate syrup poured on it, but I actually held myself back and asked for a milkshake instead. Stupid fucker.

I'm so confused. I'd love to hang out with someone, but I'm terrified that I will terrify them. Terrify them all the way to a Gwar concert. That's how overfilled with shit I am right now. It's like, at the same time, I want people to fuck off, and then go out and hang out with other people. Or maybe it's just that I want certain people to fuck off. Like the sibling. Nothing makes a bright sunny Sunday worse than playing Green Day all the way across the house where you could still hear it in your closed bedroom. Don't even mention The Killers. They really kill alright. They fucking kill my sanity and all aspect of a clear mind for the next three days after hearing one line of that fucking chorus of "Mr. Brightside." Yesterday she did the devil horns at me and asked what it meant. I told her that it meant the devil and that it was the most retarded thing to do in the world, it practically lost all of its tenacity completely, these days. She looked pretty downed by that, so I'm guessing that she actually does it at school or something. That's really sad. I don't know why I am related to such people. And she's ten years old, for your information.

While driving Jeannie home, the car broke down at around 8:30 or 9:00 last night, I can't remember. The police came and shit. I find it pretty hilarious, even if it did ruin my mom's day massively. Controversy and tragedy for some reason is such an incredible joy to me, I'm a sick sad fuck like that. I'll write about this whole part of the day later probably.

For some reason, I guess it has been a while, I've been getting good dreams. Yes, good dreams. That's really hard to believe. For about thirteen or fourteen years of my entire life they had been filled with nothing but nightmares. I really don't know what it means though, when one suddenly goes from enduring subconscious crap all night to subconscious gold all night. The bad part is, once I wake up, I find out that the whole dream isn't real, and that my life isn't really going as it was just portrayed in my mind. It's too good to be true anyway.

Overall, I don't think these good dreams will do shit at all, because I tend to over-romanticize everything and I fucking dream like a fucking stupid sap too much, and they're just reflections of the state of mind that I've been in lately. If they really keep up at this rate, I'll just keep on overexpecting and not doing anything to actually achieve those dreams, only to be crashing back down all the way to Gwar gallery hell, which is deeper than Gwar concert.

*I have noticed that I rarely get comments anymore, but it's okay. Folks don't care about me, I don't care about them either. I never read people's shit anymore, it's okay if they don't read mine. It's not stopping me from writing though. But keep this in mind: The more lack of feedback a writer gets, the more they will lack inspiration to write. So if the writer is really talented in your opinion, and the writer keeps on not receiving feedback, their so-called great writing might disappear forever from their lack of inspiration. Inspiration is what makes us do everything. Without out, we do nothing.

*This paragraph was aimed at LiveJournal users, whom about forty-five are supposed readers of mine, not you kind Blogger folks.


Christina N. @ 12:53 PM