• I just don’t know.

    by  • September 4, 2010 • 0 Comments

    I have friends, but I don’t know if they consider me their friend then there are people who consider me their friend but I don’t consider them mine. I just want someone that I’m their friend and their mine. I don’t want that, I need that. You could be that person. I never try to interfere with anyone’s life but this feels right. soo soo right.

    To a Self-Loathing Narcissist

    by  • September 4, 2010 • 1 Comment

    I want you to know that you’re ruining your life.

    You go to work drunk and high now, and your bosses have mentioned that you’re acting differently lately. They keep pushing your promotion back because you’ve been out sick a lot lately. Except you’re not really sick. You’re exhausted and hung over from drinking and smoking pot all night.

    You don’t even use to feel good anymore. You use to feel normal. You can’t even fucking feel good anymore. You’ve burned out your brain. No, that’s not entirely true. You do feel good. But you don’t remember it. Its so fleeting, you spend all your time using worrying about if you’re high enough to start feeling good, and worrying if you have enough stuff to keep you high.

    I hate you. You are weak, pathetic, and a puppet of your base desires. You’ve squandered every noble opportunity presented to you. That job making twice what you make now, gone. Higher education, gone.

    And you know what the worst thing is? You’re at the tipping point. If you quit using today, you could go back to school, be forgiven by your girlfriend, and go on to lead a productive, prosperous life. Externally, your life is not so torn apart that you cannot rebuild.

    But you can’t, can you? The bottle is right here. I’m looking at it right now. The pipe is right next to me, in a drawer. These are the only things that can fill the hole inside your chest, the same place that you crave a cigarette, only a thousand times more persuasive. Of course, they only fill the emptiness and mask the pain for little while.

    It’s so easy to lower your standards. A year ago, the thought of going to work high was inconceivable. Now, you only go to work sober when you’re out. And you usually only run out when you have no money to buy any more.

    You could work at NASA, like you’ve dreamed. You definitely have the potential, the intelligence, you simply require the advanced education. But you know that won’t happen if you keep using.

    This happens all the time. For a few minutes, hours maybe, you find the clarity to recognize how dangerous and pathetic your behavior is. But then that hole in your chest seems to get bigger and you need to fill it up with whatever you can.

    After work today, you went out and bought a fifth of whiskey. You started out writing this letter drinking a Gatorade. Now the bottle of whiskey is almost gone and you’re worried about having enough liquor to last the night.

    I hate you. I am so ashamed of you that I can barely stand it. But that feeling will go away after a few more drinks.

    I don’t need an education. I don’t need a career. I don’t need a relationship. The whole goal in life is to be happy, right? Well, I’m always miserable. Except when I’m drinking. Then I’m happy.

    I really hope I don’t wake up tomorrow.

    please, don’t let them define you

    by  • September 4, 2010 • 0 Comments

    you’re all fine.

    just the way you are. with your mole, or your crooked teeth. with the curly hair that can’t be tamed, and you with the bones so small you shop in the kid’s section. you, who sees a flawed face in the mirror.

    the one with the button nose, and the eyes set far apart. the one with a scar in her eyebrow.

    you, with the curves in all the right places, or you with no curves at all,

    you. are. beautiful.

    no matter how you look, or who you are. if you are here, you’re gorgeous to me.

    To J

    by  • September 4, 2010 • 1 Comment

    I miss you.

    I really never thought that I would, especially with how we met. If someone had told me last year that I would miss you when you left, I would have laughed in their face. But here I am, after a summer full of stupid cliches, counting down the days until you come back.

    I miss us, even though there was never really an us. I hate that you’re 6 hours away and I can’t just call you up so we can see each other. I even miss having to tell people that no, we aren’t together, for the millionth time…even while I wished we were. I miss you and your laugh and your eyes and your smile and your stupid little words that you made up that annoyed the crap out of me.

    Each time you tell me you haven’t seen anyone yet, I’ve gotta confess, I’m always a little bit relieved. Even though we might never work, there’s a piece of me that thinks we could. And I want to try. As much as I don’t want to ruin our friendship, I think we could be great. I think we could be worth it, even if only for a while. I miss how we were when we went camping, in the tent. I miss being that close.

    Even if we drift apart, you’ll always have my memories.

    Love, B.

    To The One And Only.

    by  • September 4, 2010 • 0 Comments

    If only we were older. Then maybe Mom would understand us. Then she would be happy that I found a romance-movie lover.

    I still love you.

    by  • September 4, 2010 • 0 Comments

    The day we broke up was the day my life fell apart. I can’t look at anything without it reminding me of you. The memories we shared. You weren’t only the love of my life, you were my best friend. I still haven’t moved on. I still cry myself to sleep. I still hug my pillow, wishing it was you. The day I saw you with the other girl, I fell to the ground. My heart fell to pieces. It replays in my mind over and over until I cant bear it any longer. I can’t bear to go to school and see you laughing and holding her, the way you used to hold me. I can’t bear to read the notes you used to write to me. I can’t bear to breathe when I lay there, and imagine you being there with me. You were my first love, and always will be my first love.