Don't Tell Mother, But I Ate All Your Bacon

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About Lolita
I can't think about it without feeling ill.
We've all be there.
The perfect puce vomit, lust-laced.
Moderately long fingernails colored an interesting shade
of bright cherry crimson...
Death by Sharpie.
I am a blueberry Froot Loop with a bright red mouth.
I like the way it looks when my neon nails graze skin.
Death by trembling.
Stanley Kubrick's was better, say critics.
It's not suppose to be funny.
It wasn't funny.
But I laughed,
in Lyne's version,
I laughed really hard when She leaned over with the tray
and said,
Don't tell mother, but...
I ate all your bacon.

Wedge of Orange

I haven't written (coherently) in a long while. Mostly just letters and weirdness and brainstorming for stories. Right now I'm at a friend's house, and he and my other good buddy are on the red suade sofa playing video games. There aren't three contollers, so I'm just over here on his laptop. I figured I would write in my blog, since I gave up my position on the controller. I'm no good at video games anyway. I like writing more, as dorky as that sounds. Haha! I'm hopeless. <3

Things have changed a lot since the summer. I'm in school, and doing okay. Not as spectacularly as I would like, but just okay. It's just the beginning of the year, anyway. I have plenty of time to warm up to things. Teehee. High school is interesting! Somehow not as horrid as they say it is. It's bound to get worse, my brother tells me. My brother is not the studious type. He doesn't believe in studying. He believes in dumb luck -- and he gets a lot. He has much potential; I wish he would apply work to his talent. He could be incredible if he wanted.

I'm in some serious need of tea right now! Iced green tea, with a little wedge of orange. A little burst of caffeine. That would be perfect.

Letter: October 4

Dear Mr. Ineffable Baritone,

I figured I could consult you on this. I have a huge problem. It can be described simply through this:



What should I do?

I miss my past. I'm writhing for it with every part of me. I'm in danger of getting sickly nostalgic every hour or so. It's gotten so bad that I can't breathe when I think that all of it is over. That it will never happen again. My heart refuses to let it slip into simple memories... no, I am living in the past. My mind is there and I can't drag it out. This would not be so petrifying if I actually wanted to embrace my future, but I don't want to do that either. In fact, I'm petrified. I hate what's looming ahead of me. I wish I could stab it with a knife and dispose of all deathly possibility. I didn't want things to happen this way.

In the process of struggling between my past and future, I have completely lost contact with my present. I'm lost. Snared. I'm breaking, Mr. IB. I can feel the brittle parts of my heart slowly, slowly fracturing.

We both need help now.