God you're a bitch. You have no fucking idea what you're talking about. Even Nick has said "I never told her that", which means you're making shit up now.
You act like you're fucking fifteen. By the age of like, what? Thirty? Something like that - you should KNOW how to behave. I'm embarrassed to have ever associated myself with you, because in general I don't associate myself with people who don't know how to behave.
You do all this complaining about me hurting him, but you are the one doing it. He's frustrated and upset, and you're causing all this ridiculous drama.
And also? I know you have feelings for him. So don't give me bullshit about it. It's incredibly how ridiculously hypocritical you are.
Lesley was right - I should just tell you to shut the fuck up.
You are not a good person.
But I guess I shouldn't complain, it's pretty clear that you're only helping me here.
What it boils down to is that when I fall for someone, it's face first, into the concrete, out of a 40th story window.
Every time I hear the song, "Watching Over Me," I seem to become more and more touched by the song. It never fails. Whenever it comes on, I find myself singing along in a mix of triumph and lamentation, for I have survived, but many have not. It haunts me, yet I can't stop listening, and often seek out the song. I seem to desire the pain I feel when I hear it.
I see the words, and I know I should be happy, but I just don't feel it. Yeah, living through cancer is a tremendous achievement. But it still hurts me to see so many others struggle and suffer through it, only to lose their long battles.
Peter has been dead for a year, now. Of all the other deaths I've been affected by, his was (is) the hardest. He died of the exact same cancer that I had.
I guess the biggest issue I seem to be having is that I am constantly comparing myself to those who died. Why am I doing that?
It just hurts me.
And in the fury of this darkest hour
We will be your light
You've asked me for my sacrifice
And I am Winter born
Without denying, a faith is come
That I have never known
I hear the angels call my name
And I am Winter born
Alright. To all of you conspiracy nuts out there, I have this to say to you.
SHUT THE FUCK UP!
I don't want to hear your version of the truth, I don't want to hear why the "official truth" is wrong. I don't want to hear anything about it. The event is getting on in years. Honestly, if I had died in those attacks, I'd not want my family dwelling on the who's, the how's, or the why's. I'd rather they went on with their lives, remembering my life, opposed to my death.
Seriously. Dragging it out to such a length as you have only further hurts those affected by the events more than they already have. Do you honestly think you are working in their best interest? Or are you simply looking for a means to glorify yourselves by uncovering some massive scam that involves everyone working in the government?
Let's play out that scenario. You expose the government as a huge corporate scam. The people revolt against this false leadership, and riot against it. Said government falls. The laws that once stabilized the nation are now unable to be trusted, nor the upholders thereof. The police can no longer bring order to the nation. The US falls to chaos. Canada laughs at us.
Do you want that?
If I EVER find out your identities, I will make you regret every wrong you've ever done. Every person you've slighted. Every innocence you've corrupted. Everything. You will scream for mercy in a way that the darkest of gods will envy and pity your plight, and I will not relent. The tales of your torment at my hand will be the subject of darkest nightmare. You will wish for a vile death that will never arrive.
You will pay.
Last year I wanted to clear things out of my house, but I didn't have the time or camera necessary to post things on EBay, so I made a deal with a friend for him to do the actual work for a 50/50 split. I'm talking NUMEROUS items, including Franklin Mint and Lenox figurines, Barbies still in the box, collector plates and mugs (including Star Trek), hardback books, paperback books and graphic novels. Many of the items went for between $50 and $100. In the process of all this, he moved to Colorado Springs. In all this time I have been paid for SEVEN of the Barbies and haven't seen a cent since then. In addition he never returned the collector plates and the hardback book series that I demanded back when I realized that he wasn't going to pay me. I know they always say never trust a friend for business, but I have known this individual for over 23 years and I really thought he was honest. This betrayal has hurt me more than I can say. The mere thought of what he has done to me sets me crying and the depression has made me think of suicide more than once. I KNOW this is an over-reaction, but I loved this person like a brother.
THere she sits again. Guiltily plucking and pulling and twisting at the veins and tendons in her arm. Revealing her pain slowly to the world. Opening up and letting them in. The biggest mistake she could have made. Twisted manipulation lead her to this place. This dark cold place. Her own lonliness. Her own longing and want cast aside until she was nothing but an empty shell. And now all she can do is pluck and pry and reveal herself in a bloody confession written across her for arms thight stomach and breasts. Pale flesh marred and dirtied. Forever to be shunned. Her heard fully broken. SHattered in glass shards small enough to look like sand. Exploded. Blown up. Oblitherated. Gone. Crystaline heart all over the floor. Bloodied and no longer beating. Still and cold. Her head spins now. The contents of her stomach erupting as the last of that purity and love pours from those dancing veins and twisted tendons. Finally still. Sprawled out on the floor. Purity gone red. Frustration. Pain and guilt, over active thoughts, manic fears and unjustified pain covers the floor and stains the pale flesh and dying her hair a grisly vision of red. With nothing but a clean white note written in black ink.
Sometimes I wish my heart would just explode.
So I wouldn't have these thoughts in my head.
So I wouldn't have to feel so bad.
So I could have some faction of control.
I can't take you people anymore.
I have no home in this place.
So here I lay for you, all across the floor.
The girl who feels entierly too much.
Alright. So the title may be confusing and misleading. This is bothering me, but I don't know where else to voice this.
I had recently found out that my first military supervisor, Staff Sgt. Peter Anderson, died a few weeks ago of a type of Leukemia. He was diagnosed last November, and I found this out almost immediately upon arrival here in Alabama.
Why does that bother me? Well, other than the fact that this man was my first experienced military influence, but he died of something I have survived.
On top of that, if any of you are aware of the fantasy artist, Tim Hildebrandt's death, you would know that he died of a staph infection on June 11th, THE DAY AFTER I was released from the hospital after being treated for the same thing.
Where am I going with all of this? Well, these deaths make me feel useless. Those two men were accomplished individuals, who had people dependant on them. Me? I'm a lowly schmuck who sits on his ass and plays video games.
I had been hospitalized a total of 6 times since becoming ill, and 4 of those times were with infections that the doctors say (and I quote), "Would have killed anyone else."
Why am I the one to live? How is it that I am the one who can pull through the impossible, while other, more important people cannot? What is so special about me? What is so god-damned special about me that is worth saving?!