very distorted

An entry from an old online journal:
“An Oppositionally Defiant God”

 Very distorted


Just saying I was tired doesn’t do it. Sitting and pawing at my own misery just makes the scabs look worse. This fucking hair color makes me think I can’t open my mouth without people thinking I am not who I look. Just another girl who has a bad color in her hair.  A hairdresser messed up, they put in purple. Purple and blond. I blanch in the mirror and get a stern lecture from my 50 year old fat and balding male friend about not being over-concerned with looks. He does not understand what it felt like to be a teenage girl. He will not sit and play makeup with me. A nice combo in a coffee drink, maybe.

The heaviness has turned to soot. And he thought I sounded “more grounded” than the last four times we had talked over the last year. Why?

Because it’s been taken out from under me? Because I am not more grounded? Because I am so heavy that I have nothing left to shout about anymore and just sit there frowning inside at the ground covered with polka dots? Because I stopped believing that my God believed I existed anymore?

I had been demoted again! I dropped them all. I did, I did. I dropped them all.

I was so proud of myself. Until I realized that the cost was my satisfaction. It wasn’t about being right. It was about them seeing that I had control after all. When they realized I wasn’t out of control, I had made them systematically get hurt. Those cold intellectuals that don’t get hurt. YES! I HURT THEM. It took me three PhD’s and several gre’s and five certifications, but I made it out hurting them.

People don’t realize what an accomplishment it was after all. I turned those ice queens into porn stars. I will eat them until I am dead. Shit, I already am dead. Look over there, it’s a corpse under my feet and it smells like whales rotting in a basket of maggots. I looked over there and saw myself in the maggots. I finally found a pretty design I liked for a new hairstyle. Please mommy, don’t make me a disturbed child. Make me narcissistic or borderline. Then I’ll get friends I can break. Yes Mommy, I want a new doll I can play with. Make it a pretty doll. And send me to the rich psychiatrist who fucks me with my dress turned inside out. I am so scared and cold all the time. Who turned off the heat in here? I want to be starved. Yes, I want to starve for the lice to invade my body and take over my devil side so that I don’t watch TV anymore. I always believed in justice. I want to go to school like the next boy. Just help stop starvation on the street. Heroin was just a joke. The good feelings were a kick in my ass so I could remember I didn’t deserve them. What was I thinking, daring to love those assholes? I will remember never to love again because it doesn’t hurt. My tears taste like insanity and sound like vomit but less sweet.

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