because all men prefer a lying clamour before you
And now she's turned me on to mysterious skin.
There I go, I've fucked it up again. Stupid girl. Resorting to scissors, because then you can scratch it and shriek it out. Once you've got some good mileage you can go ahead and flip off layers. 5 minutes later, one day later, it will be soupy. I hope I'm not the only one who gets soupy.
Reverting back to things I never knew before. I understand how I will never work properly. I understand how the sentences don't always make sense, and the piano bangings are nothing but notes of screams, and I wouldn't know contact if anyone had it on display. All I know is there are lips, colours, shadows, and she sure does look pretty when she takes her top off.
And I'm vomiting. And it's acidic if you really want to delve down into the center of it all. And sometimes when I spiel out chunks the toilet water hits me in the face. Then I turn white. And my eyes water because it's quite a strain but I will get the hang of it, I will.
So this is why the words do not make sense. This is why frustrated banging and writing will never work tap. tap. tap. I remember I loved it because I was afraid. I love the chance to be afraid. I hate the soupy water. I hate the soupy chemicals.
I like studying the Cro-magnons and Stonehenge and inspecting astronomy. I had a quick thought today, a scenario, where I told you a secret. I told you I liked Mozart but was afraid to admit it because I don't want to be anything like my father. Sometimes I wish I wasn't the product of two excessive introverts. Sometimes I wish my mother wasn't so witless. Sometimes I wish my father wasn't so goddamn caustic. I was lying when I said he had gotten better.
I lie too often, I lie too much. Please, please, please give me a chance. Give me a chance to prove to you I have a brain. I do, I do. I'm too damn nervous. And I will plead to you, behind a bed screen, to give me another chance. GIVE ME ANOTHER FUCKING CHANCE.
reversion perversion Where was it that I saw him be so unlike himself? I saw it on the wall. I wasn't really watching that, mom.
Yesterday I was dangerously close to stabbing myself in the temple with the scissors. And I thought of writing a entry about slicing up my body (but nobody would know because I write so fucked & no one reads this anyways) and calling it "safety scissors". I am very glad I did not stab myself in the temple with scissors. I might not have died all the way. If I did, though, it would have been listening to Starfuckers, Inc. and I decided that was a very undignified way to die. I was listening to all sorts last night out of frustration. It was also reminiscent of the scene in May-- the one that I developed a taste aversion to.
And I do not want to look more gaudy.
I found that when you're seriously thinking of dying you don't often think of the right music. You just think of dying. I've thought "this is the music I want to die to," but every time I'm standing on the flimsy wall between my two stratospheres I find myself too lost in frustration to think beautifully.
To mess with humans I have no idea but it is very scary. I am afraid of my parts. I am afraid of a lecherous hand, lecherous hands, everywhere. I did see it in the picture. And later on at home and I think something is happening because I remarked to her "I am seeing things" but she thought nothing of it.
I thought it was funny when she thought I was dead. She was crying over me. I would hope that is how dying is: I would get to see their reactions. Sad people are much more interesting than happy little melonfucks.
I've never thought this much about anything but sexuality is quite frightful. I want to run away and be asexual, but I'm half-way there. I wish I wouldn't take jokes so seriously. They say "Liz, but don't run away. Nobody will look for you." And it's great when you put a little tiff at the end, that makes the man. You must so be a man. I do not find myself sexually attracted to my father at all. I think I hate my parents, but I wouldn't know, so this uncertainty projects itself onto everyone else.
I WANT YOU TO SLAP ME AROUND. I want you to tell me I'm ugly and fat and lazy and tell me what you REALLY think of me. God damn it. I am too sunslsssk Fuck. Should I put out for a man? Should I get bribed? Dear sweet son, I do not want to give a blow job. I do not want to suck you off. I do not want anyone to expect anymore from a fatass with no friends. I do not want my friends to say "you're better than that." I want you to slap me. I want you to
just
just show me your slit
I am writing so much but it is not repressing the thoughts. I want to scratch myself again. That will be the timid word: scratch.
Because none of you have the concentration or the care to read this far. Hell, I know I wouldn't.
I am a far less cool Joyce.