Ω

-it makes me feel like I belong to something, and for a while when there was a delay in the emails I felt a little lost without realizing it.
-another thing that is great is when people look at you differently and you feel that good feeling inside like, yeah, the connection between this person and I means something, to me.
-something that is not so great is a certain person's timing. So now you want to talk? I don't know..

save the personal anecdotes.

-So I was the only one who found humour in the situation it seemed, as us passengers were let off the landed plane in yyz and asked to follow the lady with 'Quarantine Supervisor' printed on the back of her sweater. She was wearing blue gloves with a clipboard in hand, so it seemed pretty serious. She asked if any of us needed immediate medical attention and I couldn't help but chuckle to hold in the urge to ask, 'what if we do but we just don't know it'.
-And I noticed how the one was always looking at me everytime I would turn around, no matter where I was no matter what time it was and no matter how obvious we were. And it was alright because it seemed as if both of us were pretty completely finished talking to people and he had that face and body that just don't let you look away.
-Now the other one was just a bit too dramatic for my taste so we both refused to let conversation go much further. The other ones reminded me of people I already knew and so it was a given that we'd stay away from each other at all times.
-My favourite feeling ever is the intensity that swallows me when I'm on a plane, departing to destination not-quite-paradise, and even better is the climatic moment of the planes wheels touching ground in yyz, home, home, the home that is not sweet, the home that I struggle to find peace in, but it's home and I can only deal with problems in one city. It's good to be back, to the cold welcoming me back with slices and bites on my skin and attempts at stripping my bones.

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-17 is not me. No matter how many times I'll say it within the next year, I won't believe it. Seventeen implies blinded and very confident peace of mind and I have absolutely no sense of self and the anxiety begins ttthere.
-Inside I don't feel like being surrounded with people. Somehow when they manage to still come around, I experience an out of body experience, as in my body is doing the talking, the joking, the laughing, the drinking and the rest of the fooling, while whatever it is that makes me human vacates the premises and only reinhibits when no one is around, like right now, and with every return, emotions are amplified to the point of unsensibility and I can't quite figure out this feeling.

- but what he doesn't tell her when he leans into her is how ugly she looks from this angle.
-Maybe if my dress was a little shorter, or maybe if it wasn't a dress at all and left just about nothing to the imagination. Who am I kidding. At this point, dying alone seems like a delightful option.
-I'm so puzzled by how he brought her along & what do you know, they're still together. And this other him & her are so close you can't even tell it's two people dancing but what's even more horrifying is how I'm still waiting for all of them to come back to me. Hello? Remember me. I could've been her, he could've put his hands on the small of my back like that but only until he'd realize who he is caressing, and even though I would've felt all of that for a little while until it was over, I would be able to say I was there and I did that and I'm glad it happened, but I can't and so I'm bitter and a tiny bit angry at myself for giving all of it away.

Screaming through ghostly whispers, crying out.
Breaking through impatiently, puzzled and alone.
Attempts to hold together are letting go, I have let go.

Figures scatter the pavement, eyes half closed.
Breathing turns to shaking. Wake me up.

Now clouds scatter with a purpose, black and low.
Wounded rain consistently, puzzled and alone.
And I can't seem to bare hoping for.

as i'm talking to you both right now, well not so much talking but incessantly bugging on msn messenger, this is my plea my cry to belong. this is my way to fuck things up. tell you there is something wrong with me. or maybe I'm just jealous that no one says that to me. Or that no one wants to console me ever. That no one cares about how I want to die, so so so so so badly. I'm like the 3 year old hyper active child that no one has the patience or energy for. The mental patient who requires too much time out of your life but I swear just a second would make that difference. look at me. talk to me. I want to be your preoccupation.
well I understand her case, she's too busy telling herself that's she's worthless, sooo...
and he's too busy getting sucked to care about anything else, sooo...


I DONT EVEN GET A PROPER FUCKING GOODBYE

I'm not even there. In classes. They're all talking. I should be with them. But I should let them be. They dont want me around. They'd rather not have to acknowledge my existence. I heard you. I Fucking Heard you. You still didn't know my name. You still pretended I wasn't there. You dont want to talk to me. I dont want to be me. our common ground is out disgust with I.


I dont know what I am. Am I a person. A curse. A creature. A fucking monster. Is this right. What the fuck. Look at me. what am I supposed to be.

Chapter 23. You can call me Fingerling. My real name is Walter. Walter Paul Sparrow. What you've read so far is not the whole truth. Much has been changed to protect the innocent... and the guilty. I once read that the only philosophical question that matters is whether or not to commit suicide. I guess that makes me a philosopher. You can say it was my inheritance. After my mother's death, my father couldn't cope. He didn't leave a note... just a number. That number followed me from foster home to foster home till college when I met her: Laura Tollins. I thought she'd help me forget my father's number. It was a mistake to think I could escape it. I loved her. And I thought she loved me. Until my father's number returned to haunt me. That fucking number... When I circled every 23rd letter of her note... it became clear. The number had gone after me. And now it wanted her. I was right. She was in danger. I just didn't realize the danger was me. What began as a suicide note, turned into something more.

So they cancelled the concert and so December is looking as empty as all the other months in a year. I'm really, really, really looking forward to taking a plane somewhere hot and sunny but what's the point if I can't take it all home with me. I want to turn seventeen and have a car and a second job. I want to go to Med school and like it. After then, I really don't want to know.


I show you all these exciting things, stuff you would have never discovered or seen without me, and maybe it's just me, but I really, really think you're being unappreciative about it.


I'd just rather not talk to anyone.





P.S. I've decided that every single box office movie is absolutely terrible trash. Horrible.
and
FYI:

:(

here comes the clic clacking of my shoes, drawing the attention which I resent, wanting to have nothing to do with any of you.