30 Days to an Almost End - Day 18

Whatever tickles your fancy

 30 Days to an Almost End series list

30 Days to an Almost End - Day 12

Explain the person you love most

 

     He’s my brother. He’s anything and everything to me, forever and always. He is the only person I would ever consider giving my life for. If it came down to me or him, I would rather it be me.
     Never to worry, for I am here. You have no better protector than me.

IT

     Tonight is an opportune time to really see how far I can go to conquer all this. Am I bigger than it? Whatever “it” even is? When I kill it, I’ll get back to you.

     It didn’t occur to me, what if I don’t wake up.

Monday’s Excerpts – The Art of Living by Epictetus

     One book read like a religious text, more so than The Greatest Show on Earth, for it offers wisdom purely directed at what is affectionately described so commonly as “the soul,” The Art of Living has aided me so thoroughly in approaching life like a banquet and realizing that all events are impersonal, even death. Of all things I hold close and dear in the privacy of my mind, The Art of Living is one of the few burning as brightly as it has from the beginning, not to go out with a whisper any time soon. These are a few of my favorite excerpts.

This Week’s Book: The Art of Living by Epictetus

Events Don’t Hurt Us, But Our Views of Them Can
Things themselves don’t hurt or hinder us. Nor do other people. How we view these things is another matter. It is our attitudes and reactions that give us trouble.
    Therefore even death is no big deal in and of itself. It is our notion of death, our idea that it is terrible, that terrifies us. There are so many different ways to think about death. Scrutinize your notions about death—and everything else. Are they really true? Are they doing you any good? Don’t dread death or pain, dread the fear of death or pain.
    We cannot choose our external circumstances, but we can always choose how we respond to them. (Page 10)

—————

The Right Use of Books
Don’t just say you have read books. Show that through them you have learned to think better, to be a more discriminating and reflective person. Books are the training weights of the mind. They are very helpful, but it would be a bad mistake to suppose that one has made progress simply by having internalized their contents. (Page 97)

—————

Never Casually Discuss Important Matters
Take care not to casually discuss matters that are of great importance to you with people who are not important to you. Your affairs will become drained of preciousness. You undercut your own purposes when you do this. This is especially dangerous when you are in the early stages of an undertaking.
    Other people feast like vultures on our ideas. They take it upon themselves to blithely interpret, judge, and twist what matters most to you, and your heart sinks. Let your ideas and plans incubate before you parade them in front of the naysayers and trivializers.
    Most people only know how to respond to an idea by pouncing on its shortfalls rather than identifying its potential merits. Practice self-containment so that your enthusiasm won’t be frittered away. (Page 110)

Books finished this past week...
★★★☆☆ The End of Faith by Sam Harris
★★★☆☆ Psychiatry for Beginners by Brizer
★★★★☆ SuperSense: Why We Believe in the Unbelievable by Bruce Hood

(All title links link back to my webpages of them on Goodreads.com, a great library/reviewing/rating website for readers. Check it out, and add me as a friend if you decide to join!)

We are; Unsaved

Chances are high that if you’re reading this, I truly and honestly think you would be more beneficial amongst the dead. But don’t worry your pretty selfish head, I’m reading this too.

WhydoIbreakdowneverysinglefuckingnightofmylifehauntedbythememoriesofallofyou?

Not Dead, Yet Dying

     Do you know the rights 

to finding me?

     Today was the day. The only thing coming in my mouth this leap is on an exit to existence, beyond the world I believed to be the only. Nightmares of your faceless stares, reversion into your kingdom for hours on end—you are not the only thing. Earlier gate calls might have saved us all.

 

Part Four: Maxims and Interludes. Section 89.

Terrible experiences make one wonder whether

he who experiences them is not something terrible.

Monday's Excerpts - Alice's Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll

This Week's Book: Alice's Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll

    “Cheshire Puss,” she began, rather timidly, as she did not at all know whether it would like the name: however, it only grinned a little wider; “Come, it’s pleased so far,” thought Alice, and she went on, “Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to walk from here?”
    “That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,” said the Cat.
    “I don’t much care where——“ said Alice.
    “Then it doesn’t matter which way you walk,” said the Cat.
    “——so long as I get somewhere,” Alice added as an explanation.
    “Oh, you’re sure to do that, said the Cat, “if you only walk long enough.”
    Alice felt that this could not be denied, so she tried another question. “What sort of people live about here?”
    “In that direction,” the Cat said, waving its right paw round “lives a Hatter; and in that direction,” waving the other paw, “lives a March Hare. Visit either you like; they’re both mad.”
    “But I don’t want to go among mad people,” Alice remarked.
    “Oh, you can’t help that,” said the Cat; “we’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad.”
    “How do you know I’m mad?” said Alice.
    “You must be,” said the Cat, “or you wouldn’t have come here.” (Page 53)

—————

    The executioner’s argument was, that you couldn’t cut off a head unless there was a body to cut it off from; that he had never had to do such a thing before, and he wasn’t going to begin at his time of life.
    The King’s argument was, that anything that had a head could be beheaded, and that you weren’t to talk nonsense.
    The Queen’s Argument was, that if something wasn’t done about it in less than no time, she’d have everybody executed, all round. (It was this last remark that had made the whole party look so grave and anxious.) (Page 76)

—————

    “So you did, you know,” the Red Queen said to Alice. “Always speak the truth—think before you speak—and write it down afterward.”
    “I’m sure I didn’t mean——“ Alice was beginning, but the Red Queen interrupted her impatiently.
    “That’s just what I complain of. You should have meant! What do you suppose is the use of a child without any meaning? Even a joke should have some meaning—and a child’s more important than a joke, I hope. You couldn’t deny that, even if you tried with both hands.
    “I don’t deny things with my hands,” Alice objected.
    “Nobody said you did,” said the Red Queen. “I said you couldn’t if you tried.”
    “She’s in that state of mind,” said the White Queen, “that she wants to deny something—only she doesn’t know what to deny.”
    “A nasty, vicious temper,” the Red Queen remarked; and then there was an uncomfortable silence for a minute or two.(Pages 221-222)

Books finished this past week...
None

(All title links link back to my webpages of them on Goodreads.com, a great library/reviewing/rating website for readers. Check it out, and add me as a friend if you decide to join!)

I Regret, I Digress

    I wouldn’t doubt that if Florida had basements, that’s where it would have all begun.
    With this sole reason in tow, I am grateful for living near a coastline for one of the few times in my life. I fear that had we lived deeper within the states, I may have never escaped the basement he constructed around me with calloused hands. I don’t think my newly sprouted wings would have been enough to break.

    If Likens’ wings couldn’t break her free of her prison after having so long to grow with such grotesque nourishment, I know with complete assurance mine never would have. Our comparisons of strength are too extreme in diversity of the American crime.
    She is the high and I am the low because she is publicized and fabricated to fascination. I wasn’t hurt badly enough to be celluloid beyond recognition. Like the death of average caucasian children making C’s and D’s, once recognized by the media she was glorified far past the typical hormonal girl that lacked the suddenly bestowed qualities recommended for sainthood.
    Likens didn’t even survive, but she was not a martyr to her crime. The idea of her is the martyrdom, and with the control I hold I can go the far distance to become an idea for necessary remembrance. Vexed victims minded.

    Remaining unnoticed by the uncaring world surrounding, I revolve. I have remained a target of disgust and disbelief amongst the jeering circus crowd of ridicule and shame despite my revolutionary act. My pain is not exaggerated nor glorified for film or song, my face is not a poster child for survival, and it never will be. I must die several times alive before I become anything memorable, save killing myself completely.

    Knit stitched into my existence, the idea of killing myself has shamelessly reared its ugly head since the day I got my wings, so obviously it might as well have very well sprouted from the back of my head shrieking.
    Before everything completely destroys me to a point of being utterly useless (it’s possible, tis true), I know that now is the time to unravel the suppressive cloth from my head before I bleed out too much.

    Now is the only time left to risk pulling the axe from its Black Lodge wedged into my skull, and hope for a miracle of survival at the end of the hospital hall lined with baker dozens of reconstructive surgeries I will undoubtedly endure for the rest of my physical, personal life.
    Regression is upon us meaning me, my time to thoroughly delve within my history once and for all. This complete exploitation of all I have suffered is my final and only hope of destroying myself over and over again for a remarkable rebirth.

    With idealized suicide in mind, this is how I got my wings.

2nd House on the Wright

     I feel sick as I write this, it was something I never wanted to experience again. The hungry fear of pitfall.

     Friday afternoon, I lay studying on my bed, simultaneously hand in hand with Adam Kadmon. I read and reread Strunk & White to achieve any level of utmost perfection I could reasonably reach.

     Suddenly, the airs shifted. A sound unknown to the Valley of Death flooded its caves, choking my ears and drowning all of my senses. Victimizing myself into the vulnerability of it, I stepped a moment outside that door to where the world stood impatient to conquer me, to see it had already beaten down a chosen door of it’s own, exposing my private Duat.

     The existence of my emancipator isn’t what hurt the most.

     The fear of whether I could live or die long enough to breathe in the next moment is what grounded my wings and handicapped me into BVT A WORM. Time had ceased to exist.

     The descent had destroyed me, and yet, I lived.

     The bowels of my tallest horror had not yet swallowed me whole.

     I learned: even when weakened by life’s meticulous events, it remains my duty to stand unaffected and unafraid. I paraphrase—all events are impersonal, even if drowning against the weaklings in the Lake of the Dead.

Playing God

    Every time I am reminded what resides outside these walls, I want to cut. Not only myself, I want to cut the walls, I want to cut bodies that aren’t my own, I want to cut animals, I want to cut civilizations, I want to cut artistic expression in all forms. I want to cut my eyes out, I want to cut my mouth farther apart. I want to cut my ears off, I want to cut my hands. I want to cut respect, disrespect, responsibilities, hatred, love and I want to cut myself entirely out of this world’s picture. We’ll start small if we have to, why I’d love to.
    Cut me out of this family, sear me to pieces and reestablish me elsewhere, somewhere desired rather than desirable. Place me in respect, truth, justice. I don’t even need art or language, your dystopia is the equivalent of my utopia. I’d exist in silence forever if it meant I didn’t have to look at the faces or witness the events I do. Everything is physically threaded lies, people are lies, events are lies, emotions are lies, vacations are fucking lies. When you provide my long anticipated vacation, I won’t want to destroy yours.

    If I could, I would destroy everything with intricate detail so there wasn’t a fragment left to be reborn in this pile of shit, ashes, whatever. Were it possible to be grafted onto a time line, I’d destroy myself first. But unfortunately it’d have to end as me playing the hateful, resentful, providing eternal favor, God.

'Here is My Real Head' series Pt. 3

Organ Grinder by Marilyn Manson
I am the face of piss and shit and sugar

I do a crooked little dance with my funny little monkey
What I want, what I want is just your children
I hate what I have become to escape what I hated being
Calliopenis envy from your daddy
You're not gonna hear what he don't want to hear
What I say disgusts him
He wants to be me and that scares him
"let's do a funny little dance with my funny little monkey"
The black keys
Here is my real head, here is my real head
I wear this fucking mask because you cannot handle me
Here is my real head
They try to blink me not to think me
Don't want to bring me out
I am the rotten teeth, my fists are lined with suckers
My prison skin's an eyesore-mirror-sketch-pad
I am your son, your dad, your fag, I am your fad
Here is my real head, here is my real head
I wear this fucking mask because you cannot handle me
Here is my real head

Here is My Real Head series 
Pt. 1 - Addiction & Self Mutilation
Pt. 2 - Childhood Grooming & Sex and Relationships
Pt. 3 - Worth of My Peers & Trust
Pt. 4 - Being Honest with My Parents
Pt. 5 - The Sound and Feel of Carpet

5. Worth of My Peers

     There are quite a few people in my life that I don’t think the world would mourn over if they were to die tomorrow. Also, there is a smaller number of people that I believe are better off dead. They serve absolutely no purpose whatsoever to society and are positively a waste of existence on this planet. Their consumerism is wasteful, especially if it’s constant without equal or nearly rivaling productivity. This scale loosely decides who I would annihilate or cripple tomorrow if I were playing the fictional character God’s hands.

6. Trust
     I grow irritated when people claim they have trust issues. Typically these are people that are unable to handle the aspect of a healthy relationship that involves trusting their partner enough to not constantly badger them about cheating or their whereabouts. These are weak people, and mainly self-assigned as such. They are therefore casting themselves even deeper into the well of weakness. These folks don’t usually have historical issues with trust, they’re just bitches, immature and irrational bitches.

     If you have a history of trusting relationships gone awry, you don’t have ‘trust issues’. You have a genuine problem that needs addressing, care, and attention by yourself and what may seem unfortunate, by others you have to learn to trust. I am one of these people. To have been groomed so well—and I am so well groomed I belong collared and leashed on a showroom floor—that I had to have trusted the people that brushed me to their liking. With the intense level I climaxed and plateaued at, I trusted them an awful lot.

     I don’t trust anyone entirely, but not in the typical way. I don’t have the problem of trusting people with secrets because I don’t have anything that is a secret, or won’t be a secret for long.
I wouldn’t trust anyone, not even my parents, brother, family, or closest friends with my life. It’s a wonderfully cute concept to think of your loved ones saving your life, especially in the place of theirs, but I wouldn’t trust anyone to save me from death’s grip, especially if they were in harm’s way themselves or were being forced to choose between their life or mine.
I don’t whole-heartedly believe that anyone would give their life for me when it came to the carnal reality of being faced with their own death. Like Winston in the unfortunate year of 1984, I would expect them to shout at the top of their desperate lungs, “Do it to Alexis! Do it to Julia! Not me! Alexis! I don’t care what you do to her. Tear her face off, strip her to the bones. Not me! Julia! Not me!” I wouldn’t blame them, I accept the reality of a human being not wanting to die and offering up everything imaginable to not have to prematurely.
Truthfully, I’d be flattered if someone that loved me, loved me deeply enough to think of me for last person they’d offer instead of themselves as their ultimate sacrifice. By being last, I would be the most loved and I’d be honored by their ultimate and complete betrayal.
     In that light, I wouldn’t give my life for anyone I presently know. If I had to pick someone I’d die for, I couldn’t name someone I am personally acquainted with. If I could choose to die for someone I don’t know on a personal level, it’d probably be for Marilyn Manson or Richard Dawkins because of all the things they’re still doing for the world to make it a better place for children to grow up in, and children are the most important class to me. Were they to have stopped yesterday with no intentions of restarting their revolutions, they’d be scratched off my list of possibilities without little resentment, if any at all.
     If need be, I would endure physical and mental pain and torture in place of someone’s life, heck, I might even offer a limb for someone I deeply cared for. But if it came to my untimely death as a choice against theirs, they’re the ones dying prematurely.
     I have two main reasons, the stronger of the two is that I am young and have a lot I’m going to do in my life with more time to do it than the majority of the people I care for. I don’t consciously think of the people I love as being lesser than me, but an appropriate example of how my perception of trust differs is that I do not trust anyone other than myself to create productive and positive change in the world. No one could ever convince me they would without a doubt, though if someone were able to, I would reconsider giving my life for theirs because I don’t consider myself as an entirely above the collection of people I love because I have no proof that I am or am not. I might not be the most beneficial or productive to society out of the group, but I am the only person I can trust one hundred percent.
     I have high self-worth despite my flawed learned personality traits. In any other case my proclamation of self-worth wouldn’t be frowned upon, so don’t you care hypocritically frown here.

And then I got my wings

     The truth is I want it to envelop me. I want it to surround me so closely nothing else is in my outfield of vision.

     “That’s the victim in you talking”, can it always be the victim in me talking? I’d rather people feel constantly sorry for me or just find me repulsively pathetic than expect something greater of me or ridicule me for not being stronger on their time stamp of expectation. Check out is not at seventeen o’ clock.

     I can hardly divulge the truth to myself, it’s so far into repression. Yet timed by the self-seeking clocks of others, tick tick ticking away, I’m expected to have already moved on with the idea of addressing it positively absurd. All that I have said is a mere fragment of what all has candidly occurred, especially when I cannot even call to mind the earliest events, estimated to have been endured some fifteen years ago.

     If all I felt was the pain of everything, life would be pleasantly bearable and on a comforting schedule. I’ve felt it before, and I was utterly on top of the world by the comfort of blood in the morning and night. That memory of me seems so lucky, so unbothered. I am jealous of its freedom to recoil.

     My destroyer is the confusion of sometimes being happy and sometimes being sad, by the grip of myself and by the beating of others. Once a smile is witnessed, smiles of sunshine are expected thereafter, mimicking of a child’s delight to be alive. One grin must equate into being positively thrilled to be repulsed by the sounds of mouths.

     My pseudo-smiles are undetectable, for I am a spectacular performer of falsities. My over-conscience derives from my birth mother’s sociopathy, or so I’d like to believe. It is comforting to imagine it so. Conceptually, it makes ironic, spectral sense, so why can it not be true?

     She cries on whim because she feels nothing, I smile on whim because I feel too much. I hate having been born with predetermined behavioral patterns.

     I am so cold and so numb, shivering too much to even cry. I want to badly, I feel there’s regularly clarity in the aftermath of crying. I can’t even focus on one horrible thing to concentrate long enough to cry, how problematic/pathetic is that?

     Life wasn’t supposed to “end up” like this, even though my forever is nigh. How do I exist as an idea when I haven’t even existed as a person to so many people that should have recognized me above all others?

     Perhaps because victimizing human’s smell a victim like a shark does blood, I have been disrespected to an extreme degree-- how dare you touch my body or tell me I’m worthless of your time or sight. How dare you tell me I need to love and forgive my “mother” who didn’t even protect me when I couldn’t have used her most, who should be grateful of me for even giving her pathetic existence a purpose she didn’t fulfill. Note how these are not questions. I do not question your mirroring self-hate you’ve reflected upon me in hopes of burning a dry weed. I would much rather be the strongest weed instead of the weakest flower.

     My unenthusiastic carrier knew I was being repeatedly molested, and still she sneered in the direction of her computer monitor instead. I’ll let you take that in for a moment so you can ctrl+alt+del all the fabrication you have stitched into her tell-all tracked arms. (As if.)

     She made fun of me and blamed me, whenever she could tear herself away from cheating on our “family” (families don’t torture their children, that’s why my brother grew up with family and I did not). She watched me trail behind my abuser to room and into my closet, without even the faintest glance of care in my undesired direction. (Why couldn’t she have been excited for abortion instead of hating me?)

     I submitted to sexual acts because my family’s lives were threatened, if I didn’t cooperate they would kill them all with guns, hands, and gangs, and sometimes I was told I’d have to bear witness. Their deaths would leave me unprotected, and then I would really be forced to obey. So if you have anything to say at all about that in her defense, I don’t even care what it is, just shut your fucking mouth before it gapes open and spills out bullshit, because you’re dead to me, and you might as well “kill yourself”* because you’re “already dead”.

*Discredit yourself right now, take me off your walls and websites and completely disband from my life, follow through with your act of abandonment because I cannot be half-orphaned forever.

     I recommend avoiding the mistake of opposing anything I feel or say based on factual events when you know absolutely nothing about my past, how I perceive my life, or who I’ve reluctantly become. No one knows, hardly even me, and although it unfortunately has to be said, none of yours matter to me either as of yet, or never will. If you care enough to shove lies down my throat, you care enough to keep me in your life, so you better try if you want me to be here. Start believing in me not caring about your eternal absence or presence.

     My plan was not to be a godless self-loathing individual who cannot even look at herself in the mirror without abhorrence. Just a glimpse and already I feels pangs of desire to mutilate every patch of skin I see. The outside might as well be as ugly as the inside, no matter what you think exists within.

     The blueprint didn’t detail in the hating of my drug-addicted family performing and pursing incestual pedophilia, among other humanly criminal acts. It wasn’t part of the path most religions promote we’re stuck on with no alternative to being forced to follow. (Things do not happen for a reason, you weak moron.) If I ever find that to be scientifically the case, good bye Sino.

     In a sick way, it’s probably good I don’t submit to believing such bullshit. On that note, be appreciative the hobby of believing in sky-gods hasn’t yet struck me with the disability to reason reality.

A Syntax of Self-Annihilation

Recorded by Alexis Mullino
from 5:15 PM 8 December 2009
through 2:43 AM 9 December 2009

"Battle not with monsters, lest ye become a monster, and if you gaze 
into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you." - Friedrich Nietzsche

    The following of what you are about to read will in no way grant me personal gratification. At most, it has the capability of producing embarrassment due to my shame, grammatical errors, improper use of words, and the commentary of spectators.

    My reason for publicizing this very private flow of conscious is exclusively for the purpose of helping others who also experience nights of torture at the superiority of their free-thinking minds by clearly expressing that I am not afraid to be honest. As it follows anything I release of similar motive, I am left in the frightening aftermath of hoping someone will let my exploitation and sacrifice impact them positively instead of ignoring everything said and simply mocking me.

    With attempts at writing my history into an auto-biographical format of various sorts, the abyss has taunted me with provocation unmatched to anything it has ever exhibited before. As strong as I have forcibly designed myself to be and as far as I may have come so far, I am no exception to being regularly tormented by the seemingly clockwork mind commonly shared by those previously or currently victimized by something or other.

    I always feel most comfortable in someone else’s darkness as opposed to my own, but I can’t hold residency there forever. In owning my darkness, I hope it provides others with the authenticity that they are not alone in theirs. Although we may not find much realism amongst our darkest thoughts, recognizing I am not alone is quite possibly the most realistic thing my mind has ever thunk.

    Interpret these declarations for what you will. It’s likely I wrote from my mind following my usual manner, but rereading what I barely remember recording, I wonder if perhaps my heart finally saw a chance to reveal itself in writing due to my distress, owing to the fact that I was in no condition to repress it like I normally do. Regardless, take them for whatever you need to so you may better understand yourself.

    5:15 PM- What a feeling it is to be able to indulge in your desired behaviors. I shall drink this water till I am sick, lest my jeans do not fit. Come forth darkness. Come. Forth.

    5:16 PM- To create you must first destroy. Myself is not excluded.

    5:56 PM- I am fighting demons— and for what? So I can temporarily break free from my ‘demons’, which are actually just a frowned upon part of me, and still exist dissatisfied? Come one, come all, Alexis. Be all that you have created yourself to be, reluctantly or not.

    5:59 PM- I taste metal everyday. There’s no one here to save ourself. I.. this is what you should fear. you are what you should fear. Nothing more, nothing less. So says my trusted influence, savior, saint. SAINT.

    8:29 PM- I know I’m in second place.

    9:29 PM- My life is a re-run of things I didn’t learn from.

    9:36 PM- I am too terrified.

    9:45 PM- “I’m not an artist, I’m a fucking work of art.” Can my body be included? By the way, it’s mine. I can do what I want, opinions of others do not matter. Weakness? It’s a conscious choice. I could kill everything that I am, only to be reborn tomorrow. However the choice resides in whether I want the rebirth to take place within this current body, or another.

    9:50 PM- I am pushing everyone away because I don’t want to be talked out of feeling how I obviously want to feel. Let me suffer without additional confliction. Do not suppress me. I might as well kill myself, I’m already dead.

    9:53 PM- I am numb from your power. Absolutely numb.

    9:53 PM- God has come.

    10:18 PM- How long will THIS episode last? Can I beat weeks ago’s record time?

    Unknown- There have been so many mistakes made I have been expected to pay for. I only have enough money for myself.

    11:57 PM- All I feel is eyes when there is none. Don’t cry now because it doesn’t affect me. Pointless behaviors pointlessly expressing your pseudo-care. I am scared to speak for all ears will hear me, but all I feel is eyes when there is none.

    12:11 AM- I always wanted everything to just be okay. I wanted stability, and I was passed up. All attempts are now futile.

    12:53 AM- As always, once ‘everyone’ is back in their comfort zone I am left alone to remain suffering. You are nothing to me after today.

    2:43 AM- Sometimes not knowing what to do next is good. However, I cannot evolve standing still. I must love in the only direction left— forward.

    This is quite possibly one of the hardest things I have yet to publish. I tremble with fear, yet my desire to hold strength for others until they can hold it themselves surpasses any selfish fright or worry I have. It is important to remember that everything I am, all that I study, and all that I do is all for you if you allow it to be. I have proclaimed before, "I will be your savior and servant if you let me."

Now we'll play my game.

"When you figure out those things...you let me know."

We'll play your way.


If you want to unload your responsibilities on me, they will be dealt with in how I deem appropriate. I am vicious, I can and will go all the way. Before I send anyone crying let me get one thing clear-- I don't hurt people, people let what I do and say hurt them. It sounds like a malicious excuse, but we're all guilty of self-inflicting the pain we feel. At times, even I have let what people have said and done hurt me. However, I'm mainly just annoyed by people. They can take my revenge however their strength allows. I have to make a lot of determining choices right now. Do I push through, or do I barrel through? I can become a bulldozer, but how many insects will I hurt along the way to my target of demolishment?


My family always told me I didn't deserve to be treated like I was growing up, but now I'm not sure what has changed since they told me that lie. Do they believe I deserve to be treated like shit now? What changed between being an innocent child, and being a victimized teenager? Does that mean I needed to become the target of resentment, because that's exactly what's happening. I know I don't deserve to be treated this way, or to have this life. I have done nothing.


Let me sarcastically apologize dear family, for being molested by five different people on numerous occasions throughout my life, for being addicted to self mutilation since I was twelve years old, for two of you walking out on me, for not being aborted. I know how much that affected YOU, you selfish excuses for caring human beings. If you have any wonder in your mind that maybe you're someone I'm talking to-- you are. If I ever feel my purpose has dissipated, it will be one of the last day of my life. Perhaps it's a good thing I learned how self mutilation can destroy a person, because I can never lose sight of what matters. It will be my very end.

"Hope I don't look weak, cause when the wolf cry you still see that wolf teeth motha fucka." - Lil Wayne

"Thoughts on.." Prologue & Part One- Abortion

I present to you a thought-provoking internet survey that thousands have copied and pasted all across the web for years. Although entirely irrelevant, and I add this in for humor purposes only; I imagine this survey has been responded to on more blogging websites as opposed to networking websites such as Myspace. Considering the level of intelligence I believe it requires to post slutty pictures as opposed to forming actual explanation of one's thought, though that is just my guess.

     My goal—as always—was to make this distinguishing and riveting to the reader, so I must inform you that I have answered all these questions before, but the twist is that I did so when I was only fifteen years old. Granted, there's a minute two year difference between the differing ages, but I hope it provides entertainment to have answers shown from both time periods. Unsurprisingly to me, majority of my opinions have remained the same, but for the ones that have, I am intrigued by.

     The survey covers fourteen very serious, commonly debated ethical issues of today's society, and I believe they deserve to be speculated upon solitarily due to their importance. Besides, I imagine people might feel furthermore encouraged to read my opinions on the topics if they're posted separately, as opposed to my original plan of responding to them all in a single entry. I know personally that I sometimes get a little put-off by a big wall of text, an entry of my own being a perfect example of what I mean. With all that said, I shall begin with the first topic, abortion.

Thoughts on..

Abortion 11/05/09 | Death Penalty | Prostitution | Alcohol

Gay Marriages | Illegal Immigrants | Downloading Music

Smoking | Drunk Driving | Cloning | Racism

Religion 11/13/09 | Premarital Sex | Porn

Abortion?

29 April 2008- A woman deserves the right to do what she wishes to with her body. Abortion should not be a form of birth control - that is selfish. Getting raped, that is a reason to have an abortion (but a choice). Or even just making a mistake at a young age. Regardless, its no ones choice but the woman's.

5 November 2009- My opinion remains the same in essence,—Don't use it as a form of birth control, abortion is justifiable with plausible reason. The only thing that's changed that was previously stated was that I do not believe it is solely the woman's choice on whether or not to follow through with an abortion.— but I do cogitate it to be relatively more hypothesized. At the age of fifteen, I hadn't been consequentially faced—thankfully—with the idea of personally having an abortion, so my perspective was only that of a spectator's, which is in reality worthless regarding this topic. It's factual that a woman cannot comprehend the idea of abortion without standing before the crossroads of choice on aborting or not aborting the cluster of cells swimming in her uterus.

     Coincidentally, just last night I happened to be speculating on the concept of abortion. I came dangerously close to convincing myself that I should start presuming my beliefs similar to those of parties pro-life. For a second in freelance conceptualizing, I selfishly declared that every creation should be provided an opportunity at life outside the womb, for they might possess the—personally—sought-after ability to add greatness and positivity to existing society. Morosely, the odds are slim. Those who have already—widely or narrowly, it doesn't matter—avoided being aborted find it so inconceivable to sacrifice their given lives—that could have not been given at all had their parent's made the opposite choice their final decision—to help others. In my opinion, unaborted individuals should be the one's most eager and inspired to be of service to fellow man, but it's also worth note that I have sworn to exploit my life for the benefit of others, making my vista basically paramount. I see it like this— a world void of abortion would increase the entire population. The numbers of those volitional to help others would inevitably go up as well, but they would have to cover a larger population, therefore rendering my theory pointless. Conclusory, we, the human race, cannot rely on the hope of one ultimate savior being born while worthless millions roam. We don't even know if that ultimate savior would ever be born.

     I do not yet want my ambiguous beliefs—there lies the reason why—to be criticized, so I shall vaguely reveal, only for comprehension purposes, that I strongly believe in the concept of a perfectly balanced pyramid system of all human beings, organized by personal purpose to the world, implemented or not. I lack belief in any variation of the definition of God. Personal religion is non-existent, I haven't yet figured out what I am to be considered, if anything at all. I find it heedless to waste valuable exuberance into the process of religious discovery, because the one thing I do know for sure is that regardless of whatever I choose the need to realize to believe in, I'll never know unquestionably if it's the truth. The only religious theorem as of now that I imagine to be personally everlasting, is the concept of saviors existing on Earth, for whatever reason or lack of.

I can check "riding in an ambulance" off my list of things to do before I turn 18..

     I've been justifying not writing this by the throbbing pain and soreness in my right arm where the IV was for six hours Thursday night. Even at this moment I truly feel like that day was a dream, and not real in any way shape or form. Not even in the way that's a joke, like "haha it was so crazy it was like a dream", but I seriously still don't feel like myself. I think it has a lot to do with the new coping mechanisms I've developed, that I haven't had the opportunity to experience since I've been clean from self mutilation. The new being very detached, almost like anything traumatic is lived through as if it were an out-of-body experience. 

     I'm sure we could all figure out how I used to cope. I'd much rather things feel like a dream than feel even more pain from a cut on my arm. (Why did it take me so long to come to that realization?) I was in the hospital for three-four hours before I remembered that I have scars on my arms, and that everyone could see them. It didn't cross my mind once that they'd lock me away upon seeing them, which is a huge step for me. One of my biggest fears involving my addiction has always been the fear of being locked away again.

     So on to my story. Thursday was a pretty "normal" day I suppose. I stayed at my mom's the night prior because she had to go to the doctor's for a form of spinal surgery Thursday morning, which was really needles being poked into her spine much like an epidural. My aunt Stacey and I took her, and the procedure was supposed to take two hours, but thankfully we were only there for about forty-five minutes which was pretty darn cool. Not that we would have been bored, Stacey brought her DS and had a Scrabble game for it which was amazing. I so want that game! I'm a huge Scrabble lover, as if that weren't obvious.

     My mom felt well enough, so we went to go get lunch at Little Saigon, aka "Noodle Hut". I only ate a third of my bowl (more on why that's important later), and I saved the rest for dinner. After lunch Stacey drove us back to my mom's, and then she went home. Steph (my mom) and I sat on the couch and hung out for a while watching TV and chatting, then she ended up taking a nap. At 6 PM my dad picked me up from her house and we went to Walgreens to pick up some things, and pulled up in front of our house around 6:30 PM.

     That's when it began. I was sitting completely still in the car, then all of a sudden a sharp pain exlodes in my chest, right where my heart is. I shouted out in pain from quite possibly the second worst thing I've ever felt in my entire life—sinus migraine being the worst thing I have ever experienced, my head felt like it was going to literally explode from within—but I thought it would pass sort of like a muscle spasm or something. I kept my hands clenched over my chest, but then it happened again, and then again. Breathing made it feel like my ribs were going to crack from the pressure of my lungs pressing against them, which already felt like there wasn't enough room in them for a deep inhale—not that I dared try.

     After the first jolt of intense pain my dad asked if he should call 911 and I said no, but after the second I told him we should just drive to the hospital because it obviously wasn't going away. He started driving towards the fire station—its a lot closer than any hospital, which are all twenty minutes or more away—with 911 on the phone as I tried to get ahold of my mom, but I couldn't. (In the midst of all this, I had one or two more "jolts" of pain.) The 911 operator told him to pull over as soon as he could, so we pulled over in a church parking lot only a few streets away from my house, which was very weird. I've passed this lot thousands of times in the six years I've lived in Orlando, and never once did the idea cross my mind on what might happen there one day.

     The fire truck pulled up and got me out of the car and onto the ground leaning against it for support. They plugged me up to some machines and then the worst part came—the IV. I am absolutely terrified of IVs—not to be mistaken with needles like a shot, but IVs—because of past experiences. The needle going in wasn't as bad as it was the last time I was in the hospital, which took six times in total before they got it right. This time it only took the paramedics one try, thankfully and surprisingly because I have zero visible veins in my left arm, and only a single very faint one in my right. They put water in immediately after which wasn't that bad, despite my dad saying "It might feel cold!" (it wasn't), knowing I was terrified and probably didn't want to know that. Really. I could have lived the rest of my life and been okay with not knowing they had put anything into my vein.

IV in, the paramedics said the "A" word, which probably is what sent me into "time to cope" mode. An ambulance pulled up next and they put me on the stretcher—or did I get on it myself?— and put me in the back. This taught me something very valuable, which I will remember for any hospital visit I ever have to endure in my life. The lesson I learned is that when you're in an emergency, you have no shame. Absolutely none. Pretty sure this goes for child birth too, which is why I'd imagine it seems to hardly phase expectant mothers that their legs are spread eagel for hours at a time during labor. So back to my story, the paramedic in the back of the ambulance with me pulled up my entire shirt way above my bra to stick some monitor things over my heart, and trust me no boy has ever, ever! seen me like this before. I am not the type of girl to float around with no clothes on for eyes other than my own to see. With this experience though, it didn't phase me, not one bit. For one I was terrified, and two.. well, I don't have a two, but the message I'm trying to carry to you is that if you're like me and scared about baring all for hospitals in an emergency, trust me, you won't care in the moment, and you won't after either. A looot of people saw my lady-bits up top that day, and I could care less.

     Once they were done plugging me up to machines and putting an oxygen thing around my face, we were off. My dad followed behind us, which was comforting. For the duration of the ride I could see him at all times through the little windows in the back of the ambulance. For some reason though, the driver took the worst possible road, all brick, so it was a very painful ride. The paramedic in the back with me even yelled at the driver over it, and told him next time to take a different road. (Which creeped me out and got very depressing throughts churning through my brain.. how many people had died on this same stretcher? Or in this same ambulance? How many people will die on this stretcher, or in this same ambulance?) Once we got to the hospital (a children's hospital, funnily enough), they took me out and rolled me into a room in the ER, and my dad showed up a few minutes later after he parked.

     They asked me a ton of questions, restarted my oxygen, and plugged me back into all these machines plus some. They really treated me as if I were on drugs and this were my fault, one woman even asking, "I know your dad is here, but have you done drugs or had any alcohol today?" I quickly retorted with as much attitude as I could muster, "No, and I go to NA meetings every single week." Needless to say, that was the last time they asked me about drugs or drinking, but they still made me take a urine test for "just some tests". Pfft, yeah right. As far as I know the only thing they take urine samples for is drug tests and pregnancy tests. For the latter—you have to have sex to get pregnant.

     Their obvious judgments really hurt my feelings even though I knew I couldn't control what they thought. I knew that all these doctors and nurses just saw a seventeen year old girl with piercings, dark hair, and chest pains. They also knew I started taking a stronger form of Adderall this week—which is why my dad and I freaked out in the first place, because one of the side effects is sudden death, alongside with heart attacks—so they probably thought I abused it. I wish I had a dollar for every time they mentioned me taking Adderall, I'd be a very rich lady.

     A while after the urine test—by the way, pissing on your own hand trying to "catch" something really humbles you—I got a chest x-ray which kind of hurt. (Is that even possible? It felt like an extremely faint electric shock.) They did finally take blood too, which is the absolute worst part of the IV experience for me. I can literally feel the blood being sucked from my veins, the feeling is so horrible I cannot even put it into words appropriate enough to describe it. They used some machine too I think—I wasn't looking, of course—which made a horrific sound that made me want to cry. I also don't understand why I always get a real nurse, and then a nurse in training that uses my arm for learning things she should already know. Why do these people get degrees if they don't know how to even take blood!? Can't they practice on dead bodies, or simulated bodies? Regardless, you nurses in training, take blood from kids that are already screaming and completely unaware because they're already drowning in exaggerated emotions. Not me.

     Hours later they cleared me and told me I could leave, which really means they couldn't figure out what was wrong and since I wasn't dying they gave up. However, while we were waiting inside the room I overheard them talking about me and the nurses speculating over "some sort of heart attack, maybe", but obviously that didn't happen or I wouldn't be typing this right now from home. The doctors told me personally that it could be a later effect of having had H1N1/Swine Flu, which I believe is very likely (and scary). Funnily enough they forgot about my IV, and were going to just let me walk out with it still in my arm. My dad had to stop the nurse to get her to take it out, and when she did she ended up ripping off a layer of my skin which is now lighter than the skin around it.

It's been two days since this all happened, and for some reason I still feel like hell. My body feels like the firetruck hit me that day instead of pulling up to help me, which makes me jokingly—sort of—speculate if I've really been dead these past two days and I'm in a movie-type deal. You know, girl dies but goes on living in the movie until the end when you find out she's really dead, like Ellen Page in An American Crime. (Sorry if I spoiled that for anybody, but if you haven't seen it yet, that's a crime.) Of course we all know that isn't true, but wouldn't that be something to blog about?

I haven't started taking my Adderall again yet. I was going to today, but I left the house having forgotten to take it before I left, besides it was too late in the day to anyway considering this new Adderall I'm taking lasts for twelve hours. I will probably start tomorrow so I'm active and alive to shop for more clothes, or Monday, when I am going to force myself back into reality.. hopefully. I really don't understand why this entire experience has taken so much out of me.

     Oh! About the food I saved from Little Saigon, while we were in the hospital my dad went out to the car to get my purse. He took a long time, and later on I found out he went out into the car and ate my left overs too! Haha. I was really upset about it.

I miss you Vincent.

While re-posting some of the older things I've written, I came across something I wrote the night Vincent passed away. I don't know why I thought I could handle rereading it so I could edit any mistakes. I couldn't. I'm still crying.

Looking back at photographs of him, I'm realizing how malnourished he really was, and the guilt—that I thought was gone—is rushing back to the pit of my stomach. I wish I had a lot of photos of him like I do Pinsky, some of when he was healthier maybe, but sadly I don't. (I got a camera towards the end of his life, so I didn't have the ability to take many pictures.) I guess that longing is more so a selfish one though. In the back of my mind I'm thinking that if I see pictures of Vinny when he was happier and healthier, I won't feel so guilty for how badly he got before he passed. Unfortunately the only memories and mental visions I have of him are of him being as thin as a #2 pencil, literally.

My heart is breaking all over again. I really miss him. I wish he could be here right now with Pinsky. It'd be a dream come true for them both to be here for me to love.

Please don't get me wrong, I would never give up Pinsky if it meant that Vincent would magically come back as a ghost gecko. However, I cannot help but miss Vincent. You have to understand that he was the first gecko I've ever had. I don't love one more than the other, but they both were/are so drastically different in various ways that I love them in different ways. Regardless, my love for them is love, and that's something that will never die.


(The first photograph is of Vincent, while the second is of Pinsky when he was a baby.)

RIP Vincent Valentine 3/11/09

 (Originally written on March 12th, 2009. Posted to COSA18 on September 16th, 2009.)

     You've been sick for a long time.

     We tried everything, but guilt still pulls at me, and by instinct I am screaming blame within. I know deep down it's not my fault, or anyone's fault, but having someone to point the metaphorical blame finger at would make this all make sense.

     You were so young, only a few years. I still remember the day I got you. You were so tiny, and out of all the other geckos in your tank at PetLand, your tail was absolutely perfect. It was so long, I loved it. Your curious cat-like eyes grabbed me, and I knew you were the new friend I was gaining that day.

     I've always been scared to feed you because you ate crickets, but I remember sometimes I would feel bad because someone had forgotten to feed you for me. Despite all my fears, I put a few crickets in your cage myself, so you wouldn't be hungry.

     And now, well over a year later, you seemed to not want to eat at all. I thought maybe it was just the seasons changing, but I didn't remember you shying away from food that way. Every few times you've eaten in the past few months it's lifted a weight off my heart, knowing you're still hungry.

     But then you stopped opening your eyes. You just walked around with them closed, and stayed in the same position for over twelve hours until I moved you. I remember when the slightest tap on your cage woke you, and you came to nose my finger even though it was through glass. But lately you don't stir at even the loudest tap.

     You've passed now, and I'm crushed. I keep looking up at where your cage was (I couldn't stand to look at the empty cage anymore, so I moved it), expecting to see you looking back like you used to. But then it hits me again that you're really gone. I'll miss you more than anyone knows.

     Tomorrow I will bury you, and with you, your belongings. I'll miss how you sat on my shoulder, or curled up in my pocket to sleep. Or how just the other day when we were sitting outside you crawled towards me and into my pant leg to sleep. I'll miss you so much, I can't say it enough. No one will ever replace you. You'll always be special to me, you were the first lizard I've ever had.

     Kauvuo, Daddy, and I love you very much, Vincent Valentine.