My Grampe died at 4:17 this morning. I was able to get there before he expired and it was such an emotional thing. I'd been able to get three hours sleep before hand and right now, I feel like I'm running on fumes.

As of yesterday, Friday, I'm eight weeks pregnant. It's time for all the doctors visits and jazz. I won't be able to concentrate on that stuff until next week but I will be attempting, again, to cut out the cigarettes, eat at least five or six small meals a day and to get some goddamn sleep and vitamins.

That's what got me to cry, you know. That I never got to tell him I was pregnant. I know how happy he would've been and, in my head, I can see him smiling.

I am covered in bed bug bites from Doug's couch.

I counted to forty and gave up.

I think we might have a goddamn problem.

List ten songs you are into right now. No matter what the genre, whether they have words, or even if they’re not any good, but they must be songs you’re really enjoying now. Post these instructions in your blog along with your ten songs. Then tag ten other people to see what they’re listening to.

The Dresden Dolls - "Girl Anachronism"
April March - "Chick Habit"
The Ramones - "Commando"
Cream - "Sunshine of Your Love"
The Dresden Dolls - "Missed Me"
My Morning Jacket - "Librarian"
Aimee Mann - "Ghost World"
Sufjan Stevens - "John Wayne Gacy, Jr."
Belle & Sebastian - "Expectations"
The Moldy Peaches - "Steak for Chicken"

tagged: angrysnatch, kitsch_my_grits, tokyoghoststory + theywerecones. Just do it, bitches!

After seven cups of sake and my second time this week being completely trashed drunk, I have decided to write an open letter to the man who took my virginity, took my time and love, innocence and any bit of self-esteem I had managed to save up.

Dear Doug,

I have spent over six years of my twenty-three loving you, closer to seven, really. That's nearly a third of my life time.

When I told my mom you picked her over me, my mom said, "Well, what did you expect? They are closer in age, have more things in common, have more of a history together."

When I told my mom I came in the apartment and you were standing in your underwear in front of that hulking bitch, my mom said, "Well, I don't know but that's a sort of intimacy that you don't really find in most friendships. Maybe she is something more to a friend than him."

When I told my mom you two were friends again, she said, "I am glad that you're okay with it. It's probably better the two of you drift apart a little bit more."

When Lucas and everyone else said, "You should've done this along time ago and you're strong enough to get over it."

I doubted myself and I doubted the respect you had for me.

I told my mom she was full of shit, that you would never hurt me in that sort of way.

I deleted my journal to escape from the comments, saying I was better than this.

I cut myself to let out the bitterness inside and it nearly worked.

You say you don't understand why me or anyone would ever cut themselves. My razor is sitting in my truck, bloody. Let me try to explain it to you. I used all the bandages from the first aid kit but it doesn't matter cos I don't want them covered, I like looking at them. When I cry, and I mean really cry, the likes of which you've never seen me do, I get wrapped up, almost damn near literally, in a web of pity, grief, love, hate, betrayal, depression, uselessness, horrible and just plain sad feelings. I bled on your carpet but I cleaned it up. I feel suffocated in this cocoon I wove around myself, I feel like I can't breathe, that everything is being sucked out of me and that I will never know what it is like to be whole, or some semblance of, again. I take the razor, unless I've got a really really sharp serrated knife, and what it feels like, do you really want to know?, is like tearing apart the cocoon, ripping it apart from the inside out, freeing myself of all this imaginary ache and breathing fresh, clean air again. Every time I cut, every single hundreds of fucking times I have cut since I was thirteen years old, when the blood hits, the time I always allow myself to go too deep, to slice at my flesh instead of evenly scratch across, when I have to look away from my arm because I can see some fleshy insides, you know what I do?

I smile and I laugh and I talk to myself.

I clean up the mess, stow the razor and rinse my face in the sink, and I climb back into bed and I smile as I fall asleep. I feel accomplished and I feel, for a while, normal and whole.

It's really just very generic when I say that I cut to pointedly have something to heal. I can't take out my brain, sifting through the good and the bad stuff, holding something tangible that I can operate on. When I cut, I really don't feel pain. I have never said, "Ouch!" or even let loose a single tear over the cuts, which I know you know, which can sometimes be deep.

I cut because it makes me feel better and if I accidentally cut too deep, well, that's life.

make love to your depression, kill of your senses,
accidentally cut too deeply, accidentally cut too deeply.

I feel humiliated.

I talked at length, with my friends, about throwing bricks through her windows, hoping her cats would escape and at least one of them would get ran over in front of her house. Shawn kept saying, "Nah, her kitties didn't do nothin' to you" and all I want is for the both of you to hurt as bad as I do. That's not a threat, you know, it's just how I felt.

I want you to die instead of me.

My whole entire life, I have never been anyones favorite and if you tell people that, they always lie but sometimes they get to a point where they forget their own lie an all of a sudden, they don't remember saying you were the most important person in the world to them or maybe, it just never could mean to him what it meant to me.

My suicide will take place September 12th.

ps. Did you know that remembering you forgot is much easier than forgetting to remember?

From the e-mail Doug sent me, fifteen minutes ago,

If I'm occupying a space that seems inconvenient or inappropriate to you because of your relative proximity to me, then move the fuck away yourself. I will sleep on the couch if I want to, although I'll have to hoist your giant ass off of it first, in all likelihood, or, if I feel like it, I'll sleep curled up in my comfy chair.

Baby, you're such a smooth talker.