this blog has too many ugly pictures of me
so i shall top it off with my last one from vegas.
to keep up with the teenager-esque, im going to qq about school tomorrow.
I LIKE LAZUY WEDNESDAYS.
to da anon who was askin what i look like when i wake up.
wai hello thar
I’m cute, too. Heh. Facespam for sad nights.
I wish @dyrus streamed this late, so I had something to watch. Boo.
Because facebook profile pictures need changing and I forgot what I looked like.
Isn’t it odd how your face changes sometimes? I think it is.
Sleeping with makeup is a terrible thing to do, but I’m on my period and I feel sexy today after waking up from my five hour nap.
This is Linda, and she’s teaching me how to be beautiful too.
They say make-up makes you prettier, but it’s November 18th and there’s five more days left until you die this year and mortality has made you beautiful.
Sometimes dressing up makes me happier, and sometimes it’s photos and memories of you that make me ecstatic.
Mom doesn’t make turkey anymore, and ham’s a poor substitute—so we stopped having both, and Thanksgiving doesn’t exist.
We’re going to visit your grave soon, and I still haven’t a boy to bring to you. And it’s weird—this emptiness that she bargained for, in exchange for a terribly suburban life.
He doesn’t smell like you, but his money pays our rent. I don’t remember if he smokes, but it’s no longer weird that you’re gone. He drives an imported Mercedes from out of town, and it reeks of the extravagantly expensive.
The Camry is almost at thirty-thousand and the subtle stain of coffee still marks the car mat where you spilled it that morning. Maybe it’s because coffee always reminds me of you, but craving it is a surprising comfort.
I’m starting to linger and my heart’s almost gone, but I’m tired of that Windy Hill and that expanse of greenery—I’m tired of those headstones and it’s been so long since I’ve had turkey.
Hi. I’m Jenny.
- I’m currently training in StarCraft II but I can’t stop getting cheesed.
- I feel terribly sick—in my head, in my thoughts: in every inch of myself.
- I sleep 11-14 hours a day, and I can’t stop this heavy tiredness that spreads to every part of my core.
- I’ve never been lonelier.
- I have amazing friends.
- I’ve lost three pounds in the last four days.
- I go through bouts of self-loathing, but none of which I’ve cried harder.
- November is always my grieving month.
- My Mom doesn’t know.
- I need to get laid.
- I don’t know if I’m happy or not.
- I hate my life, with a terrible, driving passion.
- I wish I wasn’t born, but that was never mine to choose.
- The fact of whether or not I’m on my period has nothing to do with this.
- I need to wear makeup.
- I’ll answer all inbox questions tomorrow on camera (because they’ve been piling up).
- I take everything to heart, except for compliments.
- I’m so fucked—and not in the way I want.
Dear Five-Year-Old Self
Mom’s a liar, but she means well. Daddy will never be around, and those toys aren’t worth the fight. Everything gets thrown away—and remember to write down when and where you lost your heart because we’re seventeen now, and I can’t find it anymore.
Michael’s turning thirty and I think we’re dying (but I’m not really sure)—Henry will never really like us and Tom loves you more than himself, please remember. Bi walked away and he’ll never come back: computer pieces the only parts of his heart he’ll ever give us, but it’s okay. He loves dogs, and you’ll always be a cat person.
Kiss a boy, because if you don’t we’ll always regret how we never. It doesn’t have to be perfect, because it always just is.
Ugly’s a state of mind, and listen to yourself: one day we’ll be beautiful soon.
No amount of money in the world is ever worth Daddy’s time, and he can never hug you enough. Mom’s lipstick will always smell nice, but you taste like vanilla.
When it starts again, cover your ears—you’ll be safe under the bed sheets and it’s okay to cry. The sound of breaking glass will always be our eternal lullaby. You’re cold now, and that’s fine.
You’ll meet a girl, and her name is Chelsea, and remember she’ll love you more than anybody we’ve ever met. Blood isn’t thicker than money, so don’t ever listen to what anyone says.
Hedgepeth says we’ll always be alone, but I promise we’ll never be lonely, and somewhere inside of us we’ve always eaten babies.
Write about the books you’ve read, because our memory sucks and I’m fading. If you can’t remember anything else—if you can’t remember yourself—remember Daddy, and everything he’s ever said. Remember it’s okay to cry, and remember to always forget how to open the Clorox bottle—remember to always be short enough to never reach the knives, and remember that sadness is infinite and happiness is only temporary.
Remember that you’re funny, remember that you’ll meet boys who’ll tell you you’re beautiful, but it doesn’t matter. Save your heart, don’t be a prude: you’ll be okay.
It doesn’t get easier, but we’re nominated homecoming queen.
Everybody lied: we made it.
i also need a haircut.
selfesteem is an odd thing.
my unwaxed eyebrows are fantastically horny.
