[ask me][check me out] [my photography][my writing]
A writer, lover, thinker, go-doer, girl of both many and few words.
Attention, if you meet these requirements:
1. must be a human being
2. enjoy traveling
3. curious about everything
4. witty
5. humorous
6. plays video games
7. likes to nerd out about science
8. has many thoughts
9. is a go getter
10. realizes money isn’t everything
11. believes in bigger and better things
12. likes to cuddle
13. hella quirky
14. can appreciate a lot of sarcasm
15. can accept my strangeness
Bonus points: tattoos, piercings, great smile, good with kids
Please inquire within.
ok just contact me and we can fall in love and shit its all good thnx bai. <3
guys… i just noticed something.
look at my ears.
look at them.
freaking ELF ears.
Tell me they don’t look like elf ears.
fml ;___;
She was the wind girl
she wept with the rain
she played in the grass
hair like the sun
She was the leave girl
changing colors again
she fell to the ground
decayed
I feel sick with nerves and sadness and I really just want to go lay in bed and never get up
I just need someone with me right now
and I am alone
fuck my life
June 4th 11:35AM
What was I thinking?
It’s like every time I go get a drastic change… it doesn’t satisfy me.
As if what I want to change isn’t physical at all. It’s somewhere deeper.
There’s something inside that I am aching to get at, aching to change and mutilate.
Aching to kill. A lot of people don’t understand my impulse to always be changing. Sometimes I don’t understand it, either.
I can’t ever be satisfied with myself. Sometimes it feels like no one else can, either.
I hate who I am, what I look like. I hate my body, my face. To me, I look like a monster.
To me, I am grotesque. Hideous. I hate my personality, the way I talk, everything. Every day, when I really give myself time to dwell on it, I experience extreme dysphoria with my entire being. A dysphoria with existence.
If only everyone could really see how insecure I am, how much I hate myself all of the time… they would understand more.
But no… they see the front I put up. They see the fun and happy me, the happy-go-lucky wild and funny side. I am an entertainer. I wear a mask. And even when I do confide in people, when I “let them in”… it’s not truly as deep as they would think. There’s always more, always something deeper and more sinister, more dangerous and dark lurking in the shadows; a demon I fear I will never rid myself of.
I hate when people try to sympathize and tell me that they understand but… honestly. I don’t really feel like they do. Even when I try to excavate these caverns, these dusty feelings that have been chained away… I can see it in their eyes. I can tell that either 1) they can’t understand or 2) I’m not effectively communicating just how SHITTY I really really truly feel. I’m tired of sad looks and pats on the back. That shit doesn’t change anything. I want someone, for once, to just tell me… “Yeah. I DON’T understand. But I’m here for you. And I know you’re strong enough to kill that internal enemy. And I’ll battle along side you, even though I don’t know what our target looks like. I’ll be back up. Just don’t kill yourself in the process, don’t mistake yourself for the enemy.”
Sometimes I am afraid of never finding someone I can fully let in. I am fearful that I will have to go through this journey of life, utterly alone, with no one who can fully see me for what I am. Or understand. But other times, my apathy hits hard… and I just… give up.
I’m just rambling. Spewing words with detached meaning. I try to write for relief, a lot of the time… it doesn’t work anymore. I don’t know what I’m doing.
I pretend like I have my shit together but… I’m a fucking mess.
I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.
Junk & Disorderly.: untilasinglesolitonsurvives: Why are genius and madness connected...
Why are genius and madness connected ?
Many of history’s most celebrated creative geniuses were mentally ill, from renowned artists Vincent van Gogh and Frida Kahlo to literary giants Virginia Woolf and Edgar Allan Poe. Today, the fabled connection between…
Virginity
Maybe it’s an embarrassing conversation,
too taboo of a topic to mention in a talk,maybe it’s a little labeling to hold such a
title still, goodie-two-shoes wearing prude,but maybe in the poetic sense it’s just
okay to be a virgin though, how
metaphoricalbeing something many people aren’t, but
than and again, how controversial is it to
goup against time, pleasure, and nature.
Maybe it’s just okay being who you areno matter sexual condition, no matter
how paradoxical the state.
I love that I just switched colleges without giving notice to the first, I love that I didn’t show up for my last day of work, I love that businesses and people are calling, asking, “Where are you?” and “Why didn’t you show up?”.
I love the feeling that I am slowly checking out from society, from reality. That I am fading away and honestly, when you think about it, there isn’t a damn thing people can do about it.
Have you really stopped to think about the so-called “consequences” of not showing up to something, or not doing something? What are they going to do? Call you? Send you a letter? So-called “professionalism” prevents immediate action.
What if you just disappeared? Went to another country? What is ANYONE going to do about it?
Who’s going to stop you?
Quit letting the imaginary strings of “human society” tie you down. The world is waiting.
Jun 2
Today I went out to the beach, got sand into my bathing-suit, tanned, ate some chips, and generally had your typical all-American experience, because as we know, entertainment is as easy as letting salt water sting your eyes while you bash into oncoming waves filled with pollution and urine.
There was a really attractive guy, skim-boarding. And he was obviously showing off for me. Even did a back flip. He would look at me every time. It was funny and kind of cute.
He was cute. I should’ve waved. Should’ve walked up all flirty-like, asking if he “teaches skim-boarding lessons”. I don’t know. Something.
Ah… but I didn’t. And he left the beach. And here I am blogging about it.
Don’t you hate the “what ifs” ?
I just need to talk to someone.That’s what I need. Intimacy. I need to feel like I exist outside of myself. Like someone else has willingly partaken in my presence. Like I’m not utterly alone and trapped inside the cage that is my mind.
I feel replaced. Shoved aside. Forgotten. Misplaced.
Just like any other time.
Why can I be good enough for once?
I’m a good person. I’m nice to everyone. I don’t start fights. I don’t gossip. I volunteer and I donate. I don’t break laws. I don’t steal. I don’t kill.
And yet I’m afflicted with this depression. And yet I can never find solace or happiness.
And yet I still feel as though, at times, I’m stumbling through the dark, aimlessly. Climbing mounds of dirt. Sifting through rubble and ash and grime.
When do I get Prince Charming? When do I fall in love? When does my life begin? When do I find purpose? When do I get noticed, treated with high regard, esteemed, valued?
Most the time I feel like I’m just floating around. Waiting for something interesting to happen.
Just killing time, I suppose.
NIGHTNIGHT by DEDDY
