It's been a bad couple of days. And, if I am to be completely honest, I don't really harbor much hope that today will be any better.

And if I am to be honest, I don't really believe things will get better for a long time. Things have me bogged down right now. I've lost too much recently, and too much has always been wrong, and there are too many things that I have to start improving in the future.

I won't be able to update until next monday, being that next week is- very thankfully, vacation.

I've got a lot to say but not a lot of will to say it. This is pretty much the antithesis of my normal way of life.

Last night I walked to school for a science olympiad awards thing and thought about how, if he had still been alive and I were single, I would have taken a trip out to California this summer, and found Charles Bukowski in all his old man glory, and blown him, in hopes that he'd squeeze another volume out before he died and there'd be a poem about me. I was thinking about how I'd do it- anonymously and silently- just go, find him, arouse him, do it, and leave- or staying to talk afterwards, to milk his mind as well as his appendages. I'm not particularly attracted to Buk, but I would have liked him to write a vaguely degrading tribute to me.

I was thinking about how I would write a story about it. More wonderful erotica subject matter, wasted on a girl who spends all her writing energy with fucking poetry nowadays, if not the even less valuable pit, or personal journal site that slowly withers away.

I am constantly writing prose in my mind. My mind endlessly berraged with thoughts, and most of the time as I walk along, or kiss someone, or do anything where I am not speaking, a story is taking seed. If I wrote down all of my thoughts all of the time, I would have published an enormous collection of books by now. I would have won tons of awards.

If the world knew me, the world would long to know me.

I was thinking yesterday, as well, that suicide, for many people, seems like the ultimate way to become loved.

Let's take me, for example. Whenever I'm having a week I'd rather not be having, which is pretty constant, thoughts of suicide, if passive thoughts, stream through me. What people would think, how people would cry. I am, more than anything, someone who simply wants people to be thinking about her. I've discovered this fundamental truth about me recently and I think it's pretty much the driving theme of my life. (The bell is about to ring to dismiss me from study hall, so I'll be brief) I think, for me, the idea of suicide is appealing because I know it would make so many people think about me.....and so unacceptable because I know, eventually everyone would move on, and I would never be able to make them think about me again. Ever.

But for a lot of people, I think it's a way to be loved. People forgive suicides so many things because they think "I didn't realize he/she was going through so much.", etc. I wish I had time to get into this more, but I don't, so I'm on to creative writing.


On with it.