at his apartment, studying for a quiz tomorrow. i'm very disappointed with my grades. i feel like there's no other way which i can get recognition or respect from my parents, other than having perfect grades. i wish they supported my music, or me working and going to school. or my writing. actually, i wish i supported my own writing, maybe submitting stuff to the local paper, or finishing some kind of complete story. anyways, it's depressing to be a disappointement fountain. at least i'll like myself once i'm a waif, but until then i'll have to deal with being a wound of a person.

watching it. the main character is beautiful. i want to be like her. i want to be thin. i'm done eating. i'm done with it. i'm not hungry, so many times i eat when i'm not hungry. and i don't need to. i'm not the kind of girl that needs to eat. i remember never eating, it's always so lovely. so liberating, light and free and lovely. so far today i've taken in 800 calories. i'm going to walk. i'm going to donate 20 lbs. ooooooh inside i'm already the waif, in side i'm the waif i shuold be, the girl that can slip into nothing in the blink of an eye. because it's always best to be nothing. should i buy a pipe, i dunno. not if it makes me eat. just gotta stop eating. then gecko will love me, he woun't be lured away by other girls.
or disappear in a cloud of smoke.

just watched it, and now indulging myself further in watching "the curse of the blair witch", this scifi original documentary about all of the history surrounding the event. and while it's obvious that the movie itself is a fabrication, it's still entertaining to look into.
eating yesterday was not too good: my BMR is estimated to be at about 1300, which means i have to eat less than that to lose weight. yesterday i consumed a total of 1450 calories; however, according to my ipod/pedometer, i burned about 900 calories simply from walking all over town. so fa today i've taken in 300 calories, and since i'm not actually hungry it'll be easy to stay below 1300. in fact, i think i'll be able to stay below 1000 today.
i'm writing anovella for t&c, so i should probably get back to that since it's due monday and i've scarcely done any work on it yet.

for your viewing pleasure:
curse of the blair witch, part 4/5

the old me, that is. i've recovered the self control bred in my early high school years. while it is true that this "self control" would make any true annie laugh, it is still a major improvement over my old ways. it's like i finally found the tiny on switch in the back of my head for the part of me that only ate to live, instead of living to eat. and it feels wonderful. i'd forgotten how empowering it is to say no to food, to watch other people eat with no desire to do the same.
is it messed up that restricting my food intake is basically the only way i can find self-satisfaction?

again. been letting time drip through my fingers with the lightest of ease, wasting it away in front of an illuminated screen. is it any different for anyone else?
been working on a project about eric whitacre. seriously, his music is so amazing, and his personality and textbook good looks only add to that already fantasticality. and the virtual choir? wow. just wow. if you havn't seen it already, seriously youtube that shit.
bodies bodies everywhere, and no one to happily wear 'em. i'm going to the gym now, gonna try and run 2 miles. slowly, for i am a lethargic sad sack.
may all your sundays be happily lazy!

...and now this one is lost in college. nothing much has changed besides the scenery: still i wish to be thin, still i ponder life and meticulously observe others around me. still, sometimes, i wish to be Penny Lane so fervently that i fear for my own safety.
the weather's warm, sun shining and the snow melting slowly into the earth, painting a drab landscape with mud and slush. soon though, it will be spring and sprigs of green will explode from winter's corpse.
how i long for summer.
think i'm gonna start drawing more. i miss it.


i wanna be the girl with reed-thin legs.

Dear Lover,
If you're reading this, I'm guessing my place next to you is vacant. I'm guessing that the warmth has long since seeped from my pillow and that this piece of paper is very, very cold.
I'm sorry that this envelope is here instead of me. I'm sorry that I left. As you read this, I'm already a million miles away. As you've slumbered, so many moments have been lost. The world has been turning this whole time, but with our eyes turned to each other, we've been missing it. All the tiny wonders of mundane life were glazed over in a haze of human emotion. We were like fountains, rather than chalices. I want to receive the world, to taste it all like a holy testament on my tounge. We humans are of the earth. Our eyes should be turned to the dust, drinking in the reverberations of this world. What meager things we do with these fleeting numbered days have already been forgotten. We are like dim sparks in a sea of stars. Eveything about us is ephemeral. Maybe someday I'll see you at the supermarket, or idle beside you at a red light, but don't look for me. We are like waves in a vast ocean, coming together in a brief cascade of foam and sand.
We are like birds, flying always over the mountain.

    The television is on, glowing, stuffing propaganda and doctored media into the porridge
slop-for-brains of the slack-jawed flesh bags. Dark coifed hair and traditionally handsome features,
the announcer man ennunciates big-wig concerns about the other big-wigs to the east. They hate us
for being us and we hate them for hating us. Religion is also a factor: call your god by a different name
than ours and expect to feel our firey wrath. Since when was politics so juvenile?
    The smaller flesh bag turns to me, doe-like eyes with big heavy lashes dully glowing, little
mouth like a pink butterfly.
    "They're going to Hell, right? Because they don't believe in our God and that's wrong." All my
life my parents have been spoon-feeding me their dogma, indoctrinating me with their wisdom won by
experience. All my life they had instructed me, differentiating right from wrong as easily as up from
down. They seemed so sure of themselves; how could they be wrong? They were the golden sentinels,
upholding the mechanisms of the universe, infallible, strong. At one time, every word that fell from
between their lips was a glowing jewel of truth. At one time, that small being with the doe-like eyes
was me.
    I look back to the screen. Images of war are flashing there, a grim backdrop to the polished
voice of the svelt announcer man. His words melt into one another, lose their meaning, as the bodies
on screen flit about like pieces of burnt paper in a careless wind. The earth, the buildings, the air,
the tanks, everything is brown and red. The bodies sift through the sandy air. Clouds of fire and
dirt blossom over and again, casting the people about like dice.
    There, on the illuminated screen, people are dying mute deaths while the announcer man
blithely spouts names and numbers and other meaningless jargon. Those ragdolls are the testament
to human suffering, not us flesh bags watching the cold window to the outside world, we ignorant,
vapid bipeds of the "First World.". I watch as a small girl in a tattered white shift is knocked to the
ground by another tempestuous blast and becomes just another body, barely visible at the edges of
the camera shot for the turbid air. Her face is pressed in the dirt.
    In that moment, curled up next to my eight-year-old sister on the couch and listening to my
father assuage her fears of eternal damnation, it was as if a latch on the back of my skull was kicked
open, or an obstructive film I never knew was there was removed from my eyes. In that sliver of a moment,
I came to realize that we humans' lives are far too ephemeral to waste on things like war, far too
invaluable to neglect --even for a second-- the splendid wonders that come with breathing.We can't get
out of this world alive, we only get one shot at living. We only get one chance to change the world, one
shot at making ourselves into something good. We only get one life, so we best not fuck it up.

    "War doesn't determine who is right -- only who is left." -Bertrand Russell

from matthew arnold's dover beach

Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.

sir george etherege's to a lady, asking him how long he would love her

It is not, Celia, in our power 
    To say how long our love will last; 
It may be we within this hour 
    May lose those joys we now do taste: 
The blessed, that immortal be, 
From change in love are only free. 

Then, since we mortal lovers are, 
    Ask not how long our love will last; 
But while it does, let us take care 
    Each minute be with pleasure past. 
Were it not madness to deny 
To live, because w'are sure to die?

robert herrick's to virgins, to make much of time (i must live my life by this one)

 Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
   Old time is still a-flying;
And this same flower that smiles today
   Tomorrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
   The higher he's a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
   And nearer he's to setting.

That age is best which is the first,
   When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
   Times still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time,
   And while ye may, go marry;
For, having lost but once your prime,
   You may forever tarry.

i found the following dribble scribble while sorting through my garbage drawer:

"i can get over this. i'm strong enough.
i can get over this. he's just a boy, of which there are millions, billions even."
but then the numbers melt away into science and i'm thinking dna, running my fingers through electrically cold strands of it. no, there is only one of him. only one exact combination of ladder rungs. his face bubbles up to the surface of my filthy cauldron of a brain, all dark hair and pale skin and perfectly symmetrical features. his eyes, also dark, so dark like the mysterious side of the moon, like the back of a giant, blind eyeball. dark like the farthest, deepest crease in the universe where not the faintest hint of starlight may intrude. but the darkness is warm and i can almost feel his rib cage expanding and contracting as he breathes in and out, a gigantic bird of the purest white flexing its wings, readying itself to burst from thy earthly shackles and take to the air. but then i'm thinking red hot muscles and blood and now i'm back to science, back to that clear cold room where my sneakers are sweating dirty snow and my toes are cold. the room is grey and empty and i don't even breath in fear of hearing the raspy echo of my life rattling on and on like that damned little engine from the storybook.
so i lie through my plastic smile:
"no don't worry about me. i'm fine. i can get over this.
he's yours."