I hate not sounding like myself.

Fuck you and your definition of healthy. Fuck you and all your standards.
And most importantly, just FUCK YOU.


Now that I've got that off my chest, let's proceed.

I'm afraid I'm not going to be able to go to school this semester. Everything's so fucked up right now. My school loan is non-existant. I haven't worked in three weeks or something ridiculous like that and I have to get knee surgery because my loving fucking parents didn't get it done when they should have. You know what. I get it now. I need to blow some steam.

I have the most selfish fucking parents you can think of. They're money hungry, self centered, and completely oblivious to anything going on in anyone else's life. I've been practically screaming "I'M FUCKING CRAZY! SEND ME TO A DOCTOR!" for months now, but nothing. I even picked up my god damned life and moved to fucking California hell for crying out loud and they still refuse to do anything beneficial to my well being. All they tell me is "We'll figure it out Stephanie" but you know what? Thats the biggest load of shit I've ever had to listen to day after day after day. There are very few people who can say the word 'we' and have it mean anything to me because of my parents. They've always said "we'll do this" and "we'll do that" but it always turns into me doing everything for myself. Figuring it all out. Dealing with my own mental fucking health because "we" are incapable.
Fuck you.
FUCK YOU.
FUCK YOU.


FUCK.


I just fucked up bad, I think. I'm good at that.
Shit.
I hate things.

It would be so nice if something made sense for a change.

The pain in my chest has been unusually persistent the past few days. I am no longer able to distinguish why my heart hurts. I used to be so sure it was a lack of nutrition when I didn’t eat, or too much stress when I had a lot on my mind. Now, however, it tends to hurt all day in spite of my eating habits or To-Do List. I can’t say I really care why it hurts anymore though. It’s useless worrying over something out of my control, and to be honest a lack of restful sleep leaves me lethargic and I’d rather waste my energy on more important things like getting out of the house or cleaning. Besides, if it gets that bad I suppose I’ll take myself to the doctors.

Speaking of doctors, I would like to make a note of the awkward atmosphere that stifles waiting rooms at the doctor’s office. It’s an asphyxiating feeling, really,. As you sit there wondering what everyone else is waiting to be seen for you know they’re doing the same thing about you (and of course its impossible to think of anything but the worst; terminal illnesses, senility, etc). Doctor’s offices are just mini airports.

But anyway, let’s talk about something with a more humorous substance. As of late, I have learned my mother thinks I am on drugs.
Are you laughing yet, because I am.
I can understand why you might not see the humor in it, so let me explain. You see, very little about my presence projects the image of “druggy” or “tweaker” and the most outstanding thing influencing my mother to think I do drugs is a book. A few months ago when I still lived in Florida, my mother came to visit. With her, she brought the book Beautiful Boy by David Sheff. The book is memoir, written by a man who’s son has battled meth and heroin addictions since he was a teenager. Here’s where it get’s kind of funny. You see, my mother gave me the book telling me she bought it because it “looked like something I would read” and she knew Beautiful Boy is my favourite John Lennon song. I, however, expected her of suspecting I was into drugs already because I do tend to talk about substance abuse quite a bit. After reading it, and its counterpart Tweak, I found the differences in the two books extremely intriguing. Doing what any avid reader would do, I recommended my mother read the books so I could see if she got the same things out of them as I did. I’m sure you can see the hilarity in the situation now? Anyway, she ended up reading Beautiful Boy, and somewhere in the there she started thinking I wanted her to read the book because I have a drug problem but I don’t know how to tell her. Since she’s not experienced with drug addiction I don’t think she realizes its not something people talk about nonchalantly when it’s a problem they deal with on a day to day basis. Clearly, I am not doing drugs but I can admit that they fascinate me. Anything that alters your state of mind fascinates me though. So it’s not the substances, it’s the result of substances. I have to admit though, I am unsure how I should feel about the entire situation. And I’m really hoping she doesn’t confront me on it because conversations like that make me uncomfortable. In any way, if I had a problem I would be able to admit if it was beyond my control, and that’s regarding anything. I’m fine taking care of things myself for now so anyone trying to force there way in will only make things uncomfortable.

And that’s that. There’s not much else I can say, but I can sit here and laugh for a little longer. I know I probably shouldn’t, but it’s the only reaction I can compose.

words, words, words.

I want to know if there’s a word that just rubs you the wrong way- makes you uncomfortable and anxious and distraught no matter where you hear it.

For me, it’s the word “ambition”. Dictionary.com defines ambition as “an earnest desire for some type of achievement or distinction, as power, honor, fame, or wealth, and the willingness to strive for its attainment” but the word means so much more to me. When you grow up around a certain word, and you constantly hear it used to describe you it gets implanted in your brain and starts to grow, much like a tumor. Over time, this tumor becomes malignant and infests all your thoughts, your dreams, and your free time. What’s worse is I know this tumor has outgrown my own ambitious nature and has developed a violently ardent nature of its own. The side effects of this? Nothing short of self doubt and a terrible fear of failure. It started out with simply questioning myself as to whether or not I am ambitious enough, but as the tumor grows so does the self analysis. Suddenly I don’t find myself ambitious at all and take any and every opportunity I can to challenge myself to be more ambitious. I set ridiculous goals, the kind you don’t say out loud because other people “just don’t understand”, and I become hell bent on proving to myself I can achieve them, no matter how miniscule and trivial these goals are. It’s an addicting game to play, especially when the only person playing is you. But enough about how I react to this word, I’m much more curious as to what words tick other people off because I find it obvious why the word “ambition” gets such a reaction out of me only I’m not sure if that reason is so obvious to other people. Tell me your word. I want to know your word, your tumor, your side effects. The good natured, curious learner side of me is itching to compare and contrast reactions. But I have to be honest when I say the twisted, dejected side of me just wants to get inside your head for a quick fix.

Humor me.