NERD PARTY

WOW SO I WENT TO AN ACTUAL PARTY.

It was SO funny because it was actually every stereotype from a teen high school party movie. The loud music, the color-changing strobe lights, everything. All it was missing was alcohol. (which i honestly wouldnt have minded...)

Some backstory: every few months, a few of my friends (who mix their own music and record their own stuff) have this party to basically show off.

It was ironically fun... for about ten minutes.

Then a few friends and i went to get milkshakes. (without the knowledge of my parents wow so rebellious teen angst impulsive behavior)

It was surprisingly really fun just hanging out with them, even though i didnt know many of them well. The highlight if the evening was one guy finding a suspicious substance on his arm, Another guy licked it and determined that it wasnt cum, and we figured out that it was lube. We still have no idea where it came from.

We just walked around wasting time for a while before driving back. Bambi and I actually danced for a while.
You can tell that everyone there was a nerd because a conga line happened. It was awesome. I am O tired now though. Just being around so many people drained me BIG TIME. That, and I woke up this morning with a migraine. It took three hours and some high-strength pain killers for it to go away. I was worried i might not even be able to go.
BUT I PERSEVERED.

And I'm really happy i went. I might actually go to another one. ^-^

This week of school has been BRUTAL. They really are serious about piling on homework. God i just dont know if i can handle this. I'm already getting stress migranes, and it's only the second week.

Just push me down some stairs thank you

The new school year is upon us.

PLEASE push me down a flight of stairs, promptly.

My schedule, (cuz you care obviously), is as follows:

A days:
Pottery I
American government
Sculpture I
Art Comp III

B days:
Physics
Advanced algebra
AP lang/comp
AP 3D

I have four art classes. I'm going to die.
My physics teacher is 8 1/2 months pregnant, so that'll be interesting.
My algebra teacher's voice puts me to sleep.

I dislike a majority of the people in my classes.

I just dont know about this year.

So You Killed Yourself.

So you killed yourself. But you killed everyone else around you too.

You’d thought long and hard about it, about the possibility of punishment if there was an afterlife. But anything was better than feeling like this, feeling either so alive it hurt or simply nothing at all.

            As it turned out, there was a punishment. But not the one you’d been expecting. No fire or brimstone, only the gift of sight and the curse of being unable to look away.

            You watch the reception after the funeral. To your dismay, it is a black, dismal affair. You never wanted that.

            You watch as your friends creep to your room in ones and twos, breathing in thick, dusty air. They walk around, each unable to stop themselves from taking home a memento that was important to the both of you. a locket here, a friendship bracelet there, a stuffed cat, a mason jar filled with old keys, a favorite book, a small compact mirror, a rock collection in an old shoe box, a cedar scented candle that will never be lit again.

            You’re thankful that they take some memories, scattering pieces of yourself around the world and down through generations. You’re thankful that someone will glance up at a shelf and smile, remembering the love you shared. Because your room is memorialized. Locked off. The curtains are drawn and a thick layer of dust slowly coats each surface. Books are left unread, without purpose. Stuffed animals resigned to a life unloved. The silence becomes so thick, it begs to rip itself apart. You itch to whisper, to lessen the tension of half-closed drawers and yellowing paper. But your voice is silent.

            You’d never wanted to cause any more pain that necessary, so you placed a call to 911 just as you felt the drugs taking hold. You knew that they’d be too late to save you, of course, but it would be better for them to find you than for your mother to come home and find her baby not moving.

            But there was a problem this morning. Your mother realized that she’d left all of her notes sitting on the kitchen table. Or maybe it was car trouble or a sudden illness that sent her home much too early.

She arrived three minutes before the ambulance.

Perhaps your father was the lucky one. He never had to see your body lying peacefully on your bed.

But perhaps he was not so lucky, because he had to pry your mother’s arms away from his child’s lifeless body in a morgue.

The memory sits stagnant in his mind, holding him in a weary state of unrest. For more than a month, the only sleep he gets is in short, exhausted bursts. He was always one to quiet his emotions, so while his wife sobs, he only sits in silence. He soon finds that he has lost his sense of taste.

The doctor attributes it to grief. Unspoken, unheard grief. Unheard to all except for a soul whose body has long since been buried and left to the earth.

            Your best friend won’t cry, not at first. She can’t accept it. Won’t accept it. It’s all a bad dream, right? She just stares blankly at the wall for hours until your heart breaks, shattered pieces landing on the floor beside hers.

            She’s given a few days off of school. Still, she won’t say anything. Won’t eat. Barely sleeps. It’s not until she walks into class and sees your empty desk that she starts screaming. Gut-wrenching, agonizing, animalistic noises rip themselves out of her throat. She’s on the floor, head pressed into her knees, clutching and tearing at the hair you once cut for her. Tears, no, rivers erupt from her eyes. When she shakes her head violently, salt water flies onto the faces of bystanders who find themselves unable to move. And still, she’s screaming until parents arrive and her throat gives out. She refuses to move, so her father has to carry her out like a baby.

            You’d saved her so many times.        

            One day, you turn your vision only to see her staring back. She seems to be aware of your presence, and you watch each other until an explosive heartbeat yanks her away from you. She’s lying in a hospital bed with a needle marked, ‘adrenaline’ being pulled from her chest. You can only watch numbly as her heart starts beating away from you. She just wanted to see your eyes sparkle one more time. A bottle of sleeping medication almost helped her achieve her wish.

            Suddenly, your vision widens and pans out.

            You watch a sunset, all gold and crimson and pink. You watch every sunrise all at once. You watch a mothers’ face after she’s given birth, holding life in her arms for the first time. You watch friends giving each other stupid dares, sparkles and laughter in their eyes. You watch every person that ever fell in love as they say those magic words to each other. You watch puppies fall asleep in arms and kittens curl up on stomachs. You watch the eyes of every dog who’s ever been adopted, relief and love and exhilaration like nothing bad can ever exist again, all in one. You watch people’s excitement as they’re served their favorite food; you taste that glorious first bite with them. You watch a clear starry sky through a million people’s eyes. You watch the end of a long hike, the moment when the summit is reached and arms are stretched out wide as someone takes in the entire mountainside. You watch local dreamers laugh. You watch children gaze up at the starry skies, tiny universe explorers in their own nature.

            You watch the face of every family member or friend who’s been told that someone they love will live, that they’ll be all right.

            One year after you kill yourself, you watch your mother make your father breakfast. You watch her add salt and pepper to eggs, but she knows the taste will never be the same. Your father rinses dishes and wipes down the counter while he watches your mother swallow pills, red and white serotonin bombs that are keeping her sane.

            One year after you kill yourself, you fall in love. Not with the boy down the street or the girl behind you in math. You fell in love with your best friend, with the way she holds your old rock collection with reverence. With the way she writes you letters and sends them to you in empty green bottles through the ocean. With the poems she writes, poems about how a ribcage was never meant to be synonymous for a birdcage, crows in her chest eating dead butterflies that had crawled up from her stomach. You fall in love with the way she’s putting herself back together, bit by bit. She forced her pieces together crooked, upside down, just to stay alive. She hopes she can be whole again by the time she dies an old woman.

            One year after you kill yourself, your sister turns to ask you something. You see the emptiness in her eyes when she sees only an empty room. You watch her stand on the footprints you made together on the sidewalk, back when you were only three. You watch her help the elderly woman next door weed her garden and line her medications up on her breakfast plate. You watch her hold the old woman’s hand as she dies; they never knew each other well, but no one deserves to die alone. She used to believe in happy endings, but now she’s just trying to believe you ever existed.

            When you were six years old, happy with fairies and dragons and magic in your heart, you unknowingly passed the anniversary of your death. For every year after your death, that day has become tainted. Unusable. Every person you were close to counts down the days until that anniversary, whether they mean to or not. Every year on this day, flowers will reach around your gravestone before wilting unattended. Muted reminders that everything is temporary, some more so than others.

            One year after you kill yourself, you go back to that body of a girl lying in a morgue, still soft, not a day old. You talk to her. You tell her about sunsets and strawberries and soft dogs and falling in love and fireworks and stars. You tell her about rivers and flowers and cuddles and the universe.

            One year after you kill yourself, you try to unkill yourself, but find you couldn’t finish what you’d started. And that was the worst punishment of all.