I AM SO LONELY

FUCK THIS

FUCK THIS

FUCK ALL OF THIS

NONE OF THIS IS HELPING ME

NONE OF THIS IS MAKING ME ANY HAPPIER

FUCK THIS I AM LONELY

all i want is to be naked/withsomeone/warm/together/
not even just NOT SO FUCKING ALONE

amanda palmer makes me feel sexy.

(god i guess i should change the name of this to "blogging about amanda palmer in odd segues to my personal life. but really.)

first, a poem describing how i felt last week (i wrote it then):

this is a quiet acknowledgement
of running a hand over skin to see if it is soft
and over a body to see if it is full
and of measuring the size but more importantly the consistency of breasts
and of taking close-ups at odd angles to trick the camera
into believing someone is beautiful

this is a quiet breaking of an unwritten rule
to keep things silent that should not have to be silent
to put on paper the things that happen behind closed curtain,
under insulating cover. to hide the moments of just trying
to convince oneself of those words oft-touted by the overconfident,
who are really just trying to convince themselves too:


'i'm happy with my body'


because like hell you are but at least you try
in the shower when you have to be naked and you can't help but wonder
when someone else one day sees all of you like that,
if they'll feel like you do about it or if that was just all
in your head

this is a quiet confession
of putting on makeup that cakes and peels away layers of honesty
of spending time pushing-up shaving-off and hiding
and of looking in the mirror naked trying to convince something inside you
that that is something beautiful in front of you and maybe you can love it

it's a hard thing to love,
with all the little things like
a birthmark on your shoulder and
a dark spot from when you were little that will never go away
and the hair you don't feel like scraping off with an angry blade
or the hair 'down there' you don't like to think of

and it's on the quizzes and questions everywhere
not just in the counselors' offices and the self-esteem tests
but in the ads that say BUY THIS and WEAR THESE that are really
testing you asking you that question you hate


'are you happy with your body?'


and you never know which bubble to fill in

you are lacking something that you futile-ly search for in the mall where what they tell you is here we will put on some makeup samples tell us what you like
and here go in the fitting room tell us what you like and look a fortune teller to tell you this is why your future will be dismal

but it will not be found in these faces only in the deepest roots of you




this is a quiet confession that i cannot seem to get out right
it is a quiet telling of times when i have felt perhaps ashamed, embarrassed
though with an audience of just myself
and of feeling a need to expel thoughts of what i have done
which is only just to want to be able to love myself in truth:

but the mirror seems stained with my nakedness and my scrutiny
i want to hide from myself
want to be someone else




(and why do you not shave your armpits
is it because you fancy yourself a rebel

no it is because i like being a mammal)

and now some perspective, i guess.

inspired by amanda palmer, i decided to make a video of myself singing her song "oasis." to accomplish this, i decided i wanted to make my face v. v. silly with makeup. i took my mom's bright red lipstick, put that on, then put it on my cheeks, too, and put a ton of different colors of eyeshadow. after the video, i took pictures of myself, danced around and sang, and lifted my arms up high even though they are hairy underneath. it made me feel so happy, and pretty and sexy and beautiful which i have NOT EVER FELT.

so here's to self-image.

oasis got my letter in the mail

if you don’t know - or have never encountered - a teenager who is going through intense heavy experiences (like rape, abortion, eating disorders, abuse, fill-in-the-blank)
and is laughing these things off like THEY DON’T MATTER, then you are not ALIVE and AWAKE and living on this planet.
IT’S HAPPENING EVERYWHERE. i see it all the time. it’s called being a confused teenager. it’s real. it SUCKS.

thank you, amanda palmer, for this.

it reminded me of something i've been thinking about lately. and reminded me of the ten+ teenagers i know who are exactly what you described. that adults don't seem to realize, for some reason, that we have all these problems we bury and cover-up with cheerfulness and humor. like they acknowledge that shit goes on in the world but it doesn't happen to the percentage that go to a school like ours. i know girls who are completely depressed and will call a friend up in tears and say they don't want to live and five minutes later are laughing it off pretending their face is not wet anymore. i know girls who don't eat and everybody knows it and nothing is done. i know girls with family problems that i can't even talk about but for their privacy and they push it down and say 'i'm ok.' i know girls who have tried to kill themselves and they say 'it's ok.' and their whole families act so fucking normal. because like it doesn't matter, it is not something to talk about or think about, your family is not a place for honesty. i know a girl who stares at me out of the mirror and says i'm not pretty and i'm not happy i hate my life i hate myself...

I'M OK.

the constant refrain.


in a family there are roles that make it all so hard. i am the baby, condemned to be immature and innocent and young in the eyes of the rest. god, sister1 always seemed so OLD when she was my age. she was FOURTEEN, a big girl! and she was, she was her own person and her own self with her own life and she was not stuck with some view of her that she had to adhere to. but because i have no one i can look down on (oh just my little sister she doesn't get it) there is no such thing as my own self.

i am always so jealous of her, i wish i were her. look at her... i wish i were her.

i am fourteen just a baby. oh look SIXTEEN AND A HALF such a huge goddamn difference. because guess what? there's sex in my poems and sometimes my best work is stuff that i'm too afraid to show any of you because of this awful expectation you have of me! and you know what, i'm sick of you telling me i can't watch movies because oh you're older.

also i wish i were pretty and i wish i were creative and i wish i could make things for shit.

(and i wish i weren't depressed and also i wish i was not afraid of pain because then i could cut deeper)

i guess my point is

I'M OK





also amanda palmer would like to say

WHEN YOU CANNOT JOKE ABOUT THE DARKNESS OF LIFE, THAT’S WHEN THE DARKNESS TAKES OVER.

So... guess what, nonexistent blog readers?? Wheeeeeeeeeeee, I'm depressed and I'm morbid and I think about dying way too fucking much! But I don't care because I'm wearing a pretty dress and also my best friend has a date and also I can make pretty shoes, sometimes.

Anyway, Amanda(fucking)Palmer, thanks.





Edit: I realize that that post started out as an actual "hey look constructive stuff" post and degenerated into whining. This will happen. I'm sorry.