Saturday, October 30, 2010

Unfinished.

South Park Street
Give me the word
Did you straighten me out
So I could carry the world?

Dear Joan of Arc,
I thought you might near perfection?
Well, you missed it.
By a lot.
But keep trying. Just not on me, or anyone else.
Love and Rage,
Your Project.

Friday, October 29, 2010

It's all.

Six billion people. Six billion lives. All ridden with fucked up notions: There is no God. There is one God. I. Am. God.
And everything is built into us so concretely that if you dare to try and show me something different, red hot anger flows, all I have is contempt for you.
Then someone has an epiphany:
You can have your own opinion.
Congratulations.
Please pick up your chair and relocate to the other side of the classroom so we may continue our debate.
Susie, please stop showing us your middle finger.
John Smith is the rapist.
Gotta have charm to be such a flat-chested woman.
John Smith plays the guitar.

Monday, October 25, 2010

Ridiculous.

Everything is ridiculous.
Have you ever felt so incredibly dejected that your stomach hurt? Or you couldn't breathe? Or every heartbeat had to have a will from God, because it wasn't you pumping blood through your own body? Have you ever discerned the difference between pain as a release and pain as means to an end?
Everything is ridiculous.
And then I/you feel guilty, because everyone is scolding each other for being selfish or ungrateful. There are starving children all over the world. Look at that homeless guy. He's smiling. And all you can do is think about how messed up you are?
Well,
1. Isn't the status of any situation relative? If you wear the same outfit to town every single day, you're either a) poor b) depressed c) really freaking weird. But if you wear the same clothes to bed every night, does that make you poor, depressed, or somehow socially abnormal?
You see?
Maybe I'm just trying to redeem myself.
Anyways,
2. That homeless guy is just fucking crazy.

Sunday, October 24, 2010

deerdeardarerearedeared

Dear hero,

I'm completely fucked up again. And this time, when you aren't there, I won't care.

Love,
Me.

Saturday, October 23, 2010

No.

John Smith stole Mom's phone again.

Friday, October 22, 2010

Oh, people.

Every era of your life is partially molded by people.

Your happy era. Your sad era. Your fat era.

And then there are subdivisions. The years in your eras. Your ballerina year. Your telivision year. Your romantic year.

Some have very concrete eras they store in their memories. I don't. Mine are just sensations. Smells.

There's this feeling you get in your eyelids when you come across someone from your previous eras, your previous years.

That old man has gotten older. The little girl you used to babysit is in seventh grade now. You were in seventh grade a few years ago. Those two are dating now.

You have to look at everything, everyone, and try to telepathically communicate to them the things you'd have done differently.

To the old man; your kids are fine. They're fine.

To the little girl you used to babysit; don't shop at American Eagle, and don't look at the Victoria's Secret models.

To the couple; don't do this to yourself. You have years to go. Everyone says that, IknowIknowIknow. But once you realize you don't want this, you'll have ridden that roller coaster for too long, and the operator won't stop because he's a mean carnie.

To the pair of sisters you went to church with; you are so. beautiful.

To your old doctor; I hate you.

To your second grade teachers; second grade. Second grade. Second grade. Oh, second grade.

To your old psychiatrist; thanks, but what the hell were you trying to do?

To your ex-romance; I'm so sorry. But please. Get straightened out.

And then there's you. Those people look at you, and some of them don't remember who you are, some of them don't recognize you. But the people who recognize you are terrified of you.

What happened to you? What. the. hell. happened to you? Who are you? I thought you were dead. I thought you killed yourself. Aren't you supposed to be in your room crying? I heard about you. My mom said you were ill. My friend said you went crazy.

You're like a legend. Neither good nor bad. Like the white haired lady who sits on her porch and eats canned peaches straight out of the jar all day. Legendary.

I dare you to bring her a can of maraschinos.

Thursday, October 21, 2010

Bag ladies.

7:50. Every morning. We pass this lady walking counter-clockwise around the roundabout on her way to the bus stop. Short, round, greasy hair, glasses, waddles a little, dark blue jacket. I think she's mentally retarded. "Challenged", if you insist on being politically correct. She carries this turquoise bag. Every morning. Glasses, turquoise bag. Dark blue jacket, turquoise bag. Waddle, turquoise bag. Swinging as she makes her way toward that green pole with the bus picture on it.
Yesterday she wasn't carrying her turquoise bag. She was carrying, instead, a brown floral-print bag.
And somehow, it made her look less retarded. Less retarded, more like an old, single cat lady.
I'm going to grow up to be an old, single cat lady. And, fuck you, I'm going to carry a turquoise bag on my way to the bus stop.

Tuesday, October 19, 2010

Us.

We are always the same person.

You can change. Starve yourself. Stuff yourself. Be happier. Be sadder. Hate somebody. Love somebody. Suck up to somebody. Purposefully piss somebody off. Turn girly. Turn boy-ish. Be an extrovert. Be an introvert. Feel alive. Attempt suicide. Procrastinate. Over-achieve. Lead. Follow.
No matter how unstable we are in ourselves. There is always some element of me that is the same. You are always you. It's hard to grasp that element, when there's nothing to describe it, because you're finding yourself or you have no idea who you are, or whatever lookI'mdepressedandangstangstangst story you have, but there's always something. Like a flavor. You can be a flavored anything, but you're flavored.
Flavorflavorflavorflavorflavor.

Hello, I'm Sara-flavored.

Monday, October 18, 2010

My friend.

A few days ago, I was watching this You Tube video about a young woman who'd lost 100 pounds. She did all these happy commemorating things, like blowing up 100 balloons, and holding 100 pounds of dumbells, and she was so proud of herself.
Sometimes I wish it could've been like that for me. Happy. Proud. Accomplished.
But most of the time, I don't regret a thing. Not. A. Thing.
That is so cruel of me.
I'm sorry.

Friday, October 15, 2010

Um? (Don't read this, it's political)

I hate politics.
Or maybe I'm just ignorant. I'm only sixteen. I don't need to worry about politics. I'm not of voting age, and those "tea parties" and political rallies? Yeah, you're kind of pointless. All those things do is make the opposite parties hate you even more.
Anyways, I'm just confused:
1. So. A lot of the liberals are vegetarian/vegan. I'm not trying to stereotype, I'm just sayin'. That's great. But they're also pro-abortion? How can you kill babies and not animals? I don't understand all their radical ideas about life and aliveness and... living stuff, when they're all for the death of fetuses. Woohoo for women's rights and all, but... use a condom?

2. Conservatives. My brother brought this issue to my attention. They're all for separation between church and state. But taking God's name off the coin? Totally scandalous. Why would we do that?

Those are the two on my mind at the moment.
I'm not saying these questions are rhetorical. Maybe these are stupid questions you have positive answers for. It's just that everyone has a different answer, and everyone is positive that their answer is right. The liberals are stupid hippies with riciculous ideas. The conservatives are pig-headed idiots who have no idea what they're talking about.
Not all roads lead to heaven. But why can't we be friends?

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

Five Dead Poets.

Things that keep me going:
The laughter I share with new friends at school.
The shining people at youth group.
Playing flute in the dark.
Playing loud chords on the piano.
Sad music in my bed at night.
Baking new things like French meringues.
Spinning circles with my hoop.
The humming of the heater as the wind blows outside.
The pittering of the rain when it hits the kitchen skylight.
The poetry I can catch that flows from my hands.

There must be something ahead of me.