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I would assume that if you cared enough to go to this link, then you
must actually want to know what I'm all about. So...lets start at the
beginning shall we?
First of all...these are pics of me and my
friends
I was born in St. Paul Minnesota on April 25th 1980, and now live in
a dinky little town just north of there. I am aspiring to be a freelance
writer, but so far my aspirations have fallen flat so I publish my own
work on this site. I love animals especially little fuzzy ones (example my
mice: Louise and Geraldine, Casanova and Medusa, and little babie Ella) I am incredibly interested in the thoughts and
why-fors of the human mind. Psychology though, is just a pet hobby for me.
I graduated in 1998, and have since been a bum. I don't want to go to
college because I'm too obstinate and don't think that anything they would
teach me would stick anyways. Plus I've had enough school for 5 lifetimes.
I also run an online zine called Poison
Rents The Air. Between that website, this one, a few others, and
trying to get writing done while still having fun...I'm pretty much booked
for life. I don't know what else to tell you...but I'm including something
that I wrote about myself close to a year ago which describes me further.
If you really want to know anymore about me...you'll have to email
me.
I
guess this probably means nothing to any of you out there reading this. You
don’t even know me, But it’s important for me. I’ll just get right to the point
and not bore you with anymore of the usual dribble. When I first started
thinking that there was something less-than-standard about myself, I must have
been about 12. I was in seventh grade and wondering why no one in the new
middle school liked me. I knew that I had been a dork at the elementary school
and I had been the baby that cried to much, but that’s usual for people like
me. Or at least that was what my parents would tell me. But I didn’t understand
why they all hated me there too. I did everything to fit in. I listened to
music that meant nothing, I wore clothes that didn’t express anyone I knew, to
say nothing of me. I didn’t get it. So I fell in what I thought was love. A
friend of mine whom I had spent so much time with that I had forgotten how many
hours it had been. I was obsessed. I began to write poetry, insane ramblings
that meant nothing to anyone but the poor me whom suddenly everyone thought was
worthy of their parental affections. I wasn’t so sure. When my sister told me
that her and the boy that I liked were dating, I spent the next week in my room
with the lights off and the soothing sounds of Nirvana ringing through my ears
at deafening decibels. I finally came out, but that was the beginning of the
end of my life. After that I dropped into a depression that was so deep, that
was so painful that I wanted to die more than anything. I began daydreaming
about different ways to kill myself. Becoming finally obsessed with the image
of a scythe slicing through my heal and the feeling as the tendons snapped and
the sticky blood poured over my feet. Even now just thinking I start to breathe
harder and my ankle begins to ache. Things like this became almost an eroticism
for me. I was plagued by dreams of fountains of blood; mostly mine; pouring
over my body and enveloping me into this surreal world of my imagination. At
this point the blood in my mind was flowing as vividly as the poems were
flowing from my fingertips. During the year of 8th grade I spent
every afternoon working on a literary magazine, I got nothing out of it, but
It was better for me to go into the computer rooms of school, than to sit
around my house and think about what I was going to do. I kept to myself, of course I always wanted
to have friends and be able to talk to someone else than myself and my little
sister. But I couldn’t bring myself to talk. I hadn’t talked during school
since 1st grade. The rest of the time I had simply nodded my head or
such. Because everything that exited my mouth was something more for them to
make fun of. I had friends, but I could never really tell them all that I
dreamed of, I couldn’t tell them that I dreamt of the girls in my classes being
right next to the boys. I couldn’t tell them that I would draw a thousand
pictures a day of nothing more than bloody bodies. I couldn’t bring myself to
say things like that to them. Though I wished that I had told them everything.
In 9th I began to open up to myself. I started to admit that I had
an eating disorder problem. I wouldn’t eat for days and stay happy. The next
thing I would know, I would be gorging on fattening foods while crying and
wanting to die again. I admitted to myself that there really was something
wrong with me, that it wasn’t just my mom being paranoid. I allowed myself to
see how bad I had been to myself. But still refused treatment for anything, I
thought that I must have been built to be depressed. That was the year that I
first began writing actual short stories. The first one I called D1. It had all
of the components of my varying fetishes. The blood, the darkness, the silent
knowing of what the other person is saying, The death that had for so long
consumed me. I just sat down and wrote one day. Afterwards I was merely happy
for a few days. People still didn’t like, but it wasn’t simply because of the
way that I looked as in my entire body being deformed, it was the fact that I wore
nothing but black. The fact that I never talked to anyone Especially if they
talked to me first. I was constantly figuring that they were just out to make
fun of me like everyone else. I often wonder what would have happened, if I’d
have gotten better had I let a single person get closer to me than I had. This
was when I officially discovered the world of BBS’s. They were fascinating. I
was able to make friends without worrying whether or not the people would hate
me because of the way that I looked. I made friends, or at least a few, that
actually seemed to care about me. That I actually had something in common with.
I don’t know but I have noticed that people who are born of the same roots
always seem to find each other. But this was short lived. I even had a boyfriend
for a few months, I thought that I was happy but if I look back on it I know
that I was just pretending. I remember that I was pretending because I was
exited that people actually accepted me. It was all a big lie. I know that now.
I Still can’t believe that I let it fool me. I began to believe less and less
in everything. I couldn’t believe in anything that didn’t believe in me. I kept
on living in this lie that I let formulate all around me. I let the world rule
my world and nothing could stop it no matter ho hard I tried to break away from the
mold I simply couldn’t. I merely existed. I still merely exist. I cannot guarantee anything, I can’t say how long I’m going to live, I can’t say how
long I’m going to die. I don’t know if this will be a final memoir or eulogy at
my own funeral whether it be today or tomorrow or someday. But I know that I
had to tell myself a little of my life, nothing else if to not confirm the fact
that I am not insane. Though this may prove the exact opposite. We never
know what is going to happen. I don’t want to leave this world without being
remembered in someway, shape, or form. And this is to be my final sleep, my
final wish to be read by all of those who don’t understand me or never did. If I
am to leave, be sure to remember me. Or forget me. But don’t ever just let me
live. |
