wellp guess i’ll go drink hard liquor in the shower and listen to jason derulo because it just feels like the right thing to do right now
the worst part about having brightly colored hair is that you literally have to plan days to wash it. i only shampoo my hair like 1-2x a week and if i know i’m going out/getting cute, i’ll wash my hair for that. so WHEN I MAKE PLANS AND I WASH MY HAIR AND THEN SOMEONE CANCELS, WE HAVE A BIG FUCKING ISSUE. i wasted a hair wash day to sit on my couch and watch supernatural? no. i’m text bombing you until you respond.
The first time I had sex with a black girl, she ran her fingertips over the bumps in my spine and told me I was lucky for this white skin. I thought she was referencing race—it was about the scars my father painted with his belt buckle.
"Yours are more faded than mine." She moved my hand to her bare shoulder and I stroked the mountains in her skin.
"Keloid scars," she whispered as our bare bodies intertwined.
My father is neon light flickering in the window of an empty bar. His days are steadily coming to an end, yet the light hangs and flickers night after night.
I missed my friend’s birthday party in middle school because we had to flee to a battered women’s shelter downtown. It smelled like old newspaper. The blankets made my skin itch. I didn’t sleep that night. I stared into the blackness, asking myself if this was hatred growing like a healthy potted plant inside the pit of my stomach.
It was. It was hatred. You know, I don’t think hatred is wanting to annihilate someone out of revenge. Hatred is numbing. Hatred is like taking a bath in Novocain. Nothing hurts anymore because there’s this tidal wave of indifference that comes crashing in, and suddenly, your disfigured father dying of cancer and hernias doesn’t make you blink. You’re frustrated with the overpriced flowers in the gift shop of the hospital and you plop them down onto the table near the window and leave. It was a public relations stunt—the rest of the family sees flowers from me and they won’t have to try and guilt me into giving a fuck. Oh Steph was here, good, says the overpriced tulips.
You’re fat as fuck, is all I want to say to him. You’re so fucking fat, it’s disgusting. You should have a netflix documentary done on yourself. Then I laugh the most appalling laugh in my head. It makes me sick that I’m capable of such cruelty. I hold myself to a very high standard—I’ll never put my hands on someone else in a violent manner. I’d rather have my ass beaten into the pavement in the dark parking lot behind some bar than stand up and try to defend myself. I don’t know how this happened or why, but I can sleep easier at night if I have my ass kicked, and I know I’ll never sleep again if I hurt someone else. But I have found that this personal pledge to never harm another is superficial, because the resentment runs much deeper.
It’s because it looks pretty, doesn’t it? Little girl grows up her entire life living in terror and hiding bruises from teachers and friends—promises never to hit her wife, or her children, or anyone else. It’s romanticized. I’m the hero, look at me! But people don’t see what’s behind the fresh paint. They don’t see the girl who is capable of such mutilated emotion.
There’s no conflict. I am not running through fields of barbed wire. I should be distraught—or at least a little upset? I pretend to be, and the fact that I have to fake my grief makes me hyperaware of the small doses of evil that I know are scattered throughout my body.
The death of another human being should not bring me joy. The death of another human being should not bring me joy.
It isn’t joy, it’s relief. And that’s still fucked. When i wasn’t invited to the family Christmas dinner, I didn’t fall to my knees and feel sorry for myself. I took a hot shower, opened a beer, and thought I wouldn’t invite myself either.
i hope the person/people inboxing uconnthings saying we’re (i’m) bitchy and our blog is crappy steps on a lego. i really do.