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Fucked Up College Kids File 571
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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I sit here and read his words. Guess at his emotions. At the end, the
disclaimer. He knew what I was thinking. fucking hypocrite. And he knows
I am. I'm as bad as they are. People sit there and say "I've known her
for years." You can sit there and make your guesses. your assumptions.
your presumptions. You'll never be right. even if you are, who says I
cant make you wrong in thirty seconds flat? I sit here, the prodigal
child with a fucked up twist. I'm my father's worst nightmare, my
mother's pride and joy. Oh the irony. Showers down like a surprise
thunderstorm during a heat wave. Replenishing for the first five
minutes, a pain in the ass after that. Until it ends. Until I end.
Suicide? Not a chance in hell. Irony? shaken, not stirred.
I have to sit and laugh. They think they know me. I'm a tease, and a
slut at the same time. Oh the talent I must possess. I'm frigid also.
again, more talent. Their words hurt, the pain they inflict all too
familiar to me. How did I get this way? pure, unadulterated luck? Figures.
Pain's familiar. Give me truckloads of pain and I can take it. Give me
an ounce of unselfishness and pure caring and I falter. The trick is
finding that ounce, and I'm still standing. People try to push my
buttons every day. Harsh words, tragedies galore and the music is what
makes me weep. The pure beauty of it, it affects me more than the
sunrise I've never seen, the senseless death of someone close, behind it
all, the music.
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I've never thought of myself as normal. I tried to be. I was the
cheerleader that everyone 'knew' but no one had a fucking clue who i
*was*. I tried to become what they already thought I was. I belonged to
my high school's 'fucked up' club. I was its founder, president, and
publisher of its semi-annual magazine. Creative Impulse. If they only
knew what that truly meant. my little rebellion lives on in others. I
am not weird on the outside. I don't have any '666' tattoos across my
forehead or 19 body piercings, or anything that our beloved 'society'
would dream weird. I'm weird on the inside. and I don't mind a bit. I'm
the kind of person that prefers quiet company and a good book, to a
group of acquaintances/friends, hot chocolate to coffee, going into a
trendy juice bar and listening to them talk, its like a foreign language
to me. I'm easy to please. I like chocolate. The feel of rain on my
face, the smell of it in the air. I like thunder, lightning. Curling up
to sleep, when its warm in the bed, and cold outside. Waking up at odd
hours, and seeing him sleeping next to me. The warmth of firelight, and
how it makes everyone seem just a bit more beautiful. Music floating
through the air, invading me, seemingly from nowhere. yet it seems to
have all the answers to the questions overwhelming me.
I've got quite a few of me. A few dozen sides, that makes it amusing
when someone tells me they know me. I have to bite my tongue to keep
from asking which one of me they know. How fast would that end me up
with a room with four padded walls and a shrink who's last name is
undoubtedly 16 letters ending in 'ski'? I enjoy my different sides.
Occasionally when they all merge together for no apparent reason,
there's me. Complete and standing there, with every side showing for the
world to see, until I shatter again. Poet, painter, humanitarian. Book
lover. music fiend. Shy side. outlandish me. The one you don't dare to
do anything, because you know she would. Then there's the retired me's.
the ones that I've outgrown, that don't fit anymore. I remember when i
was nine.. and my mother was angry and told me that I wasn't the sweet
girl I used to be, and that I'd turned into a brat, and she was ashamed
of me. I've never forgotten that. Over all the insults thrown at me over
the years, that one has stuck with me, and hurt the most. People have
insulted me over the years, but never with the all-out devastation of
that shot from my mother. I'm not a bad person. or maybe I am. Look at
anything from different angles and it usually appears to be different
from one side, then from another. So what if I don't cry at funerals?
crack a smile at weddings? who cares if I didn't cry when I saw
_Titanic_? I've learned not to cry. Don't hold it against me. I've sat
in a hospital bed, half-dead from blood loss and shock and not cried.
I've sat there with a life bleeding out of me, and never shed a tear.
Some things are too deep to cry over. People have to learn that, I have,
and it makes me strange. Fine. I've felt emotional and physical pain
that the 'average' person could only shudder and guess at, and not
cried. I'm not heartless. Far from it actually. I just have armor built
around my heart, and it's been there for 3 years. No one's ever pierced
it until recently. I've only cried twice in three years. Both in the
last month. Maybe I'm getting weak.
The only person ever to pierce it, I've known for a grand total of about
seven months, with any general closeness being limited to the past
three. It scares the hell out of me. I feel like I'm Alcatraz and
someone just escaped. I don't know quite what to do with myself. My
sister made me cry, telling me that she wished I was dead, or that I'd
just hurry up and move so she'd never have to see me again. And lastly,
on a long drive home, not knowing if I'd just changed, or ruined one of
the best things that had happened to me in a long time. I'd shared my
mind, the outcries of my soul in the form of poetry, and lastly, my
body. Sitting there, pretending to be alright with my mind overladen
with thoughts that I shouldn't be thinking, isn't new to me. It's the
only time its ever made me shed a tear though. Worrying? Definitely.
It's one of those questions that only time can answer, and that
sometimes makes it worse. body, mind, soul. Question is, was it all too
much? It's the kind of thing that stifles you. Makes you worry, makes
you wonder, and yet, you'll never know until it's actually time for you
to know, no sooner, no later, not until then. Then again, you may just
never know. So, I say, fuck it. I'm tired of worrying, of wondering.
I'll piece myself together later if it's necessary, if its not. I'm
lucky. Live and die. It's as simple as that.
-amethyst remembrance
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