boo!

Happy All Saints Day, mothertruckers!


;-)


Glitter is the SHIT.

Heather's sending me glittery BATS.

Yay for glittery!

test

And the scars... Fuck, I love my scars.

When I saw that letter in the mailbox today... My heart stopped. She didn't need this, not on her birthday. With trepidation in my heart, I trudged slowly inside, clutching the envelop. She's on the phone with her sister, recieving birthday cheer, when a single eyecatching glance at the mail on the table wipes that from her face. Douglas County Jail is the second line on the return address. The first, of course, is his name. The name that still strikes fear and foreboding into my veins. But we luck out, this time; he's merely sending a hand drawn birthday note to our mother. My brother; so easy, so, so easy, to hate him when he's here... So easy to understand from a distance.

Jacob Andrew Bergeron was the third of four sons. He carried his mother's fair, pale skin and blue-green eyes. Nothing like his father in appearance, and so, that was his doom. Their father was a bastard. Cruel, cold, calculating. The kind of man that would tell his son that because he doesn't favor him in looks, he must be his whore mother's bastard child and not his. The kind of man that would regulate food for his sons when they lived with him. They had to ask his permission to get anything to eat from the kitchen. He sent his third son to bootcamp at thirteen because of a single infraction. A mistake probably propelled by the false accusation his father informed him of that same year. In bootcamp, they tried to rape him. They didn't succeed, but that kind of horror cannot be undone. After that, he didn't go back to his dad's, but inserted himself in my life in between jail stays.

No amount of therapy could fix his psychosis. Jake had always been a little batshit, a little temperamental (when I was seven, he chased Jamie around the house with a butcher knife threatening to kill him, but he probably was just mad), and his experiences living with his father, going to bootcamp, and having our mother (where do you think Jake got his crazy from?) as well, our mother, going in and out of jails, it only made it worse.

By the time he was seventeen he was holding a gun to Jamie's head cracked out on cocaine threatening to murder him. If Jamie hadn't of gotten out, he would probably be dead.

Jake is basically Schizoid Personality with a side order of bipolar manic type I. Try living with someone like that. It's hell. I walked on eggshells for thirteen years. I had a goddamn ULCER because of the stress of it. I don't know how Jamie shared a room with him. Last time... I couldn't handle living in the same HOUSE.

So... As much as I understand Jake, feel for his history... He is the bastard that destroyed my childhood.

So as she looks at his little note with a smile on her face, the chill never quite leaves my bones because I know it's just another manipulation.

A liar knows a liar and a con knows a con.

The only difference is that I'm not crazy, and I'm not evil. But I learned to manipulate and I learned how to lie because I had to survive, and you can't unlearn something that innate. Mostly, I use my gifts for good. Or at least render them harmless.

I don't torture people for sport. Jake did. Animals too.

Alice Imprisoned

Alice in wonderland lies with
odds and ends collected in
your madhatter heart; im-
prisoned by the cheshire
cat's grin-- a too happy,

teeth gleaming smile that
yearns for the yellow-brick
road. But that's the wrong
story at the right time and
so it must not be;

chase away time with the
white rabbit, and maybe
his notice of passing re-
grets will be of little note,
moments that do not concern.

Pacify the Queen of Hearts,
she will not be bothered with
your pleas or memories; like
you, she feels not, knows not--
didn't you make her that way?

Follow out the caterpillar, a
secret adviser amongst the
condemned. If only you could
catch him, he might set you
on the trial's side of good;

Perhaps you will get Alice back.

Cause And Effect

I admit that I love you but
I'd rather choke than show it;
Trust is not something I do,
especially not with someone
someone that's like you.

Who I could fall for, so very
easily, and who already has
my guard down. Yet still I am
on edge. Eyes and empty boxes,
empty boxes mark my escape.

Empty boxes made of cardboard
walls, the walls you trampled on
and tore down before I could blink
or run away; and now I am exposed
and open but you don't know it yet.

You don't know it yet because you
stopped watching; stopped seeing,
you aren't there or here or anywhere
Just everywhere you can't find me, you
couldn't find me so you stopped looking.

Stopped and looked and passed me by,
like a pastlife you can't quite remember,
I am nothing to you without this mask on,
and it's gone and you don't know who I am,
I don't know who I am anymore.

The roadblocks are lifted and I can see the
road out, but I have no one to lead the way,
do I really want to go alone? You made me
laugh my way out of this, and I think I have
to walk away from you on my own.

omg WANT

I want these prints like Amy Winehouse wants crack. And I would kill for the talent these guys possess in their pinky finger.


"White Rabbit"



"plastic.is.a.sin"




"If Your Kisses Can't Hold.."



"old friend.."

I'm tired of being attacked

If I so much as mention doing anything other than schoolwork, at any point in time ever, I'm sick of being attacked. She wants me to be doing it 24 hours a goddamn day. Twice this week she's started in on a litany of my faults out of nowhere, we won't be talking about school work or anything and all the sudden she's gone batshit. Screaming, threatening to cancel it, threatening to kick me out, telling me what a lazy piece of shit I am.

I won't repeat the things I said today. They weren't appropriate; I'm ashamed of having said those things to my mother. But the message was valid and I won't apologise for that. She's being a bitch, and I'm tired of being attacked just because she doesn't see me with schoolbooks every time she walks in. It's like if she doesn't see it, it must not be happening, and therefore, I'm just a worthless lazy bitch. Her words, that last bit.

Oh.. and now she's threatening to blow out her brains because she got a late fee.

Grow the fuck up, mother. I hate that I'm beginning to hate her. But it's the truth.

Oh, wow.

She just went "I wish that goddamn 50 dollars would get here, I could use the gas money." Wow. Um. That's my money, thank you. I love how you entitled yourself to it.

She makes me want to die... But the difference between her and I is that I love her too much to ever tell her that. I will never tell her how I used to cry myself to sleep when she would snap, how I still cry when she's standing outside my door telling me how she wishes she were dead, how I punish myself for that, how I blame myself. She will never know.

you make the prettiest sounds

And you make the prettiest sounds
with your silence. A stuttering melody

of lost words and sounds you've forgotten
to remember. The faces you make and the

tears that I pretend not to see. The noise
in your head is so loud I can hear it; the

static of my thoughts replies in kind.

You are the loudest when you stand around
and your voice is the strongest when you say

nothing at all. The complicated implecations of
your silent movie life make me wary and unsure

of where to speak; I want to ask you things but I
am too afraid of what you may tell me when you

look me in the eyes and show the truth.

I'm urging so bad right now

And I think I'm going to be sick.

I'm either going to make myself puke or find a razor.

Fuck.