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2002-12-05 : 3:43 p.m.
Let's go... don't wait...
Written journal entry.
Date: 12-03-02 12:42 a.m. Listening to: Blink 182 (take off your pants and jacket) "...When you smile... I melt inside... I'm not worthy for a minute of your time... I really wish it was only me and you.
I really just don�t know what to do� do I? I want it all, yet I can�t handle a bit of it� Oh Jorge� I don�t want to be 26� but I�m already in the midst of December�s death� I haven�t heard your voice- since I called you on your birthday, this past 13th of June� I buckled� And I stood outside that bar, with you on the phone� to give it �you--, one more chance to tell me� but it wouldn�t be so- You wouldn�t lie� The one time I wanted so much to be lied to, and you wouldn�t� I don�t want to be 26. I�ve always dreaded, this god forsaken day, year after year. As a child, I can remember not ever being able to sleep the night before --ever � and not as a result from any gift giving to come� Oh! And the dreaded birthday cake!! How I hated the attention! How I hated it! The plasticity of it all�the synchronized singing� to only be defecated on and broken by the butchering of my name� by (number of guests) times (the number of varying atrocities being spewed)� Yup� even at the age of like� nine� I invariably understood one thing� No one really knew me. To then have to deal with, the yells and praise- �to make a wish��??? For what�? The sheer thrill of disappointment? Year after year� I never did have a slice of my own cake� And year after year, my mum always tried picking a different cake--- She never understood, why I wouldn�t eat my own cake--- Now she just thinks, I don�t like cake� but I do actually� I just never liked my own. And then of course, life would really set in after the party would break. The grand illusion would falter and the screaming and fighting would return�my mother would always return to her kitchen to cry� And my daddy would run away� again. And as always, I would pick up all the new toys, that now felt all too old and broken, and take my baby brother with me into our room� and shut the door. I�d always find something to talk to him about� although sometimes� if it got too bad� I would have to be a bit more benign about it, and just teach him more of the A, B, C�s� I always thought if I talked loud enough, he would never notice our bit of micro- hell brewing� (how wishful�) Oh Jorge� and then I met you� And you had to go and make it a point� to make this fucking bloody day happy for me� For five years, five straight fucking years� the loads of roses would be waiting for me� For five years� You left your notes� For five years� I had to feel� I felt� Beautiful. And I almost hate you for that-- Expectation. And for that� yes, I almost hate you� On this sixth year� what the hell am I suppose to do? I never really was� very pretty on my own- Your company- as always-- was the right shade of light- In a way� you have certainly fucked up my life� I was arrogant, when I met you� wasn�t I? Oh� how you would fight me to just pay for a meal� And open it, for such an independent bitch� (oh, those memories make me chuckle to no end!!! ) But you wouldn�t waver� until you had me convinced- that my independence had nothing to do... with how love should treat me� EVER. You taught me how to be a Lady. You taught me how it �felt� to be beautiful. And yes.. That has fucked up my life� Because since your arrival�no one has been good enough�no one. And I keep finding myself, waiting at random junctures� with my hands tied� for someone, anyone� to open just one damn door� One mother fuckin� door� Because you taught me how to be a Lady� which has become one more inevitable weight to carry. This damn expectation, that didn�t exist before. That which I can�t shake� I cannot revert and revere in being hard and pompous� Because� You fucked up my life.
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