suicidaltennisballs

Hello, self. again. I really don't like this memoir plan. I'm sure I'll like it once I have everything written down, but right now my plan is to band-aid everything I've written together ever and that scares me, especially because she's already got her 'I'm an authority figure and the fact that you're telling me this should mean that I get worried and report because I am a manditory reporter now' thing and I don't want that. I don't know I don't know I don't know. I know I'm going to do it, that's not even the question. That's easy. It's not like I'm going to ever write anything else, not worth reading, anyway.
and I'm going to go to the polyglot thing and see duggan and oh god that scares me too. I don't want to see duggan see me see my writing in a book with my name on it.
with my name on it.
jesus that scares. "by Elizabeth Joy Held". I don't wanna I don't wanna I don't wanna.
I'm afraid.
I'm afraid of so much anymore. It's killing me. I'm killing me. I'm just going to curl up in a hole and drown in self pity.
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fuck this.
grow a set and shut the fuck up.
you can do this.
sit up
stand up
breath correctly
now think.

you need to paper-mache band-aid everything you've ever written in forever together, wrap it up in shiny paper and turn it in.
That's it.
This is going to be JUST FINE, do you hear me? JUST FINE.

Hi, self. It's Saint Patrick's Day. That's the 17th of March, if you're feeling slow. And 7.06[pm]. It's a Wednesday, even though it feels like Tuesday. Remembering to capitalize is difficult.
I am not doing so well today, self. Actually, I was doing quite fine until I came home. Then my oh-my-god-cute-gay-highschool-relationship-book mood failed because Dad came home and was all bitchcy because he was an hour late and didn't have potato stuff ready for Tony's [as if somehow that was my fault?] and then I got pissy with Mom on the phone. But then Michael was a dear and made it all better. [Because you've forgotten: he was sick and I asked if he spent all day on facefail and he said no, he'd spent it texting becca and I said that they were adorable and he said "hahah, thanks mom..." including the extra h, which is kind of bothering my ladylike sensibilities now] but this note isn't about that. Although it may seem like it, because it's what I'm thinking about now because I just read it again and realized deep and meaningful that exchange was not, BUT.
This note is about the journal entries I wrote to Ms. Strecker. You remember, the memoir exercise things? And I wrote, when I actually did write, about Ms. Luci and how she left, but I went off on a tangent [and Ms. Strecker said something about publication but I refuse to even look at that word until I've seen what exactly I wrote down again because that word scares me. Like, seriously afraid. Not as scared as I am of somethings, but that is a scary word. What if I do and my words dry up? What if I never had any words to begin with? What if everyone hates me? <-- that's the big one. What if they leave me? What if, what if, what if... If I was the kind to stay up at night worrying, that's what it would be about. Not where the Russian Small Pox is, but if everyone's just pretending. Or that people will change. At least if they were pretending it was never real. Whoever said 'tis better to have loved' is full of shit. You only know what you're missing once it's gone. Then you have to live your whole life knowing you don't have what you know you want. Full of shit, I tell you. Full of shit.] But I was thinking, you know how I write sometimes and I say things that I don't mean? What if I do mean them? Because, [liike,] I did the same thing with what I said in the journal, said things I wouldn't admit to thinking, but what if that's true every time? You know, [like,] what if... What if every time I write that's all I'm doing? Psychoanalytic therapy, except without the license and the therapist. And what does that say about me? What do I say about me? What have I written, exactly?
What about the stuff that's... not. Like the stuff that I don't remember writing, or the ones where I'm fairly certain they aren't talking about me? Are those about me, too? WHAT THE HELL, SELF. WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU.

Alright, so plastic bag rain coats and cookies on thursday?
Anything else?
Do you have any spare pumpkin? Maybe I'll look up random easy recipes.
Also, we should experiment in paper mache.
I don't know why, it just occurred to me as something easy to make. OH! We could make masks. That would be interesting.
I dunno. I'm excited.

Thanks for the on Death Note stamp!

would you enjoy mall walking with me and Caroline tomorrow?

i feel crazy for even thinking about it. maybe i am. but i can't help it. i want this so much. i just don't know if i could afford it. not that it matters just yet. i just want to know