the fluffbook
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okay, i never really realized how weird i was until reading this thing. i mean, i refer to myself in the 3rd person, have about a million different personalities, repeat myself over & over, and talk about some things that are too embarrassing to reread. despite this, i still love it. hehehehehehe >:)
note: a lot of the things i said i don't feel anymore... so... if i sounded irrational... i probably was.
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the fluffbook is like the alternative high school of journals. the one at home is my high society prep school-
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in the fluffbook we all throw parties and paper air planes, chew gum (getting it stuck in our hair) and gossip gossip gossip.
We're all pregnant in the fluffbook.
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the fluffbook became my little therapy sessions- excursions from the bitterness of school and troubles of the human heart [blah]. it was a sturdy safety net, an instant fix-her-upper, and never failed in reassuring me in the end- 3-31-00
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I always feel so inspired after the fluffbook, like: hey, i'm actually doing something. it makes my tummy smile :) it makes me feel good.
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fluffbook: feel revived after filling myself up again through her words, the blondeness escaping my hair- my lips. - 5-22-00
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Thursday, 8/27 [1998]
Okay, I feel slightly bad, I forgot my notebook today. That is my problem, I never have one, and it's nearly impossible to write w/out it. But yes, I now have a use for those extra ones I got just in case, and also, I can finally write in school! That makes me feel a little bit better, I haVe always wanted to do that. Although it is kind of dirty, haha, yay, can't wait for the teacher to see this one. Ha, I really don't mind; I have nothing to hide.
I really hate writing w/out my notebook, it's like going to the beach naked or something. Well, I suppose there are those nudie beaches, but I just don't go there. What a frightening prospect.
This is so easy for me to babble on and on about nothing. It reminds me of late conversations rambling on and on not falling asleep until 3:30 a.m. because there was been so much on my mind. Oh yes, expanding the mind, the horizons. It's just disgusting looking at my old journals from laSt year. They're just wrong. It's amazing I had the ability to put together a sentence. Then again, the things on my mind were quite different also. Thank God that's changed!
This is going to be kind of hard to not get too personal here. [it ended up getting fairly personal anyway]. this is usually my therapy, but i guess this is a fun alternative. Sometimes there's so much swimming around my brain I can't really help it. What I need is a microphone to babble into for hours and hours to put some worth into talking to myself. Haha, and I could carry it around at school. Oh yes, there goes that blonde boy!
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9/2, Wednesday 1998
It amazes me how little people in this building communicate. We can all blabber on and on, endlessly, forever but no one is listening. Like those talking hands, chatter chatter. But who needs to listen to a talking hand? Who really wants to hear what everyone's saying?
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Thursday, December 17th [1998]
That constant blur I keep seeing, I've scraped it off my mind but a residue remains. I figure that's normal. A part of me will always be sentimental, always building snowmen, always giving in.
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3-11th-99
Had yet more dreams of dead babies. Rode a bus down to some sleazy apartment fueled by poor men (not up to our standards) to find down the road a dead fetus. Small and squishy floating around a sink. Tried many methods (after birth abortion?) finally resorted to drowning, putting a bowl over the remains 'til it sparkled, kind of like the bright lights you see upon the gates of heaven. Hell? Who knows. Dead babies float around everywhere, a vision of a lost hope to never be born. Images of being a whore? Old dead and used? It's cold, wet, degraded and uncared for. The absence of love and nurture is obviously present. Maybe next time.
I realized that when I have nothing left I have my words. My words comfort me me when I think I'm lost to help me find the way.
He sits there, back turned fully engrossed in everything she says. ("anything new, a virgin"). I feel left out like discarded trash, not even worthy of his glance. I can tell by his looks that he loves her; he respects only her, the rest of us are just meat for his appetite. He's always rubbing his chin (what's that, a mating call?), squinting his eyes and laughing through his skin. Girls are only objects, have little worth outside of this understanding. J**** will never be disrespected, he would never dream of crossing that barrier. Out of territory maybe, too much of a risk, lost hope. Instead he goes for disposable girls. I just happened to be a recent victim.
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3-13-99
a character [name omitted]-
Went out o dinner w/ **** last nite; him greeting me at the door w/ the same goofy grin as ever. Something about him resembles Shaggy, even Charlie Brown a bit. Said I had more facial expressions than he'd noticed before; commented on my shorter hair.
Picked up his friend [name omitted]- loves cigarettes and pot. He's able to blow perfect smoke rings, at least 4 at a time. We talk about nothing in particular and laugh a lot. ****- talk is interesting, words spew out of him like a novel, just his phrasing and sentence structure, as if he's writing it all in his head. Still, there's a lack of emotion to him- why? I don't think he's afraid of it, just uninterested. Have no idea if he likes me. when we were alone in the car he jokingly thrusts his hand by mine, laughing evily. He gave me seductive stares. Caught him watching me adjust my bra strap and he laughed. Everything to [him] is like an inside joke, I doubt he ever has bad days. He's just another free spirit floating easily through life; nothing's stopping him.
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Idz of March ---> 2000
Contacts are blurred as if vision is blurred as well. (whoa! flying pen cap! that was frightening)! Anyways- as I said to J***- "hey there golden delicious!" and yes, I do believe believe that there is a rivalry between the 2 of us- some sort of unspoken competition that doesn't care enough to surface.
Issues: am I myself enough? I find that during the day my moods are erratic; up and down; totally irregular. Have no clue why. I think I get bored. = school sucks. Another thing ---> not enough of me ---> traces of me---> even petals are displayed for others. "Can't give from an empty cup." Require at least some sense of self before we collaborate w/ others i.e. Andrew. There has to be some sort of distinction... some (element of) self worth.
I am not losing myself and I am NOT allowing sadness to take her away. Why let her win? That would be too easy; what we always craved. Desires have to be quenched in order to allow the full bloom- the effect the blossoms have on us when we're looking and know we're not supposed to. Like eating chocolate.
(When should I retrieve my pen cap, Andrew's pen cap?)
Not letting things bother me (until later anyways). This has become my little therapy session where I can vent, displaying emotions in a purely safe form.
It's not fair watching cars speed by when I"m supposed to be in school, learning of all the things people should never have to know.
And the way this pen is mind boggling: clumped like a period or an aborted baby- afterbirth? "The script is your condom; but not too safe due to breakage. or paper cuts."
Ouch. I think I'll use the pill instead.
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Monday March 20 2000
Words: to show them is sacred, an unwrapping of the corset on your wedding day. It only happens once (well, it's supposed to anyway), so enjoy it. He won't hate them, and even if he did, it's not like we weren't strong enough to tell him to fuck off. I have my girls, I have my words, and I have myself- the most precious of them all. So threaten me. I dare you. You won't get far. Redundance had already taken her cause. We're always ready to throw on the saddle and try something new.
"Luke": too embarrassed to read it, as if I am viewing myself fucking and I'm still uninvited. "Let me," he breathes, and all I can do is blush because it's totally not something he would say. In the epilogue, he has no resemblance of "Luke" he sounds more and more like somebody else every time I read it.
And that pen was massacring the page.
So yes... he sounds so much like somebody else, which is just weird to me! I manufacture characters- they're not supposed to just hop out of the clear blue sky! Not that I'm upset or anything... ha. It's not like I'm going to say "take him back." Hell no. Never. His face is too perfect to ever let go of.
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It's not that I think I"m that great, but I think it's worth feeding- worth nourishing into something even better. Like this wetness: watching it dry in this beautiful dusk of sex is amazing. Nothing compares to that feeling.
I don't forget to nurture the painful girl, the girl who still cries every nite for Jeff, or Ian, or whoever it was I cried about back in the day. It's over, but never forget. Keep smiling, but never let her go, because one day she might be all we have left, and then who would save us? A man? A speedo? Eric? No. See, we give her the distance- the horizon- but never let her crawl into the mountains to... [really cheesy sentence omitted].
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Tues March 28th 2000
There is something about society that angers me, like: why should I be ashamed about sexual liaisons? Should I feel ashamed? Are those valid reasons? No; I'm ashamed because wes tries to make me feel guilty about it; because he's the biggest hypocrite of all time by making me feel that way. Let's forget about all the drugs he does! As soon as I do something "immoral" it's as if earthquakes are going to erupt from under my feet. Fuck that. There is absolutely no reason why I should ever feel ashamed about anything I've ever done. I've done nothing wrong. It's society that's so ass-backwards about what's okay and what's not.
Why: because he stole my sexuality so I had to get it back; throw it in their faces. I had to do it to prove that I could do it. When someone damages you like that, you do whatever you can do.
love: I still have a fierce love, an intense love- one of those longing, sucking admirations that still clings to my heart like buttons- but that's it. This love is "a love of the spirit," a proud, unromantic thing that goes nowhere near his penis. That's reserved for someone else.
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