I'm a Loser Baby, so Why Dontcha' Kill Me?

It's summertime. I haven't slept till two and I'm disappointed.
I lost all my words so I'm just posting art.



I have no friends because all I do is draw.

Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid.

Can you help me fight my dreams?

I never sleep well.
I wish I could, I want to go to sleep at a proper time and wake up feeling refreshed, not sleepier than before.
I just hate what happens when I try to sleep.
This is what happens:
I lay down in bed, extremely tired.
I close my eyes, and then, I'm not sure what it is, but I fall into this sort of half-sleep. I literally fall into it, one second I'm awake and the next I'm in this fuzzy, grey and mauve state. Except I don't even know I'm asleep yet. I think my eyes are open, but just barely, I think I'm moving in my bed, but I'm not; I'm immobilized, I can't move at all. I see my room, I think I'm awake in bed, I'm convinced everything is just so strange because I'm stoned. Except it's not like being stoned, nowhere near. So anyways, I'm in bed, I see the opposite wall, everything's blurry and growing in proportion, the walls get farther away, and closer very quickly. This all doesn't seem so bad. That's because it isn't the bad part. My door opens, I see my mother, I think she's coming to check on me, but she either stands in the doorway or runs up to me quickly, leans over my bed and falls through me, the mattress, and straight through the floor. Like a ghost, I guess? Then enormous pressure comes and sits on my knees and elbows, like someone's pinning me down. Through my half-opened eyes (remember I'm dreaming that my eyes are open) I look down on the end of the bed and see little shadows, or like last night, a frightening flickering man, blue like a corpse. Then, whatever/whoever it is starts ripping off my skin. Literally ripping it off. I can't feel it, but I know it's happening, I see it happening. I can't scream out, and again I think I'm moving but realize I haven't moved an inch, I can't. I look back to my mom to help me and see her in the doorway again and her eyes are black and blurry and she's much taller than usual and she's flickering, like when you watch a VHS movie and the picture gets wavy when you first turn it on. She just stands there and watches. I'm not breathing anymore, but I'm not dead, I'm not even allowed to die. I can't even describe how scared I am. I can't move, I can't scream, I can't even tell myself to wake up because I don't even know I'm asleep. And then, when all my flesh is gone, my mom (better yet, mom-creature) shuts my door, loudly, and I fall again. I feel a incredible jolt, as if I was thrown down onto my bed from at the ceiling. Now I know I had been asleep...rather, that awful half-sleep, and I can't shake the images from my head. So I lie in bed with my back to the door, because I don't want to see my "mother's" blurry black eyes. Eventually I fall asleep, really asleep, but I'm too wary to ever sleep well, it's always disjointed and stressful.

So that's what happens when I try and sleep, and I don't know why.
I think I'd feel better if I knew other people experienced something like this too. This isn't a one time thing. It's nightly, but it's much more frightening at my mother's house, at my dad it's just the surreal awareness and the shifting proportions of my room.

Does this happen to you? Or do you know what it is? I really would like to sleep.

And yeah, if it happens every night you'd think I'd remember that it happens and realize it's a dream, but I don't. Every time I'm convinced it's real until it's over.

So Fucking Deep.

I need to go to Hobby Lobby.
I need to get a little black book to vomit inky black thoughts into, and scribble nonsensical doodles. And some nice art pens. Oh babysitting money, fifteen dollars of you is going to that.
Here is what my life has been reduced to:
-School
-Sleep (always bad, never refreshing)
-Drawing
-Reading House of Leaves:

That's it.
I can't even decide whether I enjoy it or not.
My life as it is I mean. I don't think I do.


One things for sure, House of Leaves is the best part.
Add that to the list of things I need to buy. Definitely becoming my favourite book, rather quickly.

Bye.
Oh, and I want a tattoo.

Dream About Me.

This isn't going to be lengthy.

I genuinely loathe going to the doctor.
Today was positively traumatizing. I'm sitting here, in shambles. I feel like I've vomited, but I haven't. I'm fear-stricken. I'm numb and lifeless and uncomfortable. Shaky and confused. It was a routine examination.

Crows are amazing. Crows are one of only three types of animals who talk to each other. They have a different voice for their family than for their friends. They can recognize a face for two years, and if threatened by the person, warn surrounding crows about the danger, and even generations following. I really like crows. I wish we had crows in El Paso.

I miss the black horse at the Jovi pasture. I saw him last night, he's such a darling. I think I'll call him Indigo. I've never seen a horse so love starved. He always puts up with me when I romp over to him, intoxicated, and pat him too roughly and speak too loudly in his teardrop shaped ears. Horses have sad eyes, and apparently I do too.

This post isn't about anything. I could write about a lot of things, but I'd rather not, nothing I blither is worth the trouble.

On a last note, I'm reading The House of Leaves. It's engrossing, consuming, captivating, mind blowing, and all other synonyms for the word. Also, it's goddamn frightening. I was reading in class today, and as I was staring out into space, with chills, in numbing reflection of a passage I had just read, someone took it upon themselves to pinch me from behind. I was shaking with terror, with clammy hands and frustrated breathing. This is a damn good book.

I lied. This wasn't a short entry. I'm a liar, another reason I'm not a good person.

-Tchus.

My Head is Blank.

I'm starting to really feel awful. I need Christmas break to come. I want to go somewhere with Katrina Castro, maybe not come back. If you need to know anything it's that, in the grand scheme of things, you will never compare to Katrina Castro.

Never.

I've been feeling my heartbeat in my stomach. It's loud, it hasn't gone away. It almost hurts a little bit. This isn't a metaphor for anything, it's a genuine, physical feeling I've been experiencing. Actually, it hurts a lot. Ouch. Who knew a heartbeat could twist and knot a gut so badly? The heart is my least favourite organ. It's so omnipresent. You always feel it at the worst of times, and it makes bad times even more so by picking those times when you want to pull a blank face and act alright, to lodge itself in your throat so every time you speak nothing comes out but wavering whispers that make people think you're about to cry. I don't cry.

So I ate a piece of bread, mainly because Starshine was worried because I confessed to him the last time I had eaten something. He gave me an ultimatum, eat right then or he wasn't speaking to me.

Starshine is a great friend, I love him to death. Hear that Star? I love you. Sincerely, your Sunshine.

The bread is burning in my throat, and my stomach feels rawer than before. It's hollow like a cave, and in the corner, is that little beating heart on the cold wet floor, like I mentioned earlier, beating in my stomach and causing all sorts of upsets.

I'm not trying to whine, I feel as if I am. I'm just explaining exactly how I feel at this precise and exact moment, without filtering any thoughts. Still, it sounds like whining. I whine a lot, I'm doomed to whine forever. No one wants to be around someone who whines.

My deep and utter hatred for Jeep Liberties has been increasing rather quickly. Every time I see one I feel my tonsils fall like heavy little balls of lead to the pit of my stomach. Then I curse. I curse them into oblivion. Awful vehicles.

My art class isn't an art class. Mr.Valadez said I couldn't paint my jellyfish hot pink and orange, and I couldn't put it in outer space because it isn't realistic. I asked him who on Earth said art was supposed to be realistic. He told me to paint it underwater or I'd get points dropped. Well I'll paint it underwater, and he may think the jellyfish is underwater, but it's really underwater on a distant planet where jellyfish are kings and can bend minds.

Take that, reality.


I don't feel like writing anymore, I don't feel like anything anymore.
I'm sorry to announce I've become a wall, like the ones I've been speaking to lately.

Bis später,
Summer

Echo me, Astronaut.

There's a hole in my wall. Strange, it looks as if the doorknob made it, but there's a door-stopper on the baseboard. Perhaps it was put there after the hole was made, but what good would it do if there was already a hole in the first place? It bothers me. Through my peripheral vision it looks like a fat black spider, with its legs all curled under it, waiting for someone (probably myself) to let their hand linger a little too close, let their fingers get dangerously near to eight, shiny black eyes, and two, bloated pincers. Then of course, it'd bite and I'd be more scared than hurt. I'd jerk back, natural instinct of course. And the spider would fall, and crawl into a dark corner, and it'd hide there till the night, when it'd creep out for its delightful revenge.

Then I remember it's just a hole in the wall.

This room has no furniture, it looks too small for it anyway. Currently, it's a room with one actual bed, one camp-bed, and vinyl, wood patterned floors. She said it was real hardwood before we moved in, but she confessed later it was just vinyl. Vinyl wood floors feel like a lie. It looks like hardwood, but it was really just a roll of plastic material that a sweaty, smelly man rolled onto the floor. I guess what I'm trying to say is that vinyl floors have no integrity.

in·teg·ri·ty   
[in-teg-ri-tee]
–noun
1. Adherence to moral and ethical principles; soundness of moral character; honesty.

I feel like these vinyl floors.


Semi colons are my favourite form of punctuation, but I'll admit, I have never used one correctly, unless Microsoft Word corrects my imperfect grammar and suggests I use one. If I was a word, would I be incorrect? Would I have a red squiggle underneath me, and if you right-clicked, what would be a better alternative to have instead of me? I wish I could right-click and fix a lot of things. Or ctrl-x all my problems away.

I should end this ramble with something that actually matters, or even makes a little bit of sense. But instead I'll end this on my current thought of this exact moment:

Mark Linkous, the world misses you, or at least I do.
YOU are worth hundreds of sparrows.

The Hawks Alight Till Morning

I buried a sparrow today.
Even though she wasn't breathing and her little neck would flop at the slightest movement, I was still deathly scared that she might still be alive. I swear I heard her chirp. I lifted her little body and wrapped it carefully in a paper towel, for want of a better burial shroud. With a rusty trowel I dug a small hole outside, under my window, with marbled orange river rocks for a headstone.

In my mind I call her Maybe.

"Maybe sparrow, it's too late." -Neko Case

Being buried alive must be the most awful way to die. You're trapped and there really is no way out. The walls close in and you're suffocating as you use up your last breaths of air. Sometimes being in this city is like being buried alive.

Notice: Sometimes being in this city is like being buried alive. More often than not, I love EL Paso.

I once said I didn't believe in coincidence, but they've been happening so frequently lately that I have to refute that statement. Maybe it's a sign from the universe, but it's disproved the last shred of faith I had in fate. I don't like the idea of fate. In my heart, I feel like the universe is telling my that my reality is malleable. Someone told me that, but I can't remember who.

Sorry, someone.

My fingers have frozen to the alphabet keys and it's occurred to me I am no longer making any sense or being the slightest bit entertaining.

Adieu.

P.S. I stopped biting my nails, just thought you should know.