Monte's dad went through his drawer of memories and found a letter addressed to Monte that he had never read from his Grandma. He had me read it because he couldn't read her cursive very well. As I was reading it I slowly realized it was written to him right before she died, he must have realized it too because by the end of it we were both in tears.

It seems as though I only amuse finding inspiration to write anything worthwhile when I'm wallowing in the most abysmal and fathomless of commiseration.
hm.

The one thing you'll learn over and over again for the rest of your life is that everyone is shit.
It's like getting continuously kicked in the face but each time the kick is more callous and tormenting than the last.
I am angry because I am so sad.
I am sad because I am so angry.

It's odd how often you notice rape being the premise of a joke when you're trying so desperately to dismantle the debris he/it left so guiltlessly in you.

Debris: (noun) the remains of something that has been destroyed or broken up.


So destroyed that it didn't even bother me when once again #### waited until I blacked out before having sex with me.
You wake up the next morning naked from the waist down and think "at least I didn't have to put up a struggle this time."

How do you tell someone they're not special enough to fuck to Elliott Smith ?

These days I get this sick satisfaction in knowing that I'm going to be alone forever.

Say Yes

Whenever I see an extremely old, withered, person I always have to resist the urge to ask them if they're ready to die.

Vicodin and tuna salad thoughts.

I sobbed for about an hour and a half. I wiped my slate clean and you're the only person I had ever felt that way about.

I knew you couldn't have even imagined loving me the way I would have loved you back.
So that's that.

Avoidant Personality Disorder:

1. avoids occupational activities that involve significant interpersonal contact, because of fears of criticism, disapproval, or rejection

2. is unwilling to get involved with people unless certain of being liked

3. shows restraint initiating intimate relationships because of the fear of being ashamed, ridiculed, or rejected due to severe low self-worth 

4. is preoccupied with being criticized or rejected in social situations 

5. is inhibited in new interpersonal situations because of feelings of inadequacy 

6. views self as socially inept, personally unappealing, or inferior to others 

7. is unusually reluctant to take personal risks or to engage in any new activities because they may prove embarrassing

Hello, My name is Alyssa and I have Avoidant Personality Disorder.

I would like to come home now.

You know something?

Me: What's that.

	In the English language, there's lots and lots of different ways to say a single thing, but there's one thing that really can't be worded in any more elegant, expository, or additive way. I miss you.

My words don't travel far, they tangle in my hair.

I dreamt about you last night, it was the only dream I've had in weeks where I didn't wake up in terror.

Coincidence? I think not, but you'll never know.

Everything I've ever wanted to tell you lingers in the cracks and crevices of my mouth.

I'm trying to be suitable, so that when you get back you'll want to do marvelous things together.

I was going to tell you about how New York has been, but I'd rather read.

You've got your new ties, I've got my old knots.

I am not unforgettable.

I am expendable.

But it's alright, really.

I'm putting all of my faith in the fact that New York will hopefully expunge all of those commiserating thoughts that bounce around in my head. I will come back revitalized, restored, fortified! Which may sound like a very expensive bottle of water, but it's something.

"So, where is your boyfriend tonight?"

                                               "Non- existent."

"Oh, why is that?"

"Boys and I don't mesh very well."

"Oh, you mean you're a lesbian?"

"Yeah, that's it."

I didn't mean to lie,  it's just easier that way.

Post. Script. I am not a lesbian.

The poets can guess at what we might have had

 I don't sleep well next to someone I don't care for.

 I just lie there, opening my eyes every once and a while to see how much time has passed. How much time is left before they leave. It never winds down as fast as I want it to. How desperately I just want him to leave. Oh, but when he leaves, something remarkable happens.

I am me again, I can breathe again.

I don't feel things the way I use to, all my "feelings" these days result in a half ass attempt to seem sincere. Songs don't make me sad, surprises don't make me happy. I'm starting to wonder if anyone is catching on. I'm thinking about a lot of things all at the same time, but they're stuck somewhere that I can't find the opening to. 

My babybaby sister,

I miss you so much, and it hurts my heart when you aren't around. 
A few days ago I was talking to someone about sleeping habits and I had told them that when I was little I use to beg and plead every night to sleep with you. We both realized that it sounded a bit peculiar that I would want to sleep with my little sister. but it really isn't. You've always been the formidable sister.

I've always felt like you were torn away from me, and it changed me.
I will never be as strong as you.
You are well-made and long-lasting,
and I am weak and flimsy.

( I wrote this for my sister, but I wanted you to read it.)

Now she's smiling, with herself put back together.

I broke down in the car tonight. Sure, I was all sorts of under the influence, but it was real.

Jaimie could probably taste the uncontrollable that was nestled in her passenger seat. We sat outside and I proclaimed, 

" I can't take what the world throws at me anymore." 

She expressed her opinion, she told me if I really couldn't take it anymore I wouldn't be here.

Then I think about all the times I've thought about offing myself, the ways I could do it, what would result in it, all sorts of terrible things. And I tell her, "you're right." Because she really is, and not because I'm drunk and in the most agreeable of moods. Sam says I need something solid, something reliable.  I just need something to stop the ongoing, commiserating party that goes on in the depths of my head. I'm going to lie down and wake up and forget I even wrote this.

On that note, when you look at me my insides want to crawl out of my mouth and go west. And you asked me why I look away when you look at me. You stir up a storm inside me.

Someone should untangle my stomach,

I feel so many things lately, I just don't have the energy to talk about them anymore.  It's all I can do these days is to wake up at a reasonable time and go about my day. It's pathetic because I've done the exact same thing every day for at least three months. I've got no obligations, no order, just the company of my friends. Something that, a year ago, I couldn't get enough of. But now I'd just as soon isolate myself so no one can ask me about how funny I thought the episode finale of Sunny was, or my opinion on how Brad and Angelina couldn't possibly be having a second pair of twins. I'm sick of opening my mouth for pointless, mindless garbage. I'm sick of opening my mouth period.

Even though I feel so disconnected these days, I don't think I've ever been so infatuated with anyone as I am now. And its the worst, when he's talking to the crowd and you want so badly for him to look at you while he's talking and you're just waiting for it and then he looks at you for that split second and you're okay, but only for that 30 seconds after and then you're back to wanting him to just make eye contact again, look at me again.  

You can tell everything shifts when I think about him, it's even evident when I write.