willow_farm_foxtrot's Xanga

Thursday, January 24, 2008

Thu, 24 Jan 2008 16:28:09 GMT

Geez, I really don't know what to talk about right now. Being that this is a diary created for bitching and kicking myself in the balls, I guess I'll venture into how worthless I feel my existance is (I swear I'm not emo, lol).

This past Xmas eve my dad and I got into an argument. Besides thanking me for "ruining yet another holiday!" he also claimed that he and my mom don't derive even the slightest bit of joy from me anymore. I had nothing to say after that.

Tuesday, May 29, 2007

Tue, 29 May 2007 08:43:41 GMT

Yeah, I really gotta update more often. Over a half a year since my last entry.

It’s 5:00am right now. I hate staying up late in the spring. Morning birds are chirping, and it really feels like they’re mocking me, and my nocturnal state of being. What rude assholes.

Nothing much new to report on. Saw my best friend, Julie, this past week. It was a good time, but I’m just upset that my messed up sleeping schedule hindered us from having more conversation. It was like, when one of us was awake, the other fell into slumber. Maybe next time.

Sunday was an enjoyable day with the parents in Philadelphia. Of course they were arguing about petty shit in the car (I swear, even though it was their anniversary, they still went at it. Hell would be an endless car ride with them, devoid of headphone sanctuary). Things corrected themselves at the Franklin Institute, where we finally saw the Pharaoh exhibit. Absolutely amazing how much priceless treasures and gifts the Egyptians placed into the tombs of dead people. DEAD PEOPLE! Probably the most splendid item in the exhibit for me was a coffin of gold, inscribed with meticulously engraved hieroglyphics and Gods. It was once inhabited by the mummified corpse of King Tutankhamen’s mother-in-law (I believe). I looked at my dad, and told him that when I die, I want a coffin like that, to which he replied, "keep dreaming."

I miss my Jonathon. We’ve been together for over a year now, and living two hours away from him, I’m just yearning to see him, and being held by him, and giving him a bj. OK, too much info, but I do love the guy so immensely, though I’m not sure he realizes how much. It’s hard for me to be as open as I should be, especially with someone as normal as my pumpkin.

I’m not going to say that my bulimia is in check, as it will never be, but it’s under control as best as its ever been, since I developed it at 17. I’m finally starting to treat my mouth like Superman, with my fingers being kryptonite, going for incredibly long spans of time without forcing vomit. And I’ve still been able to maintain sobriety since the 7^th of July. I think my body is finally beginning to thank me, being abused less by myself in a very long time. Not saying that I’m absolved of problems, but God knows that bulimia has been the most tyrannical demon I’ve yet to encounter, and the fact that I’m doing well in battling against it is worth being proud of.

Tuesday, October 03, 2006

Tue, 03 Oct 2006 04:50:01 GMT

How is it that people are so narcissistic as to put music on their Xanga sites. Please, your taste in music sucks, as I’m sure mine sucks to you. I swear, nearly half the Xanga sites I venture into have some emo band whining away, or whatever else. All I wanted to do was read a little bit of your site while listening to MY MUSIC on the computer. Am I the only person who finds this incredibly annoying?

If you happen to be somebody who has music on their website, for your sake, as well as the sake of your Xanga buddies: Take it off! Trust me, you’ll get a shitload more comments, being that I (as well as most other people) leave your site in a hurry once I hear obnoxious music blaring over whatever I’m trying to enjoy. Gee, and these people wonder why they don’t get any comments. That’s like keeping starving lions penned in your yard and scratching your head as to why nobody wants to come to your house anymore.

Your music sucks. My music sucks. His music sucks, and so does hers. Let’s keep it to ourselves people. I won’t stuff Emerson Lake & Palmer down your eardrums, so please get rid of whatever garbage you’ve got droning on your site! Grrrrrrrrrrr!

Friday, September 29, 2006

Fri, 29 Sep 2006 06:02:38 GMT

New Deviantart site of mine (all poetry being that I can't draw): http://skincauldron.deviantart.com/

It’s nearly 2am on a school night, and here I sit in my underwear and the back-tie hospital gown I stole from rehab; restless, nerves standing like the fur of a squirrel in a drizzle, with John Williams orchestrating a whirlwind of horns and strings through my ears.

This is impossible. How the hell can I prune and trim down the events of this past summer without making a novel out of this entry. I feel like I’m trying to stuff my dick up a mouses ass with this one (yeah, my penis is small, but not that small!). I guess I’ll do my life an injustice, and put the past ½ year in list form (though I’ll probably end up skipping half of the shit that happened unless I sit down for a few days and think about it).

Hmmm... let’s see. Currently on six months with my boyfriend Jonathon (God bless him for putting up with me), the weeklong trip to coastal Maine including Acadia National Park, going to court in a half a month for a DUI I got on June 30^th with Jim Beam riding shotgun (blood alcohol level above a .2), my living in Princeton house rehabilitation center from the week of July 7th-14th due to my fondness for booze and speed, the subsequent daily outpatient rehab which I’m still involved in, the numerous OA meetings I’ve attended for my still ravenous bulimia, the Gary Numan concert in early August, the Michael McDonald/Steely Dan concert in late August (the pot smoke in the outdoor air was so think it was burning my eyes), my best friend becoming a mother (congratulations Julie - Jasmine is adorable), the life lessons learned... Jesus, I really can’t put it together coherently, so in my next few entries I’m going to backpedal and go into further detail about this past summer which has earned an infinite spot in my heart. This has been the most challenging, yet soul searching (and finding) time in a good long while, and in a strange way, I thank God for shoving all the self-instigated problems in my face. I’ve renewed my relationship with him, which was growing stale for too long.

Sunday, May 07, 2006

Sun, 07 May 2006 05:06:19 GMT

"Die-t" is a poem written a few months ago about anorexia. I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me earlier, but the word ‘diet’ is ‘die’ with a cross on the tail end. I constructed this poem as a comparison of anorexia to dying on the cross.

          "Die-t"

I die on the cross
Just like many other Americans
To die on the cross
is becoming America's epidemic
Especially amongst females
Hell, I've even known a few girls
who have actually died
on their die on the cross

When we die on the cross
we drive down numbers like nails
And yes, our flesh
does feel a burning
Yet the sting is most concentrated
in the abdomen and brain
To die on the cross
feels physically akin to
impalement and lobotomy
as it does to crucifixion

Our die on the cross
is a bit of a hindrance
Yet we can't help
but to be fixated on it
We are blood-bound to it
It's something we cling to
It frames us,
shapes us,
and ultimately stabilizes us
by placing skeletal structure
into our lives

All who die on the cross
yearn for skeletal structure

       -Eeyore
       February 2006

Monday, May 01, 2006

Mon, 01 May 2006 08:57:03 GMT

Inevitable. I knew it was inevitable. I knew that one day the monster would break free of its cage and ravage me with sweet claws once more.

Three years, I was able to hold it at bay. Three years of trying to delude myself into believing that I could win. And then, Thursday night, I held the sewing pin, and all those emotions came back to me. Yes, the sewing pin was always my preferred knight of shining armor. And I remembered those nights, the hour long sessions in which euphoria was transcended.

I held it to my upper left arm, and let loose a dainty swipe. It was not my intent to cut; I merely wanted to get a small taste of that epidermal delicacy which I lived off of all throughout my teenage years. But a recovering alcoholic can't just take a swig of gin and walk away, no. Once it hits the lips, all composure is lost, and the bottle will be consumed. Just like the overeater who wants 'just a little taste' of chocolate cake, then shoveling mouthfuls down the throat within seconds.

Cutting can not be done in moderation. That would be like a person yanking down your pants, and then abruptly exiting the room, leaving you blue-balled. Once it's on, it's on, until you go so deep, the nerves receive an endorphin rush orgasm of epic proportions.

It was ultimately the right wrist which the crimson Goddess rode her liquid chariot out of. Below the pinky finger, and yes, it is deep, like vaginal lips in which my steel dildo inseminated the body and mind with bliss.

Cutting… Please, God, let this be an isolated failing on my part, not a full-blown descent into metallic dictatorship. I don't want to be a slave of steel ever again.

Wednesday, April 26, 2006

Wed, 26 Apr 2006 23:59:43 GMT

I’m failing life and my nails are metallic purple. I just thought it would be nice to put that out. I really have nothing else to say.

Friday, April 14, 2006

Fri, 14 Apr 2006 06:22:13 GMT

Fuck you Jack Daniel’s, you fraud. Bow down to your master:

http://www.american-still-life.com/aslcover.jpg

Jim Beam. God of all whiskeys (trust the expert on this one). Yes, I am drunk, yet I love American whiskey. This is the king of all them...

Sunday, April 09, 2006

Sun, 09 Apr 2006 23:51:23 GMT

Been dating a guy named Jon for the past week & a half. Really nice guy, although we seem to be complete opposites in many aspects (movies, shows, music, food, choice of underwear 'hehe'). But all's going well thusfar. So well in fact that I would be willing to bet that the whole floor of my dorm knows I'm gay now (I tend to scream and squeal very loud during sex).

I swear, I've become more brazen in my homosexuality as of late. I think it's probably the anti-depressants which aren't making me feel so self-conscious. I've been wearing knee high girl's socks with colored stripes and cute animals printed on them, girls pj bottoms (Eeyore and Care Bears), and I even wore a Dutch-girl-styled dress around the campus a few days ago. I haven't gotten to painting my nails yet, but give it a week or so.

Kids, get out your sticks and marshmallows and gather around me. I'm becoming quite a flamer.

Tuesday, April 04, 2006

Tue, 04 Apr 2006 06:43:33 GMT

What the fuck is beauty? What the fuck kind of world is this where girls are fed the notion that they should not feed? "Remove your abdomen little princess." "The boys are looking." "The fashion honcho demands this of you." "Better a corpse (living or dead) than fat."

Utopian beauty is fucking sick. The fashion industry is fucking sick. Everyday is a vicious genocide of young girls. Minds ravaged. Families and friendships ripped apart. Lives taken. Living, breathing, magical, wonderful, beautiful young lives manipulated, immolated, then destroyed.

It's amazing to think of a heartbroken mother watching her won child dying, sitting in the waiting room of a hospital, asking herself "Why baby, why? Why starve? Why deteriorate and kill yourself in such a horrible manner?" All the while, she is flipping through the pages of Bazar magazine.

What kind of fucking fucked up society encourages little girls to starve themselves in order to be 'beautiful?' American society.

No, this is not a poem. I'm too fucking pissed right now to focus on metaphor, creative language, ect… This is a rant, but an honest one. I feel like every victim of anorexia and bulimia is controlling my pen right now, demanding justice for the topping of their life. Fuck everything we were taught beauty is supposed to be. LIFE IS BEAUTIFUL. Self induced Death is wacked.

The statistics are amazing. An anorexic girl has a higher chance of dying from her disorder than a crack or heroin addict, with an even lower recovery rate than the two. Thousands upon thousands die of eating disorders every year. This is a collective statistic, but try to envision each and every face, each with her own feelings, hopes, dreams, personalities, favorite color, favorite book, favorite movie, each a separate person, with her own set of friends and family.

THEY'RE ALL DEAD. FLAT FUCKING DEAD. And still TV, magazines, and media portray the farce of beauty=skinny. Still toddler girls are playing with Barbie dolls (antichrist bitch) so skinny they make twigs look obese. For fucks sake, society begins its slaughter of girls from they day they are born.

I wanna cry. My soul does cry for any girl who has ever experienced the apocalyptic effect of an eating disorder.

FUCK YOU

AMERICAN MEDIA!