I think one reason I write better at night is because I generally get pretty depressed at night. Sad little me.

A depressed drunk with no one to drive me home
sitting in the bathroom waiting for the poison to make it’s way out
and still you ask my why I stopped.

It took me a long time to figure out why I was the way I was. Why I’ve always been sad. In commercials about depression they always talk about the symptoms.
“Loss of interest”
“difficulty concentrating, remembering details, and making decisions”
“feelings of guilt, worthlessness, and/or helplessness”
“fatigue and decreased energy”
But I never had a before time. I’ve had those symptoms as long as I can remember. My mom thinks I got depression when I was three. A depressed three year old, could you imagine? Though she was in denial of it until she discovered I was cutting myself when I asked her if one of my cuts was infected. I had a habit of drawing sharpie over my cuts or wearing long gloves. I was good at hiding them, I could of made it a profession. Hiding them on hot days was the worst but I pretended I didn’t notice the heat. That was when the long gloves came in handy. It took a long time for my mom to figure it out. So I went from cutting my arms to my chest. I liked carving in words like “perfect”. I cut in that one the most.
My pre-teens and first three years of adolescence were the worst years of my life because I finally understood why I was sad. Knowing why I was sad was worse than the confusion of not knowing.

I think why most of us want to be famous is because we need some clarification that we’re doing something with our lives. We feel as though what we do isn’t good enough if we’re not well noticed. We feed off recognition.

Here’s the link to my personal blog

http://enyadangertargaryen.tumblr.com/
Just letting you know it is very different from this blog. It’s very geeky.

Extraordinary

I would never have believed it but here I was on Raven Street. There was a light night breeze brushing my face as we biked down the lane. Lily’s blond hair danced in the wind as we neared the beach jumping off our bikes and ran down to the water. We stood silent for a moment.
“Isn’t it beautiful here?” she said looking over at me. I nodded with a smile. “You’re different you know? You’ve gotten taller.”
“Have I?” I said. “
“Yeah, you’re over 6 feet now and your hairs grown and got darker rather than the light brown it was when you were younger.” She slipped her hair behind her ear, took off her shoes, rolled up her trousers and walked into the water.
“It’s a bit chilly!” she said smiling.
“Get in the water!” she said.
“I can’t swim.”
“One I know you can swim, we took swimming lessons together as kids and two I’m only asking you to get about a foot deep.” Lily was not going to take no for an answer. So I took off my shoes, pulled up my trousers and stepped into the freezing water.
“Jesus it’s cold!” I said, “Why would you want to come in here?”
“Because it’s fun.”
“How is this fun? We’re freezing our legs off!” I walked back onto the beach.
“Well the only way I’m getting out of the water is if you carry me out.” Said Lily crossing her arms. She was serious.
“Lily come on!” I shook my feet and put my socks and shoes back on.
“Help I’m a damsel in distress! Who ever will save me from the current?” She said theatrically with the back on her hand on her forehead. I laughed a little.
“Are you seriously saying I have to get back into that ice cold, freezing, paralyzing water just to carry you five feet?”
“Yes I am, prince charming!” Lily was laughing. Off went the shoes and socks again and up with the trousers. I went up to her in the water,
“So can we go now?” I asked.
“Remember?” she said with a pause, “You have to carry me.”
I sighed and tried picking her up but as I lifted her I lost balance and into the water we went. Soaking we ran out back onto the beach, Lily was laughing hysterically while I was in shock.
“Don’t be mad Brad, this’ll make a great story some day.” Said Lily and picking up her shoes. Luckily it was a warm night and the water began to feel nice. Lily skipped up to her bicycle with its little basket on the front; I just had my old rusty bike that was too small. Further down the street we went to the Presicy diner that has been open since 1948. We were quite a sight for the old couple drinking coffee as we walked in wearing our wet clothes, dripping on the floor. The old man, Mr. Presicy who owned the restaurant, was working the late shift and smiled at us.
“Well if it isn’t Lily and Brad from Raven Street. What can I get for ya kids? Some hot coco?”
“That’d be wonderful Mr. Presicy.” Said Lily, I just stood there blanked faced. I couldn’t believe that he remembered me?
“Brad?” said a voice behind me, “Bill Sheppard’s boy? Brad is that you?”
I turned around to see my old Sunday school teacher Mr. Buckly.
“Well I’ll be. It is you! How you doing boy?” he said.
“I’ve been fine. Just moved back to the neighbourhood.” I said.
“That’s grand you came back. There’s no place like home.”
Then Mr. Presicy handed Lily and I our hot coco.
“This ones on the house kids. A welcome back gift Brad.”
Lily of course jumped in to thank him and we went to a booth near the juxebox playing a Miles Davis record. Never was a fan. Lily mouthed the words to the song as she waited for her coco to cool down.
“The problem with hot coco is that it’s never the perfect temperature. It’s always too hot and you just got to wait.” said Lily. I have the feeling that people in this town always try to say something inspirational. Trying to take simple things and make them into life lessons. For me, they rarely worked. Perhaps I had become too dull during my time away.
As we sipped on our coco we didn’t talk but it wasn’t awkward. We were comfortable without saying anything. I liked the feeling. I don’t have to think of cheap conversation or tell an exaggerated story about me living somewhere else.
Sitting here in the diner I felt as if I had gone in a time machine back to when this place just started. 1948, I wonder how different it was to live here back then? Surely there are enough old people in this town that a few have lived long enough to remember. WW2 had just ended so there must have been some good stories to tell. Perhaps I should go to the library? But history books aren’t the same.
After we finished our coco we said goodbye to Mr. Presicy. Mr. Buckly had left a few minutes before us. We had dried off a bit and our bikes had not been stolen.
Jumping onto our bikes we sped off. We were zooming down the middle of Main Street,
I held up my arms, gliding. I felt as if I was flying. Lily just laughed in her cute little voice. The town streetlights waved as we passed by. The night had been so simple. No big event, disaster or drama. No teen angst or romance. I had really returned home.

I’ve only got one life to live so why not be simply extraordinary?

December 8th, 2011,

I’m not listening to Mozart.

I’m on my fifth cup of coffee and that fucking white page is still blank. I’ll just sit here while I wait for some magical muse to appear and I’ll actually do something. I’ll never be as good as everyone else. I’m quite pathetic when compared to someone else. Perhaps I should be more stylish? Make fewer perverted jokes and smile more? Have people take me more seriously. Europe has a way of making you rethink your life, no matter where you are in it. Living in California for most of my life I have a mini epiphany every time I come here. You’d think being 17 would be fun, that I’d be partying every weekend and have a boyfriend and lots of exes. But no. I haven’t even been kissed and I don’t party. I’m the opposite of what the movies said 17 would be like. I’m not pretty, not extremely ugly though, I have my moments of prettiness. I dress the same, shirt, jeans, and the same shoes. I always tell myself “I’ll be more stylish.” But then I think, “It costs too much money.”
I’m going to sit in this room for a bit more. Not like spending the last four hours in it has been enough.

I can’t sleep. Still. I’m thinking about my life.

I’d call myself an adventurer. I’m too curious about things I shouldn’t be and could care less about things I should (like most school work). I rarely miss home. I’ve been away for nearly four months and I still don’t miss “home”. Not even my family.
I talked to my sister a few days ago and she was crying about how much she missed me. It is quite cold of me to state that I found it pathetic. She’s 20 years old and she can’t stand being away from her 17-year-old sister (who she hasn’t seen since I was 16). I’ve said this many times before but fucking hell get some friends. I’m not the kind of person who sticks around; I’m going to leave again and again. I want to be a musician, which means a lot of travelling. My sister won’t see me much. I don’t generally call family, they call me.
Call me heartless or a bitch for not being concern with my family and friends in California but I just don’t feel sad or lonely. I’ve made amazing friends where I am now and am going to miss them like crazy, unlike my California associates. I’ve gotten healthier since I got here and have lost weight. I’ve gotten more confident and have more of a social life. I’m not trying to make anyone else happy but myself. What’s so selfish about making me happy first before others? How can I make someone really happy without knowing how to be happy myself? It’s like trying to teach someone how to swim without you knowing how to swim.
I have a horrible feeling that I’ll start cutting again when I return to California. Show my parents how miserable I am there and they’ll send me back here as soon as possible. Go to where I’m happy and healthy.
Whenever I’m on trips away from “home” I’m always happier and don’t want to come back because I have nothing to come home to but bad feelings.
I am going to cry like mad when I leave, I pity whoever I have to sit next to on the plane ride back to the States because I’ll be weeping the whole time.

Another thing, people in California all of a sudden give a fuck about me. Since when were we such great “friends”? We hardly ever talked when I was there. Where I am now, people actually appreciate me while I’m here and don’t want me to leave, I feel wanted for once. That for once I matter. The thought of returning to somewhere when I’ve felt so much pain makes me want to burst into tears. Why does my happiness have to be so temporary and my sadness so frequent? Why must my happiness be so short lived?
It’s funny, stereotypically people run away to California while I’m running away from there. Well, more of leaving California behind rather than running away. I didn’t do the whole “starting over and reinventing myself”. Nope, I stayed the same person and was accepted for it. People are okay that I don’t drink or do drugs, not pressure me to “try new things”.

I’m not listening to Mozart.

The plain empty field where the girl stood with the wind rushing through her dirty blond hair. Her blue eyes stared at the grasses swaying in the breeze. A small smile stood on her face. Her breath was slow and steady. It was the Sunday. The last Sunday. Her mother walked out to the car with a suitcase and left, leaving dust flying into the girls face. Now the smile was gone and a tear dripped down her cheek. The young girl walked down to the old,dead tree and grabbed a long sturdy rope. She made a circle in the rope perfectly fitting around her neck. The girl tied the other end to a strong branch. She stood on top of a lower branch. She starred out onto the world, she smiled at her dog. Then took her step off the branch and hung there. Blowing in the wind. Like a feather she was lifted up into the air, the rope broke and she flew up into the sky and covered the light of the sun and she gave out a last breath and flew back to the earth and laid in the grasses forever.

When I was seventeen on March 26th, 2012, I decided that instead of storks, babies were carried to their families by dragons. How much more exciting would the answer be when your children asked “Where do babies come from?”.