Diary
Page Three
I nearly burnt my hand off today. Not physically off, but my endings and nerves are fucked. They’re fucked, just like my life.
Roxy learned how to tie her converse today. Spongebob, or whatever that yellow sponges’ name is, with his retarded pink friend, taught her. She said something about a Christmas bow, or whatever, I was too busy tending to my burnt endings. I hate being that way with her, so dismissive, but I can’t help it. I had been ignored by my own mother, until she killed herself, and my father couldn’t take care of me, he was too busy yelling at cats in trees. The only person who ever gave me attention was you, and Frank Iero, and that guy who looked like Tom Petty, who followed me around freshman year. You probably don’t remember him. He use to watch me in gym, he even caught me giving that HJ to Iero.
Your mom hasn’t called in 2 days, I’m worried. *Note the sarcasm Way. She hasn’t called to tell me to write, to remind me of my shattered dreams, to remind me that you’re coming home one day.
You’re never coming home.
Where are you, exactly? Like, how is the weather were you are? Seattle is still wet. It’ll pour on the 7th, that’s Roxy’s birthday, if you remember at all. What are the trees like? The grass? The plains? The sound of the wind? You’re a pretty good artist, you could draw me a picture right? I mean, you are an amazing artist, that’s why I was forced to move from New Jersey all the way to New York, to a rat infested apartment, to start ‘our’ dream.
“You can be a children’s author here, Valleri,” you had promised, “Everything is better in New York, Valleri.”
You promised Valleri.
I left my senile father, in a fucking home, to live with rats in New York. I even slept in a dirty, pissed stained bed with a monster. A monster with beautiful hazel eyes, a monster who promised me the world, who painted more than picutres, who gave me such sweet lines. Catholic school doesn’t prepare you for demons like this. All they teach you is to read the bible, be strict, be straight, be anything but abnormal. All I really learned was good drug connections, and how to write.
I should’ve married Frank Iero.
Roxy learned how to tie her converse today. Spongebob, or whatever that yellow sponges’ name is, with his retarded pink friend, taught her. She said something about a Christmas bow, or whatever, I was too busy tending to my burnt endings. I hate being that way with her, so dismissive, but I can’t help it. I had been ignored by my own mother, until she killed herself, and my father couldn’t take care of me, he was too busy yelling at cats in trees. The only person who ever gave me attention was you, and Frank Iero, and that guy who looked like Tom Petty, who followed me around freshman year. You probably don’t remember him. He use to watch me in gym, he even caught me giving that HJ to Iero.
Your mom hasn’t called in 2 days, I’m worried. *Note the sarcasm Way. She hasn’t called to tell me to write, to remind me of my shattered dreams, to remind me that you’re coming home one day.
You’re never coming home.
Where are you, exactly? Like, how is the weather were you are? Seattle is still wet. It’ll pour on the 7th, that’s Roxy’s birthday, if you remember at all. What are the trees like? The grass? The plains? The sound of the wind? You’re a pretty good artist, you could draw me a picture right? I mean, you are an amazing artist, that’s why I was forced to move from New Jersey all the way to New York, to a rat infested apartment, to start ‘our’ dream.
“You can be a children’s author here, Valleri,” you had promised, “Everything is better in New York, Valleri.”
You promised Valleri.
I left my senile father, in a fucking home, to live with rats in New York. I even slept in a dirty, pissed stained bed with a monster. A monster with beautiful hazel eyes, a monster who promised me the world, who painted more than picutres, who gave me such sweet lines. Catholic school doesn’t prepare you for demons like this. All they teach you is to read the bible, be strict, be straight, be anything but abnormal. All I really learned was good drug connections, and how to write.
I should’ve married Frank Iero.
♠ ♠ ♠
Ha ha HJ