My Bi-Bi-Curiousity Is Killing Me
My Bi-bi-curiosity Is Killing Me
Dear Diary,
Things were, like, SO tragic today, you know? Sissy and I were hanging out on the bench minding our own business, just painting our nails - guys have nails too. Why can't people accept guys who paint their fingernails? I'm so random sometimes because I'm so totally going to off on a tangent now about Nine Inch Nails. They were overrated. I think. It's like, hey we're a bunch of narky dudes with nothing better to do than form a band. Oh my God, I showed Sissy my new riff today and he totally went for it. Like, and he honestly said this, that I could be the next Jimmy Paige for our band Rainer Reason. Whoever that is, right? - when Mr Football and his minions came over and tried to take it over.
And I was all like, "I wish your parents all had AIDS. Because then, uh, you'd have it too."
And Mr Football was like, "How cutting! Hey, can I borrow your scissors?"
And I laughed because he was only embarrassing himself. Because, like, who cuts themselves with scissors anymore, right?
Only thing is, I have such a crush on Mr Football. I think I need to see a shrink about it or something because he is so not my type. I swear sometimes I am so masochistic I will kill myself with just the power of my self-loathing. He's not considerate at all and he totally gets out of bed on the 'right' side. But, you know, he's traditional. And, that's, you know, deep. In his own way. You can tell he has so many thoughts that he can't say them all. And that's why only the mean ones get out.
But then, I'm a to - otal bitch too, so it's like a match made in Heaven. Which is totally where we're going tonight. Sissy's friend Iggy Popper said he can totally get us in with our fake IDs. Everyone gets me there, you know? You don't have to conform to what everyone else is doing. Everyone there is so trendy it hurts. And even though everybody just sits around not saying anything and redoing their fringes every second it's just the place to be, you know? People there are artists. Besides, you can tell eighty nine per cent of everything you need to know about a person by how much attention they pay to their appearance.
Mr Football's zombie friend called me and Sissy fags which is, you know, so misinformed. We are bi-bi-curious. As if I would get with Sissy anyway. He's never even had any life experience. Me, I'm really cultured, you know? I own over fifty retro CDs - from the eighties. Sissy has LPs. That tells you everything to know.
Sissy is such a pussy as well. He actually asked me if I had any painkillers earlier on. No shame or anything. And I was all like, "Pain makes you stronger, so use it, you sociopath. Think of all the artist dying to be in that pain so they can use it for their thinspiration." Sissy would totally be lost without me to guide him through life, I swear. I give him ways to express himself. Which is so cool of me when I'm right in the middle of my own, intrapersonal demise. Because, the truth is, things are so terrible I could just curl up and ask Gaia to grow me a noose of out vines. I like to be creative.
So many people are so unoriginal when they write their suicide notes. They're all lame like, 'Nobody got me so I got myself". But that's because they're all programmes from the same mainstream machine. I am a dying breed of genius. Like the guy from The Catcher In The Rye. I've never read it but I could so get into that.
Sissy even started crying after we left the bench because one of Mr Football's friends tripped him up and chucked his bag onto the roof. It was so embarrassing. It's like, all the months of trying to tell him not to let them see him cry or in pain or suffering in the dark were for nothing! My and my talents are so unappreciated here.
Oh and get this tragedy, right? Quentin has written another poem for me and Sissy to analyse. Also, he totally wants to swap his meds with me again. He claims that Paxil makes him sluggish and he wants to trade me for mine. Paxil has, like, no side effects on me - my body rejects all form of prescribed medication. I am not a number, you know? There's no magic panacea that can cure me, you know?
Well, except for this totally hot new pill called reboxetine. God, it even sounds sexy - it apparently can increase orgasm intensity. That's what I call a happy pill. There are maybe one or two cases where it has the opposite effect like loss of libido (yeah, hilarious yeah? SO not going to be a problem I have to face!) or pain on ejaculation. Maybe those crybabies should just be glad it's happening, right? And all this side effect stuff is just so doctor's don't have to accept responsibility if something goes horribly wrong. What I don't get is why other people don't get that side effects are, like, about a balance in life; force of nature. Opposites. Antithesis.
It was all for nothing though. My whole life just fell apart the day my parents said I couldn't have it. Just because the side effects are a tiny bit excessive. Supposedly, you can get dry mouth, constipation, headaches, drowsiness, dizziness, excessive sweating and insomnia. Like I don't lie awake all night anyway tortured by my dreams? And how bad is dry mouth? I get that from smoking my grass anyways. God, my parents are so overreacting. And they call me melodramatic.
You can get it in the US - Americans are just so lucky. Actually, maybe not even there? Maybe the Rainforest has it.
Oh my God, this total Barney Rubble reject was taking the piss out of my accent today. He was all, "Hey, man, you're English, why do you have an American accent?"
And I was all, "Hello, it's ironic? Because America is full of, like, sadists and political monsters and I am expressing my views on it by mocking them because I am, like, so against that." There's too much pain there. I am too much of an emotion ball to even step foot on a plane to America - I totally couldn't handle the vibe.
Anyway, so I gave Quentin the Prozac my parents gave me because they can't be bothered to try and identify with me. My parents suck. I wish they were never born. Then I wouldn't have to be brought up in this sham of a family, you know? Where they all pretend to be so happy and interested in one another and then people at school have the nerve to say I have a fake personality. Just because I like to base my mood on my myspace picture, you know? They're all clueless. They don't get it.
They're all high on endorphins and episodes of Lost. When they don't even know the meaning of the word.
Quentin read me and Sissy his new poetry today. He even wrote me my own copy - what a fag.
Acorn, acorn be I, where's my truth? I fell off the branch and there goes my youth. Mascarading as a porcupine. I'd Set Myself On Fire To Make You Mine.
Satisfied are they who walk by light. By fire, by roof, they stalk, so bright-
So certain that they are the ones.
We are forgotten toys.
Terrorised girls and boys.
They hate us because we are everything they're not.
Chosen, forgotten, left to rot.
Star in a frozen sky . . .
I tore the rest up in protest of the travesty against poetry. I mean, Sylvia Plath would totally be turning in her grave.
He's such a poser, the way he copies us (well me, not Sissy. Sissy is a droid.) is so pathetic. It's like his life has no meaning unless he attaches himself onto what he wants to be. Which is, like, just me. He can't even go shopping without asking my opinion. So I told him to get bent and then me and Sissy went and tried to buy some cigarettes from Amanda from behind the Yew trees and she is such a bitch because they're are five pence more than they were yesterday. And I know she's only getting them from her brother who got them in Tenerife - two pounds for thirty packets. Amanda is so transparent. Even though she's three years older, she has the hots for me. It's embarrassing.
Diary, I don't know what I'd do if I didn't you to confide in. Or my guitar. And my signed Dashboard Confessional poster. Or my iPod. Or my Nintendo 64 because that is a classic, you know? And my Jack patches on my school bag. And the spare Jack Skellington For President badges I have in the side pocket in case the Jack ones fall off.
I am so lost. Maybe I should get myself tested for something online. Like diabetes. I so
have something like that wrong with me.
Things were, like, SO tragic today, you know? Sissy and I were hanging out on the bench minding our own business, just painting our nails - guys have nails too. Why can't people accept guys who paint their fingernails? I'm so random sometimes because I'm so totally going to off on a tangent now about Nine Inch Nails. They were overrated. I think. It's like, hey we're a bunch of narky dudes with nothing better to do than form a band. Oh my God, I showed Sissy my new riff today and he totally went for it. Like, and he honestly said this, that I could be the next Jimmy Paige for our band Rainer Reason. Whoever that is, right? - when Mr Football and his minions came over and tried to take it over.
And I was all like, "I wish your parents all had AIDS. Because then, uh, you'd have it too."
And Mr Football was like, "How cutting! Hey, can I borrow your scissors?"
And I laughed because he was only embarrassing himself. Because, like, who cuts themselves with scissors anymore, right?
Only thing is, I have such a crush on Mr Football. I think I need to see a shrink about it or something because he is so not my type. I swear sometimes I am so masochistic I will kill myself with just the power of my self-loathing. He's not considerate at all and he totally gets out of bed on the 'right' side. But, you know, he's traditional. And, that's, you know, deep. In his own way. You can tell he has so many thoughts that he can't say them all. And that's why only the mean ones get out.
But then, I'm a to - otal bitch too, so it's like a match made in Heaven. Which is totally where we're going tonight. Sissy's friend Iggy Popper said he can totally get us in with our fake IDs. Everyone gets me there, you know? You don't have to conform to what everyone else is doing. Everyone there is so trendy it hurts. And even though everybody just sits around not saying anything and redoing their fringes every second it's just the place to be, you know? People there are artists. Besides, you can tell eighty nine per cent of everything you need to know about a person by how much attention they pay to their appearance.
Mr Football's zombie friend called me and Sissy fags which is, you know, so misinformed. We are bi-bi-curious. As if I would get with Sissy anyway. He's never even had any life experience. Me, I'm really cultured, you know? I own over fifty retro CDs - from the eighties. Sissy has LPs. That tells you everything to know.
Sissy is such a pussy as well. He actually asked me if I had any painkillers earlier on. No shame or anything. And I was all like, "Pain makes you stronger, so use it, you sociopath. Think of all the artist dying to be in that pain so they can use it for their thinspiration." Sissy would totally be lost without me to guide him through life, I swear. I give him ways to express himself. Which is so cool of me when I'm right in the middle of my own, intrapersonal demise. Because, the truth is, things are so terrible I could just curl up and ask Gaia to grow me a noose of out vines. I like to be creative.
So many people are so unoriginal when they write their suicide notes. They're all lame like, 'Nobody got me so I got myself". But that's because they're all programmes from the same mainstream machine. I am a dying breed of genius. Like the guy from The Catcher In The Rye. I've never read it but I could so get into that.
Sissy even started crying after we left the bench because one of Mr Football's friends tripped him up and chucked his bag onto the roof. It was so embarrassing. It's like, all the months of trying to tell him not to let them see him cry or in pain or suffering in the dark were for nothing! My and my talents are so unappreciated here.
Oh and get this tragedy, right? Quentin has written another poem for me and Sissy to analyse. Also, he totally wants to swap his meds with me again. He claims that Paxil makes him sluggish and he wants to trade me for mine. Paxil has, like, no side effects on me - my body rejects all form of prescribed medication. I am not a number, you know? There's no magic panacea that can cure me, you know?
Well, except for this totally hot new pill called reboxetine. God, it even sounds sexy - it apparently can increase orgasm intensity. That's what I call a happy pill. There are maybe one or two cases where it has the opposite effect like loss of libido (yeah, hilarious yeah? SO not going to be a problem I have to face!) or pain on ejaculation. Maybe those crybabies should just be glad it's happening, right? And all this side effect stuff is just so doctor's don't have to accept responsibility if something goes horribly wrong. What I don't get is why other people don't get that side effects are, like, about a balance in life; force of nature. Opposites. Antithesis.
It was all for nothing though. My whole life just fell apart the day my parents said I couldn't have it. Just because the side effects are a tiny bit excessive. Supposedly, you can get dry mouth, constipation, headaches, drowsiness, dizziness, excessive sweating and insomnia. Like I don't lie awake all night anyway tortured by my dreams? And how bad is dry mouth? I get that from smoking my grass anyways. God, my parents are so overreacting. And they call me melodramatic.
You can get it in the US - Americans are just so lucky. Actually, maybe not even there? Maybe the Rainforest has it.
Oh my God, this total Barney Rubble reject was taking the piss out of my accent today. He was all, "Hey, man, you're English, why do you have an American accent?"
And I was all, "Hello, it's ironic? Because America is full of, like, sadists and political monsters and I am expressing my views on it by mocking them because I am, like, so against that." There's too much pain there. I am too much of an emotion ball to even step foot on a plane to America - I totally couldn't handle the vibe.
Anyway, so I gave Quentin the Prozac my parents gave me because they can't be bothered to try and identify with me. My parents suck. I wish they were never born. Then I wouldn't have to be brought up in this sham of a family, you know? Where they all pretend to be so happy and interested in one another and then people at school have the nerve to say I have a fake personality. Just because I like to base my mood on my myspace picture, you know? They're all clueless. They don't get it.
They're all high on endorphins and episodes of Lost. When they don't even know the meaning of the word.
Quentin read me and Sissy his new poetry today. He even wrote me my own copy - what a fag.
Acorn, acorn be I, where's my truth? I fell off the branch and there goes my youth. Mascarading as a porcupine. I'd Set Myself On Fire To Make You Mine.
Satisfied are they who walk by light. By fire, by roof, they stalk, so bright-
So certain that they are the ones.
We are forgotten toys.
Terrorised girls and boys.
They hate us because we are everything they're not.
Chosen, forgotten, left to rot.
Star in a frozen sky . . .
I tore the rest up in protest of the travesty against poetry. I mean, Sylvia Plath would totally be turning in her grave.
He's such a poser, the way he copies us (well me, not Sissy. Sissy is a droid.) is so pathetic. It's like his life has no meaning unless he attaches himself onto what he wants to be. Which is, like, just me. He can't even go shopping without asking my opinion. So I told him to get bent and then me and Sissy went and tried to buy some cigarettes from Amanda from behind the Yew trees and she is such a bitch because they're are five pence more than they were yesterday. And I know she's only getting them from her brother who got them in Tenerife - two pounds for thirty packets. Amanda is so transparent. Even though she's three years older, she has the hots for me. It's embarrassing.
Diary, I don't know what I'd do if I didn't you to confide in. Or my guitar. And my signed Dashboard Confessional poster. Or my iPod. Or my Nintendo 64 because that is a classic, you know? And my Jack patches on my school bag. And the spare Jack Skellington For President badges I have in the side pocket in case the Jack ones fall off.
I am so lost. Maybe I should get myself tested for something online. Like diabetes. I so
have something like that wrong with me.
♠ ♠ ♠
This is purely meant for amusement. So, if you read it, hope you found parts of it faintly amusing.