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Wednesday, October 15th, 2003

Posted by:whatwegavetofly.
Time:2:57 pm.
Mood: groggy.

I got this brainiac idea this morning to start writing in a composition book like I did with my friends in middle school. I would have to write from ninth grade on, every single thought that went through my mind about them. It got me thinking on how I was a good friend, and kind of a peacemaker, although I, like everyone else was a back-stabbing bitch and we all talked all kinds of shit about each other behind each other’s backs.
We used to write in a book, and we’d have composition notes about fights we were having, how (hott) Gavin Rossdale was, what we were going to wear on Friday night at the fucking mall, and so on. I could express again, my exact reasons for why I disowned all these friends in tenth and eleventh grade.
Courtney broke my heart, Jesse’s laugh made me cringe because I knew he was never laughing with me, Rachel moved away, Amber stayed a mall-rat, and Linda was a big turkey. For real.
I would say how I really enjoyed being Renee’s only friend, and she mine, because our friendship was the first honest one I’d ever had. I would include everything about my job at the movie theatre, my job at Rocky Run, the people I met there, befriending Courtney again, meeting Chris, my first kiss, the situations that led me to losing my virgininity, smoking marijuana for the first time, going to Broadcasting School, getting fired from Rocky Run, living in a drug house, the rocky times at Apartment I (so much to include), the boyfriends, the various other jobs I have had since the ‘Run, meeting the kids at Apartment C through Mikey T, meeting the grotto kids through the Apartment C kids, dating Chris, the job at Friday’s...and everything in between.
I wouldn’t miss a single detail.

But then I wonder, would anyone even read it, and write their own stories? Would I ever see it again, filled with the things that went on when I wasn’t around? Do these people find me as important to them as I do with them? Eh. So I’ll just write about it on my livejournal in hopes that they’ll find it, read it and respond.
Comments: Read 2 orAdd Your Own.

Thursday, October 9th, 2003

Subject:I will NOT!! shut up!
Posted by:vampireyui.
Time:3:19 pm.
So later this morning I was talking to one of my friends and my teacher told me to be quit because the 10min are not up yet. I told him no one was praying so why should I be quite. And I don't think anyone in the whole school is praying and if they are they should of done that shit at fucking Home!
And if the are that busy in their lives they need to interrupt my time I spend in school so they can pray. They must not be that religious in the first place. The whole class clapped and paraded. It was great my teacher was pissed and tried to write me up!

All I am saying is.Well if thats the case. Why school? Why not we give them ten min every hour at the grocery store or at MC Donalds? Since people need To pray so much lets give them ten mins everywhere. In the mall at the stadium. Cause we sure don't want to disturb them with all our noise so lets give them some silence. Oh and who are we to schedual thier prair to only ten mins? We should just stop talking completely in public, stop making disturbing noises so they can pray whenever they want to. Oh yes this is the way~..
Comments: Add Your Own.

Tuesday, October 7th, 2003

Subject:Oh Jesus.
Posted by:whatwegavetofly.
Time:1:32 pm.
Mood: enthralled.
My mom has a new boyfriend.

Ring the wedding bells, hurry.

Something old, something new.
Something borrowed, something wicked red...
Comments: Add Your Own.

Sunday, October 5th, 2003

Subject:just a hello
Posted by:tracesofsilver.
Time:10:37 am.
i'm new, and i love the description of this community. sounds perfect for me, and i'm sure i'll be thinking out loud a lot soon. :)
Comments: Add Your Own.

Saturday, September 27th, 2003

Posted by:tstrange.
Time:7:21 pm.
Mood: bored.

fuck, i hate being sick..
im so friggen bored.. someone help me..
ts@elysiumcollective.com ... add me on msn.. talk shit to me..i dont care..
just take up my time.. please.

JUST LOOK!! look how bored i am!Collapse )
Comments: Add Your Own.

Sunday, September 14th, 2003

Subject:Alone foreva!!
Posted by:vampireyui.
Time:2:27 pm.
I hate going from club to club and getting these sex craving men. Why don't they all just die?
Comments: Read 7 orAdd Your Own.

Saturday, September 13th, 2003

Subject:entry from 13th august
Posted by:pop_lock.
Time:10:30 am.
habitual and meaningless

Prague reminds me of a dream i once had with giant white giraffes running through dense light green parks.

I dont really know what im doing in this ancient urban landscape. people are so cold

I hope I am able to eat and be alright

I feel like i dont have any context or my context or element exists in tandem with myself
wherever i am.. i fit because i am there.

this is my life, not some break from reality.

Sascha is completely real to me, not like Vladamyr.

I still lie to myself about what went on between us (vlada and i) and Im sure i will for the rest of my life, because that is the only way i can justify to myself the past few months.. and how I let someone abuse me like that.

it was all bullshit and fake and filled with FAKE HAPPINESS.. (drugs alcohol etc.)
and it has taken me so long to move beyond all that, but here i am looking at golden spires and lush gardens behind prague castle, which is undoubtedly the most beautiful city in the entire world... and the thing is.. i no longer have any desire to share any of this with him or anyone.

soon he will be on the other side of an ocean, and our indifference to each other will be pretty much mutual.
Comments: Read 4 orAdd Your Own.

Monday, September 8th, 2003

Subject:Makin me act a fool!
Posted by:vampireyui.
Time:7:35 pm.
Mood: bitchy.
Ok So my friend basically said,
Oh gus I don't know if it will be cool for you to go to my party.
You might act to gay for my firends.

What the hell is that shit!?
I didn't evan want to go in the first place!
She acts like her raves and parties are the fcking gates of heaven.
She needs to get a reality check and it's bout to be me.
And it get no reala!
Comments: Add Your Own.

Thursday, September 4th, 2003

Subject:I fucking swear!
Posted by:vampireyui.
Time:4:10 pm.
Mood: annoyed.
I can't write any of my hopes and dreams in my livejournal.
Wana know why? Ok thought so.

Anytime i do they never come true. Never! I think thier must be like a voodoo doctor reading my journal and he fucks every thing up. Well he needs death.

So I wore a snorks shirt at school tuesday. (NO I AM NOT A GIRL)
It was small and ya ya blah blah. So like everyone was all like whats with the shirt and what are you wearing!/ Things I hate to hear! I'm just like is it that big of a deal you fuck-ups. Nope sure is not. I'ts just cuzz I live in Texas thats all.
Comments: Read 2 orAdd Your Own.

Posted by:vampireyui.
Time:3:57 pm.
Mood: artistic.
Finally I feel free from people who don't see me.
People who call me ugly from people who fucking call me hot.
Who am I? Who am I is who I want to be.
Does that make it far for you to be me?
Shit! how should I know?

Hi I am new. And so is whatever that was. I just felt like writing anything.
Comments: Add Your Own.

Friday, June 13th, 2003

Subject:i need to think out loud, sorry for any brains i hurt
Posted by:titaniatiara.
Time:12:14 am.
i find it curious
some blunderous
blabbering wanting of some-every-thing
thoughtlessness touched emptyness
to make that hollow sound
like that sound your stomach makes
just before you realise you havent eaten in 3 days
and that pain you get just before you dont feel the pain anymore
so i fight and swim though so much softness
it begins to hurt again
like you
and them
when you spoke
on the road
on my feet
forgot the cars
were chacing me
i have a desire to find something happy enough to hold
and squeeze so hard that it pops and spills
its somehow a comforting thought
having happieness in your arms
bleeding to death
and im not sorry for what you caused
i have no reason to feel anything
for you
Comments: Add Your Own.

Wednesday, June 4th, 2003

Posted by:dr_hawkins.
Time:11:47 pm.
Should things like THIS be banned from livejournal?
Comments: Add Your Own.

Sunday, May 25th, 2003

Subject:This is a story I wrote for my english class, let me know what you think
Posted by:hail_hail.
Time:2:44 pm.
Lucky 7's Magic Robo Dance with Mr. Brownstone and MaryCollapse )
Comments: Add Your Own.

Tuesday, May 20th, 2003

Posted by:ex_gatto.
Time:8:43 pm.
you'd cry because of my toothache.
rubber gloves and sugical steel
drilling like love's first puncture
of the hymen.
Comments: Add Your Own.

Sunday, June 1st, 2003

Subject:Ennui -High School English Paper-
Posted by:arper4.
Time:2:04 pm.
Mood: amused.

In my well worn life, I have found myself many times in the clutches of psychological institutions. Whether my mind be in the hands of a kindly psychologist, sitting nimbly across from me, pad and pen in hand, jotting down faceless notes which understand nothing and give pretense to my true being; or in the throes of a mental institution, pacing the halls, muttering, delusional, grimacing at the hands of the masked nurse aides, their trite smiles speak volumes of discontent and needing to be elsewhere, I find myself in a continual state of immutable depression.

As to the notion of the degree to which a mental institution will give help and care to those truly in need, I am unsure about anything of that sort aside from my own experience. In my experience within the community of psychological institutions and practices, I have found that the key to sound mental health is combined into two necessary motions. The first is very simple, yet for the individual in the labyrinth of an erroneous mind it may prove impossible; the individual must have a drive to cultivate himself into a socially acceptable human being. And the second motion is to find a fitting institution, or private practice, with which to engross yourself and which will help nurse your wilted synapses back to fruitful health and virility.

The institution must be a place of smiles and lies, but these lies cannot be perceived by the faltering psyches of the condemned. When I was committed to the r-wing at Rochester General Hospital, oddly called G-1 for short, the aides and nurses had lists that were predetermined by case and rank of the symptoms. These lists determined whom the nurses could converse with and whom they could treat. If you needed something trivial, say a glass of water, or another shot of Trazadone, and you asked a kindly old nurse who didn’t have you on her list, her face would twist into a ragged ball of discontent, and she would drawl at you sleepily, “Go find your own nurse dear…” For this, I found quite a many days sleeping on the command of a list, eating on command of a list, pumping my veins full of denigrating medication that made one feel as though he was care and trouble free at the expense of not being able to move ones hand to scratch an itch. But this treatment, this “total institution” does in and of itself, help a human release himself from the bellows of Cocytus. It gives a clear definition to the meaning of ones existence, the need for life that we all share, and another alternative to the willful dream of suicide. A life simply of content and ease.

In a private practice, one must needs to find a suitable environment. For all individuals who experience this, there is a marked contrast between those psychologists of caring and inner beauty, and those in their practice because they couldn’t become psychiatrists and make the $150,000 a year necessary to pull ahead their drug habits just a little bit further. The “bad” psychologist will welcome you into her office with a stiff wave of the hand, a calloused smile and a false nod signaling that it is time for you to sit in the chair. She will ask you of days passed and days recent, all the while, jotting illegible notes and whispering a constant hum-drum mantra of, “Mmhmm, Mmhmm, Mmhmm…Oh really? Tell me a bit more about that…Mmhmm, Mmhmm…” She will turn her head from side to side; sly glances are made at the clock to check the time. A hidden scowl manifests at the realization that more than twenty minutes are left in the session. One will carry on about mindless things, attempting to fill time and space with words, dead and scathing, enveloping the entire psyche of the man speaking, but only to those who listen intently and intelligently. And the bad psychologist, she listens half assed, and relies on 500 question tests to judge ones mental stability and virility.

A stinging, constant, monotone trill of an alarm signaling the end of the session is the bad psychologists cue to stand up stiffly, thank you for your time and effort, hand you the yellow scraps of paper that she has taken notes on, because you can see in her neck-less, convoluted yet amorous gaze, that she truly has a desire for you to do well. With a nod and a feigned smile, one will end the engagement; the bad psychologist will then overtake you walking quickly behind shuffling you out the door. She will about face, sweater struggling to keep up with her speed, and the door behind her will close so quietly the sound is deafening.

As I push through the glass-paneled door, and let myself become overtaken by the crisp and stiff wind, pulling the woolen scarf and jacket closer, I feel a sort of discontent, and worry at my plight. As a hole inside my heart has overcome the need to be whole. “Is this all that can be?” I wonder in bewilderment, “is this all that can come of institutionalized psychology?” I find myself, staggering to my waiting automobile, weeping for myself, weeping for my mother, and weeping for my depression; but most of all, weeping for the doctor who has no idea that we feel this way. We fatalists, we rag burners born posthumously, we artist at the end and beginning of our game understand the plight of our contented paper waver, our neck-less plaster faced esoteric moron who has the title of Doctus Philosophiae engraved in paper stone on her white washed walls. She is a fake, a phony, and living up to the expectation we have given her, a moron, a fool, worthy of nothing but crucifixion and death.

We have no wish to cultivate ourselves into acceptable human beings, living as our cracking psychological guru; we live and love as artists, insane men who have nothing to give to the world but words of wisdom and pure discontent. So I say to all who read this, find no use in the psychological institution. Give it nothing but a call to renovation and renewal. Tell them not to moderate our lives and attempt to make us whole again when they are stripping of us the essence of our true being, our true selves. I distrust anyone who wishes to indoctrinate me, my love and my wisdom into a cultural norm of moderacy and contentment. Sadly, though, it seems most will fly the train southward and end up in nowhereville with white picket fences and middle class lives. And the ultimate end of psychology? To give this meaningless action, that of moderate life, meaning and standing. But I say to you wilted followers of a begotten system of stench and woe; simply, bullshit in, bullshit out.
Comments: Add Your Own.

Subject:Description of A-hall
Posted by:arper4.
Time:2:03 pm.
Mood: amused.
(I wrote this in very simple language to capture the effects of the medication I was on in the hospital)

A-hall, my pacing track. Up, up up up the hall I walk, blazing the flat, linoleum trail to the same place I was five minutes ago. Five minutes is all it takes to walk the A-hall.

Well, for a normal walker, with a steady, confident, decidedly human gait, it would take them no more than thirty seconds to traverse the linoleum span.

But the all seem to be so hurried. Doctors with pens in hand, white coats, disinterested faces.

I wonder if they walk into their homes like that; walking quickly passed their wives, up the stairs to the office, not a word to the children. Setting themselves down quickly and beginning again the papers and charts which were being completed by the same doctor a mere thirty minutes ago.

The doctor was thinking of his work on the way out of his office; he locked the door with the charts on his mind. He walks nimbly to his car; sits down on the trim, keen leather, turn the car on, and drive home. On the expressway, he will have the radio blaring NPR, speaking of the state of our health care systems and other assorted medical jargon, but it is only background noise. He has the notes and papers and patients on his mind; and the Christmas bonus he will receive, the labor of his work and the good he is doing for all. Always striving towards a point, but where does this point end? When will it be reached? Will the doctor be lying on his deathbed wanting just one more chart to file? One more report to write? What a decrepit life indeed.

It takes me five minutes because I like to enjoy where I am at the time. Lining the hall are rooms, twenty rooms in all, ten on each side, a friend in each room but mine. Maybe I feel like talking to a friend, I have many friends here, many many friends. I might notice the slight curve in the big nurses station window, smudged with the fingerprints of other patients like me. I might even sit down on the floor in the hall. Not in the middle mind you, that would be very rude; I sit, back to the wall, always, with my legs curled up and arms clenching my knees.

While I am walking, noticing my feet slowly stepping forward, forward, forward, I hear the faint click of the speakers above me. Someone in the nurse’s station, which is at the other end of the hall, near the big wooden door, locked always, has an announcement for all of the patients. The nurse speaks slowly; “All patients, group therapy will be meeting in ten minutes in the community room. Group therapy will be meeting at eight O’ clock in ten minutes in the community room, thank you.” Ah, group therapy, my least favorite part of the day. But if I want to leave this place, which I’m sure I do, I think, I will have to go to as many meetings as I possibly can. The doctors told me, that if I want to get better, I need to start getting up at a reasonable hour and participate in all group activities. Though it is reasonable, it is hardly desirable.

And getting up isn’t so easy. They give me these pills at ten thirty every night, before we say goodnight, and retire to our chambers, that keep me under, if I choose to use them of course, through the morning breakfast. Being on these drugs doesn’t make me tired, they make me apathetic and indecisive. So I choose to sleep, not wanting more.

Such vile drugs these are, to strip a man of his humanity and make him an unfeeling drone. But the doctors say they keep me alive and sane. Who am I to argue with those educated men of the psychiatric and psychological communities? I am simply a patient, nothing more; an object of their fancy, their work so to speak.

I scratch my scalp, and begin to trudge down the linoleum tightrope. I shaved my head a few days before I came. It was actually the eve of new years, of last year, two thousand and two, which thirty minutes before the dropping of the ball, I was shaving the last bits of stubble from my scalp, readying myself for the big moment, which I have experienced almost every year for the past eighteen years.

Now, mind you, I had no intention of coming to this sterile place. I had a mind to kill myself, to end my temporal suffering. But alas, this was thwarted by three kindly policemen who made a house call two days after the dawning of our new year.

I awoke on this botched morn with a clear conscience, ready to do the deed. I told my beautiful mother of the plan, thinking she would have agreed with me, but instead she picked up the phone and dialed the police. The blue clad policemen with guns opened my door; I heard them come in. They asked me if I had any weapons, which is an odd thing to ask a suicidal person. If I had any weapon with which to sneak out of my final trap door, I would have used them without hesitation on myself before they had come. All I had within my grasp was a bottle of pills, ripe for the swallowing.

They gave me my clothes, a nice gesture I would assume, and led me upstairs. I didn’t resist because in an odd way the men were quite intimidating, what with their guns and all.

We exchanged small talk in the kitchen; the machismo of the policemen filtered through by my keen eyes was a sickening experience. These men here, standing before a suicidal madman, me, telling me that life is too short and I have too much to live for. What a farce! These policemen are truly saying that they have too much to live for and they are only doing their jobs, protecting the lives of the innocent. But, I am far from innocent, far from innocent indeed. But, in my lack of innocence, could I be far too innocent? These questions ring out as nothingness upon the bow of a fleeting vessel into the sun. They mean very little here at this time, because I want to die, and die well.

And through all of that, here I am, at the far end of the hall. From here, I can see the large wooden door, small and meek under the distance. I have a few slow minutes to pass before I have to suffer the torment of the insane, delving into my own mind and giving myself to a group. But, I must get ‘better,’ I must do what the doctor ordered me to do. It is for my own better good. Maybe someday, I will get to go home, but until that time, I will be here, sitting in this life of nothingness, intoxicated on help and medication, until my heart turns black, and I am finally ready to go home, broken and dead.
Comments: Add Your Own.

Monday, April 28th, 2003

Posted by:jainasolo2097.
Time:9:12 pm.
Mood: confused.
I just joined here so whatever. Here's a poem I wrote.

Oh and I joined because I can't resist dictionaries. I have three. And one is so big you need to put it on a stand to read it. Yeah.

the knowledge of more
is better than attaining it
the anticipation burns
more than your skin ever could
the electrifying air is a cushion between us
your breath is a whisper across my hair
like an unspoken promise
An abassador of the distance
My eyes seize yours and I feel your soul
all without a touch
Comments: Read 4 orAdd Your Own.

Tuesday, April 22nd, 2003

Posted by:tstrange.
Time:8:39 pm.
Mood: morose.
stretched tight and distended,
engorged, cracking and slightly burnt.
swollen obscuring definition.
shiny beadlike eyes peer out from within the bulge,
reflecting their fear of losing their place.
shape is removed, replaced with inconsistant swells
of animosity and pain.

spirit diminishes.
becoming nothing more than a cell to further aid
the pulse of our deluded existance.
performing routines, in a trance,
only to wake and realise i have completed my tasks blindly.
brilliance becomes stagnant, slipping into a comatic redream.

thanks for listening.
Comments: Add Your Own.

Thursday, April 17th, 2003

Posted by:eatmywallsocks.
Time:1:27 am.
i wanted to write about the war in iraq. because i feel like i should becuse it is all everyone ever talks about these days. but i can't and i won't and that makes me happy. because emma involved in anything political in anyway = bad news. the end. new subject.

a poem:

they said i didn't fit it.
and i wasn't one of them.
not anymore.
fuck you.
fuck you and your uniform society.
your picture of that perfect all american teenager.
that ideal girl.
fuck you anre you identicle clothing, and identicle laughter, and identicle vacant expressions.
it's enough.
time to give up on the norm.
time to wake up
Comments: Read 1 orAdd Your Own.

Wednesday, April 9th, 2003

Subject:wrote this today for a poetry contest
Posted by:trixiegirl.
Time:6:45 pm.
Mood: calm.

The days stretch on, boundlessly elastic;
Wake, wait, eat, wait, think, wait, sleep,
Every day a hundred aimless hours.
Trapped in this invisible prison I’ve created for myself,
Painfully idle and alone,
Repeating one word, rolling it over and over my tongue,
Passing one word through my lips, for all of time:
Your Name.
Can this sweet word alleviate the fiery longing I feel in my heart?
Comments: Read 6 orAdd Your Own.

LiveJournal for make more sounds.

View:User Info.
You're looking at 20 entries, after skipping 20 newer ones. Missed some entries? Then simply jump back 20 entries orforward 20 entries.