I was lonely. I drank a 40 oz., by my lonesome. I'm drunk. I look into the mirror.

I actually feel the sincere urge to say, "Id fuck myself."

Not myself, But someone with a more elusive personality. Makes sense?

I went on this chartoulette site but with just dudes. I was drunk. Judge all
You want. Do you want to know what I LITERALLY, did? Jerked off a tad, then I spoke to all
The younger kids about love. I told themhow they shouldn't jerk off for strangers. It's detrimental. I shoved my erect penis aside, & helped kids. I'm
Pretty sure I'm a fucking saint. I'm
Ready for the rapture. That, right there, is enough to send me
To heaven
Psh. Please. Y'all bitches think I'm going to hell? Check out these wings muddahfuckuhz!

I'm wearing a vintage yellow & green SnapBack that says "athletics." Was that all it took? Me showing the slightest form of hip & stereotypical masculinty? Or is it the grim bittersweet taste of olde English malt liquor?There's confidence. I washed my far with St. Ives Apricot Scrub. It's advised by many. I suggest trying it. It really scrubs your face.

I wish I got myself. Ciara, Kealy, Sam, Kiren, Alex, everyone. Everyone gets me, but me. I'm suck of complaining. I feel like Kenny. Fucking complaining. Ugh I'm not Kenny. I'm not Lizzie McGuire. I have better boobs.


My nipples are hypnotic. I've used them for good. But it's more fun to use them for evil. They keep me happy. Especially on bad workdays with Austin.

I wanna love myself. But. Do
I have to find myself, to have someone to love? Or do I have to love the person that I am, to find myself?

I script my life, to put it in some form of "order."

I feel like Daria, without the critical acclaim.

  It Was a Tad Bumpy

  You've been there before. You know how you go to a fair, & it's a cornucopia of all these booths, rides, & concessions. You usually buy all your tickets for the night, right before you start playing games & such. Then, at some point, you end up visiting one of the most dramatic & scariest rides in the park. But, it practically rapes you, in the ticket department. Eventually, you say "Come the fuck on! Thats what Im here for!" Why go to a tree, not pick an apple & not suck all the juices out? Sometimes they're worth it, sometimes it's not. Either way, I'm usually happy I got to ride it. 

  Towards the end of your stay, you only have like a couple tickets left. Of which is just enough to play a game, or ride one last ride. So, what do you do? I usually choose a kiddie ride. Just for kicks.

  He was that kiddie ride. I felt highly embarrassed just to wait in line. My friends, they, surprisingly, supported my cause. Hell! They down-right told me to go for it! So, most of my shame was lost. I wasn't expecting much. I didn't have hopes, or any pre-notions. I just wanted to make the best of these two tickets. But, I'll have to admit, it threw me on some twists & turns. I had a couple of symptoms & nerves, as i would, on other rides; My heart pace went up & down, a couple of times. My eyes were closed, & I tried to think of other things because of all the excitement. 


...I also got nauseous.


  But. Like all kiddie rides, it was short-lived. I started getting used to it, so I wasn't totally ready to jump off, (and the seat belts are confusing) so I needed assistance. But. It's okay. It was only two tickets. What did I expect?

  Time after time, I think about how surprisingly fun it was. It makes me want go at it, for a 2nd time. It'd be foolish, so, I'd never (sober-minded) ride it again. But, I'm kiiiiiinda glad I did. 

  Whether it be a guy with hair like a fucking Disney prince, or just a simple ride at the state fair. Savor it, while youre in the moment. Dont worry about onlookers. That's what the essence of summer is, experiencing the new, & not stressing about the outcome. 


Ps. The phrase "ride" could be interpreted in many, many ways. Take it as you please. 

There's No Alarm Clock. There's No Prince With Burt's Bees.

I sleep to ignore.
I sleep to dream.
I sleep to succeed.
I sleep to experience.
I sleep to smile.
I sleep to avoid eating.
I sleep to avoid boredom.
I sleep to avoid people.
I sleep to avoid life.

A lot of times-most of the time-I sleep, in hopes of never waking up. Almost always, actually.

I'm just ready to go.

Something is always upsetting me. But I never let it show, unless I want it to. I know "it's" bad, when my mom notices. Anytime my mom notices, then I'm doing something wrong.

I was happy for a while. I was sober. I was single. I was working.
Where'd all that go? I know it happened! It was like a month ago. Or was it all a dream?
It seems so vague.
Why can't the images I see when I close my eyes, ever come to life? Fuck the dreams. I'll even take my nightmares coming true. But. My life is just unfathomable. Nothing works. Nothing is ever good enough for me. Nothing is ever bad enough for me. I'm constantly in limbo of everything. I've been stricken with that curse, since birth.

Always have. Always will be?

Sleeping. Waiting...

Dear god. Want to have a blazing high orgasm?
Take a regular pack, maybe two. Therefore, you mentally prepare your mind for a great feast, but if you don't finish it, you're still satisfied! So. Open the pack. Or bag or foil? Iono. Whatevs. Then bite off all the edges, & if you had a large/stoned animal (which I do not condemn or condone), then feed it the crusts. Or save them for some weird cakeor cereal or some shit.

The best Lind are the ones with the mhighest sugar content. Things like sundae & s'mores. I think the vanilla sundae is really good!

It's like having a really great wedding cake, but with the perfect amount of lush icing, & fluffy cake!

I like Dead Like Me

She's Like Emma Stone, But, With Eyes That Aren't Polar To One Another

Tonight. I met a girl named cleopatra. She was in love with a cliche. A grade a cliche, at tar. She enjoyed the fine tunes f the family mindless and the y-chromosomes offspring. 

Please don't run the red light. 

You take pills. You're so fucking indie, you're so fucking outer limits, you're so fucking against the grain, you take pills to keep your heart beating, that usually keeps others hearts pacing. Bad ass.

You made me feel like a god for having a lucid dream, that lasted about 30 seconds. 

How'd you become so cool?
you're like from the Lower East Side or some shit. I feel like we're driving to eat Chinese, instead of my Stepford Wives-esque home. I feel like Ellen Page, with you. Actually. Or Jesse Eisenberg. Wait. More like Michael Cera. Eisenberg is a total tool. He played that Facebook cunt, too well. Michael Cera, Arrested Development. 

For the first time I feel like I fell in live with a chick, almost. I've felt it before, with my other friends. But not since Ciara. I forgot I had this feeling. And I'm so fucking lucky to have had it so many tines. 

So fycking hipster. 
-"so... What're we listening to?"
You- frightened rabbit
-... awesome
You- What? Whaaaat? WAAAAaaaaAaaHHHHTTT!?
-what?

I'm drunk. I spilled my guts, so much, it stained your car mat. Figuratively, speaking. (You said "go for it." Still not certain I agree.)  

You're a fucking a princess?

Jesse Eisenberg. What was I thinking?

No. She was like a goddess or dutchess?

Queen. 
Queen Furrycunt. 

2:48 - Ew

 I ate too fast. Then I blew chunks, in the toilet.
So much came out, splashed in my face.  

 You were at the party last night. I've never had such a, properly equal, bittersweet moment, when I saw your silhouette. I felt like those things, that they prop outside dealerships; The Wacky Inflatable Arm Flailing Tube Man, a la Family Guy. I was happy to see you, then pissed that you were probably gonna consume my night, then happy that you were there, then pissed that I couldn't mack on anyone else, then happy you were there.

 I tried to ignore you, but you called me out. Majorly. Again, with the inflatable emotions. Pissed you noticed me, but happy... that you noticed me. It was cute. You hugged me. Hard. Like. Really, really hard. I tried to let go, as I know the limits & hand positioning, of "guy hugs." You wouldn't let me. Your hug gets tighter. It was annoying. As I was face down in your chest, feeling your backbone, I realized, "It's what I wanted." I wanna be annoyed by him. Cus I have this void that needs to be filled.
 
 The night goes on. I persist to ignore you & mingle like I do. I miss the fuck out of parties. I always have a following, by the end of the night. I love Kealy. I really don't know what it is about her. I saw her not 5 days before, but, it didn't make me any less excited to see her. 

 Walking out Emory's door I see you & your best friend. I smile, acknowledging your presence, as politely & slightly as possible. Then...

You: Trevor! Are you gonna ignore me again?!

Me: ... Ha

You: *Grabbing me & holding me til it kiiiiiiinda fuckin hurt* Do you love me?

Me: ...Haha? *Then I attempt to walk away*

You: *Pulling harder* No, seriously! *We make eye contact* Do you really love me?

Me: ...I wouldn't lie to you, Cole. 

 I'm not quite sure if I said yes, or not. So I didn't put it in. But. That was such an intense moment, Im surprised I remember that much. 

 I look around & I start feeling an awkward vibe from the like 8 people that might've witnessed that. I try to walk away, but not without a slight struggle. Your left hand held tight to my left arm, then you let go. Inflatable man. Shit. 


What. Just. Happened?

I got to baby you to the car. You were a hot fucking mess. You pinky promised you'd text me when you got home. Then you asked if I'd text you, instead. I pinky promised I would. 


One of us held up to our end. 
 

Osama Died.

I found out through Facebook. I spent about an hour, looking at Tumblr posts about it.
There were a couple of memorable ones. One about, open, gays in the military & Osama being found, within months of eachother. Another, about how we shouldve cloned him, to massacre at every super bowl half-time. Yeah. The celebration of a death is uhhhh, very American.

 It's around 11:43, as I'm writing this. I just washed my face. My hair wreaks of the 8,000 cigarettes I've encountered, in the past 72+ hours. Kids these days. I watching this one chick smoke, & it dawned on me: Who the fuck are we? Why are we doing this? 
Seriously? Why are you smoking s cigarette? Do you really like it? I'm pretty sure the same girl I'm looking at, was the same girl, 6 years younger, choking out how disgusting it tasted. I just smell conformity, when someone smokes a puff, sometimes. It sounds judgmental, as the fuck. 

It's been a ridiculous week. Like. Ridiculous. I'll spill, later. 

My Stomach Hurts, Sometimes.

My heart hurts, sometimes. 
My head hurts, sometimes. 
My joints hurt, sometimes. 
My heart hurts, sometimes. 
I ignore em. 
I get through them. 
You've just got to realize, what pain is worth getting upset over. 
It's usually, never worth it, for me. 
This to, shall pass. 

When There's Nothing Left To Burn, You Have To Set Yourself on Fire

  I just cleaned my room. I purged it. I stuck my mammoth monkey hands, up it's anus, & pulled out all the goop. I was amazed by what I found. Something new. I've never seen my room so cleaned, yet so full. Virtually, everything has a place. A memory. A use. 

  I used to prefer cleaning other people's messes, than my own. Than my room, mainly. I think I've realized why. I woke up today, looked at the clean pile of clothes I've had for days. I just sat there. Wondered why it's taken me three days to make a dent into it. It's not because I can't do it. It's the exact opposite. It's because it's so easy. It's something that won't take long. It's something that just isn't important, then. Well thats how my mind viewed it. 

  No. That's not why. It's because it was easy. But not because it was a waste of time. I'm scared. What's gonna be left, when I clean it. Like. What do I do next. I panicked. I just had the most intense 15 second, mid-life crisis, in history. It all makes sense now.

  This is, one of the reasons, why I didn't apply myself in school. It's scary. It's either gonna be too difficult or too hard. And if it's too easy, what do I fucking do? That's why it's taken over a year forme to finish my GED. I've aced all my tests. I know I can. But, what do I do after? What do I get, other than a pat on the back. Regular university is NOT for me.

I'm almost done with my room, & I'm stuck. What the Hell do I do!? I have nothing to work on. Nothing to fix. 

  My room is only disgusting, when I'm going through a mood swing. It reflects my mood, completely. But, on a regular basis, I guess I just subconsciously let the clothes build. I pity my fucking self, & I didn't even know it. Cleaning up, I found a dollar in a pair of pants. I left it, intentionally. 

  Am I my own fucking mother?
  

My So-Called Life, Episode 4: "Father Figures"

 I'm watching My So-Called Life. 

  Some people don't know this about me, some people know this too well: I can't just do one thing, at a time. I don't feel "stimulated" enough, I guess. That's the answer I've settled with. So, I decided to do something while watching tv. I can't read a book. I can't listen to music. 

I can't masturbate. I won't masturbate. 

  I'll be honest. Usually, I'd masturbate. Then fall asleep. Forget about the whole situation. Avoid it all. But. Now that I'm in a relationship, I've got a whole new view (this show is wicked) on masturbation. Well, the "regular" sense of the word. 

  Sex is so ugh. I mean. Ugh. It's always been something mystique & magical. Growing up, i was a total teeny-bopper, sock hop, "going steady" kinda girl, about it. Bullshit. Bewllshitbewllshitbewllshit.
Maybe that fantasizing ruined it all for me. Because. It's ruined. I probably want to have sex, thrice a month. Seriously. 
It could be my diet. It could be stress. It could be inner childhood turmoil. 
Or. It could be me. 

  I liked sex when I was younger. Wayyyyy younger. Way. I was a wild child. My yester years were full of playing house, playing doctor, playing Playboy mansion. I experienced a lot. Never the full-fledge, though. I always loved the excitement of "Show You Mine, Show Me Yours." It was me, getting closer to knowing about myself. My sexuality. My life. I felt like I was living. I was doing things that Lizzie McGuire never dared to talk about. 

  But. Middle school was the last of it. My last experiment. Ever since then, I've had beautiful, enjoyable experiences with my boyfriend. But. It never, fully, live up to expectation. it's intense. It warm. It's vulnerable. It's love. (Its not him. I've felt that way before I started getting physical with him.) But. I guess I'm still haunted by the first time. How come it never lived up to expectation? Maybe it just ruined it all for me. I might be in a depression. Who knows. 

"The best sex I have is with myself, to be honest." – Amber Rose

  I couldn't have said it better, myself. It's quick. It's intense. It's not necessarily "the best." But, it's the least complicated. I don't like it anymore. But I need it. My body needs it. It's healthy. It relieves stress.

  Is it because of the convenience, or am I afraid of a connection with someone else? The vulnerability. Maybe I just know what I want, more than others. Maybe I'm just über selfish. Maybe I prefer my hand, more than others. Or maybe it's not really my hand. Maybe that's why I can't play with my cum-gun, without pornography. Because it's not really me. It's someone else's sexual experience, other than mine. Maybe I'm still ashamed of it all. That'll suck. I know I'm not perfect. I'll never be. But, I thought I was a lot closer to being perfect, than I truly am. 

  I used to eat when I was bored. I used to shine my Oscar, when I was bored. Now what?
I don't enjoy either, anymore. They're both chores. Something I see adults do. They seem to be okay. (I use that term, loosely.) So, I do them. 

  I used to prefer cleaning other people's rooms, houses, etc, over my own. Only God knows why. Well. I hope God does. 
Danny has that in common, with me. 
I'll start there. I have a pile of clothes, waiting to be organized. 
Come, my little Jews. I must organize you & hang you. Let's party like it's 1933!

I'm Part of This "Club."

Come join. Get a free toaster, & PTSD, indefinitely.
You're already a victim, I'm sure. I wish I could say it was exclusive. But , we all know it's not. None of the members know of the other members, until it's too late. Jesus. You might not know the club even exists. But, trust. It resonates through your everyday life. It has probably affected your life, even if its in just minute ways. Your friend didnt see you tonight, because of The Club.

When I first realized how many "sisters" & "brothers", I had, it was a rude awakening. Slightly, bittersweet. Knowing how many members there were, but, they are all so dear to me, now. I feel honored & ridiculous, knowing that I'm part of such a guild. We have tricks to our trades. We mastered the art of being deceived. We are the greatest of craftsmen. I've seen this club break the strongest of it's members, including myself.

Thanks for everything. I've learned all the lessons, needed, from The Club.

To all of you, who are still members: despite the emotional eggshells you walk on, despite the Italian influence, this isn't the mafia. You can leave whenever you want. It's just up to you, whether it's worth it, or not.


For me, it was.

Sincerely, former member, Jefferson Trevor.

Ps. You're nothing like a God. Not to me. Not anymore.

Kate Moss < Ethiopian Children < Me

I survived 48 hours, on two of these, alone. Plus, a handful of white cheddar popcorn. Literally. 
Don't call it an eating disorder. By all means, my eating is very much in order. I'm above anorexia. I've watched too many teen dramas, to not know better.

My face has gotten smaller. My complexion looks a wrapped Ferrero Rocher. Ferrero Rocher. Dear god. I spoke too soon. I could've compared my skin to a numerous amount of things; The sun, Amber, a rapper's teeth. You know. Non-food, golden, materials. Sunflowers. Pound cake. No. 

Kyle XY just played "Naive" by The Kooks. I love Kyle XY. It's so cute. Matt Dallas' facial expressions melt me. Alex can watch Lost, all he wants. I love my campy shows. 

My lack of eating has made me in, less, control of my emotions. I'm jealous of Brittany Murphy. She had the right idea. My acting isn't a great as it should be, because I have almost complete control of my emotions. So much control, I shut them off. I'm so amazing at faking laughter around my insolent superior, at work, that I believe it, myself. I hate it. I can't shut them back on. Well. Not at my own will. Sometimes, they just splurt out, at the worst times. 
Anywho. I watched a brilliant film, & it brought tears to the brim. The brim, only. :/
I'll post more about it later. But trust me. Whether you appreciate it, the way I did, or not, it'll pull a reaction out of you. Or at least, kick & scream for your attention, til the final shot.

Peace & carrots. 

A Little Peek, Under The Skirt

Here's some tidbits about meh :D

I live in the, moderately, dirty south. (Louisiana.) It's culture & it's ignorance have been greatly influential in my growth. With that said, I can't wait to blow this Popsicle stand. I'm art. Art is the talent of creation. I can't go a full 24 hours without creating something; Whether it be lyrics, random ramblings on paper, an outfit, or even just painting my nails. It's not forced, it just happens. I'll scratch my name into the fabric of this world, I promise you that. It's in my cards. I like, what I like. You can't pigeon-hole me. Which annoys me, just as much as everyone else. I'm a SUCKER for chest piece tattoos. I'm obsessed with hair removal, & fire. I earn my paychecks from Levi's. I couldn't afford the tags the prices come on. Untraveled territory, or/with untraveled souls, are when I create essential experiences; Learn the most meaningful lessons. I believe religion should be based off of personal experience, not, solely, tradition. I could take pictures of the sky until my eye is congruent to a Saltine. I like when my friends hand me shots. I love when my doctor gives me shots. 
 

I adore: 
The one.
Meeting new people.
Hearing their life stories. Uniqueness. Malt liquor. Black girls. Guys exhaling smoke. Live music. 4CHAN. Cannabis. Female emcees. The smell of cigarette smoke. Brunettes. Beards. Brunettes with beards. Therefore, I have massive fetish for dudes who resemble jesus & hobos.

Disclaimer:
This was copy & pasted from various/other profiles of mine.

Sex, Drugs, & WhatdaFAWKS!?

 I'm reading a book. Soak that in, for a spell. This isn't a dream. The Devil isn't wearing a Snuggie & holding a hot Starbucks espresso. [Are those still accurate references?] Hoes, I'm like totes maturing. A little less than a week & I will have been 19, for a month. No lie. The grey "pubs" are sprouting as we speak. My ballsack are all Taylor Hicks-ed out. [Again, the relevance of my jokes should be in question.] 
 
 I'm embarking my journey through the mind of Chuck Klosterman. Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs. For your information, I read about one book, a year. I read at the most pivotal points in my life, I've noticed. I Am Not Myself These Days, mirrored my life as a dual-rolled being. The memoir, not only, brought me out of my shell, but, it also made me realize what my shell was made up. It showed me the girth, the brittleness, the moments it was used, & why it existed in the first place. It began my thirst for a bigger life, & quenched my thirst, I once had, for venturing in porn. Yes, I know. I know what you're thinking, "I'd pay to see that."

 Junior year, in GA, a new friend gave me a just as influential book. A Child Called, "It". Beautiful, tragic, just numbing story. A story I could've/shouldn't have related to. Golly. That was a bleak year.

 On with the present, Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs. 4 pages in, I usually tell if I'll love a book. This is a keeper. So much to cover, but I'll keep it Fun Size. This nigguh is reading the XY side of my brain. That's all the thoughts that are "masculine", "guy", Fred Flinstone-esque, you know, dumb. But, parts I appreciate, dearly. 
 
 I grew up through television. I wouldn't be anything close to myself, without this box o' doom. It's my portal away. It's my reminder that it could be better, & worse. I learned more about sexuality, via Danny from Real World: New Orleans. Here's him, nekhed. No, really. Not only did I say my first word, by repeating Wheel of Fortune, but, I learned how to read, by putting the closed captioned settings on. You may laugh, but, I became the smartest kid in my class, because of it. I was, constantly, forced to read Junie B. Jones to my class, at the end of the day. [That bitch needs to be whooped.] Mother-Donal-Duck-Fucking-Goose could touch my skills. 

 Television is my vice, & my bible. Klosterman speaks of how the biggest threat tv was on America, is the "fake love", it portrays. Everyone compares, & fails to achieve, themselves to the Rosses & Rachels of the media. No one, who isn't taking pills [prescribed or otherwise], would hold a jukebox above their head, outside a girls window. Unless, you're at a bootcamp, & it's playing something horrible to get you out I'd bed. I suggest the whole library of Justin Bieber's non-duet library. [Google a quote by Mos Def, about the Bieber, for quick hilarity.] 

 Anyways. This romanticism is unobtainable. Unless, for those of us who want to maintain a stable life. I'm a victim. I hate Anne Rice, with a fiery burn. I went through months of being compared to a less-hormonal Edward Cullen. I don't even want to read a book by that religion-Anne-Heche bitchtard. Ugh. Luckily, that issue is cold & dead, like this white lady lying next to me. By the way, does anyone want a fancy writing pen? It looks pretty nice. The only thing is that is says "Property of A.R." But, the owner doesn't need it, where she's going. Jussayin. 

 Basically, you have to look at relationships as a unique experience. Completely new to the world. Which is what a great relationship is. It's new, adventurous, work. I never tried to compare my relationship with Alex, to anyone. I might have seen similarities, but, never compare. Because, no person thinks exactly like you. No one really knows your struggle. Because we all have gone through certain things, certain formulas that have created this personal life. And although we may have similar story lines, & views, & personality traits, we are not the same. [...I am a Martian. Sorry. I couldn't resist.] If you & a friend have the same relationship issues, it's okay to give/get advice. But, process the outcome. Process your relationship in those terms. It might not always work out. 
I never compared Alex, to Marco & Dylan. Ron & Kim. To Ciara & Alan. Because, you get yourself in that mind-set. But, surprise surprise, you aren't those people. You screw yourself. Which was something he did. He made himself upset because I wasn't a silk shirt wearing, pale as paper, vampire. Yeah, I had work to do, but I am a great boyfriend. I will not, choose not to be whomever he had this mind-set I was. I'm me. You're you. Let's just start from there. 

I'm gonna finish reading this book. I just has to post this, before I put it off, another 5 more years. 

Peace and carrots.