disordereddisordereddisordereddisordereddisordereddisordered. Thoughts on failure? Completely cleshe. Really close minded. I'd rather be fucked than be worthy.
I have an eating disorder.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
I feel so safe here. I can't blog on Myspace, because then It is Only For the attention; everyone knows me and no one notices. So I am an intellectual, on google. It's classy. It's like Amanda Palmer. I almost wrote everything is like Amanda Palmer--I suppose that is my honest feeling toward her.
So far, completely and utterly unremarkable. I had this idea that I would stop eating breakfast and start drinking wine, but I can't stop eating breakfast. I'm breaking up all over. On the telephone. I have suddenly become unattractive; like I am in love and also physically hungry, and for some reason this makes me want to unexist. Not sure about the process of unexisting, but the not existing is what I am wanting; so then why would I type that? To get attention. I tend to find one theory and hold onto it like lifesaver without a rope. Fucking. Good metahporical use. Maybe soon I'll be as good as Marya Hornbacher. I am afraid I am not emotional enough. What is this, a blog of self-awareness? It's like I am speaking. Maybe. A little better on the other side, definitley. Should I not be speaking? Should I be writing? Would that make me angsty enough to actually be attracted to myself? Do I talk about myself too often? That is unattractive. I could talk about schoolwork. It started doing itself today. Maybe I should masturbate.
What self-indifference. What annoyingly skeptical wit. What big gigantic holes you have. What big tears you have. You see? I keep spiraling off the same spiral. Should I help this? What will come will come. And you will have to meet it when it does. (These were Harry Potter's words; I can't remember exactly how Hagrid said it.)
I dont know what to do. I dont not know what to do. Somebody told me today--two people in a row--that I was--fuck me. I am speaking about myself. I am sixteen years old. I should be at work. I should be working on that critically inspiring and giving and (what now?) history project. Common term, history project. Why the fuck does it have to be that way? It sounds so American. So sit-com American like Lizzie Mcguire. Okay, maybe that's 'my issue'. Always wondered what exactly it was. That is why we say it and not we. Fuck. I love to fuck.
I have come to solve all of my problems through touching other people. Lack of masturbation? Maybe. Maybe self exasperation. On a less hollow level than it takes to have an eating disorder, though. I do not know what to do. How to speak. How to react. I have been given alot of complimets and I dont scowl at that, no matter how intellectual I am or have been or would like to be or even think I am. Fucking (nevermind.) Too influential for words. Funny how we die liike that. Funny how I could be a bureacrat. Fuck that. Long live Marya Hornbacher and Amanda Palmer.
(I've never understood it; does that mean I will murder them? They are bound to die? I meant it with endearment.)
Love, Emma Rae Bradley
I dont feel okay with this. Is it bad to post this? Am I annoying to you right now? You can quit reading my fucking blog, you asshole.
I am beginning to think I mean everything that I say.
So far, completely and utterly unremarkable. I had this idea that I would stop eating breakfast and start drinking wine, but I can't stop eating breakfast. I'm breaking up all over. On the telephone. I have suddenly become unattractive; like I am in love and also physically hungry, and for some reason this makes me want to unexist. Not sure about the process of unexisting, but the not existing is what I am wanting; so then why would I type that? To get attention. I tend to find one theory and hold onto it like lifesaver without a rope. Fucking. Good metahporical use. Maybe soon I'll be as good as Marya Hornbacher. I am afraid I am not emotional enough. What is this, a blog of self-awareness? It's like I am speaking. Maybe. A little better on the other side, definitley. Should I not be speaking? Should I be writing? Would that make me angsty enough to actually be attracted to myself? Do I talk about myself too often? That is unattractive. I could talk about schoolwork. It started doing itself today. Maybe I should masturbate.
What self-indifference. What annoyingly skeptical wit. What big gigantic holes you have. What big tears you have. You see? I keep spiraling off the same spiral. Should I help this? What will come will come. And you will have to meet it when it does. (These were Harry Potter's words; I can't remember exactly how Hagrid said it.)
I dont know what to do. I dont not know what to do. Somebody told me today--two people in a row--that I was--fuck me. I am speaking about myself. I am sixteen years old. I should be at work. I should be working on that critically inspiring and giving and (what now?) history project. Common term, history project. Why the fuck does it have to be that way? It sounds so American. So sit-com American like Lizzie Mcguire. Okay, maybe that's 'my issue'. Always wondered what exactly it was. That is why we say it and not we. Fuck. I love to fuck.
I have come to solve all of my problems through touching other people. Lack of masturbation? Maybe. Maybe self exasperation. On a less hollow level than it takes to have an eating disorder, though. I do not know what to do. How to speak. How to react. I have been given alot of complimets and I dont scowl at that, no matter how intellectual I am or have been or would like to be or even think I am. Fucking (nevermind.) Too influential for words. Funny how we die liike that. Funny how I could be a bureacrat. Fuck that. Long live Marya Hornbacher and Amanda Palmer.
(I've never understood it; does that mean I will murder them? They are bound to die? I meant it with endearment.)
Love, Emma Rae Bradley
I dont feel okay with this. Is it bad to post this? Am I annoying to you right now? You can quit reading my fucking blog, you asshole.
I am beginning to think I mean everything that I say.
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