There is no time to be alive right at this second. I am going on a trip. Any wishes? Any thing at all. I will do my best to include you in this whole---universal star wishing thing-fuck.
Best of luck, xxxxxx
do your own hair.
Friday, June 5, 2009
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.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Vacae.
i am vacating this honorary life. hmm. i am vacating sleep and making tea and manipulating bad dreams. i am now typing in lowercase. we have agreed that we will now use the toilet and be right back to finish what we started.
I like Clovis. A lot.
So its weird that--no its not. i might have said, its odd that i have full reign and no one to listen and all of every ounce of time in the world and believe it or not my body still works--yet i dont want to talk. too many decisions. it would be better, after all, to be tied up. definitely kidding. i won't give in so easily. FREEDOM AND JUSTICE. thats my motto.
i also liked that i woke up and my mom was alive. because i read about suicide and the warm blood thing really stuck with me. if only i would ace my history tests. then life would be boring, finally.
what to say. where to go from here, everyone. sometimes i like people and sometimes i forget that i like them. him. cough. retch.
there is a girl who seems capable of niceness but of course who am i to judge, but i think she doesnt like me anyway but i like her but that also must mean i am disgusted with her, but then again i get disgusted by plenty and i think thats a keyhole but anyway. so i am afraid of her. but would like to love her. but wont, for stupid reasoning. too lazy. gotta drink my tea. the only thing that makes me shit.
p is for publish. haha. its just, i dont have the anomosity. whoa. i mean--animosity, or anonymousity to describe these little freckles. im sorry, characteristics. i suck at failing.
lets just take everyone and it and thing that is metaphorical and turn them they literal. that is what is missing from this society. then no one will ever go hungry again. shit. metaphors.
cold feet.
I like Clovis. A lot.
So its weird that--no its not. i might have said, its odd that i have full reign and no one to listen and all of every ounce of time in the world and believe it or not my body still works--yet i dont want to talk. too many decisions. it would be better, after all, to be tied up. definitely kidding. i won't give in so easily. FREEDOM AND JUSTICE. thats my motto.
i also liked that i woke up and my mom was alive. because i read about suicide and the warm blood thing really stuck with me. if only i would ace my history tests. then life would be boring, finally.
what to say. where to go from here, everyone. sometimes i like people and sometimes i forget that i like them. him. cough. retch.
there is a girl who seems capable of niceness but of course who am i to judge, but i think she doesnt like me anyway but i like her but that also must mean i am disgusted with her, but then again i get disgusted by plenty and i think thats a keyhole but anyway. so i am afraid of her. but would like to love her. but wont, for stupid reasoning. too lazy. gotta drink my tea. the only thing that makes me shit.
p is for publish. haha. its just, i dont have the anomosity. whoa. i mean--animosity, or anonymousity to describe these little freckles. im sorry, characteristics. i suck at failing.
lets just take everyone and it and thing that is metaphorical and turn them they literal. that is what is missing from this society. then no one will ever go hungry again. shit. metaphors.
cold feet.
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