caithream | (no subject)

<-- GIP. Me and my crappy Paintshop. Guess who's been waiting for Photoshop for almost three months now? Geez. I wish my aunt would take a hint.

So I go to Deborah's Xanga journal. Why do I even bother? Example:

I feel like getting out of this hell hole. I want to leave. I don't care anymore..I can't care anymore. There's nothing for me here. I'm tired of being bitter, every single day. I feel like I'm living in a prision. The only times I'm tolerable are when I'm out of this house...and when my father isn't home. He's not a father to me. He never has been: "I tell you what to do, and if it doesn't make sense..don't open your mouth. Oh, and no crying because your whole life is falling around you. No emotions, no telling of your opinion or feelings about a subject. And you're not allowed to breathe. And no, I'm not giving Alex another chance, ever. No..he's not allowed to join us for dinner. I don't care if your mother loves the idea. No...stop breathing! Ok..you're grounded."

Bastard.

I want to die.

I wish I had somewhere to go.

And I wish it were raining. When it's raining, no one can see your tears.

fuck me. I'm such a little emo bitch.

It get's me so freaking depressed. I hate it. I hate her now. She's going to do something. Something drastic. I know it. I can feel it. It's like a balloon filled with too much air... it's liable to explode any second now. God, why? When did she suddenly turn into a suicidal wretch? She used to actually be happy and not morbid. I can't understand this. I can't comprehend the fact that people are depressed all the time. And maybe that's my fault. It pisses me off when people are like, "Ohhh, I must die. The world hates me. Wah! I'm so unloved. Let me go listen to my emo/hardcore/punk/goth in my dark room and think wonderous thoughts of suicide. Oh to be bonded with Satan himself!" Excuse me while I go jab firey red pokers in my ears. Maybe because I'm not there with her 24/7 (thank God) but I don't see her dad (my uncle) doing that kind of stuff. Sometimes, I swear, she's a drama queen. She honestly makes things out to be much worse than they actually are so she can have an excuse to be punk/goth. "I must be angry at the world! No, I must!" That's one of the reasons why I slipped away from that kind of crap. It was just too much work and hassle to make myself out to be angry all the time and someone I'm totally not. I'll listen to xhardcorex if I want to, dammit. I don't have to be some punk-ass biatch who wears all black, safety pins, and "dark as my soul" eyeliner just to listen to it. Or maybe when you make that pact with Mr. Satan you have to. I wish I could talk to her and actually tell her that I hate what she's doing. I don't know if I can. I love her and I don't want her to do anything that she'll regret later on... if there is a later on. I had a dream one time that I went over to her house and it was night, and her mom (my aunt) comes out and I say, "Where's Deborah?" and she replies, "Oh, Deborah's dead. She commited suicide last night." I remember even in my dream I had this awful, horrible feeling. Everything felt like it was slipping away; like my vision in the dream became shattered, little shards of nothing. And it hurt; oh God, it hurt. I almost woke up crying, shouting out for Deborah. I love her. I don't want to loose her. I don't know what to do anymore...

On a happier note, I finished my Spanish report. Today is Dad's 49th birthday and yesterday we sang the "Day Before your Birthday" song in Dutch to him. Heh! I love that. We're going out to dinner tonight.

On another much much much happy note, my story seems to be coming off quite well. Hoo-rah! Veddy happy.