I'll catch up when I have time.
Fuck work.


God damn it.
I always do this when I visit my parents.

And I've thought about why I never consider wasting food.
It's money.
And it's brought down from my family.
My mother.
When we were poor.

Hate food.
Waste it.
Save it for later.

And I'm using my period as an excuse.
And their money for chocolate cake.

And these abs that I found.
From working out.

Work out.
Work out.

Begonia comes to visit. 
Hitch hikes from the City.
Designer drug.
Tom and Bryan.
Chris and Sophia.

I've gotten Begonia speechless from my psychiatric babble.

And I over think.
I over talk.
And shaking.
It fades into a drastic come down.
Of heart attacks and exhaustion.
But no sleep.
No sleep.

It was weird doing that drug around him.
And him being on that drug.
It was like he felt the same drug she felt.

Every time I see him with big pupils.
I feel like.
Some kind of connection. 
Because I have the memory.
The frozen image of the first vomit of the night.
At the Dead Weather.
And he lifted his head and pulled his hair back.
And it was the first time I ever saw him with those pupils.
But I always feel like it's us.

I don't know how to explain it.

I sang with them.

He hugged me after the gays left and the other two went upstairs.
And hugged me for the longest time.
And on that drug.
I had no soul.
And I couldn't feel any love.
I knew I loved him.
But I couldn't feel it.

And we layed there.
And it was fucking horrible.

And it was an experience we all survived.

I don't think my mind worries about my relationship anymore.
Or more myself in the relationship.

I don't know what I worry about anymore.

Well, my weight as always, but nothing like before.
Maybe almost like a normal person worries about their weight.

Because I normally control my weight like a normal person.
And this vomiting has started to change my mind.

But I'm just going to go home and go to the gym every day.

He threw away my toothbrushes.
After asking me to throw them away for quite some time.
And I would laugh it off.
But I found them in the trash can the other day.

And it.
Made me.
Really happy.

And I've been thinking about how my life has changed since I met him.
And I got a job.
What the fuck.
He's turned my life into exactly what I wanted it to be.
But what I didn't think I could ever achieve.
And I guess it's because he didn't baby me.
Like they all do.
But don't simply make me worthless, either.
And I guess it's because I chose him.

Rather than the people who chose me.

Went shopping today.
Size two pants.
Size xs shirt.

School is going to kill me.
Or stress me out for a week or two.

I don't know what to do if I'm not going to have anything to hate about myself anymore.
I need some kind of game.
I'll just become job obsessed.
And muscle.
And grades.


Oh, I'm going to be perfecttttttt.
But in the most perfect way.


I guess it's okay being here.
I just look at it from the new perspective that I have.
I got a job selling make up.

I sang in front of fucking everyone.
And that wasn't even my voice.
I was scared.
And it was some girl's voice.
And it was plain.

And every time I think of it, I freak out.

But it's not a big deal in reality.


I know that you couldn't come.
And that's okay.
But telling my parents that.
And hearing the sigh.
And the fact that it's the night before.
And that we had to makes plans work for your schedule.
And then all of a sudden twist plans according to their schedule.
And already having anxiety.
And that feeling of the drug.
Took me back.
And I can't go to Sacramento.
I can't stay in the same neighbourhood.
That I was train raped.
Kind of.
And the kitchen.
When I came home from prostituting that weekend.
And I thought I was the same girl as before.
But I hid by the island.
And I bawled.

And I can see myself crying there.
And the living room.
With cocaine.

My bedroom.
With the sex.
And the depression.

The gazebo I stood on.
And punched myself.

When I stayed in bed for three days after the fbi.
The car crash.

I can't go.

And it would have been easier.
If he didn't fuck me over.

And I'm upset.
And he asks while in front of everyone.
So I don't want to talk.
And then he punishes me for being upset.
When I'm freaking out about these memories.

I need nurturing.
But he doesn't ever see that.

I'm confused.


Fuck eating. Hahhaha.


This morning he told me that when he used to not trust me; he'd have this fear that he'd drive up and find me giving some guy head in a car.

So, by saying that, does that mean he trusts me now?

I think he does.
Not fully.
But for the most part.

And he was on the toilet.
And asked if I wanted to get married in some little sarcastic joke.
And I just ignored it.
I don't know.
Neither of us believe in marriage.
But I think if he asked, I would.
Because I don't want anything other than this.
And we've lived together basically since we met.

And maybe there's something better out there.
But I don't want it.

And what would be better?
Maybe someone who sucks a little more than he does.
Just to make me feel better about myself.

And it would save on car insurance and taxes.

I would most likely wake to an Argentine woman with a sharp knife.
Yelling a rolling accent of anger.

I'm fat again.
I'm half way back to who I used to be.
I've been going to the mother fucking gym.
Every mother fucking day.

I have to be what I want to be.
I can't become what I hate.

Or I'll never leave the house.

I know this journal I keep is just this thing for myself.
But I wonder if any randoms read it.
Or why.

I'm going to start selling weed.
I have it set up now.

Renting a room to Bryan's friend.
Five hundred in my pocket.
But zero privacy.
And I can't really be a bitch.
And what about sex.

That's another reason why I'd marry him.
I think he's the only person that I can have sex with.
The way.
That it is.

If I knew that sex with love was like that.
I wouldn't have had sex before I met him.

But then I wouldn't be experienced for shit.
I don't exactly know if I'm even good anymore.
I can't deep throat.
I can't open my mouth wide enough.
And I don't have that drunken cocaine ecstasy courage like I used to.
And I care what he thinks.

But I'm a lot thinner.
I fucked it up right now.

He's been calling me pretty often.
And I think it's because he knows I've gained fat.
And doesn't want me to feel bad.
And start vomiting or eating less again.

A couple months ago, I though it couldn't get anymore than it is now.
With love.
But it's getting more and more.
And, I guess love has levels.
And they can go up and down.

I always assumed it's either love or isn't love.
But it varies in intensity.

My photographer friend in Sf is creating a book.

I'm involving myself.

I think.
I'm going to slowly ween myself off of food again.
Maybe not how it was before.
Not so obsessive.
I just want to have no hunger.
I don't want the psychological aspect.

I think that if I get drunk,
I might be able to sing around him.

But I still can't sing.
But I sing along to music around him.
And it took a long time to feel comfortable doing that.

I'ts annoying how long it takes me to feel safe.
And it's only with specific things.

Tonight is my first night alone in the apartment.

Getting high.



Darkened town roads.
And the night is cold.
We have black hair.
With a blue stripe on the side.
Begin to walk to Bog Lots.
To find a black man with purps.
But a car pulls up.
He knows her.
I ask for some trees.
And he offers me the blow.
I smirk and understand.
It was the first time I heard and spoke "yayo".
Ten dollars.
And we drive to the house.
I memorize every turn and street name.
Because fifteen and sixteen isn't safe around 30.
We can't come in the garage.
Because we're smoking cigarettes.
Bendson and Hedges menthols.
Because we had ten cartons from my deceased grandmother.
Walk inside to fine a taped off section.
To the left of the cars.
Simple garage things.
Walk into the "Room".
One wall made of plaster.
The rest of blankets.
One Bed.
Four chairs.
An attractive seventeen year old boy.
Chopped up on a cd case.
And I stare at a man's nose.
Which is swollen on one side.
They've said it eats your cartilage.
And his right nostril instilled the taboo of this drug.
Rolled up bills let it slither into my brain.
And trickle down my spine.
My right eye cries.
And I go numb.
We rub it in our gums.
And suck on our fingers.
She doesn't want to do it.
But I don't want to do it alone.
And she falls into my troubled life.
The boy dropped out of high school.
To become a Cocaine dealer.
I talk him into going to college.
Or believe for one night that he will.
Living in his grandparent's garage.
Four by ten feet.
She and I talk.
About why we have sex without care.
And our fathers.
And our future.
They pass around a clear glass bong.
Neither of us join.
We walk out the room to leave.
And I get lost in a poster of two green frogs.
With red eyes.
I swear it's alive.
I swear it's crawling out.
We get in the car.
And only one seat belt can be buckled in.
I let her have it.
Because I would die for her.
She was worth more than me.
After a month of hello.
I pay attention to the way they go.
And I can feel at ease once we reach Fair Oaks Boulevard.
They drop us odd on the corner of Grant.
4:30 in the morning.
A cop speed by and make a u-turn.
He pulls into her drive way.
And I stare at the lights.
Imagining a circus.
Within a second, I had a panic attack.
And accepted the fact I was going to jail.
And my parents would know.
I walked up to the car.
And they asked if we ran away from a foster center.
We replied, "No".
And we were offended to be thought of as thirteen year olds.
Walk into her house.
She sleeps on the couch.
I sleep on the rug.
Our first night together at her place.
We go to school in the morning.