liar liar boxers on fire.

you know you're pretty much fucked when you started crying while singing "you are my sunshine" to yourself in attempt to make yourself feel better, while on the phone.

like i was telling lavanya on msn,

growing up is terrifying. it is extremely terrifying, so terrifying that they should put it on fear factor. i hate growing up ; i want to run away to never ever land or whatisitcalled forever and never return to the real world. growing up is one of my biggest fears, plus the responsibility that comes along with it in one huge ugly baggage that isn't the louis vuitton trunk i lust after.

i want to live life as a modern day gypsy, working in a crystal shop and read tarot cards for a living.


and yes, lavanya, i would love to live on the moon with you. we could sit in one of the craters, look back down on earth and have a good laugh. we both know we'll have fun, even if there's silence. we could jump from crater to crater, catch stars to decorate our hair with, and scream at the top of our lungs without getting screamed back at.

shit happens okay ? shit just happens.

shut the fuck up please.
i hate you, and we know the feeling's mutual.

i'll leave as soon as i have the capability to do so
don't you worry.

worst come to worst,
i'll just end my fucking life if it means bringing a fucking smile to your fucking face.

BRB OFF TO COMMIT SUICIDE NOW.

you see, the thing about me is i write. i don't just write - i convey, i express. i pour out my soul, my emotions onto ink and paper. in this case, typewritten words on the internet. it is an outlet. writing relieves me, it saves me. it turns the stench of blood, sweat and tears into the fragrances of flowers and expensive perfumes. it changes the coarse ropes that bind and choke me, to strands of silk that softly caresses my bruised and battered skin, my injured shell. i hear the voices of faeries and elves, playing with me in another realm and my pen becomes the sword that saves them from the evil of my dark self. it's either cheap, blue-colored ballpoints or expensive fountain pens which rich black ink flows from, nothing else. since i am poor, until i finally manage to own a fountain pen, my weapon of self-protection shall be the blue ballpoint i am contented with. i am tempted to write with a quill though i have no idea where to find and get one.

i write, to save me, from me.

i want to write you a book. i want to write you a story. i want to tell you whimsical tales drawn out of my heart in colored strings. i want to lull you to comfort and safety shores with the sound of my words. my voice, they keep you sane. the voices, the whispers i speak into your ear, your heart, your soul. deep into you, nestling within your core - the centre of your universe ; the balance in your treacherous mind, the calm before and after the storm, forever. i want to preserve it all forever, and the only way to do so is to write them down. in ink, in graphite, in charcoal, in markers, in crayons, in paint, in oil, in chalk. on paper, on wood, on stone, on plastic, on cement, on concrete, on bricks, on metal, on cloth. turn the crisp beauty of untouched cleanness into a beautiful mess. to not mar it but transform it into a miracle.