Memento Mori

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Seattle, Washington, United States
Professional Darling

Tuesday, August 31, 2010

Untitled


. . . And there are days like these

Where the rain runs bleakly down the window.

Outside it pours against me, blows my hair into my face.

Grey skies remind me of woolen skirts and being in your arms.

Such a wonderful thing, for such a depressing colour.

The seas mirror the skies

And their white tipped perfection is welcoming and warm.

Salty, soaking into wool.

Heavy goes the day into thoughts that still remain

And here I am thinking of how easy it would be

To die within the span of my lunch break.

Such simple minutes that eliminate such painful years

Thursday, August 26, 2010

Ramblings of a Mind Muddled with Madness

+ I fear that no one will notice, after I do it. That the illusion will finally be broken and everything will be cast into the light, and not the dark that prefer. + I know that everyone feels differently and while I do my best to be attentive, I feel like it is thrown back in my face. + I can listen to the girl inside, and today I have. + I have probably been spared once or twice over the pain and ridicule that my brain possesses and then mocks me with. +

+ Everyday is a battle with my head. + Everyday is my growing concern that I am living my last days. + Everyday I try to give myself a reason to keep going, to pick up where I left off the day before. + Not everyday is a descent into madness.+ Some days are even filled with just a little light. +

+ I am not my disease and everyday it gets harder and harder to say that with a straight face. +

+ I love you all.+

Thursday, August 12, 2010

Practice What You Preach

"Now sure, some of them *were* hers and she had every right to take those. However, some of them *I* purchased. The remainder were a birthday present from her - which, I might add, marked the *only* occasion in the nearly 5 years I was with her that she actually gave me anything for my birthday. So that's double fun! Only one present in 5 years, and she later stole it back."

The above quote is from an entry my maybe-one-day-ex-husband made about a year ago. He's referencing old vintage postcards. First of all, none of the ones that I took were purchased by him. Secondly, I think that taking the ones I gave him for his birthday was all but fair. You see what he does fail to mention in his post is the fact that there were collaborative birthday presents with his mom, oh and even though it wasn't on a birthday, how about that fucking TK STORMTROOPER ARMOUR and all its accoutrements that cost both of us well over $700. Perhaps the fucking XBOX 360 I put on my credit card can also be a testament to everything I stole. Well if we're going to get all tantrummy, how about all those XBOX games that I bought for me to play that I don't have in my possession? Go ahead and stamp your feet little mamma's boy but my piece de resistance is the entire year that you spent my money on videogames, action figures, comic books, movies and other assorted shit. I went off to work to pay the motherfucking rent, on my feet all day and you stayed at home pretending to look for work, spending my money and complaining when I asked you to wash the dishes. Don't use your "depression" as an excuse and then fucking slag on me for being on medication you hypocrite.


Sunday, August 1, 2010

Twilight, Starlight

Sometimes there are days when the despair overtakes me. Walking down Denny earlier this evening I felt this intense desire to throw myself into traffic. How does one overtake that feeling? How does one rage against it? Yet here I am, in my apartment, sitting on my bed, behind a laptop typing this. I'm sure I could get poetic, but I think Thomas said it best.



Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rage at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.