“You take a born-pretty girl and you dress her up in pretty things, curl her pretty hair and she becomes empty, vacuous. The only thing she can claim as a self identity is her one dimensional beauty. But take a pretty girl and throw some shit on her, and make her fight her way out of it and she’ll grow to be other-worldly radiant and a force to be reckoned with.”— Beautiful and Depraved
If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you; If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too; If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies, Or, being hated, don’t give way to hating, And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;
If you can dream - and not make dreams your master; If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim; If you can meet with triumph and disaster And treat those two impostors just the same; If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to broken, And stoop and build ‘em up with wornout tools;
If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breath a word about your loss; If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on";
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch; If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you; If all men count with you, but none too much; If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run - Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it, And - which is more - you’ll be a Man my son!
Yes mom, my eye is swollen. No dad, I was just crying. Peter gave me a ride home. At fucking 10 o’clock, because I’m too lame to even stay at a party for a couple hours.
Not like I care.
I don’t care about the people getting drunk behind the house. I don’t care about the people who were faking being drunk behind the house, attracting the attention from the few girls who actually fell for their incessant shit, commiserating with them, because in the back of their minds, they also have put the mask of a drunken beast on their own faces and created the same facade in the midst of those whom might possibly believe them, or so they wish. I don’t care about the people who think they’re cool because they’re dressed in a super short skirt, smoking a cigarette like they’re the only fucking chicks in the world who do that, even though a few neighborhoods over, girls much older are wearing shorter skirts and smoking whole packs of cigarettes and are being picked up by old sweaty businessmen who have horrible lives behind desks and are being constantly nagged by their stick thin wives, who spend a fortune of beauty products so that they can look younger than they are and never put out for their poor bastard old men. I don’t care about the people who are dancing in one part of the house, to horrible rap music and too horrible to care. I don’t care about the people who came to the house already high and are just sitting on those cushion-less couches, too baked to even give a fuck about the madness that surrounds them, for they are in the eye of the storm, a storm that I don’t give a fuck about.
While the monkeys all dance in their stupid bliss, I sit here lying to my parents about why my eyes are swollen and why I came home early.
Is is pathetic that I’m not even high or drunk? I tell them I was crying because Peter made me cry when the truth is, I’m too stupid to handle a social life. In the words of Allen Ginsberg, tonight ‘I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness..’ But they are not the best minds of my generation because the best minds of my generation have already left this planet, this solar system, this universe. They have far surpassed what hypocrisy I have experienced tonight.
I sit here, eyes swollen because tears were poured over the sheer dream that I once had, a dream where for once in my life I was the girl who wasn’t standing in the shadow of her best friend. The girl who was unique in her own way, who could have been beautiful, smart, artistic, humorous, and more importantly, noticeable by the general population of the institution we beings call High School.
Sure, I can sit here and blog about all of the shit that comes my way, but who actually reads this? Who actually gives a damn? Because the gods know that I don’t give a damn about anyone else’s blog, unless they have something worthy to reblog.
And I want to cry.
And I want to cry.
And I want to cry.
Shhh..little girl dry your tears. The curtain has closed on this part of your life. In seconds you will be transported to the world that you are welcomed in. But for this small part of your life, just keep dreaming. Stay in your dream world until the audience has left and all you can do is dance in an empty concert hall, with Cat Stevens narrating your sorrow.
There is a place where the sidewalk ends And before the street begins, And there the grass grows soft and white, And there the sun burns crimson bright, And there the moon-bird rests from his flight To cool in the peppermint wind.
Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black And the dark street winds and bends. Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow, And watch where the chalk-white arrows go To the place where the sidewalk ends.
Yes we’ll walk with a walk that is measured and slow, And we’ll go where the chalk-white arrows go, For the children, they mark, and the children, they know The place where the sidewalk ends.