Journals100
Newest
TAKEPICTURESANDPILLS.DEVIANTART.COM
1 min read
That's my new page. GO AND GIMME COMMENTS AND STUFF
TakePicturesAndPills.deviantart.com
I need supporters!! GIMME!
I need page views!
And if any of you want to give me FEATURES
PLEASE
I will take ANY publicity I can take! And ANY one that features me, comment my new profile, and I'll feature you as well.
LOVE,
EDENJOY
TakePicturesAndPills.deviantart.com
I need supporters!! GIMME!
I need page views!
And if any of you want to give me FEATURES
PLEASE
I will take ANY publicity I can take! And ANY one that features me, comment my new profile, and I'll feature you as well.
LOVE,
EDENJOY
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ppssshhhh
1 min read
takepicturesandpills.deviantart.com
click it
click it
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you know
1 min read
that awesome boyfriend i was talking about??
forget it.
i mean, i still have him.
but minus the awesome part.
ALL BOYS ARE THE SAME.
once you really start to care...
they change.
forget it.
i mean, i still have him.
but minus the awesome part.
ALL BOYS ARE THE SAME.
once you really start to care...
they change.
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i have
1 min read
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Nailbite LSD
6 min read
he was just a nailbiter
looking for a dealer
with some LSD and also
a cure from a faith healer
who said he had the devil in him,
hit him on the head
with the handle of a pistol;
now the nail biter is dead.
when the cops had asked the healer
what he did, he said "the poor
guy got just what he wanted."
"and what's that?" they asked.
"the cure."
+++
A lot has almost made me cry lately.
A LOT.
But the only thing that has actually made me cry was when I looked out the window of the school bus and realized that the first place I ever said "I love you" to a boy and meant it has been demolished.
And then I cried more at school. And I was inspired to hug the boy that I said those three words to, and he really hugged me back, and when I told him the reason for the hug he hugged me a little tighter and told me it would be okay. I don't think he really cared. I think he just doesn't like to see me cry. But it still made me feel a little better.
And then I felt like some part of me was betraying my 500-miles-away boyfriend, because that part of me felt like I shouldn't really care about the first boy I said "I love you" to. I should only care about the boy I say "I love you" to right now.
And then I wondered how much nostalgia I could really handle; how many firsts I could truly commit to heart without going insane. How many moments can I really store in my head, the kind that make me emotional just to think about, before I get called worse things than 'a little sentimental'?
And last night I told my 500-miles-away boyfriend (let's just call him Gage because that is his name) that I like certain things, like when a hand goes gracefully down the side of my face, and he asked who'd done that to me; how many boys. And I didn't want to think about it. And I regretted telling him, because it made us both a little upset.
And I also didn't want to tell him that I'm not enemies with my ex-boyfriend. I'm not friends with him, and I don't love him anymore, but it's always been a goal of mine to be remembered fondly. "Yes, I dated her my Junior year. She was really cool." That's what I want him to say.
But sometimes when I talk to him, the few times I do- sometimes all I can remember are the many, many phone calls where I ended up crying, and that time at the football game when he told me to never talk to him again or even think his name. And while I'm talking to him these days, sometimes I can just see my face in the mirror, mascara-and-salt stained. I especially remember how, in that dirty school bathroom, a girl I didn't even know had to calm me down because I couldn't breathe.
But I never bring these things up. I just smile, because if I say what I'm thinking, he might not say "She was really cool" someday, when I am past tense.
And also I wonder if looking in the mirror as much as I do is unhealthy. I don't do it as a narcissist. I just can't figure out who I am sometimes. And then I'll look in the mirror and try to put the pieces together.
"This is Edenjoy's nose. This is her mouth. These are her eyes. This is her hair." And it doesn't feel right, because I don't feel like all these things are part of me. I feel like my real body is out there, waiting, because if this is my body; if this is my real life, what good have I done with it?
But I do look in the mirror sometimes and tell myself how pretty I am. I like being pretty. I like knowing that I'm pretty and not fat or blotchy. I like knowing that out of the millions of women on earth that think they are ugly, I stand out. I am different. I am confident.
Other times I just pretend I am confident, and I realize I really can't win either way. There will always be someone who will say I am too loud, and there will always be someone who will say I don't talk to enough people. There will always be someone who will say I'm too self-centered. There will always be someone who will say I am not true to myself.
Honestly, I don't know why people care so much. They say they don't. And I'd rather they didn't. I'd prefer they didn't use their personal time to plot how I must feel about myself. I wish they would accept that this is me, and this is the only me I know how to be, and they should stop thinking about it because it will never change. If they really wanted to change me, they would get to know me first. If they really wanted to get to know me, I doubt they would want to change me.
The people that hate me are the ones that don't know why I do the things I do; act the way I act.
Some people say I'm bipolar. That's only because, maybe, in the morning, someone smiled at me special, and it made me happy, and then that afternoon, someone yelled at me just because I thought something differently than them, and told them so. And so my mood changed, but they didn't know why, as if I only exist when I'm in their presence.
I wish things would become less personal. I wish I could say things without people wondering who my words are aimed at. Because, in truth, a lot of the time my words are aimless. I say them in hopes that they will change some part of something somewhere. If I can make something different, then maybe I'll be remembered.
And that's all I want.
+edenjoy
looking for a dealer
with some LSD and also
a cure from a faith healer
who said he had the devil in him,
hit him on the head
with the handle of a pistol;
now the nail biter is dead.
when the cops had asked the healer
what he did, he said "the poor
guy got just what he wanted."
"and what's that?" they asked.
"the cure."
+++
A lot has almost made me cry lately.
A LOT.
But the only thing that has actually made me cry was when I looked out the window of the school bus and realized that the first place I ever said "I love you" to a boy and meant it has been demolished.
And then I cried more at school. And I was inspired to hug the boy that I said those three words to, and he really hugged me back, and when I told him the reason for the hug he hugged me a little tighter and told me it would be okay. I don't think he really cared. I think he just doesn't like to see me cry. But it still made me feel a little better.
And then I felt like some part of me was betraying my 500-miles-away boyfriend, because that part of me felt like I shouldn't really care about the first boy I said "I love you" to. I should only care about the boy I say "I love you" to right now.
And then I wondered how much nostalgia I could really handle; how many firsts I could truly commit to heart without going insane. How many moments can I really store in my head, the kind that make me emotional just to think about, before I get called worse things than 'a little sentimental'?
And last night I told my 500-miles-away boyfriend (let's just call him Gage because that is his name) that I like certain things, like when a hand goes gracefully down the side of my face, and he asked who'd done that to me; how many boys. And I didn't want to think about it. And I regretted telling him, because it made us both a little upset.
And I also didn't want to tell him that I'm not enemies with my ex-boyfriend. I'm not friends with him, and I don't love him anymore, but it's always been a goal of mine to be remembered fondly. "Yes, I dated her my Junior year. She was really cool." That's what I want him to say.
But sometimes when I talk to him, the few times I do- sometimes all I can remember are the many, many phone calls where I ended up crying, and that time at the football game when he told me to never talk to him again or even think his name. And while I'm talking to him these days, sometimes I can just see my face in the mirror, mascara-and-salt stained. I especially remember how, in that dirty school bathroom, a girl I didn't even know had to calm me down because I couldn't breathe.
But I never bring these things up. I just smile, because if I say what I'm thinking, he might not say "She was really cool" someday, when I am past tense.
And also I wonder if looking in the mirror as much as I do is unhealthy. I don't do it as a narcissist. I just can't figure out who I am sometimes. And then I'll look in the mirror and try to put the pieces together.
"This is Edenjoy's nose. This is her mouth. These are her eyes. This is her hair." And it doesn't feel right, because I don't feel like all these things are part of me. I feel like my real body is out there, waiting, because if this is my body; if this is my real life, what good have I done with it?
But I do look in the mirror sometimes and tell myself how pretty I am. I like being pretty. I like knowing that I'm pretty and not fat or blotchy. I like knowing that out of the millions of women on earth that think they are ugly, I stand out. I am different. I am confident.
Other times I just pretend I am confident, and I realize I really can't win either way. There will always be someone who will say I am too loud, and there will always be someone who will say I don't talk to enough people. There will always be someone who will say I'm too self-centered. There will always be someone who will say I am not true to myself.
Honestly, I don't know why people care so much. They say they don't. And I'd rather they didn't. I'd prefer they didn't use their personal time to plot how I must feel about myself. I wish they would accept that this is me, and this is the only me I know how to be, and they should stop thinking about it because it will never change. If they really wanted to change me, they would get to know me first. If they really wanted to get to know me, I doubt they would want to change me.
The people that hate me are the ones that don't know why I do the things I do; act the way I act.
Some people say I'm bipolar. That's only because, maybe, in the morning, someone smiled at me special, and it made me happy, and then that afternoon, someone yelled at me just because I thought something differently than them, and told them so. And so my mood changed, but they didn't know why, as if I only exist when I'm in their presence.
I wish things would become less personal. I wish I could say things without people wondering who my words are aimed at. Because, in truth, a lot of the time my words are aimless. I say them in hopes that they will change some part of something somewhere. If I can make something different, then maybe I'll be remembered.
And that's all I want.
+edenjoy
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