2009 - 2013

wake up

go to the bathroom

look in the mirror

hit

go to room

get undressed

try on a pair of jeans

look in mirror

hit

tear off the jeans

put on yoga pants

put on oversized shirt

walk upstairs

put on shoes

get in car

go to school

put on a good face

pretend you're alright

get home

go to room

strip down 

look in the mirror

pinch the fat

pull the hair

claw at the stretch marks

hit

hit

hit

cry

hit

hit

hit

hit

stop

lay down

sob

breathe

admire the bruises

trace the broken veins

smile

breathe

go to dinner

eat too much

watch tv

go numb

get tucked in by mom

lie about the bruises

fall asleep

repeat

Benji Shell

I was going to put up flyers on the last day of school in hopes that you would see one and realize how desperately I need to know who you are, but then I decided not to because after thinking it through, I realized how creepy that would be.

So I guess I'll just tell you this way, seems a bit more appropriate.

I need to know who you are.

Because the thought of you is driving me to insanity and you are the reason I am up at 1:18 am writing this and not sleeping. I keep projecting your writing onto strangers faces and then I get my hopes up but then when I ask them if they are you and they look at me like I need to be in a psych ward a part of me dies inside (mostly of embarrassment, but also because I was really hoping I would find you).

It's just your writing is so amazing and I connect to it so much that it's terrifying. You have such a way with words and I show your blog to pretty much everyone I come in contact with. It's freaking bookmarked in my phone because I check it daily. (Pretty sure this is starting to sound like a stalker note.)

I know that you want to stay anonymous and I get that. Sharing yourself with people is the most terrifying thing you can do. And I know I'm asking a lot of you to do this, but at this point I'm on my knees begging (mostly because I'm sleep deprived). If you tell me I SWEAR not to reveal your identity to a living soul. Not even Nelson. All I'm asking for is a name. That's it. And then I promise not to bother you (as much) anymore.

Please. I'm begging you.

-Sarah

does this mean ive made it? no.

http://Vimeo.com/efx/speakforyourself

im the one with the low, sultry voice in the white button up.

These Spanks Hurt More Than You Would Think

Sometimes I wonder if it would just be easier to throw up than count the calories.

It seems to work for my friends. 

I mean they get to wear size 5 clothes and go on dates with cute boys.

They don't get judged.

But I know if I did my mother would die.

But I would probably die first.

I don't want to die. 

I just don't want to be the biggest girl in my friend group anymore.

area codes must be different outside of paris

hello...?

is anyone looking at this post on another screen?

can you hear me?

because i'm screaming through this Arial font as if i was on the phone line with 911.
i'm screaming and no one is even flinching at the sound.
are you all just so used to me calling that you let the phone ring until i get your voicemail?
or have your phones all been disconnected?

am i just that annoying blog that still can't leave Paris?




can you hear me?






can you....

THE NUMBER YOU HAVE DIALED HAS BEEN CHANGED

The Reaper has a Thing for Greasers

he sits in the shed next to the propane heater

pulls out a cig, lights it so cooly

that the angel of death swoons slightly at the sight

he's got nothing to loose 

now that he's hairline fractured a few hearts

to try and compensate for the shattered one 

barely pumping in his chest

so he takes in a deep draw

and holds it in his lungs

as though to turn death on

as though to tell his body he's had enough pain

caused by others

as though to tell himself that it is only 

he who can hurt him now

so he blows a ring of smoke to the reaper

and smiles

because he may be flirting with the death,

but he'll never kiss her on the mouth






dedicated to Benji Shell

Kirsten

and it kills me that I've lived through more deaths than birthdays