Memorial fucking weekend

BEST FUCKING DAYS OF MY LIFE.

At least two of the best.
But hands down, best time I EVER had in King County.
FUCK!!!
Saturday and Sunday were AMAZING.
If anyone's in for that shit more often...I'm hella fucking down for anything. Three weeks and I'm moving back. No Yakima distance.
And hells to the fucking yeah, we're throwing a house warming party.

Thanks to everyone for the fucking time of my life.
<33333

Big isn't beautiful

I gained even more. It's fucking digusting.
Fucking Mia needs to fucking die, because all I've been doing since hanging around her is fucking eat and eat and get fatter and fatter and I just want to fucking die or never leave (not)my bed.
I'm really not playing around here. Image is fucking everything to me. EVERYFUCKINGTHING. I was on my way to looking so lovely again during spring break. I wasn't even trying to lose then either, but it just fucking happened and I fucking loved it.

And now look at me.
I can't stand looking at my hideous non-figure. I can't even stand thinking about it. The only almost-okay thing I can find about my nastiness is that I'm living in Yakima right now, where even the walls are borderline-obese. Ugh.
I have less than one month to beat my lowest, because I'm not even going to fucking settle for anything less. Or rather, anything more.
Wish me luck, and if you see me go near any sort of greasy filth in this city, just fucking shoot me where I stand. I'll start carrying spinach around, if that's what it takes.
Otherwise I just may have to start wearing Missy Elliot-style trash bag suits to hide this disgusting fat that has consumed my entire being.

Don't even dare try to say anything to me about it either, because everyone has fucking noticed that since my last move (to the land of 395672 calories per bite) I've done nothing but gain. I was always so fucking repulsed by the way those around me never gave a shit about how they come off, and now I've turned into them.
Someone, just fucking stab me.

Jessica Alba is a fucking moron.

Dear Jess,

Worried about your hotness overshadowing your talent, are we?
Then don't fucking agree with every photo shoot you do solely featuring you in a fucking bikini!
How fucking hard is that. Don't go complain to GQ about how you don't want to be seen just for your body all the while trying to seduce the camera half-undressed.
Really, I don't mind you looking hot, because honestly, I don't even think you're super-attractive anyways. There's like 347524857298 other people I'd like to see getting your beach press. But honestly, you're fucking stupid if you don't see the lameness in everything you've said in the past few years.
Go have public sex in the ocean again and maybe morph into Loveleigh or something.

Sincerely,
You're number four thousand fan

In addition to needing rehab...

Apparently I've gained so much fucking weight while living in my current "not-my"-household that that's all anyone seems to fucking notice.
Thanks, thanks a fucking lot.
Not only am I fucking feeling shitty as hell internally, but I'm looking like a fucking fat disgusting slob physically as well.

God damn it.

Why couldn't I just be with my Kent friends, fucking glamourously trashed and looking halfway fucking decent?
Memorial weekend. I have no family so I am coming to fuck myself over with anyone wanting to join. I'm talking a fucking April repeat to the fucking nth degree.

You hear me? I'm really fucking through with everyone and everything right now and don't want to have to feel anything real anymore.
I'm through with waiting for what's-his-fucking-face to fucking come around and try to make cleanliness appealing. Fuck your-face. I'm tired of wanting you, and if you don't realise you're my fucking anti-depressant, then you're not worth it anyways.
I need to fucking leave all this shit behind and just waste my life away on something that actually makes me feel worthwhile.

I'd go for fucking ritual suicide right now, but if I'm unhappy in life then I shouldn't be unhappy in death.
Therefore an overabundance of a fucking eat-your-heart-out experience is the only fucking option.

I haven't wanted to die this much in ages.

Thanks a lot James. Some fucking brother you are. What the fuck do you not get about keeping your fucking word. Go fucking get alcohol poisoning and fucking disappear. I fucking hate you all over again. This last year of tolerance with you is finished and I'm even more fucking sick of you than I ever have been throughout my entire fucking life. Don't take my cigarettes, don't take my weed, don't take my pipe, don't take my alcohol, don't take anything and don't even ask for shit, because I have no love or respect for you at all. Fuck off because I am fucking through with this.

Thanks a lot Mommie (and Brother) Dearest

I fucking hate you all.
Fucking rot in hell and don't ever fucking come near me or try to speak to me again.
Just fucking die and leave me the fuck alone.

I really don't care who knows anymore.

I am nothing without stimulants.
N-O-T-H-I-N-G.
I can't live without them, I can't breathe without them, and I can't find a point in continuing on in this fucked up full-of-shit life of mine without them.
I need them more than life itself and I want them more than anything I could ever imagine.
It's been days since my last hit, and no matter how fucking superb I usually am at hiding it, I just want to fucking slice my heart out with every sober second that passes.
If I don't experience any sort of chemical high by tomorrow, especially by the time at which I am supposed to see my father (which, according to Aunt Beadee, will probably be "the last." Thanks for restoring my hope, B) then I swear I will fucking end it all in an instant.
Nothing is worth it, and hasn't been for ages. Chino is the one thing that keeps me going, and I'd rather die than spend anymore time without it to comfort me and give me a reason to keep going.
Don't dare try to say a word to me about it either, because while some people use Zoloft and other bullshit prescriptions to ease them out of their undying mental anguish, I self-medicate with substances that have never failed to disappoint.
Besides, this isn't any different or anymore harmful than alcohol, which nobody ever says a damned thing about so just fuck off and let me fucking live.
I realise that certain extremely fucking important people in my life (Yakimaniacs, you know who you are) refuse to accept such usage, but please, give me something to work with. I can't stand a thought in my head unless I am high, and this is the only thing that has ever helped suppress my suicide attempts, self-injury, bulimia, and depression.
I can't even bring myself to get out of bed in the morning when I'm in my true state of mind and it fucking kills me in every definition of the term.
I'd rather spend the rest of my life addicted to euphoria than locked up, rotting away, or six feet under.
I'm not a threat to anyone but myself, and trust me, I am not looking to share or try to get others hooked. I fucking hate how many people ask for tastes, so I'm sure as hell not about to go around forcing people into it. I just want that much to be clear.
And for those who ask for hits everyday, please try to ease up as this is my only means of contentment. I need as much of my own fucking supply as I can in order to keep me from dying.
If you don't understand, then I won't force you, and I don't blame anyone if they never want to associate with me again.
I just wanted this much to be known.
I don't do it because it's cool; in fact I find it rather trashy.
I don't do it as a diet; I'm trying to diminish my eating disorders.
I don't do it to be flashy; I'd rather not be seen as some rich snob.
I do it because I need it, because my life depends on it, and because it's the only way I can feel at all accepted and not just fucking hated by everyone around me, especially myself.
I'm so sorry.

Some people want it all

But I dooon't want nothing at alllllll
If it ain't you baaaabaaay
If it ain't yoooou baaaaabaayyyy!

WOW.
Fucking amazing how much that describes my love for them green thangs.
AHHHH.
But I need MORE.
FUCKING MOOOOOOOORE!
God damn fucking help a 'cado out. I've got this World War II faux-newspaper I've got to finish for Sixkiller and I could really use something to boost me up and help me get it done, if you know what I'm saying.
Not to mention I just fucking need it.
Heeeeeelp meeeeee!

...

Please?

I'll love you long time, and would appreciate it more than you'd ever know.
I'm not kidding, there's so many songs, poems, and general fucking writing that completely describes my love for my one-and-only, whether they mean to or not, and I can't thoroughly enjoy them while I'm all schlump and blah.

HELP!
I've got funds for the fun and I need it more than life.

I need you like a drug.

I'm about to fucking shoot myself in the face.

I lost my migraine medication for the fiftieth time since last month, and I'm starting to sink back into that thing that I used to do thrice daily throughout my past high school existence.
It's probably not what whoever reads this may be thinking.

In other words, I'm not turning into a crackwhore like my last week of dreams have depicted me as.

It's something a lot more endangering, and something that's practically killed me a few times.
That thing that gave me those heart complications and dehydration and calluses and lower BMIs.

I've said too much already.

Emaciation Proclamation

What the fuuuuuuh.
Aunt Lea and Uncle Rudy went and bought like ten times more food today, right after I tried to eat my way through my remaining supply of last week in effort to kill my increasing "baby" weight.
Muthafuckas.
Oh well, my mother is supposedly coming this weekend for my birthday, so that thought is starting to kill my appetite.
Only now I don't have any diet soda or low-calorie liquids left. Pssha. I'm not about to lower my standards and take in that 120 per 8 oz. nasty shit that everyone seems to enjoy either.

...

God damn it. I just fucking realised how Renton I'm sounding.

Oh well fuck it. I NEED to fucking rid myself of these digusting Yakima pounds. I don't know how much is still on me, but I don't feel like doing math and figuring out my new goal, so I'm just going to try to lose an even twenty-five. I only gained twenty, but I don't trust myself enough to rely on minimums.

Ohhhh and guess fucking what.
I was searching on another fashion industry job site, and I found an open fashion design assistant occupation. IN SEATTLE. As if I needed another fucking reason to hate even more of everything. Ugh.

But on the bright side of today, Molly returned to me (more like everyone but me) early this morning. Her leg was hurt, but they're convinced that's all the damage. She has one of those phonograph looking things on her head and is just kind of lying down lazily. I just fucking hope that nothing else is wrong. After all, Rufus' leg was messed up at one point too, and it turned out to be internal problems with her liver and she died. And I don't like things that die.

Speaking of things that die, I had the weirdest fucking dream last night. I was a cokewhore and decided to do some E, but I guess it had meth in it or something and when I took it I was all tripping out and living life to the halfway mark, and then I went to some weird version of a fucked up school I've never known to exist and my teeth and gums started feeling loose. So I asked this weird combination of Ms. Wiskow and Ms. Gunderson (are they Ms. or Mrs.?) if I could go to the loo and when I got there I tried to jam my teeth in farther to stop the wiggling and a majority of them just fell out. I was left with two or three vacancies right smack in the front and was freaking out about what to do and how to fix them. So then I went back to class, still trippin' and tried not to open my mouth too wide so that no one would notice and I wouldn't have to confess my habits. Then, my dreamself started wondering if I was simply fucking out of it and I was imagining it all. So then I went home, took a nap, and when I woke up all my teeth were back in there rightful slots. Then I took a few lines and had some shots.

Fuck, even my dreams are trashed.

The price of rehabilitation

For some odd reason, I have been ravenously fucking hungry for the past few days. I've been trying to ignore it, but it's getting harder than I thought.
I swear I've gained like twenty fucking pounds since Sunday.
I'd think I was pregnant, but Yakima is not notoriously sexy and I haven't done any possible impregnating activities in this city. Or in just about any city.

Ugh. It's fucking pissing me off.

Luckily I've finished a majority of my food so now I won't have much to choose from. Although my cousin and uncle pretty much live off fast food and restaurants, so I'll most likely remain screwed and gain another fifty or so. Pfft.

Anyways, this weekend has been fucking boring as hell.
I was supposed to be fucking drunk and high last night and right now, but WHAM BAM I'm barely more than sober. What a fucking waste of anticipation.

And to make it worse, I've been watching non-stop what-I-fucking-live-for movies and television programmes all day. Casino, Traffic, Intervention, The Drug Years.... I fucking need some kind of stimulant now. Help a mutha out.

Not to mention Molly got hit by a car this morning on 16th and ran away. Fucking slut dog has been seen a few times earlier today roaming the alleys with a big black pooch. She still hasn't come home, and we have no idea how badly she is hurt. She's running on all fours, so she's not too injured physically, but as for her insides...

Fucking bullshit. First I'm not allowed to keep my fucking favourite animal in the world and now the only semi-pet I had left is gone. Fuckingshit damn it I fucking hate everything right now.

SO TO SUM THIS UP:
If you see a strawberry blonde dog, with a shaggy seventies coat and long-fringed gypsy tail, please let us know, and try to take her to a hospital if she looks damaged.
If I had to visually estimate, I'd say she's about a two feet long while standing and around twenty pounds.
She may or may not be accompanied by a larger (but not harmful) black dog.

And if you've got anything worthwhile to get my hopes up for, hit me up and maybe follow through with it or something. It'd give me some importance.

When you gonna live your life right?

Fucking The Buckle didn't fucking even glance at my application and fucking didn't give a shit anyways.

I'm fucking hopeless in terms of employment here, because there's no fucking way I'm going to join the rest of Yakima's youth and work in some fucking fast food chain gang of no direction.

I can't fucking wait until I move back to King County. At least I can get real fucking jobs there. And I don't mean blow jobs, which is about my only option down here since everyone (well, more like ONE) expects me to smoke them out and has thus caused the downfall of my self-made hundredaire lifestyle. So fuck you, ONE.

...

Okay seriously I'm halffuckingdesperate right about now. My current living situation is out of order and there's no set up for how and when I'm supposed to be given my money.
I have needs that need to be met, so fucking hook me up with an actual profession-oriented workplace.

I'm interested in the fields of fashion, journalism, music, and vegan culinary arts.
If you know any places in fucking shittown Yakima that has any association with these (and is also willing to associate with seventeen-year-olds), please let me know as fast as you can.

And since I'm getting my New York raver ass out of here after school's out (14 June), if you know any jobs in the Seattle area (or any reasonable King County city) that may grant my hopes and dreams, please give information.

I love you.
Amanda.