So December...

This is what happens when you trip out on Prozac and Midol stimulants while contemplating peroxide status (inspired by the Nov./Dec. '03 issue of ElleGirl) and wishing you were born an Englishman in the 1950s.

...

On the walk down 128
I can hardly stand the wait
For a puff and a sigh
Oh, I'm always so shy
With that redhead, floppy-haired boy

So I'll try to find the words
Before the paper stops the burn
Can't keep up with the chat
Must've looked like an ass
To that redhead, floppy-haired boy

No time to dance
I guess I missed my chance
With that redhead, floppy-haired boy

Wouldn't dare to say
He's too young anyway
Oh, that redhead, floppy-haired boy

So I'll bum you another smoke
So I can start to hope
You'll slide your hand into mine
Gonna get my time
With that redhead, floppy-haired boy

Never dared to say
Don't have the nerve anyway
With that redhead, floppy-haired boy

No time to dance
Guess I missed my chance
With that redhead, floppy-haired boy

Does this mean I'm gay?

As I write this, I am eating a giant banana and listening to a MisShapes/Junior Sanchez mix of Madonna.
It seems a fitting end to a Romy and Michelle day(!).

Anyways, is it just me, or has Fred Meyer been AMAZING lately? I've gone there about five times in the past week and a half and spent upwards of $100 USD almost every time. I couldn't even tell you what I've bought, because it's mostly been tiny things like cherry print Converse and ZOMG watermelon Lip Smackers. I just got that blue/pink Max Factor Vivid Impact Mascara the other day too. Not the best deal I've ever come across (for cheap coloured lashes, Jane is always the winner), but the sparkles look quite delightful in my hair and give it that lighter shade of brown with a hint of purple image that's just great.
I've got about six liters of caffeine and plenty of sugary snacks to go with that pizazz, so tonight's gearing up to be a doozy.
I'm off to try on my new camisole sets now.

Don't fear the stutter.
'Night.

I gets no love

I can't sleep at all.
All I've been able to think about for the past two weeks is Brad Renfro, Heath Ledger, and all my other childhood heroes and how they keep dying. Even Suzanne Pleshette (sp?). I remember watching Bob Newhart with Dad (who also died, surprise surprise) and how it was just suuuch a classic and a grand old bonding time for us back when.
(On a side note, Stiff Little Fingers' "Nobody's Hero" has just begun playing on my media player. Dot dot dot.)
Seriously, this past year has just been shit in terms of the ones I admire going down. I think I may be starting to buy into that whole "the world's going to end in four years" thing that my brother told me about last Tuesday.
I can't even begin to describe my frame of mind right now, because even I don't understand it. I honestly don't know what's wrong this time. But then again, the Fluoxetine's making it seem like nothing is wrong. So maybe it's all okay? But what is it, exactly? And why can't I seem to remember anything that's happened before thirteen days ago? Fucking stimulants. Rip me from one and thrust me upon another. Thanks, Group Health.

On a lighter but somehow equally devastating note, one of those forbidden/hidden/I-actually-thought-he-wanted-me loverundercovers has found someone new. I don't know who. I just saw it on MySpace, my usual dreamcrusher. But I'm telling myself that I was over him anyways.
Speaking of over, I've been having nightmares non-stop for the past month and a half. Horrible fucking nightmares. The ones involving my father have stopped recently, only to be replaced with dreams of dead Brad and Heath. They almost always involve me accidentally (or is it on purpose?) overdosing and trying to hide the fact that I'm dying from everyone. Reminds me of those crank-fueled nights that I don't actually remember. Maybe it's a sign that I'll find someone willing to score me one fucking hit sometime soon.
Fucking shit, I think I'm starting to deteriorate again.

Happy in the haze of a fucking sober hour

I really feel like nothing can make me happy right now. Yet, at the same time, I feel really content with everything.
Like, I totally want to kill myself and am so up for that challenge right now, but I'm also really super excited about living and getting super stoked about the new spring clothes I'll get to wear in my made-up fantasy world that I've been telling myself will become real in a few months. I have enough energy to finally rush upon the blade, but have that intense, railed feeling of working a party one-handed too.

Golly gee, Prozac sure is a hell of a drug.