cool like sunday morning.

Last night I did the thing I most dread and most love doing. I put up our Christmas lights.
I was home by myself, and knew it was coming, I knew I had to get it done. I fell asleep, but the boyfriend woke me up and reminded me of my impending responsibility.
The hardest part was getting the damn boxes down. They're actually so big they don't fit through our attic trap door, so in order to bring them down I had to turn the fifty pound container full of precious family heirlooms on their side, balance it on my head and slowly walk down the creaky ladder without tripping. Why the hell are Christmas ornaments so heavy?
I couldn't find the lights, so I destroyed our attic trying to find them, which already looked like a disaster area anyways, so I guess it didn't really matter. Finally found the things, opened the box, pulled out a strand of lights, and ended up pulling out a clump of lights twice my size. Damn. After about an hour of untangling, I finally went outside to put them on our porch. My neighbors watched me the entire time, why is it so interesting to see a girl put up her Christmas decorations?
When that was done it was almost eight o' clock at night and I collapsed on the couch, ready to finally return to my nap.
My mother bursts in the door, like a madwoman, drunk as a skunk, talking about going out. We drive to Target and buy a coloring book and crayons. The check bounces. We go home unsuccessful, sit and watch Christmas Vacation and drink bad white wine. It was a horrible night, but a sleepless one.
It's been the kind of morning where I don't feel like facing the world. There's shit all over our house, lights strewn over every flat surface, electronic singing Santas and I'm really beginning to wish I was Jewish. Coffee will help. Mhmm, coffee.

I'm back here again.

To type the words that can't come out of my mouth. The things I can't say, but come out so clearly in print. Beauty is worth a thousand words. And beautiful words are the closest thing we have to perfection. I fight for my life, finding myself. I feel alone in a room full of my best friends, squirm in church, shaking the preacher's hand as he attempts to inspect my arms for tracks. I'm the fucked up suburban kid who has more hope than I really deserve. I'm a winter, a virgo, a lover, and a smoker.

I'm living inside a fairy world, I hope that's okay with you?
I write because it's the only way I know how to express emotion. I stopped crying years ago, the human touch feels foreign to me. I'm not depressed, I'm numb. And it's the most amazing thing that ever happened to me. Narcissistic, paranoid, manic, fuck you therapy. Let the words pour from my heart and into the soul. I'll dream, and write, and drink, and live. And if I can't live, I can pretend.

My story is much too long, and much too personal to tell. Let your mind imagine me as the girl you wish I was. I can't please anyone by being myself, so I'll let them create me.

I'm in love with the night, with the cold, with the music. I'm enamored by a boy who lives a hundred miles away. I'm only as much of a person as you'll let me be. Let me be.