[ 20.1.02 ]
Let's Just Say That This Is My Venting Page
Yeah Paul I'm pissed. Instead of lashing inwards, so to speak, I've decided to write down something when I'm very pissed off, as to get a better idea of my mind.
Why do you piss me off so? How? Let me count the ways. Or not. Don't screw with me Paul. You fucking idiot. I trusted you, you son of a bitch. You messed with my mind. I don't bestow trust very easily. I guess you're my reminder of why that is, you fucking bastard. You manipulative bastard. Don't mess. Everyone always thought that I was the weak one. That I didn't matter. You didn't believe me you said? I joke around too much you say? Well fuck you Paul, because I don't believe you anymore either.
Trust is built on respect. Maybe respect is built on trust. Huh. You got it wrong you pisskop of fucking son of a bitch. I wish I could wring your fucking neck until your face turned blue and your eyes bulged out. And when you begged me for mercy, I'd look you in the eye and say, "why should I believe you? You didn't believe me."
Don't mess me with or my mind. I'm not in the best of mental states at any given time anyway. I may look like it, but I'm not. I have a fiery, burning inner core. It's rarely let out, and that's a good thing. Just think if you were to be at the receiving end of that, huh. Few people have been, but they never messed with me again. I wish I could catch you alone while in one of my moods with a loaded shotgun. Point it straight at your face and ask what do you think of that.
Maybe the demons aren't really the monsters that hide in our closets, but the monsters that hide in our communities and homes and trusted
friends. Well you said that if I was ever mad at you again, to just tell you.
Yeah Paul, well
FUCK YOU. I'm pissed at you. Is that what you wanted to hear? I can say it a thousand times over. Don't mess with me. I just want the pleasure of slamming your head into the wall and while I look at your bleeding mess, I spit in your face and ask if that bothers you. You don't believe me, I don't trust you. Since you don't believe me, you don't trust me. So I don't trust you either. Deal? No? Burning rage and fiery hell pits are too noble a place for the likes of you. Don't mess with me or my friends. You think you can manipulate others into doing your bidding. Getting ahead in the world screwing other people over. I have been trampled on, left alone and forgotten. I had this look I could use when I went to the bathroom. I developed it over the years. I can just tune people out. Looks, words, whatever. I can just stare and you're not there. I don't trust you to be there. You're just like my father, except my father is a better man by far. People have messed with my mind ever since I was a pre-teen. Or before. I remember the 3rd grade. I was all alone and there was nothing else. I was an outcast and there was no one else except for the other outcasts. I remember going through the playground, just sort of scuffling around. Looking at the dirt and gray sky and feeling utterly alone. And I know God's there. I know it. But I didn't know then.
I remember being the monster. I was always the kid who had to chase the other kids. And I could never catch them. I'd always have to give up. I was the monster. They always controlled me. I was always the monster, the weak one. I learned to follow the crowd. And what became of it then? I helped the crowd go against my only friend. They decided she was no good and yelled at her. And I didn't stand up, I just was at the edge of the crowd yelling with them. I just disappeared into the nothingness.
and you messed with that paul. you messed with my balance. my mental state. You almost had me believing you. I was the monster. I was the one who was wrong. I'm the klutz, the weirdo, the outcast, the monster.
I remember the gym in sixth grade. Sitting there in the yellow light, talking to no one. Everything is blurred around the edges. I remember taking out my pencil- freshly sharpened. I remember writing my name into my arm with it. I remember the scratches, where it turned red. I remember that there was nothing else my arm and my name. Identity is what it is. It's all I had. No one knew. I was all alone and no one cared.
And now I'm calm. My anger that is safely hidden came up for a bit. And now it's gone, buried more deeply than before. I don't know, I kind of enjoyed being there venting.
Val [9:28 PM]
[ 19.1.02 ]
I've Decided That My Music Minister Is The Anti-Christ
So I was having a vengeful daydream against him when I had a thought. In the daydream, something about how the world was ending or something, and he was offering to save my life. Me and him recently had a sort of face off where he tried to manipulate me into thinking I was wrong and that I should feel sorry for him.
I know that I was in the right (not just in my mind either). I talked the story over with a couple of other people, and they agreed that I was right. People like adult people.
Anyway, in that daydream I said, "I'd rather die than owe my life to you." Then I realized that particular phrase sounded familiar. To Jesus, one might say something rather similiar, but completely opposite. If you turn that phrase around, you get, "I'd rather owe my life to you than die." See?
So Paul is the Anti-Christ.
Val [9:17 PM]
help?
