October 6, 1989

                                    

                                          


                          
Beer's that I've had the past week: 7
                          
Oreo's dipped in peanut butter eaten the past week: too many to fucking count
                          
Cigarette's I've smoked this week: Over two packs (fuck me softly with a baseball bat)
                          
Times I've cried over someone showing me remote kindness this week: over 15 times, god I'm a pussy
                          
As I wrote down my depression snacks and my depression taking action by fucking me in the arse with a chainsaw, I sat on my oddly large bed, wearing nothing but an old high school sweatshirt and boxers, while Heart to Heart by Kenny Loggins played on my portable radio that had it's place on my dusty ass dresser. I snacked on a few celery sticks dipped in honey (it's good, I promise it's not utter shit) and set my journal covered in masking tape on my bed side table and I looked out my large window with the blinds slightly opened. I saw the sun begin to rise, I looked at the time and saw it was almost six in the fucking morning. "What the actual hell, have I been up all night writing down poems and crying while eating honey-dipped celery sticks?" I asked myself, as I rolled off my bed and went to open my blinds. But once I opened my pine wood blinds and looked out my giant Peter Pan window, I saw that the sun was beginning to rise over my little neighborhood. I live I Bozeman, Montana, downtown to be exact. So it's normal for me to already see twenty-year-old cars and trucks pull out of driveways and head to work. I lived walking distance from the drug store I worked at, so I just walked or rode my bike down there. 
                          
The sunrise was gorgeous, but also eye-bleeding because I was looking right at the sun. Don't be like me kids and stare directly at the sun while it's rising. I opened my blinds fully to light up my room, and I saw how badly it needed a deep clean. Like my soul. I walked over to my vanity mirror that hung above my dusty ass dresser and saw how fucking hung over I looked. And lets just say, I already look like a person who would be hung over all the time. I have pasty white skin, oddly thick and curly dark brown hair, lots of tiny freckles cover my cheeks and the back of my neck and my shoulders (because out here, everyone's pale as a ghost and if there's any remote sun outside, we all burn and get freckles, unless you're Native American), and my bright blue eyes had dark purple bags under them. My hair was tangled into knots, my oddly long eyelashes stuck together as I tried to open my eyes fully, and my skin was covered in blackheads, oh boy howdy did I need some serious skin care. 
                          
I walked to my tiny bathroom and showered as quickly as possible (since I had to be a work by seven and it was six fucking thirty as we speak), combed my hair that I can never tame, since I always have fly away's and I despise hair gel with every living cell in my nearly almost dead but not quite body. I walked out of my bathroom, put on a random ribbed shirt that had long sleeves and had the pattern of  green, yellow, and grey stripes, along with some old jeans and my mud covered white tennis shoes, and headed out my bedroom door. 
                          
I ran downstairs, nearly running my older sister, Wendy, over in the process. "Mikey, you nearly knocked me off my feet," Wendy said, nearly spilling the large pot of hot coffee she had in her hands. "Sorry, Wendy, I uh... I'm late for work, again," I said, practically having one foot out the black, iron barred door. Wendy set the coffee pot down on the small breakfast table that had a yellow rose pattern on the white table cloth, and grabbed me by the back of my shirt collar. "Mikey, look at yourself for a second," she said, pulling me towards her, then turning my lanky ass body around to face her. "You have soaking wet hair, bags under your eyes, and you clearly didn't use enough soap because you smell like a sweaty sock," she said, as she examined me. I rolled my eyes, "Wendy, I'm in a hurry. Besides, I have cologne for a reason." "Mikey cologne isn't "shower in a spray bottle" it's fucking perfume for men. Now freshen up before I do it myself," Wendy said with an annoyed look on her face, while still holding me by my shirt collar. I sighed, squirming my neck away from my older sister's hand, "Fine, but only because I'm not eight anymore and you can't blow my hair dry because you're twenty eight and I'm fucking nineteen, Wendy!" She laughed as she put her long, black curly hair in a low pony tale.