It’s the little things that really get to me.

Something that normally won’t bother a regular person kill me.

I guess it’s because I’ve come to accept the big things that bother me. The things that when I tell people about them, they feel sorry for me. It’s sucks but it’s my life. Whatever, I’m over that.

But when, say, a shirt gets ruined in the laundry, I nearly break down. Why did you do that? Why did that have to happen on top of everything?

My phone broke today. After all that’s happened, shouldn’t everything else go right? I don’t care about the rest. The rest will make me a better person. But this? Really?

Who am I to blame? Who can I scream at? It was just a stupid little thing.

It’s all so very tiring. I’m so tired. It’s the kind of tired that can’t be helped with sleep or lying down or resting at all.

Fuck, this is worse than goth poetry.

It’s like that one time in JTHM where Johnny goes to 7/11 at 2:15 AM, but they turn the BrainFreezy machines off at 2:00. Then he goes off saying he’s going to kill himself and he’s taking the “self-appointed beverage dictator” with him, but uses the one bullet in the gun on the guy instead of himself. But don’t worry, he sees that the store carries Cherry Fiz-Wiz and is happy once again.

But never fear, I’m not going to go off shooting convenience store clerks. If I got the blood on me, I might get AIDS. I don’t want AIDS.

So today I was making taquitos. It took a really long time because I accidentally had the stove on low. But, as I can never do anything in peace, my grandfather comes and stands over my shoulder watching me. I ask him to please go away, but he insists that he can make it work. He starts…fucking with the stove. I tell him that I’ve got it, and that he doesn’t have to dictate everything I do, but that doesn’t work. Finally my grandmother tells him to leave me alone. As he leaves, he whispers in my ear that I won’t like them soaked in oil. It took all of me not to break his face.

Have I told you about him? My whole family pretty much hates him. Well, not hate, but we all strongly dislike him. My mom loves psychology, and she says that he has Narcissistic Personality Disorder. I believe her. He lies. Not so much as lying, but he twists the truth. He twists it and he believes that’s what happened. He also doesn’t know when to stop antagonizing me. (my grandmother’s words. It’s not just me) He goes and goes until I literally break down. You’ve never seen anything like me when I break down. It even scares me.

One time (I forgot what we were fighting about) he smacked me on the arm. He’s never in his life raised a hand to me, but he used to to my mother and aunt. After I was born he changed. He’s still just as fucked up though. I went absolutely insane. I hit him as hard as I could, being very puny it wasn’t much. It’s mostly a blur what happened after that, but he left and I ran outside, throwing pool furniture and screaming as loud as I possibly could.

NOTE: We are not poor rednecks. We might sound it, but we’re not. We live in a nice, upper class house, with a pool, and acre of yard, and it’s in a very nice, safe neighborhood. I just didn’t want you getting this mental image of us living in a trailer park. Okay, that’s over now.

I came back in 100% ready to kill him. I hold horrible resentment against him for hurting my mother when she was younger. He was certainly not getting away with that with me. Mom literally had to hole me back, wrestling scissors out of my hand. (when I said earlier I was homicidal, I wasn’t lying.) I later learned that he’s not worth fucking up. No matter how blurred his version of reality is, deep down somewhere, he knows who he is and what he did. And that’s true misery. He doesn’t need my help.

Mother is really the only person who is ever able to calm me down. Instead of screaming and yelling at me, she just kind of…talks to me, I guess. And through total blind rage (I literally cannot see anything. I now know where that phrase comes from) One time I got so scared, I fell down and started backing into a corner, crying. I was hyperventilating so she got me a paper bag. Yes, that actually works. I was surprised, too. I’m sure I looked quite a lot like a very scared animal. My grandmother was yelling at me, which only made my rage that much worse. They really don’t know how to handle me. I can’t blame them, I don’t know how to handle myself.

At rehearsal, we told people about ourselves. I told everyone how much I loved horror and gore, and they were all shocked. That’s part of the reason I like to wear makeup and dress trendy. I look so inconspicuous. They said I looked so innocent. I make sure no one knows that I want to kill them.

Shit, this post is getting progressively more insane. Please don’t send me away.

At least I know it sounds crazy and I’m not thinking this is any kind of normal. It’s when I stop realizing I’m weird that you should worry.

I should stop now before I start sprialing.

Well, goodbye, and tell your friends. Well, tell your friends if they like…the different kind of blogs.

Rianne