Actual events.

As opposed to nonsensical ramblings! It's not my usual style but I'm really not that pretentious and dramatic, I swear. I just don't like making my thoughts and experiences into complete sentences and don't have a good enough vocabulary to make them interesting either.

Not much has been going on for me, personally, lately. Lackadaisical Barrye. Uncle Dick and all of the family drama that stems from that is still going strong. I'm thinking about starting school again in January, or around then. I like to sit out in the courtyard garden to read when the weather gets nice. In Colorado, it snows in May and gets up to 80 degrees in October sometimes. You learn to get used to it. I've been sewing my Halloween costume out of scraps - going as David Bowie, who else? Other than that, I've got a trip to New York planned. It's not as whimsical as I would have made it out to be, say, a year ago. I like a boy, I'm going to visit him. :)

It's nice to be in a relatively drama-free environment. I wake up and I know where I am.

I love my parents.

I love my dad even though he is angry and disappointed. I would be too if I sat by the hospital window that day. But he doesn't treat me like a daughter. I will take care of him when he is old.

I love my mom. I love her more than anything in the world. She saves silly things of mine and we slip each other notes with little caterpillars drawn on them. I will take care of her when she's old.

Mothers are trails on the stars in the night, fathers are black holes that suck up the light.

Sit indian-style. It's storytime.

I am bad at telling stories. I am good at remembering things. I will give times, people, and any other details I can remember so that I can remember.

#1: Tall, lanky Grant. August of 2005. The Tide by the Spill Canvas blaring from the little radio.. His back didn't stand a chance when it came to doorways. He hunched over the steering wheel of his little red pick-up-truck-that-could, smoking the millionth cigarette of his life, maneuvering through the undeveloped plot of land as best he could. It was August anyway; there was no mud to spin out in. "I found this place a few months ago. It's relaxing." It was. Mason and I both agreed on that. I stood up on the railing and grabbed onto it, looking into the water. I grabbed a spiderweb. The boys grinned.

#1.5: I walk there a few days later, recalling the way from memory. I doodle pictures and words on the rails with purple fabric paint, of all things, and hope Grant sees his favorite song's lyrics before they peel off. "Heaven's not a place that you go when you die and love is just a hoax so forget everything that you've heard and live for the moment now."

#2: Rainy at midnight. October of 2005. I Know by Fiona Apple coming from my little earphones. I hear a car door slam too far away and know that Mason was in the wrong area but he'd find me soon anyway. We lit candles and made wishes and promises and then there was blood everywhere and I didn't have a home anymore. I started reading tarot.

#2.5: Somebody has scraped off some of the lyrics and re-done them. "Love is completely real."

#3: Dreary drizzle morning. Ashley and Lauren. January of 2006. Remember Me by The Birthday Massacre being sung. Skipping school. I brought them both to the bridge at different times. Ashley took a picture of me and when I looked at it, all I saw were bones sticking out. "I drink diet coke when I get hungry," off-handedly, and then she takes a sharpie and draws roots and branches on photograph!me. "No leaves?" "Nope." Lauren took a picture of me. We were laughing too hard about our lives and then: "Stop talking to Mason, he sucks."

#4: Mason. February of 2006. We've been huddled in quilts since midnight and drinking hot coffee and waiting for the sun to come up. "What do you put in the coffee? I can't make them like you!" "Mini marshmallows." We're still talking about the owl that was regarding us curiously from the railing, how weird was that I know right. Kisskiss. Powerlines: "pew pew!"

#5: Nighttime. March of 2006. Crank Heart by Xiu Xiu. I come to on the bridge. Steven, James, and Christian are all standing over me. "You should probably stop doing drugs." Steven and I were just watching a movie in his house. "That was 4 days ago." I think. "Alright. Let's go home then, please."

Intermission: May of 2006. Red Hands by The Dear Hunter. Out of rehab for the second time. Lake Nona is beautiful, the Spanish moss falling on my head is a good sign (though full of bugs, probably), let's move here.

#6: August of 2006. We didn't move there. Out of the hospital from the overdose for the second time. Lackluster. I still have my bracelet on. NKDA? I told them I was allergic to sleeping pills. I think.

#7: July of 2007. No melodrama left in me. Just new me and Lauren smoking and twirling our little summer skirts. We got each others' backs, forever. Someone started building a treehouse in a sturdy tree over the river but every time I try to go over to it, I sink into the river mud. How in the world?

#8: October of 2007. Personal by Stars. I see a panther stalk a deer and her young when the sun starts to set. There's been a wide path paved to the bridge for over a year now, and bottle caps littering the entire scene, and people walking their dogs to and from. I probably shouldn't nap out here anymore.

#9: April of 2008. Salome by La Mar Enfortuna. I am dancing with my indigo beaded silk sari from India. My first experience with LSD. An ankle bracelet? How cliche of me. I swear I saw a spider with blue eyes.

#10: On a visit from Colorado. February of 2009. Grant's silly Silverstein logo faded, but still expertly painted, taking up a good portion of the bridge. I see Steven's butterfly that he spray painted for me at my feet. My words are still on the rails. Mason has left an empty coffee cup in the corner - how did he know I was visiting - "I can't make them like you" scribbled on the sides. Lauren's old lighter still lodged in-between the slats. Jenn came here at one point and stole my lines to write on whatever empty space I left. A bunch of old furniture somebody dumped is all piled up as makeshift stepping stones to the treehouse - they never did finish building it! This place isn't mine anymore. Byebye <3

Dear diary.

There's nothing wrong. I am just bored. Deliciously dark, inspiring thoughts are far more entertaining than stirring up things with real people who are usually not even good playmates. Things always have a way of working out for me in the long run. It's a long run.

The Florida sun baked my painted words onto the bridge railing 4 years ago. I used to go there and run my fingertips over the words and yearn and sigh and push one fisted hand into a cheek and stare over the Little Econ and stand there until it was night and sounds came from the forest that I couldn't match with any animal I knew. I painted words onto the bottom of my desk too. Now, whenever I am sad, I molest them instead and feel a little disloyal but mostly calm. I'd like to think of it as therapeutic braille.

And now I am thinking of the bridge again. I usually just run with my abstract thoughts and leave it there. But the bridge was such a central part of my life for those years. I am going to think for a while and try to come up with some good memories. Maybe it'll actually be worth a read.

The phoenix says!

The devil says!

The serpent says!

The siren says!

Verbatim.

I wish I would die in the arms of a child in a meadow where the thistles grow wild.

Excuse me,

I am about to self-destruct and I wish you'd move. My brains are going to get all in your hair and face.

Badadabumbadum.