Tag Archive: suicide

My Life, My Business. NOT YOURS

I’m using this blog for the specific reason that I know whoever has gone tattling on me to my ex boyfriend can see it.

Correct me if I’m wrong but what I do with my life is none of anyone’s business but my own. Right now, I feel like I’m stuck in the middle of a fucking hurricaine that I caused.
The eye of the storm is calm, right? Yeah, it is. I don’t feel much right now. I feel a little empty. This is because there’s a lot going on inside of my head.
The thing is though I don’t want everyone to know everything – so don’t go fucking telling them. You want to know what I’ve been up to since Saturday the 7th? Email me, I’ll give you the fucking list.
If I wanted my ex boyfriend to know any of this, I’d post it on my other blog, where only he and another user can actually see it. But I don’t suppose it matters now because nobody has respect for my privacy or the fact that my ex boyfriend has a tendency to be driven to fucking suicide. I’m pretty sure he’s close to that point now and I’m damn well sure I pushed him there. Why do I feel like I wasted my time with him? Oh, right, because I wanted to make him happy and bring him away from his depression but I’ve just sent him right back there… It shouldn’t be him on the verge of suicide; it should be someone who actually deserves to die.



My father presented me with an oversized novelty rubbed with the words “For BIG Mistakes” written on it. For a joke, I asked if I was supposed to rub myself out with it. Ha. Dad said “Whatever. Knock yourself out.” Made me laugh. I knew it wouldn’t work, but I tried rubbing myself out anyway. Just as I expected, my efforts were for nought. The rubber, it seemed, wasn’t big enough or strong enough to erase me from existence. Then again, in erasing myself from existence, it would also change quite a few people’s history and I’m not sure such a simple tool could accomplish such a large request.

I came to wonder what people would be like if they’d never met me. I think there’d be a lot less pain and fewer broken hearts. But I also think a very select few wouldn’t be as strong as they are now or wouldn’t have had a shoulder to cry on when they needed it. After all, ground that is rained on tends to harden. But I do wonder… If someone asks a person to die, can their life really be worth living?


While I’m at it, I may as well ramble on some more. That’s all I have the motivation to do right now. Rather than picking up a pencil and making a start on my art homework, I blog because things just keep entering my mind that I’d rather get out in the open for people to hear about. Only problem being, barely anyone reads my blog. I know of two people who are avid readers of my blog and that’s because either I told them about it or they found me via my old blog which was on MSN Spaces. I prefer WordPress a lot more, mostly because there’s an app for it, but that’s off topic.

Right now, I have little motivation to do anything worthwhile. After all, just the other night while I was talking to my ex boyfriend’s best friend (I no longer consider the guy a friend because of how spiteful he was towards me, which made me spiteful towards him, no matter how much I don’t blame him for it), I had decided that there wasn’t much worth living for in my life except for this one guy, whom I adore, and the fact that my mother’s heart would be broken if I were to take my own life. Normally, I tend to follow orders, especially when they’re repeated by one person or more, but this is just one order I cannot carry out.

My lack of motivation stems from an almost emptiness I was filled with that night, much like depression. It seems to have consumed me and it’s downright pissing me off. Really, it’s my own fault. I never did like big break ups.

Sooner or later, I’m going to drain my motivation silo using the tap at the bottom and use up what little drops are left at the bottom to do some of this homework I have piled up. Wish me luck?

Look, Daddy, Look!

“Look, Daddy, look!”
She stood at her fathers side,
A colourful masterpiece held with pride,
The best she’d ever done,
In her three years of life,
The colours glistening brightly on the page,
Glistening in those abstract shapes.
He picked her up and put her down
on the floor again,
Ruffled her hair,
“Not now, sweetie, Daddy’s busy.”

“Look, Daddy, look!”
Her first play-mate,
Stood with her this time,
Smiling brightly from eye to eye,
The greatest friend she’d ever have,
In her six year old eyes,
They stood hand in hand,
And awaited a reply.
He glanced at them,
And smiled,
“Not now, sweetie, Daddy’s busy.”

“Look, Daddy, look!”
Her outstretched hands,
Held a party hat,
Searched for a blue one,
She was proud of that,
Double digits, ‘big one-oh,’
Said to be important,
This she did know,
So she asked him to join them.
He didn’t look but smiled,
“Not now, sweetie, Daddy’s busy.”

“Look, Daddy, look!”
She had her boyfriend with her,
Her very first one,
She hoped he would last,
All her fifteen years had gone so fast,
He was a handsome young man,
Kind, sweet and caring,
She’d taken him with her,
To shake her father’s hand.
He only glanced,
“Not now, sweetie, Daddy’s busy.”

“Look, Daddy, look.”
She held her right wrist in a cast,
The first injury to need one,
In all twenty-one of her years,
She wanted him to know,
Of the wreckless motorcycle accident,
But would rather him hear tell,
Of her left wrist with the scars,
Scratched over her veins.
He looked at her briefly,
“Not now, sweetie, Daddy’s busy.”

“Look, Daddy. Look.”
The red ran from the wound,
In her twenty-eight year old skin,
It ran fast and smooth,
Suicide’s a sin,
But what else could she do,
Try as she might,
To get his attention,
And his recognition.
She fell to the ground.
“Not now, sweetie, Daddy’s busy.”