Words and words and words.

Words and words and words and words. I didn't intend on writing, every attempt I've made recently has produced utter shit. I'm supposed to be in bed, asleep. I have to go shopping tomorrow. Vegetarian friendly food and tampons. My head wouldn't shut up. I stared at the window and the darkness of the sky that was a different color black from the darkness of the wall. I feel creatively stifled. I complain that my muse has run away, but I don't think that's the case. I have plenty of ideas, plenty of half formed poems floating around my head, plenty of story lines, designs to be sketched, painted...

**dog chooses this fine time to decide he needs to go outside, lets see if this stream of words lasts the 10 minutes this will take.**

Anyway, ideas, designs, story lines, poems...they're all still there. What's changed is me, I think. I have had this overwhelming feeling of...not being myself, I guess...for a while now. Everything I do, everything I say, everything I think, it feels like it belongs to someone else, comes from someone else. Like the thoughts from my own brain are plagiarism because I don't know the person whose head I'm pulling them from. So, to put them to type, to paper, would end in them feeling fake, not mine. Plus, I feel as if the things I'm putting out into the world are just sitting there, stagnant. Like, I don't know if anyone reads them, really? Or maybe they are actually reading them, but my subject matter is so fucked up that they're afraid to respond? I don't know, I don't put my stuff out there to receive feedback or praise or criticism or whatever, but those things are nice to have, just so you know that yeah, someone does appreciate what you're doing. Or even that they don't appreciate it but they did read it. I don't know, I guess it's human nature to seek acknowledgment. Or maybe I'm an attention whore. OK, so I'm definitely an attention whore, but isn't it fairly natural to crave that which you rarely receive?

I wish I knew what it was that was going on inside my brain. I wish I knew who I was now. I used to be social, I used to crave interaction with friends, used to love going out and cutting lose and all that went along with that. Now, I'm solitary. I have a very small group of people I relate to, and everyone else makes me feel anxious, like I'm standing at the edge of a room full of close friends and I don't know and can't relate to any of them. I stammer over my words, it takes me numerous attempts to get out a full sentence that makes sense. To hear me talk, you wouldn't know that my IQ is above 150. You'd think I was a simpleton who had no grasp of the English language. I avoid phone conversations at all costs. I want to do all these things, but I'm so scared of failing that I can't even try. Most people around me completely underestimate me now, simply because I can't find it in me to prove to them that I can actually do things. This never used to be me. Never. I had friends. I did things. I talked on the phone. I decided to do something and I DID it. I didn't let fear drive me. I miss that person.

"I wish you could remind me who I was, cause every day I'm a little further off"

I've given up practically everything that I've ever enjoyed. Drugs. Gave em up. Smoking, yep..gave that up too. Drinking? Gone. Food? Cut meat out of my diet entirely. The last "vice" I had was soda, and hell, I gave that up too. All these things have made/will make me a healthier person in the long run, but what is left for me to enjoy? Is it truly healthy for someone to give up EVERY little (or big) vice they've got? I guess I'll find out. It'll either work, or I'll rebel completely and end up high/drunk/devouring all the meat I can find while smoking 3 cigarettes at a time and mainlining soda. I really hope it works out for me, though. I really want to get myself in shape and stop feeling like a fat, disgusting cow. I'm tired of looking at myself in the mirror and wanting to cry. My entire life I've been the "chubby one" or "the fat friend". I remember once, I was camping with some friends, and I was sitting on the end of a pier after dark. My friend's brother and his friend were within earshot and I heard him ask his friend if he liked anyone. His friend said there wasn't anyone there worth giving a chance. He said "well, what about Aimee?" His friend responded, "are you kidding me? The back of her neck looks like a pack of hot dogs." I was like 12. I'm 27 now and I still feel the pain that statement drove into me. I've convinced myself that that's how everyone looks at me, friend, potential lover, current lover, family...how could anyone possibly look at me and not see how flat out disgusting I am? How could they, when even I can't?

Huh, maybe my former friend was right. Maybe I do try and make myself more than I am to hide how small I feel inside. Maybe I drive away everyone close to me because if I strike the first blow, it'll hurt less when they hit back. Maybe I push and push and push because I really just want to see how much people care, how much they'll take from me before their love for me isn't enough to hold it together anymore. Maybe I run away not to be alone, but to see if anyone cares enough to follow. Maybe I get defensive and standoffish when people berate me for my shit because I'm already berating myself internally and I need them to see that I beat myself up harder than anyone else ever could, and that I don't need them to tell me what I did wrong, I need them to help me see what I did right.

Maybe I need to stop typing before this turns into a total mess of melodrama and self pity.

The birds are chirping outside and the sky is starting to lighten. It's electric blue against the black of the walls now. I'm getting all together too used to falling asleep to the sounds of birds. Insomnia is an annoying house guest who has long overstayed her welcome. I have an idea for a new tattoo that I think is awesome, and if I can just convince Photo shop to work with me a little bit later, I'm going to lay out the design. Black shoulder to lower back length angel wings and my favorite Jim Morrison quote; "Death makes Angels of us all and gives us wings where we once had shoulders smooth as ravens claws", done in script between them. I'm reading the book House of Leaves, and, for the first time in my entire life, finding a book to be confusing. Captivating, but I can't sit and read more than a few pages at a time because it makes me dizzy trying to follow the two separate, yet intertwined, story lines. Amanda Palmer has officially bumped Ani Difranco out of my favorite performer spot. Her music is amazing. Beautiful, painful, amusing, perfect and imperfect all at once...and best of all, it runs the full gamut of emotions. You can hear the woman smile in her songs...her laughter after some lines makes me crack a smile. One of her songs has even given me an entirely different perspective on a painful blemish on my past, allowing me to look at it with less pain. I love music that invokes genuine feeling and emotion in me. I'm rambling now. It's light out. I've got to be up in about 4 hours. I was supposed to be asleep two hours ago. Oh well, I don't regret writing this. I'm pretty proud I've written this much, actually. It still feels fake, as if I'm stealing it from someone else's head, though. Oh well, it's a start, at least.