Barefaced. Again.

Keep in mind, you should be here now. Winter spirits under my skin and I am pallid again. Nobody envies the ‘unique-looking’ lurid girl. Even worse now that I’ve had to revert back to low glycemic index bullshit with no dairy or added sugar. Cue the headaches, mam! SUGAR IS IN EVERYTHING.

But you could make me flush. Or something. I don’t even mean that sexually. I could just yell about something humorous. Pull faces to make you laugh.

A brief cohort with my monetary situation. Yes, I am fucked.

And it wasn’t even that good.

I am panicking, now. I have been told I can’t leave. Because my sixteen-year-old self decided to set up an account in which to deposit funds I am not allowed to touch, under any circumstances (so it would seem), until I am twenty-six. My sixteen-year-old-self was a little bitch who had no concept of tragedy or independence. I would like to have a stern word with my sixteen-year-old-self. I would say, one day, you will want to get the fuck out of the city you love so much as of right now. You will leave your job, maybe. You will lose all independence and a great scrape of pride will come away with it. You fucking idiot.

Could have done it better myself, kind of fucked.

My little panglossian self. I would happily fumble through those four dramatic years again, just so I could grab you by the shoulders and say LOOK AT YOU NOW. The world is not roseate. Everything may or may not work out. She was all kilojoule-counting, romance-reliant, a-typical. Now she is a brutish rubbish truck of swear words and embarrassments.

On that note. I am not embarrassed by that evening because I did not want to go home with you, even if it may have seemed like that’s what I was pushing for. I did not want to go to his house or my house or your house. I just wanted to talk to someone for a while. Big fucking deal.

Someone with money must read this. I need help. I will be kicked out. I get sick at my mother’s house. I get abhorrently angry at my father’s. I have never felt such keen desperation, like I am physically grappling at the edges of a hole with no hand or foot holds. I have been to something like eighteen job interviews. I am the ultimate unwanted and the ultimate unemployable.

Sometimes I see myself as a tacky little spray-painted box. A box full of crap. And my face is changing again and it isn’t nice. I can’t even rely on my own features. ARGH I DID THIS ALL MYSELF.