Fuck Cleaning

My dad has this 'method' to cleaning really messy rooms. He shoves everything into big plastic container until there's no more clutter to be seen. Then, he goes through each container, piece by piece and puts it all away.

Now this is a fine method if you actually follow through part two. Unfortunately, I don't. Every time he got fed up with my room, he would go out and by more big containers, and fill them. Then I wouldn't touch them, and would go out and find stuff to replace whatever I couldn't find because it had been packed away.

So now that I'm moving, I have 20 bins full of who knows what, and whatever's actually on the shelves and in the closets.

I have discovered so much paper and school supplies that I have no need of. Several boxes of straight pins. Bags, gift cards, what have you. Some of this is going straight into the bin, and most is going into give away.
This is a lesson folks.
I'm not sure what all of it is, but just keep your rooms clean and don't let my dad touch anything.

Dear Jon.

I wish you understood.
I wish you cared.
I wish you all the happiness in the world.
And I wish all your bad choices come back to bite you in the arse and take all your happiness away.
I wish the same for your offspring.
Because nothing good could ever come from you.
The only worthy thing about you, is your music.
Except... that's actually your brother's isn't it.
No that wasn't a question.
Stay away from my friends.
I've blocked your number.

"Goodbye"

P.S
This isn't just about Her. I know abut the others as well. If you think that you have any legs to stand on with me, you don't. As far as I care every gesture you make is, itself, a lie. Which is rather impressive. You are an impressive liar and I hope She sees through your bullshit someday.

Bueller... Bueller... Bueller...

I live, my darling readers. I swear that I do. I wish to start writing once more, but I must finish my finals first. I have six hours in which to write an essay and finish eight paintings.

I am not ashamed to say that I am having trouble concentrating.

I am unsure how I will manage to write an essay on a script I've hardly read, let alone take eight pages to dissect it.

I may easily sum it up here for you.

The Death Of A Salesman: He looses his shit and dies. V. depressing.

How long has it been since I have written here, lovelies? How much has happened since then.

My life feels as if it has been wrenched from beneath me, and however hard it was to stand again, I made sure to do so quickly.

I cannot show weakness.

I who scorns heartbreak, should not show it's effect on me.

Yet, months later, I am still so broken. Every remembrance of The Bastard makes me sick. A smell. A phrase. Chipotle.

When I am free of school I will explain better. Or not. I don't know. My moods are volatile and attention sometimes flighty.

I will try and write here once a week, though that may be difficult during the month of June.