Well, Hello There

Probably going to regret this, but here goes:
It would be appropriate that the first post I write is on an airplane. I always seem to be on one of these things, I guess that’s what happens when you’re a product of divorced parents.
My name is Isabella, and I’m what you would call a modern day princess. You know in all the shows about the ridiculously wealthy people theres always one girl that fits, but doesn’t? Well that would be me. Don’t get me wrong, you ask anyone who really knows me and they can’t imagine me traveling something that isn’t first class or not having walking closet — one of my prides and joy mind you — but I swear theres more to me than the bubble I live in, and there are days that I wish this bubble didn’t exist; then I remember how much I enjoy being driven around everywhere and that desire to burst this metacognitive economic paradise goes away. It makes for good writing, people feed of the life of people like me (that sounded a lot less snobbier in my head).
Any who. Like any princess, my boyfriend is pretty much perfect, my friends are alcoholics, shopaholics, equestrians (could you get more pertinacious than that?), and and my family is anything but functional. Like I said before, my parents are divorced, and family drama is something I’m so used to I’m pretty much immune to it. I also have a Persian cat. My life revolves around my two homes, Colombia and the Dominican Republic, as well as New York City, Miami, and well, Ithaca. Could I be a more stereotypical and cliched white girl with money? I mean I don’t like Starbucks so I guess that makes me special?
As I write these words I’m hours away from landing home, where a week of blood wars, empty bottles are the norm the that bubble traps you; I’m stepping into a snow globe of glitter.

Restructure

So here I stare at my screen once again trying to make sense why I decided to start a blog in the first place. I read over my first post and think to myself yeah well that was a dandy idea but I don’t really think I have anything to say. For some reason, that desire to tell my story simply vanished; disappeared along with every scar of self proclaimed voice that I haven’t really found. I don’t even think I’ve started looking for it.
But that’s the thing. I deny myself the chance to write down the ideas and feelings that buzz back and forth through my mind and drill the back of it at such a pace that I’m surprised I don’t have a crater at the back of my head. I deny them because writing them down makes them real; my specialty if throwing my feelings away when they become too much. Wash down the memories by pretending they don’t exist. I lie to myself when I say, “Today is the day that I’ll narrate the joys or the tumbles of my week,” simply because I convince myself mid post that my words aren’t worth it or that if I complain too much I’ll turn into my mother.
The thing is, today actually is that day. Today I restructure this thing to something that looks more like something that will look more like journal than anything else, my poetry will still be here, it’ll just be moved to a different tab. I apologize to those who might find this recount of my days as boring, and to my family because they’ll pretty much be fucked over because of this. I also apologize to everyone I mention. You’ll all a part of my life, and I know people will get hurt along the way, but this is my story: dysfunctional family included. The fact that so many of the people I know, know about this site probably won’t help either.
Oh well.
Here goes
Get ready for useless stories every Sunday at around 5

Carnage

It was the intoxication for you that made me realize that I’ve been getting drunk of the wrong things for way to long

I’ve been sober before your lips, before your hands on my hips

You made me rethink the concept of being in a state sobriety

Because I would always see my self staring at the end of a bottle for a daring push into the world of extraordinary cliches to feel a sense of normalcy, different than awkward social convention I shoved myself into 

But then I found myself drinking you, and felt at ease, felt at peace

Because liquor isn’t supposed to transform you

It’s supposed to bring out your truest shade out form the shadows

Shadows that were born out of the constricted norms embedded into my mind before I could even think about playing with my barbie dolls

And then I drank a tangy mixture of cheap vodka, expensive self-derailemt and an aftertaste of a misplaced childhood.

And for the first time in my predetermined existence

For the first time in my etiquette driven, formulaic personality

For the first time my mask fell of my face

Tumbled down on to the floor

And fell between your fingertips

For the first time I wasn’t afraid of pain

I found comfort in the scars you left on my neck

Open wounds that got infected with delusions and ill-adviced caresses

Because with every stroke they became deeper

And now here I stand

That result of your carnage

Battered black and blue but holding on to your control over me

Waiting

Waiting for you to bite deeper into me until I’m lost in my own oblivion

Only to find myself in your arms

Wanting to feel weak again

Craving the hangover 

I can’t seem to wrap my head around the fact that I move out tomorrow. I also can’t wrap my head around the fact that I pretty much haven’t written a word, a meaningful word, in months. The saddest part is I’ve had so much to write about in the past view months, that I’m just wondering if I’m forcing myself into a continuos writers block just so I don’t have to face the countless faces that float around the dustiest corners of my repressed subconscious.

Vent

I haven’t vented for a while and it’s really starting to get to me. This addiction of self-inflicting emotional pain is really getting out of hand and it’s all thanks to (bis surprise) a GUY. I can have my cliche moments once in a while and this is one of them.

I just don’t get it. Do men enjoy twisting the feelings and emotions of women for pleasure? Is it like a sport to them? What is it about driving women towards a downward spiral that they find so exhilarating. I mean seriously, how is having a girl go up and down a horrible emotional roller coaster for about 10 months FUN. Especially a dramatic girl, who’s actually going to get pissed at you because she, oh I don’t know, ACTUALLY FUCKING CARES ABOUT WHAT YOU’RE DOING IN GENERAL AN TO HER. And COME ON, really? The bull crap that you miss her and you want to never loose her. (Well I can’t really call is bull crap I fall for it all the time, but the point is WHY THE FUCK DO YOU SAY THOSE THINGS WHEN YOU REALLY DON’T CARE). And don’t come with the excuse that you feel sorry for her, because if you did you would have walked away when you fought, when she told you she wanted nothing to do with you, but you didn’t. You didn’t walk away. Why the fuck did you stay. You honestly don’t think it’s best for the mental health of the both of you for you to just leave her alone. She’s strong, she can get through it. But you won’t, and neither will she. None of you want to let go because sadly both of you, deep down, VERY DEEP DOWN, care. BUT YOU. Oh you who can only think with that small penis are blinded by a morality you don’t posses are so convinced you have the world on a sting wrapped around your finger that you can get away with having movie night and not paying attention to them. Well you actually succeeded but that doesn’t mean it’s going to happen again, or maybe it will, or it won’t. Jesus why is this so goddamn complicated. WHY ARE YOU SO COMPLICATED. I’m actually trying to keep this as simple as I can but it’s hard, SO HARD because you except things to be fine. I’m not ok with “fine”. I don’t like “fine”. I want simple no baggage, happy go lucky, with normal *insert some socially acceptable label here* fights and not being terrified of kissing you or actually fucking you because there would be no moral implications involved.

 

I want my best friend back. All of him. And a little more. And I won’t ever get it. Because. He. Is. A. Fucking. Idiot

Didn’t take me so long to crack this time.

Kissing a Fool

How lost must I be that you have me going back to the one thing I swore I would repress form my lips and mind entirely

Maybe it’s better to stay in a dry spill than go back to the torturous task of an art that has been so played out.

I mean it was played out when it was written out 154 times

Yet here I am trying to reiterate what has always been stated in iambic pentameter

In rhyme

In kids poems

In erotic literature

There’s just nothing new to say about the time consuming, death eating, fucking plain messed feeling up that builds up inside me when I see you, when I think about you, when you hold my hand and kiss my neck

Because it’s all been said before

It’s not new to want to rip apart every memory because so help me God even the happy ones make me feel like there’s nothing to hold on to

Because they’re an echo of doubt

They’re a sad excuse of a deranged version of a fairy tail that I can’t help but find in every book I read, every song I hear and every insignificant sentence that simply mean so much to me

Not knowing if you can read between my lines or there’s a subtext in the way you nonchalantly glace at your side when I’ve drifted off into my non-sense once again

And then there’s your confusion

Which confuses me

And confuses you

And then it’s back to me

And then I end up being completely honest about something that I don’t even know if I’m saying correctly because there tends to be a third party nagging at my brain to mix fictional feelings with uncertain truth and makes me bombard the wall you’ve build up to high because you can’t have me being right

At all

Not even about this

The irony being that you’re the one who supposedly feels so sure about himself

You can’t answer the question of what is it you want

Your coward sense of humor and chivalry surpasses your logic

And yet I’m the one who’s complicated

When I’ve managed to put aside my pride and wait for something that you want but doesn’t convince you

Knowing all the same that if the tables were turned you wouldn’t wait for me

Maybe I am crazy

Or just plainly stupid

But I guess you must have been kissing a fool

1984

My goal of writing a post every Monday has become a complete failure. What can I say, me and deadlines just don’t mix when it comes to inspiration. I don’t know what is happening to me lately that I can’t get inspired. Maybe it’s because I feel under complete control and words can’t seem to flow through my inner core up to my hands to express the feeling of utter helplessness and fear of simply thinking. That, or I’m simply coming down with a heavy does of seniortis and I have no interest other than Netflix, and that’s not a very good source of inspiration. 

But seriously, I feel straight out of the book 1984 where even having thoughts that are remotely out of line are punished. I can’t have a conversation with someone without being careful with how I word things because I might be taped. Psychological trauma has forced me to think things and say things I wouldn’t say otherwise, to act differently. As I write this post I’m terrified that it might come back to haunt me, but I have to figure out if someone she has found my one true escape. I do realize all this sounds outlandish, straight out of a bad suspense movie, but I can’t help but feel my heart and opinions being mangled by the one person who swore would protect them. Screw healthy formation, if you want someone to follow your set opinion as to how they should act, make them fear their own existence. 

It’s become such a pull on me that I’m afraid to fall in love, because I know no one will ever be good enough, no one will ever bring back the sense of safety that she’s taken away. 

It’s no joke that as I type these words my heart races in utter anxiety that after this post I’ll be annexed from my first amendment right. 

Dear Karma

Dear Karma,

I am sick and tired. Sick and tired of standing back and forgiving everyone who doesn’t need to be forgiven, of being stepped on, of being shot down. I am sick and tired of seeing everyone else being happy, seeing those who hurt me thrive. I am sick and tired of being ok with settling for less that what I deserve. Haven’t I paid enough for everything I did just about a year ago? What is it karma? You gonna throw things at me till I crack? Well guess what, YOU WON, I’ve had it, and I’ve cracked.

News flash you cosmic piece of worthless belief, I don’t think it’s fair that those who hurt me get to be happy after doing everything that they did, and that I’m still paying for hurting him. I know I hurt him, jeez, every person on the planet knows I still feel like shit, and yet I haven’t gotten my chance to redeem myself, to show that I’ve changed. I can’t seem to catch a fucking break in a world where, honestly, the only thing I have going for me is that I was born into lucky family, who in retrospect isn’t even that lucky because I have to deal with two 5 year olds who happen to be my parents.  And it’s not lucky anyway because I feel like shit for having what I have, it’s like a cursed label, but I’m getting side tracked here.

I honestly need a break. I want to be more than content with where I’m at, I want to actually be happy about something, not just be happy simply because I still have a shred of my sanity. So here I am begging you, me the proud midget who never asks for anything is begging YOU the bitch of the royal superstitious mindset TO GIVE ME A BREAK. It can be a simple week where my love life, sport life and academic life just seem to fall into place, and then you can go back to your malicious ways.

And it’s not just me. I know people who are so dead inside because of you that they have lost all faith in anything ever getting better. I know people who because of you, have gotten much more than what they had coming. It’s like you enjoy prying on the already messed up to drive them deeper into their madness so they can keep fucking up and you can keep doing what you do best: screwing people over.

Honestly, you either need to get your act together or leave me the hell alone.

Oh and tell your friend destiny that she is more of a bitch than you because after all that I’ve done defending her and believing in her and what not, she’s jut put me in a plan that my mother doesn’t agree with, and it’s just really messing things up for me.

With great loathing,

The hopeless romantic

 

 

 

P.S. If you decide to build up a storm when my Syracuse application is being reviewed and I happen to not get in, I will find a way to annihilate you because that would be just going to far.

 

Happy Hoelloween

Aside

So it’s hallows eve and I’m still not sure if I have a costume or not. It annoys me that I actually have to make a costume because all the ones I find are sexy versions of animated kids characters. I mean seriously, who’s weird fetish imagined a sexy Elmo?

What amazes me even more is that women have turned halloween into all time hoe fest. Honestly, if you’re a closeted wanna be prostitute go right ahead and do it all year round and don’t put up this act of false innocence or self respect that you obviously do not posses. There is absolutely no need to walk around in a corset IN PUBLIC and act like it’s perfectly fine because you’re supposed to be Snow White. I had no idea Snow White wore fishnets in the movie, I guess they might have been hidden under her skirt that actually covered her ass… 

If you wanna wear a corset and fishnets, be my guest, but please do it behind closed doors and stop ruining my favorite childhood movies. Seriously, childhood movies are pretty much the only happy thoughts I have anymore and I don’t need them to go into the dark side. If your man has a weird thing for a naughty Buzz Lighter, well I suggest two things, question his sexuality and also, please that strange craving in your four walls; I don’t want one of ma favorite Pixar characters to be soiled forever in my memory because he was made into a trashy piece of latex.

Isn’t halloween about goofing off? About getting drunk of a sugar rush? About exploring that lost childhood we thought was lost forever? Or is that just me? Because the usual thing I see when I look around on October 31st are breasts pushed up to women’s noses and men tying to push down their boners. That’s far from innocent in my perspective. And yes, this coming from a woman who defends casual laying about and has a mind that finds double meanings in everything. What can I say, halloween is the time of year that reminds me I’m not as far gone as I think.

Sexual Frustration

Oh sexual frustration what have you done to me. Why have you overcome me? Does it have anything to do with the fact I haven’t actually been with anyone for about a year? Cause I mean, I don’t count the last I was sort of with simply because he was a pathetic case of innocence dabbling with a dangerous dose of egocentric arrogance who acted more like a prude than what he talked up to be.

It’s funny how women think it’s degrading to talk about their sexual frustration. I think it’s refreshing, letting it all out there. God knows I’m not masturbating, so why not simply write about it? It’s a way to deal with it at least.

I think the most frustrating part about dealing with sexual frustration is knowing that if you act upon it you probably won’t make the most respectable decisions. I mean if a woman is really desperate she might – scratch that – she will make really dumb judgement calls and sleep with anybody, or sext with anybody for that matter. Side note: In regards to the matter of sexting, I don’t find it sad, per se, it’s a really good realising method, there just comes a point when you realize that sexting a total stranger is not really worth it cause you’re just constantly turned on. Regardless of your sexter’s his hot swimmer’s body, sexy glasses and fuckable attitude and mind (there is nothing better with a guy that has a fuckable attitude and mind by the way) it just doesn’t really fill you up.

Many females deal with their frustration in different ways, most indulge in chocolate, or shopping – my personal favourite – some even do exercise, like if it were a substitute for the real physical challenge. God forgive any of us actually go out and try to sleep with a man cause that would just be a loss of complete self respect and the word “easy” will be forever tattooed on our foreheads for believing in casual sex. And just clarifying, when I say “casual sex” I don’t mean sleeping around all the time and every weekend, I mean it literally; casual sex once in a while with no romantic entanglements just to quiet the urges. A man believes in casual sex and it’s completely normal; he can get away with hooking up with the girl from the bar. But that girl form the bar will be cataloged as a thirsty slut in that guy’s mind without him giving a second thought to the label. Could it have been that she was looking for the same thing he had? I mean, a slut is defined to be a woman with the morals of a man, so I guess it’s accurate.

Wait, so does that make me a slut for believing that there is nothing wrong with casual fornication? It is a manly moral to have, therefore I fit the definition. Most people would say I’m not, because I don’t whore around. But most people don’t realize the technical difference between a slut and a whore. A slut has self respect and self worth, she uses sex as her weapon and as her means of power, like any man. A man uses having sex as showing power, a slut uses having sex as controlling her power. Pretty eye opening technicalities if you ask me. A whore on the other hand, she uses sex to feel better about herself or himself. They sleep around all the time thinking that they overcome sex, but it in fact has overcome them. It has overcome them to such a point where morality is out the window and it has become a necessity by any means possible.

Under that logic, I really don’t mind being called a slut. I don’t sleep around, I believe in a casual fling once in a blue moon. I’ve made bad judgement calls I know, but I’m not going to let those define me any longer.

I’m a sexually frustrated 17 year old girl; fell free to judge me because I honestly won’t give a fuck.