My Ba Co. My great grandmother. I wish I believed in a heaven, because you deserve to be there. You and your fumbling hands and how you liked to crack a joke and to slap my belly. You who sang me lullabies in order for my crabby child self to nap in the afternoon. You who always told me I kept getting prettier and prettier every time you saw me these past 17 years. You who told me I was becoming such a fine young woman.

Thank you. 

Some times I scare myself. I imagine all the people that I hate disemboweling themselves over and over until they fucking feel the physical aspect of the psychological pain they inflicted upon my brother. I don’t feel immoral. I don’t feel gruesome. I feel like I’m both ends of the spectrum—and that scares me.

lossofwordishz:

I am going to memorize

all the nerves of the body

and where they are located

this week.

I DARE YOU. I’ll do the same next week after SAT IIs. :)

I don’t care. I’m making fun of you, but you don’t see it. You all are Cathcarts. We are all Cathcarts. Hmm…I don’t care. It’s sad, isn’t it? You don’t amuse me anymore. Well, at least I’m sad, that is.

Twisted? Definitely. Cocky? Not really. We all do it. It’s pointless. Being angry is pointless like how being envious or jealous or competitive is pointless. Being depressed is just as pointless—yet I’m on sleep meds all the same.

Funny. Everything is funny.

Autism and Artistry

are one in the same as they

configure the soul’s eye

window

opening

into one where

speaking is not needed.

Many people disrespect Mr. Johnson and expect him to put 110% of his efforts to teach us or edit our lame excuses for process papers. He has to put in the 110% while we all just put in 45%! Each! Or as an average? Sounds like a good deal, right? Then don’t whine and complain about the results of your fucking audacity to demand such a thing from another human being. I hate my class of ‘13.