sometimes i'm awake thinkin' about fuckin' things up for myself again.

it's been a minute.

nearly three years since the last time i posted on here.

i still come back to read this sometimes.

i guess i should update.

i'm almost 23.

i don't talk to my mom anymore.

i'm not a boxer. i know how to box, but that dream never got off the ground. i'd still like to get into it seriously sometimes, but in the last three years i learned i have a huge problem with sticking to things.

i failed chasing the idea of being an EMT, a firefighter, anything in between.

i learned to exist in the moment. it's where i work best. planning was never my strong suit.

i don't know if i'm happier. i don't know what 'happy' means.

i think i'm in a better place than i used to be. i'm still fucked up, but i'm getting better. or at least, that's what people tell me. i'm not a good judge of myself.

i'm still learning how to treat people i care about. i'm trying to be more careful with my words. it doesn't always work. (i'm sorry jade.)

i've become more confident, i think. i handle social situations better. i still prefer to keep my nose in my phone and my thoughts to myself but i'm not afraid of talking to people.

i'm protective. i know this about myself now. i guess i always knew it, kind of, but recent events have brought it to the forefront of my attention. it's cliche to say it but i refuse to let anyone make my friends feel like shit.

i've been on a plane, now. it was cool. because of that, i'm planning on moving to austin. for the first time in my life, i have savings. i'm trying not to spend too much of it. sometimes i'm good at that, sometimes i spend six hundred bucks on a handgun.

but i told myself i couldn't have the three hundred dollar shotgun so, y'know, baby steps.

i don't know how much of that is self-sabotage and how much of it is me just being bad at handling money.

but i know i've never let myself get this close to success before.

i'm terrified. i'm terrified that rose is going to back out for some reason or other. i'm terrified that i won't be able to do it. i'm terrified that i'll have to come back to albuquerque with my tail between my legs.

my dad told me i'm a glutton for punishment, and i'm realizing right now as i write this that he didn't mean from her.

i'm my own punishment.

and i've been trying to break that habit for years.

i don't know what made me want to write. i'm not particularly sad, or angry. quarantine has left me with more time to think than act, i think.

maybe three years of shit is just too much to hold onto without putting it somewhere.

i just hope i'm better than the person i think i am.

I'm finding clarity in kerosene.

i destroyed you tonight.
i ripped you to shreds and burned you.

all that you are, all your poems, the one you wrote about me, then one you stayed up on skype with me to finish.

i shredded the heart of who you are and set a match to it.

you're not part of me anymore.

i fucking hate you.

i hope you rot.

i'm sick of you having this control over me when you're not even here.

fuck you.

i destroyed you tonight and i'm going to keep destroying you, over and over and over again until there's nothing left for me to destroy.

no more memories to incinerate.

just thought i'd let you know you're dead to me.

Manic pixie dream girl.

I've seen a lot of things, recently, about the idea of the "Manic Pixie Dream Girl"

I had one, once.
The kind of girl who fit that archetype perfectly.
The girl with dyed hair that smelled too heavy of cigarette smoke.
Leather jackets and car rides to nowhere.
The girl who gives you a handmade journal full of date ideas and songs to listen to.
"These songs will change your life."
"These songs will save you."
"I will change your life."
"I will save you."

Y'know, that girl.
The girl who picks a tragic romance novel she enjoys and assigns you as the male lead and herself as the female lead. I guess I'm Park, now.

Too often, however, in media, the "manic pixie dream girl" character only serves to help the generic white boy #5 protagonist grow as a person and is all too often swept to the sidelines against the protagonist's journey of self-discovery that wouldn't be possible without this character.

I suppose that's true in my case, too.
Though, you don't often hear of the "manic pixie dream girl" being the antagonist in a story.

She is in mine.

Eleanor was the character she related to. And sure, y'know, if you wrote down a detailed description of that girl, she'd fit perfectly.

Park was me. The only thing I had in common with him? We both liked comics. I don't listen to the Smiths. I don't wear eyeliner.

Instead, she assigned me someone she would've rather been with. A mold, to shape me in. And since I already liked comics, maybe that meant it would be a little easier to fit me into that mold.

But I had already made myself out of my old mold. So instead of finding a new piece of clay, or someone already cut from that mold, she broke me.

Bit by bit until I fit her mold of her dream guy. Crumbled into a powder to fit this image of a guy that would make someone proud of her for dating a "good guy."

I wasn't that guy. But she didn't care. I was finding my own way through life, and she didn't like it.

I wasn't the kind of person her parents would like, and she wasn't the type to rebel. Instead of passing me up, like she should've, she took me. And when I wouldn't fit, she made me love her. Made me love her so much, that she could leave me and I would change any way she wanted me to so that I would get her back.

I never made it into that guy her parents would be proud of her for, I guess.

Which is weird, because, her parents loved me.

But I guess she didn't.

Thanks for thinking about me.

I said I didn't want to be your enemy, and I meant it.

But now you've gone and got yourself an enemy.

I began to understand why God died

You weren't life's apology to me.

Life needs to apologize to me because of you.

My skin that wrapped my frame wasn't made to play this game

Alright look

I don't want to be your friend, ever again.
And I know you don't want to be mine.

But I don't want to be your enemy.

I appreciate everything you did for me.
I just ask that you remember what I did for you, too. Even if you didn't appreciate it.

I was there for you.
You were there for me.
I'm not awful.
You're not awful.

We could scream at each other for hours, calling each other classless, egregious, selfish, coy.

But my first thought, when I hear your name?

a 4am Rocky marathon because I was sad and needed a place to stay.
A drunken walk around the block talking about our abusive exes.
Laughing at people we found on Tinder.
Leroy The Trash King.
Hell, you and I are so fucking similar, it seemed you were the only person who properly understood what the fuck I felt sometimes.

I will never, EVER forget what you've done for me.

I'm not proud of the shit I said
And I don't expect an apology from you, and that's fine, you shouldn't expect one from me either.
I don't care about all that.

Maybe you and I ruined any chance at being friends again that night. And yeah, I started it. And we both escalated it.
Fine.

But I'm not gonna carry anymore hate. Anymore anger. I'm done with it.
I see you on the street? I'll say hi.

But I'm not gonna ask how you're doing.
I'm just gonna assume,

Okay.

365 days.

It's been a year and some change.

I can't remember the exact date anymore, and that's good.

I thought I was past it all. I thought I was past you.

But the more time passes, the more things I find that I swept under the rug.

At the time, it was so that your perfect image is my eyes would remain untarnished.

Like the time you pressured me to drink, knowing I was supressing an addiction.

The times you made me feel like it was a gift to have you.

The times you made me feel like stripping myself of who I am was all for growing.

The times I tried to stop an argument for happening, like I promised, but you kept pushing.

When you called me a "jackass" for wanting to calm down before we continued a conversation.

I didn't insult or raise my voice at you in that argument.

All I said was "I'm upset, I don't want to talk about it right now. We'll talk when I'm calm so this doesn't become an argument." I remember those words leaving my mouth as clear as day.

I remember because your response was "I'M TRYING TO TALK ABOUT IT, WHY ARE YOU BEING A FUCKIN JACKASS ABOUT IT?"

So I got up. Out of bed.

The first time I stood up for myself. I grabbed my pillow.
Didn't say a word to you.

Grabbed a blanket, and lied down on the couch.

I didn't want to be near you.

You came in 20 minutes later.

"Fuck you. You're being such a child."

I still didn't insult you.

I just asked to be left alone.

Does this excuse the times I actually did yell and insult you? No, of course not. I'm not trying to hide that. And if anyone asks, I actively tell them I wasn't great either.

I'm only showing what I refused to believe before.
Not that you did it more, or that you did it worse, that's irrelevant.

But you did it.
And you did so much more than just that.

You once told me, that you had a habit of fixing people and then being forgotten by them.

I wish that were true. I wish both of those statements were true.

Because you sure as shit didn't fix me.
You broke me.
You ruined me.
And you unfriended me, because I assume you don't want to live with the thought that you damaged someone so badly that they're still reeling a year later.

I wish I could forget you. I wish I could just be better and forget that someone I loved with everything I had hurt me so severely.

But sadly, you'll always be a big part of my life.
I just wish it was as "My first love" and not "The girl who ruined me."

I wish my memories with you could've just been the good ones.
Hell, I wish I still remembered the good ones.

But, it's better like this.
It's better that I remember what you've done.
I'm so far removed that I can see it.
I can see what you did.

And I fucking hate you for it all.

I hope you succeed in whatever it is you finally decide you want to do with yourself

But succeed far the fuck away from me.