My headphones and I

A couple hours ago my headphones broke and I immediately became broken hearted for my headphones are literally my best friend. If I was to be handed one of those silly little ‘lets get to know each other’ surveys by a teacher and it asked who was my best friend was I would very proudly write ‘my headphones’. After I got home from my doctor’s appointment that afternoon I immediately started searching the Internet for yet another perfect pair. Some would suggest that I just get another pair of the same kind as the ones before, but I would never be able to do that. Somehow it would feel like betrayal to all me and my headphones have done together. It would just feel like cloning my true love after they died, but without the memories. We live a very tightrope sort of life, my headphones and me. There is a very good reason that I like over the head headphones rather than earbuds. With headphones if I put them on it gives everyone a much firmer message. With ear buds they always look like they are just waiting to be plucked from their owner’s ears but when wearing headphones you seem to say “don’t bug me now. I am deeply in love with my music and I am just about to confess. Seriously don’t. Bug. Me” which is especially good for me. Plus, if I get the right brand and type I can annoy my school just enough to get a dirty look but not enough to send me to detention. You don’t have to attend my school to know that it is one if those schools that have a thing for the dress code and I am very passionate about calmly sidling around said dress code. Sure, I show up wearing the same damn dress as all the other girls but the lesser rules are the ones that I calmly sit on so nobody can see. My headphones are a big part of this. I where one stud diamond earring that I have been told makes me look like a pirate. This is against the dress code. I slip my boots of during class. This is against the rules. I wear headphones. You won’t find this in a rule book but they have never been happy about it. I wear bracelets on my left wrist. I should wear them on my right wrist, god know why. I wear a jacket that isn’t school uniform but it looks exactly like the ones the seniors wear.
It is easy to see how I slip under the radar while still getting enough dirty looks to satisfy my need to play against the rules.
My headphones are part of the set but I can wear them if they are broken. That’s just faking it… I also need to listen to music or my mind just actually wanders out the door while my body is still stuck in class. Needless to say the situation is dire.

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Worthwhile

I hate the word worthwhile. I hate the idea that a day has to be worthwhile or its sad or hopeless or some other pitying adjective. People tell me I have to make my days worthwhile, but nobody has ever bothered to tell me why and I don’t even think they know. It’s just this being rumour that slowly became fact. I believe that being happy is the most important thing and if what makes you happy is something like playing video games all day do that. For as long as you can even if it is a ‘waste’ of you talents. The educational system never shuts up about doing what makes you happy and that you can do anything but they don’t really get that doing what makes you happy can be anything you desire not just getting a good job or getting famous or whatever they think is ‘suitable’.
My school is filled with cookie cuter ambition. I know very little people who want to do what they love because they love it. They want to get rich and famous, not because they like doing it but because of the rewards that they don’t even understand the consequences of. The media has every teenager believing that they are all going to be bitching rock stars and movie got from mars and quite frankly they’re not. They’ll find other things to do and convince themselves that they failed at life because they aren’t childless and living in a huge house married to someone beautiful.
People might say that I’m being a little hypocritical because I want to publish a book at thirteen which is pretty darn ambitious, but I want to publish a book because I love it and I want other people to love it too. I don’t want to publish a book because somebody told me that it would be a great achievement. Truth is achievements in other people’s eyes are about as useful as working hard to do something you hate.

Broke amongst the broken

I accidentally broke myself. I didn’t mean to but I guess that no knee ever means to and I only jut realised it. When it comes to emotions I can handle everyone else’s but my own feel like they get transmitted to some offer universe where everything that’s a circle here gets turned into a square and visa versa every time I try to look at them. I threw myself too hard into this term and now I’m tired and just want to descend into a sofa fort and start colouring. Everything feels overwhelming, but not quite overwhelming enough. It feels like the whole world is conceived of everyone else and how
broken they are and I just don’t want to make a fuss. Dad’s exhausted, Mum’s still broken, Dora is hormonal whatever time of the month it is and Harper… well, Harper’s eight. The things I love like writing and drawing I can still do but it doesn’t console me like they used to. I threw myself at them as well and now all I want to do is tell everyone to leave me the fuck alone and let me do something not intellectually demanding for a couple weeks. I want to find some little cottage with lots of food in it and a television with every Disney movie ever produced and just become a nomad. My hands are shaking as I write this and I don’t know why. I guess this is what people call stress but stress is such a clichéd word. I don’t crave caffeine or feel tired. Nor is my hair a mess like those stereotypical stressed out people on tv. I asked mum if I could stay home on the athletics carnival but I know that’s just an excuse. An excuse for what I don’t know. Normally I only feel like this by the end of the year but its only the beginning of second term. I’m struggling to write now because my hands are quivering so much. I keep making mistakes because I press the same button twice. For some reason it’s only my right hand. Sometimes I shake like this after I have a nightmare. I don’t think that’s what going on. I try my best to be happy. I try very very hard and sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t. Right now I want someone to come and talk to me but its late and the people are sleeping. They don’t know. When I was in kindergarten my teacher once told me I was very good at hiding. She was right. Some people run away from the people around them. I hide amongst them. The truth is I am my father’s daughter, I just don’t want to be a bother but then I am also my mother’s daughter so I want people to give me my cottage and Disney movies.
To be honest I don’t really care if it’s a cottage at this point. If I was as brave as I consider myself to be I wouldn’t be writing this. I would be in a hotel room by now with one of my parent’s credit cards under the mattress watching movies, but I’m not. My wish to be alone is not something I have a choice about because I share a house with four people and they all deserve this space as much as I do.

Until I get back up,
Clementine.

This is not beautiful

“My brother killed himself
on the twenty-eighth Thursday of last year
and I missed four days of work
and my mom wanted to know ‘Why’.
My brother
he was always a fan of beauty
but what he did
was not beautiful at all.
And last week I got the news
that one of my good friends from high school
had overdosed
(again)
except this time
she’d gone too far
and now she was gone.
And I had a hard time falling asleep at night
and her mother
hugged me tight
and thanked me for coming to the service
but I did not
want to be there at all.
This is not
beautiful.

The girl down the street
would’ve turned 21 last year
and I can scarcely imagine
the wild times she would’ve
(should’ve)
had.
But she is buried six feet deep
after falling nearly 300
and she did not leave a note.
This is not
beautiful.

My freshman year of college
and my roommate was beautiful
and how I wanted to be just like her.
But she wore herself down
till she was
almost invisible
and if you blinked
you had to go and find her all over again.
So now her parents are no longer supporting her college tuition
but are paying her hospital bills
watching their daughter crumble.
This is not
beautiful.

So y’all can take your narcissistic
romanticizing
and glamorizing
of self harm and eating disorders and committing suicide
and shove them as far up your ass
as you possibly can.
Starvation is not beautiful.
Killing yourself is not beautiful.
Sadness
is not beautiful.
This note I am writing
is not beautiful.

But you
you are beautiful
and it’s about damn time you start believing it.
(via runiqu)”

I really don’t know who wrote this of whether they are happy or not or whether they felt better after writing this. I don’t even know whether I’m happier or sadder after reading this. I’m not a very good judge of beauty or anything for that matter and generally let other people do that for me, but I personally think that this is… more wonderful than beautiful. And while my experiences with suicide and harming yourself is almost nil I do know quite a bit a about humans and I think that this human is very very courageous and whoever you are I think that this piece of writing is very very brave.
With love,
Clementine

P.S I got this from http://nanao-anime.tumblr.com/post/80874787468/my-brother-killed-himself-on-the-twenty-eighth which is a tumblr site that I go to to get cool pictures to copy.