Tenuity || daintiness, fineness of structure

^{airiness, diaphaneity, elegance, etherealness, exquisiteness, fragility, frailness, frailty, gossameriness, lightness, slenderness, smoothness, softness, subtlety, tenderness, translucency, transparency}

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_03.26.09
Hiya everybody this is SARAH gasp because...mostly you've heard from Nim, yes? WELL here's the deal. Nimmy dearest was supposed to be in a rehab/eating disorder clinic but upon turning 18 decided it would be in his best interests to leave. Which it wasn't, but that didn't really seem to bother him. So at the mo he's running around in Arizona without a penny in his pocket, as far as we know, making sporadic contact with myself and his parents, so yeah. I'm kind of absent on this account in the first place, and he seems to be more active on his other account, though how he's getting internet access I have no idea, BUT. If you still want to follow him/yell at him and make him come home, you should visit him over at [link] because, yeah. So...yup. That is all!

_03.19.09
Dearest Sarah Darling,
I hate you so fucking much. You screwed me over when I needed you the most, pushed me away, shoved me in a closet somewhere you wouldn't have to look at me, even though I was screaming at you to let me out let me out.
When I was at my lowest, thought no one cared, you should have held me, should have loved me, should have stroked my hair and kissed my tears, told me it would all be okay, we would all be okay.
But you shoved me on my face, kicked me in the stomach, or at least that's what it felt like; an ambush, intervention, lynching - whatever you want to call it, it fucking hurt.
And now I'm stuck in this place, spent my eighteenth birthday writhing in pain from fucking detox, and you didn't even call me.
I love you I love you I love you.
Thank you for saving my life.
Love, Nim

_02.22.09
When all seems lost and you hang yourself in the closet, you find out who your friends are.
Or maybe it's more accurate to say you find out who they aren't.
They aren't, for example, the people who let you go upstairs upset and crying and talking about how you want to kill yourself.
They aren't the people who neglect to react and investigate when you kick a chair over on a hardwood floor on the second floor so that your feet will hang six inches off the ground.
They aren't the people that yell at you when they finally cut you down instead of holding you and telling you everything will be alright.
Instead, they are the people that hold you close before you go upstairs, the people that stroke your hair and whisper reassurances in your ear and kiss away your tears. They are the people who tangle their fingers with yours and make you laugh when it seems like there's nothing left to laugh at, the ones that would gladly carry an extra ten pounds to make your load a little lighter.
They are, in short, the imaginary ones.

_02.19.09
So.
Pictures.
This weekend.
I shall take some.
I've tried for five years now to take a picture every day of my life, and recently have been forgetting, and oddly enough I feel like a chunk of my life is just gone.
Maybe I'm too dependent on those images, but I figure if I'm still here in five years, these'll seem like happy memories even though they feel like shit now, so I need as much to hold on to as I can get.
Would just take them now, but I'm too fat to immortalize myself in a picture at the moment. Eurgh.

_02.18.09
5-4-3-2-1
I am a vomit bomb.
Ha.
I sometimes wonder how I got to be so funny.
I think it has something to do with being dropped on my head as a child, which I can neither confirm nor deny, but which I like to think probably happened one too many times.

_02.16.09
Twice today. So far.
Told myself I wouldn't, but of course I did, because I've put on five fucking pounds this weekend which is what I get for giving in.
Like food's some forbidden fruit (which is, you know, true in some cases) and whenever I eat I just kick myself right out of the garden of Eden and straight into Hell, which equates to my bathroom, bent over the toilet bowl with puke on the walls.
Disgusting disgusting disgusting.
Spent an hour and a half just cleaning the walls the floor the toilet the fucking shower so my boyfriend wouldn't see only to find he'd come home early and was sitting outside the bathroom just waiting for me to come out so he could sabotage me choke me drown me.
What's wrong with me that I do this to myself?
I'm 17 years old, I'm independent and as self-sufficient as anyone my age can be, and I'm in fucking love _{(With an abusive sociopath, but nevertheless)}
I should be shitting rainbows, not puking up last night's leftovers.
Jesus. I needed a rant.
That and new teeth. These ones must be faulty, they're rotting out.
Think they're still under warranty?

_02.13.09
It's like whenever I go to write it's something that's happened to me, except maybe in the future and I just don't know it yet.
Like if I were to write about the future, would it not be the past?
As soon as the words had left my pen - fingers on the keyboard - it had already happened.
So what's the point anyway?
Does anybody read it?
Does anybody even care what I have to say?
He certainly doesn't - ^{Like you'd have the balls to leave anyway} which I don't, which only makes it hurt worse.
I'm a little fucking boy in a big fucking world and he's just God, isn't he? Isn't he.