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Diary of a Psycho - Courage 7/11/11
Well, this weekend I bought some makeup. Eyeliner, mascara, and twenty-four shades of purple, black, blue, green, and gray.
For seven dollars!
And I put on the eyeliner this morning thick, and past my eyes. Two long lines, one that went out as long as my eyebrow, and the other that went down onto my cheek was even longer.
I thought it looked really good, especially when I put on the eyeshadow and mascara. I looked like a combination of Avril Laveigne and Amy Lee.
Funny how their initials are the same.
Hmm, speaking of Amy, I gave the journal to Airianna this morning.
And since I didn't have my journal to write in last night, after I was done with my homework, I drew an -ahem- ''unclothed'' version of The Amy.
I have got to stop doing things I really shouldn't be doing, such as drawing The Amy unclothed, because every time I do, guess who catches me?
Well, this was the first time I drew Amy like that. I don't know exactly why I did that... It just seemed like the thing to do.
Anyways, as I was finishing coloring the bed in, he walked in.
''Done with your homework?'' he asked.
''Yeah,'' I said absentmindedly.
''So, what are you doing over there?''
He just had to keep asking questions.
''Uh, just drawing...'' I replied, freezing up and turning red.
''So what are you drawing that's making you turn red?''
''Uhhhh... Ummm, I'm not sure - Do you have to - Nothing.'' I had no idea how to say anything without him getting suspicious.
''Something.'' He raised an eyebrow out of curiosity.
''Uhhhh...'' I accidently broke the green crayon I'd been holding, even when I stopped coloring - that's how nervous I was.
''Can I see?'' Dad came over to see The Amy.
As soon as he took one step, I asked, ''Uhhh, do you have to see?''
''Yes,'' he said. ''I want to know what my little girl's up to these days.''
Another step, and I hid the drawing under my folder.
''What are you drawing that I can't see?'' He lifted up the folder.
Luckily, I had turned the drawing blank side up, so I snatched it, crumpled it up, and sat on it.
''Let me see it. If I can't see it, you shouldn't be drawing it.''
He held out his hand.
''Why?'' I asked, trying to stall.
''I'm your father, now let me see whatever you're hiding. If it's so bad that I can't see, don't draw it.''
''You already said that.'' Hmmm, maybe Tactic no. 7-Frustration might work?
''Give me the picture.'' A serious look crossed his face as he held out his hand again.
Operation Frustration failed.
I grabbed the wad of picture out from under me, tossed it in his hand, and flopped onto my bed. I seized the nearest pillow, curled up in a corner, put the pillow over my head and prepared for Freakout Mode.
''Kristen.'' Dad's voice was flat.
I whimpered out of pure fear for my life and dignity.
Oh, wait, what dignity? That was already gone the second I put that thing in his hand.
''Why are you obsessed with naked girls?''
Well, that was extremely blunt.
A little bit too much straight-to-the-point. He could've asked it in a different way, like, ''Kristen, it's not healthy for you to draw naked girls and write about naked girls. Why do you do that?''
That would've been slightly better.
''Who is this supposed to be? Anyone in particular? Because it looks a lot like -''
''It's no one,'' I said quickly, cutting him off.
Then I realized my head was out from under the pillow, and I curled back up again.
Then I got mad at myself for being such a chicken, and why wasn't I facing my most embarrassing moments instead of hiding from them?
THEN I got mad at myself for getting mad at myself, and I told me, ''Shut up, you've just been exposed again. Don't you want to keep your pride? Or how about your dignity?''
In reply to myself, I said in my mind, ''Well, one thing I don't want to keep is my virginity. Amy can have that.''
I marvel at myself sometimes.
And then Dad came back in the room.
I heard paper rubbing against my pink-cheetah-print and zebra-stripe reversible comforter.
When I heard his footsteps fade away, I knew he'd left the room.
Reluctantly, I poked my head out to see what he'd put on my bed.
I saw a piece of wrinkled notebook paper, and I snapped.
Crying angry tears and sobbing uncontrollably, I snatched the picture of Amy and tore it into a million pieces.
Then, I sat on my bed and looked at the mess I'd made.
What did I do?
I just tore Amy apart!
It looks like I don't love her anymore!
Why did I do that?
I curled back up in the corner with the zebra-and-cheetah print pillow and cried because I couldn't believe what I'd done to Amy.
And this is why I think life would be so much easier if I just died.
Or didn't love anyone.
Speaking of dying, I got the worst news a teenager could probably ever get.
The reason Alisa hasn't been calling back is because she's in the hospital.
Something in her stomach exploded. Now she has to get surgery, and if something goes wrong in the operation or they can't afford it, she'll die.
Oh my god...
I never realized how much Alisa means to me until her parents called me and told me that.
What if she dies?
I'll never see her again.
I've known her for so long now that I know she practically has her own language.
For example, when she says, ''Maaaaaybe...'' it means yes.
She ''practices what to do to her boyfriend'' on her pillow.
Ick. Now I know how I ever got to be so pervy- Alisa rubbed off on me!
Anyways, I speak Alisa-nese now.
That's how close we are. She even showed me that creepy text she got from Myers [Zach] that requested a picture of her -ahem- unclothed.
I persuaded her not to do it, and thank God I did, because he probably would've asked her for a ''bj'' after that.
Hopefully you speak Text, because I'm NOT spelling that out.
Bleh. I'd rather die.
I almost told Harley [the guy one] and Tyler that I was bi. They probably remember the Coke or Sprite joke from last year. Coke means guy, Sprite means girl.
Anyways, Tyler kept poking my side, and he pulled on my feather. Harley kept trying to touch my butt for some unknown pervy reason.
I had a sudden urge to announce, ''Hey everyone! I don't like that Myers kid anymore! Why? Because I'm in love with Amy Lee!''
Although I wanted to say that, I figured the better way to phrase it would be, ''Harley and Tyler. I am 25 percent Coke, 75 percent Sprite. Don't touch me.''
But then, me being the chicken, I didn't.
I've got to get some guts one of these days.
I'll look for some while I'm writing a letter to Amy that I'll never send.