romano accidentally calling Spain “babe” when he’s not thinking and being all blushy and cursing about it at first but eventually brushing it off as he keeps doing it so it ends off really casual between them like
“babe we’re run out of milk can you buy some on your way back”
“babe wake up you’re gonna be late”
“babe feli’s coming for dinner tomorrow please wear pants”

It’s crucial you identify people who have ‘victim complex’ and are too comfortable manipulating you emotionally by turning the tables on you immediately after being confronted on something they’ve done wrong.

They’re people that know how to hurt you and will play everyone against you by playing the innocent one.

High School Isn't For Everyone

The first time I told my father I wanted to be a writer was in a therapist office, and it burns my heart like raw tequila thinking back to when he remarked, “that isn’t a real career.” 

I think that was the moment I decided and never listened to my father again; you see, I have a thing about listening, and I rarely do. I hear others like a buzzing in my ear, but if I were to listen, if we all were to listen instead of shooing, the fly could be saying, “Help me! Help me! I’m a human! Please, won’t you help me?” 

"Don’t you want to be successful?" he asked me in that room filled with secrets. You can feel the ghosts of those who have committed suicide peering over your shoulders, guiding you to say the things they were never brave enough to say while here  "No," and I never gave him more of an answer than that because I know he doesn’t listen to anything but his own, and maybe that was the reason we were there, or maybe it was my parents weren’t in love anymore

I still don’t know which, or maybe it was everything in the vaguety of the word


And every time I’d sit in that living room next to the fireplace typing away my soul with 1,025,109.8 words, I knew he was disappointed in me - both because I was going down a path of nothing and also because he always wished he was that cat’s favorite

Cats and animals are always drawn to my genuinity, how I’ll rub their heads softly and whisper my writing into their bellies no matter how rough it is, how I’m a person of soft, when others hug me they say they feel their first child’s baby blanket, and my dad’s just a bed of nails. I still need ginger ale to rid of this burning in my throat sometimes

And so that cat was mine, and I loved her, and when I got my laptop out, she’d come pouncing and meowing in what seemed to be excitement. Everything I wrote I read aloud to her and she’d purr - she’d purr in the contentment that she only purred while outside. She was a hunter by blood. I’ve always been fascinated by cats, and will continue to compare myself to one: the way they’re curious, the way they rarely open up, but when they do, they’re yours forever. I think there is only one person I’ve ever opened up to. (forever yours)

One day just like any other, she never came home through that doggy door like she did every night. I still have writer’s block without her here at times, but she taught me something important. The grim reality of it is, she stumbled upon a prey she couldn’t overcome, but she tried. She inspired me to be a hunter myself. I then decided I never wanted to be my father’s definition of successful, I want to be mine

and mine is happiness.

So I dropped out of high school at seventeen because there was nothing there for me anymore but empty skulls and stale thoughts. School tried to mold my brain - it tried to make me think this certain way, and that’s not, and will never be, the road for me. I don’t belong somewhere where I feel pressured to be anything but “myself,” whatever that may be, and to be honest - I still don’t know, but that’s okay

I dropped out and got my GED, and the fact that I never got to attend a high school graduation still eats away at me, the leeches have gone away, but the bruises remain all over my skin reminding me, did I make a god awful mistake? and maybe I did

Am I happy now? I made this nerve wrenching decision that got me kicked out of my home, I’ve been screamed at. The bruises ‘fore mentioned weren’t only from the leeches, and this Zoloft has striped my soul clean. I may have to go that route one day, stripping for horny men in dimmed lighting, black tears streaming down my face everyday because I still don’t make enough. Then, I may even have to sell my body

And so now, let me say this, high school isn’t for everyone. The path I’m going down is purely my own. I long to be a writer, an author, a poet, and to be that, I’m not going to sit in a room where adolescence daydream of sex and suicide. Never again. My spark, that dull light that went out the day I was born, has been rekindled merely from taking a leap of faith into a never ending abyss only few have made it out of. This blog gives me hope… Will I ever make it?