Explosion, explosion, unexplosion. Is that a word? Stupid Firefox and its little red lines. 1 2 3 4 5. 5 times the explosion. After all, what is creativity but explosion? Can I stay inspired forever? Or is that too much for any one person to handle? Would that kill me?

Whenever my inspiration fade, I become coherent, cohesive, and linear. But when I'm not, I just go crazy as thoughts explode out of my head. I used to think that they would fade, used to whine on here about how my creativity was fading with time and disuse, but that was just bullshit whining because I was afraid and angry and still am a little afraid and angry and dry but now wet, so very, very wet as the rush of inspiration flows through me and I am dramatic and subversive and what? What is that you say? Man, the voices don't like me very much today. What voices, you ask? No, no, not schizophrenic, can't believe I spelled that right but no, no, I'm not, I'm just a Bipolar girl in the midst of a mania, and I like to pretend that there are voices because sometimes I feel lonely and wow, I sound freaking crazy, don't I? But I don't act it, not usually, and that's how I can pass for a normal human being, only not quite, because my liberal thoughts and voice drive the relatively conservative children of America crazy, usually. In rereading a lot of the whining I've done on this journal, I've realized that though my thought process may stay the same, my perception on life has shifted, because I understand life better now, and in hindsight, realize how not different I really am. I want to be special, sure, but the only people who say I'm weird are people who don't think like me. There are plenty of people who don't think that I'm terribly weird, because they themselves have been accused of that very same thing for their liberal viewpoints and so-called "perverse" sexuality, though now I realize that it isn't perverse, just different.

Of course he would say that, don't tell him that, what were you thinking, you stupid bitch? You, who wants to be close to everything and who run on oxytocin like the drug that it is. Yeah, the voices are a little pissed. If only because I do stupid things and act stupid ways and can't avoid the little voice that's there whether I want it to be or not, warning me, telling me to listen, to just stop being so fucking stupid, and god forbid I actually explain what I'm thinking because then it might MEAN something to someone else and not just to me, as I remain the only person able to understand my thoughts, and it could be weeks, months, years later that I reread my words, and I'll always understand what I mean and how I feel because I am me and no one else is me, and to anyone else reading this is just sounds like crazy ramblings when all it is is the closest expression of how I feel INSIDE. I can't describe it in a better way. Perhaps adjectives are the way to go, but they'll no more describe my feelings than my silly, run on sentences. Angry at him, scared of myself and others, excited, but that excitement is daunted by HIM, he who thinks he knows me so well, so very well, who, with a little bit of judgment, can completely destroy in my mind that which made me so happy before, if only because he makes me use my brain.

And I don't want to use my brain, I just want to be happy, for once, though the sad truth was and remains that I can only be beautiful when my life is crashing down around my ears, because nothing else will bring it on.

I realize now, upon reflection, that last year was one of the worst years of my life. 2008-2009, at the beginning, quite terrible. But my life now, from late 2009-2010, is strangely wonderful, in its own way, thought there are parts that are undeniably horrific, for whatever reason.

Write, write, write, write nothing, because I am not quite right, as I often said my world is not quite right seen through drunken goggles high off my own disorder. But I base my definition of "right" upon the world's, and I want to believe in him, I want to believe in myself, but it's so damn hard and I just want to feel the way I did once and not feel this fear and constant awareness of how to behave and how to think and how to protect myself. I don't know why it seems so hard to me, to constantly try and stay coy and sexy and intelligent and interesting and sound sane when all I want to do is scream at the top of my lungs and shout and dance and sing in the rain because that is what matters to me, yet I can only express it when my world is narrowed down to this screen and this keyboard that I'm not very good at writing on, aware of the smell of my perfume, and the guy next to me who won't stop fucking around with the printer, and it's irritating as fuck but it's not his fault because I'm just a manic depressive psycho who refuses to fix her own computer so she can go crazy in the privacy of her own room.

I keep feeling like I should stop, stop typing, because this damn entry is already long enough, but it's so hard, and I love the sound of my own voice, even if it is on screen. Why, oh why did I have to be an only child? True, I wouldn't be me if I wasn't, but that may not be such a bad thing. I feel like I'm trapped, constantly trapped with who I am, who I've chosen to be, and the disability of my own personality that I'm stuck with, in relation to other people. But why do I hate this so much, and why do I try so hard? If I tried less hard would I gain or lose friends? Or is that even the point? I am who I am. Either someone's going to love me or they're not, and though there are things that I can do to change that, I understand now that I need to stop trying so freaking hard, because for whatever reason I was born this way, and if I find someone to love, great, happiness, and if I don't, well, shit, perhaps that's the only way I'll ever be great. Split, just constantly split, torn between wanting to be happy and wanting to be good at this, and though it's not the only thing that I'm good at I feel like it's the only thing I ever might get known for. I want to paint and write and be creative, because the way I feel inside and the world I see outside is so interesting and so unique and I want a way to convey it on paper in words or pictures, or on the wall, or perhaps I could use the damn sky when it's white.

I shift, shift, shift, shit, what am I saying? I shift from one thing to another, to another, and stay fairly stable throughout. Perhaps my brain has its own buffer against change in thought, though it was my impression that buffers only worked within a certain range, and that's why sometimes I feel like this. Perhaps everyone has a buffer, but mine doesn't work properly, or in the right range, or whatever, though it isn't the pH level that's being prevented from changing, it's human beings, though my brain changes constantly and now my head hurts and I'm hungry and I have to do homework and so little of that matters when compared to this.

Wind down, don't be like Elena, and stop, just stop typing so freaking quickly. Jesus, I hate homework with a passion. I just want it to be done already, so I can leave this place and go back to sleep or go get some food and just enjoy it.

Calming down. Relaxing. Trying to save some energy for homework.

Why can I only weep now?

DAEJ

"I think you're selfish," said he.
"I know," said she.
"Okay," said he.
"But how am I selfish?" asked she.
"You said you know!" exclaimed he.
"I know you think I'm selfish, but I don't know why," said she.

And around we go, always going, complaining, whining, never ever able to escape who we are, a prison we create within ourselves of our own limitations, our own inability to break out of the role we've assigned ourselves. Irritating to the core, but forgiven as long as the beauty remains. Take that away, and it's gone, baby, gone. Trapped within myself, I fail to see myself. People love me and forgive my flaws. People hate me and obsess over them. And I remain unable to change, unable to see, unable to fight my very nature, because I don't know how to be, was never taught, can never know. Therapy, the word, the answer, the only thing people have been able to say. Because clearly, this is the only way to move past it. Pay some preppy douchebag with a PhD five big ones an hour to listen to me whine about my dysfunctional family and my tortured childhood while they periodically offer cryptic suggestions. Blah blah blah blah blah.

And me, without the desire or the time to actually figure it out myself, and whine about how my life and personality sucks because my parents suck because their parents sucked and so on and so forth, and we toss around the ball of blame because taking it would just be far too honest for each of our tastes.

So I write about it here, in my journal which everyone can see but no one does, because it's easier than actually doing something about it, and my insecurity stems from people talking at me about how I need to be more like everyone else. So every time I actually think about it and analyze it in my head, I wonder why I really give a shit, because the collective person is apathetic and unintelligent and religious but "nice" and "considerate" because they don't stand up for what they believe in, which is the complaint about me. Perhaps the key is to be charismatic and respectful of others' opinions but how can I be expected to be respectful of a religious nut who thinks gays should burn in hell? Shit. There's no middle ground, no way to fix it, and the only solution clear to me is that I just need to surround myself with gay people because straight people are just freaking irritating and are unable to understand why I get so angry when someone says that it's okay to deny gay people the right to adopt and marry. Fuck this shit.

Okay. Cranky and done.

Too much caffeine results in fast thoughts and erratic typing. Thoughts are fast and movements are clumsy, making it even more difficult than before to do what I set out to do.

Just finished Mijan's story, "Eclipse", and I enjoyed it. The writing style was good, overall, though I felt that the kiss and love between Harry and Draco was, at the end, anticlimactic and a bit too sappy for my taste. I enjoy stories where the enmity between Harry and Draco sticks around. Stories where they get all sappy and start declaring their love for each other seem rather OOC for them, which was a pity, because I think she had a great start. It just sort of trailed in the end. I'm going to use a terrible analogy that may or may not only apply to girls, but it might help. Imagine that you're masturbating, or someone's going down on you, or something, and you come really close to orgasm, but you don't make it, and it subsides, and then is brought back again, and again, and again, and you're very frustrated at first, and really excited, but it happens so much that eventually the excitement fades because you're just so tired from trying so hard to come, that eventually you just can't. That's what it's like in "Eclipse". Mijan does an excellent job of building up tension between the two, over and over and over again, and then not giving the audience, or at least me, what I really want, and, when it finally does come, they're both so sappy and in love that the kiss just feels like an afterthought, and there's no real excitement there. Instead of inserting the kiss at any one of the many tense moments between them, she chooses to make it real obvious when it's going to come, and they talk about it for a while, and finally, I was just wanting the story to be over, which was regrettable, because it was written quite well, and Harry and Draco do seem to be IC most of the times. I understand why she did it the way she did, though I'm still not clear why she felt it was necessary that they not know why they loved each other. I get that she probably thought that it was the best and most enjoyable way to present their love but, at least for me, the story was so long and eventually so sappy that it just lost its appeal. I love Harry/Draco for the tension, for the anger and violence and beauty between them. Making them sappy and in love just doesn't do it for me.

Now, I obviously have no room to talk, given my past stories, but in my defense, I wrote my most recent story when I was sixteen, and, as I am twenty now, and a Creative Writing major, I have hopes that I'll write better stories in the future.

I hope, however, that no one thinks I'm dissing Mijan, because I'm not trying to. She's a great writer, with a knack for imagery and tension. I just think Eclipse was too long and drawn out for me. I also just friended her on livejournal, and I sincerely hope she doesn't read this and think I hate her, because everything I've read about her indicates that she's a wonderful human being. I was just frustrated by the end of Eclipse. As I said before, it was all foreplay and no orgasm.

In other news....

Chelsea thinks that I think I'm a lot weirder than I am, and that I glorify in my weirdness, of course she said this right after telling me that she and some others had concluded that I was one of the craziest people in the co-op, and though I'm not quite sure that crazy and weird are the same thing, they should at least be related.

Aron thinks I try too hard, and that I'm too uncertain of myself, and who knows? He may be right. Yet he also thinks that I don't try hard enough to censor myself, which perhaps I should, though since he wants me to censor myself in an effort to please his Christian wife and her family, I feel rather disinclined to do so, though I do think he's right about being too uncertain of myself.

Mariel thinks that I'm unintentionally rude and abrasive, though I don't really mean to be, and that maybe people would respect me and my opinion more if I show them respect, though I'm still not positive why, other than to please people and gain power for myself, it's necessary to be respectful of people who don't deserve it, though perhaps those two reasons are enough.

My dad thinks I'm like him.

Jer-el thinks I'm selfish.

I think I don't care. Perhaps I should. But ever since I was thirteen and realized who I was in relation to other people, the opinions of others have dominated my world and warped my personality, sometimes for the better, but it all lends to a great deal of insecurity. In visiting my family, I thought I would feel warm and loved. Instead, thanks to Aron and his decidedly less awesome personality as of late, I felt alone and like a dumb kid. And I'm angry and pissed at Aron, and am wondering what happened to him. When did he become such a jerk? I'm convinced that it's probably just a product of being married to a Christian with a big, fat, conservative Christian family. Maybe they're rubbing off on him. Whatever the case, I just sincerely hope that as time passes, we'll separate ourselves from them and not get sucked into and swallowed by such a typical American family. And for Merlin's sake, when I go to visit my wonderful, liberal, Atheist family, I don't want to deal with a bunch of freaking strangers insisting that we say grace! No, No, NO! I deal with that bullshit enough everywhere else! I just want to be with my family. Not with Aron's wife's family. I mean, she's cool enough, though her daughter's a bit of a shit. But her family is just absurd and cliche and boring. I want none of it.

Okay. Rant partially subsided. Aron just has this way of making me feel like the things he tells me about myself and everything else are indisputable facts, despite the fact that I know with my brain that they aren't. I'm sure you all know someone like that. Someone who just sounds and acts so freaking sure of themselves that you begin to doubt yourself? For instance, after we saw Sherlock Holmes, and I commented on the homoerotic tension between Watson and Holmes, evident in every line between them, he mocked and sneered at my analysis, and I was rather affronted, and started to doubt myself, though later, after being vindicated by the Washington Post and the New York Times, I couldn't stop kicking myself. I'm still resisting sending him links to those two articles, with a snide little note saying, "But I guess these reputable sources are just inserting their own predisposed views about gay people into their review, right?"

I know, I know, rant. I'm just frustrated. I'm trying to get over it. Man, my head hurts.

Anyway, I have no idea where I was going with that, though I'd hoped it might be a bit more profound than angry ranting.

Okay, all right. I'm done.

In two days I will turn twenty. Merlin. That's so...old. Well, no, not really of course, quite young in fact, but it's always seemed old, so, so much older than 19, the same way 18 seemed older than 17. In other news, I love and adore Glee, and owe Matt a big hug for telling me about it. I've had the Glee cast version of "Don't Stop Believin'" stuck in my head for the past three days, but that's okay, because it's a great song, though quite honestly, I didn't truly love it until I heard the Glee cast version. I have some great new photos from Christmas, and a strong, burning desire to write. That has now faded. Stupid, distracting facebook. It'll come back, though.

The voices laugh at me as I struggle to keep my sanity. I wasn't in love, I wasn't in love, I swear, I never was! Not with him, not with her, or with that him. They didn't mean anything, I swear! Let's just ignore how my heart leaps at the thought of any of them. Let's look past the cyber-stalking because that will make it better. That'll make it all right.

And I wonder at my tears, and my fear, and the laughter that trills in my mind. I'm choking on my words, my tears, my lies as I try, try so hard to keep it all together and ignore the voices that laugh at me and say I wanted this, I carefully orchestrated everything in my life so that it'll result in this, this exact moment of desperation and fear and pain, because I don't know how to live without the pain, never did, of course not.

I angrily swipe the tears from my eyes and frantically think of a way to stop this, to stop this pattern of mine, that I have, that destroys me and hurts everyone that attempts to get close to me. How do I break from what was taught to me since birth? Pain, fear, desperation, struggle. The constant struggle to survive, to stay sane, to avoid the pain, the pain which I learned to love, the fear which I learned to desire.

My arm hurts. I have homework and it's five am and I want sleep.

But of course, more than anything, I wanted this. This feeling, this fear. If I didn't want it I could easily avoid it. I'm intelligent, talented. I don't have to do this every time. But I need it, gods I need it. So much more than anything life ever had to offer me before I need this.

Shit. Anyone know how to break away from a habit that's existed as long as you have?

Last night, or perhaps two nights ago, maybe another year entirely, I had a dream.

No, nothing like that. Nothing grand and universal, nothing groundbreaking. I had a dream about a girl. And it wasn't even some mysterious, ethereal enchantress, though some might think her as such.

It was just a girl, just a girl I knew, a girl who knows me, and we were driving. Or, rather, she was driving, as I am as yet unable to drive, and all dreams with me behind the wheel tend to result in the brakes and/or the accelerator not working properly.

We were driving down the highway late at night, trying to escape some evil force. Or maybe we were rushing towards it. But we were going the wrong way down the highway. This dream, of course, has no basis in reality, none at all, for who would ever go down the wrong lane?

Anyway, we were going the wrong way, and twisting around the cars, her trying so hard not to crash, me shrieking all the while, for I am not comfortable in cars in the best of situations. And yet no one hit us. But we were still in the wrong lane, going the wrong way, trying to get on the right track. At last we saw a way to maneuver our way to the right side of the road, but it involved going the wrong way through a narrow, curving street, where cars would be coming really fast in the opposite direction, without any way to avoid them. But it was either go there, or die.

She grabbed my hand--though why she felt she could spare one was beyond me--and jerked the car over two lanes, dodging a Volvo and a pickup truck, and sped into the darkness of the curve. Her pretty little car scraped and squealed against the wall of the road as she clung to the side, and pressed the accelerator flat. Light flooded the narrow tunnel, and as I was looking to see if it was streetlights, or headlights...

My cat bit my foot, and I jerked awake.

Love ya, Elena.

An explosion of fear and doubt erupt within my mind, and I know, I know, I know that this is what was to be expected of school and now and here, and I need control, control, control, because I can't concentrate I'm too busy being afraid, afraid, afraid. Hands shaking, heart beating, eyes darting all over the place as I frantically try to make up for that which I lost, lost, lost. Please, please, please make it stop I beg of you, beg of you. Can you, will you, do you understand this eruption of fear and shaking fingers which can't even begin to type properly, never, never properly. But I have to deal with him and her and THEM and this FEAR, so much FEAR and the doubt that I'm ready, have been ready, ever will be ready for this, because it's to much, it's all just too much and resentment and anger rises up within me, over years and years of carefully constructed maturity which fades in the blink of an eye like THAT. Nails painted black, eyes dull and forward, cold, cold air on my skin raising my skin and hair into stress and clean, clean beauty, but mostly fear and the inability to cope with anything and everything and it's just all too much.

I feel like, as a writer, I should try to post something every day, if for no other reason than to keep my typing skills up to speed, and I do mean that quite literally.

As I feel no true inspiration or calling from my muse, I will simply discuss my day today. Today I worked. Last night I drank and talked to two interesting boys. The night before that I drank and talked to a pretty girl. Girl's name was Michelle, boys' names were Alex and Josh.

Ugh. Talk about lazy. My tummy hurts. I worked today, then came home. I fell asleep watching Dexter with Chelsea and Ole, then was very rudely awoken by other people wanting to use the tv room. So I went back outside and had a battle with Chelsea over who gets to cook. She won, because she was faster at copying down a recipe, and went to make cookies. I watched for a bit, interjecting sarcastic, critical commentary, and then proceeded to help her. She decided to make an apple pie, and I insisted on making the crust, because she was going to use a pre-made, store-bought, frozen crust, and I just wasn't going to stand for that. And then, somehow, I completely took over the making of the pie. After it was done and beautiful, Rafael decided to make skittle-infused vodka, so we all separated the skittles by color and shook them up with a bunch of vodka. It didn't work very well, but it made Rafa happy, so whatever. I ended up sitting at the table, waiting for the pie to come out, and listening to Rachel and Shawna talking about childhood discipline. Chelsea came back down, and we chatted aimlessly until the pie came out, and then we continued in our discussion while I stared longingly at the pie. Then we said our good nights, I came to my room, read chapter 44 of "For the Potions Master's Amusement" by snapesubmiss, and enjoyed that. It's a really good story, about Hermione Granger and Severus Snape entering into a D/s relationship. That story is not only a lovely read, but it's further cemented the desire in my mind to enter into the D/s community, because it feels like such a strong part of who I am.

Anyway, tired now and have work in the morning. Until next time....

So while I sit here, feeling a strange mixture of disapproval tinged with jealousy coursing through my veins, I try to do what I've done before when I feel such things. I force them away and try to be a good friend, and an open person. Despite the fact that she's sixteen and he's twenty two, about to turn twenty three. Yeah. Yeah, I disapprove. Can I do anything about it? No. Are they doing anything wrong? Eh...that's a little more dicey. I mean, if no one's getting hurt, I'm inclined to say no, but at the same time, the society I live in has taught me that what's happening between them isn't okay, and the fact that they're choosing to broadcast it is just stupid.

Okay. Deep breaths. Meditative writing is the best form of therapy. Push away the thoughts. Try not to focus on it. Not my business.

Bryan's coming back for two weeks for hell weeks. I'm feeling a strange sense of excitement mixed with dread mixed with longing mixed with anger. Lots of silly emotions. I think what really gets me about him, and the reason I wasn't really able to move on, is that I never really got to say good bye. He left for Christmas, and I waited for him to come back. And waited. And waited. And then he left, and never bothered to see me before he left. I couldn't hug him, I couldn't punch him, I couldn't do anything. He was just...gone. And I had no closure. So I don't know how I'll feel when I see him again. Angry? Happy? Indifferent? A bunch of things while trying to appear indifferent? Probably. That sounds like me. Whether or not I succeed at seeming indifferent is really up for questioning. How good an actress am I? Am I strong enough to handle him coming back? And the biggest question of all: will I be strong enough to handle him going away again? I mean, I didn't love him, but I cared about him. Fuck, I cared about him a lot. He's the only guy I've ever had sex with who I truly, truly cared about, and felt a connection with. What, what, what am I going to do? Jesus. Still, it is two months away. I have time to collect and control myself. I'm a strong, beautiful woman, and I'm better than this. And if I say it enough times, it will come true, I'm sure.

On the brighter side of things, I met an incredibly attractive woman tonight from Uruguay. She was funny and interesting, and we had a lot in common. I got her number and she has mine. More on this story as it develops.

In other news, notice how coherent this entry is? Yes, yes, I'm very proud of myself. It's good to write when insanity isn't pouring out of my ears. Is it insanity? Or is it just hormones? Perhaps it's my muse going stir-crazy. Who knows?

I want to weep now, though. I feel empty, faded. I made two sweet potato pies tonight, and they were really good. Made them for Will Meister, who's leaving the co-op in a couple of days. Sadly, he fell while intoxicated and smashed his nose, and had to be rushed to the hospital, and therefore, did not get to enjoy the only baked good he ever requested from me.

Chelsea Couch bought me green apple vodka on her liquor store run. Unfortunately, drinking liquor is still really hard on my stomach. However, when I was at Pearl tonight, they had jello shots, which I'd never had before, and those were really tasty and not hard on me at all, so maybe the trick is to just not taste the alcohol.

My kitten's whiney as ever, and I'm completely at her mercy. She's mah bebe.

Spoke to Elena today. She's grounded again, what a shock. I wonder if her parents actually think that all this grounding is going to do anything other than make her extremely resentful. Seems like poor logic on their part.

Need sleep but can't stop surfing. Where's my willpower when I need it?

Night.

It’s hard to tear my fingers away long enough to write.

Tap, tap, tap.

What am I? What do I feel? What do I want. I reflect softly that I should write more, because when I don't, when I let it all build up inside of me like that, I can barely write, because I'm typing so fast that I have to rewind again and again to correct the wrongs.

My head hurts, my heart aches, and I don't understand what it is I feel, because how could I possibly understand what I feel? I just have to let it go, let it go, let it all go and let myself go because it is not I who writes these words as I stare at my keyboard in abject misery as my fingers strive to remember how to use this mysterious thing, one hand wanting to do that other's job, and I shake a little bit, wishing I could get the words out faster but I have no one to talk to and I wonder if he reads this and it seems absurd, so very, very absurd that we can be a year later and I still think on him night and day and all the little bits in between because I am nothing if I have nothing to be miserable about, because my misery is my joy, is my beauty, is my writing, and I am lost without it, indeed, I have been lost lately, and this is my mind, my mind is one unbroken, run on sentence in a field of broken glass which tears me to pieces if I so much as THINK.

Pause for a moment. Reflect.

Can't, can't reflect, because there is nothing to reflect on, because what I write is not reflection, it is simply a glance at what is within, it is not beautiful it is not terrible, and this is killing me because for FUCK's sake I want to write faster and my hands simply won't allow it, so perhaps I should write on paper, real paper which can feel the kiss of my forgotten, careless tears as I feel alone, so very very alone, and feel it so acutely if only because now, unlike then I am so much closer to actually not being alone. Close, so close, like steel turned into glass, and now I know what I am missing, because I see it, so clearly, and I can't break the glass because it'll tear me apart, kill me, kill me. I want it to, I want something to kill me, but this is just depression talking, and I want to be older while I stay young forever because I want these FEELINGS to fade, please, please fade, let me not feel this anymore because I can't think on him any longer, on what I'm missing, on what I've let get away from me, because I'm stupid, so very, very stupid, and he knew this and he pulled away, and I'm left dying in my own, destroyed head, and no the flood gates are opened, and I know not what I write, I know not what I think, simply that I can't stop now, now that it's open, and I wonder how I lasted so long without this, waiting, just waiting for it to all go away, and I want to talk to him, want to see him, want to know what it's like, want to know how it feels, and NOT him, the other him, the him I know not. Please, please, please, I beg to world to give me relief, and it's like trying to reach orgasm and failing each time, and I'm close, so close to that absolution which will let me sleep, but I can't rub fast enough, can't type fast enough and my brain won't let me rest, my soul doesn't give a damn, and my body is tense and my mind is a sponge being wrung out, and too filled, far too filled, the water is spilling everywhere, and I'm just a mystery, that weird girl that no one understands, the crazy one, that everyone thinks they get but no one cares, no one cares, because I'm just weird and self-pitying and obnoxious and anal and WHAT IS THIS? I don't know how to get it out swiftly enough, there's too much, too much, I can't do it all, I can't do it at all and why oh why does my heart kill me so, and I want to rhyme, and if I find the right words then perhaps I can finally sleep, and why don't I write more? If I did, perhaps it would be easier, for writing is my soul, it's my everything, and only other writers can understand why I die. I should talk about all the things that are bothering me, talk about my life, talk about my pain, it is, after all, the reason I got on here is the first place, and I can't figure out a way to make all this less painful, make myself NEED this less, because I need it, I need it so much, I need to let this chaos escape the confines of my dark, pointless mind. I need it, I need it like a crystal queen needs candy, I NEED it, I need it to hurt, I need to bleed, but this, this is the healthy method, the one I've been avoiding, and the reason why it doesn't seem like enough, why it can never be enough, it'll never be enough....

Am I jealous? Perhaps a little. But not for a good reason. And it's not so much jealousy, it's just weirdness over the finality, the idea that I can't ever call him again because she's there. It wasn't like we had anything special, but it does feel weird.

I long for a partner, and I don't know why. My thoughts are more coherent now, more cohesive, good. And somehow this is more of a relief than what came before. I know this, though: I do HAVE to write. I can't live without it. I die without it.

Love is a bit more elusive, though. And thanks to my encounter with Jonathan, I have no desire to sleep with anyone until I actually am going to form a relationship with them. And the lack of sex is taking its toll. I have a high libido, and not having sex is extremely difficult for me. What the fuck am I supposed to do without sex? Love, love I can wait for, albeit a bit impatiently. But sex is something that I don't know how to function without. It's killing me. And I'm not getting ANYTHING. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. What the fuck am I supposed to do? Masturbation can only get me so far.

I feel relieved. My head hurts. I need more sex, good god, I need more sex. That is to say, I need some sex. Any sex. Jesus.

Enough for now. The twitching's faded slightly.

Am I the only person who doesn't know how to move on? It seems so. I don't move on, nor do I stalk those I haven't moved on from. I'm not insane, I'm not creepy, I just can't let go.

I love to write and not know what it is I'm saying. To be able to reread my words and say, "Wow, did I really write that?" Because my writing is beautiful, terrible, and all I have left.

My head hurts. Why can't I ever write about my life? I simply write my reaction to it. People seemed awed by me, in love with me, enchanted by me, and disgusted by me. Why can't you people make up your goddamn minds?

I have this "Way". This all-mysterious "Way" which enchants people. My smile, my laugh, my walk, my words, everyone has a reason. And all these reasons are the same reasons others hate me. Will I be uncertain and scared my entire life? They say it gets better when you get older. I interpret that as a loss of the beauty of childhood, of easy joy. Of innocence. As I mature, and gain perspective, as well as kindness and patience, I feel that I lose my connection to the rest of the world. To the earth

After Jonathan, I can't for the life of me fall in love. No one interests me, not really. I feel like I've lost an essential part of myself. Scientists might call it oxytocin, but whatever it is, it's gone. I'm cynical, no longer excited about anything, anyone. Maybe I just haven't met the right person yet. But no one excites me anymore. I just want that back, that excitement, that fear, that love.

People say, people say so much. That's I'm only nineteen, and shouldn't give up hope yet, that my feelings are somehow less real because I'm young. And yet it seems that I feel things less and less as I get older. Is that the maturity that people talk about? That as you get older, you feel things less, so when one is a child and upset, it doesn't matter, but when one is an adult and upset, somehow it means more. But why? They both hurt, they both cause pain. So why is one worse than the other? Why is one more meaningful?

I'm tired. I have obnoxious work tomorrow.

Whee.

I feel like I'm living a lie half the time. All the time. Some of the time. Never. I'm not sure.

I do behave the way I think. I appear like I'm a different person to different people. I laugh at different jokes. I pretend. And then fall in love with those who I feel that I can be truly myself around, and not pretend. I fell in love with Jonathan because I felt like I could be myself. Like I could let all the walls down. I was wrong, and he recoiled at my ugliness. I wasn't good enough for him, or good enough for anyone, really. I feel strangely lost, and for all those I say I've fallen in love with, with two it was unrequited, one was a lie, and one I didn't want. Funny, how, retrospectively, I realize how much I love her, but at the time, I had no idea.

I've slept with nine guys, two girls, and I'm nineteen years old. And I feel like I've never been in a truly satisfying relationship. I've never dealt with what a lot of girls I know have dealt with. Dating a guy for a long time and being in love with him. Even if he is a dick. Jonathan was the closest I've ever come. And staring at him the other night...gods. I never wanted anything more. And it hurts so much. I can't think about him, because I need to move on. I need to fall in love with someone else. I want love. I think everyone does. It's certainly what our entire society encourages. But I would have given up so much for him, and though I times I think I can move on from him, others I understand that I can't. It kills me, as things in life do.

I don't know what he felt towards me. Don't know if I want to know. If I want to know just how close I came to true, requited love, destroyed by one foolish, drunken night.

I've often wondered if he reads this, or has read this. I don't know, don't care. I wish I could shake it all away, shake it off and become the sort of person I need to be, wish I could forget, just forget about him. Life is tricky like that. And I go about and lie to myself and others as I struggle to be the person I want to be and embrace the person I am with my every action.

I feel like I should tell the story of my life, of how I just moved into the co-op and the people here are weird and I feel uncertain and out of place and how I wish Jack and James would stop making sexual jokes at my expense and a million other things because soon, so very soon all of this will be in the past and this will be my college experience all left behind and I'll be old and scared of death and looking back at my wasted life and wondering where it all went.

But I sit here, and think on the future with fear, and long to do great things to help people, even as I think the world is beyond saving. I wish I didn't have thoughts like this, wish I could be just like every other carefree, partying college student but I can't. Ever. Be like that. Why oh why oh why oh why.

How do I stop this? How do I stop the ache and the pain and why do I feel like I'm dying inside when I smile and laugh outside? And I smile so goddamn much. People think I'm so happy and so kind and I just want to scream and cry and break down and fall apart and destroy myself as completely as possible so I never have to look in the damn mirror again and see the face that is all people want, because god forbid someone would want me. What is there about me, after all, to love? I am nothing. So why do I sometimes feel like everything?

Oh world, tear me apart as I fall to my death outside because there is nothing that I have left but to feel you flow through me because I die with every breath I take and every smile that feels so heartbreakingly genuine.

But I can't kill myself I could never kill myself because I have too much to offer the world and I don't live because I want to I live because others need me and I have the potential within myself to make the world a better place through my presence. So I will, I have to.

The world will never hear my cries as I sob to an empty room.

I wish he would call me.

I wish I could forget.

Jonathan.

Whee!

A Happy Ending
A/N: I met yet another straight male today who thinks that Sam and Dean are gay for each other. Not only that, but he still likes the show, regardless. Probably isn’t as obsessed with it as I am, but still. He did think it was weird though. I think his exact words were, “I was watching it, and thinking, ‘Aren’t they supposed to be brothers?’” Hee hee hee. Anyway. New story. Whee! Enjoy. Adios!
-CatJetRat

Summary: Takes place at the end of the Season Four season finale. First part does not belong to me, but to Eric Kripke. Everything after “He’s coming” is mine, though. This is basically how I would like to see the fifth season play out, but not how I think it will. Wincest, but that’s a given, since, as far as I’m concerned, non-graphic Wincest is canon.

Disclaimer: This story was written for the amusement of the author, and hopefully others. I gain no monetary gratification for writing this. The only gratification I get is the love of my fans, and (hopefully) their reviews.

Chapter One
Lucifer Raised
Sam
“Sam! Sam! Sammy!” Dean’s voice sounded far away, so very far away. But Sam could hear it. The first voice he ever remembered hearing smashed through a haze created in Sam’s mind by demon blood and pure, unadulterated power. Sam turned away from Lilith, hardly daring to believe it.
“Dean?” he breathed. His heart pounded in his ears as his new blood rushed through out his body. Why was Dean here? Was he going to kill him? And if he was, why now, of all times, when Sam was so close to stopping Lilith?
Sam barely registered Ruby screaming at him to kill Lilith. She seemed as unimportant now as she had a year ago when Dean had first been brought back to life.
“Sammy!” Dean’s voice broke through again, and despite himself, Sam felt filled with undeserved hope.
Laughter sounded from behind him, and Sam might have ignored it, if it weren’t coming from the one creature he despised almost as much as he cared about Dean. Sam slowly turned his head around. Lilith was snorting with laughter, and Sam felt anger flare within him once more.
“You turned yourself into a freak—a monster, and now you’re not gonna bite.” She let out another derisive laugh. “I’m sorry, but that is honestly adorable.”
The demon blood boiled within him. Adorable, was he? Well, see how adorable she thought he was in a few moments. This is for you, Dean, Sam thought, and felt fury erupt inside of him once more as he thought about what she’d put him through. Sam raised his hand and clenched her rotted, deranged soul. She arched up and gasped, eyes flaring. Sam’s eyes felt flooded, perhaps with tears. She pulled away from him and slumped, gasping. Sam squeezed tighter, and if he’d had room for any emotion other than vengeance, he might have been surprised by how easy this was. She gasped, body going erect again, and yanked away once again, panting heavily. Sam dug his fingers into her very soul, tearing it apart like tissue. She arched one final time, and her eyes shone brighter than ever. But then her eyes shone out, and she fell to the side, blood dripping from her head.
Sam lowered his arm, and though he fought for his breath, he felt triumphant. Finally, finally she was gone. The apocalypse had been averted, and now, he and Dean could—
Wait.
What the hell was her blood doing?
Dean
Dean slammed on the door, shouting Sam’s name over and over again. Sam couldn’t possibly know what he was doing, could he? He couldn’t, wouldn’t, purposefully bring about the apocalypse, would he?
Dean thought he heard his name spoken in response, but, a few seconds later, was sure he must have imagined it. All he could hear was Ruby screaming at Sam to get on with it. That evil, sadistic bitch. No matter what happened tonight, she was going to die for what she had done to Sam.
Dean grabbed a candleholder and starting trying to break the door down with it. The first time he connected with the door, his fingers slid forward on the metal, and he was jarred to his very bones. Dean ignored it as irrelevant. All that mattered was that he slam down the door before—
The door burst open, and Dean observed three things in quick succession. Sam was lying on the ground, seemingly unhurt, though his face wore an expression of shock and horror. Ruby was kneeling between his legs, clutching at his face. And Lilith was dead. Lilith was dead. Dean’s eyes shot back to Ruby, and a hatred that he had never known for anyone, not even for Yellow-Eyes, erupted within him as he jerked her knife out of his belt. She stood up to meet him
“You’re too late,” she said in a smug, soft voice.
“I don’t care,” he growled, and barely noticed as Sam stood up behind her and grabbed her arms. Dean’s fist tightened on the knife and he slammed it into her belly. She gasped, jerking upward in Sam’s arms, but he held on tight as Dean jerked the knife up and twisted it. He watched her face as she died, and felt an indescribable satisfaction as he was finally able to kill her, as he had wanted to from the moment he met her. And the beautiful irony of killing her with her own knife? That was not lost on Dean one bit. He yanked the knife out of her and Sam threw her carcass on the ground. Their eyes shifted about for a few seconds before finally meeting. Sam looked as if he almost expected Dean to turn the knife on him next. As if Dean ever could.
“I’m sorry,” Sam choked out, and his voice was so broken and regretful that Dean couldn’t bring himself to even try to be angry with him.
Light shone from the middle of the room, and Dean’s heart rate, which had almost begun to near calm, sped up again, times a million.
He reached up and grabbed Sam’s jacket. Didn’t matter that Sam was the one who had cause it. Dean would rather go to hell a hundred times over than leave Sammy here to perish at the hands of Lucifer.
“Sammy, let’s go,” Dean bit out desperately.
“Dean,” Sam breathed, and he grabbed Dean as well. “He’s coming.”
Sam
Sam wasn’t sure what he saw in Dean’s eyes when they finally looked at each other. Anger? Disgust? No. None of those emotions fit. What he saw was defensiveness and fear. Dean was scared of him, and was using anger as a defense. The only thing that saved Sam from falling completely under at that look in Dean’s eyes, was that he knew what Dean looked like when he was scared of a monster, and what Dean looked like when he was scared of his family hurting him. There was no comparison. Dean was afraid that Sam didn’t care about him
“I’m sorry,” Sam gasped, and his chest felt torn apart at the very words. As if sorry could even begin to make up for anything Sam had done.
Dean’s face went from defensive and scared to shocked in less than half a second, and then resolved a second later. Took him all of a second and a half to decide he’d forgiven Sam enough to worry about their issues later.
Sam froze as light emanated from the middle of the blood circle. Slowly, he and Dean turned to face it, and they both reached for each other at the same time, but for different reasons. “Sammy, let’s go,” Dean half-growled, half-whispered.
“Dean,” Sam said desperately. His eyes shifted along the light in terror, and he wasn’t sure why he was stopping Dean. “He’s coming,” Sam breathed.
Dean looked towards the light as it further expanded. He yanked Sam away from it but stopped trying to get Sam to leave. Dean laid a hand on Sam’s chest and pushed him further away from the light and stood slightly in front of him. Sam might have been annoyed by this, or he could have been endeared, if he’d had room for any emotion other than terror and guilt.
Dean shielded Sam’s eyes and then his own as the light grew too bright to bear. Moments later, the light vanished with a loud boom, and Sam and Dean were left blinking little spots away as they tried to focus on the man kneeling in the middle of the room, facing away from them. Light fell like raindrops around him. His head was bowed, and curly blond hair covered what they could see of his face. Sam was frozen in place, staring at him as he slowly raised his head. With careful, precise movements, he rose to his feet, staring at his hands. He wasn’t wearing anything, and his very skin seemed to shine with the light that had come before him.
“Screw this,” Dean muttered, and strode across the length of the room, stabbing the knife, still dripping with Ruby’s blood, into the man’s back. Or, that is to say he tried.
The knife shattered to pieces as each part of it connected with his back. Dean stared dumbly at the hilt in his hand, and the man turned around slowly to face him.
Lucifer was beautiful beyond any human, demon, or angel they had ever met. His face held an elegant grace that no human could ever hope to emulate, even if they had his exact features. It wasn’t his body that made him beautiful. It was his soul. His eyes shone a clear, icy blue, and they cut through Dean’s green ones like diamonds slicing through emerald.
“You are precious to one of my own,” Lucifer murmured. His voice was as beautiful as the rest of him, tinkling with the music of a thousand songbirds and a million eunuchs. Lucifer’s eyes moved from Dean to Sam. He sidestepped Dean and walked up to Sam. Dean turned and lunged around Lucifer, blocking Sam’s body with his own.
“Don’t you dare touch him, you evil sonofabitch,” Dean snarled. Unlike most demons, Lucifer did not flick Dean aside as if he were a fly. Instead, he looked into Dean’s eyes again, and almost seemed to want to level with him.
“I mean him no harm,” Lucifer said softly. “I simply wish to thank him for freeing me. And, as he holds only you dear in this world, I mean you no harm as well.”
Had it been anyone but Sam, Dean might have succumbed to that voice, those eyes, and stepped aside. But it was Sam, and no evil in this world or any other could convince him to leave Sam unguarded while he was still breathing.
Except Sam
“Dean,” Sam murmured, placing his hands on Dean’s shoulder’s gently. “Dean, he won’t hurt me. Let me talk to him.”
Dean froze in uncertainty, but didn’t struggle as Sam carefully pushed him to the side.
Lucifer cocked his head, looking at Sam. His eyes flickered to Ruby’s dead body for a moment. His gaze softened even more, if it was possible, and he almost seemed remorseful.
“She was the last of the true believers,” he sighed. “Such a pity.” He looked back at Sam. “She was the best of you all, my child.”
“He isn’t your child!” Dean bit out. “And what do you mean by, ‘the best of you all’? Who’s ‘you’?”
Sam shot him a warning glance, and barely bit back a groan at the look on Dean’s face. Dean had surpassed fear, and now had a look on his face, a look Sam had become quite accustomed to, hunting with him. It was the look of, ‘I don’t care how tough you are, I’m gonna tear you apart anyway.’ It was a look that usually got them into the worst trouble.
Sam grabbed his hand, and Dean looked back at him, his eyes blazing, as Sam looked at him and silently pleaded. Dean held his gaze for a few moments, and nodded, though he was quite quick to extract his hand from Sam’s. Sam ignored this and turned back to Lucifer, who had watched their exchange with fascination. He continued as if there had been no interruption, however.
“You were to be their leader,” Lucifer said softly. “Until I came. Now I am here, and you needn’t worry about such things anymore. You needn’t worry about anything. Go wherever you wish, and be with the one you care for. You will be protected wherever you go while I wipe this pitiful, mistake of a race off of the planet. Angels will live on earth again, and when our Father returns he will rejoice once more. He will finally see that keeping me imprisoned was a mistake, and he will proud again, to call me his best.”
“That’s your big plan?” Dean said in disgust. “To impress Daddy?
Lucifer’s eyes flashed back to Dean, and Sam grabbed his hand again and squeezed. Dean ignored him.
“I can’t believe this! All of this pain and suffering is happening because you want to be Daddy’s favorite little boy again?” Dean’s face was incredulous, while Lucifer’s was impassive.
“Yes,” he stated simply. “But I have wasted enough time here already. Neither of you is a concern of mine. Be happy with each other.”
Lucifer vanished.
Sam stared at the space where he had been, conflicting emotions crashing about within him. Normally, at this point, Sam would be pissed as hell at Dean for antagonizing the Prince of Darkness, and also relieved that Dean hadn’t gotten hurt. But…none of those emotions felt appropriate at the moment. At the moment, Sam could only feel fear, and guilt. Fear, not only for what was to come, and the people who would get hurt, but fear of looking back up into Dean’s eyes, and seeing the betrayal and pain Sam had left there.
Their hands were still laced, and, before Sam knew what was happening, Dean was slowly pulling him towards the door and carefully sidestepping Lilith’s blood. Sam, who only moments before had felt nearly invincible as he faced Lucifer, now felt weak, numbness slipping through his body as he followed Dean. Dean, for his part, wasn’t saying anything, rather, was just staying as close to Sam as he could, and keeping a firm grip on his hand.
Sam followed Dean out to the Impala. Sam’s heart leapt in his throat at the sight of the vehicle /Home/ and he allowed Dean to gently maneuver him into the passenger’s side. Sam sat there, the numbness now completely taking over his senses, and by the time Dean had circled around the car to the driver’s side, Sam was fast asleep.
* * *
Sam rode next to Dean in the Impala. Dean was humming under his breath and tapping the wheel. He’d left the music off because he thought Sam was asleep. Sam stared at him through lidded eyes for a few moments, trying not to look at the frown lines on Dean’s forehead. He tried to imagine Dean as he’d once been, carefree and silly, full of love for his family and vengeance towards demons. He tried not to see the shadow in his brother’s eyes, once so relaxed when they weren’t on a job, now haunted by decades of being tortured. For Sam.
Now they were both broken and torn apart. Now, what had once seemed like a tiring, terrible life to Sam, lit only by the presence of his brother, seemed to be the most wonderful thing he could imagine. To be able to laugh and drink and hunt without question, to help people and eat crappy food and watch stupid movies…it all sounded like heaven. It had once been the life he’d longed to escape. Now he’d give anything to have it back.
“Dean?”
Dean twitched slightly, but that was the only sign that he’d been startled. “Yeah, Sam?” he said heavily, as if certain that the words about to escape his brother’s lips could only mean trouble.
“Do you think we’ll ever get a happy ending?”
Right again. Dean rubbed a hand across his eyes, teeth gritting. “I don’t know, Sam. I don’t know what kind of ending could be happy for us.”
Sam fell silent, though his heart began to pound fiercely with a kind of dread. “What’s the most perfect life you can imagine?” he asked softly, like they were kids again imagining their futures.
Dean swallowed, and while he stared straight ahead at the road, Sam saw his knuckles tighten on the steering wheel.
“A life that doesn’t have you in it,” Dean hissed, and Sam barely had time to see as Dean shoved a hand into his belt, pulled out Ruby’s knife, and plunged it into Sam’s stomach.
* * *
“Sam! Sammy! Hey, Sammy, wake up!” Dean’s voice sliced through Sam’s conscious once more, and Sam jerked awake. He looked over at Dean, whose forehead was creased in worry. Sam grabbed his stomach before he realized what he was doing, and let out a heavy sigh as he realized that there was no stab wound there. /Just a dream/
Dean regarded him almost warily, but didn’t ask about the dream. “Come on,” he said instead, and opened the car door. Sam looked out the window shield. They were stopped outside of a dingy motel at a pit stop. Sam slowly got out of the Impala, his heart pounding once more, though he wasn’t positive why.
Sam followed Dean to one of the rooms. The paint on the door was chipped and peeling, and the nine marking their room number 19 had fallen sideways on the door. They entered the room, and Sam sat down on one of the beds, staring at the blank television screen. He was vaguely aware of Dean moving about, laying salt down and other protection items. He was hyperaware, though, when Dean sat down on the other bed, staring at him.
Sam knew that avoiding talking to Dean about everything that had happened was the worst possible thing he could do in that moment, but that didn’t mean he had to look forward to it. Sam shifted around on the bed until he had turned to face Dean. Dean’s expression was no longer one of fear and anger. Instead, he looked almost like he had when Sam first starting having visions. Slightly wary, and worried.
“I’m sorry,” Sam blurted out, before his mind was even aware that his mouth wanted to talk. “I’m so sorry. This…all of this is my fault. I was an idiot, and I believed her, but she lied to me the entire time we knew each other. I…I thought she cared. I thought I could trust her.” Sam shook his head. “You…you’re the only one I can trust. The only one who’s always been there for me. And I threw it away—I threw you away, and I’m so sorry. I know you said you were done trying to save me—but please, Dean. Help me.”
Dean’s face had been almost impassive the entire time Sam was speaking, but as Sam finished, a small frown formed on his face. “Sam, when did I ever say I was done trying to save you?”
Sam swallowed back the tears that were coming to his eyes. “In your voicemail. You said I was a freak. You implied you were going to kill me.”
Dean’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “What the hell are you talking about, Sammy? What message? The only message I left you was me saying I was sorry for calling you a monster.”
“Wha—no!” Sam cried, pulling his phone out and dialing voicemail. He handed the phone over to Dean as the message replayed, and he could kind of hear the message again from the phone. Tears fell this time as Sam was powerless to stop it.
Dean, on the other hand, was looking angrier and angrier as he went through the message. When it was over, Dean stood up, and said, “That explains why I could reach you at first. The angels wanted me to call you so they could distort my message and leave you thinking I hated you. Sam, I didn’t say any of that. It’s all a lie.”
“You didn’t?” Sam hardly dared to believe his ears.
“No,” Dean growled. “I told you I was angry, and sorry, and I spent that entire night trying to get back to you.” Dean looked angrier than ever, his fist clenching around the phone as he had half a mind to crush it to pieces. Sam grabbed his hand to stop him, and Dean looked back down at him. Dean dropped the phone, gripping Sam’s hand more tightly, and lowered himself to his knees.
“I will never be done trying to save you. Do you hear me? Never. Even if I get angry and hurt, I will always come around. I will always come back to you. Sometimes,” and here Dean let out a little snort, “sometimes it’s easier if I have someone remind me. But I’ll never be through with you. Not ever, not really.” Dean reached a hand up and gripped the side of Sam’s head. “You’re stuck with me, Sammy.”
Sam’s tears got the better of him once again, and he dissolved, for the first time in a long time, sliding off the bed and into Dean’s welcoming arms.
Nothing had, and nothing would ever seem this right. Sam couldn’t believe that he had ever for a second envisioned the possibility that Dean didn’t know him better than anyone, that he could ever run away from Dean and be happy.
Dean
Dean closed his eyes, laying his head on top of Sam’s. Hearing Sam say those things, that he thought for a moment that Dean could ever kill him—those word spoken from his little brother’s lips damn near tore his soul apart, in ways that Hell had never done.
All he wanted was this. His brother was with him again, depending upon Dean to take care of him. And Dean more than happily obliged. Because as long as Dean helped control Sam’s fate, and Sam helped control Dean’s, there was nothing they couldn’t do together.
Including stopping Lucifer.

A/N: I’m probably going to be working on this fic all summer long. I have found in the past, that when one is working on a fanfiction in anticipation of their favorite show/book coming back out, it helps make the time pass quicker. Because I’m going to desperately try to finish this fic before the next season starts. Gods, I love Supernatural. Anyway, thoughts? I’d love to get some scrumptious reviews to whet my writer’s self-obsessed appetite. Next chapter comes as soon as I can wrestle my muse into compliance. Adios!
-CatJetRat

Okay, so, as far as I'm concerned, all is forgiven with Kripke. I haven't seen anyone else's reaction to the finale except my room mate's so far, so some people might be able to change my opinion, I don't know. I haven't even read balefully's reaction yet, and she's usually able to make to think about things in the episode that didn't even occur to me, so I might end up eating and deleting my words. But right now, and last night, I was happy. The cliffhanger I expected never came. Oh, there was a cliffhanger, but it was a given. Of course we were going to be left hanging about Lucifer. But Sam and Dean? Reunited at last. Sure, they have a ways to go, but there was so much Wincest last night that I was practically foaming at the mouth. It was beautiful. And all the things I was worried about? None of them happened. Dean didn't become an angel, Sam isn't Lucifer's vessel, though he may or may not be a demon, and Sam and Dean don't hate each other. They love each other, as always. And DEAN KILLED RUBY!!! YES!!!!

Now, don't get me wrong. I liked Ruby, I did. But she really needed to die. I, and I think everyone else, had had just about enough of her. And may I just say, I totally called her being evil. I knew it. But I still thought she was pretty cool, and I'm not going to backtrack on that. She was pretty cool. Katie Cassidy portrayed her better, I thought, but I was in love with Genevieve Cortese, so both actresses were good for me. But when Dean killed Ruby as Sam held her arms back, and my room mate cried out in anguish(she's a Ruby/Sam shipper. *shudder*) I couldn't help squealing with delight. It was a beautifully ironic thing, watching Ruby get killed with her own knife. *Happy sigh*.

So yeah, I'm pretty content with what happened last night. Obviously, Kripke had to leave us with a cliffhanger. But for me, as far as I'm concerned? As long as Sam and Dean love each other, there's no force they can't overcome.

126 Days, 3 hours, 37 minutes until the next Supernatural episode. We have to be there for each other, guys.

Sam/Dean forever.

I realized something last night. I have invested far too much of myself in Supernatural. This past week, over 80% of my thoughts have circulated around this show obsessively. All day yesterday I was looking forward to it, killing myself waiting to see what was going to happen. Watching the episode, I barely blinked, watching it so fiercely, my heart in my throat. I could barely breathe when Sam was in the panic room because I have problems with claustrophobia.
So. This episode. I thought it would break my heart before I watched it, and now that it’s over, I realize that it did just that. But there was a time when I was watching the episode that I thought it wouldn’t. This episode truly showed me how much Sam and Dean love each other. More than I think has ever been shown before. And the part at the end? Sam did that because Dean called him a monster. Dean called him a monster because he was scared. Because he was hurt. They tore each other apart because they love each other more than words could possibly ever hope to express. And I think they will again. They can never be done with each other, ever. And though this episode killed me and I wept, I know now, so much more than I did in the last episode, that they love each other. They’ll curse each other and hate how they feel, but Sam? He loves Dean so much that Dean calling him a monster is the worst thing he can imagine. Dean? He loves Sam so much that he can’t bear the thought of anyone, especially Ruby, intruding on that. They love each other. Deeply, madly, insanely. Their love could be the reason for the end of the world. And that is why this episode is both beautiful and terrible. Because as far apart as they have been torn, that is as much as they will come back together. Even if Sam becomes a demon and Dean becomes an angel. They’ll still be each other’s, always.
I do find it strange that a television show has touched me so deeply. So completely. I’ve been addicted to television shows before, Buffy, Xena, ect. I was also addicted to Harry Potter for a very, very long time. But not even Harry Potter was able to touch me so deeply, and I was a HUGE Harry/Draco shipper. But Sam and Dean…there’s just something about them. Never, in the history of television shows and movies that I’ve seen, have I ever seen two characters so deeply in love, and so completely intertwined with each other. And the reason for this is the exact reason that we who ship Wincest are called sick and disturbed by the general population. It is because they are brothers. Because they share the same blood. They grew up together, and depended upon each other their entire lives, and that…that just isn’t something that any couple can ever hope to imitate. They are as close as two humans can ever truly be, I think. Perhaps twins can be closer.
But I watch this story, and I wonder, not only how someone can watch it and not interpret it as romantic love, but how people can think that’s sick. Because how can love be sick, really? It doesn’t make any sense. Sam and Dean are perfect for each other, and they love each other, and everything they do is heartbreaking and beautiful. But it’s sick. Of course. That makes perfect (not) sense.
So I can barely even think about this episode because of how wonderful and terrible it was. Shit. I have to watch it again tonight so my room mate can see it. Anyway, I’m going to try to stay calm, because if I know Kripke, he’s going to leave us on a cliffhanger for the next four months. All we can do, guys, is stick together, and speculate, and love the show. We just have to get through the next four months together. We can do it. I have faith in us. But most of all, I have faith in Sam and Dean. The boys will be reunited once again, and once and for all, all the haters will be able to see what true love really looks like. Their names are Sam and Dean.

Pain. I write to release myself from it. Every journal entry of mine contains some small bit of pain. And the things I say are strange. Very, very strange. Why do I say such strange things? I read the things I write, pause, look back over them, and a smile curves my face at the accidental brilliance that came from me.

This seems beautiful to me. I don't know if it does to anyone else. I would hope so.

I wonder if I go back and read all my journal entries at once if I'll get annoyed by myself. That would be a strange thing to have happen, wouldn't it? I think I am the same, in these digital pages. The way I think is strange, confused, convoluted. I guess I don't really get it, don't really get myself. People look at me and see my smile and it makes them smile because my smile is so geniune, and I'm not sure how that happened, but it did. Then people get to know me and are weirded out, because something about me is off, different, but no one can put their finger on it, and I don't know how to even try, because I have only ever been the way I am. It's not a disease, or something that suddenly changed one day. I have my weaknesses, my flaws, my ugliness, my beauty. Just like every other human. But I'm not, and no one can tell me why, they just know that I am. You know, you'd think that if they could tell I'm strange and different, they could tell why too. Everyone's the same and everyone's different, yet I just don't think the same way, and it's obvious in EVERYTHING that I do. The way I write, my strange kindness and utter cruelty. I grow attached to things so easily. It tears me apart inside, and sometimes I feel like I don't care about anything at all. Sometimes I feel so alone I want to die, and sometimes I feel so smothered by others, by my LIFE, my plain, boring life that I just want to pack a duffel and get the hell out of this place.

What can I do but die? They said I'd never tell a lie.

Not pregnant. Not yet. Shouldn't be, though god knows my body wants me to be. It's just instinct.

Jonathan. Can't even. No. Nothing.

Rent. Lies. It all fades away when I write because my subconcious, at least, realizes how little it all matters.

One day I will read this and I will weep.

Will anyone else?

Kill me now, before it's too late.

I know I sound crazy. But I'm just a depressed artist. I let my words come to you through nothing, because they are nothing, without a reader.

Painted nails, black and red swirls.

I've managed to hold out for twenty four days without sex. I'm proud. But sick of it.

Ha.

I write for myself.

My throat hurts. I don't know if it's because I'm sick, or if it's just allergies. There is so much in my life. Nothing in particular. Just so much. I feel like I should have broken down several times already for what occurs in my life, but I can't. I can't cry, I can't weep. I just feel this. This pain. This longing. This contentment. My life is neither happy nor sad. It is as I exist. Constantly changing, in a way that stays the same. I am unlike others because I do change. But I am like others in that I change for others. Every time I like a guy, I change my myspace profile to suit what I think will appeal to him the most. Then I quit it. I put on there what appeals the most to me. I state that I am crazy because no one is sane.

Now I go off track into tangents. Hair color. Do I want to let Arial color my hair? A part of me doesn't. A part of me worries about it, since she's so young and inexperienced. A part of me says that dying one's hair is tacky, absurd, and should be reserved for children and seniors, like reduced portions. Another side of me says I'm being ridiculous and petty. I should do what I want. But what if my beautiful hair is destroyed? I would hate that. I love my hair. I want to change. So perhaps I'll let her cut it. But not dye it. No. I don't wish for it to be dyed.

Minor crisis averted. Now for the major ones. I had unprotected sex for the first time. And I feel like a slut. Not for that, but for now having slept with three guys from House of Torment. I love it there so much. I would never want it destroyed. At the same time, I don't know if I truly feel like a slut because my morals tell me to, or if it's Jonathan's voice in my head telling me to. I slept with them because I wanted to. What does that mean? I don't know.

I say I want love. I do. But then came Malice. She was willing to love me, love me completely, and I hated it. Hated how clingy she was already, after a first date. And for all her "I want to take it slow with you"s, it was already like we were a couple. Then she came to my work uninvited and cemented her fate. And so I want nothing to do with her. But I suppose this whole thing is killing me. This, all of this.

I never thought getting an apartment with James would truly destroy our friendship, or result in me threatening him. I actually threatened James. Michael said that James is my "arch-nemesis." I brushed this off, saying that I was simply angry with him. But perhaps he's right. James was my best friend. Now all I want is to destroy his life the way he nearly destroyed mine. Mere months ago I would have died for him. And I still love him. But for that I hate him.

And so I write. Not consistently, nor consistently beautifully, but I write. I write because if I don't I die. I die from exposure to myself. I am my own Kryptonite. Then again I suppose we all are. No one can destroy us like we can destroy ourselves. And I'm sure someone else has already said that.

I'm in love with Jonathan. I hate so much about life. I love so much about life. And I would kill myself if only to live once again. The h is missing on my keyboard. I wish there was a way to make this better.

If I'm pregnant because I had unprotected sex, then I'm going to be a mommy, because I don't think I could bring myself to have an abortion.

I think I am.

Dear god, why don't you really exist? It would make life so much easier, and in times like these, I understand why so many people are willing to believe in something so obviously absurd. Life weakens you. But I shall never let it get me that low.

I am as I am. No one can hurt me but me.

And that is truly the greatest gift of all.

It creeps me out a teensy tinsey lot to realize that the words I write and create will last for years after I am dead and gone. And though I would wish to want to talk about things that are obscure and confusing, the truth is I wish to talk about life which eludes and confuses. I feel a duty, somehow, to take my brilliance and make the most of it, because I know I am brilliant, more so than most. Intelligence is meaningless if it sits there, just sits there, doing nothing. Therefore I would be meaningless. But this is not all I wish to think on. I want to think about my life, and my pain. I want to continue to search for love. Jonathan. I love Jonathan. I love Elena. I love House of Torment, and the people in it. I love sex. Hate, now. Jonathan. A part of me hates him for making me feel so incredible and then playing games with me without telling me the rules. Testing me without allowing himself to be judged by the same rules. I was stupid. So was he. Why doesn't this matter? Elena. I don't know how she feels or what she's going through. I wish she did, but she doesn't want to let me in and I have no right to ask. And though I might long for the days when I occupied her thoughts often, it was I who gave that up and I did so because I knew it best. So why can't I forget? House of Torment. I love and hate it there. It feels like a second home, but I'm scared of having it taken away. Scared of so many things there. Funny how the whole point there is to scare, and they did it in a completely unintentional way. I say that I've never been scared there. That's a lie. I've been scared there--terrified--many times. But not of the monsters in the dark. Of the monster in me, that one day everyone might see and abandon me just as all my other friends have. James. I have a truer hatred for James than I do for anyone else at this moment, mostly because for a long time, he was the one I trusted and loved the most out of anyone. But we made a promise to each other and he broke it, and I'm still suffering for it, barely able to eat because of it. Gods, I have such hatred for him for doing this to me, and acting like I still owe him an apology for believing AnnaMarie. No, I shouldn't have, but that did him no long-term damage. Everything hurts. I feel unloved. I know I'm not. But I do.

Oh, for sanity. It eludes me at every step. I break my heart at every turn. Perhaps on purpose. Perhaps I long for such things, because with holes in my heart I have a place for beauty to flow from.

And then I am me. And I am alone.

And I have to wonder how any art can be worth this.

So Bryan turned out to be an asshole who was sleeping with me and sleeping with some other chick at the same time. Oh, and apparently he would go from one house to the other in the same night. Wee. Oh, and also, I'm apparently great in bed, but we were just too different. Grr....

Okay. Venting. Venting is good. Deep breaths.

That was all.

Billions of people in the world, and I wish to be different. I dare to wish to be different. Why, I wonder? I am different. There's no denying it. Everyone says I am, so I must be, yes? But I guess not everyone finds me strange. I just exist. I am strange because I talk like this, think like this. Because I am intelligent? Because I had a bad childhood? Because my imagination knows no bounds? Perhaps because I twitch slightly, and stare off into space for no apparent reason. Life is like a dream to me. But I am so passionate. So pained. I try so hard to be special. I try so hard to be better than everyone else, because I think I am. And I confirm that within myself with scraps of evidence gathered, doing my best to ignore all the other evidence which nearly blinds me.

My keyboard is black, my screen made up of particle of light, colors throughout the spectrum. They can be anything I imagine. Anything I see.

Gods. Why does my body vibrate? I must be something. I can be anything. I can ignore pain, because it is mundane and foolish, but I must FEEL it to exist. To learn. I must learn. I must, must, must.

Sing.