Older years of the treasure trove

16 Jun

A Vent in my Word document diary in High school era. I’m guessing sophomore or junior year. maybe senior. I remember this day, this moment, the instance I am talking about so vividly it’s chilling:

Add self-centered to the list.


Liar. Nasty. Bitch.


I’ve gotten selfish a lot, but self-centered is a creative new way to repackage your means of sucker-punching my self-esteem to assert your own dominance as Mother.


And then you tell me I have no confidence or sense of self-worth.


And I tell you I’m in pain .I tell you I’m angry. That I’m pissed. That I’m livid. And I put myself in a vulnerable position and confess to you my deepest darkest secret, the seed that planted all of my abhorring of…stuff…so many years ago.  You don’t respond with sympathy. You don’t even respond with simple kind eyes. You just call me a liar, you call me crazy, you ask me if I need to go on medication. Because it can’t be true. That would be too logical for comfort.


And I say ” Mom, I don’t need medication I’m not depressed, I’m hurt and I’m angry, and the second I would go off medication I would still be hurt and angry. You’ve spent my whole life trying to fix me that you don’t even know me.”


My words aren’t persuasive enough to convince her of my anger; my paintings of serene skies and snowy mountains aren’t lethal enough to hint at any real pain; she doesn’t like my writing unless it’s funny. Which it rarely is. I lost my sense of humor somewhere between last summer and now.


I have a friend, a good friend. She’s in pain and you can see it protruding from her skin, bones jabbing out from her cheeks and hips, and a spine like a reptile. Her pain looks convincing. Mine looks emo. I want her to look at me and see the pain I feel she causes me. That’s pretty twisted. But once again, it makes just a little bit too much sense for comfort.


A while ago I said “no, and no, but thanks.” Then it went to ” nah, thanks anyway”, then to ” yeah actually, but ill take a rain check on the other one” and finally to ” hell yeah, and alright ill try a little of that too.”


I feel like there are only 3 people in the entire world who genuinely love me for who I am. For the things that I’m terrible at and for the things I’m good at. For my callousness and my advice. For everything about me, 3 people understand. And none of them are blood. None of them are male. None of them are over 18.I feel like I am carrying the weight of 1000 men on my back, and then scolded and called self-centered when I don’t smile.


Add self-centered to the list. All I care about is myself.


In high school English, we read Howl, then wrote our own Howl imitation poems. Found mine:

Howl Imitation- re-write

By: Emily Zurow


I am driven because I have witnessed the most spectacular minds of present day hibernate in the dim caverns of self-doubt. Pouty-liped, stick figures with padded bras exchange arithmetic for association, assaulting the aspirations of aunts and mothers and abandoning the admiration of the little sisters. Others reject a glamorous identity for integrity, isolating themselves with infernal distraction of an I-pod, whose white noise masks a hidden loneliness. Both say what people want to hear, in fear of the bitter tears which would escape from the brutal jeers from their peers if the truth graced their virgin ears: I am lost. Copious blush can’t cover up the translucent alias under the translucent skin of the Abercrombie and Fitch knitted, fitted, shunken and pre-torn ski cap she wears in the spring time because Paris Hilton did on the cover of her mom’s sexiest Cosmopolitan. Bright girls who once fanaticized of being CEO of a fortune 500 find themselves super-sizing fries, following the downward slope of Corporate America’s Golden Arches. They were little leaders who learned to obey and listen to Just Do It from Nike and boy with a crooked smile, bloodshot eyes, and a joint in his hand. That boy who was once proud, before he saw terminator and saw what it means to be a man, and how far he had to go to have muscles and hoes so he started to do blow. He looked in the mirror and turned to the side, he practically disappeared as did his pride. real men, he thought, don’t need to confide, so behind a cloud of smoke he began to hide. People would say ‘ what happened o john, his skin got so pale and his hair so long, he used to have goals and now he’s dead’ and all of these words would go straight to his head, like bubbles of anger in the drink he gave that freshman girl; She wanted status and he wanted to be laid And in the halls the next day he would give a little wave, and she felt so dirty cause he didn’t know her name. But since she would put out, make out, he asked her out, and without a doubt she said yes in a shout and thus increased her social clout. She was smart enough to know he wasn’t looking for intellectual stimulation, so she giggled and wiggled focused on ejaculation. A month went by and no words were said, just meaningless chatter after she gave head. She was only a whore because she was acting like a whore, and soon she be became the mask she wore. He wanted someone smarter so he said so-long, such a sad story because if they had acted like themselves, they would have gotten along. Now look at this story on a greater scale, such a common mistake, such a common tale: people try and fit into a cultural role instead of being themselves, so when an individual makes a mistake the race takes a toll. People hate the towel heads or those fucking Jews, but those people did nothing but continue to feuds, of their ancestors and parents who never got along, and this is why peace is long gone.

People say these are the best years in a our prime, what my parents call a ‘carefree’ time.
I laugh inside, if only they knew, they wouldn’t believe me, would they believe you?


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: