la fleur a soif
elle demande au Soleil
pourrais-tu me donner
une verre à boire?

le soleil voit
qu'elle pleure
ne t'inquiète pas
mes rayons t'enchanteront
avec leur compassion douce

alors il brille
brille avec tout son pouvoir
lançant des jets de feu
qui innondent
qui enrobent
la terre avec la chaleur
étouffante des flammes

la fleur veut crier
mais moi
j'ai encore soif
et les lacs
ils se vaporisent
mais la soif l'a volé la voix

de l'eau
de l'eau

les nuages cachent le soleil
la foudre batte la terre
une miroir de son désespoir
et la pluie
elle tombe

y a-t-il une raison
une raison raisonnable
pour laquelle je me sens ainsi
morte comme après
une bagarre de mots?

l'équilibre émotionnel resemble
un spectacle délicat
sur balançoire
un éléphant à gauche
et un souris à droit

même s'il pèse trois mille fois
le poids du souris
l'éléphant a peur
du petit rongeur

y a-t-il une raison
une raison raisonnable
pour laquelle l'éléphant a peur?
y a-t-il une raison
une raison raisonnable
pour les bagarres de mots?

le déséquilibre émotionnel
défi toute raison

I'm terrified, breathless.

I hate kids. They scare the shit out of me. They sap so much energy out of Peter. Just fucking kill them.

There is nothing to express. I shouldn't have started writing in the first place. The melancholy is passive, tranquil, content in its serotonin-void. My head is not a boiling pot of water. My head is a tub of ice.

How did it come to this? Why can't Peter simply tell his children what to do, without anyone having to argue? Do the dishes. Just do the fucking dishes. It's not hard. Where's the trust? Where's your innate helpfulness, your altruism? I forgot. There is none. Fuck you, Alex. Fuck you.

Maman
I fear you
Your roiling desire of a tigress

To kiss me
Caress me
Probe me in awkward places and bend me to your iron will
Like a charged rod curves a stream
Of water
A supple green twig submits
Joyfully to the breeze

Maman
I don't miss you
To your face and tears I'm blind
I only miss
The moments we loved



The children gather round
Thin limbs prancing joyfully
They're dancing matchsticks
Enlivened and ensnared
By singsong voodoo spells
So much energy
The matchsticks can hardly breathe

They have no empathy
The matchsticks
They scratch against your skin
They light
Chhhhh a flame explodes

Emily is a bitch.
More a retard and autistic.
She's incapable of doing anything.
Peter totally spoils her. Wtf. It's just a fucking finger.
Fuck.
Fuck.
I hate her.
Oh, and she is so stupid too. She's 13, and she can't figure out what's 30 / 3. Wtf.

FUUUUUUCK JUST FUCKING KILL ME.

I feel oddly lost. I know I should've been sad--normally I would've been--but I was not. Instead, it was just some sort of cold, nauseating resignation.

Fucker, I'm never gonna have kids. One, because he doesn't want them, or he claims to want them, but it's not an active want. Two, because I can't do this to him again--he's had two kids already. Three, I can't parent along with him at all.

He says "Type away I won't look". He thinks that this will lift the inhibition that has come over me since he arrived in the room and started spying on me.

"I was not spying on you," he says.

But oh yes he was. He was looking at my livejournal--my private, private parts!

Is it really going to be like this forever? This perpetual puffing of the eyes, this unending stream of salt and water--shit fuck I'm tired of choking on my own fucking snot.

The burn is hot, the burn is lively. I can still feel it. Is this how life feels? A burn, then the echoes of that burn? How intense. The echoes, they must be intense-r.

Oh, the man loves me alright, but does he love me enough? Would he choose me over anyone else? Girls he wouldn't. He wants both--both his daughter and his lover. Well, darlings, that is impossible, you see. Every moment--whether of intimacy or common conversation--is tainted and forever shredded in my memory. In a dialogue, at every breath one takes--sometimes even between breaths--she interrupts. Maybe I should stop taking breaths. God, that won't stop her.

I am not sleepy anymore. Sobbing wrenches me out of my stupor, like a bucket of cold water slopped over a drunk's head. My body is cold. The skin is textured, hairless goosebumps appearing everywhere.

I used to be scared that I'd die alone. Now I think I could be perfectly happy dying alone. I imagine lying on top of a great cliff, dressed in warm black clothes, bathing in the sunlight. Sunrise and sunset would keep me company until I died. I'd be happy if I could die warm.

Tomorrow is work. I think I'm gonna call in sick. I am sick, after all.

I am strangled. I am strangled by the darkness. This stranglehold is a love hold. My not-so-fragile neck resting in the crook of a soft arm, unseen, unheard, only felt. It is so comforting, the darkness and the silence. I want to sit here forever, even with the books on my lap, even with the seatbelt across my torso. Because I won't move. I won't ever feel uncomfortable. I only need to close my eyes and feel the darkness and hear the feverpitch scream of sound waves cooking my head. The darkness is safe, the darkness is warm. I feel nothing, but I am comfortble. More than I could've asked for.

Children thrive on a lack of consequences. Without consequences, they come to believe that they can do whatever they want, however they want, whenever they want, without further ramifications. If there are no punishments instituted for a particular unacceptable behavior, that behavior will likely persist. After all, we're no more different than Pavlov's dog when it comes to conditioning. It is imperative that parents set clear boundaries, rules, and consequences for their children, to prepare them for the chaos of the adult world. For in the adult world, there are consequences for one's actions. If one is unproductive, unmotivated, resistant to change, and hot-tempered at work, one will likely lose one's job. If one is reactionary and self-focussed, one will likely not have, or lose, personal relationships. Although the punishments instituted by parents for infractions are often artificial, as no employer is likely to ground or spank the employee, these punishments are necessary, to teach children this concept.

There are absolutely no consequences for Emily's behavior. Peter raises his voice with her, but that usually has no effect. Perhaps he should try counting. However, the threats that he raises--I'm going to turn off the TV soon--are just that, threats. There was no turning off of the TV, until today, at my suggestion. She is not disciplined. She is a wild child. She is impossible to live with.

I cut myself at the termination of our camping. I think I had long given up any pretensions of giving up cutting for myself. If it didn't have its own consequences, I would be lying in a pool of my own blood right now. But I digress. The issue was Emily's losing of her alarm clock. She left her alarm clock at her grandparents. On our way to the campground, we took a detour to get it back. No thank yous. She loses it again when we are preparing to leave. She freaks out and sits sullenly at the picnic table, while everyone else is working to pack up the equipment. Not that there is much that she could help with anyway. She says that she's looked everywhere, and that's a quote. I then throw a couple of backpacks into the car. To accomodate the backpacks, I lifted up Alexander's shorts. The alarm clock was right there. I am shouting now. I hand it to her. No thank yous. But expected. Then she gets upset.

Fuck. I don't want to talk about this. Otherwise I'll want to kill everyone in this apartment.

I hope she one day gets what she deserves. And if I ever find out that she's gone to Heaven, I'll hunt her down and kill her with a butterknife in front of God Almighty himself.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

Everything hurts, maybe not a lot, but everything hurts a little bit. Everything makes me want to cry. I don't though, because I don't want to cry anymore. I just want to listen to sad music and sleep.

I don't know why I react the way I do. I feel like an alarmingly overzealous immune system. Gimme some fucking adrenaline so I can feel okay.

I love you. It's not your fault. Just stay with me. I don't want to die. I don't want to hurt.

Dating tips for nymphets and wannabe nymphets out there:
-stay away from married men
-stay away from divorced men
-stay away especially from married/divorced men with children

I am tired. I am non-responsive. I am a stone. People should really appreciate the beauty of being a stone. It isn't cold anymore.

Sometimes I still think he can save me. Then I realize that there is nothing to be saved from. I am simply me. The crux of the matter is simple: Yiwei has a genetic predisposition towards depression and suicide; Yiwei has had a traumatic past; Yiwei cannot deal with present situations. It has nothing to do with any number of wives or ex-wives, or any number of children or nieces. It's not the world. It's me.

I suppose I should change. I do not know how. I still am happy a lot of the time, but my former and brief optimism has been replaced by the shy and resigned pessimism of before. I do not like myself anymore. I do not hope to like myself. I feel like I expected everything when it happens, and nothing is a surprise, nothing is good.

I expect us to not have time for sex. I expect us to not have sex for long. I expect myself to not come. I expect you to not come. I expect the games to decay. I expect Emily to interrupt us. I expect Linda to interrupt us. I expect our lives to be a dessicated film strip.

I'm sad. Except I'm not really. The flavor of my sadness is more apathy, more festering whininess than anything else.

This is the way life is. Should I have expected anything else? No. Should I strive for something more? I don't think so. Fighting the status quo is a fruitless energy-drain.

I love you. I loved you? I'm not sure at this moment. I'm tired.

I'm defeated again, and again, I have nothing to say.

I want to kill myself. There seems to be no other way. I hated my old family, and now I hate my new family. I just want them all to die. There is obviously something wrong me, because I can't deal with people. People suck. They're all horrible bastards.

Did you hear that? You fucking bitch, get the fuck away from my journal.

I don't think I've ever wanted to kill myself out of anger before. I suppose I am just so very frustrated with feeling bad in one way or another all the time. :(

So here I am again, to bitch about Monstrous Emmy. What a fucking spoiled brat.

She always has so much fucking trouble with anything and everything. Apparently breakfast is always impossible. So today she toasts a bagel, and puts peanut butter on it. Then she runs screaming down the hall that peanut butter is fucking impossible.

Peter tries to discuss things with her but it's absolutely impossible talking to a stupid cunt like her. What happened was that she put peanut butter on very thickly, resulting in massive overflow as it melted. What a fucking dumb ass. Who the fuck would do that? And it's not even that bad when peanut butter melts.

I told her to fucking deal with it. I can't help this constant swearing. I just need to fucking kill someone. Her.

Fuck. I hate everything. Everything. fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuckkkkkkk

Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Just fucking go die. Jesus fucking Christ, there won't ever be an end to this nightmare, will there? I need to get out. I need fucking out.

Oh fuck.

Reconciliation with Emily. I thought about it in the shower. Hot water always calms me down.

I'm not sad about the way I look anymore. The past few days were strange. The caloric obsessions. The exercise. The fear of eating full meals. The fear of fat.

Right now my arms and legs are slick with sunscreen, though I barely went out in the sun. I am smearing sunscreen--oh the grease, the grease--onto my laptop. I tried crossing my legs, but they just slide off of each other.

I am talking with Ruichen. Another small love. I think he doesn't intimidate me anymore.

People are so full of blame sometimes. Like Wanda. She is my trainer for the fundraising position. We had spoken on the telephone earlier today, and I gave her my address, so that we could meet at 3. As I hung up, I realized that I had forgotten to confirm with her whether to meet outside, or to wait until she called-I live in an apartment building. However, she did not give me her telephone number. I should have asked for it.

To correct this mistake, I go down ten minutes early, thinking that she would pull up by the front door. This, I thought, would save her the trouble of trying to figure out which apartment is mine, and what the buzz code is. However, she does not show up at the front door.

Later, I hear from Alexander that she had called at 2:55. He did not know where I was going, and so he told her that I had already left. She said but it's only 2:55 we had agreed on three. He said that maybe I had gone to meet her. She then said that this is a waste of time.

I do not like being called a waste of time, especially to a third part, before the situation is understood. I do not appreciate it. I do not like Wanda. Does she ever consider the possibility of a miscommunication? It's as much my "fault" as hers. It doesn't matter. People make mistakes. Why does she just assume that I am irresponsible?

I have little respect for her.

Fuck Wanda. I don't wanna do this.

It seems like my life is a series of missed opportunities. I always find out about things too late, or the computer isn't working and my application arrives too late. It always makes me want to cry, because the same opportunity doesn't arrive for another year, and I'm always afraid that by that year, I'll have forgotten about it again.

My short story is stagnating, going absolutely nowhere. Fuck. It has to be ready for October the first. Fuuuck. I need it publish. I need it published. Fuuuuuck. And I can't read it in its current condition.

FUUUUUUCK.

I have no job. I'm auditioning for a movie role which I won't land. Fuuuuuck. Why do I fucking bother.

There is nothing that you can do that I haven't already done to myself.
-Mindless Self Indulgence

I should read Fan's blog more, as well as Donna's and Lena's. They all have big vocabularies, and big ideas. I have a small vocabulary and small ideas. My entries are as awkwardly staccato as the broken typing from which they arose. Laptops, what can I say?

I want to have intellectual intercourse, and massive amounts of it. I want to do it with lots and lots of people. I want to be a polyamorous intellectual slut.

How dreamy. My mouth will reek of decasyllabic words, intelligent-sounding neologisms, unique perspectives, and innovative ideas. My mind with tingle and teem with intellectual maggots--ah, what a delicacy. My eyes will gleam with the pleasure of it all. Fuck. Oh yes, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me! I'll show you my theory if you'll show me yours!

Unfortunately, I am merely a slut of the physical kind. A sophisticated lexicon escapes me. My sentence structures are as bland as Equality white bread. What about ideas? I do not have any. I am a sponge. I was always a sponge. I never come up with anything of my own. So, deprived of an intellectual life, I have a sex life. I suck cock and spread my legs, mindlessly and happily. Not metaphorically, but literally.

Metaphors are fun.

I am not depressed. I am merely annoyed at my lack of brain activity lately. I think my IQ has massively dropped since the end of school. I have become this artsy kid, who tries so hard to break into writing. I cannot be trying too hard, as I have not made it yet. I am close. At least, I hope (and think) I am (sometimes).

:)

I'll make it!

 A fleeting obsession, a passing fury--cutting green beans. The cleaver is heavy. After all, it is the family heirloom. God, only the impoverished Chinese peasants on the countryside would think of this--a loaded cleaver passing from generation to generation. Here son! Here is the gift of food! It only makes sense, as the Chinese have been starved for most of their history. I wonder how many fingers this cleaver has sliced? Maybe I should ask my father. What did they do with the amputated fingertips? Perhaps they were so starved for food that they threw the digits into the wok? If so, I've grown up on avulsed human meat. Goddamn, I'm a fucking cannibal!

Anxieties swimming around like the ghosts of drowned ducks in my head. What am I to do? About what? About what? I cannot even find the source of these fears. And yet, they are tearing my brain apart, dendrite by dendrite. Soon I will have no connections. My brain will atrophy into mush--is it going to be the silly putty that slips through your fingers? Make that glow-in-the-dark silly putty, s'il-vous-plait. What to do? What to do? 

Here's the stupid thing about having a smart brain. I need to make virtually no effort for school work most of the time. So everything, essentially, is a make-work project. When I have nothing to do, I drown. Viscous guilt suffocates me. Or maybe I am putting things off? Oh come hither, Lady Procrastination; kiss me, kiss me tenderly. When I make out with her, a million bees are buzzing in my head. They make lots of honey. But they also sting. 

Bloodletting and miraculous cures. Not interested in bloodletting, strangely enough. My arm is too smooth for it now. Too hairless--like a sphinx. Didn't I tell you that I felt like your cat? Now you have yourself a sphinx. Now we've told them about us, there's no shame in my being your pet. 

Allo, allo? Es-tu la? Je suis fille numero neuf.