Update by cellphone.

Dearest readers. You must be wondering what's been going on in this scrambled mind of mine. Well, I must inform you that I barely know, myself. Everything is a beautiful mess under my head of hair. But my plans are coming together slowly. And honestly, I'm a bit lovestruck. Don't worry about me. Soon enough, I'm going to spread my wings and my life is going to begin.

"and you told me fortunes in American slang."

Like a little angel.

White feather wings and all.

I think of how I feel when in the company of my grandfather. I hold his arm like a lady would a century ago. He squeezes my hand, proud to have me on his arm. And we walk, talking as though the world is made of good things.

Sun. At the end of the tunnel. I was taken by surprise. I never saw it coming. But now, it's as though it was inevitable. I need nothing in this world but a place to lay my head at night and someone to call my own. I have both and I am grateful.

The future is incomprehensible. So uncertain. But I'm embracing the chaos. My heart flutters in it's cage, ready to fly away and I am happy. Who knows what tomorrow will bring? I know what I need and I know what I have. Life is fucking beautiful.

Foundation.

I'm feeling green.
It's stupid, I know. I look at her and I acknowledge how beautiful she is, and I must admit, it burns right through the pit of my stomache. Especially knowing that she stands so close to what I adore.

But tonight, I'm not going to think of that. I'm going to rock the sidewalk that I walk upon, soaking in the energy of the night. Why? Because anything can be covered up.

Like a ditch.

There's only one place in the world I want to be.
Still.
It can't be healthy to fall back on old habits after the time that's elapsed. Yet, I have. And I'm not sorry. It's the only way to be maybe.
I miss the way I felt every morning. Without it, I don't want to get out of bed.

I've realized that I'm not really happy.
Things are, because they have to be. Not because they're beautiful. I know that's wrong, but it's how I feel most days.

I feel trapped and solitary. I feel lonely. Even while surrounded by people who seemingly adore my company, I feel used. Everyone wants something from me but I can't decide what I want from them.

Isolation is not what I want. Sometimes, it's just easier.

Redirection.

I hate to put things plainly. If you've read anything that I've ever written, you'd know that. Complexity helps to hide how I really feel.

For now though, I need to be frank.
My left leg feels like it's been dipped in acid. Apparently, I had an allergic reaction to Nair. Didn't affect my right leg though..
My little Sister will be home in exactly 1 hour and 45 minutes. She spent the week in Washington DC and I'm sure had loads more fun than I've had.
A black man has asked me out. I declined.
The only thing that has made me feel better this entire week, was my 12 year old cousin's ramblings about a boy she's crazy about and a late night clearance rack shopping spree at Walmart. fml.
BUT. I'm still going. I'm still writing. Soon, I'll be living.
It's a big world out there. There are lots of trees to climb and many, many hearts to break. I'll not keep myself down. Because, if I were to stay down and give up, there'd be no one to blame but myself.

A new feeling.

I want to break someone's heart.
I want to, for once, feel like I am the one in control.
I need to feel that someone is waiting up for me, waiting for my call, puzzling why I would do and say the things I do.
Yes, I want someone to cry over me.
I want to feel that I am worth that.

But the more I think about it, the more I realize that I could never hurt someone intentionally like that. It's just not in me.

You can't keep what doesn't want to be kept.

I will not dwell on the fact that this isn't how we're supposed to be.

At this point, I'm not sure whether you still care for me or if I'm just a fixture.

You can't keep what doesn't want to be kept, and I couldn't keep you.

But I will not dwell. 

-

My Dad thinks that he can keep me forever. Maybe I'm being insensitive, but it seems that for the past 16 years, I've been under his proverbial thumb. Ever since I can remember, he's tried to establish himself as god.
Maybe I am being insensitive.
I've been straight forward and honest with him. When I turn 18 years old, I'll be moving away from home. He says that it would be the equivalent to spitting in his face. "After everything I've done for you, you're just going to run away. " I've pleaded, I've compromised, I've reasoned. I've explained over and over again that it's time for me to make my own choices, my own mistakes. It's time for me to start my own life.
He cusses, threatens and finally, he lays on ye olde guilt trip. I'm "breaking" his heart.
So, I act the bitch. I harden my nose, stick out my lip, and tell him exactly how I feel about it. Apparently, that's considered being disrespectful. He says that one day I'll regret this.
Whatever. I'm sticking to my guns.

Unwanted attention.

I never thought that being single again would be so complicated.
Apparently, over the past year, I've gathered quite a list of admirers who never made themselves known. Now that the supposed "opportunity" has opened, I've been swamped. And I wasn't quite ready for it.

The dog days are over.

Not the end.
No bitterness, no demands for reason, no compromising. I just let go. I knew it was coming somehow and instead of lying to myself for consolation, I just asked the question.
The parcel that got lost in the mail could've changed it all, but it didn't. It got lost. It's not exactly reading the innards of a chicken, it's clear.
These things happen. I know that by now.
My 17th year was a beginning. I  felt things I never have before. And now I've let go of them.
I've kept my promises and I don't regret anything. Still, it hurts.
I hate that I'm a female. Too easy to cry.
I think everyone in the library must know what's happened. Like they can read my face before I can run to the restroom to have a proper panic attack. 
It's not the end of the world. More like the end of an era. One that will take some getting over.

"Leave all of your love and your longing behind, you can't carry it with you if you want to survive. The dog days are over, the dog days are done, can't you hear the horses? 'Cause here they come.. "

Take charge, little trembler.

It's amazing how much I've grown up in the past week.

Monday, I paid the long overdue water bill that my parents had been ignoring since April. With the running water finally on, (fuck yes, hot showers!) there was laundry to do. A LOT of laundry. And dirty dishes stacked atop each other for miles and miles. So while my Mom napped and my sister played a computer game, I scrubbed every inch of the bathroom, mopped all the linoleum floors and tackled the laundry and dishes.
Next day, I went into the grocery store and spoke to the hiring manager.
Short, intimidating, and to my opinion, a general asshole. I introduced myself, shook his hand and asked if he'd reviewed my application yet.
"No?" is what he said. But he'd get right on it, he assured me.
Strange little man. I'll have to admit, I didn't WANT to work there. I just wanted to get a job. Anywhere. All the cashiers dislike me already for some unknown reason so I knew it wouldn't be fun.
Regardless, I filled out my application as flattering to myself as I could and apparently made a good impression on the manager.
Wednesday, Daddy got out of detox. (That's a whole other story right there). He didn't want to stick around the house so we decided to hit the mall.

Rule #1: Never go shopping if you don't have money.

My Mother never read that handbook.
Whilst browsing the many shops filled with material things I know I'll never be able to afford, I stumbled into a small costume jewelry shop called Princess and was given an application.
I filled it out, brought it back, and instead of being interviewed by the manager, I met the big wig. I mean, the guy who owns the chain. He's opened 16 stores across the country and here's little ol' me who's never had a job before, asking him if he'll take me on.
He asked me to call him "Mo". Short for Mohammed, I assume because yes, he is Muslim. Mo speaks low, but with authority. He looked me straight up and down, asked me why I thought I could do this job, told me that it wouldn't be easy, that he doesn't tolerate his employees standing around, asked me if I thought I could handle it, then hired me. I was psyched.
But also nervous. Very, very nervous. Terrified, in fact. So terrified, I woke up at 3am the next morning and waited for my alarm clock to go off at 7.
At 9:30, Mom dropped me off and I waited for 30 minutes in the food court of the mall for Ben, my manager to open the store at 10.
Ben is.. interesting. 24 years old, Muslim, can barely speak English and has the hots for me. Great. 
He showed me how to stock and price, how to run the register and take credit cards, etc. Four hours later, I was running the place myself. Seriously. Ben went to sleep in the stock room.
But it was fun! I met and helped so many people. All walks of life and all races of women came pouring in that shop asking me to help them find a bracelet, necklace, ring, etc to match their outfit or to go with their prom dress.
For 11 hours, I stood and walked around that shop flapping my gums and putting my good taste to work. Then at 10pm, we closed shop and counted the money (cough, $1,234.94, cough). 
Home, shower, valium, bed. I'm proud of myself.

"The brave may not live forever, but the cautious never live at all."

Far from home in my mother's jewelry box.

Slow. Disoriented were my steps. Feeling along the walls for the support I've always longed for. The support that was promied me. It was almost like waking from one of my many unremembered dreams. Dark. Dizzy. Familiar smells that I've never smelled before. If there was light, I'm sure I'd see the familiar faces that I've never met.
Just as I thought I might be wandering through some black part in the back of your mind, a light appeared. Tiny, flickering. And I followed it. Closer and closer, soon my head was spinning with things I thought were only imaginary.
More lights. Blue and yellow and white like mini gems glowing from my mother's jewelry box. I reached for them. And when I woke up, I was in the city.

Ellen Degeneres is not high, drunk, emotionally unstable or a combination of the three.

Note to self and other potential amateur bloggers: When writing a blog, it is in the interests of yourself and your readers to not be (a) high, (b) drunk, (c) emotionally unstable (i.e. sobbing hysterically), or (d) a combination of the three. Unless of course, you want hilarious/embarrassing feedback.

Also. Am I the only woman in America who thinks Ellen Degeneres is the most beautiful person in modern showbiz? 'Cause if I am, just tell me. 

In case you're wondering, I am heterosexual. My Mother asked me once if I were a lesbian, because at the time, I was too shy to approach a certain boy that I liked. She, (who never had a bashful day in her life), took it that I wasn't really attracted to the boy and must be scared to admit to my alternative sexuality. She asked me so bluntly that it really hurt my feelings and after snapping at her the obvious truth, I burst into tears.
That aside, my sexuality has never been questioned. Yet, I think, if the opportunity arose, I would do Ellen Degeneres. I mean, is she gorgeous or what?
It's strange to think that with all the glamour girls and fashion divas in the world, the celebrity that I most admire for beauty, intelligence, and all around sexiness, should be the one woman who is open about being a lesbian. There is just something about her that radiates confidence. And well, she is beautiful.

Perpetual romance addiction?

I can imagine myself as the woman running through the dark and snowy streets of London in zebra print underwear, desperate to make things right with the man I love. (That's Bridget Jones' Diary, btw.)

I am, hopeless in that sense. Terribly romantic. Sickly obsessive over "the little sweet" things. I don't think there are many girls who don't dwell on their daydreams, but maybe not so many do it as often, or as well, as I do.

The human mind is a strange and changing thing. The human heart, moreso. I may not have as much experience with romantic involvement as some, but I've shed my share of tears. That's why, at 9 months, I'm for once, really happy. For once, I've found something worth hanging onto. Something that's not going to twist me round and round 'till I break, and then walk away.

I'm tripping on a burst of dopomine whenever he says my name. This, is heaven.

Something I've realized though. After the 2 years of pitiful teenage "heartbreak" that I endured, it was only after I decided that those guys were stupid for hurting me and that I didn't need anyone to be happy, that I began this new journey. Those other guys were stupid. They didn't know how badly they hurt my feelings, pride, self esteem and therefore, I couldn't be angry with them any longer. I let go. And that felt good. Forgiveness does bring happiness, because for once, I was finally happy. Then came the step of accepting myself. Who I was, my thoughts, my opinions, my story. I am me and I don't need them. I don't need anyone to be content with who I am. I don't need a boy to convince me that I'm a beautiful woman, inside and out. I don't need to feel wanted. It is nice, yes. But it's not a need.

For the first time, in a long time, I would wake up and say, "I can do this on my own.". I got sight of my dreams, my hopes, my feelings. I didn't worry about who was watching or what he'd think or if I could survive without a boyfriend. It was then, that I met the man I call my own now.

Yes, it is nice to hear him tell me I'm beautiful, that I'm wanted and he loves me. But it's even nicer to know that he means it and he's not just paying lip service. I don't need him for that and he knows it.
I took on a whole new meaning to my life and I guess I had to love myself before I could ever really love and be loved by someone else. I don't mean selfish love. I mean, confidence in one's self, security.

It feels good to need someone for the right reasons.
Not just because I need to cling to someone and their image of me.
I'm finally in love.

Pyromanical

Bonfires bring out the strangers.
People laughing and drinking and throwing up and screaming and fighting and spitting. People bleeding. Somehow, the roar of the flames and the spirits flowing freely, awakens a fire inside. A dangerous one. Cleansing and destructive, an element all to it's own. A chemical poisioning, yet clearing.
Buzzing around in the dark, inner flames begin to lick at old wounds. And they all become animals.

Future Kinks of America

In my Aunt's apartment complex, there's an 11 year old who fancies himself my boyfriend.
Half my height and a blond mess of hair, he follows me everywhere. I've a feeling that my blue jean short-shorts have driven him into early puberty. Everytime I'm over, here he comes to tease me. And being the natural tom-boy that I am, I'll strong arm him, throw him over my shoulder, generally rough house with him. This has gone on nearly everytime I'm at my aunt's, since last Summer.
But a thought occurred to me yesterday. I read recently that when a young boy pre-puberty is influenced by a bigger, stronger girl, it may affect his future adult sex life. In most cases, the boy never learns to 'make the first move' on a girl and therefore, goes throughout his life awkward around females 'till by his luck, he meets a girl that doesn't mind being dominant.
I began to wonder if maybe, I'm screwing this kid's life up. He'd lead an awkward life of fantasy until hopefully, one day he'd meet a girl like me that wouldn't mind wrestling, straddling and tying him to the bed.
Then it occurred to me that maybe that's not such a bad thing. There'd be less rapes if more men were less dominant. Maybe I'm saving this kid from becoming a teenage father. Maybe if I start rough housing with more 11 and 12 year olds, the teenage pregnancy rate will drop tremendously throughout the state. And it would all be due to me.
Then it came to me that maybe, just maybe, I don't know what the fuck I'm talking about anyway.
So here's to future romps with T* and I sincerely hope he doesn't get a girl pregnant in highschool. Even if it means the only reason he couldn't is because he's still obsessed with me and my long frame and tight, hip riding jeans.

One.

I'm sitting in probably the hardest chair in the entire library. Yes, I'm in a library. Not because I need books. I have lots of them. Notice how I said 'lots' instead of 'plenty'. You can never have enough books, in my opinion. And although I will be checking out two dusty, spineless books before I leave to devour them at home, that's not why I'm here. I'm here because for the past 3 months, I've had no internet service. If you knew me well, you'd wonder why I'm not dead yet.
It's highly unlikely that you do know me well, but perhaps if you subscribe to this blog and buzz over my ramblings once a week, you'll come to think that you understand my nature. I ask that you do not do this. Read, but do not judge or pretend you know me. Read, and offer your honest opinion. I hope you'll be as amused by my misfortunes and everyday adventures as I am.
My name is Chelsea, but you probably already guessed that. I'm a teenager that looks and acts twice her age in most company. My parents are mentally insane. But aren't they all?
I'm not here to steriotype or "tell you my story". I'm not special, but I'm not the ordinary "girl next door" either. I honestly don't know why I'm here. I suppose I'm bored of pouring my thoughts into a paperback diary that no one cares to read. I suppose I want to be heard for once.
My Dad makes sure he is heard. Every word he says is a commandment to be heeded even when he contradicts himself. Yet, I'm quiet always. What most people don't seem to understand is that just because one doesn't speak often or loudly, it doesn't mean they have nothing to say. It means that they spend too much time in their own head. I wouldn't say that's a bad thing, though it does make for a bad conversationalist at times.
But me? You'll find that I can be a great conversationalist if you'll only put your hand out and introduce yourself. How do you do? I'm Chelsea x.