|Reading these suicide pages you will find people seeking help and people offering their help. Some witness about suicide from real life experience, others who play along with me would pretend it's a children's game. Some make sick and cruel jokes about it, and angry people blame me for even mentioning the subject. You might also want to read my favourite answers. If you want your answer to be included here, fill in the form.|
What is the best way to kill yourself when you're under 13?
Quelle est la meilleure forme de suicide pour les moins de 13 ans?
|20 Dec 2003||billy the freak||wow, i am very impressed with all of you, your writing of course. i finally got time to read some of the posts. mouchette, you're looking beautiful as always. chris, you are absolutely right. this is a safe place where you can express yourself, in many ways. some people come in here and just babble about nothing but they feel better when they're done, some people come in here and scream about how they want to hang their neck up and never come back. makes wonder if they might be hanging from a ceiling beam somewhere. you got people who want to give their best advice and hope they can save a life. then you got the ones who want to use it as a creative outlet like myself. i personally feel that's what makes this interesting. i was here from the beginning and right now this piece of art is taking a wonderful shape. be safe and have a happy holiday season.
lucy, have a wonderful christmas darling!!!
|16 Dec 2003||billy the freak||hello my friends. if you liked my latest post and fiend for more like a junky on drugs you may curb your craving by checking out my earlier post in mouchettes favorites archive found exclusively @mouchette.org. and please email me at my new adress. i love feedback and will responde to all.
have a good day.
|16 Dec 2003||billy the freak||:hey there looking at me, what it is you see. what is it about you that i adore? try to find some words i can use. don't got the courage to come up to you. my chances are looking a bit grey. i'm staring across the room. are you leaving soon? i just need a little time. oh no it happened again walked away with her boyfriend maybe we'll meet again someday... someday...
i found myself in a bar room with my best friend searching for something. cigarette smoke loomed in air and made everyone look fuzzy through its transparent wisps of death. the smell of alcohol was bitter, the taste was sweet. i found it.
she was dancing by the juke box. the light shining off her soft milky skin made her look heavenly... like some sort of fallen angel. i imagined two bloody stumps where her wing should have been and was insanely aroused. when i felt the twitch below my belt i decided to order another drink.
"bartender... a double of rum and a beer to chase them down." he assured me that he got my order by repeating it back to me using different words.
"a twin pirate boiler maker coming right up." i gave him a quick nod and pat my friend's shoulder to get his attention.
"hey, look over there by the juke box... my angel." he looked over by the juke box then back at me.
"she's alright... i guess." i was outraged by his response.
"she's alright... you guess." i mocked him in a unpleasent tone. "man, she looks like heather gram."
"yeah, a skinny heather gram" he said, matter of factly.
"dude, she's not skinny!" i snapped at him.
"you're right, she's not skinny." he said with with a smile. "she's anorexic."
"fuck you asshole, you don't know what your talking about. she is beautiful and i'm going to go talk to her" i said, just about spitting in his face.
"alright man, you know i was just goofing around". my buddy jay always has jokes, and he knows me better then anyone. that's why i love him. "if you're going to go over there, you need to calm down and think of something to say, or you're just going to choke up again."
he was absolutely right. what was i going to say? i have a bad problem with my words slipping out my mouth and falling to the floor. it is embarrassing when i got to pick them up. i shot down my rum and drank my beer, then it hit me. i will simply tell her she looks like heather gram.
i got up and took off in the direction of the juke box. my heart started thumping. i passed the pool tables. my head started spinning and instead of going straight i turned left and headed right into the bathroom into the stall onto my knees and puked. i insantly felt better and figured i would relieve my bladder while i was in there.
i walked over to the sink and looked in the mirror. i looked horrible. i washed my face and rinced out my mouth the best i could. i choked and this time i didn't even get to talk to her. i felt pathetic. i looked in the mirror one last time. i siked myself up the best i could, because i wasn't going down without a fight. i told myself... i told myself i could do this.
i came out the bathroom with my head high and my intentions set, but something was wrong. i couldn't find my angel. i walked over to the bar where my friend was.
"I saw your little detour there partner."he said with his glass held to his mouth.
"where did she go?" i asked him in a low embarassed tone.
"her old man came in and told her it was time to go. you wouldn't have got her anyway."
i sat down, ordered a drink and blew air from the deepest part of my lungs. when jay said. "let's get a burger."
"yeah" i said, "a hamburger sounds good right now."
|08 Dec 2003||Felicia The Great||Dear Billy,
I choked on an artichoke salad this morning. Does that count for assisted suicide?
Going postal is too old. Try working as an airport screener instead; that way you can flabbergast the passengers by saying one of them had a gun in their can of hairspray, and everyone will think youre a hero.
|24 Nov 2003||billy the one and only||it has gotten to the point... where i believe that the only way to fix my problem, is not to kill myself, but to kill every one else. i have a all or nothing attitude... and personally i want it all.|
|10 Oct 2003||billy||I tried to stample my balls to a wall and tried to run|
|27 Sep 2003||Chris||Where does a 13 year old spend most of his/her time? Basically it's either at school or at home. So we ask can a child be suicidal about school? Of course he can! It's just that the 'child' only realises years and years later that his school days were not the best days of his life as we are incorrectly normally led to believe!
It all begins when you start assuming that your old school mates want to see you again. The fact that at school you were irrelevant and might have been forgotten doesn't enter your head. Meanwhile, you start lingering over the stationery and pleated trousers, take out your primary school excercise books and the old tie signed by all your back bench companions and scribbled with old cliches like "Keep in touch" and "We'll never forget you."
Two days later the nostalgia gets worse, so you send a tentative e-mail to a 'girl' you went to school with, wondering whatever happened to her and all those school friends you lost touch with. You immediately demand all the contact details of everyone and start firing 1,000-word epics across the country. "How about having a school reunion", you say. "Come on, it'll be fun". Of course, you're wagging your tail all over this school reunion business. After all, weren't you drop-dead popular at school, carried upon the shoulders of young lads with shining eyes and flushed cheeks? Didn't girls queue up after school skipping on their toes for just one glimpse of tousled hair hero you? Weren't you the up and always coming star of the football team?
Oh no, that was your friends. Suddenly like a rush of bad breath it all comes back to you. You were only there when it happened to them. And after all the inspired brain storming involved in the choosing of the bar and restaurant, after you send the last e-mail and hang up the last caller, realisation comes upon you that planning the school reunion was a very big, big mistake.
At school-leaving, you set controls for the heart of the sun. Years later, you have either taken the whole solar system with you or been frazzled to a crisp by the sun. And you find yourself at your school reunion, the one you planned, looking more like facing a job interview than someone on a fun night out, nervously chatting over your drinks (yes, you need a lot), balding heads and wrinkling faces. This wasn't what you had in mind when you started plotting on a Shakespearean scale. You hardly envisaged that you need strength for school reunions, because you need to be fairly secure to lay your life open to the scrutiny of your earliest critics. After all no one likes to admit to failing to become an astronaut or a rock star. And what if you turn up and everyone is richer, thinner, 'better' somehow than you?
School reunions are false hope. School reunions are unkind, all the more so since certain people may have stumbled on hard times, lost their jobs, looks, marriage or hair. School reunions are cruel reminders that you have been forgotten by all your companions, and when you return home, generally sad and with all dignity lost, you question not only the night out but the whole first part of your education and ponder- Are primary and secondary school days really the best days of our lives that our faith in history leads us to believe?
We start off with kindergarten and primary school, those seasons of cartoon character satchels and new pencil cases. For mothers, there's a clucking flurry of last-minute shopping for school clothes, sport shoes, colour coded plastic covers and stationery. For fathers, it's filling up the petrol tank for taxing children to school prior to a day at the office (but they are glad that they are going to get rid of you and your whaling, "at least for school time"). Children are excited, anxious, even terrified at the prospect of a whole new year- new teachers to know, new subjects and new expectations to wrestle with (yes, you're so stupid that you like the idea of work and challenges!). Some will be indifferent and envisage endless SMS tournaments on their mobile phones. Most of them are mourning the end of summer holidays, when there was more time for eating and playing, for laughter and silliness and sleeping to the max.
For thousands of children, school marks the start of that endless, boring to hell routine- up at seven, off to school 45 minutes later, home at two with homework, television, piano practice, television, some kind of evening class (religious, ballet or something), football training, television, supper, and another hour of blurred television screen before mum gets up and heaves them to bed at a reasonable hour. Next morning it's same thing, day in, day out until summer dawns again and thankfully it's the time when nothing much happens. Compared to summer holidays the other breaks are insignificant. The Christmas break is full of anxiety: too much money spent and family tensions rise to boiling temperatures. Easter may be a celebration of spring, but it's usually spent in swotting for the upcoming exams and too much chocolate eating. Summer, though is the season of sun, sea and sleeping to the max. It's blue sky, ice-creams, yellow sand and suntanned faces for three whole months.
But as all good things go, summer holidays get shorter. Year after year, parents start becoming pushy bores, and children find themselves in that awkward age marked by a new deep voice, hairy hands and limbs (not to mention the pubic area) and voila, they are suddenly ready to go to secondary school, going on 13 and already bored with life. One minute they are children, the next they are considering the mysteries of shaving and opposite sex and thinking that maybe they should have enjoyed their childhood more and not have started school at three and took the risk of being sucked into schooling too early. Maybe they shouldn't have taken a million ballet, piano, football and private lessons. Another bicycle ride would have been nice, while that first kiss should have been followed by a second and a third. And young Lucy would have made a nice girlfriend and Lara's special Sunday leftover shouldn't have gone unstolen. But then, it's not the children who decide what is best for them.
So off to secondary school the children go with a daily grunt. They wallow like treacle in bus stages, easily distinguishable in their colour-coded uniforms. The private school children speak poshly, and have neat hair matching expensive sports gear. They cringe and pucker up their faces at everyone including state secondary school students staring at them. They are all navigators of uncharted territory.
On leaving primary school, children are not just one year older, but embarking on a whole phase of life, which least to say is more depressing. Starting secondary school feels like the official opening to the small adolescent's games (knowing in your heart that you were never a good athlete).
Fascinating phenomena appear, like pimples and the discovery, in single sex groups and far from the madding teachers, of the mythical other sex. New friends (which years later you realise were no friends at all) are made and innovative disciplinary methods like after school hours tried and frequently tested. There are new subjects like history and languages. Boring ones like sports, for those like me who never saw the point of running unless you're being chased. Mysterious ones like geography, that ability to trace maps and a capacity to rote learn the names of such fixed and ambigous places as rivers, cities, deserts and oceans. Yes you might find it amazing as you are still too stupid to realise how worthless it is.
Secondary school years are for children like the seven years of worry (they do sometimes repeat). Some fret about whether they'll make the basketball team. Others feel the heavy breath of the nearing O level exams down their neck. "Homework", screams the teacher. "Home", orders mum, "straight after school and no lingering with your friends". "Work", disciplines dad, witholding promises of a new computer, which is only supposed to be used to help with the homework (the naughty boys and girls end up searching suicide websites...). "Help", children shout in the direction of guidance teachers and counsellors (this is done only to distract the teachers and parents and manage to get away with not doing the work, after all, real help is only found on good suicide websites). Secondary school is a time where bullies appear on the school yard horizon, like the Beano Bash Street Kids, promising violent fights and riots, dark revenge in obscure corners of the school ground, cruel and puerile, but let's face it, these are the only real exciting things about school. And while all this is taking place, 'friends' always seem to be running outside having a good time.
So you think that your schooldays are the best days of your life? Think again and you realise how depressing and suicidal they are. But come the end of summer and me and all the other students have to go back unfortunately, though I've passed my primary and secondary years thankfully.
Moral: If you survive and you're still alive years after school is finished don't ever organise or attend a school reunion! It'll completely break you down.
P.S. I have to say something on everyone's comments about this site changing. Yeah, this site has changed but it just has got better. My story of this site reflects the story of the site itself. First time I came in I just had a sight, put in a cruel, stupid joke and left, second time I did the same. Third time I realised that this site wasn't so stupid so I decided to write something a little more tasteful and I started messing around with poetry. I ended up in Mouchie's favourites and kept doing poetry for some time. Then I wrote some stupid shit, tried to forget about the site but came back fairly recently and anyone who reads my stuff knows what I write today. I have come to realise the potential of this site and today it means much more to me. This site helps you unlike the all the other sites that tell you that you should contact their counselors for help. That's all shit. Sometimes this site may look as some 'blind leading the blind', or rather 'suicidal leading suicidal' idea but you know? It works. The reflection in the site's story is here. In the beginning people used to come in, write stupid jokes and probably never come back, then things got better and people used to log on more than once and they were writing more serious stuff. Today anyone who logs in for the first time is hooked because the site is much more mature and entertaining. Occasionally you still find some bullshit. Even Mouchie's tastes have also changed. Leaf through the 'favourite' pages and you'll notice the difference between blasted suicide ideas (which I admit still make me laugh), and better, more mature stories and ideas building gradually through the years. Not that I will ever complain of Lucy's stories. And for all those crying their hearts out on Lucy, now that I know that she's not real I can do without any more Lucy stories because now they will sound stale. I am gonna get criticised for what I said but I suggest another thing, maybe Lucy or Phil or who the fuck it is may log on with a new name and give us other delightful stories. And for those crying on Felicia and Billy, they are with us and they have written only recently. So shut the fuck up (no offence to anyone! That's just my aggressive manner of speaking) and be proud that you make part of this excellent, or should we say classic site, as it is supposed to go down in history, which just gets better every day.
And Leanne if you are not fed up of my speech by now and still reading, thanks for naming me. At least I know that I'm not talking alone. I'm saying this as in my history here (which is getting quite long now) I remember only three times were there was a reference to me or my writing! Thank you, maybe somebody does care after all!
See you disgustingly at school, college, university or where the fuck you're going! Unfortunately I'm gonna be there...
|19 Sep 2003||Felicia, The Full Monty||Malicious violence in this world is much too common. Angry people run amok and there is no way to stop them. I believe mouchette.org is for the common folk that want to find out the true meaning of life before ending it. Please, my dear people, ease on my friend "Lucy Cortina". "She's" the best that ever is and did save my life at one time. Folks, whether or not you believe that she is unreal, so be it. Her (or His) infectious humor has made the mouchette.org world laugh even if he or she tries not to be funny.
And "Lucy", no matter how tiring it is to be a true comedian, you are in fact a true original. (MAKE NOTE OF IT!) Don't change and keep those boob and Kylie Minogue jokes intact.
For Billy The Freak, my burly haired man, I want you to bring on the fun like you used to and make the world smile as always. I know who you are, and will keep it a secret between you and me, as far as my breasts are concerned (No kidding, the last time I looked, they were real!)
Anyways, Thanks Lucy for the "Boob implants!"
|15 Sep 2003||Felicia||Lucy Cortina,
I am real. Real as you can ever be. Don't leave the world yet in such a dramatic fashion. I have been submitting manuscripts to publishers, which is more suicidal. All the coffee in the world does not make me a better writer. In fact, since my brain is empty, which is more often than usual, I can tell you that indeed I'm all flesh and bones here. If you are leaving for sure, be sure to email me. And Billy, if you know a few one liners, send more to make the world chuckle and laugh.
Lucy Cortina, please I don't know you, but all of us in Mouchette love you.
|11 Sep 2003||Lucy Cortina||Hi people! I'm back! Well, I'm gone.
Dear dear, the suicide kit has descended into chaos. Billy is back (my god! they actually released you from the psychiatric unit after your hands-up-Lucy's-knickers incident?)
Anyway. Here is me, a single person. I'm not part of the mass manufactured stories or fancy names that plague this site from jealous wannabes. I'm just me: bog-standard, big-breasted, Lucy Cortina. Or am I...?
Actually, I'm not. This confession may shock the whole of this world. More shocking than being bisexual or being a vegisexual (being plain old boring 'Gay' just isn't enough these days - no offence to you, Gay Punk).
So, who am I?
Hehe, this brings back memories. Those lazy days with Felicia in my living room, eating cornflakes, and me standing there holding a bottle of milk and saying "mooo", but Felicia still not knowing that I was being a cow.
Well, it may be a further shock to know that I have never even met Felicia. I'm not sure if she even exists. That is because, I, Lucy Cortina, do not exist myself.
Lucy Cortina, then what are you darling? The suspense is killing us! We are on the verge of swallowing our cocktails of paracetamol and Valium. Do hurry it up, darling.
And, another point worth inserting here, I really can't be arsed with trying very very very hard today to end up under Mouchette's favourites list. It once held appeal, when I was so bored and depressed and had nothing better to do. When I didn't have a life. I still don't have a life. But I will soon have death.
So, anyway, yes. It's me, Lucy. No fancy sub-names, just the regular depressed girl, not quite perfect, posting here on the spurr of the moment, without need for competing. But hang on! You aren't real Lucy!
That's right. I'm actually, what for it....
Ok, so I'm not Buddha. I'm a boy. I'm 17. I have known of this website for years, since 1999 at least. or is it 2000? I'm not sure. Anyway. I found this site on the first stages of my franctic search for the meaning of life. (Death, that is. Or for the technical wahlers, 'suicide').
I found this site, read the stoopid, yet intriguing, posts. Went away for a bit. Came back. Went away. Came back. Got an intense desperate urging lust to be in Mouchie's favourites list. Did it. Kept doing it. It got boring. When the "pretenders" popped up like all the little girly singers did when Britney Spears arrived, to steal Lucy's thunder (or even her breasts!), I decided that life was too short, and tried to get one (a life, that is).
I have Social Anxiety Disorder, and Depression, an eating disorder, and probably a whole list of other possible illnesses. I hate life. I have this past to deal with too. Everything's crap. My name is Phil.
Lucy Cortina is as fake as Britney Spears' whole music career. (Or her breasts).
Ok, maybe she isn't. Who knows. Maybe Lucy Cortina was my way of airing some of the crazy thoughts in this head of mine. Maybe she was the outlet for many things.
But, sorry people, I was never real.
My name is Phil. And I will soon be dead. No, I'm not just messing about like many people do. I have it planned to every detail. No one will stop me.
I just want to say, goodbye suicide kit. Goodbye Billy, Felicia, all the others. I don't know who you all are in real life, if you made up a persona like me, but thanks for the entertaining reads every day when I get into this room and switch on my PC, after another day of hell, another day of life. Another day of everyone talking about me, of people hating me (yes ok I admit it, I'm a teenager yapping on about my problems and will probably launch into a "poor me!" child abuse story here if someone doesn't stop me). So I will stop myself.
Umm, anyway, yeah. I will be dead soon. Lucy Cortina ends here. She had a nice and eventful life. I hope Mouchie keeps everything in small archived files in his cellar full of wine and cheese, so that one day the suicide kit will become a Hollywood production (you're aiming bit high there, Lucy!). I guess Lucy Cortina was the suicide kit slut. Sending pictures of naked ladies in underwear privately to Mouchette was the only reason I stayed Top Girl. Or was it? I'm not sure.
Anyhow, incase you are crying into your cocktails by now, or in the case of Billy, crying into your condoms, I love you all, and remember darlings, we are all going to somewhere better soon, that big breast factory in the sky. The purpose of this little community was only meant to be brief, as all here are suicidal (aren't we?). I never meant to live this long. Maybe it was you, Mouchette. Maybe it was someone else, in fact, I know it was- my Danny. But maybe I'm just an insane, gay, 17 year old teenager. Maybe Lucy Cortina was part of my mind personified. Yes, that will be it.
So, no breasts, no SSSS, no sister, none of all that nonsense. Still, it was fun, wasn't it?
Take care people. Good luck with your deaths. If you wanna contact me - not that you would - but I will be alive maybe a while yet (but Lucy ends here). Leave your email addresses, and I will email you.
RIP Lucy Cortina.
*Lucy leaves the room, leaving the occupants of the suicide kit free to release the farts or whatever else they were keeping in, in fear of upsetting Lucy during her important speech*
*Lucy enters room again, to an awful smell. She splutters out a few last words:
"Mouchette, I think you owe us all a small explanation. WHO, exactly, are you?"
...then leaves the room*
And everybody claps.
FINALLY, she has shut up whining, and gone!
|11 Sep 2003||billy the freak (the one and only)||guess who's back? back again. billy's back tell a friend. guess who's back? guess who's back? da da da... do da da do da da do...
you act like you never seen a freaky person before, jaws all on the floor, like billy and lucy just burst in the door and i started wooping her ass worse than before mouchette.org. throwing me under furniture
it's the return of the... no wait! he didn't just say what i think he did. did he? and mouchette said... nothing you idiot mouchette's dead, she's locked in my basement. ha ha ha!!!chicka chicka chicka internet women love biily the freak, "i'm sick of him. thinking you know what, typing for you know who. yeah, but he's so cute though." yeah i might got a couple of screws up in my head loose, but no worse than what you download in your computer rooms. sometimes i want to get on the net and cut loose, i can't, but it's okay for lucy to talk about her boobs. "my tits are on your lips! my tits are on your lips! and if you're lucky you might give them a little kiss."
and this is the message we send to suicidal kids and expect them to know what the answer to life is...
no really guys, i'm back for at least a post or two, i got a few things i'm working on for you.
|08 Jul 2003||Felicia had a breast implant done.||You know, I was always wondering about Lucy Cortina and Billy the Freak. I read all of Lucy's posts. Then I read Billy's. Yes, Madame Lucy, I am but nosey rather than big busted and I'm one of your greatest admirers who wished to have replicas of your wondrous casabas.
One night I was looking at the SPICE channel for a good hour. I analyzed it and realized that all these entertainers had breasts enlargements the size of cantaloupes with marshmallow-like qualities. Most of the girls were lesbians I suppose, so if I stared long enough, no doubt, I think I might be lesbian; However, I like men at the same time, especially the ones with effeminate qualities like Clay Aiken of American Idol. (Sorry Clay, you kind of stick out like Barry Manillow in the crowd. But I bought the front cover of you for the Rolling Stone. I still love you though.)
Well anyways, one day, I took a trip to a breast surgeon. Paperwork had to get filled out and I was wondering if I had insurance coverage for extensive cosmetic surgery. In the charts, I was advised if the surgeon can suck out the fat from my tummy and stick it in my chest or use that silicone stuff that Demi Moore and Carmen Elektra uses. I decided to go for the works. In a display case, I saw the silicone models and picked up each one to feel the texture. One felt cushy like a slipper sea urchin. It wiggled like jello and it slid out of my hand into the plastic case. The second one felt like a sandwich bag filled with silly putty. It just felt so artificial and pokey. The third one felt like a silk glove, so I chose that one. It balanced so perfectly in place. After my selection, the doctor got a marking pen and placed circles and lines all over my upper chest, and I was given chart diagrams for particular breast sizes. Staring in the mirror for a long amount of time, I looked like the directional chart for a football game strategy itinerary.
That final day came when the anesthesiologist put the triangular orifice over my teeny flat nose and mouth. Under my hospital gown, my boobs were covered. A breathing respirator was to my left, and a needle was placed in my right arm. The anesthesiologist directed me to count from 100 backwards. I did.
100...99...98....(my head started buzzing and everybody sounded like children on helium.)
(Then lights out.)
I slightly woke up again and felt my head circling from nausea. There was Lucy Cortina standing before me in doctor garb. OMIGAWD!!! She's a doctor. She took her doctor hat and facemask off and whispered in a sweet voice;
"Now Felicia. Abracadabra! You now have wondrous casabas!"
An hour later, I was then wheeled to the recovery room to have relief from the surgery. Three weeks later it was time to have the stitches removed. Bandages were still in place and lights all pointed to my chest. Dr. Cortina removed the bandages and removed the stitches, and later I stared into the mirror. My mouth flew open wide.
- to be continued till next week.
|03 Jun 2003||Lucy Cortina||A friend of mine was discussing with me last night, apart from "boobies", forms of suicide. She thinks that getting a gun and shooting yourself will work. Then she paused and said, "But won't you go to jail for attempting to murder... YOURSELF?!" Stupid, stupid, I know!
Then her mummy said "You would be locked up in a secure mental hospital".
So there's my answer, huh.
Oh Felicia, how I feel for you. But I won't be feeling for your boobies. It's always been said that the American population (bar actors/resses, popstars and TV presenters) are officially obese. Obese boobies, however, is a great thing. It's a pity that Icecream wasn't injected into them instead.
When I was anorexic and my arms got very thin, I just replied: "Missy Elliott sat on them!"
As for Billy, alas.
Face down chanting "...and then they hit me!" (meaning my.. er, 'bombs') in a pub is no doubt his current location.
|02 Jun 2003||Felicia was rescued by Lucy||It has been exposed. The #1 killer of the brain is excessive television with numerous amounts of reality shows involving "contests with boobies", The subliminal messages in those shows during commercial breaks are quite harmful. You see skinny attractive youths on cell phones, bandashering their silicone filled boom booms and bare midrift tubbies. Some of the teenage girls say, "Look at me! Look at me! I can flash my cute pertly titties! ( I see Lucy doing the same on the sidelines here.)" Of course the little boys get horny, and here I am feeling, very, very, "without". It so bothersome sometimes as I turn off the set and head of to the market to purchase a pint of Ben and Jerry's ice cream after a brief commercial. On the way home, I pull out a drawer, peel the ice cream lid and start scooping. Then I start crying.... and then I start scooping, because my boobs aren't big enough. I head up the stairs and look in my drawer of "not nots" and "what nots" then all of a sudden, out of the drawer appeared a set of water boobies that Lucy Cortina bought for me last Christmas. I sniffed it slowly since it still had the scent of plastic, placed it beneath my bra, pushed up my boom booms and shook again to the rap song of "Baby Got Rack!"
As daring as I was, I drove to the record store wearing a tight top and curvy belly midrift pants. The guys did stop and stare... Yes... I saw a set of long, longs, across the way. The cashier at the front of the store rung up my cd and all he stared at was my breasts. I then looked up and found he was handsome and hand a long, long.
It was then that he asked me out for coffee.
Thanks, Lucy Cortina, SS Double Agent 00,
I love you!!!! Thanks for saving my life...
By the way, what's up with Billy the Freak?
|28 May 2003||just a girl||"the bold and the oh-so beautiful"
Although my sick days off from skool usually consist of my head being stuck half way down the toilet puking my stomach lining up.. while trying to get over my hangover of prozac and vodka from the previous nights madness (and they all wonder why im so loathsome and obnoxious when the sun goes down.. does the word 'psychosis' mean anything to you people?).. i realised my sick days could offer me so much more..
One morning shortly after i had finished my 'breakfast' (a sweet mixture of vodka, gin, bourbon and a touch of schnapps.. which i like to call 'hells cocktail').. on a sick day i had taken sometime this week (more puking is no doubt soon to follow).. i thought to myself.. and i wondered.. what i could do to make the time pass by.. although mummy's drawer of intensely brutal sharp coloured objects and the bathrooms cabinet of anonymous friends kept in tiny bottles with Hollywood titles such as "keep out of reach of children" (luckily im not a child anymore) were looking impressively pleasurable.. i turned to once again my god.. the television..
Approaching my realisation that it was indeed mid-week and only those shows intended for knocked-up teenage gal hillbillies (consistently named 'ally-may') from microscopic towns with mismatched names such as Wisconsin and Alabama, who naively thought it was a good-idea-at-the-time thing to jump into the back of some redneck horny yobbos truck.. (also consistently named 'jake' or 'billy-bob') to shag and make the unborn-baby-that-never-stops-crying-no-matter-how-much-u-feed-it, that would inturn shape and commence the rest of their miserable lives in a caravan park watching shows on a t.v they cant afford such as Jerry-Springer with billy-bob on one tit and the baby-that-never-stops-crying-no-matter-how-much-u-feed-it on the other... (all the while they havent hit their 16th birthday yet)
Luckily I have hit my 16th birthday (so that stereotypical scenario will never be possible).. and luckily I wasnt born into this world with a name such as ally-may (otherwise then I would really have a reason to kill myself! or just my parents for giving me such a horridly shameful name).. anyhow back to the point of this pointless anecdote, I flicked on my television to find something other than the likes of Jerry-Springer.. it was in fact.. The Bold and The Beautiful.. (commonly known as the bold and the oh-so beautiful) .. and it took only moments for me to apprehend that this inferior, shabby poor-excuse for a t.v show actually personified the useless pathetic life I live.. (without the multi six-layer makeup effect of course)... as I heard the words... but ridge (what kind of a name is ridge anyway?) I LOVE YOU!... says the blonde bimbo with the boobs oh-so-too-big for her body... but u just slept with your daughter's husband!!!!... says ridge (doesnt this guy know the 90s hairstyle of a mullet is so outdated?)
Now I know I do not currently have a 90s mullet hairstyle and did not.. I repeat.. did not.. have an affair with my daughters husband.. or my brother.. or my cousin.. or my father.. or anyone else for that matter! that these predominately sex-obsessed people did.. but I do know that the same problems I have in my life now.. will be there.. months.. and months.. later.. (for any bet I can turn on my t.v and tune into a bold and the oh-so beautiful episode six months later and still be able to follow on)...
As I come back into reality.. I think a thought and come up with a theory.. one that almost makes me want to head to that drawer or bathroom cabinet (plus I can feel hells cocktail rising ever so slowly in my stomach).. that we are all stuck in lives we cant change and cant stop... and cant help being who we are...
Now of course we dont wear multi-layer faces plastered with slimy swamp-thick makeup.. and havent had 101 facelifts and boobie-jobs (besides lucy) in one lifetime.. (nor do we fuck our fathers) but perhaps it should be said that possibly we are all just living out our own the bold and the oh-so beautiful episodes everyday of our lives and there is no escape... (suicide still rising to the top of my things-to-do list)
But remember peeps we are all much better actors than the ones being paid.... :)
|30 Apr 2003||Felicia - Your advising Angel||Dear Ender Wiggen,
Thats no problem. Im glad you had the chance to stop by. I guess you read a few of my posts and realized that I gave more than my fair share of advice. If not, then you probably read through some funnier material in the favorites section of the Mouchette boards involving Lucy Cortina and Billy the Freak. But for you to come here for some suggestions, I am going to lend a pair of open eyes seriously.
When you feel pent up it is always best to talk to a stranger. Especially the ones who have experienced your situation.
Its ironic at times. It seems that psychiatric help is just going to meeting sessions and pouring out your heart. Then you pay the listeners for listening to you and they give you medication for it. One or two hour sessions are not enough to eliminate your pain. Now I am not saying that psychiatric help is hopeless, I do agree that it is alright to have therapy, but you need to be picky by going to a trusted professional with great credentials. The same goes for looking for a great mechanic. Chose your helpers wisely and remember not to always give handouts to those who hunger for your loose change sad to say, its not always the homeless that ask for handouts or value meals.
Dont down yourself out in being a geek. I think geeks are cool. Many beautiful men and women like the sophisticated smart types. Sci-Fi games and science looked down by "normal" or "cool people"? I know of a drug dealer who loves to watch Star Trek, Star Wars, and Quantum Leap. He also plays Dungeons and Dragons for all hours of the night, and is still a bit of a shady character. His friends consider him cool and normal. As for me, I think he is a narcissistic sociopath with a cool smart guy appearance? I once dated him and he broke up with me because I was like a sheep to him. He changed his name to Scott. (Apologies to Scott Bakula) I have a nickname for him.... Scott Evil.
My suggestion though. Dont get evil. Its the silent, smart types that worry me.
And the people that scoff at you for being a typecast geek. Tell them they have issues that they should tend to themselves and to M.T.O.B. Some people never take the time to gather their thoughts and throw judgment to others and themselves way too quickly.
Drugs, even prescribed, can sometimes be hazardous to our system, even if it starts to makeone feel good. The main cure for all these disorders is exercise, eating well, and running with the dog on the beach (Well, thats only if you have a dog.). If you are sitting in front of a computer terminal too long, blood starts to coagulate; you lose brain function through blood loss and have a tendency to get really depressed.
The blood and your engine need to get moving. Endorphins, nature's natural drug can do wonders every time. I swim in the pool every morning and run. My therapist gives back rubs and great tips on health. Okay, so it sounds expensive, but you can run for free and it doesnt cost a dime, except for the expensive pair of Nike Running shoes and sore muscles. Honestly, they are cheaper than prescriptions.
Stay away from the placebos and use them as decoration in the office cube. If a fellow office workercomes about and is curious about them, have them take a few, and tell them to come back for more if there are no results.
Dont consider that your friends that never contact you are unkind. Friends are really hard to find nowadays. Hmmm Sounds like a Karen Carpenter song. Well if your friends never returned your calls just consider it their loss and concentrate on you.Perhaps they have issues to deal with and are too involved with other new things in their lives. Make new friends because you cannot have too many friends in this world.
Its only natural that it takes time to get to know people. That proves that you are not fake. Getting to know people is very wise in the health department and money smart. Just a note, if you first meet someone, such as a blind date, and they try to borrow money from you right away from them flee flee... far away.
I worked for a large company too and got laid off. Dont blame it on yourself that the economy is bad.
The economy is bad, period. I decided to go for freelance writing and getting published and doing part time work here and there. The only way you can make it big is buying stock (which I dont think is wise right now) or thinking up an invention or a song lyric that comes to your mind. Look at some of the groups nowadays. They write musical lyrics with depressing words in it, and later, it becomes a big hit. Dont ever think that you are not musically inclined. At 34 going on 14, I am thinking about taking piano lessons.
My friend you are not alone in this world of woes. It seems that suffering is an ongoing process which never stops. I for one can understand that even if you are succeeding, something always steps in the way. Just now I got a rejection note from a part time job in the mail. And a rejection note from a publishing company, and more rejections. I can write forever about my failures and rejections.
1.) I got rejected from Macys because I was too over qualified.
2.) A 30-year-old drug dealer rejected me.
3.) I once lived with a bitchy roommate and had to spend time taking care of a feisty, geriatric mother. Now I dont live with the bitchy roommate.
4.) My car registration needs a change of address.
5.) I need an oil change.
6.) I feel bummed that I gained back ten pounds.
7.) My Micrel stock is plummeting.
8.) Im a starving artist.
9.) Applied 100 times, replies 0.
10.) I telemarketed for a garbage company and recently got canned.
11.) I am not in love with the guy I am with and love somebody else.
If you feel that you are at the end of your rope. Try this method. Dont over analyze your life. Never conform to the standards of this world. Just be you. Take the time to walk and gulp in a breath of fresh air. Look at the stars at night and remember that billions upon billions of these stars are both over our heads, and the shooting ones are the ones you make wishes upon. If you are way too analytic and not into this mushy stuff. Write a journal of your thoughts and begin with I have every right to be here as much as anybody else and there is so much to life that I didnt experience and never go to do". Think of that one thing that means something to you and do it, despite the boundaries. Suicide is not the suggestion though but living life is.
Never be sorry about your lengthy post. It is okay to fear the unknown and be reassured that loneliness can be broken if you start opening up to theirs.
Things to do if you want to begin (These are just suggestions):
1.) Take up piano lessons.
2.) Fold Origami
3.) Take up surfing (Dont drown)
4.) Skydiving (Have a good parachute)
5.) Learn to cook
6.) Clean the house
7.) Read up on a good science fiction book
8.) Think up an invention
9.) Help an unfortunate one
10.) Adopt a pet
11.) Learn to fix cars
12.) Update your hard drive
13.) Set up a goal list.
16.) Take a nap
17.) Glass blowing
19.) Setting up an e-bay account
20.) Listening to positive music
21.) Good Spiritual cleansing
25.) Swimming (Dont drown please!)
26.) Sun bathing
28.) Take classes
29.) Call your parent
30.) Eat at your favorite restaurant
31.) Go to Tower Records
32.) Build a Model rocket kit
33.) Buy a telescope
34.) Burn cds
35.) Throw away your weight scale
36.) Join a marathon
37.) Go on dates , be a mentor, and the list goes on.
I hope this advice helps you along the way. Good luck and think positive. I remember that you are trully are not alone in this world.
|29 Apr 2003||Billy||tomorrow i go for my drug test and it will be my 4th violation and im aware of the court so im probably going back to jail and then to either a drug rehab or a group home and im only 13. i have bipolar disorder too and my parents argue all the time so that makes it worse. i think im going to take as much of my medication as i can consume and then slice my arteries in my legs and hang myself.|
|17 Apr 2003||Felicia||The Hollow Chocolate Bunny
Theres the chocolate bunny,
sitting on the shelf,
looking oh so yummy,
I laugh in spite myself.
The box is oh so yellow,
wrapped in cellophane.
With lips curled up to eat them,
I felt a hunger pain.
Diet, oh forget it!
I wallow in my shame,
I stare at my protruding mass,
I think that I am game.
Monkeys eat bananas.
Horses eat just hay.
Humans eat just anything,
and find theres hell to pay.
Screw the resolution,
Ill exercise tomorrow,
My calorie intake,
Ole Billys bike Ill borrow.
Lucy and her boobies,
The boys stare as we state,
Ill think Ill cook some chicken
and just use "Shake and Bake".
Forget about the chocolate.
My willpower's just bad.
I ate the chocolate bunny,
Its the best I ever had.
Happy Easter all you folks,
Boil eggs, have fun,
Color them real carefully,
And dry them when theyre done.
Dont forget to indulge on that chocolate hollow bunny, and promise me youll eat the ears first.
...Because thats the best part.
To all my friends at Mouchette.org who celebrate or don't celebrate Easter.
The ones who don't...
think of all the candy.
|13 Apr 2003||Lucy Cortina||Billy, I like the style of your quotation marks better than mine. Where did you get them? Why can't I have any?
it's ok for you, you can just have a little implant to give yourself tits if you wanted to. No one cares for girls wanting quotation marks. Hmmphh!
Oh, my latest mission, by the way, is to investigate the theft of Britney Spears' breast implants (god forbid!), and the theft of Kylie Minogue's underwear collection. There was also mention of an attempted raid on Christina Aguilera's mansion. I think someone wsas trying to steal her makeup collection. She wears so much of it that it is worth billions, as she only buys in bulk.
I will inform you all of the results. Well, I suspect the results would be that Christina would never leave the house again. Britney would use a ballon pump to fill her fakie-less tits with air, and Kylie would just wear no underwear. Which some people might like...
|11 Apr 2003||billy the freak||i met jerry garcia, well, he was really a bum who looked like jerry garcia, i mean play the guitar, strung out on drugs, and everything type dude. i saw him in the park with a small crowd around him, and nothing attracts a crowd like a crowd, so, i went over to watch him play and maybe drop a dollar in his ratty old guitar case. witnessing the spectacle i was blown off my feet, i could swear he was the man himself if i didn't know jerry died of a drug overdose about ten years ago.
his long stringy uncombed hair was pulled back in a ponytail. his beard was long as well, however he did keep that trimmed up well, probably to keep it from matting. he wore a blue pocket t-shirt and a pair of ripped up levi's. he was barefoot on the grass, but had a pair of sandals near his guitar case. and to top it all off his glasses were tinted blue. spitting image i tell you. he played a couple songs by eric clapton, tom petty, some johnny cash; you know stuff that sounds good acoustic without a band. i had to admit the man had talent. then he did it; he played touch of gray. when he sung out the words, i will get by, i will survive. i was hooked; i wanted to know this man.
when he finished the song he thanked the crowd (which was much larger now then when I first came over) for their admiration. he then proceeded to pack his gear; he slipped on his sandals and was out. i was going to get on my way at first but, desire overtook me, i ran across the park to catch up with him. when i caught up with him the only thing i could think of to say was hey.
he turned around and said what.
i was so taken by your performance i forgot to put this in your case. i pulled a five out my wallet and handed it to him. he turned around and kept walking. instinct told me to go, but, but jerry...
did you hear what i said man, this is yours. i said.
i dont want it. he replied rather sternly.
you accepted all that money from them people back there, whats wrong with my money, huh? not really understanding fully, my emotions raged. And I started get stern back.
listen pal. he said. when im playing my guitar and singing i go somewhere else, on a mental level, and when i come back, there is money in my guitar case. i dont know how it got there, but i appreciate every thin dime, thank the lord. i dont accept hand outs.
you know damn well how it got there. i said. people who watch you and like what they see and hear pay you because they are entertained. i softened up when i thought of his performance. if you dont let me give you this, let me take you to lunch.
why wont you leave me alone? he asked.
because everyone has a story, i want to hear yours. my reply must have freaked him out because he took a long hard stare at me. like nobody ever asked him what his story was before. sure he looked like jerry garcia, played the guitar, and sings, but thats not all, i know.
what are you? he asked. i bet you're some college student trying to interview vagrants.
no man. i said. i am simply trying to reward you for your talents. he started to laugh.
talents he said. dont make me laugh. well since you are being so persistent you can buy me a coffee at the coffeehouse in the train station. we can talk some there. i got to wait for my bus.
i agreed with his request and got excited that was actually going to get to talk to him. when we got to the train station it was packed and there was hardly any room to sit at the coffeehouse. when we did find a seat i asked him where he was going.
san fran my man then blew out a big breath of air that maid his cheeks expand. you going to get some coffee? he asked.
sure i said. what would you like?
regular black, is cool he said.
you got it. i said and took off towards the counter. there was a pretty long line so i must have waited a good six or seven minutes before i was served. then i took his regular black and my expresso back to the table. to my surprise, but yet not so suprisingly jerry was gone. all that was there was a five-dollar bill and a note that said: coffee's on me. then over the intercom i heard a man say last call for twenty-three thirty seven san francisco. i picked up the five and let the coffee sit. when i left the train station there was a short lady with a bucket ringing a bell for donations to the salvation army, i stuck the five in her bucket.
bless you my child she said as she smiled.
i walked pretty much thoughtless, but broken hearted to my car three blocks away. the mind and the heart have a way of working against each other and it can make one distraught. when i got in and turned the ignition the radio came to life with it. it was the grateful dead playing touch of grey the live version and the real jerry was singing his heart out. then i thought, i will get by, i will survive.