Fine. Fine. Fine. Monitor every fucking thing I do.

It's not like I want to be monitored. I mean, who does? I can't talk like I want to, I can't walk like I want to. They monitor how I talk, what I talk, what I eat, who I hang out with, and I obviously lie to them. I've been telling so many damned lies I'm going to go to hell for this. I'm already in hell, anyway. I don't see the difference.

Whatever. Call me ignorant. Call me fucking stubborn. I don't give a flying fuck. This is who I am, and who I want to be. You can't make me change myself to suit you. I will not. I will never do that. Ever.

I hate this black and white environment. I want colour. I want change. I want something more than being a keyboard warrior and sitting behind a fucking computer screen typing and venting my anger in an online diary nobody will ever read. I want something more than those eagle eyes, staring into my back. You may not think that I know, but I catch it. When I look up, you're looking at me. When I look up, you advert your gaze and shift your eyes off to the side. What in fucking hell is wrong with me? Am I not deserving of my own privacy? Why can't I do the things that I want to do, ever? Why do I have to account for my actions to you? You don't govern my life. You don't even own my life.

By naming something, you own it, that's what I read somewhere. So if you named me, you own me. I hate that mindset now. I hate it. I truly hate it. Just leave me the fuck alone. I don't want to cry anymore. Sometimes I wish I wasn't born with tear ducts, because the tears burn my face, as if they were acid. As if my face was so volatile it reacted with water to kill me from within. I hate those salty droplets of water that sprout from my eyes.

Your smiles are so fake. When you say you love me in the sweetest voice, I feel like throwing up. I rather you come straight out and tell me that you hate me, that I was adopted. That I will never amount to anything, because when I do, I can laugh at your predictions instead of having to put up with more and more of your "I knew that my beautiful daughter will amount to someone who will change the world". I want to change the world, but not in the way that you want me to. I don't want to do medicine anymore. I want to change the world, heart by heart, note by note, because that is my passion. That is what I want to do. That's what makes me and my dreams truly, truly beautiful. Maybe tragically, but truly beautiful.

And speaking of beautiful, your definition of beautiful is definitely different from mine. You only care about outward beauty, how short my shorts are, how much of my ass is exposed when I go running, whether I have a 2 inch diameter waistline or not. Shut. The. Hell. Up. I don't care whether I'm 'fat' or not. As long as I'm happy with what I look like, shut up. I'm beautiful on the inside, and gradually, I know, I will be beautiful on the outside. What you want me to look like is not beautiful. You want me to look hot. Fine. Fine. Fine. I'll look hot. If I come home saying I've been raped it's your fucking fault.

Since when did I name you my keepers? I am a dove, I have no keeper. Yet, I have been captured, stuck in a cage that is overused and undercleaned, undermaintained, not able to even stretch my wings. You want to see me fly, but how can I fly if you don't let me go?

You're trying to pave the way for me, I know. You want me to get into medicine. You want me to follow the footsteps of my father, to become a world reknowned doctor, travelling the world with the press or sitting in an office, rotting away with those overused medical terms. You want me to BE my father.

And it's not 'dad', or 'mom', anymore. It's 'father' and 'mother'. 'Dad' and 'mom' have emotions attached to them. You are just taking on this responsibility because I am an accident. You just had my younger brother after me to make it seem planned. Crafty, but I cracked you. I cracked your secret, and you don't like it. You don't like the fact that I'm telling the truth, that I really just was an accident. You are just my biological parents, nothing more. You don't even care about me. I could drag myself home with a broken leg for all you care, you wouldn't even notice.

Happy Late Post About the Birthday Of a Man who doesn't care about me, probably doesn't know I exist either, but I do care lots about him.

He taught me to never give a fuck about what others think. He taught me to always chase my dreams and fuck the others who are too timid, or too conformed by society to do so. He taught me to always live and love, that there are people out there who understand you. That there are people out there who love you, truly truly love you for who you are. He taught me to respect myself, to never hurt mysel...f in any way possible. He taught me many, many, many things. He is the best teacher ever.

He molded me and painted me, from an unsightly, dull, clay vase to one that is brightly coloured and unique. I was stuck in society's trap -- a black and white world that was just so drab and dull. When I longed for something more than the usual screaming and crying, he gave that to me.

And without him knowing it, he became my hero.

Thank you, Gerard Gee-way. Thank you, and happy birthday. May the years to come be even more successful for you. Stay happy, stay snarky, stay my hero.

 Um, also, this picture kind of reminds me of the I'm Not Okay video, their uniforms, lol! I stumbled upon this...  

http://www.rgs.newcastle.sch.uk/z_core/z_images/content/general/uniform-boys.jpg

Anyway.

<3

I feel like I'm sorely missing something here.

Maybe it's just me; maybe it's the fact that I just finished watching Life On The Murder Scene and when Gerard said "When this band is through" I just couldn't take it and broke down. Maybe it's because I'm becoming too dependent on my music to keep me breathing, keep me alive, living, properly living.

But then again, nothing like this would happen. Right?

I mean, I just watched the Helena video again, and somehow it just has so much more meaning to it than just a video, a snapshot in time and space to commemorate Helena's passing. I don't know -- these are the type of things I would just love to describe to you guys, but then again I stumble for the correct words and it all comes out wrong. That's the way real music is supposed to make you feel. That's the way music is supposed to make you -- it would make you want to cry, and pour out, bleed out your soul onto the keyboard or a piece of manuscript.

So my little emotional rant is half over, but I still feel like I'm lacking. I'm missing something here, something that's supposed to be the whole point -- something intangible.

I'll find it later.

Okay, so I haven't been here in a while, thanks to exams, shit, tests, shit, shit, shit, and more shit. But this post is dedicated to lots of things, and as we go down, why don't we tick them off the list?

Dedicated to: My Chemical Romance; for being the best band ever is, ever was, ever will be. Thanks for so much, and I'm actually just mentally dating you guys even though (damn) you don't know I fucking exist. I'm so weird.

Yep. So I logged in this fine night with the bugs trying to fucking rape my hair (get out of there you fucking pests) and I see a new follower! Hell yeah! Anyway just went straight to the new post page so didn't see who it was, but this post is dedicated to you as well! How nice! Welcome to the world of blood, gore, depression, chemicals, and bands.

(GET THE FUCK OUT OF THERE BEFORE I SQUISH EVERY SINGLE ONE OF YOU)

Oh, bugs.

Hmm. What else. Oh, and Gerard's birthday is in a week's time, hooray! Happy birthday you fucking sass master. I've got prezzies, and I'm gonne post them to your facebook wall ahahahahaha.

I'm so weird. That's the second time I've said this.

This post is also dedicated to the world of weird hairstyling! I wanted to cut my slant a bit shorter (because it was growing like, 8cm long.) so I tried to. But my mother came in and cut BANGS. FUCKING. BANGS. I look so damn weird, and everyone's laughing. Not like it actually made a difference anyway, but I pinned it up, and I'm growing it out so I can cut a proper slant again. NO YOU SHALL NOT. -- Older Bro.

And yes mother, I'm keeping you away from the scissors.
BUT NOT ME :3-- older bro again.
Just for the record, I'm also dedicating this blog post to abandoning the responsibilities of being the child of two of the shitties parents ever. So now, I'm not referring to them as mom and dad but as mother and father. Gives it a nice, sterile, whitewashed feel that they like. It's gonne take a while to get used to it, but it's gonna be worth it, I swear.
IF YOU THINK I'M NOT GONNA HOLD THIS POST OVER YOUR HEAD... --OLDER BRO MUHAHAHAHA.
(AHA! DIDN'T THINK I'D GET YOU DID YA?)

Ahem. Bugs.

Lastly. I think. I'm dedicating this blog post, most of all, to my wonderful sisters and band, the fucking awesome, one and only Revenge Regime. Hell yeah! Also, even though my sisters can't see this, you can practically feel the love and pride ooze from the post.

(Yeah. Feel it. FEEL EET.)

So yeah, I love them like family, even though we're all over the world and shit, they're pretty much all I have left, after what happened... but let's not go into details, we're having way too much fucking fun here.

That's pretty much it, sums up everything that's been happening while I was gone, and yeah, I hadn't had the time or guts to post because parents and exams and shit. So yeah. I'll probably post again next monday though, it's gonna get good. RIGHHHT.--OLDER BRO.