You are not who you think you are, Trey. Not today. That's the focus of my adult life right now. In the mornings, I wake up with all this purpose jammed straight up my ass, keeping me moving, making me useful.

Tell me, in simple terms, how it is that I find myself disappointed in an endlessly disappointing person. It doesn't make much sense. Not anymore, at least. Disappointment is not supposed to be so frequent and it's definitely not supposed to

I have a system. My anger fits nicely into that system because, usually, I get over things quickly. Embarrassment? Not so much. But my bouts and fits of rage usually start to dissipate almost immediately after they start, and then I'm

Going on and on This is new. I'm in a beautiful mood, in a gorgeous state of mind. The PMDD has subsided for the month. My bank account is at a steady ZERO but I get paid tomorrow, then again on

We're okay.

Because this is just for me, I can talk about things. It's hard to understand how other people decide they can craft how you tell your own story. How you showcase them, their actions, their mistakes, their behavior towards you. But

I'm blind as shit and I don't take photos anymore. I go on about it.

I don't like people. It's a thing that grows more and more every day. Even when I have a good, natural time with someone, I understand that it won't happen again. In the back of my head, laughter squinching my eyes,

I'm a monster. And not the edgy, highly sociopathic kind. I'm the kind of monster that makes you feel nice and good about yourself. I feed you and eat with you and compliment you and help you gain a type of

I'm having trouble concentrating. I've spent a bit of money this month, money I probably shouldn't have spent, preparing. Preparing for that ugly, nasty loneliness that creeps up on me whenever I am single. It takes a while sometimes but it

Ohhhh, it roared last night. Some part of me felt like the sky was caving in, the acorns were cracking against my windows, and the trees were bending and swaying because my world was ending. One story was ending. It was

We're getting the fuck out of here. This year has been a huge eye opener. Well, fuck that. My 20's were basically me spiraling from shit that happened in my teens, and now I'm finally coming to a stop. I feel

I've been busy. Well, not really. But shit has happened. At the end of 2016, Urijah and I were moving. We moved. Alabama, which I like very much at he moment, now claims us as official residents. I've moved everything over

So. I like Alabama so far. At the moment we're nestled in Forestdale, which operates kind of like East Point, GA - it's not IN Birmingham but it's kinda considered Birmingham. It's quiet as hell here. Quiet enough to make me

This solitude makes me a bit obsessed. It's been three days since I've actually done anything for work. Technically, I've been listening to music and daydreaming from sun up to sun down. It's an odd stasis and I'm seriously stuck in

I'm missing a story. That's what it is. No matter what happens, I surround my mind with stories of characters. If I'm lusting after someone, real or imagined, it's Astrid who gets to meet them. To enjoy them. To hurt from

Okay. This little break, this move in general, is definitely serving a purpose. I felt like bags of rocks were sinking me the past few days. No work, no games, no nothing. Just Astrid and various people existing in my head.

How things stay the same.

Then again, maybe I won't. 

Getting ready for a work meeting, trying to find a place in the house where Urijah isn't screaming. His screams entertain me - he's seriously entertained by every and any thing and he squeals and jumps and rolls. This kid

Sometimes I realize I'm not worth the trouble. A lot of my interactions, especially with men and potential friends, boils down to that. It's not worth the headache for one reason or another, cool ass personality or not. I'm getting that. I

I've been so many different people. Just like everything else, that's been crossing my mind a lot lately. I've been so many different types of person, lived so many lives, experienced so many different emotions. I'm 29 but I'd been about

This month has been ambiguous. It's been terrible to me financially and romantically. It's been amazing to me emotionally and mentally. It's been record breaking in terms of happiness to finance ratios go. This month, I watched two amazing shows that

Tornado warnings and wine. I'm for it. Right now, I'm a bit buzzed whilst watching David Mitchell's Soapbox (the youtube series) and finishing off a bottle of wine. I started this bottle earlier today and knew I'd be done before bedtime.

I shaved my head again. Well, the sides. Cut this hair, this hair that is longer than it's been in years, and shaved in down to the lowest point possible without being scalp. Just the sides. I didn't leave my tiny

I'm out here sleeping and working on stories and nothing else. Which isn't really too bad. I've needed to get back into my own stories for quite some time, right? But I have to work or I don't get paid and

I don't trust the world. Not to love me. Not to entertain me. Not to keep giving me chances. Not for anything.

One thing leads to another. And then I'm waking up with my hands covered in dry, old blood. I feel skin around my mouth and maybe, today, it's not mine. One thing leads to another and I'm opening my eyes in the

She put her cigarettes out on my arms a lot. I’d see the cherries moving slowly in the dark, her bright, big eyes watching me, and she’d connect with my skin. It sizzled, as expected, and I never reacted, as expected. The skin underneath would warp and curl into itself until the cherry finally died out, leaving ash and char. I never stopped her. Just watched the thing mold my arm for her viewing pleasure.

In a few hours, the skin would be fine. The char would be gone. I would be back to whatever it was that defined normal for me.

(I must preface this by saying that I'm not fond of this particular chunk of freewriting. There's not much in here but angst and depression. But we write and we learn, and I want to share the good and the

ASTOR SNOW: I can't cry. Things happen around me that could suffocate an entire world. Sometimes I'm moving forward, moving my lips and blinking my eyes and reacting like a normal person would, and inside me there's nothing but uncried tears. It

Me? I’m not love. I’m not even loved, really. It’s all about keeping me from hurting other people. It’s never about keeping them from hurting me.   Like, I get it. I’m nobody’s idiot. I’m always a volcano, just always, and

What a tragedy, to exist with no possible hope of an ending. Death is a promise. You can look back on all you’ve done and smile when you know there’s an end. It can light a fire under you, knowing that

Everyone exists in black and white. You give the people you love color. That’s it. My uncle Juke taught me that back when he was someone to respect. You have to be selective to make it as a man in

Like the past ever did anything for me. As if//

I think this is probably my favorite poem right now. Watching Maya recite this in front of a room of white people, all of them awkward and shifting, is absolutely powerful.   The full poem:   When I think about myself, I almost laugh myself

I'm rotten with vengeance. See if I try this socialization shit again. I learn.