even with the scars.

When I type my name into google, 100,5867,309,584 pages of Mariah Carey related sites are found.

I type in Jacob, and twilight paraphernalia pops up.

Lucy shows a twisted array of sites from The Beatles, Across the Universe, Lucy Lu, and even Dropping Daylight.

Jessie usually get's me Jessie McCartney merchendise and biographical sites.

Anna has a name for herself, though. Because information regarding her brilliance at Naperville Central is found.

Taylor shows an annoying trillion-gazillion hits for Taylor Swift, hicks, and maid. irritating.

But Krystal---there's no infamy in that name.

So, baby, I'm gonna make you famous and not in the way you would like.

My entire body was pulsing in the chair that we shared tonight. The sand--or dirt--beneath my feet was cold and itchy and infested with the relatives of the tick that bit me previously. Blood from the scratching and skin from the rash were stuck under my fingernails, which you painted magenta because that is our cheapest selection from Milani. The facials were common and regular to our sleepover tendencies, and for the first time, you opted to sleep with me in my twin-sized bed, instead of taking over the white plush couch that is now in my cousin's house.

But in my mind, it was still in my room, but empty, which I was more than thankful for. I liked having you near me, even platonically. My legs intertwined with yours, smooth because you insisted that french girls have to shave every single day. I don't know how you managed. I forget unless I have a prospect. I had tense shoulders, and in true clueless fashion, you grabbed the Bengay I purchased for you, and you rubbed the pain right out of me. Your skin on your fingers was course but lovely, I closed my eyes and at 11:11, I wished we would never fall apart.

And in this hallucination, we never would. I took off my shirt, but you weren't phased so I became more comfortable. I could be myself around you, with flaws and drama, and pain and suffering, even self-pitying. You loved it. You enjoyed being involved in my problems and calling yourself my best friend who could handle every issue I ever could invent.

While in bed, You finished your ministrations, and you curled up like a cat, fitting perfectly in my side. My body was on fire again, with the air conditioning on high at 66 degrees. I was in love with you scent, lke Edward with Bella, who I think you imagined yourself as.

I can see why, of course, but not in my hallucination, not that night. Your name is Krystal LaBelle and that will be a household name by the time I'm through. I love you.

A sincerely regretful occurance

My mind was my own for almost ten seconds today. Then the hallucinations came. The first one involved Amber Tamblyn. She explained that those things sticking to my heart were called ticks and I was contracting Lyme Disease, which is inherently why I could see her so clearly. She took my hand in hers and convinced me to yodel Krystal-Jeannette-Bernadette.

Then I dropped the scanner at my job, and almost ran outside with tears because she strolled in, with that icky parasite she calls "boyfriend" and his Mohawk was more pink than my bangs because his sexuality is more perilous than mine. I began to cry. Little D was there but she was...preoccupied, and I know how hard an eight-hour-shift is so I refused to eat the candy bar no matter how 'free' they say it's supposed to be. I can't afford to sell my soul no more.

These awkward little Meghan Byrds told the truth on my shoulder, and Krystal texted to apologize, the greatest moment of my life, like all my dreams came true. I'm in love with her. I have always been and I'm sure to always be. I am hopeless and helpless and oh-so-dramatic.

I'm tired of being crazy. It keeps me awake at night. I can't sleep for nightmares of watching them suffer and I cant breathe for the stinging feeling in my lungs. I cant cry for the ticks in my eye, and my blood pressure is heated with hemoglobin.

I need drugs because I'm losing my wisdom teeth faster than you lost your virginity. If I were knocked, or slapped, or hit up, I'm sure I'd reply the same way. I wouldn't keep it, unless it was yours which is as possible as you calling to say you're sorry.

What I'm trying to say is that my heart fluttered every second you were near me today. I was hot and bothered, I was sobbing, my voice was cracking, and I could almost feel your hatred surging into my skin. But those ticks or butterflies or whatever they are, were still there and they yearned for you, even though I've almost successfully forgotten. I'm not a lover, or a dancer, or a fighter. I'm not anything but tragically in love with you.

Unchallenged.

When I went crazy, I imagined I was God. I wore banana-yellow plaid pants to school with bright white tennis shoes. My hair was old and blue, but my skin was faded new. I had a diamond on my ear and it was a gift from the Sultan of Kabdur. I met his son at the creek and saved him from a flock of distressed pigeons carrying delayed Russian military strategies.

Then I learned to paint my nails with John F. Kennedy only seconds before he died---which was in a movie theatre, sitting in between myself and Jackie, watching Dark Knight. Then this Big Yellow Taxi drove through the ceiling and taught me a lesson from CVS Pharmacy.

A package of Juicy fruit bubblegum wedged itself between the strands of curls I painted teal. I dreamt of skinny pale french girls lost in Midwestern Canada. They were searching for a statue of LL Cool J and I had no clue who he was. They had a treasure map, so I stole it, and bartered for a new messanger bag in which I coaxed her soul to stay.

She was loving me, in a tiny glass jar. I poked holes so we could breathe, but the pony tails came undone and the sheets were soon unmade. I saw a damsel in his cold silver eyes though mine were blinded by the vehicle debris in the middle of springtime showers.

My final Duchess was not the name of the play, but the game was something similiar. We all made love, or war, or babies, or maybe even puppies. We just cared and we invented care. We prayed on the likes of the lakes with the lights and I held your hand each night you died. Our mystery was lonliness and I saw nothing as to tell me it was coming.

You were a fighter with the curse of a dancer and I worshipped your grace that conformed you. That cell phone you stole with the price of the tolls that made Friday feel like it's Tuesday. But Wednesday was longer when the storms were stronger and I knew you in every sensual way. You shot all the shots 'til the cartridge was gone and the gun had to be reloaded.

Your red-stained polo shirt is what I wiped my tears with when I fell off the swivel chair and knocked my mind out of time and space for good. I told my doctor all about your friends from Saturn and he said I was called "insane."

I mentioned the evenings I laid in your bed and you slept by the TV with the screen on channel fifteen and the can of soda still in your grasp. I groaned when the ball slammed in my eye but you said that no one could tell. So when Stephen gossiped about the shiner I swore I would never look at you again. All those arguments I started I wish I had stopped and instead learned to kiss you, my friend. I should've learned my ABC's and I could've managed your baggage, but I came with chocolate, flowers, and garbage because that's what you are to me, sweet thing.

I can type without the keyboard and I can smile without the happiness because I made a choice that saved you from having to choose. And that navy BMW drives by every day at five. Now, I'm glad I'm not inside.

Faiery Wrings.

I couldn't have imagined losing my mind six months ago. I had no warning it would be like this, else I would've pursued and much more---subdued course of events.

When I woke up this morning, I touched the Liberty Bell and shook it until it cracked like the one in Philadelphia. I also had a vision of God. I stole a car, hijacked my friends from Bishop Moore, locked them in a cellar and beat the shit out of them until they apologized. Then I bought the Dark Knight DVD, wrapped it up and placed it on her doorstep as an early Christmas present.

If course, I did all of this before I even opened my eyes and when this hallucination finished, an hour had gone by. Mom wonders how I managed to sleep in after almost a FULL night of sleep. So do I.

I think I texted Mikael. I know I skipped school; that part was real, is real. I could've sworn I wrote the essay on My Last Duchess but I suppose I was mistaken. I got my eyebrows waxed, but I also thought I got a facial, my nails done, my hair done. Or maybe that was Diane?

Maybe if I can separate myself from this idea of life...I can go a day without malfunctioning. I did it to myself just a little while ago. While I am watching Dark Knight in the comfort of my cozy warm bed, I recall Anna falling asleep on my shoulder the last night I had with her in Chicago when we walked the Nile to see Dark Knight at midnight--yea great idea mariah! NOT

Either Way, my subconscious put me there, again. With my hand holding hers and sort of moving in a circular motion on her leg while her face was buried in my shoulder, covered by her hair. And I'm pretty sure the girl next to me...Emma I think her name was....knows whats going on because it seems as if everyone in HSSI has heard about us....maybe because of me or maybe because its obvious. We only kissed in public at the hookah bar and only because I initiated it after we all got to watch Julius hit on Alaina's cousin.

That's a long story...and i didnt relive all of that in the past hour---just the part with Anna in the movie theatre. And the worst part is that my mind relives the memory---and decides to add things it likes better. I've had hallucinations where Krystal hugs me and then shoves me against a wall before making out with me. For fuck's sake, she couldn't even do that to her boyfriend of five months, let alone a chick, her best friend in front of people. And the conversation we were having in the dream was one we'd actually had...about her mom's ex-boyfriend, coincidentally named Paul, and how he was an asshole, like all Paul's turn out to be, except (I hope) Kathy's because Diane thinks he's a sweetheart and thats what really matters.

Like is getting crazier---or maybe it's back to normal? I'm less sure of myself today than I was as an insecure pre-teen. and HOLY FUCK! I just realized that my dog fell asleep in my room and she scared the fuck out of me...

How to say "Fuck You" in a non-sexual manner

I knew quitting smoking would be a bad idea. Now I realize why my mother never even attempted. I have not slept for more than three hours since I started this battle two days ago.

When I closed my eyes, I saw her sitting cross-legged in front of me on the balcony of our Houston condominium. I gestured down the street, where someone had left their blinds open and their TV on.

“Other people need to sleep to the television too, I guess. It’s not just you.”

She laughs and turns to look while I stare at her—how her hair flows when her heads turns, how her body stretches provocatively and how the pajamas she borrowed from me accentuate every curve of her body. I wanted her so badly, I could feel my body temperature rising.

“Remember when you were kicking me off your bed and I knocked that shitty TV over? And you fell asleep on your living room floor because you were addicted to it.” We both laughed and fell into a comfortable silence.

“I’m glad we’re friends again, Krystal, and that you came to Houston with me. After everything that’s happened—it’s nice to know someone will be there when you really need them.”

She smiles because she never talks in my hallucinations. In real life, if she talks to me, it’s to yell or insult me or somehow hurt my feelings. That’s why my mind keeps her silent, I think.

I opened my eyes, a good idea since they’re swelling up with tears. When my sleeve wipes them, the fabric grazes my skin and it feels hard and cruel. It scratches me, bringing a new onslaught of delusions.

This one is more like my dream every night.

I sit on the same balcony I imagined she once did. My cigarette is almost finished, and the cherry is the brightest thing for miles once the morning fog settles in. It’s almost five in the morning. Doors are shutting from houses below the eleventh floor, where I watch. Little kids are waving goodbye to their mommies and daddies. A car rolls by with tinted windows and a base I’m sure is loud enough that even my house back home can feel. It sends vibrations through my body and makes me shiver, though there’s only a tiny breeze.

I look up at the clouds that are slowly fading away and in them, I can see her face. Her teeth, how insecure she was of them because the front ones are less straight than the rest, are white as the walls in this stuffy company apartment. Her skin is as tan as it was after the many beach trips we took instead of going to school. The best part about her is that she is smiling at me. She looks friendly, inviting. So, I stand up. My cigarette falls from my hand, almost in shock, that I’m seeing Krystal in the sky, and even worse, she’s being friendly. She gestures for me to take her hand, and I know she’s far away, but I step onto the railing and climb to the ledge anyways.

I let the air encase me and I revel in the excitement of being in her warm arms again, of being in her favor. I take a step forward and falter, because there’s no more ledge. She’s almost pleading with me now to join her, but, again, she’s silent so she uses her eyes; those damn copper coins I can’t avoid, lie, or stand firm against. I nod, and shrug in a careless way, before jumping to reach her outstretched fingers.

Then her face disappears, I wake up in panic, and realize how close the street below is coming to my face. I hit the ground before my screams leave my throat and I die. But my last thought is always that she didn’t mean to kill me because she loves me.

Writing this is a horrible idea. Talking about it is worse, true, but if this gets recognized as my life, my secret will be out. Talk about your walk-in closet—mine has everything I need. I’ve lived in that closet for about two years now.

I built it when I kissed Lucy at her sixteenth birthday party. That was a lifetime ago, but still detrimental to the forming of my decaying heterosexuality.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I need a smoke.”

The condo in Houston was worst than diarrhea. The times ran on forever, even my pocket watch stopped ticking. The days and nights got so lost they came late or early, whenever I wasn’t ready for them. Three in the morning became the new afternoon and after endless streaming on the internet, my nicotine withdrawal was kicking strong. Cutting back is almost worst than quitting altogether.

“Go ahead.” Krystal muttered, waving her hand dismissively with her eyes never leaving the screen.

“Come with me—in case the balcony crumbles.”

She sighed irritatingly.

“It’s fucking cold out there. Your vices aren’t going to give me pneumonia, sorry, and I don’t want to fall with you…then I can’t say at your funeral how stupid smoking is and how it found an exciting new way to kill someone else I care about.”

“So you do care. C’mon.” I gave a pleading look and she relented but not without an accompanying eye roll and meaningless sarcastic comment.

“I hope your lungs jump off the balcony.”

I grinned and carefully moved the sliding glass door, cautious to avoid all noises. I opened it with just enough room to slide through and I held the zipper on my jacket so it wouldn’t scratch the metal loudly. Krystal followed suit.

“Fuck Mariah, why am I your friend again!” she said through chattering teeth once the wind blew full throttle.

“Because you care. I know that if I jumped, you would jump after me. Right?” I looked at her expectantly and held my hand over the lighter to start the cigarette in my mouth.

“Call me crazy, but I would.”

“And I for you.” There was a pause. I inhaled and let the smoke trails from my lips to the sky, encasing the moon and filling the air with the scent of a pool hall. I loved smoking back then.

“Why is that?” she finally asked.

“Because I love you.” I answered plainly, as if she should even have to ask.

She fiddled with the hemming on her jeans and the string unraveling on her sweater.

“Is it really that simple? That if someone you love does something ridiculous, you follow behind them and fix their mistakes? It sounds more like parenting."

“Well, it is, but on a deeper level. I would jump after you, not because I love you and want to share in your pain. Not even because I couldn’t bear to live without you. I would jump so that you know I would. So that you don’t have to feel alone and so that maybe you can take comfort in my jumping blindly after you. Does that make sense?”

“But I wouldn’t for you.”

I stared at her. I could see her depressed calculating look illuminated by the computer screen coming through the glass door.

“Why not?”

“I wouldn’t jump because someone needs to tell the story. In order for a legend or a myth or even a lesson to be learned, a moral to be taught, someone has to survive. If you jumped and died, I would tell the world about your dumb-ass and hope that it helps them make better decisions. Don’t get me wrong—” she began at my hurt expression, “I would miss the shit out of you, but I wouldn’t want my journey to end with yours. Not if there’s more I can do to extend the idea of life and love.”

“So I would jump for you, but you wouldn’t for me. What a pair” I angrily replied, dragging off my cigarette again and choosing to look away from her and at the city, instead. The beautiful sleeping city with its lights and sky scrapers and little people with little children and little cars they use to drive to their little jobs. Not everything in Texas is big, I guess, but maybe this conversation was a big mistake.

I contemplated right then about actually jumping. Or at least, preparing for it and hoping she would intervene. I knew I could never really do it. If anything should ever happen to me, I would want to see her reaction and there’s a chance that death or heaven or hell or whatever was ruining my life would not allow me to watch. I don’t think she would even cry.

“It’s classic, you know” I bitterly shot at her, “Because everyone sees how I like you more than you like me—”

“That’s not true!”

“Let me finish!” I tried not to raise my voice since it was extremely late and waking up my parents would prove more disastrous than jumping from an eleventh-story balcony. “I like you more because I have feelings for you. I am completely infatuated with everything you say, with your perception of the world, and how you act based on everything that’s happened to you. I love you more than a best friend should and it took me awhile to realize that you can’t ever feel the same way. You’re incapable.”

I was ashamed to look at her, but she moved closer to me despite what I’d just revealed. Didn’t she understand how hard it was for me?

“If you think I didn’t notice your…'feelings’ for me, then you’re way off. But you’re right about everything else and I can’t change that. I’m not unable to feel, because I am so sorry that I can’t feel the same way about you, but that’s a part of me that won’t budge.”

“I’ll settle for your friendship. I didn’t know that you already knew.”

“Lucy told me about the nightmares on the bus from North Carolina.”

I had no response so I lit another cigarette after flicking the other one far away, where I wished I was.

“If you’re scared that you’re wasting your time, then you need to know this: I will never be in love with you. You’re my best friend and I don’t ever want to lose you, but if you’re going to spend your days waiting for me to feel that way about you, it’s not going to work out and it’s only going to hurt you.” It was like those nights I tried to cut myself but couldn;t work up the nerve. There was a lot of pain, and I was more scared of this conversation than anyhing else in my life.

“So I’m wrong in feeling like this? Why is it always me?! How come you and Lucy and Jessie don’t have this clingy attachment to the group or an individual like I do? Why does everything affect me more than it should? And if I wanted to wait, I would. I can’t help the way I feel, either. I wouldn’t choose this if I had a choice.”

“You’re not wrong. I don’t know what you are. Except that you’re my best friend and I love you like that, so I don’t want to lose you. Just forget this ever happened.” She smiled encouragingly at me and I wanted to stab my cigarette in her eye.

In the script of my life, this is the scene where I start bawling and I run away to the bathroom and lock the door. She would follow and attempt to coax me out but I wouldn’t reply. Eventually I would let her in and she would hug me as I cried. End scene.