Post by zaryn on Dec 6, 2010 23:05:44 GMT -6
ZARYN KATE OLIVER ,
SEVENTEEN , MUSIC , TAYLOR SWIFT
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[/font]gonna give all my secrets away ,
okay, so let me just begin by saying that yes, i know that diaries are just for ten-year-old girls. or stefan from the vampire diaries; but that's allowed, 'cause he's amazingly hot. the point is, my mom gave me this diary and told me that instead of writing songs all the time, i should write in it.
what i was thinking was, bitch! but i didn't say a thing. i know that she hates me and my guitar and my songs. ya wanna know what i have to say about that? too freaking bad. my mother can go die in a hole, for all i care.
but i decided to give it a try. this journal/diary thing is probably going to be an epic fail, not to mention a waste of paper, because i don't currently plan on writing anything else in it after today, not a single thing. i really do prefer writing out what i have to say in song. i mean, "silence is golden" -- what complete and utter crap! what i think is that if people know what they want to say and they have the opportunity to do it, they should. because if they don't, they'll regret it. i regret a lot of things. i get to this point where i could just say it all, and then i chicken out. so i vent in my music.
not that any of it's ever made it past me alone in my bedroom. with my evil psychotic bitch of a mother downstairs yelling up at me to shut the hell up. because she hates it. well, too bad. i hate her. maybe i wouldn't hate her so much if she didn't always yell at me and hate everything i do and, you know, not tell me all the time that i was a mistake. she didn't even want me. i was the product of a one-night stand with some dude she doesn't even remember. blah, blah, blah. i've heard it all before. and i hate her.
i don't think you, whoever you are, knows about me properly yet (did that even make sense?). let's see. one day in, if my math is correct, may 1992, my much-hated mother went out with her friends for a drink. or two. or a million. i don't know and i honestly don't care. and then she got completely and totally wasted and woke up the next morning with a wicked hangover in some apartment she'd never seen before in her life. so she runs away while the guy's still in the shower, and she never looks back. she told me all she remembers is that the bed had navy blue sheets. that's it! that's all the info she has for me about my father.
flash forward to february 11, 1993. brielle oliver is yelling at her parents that she doesn't want to keep the screaming baby in her mom's arms. at least, that's how grandma told it to me before she died. she had a heart attack. my mom probably killed her for telling me the full story.
yeah, i'm unwanted. by everybody. not just my mom. my grandparents are dead -- would it have killed them (ha, ha, i'm so funny) to just wait until i was old enough to live on my own? that'd only be about three and a half more years after they died. one more year, and i'm gone, baby. gone. never looking back, like my stupid mother with my stupid father. poor sap. i wonder if he tried to follow her. probably not.
and if that's not enough, to be deserted by everybody i'm blood-related to, i have to have just the worst luck with friends and boyfriends and everything in between. that's where i get all the ammo for my songs, see. all of them are true stories. things i really wish i could have said to each and every person. some of them even have their names. i have enough freaking songs written down in that notebook i keep on my person at all times to fill up three or four albums. oh, if only. if only i could get a record deal and sell millions of cd's and have a shitload of money and move away... forever...
trust me, i'm not really all that bitter and evil. okay, i am. most of the time. only towards my mom. and guys who suck ass. otherwise, i'm a little golden ray of sunshine. i can be nice, when i want to be. don't even worry about it.
-- love love love, Z.
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rachel , pm , edit, i've been listening to speak now non-stop