Colour Me Quietly

I am a bit frustrated at the moment, and I’m having trouble pegging the exact origin of my feels.  I say feels because I do not have to say feelings and I enjoy the word feels and the etymological fandomesce community it represents, because that’s the only community I feel connected to at the moment, so if you don’t like that I say feels instead of feelings because you’re a Nazi, well bitch fuck you in the ass and finish all over your face.

Not that that made any logical sense.  And I’m sorry, I don’t really mean that at all.  I’m just unreasonably angry and I’m not sure what to do about it.

My name is Amanda Noelle Price.  I’ve been adopted for one year four months and seven days.  My last name used to be Wick.  My step father lent me his. What a gentleman.

I didn’t really feel that the name Price belonged to me until I began identifying it with my music.  Now the name Mandee Price resonates with me on an intimate level that I have craved for a long time.

It’s funny to feel that even your name is a lie.

When I was little, everyone called me Amanda.  Until I was in fifth grade I didn’t allow for anyone but my mother to address me as Mandee, I refused to respond, cooperate, participate, conjugate, masturbate, whatever. Use the wrong name, elicit no response. Bitches.

I know a lot of people, and I know a lot of pain in them all.  I have in my unwritten memoirs reached by no means anywhere even close to the saddest side of the story scale, and I am grateful for that  But you know what? My daddy didn’t love me, my first step dad disappeared and severed all contact with me and my mother, and my second one helped her destroy my family.  Helped us all destroy each other. And that fucking sucks.

I fell in love with my best friend a long time ago.  He and I, we both have a history of doing things the government would label as undesirable, to say the least, and we took care of each other.  We were real.  We existed.  And I gave him everything and then some.  One day it just.. fell apart.. Like that green shit you find at a florist, those blocks that hold everything together, until they get sopping wet and disintegrate.  Yehh those.  The one person I had ever truly been a part of didn’t want me inside of them anymore.  And it hurt like shit.

I’ve had three separate consensual sexual experiences in my life.  I’ve had quite a few more that were not so voluntary.  And that sucks.

I am 18 and a half years old.  Shitty things have happened to me.  And I am so.  Fucking.  Glad they did.

I have encountered the most incredible kind of people the universe has to offer, and I’m sure I will meet more of them as time goes on in its way.

I have discovered avenues inside myself that I had no idea I could even have imagined.

I think I’m beautiful. 

It took me so long to be able to say that, and even longer to believe it.

I like corny jokes, I make fantastic smoothies, I have pretty decent taste, I care about the people I meet, I have a vibrant fervor for life, I arduously pursue my passions, I occasionally feel like I write well {only occasionally}, I am a half decent musician, I have goals and dreams and aspirations, I hold my alcohol pretty well {irrelevant? never.}, I am fun to be around, I love smiling, my eyes are a really weird blue-gray colour, I am an accomplished equestrian, I’m fairly intelligent, I might not be gorgeous but I don’t think it hurts to look at me, I mean I haven’t broken any mirrors yet, I am pretty witty when it strikes me.

I just tooted my own horn.

I did not realize.. that was.. possible.. I.. don’t know how I feel about that.

This is strange.

Why did I start this post?

I think I was going to be honest. Vulnerable with someone, for the first time since I stopped believing in humanity with all of me, give the faithful half a chance to argue her case.

I guess I did that.

Somehow…?

Perhaps?

I uh.

Shit.

It’s four in the morning and I have no where to be until tomorrow night but. Hmm.

Sleep.

What an idea.

I uh.

I’m not sure if anyone will ever read this, and that’s alright.  I think I might even feel better that way.

Then I would never be able to tell myself I wrote it for someone else.

Maybe now it will be easier to give you myself in my words, to write the way that I used to, to be truthful and harsh and honest and hurt and blossoming all at once.

Wouldn’t that be wonderful..

Lol how fitting.. Amanda by Boston just came on.

And to think that nobody calls me that anymore..

Hmm..

I suppose I’ve been Here a thousand times Before and I probably Shall sit in these callous Rows for ages even Eons perhaps because Really I do love you For exactly who you are

Hypothetically speaking I’ve always wanted To start a sentence that Way and then be absolutely Literal and never take It back because hell I don’t have to do a damn thing

It’s not who I am that Means anything to you You don’t know me Well enough any more To give a damn

It’s easier now for you I Suppose to use me The way you do Since I have become One of those picture Books children glance Through in a library that Smells like mold and security

You knew me once And now that you only Have bits and pieces You know enough to See the outlines It’s simple

After all Mona Lisa Wasn’t a Stick figure That would Just be silly

A while later, a shrimp was tossed onto his desk.