All Threats Are Guaranteed Possible


It’s an interesting experience sitting and talking to people who have never experienced drug addiction in their family or for themselves. They have such a blank stare in their eyes when you talk about he emaciation and the depression and the havoc. I used to blame them for it, the ones I share my secrets with. Why couldn’t they just be more helpful? What the fuck is wrong with them?

Then I realized if their parent or family member or they themselves had Cancer, I’d never truly understand how it felt. All the medical procedures, the wary doctors, the chemotherapy.

But we could find some common ground there; both of us would have seen the sight of someone withering away on the brink of death and (hopefully) bouncing back to life.

I’ve seen and been through a lot more in my life than I thought. I don’t think my closest acquaintances understand that. They managed a childhood, they grew up with family around and holiday parties (shout-out to Thanksgiving, the stupidest holiday in American history besides “Columbus Day”) and they took trips and they did fun things and they never hovered in corners because of an angry drunk or slept in a tent and fried hot dogs on a grill for breakfast or slept in the basement of a house on a concrete floor where convicts who just got out of jail came and banged on the door like they had a fight to pick.

So when they see I have trouble enjoying things sometimes, they don’t understand it. They grew up with relatively happy (with ups and downs like everyone else) but stable and well nourished and they interacted with their peers in Kindergarten instead of being that one tall girl who went off in the corner with a box of blocks and made a flat, five foot wide symmetrical pattern on the floor that the teacher took a picture of. They don’t understand how I can be happy with being introverted and yet simultaneously feel lonely.

I know I have a lot to work on to be where I want to be (not where everyone else thinks I should be).

I’m never going to be that person who talks up everyone and their mom on the street and in the grocery store lines; I’m never going to enjoy parties or prefer human company to a night of writing. I’m never going to not over-analyze everything around me (I find that shit crazy fun, who the hell is content with sitting in the dark their whole life? With accepting everything like “oh, uh, I should just let it be”?) and I’m never going to not feel a tiny, tiny bit of anxiousness. I’ve been anxious ever since I can remember and life experiences just intensified it.

I’m perfectly happy with never being like everyone else I’ve met.


Doesn’t mean I don’t struggle.

My goal is to get comfortable with all the social skills I never developed enough so people don’t think I’m some stuck up rude bitch for not talking to them or some freak for not talking to them, and enough so I can get through medical school. After that, I do what the fuck I want.

You tell me I should be happy? Fuck you, I’ll be sad when I want to be sad and if you’re uncomfortable around emotion than fuck off.

You say psychiatrists hardly ever offer talk-therapy? Well fuck you, I’m going to do it anyway.

You say I was that one weird girl in high school who some how managed all the advanced classes without saying a word? Well fuck you, I’ll drive past your house in a 100k dollar Tesla and egg your windows with 100 dollar eggs bitch.

I’m immature at heart, can you tell?

Just for the record, I was actually never made fun of in high school probably because I managed to keep myself as a competitor in those advanced classes.

I remember a few incidences where I felt judged though. I remember I had to recite a fucking poem in an honors class as a presentation (my worst nightmare since elementary school–that’s when the teachers thought there was something wrong with my brain because I could never remember anything) and I said the first two lines perfectly and fucked up the other fourteen.

When I say fucked up, I mean I completely blanked. The teacher had to walk me through the whole thing in front of the entire class. Mind you, I spent three weeks remembering that bullshit and I had it down until the moment I stepped in that class and felt that heart racing, face flushing, arms tingling/twitching, cold sweat bullshit. Then I looked incompetent.

Anyway, there was this one white girl (sorry, I don’t usually like to bring race into things but this chick was transparent as hell, like Casper the bitch-ass ghost who never learned an ounce of respect.) and she was always smirking in the background when I had to speak. She’d talk to me like I was a baby when we were in groups together and she always thought she was so smart.

She went up right after me and forgot her entire poem.


I grinned so large I thought my teeth were going to pop out my mouth. And because ya’ll have never seen me, I will tell you right now I have some chompers.

Can I just say this?

That’s right bitch!!!!! Fucking choke on your words and fucking get red cheeks and fucking feel the pain!!!! Karma’s a bitch!!!!!


I’ve been holding that in for so long.

One time she stepped on my shoes and stared at me like this: stare1

And then turned back around.

Fuck you too bitch, fuck you too. I ever see you on the street somewhere you’re going to hear my mouth. Right in your face. Because fuck you.

Yes, I have anger issues I need to work on.

But really ya’ll, I’ll see her again one day, I can feel it. We might be in the same class together. We might be in med school together, you never know. I hope to God we’re in chemistry together.

It’ll play out like: “Oops, uh, yo prof, this bitch on fire, I . . . I don’t know what happened I . . . I didn’t know gasoline was flammable, I swear.

Talk to me like I’m a baby? Bitch, my brain will run circles around you. Go sit in the sun and get some color to your skin so we don’t have to look at every single one of your veins anymore.

I hope she somehow finds this.

She’ll remember exactly who the fuck I am.

I started this post about drug addiction and somehow it ended on dumb bitches.  I don’t know what my brain does.

Rant: END.