In the summer of 2005, my sister advised my parents to enroll me in a History of

Poetry class (or something of that sort). My teacher asked about my sister, or

maybe I told him about her. Either way, I ended up bringing her into class one day.

When I was delirious (having fallen asleep in class), the teacher made a joke or

something about suicidal people. (I don’t remember exactly). I woke up and slurred

some bullshit about pleasure, pain, and cutting. I was very embarrassed, as I had

not realized I was speaking aloud. My sister made fun of that moment a lot.

(especially because I looked like the words were being pulled out of me against my

will). Apparently, she still thinks it is funny.

When I was twelve years old, in the winter of 2000, I attended North Country. My

mother drove me most of the way. On the way there, the van skidded on black ice,

and we ended up having a roll-over accident. The car was totaled, and I begged to

go back home citing this event as a bad omen. My mom sent me anyways. I was in

the eight grade, and helped tend to the horses. Me, and another girl, had to shovel

horse shit, and groom them, and we woke up very early to take care of them. One

horse had a been kicked by another one, and I remember freaking out with Klayzia

about how it had happened, and whether we would get in trouble. Somehow,

I ended up as one of the kids tasked with making syrup. We tapped the trees, and

when that was finished steamed the sap in a steel (metal) vat. When the steaming

was happening, I ended up getting burned. I don’t remember, but I ended up falling

towards the vat and in order to break my fall (i.e. not fall into the steaming syrup), I

grabbed the metal surrounding it. (Only one hand grabbed it barehanded, the

other I had managed to pull my sweatshirt over, and was burned through that.)

After both my palms were burnt, the dorm parent and teacher supervisor quickly

wrapped my hand with aloe. They did not let me call my parents, and I told them I

was insane and demanded to go home. Proof that most boarding school nurses are

shit: She told all my peers that I was crazy and not to speak to me, lest they catch

my disease. She holed me up in her office, until my parents came to pick me up.

That was how my great-grandmother’s flute was ‘lost’ and a lot of my clothes.

Other things my sister found funny while I was growing up (even if she was very

young too – I find it hard to accept her bullshit from when we were kids) I am

writing this list because it is becoming really depressing to know that I am not that

sort of person people really care to still know.


Also, the few people I know now are all my sister’s friends.:

-she called me slave when I was in middle school, in California, because at the time

my favorite Greek goddess was Nike, and apparently she was a slave to another

goddess in Greek mythology. She had me clean her room and other such stupid

things- but they piss me off to remember. I ended up complaining to my mother

and saying ‘why do i have to do what that bitch tells me?’ and mom pulled my hair

and dragged me upstairs and told me to fix my language.

-she told me and my brother that an elmo straw she had was ‘magical’. She

whispered something in my brother’s ear before hiding it, and promising it to

whoever found it. we both found it around the same time, and my brother beat me

up until I agreed to give it to him.

-my sister had us punch her biceps while she had tensed them, my brother and I

didn’t know why she demanded it but looking back on it I can guess. she also

slapped her thigh with a ruler until she bruised.

-my brother and her used to pull my hair (it was long) and they called it ‘rape hair’

and said do you know what happens to women? with hair like this.

and many other things.

I have been to 24 schools. I smoked when I was 12 years old, and quit when I was

15/16 years old. I started drinking when I was 13 years old (I stole a beer bottle

from a six pack from a local grocery store), and have not had any alcohol since this

summer?. I have never done drugs.

I was a kleptomaniac. I first stole when I was eight years old, and we were in

Nordstrom, in California. I took the glass grapes, and the butterfly hair clip from

the sales counter. My mother told me that it was wrong, and hid them away. She

gave me them back, one at a time, when I was good. I kept stealing, mostly jewelry,

from Nordstrom. When we moved to New York City, I stole from the local grocery

stores, from Strawberries, from the mall (in boarding school), and from

bookstores. Sometimes, it was pretty humiliating. I would take things compulsively

from stores, and end up walking as quickly as I could to the closest street corner,

and dump most of what I had stolen into a nearby garbage can. I stole from Barnes

& Noble, a lot (books, mostly) I stole from malls (my silver chain was stolen from

one). When I was in England, at 14/15 years old, I stole from grocery stores

(schnapps, vodka, Bacardi breezers, wine, whiskey). Once, I stole a deck of cards

with naked women on the deck faces.

I had a sin box growing up, where my mother put my writings. She never read

them. She put the box in the walk in closet in NYC, and when I wanted to read or

edit anything I had to go in the closet. The writings in the box were not allowed

outside the closet. Mom noticed how long I spent in there (I would often as a young

girl/teenager fall asleep over my writings with my pen still clutched in my hand)

and put my game boy and some games in the box, so I would not get so bored.

When I was 14 years old, I attended Storm King School. There was a senior boy in

that school who enjoyed taking advantage of girls. I would not say I was molested,

as I was much too old. However, the asshole did shove his cock down my throat

repeatedly over the course of many months, among other things. He, also, abused

me in a physical way in public – i.e. in the cafeteria, etc. to such an extent the nurse

(a bitch who refused to report him for what he was doing because I refused to

write my name down with his) called for a psychiatrist to evaluate me, and told him

prior to our appointment that I had an abusive boyfriend. (after I tried reporting

the abuse to her). He was voted best-dressed that year, and apparently the asshole

got into college- he probably graduated too.

Sometimes, I wonder if my karma is shit. I don’t really understand why it would be

though, but that is probably just me thinking I am a nice person.