Krystle Evans: girl with hair of fire

Last time i had to do something about it i lost my shit. Flat out lost my shit. Wish i would have done more. I miss losing my shit.

I remember when i was young and would fly off the fucking deep end. Theres something so primal and raw and honest about that. I kinda miss it. I miss throwing things. I miss screaming. I miss picking a fight just to hit and be hit. I am not sure what i miss more. Probably the hit and be hit. Like it would stop everything or make everything better or worse. Whatever it was about hit and be hit, it was a catalyst.

Yeah i miss that catalyst.

It tells you something about a person, don’t you think?

Sometimes i feel segregated to rooms. And its like you can’t leave that room because if you go into another you’ll have to do something about. So you just stay. And the more i think about it, the more i realise how much i ve felt segregated to rooms.  

I wish the house was cleaner. I have too many things and the floor is dirty. It really bothers me. All i can think about is the things that get stuck in the carpet that never come out. It seems like such a bad idea. Frankly i’d rather walk around in the dirt. Another vaccum cleaner stopped working. That makes six. Its strange isn’t it? I seem to go through so many appliances. 

Last night i had the most depraved dream. I woke up wondering what the fuck is wrong with me? Then i wrote down that i was a monster.

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Breakfast. School lunches. Dinner. A habital space for us to live. Art 

Things keep bleeding outta me. I guess you could say its inspiration. It feels like energy. It keeps happening at an alarming rate. Its like i can see it leave. I try and catch it. They give me headaches. I try and keep them engraved on little neon pieces of paper. They are hard to keep track of. Everyone is neglected. Not physically, but maybe emotionally or something. I think almost everyone resents it. Like i am not sharing enough. I guess i am selfish. I try and give everything. Wait, thats not true. I try and keep something to myself. Some tiny piece. Maybe they can smell it. Maybe we aren’t meant to keep pieces to ourselves. As i write this i keep thinking about being sucked dry and fed upon and light fading as your dying and it seems apt to fit. So i’ll just say that i am sorry i am selfish, and i am sorry for the part i keep. Its like they can smell it. I don’t know what they’d call it… But its like the thing they could use to find you in the dark.