My first kiss was... Amazing. I was 13 at the momet it first happened. My current boyfriend at the time was Jordan. He just perfect. I really thought it was love... but I was 13 apperantly I didn't know what "love" was. Before the big event, we were writing notes in class and he gave me a not. It said, "Would you kiss someone at school?" I replied of course. Then I asked back if he would. Of course he said yea. After all this I waited for 2 weeks! Which seems like forever since I was expecting something out of him! Finally, I wrote him a not asking why he asked me that. He said, "I asked that because I wanted to kiss you." Then I replied then why didn't you? He told me it was because he didn't think that I was serious, I told him I was and he said that he would meet me in the hall after everyone left and we could kiss there. I was so nervous! We were in the hall hiding from all the teachers. Then he looked me in the eyes and he kissed me for what seemed like an eternity. After the big kiss he hugged me like never before. When people told me that the first kiss is magical, I didn't believe it. Now I do. About 3 months later, he broke my heart for another girl. Kayla. To this day... I will never forget that kiss, and I will always deep in my heart love him. Even though he doesn't love me.
im only 19 and i REALLY do want life to end. but ive always despised the selfishness of suicide because of the grief it causes others. i dont think i will kill myself because ive felt this way for a while
ive had unexplained severe depression problems since i was in primary school.
i was in insanely in love with a girl for 3 years (and cried regularly for) before we had a very intense 9 month relationship. that ended 3 years ago and ive had no one since.
i dont love her anymore as weve hardly spoken since then, but i STILL think about her EVERY SINGLE day as it was the only love ive had.
i frequently cry alone in my room for hours. when i have the house to myself and my parents are out i smash things up and scream.
i never told anybody about it and this is the first time ive let it out of my head.
I am a 19 year old female named sandra and I want to say ...
So maybe this isn't excitely how I pictured my life to be. I didn't excitely picture myself going to a community college, I didn't picture myself still being a virgin at the age of 18, I didn't picture myself ever being flat chested and hating myself because of the way my body is, I didn't picture myself making myself throw up because I was so insecure about my body. I never pictured myself falling for a 15 year old boy at the age of 18. I didn't picture myself still living with my mother in such a horrible house where I can't even go to school two block away from the house alone because she believes I will get kidnapped or so she says when really she is afriad that I'm going to have sex with some radom guy and get pregnant. why doens't she trust?!?. you would think after all this years she would see that I've grown into a fine young lady. Although every were I go boys seem to tell me how beautiful I am and everyone tells me how pretty I am, but I don't see it. I don't see what they see when I look in the mirrow and I can't live this life anymore. I'm tired and I don't think I can handle this life anymore. I'm being smothered and I don't think I can breathe anymore. she so much wants to keep watch of me that she even applied me to the same college as her. I never go any where and I'm not allowed to have any friends or boyfriends and I'm 18. She tells me to be friends with my 13 and 16 year old sisters because that's what they're here for, but I need to get out, I need to interact with other people. I need to see the world and experience life. I NEED TO BREAK FREE.....please help what do I do. should I run away, but I wouldn't have a place to go.
I am a 17 year old female named Luna and I want to say ...
( No one ever realizes what they're doing to themselves. Read and tell me what you think... )
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There’s another person that lives inside of me. She has no name, because most of the time she steals mine. She’s a proper little thief, but I always catch her and I always put her back in her place. She never goes unpunished.
She hates me, but I pay it no mind; the feeling is mutual. Her presence would not be so bad, I think, were it not for her many whispered thoughts. Her favourite place is just behind my eyes, where she can bask in the incoming moonlight and chant things to my mind as I lay awake in daydreams.
She is the source of most of my formerly unheard-of worries. I think she dos it out of sheer malice, but a part of me suggests that it may be of her own fret for my safety.
Either way, there is no love lost between us.
She hates me.
Not because of me—not because of who I am, but because of what I prevent her from having. Freedom. She longs for it, craves it, even. And I have it. I can only say that it will be a long century before she can grasp it, I enjoy seeing her desperation.
Her pain is beautiful.
She was a lot of things that Icannot stand. She was independent and willful. She was iconoclastic, charismatic, and artistic. She was unrestrained, carefree, and confident. She was free in all senses of the word.
I have stripped her down to the fat. She is obedient and faithful and captive. There is little independence, but I have not yet finished with her. She retains no optimistic imagination.
Quite the opposite, infact. I find that it is rather hard to smile when she’s frowning just behind my jaw, which is often. The smile disjoins after a moment, and no matter how many times I attempt to grin, it always ends up as a disheartened curve of the lips.
People around me notice, and ask of the things that trouble my mind. I have difficulty thinking of a response, however, because by then she will have settled in the crook between the end of my skull and the beginning of my spine—another of her favourite spaces.
And there she will sit, naked with the humiliation of her vunerability, in a curled position, screaming in the agony of her loneliness while all the time knowing that the only one that can hear her is me.
She hates me.
And I can’t blame her. If I were her, I would hate me too. But then, she is me; she resembles me in every way; in humility, in despair, in loathing.
And sometimes I wonder why I treat her this way, when I know that in more ways than one, this is like tormenting myself.
I am a 31 year old male named John and I want to say ...
It is with the saddest heart that I must pass on the following news.
Please join me in remembering a great icon of the entertainment community.
The Pillsbury Doughboy died yesterday of a yeast infection and trauma
complications from repeated pokes in the belly.
He was 71.
Doughboy was buried in a lightly greased coffin.
Dozens of celebrities turned out to pay their respects, including Mrs..
Butterworth, Hungry Jack, the California Raisins, Betty Crocker, the Hostess
Twinkies, and Captain Crunch.
The grave site was piled high with flours. Aunt Jemima delivered the eulogy
and lovingly described Doughboy as a man who never knew how much he was
kneaded. Doughboy rose quickly in show business, but his later life was
filled with turnovers. He was not considered a very smart cookie, wasting
much of his dough on half-baked schemes. Despite being a little flaky at
times he was still a crusty old man and was considered a roll model for
millions.
Doughboy is survived by his wife, Play Dough, two
children, John Dough and Jane Dough, plus they had one
in the oven. He is also survived by his elderly dad,
Pop Tart. The funeral was held at 3:50 for about 20
minutes.
If this made you smile for even a brief second, pass
it on to someone who kneads it.
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