#it involves him

[kantimplora]

Couple of months ago when it was confirmed lady gaga was going to be in Wednesday I thought "oh they could make her a Hyde whose artistic thing is to sing or play some instrument"

So that's my theory

[blastthechaos]

*Girls with Time Machines*

Junko:Time to throw the world into Despair all over again!

*Boys with time Machine*

Hajime:Mr and Mrs. Komaeda! Do not take that flight!

[thecrowdedmindofjohnnydepp]

I am currently beginning to work on a book that I hope to publish when I am older (it is not finished). Please ask questions and give feedback!

There was once a room with a bed with white sheets built into a floor. I will never know who slept in it before and after me, and who met eyes with the empty ceiling just like I once did. A Suicidal. A Druggie. A Schizophrenic. A Bipolar. An Anorexic. I bet all of them have: each of us twisting our shape into the numbing mattress, each of us having to produce our own warmth for a night. There were rows and rows and rows of these rooms, each containing a person lost in themselves.

            I was brought there in December after four policemen halfway broke themselves into my family’s common suburban home. I was taken immediately to the ER where I was then escorted in an ambulance to that place where I’d be locked behind two twenty-four hour locked metal doors.

I nor my parents had any say in what was to be done to me.

I’ve heard I was in there for about three days. But when you spend three days rewinding the tape of the many reasons you got in there for seventy-two hours, you’ll see why I question myself.

            Those three days were the worst three days of my life, so far. I cried more than I ever had for a reason I never want to reencounter. The nurses pried words out of me which got stitched into sentences I never want to say again. And the food tasted fake though I never admitted it.

But the only thing that really stuck to my mind about the ordeal wasn’t even the hospital. It was the interstate outside of my window. I realized how trapped I was and how free people were. I observed life and saw the cars that sped and the cars that were cautious against the slick roads. I saw who pulled into Subway and who ate McDonald’s. I witnessed colorful cars and ugly cars. And though the hospital was almost a mile away from the city, I could see life like I had never before.

Not many people know about me being in that place.

I don’t want really anybody to know or else everyone would know and people will think I’m an insecure little shit.  Sure, I told my closest friends and people I think should know, but deep down inside I feel like everyone knows like I have a sticky note on my back that says “Kick Me”.  I only told two teachers about what happened. One of them says “Hi” everyday every time he sees me while the other seems to think that the air I exhale is poisonous. But here I have just told you after me telling you I don’t want to tell people, like you.   

I’m better now though.

My medicine contains more grams of what I need.

And sometimes I forget I ever had been in a place like that.

People ask me how I got over it and why I didn’t kill myself before the cops ever showed up. I tell them the reason is Johnny Depp and some of them flash a glance to me like I had just uttered the devastating words, “I fucked a pinecone.” But really, he was the answer. He was depressed like me during the hormone-developing ages and he was strong and got over it. And now look at him. He’s been voted Sexiest Man Alive twice, has been nominated for an Academy Award twice, and has a pay of $22 million per film, and you don’t call that “recovering”? Fuck you bitch, Johnny Depp is amazing.

I run a Tumblr about Johnny, a cardboard life-size cut-out of him in my room next to my bed, and an autograph. I also have a leather wristband just like him which I wear every day. Sure I’m obsessed with his face but what really draws me to him is his heart. I mean I bet it’s a muscular and healthy heart but what I’m saying is, if I were to become blind, I would still love him the same.

I have never met him. And I am afraid I never will.

He is to retire soon and since he smokes like a chimney it’s either going to be the force of “not-going-out-in-public-anymore” or dying. I would do anything to hop on a plane and meet him. The only thing that it stopping me is my age and money.

If I were dying of cancer, meeting him would be my last wish.

But not just a little “Hello, nice to meet you” and an autograph with a handshake.

But a “sit-down-for-an-entire-day-and-talk-about-life” meet.

By the time this book is published I bet one of the two of the two “forces” will have already occurred. Maybe he’ll invite me to his bed house or he’ll haunt my bed house. Either way I hope I will meet him.