You know what I don't understand? Two faced liars. Two faced fucking liars. I hate people who think its okay to complain, and get butthurt over things that they caused, and when the shit goes down they take their high horse and complain about how they've "had enough". If you've had enough, get the fuck out. I don't want you here if you're going to ruin my fun, my life.

The least any person should do is take responsibility for their actions. If you say one thing, or bitch about one thing, at least open up to it. I hate you and your group you've created, your little club of holier than thous that think they can control the world, and then tell people what to do. GET. THE FUCK. OVER YOURSELVES.

So not in the mood for the world right now. People are greedy. Greedy mother fuckers. And if you're not helping, you'd best get out of the way. Or else, you get ignored- right?

Right, that's exactly right.

I'm going through a Looking-Glass complex issue, of sorts. Everything every person is saying to me is affecting who I am.

MY NAME IS OPHELIA

This is a piece I was working on for Writer's Craft- inspired by a creation of mine, this is Ophelia's mind at its best.

He makes me smile in the things that he does, of that I am positive. Whether it’s the way that he insists that he is always right (Even though I prove him wrong every time), or the way he looks to me when things go wrong- he makes me smile. Even when he cries, so upset about the losses he’s faced; I smile. I see this man in front of me, taller than I am by what- four inches? I see him crying! Glassy blue eyes, hidden by his hair- a brown mop that grows much too fast- with little streaks streaming down his cheeks! Sometimes they leave marks, because some days he’s out working God knows where. Half the time I hug him and wonder why he always smells like dirt, because he used to smell like that Russian place he works at. A heavy smell, but warm; overpowering in a good way. But now? Now he smells like rain, cigarette smoke, dirt and alcohol. Those crying baby blues seem overpowered by heavy lids, common when he isn’t high. His voice has weakened so much in defeat- I walked by his room just a few moments ago and heard him whimper. His voice used to be the one I heard bellowing my name when I got in trouble, like when I accidentally mixed all his work shirts with his plaids and dyed the white shirts a murky brownish shade. That’s when he’d make me give up my money, or else I would be the one in tears. Now it’s like the tables have turned. I held control over the pale man, the emaciated body I used to know. I control when he gets a hit, when those sweaty, shaky hands get to hold a syringe. I smile because of the things that he does, I smile knowing I control his withdrawals. I hold the money- I hold everything in my hands. I smile because his smile is gone.