I hate the way I draw.  I hate the way I paint.  At the age of 15, when I took my first drawing class, the instructor told me I had a “fine hand.”  I’m assuming he meant what I did not realize until a few months ago - that I draw very, very small and put all my effort into achieving smooth, even gradation.  I cannot, under any circumstance, complete a simple, quick sketch.  I refuse to use charcoal or ebony pencil because the point is far too wide.  I always use the smallest brush available, even if it means taking hours to complete a simple still life.  Today my painting professor selected the largest brush I had and made me use it, saying he should just give me a sponge, see how I like that.  I spent hours agonizing over the shape of the highlights on a teapot, only to burst into tears before looking around and realizing that I was two weeks into Painting I and no one else had any idea what they were doing, either.

No wonder people think I’m a snob!

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Maybe I am just like my mother. She was never satisfied.

One of these days, I won't need these vintrague reeds. (Or this camera, or these praint brushes, or these bruises)

 This is how I looked, on May 12, 2008, in Loveland, Colorado.

  This is how it should have looked.

This is what Tom looked like then.

 This is what he should have looked like.

He will hurt this poor, innocent, loving girl. This girl... this girl is my life. She is part of the reason I am still here. If that man hurts this little girl, a peice of me bigger than I can imagine will die. This little girl..

and this girl... i showed her that pressing the keys on the paino was not only amusing, it could also sound good. she looked at me with those eyes, and she took all the information in, and by the end of the day, she was doing so well. He will hurt her. He hurt me.

He hurt this little girl. this little girl is sick. He didn't care, he liked hurting. he still does. I was a fool to think that he was capable of change.

this little girl, she does this. she lies. this body of hers, it is a work of art. she is an artist.

She wants to dissapear. So no one will see her, hear her, love her. She wants to fade into nothing. She wants to be nothing.