Life.Of.Sin

“My obsession with kissing boys is purely for fun.  You know, like worshipping Satan is fun.” -Bert McCracken

Actually, I never told you what I got for Christmas.

My shmexy MCR shirt (the red one with the graveyard)
Two pairs of dangly earrings
These super hot rose earrings from Hot Topic
2 CDs that I returned (I returned Taste of Chaos (the CD) and the first MCR record (because I already have it) and I got the Taste of Chaos DVD, the Making Memories DVD/CD, and the new AP magazine!)
This cool chunky ring from Claire’s with a fake red jewel in it.  Super cool.
MY NEW CELL PHONE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
A new MCR poster
Some stuff from Bath & Body works
A really cool mud green tie with three red stars on it.
I can’t remember what else.

Luvverzz,
Mrs. McCracken, aka Dru

“One night Gerard and I were making out for so long it almost wasn’t funny any more — even though it still was.” -Bert

I wanted this poem to have it’s own post.

Manifestation of Self-Inflicted Hate

why do people hate themselves?
you always ask that when you can’t possibly know.
why do you starve yourself? why do you cut?
why do you get high? why do you sell yourself for drugs?

why can’t you love yourself?
only people untouched by this manifestation of self-inflicted hate
dare to ask that question.
and they will never understand.

i try to escape myself and run up the stairs
only to find it’s a one-way elevator
i try to escape myself by breaking myself in the mirror
but my shadow just laughs behind me

i forget who i am when those pills touch my tongue
i forget who i am when i stare at the blood
i forgot what brought me here when i wake up
and i can’t remember how to get out

how dare you ask me when you can’t even know?
if you knew you wouldn’t ask for you know there’s no answer.
one can never be found; this isn’t a test
there’s no pass or fail, just a broken spirit and a second glance

you can’t comprehend why someone would starve
why they can’t forget what it’s like to not feel empty.
you can’t comprehend why i’m fascinated with my blood
as it contrasts with my pale skin, the false spirit i’ve become

i trip and i fall and i can’t run away
hands hold us back, there’s no chance of return
if you knew it, if you felt it you wouldn’t ask questions
you’d know there’s no answer for this one person dance

you’d understand that these words are a confession
not a meaningless plea for help that will never come
you’d understand i don’t want pity or you to understand
i just want some release for the ghost i’ve become

why i lock myself in my room for hours, listening to the same song over and over
why i stare at my walls and the pictures i’ve plastered of everything and nothing, just a hollowness best forgotten
why i can’t forget despite my vows and no matter how much i pull myself up, i just continue to fall back down
you can’t understand, you can’t possibly know, what it feels like to be me

i know from your questions, your pityful and pityless stares
i know from the look of horror on your face as you glimpse a white pill or a scar
i know from the way you can’t look away no matter how repulsed you are
i know and you know but you continue to watch my dance

your questions are meaningless, a charade of wanting to understand
you know that you don’t want to understand how dark a person can become
i’m a manifestation of self-inflicted hate
and you are nothing in my hazed over state.

“Where the searchlights find us
Drinking by the mausoleum doors
And they found you on the bathroom floor.” -MCR, Cemetery Drive

Forget

If I could feel for you
I would.
Don’t you know that?
If I could spare a heartbeat for you
I would.
Don’t you know that?

If your eyes weren’t sad and red.
If your lips weren’t bruised and bled.
If your face weren’t flushed and torn.
If your neck were not adorned
By bruises not of my creation.

If I could feel your pulse
I would.
Don’t you know that?
If I could choke you with my hands
I would.
Don’t you forget that.

If I could spare a moment of my time
To glance at your pale body in that stupid fucking box
I wouldn’t.
Don’t you fucking forget that.

Two Days, Two Minutes

it’s unwashed, this sea of red
unexplored, unknown
it’s untouched, these murderous hands
feared, too well known

chipped nail polish, faded lipstick
eyes of blue filled with tears
no remorse, just fear of repayment
for the body at her feet

metal hits pavement, tears fall down
she stares at the body, kicks it, runs
nowhere to go, nowhere but down
she hears voices, she yells

a pale body lies ten floors down
her blood spattered shirt a reminder
her blue eyes close as she turns and smiles
laughing at the people before her

four days ago an honor student
three days ago discovered pregnant
two days ago he left her
two minutes age he left the earth

her hand touches her stomach
her eyes fill with tears
stepping backward toward an open window
as they scream reassurances she falls

one last look at a black sky
the moon hidden by smog
one last thought of her unborn son
as she joins his father on the ground

Luvverzz,
Dru

“White it out like glittering wax butterflies …” -The Used, Maybe Memories

(Gerard is reading questions from a fan to Bert)
GERARD: Bert, does broccoli really make you so horny?
BERT: Yes.
GERARD: … and would you autograph my Used panties?
BERT: Yes.  Don’t tell your mom.  Don’t tell your mom about that broccoli either.

I was on INO (imnotokay.net) and they had a rant going about Teen Beat and Bop and those magazines making Gerard out to be their new poster boy and basically the only member of MCR.  The rant rambled off on teenies.  This was my reply.

I said this to someone.  I hate it when bands seem to only have one member.

However, I do buy those magazines simply because I want the pictures up on my walls.  It makes me laugh out loud at the way they portray them and how they just regurgitate facts and make it sound like it was an exclusive interview or something. 

I end up throwing at least 80% of the magazine away as soon as I get my MCR & GD stuff, sometimes some SP or GC.

In my area those are basically the only magazines you can get that have anything to do with MCR or Green Day or any bands that you wouldn’t play on ‘TeenyBoppers Top 40′, so I do buy the magazines for pictures.

When I’m in Omaha or a large city, that’s when I have the opportunities to get AP and things like that (which I do), but in my area you have to take what you can get.

And I am one of those girls that puts my bands all over my walls, simply because I like knowing that … well, that they’re there, I guess.

I don’t think putting pictures on your walls is a sin, but I do think that it’s sad that bands are made out to be one-man shows.

Also, I do not think new fans are automatically teenies.  I’m a new fan.  I’d never heard of MCR because in the small town I grew up in, that sort of music was not only evil, but unhead of.  I didn’t get into MCR until I graduated and a friend told me about them and then I became a huge fan.  I didn’t jump on the bandwagon, I was introduced to music I had never heard of.

It was amazing to be able to finally experience things that I couldn’t.  I don’t love MCR because ‘they’re sooooo hawt’ or whatever.  I love their music, I love their lyrics, I think they’re entire viewpoint and existance is an art form. 

People are often labelled as teenies if they owned MCR’s second album before they’re first or the first MCR song they heard was ‘Helena’.  To me that’s a type of prejudice.  You don’t even take the time to find out someone’s story before you label them.  Yeah, there are teenies and they are new “fans” but not all new fans are teenies.

Luvverzz,
Dru

“People think we’re rich vampires.” -Gerard

It’s a poem.

If I could feel for you
I would.
Don’t you know that?
If I could spare a heartbeat for you
I would.
Don’t you know that?

If your eyes weren’t sad and red.
If your lips weren’t bruised and bled.
If your face weren’t flushed and torn.
If your neck were not adorned
By bruises not of my creation.

If I could feel your pulse
I would.
Don’t you know that?
If I could choke you with my hands
I would.
Don’t you forget that.

If I could spare a moment of my time
To glance at your pale body in that stupid fucking box
I wouldn’t.
Don’t you fucking forget that.

“Bert and I don’t date…but we go out in a musical sense.” -Gerard Way

Well, I figured I should post.  I mean, I never post anymore.  I’m sorry! 

Anyway, let’s post some shit I don’t tell anyone but Megan (my bitch).  I’m tripping on drugs again!  Yay for me.  *sarcasm*  I hate being 18.  It sucks.  I hate college.  It sucks more.  I don’t care how fucking immature it sounds because you all can kiss my fucking ass … I’m not ready to be a ‘grown up’ yet.  I’m completely and totally terrified of taking control of my life.

Yesterday we were talking about dating and I nearly had a panic attack.  We stopped visiting my counselor, I ODed last month about a week before Christmas.  600 mg of Lamictal.  Now I’m tripping on shit and I don’t even know what half of it is.

I’m considering anorexia.  I’m just so … fucked up completely and totally.

Except when I’m online or writing and I haven’t really been writing in the last few days, haven’t been on MSN either.

Well, whatever.  This post is up.

Luvverzz,
Mrs. McCracken, aka Dru

“He had a tight butt, though.” -Bert
“He did have a tight ass, for sure.” -Gerard
“Bert has a tight butt, too.” -Bert
Comparing Bert to Charles Manson