Hey Sarah Loveday

Thanks for liking my blog. Well, thanks for loving it.

Seriously, you've been a huge chunk of the reason I even keep writing.

But, I'm so sorry. I can't say who I am. Because basically... I am a lie.

Yep. This entire blog is basically bull crap, but I meant every word.

This blog was never meant to be about truth, it was supposed to be a writing project for myself and a different side of me. I wanted to see if I could write from a whole different perspective than I'm used to and, honestly, I have loved it.

These words that come from Benji Shell are honest and some of them are straight quotes. They're just not from me.

I lied to Nelson about who I am and I lied to a lot of people at first actually but the truth is is that I am not Benji at all. He's a mixture of two things but mostly Benji is in love with me.

I sound crazy... I'm just incapable of being fully honest with you because we're friends in real life and all of my different selves worship you. I don't want you to hate me when you find out who I am.

"The man who is behind it is one of the most honest men I've had the pleasure of reading about."

And he is. A huge part (the best part) of Benji is one of the most real, most honest people that I believe has ever walked this earth, but I am not him. 

I'm so sorry if I've been a huge disappointment to you. I never thought Benji would go anywhere and because of you, I feel like he has.

Thank you so much for everything, Sarah.

I'm not sure that I can continue Benji after this but we'll see.

Thanks again,

Benji Shell

Intimidation Nation

I wanna know who I intimidate so I can show them they shouldn't be afraid.


















 I wanna know who I don't intimidate so I can quickly start intimidating them and put them in their place.

suicide

Damn it.

most appear and fade away

I'm this close to being done.

Who am I kidding.
Why was I trying.
Who am I kidding. I'm not a writer.

The worst is having a broken heart but no one even realized they broke it.
Then you are mad.
Anger pushes up inside of you and you wanna just throw every thing you own out on the table and say "Take it! You can have all of it. I don't want me anymore."

The pieces of you are scattered.
You can do nothing.
No good.
No bad.
You just sit.

Fade away. Sink lower into the dirt you were made from.
You want to be forgotten. So nobody can remember when you failed.

I'm not a writer. I just talk too much.

Mom's got the bucket

 

Dad never let us draw chalk on the driveway. But I miss the days when he'd yell at us to stop. Knock it off. Grow up a little bit faster.

So I did.
When all that stuff happened..  When life happened, too young and too quickly, I grew, shooting up on a thriller ride and my body collapsed under the pressure.
I think my head and my heart must have collided on the way up cuz I haven't been able to get them separated since.

I dropped my crayons on my way up, but I never really had them from the start.
It always for me better to use the stick of charcoal. So I could get my hands dirty.

As I left my childhood I became a stick of charcoal, trying to draw on the pavement. But mom wouldn't stop pouring the bucket of water over all my pictures.

Any kid would've stopped trying to create things after they watched that black wash off the driveway and drip into the grass.

I love her still.
Even if she never bought me a Crayola set.
Even after I began to wonder if she let me hold the charcoal just so she could wash it away again.

But I was only ever trying to draw her a picture and I think that's what hurt the most.

And You've Won

It's time to hand out the awards again and the crowd goes silent as the last award is about to be announced.
Human of the Year.
I've always wanted to win.

But there's that hush and that rush and the announcer says what the neighbors have hoped wouldn't be spoken. You've won again.
It's only a contest in my mind I know, but somehow it matters that you win over me... every time. I haven't decided, but I might like it that way.

Human of the Year and you've won.



I make a decent human.

My grades say so. My parents say no. So I guess that lands me somewhere in the middle.
But you used to wonder if I was half god because I had some magic magnetic pull or something. And I can do math like a pro.
Where's that magic pull now?

And I might've believed you if I hadn't lost in the end.

So now I see I'm human because when I saw you dancing at prom, I swore for the second time in my life because, you were beautiful. Even if you weren't dancing with me.

And I could feel that I'm human when I found one of your red hairs on a shirt I haven't worn since that Tuesday and I kicked a hole in the wall.
My mom was gonna pass out.
I know I'm human because the look on her face still is hilarious to me.

I know I'm human because I get anxious.
I know I'm human because I can't stop myself from writing a thank you card after everything.
I know I'm human because I slip in the shower.
I know I'm human because I keep shaving the mustache that isn't there yet.

So you've won the award again.
You, Human of the Year again this year and you're probably just sleeping in your bed right now, completely unaware.

Yeah so. You've won the medal and you were nice, but you were wrong.
Because I'm just human and I won't believe I'm any more than that now..
Because even half a god could grow a mustache.

And I can't.

thirty-two

Back when a man's hand was used for nothing but shaking.

(I think this is my Paris post.)

I'm looking at my thirty-two year old self in the mirror and I'm scared.
Maybe I'm getting to the half-way point cuz I'm almost positive this is my mid-life crisis.

I look at my face in the mirror. Scratchy. My chin, my hair, and the wrinkles lining my eyes. Am I sad?

I guess it happens suddenly, huh? Because that's how I hear the knocking. It had been a while, but I still remembered how to open the small door to my bones.
So, it was in my hands that I held them. I wanted to rock and to roll with them. They sent a shock through my palms that ignited every regret I had left in me. I heard them talking and it was the first time in 10 years.
That's when I saw in my hands, mixed with the blood and the bones, a picture of Paris.
I stared at her. Did I even own her from the start? I don't think so, but I know Paris had seen me. I'm thirty-two and even dad doesn't know what to believe anymore.
But, somehow, my bones drew a sketched up picture of the Eiffel tower and I knew it was for me.

Suddenly I remembered the bricks they used to keep me here. The night my bones helped me sand them down to make my escape. As I stand here in my 10th grade locker room, my heart is hurting and I remember my first look through that hole at the Eiffel tower. My Beacon. There she stood, shining, melting the snow in my footsteps. My bones are beating to get through to my 32-year-old self as I relive once more... stepping through the hole, my hair brushing against the crumbling bricks, and hearing Resistance calling my name.
I wish I never looked back.


But that night, my bones were set. So I turned and ran even faster.
I jogged till my legs were burning, but I only took life from the fire.
Because that summer I slept under the Eiffel tower and I will never forget it.


But now I'm thrity-two, looking down at my hands, shaking my head and thinking I should've sealed up that hole. I didn't realize how I was holding that picture so tightly.

What happened.
I'm 32 and I have just as many hours in my day as I did when I was 6. As they always have. All that's changed is that I've read so many more books.
Life happened.

Life isn't called living if you're using a dead player.



I'm still very much a little boy.