Get Up, Get Down, And Do It All Again.

Adorable. Sweet. Dead.

This was originally supposed to just be about my anxieties and hopes for the new year, but a fairly... morbid truth has been brought to my attention. Things just seem to die when I'm around. I try not to think too much on the idea, but it's hard not to when things start being carted off limp. Cosmo was quite possibly the most loving stray you could ever imagine. He was barely out of his kitten stages when he stumbled onto our porch, his hair long, bright and soft. My most prominent memory of the bug is him trying to steal my god damned crackers when I was sick, but eh. He was a part of the family, yeah?
Last night while people were making resolutions, getting drunk, having sex in celebration of the new year, little Cosmo was crushed by some car probably going over fifty down the strip of pavement in front of my place. More than likely, it was one of the many little druggies that like to spill into my neighbor's lot. I think they're moving out soon. That would make me a little less bitter about the natives, I think.

I had left a little note on the whiteboard in our kitchen for my uncle to wake me up before he went to work so I could get a few chores in:
"Cosmo's dead."
"What?"
"Your aunt found her cat in the street. Cosmo go hit by a car."
"Oh."
And I went back into my room. To be honest, it felt like a charade making my little 'oh's of surprise, like an act for the no one that could see.

It always feels like that. Whenever something dies, I get all detached and it's like I'm watching myself from the third perspective. I can hear my thoughts; they're all just little calculations of how next I'll move the muscles of my face. It always seems like my "sympathy face" isn't enough. I feel like the people watching me see something false in it. And maybe they do. I wouldn't deny it, I suppose. Or maybe I would. I've never really been cornered and questioned about it so I must be doing something right, hm?

She's so upset.

I think my uncle is bad at taking death too. He's building a model car in the kitchen, mumbling to himself and chuckling at some joke. Sometimes I feel a lot like my uncle. Sometimes. At least he's become more... More active in his family's life since I came. That always makes me happy. Even last night, my aunt told me I was like an inspiration. All I did was sit on my computer and somehow I had inspired my cousin to take his time with his fireworks and actually stay up until New Years. My aunt didn't spend another countdown alone.

She was so lonely.

She didn't know it, I think, but for the longest time, being married to my uncle for twenty years and dating him for ten before that, she was lonely. I wonder if somehow, if I ever obtain that spouse status, will my spouse be lonely too? I'm not exactly attentive. Heh. But most of the attention where I would matter would be in the bedroom, right? -u- I should stop dwelling in that mindset, I know, but it's hard not to. When I skip that little aspect of marriage, my brain goes to work in the kitchen and cleaning. I suppose I'll be good in that area too. But, then again, so is my aunt and she's currently weeping for one of her precious, furry little friends.

And so, in rolls the new year.

I'm eighteen, everyone! Finally legal~! I'll have to be sure that that little bit of information stays out of certain people's ears. But as far as you guys, eh, who gives a poo. What were your new year's resolutions, readers? Or didn't you have one? I just sort of pulled one out of my ass at last minute. Eh. I said I wanted to finish some works, put 'em up for display in parts. Y'know. /points to poll. I'd probably end up writing smut, since it sells so well and it's so easy to write. Yay catering to fetishes!

Alright, my little window of time to write has run out.


Question of the Day: Would smut be a good idea? Like Romance novels only... better? And for both genders?

You Are The Only Exception.

I think I am weak. Not wholly, no. But to certain things, without a doubt.

When I reflect on how I might turn out, when I'm considering the future and so on, I see just how weak that I could be. But even if I would put up with almost anything from those that I love? That doesn't exempt the fact that I hate being in the dark. I'm too much like an animal in that sense. I'll just... lose it.

And I hate losing it. I hate not having control over myself. It's the bigges tthing that keeps me so reined in. I don't want to be spread out so thin. But is being happy and silly really so bad? I don't know. I loved last night, walking across Main and doing the hula in a dollar store, hiding under the covers and acting like my DS was a campfire. Posing in front of someone else's mirror and finally giving in to my own exhaustion.

It was nice. I want to do it more often. I hope I can let those little things add up in these next few months. Then, after that 9, the little things will become everything and maybe after some prep, I'll always be giggling like a mad woman. Maybe I won't be so afraid to let out my obnoxious laugh.

Or maybe I'll complicate things. I don't know. Grahhh. /randomnoisesftw.

I drew on my arm yesterday too--with eyeliner--and traced out "Romantic" in half-assed Olde English script. I love that word. I love every implication behind it. "One of the dying few, we the Romantics~" Chivalry, chivalry. It's okay if chivalry dies. I'll be your knight in shining armor regardless~.

I have a thirst for words today.

Avante Guardian is my favorite band of any style, any genre, any age group that there ever was and ever will be. Even A Love Like Pi can't compete. If anyone can find their videos, their mp3s, direct me to them<3.>

Hehe~. :DDD



Question of the Day: If your school played music in passing --like mine!--, what song would you sing aloud without a second thought on it? What song would make you fall over with blood dribbling out of your ears?

That Boy is a Monster: The Dead Rise Again

Out with the vampires and in with a different kind of corpse, eh?

The Walking Dead is an American television series based on a comic series of the same title by Robert Kirkman, Tony Moore and Charlie Adlard. On October 31, 2010, AMC premiered it with a 90-minute episode during their Fearfest. In true Rabbit fashion, I missed it, and only watched it this morning on AMCtv.com, where they will be steaming the pilot--only the pilot--for free. Tonight, the second episode is airing, at 10/9 central. Hopefully, I'll catch it this time.

All in all? I thought it was great for a first episode.
Typically, zombies are presented in quick bursts with little characterization to the true hype behind them; survival. Video games express that well enough, but like movies, they're limited. And for this fact, I was instantly psyched. There's a certain leniency allocated to shows that aren't available to game producers and movie directors. Mostly, that would be time. You can pump out episode after episode and build up, whereas the alternative is to hook the audience, sell the product and pray it floats when you ship it out, all in a matter of 120 minutes or a CD's worth of work. And one shots like that are strictly hit or miss.

But this? Oh, this could grow on you.

We open with an unnamed character leaving his vehicle in search of gasoline. He treks down from the road, makes his way around a few upturned and abandoned cars, and advances on some pumps. A sign stops him short, however, as it reads; "No gas." He idles around for a moment,

Mind you, this is all purely fictional, however, I understand that
even fiction can be powerful enough to stir up strong emotions.
I would not recommend this series to anyone who might be
sensitive to the macabre or otherwise grotesque imagery.

Humans and animals both are going to be munched and chomped and
riddled with bullets throughout the series, as exemplified in the first episode alone.

You have been warned~.

Happy Walking.

Heh. Well. See? I tried. I always try.

I have so many ideas and so many talents that I could use but, I just. I don't have the time.

I never have the oppertunity to focus on any one thing...

It really... just. Bums me out.

I tried to write that... the week... before... last? I don't know. Probably about two weeks ago.

Sigh~...

But happiness tops it all!

Know why?

Because I received a letter in the mail last night.

It was from my college of choice. :D

Question of the Day: What are you passionate about? Share some of that passion with me and the rest of my readers.

And a side note: You know. I'd really like to have full on discussions for some of these questions.

If you feel a comment box is too cramped, go ahead and write a blog. Link me to the response.

Let's have a chat! I'd love it. Intelligent conversation, mmm<3.

Inside Jokes and All the Folks

Dear Jamie - HelloGoodbye

"Isn't poetry all about symbolism?"
Yes, why yes it is~. Sometimes.

I suppose depending on how you look at this,
It could either be very cryptic, or very straight-forward.
Take it as you will. /shrugs. It is for my Moon~.

Could I wrap you up in silver threads
Like the water on which the moon treads?
Sprinkle gentle heaps of stardust in your hair
To forever remind me that you are there?

And when the sun should rise again
With fiery tongues there and then,
My hands as swift as bird's wings
With skin cool like porcelain things,
Could I soak up the joy in your smile
With the warmth of it lasting a while?

Would you let me drink in your quirked lips
Loop my arms around your softly swaying hips?
Can I draw down your shoulders in my fingers
And trace your spine where my mark still lingers?

The words fill up the skies, darting among clouds
And we pluck them down like scarlet shrouds,
Our ears once filled with the boisterous volume
Of a thousand songs in their most vibrant of bloom,
And we ask the questions that trail our sleeves
Like Autumn's children all speckled with orange leaves.

Clouds of Sulfur In the Air

And it is time for a rant!
A somewhat rant.

Am I even capable of really ranting something out?
Not like others, I don’t think so… Not often.

Hm.

I live with my younger cousin, ----. He’s ten, I’m almost eighteen—we’re going to butt heads. That is the inevitability of being so distant in age, right? He’s a boy and I’m a girl. More butting heads, yay. He’s also an only child. And I… am an orphan. It’s two totally different worlds.
I knew we weren’t always going to get along peachy-keen, especially with his hormones setting track for puberty and all of that pish-posh, but eh. The boy is a nuisance sometimes, plain and simple. I love him, really I do, but it’s pretty pathetic that I have to leave angry notes on the bathroom mirror asking him not to use my toothpaste to clean the wall.

All of the things he does really only leads down to one thing; maturity. His mother has told me countless times that it takes men longer to mature than girls. Give or take ten years, that’s about her estimation; twenty-five for women, thirty-five for men to start acting like true blue adults. And I’m not entirely arguing with her, man. I’ve seen the examples and I’ve seen the exceptions. I’m a believer~.

The peeve that I’m addressing is… what? What would you call it? Sportsmanship? Competition? It’s just that attitude, that game-face sort of mien that really pisses me off sometimes. It drives me nutty when a person can’t play a game, or compete at something with others, and leave the turf with the attitude dropped. If you can’t handle it, why are you even doing it?
My little cousin has an Xbox 360—along with every other damn gaming system in creation—and recently purchased a month long online membership. His parents are cutting him off when it ends, thank the gods. They don’t like it because he’s on there talking to people and so on and well, they can’t monitor it. His mum is mostly upset with the fact that he’s been running around saying “faggot” and “butt-wipe.” Again, I can’t help but agree. In fact, I really don’t think a ten year old should have much of an online access to anything unsupervised in the first place, you know? No trial runs about it. Too bad, kid, pitch your fits.

What his parents don’t seem to entirely notice? ---- has this thing about games. If he’s not winning, no one is winning because he ends up in tears and rocking to daddy. If he is winning, he either rubs it in everyone’s face and acts like a cocky little snot, or he just. Spams the same moves over and over, until you’re so frustrated that you want to clock him with a sledge. That attitude? That aggressive, in-your-face attitude? After playing Halo for even a few minutes, he’s got it in full-range, with the seekers out.
He’s a good kid. Polite. Sweet, even. (He has a crush on Miss Lanna!) But when he gets off of that game, he has a totally different persona. I can deal with pesky nagging, or even being called a spud-head, but when he’s just plain bitchy? Shut the hell up! Just. Shut up! Or I will strangle you, demon spawn! ~ u ~
I’m not a violent person until I’m provoked. Then I grit my teeth, or I lash with my tongue. But there have been instances where I’ve wanted to smash his Xbox and twist up that little headpiece he uses to talk to whoever the hell is willing to have their profile stalked that day. I think I’ve shoved him maybe once… But I'm never violent. Still, I end up grinding my teeth and biting back a few murky words.
It makes me wonder if it's my own tempter that has such a short fuse or is it the stress? Or is it that ---- knows all of the right buttons to push? I hope I'm not one of those people that react with their fists when it comes to a tense situation. I've always been so silent. I prefer it. My anger smolders, then fizzles out and dies away, and I get this I-don't-care mien.

While I'm on the topic of ----, can I kind of complain about something else?

Why doesn't this boy know how to shut the door when he's peeing? No, seriously, guys. Our bathroom is literally right next to the front door--I've been hit in the nose once or twice by said door coming out of the shower. So, how is he so comfortable? With me right there on the couch. I just. It's so. Disgusting. I don't want to accidentally get a view of your adolescent wang, I don't want to hear you miss the toilet, and I don't want to hear your appreciative little grunts when you finish up.
I'm pretty sure that if I ever were to get married or even move in with a boy/girlfriend? I would feel just the same about them, no matter how personal and close our relationship had gotten. I'm one of those people that doesn't enjoy vulgar humor, cringes when people giggle and say something about their different bodily functions and recesses; I just don't like it. I'm prim. Proper. Not all of the time, no, but I will crinkle my nose if you're acting like your flatulence is just the most fascinating thing on this planet.

Maybe I’m just a stick in the mud.
So, Senior pictures. 45$ for the cheap-y school ones or 150$ for a session with a photographer?
Choices, choices, choices.

Question of the Day: If you’ve ever had a pen pal (or wanted one?), what were they (/ would they be) like? Did you keep in contact or did it flop?

English Assignment

Another in our pilgrimage,
To which I pay this homage,
Is a girl of tempered fever
Known simply as the Achiever.
Her hair is dark, like powdered cocoa,
And soft, but none could claim to know.
Her eyes are bright and of the same color,
Subdued, downcast, but of words they are fuller.
For her mouth is pressed tight
Concealing all she would send aflight
If only a hand would extend
With honest good to intend.
On her shoulder, she carries a bag
That’s torn at one edge like a rag.
Within, she stores two heavy tomes
That equal the weight of bulky stones,
Flowing with knowledge by the page.
You would think she aspired to be a sage.
And perhaps that is correct,
The entire reason she has kept so erect,
Surpassing her childish peers
And pressing on through the years.
Yet if one sought beyond her long-time goal,
They would see she dreams more than any soul,
For a horse of white and gesture sweet,
The one that she’s been hoping to meet.
Her Prince Charming, with hair of gold,
And young blue eyes that speak of old.
This pilgrim’s name I did beseech,
But something else, my heart she did teach.

Question of the Day: Would you save yourself?

Muse I: Border Wars

Miss Lanna is my first muse, it seems~.

I'll take what she's given me, think on it, then tie it all together and we'll see what we get.

This time, it looks like it'll be mostly writing. And maybe a concept scribble here or there.

Burning Trees

I pictured a group of sylvan people, almost instantly. (No, not the tutoring institute. Crack a dictionary if you're lost.) They're not so much elves or mythical folk as they are just people trying to get by. Humans, through and through. Plain. Somewhat of anarchists but not quite nihilists, struggling against the throes of a monarchy. Although I'm not entirely sure about the monarchy idea. I think it's a different force, but similar.

Walls of Ice

Walls of~ ice. That could go in several directions. Immediately, I see a large barricade made up of ice. But then I double over that thought and take it in a psychological sense. Walls that you build between yourself and another, giving them the 'cold shoulder.' And again, I stop and regroup. Most predominantly, I see shields. Shields made of some sort of glass, or crystal. It's thick and reflective. Maybe even frosted, like the windows they put in bathrooms? And I think of magick, that when cast, projects a chilling sensation to those around / near / casting it, etc.

Massive Sunflowers

I don't remember what movie it was but--Dragon Tales! It's a children's cartoon on PBS. There was an episode where the little girl and her brother are flying on the dragon's backs and they come across this expansive.. canyon? I'm assuming. And there are redwood-tall green stalks with massive yellow flowers forming a canopy over the whole of the canyon. The puffs of yellow are some sort of... agressive... lion... flower... things. But that was what I thought of. Which leads me to the idea of an enchanted glade, though I'm not entirely sure of why the glade is enchanted, or if it's really enchanted, or. There are just some awesome farmers harvesting giant sunflower seeds.

War and Treaty

Obviously between the sylvan peoples and the monarchy-esque people. I'm assuming that the treaty would be divulged between them as a sort of amends for any force that they've been pressing on eachother, then an agreement. I think, there was a heavy border control situation between the two and the sylvans wanted nothing to do with the moarch power. But under the treaty, the monarch's people are allowed to travel through and to the sylvan's homes, and sylvan's are safe to pass into the monarch's places so that they might further knowledge, etc...

Third Party

I just keep imagining some really. Unlucky guy. Getting into it with the wrong people. Or rather, he's idly passing by and stumbles upon a murder scene. But that's so insanely overdone, I think I'll shy from that idea. It seems more... appropriate that the third party be strongly associated with one of the sides. Maybe even hates the other one. And s/he... Hm. I believe s/he would be of moderate power, on whatever side they are, and highly respected? So, when s/he ends up in trouble, it really flares the tensions.

Assasination

S/he will most likely be done away with as an example. But something tells me not to kill off the character that quickly. S/he may be important later on, though I'm not entirely sure how. But it's not a everyone-thought-I-was-dead-but-ha-I-fooled-you-suckers kind of thing. Nor is it the surprise, Oh btw, Luke I'm your father. Such a complex character system I see going here.

Rinse, Repeat

When the war starts again, I see that third party element developing into a group of "neutrals" who want to do away with both sides, so that those in the in-between can live peacefully. Not quite a third race, but somewhat of that sense, yes. I don't think there will be many half-breeds. In fact, I assume that in either society, half-breeds and their parents will be murdered without a second thought. Kind of like in Eastern society when a woman is raped and she and the baby are killed for the sin of it...

Sweets and Music

I see a very sweet and innocent character kind of being dragged into the middle fo the war and ultimately ending it, as an entirely different person. I mean a radical flip in personality. Sweet and loving to malicious and unforgiving over the progression of the story. A real good guy that's been thrown for the dumps who doesn't win in the end and maybe even evolves into--I shouldn't have made a reference to Star Wars. Now my brain is fixed on that linear. But no, maybe not the bad guy, but in the end, he's so. Torn up and twisted and he wants to be good but he honestly doesn't know how to anymore, and he kills himself in confusion. o3o Yey suicide.

So!

The two groups...

Humans - They live in a large forest, filled with trees that are about the bulk of mid-grown redwoods. They build their cities around the trees, up of stones and mud and the like. They're really quite civilized but a bit less destructive than their ancestors let off. There are paths between the trees made of cobblestones, sort of like the yellow brick road, and so on. They use a complicated train system which is run by steam and large gears wth strong pulleys, supported by tracks that are made up of stone upon stone and oiled rail, but also use a sort of car that's run on steam alone. Hm, hm, hm... Their clothing is fairly modern, I suppose you could say, but light. Thin. And mostly dresses and convenient pants. Tights, boots. Woody but civilized kinds of clothes with hints of tribal somewhere in there. The government is really built up on a lot of small town ethics. Each settlement has no named leader, but tehre are common figures that will arise to act as leader when time comes. Decisions are made as a whole and as far as laws are considered, they're practically nil. They don't use currency. Temples are built into trees. They're very religious... Hm~. Oh. And women are expected to be modest, yes--but here's the kink. Men are supposed to listen to their wives. If they decide they don't want to do dinner, Hubby better jump. But not many women really stress this respect that they are given to a point of exploitation and so everyone is happy. The only time that anyone really gets testy is when a less-than-honorable woman stresses the belief.

Aryans - The mythical creatures of our tale. Basically, elven men and women that live in large, industrialized cities. Everything is run by magic and electricity. They namely use titanium, rubber and glass to build their cities and so on. The society itself is something caught between a modern day Monarchy and Midieval social classes. There's room for a lot of corruption and darling? There is. They have no steady set religion, but loosely practice under the same beliefs that the Humans have: an all encompassing God. But they're a bit more direct about it. He's only up there watching and eating his snacks, they might as well make it a little interesting, eh? And really, the only reason they're warring is because the Human's naively call them demons, curse them for their plots of taking the Earth into their own hands, as it was intended. Why be ruled by a rock? Clothing is a more fantasy-esque lean toward modern with grey subsituting black. Royalty is mostly defined in their clothing simply as more sohpisticated. Soldiers are the only Aryans that wear black, significant to show their place in society etc. Soldiers may stay wherever and with whoever they please and basically, they don't get slapped on the hand when they do what they want, so long as its not directly harming the Royals. Civilians have to obey them. There is a draft but only when necessary--which isn't often, because most Aryan boys grow up dreaming of being in the army. The Royal army is much smaller and they wear all white--when battling or on a mission--with onyx stones set into the bases of their throats. Typically, though, they pass off plainly as whatever they would wish, whether it be civilian, soldier, or Royal. Their families are not informed of their status and in fact, are sometimes mistaken for deadbeats in society. Weaponry is based on medieval devices with mechanical upgrades. (I suppose a gunblade wouldn't be totally out of place here.) Magic is most easily translated as a form of electricity that may be channeled through objects and used in a manner that is beneficial to the caster.

Next, I'll try to flesh out a sort of plot line... o3o

Question of the Day: If you do dress up for Halloween, what are you going to be this year and is your costume home-made? If you don't, what do you do to celebrate?

I love dressing up, personally. I do it every year. If I buy a costume, I tear it up, re-sew it, make it my own...

Then I leave out milk, honey and breads and whatnot for spirits passing through the veil. (:

Our Mistake.

To make it short?

I don't know if I'm going to have my phone or~ my computer.

Probably will~ but who knows, right?

Point being, I may have some time to do.. whatever!

Caveman style, of course.

So, my assignment to all of you? Inspire me.

Names, places. Plot ideas, images. Dreams and wishes.

It can be fictional or it can be non, I don't care~.

Anything and everything!

And books! Always books.

What type of book should I review first?

What books do you recommend?

(Mind you, my only resource is either my school library for the local one down the road.

Both of which are limited and I would have to order out to receive those rarer Words.)

Go, go, go!

Question of the Day: If you were some sort of ghoul, what would you be?

Nothing Turns Out Right.

I love words.
If I could commit all of my studies to learning the languages of the earth and the ways that they were formed, I think I would be content. Linguistics always kind of tickled me, but whenever it’s mentioned in class, it’s so fleeting or I’m so out of it that I just can’t enjoy it like I really want to. I love to translate accents and work them together, then dissect them. I want to know what it means and why. I like to find how things relate and where the ‘ae’ in a word disappeared to, etc, etc~.

Probably one of my dumbest geek splurges would be character swapping.

I think it was the first or second week of October. I was in the mall, browsing a store for items that could be used at a haunted house I’m going to be judging at. (Nothing was of use, of course, because everything was either for a baby or some sex fantasy that husbands don’t have the gall to address until they happen to find the wares in the store.) Sifting through the crowded ‘aisles,’ I came to the shops centre. There was a woman there with her daughter, talking to herself about a lack of liquid latex in Baytown and holding up a little makeup kit.
And this is where character swapping came into play. I became the part of me that loves Theatre technicalities. --Namely being Theatre makeup, of course.-- Fleshed her out in a matter of seconds. And through that personage, I dug up some of my knowledge on latex, etc, and took some tidbits of information from a conversation I had overheard an hour ago. Et voila, I became anew. I wouldn’t exactly suggest pretending that you’re someone who loves cars and doesn’t know zip about cars in the first place, but if you can pull it off? Do it. This is the perfect improvising activity to test your abilities as an actor. Even if you’re not in some class or other.
The woman and I ended up talking about places that one can order latex from in its various forms and what she did for a living. About Houston and its general ability to hock out anything you can think of, and so on. The conversation went on for about fifteen minutes? We parted ways and she left thinking that I was a nineteen-year-old student attending some nearby college. Who was also~ working in the Theatre department and putting up for a Halloween special. See? That’s the thing. You don’t give too many details, but you give just enough, and you could have anyone believing anything—so long as you’re not obviously bullshitting.

How does this tie around to what I started this blog with? I like to tell people that I’m going to be a linguistics major someday.

It could be true in some scenarios, I suppose. And it’s not really an extreme character swap, but depending how far they delve into it, I could easily slip into my knowledge of the romantic languages and the like. You don’t really have to know a lot about a subject, you just have to have one thing that you could turn into a lengthy conversational tool. And if the person you’re talking to doesn’t know anything at all about that area of study? You could probably pull off some good faux history. For all they know, Chinese derived from sea faring peoples that hung around India before it was densely populated.
Perfect example?
I don’t know anything except for basics on Geography. You could probably convince me that Russia was once a peninsula.

But back to linguistics and words in general~. How many ways could I say that I just love the entire topic? (Probably a variant of five or so, but not to get too into diction and whatnot here..) I think in paragraphs and whenever I watch movies, I think of how I would describe what I’m seeing in prose. I think of the different tones used and how texture in a picture could relate to a scene. I think of how conversations that I have in real life could be translated to an exchange between two heroines.
What really hurts me though, is that I never get to express that love. Or at least, not in the way that I truly would enjoy expressing it. Writing, writing, writing. I wish I could just write an excerpt about a day at school or work, rather than actually be doing it. I write everything important to me. I can say countless things, do countless more—because undeniably, I am a thespian through and through—but when something truly impacts me, I write about it. And more often than not, I share that writing with at least one person. I love feeding my scrawl to an active mind and I love seeing how that mind perceives it.

If I have something to say to you and I write it? It would most probably be said in all honesty and seriousness.
(Not to be confused with over-the-internet banter. I don’t exactly have an alternative beyond writing to you in that sense.)

I cannot tell you how many letters that I have written through the years--to Vixen alone! In fact, I used to write to her every day of my life, back when I actually had the time to. That notebook never reached her, but even if I know that a letter won’t reach someone, at least I’ll have written it. And I can imagine how the conversation would go following it. I put so much of my soul into what I’m writing, even when it’s fractured and ill thought out. I just…
I have a lot of regret. And envy. Bottled up inside of me when I see that my friends, who have no interest in being authors, end up writing more often than I do. It eats away at the back of my conscious until I feel a little sick, then a lot sick, then plainly depressed. I used to have days where I would use that sickness to skip out on school for a day out of the month, and I would write in the solitude of my room, typing or scribbling so quietly that not even a Sonic Ear could pick it up.

There is so much that I care for, but there are two things that I could not live without.
I think only one person really knows what those things are, or at least they should.

Question of the Day: What is your most secretive guilty pleasure? All anons are welcome~, of course.

It's So, So, So Much Better.

Do you know what sucks?

A lot of things, honestly speaking.

I think at least two instances out of every day, one could find something to prompt just that feeling.

Today was my younger cousin’s birthday. He turned 13.
I’m related to him very loosely, you see, like a sheet of brocade sloppily pasted over cheap silk. He’s my married-in aunt’s brother’s son out of wedlock. As with all gatherings, of course family and friends are sure to be there, yes? Neighbors and the like. I all at once was overwhelmed with a sense of estrangement. Every face was either foreign or blurry in my memory, to a point that it was a miracle I could drag out a name when asked, “Do you remember me?” “Yeah, you’re Amy, right? Gage’s mum. I’ve seen you once before~.”
I honestly could not have said I knew anyone. I don’t even really know the people that I live with. /shrugs.
Sitting in the middle of a party where you are all but a stranger is not fun. What can make it less fun is when your phone decides to eat any signal it might be possibly receiving, of course. It sucks in a bitter sort of only-three-more-hours-to-go kind of way.

Eighteen glorious years of mistakes, regrets and decisions. Right on the cusp of that lovely thing called adolescence and at the brink of maturity. The only thing that really changes is, you can’t rely on being a kid to get you out of things anymore, though. Parties can make you realize that pretty blatantly. The toddlers gawk at you and giggle madly when you talk to them but don’t understand a word unless its being forced out through cupcake crumbs. The adults all sort of convene in these tight circles and if you’re not holding up a proud bottle of beer, then you might as well be hashing the cupcakes you were attempting to avoid.

My, do I ramble or do I not?

An amusing Twitter to follow: DrunkCupid.
Misogynistic winged men in all their underlying jury anyone?

I received a ridiculous forward tonight. From a number I have not seen before. Something of his thinking of me and for the lack of more sneaky ways to trick one into continuing the chain, if I were not to forward it, he would fall for another. And still, the words rung ominous in my ears. How odd it was, to think of something like that even mattering. Just words on a screen, designed to pluck at one’s harp.

I deleted it. /shrugs.

I’ve completed Howl’s Moving Castle. The book, of course. It was… well. Mayhap it will be my first book to review.

When I sat outside earlier, the only thing the wind seemed to bring me was a stomach ache.

I crave something bloody tonight.
Let’s start a war~.



Ah, and this.

The knight did not struggle half as much as she had before. Her breast plate hit the rough bark of the tree and dented slightly from the force of the blow. Still no outstanding expression or word came of her. Two of the four men swiftly bound her to the singular trunk. Her gaze rested evenly on the retreating Lady until the flimsy barrier of her tent blocked her vision. She noted that one of the knots about her chest were not as tight as they should have been, secured in haste.
A true sovereign.
The words echoed only once more in her head, then died, dropping from her conscious as a fluttering sheet of paper would once belted by the pains of some overcome drought. Still, she did not steal the sword within her reach as the soldiers stumbled away. Dubious fear and reproachful hate stagnated the air in their wake. Even as men considered slitting her throat in the night, she could only feel weary of battles past.
She closed her eyes.
And just as soon, it seemed she was shifting the ropes to find that knot. If she did not leave soon, there would be discontent in Sedona’s camp. This fact strummed at the back of her mind, insisting that her hands more just a bit more swiftly, that her plans come just a hint faster and more cunning as they do. Much like a trained escapist, she slipped out of her restraints, leaving no mark and making no sound.




Question of the Day: What do you see when you close your eyes?

And a new--much rarer--addition to my blog:

Assignment of the Day: Tell me a love story that begins in death and ends in sex that ruins a vow.



'Up All night' - Hinder

Can't You See?

What Chaucer and Alice and Time has done to me?

Propped on your metal-sewn seat
You don't understand the words
That you've been making us eat
Like unsheathed soulless swords

Drop your daggers, clandestine
Fill your throat with bloody rue
Favored of the Lady Eglantyne
Measure all of your gold in due

Without your furs and precious fines
Hooded gentil face, vital white dream
Watch swiftly now the demon dines
Tears you cork for screw in fired stream

All but gagged in your juxtapositions
Boughs of ribbon red on violet coil
Trapped in your snared suppositions
You can't be much farther from royal

They'll slaughter you at this rate
Queen of Hearts hiding from Alice
On this your predestined death date
With crimson on the walls of your palace

Bare-back wrestler like chiseled stone
Lengths as tall as a canyon is wide
Missing an eye, without skills to hone
Dried up, Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde

Question of the Day: Do we leash our demons and run? or do we set loose our own vicious nature?

I'm Here For Your Entertainment.

Do you ever just feel... angry?



I've been in such a volatile mood lately and there's really nothing that I can account it for beyond stress. God, how do I accumulate said stress? I'm only a Senior in high school. But I do and it piles up on top of whatever happened the day before and the day before that. I have not been having a good month and you know? October is my favorite month of the year, because Fall is coming and everything is beautiful. The atmosphere is even clearer.

Everything is prettier right now -- that's the point I think I was trying to make back when I started this blog.

But there's something else about October too that makes me fill with a sense of elation. Beyond its suspending beauty, beyond the magnificent transition that catches me so steadily, it's the wind. One year ago, I was in a situation that made me utterly miserable. I was in a constant state of turmoil. At a loss, for truly I had lost all that I had. And then, in the most unexpected of ways, I felt light again. I was cleaning the rotten remains of my aunt's sorrows and her husband's irresponsibilities out of an RV that should have sparkled and still had that new-car-smell to it, but instead the cupboards and carpets reeked of decay and bitterness.
I had been shoveling maggots with my hands and scavenging trinkets, dragging barrels up to a pit to be burned and all the while enjoying my first few moments of peace in nine months. I slowed my work and lavished in the stenches, though they made me sick. I sang to myself and thought of naught. Because I finally had a moment out of her house, because finally I could breathe and though it was choked, my suffocation was not caused by dread and anguished fear.
I was rinsing out shelves with a hose, sitting on the very edge of the house's perimeter and I sat down. I felt whoozy. And then the breeze picked up. I could smell oil bubbling up from the earth, farther out in my aunt's property. I could smell the trees. I could smell mud. And the grass swayed and weeds towered up to stretch for the ever-changing sky. My hands were wet and bitter cold. My jeans were heavy. There was no sound. Nothing at all that could break the gentle whistling of the wind. God, I had known it was beauitful, but just the wind had made me realize I cherished that sparsely-walked land--even if I couldn't stand living on it.
In that moment of clarity, biting back tears and swallowing weak sobs, I just. Sat. I don't think I even breathed. And then my thoughts finally began to wander, but not in fast, short bursts. It was all one long train of thought that led me on through the course of my stay and how I had come to where I was at that moment. I thought of Alanna and Roderigo. I thought of Judy and Amanda and Brittany. I thought of my adopted grandmother, though never had I felt for her a familiar grace. I chewed on regret and anger, then let it all fizzle out of me. Slowly. Seeping into the earth and projecting it all around me, away from me. Casting it away because it had no right to be within me in the first place.

From that day, so early in October, I would suck in the wind as it danced past me. I would curl it around my fingers and let it pull at my cropped hair. I would speak into it, as if it would carry messages to those that I could no longer reach. I would cry into it in the fleeting moments that it took me to drag something outside. Then, the very moment that I would step back into her house, I would be dry and expressionless. Or polite and smiling as she wanted me to be. And I would dream in silence. I would sleep shortly, and wake swiftly. I would speak softly, but never abruptly.

I suppose that I could turn this into some religion-saved-me-in-my-time-of-need story, but it honestly didn't. I think I saved myself if ever did I need to be saved. However, timely as it was, I did find a name for what I believed in during all of this turmoil. And I think it helped me to focus on what I needed to. Because even if meditation seems all too time-wasting and tedious, that singular moment that I had to truly see in clarity what I had around me, helped me significantly. I was still suffocated and utterly struggling, but that moment... It gave me something that I could have, something that was mine, though intangible. She couldn't fucking burn that, now could she? She couldn't scare that out of me and threaten me with it. She couldn't make me feel guilty for cherishing it.

Either way the spindle wobbles, this blog funnels down to a topic that I tend to mingle with fairly often.
A friend of mine was recently inquiring about religion in general and of course, the only religion that I know is the one that I would reference too, right? I'd have no true authority dispatching opinions about another unless I had practiced and studied it, correct? (A point that would be well remembered to all.) And in truth, it reminded me very much of the stereotypes and the hollywood debauchery that has been hung over Wicca. Wouldn't it be awesome if I could conjure up some sparkling ball of energy and banish some ofrmidable demon with it? I can't. But damn, that would be awesome.
Magick, magick, magick~. Who shall hence on this earth cast it over mortals?
I could pick through every stereotype and every image in movies that has been prtrayed entirely wrong. Or. I could cut to the point.
And what fun that would be. But for a lack of time, I'll do the latter.

Honestly, I can enjoy a good book about a troupe of girls that sprout wings at will or vampires--non-glittering ones, thank you--that tear out the throats of those that they find wandering too near to their nest. I can also enjoy a cook book when I'm in the mood for baking. I'm not damning those cinematic or prosed wonders, but when people can't see the line between fantasy and reality, that's when I have a little bit of an issue. I do not, have not and never will be summoning demons out of my bedroom floor, for one. And for second, I don't think it possible, no matter how many goat babies I murdered or precious virgins I marred.
Sure, I do admit that I believe greater things exist. I believe that anything is possible. No, seriously. If an alien landed at my doorstep and asked me for some hawaiin sugar, after that initial shock? "Glad to help a neighbor." I'd smile, then get down to asking questions about wherever the hell he came from. Obviously, I would be curious, but I wouldn't cry out in disbelief and call the police or try to tear off what I could have sworn was a mask for some cruel prank. And I admit, I'd probably be terrified if he was all inhuman and sporting a set of teeth as beastly as a gnarled shark's cousin.
But I'm not exactly strict on the belief that if I somehow found the sight, I would spot Athena shining her armor on the cusp of a cloud either, you know? I don't think that every time we pray, some guy in a cloth gets a message on his beeper saying "Send a handful of Hope on down to Sue on Whatever Street," in the middle of a stroll on the rings of Saturn. (Sounds like a Linkin Park music video. -u-)

The strongest weapon you could have is your mind. How many times has that been said--inside and outside of my religion? Knowledge is power. You should cultivate your mind, yes? Use the rest of that scrumptious brain power that none of us seem to have harnessed yet. And use it in a way that suits you. But don't forget: karma is a bitch, kiddies! What goes around comes around and all that whatnot. Ah, you know all of that, right? I'm just playing parrot in a land of repitition. And those same sayings, those same elements of our every day lives? Are exactly what make up my religion.
Right before a game, the star player psyches himself up. Telling himself he can do it, everything will be fine. Then, he gets out there and he works for it. He doesn't just relax onto that cushion of thought--and he works hard for what he wants, he makes it happen. Well, if we're going to point fingers at 'practitioners,' he'll be the first that I name of the Devil's Children, because that's all we're doing people! No really! We make baubles and we put names to faces that we don't see, and granted, some people take it so much farther than it needs to go? But that's all it is.

Now, I have to cut this short, but I think next I'll bring up a little something that irks me.
Have you ever heard someone ask? "Have you ever kissed a guy? Have you ever kissed a girl? Then how do you know what you like!?"

Question of the Day: What's your opinion on some of the recent occult-based movies?

A Moment Through Her Eyes.

Introduction to Audio and Video Editing. That would be the title of the class that I'm sitting in at the moment. It's a long period day, so we typically sit here for about an hour and a half, wasting time. Giggling and getting shouted at by the teacher for our shenanigans. Or rather, "People in the front row, please be quiet!" I'm sitting in the second row. /shrug.
We have a substitute today. Our instructor is at the hospital, sitting with his wife who just gave birth to his... third child? I believe.

It's cold in here but my face is really hot. I either have a fever again or the emberassment that was my last class is still running its edge off. We had to pull together a script and act out a seven to ten minute long play. The assignment was given to us last week but due to different little things, we had only been able to even discuss our plans together twice. Both times, well. We didn't exactly do much as far as productively speaking.
When it was our turn to go up, I opened, setting up the scenes, etc. "The Solar System that we know now has failed. Earth has died and Saturn is the only remaining planet in our known system that still flourishes with life. Every four years, the queen brings forth a group of select visitors..." It was shoddy and jumbled because my teacher's husband had come in and was starting up his computer as I spoke. The noise was distracting.
Excuses, excuses~.
We ended up failing horribly. Well, in my eyes, at least. I dropped my accent halfway through, simply because I couldn't stop laughing. Two out of the three guys in my group were literally crying from laughing so hard. Every time I mustered a straight or otherwise in-character expression, it was dashed away by Shaniel's gibberish language. The spoon, too, couldn't fail to bring me into a fit of giggles. I was directing people, pulling them into the scenes with a flash of my eyes or a not-so-subtle wave of my arms.
At least the class enjoyed it.
"Tyrone, I love you!" They embraced. Students literally slid onto the tops of their desks and leaned in to hear better and see if they would kiss.
As poor as our acting was, I suppose I'm proud enough. Mrs. Gage titled me the "Puppet Master" because I was 'pulling the strings of the group.' It was amusing to hear her pull up a very old and long-buried nickname of mine. Nostalgic, almost. Eh~. And again, at least we portrayed what we were supposed to. Some of the groups sort of.. strayed, if you can call a complete miss that much. Amusing, amusing still, they all were~.
We actually thought one of the plays was about a student x teacher relationship, until they clarified at the end that the boy had actually been playing both parts with little distinction between the two.

The class was Theatre, if you haven't picked up on that yet.

Before that, what did I do~? I think I slept through Economics for the same reason that I'm blogging in the middle of Audio-Video. All too caught up with no busy work to toss my way. Hm, and before that was Astronomy. We did station work. The entire chapter is on Telescopes, which inevitably leads to a lot of Galileo this and Galileo that. Some Newton here and there. My point being, I did a project on Galileo the first two weeks of school for the same class. Again, I'm al too caught up.

Is school really this boring when you're actually doing your work? And I thought it was grueling before...

I've been tired lately. Tired all of the time. I partly blame it on my house--there's something about it that makes your eyes heavy. The dim, natural lighting, the cool leather couch... I'm tired just thinking about it. And yet, when I go to my room at night, I'm wide awake but I know that I can't just go back in to flick my computer back on. This morning, I woke up an hour too early. Went back to sleep, then woke at 4:25. Showered and returned to my room, where I slept for another hour or so. Woke at 6:10. Got dressed and laid on the couch, half-asleep for another twenty minutes.

-- Gods -damn- it. Do you know what is tirelessly annoying? When someone texts you. Twice or thrice a day. "Hey" No puncuation, nothing else. No "are you busy?" or anything of the sort. Just. "Hey" Repeatedly. Every day for the past week or more. And I don't even -respond!- Please, please tell me that you would get the hint after a while? Leave me alone, boy! I'm not going to respond. =u= --

I lost my train of thought... Are you ever tired? Tired emotionally, physically? Maybe it's jsut more so as of late because I've been unwell.

Je souhaite que je pourrais parler français. Je peux comprendre, sinon la plupart, quand la lecture de elle et de moi peut indiquer les mots assez bien, mais l'I can' ; t le parlent. It' ; s le plus ou moins même pour l'Espagnol, seulement je peux parler un peu de lui aussi bien que le comprends. Deux ans de valeur des leçons et moi pourraient très probablement seulement vous indiquer un marché ou dire qu'un femme a un mauvais travail de colorant.

Ah, thank you babelfish for that awful translation. (Does it not recognise conjunctions? Apparently so.)

Oh, oh, oh! It is time for an extremely uncharacteristic nerdgasm. Prepare for emoticons and rambling and possibly poor grammar.

Finally! OuO Finallyyy, I have a tablet again. My old one was uber tiny and didn't pick up on the pen tip when I stabbed at it half of the time. Rest its poor soul but be damned, I have a new one! OuO It was cut down to 89$. I was a psycho and paid like... 20$? Speed shipping. So that I could have. Right then and there. So now! Now, now, now, I have to practice--which I plan on doing as soon as I get home ouo--and I will fcking -own- that amasing little piece of machine! And I will pump the best damn commissions that any of you ahve ever seen! And Alanna/Vixen will color them for me and I, I, I--I can't wait! @u@ It's an Adesso Cyber Tablet, Model 7... something or other. It is. So. Pretty. I love it. ouo Lanna gave me a link to download some.. Gimp. Or whatever. Some free program that's supposed to be like Photoshop--because no one really -buys- Photoshop--and gahhh, this means that we can actually work more on our projects now and finally our comic won't seem so distant and. /fizzles.

/end.

You know? The funny part of it all is that I don't even -like- to draw that much. I do it and it passes time. It's a way to get my name out and a small source of income, but other than that, I honestly.. Well, I hate it. Not so much that I'm disgusted by the thought of it, but... I think that the reason I enjoy drawing --when I do-- is because it helps me to release some of the things that are birthed in my skull. If I had no way to let some of this clusterfuck out of my brain, I would most likely be even more insane than I already am.
Now, when I say insane, let me define that word a little bit. To me, insane and eccentric, they all mean a different way of thinking, if you get down to the bone of it, right? To me, when I trigger myself with a label like that, I'm noting on the fact that I do not think in what is deemed a "conventional" way. All of us are a little bit wacky, but not all of us are totally insane. And then, of course, there are those people that are quite literally blithering mad and so far lost into their out-of-the-box train that they can no longer be connected with the current. Or mayhap they can and we jsut don't know how to decipher it.

I think it is a stroke of genius to express a feather of madness.

Hamlet, Hamlet, Hamlet~. Do you think that possibly, he could have driven himself to madness while in the act of it? The death of his beloved Ophelia and the murder of Polonius. The fear in his mother's eyes in that scene which has made many coin him with an Oedipus Complex. The battles with those he had called friends and his father's ghost. I think I would have begun to tick a bit strangely at the moment my parent's tormented groans had come to me from below.

I'm reading Grendel by John Gardner. It's one fo those nifty volumes where you get to see from a fresh viewpoint, though you are told the same story. Personally, the shoulder-hacking of the Danes was not quite so much in my area of interest, but this book delves into a different philosophy each chapter. If you'll know anything of me, know that anything having to do with the psyche deeply interests me. Yes, there are points where I cringe but dearest, I am entranced when they mistake him for an oak spirit, his blood for sap. When he roars out his pains and he finds his own beliefs in the Dragon's words. Could you call this a coming-of-age tale? Mayhap, if you tilted your head this way and thus whilst you examined the plot.
" Balance is everything, riding out time like a helmless sheep-boat, keel to hellward, mast upreared to prick out heaven's eye. He he! (Sigh.) My enemies define themselves (as the dragon said) on me. As for myself, I could finish them off in a single night, pull down the great carved beams and crush them in the meadhall, along with their mice, their tankards and potatoes--yet I hold back. I am hardly blind to the absurdity. Form is function. What will we call the Hrothgar-Wrecker when Hrothgar has been wrecked?" Chapter 7.

I love it.

Question of the Day: Should I write book reviews? I move through them so fast and am left with no one to expend my thoughts on afterward...

Break the Skin.

Exasperating. Exasperating and infuriating, at times. That is all that I could possibly sum it up to.

I can not tell you how long I had fought and attempted to return to my home--especially after I had actually found it--and then all but suddenly the very same people that had brought my here some years ago were leaving. As simply as that. In fact, they're most probably in their metal tomb of a vehicle right now, fleeing from this putrid state of existence. If they are not, they will be soon. With them, my two younger brothers sit, dragged along with my niece—a rotting apple if ever one had fallen from more dead a tree.
The entire reason that I am in this place now is leaving me here like a piece of spent tissue. How should I feel? How, how, how should I react to all of this? I am struggling and I am fighting for a wisp of air and they’re complaining that they have to live with a two-year-old. Do you know, for as long as I have comprehended the concept and mayhap just a bit longer, I have fed myself on the dream that some day I would be attending a college and controlling my life for myself? What a pleasant clutch it is to have when one can announce with security in their thoughts that they will some day become some one worth noting.
Because when you are eight and you have already realized that your life is swiftly being encumbered along with the dredge of society? That is when things have become bad. Have become worse than bad. That is when a child must take control or they will lose all good that could be waiting for them. That is when a child sheds that layer of innocence which keeps us so healthily moist and warm in our pre-pubescence.

College is a tricky subject. It’s difficult. You will either float or you will undoubtedly sink. Most traffic the latter of the options.

I think that what upsets me the most is just how much people seem to take their wealth for granted. Not monetary wealth, no, though that may be the case with a few. If we all had a million dollars each, oh what would we spend that precious sum on? Everything and anything? or perhaps as a dragon with glittering ruby scales would, we shan’t take anything more than our own, hoarding our personal wares, unkind and ungiving.

Before a blinking screen, this age is rapidly speeding by. Time is no longer the sluggish morn to eve schedule that it was hundreds of years ago. We wake—if we do wake at all—and travel, travel until our energy is wasted. There is no set clock, only hundreds and hundreds of blinking screens. They call us the digital age. I am trapped in my own era, hooked on an era behind mine and maybe even before that. When they belch or they growl out some hideous remark, I can only cringe. When they pull a fist of condoms from their pockets, I can only shake my head.
I am no angel and I am far from superior but why? It is pleasure. Everything is pleasure. We have become a distinctive philosophy; Nihilism. Nothing is real, nothing is worth anything unless it is built up of matter. God is dead, heaven is only a reaction to the stimuli fear. The only thing worth knowing is where to touch your mate to make them blush, to make them squirm. Society is only about what we can keep, what is our own. Is that why we focus so much on our image? I’ve said something that before.
“I don’t like material things!” So I focus on my physical self, my mental self. Because even when I have long gone, the only thing that will ever take that away from me will be the children of the earth. Her sons and daughters in their lowest forms. Perhaps I will be reborn as the very maggot that is brought up in my rotting corpse. Perhaps as I am devoured by a bird or a rat, I will return as the sperm that will become their offspring.

Sperm do not have souls…

To be driven and countered, as cattle to fate. Are we here to be eaten or are we here to eat?
What of our spirit if we step just once too late? Are we here to find the rhythm or fall to the beat?

Eggs. We begin in cocoons of something wet and smelly. The moment we are free, no longer restrained, our fascination dwindles then becomes disgust. As we come closer to dying, we despise anything that might resemble our birth. Yet, we produce, we produce. In factories with dust-filled columns of sunlight spilling into our vision, we produce our daily ventures. We produce vaccines for God’s touch. Why do we busy ourselves? Is it because when we are bored, we have time to think and we are afraid of our own thoughts?

Is it so horrible to feed our brains? We only use ten. The rest starve while those ten get fat on what is unnecessary.

What do the other 90 do while we push them aside, like the young man who killed his fellow students?

There was a shooting on the UT campus today. I came into the bathroom to wash my face. I realized I looked sicker than I felt, then tied back my hair. A girl came rushing in with tears in her eyes. Disregarding school policy and with little intent to hide herself, she dialed a number onto her phone. Her sister was her primary concern. I don't know if she was okay. I left without a thought.


Question of the Day: Are you afraid of what others are capable of? Anything in particular?

Contemporary Monsters.

Oh the creations of this, our mad, mad world~.

If you haven't seen his yet, check it out!




British Loli > DoubleDown > Prof? :)

That's What You Get.

Let's see.

No free time to actually get a real job.
College is swiftly approaching.
Christmas is coming too...
Ah, and I'll have to worry about a car soon-ish!

Hm.

So, I honestly don't have much more than a scanner
and some awesome .5 straight lead pencils.
But, that's better than nothing, right?

Do what you can with what resources you have on hand, I say~.
Simple pencil drawings? Psh. I can do that!

What's that?
"I said~ Why aren't you doing it, Rabbit!?"
Ahh, I'm getting on it now!! D:

I look forward to doing business with you!

Question of the Day: What is one instance where another
person's perceptions have altered your life?

Where Is Your Boy Tonight?

On that note~ continuing from my last blog...

Forgive me for the coarse language, but. What a dumb bitch.

What did I expect, though? This is the south. Analytical skills obviously fall behind knowing how to cut a cow up for dinner. Yes, yes. In the professional world, we will rarely please our client on the first try. However, I feel I deserve this opportunity to truly just tear her down. --Him, her; It's arguable as to what 'she' is. Apparently there's an Adam's apple involved..-- I think I would be wholly amused if she found this blog somehow.
Though, I almost doubt that she knows how to navigate the interweb...
She's been putting off uploading her ezine since the beginning of summer. Maybe I deserved a response such as hers, for I did truly only pull together that little entry in the culmination of two hours or less. Still. Easily enough, you could understand what was written? Yes, it was lacking certain plotted points. Details. Etc. But that was the point and the dolt didn't seem to be able to comprehend that.
I must have asked her countless times over the phone when we first spoke with each other. I wrote her emails and responses that were in plain, simplistic english. I even stroked her ego once or twice for good measure--because all employers like a lap dog right?--and still. I don't think I would be quite so upset and frustrated about this whole affair if not for the fact that she couldn't even respond to me. She had someone under different initials respond to my latest email. And they couldn't even use proper grammar?
The entire thing was unprofessional from the start. I'm seventeen and I understand that much.
Still, I acted as amiably as I possibly could have. Because it's the courteous thing to do.

<<

What, I wonder, would mine so few viewers do if I were to purchase a book on proper etiquette and create little narrations of some sort instructing one on how to establish a respectable air in public or in a social situation? I could make it amusing and get help from the cherished Miss Lanna and so scandalous Rin~. Fenrir might enjoy lending me a hand too. Hum, hum, hum~ /taps chin.
Ha. And now I stray from the plotted course.



Question of the Day #3: What would you like to see from the british-accented--or maybe not so accented?--Rabbit in the future?

Purely Metaphorical Intentions.

Gently fading light peeked through the tangles of moss that hung from branches above. The waters pressed against the grassy bank as if they would shove it aside and swallow it up if only they had their chance. A sweeping fog came from somewhere beyond my line of sight, ever advancing, deliberate and ravenous. With it came a moist chill that seemed to seep into my flesh, eliciting the hairs there to prick up attentively. The uncertain colors of night drug invisible claws through the sun’s setting trails.
In that momentary pause where one song fades out to make room for the next and headphones dull to mere pieces of shaped plastic in your ears, I heard it. The something that sets you on your guard, not quite ordinary but not entirely threatening in its simplicity either. That something that coils in the back of your mind, feeding a strange paranoia that we’ve all experienced. It’s the something buried in our brains like a dragon sleeping in a cave, just waiting for us to stumble inside.
It was getting late, I reasoned, rather than accept so childish a fear of the unknown, and decided to depart.
As I stood up from the solitary bench, I gave the river one last lingering gaze. This was my spot, my place to think and to breathe, and that fact alone assured me of how foolish my unexplained apprehension had been. Rough rocks shifted under my sneakers, stressing to adjust to the sudden weight that gravity had forced on them. The area became less splintered farther down the path, trees grew closer together here and yet all pulled away from the beaten path I traversed.
Friends had told me it wasn’t safe lurking these hidden trails all alone, bottled up in my silence. Friends, family, others… All of them said the same things, over and over. A track forever on repeat. Was it so horrible that I thought my obligations lay not in their laps but closer to home, in my own hands? Why wouldn’t I come to this one place where I felt truly at ease?
“Demons grow in pairs,” I breathed, the air condensing at the base of my lips, forming a fleeting cloud of white which was swiftly battered away by a scoff. They had said that once. I couldn‘t remember who exactly. I never put much thought into it. Still, something was unsettling this evening, I had to admit. There hadn’t been as much to follow with my wandering mind--or maybe I was just more distracted as of late.
Probably.
The boughs of an old trunk to my left seemed to quiver as I passed, unnoticed. Behind me, they swayed and creaked, strung along by invisible chains. In the quiet of another transition, the surrounding canopies rustled, shaken by turbulent winds that didn’t seem to reach my level. Some cultural sensation sang into my eardrums and I forgot the sound with his words. I bobbed my head with the beat, moving my lips to the syllables lazily. None of it stood out or struck me as odd.
I was oblivious. That is, of course, until something quite literally and physically struck me. I gasped in surprise, stumbling forward a few good steps. Pivoting on my heel, I found nothing behind me, and still I swore that it had been two hands that had pressed against my back. An enemy without identification clung at my soles, lurking out of reach. Then it happened again, still from behind me. I pivoted and there was nothing.
The dragon tucked away in my brain was beginning to stir, his presence a fiery haze dressed in a frantic heart’s beating. My eyes darted about the landscape, searching shadow after shadow for the missing assailant. All at once, everything that should not have been was animated, caught in some rhythmic dance. I couldn’t catch the beat, it was entirely random, and everything seemed as if it would lift into the night and flap away.
The goose bumps, the thumping in my chest, the ethereal performance of forced activity. Every element stacked onto the next and before the thought had fully crossed me, I was running full tilt, back to the bench. It had all gone wrong when I left, when I opened myself back up to this insanity, the chaos of this life. My headphones were lost in my sprint. There was no way of telling if they hung from my pocket still or if their shape in my farthest peripheral vision was actually the tail of a nameless monster. Drops of rain like molten lead slapped into my face, blurred each step ahead. I slipped. No, I tumbled.
I could see and yet I couldn’t. Whatever had pushed me, whatever had birthed my fear, surrounded my trembling frame. Beady balls of shimmering black glinted from behind the straggling vegetation. Those hands smashed into me, holding me down to the ground and swarming each side of me. I fought to stand, to crawl away. If only I had something to protect myself with. It grew cold. It was the coldest cold I had ever experienced and it whipped at me, wiping everything clean and coating it in white.
For a singular moment, I watched as my limbs were spent by a raw ache that painted my fingers a blistered black. The violent ink dripped up my arms. I screamed, scratching and rubbing away at it. My voice pierced whatever else had flooded my ears and it was all that I could hear. Howls of wild dogs, guttural snarls and distinct yaps mingled in my sorrow. The hands stopped. I crawled, grasping at whatever I could the moment I felt I could.
I was drowning in a river of oil. With each sheet of rain, another layer of my existence was cleaned away. I lost focus.
When I came to, a hurricane of voices whirred in my throat; they choked me so that nothing could come free of me. They circled with worry in their irises, concern pinching their brows. Relatives I was close to and relatives that I hadn’t seen in years. People I didn’t know and people I had known all my life. They were all here. With me in this obscure hour.
They spoke but there was no sound to be heard. It was all muted, nonsensical noise. Was it a horrible a dream or a long awaited nightmare that I was witnessing? I sank into the soil at their feet, my clothing shed in my descent. I lay in formal attire, a chic black, firmly pressed for just such an occasion. I could feel the weight of makeup on my cheeks, oppressing any fault in my appearance that there may have been. The beating of my heart was slower now, almost nonexistent and yet it overwhelmed my senses.
Progressively, I was emptying out. All that was left on the outside was a thin layer of paper skin and my insides were following suit. They stopped lowering me, leaning closer to inspect my visage. Who was this person that they buried with all but forgetfully dry eyes? Had I not struggled for them? Amongst them? How could they seem so collectively bemused? It was like they had never even known me at all. I was a sheet of parchment dried beside the river in a sea of burning sands.
I searched the tight congregation for some sign of familiarity but all I could see were skeletons as hollow as myself. Body after body, piling onto the next in a cycling genocide, down to the youngest spectator. They had no names or outstanding features. Adjacent to my tomb, at its very tip, stood the shadows that had danced and leapt at me. The dragon in my heart lay himself to sleep and all the universe lost my name in its sighing. Soil served as my final cleansing shower.
A distant baby‘s wail echoed in my cavernous skull, and one concluding flutter complained beneath the earth.


Question of the Day #2: Do you get it?

Girl, I Can Make You Feel Okay.

We can be horribly cowardly.

I’m speaking entirely in generalities, of course. But as a whole, don’t you agree?

The other day in my Theatre Arts class, a boy was speaking with me about… Goodness, I don’t even remember. To put it in simple terms, he was flirting and I was trying to evade the topic. When that failed, I gave him my true feelings toward dating. It was one of those moments when you know that you’ve felt something for a while now but you’ve finally found the words to express it. It has a name now.

I think dating is pointless. Now, now, hold on a moment. I’m not saying this because I’m oh so distraught and heartbroken or anything of the sort. Hear me out; why do I think that dating is pointless? Because ‘dating’ isn’t even an accurate term for the whole thing anymore. ‘Dating’ is an excuse that is widely used and sadly, accepted by many, if not all.

How nice it is to have someone to go to for physical warmth, to know that someone is thinking of you. We all crave something. ‘Dating’ is our excuse to dip our hands into the cookie jar without worrying about an escape plan. Maybe it’s only in high school. Maybe it isn’t. Maybe I’m somehow just not seeing the exceptions. But how much easier is it to jump to the words; “Well, we were dating for a month, so it was okay!”

Right, honey, and you were engaged too, right?

No one seems to actually date anyone anymore. I don’t even think people ask each other out anymore. It’s just automatically assumed when they’ve been spotted making out in the corner more than once. Hell, I can’t walk to class with someone without it being major headlines that Rabbit finally has a boy/girlfriend! And I don’t. But that doesn’t matter.

Why did the definition of such a common social term get lot in translation when we never swapped languages? Dating, at least to me, is when you ask someone to go somewhere. You eat dinner, you watch a movie, you spend time together with the sole intention of spending time with that person. What is it that they say in Texas… I’d never heard it before I moved here. It’s some ridiculous word for dating. A pet name or something.

Either way, all I see is a bunch of underage kids and their friends with benefits.

This blog hardly had a purpose beyond that short, distracted rant; Have some poetry.

Innocent Knowledge

She leaned forward to the tempting green

Only to fall back with a perspired sheen

The sun did not reach, too gone and tired

All of her frustrations so carefully misfired

Dampened by tears with the ache of time

Comes the woeful song she’s made of rhyme

Bells of the above ring, a sweet melodic gong

As all she’s known is suddenly, fretfully wrong

Trapped are her wounds; the blood of a martyr

Weakened, if only to be one moment smarter

Destiny has slain the once curious feline

Its graces no more than a smoothed brine

Out of the tunnel and high above her well

Stood her Father, the mistaken king of all Hell

“Forgotten, you are, my daughter,” he mourns

And the proverbial trial swiftly adjourns.

　

Choke

Crinkle thy reputable brow

Thou deigned demons of ‘how’

Turn up thy bloodied pig nose

And torment singular she of those--

Child of the mischievous Fae

Creatures of sinned night and day

Set her throat in an iron noose

And finally, finally cut her loose.

　

　

Question of the Day: What is the highest that your GPA has ever been?

Rune: Hearts Don't Break Even.

Annie - Vanessa Carlton
Breakeven - The Script

We were supposed to have gone out tonight. I was going to take her on a walk through the city as the sun set. I was going to take her to that little café that she loved so much. I was going to ask her about Rose and their latest adventures. There were so many things that I had planned without much thought on what would be happening instead. From the very beginning, I should have been able to see that these things never work out, when two people are so very different in essence, when two people are supposed to go on so completely different paths.
Neither of us were the average young women walking about the streets of England. And I knew that.
I had seen him once or twice before I had even met Annette, but never taken much notice of him, never noted him as an important factor in what I was seeing altogether. And now, every time that I saw him, it was as though he were a bleeding stain on the final page of a thick and final chapter. I would never be able to read the end, never skip ahead, but I knew how it would end nonetheless, intuitively. Annette would meet him in some years and they would fall in love. And I would travel the airways of time, forever traversing reality from a bystanders point of view, as I has known from the beginning.
I’ll never know why I allowed myself to be foolish enough to think otherwise.
A smile smoothed over my features as I approached the bench beside the now empty street.
It was already dark and I was late but Annette had waited there. She had waited a good hour for what? For a woman that had already told her many times that she might not be returning one day, that had tried to warn her of what would come… The smile was tinged with the faintest hints of a hidden sorrow. Tonight would be the first night in years that I would weep wholly for sadness and fear. It had taken Annette to realize that I was going nowhere, to remind me that I had no place either here nor there. I was a ghost without a house to haunt, only hearts.
The lone figure flinched as the streetlight over her switched on. As she did so, her hair swept from her eyes and she saw me standing there in front of her. Something in those impossibly blue eyes caught flame and a smile ten times more a smile than my own bloomed on her face. My chest fluttered weakly as if some bird with broken wings were trying to break free of it. I apologized in a soft voice but no matter how softly I spoke, I could feel the tenderness of the air, could feel myself pulling away already.
“I wasn’t sure what to think,” Annette admitted weakly.
I sat beside her, looking ahead of us at the shadows licking along the edges of buildings.
She watched me, checking my expression, then scooted closer in one small movement, slipping her arm beneath mine and folding her fingers over my chilled hand. I wasn’t wearing weather-practical clothing and my joints were stinging for it but with that touch, I warmed--and I felt the sand of a white beach beneath my feet, hours behind this place we were in now, the sun still high in the sky, warming my pale skin.
I shook away that place, willing myself to remain on that bench. My throat suddenly seemed swollen to me. I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t move. I could only listen to a barely audible sigh tumble from my beloved’s rosy lips. Dearest, don’t be upset, I begged her in silence.
“Is everything alright, Rune?” I knew that she knew what was coming. I wished she didn’t; I wished she was wrong.
“Do you remember when I told you about that woman? The witch that died in the trials?”
“Yes,” she nodded. Her lips were chapped, I noticed, as I looked her over, trying to soak up every detail that I could.
“She had no family, she was alone in the world, right?”
Annette looked as though she wanted to say something to me but something also sealed her lips, bade her to listen.
“I can’t remember the story anymore. I used to be able to remember it word for word, but that’s all I know now.”
She waited for me to continue. When I didn’t, she posed, “Do you want me to tell you?”
I began to say yes, but then my voice betrayed me, “No, I don’t want to know.”
We sat in silence for a long moment. Annette looked away this time.
“I love you, Annette,” I spoke and as if on cue, snow began to float down from the skies, cast orange by the light behind us. It had already been snowing in short burst and flurries but this would signal the beginning of a heavy storm that would trap children in their houses and adults from their cars for a good couple of days. A homeless man would be found just east of the main bridge over the river, riddled with severe cases of frost bite.
No one knew that but myself yet, of course.
She looked as if she had been struck at first, then her eyes cast upward, watching a single flake land on my knee. Something within her found peace as she responded to me, “Do you remember telling me the weight of those words?”
“No,” I choked. I couldn’t remember much of anything that I had done in this life anymore. I was already a step gone.
“You told me that ‘I love you’ is only another way of saying goodbye,” she screwed her eyes shut. Was she going to cry? “But it’s a stronger kind of goodbye, more final, because when you truly love someone, there’s a promise in everything that you say.” I still couldn’t remember telling her that. But a cord of my heart sang with it and I knew that I believed that statement more than I did that snow was falling.
But snow wasn’t falling; I was on a sandy beach and my cheeks were burning from the exposure.
I shook away the image of that place, urging myself to feel the cold of the bench, to feel her hand over mine. I laced my bare fingers with her gloved ones, shivering. My breathe hung in front of me in a small cloud then dissipated. I focused on it, staring down the frozen trees and other unremarkable vegetation, trying to ground myself to the spot where I sat.
“I love you too, Rune.” That was it. That was the last thing that I heard before I began to fade.
I turned to her, tears in my eyes, the colors of the world awash with white now. I could feel my core slipping and pulling away from here and I could no longer feel the cold of the winter. I tried to respond to her, tried to hold on, tried to stay there so I could take her on that walk, so I could buy her a cup of tea. I took her by the shoulders and hugged her to my chest, desperate to feel her but it was impossible. My words were drowned in silence like a whisper amongst music in an opera house. My ears rang with my cries, hummed with quiet. I pressed my lips to hers but it was like I was grasping air.
No, no, no, please, just let me… Please, see me.
When I opened my eyes, the sun was setting. I stood, brushing the sand off of my coat and pants, withdrawing from the water’s edge. I hooked my bag onto my shoulder and slipped on my sandals. My gaze drifted toward the distant parking lot and the Italian ice kiosk. That reminded me, there was a new café that opened yesterday in town.


Question of the Day: Who do you think you were in a past life / you‘ll be in a future life?