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for the promise of light

24 Sep

yellow book progress: 98% full. I am psyched. I have a place where it will go, and I’ll post that link as soon as I’ve put some of the pages up. I want to put them all on a PDF file, but I don’t have the slightest idea how to do that so I won’t.

Writing this during Physics class, we’re taking a test that makes me want to punch someone or maybe just throw the whole course out the window. It is annoying, it is repetitive, it is fucking ridiculous.

I am wearing suspenders. I guess this redeems my day a little, seeing as this morning my friend who shall not be named comes striding into Mrs. Grace’s room loudly expressing how “pissed off” he is. And then proceeds to call me a bitch. First of all, rude, second of all, what gives you the right to walk on into a room full of relatively well-adjusted people and explode your anger out on all of them? Um, nothing does. You should be able to control you own anger, and maybe keep it inside you for a little while, and figure out what about it is really making you angry. If it’s something someone said, then you don’t really have to take that to heart- discount it for now, and then later when you’re on your own rationalize why the person said it. It’s okay to whine about calculus or physics in Mrs. Grace’s room, but keep your personal shit to yourself. Especially if it’s personal shit that makes you mad.

</rant>

The whole anger thing, though, didn’t bug me as much as the bitch-calling did. I am usually hells of alright with being called things, seeing as I’ve been bullied a lot growing up, but this was just pointless name-calling. And it hurt! I didn’t expect that. I was halfway towards slapping you when the bell rang, nameless friend, but luckily I escaped due to a handy intervention. Don’t call me a bitch. Don’t call me a whore. Don’t call me anything you think is appropriate, because I will fucking knock your block off.

oh jeez, that sounded a lot more threatening than I meant it to.

that’s all for now. Will write more later.

a routine malaise

17 Sep

My father and I do not often see eye-to-eye.
Case in point: today, I get home, have a snack, lay on my bed and draw, check facebook, grab my guitar, go into the kitchen. There are dishes and crap on the counter. I put the crap away, check the dishwasher and find it’s full. Sigh to myself, put dirty dishes in the sink, proceed to RAWKKKK.
Six hours later my dad bursts into my room and asks in his angry voice “when did you get home?”
I reply “4 ‘o clock.”
“So you were here for at least two hours. The dishes aren’t done.”
“oh.”
“I was at work from seven to six. Do you know how long that is? I was at WORK for eleven hours.”
At this point I start thinking “that’s nice, dad, that’s your job,” but saying that would be a very Bad Idea.
He proceeds to glare at me and step out of my room.

My parents are really super overprotective, my dad is a neat freak, and my mom is only really concerned with what I look like. I don’t love my parents so much as am afraid of them, since I really don’t see what is wrong with what I’ve done.

Anyway, parents aside, it is the weekend, tomorrow is Matt Car’s party that he’s been talking about for weeks now, I don’t know why but hell I’m going anyway. Paulie is trying to coerce me into doing shots of Kahlua with her, but I’m going to very much abstain. I have no idea if this will be a good party or not. I might just stay home.

Not much else to report atm. I keep thinking my dad’s opening the door to yell at me more. It is hell on my nerves.

Goodnight.

yeah, yeah//

7 Sep

dude college essays are really fucking difficult.

What do I even do? I mean, besides Quiz and Science Bowl, and going to France, and sometimes petsitting for people and aauuughhh why does nothing I do lend itself to essaying?

maybe I should just write some crappy poetry and be done with the damn thing. Honestly.

WILL WRITE MORE WHEN MY BRAIN IS REPAIRED

a plague on the poor, now

21 Jun

Welp, I wasn’t going to write a new post but finally the little concience-bots (no idea if I spelled that right, that is a difficult word to visualize) triumphed so here I am.
Apropos of nothing, I suppose this is a good time to bring up the phenomenon of being mistaken for the other sex online (oh no, now I’m going to be getting even more creepy searches leading here. Ah well.), and my experiences with it.
Most of the time, when I’m on a chat thingy (which, by the way, I don’t do often, as usually the people within the chat are well aquainted and I feel as if I’m intruding- plus it eats up hours) and haven’t got a username or a profile to indicate that yes, soy female, people look at how I write and assume I’m a guy. I have gone on Omegle (for the purpose of trolling), a site similar to ChatRoulette (albeit with a no-webcam option, which means seeing less terrible and innocence-rending things), and every single person I ended up actually saying more than “hi, NEVER GONNA GIVE YOU UP” to immediately assumed I was a dude and reacted with surprise when I revealed I posessed two X chromosomes.
So, why is that? Is there some uniquely feminine writing style that I don’t possess? Are ladies not allowed to use sesquipadelian loquatiousness? (LOQUETIA! I have found a new ghetto name for Mr Jackson! SCORE) Are we supposed to use thousands of little smiley emoticons, like this- 🙂 – to end every sentence?
No.
Because writing like that, simplistic and using text faces to convey emotion, is just plain (and I’m sorry if you write like this). stupid.
Thusly, I’m kind of offended that people assume that all girls write like semi-literate 9-year-olds, and that all menfolk are instantly endowed with both a schlong and impeccable grammar skills that would put my middle school english teacher to shame.
And so: Well-read ladies! Yes, you there! Please keep reminding people out there that: a) there actually are women on the interwebz; and b) some of the aformentioned women are intelligent.

One more thing while I’m on this rampage: People who write your Faebook statuses with aLtErNaTiNg CaSe LeTtErS? I despise you for it. You might be great and groovy people, but every time I see that incoming block of angry, disjointed text, I duck for cover and wish I had a shotgun so I could take your status out back and put it out of its misery. It does not look “edgy” or “raw” or whatever thing you are trying to convey. It looks stupid, and it is hard to read, and if you would stop I would have one less thing to rant about. Thank you.

I think I’m done now. Non-angry posts tomorrow. Night!

i find the world something new

17 Jun

Mkay mkay mkay. Today was pretty darned great, I got about 60% of the clothes I need for Europe out and nicely folded. Packing’ll begin on Saturday, according to my mom. Woo? Relative woo.
Anyway, currently lying amongst the wreckage of my closet tryin not to squish anything important, but I have a feeling I’m wrinkling some impossible-to-iron shirt. Just watched the Fuse Bonnaroo runthrough, they showed a bit from LCD Soundsystem (“Drunk Girls”) which I like a lot and will probably download at the earliest opportunity. Other than that, I was pretty disappointed with the bands showcased. No Black Keys! No XX! No Pheonix! I am bummed.
But really, what was I expecting from a mainstream music channel? Evidently more than Dave Matthews.

My mother and sister are watching that small child beauty pageant thing on TLC, I find it loathsome. Older-child beauty pageants? Still loathsome, but a little less so because the kid can actually form an opinion about it. The way the kids look, too, disgusts me. Fake tans, fake eyelashes, adulty makeup, huge shellac’d curls, wigs… Ugh. There are some things not meant to be corrupted, and one of them is a child’s sense of self.
Well I kind of hate all beauty pageants in general, but the younger they get usually the more hate exudes. If Miss America offered me a thousand bucks to go on up and be judged for my looks and my ability to speak coherently and model swimsuits (only the former is something even within my abilities), I’d spit in her madeup, powdery face. Okay, that’s taking it a bit far- I’d probably politely decline and then deliver some sort of filthy stinger, like “Take that to the fucking executives and tell them to shove it up their asses.” You get the point.
Kind of halfway towards being tired; I’ve been sleeping a lot more lately but somehow not really waking up any later. Strange, sleep patterns. Strange.

Will write tomorrow.

sequential

12 Jun

So, I had this lovely long-ass stream of conciousness post typed out and ready to go, went to save it, and
IT FUCKING DELETED ITSELF.
FFFFFFFFFFFF-
I reeeeally hate when any type of electronic device does that. Is there an app for common sense I can get for my iPod? Because if I just spent close to a fucking hour typing something, it just might be (gasp) important.
Now I don’t remember what I was writing about, that is just shittastic. I was proud of that post! It contained memories I’d dredged up especially for you readers! It actually talked about why I chose Yelling Loudly At Small Children as a title for this timesucker! It actually MADE SENSE.
Yeah. What.

Well, in other news my mom just highfived me over pasta, so that is mighty excellent.
Also trying to get my dang sun hands under control, because they are not doing me any favours and actually getting me deeper into trouble. For god’s sake, I giggled. GIGGLED. WHAT IS THIS WORLD COMING TO?

A world where blog posts are deleted indiscriminately, that’s what.

Makin’ playlists tomorrow, plz give me ideas for themes and such so I don’t have to spend another transatlantic flight clutching a cup of tea, wrapped in a blanket, eyes flicking back and forth trying to figure out what the hell is going on and kind of suffering from sleep deprivation and overcaffienation.

Yeah.
Night.

reach through the wasteland

29 May

Perfect
has always seemed to me to be a pompous word. I mean, not just because of the meaning associated with the letters, but just the way the word looks makes me think of some higher-up looking down their nose at me. I can’t stand that word. I can’t stand being compared to that word, and I don’t ever want to be called it.
Because, first of all, no one is perfect. Go on. Find someone you think is perfect, and in their weakest hour ask them if they think so too. I’ll wait.
Said no, right? Right. That’s because (and I know this sounds like common sense, and it should) people define perfection differently. I have noticed this even from a young age, when something I thought was the pinnacle of existence was promptly smooshed by my dad, who (to be fair) was only playing and didn’t see what I saw in my sand castles. I like sand castles.
Reason I’m bringing this up is ‘cos of my upcoming college applications, and the stress and pressure to write the “perfect” essay and get “perfect” scores and “perfectly” do out all the paperwork and augh it makes me sick. Firstly, how the fuck does one write the perfect essay? How the fuck does one write something that appeals to all people, sells themselves nice and concisely, and will be printed in SAT prep books until eternity? IT DOES NOT HAPPEN.
Another thing that bugs me is the subject matter of them: all detailing the most wonderful parts of the writer’s life, telling about how they coach small children or ride horses or all that cal. I read a “How To Write Essays” sheet that prompted a paper on your vacation that detailed the stuff you brought and didn’t need.
WHAT THE FUCK.
It just makes me angry to know that somewhere some kid is writing that essay, and filling it full of cal that he thought would work, and getting into college on a piece-‘o’-crap essay about stuff he left behind. Of course, it could be well written and all, good job, but STILL.
Everything about this ridiculous system isn’t really based on how intelligent you are, it’s a measure of how good you are at selling yourself to a corporation. That’s why I get so pissed off whenever Jamesey starts babbling on about “you have to beat the system” or somesuch. It disgusts me. It makes me sick to my stomach.

Well in other news I am still sore and achey and fucking lonely but that will pass and I have to study for my exams which I have to do perfectly on, oh there’s that word again, but I am probably not and so my parents will beat my sorry hide.
At least I have France and the promise of light to look forward to.
Willwritelater.