i dont feel like doing anything.  i feel so tired.  what's even worse is that i'll somehow have to channel my creativity for the GSA submissions... i've decided i'm doing short stories, since i always feel like a bit of a faker with poetry.  i've seen to many deviantart wannabes and have unfortunately imprinted on their already-copied style of e.e. cummings (i think i mentioned this before, perhaps in another post).  i typed up this last night and thought about how bad it was.

it is the dangerous human.


it survives on the flesh of your promises,

sucking them in and

barely tasting the hot bitterness as it feeds.

the desire is uncontrollable, insatiable,

already singeing off more than expected of its ribcage.

the slow burn of the dry tongue and lips that

drip of living silver juice is only a

small price to pay for a life, but

the permanence of starvation looms and

lingers ever closer.


later in a coil of darkness it

heaves and retches, the tangy bile

burning and scalding its throat and nose.

up come the words,

up come the light and life it held onto,

now a solid ball of brittle iron that simply

weighed it down.


i am the untrusting animal.

i cower at the hands before me,

retching up promises -


because this is the turning,

this is what we hope to feel

after years of nothing

and gray. -


this is the question that finds

the answers within ourselves,

floating in the cloud above our heads that

we could almost reach if we jumped

just a little farther.-


(obviously, dashes after lines mean a new idea, and the last two of them are really pathetic)


 i'm not saying it's bad because i want you to see it in a better light just because i'm modest about it.  i'm learning how to be proud.  i'm trying to learn that i don't have to be outspoken if i don't want to.  i don't have to change.  and i wrote in my last lecture assignment that i had already figured it out, but things sound much more convincing on paper than they do in my head.  i convinced myself to believe it at the time being, but i'm still working on it.  i'm trying just to get to a comfortable level of self-acceptance.  it may not work, but hey, i'm getting older every day and i haven't had a bad mood in... well, not all through break.  so the 20th was the really bad one, and then the 23rd maybe? and of course the 24th was bad too.  nevermind.


going to the doctor for both a checkup and a mental evaluation.  i am neither ashamed nor shoving it in your face to show i'm special.  (and you're choosing to read this too, you know.)  but i think talking to someone would at least help me make small talk and connections with people.  with most people i just feel lost, like my mind doesn't even work on the same level.


i can see it with my boyfriend.  he says all the things i wouldn't say, that i'm thinking (ok, let's say... you mention a movie. i ask if it's good and you say yes.  then i might think of the movie theater, then who i might have seen there, then what they were seeing and they had said they went to eat at a restaurant... then i'll ask you what your favorite food is.  or at least wonder about it, which takes up room in my head and prevents me from thinking of a follow-up to your reply, so i get flustered.  all in the blink of an eye).  but he certainly does convey his intelligence a lot more frequently than i do, and though i sometimes mentally cringe at how what he says would make no sense to somebody else, he does have a lot of... acquaintances.  people in high and low places, especially teachers.  maybe i just doubt general human knowledge.


so i learn from him.  we're made of the same parts of the printer and the files are the same, but his output fills up an entire sheet of paper while mine takes up a few lines.


see?  that analogy really didn't make any sense.  but it's ok on here because you don't see me.


i don't like when i think like this.  i think of a reason for acting a certain way and then see right through it, like all those disclaimers.  you know, "i didn't say this for that reason..." "i'm not trying to sound self-centered...", "this isn't what it sounds like..."  of course it is, it always is, i'm just giving you a disclaimer so i don't sound like a bad person if you take it the wrong way.  it makes it your fault because i warned you.  and i hate it.  everything becomes like a fog i wade through, none of those barriers called excuses that justify how i feel and act.


i'm miffed.  my neck hurts, my spine is crooked, i can't sing, i have piano lessons thursday and haven't practiced in 3 weeks, i'm tired, and i'm in one of those perpetual states like waking up 30 minutes before your alarm goes off and you're dead tired but you know you can't go back asleep because it won't be worth it because your alarm will just wake you up once you drift off.


there's a lump on my bottom eyelid that hurts.  it's called a chalazion, google tells me.  it's when oil from the glands can't drain probably.  yeah, probably because i've been fiddling with my eyelids on and off for the past couple of weeks.  the eyeliner even looks off because there's no bottom lashes to offset it.  no, i don't feel ugly.  i just feel bare and unable to do anything... anything at all.


sleep now.  no optimism tomorrow.  no nothing.  just sleep until i wake up and the routine starts again until the weekend, where i sleep away the days until mondays start all over.

new year.

great. new year. i always kind of dislike them. of course, they used to be filled with happiness and new and excitement - but then i grew older.  things changed.

i have a list of resolutions for the year 2008 sitting on my desk in an unused reporter's pad.  i tackled the issues at the time: trich, being open, making friends, liking myself, etc. and, yes, they did seem to fade as the year started. but now i'm kind of back in that rut, not as bad as before but still pretty awful.

well.

so i don't know what my new resolutions should be. 2011 started off pretty glum, so i doubt any promise i make to myself will keep. i don't make effort. that's just how it is. so. square one. where to begin?

let's start by spacing twice after each sentence, shall we?  heehee.

i'm not sure that i should say anything about being open and not being araid. that might even backfire on itself, you know.  it's not something i can consciously change, anyway, so it would probably just end up being one of those things where i only feel wrse because i can't check it off the list.  so that's a no.

i'm not sure what to do about writing, either.  in a way, that also has to do with being open... everything is affectd by that, now that i think about it.

but i'm writing a blog post, not exactly a train of thought post.  so.

this really has no point so i'll just go ahead and press send and think about what more to write about later on.

untitled ii

Sometimes I feel really proud of myself.  Sometimes I feel genuinely surprised... and genuinely terrified.  Sometimes I want to have a space under my bed to crawl under and reemerge years later.  But today I feel just generally uncomfortable.

My sweatpants rub against my legs in an unappealing way, catching all the hairs I missed while shaving and itching like crazy.  I think my hands are a good 10 degrees or more below my body temperature... my eyes are dry and my face burns from that Epiduo shit.  My clothes smell like Mexican food, which constantly reminds me of not looking at him throughout the meal and crying later and then making him cry too.  My retainers are painfully prodding the spot between my teeth where I discovered a popcorn kernel... I had popcorn four days ago.  Aside from worrying about possible tooth decay, my eyelids are so goddamn bare that I look like an alien again.  My room is messy and I'm tired of looking at it.  My backpack needs reorganized.  I'm forcing myself to read boring literature.  My dog is dead and I couldn't even watch him get the injection.  I can't drive anywhere yet and I made my boyfriend cry because I can't even deal with myself, much less another human being.

Yeah yeah yeah, thank God for everything positive, stay on top, blah blee blah.  You shouldn't have to force optimism.

I have three days of school and then... I dunno how many days off.  In that time I will fix this off feeling and make amends with myself and the ones that matter.  But for now, I'm stuck and I feel mentally sick - icky, that is.  I can't wait three days.  I just want to wash off all this metaphorical grime.  I want to produce and not just eat away at everyone I come into contact with.  I have hardly any friends.  I make people sad and lonely and upset.

And that's all I have to say.

hmeh.

Might as well start typing in here more often, even if there isn't much to say.  I hear rambling is an ok part of life.

Damn, I'm just so... so... juiced.  Yeah.  Like a lemon.  I've still got zest, but I've ran out of flavor.  (God, what an awful analogy.)  Anything creative just takes too much time.  I have a bar of dark chocolate with almonds that has sat there (open, mind you) on my desk for four days now.  I'm just waiting for the ants.  I don't want to do anything about it.

Reading the Silmarillion now.  I need one of those pens that have the page flaggers and the highlighter and little post-its and stuff so I can learn to my heart's content.  It's not a story so much as a... Bible, really.  It's even written like it, where there's Iluvatar the One and the Ainur and the Children of Iluvatar which become Men and Elves... and the Two Trees of Valinor and the tale of Luthien (yes, Luthien!) and Beren the One-Hand... and Elrond and stuff.  Bah.  I eat it up.

I sent my application to GSA in and now I have nearly a month to get my portfolio together.  I haven't been writing any poetry lately (all the stuff on DeviantArt is just pretty much an amateur's attempt at the Gloriousness that is (apparently) e.e. cummings, which nearly always ruins it (I won't read his work because I keep thinking of the souls that feel so inspired and rich and elitist but know nothing, nothing)...

And so the Mad Girl's Love Song plays on (you have to admit that Gwenyth Paltrow did a great job in that role).

And Sylvia Plath's poetry wasn't that great, I mean, Blue Moles?  Come on.  And Lady Lazarus was so... I dunno.

I suppose I prefer the way of the paragraph rather than the way of the stanza.

I've also decided on 3 definitive career choices.... either a counseling psychologist, a school counselor, or an editor.  I'd probably have to travel to a major city to edit, and even then read books that aren't really literature, just what the agents pick to sell, and correct mistakes and become incompetent and never want to read anything again.  And school counselors don't make much money and have to deal with angry parents, but I think it would be nice to... feel helpful to teenagers.

But I'm actually a little afraid to pursue psychology.  That daring little violet word, that tricky noose...  I recall the outline of the woman asking me questions and probing me with her mental stethoscope, checking the vitals of my mind and never delving any deeper... offering up tissues like they were the only weight that kept her on the ground.  I won't be like her, if I pursue that.  Dealing with people like me who revel in their problems and their medications like it's some kind of luxurious jewelry to display on the finger.  And I could do it wrong and someone could die.

I want to help people, but I also want to... not.  Have a shell but hang it up on the hook before the morning shift.  I'm hardly sympathetic to others' problems, what about perfect strangers'?

Maybe I don't exactly have this figured out so much yet.

a general update

I'm a little shaky... so many things going on.  I wouldn't say I had an epiphany, but I certainly do feel much better.  Perhaps it was just confronting the problem and only furthering the stability of the old saying "it's never as bad as it seems". I feel like I can be happy again now, or at least have the capacity for it at some point down the road.

A few little relationship issues that will probably disappear soon, and nothing nobody can't talk through (double negative, yes, I am fully aware).  It's just what happens with time, that's all, the concerns that come up in a 7-month relationship... speaking of which, that anniversary is tomorrow.  Hm, just remembered :)

I sometimes wonder why things are labeled socially unacceptable to mention or talk about.  It's not like they're a newfound thing that nobody has felt or experienced or wondered about.

But yes, generally happy.  The first snow was a few days ago and I'm happy.  I'm applying for the Governor's School for the Arts sometime this week, and I'm hoping I'll get in and learn stuff and not feel so intimidated by, I dunno, life.  But I'm getting better.  Today I paid for my mom's lunch with my debit card because she forgot her wallet, and then I withdrew some munnies out of an ATM with it.  They don't ever teach you the things you really should know how to do, but I guess the point is that if they made a class out of it, most of the information would just zip right over everyone's head.  And ordering stuff online and paying bills is easy enough, and so is dealing with people on the phone and making small talk. Hurdles that I'd rather avoid, but won't kill me mid-jump.

Chamber choir concerts went wonderfully (well, not the first one, ehe) and I'm proud of myself and our group.  I really didn't feel like I belonged in it until that first time we met after school.  And we have a ton of seniors that won't be in it next year, so it'll be way different next season.  But, like with summer camp, there's a realization that maybe because none of us will ever be best friends (well, with me anyway), you can share all the stuff you like to this person that you really couldn't tell anyone else.  It's the security of not having any, I suppose.

Not much else to say... the only things on my mind are my boyfriend (and issues pertaining to that subject), GSA, choir, and getting a good history/math grade (that being in the back of my mind).  Nothing else... Growing up.  Yes, growing up is on my mind, always there because it's always happening.  Hm.

untitled II

I'm nuts... so I just decided to really quit the social networking thing.  Even with the apps on my ipod.  Gone, all of 'em, and good riddance.  I'm such an idiot to have not realized everything before...  but what can you do.

My cat is lonely.

I don't want to type anymore.  I just want to lie down with him and be sad.

NaNoWriMo!

I actually started this year, yes.  Everything already utterly sucks (and I'm only at 3,000 words, heh) but I'm hoping that tackling the concept of this story will help me put it into perspective so I can eliminate boring descriptions and just let the reader imagine what is essential.

In short, I want to do it kind of like a Fahrenheit 451, where the message is more important than the story, but the imagery within the words is also kind of dreamy as well.  (Yeah, I'm even wishing myself good luck.)  But I have to write it the literal way first because it's really hard to be all flowery and delicate when I don't even know what's going to happen next.

It makes me think of Sylvia Plath, who wrote beautifully descriptive things in her journal without a single correction, but then again, she had been writing and reading heavily (especially in high school/college, when most of her writings were dated), and it was also a different time period (where LOL and OMG didn't exist, and nor did "like" or "uh" in every sentence either).  So I am a product of my time period, which is normal, and at least I will be the voice of the Literate Generation (as opposed to the Iliterut Jenurashun of our children's children).

But it's hard to continue, knowing that everything is really awful.  I'm the kind of person who rejects a foul idea even if it just... feels foul.  Kind of like on multiple choice questions.  I'll thoughtfully consider every option at first, but if one of them just feels outlandish, then I'll never consider it again and stop reading it altogether when I'm considering the correct choice.  I've probably missed questions this way, but...

My typing speed has improved, I'd say.  Not necessarily the speed, but the amount of backspaces I go through (and to think I backspaced twice during the word "backspace...")

I got my driver's permit.  I took a terrible picture, but so does everyone, and at least it won't be permanent.  I think I'm afraid to drive though.  I don't like to think of myself as a wimpy person (well, MENTALLY wimpy, and when doing things of my own accord and not because someone told me to), but I really do think that it's the fact that my parents and other people have put the pressure on me to drive that causes me to reject learning how to.  If I really wanted to be independent enough to drive, I'd make it happen, but I've become so scared of society that I find it unnecessary.  Any push in a positive direction and I shrink back... truly.  I won't call people unless I personally feel a need to call them.  If anyone says that I should, I immediately become fearful and scared.

And if I think about driving objectively, it's just another stage.  I'll grow up and drive away somewhere and live and be happy.  But I think it's the inability to see beyond THIS stage that makes me shy away from the wheel... eh.

I sound like an old woman.  Good day to you, sir.

My God

I meant to say "dog" but I don't feel like changing it.  I'm sad right now.

My dog is old. His name is Eddie and he is one year older than me, meaning he is almost 17 years old. He has a limp, a fur condition, pees on himself wherever he walks, and poops on the sidewalk instead of the yard. He's deaf and nearly blind and bumps into objects frequently. He was lost for a night because he wandered across the street by himself quite a ways and a neighbor saw him, mistook him for a hit-and-run victim, and took him to the pound the next morning. We had to pay the $30 to essentially buy back our own dog.

And still... he's a part of the family. We took him to the vet over the weekend to board him while we took a trip, and the vets wrote a daily log of how he was doing. They have done this ever since I was a little kid... Eddie was around when I was born. He's the last of the original pets in our family that have survived since my birth. His sister Millie died of seizures when I was 9 and our cat Sammy was put to sleep when I was 12 after a peaceful 21 years of living with my mother in college and moving to our current house with her. Eddie is the last one, and we've seemingly already replaced him with a younger puppy the same breed as him.

The first entry on the vet's log said "Hello mister Eddie!"

I teared up. I look upon Eddie as a nuisance... just another thing I have to take care of when I get home from school. I have to replace his pee pad in his cage, lure him outside with a Beggin Strip, watch as he pees in a zigzag line down the driveway and slowly meander to the little patch of browned grass he has claimed his own all these years, call him back in, and finally coax him to climb back into his cage. That's essentially what happens... what his entire day consists of. Think of how a deaf and partially-blind animal views this. Same movements, same stiff joints painfully twisting while stepping out of the cage and jumping down the one step from the wood to the tile... stepping outside to release the bladder, sniffing around, senses dull and dimmed... what quality of life is that? What joy is there? Joy of obeying a master? Joy of what once was your life? What you once had?

I don't want to live like that. I know animals don't have the capacity to love, but... I'd like to say Eddie loved life, like all other dogs seem to do. I'd like to say he's still happy, although that's not true. I'd like to make it easier on him, even though I was very young when he was at his prime. The only Eddie I remember is the aging, soiled one that sits one floor below me now, covered in his own feces while my dad angrily tries to usher him outside so he can have room to mop the floors clean.

I don't think Eddie has much of a memory anymore, but I hope mine never goes away. If I end up in a nursing home, unable to do anything for myself one day, then I want to at least have the memories that confirm my life and its existence, no matter how small a part I played in the grand scheme of things. If dying is nothing but that - no frills, no clouds, no sweetcream goodbyes, then... today is what I have, and tomorrow is what I will have soon, but yesterday is mine forever.

the Last Lecture - my last lecture

In any given lecture, people tend to wait for the nice, condensed, seven-word truths that hold the answers to life's big problems in a neat little package.  There might be quite a roundabout way of getting to those long-anticipated phrases (especially in the Last Lecture itself), but they are still woven within the careful framework of the lecture somehow, serving as pillars and cornerstones that provide the foundation for any noteworthy public-speaking opportunity.  Unfortunately for you, this particular bit of writing will probably wobble and sway on shaky legs all throughout, but please bear with me.  Though everyone may write that what they have to say is important (and while it still is, by all means), please remember that I'm still included in the mixture.

I have lived with trichotillomania since I was in the 5th grade.  I'm not sure what started it, and I still don't know how to stop it, though both counseling and self-help methods have kept it under control for short amounts of time.  I pulled and still pull my hair out - literally.  Eyelashes, eyebrows, and occasionally the hair on my arms when I'm in the midst of a particularly stressful situation.  When I'm overwhelmed, I put a hand to my forehead, feel the hair between my fingers, start, and find myself unable to stop.  It's honestly like a magnet draws my fingers back for more every time.  At home, I force myself to walk calmly into the bathroom after I am done and witness the damage... seeing that destruction is probably one of the most horrifying things a person can do to themselves.  How can so much mental pleasure from pulling out a hair cause such agony as well?  As I sit here, it is now at the worst it has ever been out of the entire 5 years.  I hide what I look like with an eyeliner pencil every day, and each morning I carefully redraw the shape of my brows like an artist with a special kind of crayon... perhaps it is one of my better-kept secrets, though I'm not ashamed at telling anyone who asks.  I still look and feel out of place in the mirror before I shut off the light and run down to breakfast, and truly I hope that everyone with appearance issues understands their true beauty.  You are absolutely gorgeous.  All of you are masterpieces, no matter what, because when the makeup and clothes are stripped away, you are still you.  You still have a face that belongs to you, one that is recognizable in a mirror when you go to take a quick, self-conscious peek.  You might have zits and spots and flakes and everything under the sun, but you look yourself.  Me, I remain an alien.  In stores I'll catch myself watching someone across the aisle and then suddenly realize it's only me, reflected.

And what has that done to me?  I suppose I harbor much jealousy, and I'll go ahead and say it outright.  But it took me a long time to feel what I know to be normal and just... be the person that I am, a person who is certainly a vast improvement from before.  It took immense amounts of courage to raise my hand, get up in front of the class, or speak to someone I hardly knew, and I mostly avoided these things (and still do) because I always felt that more than just one pair of eyes were watching me... sorting me into a place I knew I didn't truly belong in.  I prefer  being alone than being wildly social, but now I know that it is my choice to be this way and not something I feel forced upon me by social boundaries.  It's ok to be problematic.  It's perfectly acceptable to fear walking through crowds and ringing doorbells, answering phones, ordering food, but I live with the consequences of the actions I either take or don't take because it is my choice - and there's Life Lesson #1.  Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results, and I try to no longer wait for the welcoming arms every time because disappointment hurts.  (I prefer to be surprised anyway.)  I receive what I give, and I try to live with the consequences of both the giving and receiving.  No longer do I feel trapped and unable to do anything about the way my life was led.

Living with consequences.  This is really the first time for me that I've ever openly discussed what I believe about the afterlife, but it's important, so again... bear with me.  Let me present it to you in this way... imagine falling asleep.  Imagine a peaceful dream, closing your eyes at the world and quietly, silently fading towards a deep, velvety darkness that wraps you in its loving embrace when the day is done.  Rest is necessary at the end of a long, winding road, and I do not fear dying and leaving what I ultimately will leave behind.  But today, whether or not I am right, whether or not sleep is the right analogy, whether or not anyone can know for sure, I will live the life under the morals that I know to be right and fair, both creating and destroying relationships as I live, and I will feel what I have time to feel before closing my eyes that final time.  I may live hungry, I may live homeless.  I may die of thirst or drowning, or learn what it is like to both save and be saved from those and many other things.  I want to be widowed, I want to be broke, I want to escape the comfort that is the Great Desire and feel the extremes that most wish only to avoid.  I will love and cherish what I please, desire what I please, and write... good God, I will write.  Write of you.  Write of the impact you had on me, and what impact I hope I made on you.  Regardless of both, I will live.  I want to live.  Today I can hold his hand and be loved, and we all need to feel loved.  Any excuse is futile; we absolutely, always need love.  We forget that love is good, but it is still good, and whatever you love, love it to pieces.  Love it until your heart can't understand loving something that much because that is when the happy-tears come, and then you know you've made it.  Today, this day, it is mine.  Carpe diem.  Both the things that fall to pieces and the things that are built from nothing are mine and mine alone.  I am the sculptor, and I will do as I please.

I said before I honestly prefer being alone, and that is true.  But isolation is both necessary and self-destroying, and cynicism is a very dangerous line to toy with.  I have lost the ability to have confidence in almost any interpersonal situation, although speaking in front of crowds or presenting is absolutely fine.  But why?  Why is it the individual I am afraid of?  I'm not quite sure I have the answer to this yet, but I'm trying.  I sit and listen to the choruses of "I don't get it," "this is stupid," "I don't want to be here" and I'm drowning, I'm drowning.  Maybe I'm afraid because the world has already fallen into the hands of these people and it terrifies me that this is my future... these are the doctors and medics and businessmen of this country and I'm afraid.  I can't watch the news anymore.  I can't read about more deaths and people forming opinions that only start arguments; I can't hear about a mother and her child killed on the subway by terrorists that are fighting solely in the name of God.  Every piece of history I had learned came with a kind of shining heroic status in my mind, but the people that have made history hardly deserve the pedestal.  Columbus wiped out an entire Native American people.  Thousands upon thousands of cruel, prolonged deaths, and yet we have a holiday in his name.  How do I forget that?  I can't forge interpersonal relationships because what I want to learn from you is not what I end up getting... what I want to learn from anything or anyone is not what I eventually come to discover.  No one is perfect, and this I am not asking.  But cynicism - the cruel, cold truth - I have to tune it out somehow, or the bigger things that are out of my control will start to smother the smaller things that end up becoming so unbelievably important later on.  So I turn to you.  You are not a statistic.  You are important to me.  You're important to everyone, and you combat the world and what has happened so far within it.  You are change.  You are not Ghandi's simple, overused, 10-word "be the change you want to see in the world" laminated inspirational poster that so many of us have learned to glance past.  You ARE change.

In my life, I do what I like because there is no other way to live.  If this is all I will ever have, all of what I can see both behind and before me, then I know my limits, and I will do what I like between them until time runs out.  And I like what I do so far.  I'm happy today, I expect to be happy tomorrow, and I'm still learning.  That's all I can say.  Through all of what I have seen and felt both about myself and others, I still feel ok.  Some days aren't so great, but things pass more quickly than you'd expect, and that's the one thing that we can guarantee will happen day or night.

I can honestly say that I would be nowhere else in life than right here, right now, with you, with him, and with myself as the person I am.  Sure, I regret things, but there is no use for it and I try not to linger on what I've missed out on.  For the first time... I can look up and see the stars, because they were only hiding behind the clouds.