Wisdom in a Teacup

"Birth is probably the worst thing that can happen to you. Imagine being thrust out into a world, and suddenly you can feel and see and hear and move, and it's bright and you take that first, painful breath of air... I bet it's worse than death could ever be."

My Placebo or Yours?

Relationships are built on lies.

We shack up with whatever sad soul will take our half-perfect selves into their half-perfect little home, and immediately learn to resent them for it - for recognizing our flaws, for having their own, and for keeping us locked up in such a small, stuffy space.

Eventually, this resentment builds: we forget to love; we lash out; we attempt to please them to death. We abandon our morals, our values, our interests and causes - wiping the slate clean, so to speak - and we start anew. We rebuild ourselves into the ultimate killing machine: the boyfriend/girlfriend of our partners' dreams. They quickly come to recognize the attack, and retaliate with an equal and opposite assault on your own image of the 'ideal partner'. This means war.

One day we find ourselves knee-high in spilt blood, the death toll rising up about our ears, the wounded crying out for deliverence, for apocalypse. And so we give in. We lower the red flag. We wave the white. We confess.

The treaty is drawn up, the war is over, the dead are reborn and the wounded are healed. But the peace between us and our significant others is awkward and alienating. We cease to interact, to even risk a glance in the direction of the other. The lies that polished us into just what we were expected to be caused nothing but suffering for either party. But in revealing the truth, in scribbling our names into the paper of that treaty, we destroyed the one thing that ever held us together.

-

I am nothing but a placebo to my own placebo.

Unlocking my subconscious?

Life is good, and in a blindly idealistic attempt to make it even better:

100 Things I’m Grateful For
100 Ways I Could Nurture Myself
100 Ways I Sabotage Myself
100 Things I’m Good At
100 Things I Like About Myself
100 Questions I Want Answers
100 Ways To Improve My Life
100 Things I’ve Accomplished In My Life
100 Things I’m Feeling Stressed About
100 Things I’d Do If I Had Time
100 Things I Need Or Want To Do
100 Things I Want To Accomplish In The Next X Months
100 Things To Do Before I Die
100 Things That Are Going Right
100 Things That Are Going Wrong
100 Reasons I Want To Stay Married/Committed
100 Reasons I Don’t Want To Stay Married/Committed
100 Things I Want In A Partner/Relationship
100 Things I Have To Offer To A Partner/Relationship
100 Fears I Am Having Right Now
100 Things That Once Scared Me But Don’t Anymore
100 Reasons To Save Money
100 Things I Miss
100 Sacrifices I Have Made
100 Marketing Ideas For My Business
100 Ways I Can Make Money
100 Ways To Make A Difference
100 Jobs/Careers I’d Like To Have
100 Fears About Being A Multimillionaire
100 Things I Believe In
100 Achievements (Qualities) I Am Proud Of
100 Things I Value In Life
100 Ways I Help Others
100 Things That Turn Me On
100 Things That Turn Me Off
100 Judgments I Make
100 Things I Find Hard To Share
100 Things I’m Disappointed About
100 Things I’m Angry About
100 Things I’m Sad About
100 Things [People, Places] I Love
100 Things To Do When I’m Depressed
100 Things To Do When I’m Alone
100 Rules I Have Broken
100 Skills I Have
100 Feelings I Am Having Right Now
100 Childhood Memories
100 Things My Parents Used To Say To Me
100 Ways In Which I’m Generous
100 Ways To Be More Productive
100 Things I Hate
100 Things I Want
100 Places I’d Like To Visit
100 Things I’d Like Someone To Tell Me
100 Things I’d Like To Hear
100 Things I’d Like To Tell My Child
100 Things I Want My Child To Know About Me
100 Reasons To Have A Baby
100 Reasons Not To Have A Baby
100 Adjectives Describing Myself
100 Decisions Others Have Made For Me
100 Decisions I Made That Turned Out Well
100 Things I’d Do If I Had Six Months To Live
100 Expectations Other Have Of Me
100 Expectations I Have Of Myself
100 Judgments I Haven’t Released
100 Ways To Be More Creative
100 Things I Could Carry In My Pocket
100 Things I’d Save If My House Were On Fire
100 Things I Want To Tell My Mother [Father]
100 Things I’d Never Tell My Mother [Father]
100 Financial Fears
100 Excuses I Make For Myself
100 Things I Need/Want To Control
100 Fears I Have About Giving Up Control
100 Answered Prayers
100 People I’d Like To Meet
100 Reasons Why I Get Jealous
100 People I Admire
100 Tasks I’ve Been Procrastinating
100 Memories From My Past
100 Things That Nourish Me
100 Things I Haven’t Finished
100 Things I’m Glad I’ve Done
100 Things I’ll Never Do Again
100 Ways To Generate Income
100 Principles To Live By
100 People I Want To Forgive
100 People I Want To Forgive Me
100 Things To Forgive Myself For
100 Mistakes I Have Made
100 Lessons I Have Learned
100 Ways To Be Healthier
100 Things That Make Me Cry
100 Things That Make Me Laugh
100 Things I’d Delegate
100 Thing I Want For My Birthday
100 Possessions I’m Tired Of Owning
100 Responsibilities That I’d Like To Avoid
100 Things To Write A List Of 100 About -- but I'm only doing 50.

That's the way my love is

I can't say for sure that I'm a better person than I was a year ago, but I'm certainly no worse. I've been speaking and acting without the use of what little censorship I had. It's not conscious; the words and the thoughts and the motions wriggle their way around the filter in my brain (best compared to a redneck screendoor - tattered, burnt, torn, with the occassional bullet hole searing right through) without any detection, and before long I am caught looking back in awe at this great and terrible power of mine. I've destroyed egos, defined boundaries, brought my loved ones closer, and breathed cyanide into the veins of my worst enemies.

To be honest, I don't regret any of it. I've hurt some people, yes, but they more than deserved it. And for every negative thing I've done, I've added another friend to a progressively stronger foundation. I've forgotten to apologize for things I'm not sorry for, and I've forgotten to hide my emotions from those I've been dying to share with. It's my original personality, doubled (perhaps even tripled). I'm an emotional landmine.

Anyway, today Tavis finally put the peices together and realized what all the drama in the last month has been about. I chose a clumsy moment to nag Adam over his obsession with me (the boy loves me, he just doesn't know it yet), and Adam, whose response time has slimmed down considerably since I started joshing him, retorted with some Nathan-related comment. Tavis' grin collapsed on itself, his eyes stretched open. I wonder if I'll get a chance to see each of my friends give me that look at least once in their lives. "What?"

Adam's infamous drunken-looking sneer appears. He's happy with this result. "She's, like, in love with him."

This is shrugged off by both parties. Tavis is serious here. "You like him?"

I don't remember my exact response, if I responded at all, but after a couple years of friendship with me, he's able to read me quite easily. He exploded that he couldn't believe this, that Nathan had it in his head that he'd gotten rejected by me, that he'd told Tavis I was the only girl in our class he'd even consider dating, et cetera, et cetera, until I broke in with "Don't tell him."

Around here he probably grinned at me again, both of us knowing full-well that he would. "Why not? I can't not tell him, this is too great" etc. etc.

This argument sprawled out over the remainder of our afternoon. Tavis would steal a minute to flash that "I know something" smile at me, and I'd plead with him. "I don't want this to be third-grade. I don't want everyone involved." et cetera. He was drawn into various situations where he came dangerously close to voicing the secret to the rest of the world, where he would physically clamp his hands over his mouth and glance over at me for help. It was intolerable, and I knew he couldn't last the day without disspelling it to someone. Might as well have the news delivered straight to the second party, I reasoned, and gave in: "fine, tell him, but don't make a big deal about it, and don't do it now."

And just like that I washed my hands of it. Whatever happens, happens, and if I end up losing one friend and gaining nothing in the way of a boyfriend, I'll blame Tavis for the whole thing. Easy enough, yes?

As a side note, Evan has been persuing me over a second (okay, third) chance at a relationship. I find this more amusing than dangerous/complicated/touchy/problematic. What is it about me that is suddenly desirable, that for so many years was left unpersued and unwanted? What has shifted in the fabric of the universe and made me such an attractive prospect? Do I even possess whatever it is that makes it possible for a girl to be a girlfriend? It's laughable that I'm even worrying over things like this. It's late, I'm exhausted, I haven't touched my homework, and the kitchen table is on a 45 degree angle that, to me, is strangely symbolic of the 180 my life has made.

I think...

...that I was more content last night than I've been in a really long time.

...that I'm going to chase what I'm not supposed to want.

"Are you happier there?"

"Are you happier there?"

I shouldn't have to say things like that -
things to bridge the gaps between
where we are...how we are.

Hearing that you're working so hard
for the happiness you deserve
shouldn't make me cry.

I shouldn't feel so close to you all the time,
because we're rarely ever close at all.
But I do. And it does. And I always do.

Are you happier there
Or shall I draw you farther still?
Are you happier there
Or shall I draw you closer?

I'll never be the same

My new job at Ray and Albert's isn't particularly demanding work (not yet, at least) so whilst scrubbing dishes, slicing meat, and tending to the till, I've developed a habit of reflecting on the small-town diner dynamic. Nearly every customer that walks in that door is a character. I make mental notes on the ones I serve, recording a piece of them for future reference, for when I've caught an especially grueling case of writer's block and I need something pure and new to get me writing again.

There's the man with his entire face gathered near the bottom half of his head, whose pouting lips rest on his chin and whose eyebrows crumple down around the bridge of his nose. There's the woman with the striking smoker's voice who came in multiple times to order booze and cigarettes. There's a fat, happy woman and her shy daughter, who hides around mommy's legs when I smile at her. There's a kind old man in the corner watching football who doesn't mind me vacuuming beneath his chair at closing time. There's... a lot more. It's humbling to walk out of a school where each person is a carbon-copy of the next, and into a different building where everyone is so totally unique, and shamelessly so.

Work is a priority to me, now. Boys are troubling and can't make up their own minds. School is school and requires very little effort on my part. Art is something I almost need to do, and certainly not a chore. Friends are often a fleeting, fair-weather species to which I feel no lasting bond or promise. Writing is much like art. Music is second/third nature.

All those are just there. But this job, it's going to be my priority. Tomorrow I will throw myself into the work, I will impress the boss, I will earn my pay, and then I will come home, the government will steal away a portion of my paycheck, my to-do list will swell, and my life will be as sad and tired as everyone else I've ever met who had priorities. The future is looming and dark, and in it I would like to own a car.

Excuse me, my Peter Pan complex is flaring up...

I know this sounds ridiculous, but I do believe I had an encounter with love a little while ago. I can see myself dying just to keep that feeling a while longer. I can't be with this boy, though. So I moved on a little too quickly, pulled myself away from that mess waiting to happen, and got hurt by an entirely different boy. It wasn't too bad a hurt, though, because I know I didn't really care for him anyway; he was a decoy, a fallback.

I've also been sketching out the ground rules to birth control. I don't want to go into too much depth with this topic, as I know of some boys who read this, but I need to make a decision soon (I'm thinking within one/two months) on the matter, and have no one to help out with it. Only one of my friends is on it, and she lies to me almost constantly.

Aand--

Drugs are really, really fucking bad. Don't do them.

-manda.

You got the prize, you got the game
You got my pants around my ankles
You got me stuttering your name
You got me up at three A.M.
I'll never be the same
You got me checking every mirror
You got me so damn vain
You got me blinded to the world
Now only you remain

:) :(

Cross my heart and hope to die
Never meant so much before
I’m counting down to July
You're passed out on the floor

Somewhere behind the oak
Of the forest that you were…

Streaks across my window pane
Like the ones across your face
Was it rock and roll or cocaine
That helped you fall to this disgrace?

Somewhere behind the oak
Of the forest that you were
I guess that something broke
That night you burnt the fir

Dusty greyscale living rooms
Filled with the lost and fallen
The old musty stinging fumes
Of rotting, stinking pollen

The forest beckoned you back home
You were afraid to be alone
You brought two cans of kerosene
And burnt down the great evergreen
Because nothing really stays the same
Without someday going up in flames

Somewhere behind the oak
Of the forest that you were
I guess that something broke
That night you burnt the fir

I hear the echoes at night
Of the you before you crossed
The long-lost laugh of delight
Of an evergreen angel lost

N/A

The silence, the chill, the death in the room grew stifling, and I felt the need to break it:
"Let me make you breakfast."

-

We passed the time watching our time pass,
A leaf to your lips to keep them guessing
Every now and again
Cold air in my lungs, we leap and we fall
Landing in the leaves from whence we came
Every now and again
Cold air in my lungs, hot smoke in yours

-

Knife to the bark
It's all cliche
Leaving your mark
Then fading away...

-

It's hard to stare in icy blues
And have them staring back at you
It's cold and dark and infinite
And still you drag me into it...

-

You'll see the light,
You'll come around
You'll fall fast
I'll be your ground

-

Light me up in the rain
Take a drag or two
Burn me out, I like the pain
It keeps me tied to you

-

I gathered myself up beneath the blankets. Knees to my chin, arms wrapped around them, head ducked, toes curled tight. Still the cold bit in - every damned time.

Just one warm night with you, and I fear I will not survive alone.

-

You have to understand, it's not the night that hurt me so;
it's the morning after that I couldn't bear
I've spend too much of my life flying close to the sun;
my wax wings melt off into the air

-

Diamond dust across her eyes
An abyss inside her smile
She's worth more than her ticket price
If you'll stick around a while

-

You make me feel like I could grow up to be twenty;
I'll get you back for this

Random Poetry

Too fast too proud, no brakes no clue
I refuse to see, I'm losing you
Broken bodies, tired hearts
My damn pride is tearing this apart

Too blind to see, no one knows me
I'm lining up, crying 'anarchy'
Sweaty fingers, calloused hands
My hand in yours, it's contraband

I'm a fool, I'm a fool
I've made you a wanted man
I can't play love by the rules
My hand in yours, It's contraband

No, No - Let ME Tell YOU a Thing or Two About Common Courtesy...

I'll admit I'm not the poster girl for common courtesy, but I'm certainly well-educated on the subject. Yes, you've picked the wrong person to bitch at about such a thing, and now that I've held my tongue while you degraded me and long enough to get back home, I'm going to learn you somethin' fierce - it was common courtesy to take it like some sort of criminal, but I'm home now and I'm free to run my mouth like a madwoman.

It is common courtesy to invite someone into your home, and them treat them as exactly what they are: a guest. You don't treat them like a criminal, a villain, a heartless, gutless, spineless, mindless psychobitch... They are your equal, if not your superior. Treat them as such. If they have the decency to sit there and take your criticism, you have the decency to shut the fuck up, not single them out and eat their face off.

It is common courtesy to keep your at-home problems inside your home. Don't take your dirty laundry out in front of others. I'm not old-fashioned, I'm not saying it's taboo or anything. I'm just saying that no one really gives a shit and/or wants to sit through the melodramatics of your private life.

Common courtesy is not throwing words around like 'bitch'.

Common courtesy is letting a child be parented by their parents. Don't play mommy with me - I have a mother, she's doing a much better job than you, thanks.

Common courtesy is not playing double standards. Fuckin' right.

You're a psychotic bitch. I had the common courtesy to come to your house, ride in your car, after you degraded me once already. And to what aim? To be humiliated and insulted all over again? I've done so fucking much for both your doughters: Show a little fucking apreciation. I'm not perfect all the time, no, sometimes I laugh at nothing and sometimes I make a mess and sometimes I love people who I can't have. But you know what? So does your kid. Open your fucking eyes, she's used me and thrown me away. She's backstabbed me. She's insulted me. She's thrown me away. And you know what? You don't see my mother riding her ass about it. And I'm smart enough to see that I have a great mother, who knows when to pull the leash, but who knows how to let me build my life.

Take a page from her book.

Fuck you,
-manda

5 Things My Daddy's Music Has Taught Me

1. Even if you can't stand the music, you have to give the lyrics a chance.
2. How to sing my heart out (no matter who's listening).
3. Just how great a song can sound on vinyl.
4. The difference between an artist and a salesman.
5. There is more beneath the surface, in songs and in people.

So, so you think you can tell Heaven from Hell,
blue skies from pain.
Can you tell a green field from a cold steel rail?
A smile from a veil?
Do you think you can tell?
And did they get you to trade your heroes for ghosts?
Hot ashes for trees?
Hot air for a cool breeze?
Cold comfort for change?
And did you exchange a walk on part in the war for a lead role in a cage?

How I wish, how I wish you were here.
We're just two lost souls
swimming in a fish bowl, year after year,
Running over the same old ground.
What have you found? The same old fears.
Wish you were here.

Nothing Else Matters

I may not have screwed things up as bad as I'd originally thought with my dear boy.

At the very least, I'm happy with the meaningless 'love you's and his friendship. At least I'm lucky to know him. Expecting a relationship with him was...well, getting a bit greedy, I guess.

Riley said he had a little crush on me back before he started dating Sam. It's a cute thing to say, but it doesn't do much for me now that he's 'committed for life'. Haha. No, I really was happy to hear that, and I said (in the politest, non-whorish way possible) that if things don't work out with Samantha, to let me know.

There is a good reason why girlfriends hate me so much...

I get my hair dyed on Saturday. :). Because I'll be tied up with that, though, I'm missing Tavis and Nathan's second trip to town. They're gonna think I hate them or something... Ah, well I'll leave a 'hey' with Chelsea to deliver to them.

I'm not in the mood to be writing, sorry....

-manda

It was the only place I'd never known
Turned off the light on my way out the door
I will be watching wherever you go
Through the eyes of a fly on the wall
You have been followed back to the same place
I sat with you drink for drink
Take the pain out of love and then love won't exist

I am no gentleman, I can be a prick
And I do regret more than I admit
You have been followed back to the same place
I sat with you drink for drink
Take the pain out of love and then love won't exist

Everything we had, is no longer there...

Hello, how you doing?
What's it like to ruin all my self esteem
Let me blow off some steam
For 5 years I've waited,
So why am I jaded to get back at you
What makes it cool

When you act like nothing ever happened
I feel like I should feel bad
But I can't like someone who thought
They're the only one that mattered
I hope that you're flattered
Cause you broke this down
The best thing that you never had

And it seems like a loss somehow
My heart got lost on the way to my head
And my brain cells are dead
And the craziness shows
Now I start to go when the green turns to red
And I should be dead

When you act like nothing ever happened
I feel like I should feel bad
But I can't like someone who thought
They're the only one that mattered
While my heart got shattered like romantic roadkill
My heart is all splattered, your ego got fatter
And I hope that you're flattered
Cause you broke this down
The best thing that you never had

Like the toilet seat never got lifted
And I pissed on your confidence
When you weren't around, how can that be?
Don't turn this around
You were the one
Who drove my ass right to the ground

When you act like nothing ever happened
I feel like I should feel bad, and I can't like
Someone who thought
They're the only one that mattered
While my heart got shattered like romantic roadkill
My heart is all splattered, your ego got fatter
And I hope that you're flattered
Cause you broke this down
You broke this down
The best thing, the best thing,
The best thing that you never had

idiotidiotidiot

MANDA: *biggest hint ever, something along the lines of 'I wish you would go out with me'*
GUY: why?
MANDA: because you're an awesome guy
GUY: I think that's a good reason.... I don't feel good. Blah blah blah. Gonna go lie down.
MANDA: (inwardly: no you fucker I had more to say nooooo) Okay. Get better etc.

GREAT FUCKING IDEA, SELF.

Another Letter Better Left Unsent...

It's not like I didn't like you back when you seemed to like me. You had a girlfriend. What could I have done?

Then you dumped her, and raved about how great it was to be single. Wasn't about to do anything there either.

And then there was the girl at the party, the random makeout session that you told me about later that night. Ouch.

And then you just didn't seem to care.

Et cetera, et cetera...

And now you keep me guessing. You either think of me of such a close friend, a buddy, that you can share all these snippets of information with me, or you think you're dropping hints with "I want a girlfriend". But a hint isn't enough anyway.

I just wish I would know, whatever that would mean. If you're over me, hey, I'll hate myself for not helping you cheat on your ex, but I'll move on eventually. If you're not, why is it so hard to just say that? But as always I don't want to say anything I'll regret, so I don't take sides between you and me, and I pretend I'm oblivious, and - this is a new trick, too - I give you advice about other girls you seem to like. What a smart girl I am. "You're not sure if he likes you, so give him tips on how to get away from you as soon as possible. That will really win him over."

In short, I'm scared to scare you away, but I'm afraid I may have already done just that. I don't know where you stand because I don't see you nearly enough for that sort of thing.

I just read this over and it's laughable, I know what I need to do and I avoid doing it just because I'm a chickenshit. I cover it up with excuses, but you're a man, I'm sure it's not going to hurt you any to have a girl chasing after you.

So I'm gonna do it. It's not going to kill me, right?

Yours,
Manda

Actually, It Really Is Your Parents' Fault

August 20th approaches, which is (weirdly enough) both Evan's birthday and my parents' anniversary. I'm not sure which is more amazing: a boy like Evan living to see his 16th birthday, or parents like mine sticking it out for 19 years.

My mom confided to me the other day over breakfast that when she and my dad married, he wasn't quite ready for marriage. Confide is a silly word to use, because this fact wasn't in the least bit new to me. I can remember myself, aged somewhere between 6 and 9, being told the very same secret as my mom sat in the kitchen at 2 am, wondering where her husband had gone (the bar) and when he would be home (various times and dates). I laugh at it now, the thought of my dad even having the time to be such a headache, but I've begun to wonder how much has really changed.

My dad's last month at home was spent neglecting my mom and building mountains for the centennial instead. Chores were left incomplete, he only took Katie driving a grand total of one time, he recruited me to pick up some of his slack and when his mood would hit a one certain point, he'd throw words around that I don't think he really meant. There was something alarming about the whole thing, an unsettled air in the house, which i realize now was an invisible bridge burning. My mom's doubting that he ever really wanted this family, and he's too busy to change his ways. Flipping through some new books in the car, I found a relationship book at the bottom of the heap, tucked away almost ashamedly, in that dust-under-the-carpet way that neglected wives seem to have perfected.

I skimmed over it (as is so much like my mother, she bought this one titled "Actually, It Really Is Your Parents' Fault" or something to that effect) in an attempt to diagnose the severity of the situation. All efforts proved fruitless (I did, however, learn that Evan's problems all stem from the lack of a mother figure in his life. See paragraph 1, line 2). She may have bought it just to find yet another flaw she could blame her mother for. She may have bought it because she's running out of options. This is the first relationship book ever to enter our household. My parents don't fight. I don't know what to think, really. A very, very small part of my kind of wishes that they would get divorced. Very small. Most of me just wishes my dad would stop working so fucking much.

I'm running out of patience, boy. Brace yourself, I could open my big mouth any second now and kill everything we've worked so hard to build up.

Or you know, convince you to take me out to supper so I can try to make you fall for me like you've made me for you.

It's hard to be this naive, this conceited, this dumb.

-Manda

I've got a sureshot way to work things out
All of this growing up has worn you down
I've got a sureshot way to kill your doubts
Find what your following and chase it down

Dear Jerkface,

When you say you like someone, you are committed to that person somewhat.

You don't have to ask them out tomorrow, next week, next month.

You don't have to ask them out at all.

You're not engaged, you're not picking out the font for the invitations or buying a book of baby names.

You're not tied to that person for life.

You're not tied to that person at all.

But you've given them something to think about, hope for and dream of.

And if you dare take that away (especially on short notice), you are hurting that person,

And therefore deserve to be hurt back.

I hope you're hit by a train, killed in your sleep, eaten by wolves, electricuted, mauled, steamrolled, incinerated by a car fire, or otherwise fatally injured.

And I pray this kind of thing never happens to me personally. Cross your fingers for me, please, even after you're killed in a medley of painful scenarios. My boy is still a ball on indecision, but I'm being as patient as I can.

I do hope I've explained myself rationally and logically, and proven beyond doubt that you do deserve everything you're going to get - not one bullet less.

Regards,
Manda F.

Sewn Together

Two CD's scratched out from my wishlist - The Academy Is' "Santi" and Paramore's "All We Know is Falling" - symbolise a turning point in my situation, but as to whether this is positive or not is hard to say. Maybe I'm doing better, accepting each obstacle, getting my rhythm back and starting anew. Or maybe I'm collapsing beneath the pressure, searching for an anchor (any anchor), building false idols and running myself into the ground. I'm teetering on an anwkward seam between idealism and nihilism, held fast by a common thread of hope.

I wish he would just make up his mind and voice it to me. He's indecisive one minute, secretive the next. I need clarity, I guess. I need to know what's happening so I can stop trying to guess.

Almost

Self-portrait: Happier Days?

I found the photo and a half-started sketch in my room and I finished it up. It's weird to draw in semi-realism again, and even weirder to draw myself, especially myself with such a goofy expression. I was more in the mood to draw my own grave or something...

Techs: 50lb sketch paper, HB-7B Staedtler sketching pencils. About half an hour.

I have nothing else to say, really. Still moody, low, touchy and frustrated. Still practically alone in this big house with depressing songs blaring on Repeat. Still picking fights.

Oh, a very unpleasant stabbing pain in my gut. Yeah. That's new.

Hmm...


Almost (circa 2005)

She watched him through burning eyes as he swung back his head, swigged back most of the bottle. His eyes were tired and his face was solemn. Was this really the same boy she’d known only months ago? An echo of his drunken laughter rang in her ears. Now he drank in silence, usually alone with only the clinks and sloshes of the bottles to keep him company.

"It’s just…"

His eyes floated over to her, and he lowered the dull green glass to rest in his lap. She watched his hand, wrapped loosely around the bottle’s neck. He used to cling to the cool, dark glass as they sang and giggled together. It seemed now that the bottle was clinging to him. She pulled her focus up to meet his smoky grey eyes.

"Keep on," his eyes said, "Talk to me, hold me here…help me through…"

"Never mind," she found her mouth saying. She held his gaze a moment longer before she could stand it no longer. Drowning…He’s drowning…We’re both going under... She let go of his gaze, scrambling to find something else to turn her attention to. She stared at her feet for what seemed like ages.

"Life’s short."

Her eyes snapped up to him again when he spoke. Head down in one hand, empty bottle in the other. He was barely moving, he wouldn’t look at her…Had he even said anything at all? She glanced down at the toxic bottle in her own hands. Maybe now was a good time to quit…

"It just doesn’t seem fair, that we have—what, five years?—to do everything. Whatever we do, we like…live off of that for the rest of our lives, you know?"

How was it that the liquid that once emptied his heavy heart now only weighed it down all the more? Once again the drowning feeling tugged at her heart. Pulling her under… She said nothing, but this time when he revealed his tear-stained eyes to her, she fought to hold hers to his. His somber face cracked just enough for a slight tug at the corners of his mouth. The closest she’d seen to a smile from him in over half a year.

She took a long swig from the liquid lead, and this time it felt lighter in her throat.

"Almost like it used to feel," She noted aloud.

"You noticed too?" He glanced over at her, his blurred grey eyes almost sparkling.

-manda

We were out on a date in my daddy's car
We hadn't driven very far

There in the road, straight ahead

A car was stalled, the engine was dead

I couldn't stop so I swerved to the right

I'll never forget the sound that night:

The screamin' tires, the bustin' glass

The painful scream that I heard last...

Oh where oh where can my baby be?
The lord took her away from me
She's gone to heaven, so I got to be good
So I can see my baby when I leave this world

Stains

The wonderful thing about friends is that they are able to act as a blindfold when there are things in your life you would rather not see. But every so often, I'll pull away from the jokes and the pranks and the company in general, and I'll take a minute to stare real hard at those places.

I'm back home after cutting an evening with Hannah and Steph short.

And I'm just staring...

Jess is dead. That's it. She barely lived her life and now she never will.

My parents are barely a pair, let alone a married couple. They float around, they move to various locations alone, leaving their kids at home alone. They are parallel lines and terrible excuse for a marriage.

The boy I can't stop proclaiming my love to is apparently deaf.

I am receiving calls from a boy who I seldom talk to, begging forgiveness when I'm not even upset by him. I refuse to answer, but that doesn't do more than sweep the problem under the rug.

I kind of like to focus on them, though. It makes everything else look so much neater, clearer...happier.

So it will go, if it must... I guess

It's heart-wrenching that today rolled by so smoothly, only to crumble to ash mere inches from the finish line. Erin's friend Jess is dead.

...So it goes?

Maybe so in the Vonnegut's now-resting eyes, but as it would turn out, things are seldom so simple when reality strikes. I can't tell Jess' friends and family about the beads on a string, and even if someone did I doubt it would get through to cut their mourning short. She probably had a boyfriend, too, who is now alone - just like that, and suffering. The more I think about it the more I hate it, and the more I hate it the more I think...

Katie is at Sean's, and so is lost amid the mourners and the guilty-minded, and I feel for her too because I know how those situations scare her more than the event itself ever could.

All this reflection is hitting me, because as I always seem to do before someone I love dies or before a close friend's loved one dies, I got that ominous feeling when I woke up this morning, that unexplained urge to go home and stay home, retreat from friends and family, that suspicious part of my subconscious that frets over various scenarios all day long. It happens every time; I guess I just have an instinct for this sort of thing. But it's never that obvious to me until after said catastrophe rips a world apart. Then I go over how I should have and could have, when really there is absolutely nothing I could have could have done, right?

A very small part of me is still making up scenarios. In one, the scary voicemail message I received on my cell phone this morning is somehow connected to Jess' death. I don't know, I'm not logical right now.

I didn't really know Jess, only of her. It's kind of crazy to think this much about it if I didn't even know her, but at the same time, if I were to die, I would hope that people would stop and think about me too, if only for a minute or two.

Since I'm not really all that religious or that interested in the whole afterlife thing, I have no ideas as to where Jess went from here, but here's to hoping it's somewhere even better?Without a doubt she died much too young. I can only think of one intelligent quote on death, so I suppose I will close with that and hope she lived her life well?

-Manda

"We all die. The goal isn't to live forever. The goal is to create something that will."

Not Playing The Role To Get Let Down

It may be truer than I like to think: people never change.

Superficially, yes, we cut and dye and dress and colour ourselves into whatever sort of beast we think we would like to be. But deeper down, where all those messy emotions, likes, morals and memories hide, is so well-protected by layer upon layer of deceptive packaging, that it never gets a chance to peek out at the world around it, let alone be affected by it enough to change.

So am I still the self-conscious bundle of hate and nerves that I was during my early adolescence? Or am I the person I was even before that? And the people who hurt me back then, will they hurt me again in the future if I let them? I'm able to get by day-to-day without revealing the little girl I locked up somewhere down the line, but eventually I'll trip and she'll catch a glimpse of the world outside the safety of her shell, and she'll get scared and, hell, maybe cry a little.

Is Jenna's inner self a mean-spirited brat who she attempts to cover with a cheap brand of tolerance? Or is the selfish creature just a layer of her shell, under which a softer, innocent version of herself hides? Does she use me because she genuinely likes to see me hurt, or is it an attempt to hide the fact that beneath it all she's just a scared little girl who put up one too many walls?

Look at me, mulling over the psychological makeup of my supposed enemies. Guerrilla, I am not, but Freud?

As for him... I'm not sure what's going on with him. He won't tell me and I won't ask. It's a perpetual, stubborn cycle of shyness and, potentially, rue. I won't tell him what I want because I don't know who he wants, and he won't tell me who he wants because what he wants is relative to what I want. Or so it seems. I don't know. Maybe I'm not nearly as involved as I seem to think I am. I want him to call, desperately, at this point. He owes me an explanation, or at least a solid hint. I'm treading air, here...

There are very few bands whom write songs that describe my romantic situation so well, so bear with me while I quote The Higher at the end of my entries for the next month...

-Manda

And I don't mind having that someone around
If you listen and write
Then the lesson in life's not playing the role of the let down
And I know I'm casually learning to get down
And we're crazy concerned,
Attention deserved, not playing the role to get let down

Much More Like Your Modern-Day Peter Pan

I'm not sure I have much future as a poet, but I dabbled with poems long before I started writing on a daily basis. It's just a stupid little habbit I picked up somewhere: I think of clever, multi-dimensional lines or ideas, and build a few more around them, all in my head (the good ones are never very long, because I can only fit about six lines in my head at one time). I play around with the order and wording for a while, then when I'm satisfied with what I have, I get sentimental and write them down on the nearest available outlet, in fear of losing them forever.

The reason I'm explaining them is that, after a small squabble with my family at suppertime, I holed myself up in my room and filed through some old shit I had lying around, and happened to find a few snippets of poetry hidden within the pile. They're nothing spectacular, but I thought I'd share some favourites.


Scribbled inside the back cover of Jesus' Son, amongst phone numbers, notes to self and information on my flight home from Denver, and the second half (they make sense together, to me anyway), written on the back of a boarding pass and shoved inside the same book:

"I keep pictures under my pillow of the girl I used to be
Like he keeps his real name tattooed around his wrist..."

"...After all, isn’t part of walking watching where you put your feet?
Without a little recollection, how could we ever exist?

My mother always said it takes more to live than a heartbeat."

Small sheet of notepad paper, crumbled up in my guitar equipment box:

“He’s not much in the way of a gentle-man
Much more like your modern-day Peter Pan”

Inside my song-writing book (which I suppose qualifies it as a song, only I never wrote any music for it, lazy me:

“We cower below a man ten feet tall
The magistrate takes a bow
Good god damn, how the mighty fall
We’re all tied up like puppets now

When he raises a string
The rebels all sing his praises
A flick of the wrist
And we all twist and turn below
He’s got us on our toes
When he wrinkles his nose
We fall down when he lets us go”

On two equally boring white slips of paper, inside a dictionary:

“Deep down where our hearts reside
Is there no feeling that you can’t tame?”

“Romance is cyanide to the naive
And oxygen to the cruel”

-Manda

On a Dime

I'm semi-grounded. My mom wants me to reconsider my friendships, because she's noticed that shit tends to go down when Hannah and I are in the same place at the same time. I'm not very eager to obey, but we'll see.

I've already promised myself to build some walls between Shelby (because she's antagonized me over my mistakes not only to my face but behind my back) and Tammy (because she's taken over my mother's job as my primary caregiver, and it's obnoxious and wrong on multiple levels), but Hannah is a more gentle species than her mother and sister, contrary to popular belief. She likes to mask it with a wild-child exterior, but she's really very conscientious and deep. I suppose I'm very much the same, which may very well be the foundation for the friendship we've built over the past year or so.

I've been writing my CD wishlist for the 2007-2008 school year. School comes with multiple sources of pressure and stress, which collectively weigh down on me enough to cripple my spirits, and my theory is that if I have this list, each time I need a crutch I can go out and buy one from the list. It will provide a momentary bliss, a temporary high if you will, which should be enough to get me back on my feet long enough to pick up some momentum again.

The only rule is no hardcore, no emo, no screamo. That's like adding fuel to the fire, which is not what I'm looking for. I go pop/rock/altrock or I go musically hungry.

My List So Far:

Junior Varsity- "Cinematographic"
Boys Like Girls- "Boys Like Girls"
Yellowcard- "Paper Walls"
Sum 41- "Underclass Hero"
Paramore- "Riot!"
Motion City Soundtrack- "Even if it Kills Me", "Commit This to Memory"
The Harlots- "Connoisseur of Ruin"

I like the idea, really. I think it's going to help. I guess.

I had some unexpected conflict with Mel and Jenna last night, involving some drunken texts (they were drunk alone at Mel's house on a Wednesday night. Way to go, ladies) which were... well, not too horrible, but not kind-hearted either. I've been telling myself to ignore them, that they just want to compete with me and that fact alone should be flattering if anything, but these are the girls that made my life hell for me in elementary school, and as recovered as I seem to be, they still scare the living shit out of me.

It's quite possible that I'm addicted to hating myself (suicide junkie?). I'm talking it out (verbal detox?), though, and hoping for the best (insecurity rehab?).

Laughter from yesterday still lingers in the air. Life truly is a funny thing, if seen through the right perspective.

-Manda

No sir, well I don't wanna be the blame,
Not anymore
It's your turn, so take a seat
We're settling the final score

And why do we like to hurt, so much?
I can't decide
You have made it harder just to go on
And why, all the possibilities where I was wrong

I wonder, how am I supposed to feel
When you're not here
'Cause I burned every bridge I ever built
When you were here
I still try holding onto silly things,
I never learn
Oh why, all the possibilities I'm sure you've heard.

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.

I'm in shit. I'm in shit. I'm in shit. I'm in shit. I'm in shit. I'm in shit. I'm in shit. I'm in shit. I'm in shit. I'm in shit. I'm in shit. I'm in shit. I'm in shit. I'm in shit, I'm in shit, I'm in shit, I'm in shit, I'm in shit, I'm in shit, I'm in shit, I'm in shit, I'm in shit, I'm in shit, I'm in shit, I'm in shit, I'm in shit, I'm in shit, I'm in shit I'm in shit I'm in shit I'm in shit I'm in shit I'm in shit I'm in shit I'm in shit I'm in shit I'm in shit I'm in shit I'm in shit I'm in shit I'm in shit I'm in shit I'm in shit I'm in shit I'm in shit I'm in shit I'm in shit I'm in shit I'm in shit I'm in shitI'm in shitI'm in shitI'm in shitI'm in shitI'm in shitI'minshitI'minshitI'minshitI'minshitI'minshitI'minshit...

ShitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitFUUUUUUUUUCK...

I'm in so much fucking shit.

Post-breakdown update: Charles is a great guy. I think it may be possible that someone cloned me at some point in my life, then took that clone back in time and killed it, so that it was reborn shortly before my birth as Charles. It is one hundred and ten percent possible. He helped me forget about kids falling off buildings, and I helped him work out some girl problems. Then, he told me another girl problem, which completely mirrored my own situation. I gave him the advice I'm too chickenshit to take, and he's taking it. Why can't I?

Tyla fell off the school. I'm too tired of telling this story to go into much detail. Plus I'm actually wearing the wrist brace my mom bought me (I aggravated my carpal tunnel while scaling walls and catching pudgy little girls as they battle the forces of gravity. Go figure), which makes typing a little more arduous. The event has already taken place, I can't turn back time, but I can combat its evil plots with more gusto in the future. I'm going to beat Tammy to telling my mother the news, earn some mother-daughter trust points and... well, probably get grounded by her and/or slapped around by my dad. Oh joy. I feel like I'm on deathrow, but really, my mom may shrug it off. "Okay, don't let it happen again" to me and "well, she's a teenager, I'd rather she climb public education facilities than experiment with drugs, alcohol, and premarital sex" to Tammy. It is even possible she won't tell my dad, who will, in turn, not kill me.

ALLIE IS BACK HOSHITS. That was a very pleasent surprise, and expect to rebuild a new (more sturdy) friendship with her over time. What a great girl.

Evan is not on, and I need to tell him about all this, so he can know not to come to Haywood this weekend. Hmm.

Sean is coming out for the parade, mostly to laugh at me than anything else. I wouldn't mind if he'd drive out my dear one with him. But, alas, it's Sean, and such miracles do not exist within his being.

I'm studying music theory and memorizing the fretboard to feed my starving need for guitar experience. I polished my Strat and my SG again today, and it nearly broke my heart, seeing them so dusty. So I plugged in the SG, trimmed my nails (much too long for guitar, hm) and played a few chords. It took about 30 seconds for the pain to kick in, sending me off to find the wrist brace, my saviour.

My heart's not in a lot of this and you can tell. Choppy, random thoughts. A lack of vocab-worthy words. Blaaaah.

-Manda

I'm not sure what's worse
The waiting or the waiting room
"You're next sir" becomes a cruel taunt to you
Recycled air, the smell of sleep and disinfectant
Your God is a two door elevator

Let's redefine
What it means to heal

The Best Thing For You Is To Leave This Dirty Town

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"Shaking" and babies. Hm.

Tonight is the first night I feel as though I'll sleep well, and with purpose. I actually worked today, and not the invigorating work I put into my own interests, but the genuine personal sacrifice kind of work - the kind of thing you walk away from with money in your pocket.

I looked after Stephanie's baby for her while she went out to bingo with my sister and Michelle. Rayanna is almost 18 months, and with all the charm one expects from a baby, and those extras one could do without: a bladder, a set of bowels, and a strong pair of lungs. She was a sweet kid, though, and I managed to get her fed, clean and in bed by the time her mom came home.

The little baby made me think. It's weird: leave yourself in small apartment with a strange chubby, pink creature incapable of expressing coherent thoughts, and your mind flies. I'd always been so quick to avoid children, always thought I was so horrible with them, always been so sure that I would never reproduce or raise one of my own. But this little thing is so fragile and helpless, and it needs you to look after it... I don't know, a part of me I didn't know I possessed fired up and suddenly I was patient, maternal, caring. I suppose it's a common, natural occurence with women, to discover a maternal instinct left dorment for so long, but it was amazing all the same. I was compelled to work so hard to keep this little thing happy, that I didn't even notice until I sat down and had a drink.

Whether I should be comforted by this or more alarmed than ever, I don't know. I can't say if my position on having kids has really changed. I don't think I could put my whole life into raising someone else. 'Slowing down' wouldn't be pleasent. And since I have the same inner conflict when I consider marriage in my future, I don't know if I'd ever be that comfortable in a family. It's a lot to worry about, especially for a 15-year-old with no boyfriend.

Tyler came by with drinks, and I was invited to spend the night at Steph's with them, but I felt really young, and I had been hoping to go home and wash the smell of the baby off of me. I made a mental note to spend more time with these people, though, because I like them so much more than the manipulative bitches that (sometimes) call me friend.

Slaughterhouse Five is nearing its end, and I can't keep it to myself. Evan went out and bought it yesterday, under my recommendation. It's going to be the first thing he's read in what? Three years? It seemed to be his kind of book, though, and I'm going to assume that the reason I haven't heard from him since is that he's hooked.

The bulb over the sink in the kitchen in flickering, and I can hear what I believe is the sump pump working in the basement. The breeze is crawling in through the windows. The dishwasher is in its second rinse cycle: this is perhaps the most hypnotic sound I've ever encountered. As any piece of machinery tends to do, it makes a sort of throb as it works, and the water sloshes around steadily, resembling the sound heard from the side of a large boat or ship. I'm in that sort of dozy, poetic mood. Damn that baby and her infantile charms.

I miss my guitar so badly that I dreamt about it for a short while as I was waiting for the baby to fall asleep. Then I dreamt of a game show of which I was the prize. It was creepy, but at the same time, I think I managed to untangle a few knots about the men in my life. Conscious, I am romantically retarded. Unconcious, I unravel mysteries and explore the inner workings of my own heart, and when I awake, it strikes me like an epiphany - "Eureka!" - and who loves me and who I love and every 'why' and 'how' beneath the matter is clear before my newly-rested eyes. Then within hours I manage to sink back into a low gear, denying the very existance of love. Rinse, repeat.

I vow to flirt shamelessly with my boy, and I will not let the month pass without asking him out. Life is only so long, really, and I'd really like to waste a little of it with him, just him, if he'll agree to do the same with just me.

I'm working on a picture of activists, and I'm considering using my 16"(18"? 20"? It's big, in any case) canvas for it. Hm.

-Manda

I'm searching for a change of pace
Trying to pull away all these names
Tell you how it all works out

I'm terrible on the phone
It's better when it's us, all alone
Tell you how it all works out

You're not the only one
And I'm not your only fun

I like the sounds you make when we're shaking
You like to lose control and I take it
I turn the music up, so it drowns us out

I scatter when the morning comes
Shattered over what I've just done
Tell me if it all works out

You're not the only one
And I'm not your only fun

So It Goes

Video cameras can turn the most fluid, composed human being into a giggling fool, and so it's a pity that they also capture such embarrassment for future viewing. But, as it would turn out, I happen to be oddly elegant in front of the little beasts. Perhaps the laws of 'vice-versa' apply here and I was an imbecile before that little red light came to life? Hm.

I sketched a little today, and mixed some paints together just for the hell of it, but the air in my room is still far too hot and clinging for my artistic lungs to process, and so I retreated to stretch my creative legs elsewhere.

What started out as anatomy practice on Paint on the family room computer soon escalated into a complete line art (and I'll admit, the anatomy portion of the project was quite bluntly dejected). SHE'S STILL GOT IT(?), FOLKS.



In heat like this, I'm anxious for the Centennial, wherein I'll be dressed in a colourful albeit poorly-ventilated French dress and pulled by atop a 'float' for all to see, sweating like a dog all the while. Last I heard, there was a ridiculous hat to complete the ensemble. Urgh. Ah, well, it's a favour for the Dedieus (why I was the one who was asked to do it, I don't know. I must look the most like a Dedieu?) and family is an important thing, yes?

Slaughter House Five is cracked open to page 47 (I got distracted, sue me) and already the late Vonnegut's voice seems contented to resound in my subconscious at every opportunity. "So it goes, so it goes..." plays back inside my ears beneath each loss of a life, each memory of a lost life, or the thought of a life being taken. The Vonnegutism seems to bear even more weight now that the writer himself is no more. So it goes.

And much like Billy Pilgrim in his post-near-death mental state, I'm eager to see life not as a beginning, middle and end - "beads on a string" - but as a collection of moments all very much permanent. When I die I'll be dead in that moment, but I'll have been alive in so many other moments that are just as real as they were when they happened, and there will be no cause for mourning or ceremony.

I will be dead. So it goes.

The more I think about it, the more I like it, and the more I like it, the more I think about it, on and on and over and over until every inch of my psyche is poisoned and, as they are doing now, the toxins find their way out by way of my tongue or my pen or my fingertips, into the world to infect other minds.

I'm not saying the book is prophetic in every sense of the word, I'm just saying that it's got me thinking, and you might consider picking it up at a bookstore (used, new, depending on what you prefer. I have a weakness for used books, to be completely honest. Call me crazy). While you're there, at your (new/used) bookstore, also consider skimming the shelves for Jesus' Son. I'm sure you know by now how I feel about that one. I'll throw a list together, one day. Perhaps.

The fact that I'm writing again when I made a new post just yesterday is evidence to just how monotonous the summer has grown. I should call Liam, one of these days, and I owe Stephanie and Justine a visit. And I've been meaning to call Tavis, too. Ah shit, I have options, I just have a habit of sleeping in till it's too late to make anything happen. Hm. Another reason I've been writing more frequently is that I now know I have four readers whom I actually know, and it's more compelling to write to an audience than to write to the endless depths of #ffffff space more commonly titled 'the Internet'. Cyberspace is not my friend.

Tammy Faye has lost her grueling battle with cancer. So it goes, and goes, and goes...

Manda.

Right on time
The symbols crash
And the tears you thought were gone
Have come to town again
Maybe my love wrecks everything
Maybe emptiness is key
There's a radio that calls your name
Everytime I hear it sing

I don't wanna miss you so much baby
I don't wanna miss you all the time
I don't wanna drive myself so crazy
And lie awake in someone elses arms
But I do

So much better

Maybe it's because I've been in the city so much, I don't know, but The Weakerthans have somehow become my priests, in the same way that Jesus' Son has become my bible. I'm starting my own religion wherein each member tries as hard as possible to become me in the next life. Whoever studies hardest wins - GO!

"Measure me in metered lines
And one decisive stare
The time it takes to get from here to there
My ribs that show through t-shirts
And these shoes I got for free
I'm unconsoled
I'm lonely
I am so much better than I used to be"

Now read every second story of Jesus' Son and develop a numerical version of dyslexia. Then we'll talk.

Now, for the more serious notes:

I've sunken back into the perpetual rise and fall of day-to-day life in my own house. I stay up till 5 AM on msn, then close myself into my room and take a few bites out of whatever book happens to be on top of the pile that night (lately it happens to be Catch-22, which suits me fine because it's so full of paradoxes that I'm usually out after four or five pages) and then wake up the next morning, shower, take care of hair, makeup, clothes - all those frivolities that I must confess I indulge in. By this time it's usually about 2 PM and I'm at a low. I shrug and mumble and text people back with dead-ends like "yeah" and "lol" because I don't have the heart to say "leave me alone, I don't want to talk to you" and I'm just too much a text junkie to ignore the message completely. I perk up after a couple bowls of cereal or a cup of Green Tea and a trip to 'anywhere but here'. After a sufficiant amount of time has passed, I'll come home and someone will remark on my presence in the most ignorant way possible ('Damnit, it's 6 o'clock and you're just getting up? You really shouldn't sleep in so late...')

Then it's either back on msn to waste the remainder of the day or out to get in shit around town. The highlight of the week was jumping off a building and walking in wet paint, both in the same night.

Hannah and Chris' relationship is a bust. Imagine that, scoffs the little cynic on my shoulder, Hannah with an ex-boyfriend. One wonders what sort of daddy problems make a girl that specific hybrid of indecisive and desperate. What was on a pedestal above her one week is in her arms the next, and the week after that that same idol lays in a dumpster, wounded and insecure.

I know this is the result of some deep daddy issues because, being the girl whose parents aren't separated but live 30 hours apart from eachother, I am just that familiar with the phenomona an absent/lousy/addicted father can cause. I like to blame my neverending cycle of boyfriendlessness on my absent father (Not because it's totally logical, though). And I suspect the reason I am so quick to trust men is another one. I promise to one day take a Psychology course and study the effects of fathers on their daughters relationships with men. I know there are connections, but I don't know the extent or magnitude of the repercussions.

Eric read through my blog before (One sentence! Good enough?) after managing to find it with some google skills I imagine he's downright proud of right now. He's not the type to tease unneccesarily, so if he did find the fact that I write in a blog particularly funny, he masked it well enough. I don't mind people who know me reading this, as long as they are open-minded enough to realize that just because I'm semi-popular and not overly ugly, it doesn't mean I can't also be...you know: smart.

I appreciate open minds like I appreciate a good murlough - greatly. They don't come much more pompous than I.

It would appear I'm something of a 'scene queen'.

Alright, that's a bit of an exaggeration. But it just so happens that my skinny-body pretty-face appearence is something coveted by scenesters (in the Winnipeg scene, anyway) and when paired with my superficial, egotist loud-mouth personality, it's common for such girls to become 'so' more than a scenester, hoisted up on the scene-kid throne and crowned 'Scene Queen'.

This is all bullshit to me, really. But it's interesting at the same time. I never meant to conform to such a degree with the subculture; all I really did was wear skinny jeans and flats to a Silverstein/Rise Against/Comeback Kid show (Holy Roman Empire is hereby removed from the bill due to SUCKAGE).

After a small dose of moshing I bought myself a Silverstein shirt and put it on. It's a faux-pas, yes, but I live and breathe faux-pas. This served as an eye-catcher to my 'fellow' scenekids and when they took note of my bold makeup, elitist sneer and long, stacked hair.. well, most girls were just nicer. Guys decided to come on to me, and I was beating off way-too-old-for-me emo boys for the rest of the night.

I have some bruises and such which is always cool. And I met my sisters friends who were very nice and not-as-pretty-as-I-had-thought.


Fond? Memory #223:

asian emokid: "Hey, [inaudible introduction beneath shrieks from encore-hungry fans]"
myself: *looking over the HRE shirts and wondering why they suck so bad* "Uh, huh?"
asian emokid: "[somethingsomething] Jay and [somethingsomething] hot."
myself: *glances around, leans in*
asian emokid: "Uhm...We've been talking about you all night. Right?" *gestures to friends, who make meek affirmations*
friend who isn't totally silent: "Yeah.. you have really long hair."
me: *funnylook* "thanks?"
friend who isn't totally silent: "Yeah..." *looks at me a long time* You're... *...*
me: *raises eyebrows or something*
friend: ...twenty?
me: [OMGWTF] fifteen.
friend: WHAT?
me: FIF-FUCKING-TEEN.
friend: oh, holy shit. Really?
Jay: She's pretty cute for a fifteen year old
friend: *nods, suddenly all coy because he realizes I'm so young and therefore insuperior* How old do you think Jay here is?
me: *long pensive silence* ...Twenty-one?
Jay: *laughs*
Friend: *looks at me a long time like he's thinking of something smart/mature to say* ...
Me: Is he?
Friend: Oh man... you're gonna think.... he's 28.
Me: Oh.
Me: ....Oh.
Me: ....Holy shit.
Friend: Ah, don't worry, he's a virgin!
Me: ....[wtfwtfwtf]
Friend: No, I mean, he's a virgin, so having someone like you talking to him, it makes him feel special!
Me: ....okay? *meek, very disturbed smile*
Sister: *muttering* what the fuck is with everyone and hitting on you... *drags me away, tells the story to her friends who are disturbed at amused at the same time*
"omigod! How old are you, even?"
"Fifteen."
"omiGOD..."
"You should have told them that"
"I did"
"They thought she was twenty!"
"Hahaha"
"That's so weird"
"That's so FUNNY" etc.

Okay, so yes, California was not-bad and I'm home now after an entire days worth of rescheduling, recommuting, gate changes and pretzels.

But that's not what I'm concerned with adding to this thing right now.

In fact, I'm not concerned with adding anything to this thing.

I've got heavy lungs and I'm starting to hate myself.

End transmission?

Musings from the road

I feel a little, well, silly taking the time to update this when only two people seem to be reading it at all. But it's alright, I'm doing it anyway. If it pleases you, read on, and if it bores you, by all means, accept the alluring beckoning of that big, red X button.

It's the third day of our trip south. Well, that's a little odd to say, because I haven't been counting the days. This is the third strange city we stop in, the third hotel room whose floor (maybe even a bed, if I can beat the others to one) I'll be sleeping on. The third long, restful night of sleep I will endulge in. These are the things I notice. The days have bled together, from avenues to highways to interstates to gravel roads. Kilometers to miles. Clipped, clean accents to american drawl. It's a slow transition, but it's there. And it's all comforting to me. I've slept better in the past three days than I could ever sleep in a week - hell, a month - back home.

Odds and ends I wrote each day but never found the time to post:

Thursday, June 28th: We left today as soon as my mom got off work. It's a short day, and the highways are smooth and straight. We crossed the border easily enough. We passed a tree about an hour into North Dakota and I've been aching ever since, because I should have taken a picture of it. It symbolized the state, the entire day, perfectly. It was a big tree with long, lean branches, lone in the middle of a huge expanse of a feild. It had long strings of green trailing from its branches. It might have been a weeping willow, but it was too think, I think. Anyway, the tree itself was half crippled. Some of its branches jutted out at awkward angels. Some hung down, dead. It's hard to explain in words, but I saw it and it just struck me as something I should take a picture of. But I didn't. We stopped in Minot, an endearing little city, but nothing overly special, and stayed at a Comfort Inn for the night. It was...okay.

Friday, June 29th: I spend about 90% of the time we spent on the road dead to the world. The dead feeling North Dakota emits is hard to shake off. I buried my nose in books, singing absentmindedly to whatever happened to be on the radio. I devoured each story of Jesus' Son in quick succession, and following a short period of scattered thoughts in which I wondered if it was possible to O.D. on a book, I picked up Endgame. I was a virgin to the book, but it grew on me quickly, until the very end, where reading became arduous as I knew what would happen. And it did. I still haven't shaken off the weight of those two books. We scrambled around Miles City until we found the Best Western. Miles City is like a walk through the 50's. It's horrible, and it happened to be 40 degrees Celcius. Urgh.

Saturday, June 30th: A relatively short driving day. We left early in the morning and arrived in Bozeman at about 4:00. We decided to visit the mall, for lack of a better way to kill time, and I bought a CD, another book to fight off the boredom when the scenery gets flat again, a shirt and some makeup. Nothing too special. Flicked through the channels. Read some of my book (It's Kind of a Long Story. It's a teen book, but so far it's charming nonetheless). Listened to the new CD (Dying is Your Latest Fashion, by Escape the Fate. My heaviest band, heh.) while typing this up.

It's a comfy city that I like to imagine myself living in, foolishly. Everything I imagine myself doing is a fool's dream. The hotel room isn't overly large, but just like the city, it's comfortable.

I'm honestly boring myself. But I just can't help but babble about my travelling. There's a feeling it gives me that I obviously can't express and have wasted the past 45 minutes trying to get it out. I feel light and free. We have a destination in mind, but nothing else as of yet. We may take the same route home, or an entirely different one, or my older sister and I may be flying back and spending some time with family or friends while we wait for the others to drive back. It's all up in the air.

I can't stop thinking about love. Romance. Crushes. Lust. It's always on my mind, at least partly, turning over and over but never really doing anything more, like an engine that won't start. I have a certain name on my lips, a daydream in my eyelids, and a memory in my brain that seems to cancel out the other two. I've been through a lot and I don't trust anyone with this love business. Myself included.

Well, it's late and everyone else is out. I should sleep, too. Goodnight.

Pixels form letters form words that mean nothing

Dear You,

I just thought you should know how I feel, and you know how I hate to admit how doe-eyed I can be, so this is my alternative.

I want to let you know that hearing you talk about other girls nearly kills me.

That I love that you flirt with me and forgive my shameful attempts at flirting back.

I love that you come to me with your problems, not only because I love to help but that it's amazing to see this soft, sensitive side of you that is so rare in teenage boys.

I hate that there is nearly two hours of distance between us, and so much less between all the other girls you tell me about. I want to be close to you, too.

I love your poems and songs. Even the bad ones.

I love your laugh and your sense of humour.

I hate that the phone muffles your laugh and cuts out over your best jokes.

I love the way you forgive my 'blonde moments'. I love to witness yours.

I love that you ask "which one?" when I mention something about "my sister".

I love the voice you use when you immitate your own sister.

I hate that I can't see you smile, and that you have to ask if I'm still listening because you can't see me nod.

I love that you can find a great story in almost any situation.

I hate that your great stories sometimes involve those girls that I wish were all dead.

I love to think how it would be to be with you again.

I hate to think that if I were with you, you would do something I hate and ruin everything.

I hate that I hate anything about you.

I love that you offer hugs and kisses in hypothetical situations, almost as if you just like to make me imagine...

I hate that it's all hypothetical.

I love knowing that you'll be waiting back here for me.

I hate thinking I could come back and hear something like "...so I have a new girlfriend..."

I hate that it's all hypothetical.

This letter is cliche, I know: The infamous Letter I'll Never Send, addressed to the equally elusive Boy I'll Never Have. But these things need to come out and I'd seem like such a silly little girl if I were to actually voice them.

This is safer, for both of us. I'm getting used to living on the safe side.

I love don't hate you.

I hate that it's all so fucking hypothetical.

Do You Belong to a Song?

Sunuva..

Yesterday, after Sports Day at school (which for me and my injury was just a day of sun, minus two hours which were spent skipping to wander around town) I spent the evening at Bridget's house. I met her mum (a woman I've come to characterize by the cigarettes she always has on her person - but you know, don't tell her that) and we watched some TV. Her mother went outside to leave us to our own devises, and before long we were shut up in the office, screaming the words to Johnny Cash and George Jones. It was a night of innocent and shameless fun, wherein I did not drink, which I was proud of.

I'm going through that phase where I deem it neccesary to de-booze myself. I'm young and it shouldn't run my life as much as it sometimes does. I don't see myself staying sober, and it's not like I have a problem anyway. I just don't like the fact that I was feeling compelled to suck up to people just because they're my drinking company. So it's out with those people and out with the liquor, for a while. It's a healthy break, it's helping me get close with people I let drift away, and it's generally just making me happy. Right?

Wrong. While last night was my first sober Friday night in a fair while, it was also one of my close friend Ryan's worst drunken feats ever. He announced over IM to me that he made out with a girl he likes at a party. This boy is pretty important to me, we're close and if he happened to live closer I would most certainly fall for him and proceed to train behind him like a lost puppy. I always assumed he had the same kind-of-romantic feelings. And maybe he does, I mean, he was drunk. And even if he likes her, it doesn't erase his feelings for other girls. And I don't think that this girl likes Ryan back anyway (she actually thought he was someone else, from what I hear).

But anyway, he phoned, still not quite sober, and told me all about his night and I perched somewhere between contented, jealous, angry, annoyed, devastated, amused and absolutely exhausted. He left at 2 and I talked to Stray for a while, but I just wasn't in the mood to hold up a real conversation.

The calm, logical part of me is saying not to worry, one night doesn't change everything and we haven't gone on our date yet so even if he does end up with her, I never really had any claim over him anyway. The mad, scathing part of me (a much larger part, mind you) is screaming "That bitch kissed him, and the little bastard kissed her back! Am I just going to be a one-night fling as well? Is this how it always has to work?! I find a great young man and am insecure in the relationship, and the second I belive what's going on and am willing to step into it, the fucker turns around and MAKES OUT WITH A PRACTICAL STRANGER?"

I need a drink.

Swelling Digits & Sour Tidbits

Finally my bumps and cuts from the other day have revealed themselves in the form of two large clusters of sickly-coloured bruises and a very large hill on the 'knuckle' of my toe (exactly what does one call such a thing, anyway?) Why it took two days to show up, I don't know, but I'm glad because I can see that as badly bruised as I am, I'm healing. I like to keep track of that sort of thing.

This road trip idea is getting a little more rocky, as have a lot of things. My dads taxes situation has gone from mildly inconvenient to a slight problem to a midsize dilema to a full-blown nightmare. The ifs and hows and whys are just as boring as you're imagining, so I'll spare you. I've broken every E string on every guitar I own, as well as any replacements, and I'm too broke to buy more. Men continue to spray fuel on the fire of my insecurity. I've lost 3 pounds and I have two pimples side by side on my cheek like conjoined twins. It's 11:50 and I can't sleep.

But it's a free day of school tomorrow, and next week is my last week of classes. After that, two days of exams and then (hopefully) a trip as far away from Manitoba as physically possible.

Oh, also, an old friend (not so much a friend anymore, but you know how that goes) of mine ran away from home last night. I was told his stepfather was abusing him. I felt bad. Horrible, even. Worried sick. Then I hear this morning that this was verbal abuse, not physical. And considering the type of person this friend is, I doubt it even really registered as that. But now he's back home, his stepdad is probably facing huge problems for yelling at his out-of-line stepkid over skipping school or something, and I'm a little disgusted. I know kids whose fathers beat them or emotionally abused them to the point where they abused themselves. This boy is told to smarten up (I'm making an assumption here, yes, but I've known his mom and stepdad for years now and the man is not nearly involved enough to abuse the kids. He more just speaks for his wife when she's too tired to) and calls family services.

It's a pet peeve of mine when people (especially overdramatic teens) make their own problems like this. But at the same time, verbal abuse is probably a very vague term, and there is a sliver of chance that this man slipped out of character long enough to raise his voice and throw some words around. I'm not saying this boy is a liar. I'm just saying, haven't we all felt like our parents were being jerks at one time or another? Being a parent is hard; marrying into the role of a parent when you have no kids yourself is at least twice as hard.

Today, while digging through the stocks of my parents' basement for my 'good shoes' (a term popular among mothers whose children own a menagerie of dirtied, crusty sneakers and but a single pair of clean dress shoes, often locked up in the basement as mine are so as to not be tainted by my touch), I managed to miss a step on the staircase and ended up with my knee wedged between two steps. A comical situation, really, and embarassing, so I squeezed out as fast I could, with two new peculiar injuries: a large grey bump on my shin, and a strange hill protuding from my opposite foot's big toe.

I wandered around the house with a gate like that of a duck, and now that my mum diagnosed it as either a sprained or broken toe (and just an icky bruise), I'm worrying about how I'll live out the healing process. My good shoes are still an essential part of my outfit to my cousin's graduation. No doubt that will be hell. I have a beep test tomorrow in P.E., which will be the equivilant of suicide, really. And then there is California, the magnetic state that's been calling to me all month. The trip there was going to be free, frollicking fun across the Rockies, the deserts and the beaches. Now it's going to consist of limping in and out of the car, bitching the whole way. Less appealing.

I'm sorry to have left my modest e-hideaway so barren for so long, but this romance concept has a way of fogging up a young girl's mind. I'm back and intend to keep the place stocked a little more often, just as a sanity-maintaining sort of ritual. Writing has always served as a nice little temporary escape, and writing about my life provides both refuge and a small dose of this 'reality' I am so prone to ignoring.

So far a total of 2 people have been told about my converting to Silentology, and neither one of them the most involved creatures in my life. But if they choose not to comment (or even not to read) that's alright, since this is just as much for me as it is for them.

I am so close to love that it's maddening to think about it, but even worse to disregard it. My friend is stumbling down the same road, too, a few messy steps behind. Emotions are intoxicating.

This is a public service announcement...

Date. Kindasorta. Maybe.

See, universe? That's all I wanted. Not a vow to eternal love or even a boyfriend (not that it's out of the question...you know). I just wanted to feel like someone enjoys having me around, or at least know that I have a connection (however small) with someone. Usually when I think there is something, there is really nothing, and when I think it's obvious that there is nothing, the other person is bound to feel the opposite.

So maybe I'm finally in sync with someone. It's nice.

Don't worry, I'm not taking this as more than it is, it's just a friend trying to get to know me better. I'm just saying someone caring back is nice. Comfy.

A Day at the Races

Today provided me with a life lesson. I was thrown into a world where I didn't belong: the scene, a middle school track meet at my school. That's right: the girl who dined on shrimp cake with a sheep farmer in Iceland, who visited the nude beach in the Canaries, who struggled to ask a stranger for directions in the middle of a park in Madrid, found her match in a 5-8 track meet.

It's not that I'm athletically retarded, I've just never had a very strong interest in sports and the competition alone drives me mad. I should also mention that I wasn't participating in the events, merely helping run them. But somehow this was far worse than being a competitor, because now I had nothing to distract me from it all. Kids crying because they lost races, girls succumbing to injuries and boys turning on their friends, all over a small peice of coloured ribbon. I couldn't see the point in it all, and I had a hard time sitting in the grass with my group, watching them argue over times, records, and losses.

Exasperated, I visited with an old friend whose parents had come out to cheer her on. Her father is one of those fanatic parents who seems to forget that A) it's just a game, it doesn't matter, and B) he's 40 years old, with a beer gut and a bald head, and no teenage girl in her right mind would take his advice on how to improve her 100m time. They dragged me over to the track to watch the relays, and I was unsettled to find that the whole thing reminded me of a dog race. Parents chattered in a crowd around the finish line, noting that one girl's legs were looking a little flabby and that another seemed unnaturally skinny enough to fare well. Disturbed but intrigued, I hung around near my friend's dad so I could hear each and every comment, and I watched the race.

His younger daughter was the lead in the relay, and watching her push her little body so hard for daddy's approval was intensely unsettling. She passed the baton to a good friend of mine, and he remarked that the hand-off was sloppy and his mouth drew into a fine line at the girl's not-as-lean figure. She seemed like a great runner to me, but aparently I have an untrained eye to this sort of thing. The next girl was not that skinny either, and only about 4-foot-8, so I expected some criticism, but now there was none. Was there any science to this sort of thing? The finisher was another friend of mine, a short and tiny little thing, but, much like Darrell's daughter, an insanely swift little thign when given the right motivation.

As she threw herself across the finish line, I watched Darrell's wife patting at his arm, giddy at her daughter's performance and victory. She'd been betting on the right dog. She had won. They checked the time and came back with even more pink in their faces. One second lower than their old record! Bragging insued. Praise for their daughter. Pats on the back for the whole team. Constructive criticism about their 'sloppy' hand-off and 'poor' running.

I felt so out of place, because no one else seemed to think the whole thing was dirty or wrong. The competition is fine, really, but the amount of pressure some of these kids are put under, all for a silly little ribbon. And if they win, they move on to a regional track meet, with even more pressure, because this time they aren't competing against their friends (whom they treat like shit, this one day every year), but now against strangers.

It was like been trampled at a dog track. I'm glad it's over, and even more glad I'll never have to participate at track meets again.

Inertia

A good friend of mine is celebrating his birthday today. Living two hours away, he isn't the easiest to get a hold of, but we've made arrangements for a phone call and I'll check in then.

I do hope his day went well, because the end of the month seems to be boiling over for me. Bubbling with anxiety and frustration, I've been either lagging behind in conversation (huh?) or exploding into a variety of insults, sarcasm, nihilism and two-syllable responses that would turn a cynic's pyrotechnic display green with envy. I did homework in the cafeteria at lunch. I broke my father's compass. I blew up at a friend who meant me no harm. I poured kerosene on an inferno of a disagreement, just to watch the chain reaction that ensued. I swore. I rolled my eyes.

Basically i was a perfect brat.

The only time I meant to be a self-centered, class A specimen of jerk was in ELA, when our sub (the real, more intelligent, more experienced and much more respectable teacher is on stress leave, and hasn't been at school for several weeks) announced that, rather than follow the lesson plan which stated we would wrap up our curriculum with a short lesson on poetry, we would ignore the instructions we were left with and we would 'learn' to write resumes.

Teacher have it in their head that the key to being successful in life is having the ultimate, ungodly power of a long-winded resume. And, hey, I'm not saying it isn't important to have one, but I do think it's more important that we get through school and learn the things we are supposed to be taught rather than jump ahead three years and write these unfathomably perfect resumes. And it's not like we haven't learned it before: we were given the exact same assignment just last year, and another time two years before that. We're also to receive a credit for taking a course on it a year in the future. If these resumes are so marvelous, so desirable, why do I have to write a new one every two years (which I never use, mind you - I didn't have to so much as mention a resume for either of my two past jobs)?

Needless to say, I found the whole thing ridiculous, and she's a terrible teacher (especially in English: she butchered the point of The Tell-Tale Heart and she completely ignores my questions). So myself and several others made a point of bitching and moaning over the whole thing. I whined that I wanted my old teacher back whenever she turned to leave, and I corrected her so loudly it's a wonder the whole school didn't hear. I rolled my eyes while she struggled to get us to quiet down. I heard she's been taking over a math class as well and has been bullying a girl in that class, including failing her on an assignment because she had activist beliefs that conflicted with the rest of her war-hungry group.

I dislike her, but the school has very little staff and no one to replace her with, so even if I complained, and even if she had done something to justify the complaint, she wouldn't be so much as talked to about it. The same goes for the creepy old sub who harasses the girls. Until there is public knowledge of it and reputations are at stake, nothing is going to happen.

Here's to tomorrow being brighter, at the very least.

An Introduction to Silentology

The very few of you who have stumbled across this page are, I can only hope, the very few who still enjoy my company. If so, by all means, pull up a chair, because this is probably the only contact I can offer you with my own self for quite some time now (all will be explained below, fret not).

SZF is no longer home, but merely a resting place. You can expect to find me sleeping on its living room floor on many a Sunday morning, but expect no more than just that. I'll be frequenting the art and literature section, offering advice and raving over whatever talent I might find. Other than that, expect silence. Gone is the political activist soul who sang protest songs from the corners and margins. Gone is the self-defeatist idealist conflictist who everybody grew so tired of so quickly.

Here is what is left of that girl you all used to know.

I'm fifteen years old now, as always younger than my mentality seems to suit. I've lost a very important person this year, and the chasm he left in my life has shrunken somewhat, but is still very much present. I write songs on my bedroom floor and I record them with friends intimately, almost in secret. We also perform them at the odd town function, sometimes to applause and other times to silence, but never in vain, I think. I draw - oh, do I draw. I scribble on paper after paper, and when I finally find mself proud of one of my drawings, I transfer it to canvas and glob on the acrylics, sometimes skipping entire nights of sleep for fear I lose my inspiration, my insight, overnight.

I travel a lot, and that's what you can expect most from this journal. In addition to photos and diary entries about each new city or country, I will also supply links to my conquests online. New songs, peices of art, or maybe just an author I happen to adore. Anything and everything.

You will grow bored of me, but I don't care. I've lost my place and I need a new one, and this journal happens to be cozy.