REPORT A PROBLEM
I donít know what to say about that. I feel like making up a really bad, cheesy poem, but thereís enough of that crap in the world. The people on Internet forums piss me off. They act like they are so arrogant and know everything, but if you happened to meet them in real life, they wouldnít have an ounce of social skills Ė probably. I know Iím one to talk, but I still wonder what would happen if I met a forum bad ass in real life. They can own me online, but never in reality. Iím too good.
Great Balls of Fire
I used to think that saying was hilarious when I was in third grade. It wasnít because of the implication that the word ďballsĒ brings to mind; it was because of some kid in my class saying something to the effect of ďgoodness gracious, great balls of grandpas.Ē That gave me a hilarious mental image of a whole bunch of old guys tangled up in something that looked like a rubber band ball. See, nothing perverted. I can have a clean mindÖ sometimes. Itís still kind of funny though, but Iím trying to break from immaturity.
Thereís too much of that in this world. The government wants us to hurry up and die so it doesnít have to shell out social security once we hit that age. That is completely backwards from the way things should be. Every human being has the right to a healthy, happy, long life. This world is incredibly backwards. There are women who have sex, have a kid, get married, then go to college. Thatís so backwards from the way things should be. I feel like Iíve ranted on this enough. I have conservative views and need to air them.
I am as green as the Slinky on my desk. I know nothing about anything, and it makes me feel inferior. I feel inferior most of the time. I got in a huge rant today (in my journal) about how I cannot seem to trust any girl, especially girls I went to high school with. I donít think itís because I have a boyfriend, although if I didnít have one, I think Iíd trust more easily. I try to be nice to them. I honestly try to relate to them, but I roll my eyes at what they say.
My prospects as a published author, or of getting a job look so grim right now, mostly due to this failing economy. Itís also due to my bad work. I canít write that well, and I know it. All I can do is keep trying to get better, and thatís what Iíll do. I enjoy writing. I love it so much that I really would be lost without it. Writing is probably my third love, after God and my boyfriend. And if I canít find a job, thereís always grad school. Then I can get an MFA degree, hopefully.
After April 20, I was guilty. After February 13, I was guilty. You want to know something kind of strange? If you put April 20 and February 13 together, you get 2013. And if you put April and February together, you get 42. Kind of odd, if I do say so myself, but Iím always on the lookout for odd things. At school, me and Joe and Skylar came up with this thing, ďIím gonna go 20:13 on your ass!Ē So that had an odd significance. After that, Jamie said he wanted to get married in 2013. How strange.
My hair is a wreck all the time. I donít have the energy to upkeep it, and every time I get it cut, I hate it when it grows out to that awkward phase where it doesnít look good, yet is still too short to put in a ponytail or hair clip. Right now, itís past that awkward phase, and Iím waiting for it to grow back out. Once it does, Iím not cutting it; Iím just getting a trim every once in awhile. I want to grow my hair until itís so long, it goes down my back.
The Nuremburg trials are the first thing that comes to mind when I hear that phrase. I spent some time researching that (not for school, but for my own morbid interests). It was kind of crazy to hear how the old Nazis got their comeuppance for destroying all of Europe, but since I donít believe in the death penalty, it was weird in that sense. I donít think these prisoners today should be treated as well as they are and have so much of our tax money spent on them, but it is much more humane than death.
I wish I could find happiness with him. It feels like whenever I donít have him, I want him. It feels like whenever I have him, I want him to get the hell away from me. Why do I feel this way? I really donít understand it at all. I do miss him. I really do. Itís just that a lot of our time together is spent trying to avoid the sex and with friends that I donít really care about. All I want to see is Jamie. I donít care about my friends, as mean as that sounds.
I am in my happy place when I am with him. I am in my happy place when I am alone and writing, like I was last night. I was getting everything done, and I was doing well at it (or so I thought) and I was relatively confident. I am in my happy place when I am alone, which contradicts what I just said. I think a person can definitely have more than one happy place. His arms are my happy place, and his arms are my tomb. It is inevitable. He will belong to me someday.
People who think theyíre so hardcore annoy me, mostly because theyíre just poseurs. I used to be a poseur, in 10th grade and maybe even 12th grade, but I was never ďhardcore.Ē I was too shy to be really hardcore and I didnít believe in getting tattoos and I hated those spiky gothic wristbands that everyone wore. But itís these high-schoolers that really get to me. They think they are so individual, when theyíre all just the same as everyone else. I know I am the same as everyone else. Somewhere in the world, there is someone like me.
I hate that show Ghost Hunters. It is so fake. I know I have probably ranted about this before, but I canít get over how stupid the show is. They find houses that are supposedly ďhauntedĒ and in reality itís just a shadow or an electromagnetic field. I wish people wouldnít be stupid enough or easily entertained enough to watch that show. I donít believe in haunted houses, but I think that they are a useful, if overdone, device for fiction. Not movies, people. Books. Not bad books, but real literature that has some hidden meanings in it.
Because of all the things I never said to him, he still haunts me. Every so often I get a dream about him, but they are coming fewer and fewer times a month now. Every time I dream about him, it seems more real than the last time I dreamed. Every time, I wake up disappointed that it was not real, but at the same time Iím grateful for the unreality of it. I would like to see him again, but I donít think I really would. It seems that we have both changed Ė we would not get along.
Have I Told You Lately
I guess it is the perfect topic for today. Itís Valentineís Day, a holiday loved by the lovers and despised by the singles. I donít really care for V-Day, even though Iím not single. Itís just another holiday designed to exploit materialism and consumerism, which is what all holidays are for nowadays Ė a boost to our pitiful economy. I am going out on a double date this V-Day, and I would rather not. I want some one-on-one in my love life. I never get enough, but I could be single and whining about that today.
Heís a Player
I wish this entry was longer than 100 words. I want to rant really bad right now. I hate how lately I am feeling so hateful towards everyone Ė I feel like I am filled with hate and scorn for the majority of the human race, especially girls. I hate how I am never happy around other people, yet, when I am alone, I am the happiest person alive. I am not good at letting my guard down around others. I donít trust others. I am continually suspecting that others will hurt me. He thinks heís a player.
I was reading something I wrote from last year and I was pissed as hell. But since then, I have healed. I realized that what I was so angry about exactly one year ago has now passed (and if it has not passed, at least the ďdangerĒ is mitigated somehow). Chances are, you cannot remember worries you had one year ago. They used to consume your mind one year ago, and now you cannot remember them. A year from now, you will not remember the worries you have today. Itís useless to worry, so just heal those old wounds.
Heart and Soul
I was reading a journal entry I wrote last year, and it was about how I put my heart and soul into affection, and then it felt like it was getting shoved back in my face. I donít feel that way now; Iíve gotten a little bit better at it, just a little, but I have gotten used to it. I never wanted to get used to it. I never wanted it to become commonplace, like just a kiss or a hug. Now it is. I have sinned, and I have forgotten the gravity of the sin.
In my list of themes, this one had a ď!Ē on the end, so donít accuse me of putting it there. I know very little about heart attacks. None of my relatives has ever suffered one that I am aware of, and I hope it stays that way. I want to complain about rain. I hate it because itís always cold and wet Ė and I wanted to wear my hoodie, but I could not because the rain is so heavy it soaks the hoodie through. And I have to wear my brace so I donít slip and fall.
Heart of Gold
I hate that clichť. It gets on my nerves, and thereís a motif in a lot of writing that has become clichťd lately and that is the clichť of the ďwhore with the heart of gold.Ē And I put that into my story. I put that into Cain, the very first story Iíve ever written. Lately, Iíve realized that Cain has so many clichťs, issues, and problems that I may not even bother editing it or rewriting it anymore and just move on to something new. Or else I can try to turn the clichťs upside down.
I have that now. Every time I have some kind of issue/problem with my boyfriend, my stomach feels sick and I donít feel like eating. I sleep fine, but I donít feel like eating. I just sent him a message explaining how I felt, but I donít know when heíll get back to it. I hate being the cause of his idiocy. Why canít he just pick himself up and continue instead of whining about it? I can. I donít see how someone can miss me that much. Is it possible? Iím boring. Who wants to be around me?
I keep having dreams about getting my heart broken. It is kind of fun in a perverse way. Itís just about the drama of deliberating whatís going to happen to you and your love life in the future. I can hardly imagine what heartbreak feels like. Iíve been with my boyfriend for four years, so I donít remember what being single feels like. I donít want heartbreak, but I remember having it. When I got over it, it was more fun being single than anything else. Heartbreak is just a necessary evil to get through in your love life.
I can be heartless sometimes. I think we all can. Not all of us are fully equipped with compassion, although we should be. Sometimes I donít know how the stuff I say will affect those I say it to, and sometimes I cannot stop my big mouth from opening and saying something that will hurt someone. Words do hurt more than actions. There are only so many things you can do to break someoneís heart, but there is a multitude of things you can say to really drive the point home. I feel bad about the things Iíve said.
It is the heat that dries me up. I am not a humid type of heat. I am a desert type of heat, the parching type, the one without water. The one without sustenance. I would rather have you die than give you anything to drink. It is this heat that sears my soul, the heat that makes me want to be filled in with a few oases here and there. There is no water in my desert Ė no oases, only mirages everywhere. I am real. I am not a mirage. Look at me. Look at me. Just look.
It is like heaven to get valuable critiques on my writing. It is so nice to have classmates who understand symbolism in writing. I used a bunch of symbols in my story, some of which may have been obvious, and the class picked up on them. All of them. Even some I didnít put in there, but may have been implied. My boyfriend is the number one person who reads my writing. Does he pick up on symbolism? No. Not really. It frustrates me. My family doesnít get my writing either, and they donít like it. Itís really frustrating.
Hell is for Heroes
One of my friends at school said he wanted to die epically, but not while saving humanity. Heís going to be an epic hero down in hell, I guess. I had this freaky dream last night about a date. It was 10/14/06 and when I looked at my diary for that date, there was nothing of importance. Nothing epic. It must have been a random date my subconscious spat out for no reason. It was connected to him, though. And he is important for some reason, because of the dream I had on July 22, 2008.
Her Name WasÖ
A mystery to me. Crystal. That was all I knew about her. I didnít know if she spelled it ďCrystalĒ or ďKrystalĒ, so I just called her ďC/krystal,Ē at least in my diary. The name stuck. I thought she may have had blond hair, a pretty face, and a perfect figure. I thought she was a tomboy. I thought she was into hunting, fishing, and guns. I thought she was the antithesis of me. I wanted to meet this girl. I wanted to be her friend, just to keep myself from hurting. I wanted to k(no)w her.
Here With Me
I wish he was here with me. I was wanting him all week long. I donít know why, but I think it is a function of hormones. Maybe I really do love him Ė maybe itís not all just ďputting up with himĒ or ďhaving infinite patience.Ē Maybe I do know what love is, after all. The feeling I get when I hold him Ė is that not love? I am proud of him when he does well Ė is that not love? I worry about him a lot Ė is that not love? I ought to know what love is.
I feel like the heroine of his stories. I am the whore that became the princess. I am the princess that became the whore. I am the flat-chested girl that they would never show in a video game. I have a chest like a boy. I donít care about that anymore, either. I shall burn my bra. That will be the end of pretending that I fill the cups, pretending that I am getting enjoyment out of everything he does. I am his heroine, but he is not my hero. My hero is myself. My courageous, bra-burning, whore self.
The Tip Jar