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I lied. I said I would finish October but I didn't so now I'm left with overdramatic and grammatically incorrect batches and I don't know what to do. My mouth tastes like metal and my room is filled with pieces of shredded paper and the radio isn't on but I can still hear music. I lied. I don't know what the answer is, I can't spell 2 out of the 10 words, 29 is the lucky number and Osiris is the god of the underworld. I lied when I said "I'm Fine." You lied when you said "I Love You."
1 2 3 4 5. One Two Three Four Five. En Deux Trois Quatre Cinq. Uno. Dos. Tres. Quatro I can't spell 5 because I don't know spanish. Alternate Interior Angles are congruent only if lines are parallel, "Heterodox" is an adjective and I can say "I love you" In French but still don't know what I mean when the words escape my lips. Paper Bags are bad for the environment, so Recycle. I'm Insane. I've bitten my lips to the point where they bleed at random. Kelsey is publishing her book and will write in pretty glitter pens. Cinco.
So I decided I should try to write this month in a serious tone. Complete sentences, grammatically correct, etc. Leave the Poetic and focus on writing in prose (though hopefully not purple. Blue may be acceptable, or maybe red or green or yellow, and there I go, writing nonsense again). November is one of those serious months. Thanksgiving and cold days where it's too cold for just a sweater but wearing your winter coat looks silly. In December, I'll go back to poetic insanity. December is snow and fresh baked cookies and marathons. December is the Snow Angel melting away.
It's NaNoWriMo. National Novel Writing Month and my pencil and notebook are snug, warmly pushed away to the corner of my room, filled with forgotten plot lines and dying Characters.
I kill off my characters quite frequently.
It may be because they end up seeping into my dreams. They keep me up at night with conversations and screaming and sometimes small whispers about the weather or how they love pizza (but only the kind with olives). They tell me about how it hurts to be thought up and forgotten and so I Kill Them Off Completely.
I procrastinate. I watch youtube videos and read good books instead of studying for tests or memorizing my lines for "Romeo and Juliet". I make excuses (Watching Monty Python allows my creativity to overflow and possibly fill up my lined paper with a script that doesn't look like crap and sounds worse).
I write poetry when instead I should be writing equations, and fall asleep over my Biology Text book. I doodle on my arms and write songs that make no sense and sing so badly, oh so terribly, but I sing Loud, and that's all that matters.
"I don't understand you."
"Really? Well, neither do I. We should throw a party for this wonderful surprise. The fact that neither of us get understand all the **** that fills my mind."
"It's not that. It's like you think crazy thoughts so people won't understand you."
*sigh* "And yet there are still people like you who persist to understand. I wonder who the crazy one
"Haha. Very funny, Loony. You're hilarious."
"See? 'Loony' Even you call me that. Everyone does. What if that's what I am?"
"I did it again."
"Did what, exactly?"
"Wrote nonsense. About the pens and biology text book. Even if it
true, I shouldn't."
"Who said you shouldn't?"
"I did. To myself. Meaning I lied. Again."
"What do you mean, '
"I mean 'So.' You lied to yourself. Big deal. You can redeem yourself, can't you? Prove yourself worthy? You haven't lost trust in yourself, so it's ok."
"... if it helps any, I haven't lost trust in you."
I feel like a cheater. I skipped a bunch of days. And then I go back to them later. I wonder if anyone else does stuff like that. Probably. Maybe. I hope so, anyway. I don't know why I'm making really short sentences. My thoughts are coming out really fast and pause at weird moments. Like one of those messages that make you say "stop" when you're done with them. Stop. I should really stop. Stop. Does anyone read these? Better question: Does anyone care? As if they go, "Oh. I wonder what Pencey was thinking today!"
I'm thinking I should learn to write in prose. Funny, sarcastic remarks. Something to make you snort, shake your head, and go "What an idiot." Something that makes your day for a couple of seconds. But I don't have that type of talent. I ramble. I spew words to make essays that make no sense when I read it but apparently impress teachers. I also don't have any really interesting moments to tell. My life is boring. Unless you find the fact that that one kid almost choked on his milk and sprayed it everywhere interesting. But you Probably Don't.
Ok, first off, it's actually November 22nd. I skipped the 10th and decided, "Oh. What the Hell?" And came here. So I'll probably end up completing 10 11 12 17 18 19 and leave 20 and 22 alone. It's raining. Well, it
. Now it's not. But it was. Thunder and Lightening and all that "Oh crap you angered Zeus you Bast*rd now look what you did. Git." jazz. I'm playing as Lady Capulet tomorrow, I didn't even START my script for Theatre, so Paul may kill me, or worse, won't let me enter the effing group.
"You're not going to talk?"
"Did I anger you? Or make you feel sad? I can leave. Really. I should be memorizing my lines anyway. I playing as Lay-dee Cap-U-LET Tomorrow morning. And Dulcie needs me to break snow globes, and there's the whole meeting for peace but against non-Peace and people generally not being nic-"
" Please Stop"
"So he speaks."
"...She's scared, you know. For you. You shouldn't hurt her like this. Tell her the truth."
I read somewhere that our brains cannot create false identities, or false beings, and insert them in our dreams. They can merely store away small glances, a glimpse of humans here and there, and file them away neatly until you fall asleep. And then your brain releases these images, and that one guy you saw while shopping because his red hair distracted you becomes your hero, and that lady with the loud heels at the restaurant kidnaps you and turns into a harpy. And the black haired kid at the library?
Yeah. You totally kissed him.
100 words. 100 words. 100 words. 100 words. 100 words. 100 words. 100 words. 100 words.100 words. 100 words. 100 words. 100 words.100 words. 100 words. 100 words. 100 words.100 words. 100 words. 100 words. 100 words.100 words. 100 words. 100 words. 100 words. 100 words. 100 words. 100 words. 100 words.100 words. 100 words. 100 words. 100 words.100 words. 100 words. 100 words. 100 words.100 words. 100 words. 100 words. 100 words.100 words. 100 words. 100 words. 100 words. 100 words. 100 words. 100 words. 100 words.100. There. You Go.
"I feel really immature."
"As you should."
"Shut up. You're supposed to console me. Very 'It's ok, Loony. It's actually pretty funny.' stuff like that."
"But I don't enjoy lying. And in any case, it
extremely immature. What were you thinking?"
"Did you think it was clever? Filling up the entire post with the words '100 words'? Because it wasn't."
"Ouch. That hurt. In my defense, It wasn't
made up of those words. ... But I'm sorry, though. Truly, I am."
"I can't find anyone like that any more. People who tell you the bloody truth instead of lies that are polite but are still
. People who aren't afraid to come up to you and look you straight in the eye and say 'Look. You're being an idiot. I still love you though.' People who don't give a damn about flowers but will still religiously water those lilies because they know those stupid flowers are important to you. People who laugh because you're laughing, who cry when you cry."
"... You're really overdramatic."
I am creating a self portrait in my Arts class. Mixed Media and the works. Paint. Pencil. Clay. String and old photographs and lined- paper drawings of girls with long hair and bird-cage bodies. I start whilst talking with the Punk Kid next to me. I begin to sketch, and then suddenly the eye of the girl is dead. I erase, but the eraser is cheap and leaves dark hole-deep smudges. I blink, and then grab a giant wad of tape and cover up half of her face. And glue red string, sewing her mouth shut. Punk stares.
be cleaning my room. I
be doing my homework, or packing my clothes, or exercise or doing something else I don't want to do. I
stop caring so much. I should stop being a B*tch. I should learn how to draw angels correctly. I should study for my finals. I should wipe the mirrors clean with WINdex and be a WINner (See? See what I did there? HAHA I suck).
I shouldn't be watching Monty Python and stating random crap about what I should or shouldn't do.
In which, of course, I break my vows. To make sense, of course. Contracted. Documented. Somewhere in this month of November, all neatly wrapped in 100 words and tied with a pretty bow. But I Lie, often. (As if you couldn't tell) So I broke it. Not my fault though. I feel feverish. Sick. I've been reading Orson Scott Card so Peter is reciting words in stark and Jane is Speaking through Val's mouth and I'm left wondering If I should stick around, read between the lines, or let the 14 point font envelop me in warm quilts and slumber.
I don't understand Love. I think I've felt it before, if that Love is
, or merely the infatuation or chemical imbalance of a girl my age. If, when you hear that Person laugh, it fills your heart with warmth, and when you see that Person hurt, you want to hurt whomever hurt them. If, when it's raining out, and it's dark, all you want to do is grab a giant blanket and wrap it around the both of you and sip tea together while watching the rain.
If that's love, I still don't understand it.
I am just another number.
Another person. Another 100 words every day. Every Month. Every Year. I will not be remembered. Oh, maybe. Possibly. For a second or two. A simple flicker in the minds of readers, of people who know that we are all simply numbers.
And they will read. And say "Hmm." Or "Oh" Or "Okay" Or "Hmph" And move on. Common courtesy, right? 'I know how it feels to write 100, so I will read your 100, and you'll read mine, and we'll both be another number.'
I am not sure.
I watched Deathly Hallows today. And yes, I did cry. But not when Dobby died, like the 17 year old next to me.
No, I cried when George lost his ear and Hermione Danced with Harry.
The first can be explained, though with dignity, I know not. All I can say is that I have a special connection with the character, and the fact that he gets hurt upset me. A Lot. IT's different when you read about it, compared to watching it. It really is.
The latter I cannot provide an explanation for.
At the moment, I am conversing with: 2 Australians, 1 English girl,and 3 Americans. The Aussies are speaking in code, 2 Americans are deciphering them, 1 American is lost, and I and the English girl are laughing in our own little corners of the Globe, connected by the internet. I am friends with every one of them. I do not know what they look like, I have not even heard their voices. Except they tell me secrets they're too afraid to tell anyone they know, and they help me stay alive so in our own way we are Family.
I will finish November. It will be stupid and a waste of space but i WILL Finish it.
I find it funny, really. Here I am, typing away, trying to fit a story in 100 words and all my friends are cursing NaNoWriMo, trying to finish 50000 words, making a story so long and yet entertaining to read. I'm simply wasting space. Or maybe not. Maybe I'm making a difference. Maybe I'm making something amazing and worthwhile. Maybe I will change lives, or save someone, or become stronger.
Or maybe I'll keep on babbling.
We have many different people in our grade:
Skinny Pretty Hippie Girl
The "Lax Bro"
The Dancers, the Singers, the Shoppers, the Laughters.
The Brains and the Asians, the Jocks, the Orch Dorks, and the Drama kids.
And, of course, the Punk Kid (His hair is bright red now, for anyone who cares.)
I'm the Reader. The Artist. I am the History and English nerd, and the Writer. I am the quiet one who yells, who sneaks away from Free Period, and writes 100 words Every Single Day.
Emma: Elbows are Gross.
J: They are weird, aren't they? *stares at his elbows*
Liz: Why do you say that, Emma? But you're right, now that I think of it...
Emma: I don't know. I was just looking at my elbows, and thought, 'EW'! *laughter*
Me: *quietly* I like drawing elbows. Especially sharp bony ones. Elbows can tell a lot about a person.
Me: Really. Soft elbows. Round Elbows. Triangles. Sharp. Thin. They make a difference.
*Everyone's thoughts bubble, forming to read the word "Freak".*
My mind is a mess. It is filled with bright colours and eyes and one word sentences that make sense but don't, really. Not at all.
I am haunted by figures of people with empty eye-sockets and sharp bone collar bones and skeleton figures made of glass so fragile that when i push them away they shatter into a million pieces but the shards never go away.
They strangle me with hot-breath words and dragon fire and claws that rip out my heart but they can have it. Just leave.
The Self-Portrait is going swimmingly. The Tape is still there. And so is the string. But a new person has entered the scene.
Me: Rob, if I add two people, will anyone think I need psychotherapy?
Me: Good *paints*
Also, half-asleep, it seems I have added a metal fence in front of the two (or should I say "Me?" "Me'
?") I glued A sign on it today. Cardboard and cut out letters.
"Do not Feed the Insane, Mad or Loony."
"Pfft. I'm a Sonist. I breathe. I can see sound. I use it to control things, and shatter things and maybe even save things, except..."
"Except I never have. I destroy. I can see, but cannot view. Or I can see, but I can't
"My eyes. They Don't work. Or they can, but I don't know how to work them. Faulty Device. Waste of space. Unkown. Internal Service Error. Beep Beep."
"You're...Blind? But your eyes-"
"Don't matter. It's my ears that do."
*I will gain access to computer internet this website and document my hundred words*
To tell the truth, this was the thought that revolved in my head today. Or spun, if you'd like. Not finishing classes, or escaping accusing stares, or getting away from my own idiocy, my own ignorance (And, of course, my own dramatization and overreactions). No, To write 100 words.
No posts about Thanksgiving, I'm afraid. We didn't really
anything. We ate Turkey. And Gravy. And I drank some really amazing cider.
This site is growing on me.
The 30th of November. Is it silly that I'm sad that there is no little lavender box next to this date, under "WORDS FOR:NOVEMBER 2010"? But I guess there is a bright side.
Such a promising statement, no? Sounds like snow, smells like hot Chocolate, looks blue and white and cold. 1st of December is Hope and New Days and Snow Angels.
I'm going to curl under a blanket (preferably a deep red) and read a good book and watch the sky change colours.
Have a nice year, November.
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