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The first thing that leaped into my perverted mind was a sexual double entendre. I get so disgusted with myself for thinking with whatís in my pants, but I am only humanÖ only nineteen, if thatís any excuse. I wish I could live back in the good old days, where there was less tolerance for premarital sex, so I could have some people who would be on my side about that issue. The divorce rate was very low back in the old days; like the 1800s. Nobody got divorced because they made good choices about their future marriage partners.
I know nothing about this except the clichťs they show on television. Speaking of which, I am beginning to hate the media because itís just a bunch of lies. Maybe I am learning the wrong things, and am becoming more liberal-minded because I am in college, but I truly believe the media is bullshitting us into believing what we have to to buy their stupid product, or go along with the crowd. I have never believed in going along with the crowd, especially when it comes to the media. Maybe Mr. Kierkegaard and I would have gotten along.
I used to banter with my guy friends all the time. I miss all of my friends so much, and I was thinking of that yesterday. I was at Spring Fling, walking around with Adam, whom everyone thinks is my boyfriend. Okay, I did nothing and said nothing that would even suggest that fact. All I did was talk to him. He may have acted like he was my boyfriend, but I donít fucking care. I do NOT like Adam in any sense other than as a friend, and Iím not even sure I like him in that sense.
I am fated to live with the battle scars of anger. I know what I should have told Adam. I should have said that I do not want another anger problem. If, God forbid, Jamie and I break up over something stupid, I will not date another guy with an anger problem. Never again. I know how to deal with it, but that doesnít mean I like dealing with it. Iím not a therapist or a psychiatrist. Iím just a girl, not yet a woman. No matter how much I love you, I know I canít kill anger.
We rested on the beach. The sky was a harsh blue gray, and the clouds were suffocating, but he kept me warm. Stars started to prick out of the sky, revealing shy lights and the sun set golden on the water. My husband kept his arm around me when the loss of the sun made me shake and shiver. At that moment, the clouds overtook the sky and thunder rumbled to announce the night. This was our sign, a beautiful sign on our wedding night. We belonged to the thunder, and the thunder to us. God put us together.
Of all the guys who called me beautifulÖ the majority of them were lying. Only three guys called me beautiful and genuinely meant it. Iím not counting relatives here. I think those three were my first boyfriend, the guy Iím with now, and this creepy guy at school who is hitting on me. I know they mean it, even though Iím not blond and donít have an enormous chest and a bubbly personality. In other words, I am ďbeautifulĒ, but not cheerleader beautiful. I donít even think they are beautiful. They are a bunch of STD-carrying, half-lesbian, cock-sucking prostitutes.
Itís like one of those impossibly pretty girls you see walking down the hall or down the road. Whether you are male or female, you form an immediate sexual attraction to them. You wonder what they look like without clothes; if they have some kind of covered scar that mars their outward beauty. You almost hope they have such a flaw, just to make them seem more human and less like gorgeous aliens from outer space. You want to hate these types of girls, but you just canít. They are there for admiration, nothing more and nothing less.
Beauty in the Breakdown
It reminds me of JonBenet. Her life was ended tragically by someone still unknown. I read a true crime book about her death and the long, unproductive process to find her murderer. Her mother died without knowing who killed her daughter, unless Mrs. Ramsey was in on it. I think some friend of the family killed JonBenet, or perhaps it was her mother. The experts said that the ransom note appeared to have been written by a woman. It frustrates me how the police in Boulder fucked that case up so bad, right from the start.
JonBenet Part II. I believe that she was killed because of her participation in beauty pageants. It may not have been the main factor, but it was definitely a factor. Some sick pervert probably saw her cute onstage antics as seductive and he set his heart on killing her and raping the body or whatever. I donít think itís right to have little girls paraded around like that, wearing makeup and treated like big dolls. I donít even believe in beauty pageants because they give girls a negative body image and encourage intense competition. We donít need that.
My boyfriend has an obsession with circular beds. I donít know where you can get one, and I donít even know if Iíve ever seen one, but they are pretty neat. How hard would it be to find sheets for one though? Or to find a mattress cover in the shape of a circle? Two characters in our story have a circular bed: Natasha and James. Natasha used to have one, then she moved in with Tsunami, working as a maid in his house, the ultimate form of degradation. I hate that character. Natasha gets on my last nerve.
I hate when I lie on my back. My hips stab up towards the ceiling like extended knives. They jut into his body as he puts himself over me. I wish they would pierce him. I hate the motions he makes, I hate the sounds, I hate the feeling, I hate him. I have always loved Alexander, and now that he has become evil Lord Rayne, I am forced to give my love and allegiance to the leader of the wolf pack. My entire life has become a sort of horrid determinism. Never before have I felt so trapped.
Behind These Eyes
I wrote a parody of ďBehind These Hazel EyesĒ by Kelly Clarkson. It was about the Columbine killers. Itís coming up on the ninth anniversary of the shootings, so I would like to write a bit about them: I donít approve of what they did, but I do believe that the students of CHS could have reached out to them more, and tried to help them. In high school, it can be hard to cope with the cliques. That was not the root of the killersí problems. It was a number of things that happened in childhood.
Believe In Us
I never believed in us. All we had was a hypothetical relationship; a love that never would have lasted in real life. We spoke with more than words, we spoke in dreams, in looks, in sync. Deep down, I knew that we had failed before we even begun. I could never have loved the person you truly were; the one thing my blind eyes could not see under the veil of idealism. I had my mental image of you as prince charming, and that was all I needed. It is still all I need. I love you.
We want benevolence, but we want power from relationships as well. I learned something haunting in sociology today. In any relationship, the one who cares the least is the one with all the power. Is that benevolent? No, but every relationship has the person who cares the least; the person who has the power to snap the relationship over his or her knee. I had known the quote before, but I had never considered all the implications of it before todayís class. I have to add it to my Entire Relationship Theory model. I love to theorize and strategize.
Best Word Ever
The best word is ďointmentĒ according to one of my friends. He thought it was hilarious. My favorite word is probably ďwritingĒ. I hear that word and it piques my interestÖ but the real best word is ďpeaceĒ. It has many positive implications, and many hopes behind itÖ just saying the word makes you feel calmer than you were a second ago. I wish for peace. Everyone wishes for peace, but all our strategies on how to get it are flawed, because we are only human. Thereís only so much we can figure out in this life.
I am still in shock, and everybody I know is trying to push me into a decision I am not ready to make yet. My former lover, my Alexander, has betrayed me by turning to the dark side, by allying himself with Apocalypse. Now I am condemned to spend eternity in a marriage my ancestors have arranged for me; a marriage to someone I could never love, and will never love. I know not what will become of me, but I would rather die than face a wedding to someone I donít care about, or even pretend to love.
Better Left Unsaid
This is the perfect subject line for April 17, also known as the day of silence. I am probably going to write about today six years ago when I update the new story Iím writing. Itís not really one story, but when itís finished itís going to be more like a series of dreams, or even short stories. I may blend them into one big story, and add character names and all that. For now, itís a group of scraps. You can read what Iíve written so far in my fictionpress.com account. The story is called ďIdealismĒ.
I saw a picture of your birthday. I saw you blowing out candles on your cake. Your eyes were closed and you were smiling. Seeing that picture made me wonder if you remember what you wished for on your birthday. You looked pretty. I wished I could be like you. I wish I could have known you betterÖ before you slipped away. You became some one I did not like, and she is the same person I have now become. You wished for too much; the wish on your cake was made ugly. Be careful what you wish for.
I used to wear black all the time, mainly to impress a bunch of people who didnít give a damn about me. Every time I wear black I think about that, and how my current boyfriend may have been initially attracted to me because I wore black. I donít like remembering how stupid and impressionable I was in high school, but I understand why I did it. Today, Iím trying not to wear much black; Iím trying to be a more colorful and less morose person, inside and out. Iím really making an attempt to become my own self.
Black and White
Nothing is black and white anymore. It all moves into shades of gray, especially when discussing literature or something with symbolism. A door is not just a door. A window is not just a window. It all stands for something greater. I had a dream one night that was in all black and white and shades of gray. I have never had a dream like it before in my life. I am still trying to figure out the hidden symbols within the dream, because I do believe that every dream has its own symbolic imagery to interpret.
Black Hole Sun
Itís a song from Soundgarden that I donít really care too much for. The songs from Soundgarden I liked were all from the PC game Road Rash that came out in the mid to late nineties. I canít remember the exact year. Compared to the music I listen to now, Soundgarden and its offshoot, Audioslave, sound like a bunch of pussies. I prefer anything hard. Anything like Kittie or Otep or Walls of Jericho or even Slayer. I donít care too much for alternative rock anymore. Iíve progressed to liking death metal and other unintelligible growling music.
It sounds like the flowers a friend of mine would want at her wedding. She wants to wear a black dress and have her groom wear white. Yeah, sheís backwards like that. For me, white will symbolize something, and I think I want my wedding colors to be white and green, or white and blue, or white and red. White has to be in there somewhere. It will depend on the day I get married; which will either be April 20, March 7, or September 7. I would not mind getting married on January 21, my saintís day.
Iím too suspicious for blind dates. I have to know at least something about the person before I go out with them. I am the type of girl who would enter the personís name in Google to find out if they molested any little kids or if they murdered anybody. I do not trust easily, and so, I would probably freak out if someone told me they had set me up with someone else for a blind date. I like to evaluate the person as a friend before I go on dates with them, thank you very much.
A single drop of blood dripping into the toilet. Liquefied semen dripping from my hand. Two boys running on the track, one clutching his shoulder, the other barely moving. One lonely girl sitting in the cafeteria, writing her life story. Four student editors in a teacherís office, heads bent together. Two pairs of yellow eyes flashing in the darkness of a late-night bedroom. Graduates throwing their caps into the air. Unfolding a love note, heart pounding. Pages being torn out of a Bible. A personal phone book thrown out of a bus window. Blood, all this ends in blood.
They should have called it ďBloody Day of SilenceĒ. Sunday is never a bad day for me, but I knock on wood. I love my Sundays; they give me time alone (which is essential for my sanity) to prepare for the upcoming week of school, or whatever it turns out I am doing. If there was no such thing as Sunday, I would not be as happy as I am. I need at least one day a week of rest and relaxation and eating spaghetti. That is typically my Sunday. I wouldnít want to spoil my favorite day.
Itís my favorite color. Damien Mortiferís eyes are blue. When you feel sad, they say you are feeling blue. Why are Livejournal and Microsoft Wordís dominant colors blue? Is it to create a friendlier atmosphere in which to type. Myspace and Facebookís main layouts are also blue. I think the color is supposed to be calming. There is something about those colors that eases the mind. Red is supposed to make you angry. Thatís where the phrase ďseeing redĒ comes from. I donít know what green is supposed to do. I think it depends on what shade of green.
That song reminds me of the last day of my first semester as a freshman. Justin, me, and some others were wandering around the school because our parents didnít sign the form enabling us to be picked up early. We walked into the cafeteria, where ďBlue MoonĒ was playing, and Justin said something sarcastic about the song. It was cuteÖ I miss laughing with him, and spending time with him. I miss those days at the end of semesters when all used to be so carefree; exams were over, and there would be no new classes until January.
Iím reading a book from the Twilight series by Stephenie Meyer. Itís the third one in the series, and it has a lot of references to body temperature. Edward, the vampire is always cold, which makes sense because he is undead. Jacob, the werewolf is always burning hotÖ I donít really know why that is. I guess because the normal body temperature of dogs and wolves always runs higher than that of humans. Iím getting really sick of the main character Bella. I feel disgusted by her, and I sense that she is closely based off the author.
That is one of the funniest words in the English language, the other two being ďpoppycockĒ and ďointmentĒ. Thereís probably many more, but I forgot them. And when I do think of them again, Iíll be too busy laughing at them to write them down. I will forget them. The happy cycle will repeat itself, thus supplying me with laughter for years to come. If you have the fortune/misfortune to know me, you will know that I laugh very easily, at pretty much anything. One girl said I had no sense of humor because of those attributes. How so?
I was the one to drop the bomb. It rained on your heart, unleashing flames of destruction and terror. My love was like the rain afterwards, cool and refreshing, but not enough to quell the flames, or save you from the atomic blast. I did not intend to wound you so, only teach you a lesson that you probably would have forgotten anyway.
Bomb is a song by Bush also. Itís a decent song, but not one of my favorites off the Sixteen Stone album. I very rarely have two topics in a 100 Words entry. A new thing.
The Tip Jar