Being a writer has ruined me.

Well, writing and reading that is. If I had been raised by wolves in a forest, never learning to speak or read or anything about this society life would have been all the better - or simpler at least. See, I have this issue, where the fictional worlds I've created seem so much more appealing than anything even remotely realistic. Which is why, as a writer who wants to be in control of their own universe, I cannot seem to bring myself to interact with actual human beings. Well, that is, not the ones I have yet to meet. So, the farthest I'll go in terms of really contact with seemingly interesting people in rowdy crowds of concerts is eye contact and smile-communication. Several times at that. While thinking and rethinking new lines to say in order to start a conversation with someone who might be absolutely wonderful. And then I'll do that, over and over and over again, until, eventually, we've pushed back through the crowd to the exit and stumbled out into the cold early morning air. From then on, I create a character. I give this person attributes of someone real, a witty script and some sort of ideal life. It's pathetic.

It's the books and the poems that are the problem. I'll blame them forever, no matter how much I love them. Writing story upon story has left me isolated and stunted socially, because I can't live outside of my own creations. And it's getting increasingly upsetting to miss my chance to meet the people I want to because of it.

* picture1 * a very blurry version of myself * festival schedule * wristband *

Catching up

Chunky suede heels, florals, hats (which I never wear), Scott Pilgrim vs the World, perfectly pretty lunches, too many hours spent on math and missed bicycle films.

Could have been better - but I'd be wise not to complain.

I am tired of people staring at me from their cars.

I've been taking the bus a lot lately, that mean doing quite a bit of walking. Now, I love to walk places, but in the suburbs that is, apparently, not what people do. They just don't (unless you're the cute boy walking your dog, who sniffs my dog for a good minute, but who chooses not to say hi). So, whenever I use the sidewalks in my neighborhood, I get one of three looks:

1) Well, you look awfully dressed up, you tart

2) Oh, hey there honey.

3) People still walk?!?!?!?!???

Honestly, it's getting a little annoying. And, I can deal with the questioning 'people still walk' looks, but I am getting really sick of the creepy (usually middle aged) men undressing me with their eyes from their cars. It's disgusting, and I would really like to be able to walk through my neighborhood without being assaulted from a distance. Personally, I find this disturbing, especially in the year 2011. Why should I have to feel as though I have been put on some sort of twisted display every time I walk down the street. It's terribly exhausting, and this is the exact reason why we need a SultWalk here, to stop this behavior. But, instead it's been cancelled. It was really upsetting, since I was looking forward to going, but apparently there were problems with planning it.

Anyways, aside from my little rant, I woke up in a ray of sunshine, made a cake, took some photos, saw some great improv and got a free drink at starbucks. So, aside from being whistled at from a car driving past, it was a pretty great day.

Au Revoir

Because I am a complete loser - secretly of course - this is what I do when I am home alone. Unlike most 'normal' teenagers you see on television, because they are entirely realistic, I sit at home, drink tea and read poetry when no one else is around. Is that odd? Oh well, oddities are undoubtedly something to be enjoyed, if I was nearly as mundane as the people I've gone to school with I might as well not bother existing. There is nothing appealing about spending every weekend soaked in my own vomit in a friends basement.

So, I've bought a new mug which speaks eternal truths and also holds my steaming cups of tea. It's an ideal combination. I got it a one of those we-have-every-sort-of-junk-you-could-imagine stores, and on the shelf along with the other cheesy mugs was a William and Kate commemorative wedding cup. I wanted the damn thing so much, it was the worst mug there, by far I would say, and to own it would have been ironic in the best way. But, it was $10 and there was no way I was paying that much for a good dose of irony.

Anxiety

I want to crawl deep inside my own skin and hug my heart until it bursts, shattering into a million obscene pieces. Today, standing in the dressmaking shop, being poked and prodded and twisted a million torturous ways, I fell into myself – though not quite as completely as one should hope. They spoke while I crawled, lame and defeated, away from my ugly figure bursting from the three way mirror. Desperately, I attempted to claw my way back to the words stewing in the back of my sordid mind, to where the words were, to where my body was immaculate and soul complete. But the two of them pulled me back out before I could finalize the shaky transaction, I hadn’t reached far enough to lose my body completely; and before I understood the vowels spewed out I was no longer allowed to eat waffles. Their voices echo in the mirrors, the three reflecting their words on to my skin, and burning them down permanently – to be beautiful you must keep your mouth shut. I won’t eat, I promise I will be good, behave my very, very best.

To be beautiful you must keep your mouth shut.

When I was three I climbed up on the dining room table, being a mischievous toddler, and knocked over a bottle of wine, it fell on the ground and broke. It was an awful mess. I didn’t break anything after that, not once. I cried terribly, and I promised, promised repeatedly, I would not break anything ever again.

But, I am still not unreachable here - the lights are much too harsh and the words still hold their sting – so I will be good, and keep my mouth shut. I measured the widths and lengths, and put them to paper to make them concrete and menacing; they’ve haunted my otherwise lovely dreams, pushing their way into the beautiful depths of my mind, corners otherwise untainted. I have learned my lesson, I swear to it.

Candy BBQ - Epic Meal Time

Gay bacon strips

& gay bacon strips

& gay bacon strips

& gay bacon strips

I've spent the weekend devouring strips of sour candy (now dubbed 'gay bacon strips' by epic mealtime, which always makes me feel sick) and walking very long distances to Dairy Queen. My neck is sun burnt red, but it was completely and totally worth it. There was a freak five minute storm in the evening, breaking up the sunshine, but it promptly ended. Now the city smells a little more like rain.