It's 6:07am

It's 5:18am right now and I haven't even looked at this site since...well, since I wrote my last post. I think I should start really trying to make this a weekly thing instead of letting stuff pile up in my head and in my chest.

In the first place, I think it's quite clear that I cannot sleep. Why? I wish it was something romantic and poetic about the stars shining too bright or something. But I live in Los Angeles, so let's be real. There are no stars here.

No, I can't sleep, because my mind is a scary place, and when I close my eyes I can do nothing but wander in its nether regions. You see, I've seen a lot of bad stuff. I'm not quite old enough to say that, but I have. Usually I can truck on through, but tonight is different. In fact, there have only been two instances in my life where I truly could not, dared not sleep. Tonight is one of them. The other was the time I had a conversation about the end of the world in the ass crack of New Year's morning. That night I "went to bed" around 2am-3ish. Didn't fall asleep til God knows when. And even then I only slept for a couple hours before watching the sun rise through a friend's curtains. In my head I could see the world tumbling to an end. All fire and wrath and what have you.

Tonight is similar, I suppose, in that what's keeping me awake is more or less an idea. It's the idea that people and world and everything is so colossally fucked up. I mean, we're really sick nowadays, yeah? Everything is for the sake of shock value. How badly can I make them hurt? What does it take to make them squirm? We like to play God with people's heads and it scares me beyond anything.

Earlier today (er, yesterday, I guess...) I saw a trailer for a disturbing film. I won't tell you what it is, because I'm not one for spreading what I know will be sickening to a lot of people. It would be your choice and all, but curiosity is a dangerous thing. That's how I arrived at it myself. A friend said a picture reminded her of it, without really saying what it was. So I looked it up.

In short, it went to place I don't think a horror movie has ever gone and it actually sickened me to the point of tears. Even as I try to explain, I feel the churn in my belly. Now, let me follow that with this: I am generally not sensitive to blood and gore. It's organic, what we're made of. All the same, most horror movies are simply in bad taste. But this was beyond that. It was more than the images. It was the thought, the idea. And the director said that this movie was just to get people "used to the idea", because there will be more like it.

That's what kills me. I don't think this was just some fluke. I think this is the beginning of something worse. I mean, he said that it all started from some bad joke he made about pedophiles and perverts. But is he any better for putting this exhibition of human cruelty out there for everyone to see? I mean, how is that better? Violation is violation. Sodomy is sodomy, be it in your head or elsewhere. It is no better and no worse. Unless you make it about choice, but is it because we chose to see it? Frankly, I don't think so. I made the decision to watch the trailer with no idea as to what it was about. That's not right. And maybe it was my fault for not reading a synopsis first or something, but I don't think that would change things.

And that's that problem. If I can stumble onto this, anyone can. I understand that for some people this movie will be fabulous. They'll love it. Some people will hate it, but for reasons entirely different. I get it.

In the end, it's not really about the movie. It's about our world and how easy it is now to put an idea into it, the kind of ideas that keep you up at night, the kind that make you go mad.

It's 5:53am now. I suppose I'm done, though it doesn't mean I'll sleep. The rest of my house will wake up in a few minutes now and I won't be so alone. Maybe tonight will be different.

Attached

I have become suddenly aware of the fact that my own happiness is heavily dependent upon that of others. And by others I mean the people I care the most for, who oddly enough aren't always what people would call my "closest friends".

In fact, I think I might even say that I'm more emotionally invested in the happiness of people whom I have little to no effect upon. I always feel the most for the people I am the least capable of helping. It's a bit of a paradox, yeah? I want to, almost need to help someone, but apparently have not the resources nor the personal connection to do so.

My life is a series of extremely rotten and unchangeable laws.

For instance, I love people but am incapable of expressing said love.

I also need to be loved and needed, but hate being around people a good deal of the time.

I crave happiness, but enjoy wallowing in my pathetic miseries.

Indeed, it seems I have a disgustingly cozy little rabbit hole for myself. Just cozy enough to at once keep me both comfortable and trapped. How lovely. And what's even better is that I've dug it myself, for no one could possibly know the size and other nebulous specifications of this hole but me. Aren't I so clever?

Attachment is such a silly thing. Sometimes I wish I wasn't attached to anything but God. That would be a simple, uncomplicated life. But the more I wish, the more I sink. The more I sink, the more I wallow. And wallowing only leads me to wish once more, and so you see we have indeed a vicious circle. Deary, isn't that just peachy?

Sometimes I hate logic. Thinking logically ruins my wallowing and I'm forced to realize that all my moaning is smelly and distasteful. And of course this sucks all the fun out of wallowing.

My brain is such a complicated place in which to live. Please be thankful that my rabbit hole is not your home.

I once wrote a story about a boy who could possess people, influence them. And I mean possess in the most sci-fi way possible. He hated the way his mind felt and became addicted to the way it felt to be someone else, to live inside another mind. His own was suffocating and scary because of what he knew was hiding in the corners. It is only now that I've come to the conclusion that this character was actually the fabulously fantastical realization of my own desires and blah blah blah.

Urhg. This update is particularly generous with my faults and far too serious. I should practice writing things that are less revealing. I'll follow Salvador Dali. Yes, that's a novel idea.

"It is not necessary for the public to know whether I am joking or whether I am serious, just as it is not necessary for me to know it myself."

--The aforementioned and fabulously odd Mr. Dali

After Thoughts

Friends are tricky things.

Sometimes the weird kid grows attached to you. You're nice and so are they, at first. But then they go strange on you and you can't push them away because you know that you're their only friend. At least, I've never been able to push that kid away. Maybe people more invested in their sanity have done it.

Sometimes you're the weird kid. Sometimes you're the one with the happy, hopeful smile on your face, oblivious to the resentment and digust that your "best friend" feels for you.

I've known what the first example feels like, but not the second. At least not in its full force.

I know what it's like when you suddenly feel...less friendly. When people start keeping secrets from you. Or when they simply "forget" you. I've learned that when it comes to acquaintences, people tend to have very selective memories.

You know that kid? The one that when you write up the guest list is always the after thought? The one that gets scribbled in, more out of obligation than affection?

I feel like that kid sometimes. Not with everyone, I'm not that self-pitying. It's only certain people. I can't be mad, because after thoughts are uncontrollable. You can't force yourself to remember things like that. But even if I can't be mad, I can still feel awful.

I seem to have a knack for meeting the worst kinds of people for myself. There's always someone who will beat me into the ground. But I keep coming back. Sometimes I think that I subconsciously enjoy it. Why else would I hang on?

But I'm not anymore. I'm letting go. If that means we can't speak ever, then I'm going to let myself be okay with that. I don't care that maybe all that pain you caused was accidental. It only makes me wonder what you could if you were trying.

I don't want this to sound weepy or...I dunno. Because this is me telling myself that I'm getting rid of the muck in my life. I can't keep a real journal to save my life, but I need proof somewhere that I made this promise to myself, that I need to be accountable. No turning back.

So I'm throwing you off my shoulders. I'm walking away. No goodbyes.

Something tells me you wouldn't notice anyway. Maybe that's for the best.

I'm Sorry, Jane

I was watching Emma today. Mostly because there was nothing better on and because Alan Cumming is in the movie. I can never pass up a chance to watch my favorite frolicking Irishman.

But this isn't about Alan Cumming. This about Emma, and to a greater extent, Jane Austen.

As most of us should know, Emma was the basis for the movie Clueless, in both of which a spoiled, bored youth decides to help those whom she considers less fortunate. Heartwarming, no? Well, that's just my point. I cannot, and will not sympathize with Emma and I don't see how anyone can. I mean really, how can one feel at all sympathetic to a girl of 21 who's not only incredibly sure of herself as an impeccable judge of character, but an expert on the affairs life as well? In end she finally realizes that she is, dun-dun-dun, only 21 and therefore totally subject to the selfishness and conceit that comes with the territory of being young, rich, and English. But not before absolutely dashing the hopes of her "best friend" Harriet for love not once, not twice, but three times.

Can you see why she makes me angry? I mean first she tells Harriet, a girl so happy to be noticed by anyone that she gobbles up every piece of crap advice Emma throws her way, that the absolute love of her life, Mr. Robert Martin, is totally unsuitable to a woman of her standards. To which her dear Mr. Knightly responds with absolute disgust. Mr. Knightly, and perhaps Mr. Frank Churchill, seem to be the only sane characters in the whole movie.

Ha! But this doesn't end her ridiculous quest. Emma then tries to set Harriet up with the rather pompous Mr. Elton, who as it turns out only has eyes for the beautiful Emma. Surprise, surprise. Of course Harriet is crushed, because she thought that all that attention had been directed at her. Now Emma must pick up the pieces.

Then Frank comes to town. Emma thinks she is smitten, but really she just wanted a new piece of furniture in her otherwise terribly drab life. Emma realizes that she doesn't really love Frank and soon finds out that it is for the better as Frank is engaged to the lovely, but poor Jane Fairfax.

Now, Jane is a girl I can get behind. She had real struggles. Her parents died when she was young, she was taken in by a good friend of her family, but then chose to stay with her poor spinister aunts in order to be close to the lovely and wealthy boy she was having an affair with. That is the stuff of novels, my dear. And frankly, I think Mr. Churchill was rather smart not to fall in love with such a silly and self-absorbed girl as Emma Woodhouse. To think, people were actually disappointed that Frank chose Jane instead of Emma.

Well, moving on. Soon we find that Harriet has fallen (how many times is this now?) for Mr. Knightley. She tells this to Emma, the one person she trusts most, though God only knows why. Suddenly Emma realizes that she loves Mr. Knightly. Boohoo. So Emma decides to do everything she can to make Mr. Knightley proud of her (i.e. repairing the damage caused by her selfish blindness and pride).

Knightley returns and in an awkward stroll reveals his feelings for Emma. Keep in that up till this point Mr. Knightley has been in every way sensible and sarcastic, the kind of male lead I thoroughly enjoy. And now here he goes proposing marriage and confessing love to a silly, self-absorbed youth. Feh. Here I was thinking him a smart man.

So Emma tells Harriet she's "Sorry, but I guess it's because I'm so popular." Okay, I exaggerated, but you get my point. So Harriet ends up with the simple, plain farmer Mr. Martin (*coughcough* I TOLD YOU SO*coughcough*) while Emma gets the dashing, quick-witted and rich Mr. Knightley.

I don't get it. Emma didn't deserve Mr. Knightley. Harriet didn't deserve him either. No one deserved Mr. Knightley. Except for maybe Jane Fairfax, but she's already been taken by the gorgeous Ewan McGregor, er, I mean Frank Churchill.

Personally, I think that Emma was wrong to turn down Mr. Elton proposal. They were perfect for each other: rich and self-absorbed.

I've never read Emma, so maybe I'm wrong. But Ms. Austen herself wrote, "I am going to take a heroine whom no-one but myself will much like."

You were right about that one Jane. So very, very right.

Damage Control and Digressions

Okay, so I realize that if you read my last blog post, I sounded awful close to doing something drastic. So, let's do a little damage control.

First of all, I am a Pisces. I do believe in the zodiac, I won't lie. That sounds weird, but I do. And being a Pisces, I am often completely wound up in my own problems. I enjoy wallowing, guys. Crying is the best experience in the world. I simply do not enjoy letting other people know how I feel all the time. I grew up as "The Cry-Baby", and I know how it feels when people get upset over stupid things and you're annoyed. So, I try my best not to bog people down with my own problems. This results in stress and anxiety which slowly begins to build. It usually climaxes in one, extremely worrying, and depressed blog post. It's just my life. So no worries, guys. I'm fine.

In other news...

I'm feeling a little disheartened. I miss my old, crazy posts. They started with so little intent and ended up as the most beautiful accidents. Hmm. I realize now that I have geared my posts to people who know me well enough to understand my everyday life. I now realize that if you just stumble upon this blog (through Ficly or otherwise) that a good deal of this does not make sense.

This is simply the way my mind works. I confess, I do not entirely understand my own writings. But I think that's kind of beautiful in its own way. I think I put more of myself into what I write when I don't understand it.

This reminds me of a narrative I wrote for a character called Chloe Lockwood. Thinking about that makes me think about catering, which makes me think about Fight Club. I mean the real Fight Club. Not the movie, the book. And Fight Club makes me think about old houses and soap.

Wouldn't it be cool to do what the narrator and Tyler did? How hard do you think it would be to run a home-made soap business from your house? Think of it, you really could, I think, create anarchy. Beautiful, messy anarchy with just whiff of oatmeal rosemary lemongrass soap underneath.

But I digress. Then again, perhaps I don't. I wasn't really talking about anything anyway. And how can one digress from nothing? I don't belive you can.

Whatever

Sometimes I look at my life and I cry. Something overwhelms me and I feel...I dunno. I just don't feel happy. I guess that's not a good thing.

I look at my life and wonder why I'm here, wherever here is. I mean, I'm not doing anything, I am? Sometimes I wonder what things would be like if I didn't exist. Would they be better? God knows they couldn't be worse. Would it even matter? Does it?

I don't know anymore.

People just seem so happy, and I wonder if there's something wrong with me, because I don't think I've ever been happy like they are. I don't stay up for long. It's like a rollercoaster: the drop always feels the longest.

I guess I'm whining. What do I have to complain about, really? People, myself included, are always saying things like, "Why are you complaining? Think of the hungry orphans and refugees and cancer patients."

But just because my life isn't filled with violence and death doesn't make it any less sad, does it? It's just...a different kind of sad. One less tangible and much less easy to pinpoint the source of.

Whatever. It doesn't matter. I just wanted to put this down somewhere.

I'm sad. I'm always sad. Or...I'm sadder than you think I am.

Whatever. It doesn't matter anyway.

The Art of Harkness

Harkness.

It's what my school is known for. Well, that amoung other things. But Harkness is a big one. In fact, it's the reason I came here. I like discussion, in fact I thrive on it.

Know what I don't like? People who don't understand that there is indeed a wrong and right way to Harkness. These people bug the crap out of me.

Today was a perfect example.

Today, I walked into Medieval World ready and excited for another brilliant Harkness discussion. Now, I won't lie, I'm an agressive Harknesser. I like to talk and muse, and I love it when I strike on a point the teacher was dying for someone to realise. I told you, I thrive on Harkness. Unfortunately, today was not my best day. Not because I wasn't prepared, or because my reasoning was off. No, today was bad because two people took it upon themselves to be the Assholes of the Day.

Congratulations Mr. Morgan and Miss Hayes, you've successfully demeaned what this school is about. I'm sure your parents are very proud.

I'm new to the class. My schedule was changed and now I have been blessed with the wonderful Mr. Hertig as my professor. Well, being my second day in class I felt I should really step it up, y'know, show them I know what I'm talking about?

I spoke up about ten minutes into conversation. As soon as I opened my mouth Nate and Caroline (yeah, no anonymity for assholes) gave each other that look. You know it. The one that says, "Oh, dear Lord, here she goes." I hate that look. I've been receiving it all my life. It brings back painful memories. Memories of a time when people didn't like me too much.

That look makes me uncomfortable and it makes me scared. I doubt myself and then I feel stupid. I remember when people hated the sound of my voice and I don't want to go back to wondering if people really, genuinely like me. That's no way to live.

So, I'm a bit dejected and more than a little pissed off. I try to speak again. Maybe I did cut Nate off. I'm sorry if I did, but I thought he was done speaking. For the rest of class they gave me that look.

And it's not just them. A lot of people don't know how to Harkness. I know I'm certainly no expert, but there's some things that are just common sense and courtesy.

Remember, we sit at a round table; there are no corners for you hide yourself.