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.

You Really Are a Lion

Today is a new day, and finally here is a new post. Obviously I can't be trusted to make promises to anyone. Darn my Piscean nature. I have so much to offer and apparently not enough will-power to offer it. Oh well.

Well, I haven't much say, except that I'm sorry to Viktor Krum and Gregory Goyle for never writing them the story they deserve. Hmm. Perhaps I shall make myself a little side journal here in this blog? Hmm? Does that sound alright? Here and there I will through in a dream, but it will written as if it were a short story. Yes. This sounds delightful. I think I will start now.

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Amber and I wait patiently in the book store. It is a rather large bookstore, it goes on for miles. It kind of reminds me of the Pacific Theatres in Paseo. It's red carpeting and buttery smell do nothing help. We are in the YA section, rolling our eyes at the mountains upon mountains of useless, fluffy things that have the nerve to call themselves literature.

But still we wait. For what we do not know, but we are here. I've heard The Used are to be playing here today. Oh, Bert, long time no see. Since our last chat he has become increasingly...How do I put this delicately? Well, he's become quite the head case, and markedly less interested in personal hygiene. I suppose it's not my business, though. I've only met the man once and even then he was quite strange. Bert somehow managed to convince me to buy a life size poster of him for my wall. Ridiculous.

Amber and I have given up waiting and begin our walk through this store. But, oh dear, now we are at Granny's house. Damn rifts, always teleporting us where we don't want to go. Sitting at the table is my great-grandmother and several younger men. She smiles.

"So glad you could make it! India, I want you to meet my friends." I turn, Amber is not there. Perhaps the rift only took me. I always seem to be the unfortunate one. "This is Steve-O, Johnny, and Bam," she says. "They're part of my cooking club." There are more people there and I'm sure she's introduced me to them, but for obvious reasons these three stand out. I sigh and rub my temple, before raising a hand in greeting. Steve-O smiles wide and I can smell his cigarette breath from here.

I retreat to the kitchen and grab some ready-to-bake cheesy chicken tenders from the freezer. I shove them in the oven and return to the table. Most of the boys are in the din, playing Grand Theft Auto with my cousin Ryan. Amber is here now, but I don't speak to her. She is too deeply engrossed in conversation with Bam to notice anyway. So I sit with a smelly woman named Maggie and we play cards. Three minutes later I check my chicken tenders. Steve-O is in the kitchen, and I'm wondering if that game of cards was so interesting (or if Maggie smelled bad enough) to cover up the smell of Steve-O wandering into the kitchen.

He smiles at me again. I grimace and look in the oven. The cheese is melty, but not melty enough. I leave. But I am back in three minutes, checking again. Steve-O is still there. He laughs at me.

"You OCD, or somethin'? You keep checking on that chicken like it's life or death."

I shrug. "Well, I burn stuff a lot. I'm just being careful."

"Sure," he says, walking over. He leans over my shoulder and looks into the oven. "But I think they're done now." His breath is hot on my ear. I pull back too fast and land on my ass. Steve-O laughs.

"T-This is nothing," I say. "You should see me with grilled cheese."

He looks at me like he's genuinely interested. "What do you do with grilled cheese?"

"Well, you see I butter it, right?"

He nods.

"Then I put it in this really cool skillet thingy. But I have to sit with it. 'Cause both sides must be cooked for exactly three minutes. I get freaky if it goes over."

Steve-O laughs. I smile.

"You must have a lot of scars...from all the stuff you do, right?" I ask, still on the floor. Steve-O doesn't answer. Instead he slides on some potholders and pulls out my chicken tenders and pretends to inspect them. I repeat myself.

"Do you have scars?" he asks instead.

"Well, I do have this scar from when I had a skin biop-"

But Steve-O has been called away and I am back in the bookstore with Amber. Damn rifts. There's a tiny perfromance space near the front. The Used is there. I decide that I'm not interested in Bert McCracken right now. So Amber and I wander up and down the wide, cavernouse hallway, dragging our feet across the blood red carpet. But Amber dissapears on me again and I'm left to wander alone. After hours of the nonsense of the bookstore(pinwheels, bubbles, small children in diapers, that kind of thing) I decide to take my chances with Bert and his silly man-band.

There are few people at the concert, and for some reason the bulk of them are black. Odd. I hadn't pegged The Used as being appealing to the general black community. And here I thought I'd be the only black girl in the crowd.

By the time I arrive, their set is nearly done. So, I decide to go wild. I'm jumping manically and screaming the words to the songs. Bert smiles the appreciative smile of a sex god who doesn't remember his favorite priestess. I'm not hurt.

The concert ends and I am left alone with twenty other people. Then Amber comes to my side. She tells me she has an in, a way to get backstage. So, we waltz to the back and find her friend. Her nameless, but very beautiful and snobby friend. She pushes us through door after door till we come to her bedroom. Through the other door is the band. But they will only see us when they are ready. Another girl (presumably another one Beautiful Snobby's friends) is already there, her dark hair billowing around her as she hangs off the bed.

She and BS gibber gabber as Amber and I admire her room. There's one of those cool Appcies on the ceiling, doing it's things, all 3-D fun and whatnot. Amber and I discuss the differences between Appcies and MacApps, the latter of which we agree is simply better. Suddenly BS and the dark-haired girl are telling us to get dressed. I've got on that pretty green toga dress that the announcer from Dancing With the Stars was wearing.

The matchmaker is coming, they say.

Matchmaker? I came for Bert.

Apparently so did they. They came to be hopefully matched to the unhygienic nutball.

Well, this is interesting change of events.

Once again, Amber has left me. I run. It's all I can think to do. The streets of China are brighter than I remember. I run through the streets till I find a place to rest. Amber finds me again, but now she's got a pregnant teenager in tow. I sigh. But Amber says that we have to be matched to someone. The goatwoman nods. I don't know where she came from, but she's telling us it's in our best interest. So we leave and go back to BS's place. Apparently, we're friends now.

It's two weeks later and Amber is married and gone from my life forever. Or, at least until her mother-in-law lets up a little.

But apparently I've been matched to Bert after all. Oh joy, oh rapture.

Not.

I've got on that deep red-violet halter dress BS bought me. I hate it. People keep looking at us. Bert tocuhes my hair and nibbles my ear. I am not happy.

Bert and I are on the First Date. The one where the arrangees get to finally meet each other. We're not supposed to be intimate, but apparently Bert isn't much for rules. Or soap, as it were.

The girls are mad at me, because I got their smelly rockstar. Boo hoo. But luckily Dan the Poster is here. He's brought a message from the matchmaker. Apparently she did not approve the match and I should go home at once. I obey. The others throw cream pies at me as I hurry up the mall steps to the apartment. I take off my heels 'cause they're killing me and shout at them that there's been a mistake and Bert is still on the market. All is well in bitch paradise.

A week later I meet Sebastian. He is officially my groom to-be. He's 1/16 lion. His skin is bronze and clear, his eyes a very strange gold. But his hair. Oh, Jesus, James, and Mary his hair. It is wild and golden, like his lion ancestors.

I feel ugly with plain, human genes. Sigh, but Sebastian is a quiet boy. His mother does all the talking. Our First date passes almost without anything of intrigue. However, Bastian proves indeed quite spirited when it comes to politics. Thankfully our views do not conflict. But as we lay on the gaudy five-star hotel comforter, I become bored of his politics. My fingers have a mind of their own and I tickle him, but just ever so lightly.

Bastian is not amused. I tickle him again. He asks me to stop. I do not. I suddenly find myself beneath his coils of muscle. His golden eyes flash and I cannot help but laugh.

"Sebastian, you really are a lion." I push him off and smile as he blushes.


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That's all I remember, really. Hope you enjoyed! Teehee. Oh, and just so you know, I skipped a lot. If you wish to hear the rest (at least those of you with my number) call me and will be more than happy to explain to the missing pieces.

Fanfiction

Remember Surrealness? Whatever happened to that? Damn me and my short attention span...

I've decided to write a fanfiction. Of this have made up my mind. Now, what to write about? That's a problem. I kind of want to write a dark comedy about Captain Jas. A. Hook and a girl called either Pattoo or Wilhelmina. Then again, I was fantasizing about a possible fanfiction involving Viktor Krum, Gregory Goyle, and a girl called Lola Fitzpatrick (fondly called Fritz). Then again, it is rather tempting to put the story of Severus Snape and Tabitha Hawthorne down on paper...

I'm totally serious.

Anyway, I think I'll start them all, then decide which one I like best. When I do, I (tentatively) promise to make a blog dedicated to my fanfiction.

Uhm...

Gender Bender

I can't do drugs or alcohol. I feel like they would warp my already crazy party high. I get so high just off of the party vibe. I don't care if I make a fool of myself. I don't care what people think. I'll dance, laugh, and rave as I please, thank you.

Upperclassmen are overrated. I hope I'm not like that. Promise that if I ever am in anyway condescending or turn up my nose at a lowerclassmen, that you will slap me. It's stupid. I respect that they're older and that they have seniority. I'm not desputing that. But respect and fear are two different things. I refuse to be one way because you don't like me.

That goes for everyone.

Stick that in your juice box and suck it.

On a lighter note, I must say that Richard was rather fectching in my purple dress. I'm not sure how well I passed for mafia, but it was fun. A lot of people left and that made me sad, because this was arguably one of the best dances. I wish people had given it a chance.

Uhm, why are Kyle Chakos' legs better than mine? Not fair.

Stupid People

You're all sheep.

What right have you to give me (or anyone else for that matter) a death sentence? It will end when it ends. Period.