I'm Not Exactly a Kid...

...but I got this stuffed cow from a department store yesterday. They call it a Lucky Cow. My friend has one and since it was pretty cheap, I asked my mom to get me one. She's an overspender, anyway. It's childish to keep such things, I'm well aware, but I'm not forfeiting Lucky Cow. Just look at how happy Mr. Bean was with Teddy. I'm not exactly going to be deranged. I just want an emblem for my summer and I think Lucky Cow is just that.

It's so juvenile, keeping a stuffed cow. But it's better to stay innocent like that, unlike what the others are subconsciously getting into. That probably makes me a square but I don't want to become what they are now. I just hope I get to harden my composure this summer. I don't want to go back to school realizing how far I've been stepping backwards while everybody moved forward.

As for my summer resolution list, I have yet to have them compiled. I'm having second thoughts, though. I know I'll end up breaking every one of them. Anyway, this is where my eleventh post for March ends. I didn't realize I could continually squeeze up pointless posts into this blog but hey, it's almost April. I should learn to dig deeper by then.

This Post was So Uninspired I Couldn't Think of a Title

Seven days of not posting wouldn't usually bother me. I've gone longer without posting here but the abundance of time and the lack of better things to do creates this magnetic force between me and this hardly-updated blog and now I'm here, pressing on the keyboards. I have nothing of importance to blog about but I'll bet you're used to that already.

It's the second day of summer and I just, rather intentionally, absented myself from the HSM2-ish batch outing. Last Saturday was enough. I only got to say goodbye to exactly four people after the so-called ceremony but looking back at it now, I think it doesn't really matter. And I'm not leaving anyway.

I really don't know what to put into this but I think a tenth post for March would be awesome so I'll just publish this post now and get a profusion of oxygen into my brain because I heard that makes you do stuff better. I'll go for a short walk around the subdivision and maybe, by the time I get back here, I could come up with a list of summer resolutions because the one I did during the New Year didn't grant me resolve.

The sun is setting. Ihavetogo. :)

Little White Furball

[This post was written for me to feel a lot less awful so please just skip this and move on to the one below it. This was just a rushed post, anyway. I just couldn't accept not being able to write about the occasion.]

I was absolutely happy today. But that was until I remembered what today actually was and how I've forgotten to acknowledge it. Three years ago, a little white furball was born. I wasn't actually there when she was born, but we all have an idea how dogs give birth.

A few months later, she ended up in our house, together with another dog, as early birthday presents for me. I favored the white one because she just looked so fine and she jumped a lot. And her coat was naturally straight and soft.

She was really named Jelli but Jelli wasn't a good name for anything. With my mom's approval, we had an unofficial baptism headed by me and we had the dog renamed Paris (the one this blog post's about) and Nicole (the one who's standing in front of the fan right now AND the one who represents me in Blogger). You should know, by the way, where these names are from.

Paris did mess up the house and pooped all over the water bed but everybody thought she was cute, so it was all right. And even if she wandered all over the subdivision, only to be found later badly stained by usual street dirt, everybody still thought she was cute so it was still all right.

And then she got those dog lice. Nobody knows where she got it but they were there, and they had to be treated. So we brought both dogs to the veterinary. I couldn't exactly recall how long they were there but Nicole arrived home way earlier than Paris did.

Paris did get home eventually. She was acting weird, though. She didn't take the meds the veterinarians told us to give her. She used to devour that. And the telltale sign something was wrong was when Paris stopped moving. She was an active dog. I mean, she learned to climb the stairs when she was three months old and I swear, she could jump hoops for the circus.

My parents took her back to the veterinarian because 1.) her eyes looked like they were suffering, and 2.) nobody couldn't stand to see her that way. I don't know when this was. Probably during the 21st or the 22nd of July.

The 23rd came. That was my birthday, and it fell on a Sunday. I was complaining that we hadn't gone anywhere but to the church and to the grocery. They practically spent half of the day at the veterinary.

The 24th followed. I spent the day playing Sims 2 because it was a school holiday and it was raining outside. It always rained on the week of my birthday. And then, sometime in the afternoon, my mom called and I heard the news I was too selfish to consider.

Apparently, Paris OD'ed. The little white furball had an overdose on whatever that was that should have cured her. God, it hurts to remember this but my mom said she started defecating excessively, until she defecated practically everything. I always had an awful time recalling this.

I wasn't there to see her but my mom said I wouldn't have been able to recognize what was left of the dog. It was only a dirty deflated remnant of what used to be my favorite dog. I'm guessing she wasn't a furball anymore, at that time.

Laugh at this if you want but this isn't a joke. It's a private matter, actually. That was the first time I cried for death, even if three of my grandparents have already been dead by then. I locked myself in my room and stayed there for hours until I regained my composure, but only enough to trudge myself into finishing the house I was building in Sims 2.

They put Paris in a pet cemetery. I didn't think those places existed. I haven't seen it for myself. I'm planning to go there sometime this summer, with her alleged godmother, who was appointed posthumously.

This is where I'll end it. I hope it was good enough to commemorate the event. Happy third birthday to her, and I hope she's at peace, even if the veterinarians murdered her.

Os Yppah!

The title is the effusive cry of (literally) backward people. When I say it out loud, though, it sounds like the type of noise a wild animal would emit after being struck by an anvil. Or maybe not. Only humans are capable of multi-syllabic noises when they're hurt.

I'm Os Yppah today. It has everything to do with self-expression through unsent letters. I just got into this crazy ritual of writing letters to all these people who I couldn't talk to and it feels a lot like opening a vent in a gas chamber. I get to discharge the nasty fumes without necessarily harming anybody, and even if it's really just dispelled to the open air, it doesn't matter.

What matters is that the matters are gone. It's just me again. And with "just me" in the picture, it's easier to reach a state of Os Yppahness. Wait. It just occurred to me. I've been waiting for a Eureka moment and I guess I just earned it now. Os Yppahness could be my own form of Nirvana! It could be the opposite of everybody's definition of happiness. It doesn't mean sad, but the factors of being Yppah is 180 degrees away from that of happy.

I know it might seem twisted to you but it makes so much sense to me. God, I'm loving my being Yppah. Maybe someday I should raise my own breed of people. Test tube, maybe. I could even inhabit a little island and establish my own religion of Yppah. Hahaha.

I should discuss this further. (:

[Even the emoticons are in reverse!]

I Got Carried Away?

Topics are hard to find. That's why I mostly blog about garbage. If I don't blog about these things, I'd have zero posts. I don't know which is worse, to blog about nonsense or to not blog at all, but since I've started already, I think I should just throw in some words here and hope to make sense.

So I'm reading this hyper-girly book titled "P.S. I Loathe You" from The Clique Series. It's not a shameful thing to do, really. The title makes it seem like a book for airheads, but I think it's better off classified as an easy read. I could breeze through this in a couple of hours, unlike, say, E. Lockhart's The Disreputable History of Frankie Landau-Banks (which got so tedious in the middle, I had no choice but to move on to other books). I first read The Clique when my best friend lent it to me when we were in fifth grade and I guess I just felt like I had to keep on reading for old time's sake but lately, I realized how it got better as the series progressed.

I think I shouldn't leave out the fact that The Clique is just unethical. I was laughing, yes, but that doesn't change the fact that these characters I'm laughing at are exactly the type of people who would stab my back in real life and make life awful for average people, in general. I'd find that bridge, eventually. Nobody would admit it but there are cliques in real life and people get stabbed.

I got stabbed several times, and I don't even know why God would make their words reach me but when they did, I felt so minor. They talk as if the world and its inhabitants were for them to make fun of. It shouldn't be funny but people are laughing, and that made everything look right instead of wrong. I don't know if it's my mistake for caring, but you can't just act so apathetic when people are beating you down, rather purposely.

Here's a repost from my March 11 post. I don't think anybody has read the whole thing. I hope nobody did.

They know what’s right and what’s wrong but they don’t think it matters because nobody makes it matter. Or, maybe there are some people who discerns these things, but who are they? Do these socially-obsessed people even listen to them? I know for a fact that there’s only one answer to that and it’s got only two letters long. NO. I’ve stated it so many times way back when I liked the color orange. My youth was effing wasted on hating the concept of their lame existence and I’ve had it. Period.
I just want to get on with school and be a pupil. I don’t want to be a warrior. I don’t want to be a female canine. I don’t want to ruin the lives of other girls because I know, from experience, how awful that is for everyone. My conscience is fully alive right now and I just want to do my duties and blog in the most innocuous manner possible for a person like me. Or a person, in general. That’s where I’m happy. That’s where I’m at peace.

I don't want to type more. I believe this is long enough to be published as a decent blog post. Onto the orange button now.

[I hated this post, by the way. It feels as though this has been the worst I've ever typed. I just wanted to make my sidebar look better with another post. I'm ready for deletion soon. And by the way, I know it's the twenty-third tomorrow. >:)]

A Little Mind-Flip from Me to Make You Feel Sane

It's been a week since I last posted. It's really not my fault if my head's not functioning well. And with something rather unexpected and definitely unwanted creeping around inconspicuously, I find myself out of my element a little too much of the time.

I just can't keep something off my head and according to my journal, it's been there for thirty-one days. It's not going anywhere. I mean, if you had somehow gotten hold of my journal, you would notice how I reiterate that something every single day.

It's not a distraction. Anything other than it is the distraction. It's more or less the feral perturbation and, indeed, it messed up my general belief that life is an equilibrium unto itself. That last sentence was just a mess of words, I know. I'm fond of that. But that doesn't change the fact that I want to scream this one off. I want it to go away, to get off and give me peace.

You won't understand. I refuse to be understood. But you should come to the conclusion that my messed up head is just trying to mess with yours. None of this would make sense to you. I barely used my words correctly. You don't even know who I am. You don't even know who I'm talking about. I don't even want to look back up and move the arrows to edit whatever words I have to.

I just want to let go of this. I want to move on. And to whoever is causing this mental turmoil, I really wish to God I'd never have met you. You're just making my life hard by your existence. But I don't hate you. You're one of the greatest friends I've had. You just frustrate me so much sometimes that I feel unable to do anything but write about how you make me feel unable to do anything.

And that, by the way, makes you a total mind-flipper.

Held Common Cottons

[This post is probably a graphic retelling of a portion of my weekend. And since you know I've gotten the flu (and cough and colds), expect a few paragraphs that would trigger disgust. I'm in a slightly bad condition. But it's medical, so please excuse me.]

I'd hate to make fun of my condition but my sneezing and my coughing have gotten uncontrollable. They even occur together, much to the distress of my battered lungs. And when they do, I swear to God, my body finds it necessary to lunge forward to toil whatever it is in front of me.

And that reflex comes before my grabbing of a tissue.

The toiling, disgustingly, happened twice on this computer's monitor. Time and again, I'd have to wipe it with the appropriate towel. It's disgusting, I know. I'm making a mental note to learn how to beat these reflexes tonight.

I find it pretty odd though, how this happened towards the start of March, when every day is a day of absolute charring. I just went outside to close the gate and when I got back, my temples were sweating.

This is what we get for grooming movie stars and preserving sausages. The CFC's eating up whatever's left of the Ozone layer and now my pores are crying sweat. Yours may be doing the same. I've honestly never felt Global Warming until lately, when I'm absolutely feeling like the world's on fire.

Even my own body's warming up. Temperature and all. But according to my mom, sweating helps lower body temperature. I'm wishing that's a fact. In any case, I'd have to water the plants. With or without the flu, I'd have to water the plants. Then I'd have the privilege to hose myself down, and I mean that literally.

I'll conclude this post with a song the kids from my school love. I'm not sure if it's really this but I adore the message of this song. It's so friggin' optimistic.

Oh Mister Sun, Sun,
Mister Golden Sun,
Please shine down on me

Oh Mister Sun, Sun,
Mister Golden Sun,
Hiding behind a tree...

These little children
Are asking you
To please come out
So we can play with you

[The post anagrams to 'Not The Common Colds' because it surely is not.]

Down-And-Out

I must be a tad unhappy to write universally acceptable blog posts. My mind works best when I feel down. Marginally down and not tragically down, I mean. Too much of unhappiness just makes me bitter.

But I'm neither happy nor unhappy right now. So I do admit this post's going to suck. I'm just sick with the flu and I could only protest, but I'm all right. It's not that bad, I guess. I might be making a big deal out of it. At least I've got an excuse for a post like this. The odd thing is I can't pinpoint why my body acted the way it did.

My friend (who, coincidentally or not, is as down-and-out as I am) said we stepped on some unseen spirit and now we were inherently chastised. So our body temperatures were rising against us. It is naive, I know, but in far provinces, this is factual. I'll still raise my eyebrow on that notion, however.

But it doesn't really matter. People get sick all the damn time. Some are just ridiculously immature enough to find the need to blog about it, which reminds me of something, by the way.

The last time I contracted anything similar to this was in sixth grade and that was the only time of my life I felt semi-suicidal. Maybe I wished to die, then. Haven't we all, at one point in our lives? I can't share the story, however. I am thinking I should give myself a rest before I get a relapse.

[I'll make something less whiney tomorrow. I bet they won't allow me to go outside. I'll have all the time I need. G'bye.]

I Shall Say, "Hi!"

February fifth. I had not forgotten this.

Micah (2/5/2009 8:23:51 PM): today is the "hi" evening!
Micah (2/5/2009 8:23:57 PM): I!
Micah (2/5/2009 8:23:59 PM): DECLARE!
Micah (2/5/2009 8:24:15 PM): 5THS OF EVERYMONTH
Micah (2/5/2009 8:24:18 PM): !
Micah (2/5/2009 8:24:23 PM): THE HI EVENING!
Ariane (2/5/2009 8:24:26 PM): okay
Ariane (2/5/2009 8:24:27 PM): :D
Micah (2/5/2009 8:24:31 PM): :))
Ariane (2/5/2009 8:24:35 PM): i'll write that down
Micah (2/5/2009 8:24:43 PM): :))

A conversation from one month ago. It's just a subordinate note, a rehash to give this blog a third post for March. With all the business, you probably won't read this in time but the greeting's here, and I did remember. That's a good thing, right?

It should be. Graduation's only twenty-three days away and I have a feeling I won't see you much after this school year, or even during the remaining days of the school year. It's scientific; it's time.

Okay. I'm sorry. We've got lots of stuff to study for. And I've got a sheet of paper to char. I don't want to hold up either of us reading/typing this. G'bye.

My Ocean Bob

I know I should be studying right now (like Micah, who's hell-bent on reading about the nitrogen cycle), but I'm really not in the mood for it. And whenever I'm not in the mood for it, I find it pointless to study because they just won't stay in (or let alone, go into) my brain.

I'm tuned to the Yellowcard radio on last.fm and this +44 song played. The title was Baby Come On. I knew this song from two years ago, yet it feels like I'm discovering it all over again. And oddly, I think it sounds better.

I'm still caught up with one line in the song, which is mainly why I'm ditching opportunities to study for Science, Math and Social Studies:

The past is only the future with the lights on

It's supposed to cheer up the drunk girl in the song but I just don't get it. So the guy in the song's basically saying her situation's not going to change? That she'd realize her life would still suck in the future?

That's not the most cheerful advice to share. Nobody would enjoy the prospect of reliving the past when the past consisted of screwing up and screwing up even more. I know I won't. I know you won't, either.

[This one's short, I'm well aware. I think I should just go revisit the coefficients and their inequalities like any responsible student would. God bless for the tests.]

Char—Atom Twin

The most obvious anagram one could make out of the word "March" is charm. But my charm, or lack thereof, pushes my kvetching to another topic, which is marginally related to why you shouldn't say you know me, or anyone, for that matter.

Like what the title suggests, whoever's typing this is only an Atom Twin of myself. We all pull that off subconsciously. An Atom Twin is a front everybody puts up because it's physically impossible to get along with everyone we meet and therefore we bend and compromise by conjuring up Atom Twins, people who are like us, but not us.

...

Here's a brief scenario:

Person A has an immensely high self-esteem.

Person B hates Person A for having an immensely high self-esteem.

Person C is the middle person, a friend to both Persons A and B, who isn't even fully aware of self-esteem but was caught in the middle of the clandestine war of Persons A and B and has to conjure up an Atom Twin to keep close to both sides.

To Person A, Person C's Atom Twin discusses the behavior of all these losers, and ridicules them all in the process.

To Person B, however, Person C's Atom Twin points out how repelling cockiness actually is, and calls said cockiness rude.

To herself, Person C admits to not have a fixed opinion on either concept (losers or cockiness), but puts up an Atom Twin around Persons A and B for the sake of normal conversation.

...

So, in other words, Atom Twins are the people-pleasing sides of us, modified to partially suit our personalities but only enough to convince ourselves that a nonbelligerent relationship can be formed between individuals who have at least a few things in common.

I'm most likely an Atom Twin to you, whoever you are. And who knows, maybe you are to me too. But that's not a bad thing. At least we're (I'm referring to the world) making great efforts to get along.

[The title anagrams to I WANT TO MARCH because in my partially inept life, that is what I can wish for without feeling psychosocially handicapped.]

:)