Math Without Numbers

I went from jealousy to envy, OH to NO, and plain sin to capital sin in a span of two seconds. Then I had to lie because that was my only ticket out of a conversation that only proved the sluggish pace of the good change (i.e. more human, less Melinda Sordino/Doug Hanson-ish) I wanted to go through. One of the people who lived nearby was right. Happy people should not mingle with the not-happy people because like integers, their dispositions negate each other, hence making whatever existing communication between them a lost cause. These are the equations:

Positive multiplied by positive equates to positive. Happy x Happy = :)
Positive multiplied by negative equates to negative. Happy x Unhappy = :(
Negative multiplied by negative equates to positive. Unhappy x Unhappy = :)

That's simple math that serves for a better use than the Pythagorean Theorem and I do genuinely thank the one who told me about that a few days ago. That equation could be expanded in a lot of ways but in my situation, it only means I should sign out of messenger, which I've done several minutes ago, because I just couldn't share with somebody's happiness as much as I'd like to and it's making me feel bad. Online messaging wasn't supposed to make people feel bad, anyway. There are more emoticons that support happiness than gloom.


While going through the list of tiny faces, I realized the yellow guy up there is the saddest emoticon in the list. Sure, there's a pouting emoticon and a weeping emoticon but those are rehearsed, in human terms. A straight face shows nothing, and nothing means a lot. Sadness is sadder when it's suppressed and I salute him, Mr. Straight Face, for making me realize that.

Or maybe I got him wrong. Nothing could be anything. Maybe I mistook him for being an internally sad emoticon. Maybe he's really happy inside but he's disinclined to show it because there's already a chock-full of emoticons for happiness and if he became one of them, he would blend in, and if he blends in, he doesn't exist.

I lost my train of thought in the middle of typing all those. I'm just a severely jealous person who wishes she hadn't been, but more than that, I love metaphors and I've just dropped a big one in this post without particularly meaning to. I think it's time for me to end this post and get back to the 62nd page of Are We There Yet? by David Levithan. I'm fine spending a few hours of the last week of summer with it. I don't think I'm going to do well out there with real people these days, anyway. I might as well just be carried away by this book about a certain triangle. Goodnight.

A Halftone World...

...was born in my head today.


I love how it looks like it came right off a sci-fi graphic novel, but the digital magic isn't the reason for why it's in this blah blah blah blog. It's the little insignia from my new fountain of stress faucet of love and I thought I'd leave it here so I could have a reason and a neutral topic for a seventieth post.

Summer's dead in this side of the northern hemisphere and I start school on the eighth of June, which happens to be the day Kanye West would turn 32. (I'm not a fan of Kanye but I would be if his birthday had been a legal and global holiday.) I would expound on the drama of going to high school with the different species of MRP's during the following days for sheltered reasons but at the moment, it only means one thing: this unexplained Halftone World Project may be seventy days late. I should have pursued the idea of it during the last days of school, when I wasn't so aloof with everybody but I didn't. The sparks were only set off today and there's nothing much to burn, other than a fraction of my self-esteem.

Why? I did not, not, not do anything noteworthy this summer and I do not, not, not want to be reminded of that. Other than being with the organization of strikingly witty (and down-to-earth to a certain extent) people for twelve days, there was nothing significant to set this apart from all the other seasons in my life. I thought, by now I should have already learned how to ride a bicycle without instinctively and unconsciously putting my feet on the ground when the thing starts to wobble. I should have read The Fountainhead and understand whatever the octaves are supposed to be but I did not. I did none of those.

This whole post isn't going anywhere pleasant, I predict and feel it. I'll leave this paragraph hanging. I'm not getting a grade for this, anyway. I can mess everything up without massive regrets. And to prove that, I will not justify the paragraphs. It's usually a vexing thing to see the crooked ends of the paragraphs but not today. I somewhat deserve this anyway, an unjustified post to justify my minuscule anxieties.

A More-than-Minor Mirage

A mirage does two things--it appears and it disappears. I do the latter quite well but with my aforementioned complex, I think I'm inherently unable to do the former. So it's a thing of no use, right? To keep on disappearing in conversations, little gatherings and the like when hardly anybody realized you were there? It leaves me sad most days, to think that whatever I'm in is unchangeable because I've been clouded by the complex since I was five and I never got used to it.

It's hard to tell what I mean by this but I want to be a mirage.

I couldn't get into the specifics of what I'm referring to. I don't want to be assailed for admitting what I may or may not be going through, or what I may or may not want to get into. I could consider this a private journal and extensively type on every flipping thing about it because that's oh-so cathartic, but no it clearly is not since this thing is semi-public (i.e. can be found if thoroughly searched for, which nobody would do because like me, this blog disappeared before it appeared. To put it in simpler terms, nobody knows.)

A suppressed confession is the closest I could get to an actual confession. I believe I've presented the basic facts about what I failed to explain. I do this all the time. Heck, I do ask myself why I could get so temperamental in this blog. The answer's not a rainbow-wrapped baby thing. I'm always obscure and sad and happy and spiteful and grateful because if I don't do that, I will have nothing. And if I have nothing, I am nothing. Per nusquam, ego sum nusquam.

(That was copy-pasted from an online translator. I'm not aware of any available Latin courses around here but it looks pretty the way it is so I won't dare correct myself, if I made any inaccuracies.)

I got far off-track already. What I'm saying is I love this blog and I won't stop making what the public might consider drivel because it makes me believe I have this other world where my life is more than minor, like what Pudge wanted to attain as he chased the Great Perhaps. I'm not being dramatic with the comparison of my life and some skinny fictional guy's life, by the way. I'm just trying to make a blog post.

Journal Snippets

I don't write real literature as much as I mindlessly complain about the existing state of affairs, specifically the one of the Bastardias or whoever most people complain about now, but I'm quite proud of what I have been dedicating cheap black ink to. If Charlie had felt infinite with The Smiths, I feel infinite with my journals. My writings are all I really have. People always leave, like Peyton says. Some fly to Canada, some are forced to transfer due to expenses, some move to science high schools, some feel too harassed to remain, some would do all it takes to evade the swimming pool, some are just gone and some never came to stay.

But the written words of my journal, they stay, as badly-phrased as they are. I don't know why I found the need to mention that, but browsing through the journal I used from June 10, 2008 to December 31, 2008 (Journal Intime #4) changed a little bit of my outlook toward some of the people who were in my life then. That "then" is still very recent, by the way, but it's still distant.

That was it. That was the last hit I'll take from that bitch.
--Me, referring to a friend, September 12, 2008

She left, I stayed. I expected that because eventually, I had to know my habits are either lame or too responsible.
--Me, on a two-hour lunch break, September 26, 2008


Eventually, she found out about him and then teased me. But there's no way in hell we could "be."
--Me, while having an online conversation, October 25, 2008


I'm disoriented. People from the Upper Crust are my friends?
--Me, in disbelief, November 11, 2008


Although she's quasi-suicidal, she's willing to take her time. I tell her to, anyway. I hope she takes it to heart because I don't want to think all my good friends drift away like dust.
--Me, having an emo friend, November 14, 2008


She didn't need to hear any of it but she wanted to. I thank God for her concern. I'm happy. I don't know if I did anything to deserve this but thank God.
--Me, in the middle of the night, December 19, 2008


Chatting isn't supposed to be challenging. I don't know about this, though.
--Me, adding a second sentence to a weird conversation, December 30, 2008

Seven short cheesy parts of my life should be enough. I do miss the times worth writing extensively about and especially, the people involved in those situations. I was with all sorts of good people. They were seriously of different sorts and I often wonder how that could have been possible. It didn't faze me that I might not be seeing a few of them anymore and I wish I'd done something about it when it mattered but June's coming around and it's late. I have to stop being a cheese ball and resume to be the old AM. This is an awful time for pouring these things out anyway. I'm not even going anywhere. How'd I get this personal about me, anyway?

But I admit, when I'm in my late sixties, this would probably be what I will be spending my time on. I'll either read about the past or write about the present and make it pass. I might even post here in this blog, occasionally. I hated how this blog started but I embrace it now. My life's in here as well. Isn't that nice? You're part of my life too? My head. I'm sorry. My head's escaping normalcy. It might be a little sad for you, normal people, but I will always be an introverted, dweeby diarist and I'm happy the way things are.

This is some extra content for someone who might read.

Then it's the Purple Devil fest.
--Me, in the middle of the night, January 23, 2009

Quasi-Idolatry, Pt. II

I got my slight happiness, thank you.

Watching the season finale was like waiting around for New Year's Eve, though. You get only one thing to look forward to but everybody else arrays the occasion way before the central celebration, which gave so much room for the performances of the has-beens from a hundred years ago (not that I actually have a definite opinion regarding them or their demonita makeup), alongside your typical advertisements.

The show's great, to say the least, but do I need to mention how short-lived the actual euphoria is? The moment Kris Allen hugged his wife, or whoever that girl in yellow is, was the time a message is transmitted to every human brain watching the reality show, "Show's over now. You get your lives back."

I'd like to discuss more but I'm not going to add much to this post. I'm afraid I already got sucked into the mainstream method of blogging. Whatever opinions I've got left would be sadly disposed of. I'm sort of in the middle of a commercial break from the second rerun anyways. I'd want to finish another round of the staged revelry before the thought of school knocks me out.

(June 8! Ahhh!)

Quasi-Idolatry

Inhuman is the adjective that comes to mind when the subject of Adam Lambert comes up. I don't mean to say he's some savage eyeliner-wearing confusexual beast but, despite the crazy good range, his so-called Steven Tyler-ish getup voice is just too uncanny for me. I'd rather have the other guy Kris win this season, even if his Kanye West cover was the only song I remember from him.

But then again, I seldom watch American Idol. I haven't even seen tonight's show. I don't think I will. I mostly just linger in the Internet masquerading all over the web with a psuedonym and I think I will do so again tonight. So who am I to judge, right? But I was just browsing through a couple of the AI Trending Topics and they're going mad. (Wasted time... tsk, tsk, tsk.)

[The quality of photos uploaded in this blogging platform is way behind the Web 2.0 circle.]

But the sad truth is this:

I don't care much but I'd be slightly happier if Kris does win the competition of global sellouts. But I don't know, I'm not even American. I only did this post because I badly needed to cover up the posts before this with something more mundane (e.g. a totally mainstream reality show by the Americans.)

Now that I have enough content, I will now proceed to clicking on the orange button.

Oh, We're Not Worthy!

[The old, old, old February AM is back.]

I don't know what I want to happen. Sometimes I just want to drop dead in the middle of crossing an alley and just slip out of existence and out of everybody's memory. I'm barely as significant as the tires of my dad's car these days and the prospect of going back to school in June is a growing thorn to my viscera.

I don't mind studying. The other side of high school, which is mostly unspoken of by the authorities, is what I'm fearing. That's an unfortunately expandable topic. The Notria Damne Bastardias do exist in the modern times and I fear, being nothing striking, that I will be figuratively pushed around and around and around until my face hits the dirt their soles would set on. The Massively Rude People and Notria Damne Bastardias would have the last say about what matters and what doesn't as though they're the Julius Caesars of this generation. What happens to the people who are there to actually just study? Everyone's at school to do that but my God, sometimes some people really make education a lost cause.

And do I need to mention the inevitable back wounds?

You spend your time sitting in circles with your friends,
Pontificating to each other
Forever competing for that one moment of self-aggrandizing glory
In which you hog the intellectual spotlight
Holding dominion over the entire shallow, pointless conversation
Oh, we're not worthy!
When you walk by a group of quote unquote normal people
You chuckle to yourself, patting yourself on the back as you scoff

I think I listen to the above Say Anything lyrics too much. I might need to go back to Katy Perry. Or maybe it's just me.

A self-renounced fascist friend of mine says I have a crippling case of inferiority complex. It's some kind of psychological thing when you're fazed by thoughts of being less than everyone else, hence leading to either timidity or aggression. She's no doctor or whatever but I'm convinced I know myself enough to actually nod to her hypothesis. Maybe that's the goddamn answer to all the golden questions (e.g. WTF aren't you talking?) of the people who don't actually know me. I have no definite control over it, it seems, but I don't really mind admitting to this little blog that I might have it because it makes me feel normal and a little bit hopeful that maybe awareness would shoo it away.

You don't believe me. I won't believe me either. Blah, blah, blah.

This post makes me feel bad. I don't even know why I started this. I might as well go.

Non Capisco, Amica

[A pressure-induced post. Skip this one because I honestly think this would be a waste of anybody's time, mine included. I just wanted my sidebar to look longer. Believe me, believe me, believe me.]

I love la mia vita falsa. Is that the right way of terming my false life? I was drafting a casual story with somebody I would disintegrate into a tiny piece of reprobate nonsense without and we tackled Italy in the early 20th century. You'd say it's childish. Yada-yada. At least I'm not maligning my friends.

So, in our little Italian venture, my friend, Puzzo, gets shot in the leg by one of the La Satanas boys as some sort of drunk gesture while they par-tayed with a couple of Notria Damne Bastardias in some infinite liquor pub named Legno Orientale (Eastwood in English) at midnight. Puzzo and I apologize for mixing up French, Spanish, and Italian, by the way. I don't know how Puzzo came up with that but Pegorino, or yours truly, enters the next scene in a motorbike (Did they have those in the 1910's?) and guns down the La Satanas and the Notria Damne Bastardias à la Scarface with a fully-loaded Fedorov Avtomat for revenge. The La Satanas were all guilty of income-tax evasion anyway. The Notria Damne Bastardias were just stupid enough to not run away and think their multi-layered evening gowns would save their sinful skin. As an additional scene, one of the Bastardias survives the gun wound. She isn't overlooked by Pegorino, however. He walks over to her with the rifle aimed to her makeup-laden forehead. She's stammering out a plea or whatever but Pegorino cuts her off, saying, "Non capisco, amica."

The hero Pegorino clicks on the trigger. She overdramatically drops and hits her head on the glass shards of some cheap wine bottle, much to the horror of the pub bartender.

Boo-hoo.

Pegorino would then haul Puzzo's body to the motorbike nonchalantly with a cigar on his mouth or something, and they would drive off to their headquarters, which is some fancy bricked building in the middle of town named Casa Del Serendra located in front of the largest gun store in Italy, Completamente Caricato (Fully Loaded in English). They would disappear into the darkness of the Sicillian streets and the camera zooms to the full moon. It's a low budget foreign flick all of a sudden. I was carried away by speed-writing. Another disorganized post is better than none, in my twisted way of thinking. Some of my friends are just dousing my brain with malicious stuff and hate is very contagious. See what we came up with? Totale merda with loads of symbolisms and poorly translated terms.

This wouldn't be the last of the Bastardias. Once people complain to me about things again, the Bastardias would probably resurface out of my frustration. I do not, not, not (triple negatives negatives equate to one negative) care but some people are making me.

I think it's time for breakfast.

UR So Gay

Does the title count as a metaphor? Or is it just a Katy Perry song fitting for lonely boy Dan Humphrey? Or some other person I've yet to meet? Or someone I know? Hahaha. What's so wrong about a Hemingway-reading gay/guy/person? NOTHING. ZERO. NADA. When I'm close to euphoria, my mind goes tralalala to the back alley of sense. What for is the human brain if you're happy anyway? That is the question, right? Seriously. That's why Lindsay Lohan has sagging armpits. Or has botolinum toxin penetrated that junction? You know, if you're with me IRL, there's a sad possibility you would laugh insultingly at how I can't enunciate some of my words right. I have a temporary lisp right now so it's TYPE > TALK. But I don't talk. Right, classmates? Hello? LOL. What else, what else... I'm actually speed-writing because it's been three days since I've last posted and it's actually working for me, though it probably shows that this post doesn't belong... Did you know that Mr. Flipping-Gorgeous-Adonis-With-No-Flaws-Whatsoever Edward Cullen was turned into a vampire to avoid contraction of Spanish Flu ninety-one years ago? Yes, yes you do know that because you have read the entire series. I don't need to be a psychic to see the epidemic. RHYME! Speaking of vampirism, would you rather be a vampire than have the pig flu attacking your organs? I wouldn't want to be a supergorgeous glimmering porcelain walking-talking thing. Someone bored and unemployed might write a horrendous book and thesaurusize a way to let the cash in. But a movie adaptation and a soundtrack with two Paramore songs on it should compensate. No? Of course not. Okay, I don't know which transition word I should use here... One of my friends from my summer classes said the word moronic a lot. Did I mention she prefers blue ink over black? That's uncanny. But jah, her word applies to this very post. I'm changing my Twitter name too and I've got guilt all over me, but I hate double G's in the middle of the name so I might revert it back to what it started out as. I can't even tsk, tsk, tsk myself with my lisp. To Gehenna with this post. This is the most disorganized one ever. And I hate word walls.

Weird is what I think of this side of me. But I like it. Oddly, I feel like I'm pretending to be someone else. I do not know why.

[This next paragraph's mostly for the benefit of Seeing Gray and for what it's worth, I will type seriously.]

The actual meaning of my last post is far too grim and dangerous to be stated in this blog, or anywhere else. With the help of some self-renounced fascist, I came up with symbolisms, through punctuation marks. Symbolisms for what, I can't exactly state, but it's somewhat related to asphyxia/suffocation. That's as far as I could go without giving away the soul of the poem, or what made me write it.

Comma Splice

In Europe
A schnauzer
But chariot!
The gremlin
Is an albatross
To Optimus Prime
Or the Thing

Flipping rain clouds
Colonized by the retina
Of the closeted Buddhist
In a costumed Catholic
Embalmed by ambiguity
And lurid attempts
To asphyxiate the cycle
Of barricading doors,

[I am grateful for an underwater ally.]

Candles

Every story is worth sharing, even if nobody cared or cares or will care.

I was under the summer sun in our unused lot a few blocks away at midday, watching the molten wax beat out the fire of the largest candle in the house while my thoughts whirled around like the gaseous product of fire. I gathered three white candles (the aforementioned largest candle in this house that would probably outlive me, one-half of the one I used during the renewal of my baptismal vows, and a random white vigil candle with a sunflower painted on its container) and laid them in an old pillowcase with my journal and a note addressed to God at the center. That small piece of lined paper contained my intentions and all I knew of the situation. I planned to burn it so the wind could carry it upwards, exactly where it should be. I wasn't fully acquainted with who I was doing it for but I knew I had to do it, even if the ritual is all I could offer for their resilience.

I had my own mini-liturgy with the beetles and bees shortly thereafter and, coincidentally or not, I discovered that John 15: 1-8 (i.e. Vine and Branches) was the Gospel for today, for the second time this week, and for the third time in my working memory. If that had meant anything at all, I think it would have to relate with the fact that Jesus remains, if we remain in Him. It’s a lovely cycle that starts with faith, and the most we could do in this life is to not lose it. So don't lose it.

That said, I think whatever I got myself into was worth every second of heat. I don't believe everything under Catholicism but I believe the words of the evangelists, especially the one in the Gospel for today, which I find myself oddly attached to. I haven't done anything that peaceful my whole life and knowing that I just had accomplished it with good intentions made it even more fulfilling for me.

The weather pattern in this side of the earth is still unpredictable, though. The rainclouds settled in with the sun a few hours later. I took everything to the little shack in the lot. Like what this blogger would have done, I headed back outside with the rain soaking me. There it was, momentary pleasure in the form of raindrops. I walked back home at that point, because I couldn't stand starvation and it was way past lunchtime.

Micah, if you read this... :)

Asphyxia

I walked straight up the stairs after eating breakfast in our coffee table. There was a wall midway the staircase and I stayed there for a bit, with my nose flat against the green piece of cement. That would have been the perfect time for voice overs, if life had been a movie. The DSS ends today and I had plans to justify the past week in my room, at two o'clock in the afternoon. Everything was sorted out and I had all the things I needed, the notes and all.

But I thought better.

Restless Heart Syndrome

I was supposed to eat lunch around an hour ago. The leftover spaghetti was already on the microwave and I was seated but at that point, I heard a little bird chirp from some device across the table. Everything pretty much went spinning from there so I proceeded to signing into Blogger with an empty stomach to blog instead, which I'm doing now.

It only occurred to me in the middle of everything: One is a lonely number, but one + zero is not. Nobody probably understands the significance I see in that almost-mathematical statement, but that is one part of the whole sad shebang. A lot is happening lately and I'm not even aware of everything yet but my God, if there's really a way out, I'd take it.

God forbid, I'm not thinking of suicide but a thought came up. Pretend there's an armored policeman and a blue-collar worker standing next to him in a subway station. It's totally mismatched but whatever. A terrorist with Dual Uzis of some sort fires his guns and somehow, the bullets end up in the chests of said people. One of the two stands up while the other one stays down.

You probably won't understand that metaphor either but I couldn't shrug it off. People who have less defense mechanisms (e.g. fallback friends, lifetime purposes, et cetera) are more likely to suffer from the pang of anguish. That is what I hate about living with people who think inconsiderately. The damages done are dissimilar but they never think of it that way.

And no, I'm not talking about myself. I've reached the point of not caring about what confuses me or you. I don't even think I'm overreacting anymore. It's the "Restless Heart Syndrome," according to Green Day. I'm now off to reheat the spaghetti that should have been inside me by now if I hadn't been bothered by the little chirp that set off a massively self-centered chain reaction of happiness, CW birthday greetings, Twitter updates, WTF's, underused emoticons, overused expressions, text messages, quasi-disappointing reactions, quasi-distressing realizations, unreleased Green Day songs, sadness, and starvation.

I'm holding in too much. I don't even understand me or why this hallway I'm in is looking a lot darker. God, I'm just sorry for myself.

Squawk, Squawk, Squawk

[No real content for today]

So I've been told I sounded like a crow when I scream an ecstatic scream. But squawk, squawk, squawk, I'll do as I please because this doesn't happen a lot. I'm not even exactly sure why I'm here when I could be celebrating my happiness away from anything that reminds me of the things I hate. This is good, though. I've found ways to change my disposition. Happiness, in most cases, is contagious.

But I won't stop typing nonsense like that because this blog is a seismograph and I'm the tiny, harmless earthquake who needs to have a record of its existence, especially on Metaphor Moon's Day, which is today. I'm proud of being consistent.

Maybe it's just the Tabasco. My mouth was on fire a couple of minutes ago. I had to remedy it with ice, but my tongue only got more sore. I learned a stupid thing about me. Without hot sauce, I'll never be able to drink eight glasses of water. I'll die early. So, I believe I've got the metaphor settled. It's weird how I've been keeping up with this blog despite my lack of topics. Tomorrow's going to be the last day of the streak, I promise myself.

Vine and Branches

I was at church alone today when I found out the Gospel was the same as the one used during our Graduation. The rest of my family would rather coo over the fact that my brother got his driver's license. I don't hate them for it. Other people do that everyday (the going-to-church, not the cooing) without thinking it's anything special, but I'm not religious at all and I break Commandment III almost every day of my life so I count it as something big, in the context of my life.

My blog isn't very biblical. Nothing in my life, aside from my second/middle name (which I intentionally omit when my name is asked), is very biblical. Most of the people I know from around here has, in one way or another, a biblical name so maybe that doesn't count. It's a run-of-the-mill Catholic behavior to have people bound to their religion by their names.

I won't add much to this post. I thought about going through the people from my school in relation to the vine-and-branches thing from the Gospel of John but I figured I've been doing too much of that lately. I don't need to commit another sin just so I could make a decent post for the fifth day of my Dead Skin Streak. Everything's far too obvious now, anyway. All I'm looking forward to is to sleep and dream about the MRP's when I reach the REM phase.

The people I dislike show up in my dreams more than those who I'd like to see, but everybody acts totally out of character (i.e. kind) so all is okay. I like the dreamer me, too.

Whatever Works

I was left in my father's office desk earlier in the afternoon and I digitally copied some vital information from the résumés piled on top of the desk. None of the cubicle-working people outside noticed that I was messing with their files. It felt like spy work, only there's absolutely no benefit. I had the cell phone numbers, e-mail addresses, home addresses, and choice portions of the histories of the applicants. I wasn't plotting anything, really, and I wasn't planning to scam these people into thinking they got their jobs by sending out fake e-mails because I'm no good at those. Everything's disposed of now and I just did that as part of my esoteric mission to find momentary happiness and evade any sort of attempts to reach the state of pre-Nirvana.

I salute you if you understand what I'm trying to cover up.

Someone I appreciate to death suggested I should go into some sort of pursuit to find a good enough identity without shaking up the status quo, so I took the advice and now I'm taking every opportunity I could to not feel like myself. This is the fourth day of my mentioned streak of feeling like dead skin and I'm losing myself, which is something. I've never really grasped who I am. I don't feel as though I'm the one who's blogging in here anymore. I feel like I'm possessed by somebody who wants to exist, but doesn't exist.

This reminds me so much of the late Morgan, who was overlooked by everybody because of some other scam by the name Nikki. Morgan did have her own story, only not as publicized or as libelous as Nikki's, and she acts just like I'm acting these days, entirely stubborn.

You don't get it because I don't explain well. I want to learn how but I'm afraid you'd think of hostile things and not tell me until God works His wonders and lead me to them. That's what my so-called friends do. Maybe I'm just doomed to be stabbed by everybody. I don't know.

See You in Sheol

One of my friends (it's hard to tell who's what these days) used my name as some sort of pejorative term the other day. It only bothered me now, when I saw something I probably wasn't intended to see. I didn't have to ask myself or anybody what's happening, but I feel obliged to. What gives them the power to do whatever they do, anyway? Is it because I don't fight back or is it just because I pose no threat to anybody? Both? Or more?

What's so horrid about me to deserve a three-day streak of feeling like dead skin? I could admit a lot to myself but there's only so much introversion could serve me. I do my best to evade them yet things come and I feel bitch-slapped, yet again. I learned from all of them--there's no such thing as profanity so I could go ahead and drop all the asterisks.

I don't want to spend another year with those people. I'll bet next year would be an exact replica of Gehenna, complete with hobgoblins and hags. It could get downright hellish and nightmarish when you're not like them. But for God's sake, I don't want to be like them just so I could get through the remaining years of school. And if it means anything, the place is a Catholic school. If I couldn't escape the irony of it being Gehenna-like, then maybe whatever's left of the supposedly effective setting could help me endure the fire and get myself to think of the college I covet. Maybe my life would reach new heights.

Anberlin has this song called "Cadence" and I think it suits the occasion well. I might as well do it for the One above too, if I were to do the hell-walk. I live by the values of three different religions, but I think everything goes down to staying away from the spawns of evil. I've said it a lot before, I'm in no way a kind person, but I feel electricity within me and I want to survive.

I have no idea what all those paragraphs were. I scroll up and I see mismatched stuff about God and the people from my school and me. I'll stitch it up soon. Nothing's in orbit anyway. It doesn't surprise me.

Another Shot to the Gut

Despite the Thor's Day weather (i.e. outrageous day-long storm) and the nine hours I spent disintegrating in a secluded room with my pessimistic thoughts for dear company, I feel like blogging because I don't know, I'm happy now. I just got this message from one of the CW people and I was genuinely happy over what that person said. And I really don't think I've laughed that much the whole summer.

I have a lot to think about regarding that but I think this post is enough for anything CW. I should stop the CW thing. It doesn't belong here. The CW's in this sentence would be the last CW in this blog. I'd rather not be obsessed with something that's far out of my reach. And it barely exists now. We've all graduated and gone back to our lives.

Anyway.

I think I'll never be able to make anything as truthful as my previous post. Emotionally plethoric is what is. You don't know what sort of fulfillment I earned after getting it done. It's fine by me if nobody understands whatever I thought I had put in there, but I could swear on myself that post is going to be the heart of this blog, if there's such a thing.

That post just summarizes who I am now--some insecure kid resorting to journal-keeping because there's really nothing else for her. Every sort of bad thought I could recall just rushed over me, I guess, and I reacted. I'm not much of a happy person. I spent the aforementioned nine hours with those looming over my head. The rain was just a lovely prop to my rueful state. It's a wonder why I'm still here.

I'll stop me from typing further. This post doesn't look like a post. But hey, an idea just came up now and I want to pursue it before I forget. I apologize for this haphazard post. Good night.

Wait

I signed in to scout my messenger list for any CW-related action, but there was none and instead I said hi to someone in the form of a question mark. She told me to wait and I was reminded of a hauntingly awesome Death Cab for Cutie song, so I went far out of my way to hear it.

Sometimes we all feel stupid
We say the wrong things
You're not the only one
Sometimes we all get left behind
In a race of style
It's a dumb thing

You read it and you know it doesn't mean anything to you because you haven't heard this song or you just don't see things as I do, but it does have a significant effect on me. You won't understand. I won't explain. I don't know who or what I'm trying to get to but I want to unload whatever thoughts I have in my head but I feel paranoid most days. I think to myself, whatever I would say or type would be mistaken for something more minuscule, and unacceptable.

I'm not kind. I'm just cautious. And I'm afraid of the world. Why would I hide in here if I wasn't? I got into this philosophy-based conversation with one of my friends three hours ago and we both concluded that I'm seeing through the wrong eyes, which is why I practically live like a cripple with no confidence whatsoever.

I don't know much about you
Not that I want to
Not that I want to

I don't know what came over me or why I typed my thoughts like that. Nobody has to know what's going on past my skull. That's not even everything. Sometimes, I feel like these posts are self-fired gun shots to my gut. All I ever do is pretend my stupid thoughts are real and beat myself down with every badly phrased word I string together. It's perfect self-inflicted malady.

But I learn from myself. There's nothing else to learn from. Maybe I refuse to look. But by myself, I believe every story is worth sharing, even if nobody cared or cares or will care. That's why AM the Whatever exists. She's obnoxious and lonely and honest and idealistic and obscure and hopeful.

I admit this is my most messed-up post yet.

The song makes sense, by the way.

H and I

Hi, Micah. I know it's supposed to be an evening thing and it's barely even seven in the morning, but I'm not waiting that long because there's only one five in a month so I might as well take advantage of that by putting the greeting now even if I don't exactly have enough things to think about to distract me from the date of this Tyr's Day. I have a short message, though. Thank you for being there.

I barely have anything to do at this time of day. It's too early for any sane activity. I might get back to this later on. I think I know what I'm going to post. I just need to find the incentives to do that.

By the way, stalking is a bad thing. I'm a bad person.

Moon's Day, May Day

I'm getting that hollow feeling in my stomach again. I want to shut down my brain a little sometimes. I'm a thinker, and a pessimist. So I pull myself down to Gehenna everytime I stare off equipped with a working mind or something. The Nirvana-ish kind of happiness is just a wisteria-skinned, button-nosed leprechaun to me. It doesn't exist. Excuse me for that metaphor but since I'm still very much addicted with the CW people, I'm thinking of declaring a Metaphor Moon's Day kind of thing in this blog, just to amuse myself a little.

I'm just back to being possessed by Obscurity, a mental trickster. I love being obscure. I feel less responsible for the obscure words I lay down because I only marginally mean them. That should make it hard for anybody to judge me, unless you're some narrow-minded MRP, which you probably aren't.

So, as I was stating, I have that hollow thing in my stomach and I just know it's not a bowel problem. I'm not kidding. I've been rereading my journal and an unsurprising majority of the pages were dedicated to the one thing I couldn't type in here bluntly. I don't want this journal to be unearthed by some science person decades after my death and conclude that there was a sullen, dweeby diarist who spent a year stressing on the fact that she felt generally inept.

I hope I lost you somewhere in the middle of those words because I don't want you to know. I don't want anybody to know what I'm really thinking. I don't want condescending or sympathizing people. On some occasions I really do, but that occasion isn't now. I don't even know why I'm acting so stubborn right now. What I want to do is make a post on ICM, which I've just accomplished. Hoo-flipping-ray.