Still Here, Screenwriter

SHARING is not multiplication. Learn it from me, that fourteen year-old who joked about producing an electronic garbage mix mired by blunt sarcasm called "IKNOWRIGHT" with one of my friends, which actually led the both of us to bring up DJ AM yesterday, when he was still kickin' but I still don't care about him despite whatever happened to him; apathy for futile lives like these pill-taking and crack-whoring celebrities, be the death of me.

I thought I should tell you that I'm very stingy with my happiness. Having other people knowing what is up reduces whatever value that happiness is supposed to have. It's even worse when that privilege of happiness is distributed to a whole lot of other people. Isn't that the point of happiness? It's supposed to bring you up because it's all yours -- not bring everybody up and make you feel even less of a happy person?

All my Friday afternoons are booked for the same piece of poop. I should have corrected it when I sensed it but I didn't. Now I'm starting loads of imaginary conversations with myself, and all the people I want to talk to, but couldn't. Do you know that inside that empty room in the third floor, this AM is diminished into some 2-dimensional AM? Who am I to those people anyway? Am I just a wad of gum to cover up the wheel while they're in bad terms with Andie? What happens after they fix their petty conflict? Will I just be tossed around all the freshmen cliques to even the odds?

And what about Ate Meggy? She was my favorite person a month ago. I was always with my debonair friend then. Now, because my leg's been practically tethered to some person I want to be rid of, we're just faking Helen Keller all over the place. (3OH!3 is misleading you.) She's in the Edboard's court with the Paper-est of all people while I'm out there, stuck sitting with this suicidal person who was my friend. Two years ago, we had infinite phone conversations about God and elves. Now we're not conversing. She's dripping of what she calls depression and I was just there, trying to act normal when all I'd really like to do is leave everybody.

I thought the PAPER CLUB would help me develop, somehow, but they didn't. They are all I could think about and I happen to spite them all. I want to blog like I did in late July. I wasn't so specific about my life then, and it was readable. I miss this blog when I had a smaller life. I wasn't so aware of my 2-dimensional self. Now, with all of these diarrhea-marinaded things parading around me, I couldn't blog anymore. Let me play my life for a while. By the time I'll blog again, lots of inane stuff will be out of my life to make way for that one s-word.

P.S.
Who's the screenwriter anyway?

Golden

GOLD is the new SILVER. I'm moving on from my old journal. God knows whose hands have gotten hold of it. I don't want to know, personally. Ignorance is your new best friend. I'd rather forget and not slow down. Leave it at that. I don't want to know people are looking at me weirdly in the hallways because they've raided my journal. I'd rather just ignore everything that happened happened two Fridays ago. I probably wouldn't remember anyway; I didn't take note. Ask someone else, preferably that thief-bitch who still wouldn't unveil herself.

(No, really, it's maddening.) Today's the last day I'm spending with a window seat in the classroom. It's worth a tear or two. The window has been good to me for around three hundred ninety-two days. God, those days were weirdly awesome in comparison to the present. Now it's time to move on to some windowless seat, where I'm in the middle of two humans, one of which is the Decaydance girl. That weird D-word isn't a derogatory term, just so you know. Think Hey Monday. Think Cobra Starship. I'll just try to cope without that freakin' useful ledge on my left.

I'm enabling the comments, though I've got no use for it. MICAH does, I guess, and I'm not sure why. I'm inserting a side confession in this paragraph. I'm not quite trusting myself enough to write anybody's real name in my journal. I'm journal-writing with an audience, unlike how I used to. It feels rusty. Swallow these useless information while they're still up. I don't know if it shows but all my blog entries as of late are just empty. Help me pick up some thoughts?

Problem Enough

News editing is no joke, apparently. The least I could do to help the news editor is to stay up with her, until God knows what time, to answer all her questions about that stupid article of mine, which she's completely rewriting, as far as I know. I bet she gasped when I told her I'm under her department because I'm the stupidest news writer in the goddamned universe, and no editor in said universe would like to have me under their department. Am I even entitled to call myself that, a news writer? I'm just a brilliant mutt who passed during the day of try-outs, and thinks she's good enough to stay.

As for myself, in general, I'm still in my journal-less hell and I'm still not in speaking terms with the people I want to talk to, and I'm not quite sure why. One of them just went offline, as I was typing that goddamned sentence! Blog of the devil and the devil doth disappear, eh? I smiled when I saw her riding shotgun with the window down yesterday (or was it the other day) and now I feel stupid for even thinking I deserved to have seen her revealing her after-school gangster side. It was funny, at the time. Now I'm just dissatisfied with myself. Won't I ever rise above this sinking level of observing when I'm supposed to live?

My point is not understandable. Maybe that's why the news editor is still awake. Whatever the hell I did last month was in an alien language and she feared to be reprimanded by our moderator so she created another article, and named me as the author. God. I'm making her Senior year a lot harder than it should be. Well, I'm freakin' sorry. She's not the only one with problems. I have to wake up everyday as me. That's problem enough. I could have just been any person, you know?

I could have been more than this tiny speck I am. I could have been in England, or Brazil. I could have written better. I could have been less obscure. I could have made it easier for Ate Selena to fix my news article, at least. What did I do? I gave her hell through a goddamned e-mail. Her emoticons are disappearing. I think I'm gradually pissing her off. I'm not entirely convinced by what Sir Jaynos said this morning. Life is unfair, however you put it. I'm on its unfortunate side. I'll send a silent apology to Ate Selena. I don't think I can make it as far in the night as she could. I'm debating on whether or not I should say goodnight. I know my existence is giving her nightmares. I wish I'd been smarter, for her, but I'm not, and again, I am sorry.

So, in sum, I still hate my life, and I'm finding it easier to do that every day.

Entryless

I woke up, totally unkempt from minor depression, and thought too immediately that my mother found my journal in her car. That was the only safe place I could have left it in, other than in the confines of my bedroom. Unluckily, it was a receipt she found, and not my Monologue. Now I'm quite sure it's at school, or it was at school and is now idling -- entryless for the 14th of August -- on top of somebody else's desk.

I couldn't bear this. God, it feels like I lost a child, or a best friend. I don't know the last thing I wrote, nor the first word I put in it. I could take it as a sign to bury that old life and find a new one to document in my unused Moleskine, but it doesn't quite work that way. I spend at least half an hour every night, writing about that twenty-four hour shit we call a day and, certainly, that journal's not something to be misplaced after sixty-seven days.

I completely agree with Ate Meggy; life was hectic last week. Tests were handed out and although all my scores were good, I barely had time for myself, and I'm still a hideous kid tainted by social awkwardness. I know we're all twisted and handicapped, one way or another, and it's the prime source of our little tribulations. It's effing Yin and effing Yang. I just don't think I need my journal robbed to have the darker part of that circle filled in. My existence is already bad on its own and you'd know exactly why if you've been insane and avidly following my blog, which I don't think you should do.

My life is far less interesting than yours but those pages, I need them. That was my life taken away from me. You don't know crap about that because you don't keep a journal. Consider yourself fortunate and don't start one. However, if you do have a journal, then be inspired by my sucky situation and tell yourself that you have a lot to lose. I've got a lot lost already and the thought of anybody being able to use my life story against me flips my head like Satan's pitchfork would. I hope to get it back before it further ruins any side of my life, or other people's lives.

Definitely Unsettled

I have a big problem I could share because you have absolutely nothing to do with it. My last journal -- the silver Monologue lined notebook -- is missing, apparently. Damn you if you think I'm calm. Every friggin' thing about my life since the eighth of June is inside that Moleskine knock-off. The worst thing about it being misplaced is that I know I brought it to school today. My stupid reason? I didn't write last night and I thought I could make up for it when I got to school the next day but when I arrived, I got my hands busy with a #1 pencil to sharpen my THE homework on perspective.

I don't want to enumerate all the hands who could be turning its pages right now. I hope she's somebody I haven't written about, or, at least, someone I've written good stuff about but I'd still rather have it buried under all the plastic bottle crap in the La Senza paper bag by the classroom's ledge. I already felt like dying when Micah figured out the link to this blog. It's like having her perforate a big bag of my secrets. That was the 16th of January. Now, on the 14th of August, with a journal I never meant any-freaking-body to see, I absolutely feel like dying, no joke.

The pretty notes I got from my Kap-sis were all in the pocket of that journal, along with the blue crepe paper somebody used to wrap my birthday gift. The souvenir I got from Talkyr, my favorite teacher, during the summer's probably also in that pocket. I even have a week's worth of allowance in it. Compiled on the journal itself are subtle hints of my most effed up opinions on most of my friends and quasi-friends, like Shaira's superficiality, to Pam's inner loneliness, and even updates on my pity party. I mentioned Paul Parlipiano's gayness and the person I stay up late for every night. All's lame and intimate to a certain degree because it's nobody's right to raid its content. Now I'm plain angry.

There's something about revealing too much and not getting ample feedback that makes the prospect of getting my journal back as bad as it is. This blog is proof. I'll leave my insignificant soliloquy at that. I woke up from a twenty-minute slumber and made this post but I still couldn't, for the life of me, remember how I lost that journal. I couldn't open my English book to study the different figures of speech or my Science notebook to go over Dimensional Analysis. The Quarter tests are on Monday and I'm not in a good enough disposition to study. I need my journal back. I need it back badly, lest this would be the prologue of my lovely suicide note. (Worry not; I'm only kidding.)

Stupid Gleemeter

I hate insolence. I hate it even more when I'm sunken. Now my mind's completely off because somebody was scintillating with pride while my left eyelid's still swollen from last night. It's the Gleemeter; I'm sulking at the bottom and she's rocketing up, up, up to immeasurable heights of happiness. I think this rendered good conversation impossible. Bad chemistry is bad chemistry. I swore to invisibility for the rest of this day. The same goes for any other communication medium. I don't want to talk to anybody.

I know she'd rub it in that she's winning this life game and I'm losing badly because of my light-headed friends and my general incapabilities. I wouldn't wait for her to indirectly attack me with my own predictions. I'm not as shallow as she might think. God damn her. Why did HEARTLESS PLANNER DUDE put the likes of her into my life anyway? I wish he never did. She makes me growl when I'm alone, out of sheer annoyance, and I'm sick of it.

I wish I could tell her this. I wish I could tell anybody this. It just feels like a felony, sometimes, when I tell people I'm down. I don't want them to think I'm turning to them for help. No, no. Even if people say they're going to be there when I'm in need (like the most adorable friendship cliché), I don't turn to them. It's not because I doubt them; it's just because I don't want to be a burden, which I know I will be when I initiate my whining process, be it through the phone, through messenger, or through actual contact. I'd rather have people dumping on me than me dumping on people. It's less of a drag. That's why I don't tell people much about the nitty-gritty of my life. What can my life possibly be to those people concerned, anyway?

That is all for this weekend. Wish my Gleemeter shoots up, and yours too. I still feel bad and I haven't talked to anybody outside the house but it will pass soon. I think my new theme is awesome, btw.

Duped and Dumped

So I looked into the PAPER CLUB's online log and realized that my article was stolen from me. I'm not referring to plagiarism, but somebody else wrote for the article assigned to me. Double assignment crap. In other words, I was cancelled out and at the moment, jobless. I'm the freakin' writer with no article, equally useful as a quintet with no piece or a mime under paralysis. I didn't do anything for this to happen; my life's HEARTLESS PLANNER DUDE did it on purpose. He's not God, I believe. God is gracious, but not gracious enough to give my article to somebody else when it's clearly mine.

Who knows how my article slipped under the EdBoard's radar? I sent it four days after it was assigned to me, and I know I sent it right, but for some effin' reason, it didn't land on the news editor's pile. All my efforts were duped and dumped. I think my days couldn't go on without me trudging through these petty hellish concerns but I'm not planning to assert myself to redeem my position and article anymore. Let it go that unfortunately wayward path. Life in the PAPER CLUB (and anywhere else I am) is rough because I fail at being your average Homo Sapien Sapien who uses a brain for decision-making and problem-solving. And what were those other things I had, cognitive processes? Bogus. I'm writing fake biographies instead. Shalom and screw you, ambitious journalism.

Nothin' Permanent

I can be the opposite of everybody. It takes more than just inactivity; there's really something about me I find weirdly fascinating. I have no permanent personality, no permanent dreams, no permanent talents, no permanent preferences, and no permanent set of friends. The contents of my biography would be too fickle for publication. One moment, I'm the little queen of my own world and the next, I'm alone in a crowd of characin fishes.

This is fascinating, definitely.

My life hasn't changed the way I want it to. I'm still sick of being scared of my favorite person. Last Friday was traumatizing. I did see my favorite person and she did thank me genuinely for what I did then but I was imploding with hate; the Paper Club is junk. The mods probably know it too. I still ask myself how I'd be able to get through approximately a hundred and fifty more Friday afternoons in the Paper Club. I can smell torture.

On the darker side of my current situation, my own commentaries regarding my life have slowed down. I haven't been journal-ing as much as I'd like to, and I haven't done anything I thought I would be doing by now, like asking my friends where the hell they all are because this day, as a whole, was pretty lonely for me. I've never quite gotten used to that.

So, are those words enough to make up my first post for August? Nothin' is exactly post-worthy. I know the organization and content of this post would get a zero if it were to be graded but I feel like sleeping. Right now. It's a Saturday night so I think I'm free to sleep at the time I'd will to. Tonight, it will be 9:30 PM. Goodnight and God bless.