Thursday, December 10, 2009
Detention and rambling nothings.
Detentions suck. It's not that they're painful or anything negative like that, they're boring. You sit in a room in a chair for some indescript amount of time staring at a wall. iPods aren't allowed, so you're stuck listening to the heavy Wisconsin accents of whichever staff is assigned to monitor you. Very few things irritate me more than the Wisconsin accent, and that list is confined to the word "silly." I hate that word so much. I son't even get started on how much I hate that word, or this blog will be entirely devoted to how much I hate it. I tell you... GRR! The Wisconsin accent is so annoying. How do you spell leg? L-E-G. Not L-A-Y-G. STOP SAYING LAYG. IT'S LEG. THERE IS NO SUCH WORD AS LAYG. Same with egg. It's EGG, not AYG. It's not malk or melk, it's milk. Humans frustrate me SO MUCH sometimes. This is me stopping myself from fixating on that. So I'm sitting in a detention fixating on these things that irritate me. The Wisconsin accent. The word "silly." Erin. Guy stealer. Ditzy, moronic slut. 'nuff said. I wouldn't normally say something that outright offensive, but I haven't met one person of the female persuasion that knows her that disagrees with me. And I just feel that strongly about it. Detention is such a waste of time. I'm busy focusing all my energy on these negative things when I could be writing. I just can't focus on the nightmare sequence I'm in the middle of now, despite me almost being out of it. I know Silver, the character narrating the nightmare sequence, physically kicks himself out of the dream sequence and his knee connects with the back of the chair in front of him, thus waking him up. But, the character Lenn is sleeping in the chair in front of him. There is no way a kick that hard would not have woken him up, but I can't decide if I want Silver to brood first or for Lenn to confront him outright. I really want him to have that moment to brood on the dream, but I know that if I do that, by the time Lenn confronts him, he'll have his mind back together entirely and will have his whole fake image back up that he's using to protect Erica, his sister, the entire time. I want Lenn to know the real Silver, even if no one else does. However, I've got it pretty much hammered out that one character knows that Erica is not a boy in the regiment. Erica is pretending to be her little brother, Cal, so he doesn't have to fight in the war. They're almost a perfect duo, with Silver's fake arrogance drawing all the attention and Erica being shy enough to avoid any attention cast her way, the should have been able to do it. But I decided a few weeks ago that one other character is going to be told... and the whole story behind that is long and detailed and I don't want to go into it right now. Whereas I don't think I'll go so far as to reveal to Lenn that Erica is not Cal, I might make it so Lenn knows Silver isn't as arrogant as he makes out to be. Garg. But before I make any decisions, I have to know more about the roles that Lenn plays versus the roles that Oliver plays. They intrude on each other's territories as far as the parts they play. Oliver can't be a big brother figure, but Lenn doesn't really have to be either. Lenn is a constant third person guy who pulls everybody together when they're falling apart. Oliver is one of them, but at the same time is very different. I have lots of people who stick up for the youngest of the group, but Oliver's kind of the counter balance to that, sticking up for everyone and anyone who needs it. I know everything possible to know about Oliver, though. It's not him I need to be focusing on, it's Lenn. And that frustrates me. I get the feeling Lenn is an only child. But I don't know how that works into his personality. I need Lenn's character to be more concrete before I can do anything more with him. A;WOJFAWOIEFJUAO948,IHJU4O9UUDOIVFJU. That's my sentiments on the matter. I'm going to actually do something constructive now. Bye. :D
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Why I never tell my secrets
Secrets.
So easy to tell someone else's secrets.
They say not to breathe a word
You swear you won't
But what does the promise mean to you?
Proving you're trustworthy.
Hearing something interesting.
Feeling elite.
But I know if another urge strikes you
and it feels more important
You'll tell.
You want to appear informed to someone else
Don't think it would matter if you told this person.
You'd think they won't care or trust they wouldn't tell.
But it does matter.
The person behind the secret matters less and less to every pair of ears.
It stops being a secret.
Becomes idle banter.
Common knowledge.
But what if it was your secret?
It's different, then.
It's so hard to tell your own secrets
When you finally work yourself up to tell a single person
Get the strength to unburden your shoulders from the dark leech that's latched onto your side,
Unyielding,
Draining,
Stressful,
Contagious,
Poisonous,
And you divulge to a single person.
A single individual you are confident will never, would never whisper a word of it.
It troubles them.
They talk it over with someone else, who they think they can trust.
And it gets out. Your secret in everyone's ears, coating their thoughts like the poison on Snow White's apple...
The knowledge of it engraved in everyone's eyes
Perfectly visible to you as you simply walk, looking into those clear pools down to the bottom, where your secret is etched in bloody, bold letters just for you to see.
They don't even try to hide that they know.
Your shame colors your face, a flashy cape visible as the stars on a cloudless country night.
Your eyes once again greet your toes, an old friendship.
And it starts again.
So easy to tell someone else's secrets.
They say not to breathe a word
You swear you won't
But what does the promise mean to you?
Proving you're trustworthy.
Hearing something interesting.
Feeling elite.
But I know if another urge strikes you
and it feels more important
You'll tell.
You want to appear informed to someone else
Don't think it would matter if you told this person.
You'd think they won't care or trust they wouldn't tell.
But it does matter.
The person behind the secret matters less and less to every pair of ears.
It stops being a secret.
Becomes idle banter.
Common knowledge.
But what if it was your secret?
It's different, then.
It's so hard to tell your own secrets
When you finally work yourself up to tell a single person
Get the strength to unburden your shoulders from the dark leech that's latched onto your side,
Unyielding,
Draining,
Stressful,
Contagious,
Poisonous,
And you divulge to a single person.
A single individual you are confident will never, would never whisper a word of it.
It troubles them.
They talk it over with someone else, who they think they can trust.
And it gets out. Your secret in everyone's ears, coating their thoughts like the poison on Snow White's apple...
The knowledge of it engraved in everyone's eyes
Perfectly visible to you as you simply walk, looking into those clear pools down to the bottom, where your secret is etched in bloody, bold letters just for you to see.
They don't even try to hide that they know.
Your shame colors your face, a flashy cape visible as the stars on a cloudless country night.
Your eyes once again greet your toes, an old friendship.
And it starts again.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Joe Montoya: The Hispanic Edward
Yesterday was the creative writing festival. I'll briefly summarize the whole thing before I move on to the real thing I want to cover: a hispanic boy with a red mohawk named Joe Montoya.
Maybe not the whole thing. Ashlee's session was good; six people read, and the poems were all of varying degree and caliber, anything from poems about demons and abusive relationships to nature to a harsh breakup.
Session two we (Mrs. Kies, Avi, Rose, Ashlee, and I) went to the songwriting one. Personally, being a big critic of music, I didn't like any of the four except the last one, which were a three-man band that did an... interesting piece. Rap to acoustic guitar with odd, witty lyrics about the sixties. I disliked the first three. A lot. I won't even get started on them, else I won't even get to the part about Joe Montoya.
Ashlee, Avi, Rose, and I went out to eat-- or tried to-- at Rocky Rococo's. Or however you spell that. It took forever to get there, because the map was slightly wrong and not accurate at all, plus Avi has messed up feet...
And then we lost track of time there and ended up almost running back to the campus and were nearly late to session three, which was mine.
I read "Chapter Two: Forrest" first (naturally). I was completely absorbed in reading it (I'm not good with crowds) so I didn't really notice who entered late. I just know the door opened twice during my reading and two people came in.
Rose gave the first guy a copy of my story-- because she liked it so much-- to the first guy. Evidently that was enough for him; he was hooked.
No lie.
After all five of the readers were done with their stories, the room started to clear. My papers were spread all over my workspace, so I began cleaning up, since, as usual, I hadn't noticed the time.
By the time I was all collected and such, the room was almost completely empty. The only ones who had remained were the guy who gave us our critiques, Ashlee, Avi, Rose, and another guy. The first thing I noticed was his hair. As typical of all hispanic people, he had very dark hair, but his happened to be worked into a sizeable mohawk; one at least four inches high and dark red. Without the mohawk, he appeared to be about the same height as me, but with it, I judged he was probably taller than me.
Truthfully, he could have either been hispanic or asian and I wouldn't have been able to tell the difference, but according to Rose he was definately hispanic. I'll trust her animalistic hispanic mating instincts on this one. ;)
The moral of that little anecdote was that he didn't have any strong, defining HISPANIC features; they were mostly muted.
Of course I noticed that he was skinny and in "emo" style clothes, but that was secondary to his mohawk in my eyes.
Then, of course, the next thing I saw was his eyes, and how they were trained on Rose like a fat kid would look at something yummy.
Ashlee and Avi were standing around them not really saying much, shifting weight between their feet awkwardly like they really, really wanted to be somewhere else. Then, of course, the boy was talking interestedly to Rose about various things, including where they lived.
I would have found this odd, except I already knew just the way he was looking at her, so it was more a "well, that figures" sort of thing to me.
As we started gravitating toward the door, he followed us, still having eyes only for Rose.
We stopped again around a stairwell, between two halls that lead to different doors. There we talked-- or, more accurately, Rose and the boy talked-- about all sorts of things. They discussed their names. He asked her hers first.
"Rose."
"Rose...?"
"Rose. Glendenning."
He laughed. "Glendenning."
"Glendenning."
"Glendenning. Glendenning. Glendenning. Glendenning," he said, all with various pronunciations.
Then, he told her his name. The conversation went similarly at first.
"Joe."
"What's your last name?"
"... Montoya."
Then, we proceeded to laugh about his name. Did you know that--
LOL. Rose just told me her last name was Diaz. Freaking lol.
On with the story. If anyone has seen Princess Bride, you surely remember Inigo Montoya, who will avenge his father. Joe Montoya reminded us of this. Evidently Disney has used it several times, just as they have used the name "Diaz", which Rose told me just now used to be her last name.
By this time, Ashlee, Avi, and I had all communicated our thoughts on the matter, and they were shockingly similar. All three of us knew that he--
Haaa. Again. Interrupting myself. Ashlee just squirted Kies with hand sanitizer. It's everywhere. xD
Back to where I left off. All three of us knew unequivocally that Joe Montoya was seriously into Rose. I can't remember all of what they talked about, but some of it made the three of us think things like, "Oh my god. Did she really just say that? She's so oblivious!" and at times, communicate our thoughts between us.
Then, even though where he had to go was the other direction from where we had to meet up with Kies, Monica, and Wendy, he walked us there-- or, more accurately, walked Rose there, since he was walking rather close to her and the three of us lagged behind, giggling behind our hands and papers. The guy had balls, though, as he'd already proven by continuing to hit on her despite us lingering and laughing at him.
I walked in front of them once we got there and ended up laughing hysterically at one of Rose's responses, which were all far too emphatic for something innocent, and by the time I had calmed down and turned back around, she was writing her Facebook name on a piece of paper, and proceeded to hand it to him.
Some people, I tell you!
Once he'd left our ranks, we confronted the oblivious Rose about it, and all recapped it, laughing. Then, as I was talking about something, facing a different direction than everyone, Joe Montoya came back into view. He had walked in a circle around the center staircases where we were meeting and was trying to look furtively at Rose for her reaction!
This was too much for me. I burst out laughing, Joe Montoya noticed me looking at him and laughing, and he turned and walked sideways, past the gigantic pillar that obscured my vision. Then, I didn't see him again, and I've yet to figure out how he escaped, since even when we walked back past where he disappeared to, he was gone.
He added her on Facebook last night, and she accepted.
The Hispanic Twilight thing is an inside joke from the car ride home that I don't have any time to explain at the moment, as class just got done. If you really care that much, you can ask. I'll gladly explain.
She is now Rose Aimee Montoya in my mind. RAM.
If you know what I mean. ;-D
Maybe not the whole thing. Ashlee's session was good; six people read, and the poems were all of varying degree and caliber, anything from poems about demons and abusive relationships to nature to a harsh breakup.
Session two we (Mrs. Kies, Avi, Rose, Ashlee, and I) went to the songwriting one. Personally, being a big critic of music, I didn't like any of the four except the last one, which were a three-man band that did an... interesting piece. Rap to acoustic guitar with odd, witty lyrics about the sixties. I disliked the first three. A lot. I won't even get started on them, else I won't even get to the part about Joe Montoya.
Ashlee, Avi, Rose, and I went out to eat-- or tried to-- at Rocky Rococo's. Or however you spell that. It took forever to get there, because the map was slightly wrong and not accurate at all, plus Avi has messed up feet...
And then we lost track of time there and ended up almost running back to the campus and were nearly late to session three, which was mine.
I read "Chapter Two: Forrest" first (naturally). I was completely absorbed in reading it (I'm not good with crowds) so I didn't really notice who entered late. I just know the door opened twice during my reading and two people came in.
Rose gave the first guy a copy of my story-- because she liked it so much-- to the first guy. Evidently that was enough for him; he was hooked.
No lie.
After all five of the readers were done with their stories, the room started to clear. My papers were spread all over my workspace, so I began cleaning up, since, as usual, I hadn't noticed the time.
By the time I was all collected and such, the room was almost completely empty. The only ones who had remained were the guy who gave us our critiques, Ashlee, Avi, Rose, and another guy. The first thing I noticed was his hair. As typical of all hispanic people, he had very dark hair, but his happened to be worked into a sizeable mohawk; one at least four inches high and dark red. Without the mohawk, he appeared to be about the same height as me, but with it, I judged he was probably taller than me.
Truthfully, he could have either been hispanic or asian and I wouldn't have been able to tell the difference, but according to Rose he was definately hispanic. I'll trust her animalistic hispanic mating instincts on this one. ;)
The moral of that little anecdote was that he didn't have any strong, defining HISPANIC features; they were mostly muted.
Of course I noticed that he was skinny and in "emo" style clothes, but that was secondary to his mohawk in my eyes.
Then, of course, the next thing I saw was his eyes, and how they were trained on Rose like a fat kid would look at something yummy.
Ashlee and Avi were standing around them not really saying much, shifting weight between their feet awkwardly like they really, really wanted to be somewhere else. Then, of course, the boy was talking interestedly to Rose about various things, including where they lived.
I would have found this odd, except I already knew just the way he was looking at her, so it was more a "well, that figures" sort of thing to me.
As we started gravitating toward the door, he followed us, still having eyes only for Rose.
We stopped again around a stairwell, between two halls that lead to different doors. There we talked-- or, more accurately, Rose and the boy talked-- about all sorts of things. They discussed their names. He asked her hers first.
"Rose."
"Rose...?"
"Rose. Glendenning."
He laughed. "Glendenning."
"Glendenning."
"Glendenning. Glendenning. Glendenning. Glendenning," he said, all with various pronunciations.
Then, he told her his name. The conversation went similarly at first.
"Joe."
"What's your last name?"
"... Montoya."
Then, we proceeded to laugh about his name. Did you know that--
LOL. Rose just told me her last name was Diaz. Freaking lol.
On with the story. If anyone has seen Princess Bride, you surely remember Inigo Montoya, who will avenge his father. Joe Montoya reminded us of this. Evidently Disney has used it several times, just as they have used the name "Diaz", which Rose told me just now used to be her last name.
By this time, Ashlee, Avi, and I had all communicated our thoughts on the matter, and they were shockingly similar. All three of us knew that he--
Haaa. Again. Interrupting myself. Ashlee just squirted Kies with hand sanitizer. It's everywhere. xD
Back to where I left off. All three of us knew unequivocally that Joe Montoya was seriously into Rose. I can't remember all of what they talked about, but some of it made the three of us think things like, "Oh my god. Did she really just say that? She's so oblivious!" and at times, communicate our thoughts between us.
Then, even though where he had to go was the other direction from where we had to meet up with Kies, Monica, and Wendy, he walked us there-- or, more accurately, walked Rose there, since he was walking rather close to her and the three of us lagged behind, giggling behind our hands and papers. The guy had balls, though, as he'd already proven by continuing to hit on her despite us lingering and laughing at him.
I walked in front of them once we got there and ended up laughing hysterically at one of Rose's responses, which were all far too emphatic for something innocent, and by the time I had calmed down and turned back around, she was writing her Facebook name on a piece of paper, and proceeded to hand it to him.
Some people, I tell you!
Once he'd left our ranks, we confronted the oblivious Rose about it, and all recapped it, laughing. Then, as I was talking about something, facing a different direction than everyone, Joe Montoya came back into view. He had walked in a circle around the center staircases where we were meeting and was trying to look furtively at Rose for her reaction!
This was too much for me. I burst out laughing, Joe Montoya noticed me looking at him and laughing, and he turned and walked sideways, past the gigantic pillar that obscured my vision. Then, I didn't see him again, and I've yet to figure out how he escaped, since even when we walked back past where he disappeared to, he was gone.
He added her on Facebook last night, and she accepted.
The Hispanic Twilight thing is an inside joke from the car ride home that I don't have any time to explain at the moment, as class just got done. If you really care that much, you can ask. I'll gladly explain.
She is now Rose Aimee Montoya in my mind. RAM.
If you know what I mean. ;-D
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Sorry
I wrote this back in August... I've spent so many long years trying to decide how I feel, trying to voice it, trying to put it to words... so many years failing at every attempt... that when this poem even started shying in the direction that I feel, I kept it. It's wrong, again. But it's closer than almost anything I have written to how I feel. I don't know if there are even words for how I feel. I'm generally referring to my outlook on love and such things as that, as adolescent and trivial as it sounds. I guess it seems to be the center of most of my pain, so I try and figure it out, through suckish poems most times. Maybe I failed again, but writing them drains me, so even if I failed at voicing how I feel, for a few brief minutes, an hour or so, I'm free of the burden I'm sure everyone has felt. I'm not everyone else, so I don't know for sure, but mine just happens to feel heavier than those of most people.
So here it is. Written August 1, 2009, "Sorry."
ARGH! ARE YOU KIDDING? NO COPY AND PASTE??
Grr.
Well... I guess it's now.
"Sorry"
It's 2 AM, I'm not in bed yet.
I can't sleep.
I'm sitting at my computer desk
Playing through a few simple bars on my guitar
Nothing sounds quite right to me.
It's been years, I know...
Still I have yet to tell you what you mean to me.
I have notebooks filled with poems and letters and songs,
Sometimes pictures I try to draw
All just trying to make you see what I feel.
All those pages you'll never see
They frustrate me.
I can't make my words sound right.
I don't want to say I love you.
Those words are inadequate, just like I am.
I want to show you instead,
but I have no idea where to start.
Nothing I say or do sounds right to my own ears...
Just being near you drives me insane.
I can't think
I can't speak
Every time I open my mouth, something stupid comes out.
I don't want to embarrass you...
Some girl's affections you don't want.
So I don't want to say I love you
Because I'm inadequate, just like those words.
It hurts to keep it all inside, silence my feelings,
But it's all the choice I have.
You shouldn't have to deal with this.
I can't even talk to you.
I lose my mind if I'm too close to you.
Maybe I'd be better off somewhere else
But I just can't make myself go away.
Maybe I just enjoy hurting.
Maybe I'm crazy and somehow think I still have a chance.
I don't want to say I love you
Because you'll never want to hear it from me.
They'll never be the right words
Because you'll never want to hear me say them.
So should I lie to you and say I don't?
Every time I open my mouth, something stupid comes out.
Maybe I should just stay away.
Don't say a word--
Every word I speak will be a word too much.
I try my best to stay away
But I guess I just can't control myself.
So I don't want to say I love you
But for now it's all I can do.
I love you...
You may not ever want to hear it,
But it's all I've got for now.
It's stupid, cold, overused
But I guesss it's all I can say to make you understand.
Maybe since they're someone else's words
They won't sound so stupid coming from me.
I hope you understand.
I don't expect you to do anything different or change because of this.
I just couldn't keep so quiet all the time.
This is for me, not for you.
I know you're happy now without me.
But I guess I just can't pretend I am all the time.
I doubt you'll ever see this
And even if you do
I doubt it would occur to you that
You're the one I'm trying to talk to with this...
But please stay happy.
It's bad enough with just one of us miserable.
You don't need to join me here.
I don't want to say I love you
But sometimes I have to.
Even if nobody hears me
And you wouldn't care if you did.
(end)
I posted it on Facebook the minute I was finished with it, thinking it was good. Then I left for an hour and in the hour I was gone, I had changed my mind about thinking it was good. Usually I step away from my writing once I get the first words out on the page and edit, but I didn't do that for this. So I wanted to take it down before he read it.
But he had already read it. And figured out it was about him.
And messaged me about it.
So I gave up, messaged him back, and kept it in its raw form on Facebook. I don't think I ever deleted it off there. He said it helped him understand more, and he's known I like him for years now. I guess I kept it up so in case he ever wants to get inside my head again...
I don't know what he'd want to be there for, though. That was me in a very sorry state of being.
I don't really keep it a secret who he is. I'm too old for that. Somehow, though, it seems to be a secret. Nobody knows, somehow. Every time I say anything about him, people wonder who he is. And every time I tell them, it's new.
Oh well. Even his girlfriend knows I like him now, so nothing worse can happen.
And I could like much, much worse people.
I don't know why I continue to think about him. Especially when it hurts to.
But I can't help myself, I guess.
People wouldn't guess it, but I'm painfully shy. The only people I talk to ever are people I've been friends with for a long time or have motives for talking to. I'm not always so quiet around them, but around everyone else I might as well be a church mouse.
So it's really hard to keep things between me and him at friendship. Especially since it's always awkward with the unrequited love thing in there.
I don't know why I'm still talking, other than the fact that it's 11:06 at night and I don't want to leave my mind to its own devices. Writing helps me steer my thoughts to safer grounds. But I also don't want to make this take an hour to read.
Maybe I'll go read a book.
I think I'll do that.
I know it's not a current poem, but it had a good reaction when I posted it, minus the whole him-figuring-out-that-I-wrote-it-about-him thing. So maybe you weren't completely bored and/or disgusted with it.
Good night. :)
So here it is. Written August 1, 2009, "Sorry."
ARGH! ARE YOU KIDDING? NO COPY AND PASTE??
Grr.
Well... I guess it's now.
"Sorry"
It's 2 AM, I'm not in bed yet.
I can't sleep.
I'm sitting at my computer desk
Playing through a few simple bars on my guitar
Nothing sounds quite right to me.
It's been years, I know...
Still I have yet to tell you what you mean to me.
I have notebooks filled with poems and letters and songs,
Sometimes pictures I try to draw
All just trying to make you see what I feel.
All those pages you'll never see
They frustrate me.
I can't make my words sound right.
I don't want to say I love you.
Those words are inadequate, just like I am.
I want to show you instead,
but I have no idea where to start.
Nothing I say or do sounds right to my own ears...
Just being near you drives me insane.
I can't think
I can't speak
Every time I open my mouth, something stupid comes out.
I don't want to embarrass you...
Some girl's affections you don't want.
So I don't want to say I love you
Because I'm inadequate, just like those words.
It hurts to keep it all inside, silence my feelings,
But it's all the choice I have.
You shouldn't have to deal with this.
I can't even talk to you.
I lose my mind if I'm too close to you.
Maybe I'd be better off somewhere else
But I just can't make myself go away.
Maybe I just enjoy hurting.
Maybe I'm crazy and somehow think I still have a chance.
I don't want to say I love you
Because you'll never want to hear it from me.
They'll never be the right words
Because you'll never want to hear me say them.
So should I lie to you and say I don't?
Every time I open my mouth, something stupid comes out.
Maybe I should just stay away.
Don't say a word--
Every word I speak will be a word too much.
I try my best to stay away
But I guess I just can't control myself.
So I don't want to say I love you
But for now it's all I can do.
I love you...
You may not ever want to hear it,
But it's all I've got for now.
It's stupid, cold, overused
But I guesss it's all I can say to make you understand.
Maybe since they're someone else's words
They won't sound so stupid coming from me.
I hope you understand.
I don't expect you to do anything different or change because of this.
I just couldn't keep so quiet all the time.
This is for me, not for you.
I know you're happy now without me.
But I guess I just can't pretend I am all the time.
I doubt you'll ever see this
And even if you do
I doubt it would occur to you that
You're the one I'm trying to talk to with this...
But please stay happy.
It's bad enough with just one of us miserable.
You don't need to join me here.
I don't want to say I love you
But sometimes I have to.
Even if nobody hears me
And you wouldn't care if you did.
(end)
I posted it on Facebook the minute I was finished with it, thinking it was good. Then I left for an hour and in the hour I was gone, I had changed my mind about thinking it was good. Usually I step away from my writing once I get the first words out on the page and edit, but I didn't do that for this. So I wanted to take it down before he read it.
But he had already read it. And figured out it was about him.
And messaged me about it.
So I gave up, messaged him back, and kept it in its raw form on Facebook. I don't think I ever deleted it off there. He said it helped him understand more, and he's known I like him for years now. I guess I kept it up so in case he ever wants to get inside my head again...
I don't know what he'd want to be there for, though. That was me in a very sorry state of being.
I don't really keep it a secret who he is. I'm too old for that. Somehow, though, it seems to be a secret. Nobody knows, somehow. Every time I say anything about him, people wonder who he is. And every time I tell them, it's new.
Oh well. Even his girlfriend knows I like him now, so nothing worse can happen.
And I could like much, much worse people.
I don't know why I continue to think about him. Especially when it hurts to.
But I can't help myself, I guess.
People wouldn't guess it, but I'm painfully shy. The only people I talk to ever are people I've been friends with for a long time or have motives for talking to. I'm not always so quiet around them, but around everyone else I might as well be a church mouse.
So it's really hard to keep things between me and him at friendship. Especially since it's always awkward with the unrequited love thing in there.
I don't know why I'm still talking, other than the fact that it's 11:06 at night and I don't want to leave my mind to its own devices. Writing helps me steer my thoughts to safer grounds. But I also don't want to make this take an hour to read.
Maybe I'll go read a book.
I think I'll do that.
I know it's not a current poem, but it had a good reaction when I posted it, minus the whole him-figuring-out-that-I-wrote-it-about-him thing. So maybe you weren't completely bored and/or disgusted with it.
Good night. :)
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Will stop being annoying later.
DON'T STOP BELIEVING
(hold on to the feeling)
I betcha you have that song stuck in your head now, don't you.
Ha.
Ha.
Hahaaaa.
Failed.
xD
(hold on to the feeling)
I betcha you have that song stuck in your head now, don't you.
Ha.
Ha.
Hahaaaa.
Failed.
xD
Dumb. :)
Okay, so since blogs serve no purpose whatsoever and I hate them, I am going to inform the world of something stupid I just said for no purpose whatsoever. Close this box now if you don't want to hear about it.
So I found the box thingy on here as I was trying to change the name of my blog (since I don't really like it) and I changed my gender information. So I said "I changed my gender!" and made people cough.
That's all.
:3
So I found the box thingy on here as I was trying to change the name of my blog (since I don't really like it) and I changed my gender information. So I said "I changed my gender!" and made people cough.
That's all.
:3
Friday, October 23, 2009
Never.
Well, now. I don't often vow things to myself, but one of the things I had vowed never to do in my life was to never, ever get a blog. Lone and behold, creative writing class fixed what hope I had of sticking to my resolve. How I love life, I tell you.
I don't really get the point of a blog. You narrate about things that annoy you or excite you to the "masses"-- really just a big cesspool of creepy fat dudes sitting in their mom's basement reading your complaints, if anyone were to read them at all, for no point at all. You complain about things that irritate you and there is no one there to tell you when to stop. I know I would; when things piss me off, there's no stopping it; it'll just keep spinning out in wider and wider circles until eventually it peters out on its own.
I forget the point of what I was just saying other than that I really, really didn't want to get a blog.
I know the title of my blog doesn't make any sense at all, but that's fine. Thanks to worldwide internet access, all of my preferred choices involving either word were already taken. Thank you, humans.
Really, I never wanted to have even the opportunity to rant about stuff to an uninterested public. The only things I would feel the need to "blog" about (I can't stand it when people use nouns as verbs. I can't stand it even more when it becomes socially acceptable to use a non-word as a word and then change the tense unnecessarily. As in the word "blog.") are things I can't talk about in a public blog anyway. I most certainly can't talk about the guy I like (the most persistent aggravation in my life and the only one I can't seem to ever forget about), since his girlfriend is GUARANTEED to read this.
So, this is pointless, basically.
Next blog will have more point, I swear I'll at least try. Really.
I don't really get the point of a blog. You narrate about things that annoy you or excite you to the "masses"-- really just a big cesspool of creepy fat dudes sitting in their mom's basement reading your complaints, if anyone were to read them at all, for no point at all. You complain about things that irritate you and there is no one there to tell you when to stop. I know I would; when things piss me off, there's no stopping it; it'll just keep spinning out in wider and wider circles until eventually it peters out on its own.
I forget the point of what I was just saying other than that I really, really didn't want to get a blog.
I know the title of my blog doesn't make any sense at all, but that's fine. Thanks to worldwide internet access, all of my preferred choices involving either word were already taken. Thank you, humans.
Really, I never wanted to have even the opportunity to rant about stuff to an uninterested public. The only things I would feel the need to "blog" about (I can't stand it when people use nouns as verbs. I can't stand it even more when it becomes socially acceptable to use a non-word as a word and then change the tense unnecessarily. As in the word "blog.") are things I can't talk about in a public blog anyway. I most certainly can't talk about the guy I like (the most persistent aggravation in my life and the only one I can't seem to ever forget about), since his girlfriend is GUARANTEED to read this.
So, this is pointless, basically.
Next blog will have more point, I swear I'll at least try. Really.
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