Typical.

I hate the way you talk to me,
And the way you cut your hair.
I hate the way you drive my car,
I hate it when you stare.
I hate your big dumb combat boots
And the way you read my mind.
I hate you so much it makes me sick,
It even makes me rhyme.
I hate the way you’re always right,
I hate it when you lie.
I hate it when you make me laugh,
Even worse when you make me cry
I hate it when you’re not around,
And the fact that you didn’t call
But mostly I hate the way I don’t hate you,
Not even close…
Not even a little bit…
Not even at all

I find the greatest satisfaction in not pledging loyalties.
I'm flighty.
Unfocused.
Self-interested.
Abusing.

But, it's really just rare that my attention is held, past the three seconds.

Maybe that's why everything fell apart in such blazing impossibilities.

Impossibilities. Things we didn't believe would happen.
They did.

Shrug.

There's someone new.
I keep them at arms length.
As, I do most.
The people that are closest don't have any direct stake in my life, usually.
I'm afraid of their judgement.

But, there's still the same beat within me. Fun, caring, if just jaded.
I admit:
Self-Interested.

Do you feel melancholy?
I don't.
I can't be tied down. Not for long, too long.
And, that's why I had to go.

I have someone new.
Keeping them at arms length, just as I should have you.
Happy Valentines Day.
God Bless.

Singled Out.

Body Is A Cage

FUCK YOU BLOGSPOT, DELETING MY POST WHEN IT'S ALMOST PUBLISHED, WATCH ME SWITCH TO TUMBLR

Constant Companion.

So, creative writing class this semester, I will totally take you on. I will climb your remarkably easy curriculum and I will stand atop that high mountain of success with one hand shielding my eyes from the penetrating rays of being SO DAMN HIGH UP and use one hand to hold a shovel to take on my next task- Digging through the Earth to an Indo-European country.

I've been trying to think about how I should sum up what I've been doing all this time while not blogging.

*taps chin pensively*

*waits a few minutes*

*makes a sandwich*

*remembers English paper is due tomorrow*

Returns.

Not much. Other than pickin' fights, celebrating black history month, and reading books about sassy generals. Perfecting my coffee making skills, swimming, yelling sweet nonsensicals and throwing yoga balls at people.

Being Short

has its exceptional qualities.

If you are short, you can easily morph into BACKPACK MAN.
(is where you just run into a group of preferably friendly people and jump on their back like a backpack yelling 'backpack man!')

If you're short you could be a Hobbit in the new Hobbit movie!

If you're short you could fight a bear by just running around his feet in constant circles until he becomes dizzy and staggers over a strategically placed cliff.

If you're short you can still fit into refrigerator boxes all the way and then just pop out and scare unknowing passers-by.

So in January...

January is almost over!
I wore my snow sweater and it worked, enacting a whole day of cancelled worthless classes so that I can go frolic and ski. I'm in an extra whimsy mood. But not in the sense of creepy whimsy (see the jump).
Whimsy as in drawing my name on my fogged up bathroom windows and listening to She & Him and reading all day in some nook. Writing haikus. Puddle jumping.
But really I've just been reading a really well written biography on our faithful defender Robert E. Lee, wearing ugly sweaters, watching Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid (excellent but sad) and playing guitar.

I feel like this February will be an extra sort of sweet.
Oh gawd, February! When all girls hark about is Valentine's Day and sex (not really) and candlelit dinners blah blah blah
And if that is how you feel you should stop reading ---now.

Because truly sweet Valentine's Day-ing is of the utmost importance. Men get to show how much they actually care. But most of them opt for the really boring "I love you", kiss on the cheek, tasteless necklace sort of deal. Which is sweet and classic and totally what you expect from everyone who doesn't know anything.
But a real man would take his special lady on a date.
To wherever.
Preferably somewhere warm depending on the weather.
A beautiful view with a hot thermos of tasty cocoa and sweet mugs.
What!? The man doesn't have a car? ...Bicycle.
Not a real date. On a real date the man drives, gets out of the car before the lady and opens the door for her. This is a classic and overlooked ritual only given on days of special importance.
Or the date could be a restaurant that you've never been to before, a coffee shop, a concert, ice skating, karaoke, going to the zoo, adopting a cat. Whatever, it need to be cool.

Jolt.

With the side of her forehead pressed against the cool outer glass she stared out onto the frozen streets. Her breathe streamed a little to the side when she blew out all the spent air, it locally fogged up the window.
The seats were hard. Each manhole cover jarred the bus and she shifted in her seat. Left cheek, right cheek, both, never keeping all her weight on one. Last time she had sat flat on her butt like any normal person would do, but this time was an experiment, to keep her but from getting sore.
Every two or three minutes she would try to hold her breathe as long as possible. A minute and a half was all she had lasted so far, heaving out the air onto the window where it would obscure the view. Half a minute was weak, she could do better.
There was no point in bringing a book to read. The bus ride made her so nauseous, with the back of her throat twitching, that reading would lead to a most violent upchuck on the hard plastic seats.
There was that cold sweat, with the recirculating air of the bus staying stifling, hot but never reaching the inner confines of her clothes. It just heated the air she breathed out and blew it back down on her to breathe in again.
The headphones were the protection from older women, bored from the ride, who would try to talk to her if she took them off. It wasn't like she looked particularly friendly, but they were drawn to her, little moths that smelled like cheap perfume to her consuming flame. There was no eye contact on the bus, no friendliness, she just kept within her head nursing empty thoughts.
"Why is the sky blue?" I can't remember, I learned that back in freshman year of high school, but it's gone now.
Each jolt of the bus knocked her head off the window, but it would then return with a dull thunk.
She practiced holding her breathe again. Half a minute really was weak.

Crabs.

I'm surprised by the people at my school who don't read quality fiction.
Sure, I read serial novels every once in a while. I can get into a series. But I enjoy the classics.

Reading: Currently? The last book of The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo series
Reading: For Research: Lee's Civil War

I only have three classes this semester. I wish I had more. I honestly don't know how to fill my time. I'd love to be volunteering though.

My lack of direction caused my to not get to the C-Ville round of The Jefferson Scholarship, such a disappointment.

I should have applied to UVM, it seems like a much better Northern choice.

I've been using my free time to catch up on movies
- The Social Network --phenomenal, I don't know why I didn't see it before, makes me want to attend an ivy, not that I have that choice...
- The Kids Are All Right -- beautiful, but also... lots of sex
- Shawshank Redemption -- again, why did I take so long to see this?

It would be fun to go shopping soon. I think I'm taking a coffee pilgrimage to Lexington some time.
I also want to go rock climbing.
And bake cookies.
But first I have to work on my Lee Jackson essay, college is so greedy.

Listening currently-
-The Social Network soundtrack- is brilliant, and you can download part of it for free (not the best parts though)
-Dr. Dog- anybody up for a concert in C-ville next month?
-Iron & Wine - Kiss Each Other Clean- I could sing praises for Sam Beam all day. All all day.
- Zooey Deschanel's Dream A Little Dream- singing at open mic soon

Back to another month of not blogging and being a hermit.
I'd put a bunch of hermit crabs in a tank together, then they would be mingling crabs, very rare.

You keep all your money in a... grocery bag.

People without means, become caught up in gaining means, so that they can then have means. They usually end up poor.

People with means have two options:
a. They can spend time learning and being smart. Can go to school and get high paying jobs. They can have means.
b. They can throw off money as if it doesn't mean anything (though it's necessary for their lifestyle) and can life off what the previous generation created.

There are also many different exceptions.

I look at myself in the mirror, and consider the options of how I am different, greater, stronger, smarter, more beautiful than everyone else.

I'm not.

The only thing that sets me apart from another person on the planet is that I am only one person. Through environment, development, DNA, fingerprint.

I'm only greater than a few. The others are different, grater, stronger, smarter, more beautiful than I.

So I look in the mirror and consider my options.

It looks bleak.

The truth is, that this world changes at a pace so quick it seems I get lost. Somehow I'm an element in the different tides, the circles and tides of what makes a person matter in life. But when you are a separate entity in such a roiling mass that is today's interconnected society, your presence feels like a wisp, nothing substantial.

It can be looked at like a filter.

Say you want to make grape juice.

You stretch a cloth over a bucket and pour the mashed up grapes into it.

Each drop of juice is someone who will contribute a small amount to society. But they just blend in with the rest of the juice. They are born, live, and die (or if you want to keep the metaphor going, are drank).

The big clots of grape skin are people who matter. Whether they matter in their own lives is not of importance. They matter to other people and contribute much. They can't fit through the cloth and stay on top. It takes lots of grapes to make a good amount of grape juice, so there are lots of people that matter, are rich, go to good schools, have good jobs.

Everyone is either swallowed in a glass of grape juice, or thrown out as unused material, grape skins, in the end.

I don't know what I'm talking about.

The Street Lights All Burn Out

Dreamy sleazy sweety

I was talking to a friend that got back from college. Apparently, she locks her door every time she leaves her dorm room now. She doesn't trust the people in her dorm because they came in and cut her rug. You know, the term for dancing?

I'm feeling that caffeine haiiiigh.

I know I'm in love with Mr. Darcy. But I would never, ever, be Elizabeth. I would be Mary, who would have to compensate for everything by learning. Face in a book- that's me.

I want to go ice skating. Skiing.

Hahaha, I wish you could have seen me trying to learn how to knit today. I'm a lost cause. Abominable.

Goethe's Faust is sitting on my bed. It really wants to be read.

Pulled out a 89.3 for this 9-weeks in AP Art. Point 2 points. Gah, it kills me. kills meh.

"I guess every girl goes through a photography phase. You know, horses... taking pictures of your feet."

I never get sick. It's one of those irrefutable things. Or it has been. Or it was...

When I'm drinking tea, I always drink it with honey. But, then the honey slowly precipitates to the bottom, leaving the last few sips unbearably sweet.

I'm always really tired now. For the last three weeks I've been "on break". I can get up at ten without it being a big deal. My day doesn't fully start until 5 pm. I'm extremely counter-productive and in a semi-hibernating state. I want to run, but I ache.

I did yoga for the first time Saturday.
Don't, don't even judge. It was powerful stuff.

Merry Hand Egg Championships today and Sunday.