So I've been rather uninvolved writing here since summer. But I'll try to get back to it in the new year.
Merry Christmas to anyone who still reads this.
Go watch Hitchcock's Marnie.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
It's Love It's Not Santa Claus: My Doctrine
PLACEHOLDER FOR A MORE EXPANDED AND FLSHED OUT DESCRIPTION OF MYSELF THROUGH THE EFFECTS OF THOSE AROUND AND INFLUENCING ME AND MY LIFE
I am not original; I am a construct, and a direct descendant of every person or media I have been exposed to
- I feared Dracula, He was the first thing I was ever afraid of, that and fire. I slept with garlic cloves, crosses and closed
doors. Somehow I`m still that scared little girl, even though nothing scares me now but surprises , like toast popping up and people jumping out from behind bushes.
- I fear burning and hot showers from R.L. Stein cheerleaders
- I want a higher purpose/ quest from fantasy epics like Ella enchanted, the hobbit and last unicorn and woz
- I am drawn to grim and macabre from my love of fairy tales
- my parents drew me to higher lit and movies, etc. at my mother giving me permission, I read anything I liked. Their reading to me made it come alive.
- I was repressed in my youth both internally and by external sources: from my mother’s restrictions on TV and movies- Simpsons, and from my religious school
- I kind of agree with Stan’s philosophy in Stan knows best
- I have low self esteem- leading me to crave validation in being sexually objectified or seen as valuable or beautiful
- I want to be a romantic tragic manically quirky girl who losses her way- ala- Edie, holly, et al
- I am just the latest to come of age in a long line of beautiful women with blue or green eyes, good senses of humor, love of literature, weakness for marrying German guys, pale skin and predisposition to addictions. we have several cases of anorexia, binge eating disorder, alcoholism, depression, post partum depression, attraction to abusive men -also several divorces and a tendency to wildness in the teens/early twenties and thirties –such as hanging out at studio 54, etc. and discovering religion in middle age. But we are acknowledged as beautiful and creative and the descents of a woman killed as a witch in Europe.
- the philosophy of my bad habits can be stemmed back from a moment at a weekend guide camp, where after I threw a fit about it not being able to brush my teeth or something, and another girl said- one day won’t hurt, subconsciously it stuck
- I have no doubt my parents love me and not just as a daughter but as a person, but Emma I am not so sure. I am not even sure they love her as a person.
- I would rather believe in nothing than something that says to kill people for being who they are, classifies groups as of higher or lower status (in my mind the only superiority is in thinking things rather than accepting dogma), or only accepts one kind of love
- bluebird- all children are recycled personas, also I like to believe in reincarnation because it sounds like magic
- I hate when people take something fantasy and attempt to explain how the story is a delusion or a dream because it doesn’t happen in real life. to some extent it I can acknowledge it as thought or conspiracy theory or the actual purpose of a metaphor (although usually in an allegory the story can be appreciated on both levels rather than taking something like the crucible and only discussing communism), sometimes fantasy is just that, a break from reality, an excitement. like my mother always said, you must suspend your beliefs. In my view, that is why we make fiction, to inject magic into our lives
- I have a naturally high mindset- maybe from Alice?
- I love the idea of project mayhem. I spent so much of my time when bored, imagining that horrible thing like shootings, bombing, plagues or bloody revolutions would happen right in front of me, just to change the pace and break through the numbness of boredom
- I have been naturally masochistic all my life and not noticed it. my Barbies were always tortured and kidnapped and made to work as maids, or belittled by the rich girls etc. even in watching fiction, I wanted bad things to happen to the characters I liked
- I love reactions- many of the bully magnet/ weird girl things I did were purely to incite it.
- I refuse to imagine decomposing and decaying- I want to be cremated- maybe because of zombie movies
- I am disgusted by pregnancy. I like children- other people’s. but I refuse to have my own. the only con of this in my opinion is not having someone in the story to put such importance on you as their mother or talk care of you in your age. I find it sexist that a woman must be brought down and burdened with a child/ pregnancy even if she decides on abortion- she still has to deal with it somehow, while the man can just walk away. I am horrified by the idea of becoming that fragile that people would help you sit down, or carry things or touch your stomach, I never want to be in a state where I will be dismissed as too emotional or to delicate to hear things, and have the truth kept from me. movies like the beginning of the orphan and rosemary’s baby convince me of the horror. to have all these strange things, happen to you and people touching you and whispering things, and falsely reassuring you everything is fine, is just scary. it’s kind of like the adult version of the puberty worries dismissed as normal in ginger snaps. Maybe this stems from my mother’s constant telling us when watching Gilmore girls that if you had a baby at sixteen your life wouldn’t turn out that way, or from the life of my godmother who always seemed so adventurous and glamorous when I was a kid, jetting off all over the world having adventure, and not being tied down (although now I’m seeing that she considers her life kind of sad)
- I want the freedom to travel and spent money on myself and the things I want. I don’t want to finally have my freedom to adventure and have to raise kids, also I’d really screw them up. even when I was a kid and wanted a lot of kids, it was never about raising them, only being able to pick lots of names and buy them stuff out of the kids section of the sears wishbook.
- My breasts, though I do love them, and my periods are useless, in the way they were intended. I like the idea of being on the pill, making me a genetic dead end
- I have a sort-of adopted Nigerian sister, and I am okay with that.
-My concept of voting (that its not okay to vote for yourself) came from The Brave Little Toaster on Mars
- I still consider myself a child, a girl not a woman, and never wish to move beyond it. I always want to stay in awe, and never want to lose my wonder. never! I’d fight for it. my greatest fear is living in the suburbs and thinking about how I always wanted to travel and write a book and how I used to be a great singer, who filled a house with music. I am afraid of being trapped and tied down in the same place day after day, after day. I need to move and change! I am afraid of those people who hate winter because they have to shovel snow or hate fall because they have to rake leaves, or hate summer because there are kids everywhere or hate spring because it rains, and grumble about everything, because they have no wonder or nothing new.
- daria see things quote
I am not original; I am a construct, and a direct descendant of every person or media I have been exposed to
- I feared Dracula, He was the first thing I was ever afraid of, that and fire. I slept with garlic cloves, crosses and closed
doors. Somehow I`m still that scared little girl, even though nothing scares me now but surprises , like toast popping up and people jumping out from behind bushes.
- I fear burning and hot showers from R.L. Stein cheerleaders
- I want a higher purpose/ quest from fantasy epics like Ella enchanted, the hobbit and last unicorn and woz
- I am drawn to grim and macabre from my love of fairy tales
- my parents drew me to higher lit and movies, etc. at my mother giving me permission, I read anything I liked. Their reading to me made it come alive.
- I was repressed in my youth both internally and by external sources: from my mother’s restrictions on TV and movies- Simpsons, and from my religious school
- I kind of agree with Stan’s philosophy in Stan knows best
- I have low self esteem- leading me to crave validation in being sexually objectified or seen as valuable or beautiful
- I want to be a romantic tragic manically quirky girl who losses her way- ala- Edie, holly, et al
- I am just the latest to come of age in a long line of beautiful women with blue or green eyes, good senses of humor, love of literature, weakness for marrying German guys, pale skin and predisposition to addictions. we have several cases of anorexia, binge eating disorder, alcoholism, depression, post partum depression, attraction to abusive men -also several divorces and a tendency to wildness in the teens/early twenties and thirties –such as hanging out at studio 54, etc. and discovering religion in middle age. But we are acknowledged as beautiful and creative and the descents of a woman killed as a witch in Europe.
- the philosophy of my bad habits can be stemmed back from a moment at a weekend guide camp, where after I threw a fit about it not being able to brush my teeth or something, and another girl said- one day won’t hurt, subconsciously it stuck
- I have no doubt my parents love me and not just as a daughter but as a person, but Emma I am not so sure. I am not even sure they love her as a person.
- I would rather believe in nothing than something that says to kill people for being who they are, classifies groups as of higher or lower status (in my mind the only superiority is in thinking things rather than accepting dogma), or only accepts one kind of love
- bluebird- all children are recycled personas, also I like to believe in reincarnation because it sounds like magic
- I hate when people take something fantasy and attempt to explain how the story is a delusion or a dream because it doesn’t happen in real life. to some extent it I can acknowledge it as thought or conspiracy theory or the actual purpose of a metaphor (although usually in an allegory the story can be appreciated on both levels rather than taking something like the crucible and only discussing communism), sometimes fantasy is just that, a break from reality, an excitement. like my mother always said, you must suspend your beliefs. In my view, that is why we make fiction, to inject magic into our lives
- I have a naturally high mindset- maybe from Alice?
- I love the idea of project mayhem. I spent so much of my time when bored, imagining that horrible thing like shootings, bombing, plagues or bloody revolutions would happen right in front of me, just to change the pace and break through the numbness of boredom
- I have been naturally masochistic all my life and not noticed it. my Barbies were always tortured and kidnapped and made to work as maids, or belittled by the rich girls etc. even in watching fiction, I wanted bad things to happen to the characters I liked
- I love reactions- many of the bully magnet/ weird girl things I did were purely to incite it.
- I refuse to imagine decomposing and decaying- I want to be cremated- maybe because of zombie movies
- I am disgusted by pregnancy. I like children- other people’s. but I refuse to have my own. the only con of this in my opinion is not having someone in the story to put such importance on you as their mother or talk care of you in your age. I find it sexist that a woman must be brought down and burdened with a child/ pregnancy even if she decides on abortion- she still has to deal with it somehow, while the man can just walk away. I am horrified by the idea of becoming that fragile that people would help you sit down, or carry things or touch your stomach, I never want to be in a state where I will be dismissed as too emotional or to delicate to hear things, and have the truth kept from me. movies like the beginning of the orphan and rosemary’s baby convince me of the horror. to have all these strange things, happen to you and people touching you and whispering things, and falsely reassuring you everything is fine, is just scary. it’s kind of like the adult version of the puberty worries dismissed as normal in ginger snaps. Maybe this stems from my mother’s constant telling us when watching Gilmore girls that if you had a baby at sixteen your life wouldn’t turn out that way, or from the life of my godmother who always seemed so adventurous and glamorous when I was a kid, jetting off all over the world having adventure, and not being tied down (although now I’m seeing that she considers her life kind of sad)
- I want the freedom to travel and spent money on myself and the things I want. I don’t want to finally have my freedom to adventure and have to raise kids, also I’d really screw them up. even when I was a kid and wanted a lot of kids, it was never about raising them, only being able to pick lots of names and buy them stuff out of the kids section of the sears wishbook.
- My breasts, though I do love them, and my periods are useless, in the way they were intended. I like the idea of being on the pill, making me a genetic dead end
- I have a sort-of adopted Nigerian sister, and I am okay with that.
-My concept of voting (that its not okay to vote for yourself) came from The Brave Little Toaster on Mars
- I still consider myself a child, a girl not a woman, and never wish to move beyond it. I always want to stay in awe, and never want to lose my wonder. never! I’d fight for it. my greatest fear is living in the suburbs and thinking about how I always wanted to travel and write a book and how I used to be a great singer, who filled a house with music. I am afraid of being trapped and tied down in the same place day after day, after day. I need to move and change! I am afraid of those people who hate winter because they have to shovel snow or hate fall because they have to rake leaves, or hate summer because there are kids everywhere or hate spring because it rains, and grumble about everything, because they have no wonder or nothing new.
- daria see things quote
Sunday, October 18, 2009
My Father Told Me This Advice: Batman Is Not Bruce Wayne's Secret Identity, Bruce Wayne Is Batman's. Live Like That.
This is a flawed person unwravelling, if you ever wanted to see what it looked like...
Still... i don’t know why
Why the world turns, why the sky is blue, why the trees paint orange, yellow and red in autumn and cast their leaves to all corners of the world (often getting caught in my unruly hair, or on the tips of my badass black adventurer boots), or why I shift so easily from euthoria where everything is perfect and music follows me everywhere I go, to the depths of despair and crying curled up on the bathroom floor. I thought university would make it better. I thought there'd be someone to love.
But no, it never works that way. Not for me, mourning for myself.
The golden girl who skipped around camp singing "You've got to S-M-I- L-E, to be H-A- double P- Y!" at the top of her lungs in gone now. She's a ghost in the sheet. She isn't here. She went away. All play and no work makes Art Nouveau Girls real jerks.
The glass isn't full or empty. There is no glass.
And I'll stick to that.
Triumph is too much to ask for. I'm not a movie, I was rasied in too many fairy tales. I dont win at the end, the evils don't get thier comeuppance.
I just keep falling apart even when I thought there was no further to fall.
Crying in pieces on the floor. Unloveable.
I'm the faded remains of the girl I once was. I can still see her, hear her laugh, but she will never get to grow up. Never live into who she was supposed to be. Never change. She calls to me, but there is nothing I can do. I'm frozen and trapped working to goals I fear I will never live long enough to achieve.
I’ve been searching for answers for so long, I’ve forgotten the questions. I'm forgetting how to dream, only my pathetic nightmares claim me, they know my name. Each night I'm alone in the dark and I don't even know what I see. I just remember darkness, pain and raping trees that taunt me in Brooke Kotak or my bitch roomate's voices.
And somehow everyone, everything that exist moves on and forgets me. I’m left behind in the wasteland, choking and dust waiting for the adventurers to return home. I’m a memory till you find me again, unchanged. Older, a little jaded, but no wiser. Like Mrs. Lovett, left behind and forgotten, but I never will forget you.
They passed down these roads long ago and the red bull followed close behind
I’ve got so many issues, i have nothing left. There’s nobody to talk me off the ledge. I’m drowning in insanity, i’ve forgotten how it feels to be real and not a nightmare.
I'm falling apart and forgetting my own name. Falling deeper and deeper into lucid sleep and delusion with with each waking moment. I'm not numb. I wish I was numb. I just feel too much. And nothing real seems to matter to me anymore, just the nightmare reaching out for me, ready to devour me, swallow me whole and drown the bright little centre of my world. I'm starting to fear that I'm not the star in my own story that I'm not the pretty little ingenue that wins in the end. That I just continue to live like this in increasing misery with each step up I go.
Lets be Kids again!
In spite of my often morally questionable behaviour or flawed moral compass, I am a good person who values politeness to the same degree as vulgarity, at least in my mind, has great karma. I don't think I deserve it.
My father told me this, and I just wish I could see things that way but I'm not ready yet,
"I used to be disgusted, now I try to be amuse.d."
-Elvis Costello.
I like to think I'm almost there.
I stood on the ledge last night, closer than I have ever dared go before. The people I love, who love me, seemed to faded into distant shadows of a life I once lived and took for granted. I will never get them back. they will all forget me and live their lives without the curse of me, the double edge of misery and joy, the divine and the obscure. I don't have the light or strength that used to get me though. All is quiet, dour and dark. And I cannot see the end unless I create one for myself. I laid on my bed fantasing about my own death. and it felt beautiful and terrible. But is wasn't so tragic.
I held a bottle of pills and a razor blade and wondered who would attend my funeral. Would my tourmentors cry? I have no lovers to leave behind, no one to write my story, so I'm charged with my own. I don't want to hate the world or hate the gift of love but this is where my road has brought me, imagining the blood in waves and trying to decide which of my unworn dresses was best for a poetic tableau of death.
But something kept me here, anchored in my skin. I'd love to say it was love or hope, but it was cowardliness. I couldn't kill myself because I didn't know how it ends. I'm not ready to stop, But I can't go on, so I remain in purgetory waiting to be judged. If this is all there, I can't throw it all away just yet. If could get better just around the corner.
It could.
Plus I just couldn't stand the pain or actively cut a razor across my veins. I couldn't slit my wrists because I couldn't take the plunge. I couldn't let everyone left behind judge me and decide I wasnt strong that i was melodramatic or insane or reduce my short life of music, poetry and awe into a statistic before I've written or loved.
This I will never tell anyone who I actually know. I will never get help. I can't its too embrassing to admit how weak I am. That strength and is just a front, I've used to keep people away since the second grade.
I'm selfish and worthless. I didn't worry that killing myself was killing my suportive mother who is basically me at 53 who cries for me at nights or my quietly loving big kid of a father with his heartbreaking looks that convey all the love in the world for his little girl. Or destroy my little sister and best friend who already mourns for my life and what I could be but am afraid to let myself become.
If they love me, I don't deserve them.
I am Birdie Girl. I've always been. But I don't remember like it was ever me, just a life I watched from the sidelines.
If I died, no one would be missing much.
If I died, maybe I could fly.
I miss my picture windows where I could walk downstairs and let the waning moon be my confidant, sit on teh steps and watch the cars go by and the lights go off, and not feel so alone.
Still... i don’t know why
Why the world turns, why the sky is blue, why the trees paint orange, yellow and red in autumn and cast their leaves to all corners of the world (often getting caught in my unruly hair, or on the tips of my badass black adventurer boots), or why I shift so easily from euthoria where everything is perfect and music follows me everywhere I go, to the depths of despair and crying curled up on the bathroom floor. I thought university would make it better. I thought there'd be someone to love.
But no, it never works that way. Not for me, mourning for myself.
The golden girl who skipped around camp singing "You've got to S-M-I- L-E, to be H-A- double P- Y!" at the top of her lungs in gone now. She's a ghost in the sheet. She isn't here. She went away. All play and no work makes Art Nouveau Girls real jerks.
The glass isn't full or empty. There is no glass.
And I'll stick to that.
Triumph is too much to ask for. I'm not a movie, I was rasied in too many fairy tales. I dont win at the end, the evils don't get thier comeuppance.
I just keep falling apart even when I thought there was no further to fall.
Crying in pieces on the floor. Unloveable.
I'm the faded remains of the girl I once was. I can still see her, hear her laugh, but she will never get to grow up. Never live into who she was supposed to be. Never change. She calls to me, but there is nothing I can do. I'm frozen and trapped working to goals I fear I will never live long enough to achieve.
I’ve been searching for answers for so long, I’ve forgotten the questions. I'm forgetting how to dream, only my pathetic nightmares claim me, they know my name. Each night I'm alone in the dark and I don't even know what I see. I just remember darkness, pain and raping trees that taunt me in Brooke Kotak or my bitch roomate's voices.
And somehow everyone, everything that exist moves on and forgets me. I’m left behind in the wasteland, choking and dust waiting for the adventurers to return home. I’m a memory till you find me again, unchanged. Older, a little jaded, but no wiser. Like Mrs. Lovett, left behind and forgotten, but I never will forget you.
They passed down these roads long ago and the red bull followed close behind
I’ve got so many issues, i have nothing left. There’s nobody to talk me off the ledge. I’m drowning in insanity, i’ve forgotten how it feels to be real and not a nightmare.
I'm falling apart and forgetting my own name. Falling deeper and deeper into lucid sleep and delusion with with each waking moment. I'm not numb. I wish I was numb. I just feel too much. And nothing real seems to matter to me anymore, just the nightmare reaching out for me, ready to devour me, swallow me whole and drown the bright little centre of my world. I'm starting to fear that I'm not the star in my own story that I'm not the pretty little ingenue that wins in the end. That I just continue to live like this in increasing misery with each step up I go.
Lets be Kids again!
In spite of my often morally questionable behaviour or flawed moral compass, I am a good person who values politeness to the same degree as vulgarity, at least in my mind, has great karma. I don't think I deserve it.
My father told me this, and I just wish I could see things that way but I'm not ready yet,
"I used to be disgusted, now I try to be amuse.d."
-Elvis Costello.
I like to think I'm almost there.
I stood on the ledge last night, closer than I have ever dared go before. The people I love, who love me, seemed to faded into distant shadows of a life I once lived and took for granted. I will never get them back. they will all forget me and live their lives without the curse of me, the double edge of misery and joy, the divine and the obscure. I don't have the light or strength that used to get me though. All is quiet, dour and dark. And I cannot see the end unless I create one for myself. I laid on my bed fantasing about my own death. and it felt beautiful and terrible. But is wasn't so tragic.
I held a bottle of pills and a razor blade and wondered who would attend my funeral. Would my tourmentors cry? I have no lovers to leave behind, no one to write my story, so I'm charged with my own. I don't want to hate the world or hate the gift of love but this is where my road has brought me, imagining the blood in waves and trying to decide which of my unworn dresses was best for a poetic tableau of death.
But something kept me here, anchored in my skin. I'd love to say it was love or hope, but it was cowardliness. I couldn't kill myself because I didn't know how it ends. I'm not ready to stop, But I can't go on, so I remain in purgetory waiting to be judged. If this is all there, I can't throw it all away just yet. If could get better just around the corner.
It could.
Plus I just couldn't stand the pain or actively cut a razor across my veins. I couldn't slit my wrists because I couldn't take the plunge. I couldn't let everyone left behind judge me and decide I wasnt strong that i was melodramatic or insane or reduce my short life of music, poetry and awe into a statistic before I've written or loved.
This I will never tell anyone who I actually know. I will never get help. I can't its too embrassing to admit how weak I am. That strength and is just a front, I've used to keep people away since the second grade.
I'm selfish and worthless. I didn't worry that killing myself was killing my suportive mother who is basically me at 53 who cries for me at nights or my quietly loving big kid of a father with his heartbreaking looks that convey all the love in the world for his little girl. Or destroy my little sister and best friend who already mourns for my life and what I could be but am afraid to let myself become.
If they love me, I don't deserve them.
I am Birdie Girl. I've always been. But I don't remember like it was ever me, just a life I watched from the sidelines.
If I died, no one would be missing much.
If I died, maybe I could fly.
I miss my picture windows where I could walk downstairs and let the waning moon be my confidant, sit on teh steps and watch the cars go by and the lights go off, and not feel so alone.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Cathartic Letter To My Bitch Roomate
THE LIGHT:
It broke when you were here, you were the first one to aware of it, and you left first that morning (and must have had to go past the res. Desk where you could have easily have reported it), a morning where I was not only sick and coughing, but feeling totally faint and disoriented. I did not get it fixed that weekend because I was sick and miserable and just wanted to curl up and die, not have to worry about having people in the room fixing it, etc. Also I didn’t feel like doing it after you ORDERED me to! You were here for the entire week after that, as well as back earlier than me after this weekend, there is NO REASON why you couldn’t have gotten it fixed. Just because you ORDERED me in your last note to fix it, does not make it my responsibility or mean that you don’t have to do it and can leave it for me. Also, why in the world do you think your homework and midterms matter more than mine? I have exams and classes just like you do, yours are NOT more important !
COUGHING:
I am so SORRY that my being sick last week and practically coughing my lungs up and my throat raw bothered you and kept you up. Its not like I could help it, and I did do what you suggested in coughing into a pillow, but I’m sorry, its just another unpleasant part of sharing a room with someone, complaining, being sarcastic or acting like you are the only one suffering does not help. And no, when I am sick and feeling like I am dying, I do not need to hear that you get vitamin C, from you in your most condescending voice
THE MESS:
I have never seen a single bug in the room, but there are bugs everywhere, get used to living in the world. MY side of the room is MY own concern. I have not messed up yours, put anything on your side or asked you to clean it for me. You are NOT my mother and do not have the right to act like you are. I really don’t care about the vacuuming. It really does not matter and there is no ultra pressing reason to do it. Feel free to do only your side, even if mine reached your standards of cleanliness and you weren’t just spending all your time griping over everything. It really is the thing I am least concerned about right now, as I like you, have midterms exams, essays and homework that are all JUST as important as yours.
SHARED ROOM, NOT ONLY YOURS:
You have to get used to the idea that this is a SHARED room, that is EQUALLY ours, not you room that I am renting a bed in or something. I will get up when I want, I will leave when I want, I will follow my own schedule, you do not have the right to give me what must be your trademark condescending look and make me feel bad for waking up when I want to wake up. I keep the light on late and stay on the computer late, because you expressly told me that it was fine and did not bother you, if it does, I will stop, you don’t need to be all twofaced and get mad about it. Also, I have made an effort, even when it is difficult to use headphones, so I do not bother you when you are working. Please extend the same courtesy. I have made every conceivable effort to be nice to you, offering you chips or coke, or the use of my fridge, etc. , invited you if I was going to eat or to a meeting or event, but you have not cared to be nice to me (the one shocking examples was when you let me have one of your water bottles). I had really hoped that we could be friends or at least get along, but you just don’t seem to care or put in any sort of effort. So maybe you have noticed, I have given up on you.
Please get over yourself.
Fear and loathing,
- Liz
P.S. And pull your pants up when you are sitting down, I do not want to see your ass.
It broke when you were here, you were the first one to aware of it, and you left first that morning (and must have had to go past the res. Desk where you could have easily have reported it), a morning where I was not only sick and coughing, but feeling totally faint and disoriented. I did not get it fixed that weekend because I was sick and miserable and just wanted to curl up and die, not have to worry about having people in the room fixing it, etc. Also I didn’t feel like doing it after you ORDERED me to! You were here for the entire week after that, as well as back earlier than me after this weekend, there is NO REASON why you couldn’t have gotten it fixed. Just because you ORDERED me in your last note to fix it, does not make it my responsibility or mean that you don’t have to do it and can leave it for me. Also, why in the world do you think your homework and midterms matter more than mine? I have exams and classes just like you do, yours are NOT more important !
COUGHING:
I am so SORRY that my being sick last week and practically coughing my lungs up and my throat raw bothered you and kept you up. Its not like I could help it, and I did do what you suggested in coughing into a pillow, but I’m sorry, its just another unpleasant part of sharing a room with someone, complaining, being sarcastic or acting like you are the only one suffering does not help. And no, when I am sick and feeling like I am dying, I do not need to hear that you get vitamin C, from you in your most condescending voice
THE MESS:
I have never seen a single bug in the room, but there are bugs everywhere, get used to living in the world. MY side of the room is MY own concern. I have not messed up yours, put anything on your side or asked you to clean it for me. You are NOT my mother and do not have the right to act like you are. I really don’t care about the vacuuming. It really does not matter and there is no ultra pressing reason to do it. Feel free to do only your side, even if mine reached your standards of cleanliness and you weren’t just spending all your time griping over everything. It really is the thing I am least concerned about right now, as I like you, have midterms exams, essays and homework that are all JUST as important as yours.
SHARED ROOM, NOT ONLY YOURS:
You have to get used to the idea that this is a SHARED room, that is EQUALLY ours, not you room that I am renting a bed in or something. I will get up when I want, I will leave when I want, I will follow my own schedule, you do not have the right to give me what must be your trademark condescending look and make me feel bad for waking up when I want to wake up. I keep the light on late and stay on the computer late, because you expressly told me that it was fine and did not bother you, if it does, I will stop, you don’t need to be all twofaced and get mad about it. Also, I have made an effort, even when it is difficult to use headphones, so I do not bother you when you are working. Please extend the same courtesy. I have made every conceivable effort to be nice to you, offering you chips or coke, or the use of my fridge, etc. , invited you if I was going to eat or to a meeting or event, but you have not cared to be nice to me (the one shocking examples was when you let me have one of your water bottles). I had really hoped that we could be friends or at least get along, but you just don’t seem to care or put in any sort of effort. So maybe you have noticed, I have given up on you.
Please get over yourself.
Fear and loathing,
- Liz
P.S. And pull your pants up when you are sitting down, I do not want to see your ass.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Why The Internet Is Going To The Dogs:
Oh, the information superhighway, the world wide web (or World Wide Weberverse- according to Jake Morgandorffer), once a veritable mecca of readily (and often illegally) obtainable information and entertainment, where you could find out anything with the click of a button, instead of (tsk. tsk.) actually reading a book for once (what year did Mommie Dearest come out? What is the scientific name for sunflowers? Who starred in the original Marie Antoinette? How do I get to The Royal Alex from my house?) quickly and effectively solving bar and schoolyard fights, alike is rapidly disintegrating into a pay-as- you can database that undermines its entire purpose and ideaology
- The whole point of itunes was that you didn't have to pay for an entire CD when you only wanted a few songs. Now however, with the majority of new albums, the only only option I to buy the entire album, although in some cases things like theme songs or breakout hits are available on their own. This makes me love the Dresden Dolls a whole lot more, as a group that openly supports a pay-as-you-wish philosophy, on the grounds that music should be free and shared. Thier site features a virtual hat where you can leave donations if desired.
But as for itunes, I'll stick with Limewire, thank you very much.
-On youtube, it is often easier to find a cover of a song sung off key by someone at home, than the actual song. In addition, the site is currently cracking down on posted TV episodes and movies, which is frustrating, but understandable if the video in question is available to purchase and you were jut being cheap, but it is unfair in the cases of unreleased material (such as Daria episodes- although that is supposedly being released on dvd in 2010) or old movies that you cannot buy anywhere.
-We call ourselves the understanding generation that is open to all races, sexes and orientations, yet there are so many comments on blogs, entertainment posts, etc. that bash the writer, calling them offensive names and telling them they deserved whatever happened to them (be it abuse, rape, assault, robbery, etc,because they were the way they were. This is one thing I do not, and hope to never unstand. Why can't we all get along and love each other Christmas Eve?
-There is a growing trend in articles, such as those from newspapers, magazines, journals, studies, coles notes, and even people's personal ramblings in allowing the reader to access a page or paragraph of data, and then requiring them to pay to see any more.
It is predicted that this trend will eventually grow across the board, mostly in order to make up for the growing traffic of free news blogs and sites over actual newspapers (something as a student going into Journalism, I guess I will ultimatedly be grateful for)
- sites like FML (Fuck My Life), LML(Love My Life), and MLIA (My Life Is Average) were once fraught with fun little quips to joke with friends about and hours of distracting annecdotes to distract you from doing any actual work and give you a laugh and a break from everyday life is now certifiably corrupted. FML is still fine on its own, but the comment on the posts are horrible; bashing the poster , telling them they deserved horrible things like rape or getting kicked out of their house (some posts are less funny and more sad), calling them fake just becaue the scenerio was in a movie or something (yet could still plausibly happen) or desperately trying to be the first commenter (FIRST!). MLIA is actually a fun site full of cute everyday moments, but also suffers from commentor bashing, particularily being accusted of being fake. however a lot of posts from FML are being copied over to MLIA, which is strange considering how different they are supposed to be. LML is really the worst, at first it was hard to read after months of FMLs, meaning that you expected the worst for a poster who came a doctor's appointment to test for cancer or tried to ask someone out, but there's a darker side. Now people have started to triumphantly post on thier successful pranks (like making their sister eat grasshopper guts in her sandwich because the poster was forced to babysit her, etc), but there are some horrible ones, like the guy who stole an ipod and $70 from a kid with down syndrome or the guy who triumphantly posted that he punched his pregnant girlfriend in the stomach, and cheered when she dumped him because "its not my problem anymore". I can't stand guys who think a kid is the woman's falut or that they have no resonsibility for it (these are often the people are against abortion- rich, old men). Even worse are the people supporting these monstrous act or egging the poster on.
Some people need to be reminded that these sites are for entertainment, they are not a contest to be first or to find fakes, but if these sites question my faith in humanity, Post Secret restores it.
-In the past you pretty much discovered that a new movie or book was coming out when you saw the preview at the theatre or the ad in the last pages of a similar book, but now thanks to the internet, you can know years in advance and build things up into incredible hype. As the girl without the patience gene, I am particularily suseptible. Currently I'm waiting on tenderhooks for at least 50 movies and books that will most likely never be produced (more on that in a future post)
-There are also scary pro sites for almost anything you can think of- Anorexia (Ana), Bulimia (Mia), Nazism, gay-straight 'reeducation' programs, smoking, abstenance only based sex-ed, extremist pro-lifers, etc. While I recognize the right to free speech and thought, these types of communities make me wonder how these sort of ideology can be accepted and followed in today's fact based society, although I admit to a sick fasination with pro-ana sites, that really do serve their purpose in making me feel like a fat glutton.
-I used to love to spoil horror movie plots by reading indepth lists of each of the gimick kills in franchises like Saw, Final Destination and Urban Legend, but has of late, wikipedia has been removing these extremly intereting topics and leaving the pages as stubs only naming the movie's year, director and cast.
-There is also a marked preference of americans on sites like itunes which only offer certain tv shows (until recently canada was only allowed to buy canadian tv shows, even though the majority of canadian subsist on purely american content) and albums in the states. In addition much advertised sites like Hulu and Pandora are only accesible from an american ip adress. This is like the cool deals and specials you used to see on tv and run out to the resturant to find out they were only avaiable in the states (this even happened when watching canadian chanels)
-Also, if it is no longer true that the internet is for porn, much of its content still is. Said content often pops up in the middle of a PG search, and to quote Ms. Valerie Cherish, "I don't wanna see that!"
Monday, September 14, 2009
Go Out There And Do Something, And What Ever You Do, You Be Sure That You Love It
I'm going to tell you this, because I think you might be the only person I know who will understand it. The feeling I got in film class was magic. The film Cinema Paradiso was all about this boy whose who life was about movies effected him, and his awe of them, and I really connected to it. It was great, laugh, cry, etc. Magic!
Actually this is the movie I remember seeing on Elwy (Saturday Night At The Movies) soo many years ago. I have spent years wondering what movie it was, that the image stayed with me of a theatre burning down and film reels being ruined, and alittle boy dragging an old man down the metal stairs.
The teacher makes us stay till the credits are over, so I sit there leaning back in my chair and thinking almost epithany-like as I listen to the love theme play. When I get up, I feel like a perfect young old fashioned girl with my skirt and my black satchel bag and when I head outside it is raining and I have no umbrella. But for once I don't mind. I pull my hood over my head like a disguise (my hoodie is billowly and empire waisted like a cape or a robe. I set out in the rain, feeling magical. The rain hits the pavement and it glows in the streetlights. In the semi-darkness, I cannot see the cars, only their headlights and I can imagine that they are old cars of chrome and aquamarine paint. In the distance (actually right across the street) I can hear the train whistle, but I don't look to see it. I keep walking in the rain in my disguise, the rain clinging to my bare legs and squelching in my green plastic shoes.
I feel like I've stepped back in time. But at the same time it feels current. I feel poetic.
This is exactely where I'm supposed to be.
This makes absolutely perfect sense.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Exit, Pursued By A Bear
Our world is a strange one. That really does go without saying.
This is the world where greed, revenge and sex are our gods, and fame the alter we worship at, degrade ourselves even mutilate ourselves till we are only desperate pieces of unwritten pages lost to the fire, screaming as everything we ever thought we knew was entinguished and stamped out, ground to dust under a creul steel boot.
Then you have people like me who think they have no one to listen to, to believe in, to drink in as a fountain of sacred knowledge, poisoned tree of mocking flesh fruit. I'm the girl who got too wild and was "get thee to a nunnery'd". I rebelled and was passed off as insane to avoid the scandal. I'm begining to be Frances Farmer.
You see?
Bitter still as I am, bound to reality, even as I goad myself into the ether, try to force my crippled brain to beat it. I am fasinated my sensation, obcessed by my own pain, pulverized by this latest thing, each and every day, I need it like i need a hole in the head. Of which I have ever dire need. I looked in the nightmare box, and all I saw was the ghost of me.
I need to create the music to soundtrack my acid dreams. If theres' a chain of blank smiling paper dolls, who march serenly on, not knowing how thin thier truth is that can be ripped to shreds so easily and kissed by the wind of all four corners of the world, I beg to stop sheparding on. If i can be a bon vivant, babble and travel and do it all, rip myself free and devour my plain limbs. Bite down on the bullet, as the cut me off. Cut me free.
I want to be a wealthy, obnoious weirdo. A cult figure with a lisense to vulgarity, fasinating, captivating and unable to look away. I'll drink, curse and swear, I 'll insult, I'll create. I'll love, I'll dream, I'll run off in my patent leather boots.
But if I move out, can I still dream away of high ways and madness? Can I still lose my mind in runaway hopes? And write my fasinating biography for when I become a deluded Neely O'Hara star? Remember me already! I'm somebody. Or maybe that's only in my mind, I have no idea as to what it feels to think as somebody else. If I'm a paper doll, plain white ripped paper, I'll deal in the traffic of whimsy and whip smarts, doodle full body tattoos, so there's no denying what I am.
I'm not a good role model. Not somebody you want to mess with. I want it all right now down to pain and grit and tears and virtue. I want the rocker and the leather jacket and the peach silk ball gown, Not my misbigotten evil sister who every sees as potential, bait for rebellion and adventure. Sail the seven seas in gladness.
But these nights, I tiptoe downstairs in my watermelon party dress and a conical birthday hat, bright and beloved and sit it the dark kitchen drinking ginger ale out of a champagne glass. I sit still in the dark in tears, watching the portait of total despair and sadness, the renoir girl drink and drown in salt. I don't know why I cry. I just can't do anything else. I can't even breathe as I watch myself from outside the walls, I'm a stranger I don't recognize and I want the girl to go.
I sit on the steps and watch the night race by through the picture window. If i stop thinking realitionallly, I can believe that they're all racing off the save me, but no one ever comes. I'm cold all the time. I'm boilng in the oven. I'm done. I hold myself 'cause no one else will.
I try to hold on.
I'm slipping...
I can resist anything...but temptation. But I've never know myself to be tempted. I've just begun to wander the desert, I set out 40 days ago, but I emerge no wiser. Only that much bitter for the effort to understand. I belittle others for lack of intelligence but drown in mine own. It doesn't make me smarter, bitterer or prettier, just chutes and ladders as I head back to start. I've been here so long I recognize the trees.
My grandmother gossips in apple kuchen german in the next room and it fades to dulcet tones. I only knew what to say. I can't ever voice my ambitions in words when I spend my life devouring and committing them to my archives. I just don't know anything.
I just know everything. But I can't sort it out. Living is becoming a dizzy dream , the worlld like a veil over true reality as I spin to oblivion round and around on the carousel, I'm getting less mature ansd stable with age. One day I'll wake up and forget how to care for myself. I can feel it coming. I'm just so weak, meek, so gauche.
I'm awkwardnes personified but it feels like heaven.
Morning is a dream, and ripping pages of the calender of borrowed time is like ripping my paper heart to phoenix pieces, my nadir, base memorial.
If I only I could rise again as I once was safe, confident and stable. Before I was pieces that forgot to fit together.
I had a dream that I was a sort of killer. In a white dress, I woke up in my bed drowsily in the early morning as the sun started to rub the last fragments of sleep from its eyes, and wandered in the bathroom squinting in the artifical light. I sqeeze the toothpaste tube, holding out my plastic brush, but all that comes out is organs and innards, a mess of spare parts scarlet and guts. But there's laughter. Someone is laughing as I watch in silent shock. This pretends to be real but it does a better job existing than it does in mocking me. Laughter drives me into insantity and I've forgotten how to read, how to count how to need. Blue eyes adjust to the bitter glare, and I see my other hand holds a knife. It drips in blood. So much I'm drowning with no time for a caucus race. But the blood, is revealed to belong to me. I'm just a gaping hole. A wound dripping blood from my own shiny glinting knife. The laughter is coming from me.
What's that knife?
You smile at me.
This is the world where greed, revenge and sex are our gods, and fame the alter we worship at, degrade ourselves even mutilate ourselves till we are only desperate pieces of unwritten pages lost to the fire, screaming as everything we ever thought we knew was entinguished and stamped out, ground to dust under a creul steel boot.
Then you have people like me who think they have no one to listen to, to believe in, to drink in as a fountain of sacred knowledge, poisoned tree of mocking flesh fruit. I'm the girl who got too wild and was "get thee to a nunnery'd". I rebelled and was passed off as insane to avoid the scandal. I'm begining to be Frances Farmer.
You see?
Bitter still as I am, bound to reality, even as I goad myself into the ether, try to force my crippled brain to beat it. I am fasinated my sensation, obcessed by my own pain, pulverized by this latest thing, each and every day, I need it like i need a hole in the head. Of which I have ever dire need. I looked in the nightmare box, and all I saw was the ghost of me.
I need to create the music to soundtrack my acid dreams. If theres' a chain of blank smiling paper dolls, who march serenly on, not knowing how thin thier truth is that can be ripped to shreds so easily and kissed by the wind of all four corners of the world, I beg to stop sheparding on. If i can be a bon vivant, babble and travel and do it all, rip myself free and devour my plain limbs. Bite down on the bullet, as the cut me off. Cut me free.
I want to be a wealthy, obnoious weirdo. A cult figure with a lisense to vulgarity, fasinating, captivating and unable to look away. I'll drink, curse and swear, I 'll insult, I'll create. I'll love, I'll dream, I'll run off in my patent leather boots.
But if I move out, can I still dream away of high ways and madness? Can I still lose my mind in runaway hopes? And write my fasinating biography for when I become a deluded Neely O'Hara star? Remember me already! I'm somebody. Or maybe that's only in my mind, I have no idea as to what it feels to think as somebody else. If I'm a paper doll, plain white ripped paper, I'll deal in the traffic of whimsy and whip smarts, doodle full body tattoos, so there's no denying what I am.
I'm not a good role model. Not somebody you want to mess with. I want it all right now down to pain and grit and tears and virtue. I want the rocker and the leather jacket and the peach silk ball gown, Not my misbigotten evil sister who every sees as potential, bait for rebellion and adventure. Sail the seven seas in gladness.
But these nights, I tiptoe downstairs in my watermelon party dress and a conical birthday hat, bright and beloved and sit it the dark kitchen drinking ginger ale out of a champagne glass. I sit still in the dark in tears, watching the portait of total despair and sadness, the renoir girl drink and drown in salt. I don't know why I cry. I just can't do anything else. I can't even breathe as I watch myself from outside the walls, I'm a stranger I don't recognize and I want the girl to go.
I sit on the steps and watch the night race by through the picture window. If i stop thinking realitionallly, I can believe that they're all racing off the save me, but no one ever comes. I'm cold all the time. I'm boilng in the oven. I'm done. I hold myself 'cause no one else will.
I try to hold on.
I'm slipping...
I can resist anything...but temptation. But I've never know myself to be tempted. I've just begun to wander the desert, I set out 40 days ago, but I emerge no wiser. Only that much bitter for the effort to understand. I belittle others for lack of intelligence but drown in mine own. It doesn't make me smarter, bitterer or prettier, just chutes and ladders as I head back to start. I've been here so long I recognize the trees.
My grandmother gossips in apple kuchen german in the next room and it fades to dulcet tones. I only knew what to say. I can't ever voice my ambitions in words when I spend my life devouring and committing them to my archives. I just don't know anything.
I just know everything. But I can't sort it out. Living is becoming a dizzy dream , the worlld like a veil over true reality as I spin to oblivion round and around on the carousel, I'm getting less mature ansd stable with age. One day I'll wake up and forget how to care for myself. I can feel it coming. I'm just so weak, meek, so gauche.
I'm awkwardnes personified but it feels like heaven.
Morning is a dream, and ripping pages of the calender of borrowed time is like ripping my paper heart to phoenix pieces, my nadir, base memorial.
If I only I could rise again as I once was safe, confident and stable. Before I was pieces that forgot to fit together.
I had a dream that I was a sort of killer. In a white dress, I woke up in my bed drowsily in the early morning as the sun started to rub the last fragments of sleep from its eyes, and wandered in the bathroom squinting in the artifical light. I sqeeze the toothpaste tube, holding out my plastic brush, but all that comes out is organs and innards, a mess of spare parts scarlet and guts. But there's laughter. Someone is laughing as I watch in silent shock. This pretends to be real but it does a better job existing than it does in mocking me. Laughter drives me into insantity and I've forgotten how to read, how to count how to need. Blue eyes adjust to the bitter glare, and I see my other hand holds a knife. It drips in blood. So much I'm drowning with no time for a caucus race. But the blood, is revealed to belong to me. I'm just a gaping hole. A wound dripping blood from my own shiny glinting knife. The laughter is coming from me.
What's that knife?
You smile at me.
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