I Love You BECAUSE You're Ugly, Not In Spite Of It

"This Little Girl
She grew up and moved away and she
She lived her life full of risk and full of play and she
She lived her life, with so much to say, and
Her flowers they grow more beautiful everyday"
- Little Red, Kate Nash

Sitting here wondering.

If I try so hard to create beauty in my world, where it doesn't exist with words, flowers, love, lyrics, is it strange that sometimes I just want to sit back and bask in ugliness. Sometimes something ugly is just so poignant, just so perfectly imperfect and uneven, just such a contrast to everthing else forced into symmetry. Just something without the pressure of beauty, to conform to standards, the crushing of the everyday. Something you can hold in your hand, and love for being repulsive. For being so unashamed and unabashed in its uncompromising ugliness . For just being, not trying to hide, not trying to be beautiful, and not trying to make any apologizes.

What kind of punishment is slavery for a submissive?
What kind of punishment is torture to a masochist?

If you submit enough, bring yourself far enough down, can anyone really touch you? If you reach rock bottom, if you survive the fall, are you safe?
Can anyone really ever hurt you again?

Are we all Sadists and Masochists deep down, destroying each other for our twisted kinks? Is that our real aim?
Is trying to live an ordianary life, all the thing we're supposed to do, the checklist of being: fall in love, get married, get a jog, have kids, is this a submission to being average? Is this settling?

After you crash from your childhood highs, and realize that all your life, your parents lied to you, dreams don't come true, anything isn't possible Santa Claus isn't real.When you realize you won't be a movie star, won't be a rock star, an astronaut or superman, do you give up all hope of adventure? Of being somebosy, of being loved, being significant?
Can you ever be happy being? Can you ever feel happy, or will kids become your shackles, white picket fences your jail, and a brick house in the suburbs, your tomb. Nails in your coffin, nails through your heart.

But where do you go when there's no where else to turn, but in? Do you disappear? Fade to nothingness. Can you ever be recalled back to life?

If you threw a feather, a coffee pot and me out a window, who would fall faster?

Am I anything to anyone? Am I anything at all? Am I an allusion, a girl made of air? I've almost disappeared before, tried to fade to nothing, claw my way out of my skin.
A shell, a last veil hiding my true self, shrouding my nakedness.
And I wonder what hides underneath? If I just sit back and let myself go free, the chips fall where they may. If I'm undressed of my skin, scarred to reveal my true face, will I find true ugliness to repulse even my drive. Or will I find sad beauty in a meaningless, pitiful self destruction.
Or will I just rant, bogged down by responsiblities, expectations, and my own feined scraps of modesty and a penchant for adjectives and purgery.

Will I destroy myself before the world is able to?
I mean I'm only 17. I haven't seen enough, lived enough to know what suffering means. I've never really had my heart broken, never really crashed or burned.
I mean, I've cried through nights of lonliness, but I've never really felt pain, never really been scared. I'm sheltered, in a sururban bubble where I think I've lived, think I'm strong, a surviour, ready to face the world.

But without fear, without pain and with restraint, am I really even alive? How pathetic a picture do I paint? What potency can I write, what sembalnce of meaning can I even hope to convey without being born? Never mind being saved.

Until we go to both extremes, reaching satisfaction and euphoria and emptiness and desperation, are we built on a foundation of lies? Is there meaning to anything we do, until we flip the coin, fall up and down and live on the other side.

I want you to hit me as hard as you can.
I want you to love me as hard as you can.
I want an ordeal I need to get through. I need to be born, to rise from the ashes, only myself to blame.

Nothing comes from nothing, and all happiness deep down comes from suffering, making it through, scared and wiser, experienced and awakened.

No, I've never really suffered but I know someday I will have to. I just hope I can take it. I'm so fucking used to getting up at three in the morning and writting nonsense for hours, that I won't be able to make sense of in the morning.
I almost feel scared, saddened by fear I can't even contemplate, terror I've never known. Will it meet me head on, or will I trip, and side step into my doom, somehere lost in the future.
Somewhere in the grandscope of time, of things that haven't happened yet, but are already effecting us. Will I ever sync up?

Will I even hit the ground, stop floating living in impossible dreams and realize just how unspecial I am, how many times these same thoughts, same words have been thought by others. How much I define myself by the creation, by the inspirations, awakenings of others, while I blindly stumble around looking for my own, seeking my demise.

I am nothing new.
I am nothing unique, I am nothing original. I am nothing the world hasn't seen a hundred times before. I will live, serve my term on earth, and then be forgotten. Just be forgotten ashes and rose petals.
Recycled.
I will leave nothing behind, no morals, no messages. I will leave no hole in the world. I will just suddenly cease to be. Everyone who holds me as something will one day be nothing too.
And until I realize that, really realize it, not just say it because its' true, until I know it with every fibre of my being, every breathe,
until then,
I am nothing.

I am just another human being. Just another end to the world.

We don't matter, no matter what we do, whar we accomplish. No matter how many people follow us, believe what we say, see our art, read our words, subscribe to our manifesto, someday it will be meaningless. Perverted and misinterpreted. Corrupted. No matter how important society sees us as, no matter the conotation of our names, our headlines, someday we will be forgotten.
We will be dirt. We will no longer exist in energy or memory or any form.
And all those of us who never did anything, nothing will change, no one will know our names.

Someday our great rock in space, our light to the world will implode.
Erased.
Fallen off the charts, off the edge, out of the world.
Someday life here will cease. I don't know how, I do know why but someday it will. It's been borrowed time, too good too be true. Since the beginning of time, we've waited for it to end. We've had theories, dates, and countdowns, trying to plan everything, remembering Girl Guides and swearing again to be prepared.
But really, it won' t be expected, won't be planned.
It'll be an ordinary day, walking down the street in the eye of the storm, when we'll look up and scream , "WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?"
And then darkness. Too late.
No chance of resurrection, no hope for redemption. Just darkness.

And the next world will look at a dead blue planet, the next superpower, at our sad facade of civilization, and wonder if it could have even supported life, (and truly I wouldn't call this life). We'll be primative, barbarians of sorts. They'll look down upon us and wonder why the past was so dark and cruel.

We're not a special era. We're the prodical children, who never went home for forgivness, who denied birthright of salvation. We're the kids we ran away from home and joined the circus. We get our kicks off serving our own selfish needs, destroying what past lives have tried to, even died to perserve.
We are the downfall. As long as we continue to breathe.

And then nothing will matter. It won't matter if you were saving money, going to school, checking into rehab, or getting out of jail. It'll be stupid to put your life on hold, a fool only waits. It's a fool who says, I'll do it tommorrow, I'll do when I have time, money or energy, when I lose weight. The fool sits at home, and waits, putting more time between purgatory and life.

There'll always be a thousand reasons not to do something!
Take a deep breathe, bite down hard and jump.
Don't look forward.
Don't look how far you'll fall, to see what'll hit you at the bottom
Lock in, Baby.
Just fall
Don't space out
Don't disappear
Don't go to your happy place
And don't forget
Hold my invisible hand and come to me. I'm waiting at the bottom. You've forgotten my name, I've forgotten my name. I'm in pieces on the floor.

Look up as you fall, and watch what you're missing, rush past you.
On the way down, it no longer means anything.

Please don't wait for heaven. Don't think heaven will save you, or hell will
punish the lucky, ungrateful and cruel. They may never get theirs.
In real life, things aren't fair. There's no comeupance at the end of the story, because the story never ends. As long as there's someone left to keep living, keep writing, all that changes is the chapter.

Give them their just desserts, be their personal Fury, their hell on earth. There's nothing else for you to do. No other power but in attack.

What if heaven and hell are nothing but ancient mythos, told to the mediveal peasants so they would keep working with out rebellion or protest, in hopes of heaven and not punish tyrant rulers who would get punished in spades, in hellfires. A coping mechanism, keeping everyone in their station, squeezed into a ridgid little place, everyone in line.

But what goes around and comes around and bites you on the ass.
And Karma's a bitch

The priveledged are always priviledged, and some of us are just meant to be the casualities, the people dead in the street, you step over on the way to work. Falling even as we rise. Falling in the past, present and future all at once. Unstoppable tracks.

The end is breathing down on my neck, and my pessimism posesses me like bitter words, in acid on my willing tongue.

Stop me.
Please
With any means
Wink at me in a crowd, and give me an ally
Write me a song and give me a voice
Give me a mission. Give me a means
Something to corrupt boredom of being
To consume unfulfillment
Something to become
Serve me myself on a silver platter and laugh as I stumble to my broken feet.

I'm losing myself and fin ding myself at the same time. Finally falling faster.
-Are you that girl?
-I was earlier tonight.

Now I'll try to forget what I think, what I know, what I said. There's nothing for me here, 'cause if I'm going to die, I'd rather not know it. It's too much pressure.I'm closing my eyes. Going back to sleep.
Forgetting to breathe.

Buckle up.
It'll be a bumpy ride to forever, to watch as it ends.

- A Jonesing Catcher Lux Davis

I feel fine. Seriously not disturbed or anything.
And just a tip. Never go on any sort of journey looking for the American Dream. It ALWAYS ends badly!

I'm history's youngest child. Twelve years old, even as I sit here seventeen.
Candy necklace and candy diamond ring.
I just never learned that less is more.

As If I Needed Another Reason To Love November 22nd

"Newsvendor: I see the world didn't end yesterday.
Rorschach: Are you sure?"

"We have labored long to build a heaven, only to find it populated with horrors." - Watchmen

(yes. This is my mood today. Let me hover, don't bring me further down or try to cheer me up. I'm OK [You're Ok])
And on a lighter note:

"I Love Shrimp! Who Else Loves Shrimp?"
- Richard Gilmore, Gilmore Girls

Wow. Long time no blog!
Lots has changed on the Art Nouveau front, but nothings' really different.

it's finally March Break (mini wave and stream of cartwheels). But sadly it's now almost over, and the threat of school on Monday looms on the horizon, with only a weekend left. It's weird to think that it's been a year since last March Break when I went on the school trip to Italy and Greece, in comparison I really haven't done much this year, except stay up all night and sleep all day, 'cause I'm cliche like that.

Highlights include:
- Going shopping with my sister in Toronto, and getting caught in the Sri Lanka genocide protest along Yonge street, while we tried to get between Forever 21 and the World's Biggest Bookstore (where we would be told that they have to keep copies of Fight Club in the back of the store, so they don't get stolen).
- Getting home the same day, and looking at all the stuff I bought, all the stuff I wanted so much, spent hundreds of dollars on, and suddenly feeling so distant from it. Suddenly not caring about it anymore, like iI sdhould just give it all away. I've been getting this feeling a lot lately, but then a few minutes later I see something I want, and buy it. I think it's getting out of hand, now. And I wonder...when will I be satisfied? When will I ever have enouh stuff? Am I filling the hole in my heart, the hollow at my side on pair of shoes at a time?
-Watching Cold Mountain with my parents, while my Dad spent the entire movie waiting for Renee, my Mom lusting over Jude Law
-Creating my own team of superheroes, and taping drawings to my closet door
My Team: Red Riding Hood (flying prostitute), The IT Girl (girly girl with superstrength), Invisi-Boy (invisible albino), The Golden Boy (super jock with control over the elements who winds up Oracle-ing it), and The Reader (child prodigy, who can read minds thanks to government experiments.
More on them later....I got loads.
-Trying to clean my room and getting somewhat sucessful, for once, thanks to blasting music on my Ipod dock. I'd forgotten my carpet was white. Actually sort of grey now.
- Watching Jawbreaker with my sister, and thinking about how Rose Mcgowan's character shows more of her dominant character in the Big Stick scene than she does in the entire movie
-Hanging out with friends of the family and binging out on peanut M and Ms
-Spending inordinate amounts of time on Polyvore.com putting outfits together (as QueenOfKitsh)
- And having a real eupthoria moment, on the treadmill, listening to music and half dancing, half running while pausing every few minutes to try my hand at mimicing more lines from Harley and Ivy. (I'm actually getting my Harley voice!)
I think I actually screamed, I am Alive!

Yay for finally getting warmer! I was getting used to the sound of my teeth chattering.

And my latest thing (with this washing machine), hanging out at my grandmother's for a few days. So this blog is coming to you live on location from my grandmother's computer, which feels really weird to type because all her settings are for extra large print type.
So I'm in Scarbourgh, and I just blew fifteen dollars, I'll never see again on dessert shaped erasers, a strawberry headband, another chocolate bar mirror, orange-mango gum, and a Little Miss Sunshine/Mr.Happy red plastic coin purse, (seriously I'm like five years old),wearing lots of winged eyeliner, having
and slept 'til 3 this afternoon, after watching Big Wolf On Campus via Youtube until 2 in the morning.

Yesturday, my dad came to drop me off, he sent me downstairs with the dog, and this weird guy in a car whistles over at me in my hot pink fishnets, and yells "Hey Sweetness!"
Me? really? Why preposition me? The dog's prettier than I am.
Serious baby, I'm no prize. Why do you think nobody's snapped me up yet?
And on Pirate Facebook, I'm Marooned, but that's beside the fact.

This encounter is made weirder by the idea that my grandmother's building is restricted to older people living there. ne again I'm going to ask why the only guys who like me are old ones?Do I have an age limit? You must be this old to ride this ride?

Anyway.......

I've been kind of lazing around the past few days reading Watchmen, mostly in the sun in my backyard. After finally caving in and buying a copy, after so many people told me to read it. I really don't know why I was so reluctant...It was just about the best thing I've ever read.
Sadly the movie didn't deliever the same punch, didn't make you hold your breath, didn't leave you thinking, wondering if the world was ending and if we would destroy ourselves.
It cut out the philosophical aspect, cut down the entire idea of the past, present and future existing at the same time and Kovacs literally becoming Roschach, instead of just a guy in a hero costume, becoming the hero.
And gave us just another superhero movie. Just another action sequence, just another unconventional love story, just another midlife crisis.

and 99 Red Balloons, I mean c'mon!
What the fuck was that for?


What's cool is that I have the same birthday as Dr. Manhattan, who emerged fully formed on November 22nd, which is the best day ever! Especially when its' coupled with the best day in the week, Friday (as it was in '91), when the weekend, two glorious days of untouched freedom stretch out in front of you.

Apparently as Friday's Child, I'm honest and giving?

I've always loved my birthday. It's just cold enough for a refreshing breeze but not freezing, there presents of course,
and usually, somebody out there who likes me, obligies me with a bright moon or some light snowfall. Oh and I finally get to be as old as eveyone else in my class. Take it from me, late birthdays suck! Everyone else is turning 18, and I'm still 17! It'll be harder next year in Ottawa, when I'm still 17 and everyone elses' legal in Quebec. But whatever, it's an awesome day

Plus there's the added bonus that in 2033, it will be 11/22/33. But that's if I live that long, and I kinda doubt that.

But it is a great day, shared by the likes of Karen O., Mark Ruffalo, Scarlett Johanson, and that figure skater guy who's gold was given late at the Salt Lake Olympics. Also, it's Lebannese Independance Day, who knew?

Not so great for Aldous Huxley, C.S. Lewis, JFK, Blackbeard, or the 100 people murdered at the 2002 Miss World Competition in Nigeria

But overall, a pretty great day.

But then again, my age is usually pretty coincidental to whatever's going on for instance:

-I'm 12, and I read Lolita- Lolita is 12

- I'm 14 and I read the Virgin Suicides- Lux Lisbon is 14

- I'm 16 when Sweeney Todd comes out- Johanna is 16

- And I'm 17 when Repo: The Genetic Opera comes out, with an entire (pretty lame, compared to the rest of the thing) song about the power of being 17.

Well, It's better than 40!

(there's tons more, but I can't remember them now.)

On the topic of Lolita, which I read after a creepy guy (*adding more to my age limit theory) on the subway called me a nymphet, and I wanted to know what it meant.

What's amusing about that, besides the obivious ridiculousness of the name Humbert Humbert, is the part in the book where the narrorator tries to imagine the reader of the book (which is supposed to be a Death Row confession), as an intellectual. He figures the reader would be an older man with wire glasses and grey hair, with a leather elbowed blazer, smoking a pipe in his office.

As then, picture me, the little thirteen year old blonde girl, with the jump rope, and the baby face.
I'm a weird one.

Well, Bah-Bye...

Personally, I Just Don't Care.

-*Catcher * (voted Most Dramatic in elementary school, so can't be taken seriously) *Davis*

Food For Thought: Did Dr.Manhattan create our universe, he was considering creating people?What if Watchmen took place in the alternate version of 1985, from back to the future? And anyone else think faceless Rorsarch looks like Alfred E. Newman?

This post breaks my old record of most November 22nd birthdays in the same post.

I'm Dead And Lovely

Yes.

This is just a post of the lyrics to the Tom Waits song Dead And Lovely.
But its SOO pretty!
More later. Or earlier if I somehow perfect a time machine
Just need a Delorean and some Plutonium.....

"She was a middle class girl
She was in over her head
She thought she would
Stand up in the deep end
He had a bullet proof smile
He had money to burn
She thought she had the moon
In her pocket

But now she's dead
She's so dead
Forever dead and lovely now

I've always been told to
Remember this...Don't let a fool kiss you
Never marry for love
He was hard to impress
He knew everyone's secrets
He wore her on his arm
Just like jewelry
He never gave but he got
He kept her on a leash
He's not the kind of wheel
You fall asleep at

But now she's dead
Forever dead
Forever dead and lovely now

Come closer, look deeper
You've fallen fast
Just like a plane on aStormy sea
She made up someone to be
She made up somewhere to be from
This is one business in the
World where that's noProblem at all
Everything that is left
They will only plow under
Soon every one you know
Will be gone

And now she's dead
Forever dead
Forever dead and lovely now

Now she's dead
Forever dead
Forever dead and lovely now

I've always been told to
Remember this...Don't let a kiss fool you
Never marry for love
Everything has its price [2x]

What's more romantic
Then dying in the moonlight?
Now they're all watching the sea
What's lost can never be broken
Her roots were sweet
But they were so shallow

And now she's dead
Forever dead
Forever dead and lovely now

And now she's dead
Forever dead
And she's so dead and lovely now"

-Tom Waits

If I am ever amazing enough for a biopic, this needs to be in it!

-Catcher in The Roses

Two headed boy, I'm in love with you!
Completely
Irrevocably.......

"I'm just a musical prostitute, my dear". -Freddie Mercury

Being Laughed At By Crows

" Frink: Or you could take something that already exists, and think of a new use for it-

Homer: Like Hamburger Earmuffs?"

-The Simpsons

"I think there’s something sinister going on in here. If you find anyone or parts…of anyone, scream.....

And scream again."

-Chandler, Friends

"Winston Egbert wants to start an annual poor people’s ball where no one “with incomes of more than $500 a year allowed,” which sounds a hell of a lot more fun that the Bridgewater Bore."

-1Bruce1 Sweet Valley snarks.

I'll go screaming and wearing my own hamburger earmuffs (extra cheese please!).

"I'm fairly sure this means that we're going to see a lot of models dressed like orphan boys holding copies of Howl, and if there's one thing a modern woman wants, I think, it's to appear as though she has just escaped from the clutches of Evil Headmaster Wackford Squeers, who beat her more than the rest of the foundlings simply because she kept trying to organize group readings of Naked Lunch. "

-Go Fug Yourself .Com

I'll go to that too. In crushed velvet shorts and white lace tights, with worn work boots.

'cause I'm that cool.

Imagine it you will, a typical day at The Daily Planet. Suddenly, Clark Kent's glasses fall off:

Random Guy: Oh My God it's Superman!

Clark: (puts his glasses back on) What?

Random Guy: He's gone!

Random Guy 2: Where'd he go?

Clark: (takes off his glasses to clean them on his shirt) Strange......

Random Guy: Wait! There he is again!

Random Guy 2: Its a bird, no a plane. No its Superman!

Clark: (puts glasses back on) Where?

Random Guy: He's gone again! What the hell?

Clark: How do I keep missing him? (winks)

Random Guy 2: Oh Clark, you just away seem to be gone when ever something exciting happens!

I used to think this whole idea was so silly. I mean Superman doesn't wear a mask or go under cowl, and yet a simple pair of glasses make his alter ego unrecognizeable. I mean really! If you wear glasses, you're going to take them off everyonce and a while, at least to clean them, or to sleep,

so really how did he keep it up? (the same goes for those girls on Sailor Moon, who didn't even use the 'fool proof' glasses disguise).

But maybe, it's not so silly. Maybe its smartest man ever intelligence?

Maybe it's hiding in plain sight, the place you'd never expect, so you don't need to trouble with a serious disguise.

After all, who would expect the original, "mild mannered reporter" (as a reporter, I'll be anything but mild mannered. I can assure of that) of donning a cape and flying through the Metropolis night, beating up bad guys? It'd be like being invisible and unnoticed, so you don't really have to hide. You hide in normalacy. Just naturally blend in.

.....Or maybe, Miss Art Nouveau, needs to calm down and get herself some sort of meds.

And real life experiences and adventures to go all Gonzo on.

Checkmate.

check your emotional baggage and judgments at the door, and ride the fall.

Are we coming to the end? i'll never be your cookie cutter.

Don't even try to fit me in!

At work today we got to talking about superpowers. Of course, because we started finishing each other's sentances, and I shout out, wouldn't it be awesome to be able to read minds?

(just in case any sort of genie or wish granting entity, is listening I'd wish for the power of flight).

But today, I was dreaming of mind reading, so I could know people's secrets. So I could know if the guy I like likes me back, and we're just wasting time staring blankly at each other as if we don't care.

But on the other hand, that'd be a crushing blow. Because, then you might find out more then you would ever want to know. What if everyone you know, everyone you love, secretly hates you?

What if they laugh at you whenever you leave the room, their private joke?

What if its you they're covertly whispering about. (just because you're paranoid, doesn't mean they aren't really out to get you....)

You just can't recover from that.

And once opened, Pandora's box can't ever be closed.

Also, somebody suggested that if the guy you liked, did actually like you, you would hear his possibly perverse thoughts, that might make you stop liking him.

But of course, in my screwed up case, hearing what a guy i like would want to do to me, would be something I'd like.

....unless what he'd like to do was cut me up in little pieces and stuff my in an old gym bag in his garage.....maybe not then.

Hopefully, it would be something possibly constructive like:

"I'm going to follow you around today, and catch you whenever you trip over something". (or don't know how to open a milk carton, and say you broke the milk- and then you choked on a cookie? {only to make you love me, of course}). But then, of course he'd see just how many times I trip over things, and be all 'What The Hell Is Wrong With You???!!! Did you just get your legs yesturday, or something?'

And i'd be like, sure. Don't you like them?

Sale at LegsRUs!

They look killer in fishnets.

But seriously, today I got to rhapsodizing about the same guy I always fall for. You're heard of him, he's infamous. That kind of wasted, killing himself, sickly, addled and throughly addicted Writer-Rocker. The kind of concave, raw, gruff guy troubled with all these beautiful demons, who devours you on some sort of hallucogenic kiss. Poisonous, acidic, maybe a bit rough. You can imagine him spitting and seething. He doesn't apologize, he's just himself, he throws out the punches wherever he goes, inciting controversy with him every step. Gives up normal life for stupidly brilliant plans. He's a genius and makes you feel like a runaway! And you're happy to be, to need him, to support each other in rundown cellars and depraivity, wait backstage. And no matter how old you're getting you play the little girl. You just nourish each other. Help grow and fall apart. The kind of guy who needs a support system, to deal with him, help him survive every day, build him back up so he can at least function again. Just like you're got yours to rebuild you when things get rough or bloody.

Because living with danger is living and dying at once.

Beautiful.

And loved to death.

Everyday's a frightening adventure. You could live or die each minute, get off on a loaded, cocked machine gun, shoved in your willing mouth. And you're better off writing your own eulogy in a running scroll. Updating it like the blog your in love with writing. Imagine living with a dangerous guy like this! I guess they'd be a certain amount of

danger living with him. Just never let him try out a William Tell routinue with a highball glass on your head.

He's the guy that laughs at your klutziness, but not in a mocking way, but in bemusement, as if you're a piece of physical comedy set up for his own enjoyment.

But if i had my own comedy film, it would be so hilarious!

Would you just watch hours of me tripping over myself,and twisting my rubber band face into crazy expressions. So oscar worthy.

I read somewhere that crows are a bad omen, that show you that something bad is going to happen. So, I'm scared.

Yesturday as I'm walking back to school after lunch, there's the biggest crow, I've ever seen, ink black, sitting atop the chain link fence. And seriously, it looks like he's watching me, his all knowing gaze seems to follow me wherever I go. And as I try to escape into the school, he keeps cawing, and its really like he's laughing at me. He keeps doing it, right after I turn to look at him, he starts again as I try to walk away. And this morning, as I'm walking to school there's another crow flying far in the distance, and somehow I know its the same crow.

Lastly, today in Writer's Craft, I'm sitting there trying to listen, and my giant crow goes flying so quickly by the window across the room that if I blinked, I would have missed it.

But no one else seemed to notice. (did I dream it?)

So what's going to happen? Who's going to fall?

Please don't let it be me. I'm already on my way down without the crow's help.

Seriously, the crows are laughing at me! No Joke!

No matter how bad things get though, I am resolved in my idea that things can always get better, and just don't know what could happen if you wait it out another day. I mean did you hear about the girl, an aspiring actress who could get any jobs and killed herself by jumping off the Hollywoodland sign (before it was just Hollywood) as an ironic comment about the industry?

The next day, some studio went to offer her a starring role in a major movie, that would have launched her career.

That's irony!

So you never know what could happen tommorrow. It's a fresh new start. A brand new day to paraphrase Dr. Horrible.

Lately, I've been discovering that i'm not half bad at drawing, something I never was too good at. Sunday, I'm bored and I start drawing a picture of my Dad as Batman, casting me and my sister as Batgirl and Robin, respectively. And It came out amazingly! Like the cape was actually moving, and he was actually stalwart and muscular.

Why am I so good at artsy things, but so lacking in practical life skills?

So later, we're watching a movie, and eating pizza, and I'm sitting beside my Dad on the couch.

And I realized something, when he leaned over and whispered in my ear, "I love you Barbara Gordon" . And it made me think, The Killing Joke really is my dad’s worst nightmare. It WOULD drive him crazy for real. So if he really was Jim Gordon, or Bruce Wayne, we’d be in serious trouble.

Also, I would not be too happy to be paralyzed, and end up with a kind of boring desk job instead of adventure. So the understatment of the year!

The New Nouveau wishlist:

- Sweet Valley High Board Game (Oooh Bruce Patman)
- TNA Sweaters White and Raspberry
- Acid Wash Skinny Jeans
- Ripped Ragged Bell bottom- ish jeans
- Liquid eyeliner
- Chocolate coloured suede boots
- One of those sweet silver bullet necklaces
- Plum suede coloured heeled boots
- Normal Watches- Pink I Want Candy watch (the only watch I think I would ever wear)
- Baby doll dresses
- Shakespeare Without The Boring Bits Book
- Alice in Wonderland Dress
- Class Ring- Garnet
- Baby Blue Tall Suede Uggs
- Jawbreaker DVD (to sit happily beside Heathers and Mean Girls on my shelf)
- Pink converse to abuse
- Neon pink nail polish
- The Joker graphic novel (the one with the creepy , awesome picture of his smile on the cover)
- Lots of Fred Flare goodies, such as: an ice cream cone lamp, pirate ship necklace, gold retainer necklace, cassette tape earrings and cake shaped make-up bag
- Pencil skirts, or flared ones
- Gladiator sandals

And on an end note of ponderment,

I just got my new copy of Nylon magazine, the epitome of cool (my writer's craft teacher asks us to bring in copies of the bible to demonstrate how different translations differ. This IS my bible. Got a problem with my new religion? Coolism?). Seriously wondering if there is something wrong with Kristen Stewart (or Miss Bella Swan of Twilight fame), the cover girl for March in case you were wondering. Can she do more than one expression, or pose? 'Cause her entire photoshoot is like 7 pictures of her that look exactely the samre except for her outfits.

Weird. I do not idolize, or want to be this girl.

I'm Me. and that's just perfection,

-Catcher

I Am Tired Of Earth

What do you learn from love?
What can you do when there's nothing you can do but cry?
What can you do when you're alone even in the middle of a crowd?
What can you do when you're invisible, and walking in darkness, no matter what you do?

What are you when nobody loves you?
How can you live if nobody ever will?


Why can't anyone tell me?


I'll sit in my grey dress, and worn lace shoes, and idly listen to ninties music, I'll pretend its still then, before I had to chosen my destiny, before I had a forefront of uncertainty to leap into, before the world was strange and I had to try to fathom it.

Before I knew what sadness meant,

Before I felt in need of love, so deeply It feels like I'm dying of a broken heart.



I'll sip a glass of ice water, sit at the top of the stairs, leaning against the buckled wall, framed it the picture window. I'll watch the cars go by, going home and cry for no reason, devoid of thought behind my actions, unknowing myself.

I cry salt tears, from blind eyes, that watch the world move while I sit frozen in time, a being of the air, floating,

Til I crash and fall.



I'll close my eyes and pretend the world is disappearing, crashing around me. I'll feel it as if it was real, and it will become so in my tear striken eyes. I'll feel the ground fall away below me, the walls crumble into dust, the beauty outside vanish into firey haze and disease.



I'll watch the burning, I'll feel the flames on my skin, but I'll pick myself of the battered ground, and walk forward into my life, never looking back.

My world, my life, my loves, everything I've ever had, wanted and needed gone forever.



And I won't care.



That'll be my salvation,

and I'll walk to the end of the world, in hopes that love may wait there.
What else can a lost world, devoid of promise, of life, of freedom from destiny, from want have to offer.

What else can save us, redeem us, but love?



-Catcher

Can anything really end?

Please Meet Me By The Talking Tree

Bored?

So here's something someone sent to me that, I found so incredibly absurd, that I just had to post it here. Apparently, it's a checklist originally put out by some church group somewhere (the same ones who want schools to only teach creationism and deny evolution), for parents to see if their child is a "goth" and is thereby in need of saving.
Apparently, almost everyone in the world is a goth.
Someone I was talking to pointed out that even the pope would have to check off some off theses things!

So heres' a laugh, see how many you apply to. If its at least five, well sorry you're doomed (but we'll all have a big fun party in hell with loud music, and laugh at all the goody two shoes angels). Or for a twist, you could turn it into a game, and take a drink for each answer that applies to you. You'll certainly be having more fun, by the time you're done!

*Just to clarify, I did not write this list and I do not agree with it. It is here soley for the purposes of mocking*

Here we go: The comments in Red are my commentary

"Listed below are some warning signs to indicate if your child may have gone astray from the Lord. Gothic (or goth) is a very obscure and often dangerous culture that young teenagers are prone to participating in. The gothic culture leads young, susceptible minds into an imagined world of evil,darkness, and violence.
Please seek immediate attention through counseling, prayer, and parental guidance to rid your child of Satan's temptations if five or more of the following are applicable to your child:

-Frequently wears black clothing. (like half of my school)
-Wears band and/or rock t-shirts. (see above comment)
-Wears excessive black eye makeup, lipstick or nail polish. (Most of the girls, and some emo guys)
-Wears any odd, silver jewelry or symbols. Some of these include: reversed crosses, pentagrams, pentacles, ankhs or various other Satanic worshipping symbols (Oh, get a life!)
.-Shows an interest in piercings or tattoos. (Doesn`t everyone.)
-Listens to gothic or any other anti-social genres of music. (Marilyn Manson claims to be the anti-Christ, and publicly speaks against the Lord. Please discard any such albums IMMEDIATELY.) (Not this again!)
-Associates with other people that dress, act or speak eccentrically.
-Shows a declining interest in wholesome activities, such as: the Bible, prayer, church or sports.-Shows an increasing interest in death, vampires, magic, the occult, witchcraft or anything else that involves Satan. (you mean avoids boring stuff for interesting stuff)
-Takes drugs.
-Drinks alcohol.
-Is suicidal and/or depressed. (this is why you should get the mental help, not for being a `Goth`)
-Cuts, burns or partakes in any other method of self-mutilation. (This is a Satanic ritual that uses pain to detract from the light of God and His love. Please seek immediate attention for this at your local mental health center (Ditto)
-Complains of boredom. (is human)
-Sleeps too excessively or too little. (is a teenager)
-Is excessively awake during the night. (teenager)
-Dislikes sunlight or any other form of light. (This pertains to vampires promoting the idea that His light is of no use.)
-Demands an unusual amount of privacy.
-Spends large amounts of time alone.
-Requests time alone and quietness. (This is so that your child may speak to evil spirits through meditation.) (um....sure)
-Insists on spending time with friends while unaccompanied by an adult. (who hangs out with thier friends, chaparoned)
-Disregards authority figures; teachers, priests, nuns and elders are but a few examples of this. (teenager)
-Misbehaves at school.(ditto)
-Misbehaves at home.(ditto)
-Eats excessively or too little. (ditto)
-Eats goth-related foods. Count Chocula cereal is an example of this. (loves me some corrupting sugary breakfast cereal. Sends you straight to hell.)
-Drinks blood or expresses an interest in drinking blood. (Vampires believe this is how to attain Satan. This act is very dangerous and should be stopped immediately.)(ok, this one is scary)
-Watches cable television or any other corrupted media sources. (Ask your local church for proper programs that your child may watch.) (WTF!)
-Plays videos games that contains violence or role-playing nature. (Teenage boy)
-Uses the internet excessively and frequently makes time for the computer.(teenager)
-Makes Satanic symbols and/or violently shakes head to music. (is human)
-Dances to music in a provocative or sexual manner. (is apparently attending a high school dance)
-Expresses an interest in sex.(is human)
-Is homosexual and/or bisexual. (there is nothing wrong with this, its just a different sexual orientation! Grow up!)
-Pursues dangerous cult religions. Such include: Satanism, Scientology, Philosophy, Paganism, Wicca, Hinduism and Buddhism. (I could picture some fanatical church group putting the rest of these on here, and scientology sounds pretty creepy, but philosophy! How is that a cult or a religion. I just finished a philosophy course in a catholic high school!)
-Wears pins, stickers or anything else that contains these various phrases: "I'm so gothic, I'm dead", "woe is me", "I'm a goth". (sure. Cause real Goths have to wear buttons that proclaim them as such. soon it`ll be a giant scarlett G in the middle of their chests)
-Claims to be a goth. (duh...are you Cletus the Slack Jawed Yokel)

If five or more of these apply to your child, please intervene immediately. The gothic culture is dangerous and Satan thrives within it. If any of these problems persist, enlist your child into your local mental health center

So..........
What'd you get?
You a Goth then?
I'd be pretty scared for you if this list said you weren't. Then I'd have to get you to a 'local mental health center'.
You've got to try to live! Oh, and go have some Count Chocula!


Frankly, I think whoever wrote the list originally, should get some mental help, themselves!

-Yours in Condemnation,

Cather

See you in hell! I'll bring the chips!

Chockful Of Awkweirdness

"To the Looking-Glass world it was Alice that said "I've a sceptre in hand, I've a crown on my head.Let the Looking-Glass creatures, whatever they beCome and dine with the Red Queen, the White Queen, and me!"'
"Then fill up the glasses with treacle and ink,Or anything else that is pleasant to drink: Mix sand with the cider, and wool with the wine--And welcome Queen Alice with ninety-times-nine!"

-Through The Looking Glass

"I am used to going out at 3 AM and doing something stupid"

- Watchmen Poster

"Journalist: So are you a mod or a rocker?

Ringo: I'm a Mocker."

- A Hard Day's Night

Yeah, Well I'm a Mocker too. I'm also highly adept at finding myself in the most idioic situations at the strangest hours of the night. I swear, I don't sleep (unless I'm at school, apparently), I'm like a vampire, or a martian (Will the real Martian please stand up?)...or something.

At the moment, I'm pretty Freaking bored out of my skull (candy). I SHOULD be asleep by now, being past 1 in the morning on a Friday (happy early TGIF, everyone! Champagne and party hats all around), but I'm stuck taking notes for my stupid ISU for English class, the one my english teacher (the artist formerly known as my grade nine french teacher) told us on Tuesday was due Friday, after previously letting us believe we had a long time before we even needed to start our books.

Mine, being Alice Munro's Lives of Girls and Women, making every other sentance I write sound all feminazi-ish, and making me cringe thousands of times at the way women in the early fifties had to live, and how rare it was that the protagonist was going to university, and escaped from her small town (Go Del!), Fast forward to 2009, and I'm rejoicing, even though I've been trying to get away since I could crawl (but then my grand escape plans included Disneyland and Mister Roger's Neighbourhood- like Stewie and Jolly Farm!) and It was pretty much asumbed I'd go to university. Sadly no one is surprised by my grand relvation of becoming a writer, and studying Journalism, a breakthough that felt so earth shattering to me, but was probably brought on by too much Rory Gilmore, Sabrina Spellman, And Becky Bloomwood as I was growing up. (sidenote: Del's mother, is pretty much a description of my own mother, the one who, upon hearing that the town Santa Claus parade had rejected my work's application to be in it, as too controversal, remarked; "You Really Are My Daughter!")

The deadline was a very rude wake up call (like my bitch of an alarm clock, only redeemed by the idea that, it's called a Dream Machine) literally as I was half asleep had had to be nudged awake by my friend sitting beside me (the girl who will save the world one day, I swear), and figurativly as I'm still all triumphant (or "riding on my laurels", as the teacher, who I refuse to call anything but Madame, phrased it) at being the only one in the class (including the genius kid everyone's intimidated by, the one who into full philosophical discussions on Proust when you're just trying to copy his classnotes) to get my topic proposal accepted on the first try.

Actually come to think of it, In that respect, the academic faction of my scatterbrain life, I've actually been pretty good this week. I got ninties on my medival history test (I would not be setting my sights on a writting career if I couldn't without fail, pull of the trip of writting a test essay that sounds intelligent and insightful, but is actually just me rehashing everything I can remember of the unit, even if it has no relation to the essay topic), and my several editted down analysis of the third canto of the Inferno, the one in which I said writing the Divine Comedy was cathartic and purging for Dante (ooh scandal)

And my Writer's Craft teacher, actually liked my weirdly off kilter Sci-fi-esque story about techno -saboutage, candy as a drug, time travel, and stolen identies, Infleunced by reading Rant, watching that episode of the Sid and Nancy episode of the Simpsons (on a side note, my parent's affectionate nicknames for each other are Sid {Vicious} and Laura {Petrie} of Dick Van Dyke which I will always remember for being censored in that episode of Family Guy, and being The beep Van beep show) where they used chocolate for heroin and called everything Bollocks.

Nevermind them.

I was so sure she'd look at it and say What The Hell? Which is what i would do if I was a teacher and the girl in the front row of my class, who makes makes worthless attempts at livening up her bland uniform with a new brightly coloured purse or necklace every single day, handed me a story with such a weird convoluted plot.

In the end she said it reminded her of Fahrenheit 451, to which I said Dystopia!

Hells yeah!

(because really Utopia is one of those things, that'd be more fun to live than write about. If we actually lived in a Utopia, we'd probavly stop writting as we'd one write about distanced conflicts in the past that had no effect on our new lives, and would just depress us all, or make us suspicious of some sort of canabalistic plot (To Serve Man....It's a cookbook!) or go extreme like that episode of Charmed where the world got to good and they started shooting people for trafic violations or cutting peoples tongues out for swearing.

Seriously how do I get away with this stuff?

I'm almost waiting for someone to call me out on it, or expose me as a fake. The brain police, they'd have some sort of chant, and spent their weekends playing dungeons and dragons and planning out Watchmen cosplay. Not that I actually condemn geekiness, because to be honest I think I'm just supressing my inner geek, and denying her an argygle sweater vest, and glen plaid Knee length shorts, to wear with her tight retro Batman shirt. One day, When I'm acceptably thin again (but not scarily thin and sick like last time), and have a boyfriend who will most likely be some sort of fanboy and who will have to get used to being made the counterpart in my escapades, I'll probably fit some excuse to be all Fangirl, and try to copy the outfit from BTAS: Harley's Holiday, which will clearly border on indeceny or will showcase my klutziness on rollerblades (because really I'm bad enough on flat surfaces), but really, the entire plot of the episode is about Harl's klutz tendencies, and childishness...so, no problems there.

(oh and I accidently stumbled upon this german video, with someone playing Hitler, subtitled so that he's complaining in this whole 4 minute rant about the Watchmen movie, and asking all non-fanboys to leave the room. Pretty hardcore! How do people come up with this stuff?)

Somehow, I got labelled as one of the smart kids, which is really strange as I'm actually quite stupid. Or maybe I'm smart, if you're spelling it SMRT or dancing while you burn your high school dipolma (that's a word I can't even spell).

Some of the reasons why they might get the (false) impression that I'm in any way intelligent:

a) I wear glasses, cool red plastic Miu Miu ones, I actually bought in England (funny store there... basically me breaking my old ones while I was shopping on Oxford street)

b)I have read a lot, which itself has three causes: 1. My parents have huge library and always encouraged me and my sister, (both named after Jane Austen heroines) to read (only I really got the message), and now as I'm in a habit of sneaking their worn classics or beat stuff to my room, and then absorbing it into my own collection, and often find the books full of underlines or margin notes (although ones that had to do with the book. If i was writing the margin notes, they'd be random pens). 2. I have a huge imagination, that had to be channeled somewhere before it drove everyone near me crazy ( Like in Through The Looking Glass, where Alice is playing with her sister and decides she will be the dog, her sister the bone, or her sister will be the knight, and she'll be everyone else, We actually have homemovies of me and my sister playing Cinderella, wherein I got to play everyone else, and she was the prince (because her Prince was boring! He's not Prince Eric or Philip, He's not the beast, he doesn't even have a name!), and 3. I was bullied alot in elementary school, and turned to books to fill my recesses (actually I should thank those jerks for getting me into my first choice school early decision-so last laugh=Mine!).

c) I know a lot of big words, although I usually use them improperly, or can't spell them, and usually decide to pronouce them however I feel they should sound. Because big words intimdate people. And people like to pretend they know what your talking about.

d) I have a habit of using oddly english/adult phrasing, probably because I credit myconcept of the english language to Shakespeare plays, so when we finally got to study them in high school, and everyone was complaining about what the hell it all meant, and grousing about all the doths and thous, it was like my second language. (I'm actually pretty good at reading the girl parts in the plays, particularily Desdemona, as I read the lines fast and without the awkward pauses or stumbling that everyone else seems to get. Reading from Oedipus Rex, is a different story, as i learned yesturday when Madame made me read Iokaste's (the Queen) lines, and my voice would only come out chirpy and ingenue-ish (like I was trying to imatate Judy Garland in the Wizard of Oz), when I'm supposed to be a scared old(ish), woman in a tradgedy).

e) And lastly, because I have a strange habit of writting a lot (which you've probably got by now, if you've stuck around, this long that is). But I can't help that! I love to write, it just comes so naturally, like a posession, that won't let me go until I've written whatever it is. It's like how in history class, we were talking about how Michelangelo was so obsessed with his work, that it because his life, that it became part of him, until whatever work was finished. The clear difference, being that Michelangelo actually finished his pieces, rather than letting scraps of sculptures (or in my case, poems and manuscripts) littered around his room, along with the empty diet coke cans, and the thousands of pairs of shoes he forgot he had (and also he made ART, and is remembered and respected for it. I doubt I'd ever get that).

Somehow, as I'm supposed to be the smart, thoughtful, social concious and religious girl (all of which are utter lies, except maybe thoughtful...but that's on a good day...maybe), they gave me all these awards at academic awards night, which is the humiliating night (on a thursday, as is every single event held at BR) where the call out award winners' names and put a spotlight on them as they awkwardly stumble up to the stage and trip over their own feet on the way down (...not that that happened to me of me, of couse), but at least they give you programs that say who gets what, at the beginning so you have time dread them calling your name. This year, they decided to be overly sadistic, and print huge posters of the major award winners, with their school photos the size of a page of notebook paper and put them on display in the trophy case.

My horrible picture which I planned never to show anyone, my dark roots on golden blond hair, my weirdly pale and plastic looking face and that lone strand of my one length hair in front of my eyes.

Eww.

You'll be happy to know, I've since dyed my hair a dark brown, cut it and got bangs, and am feeling much better, thank you.

Somehow I can never take a good school photo, no matter how much I try, or practise in front of my mirror, in between singing along to Spring Awakening in my hairbrush, it never seems to help at all. It's like some weird curse. I tremble to think what my grad photo must look like! Maybe I'll pull an Oedipus, and gouged out my eyes so I won't have to. Or I could be less horribly dramatic and Pretend, I've gone blind, and then everyone would be all sympathetic and tell me how pretty I was, even if I had my hair in a lackluster bun, or if I have a strange cut in the corner of my mouth that looks like the begining off a Chelsea grin, and hurts when I try to smile.

I cringe whenever I walk by that hall, with my picture, announcing in big letters that I'm smart, so people I've never even met, expect me to be all organized and on top of things, in other words, expecting me to do all the work on group projects (soooo not happening. I'm the slacker one, I called it first).

Which is sad, because that hall used to be fun as I could look at my name on all the plaques, and think, Suckers!

New Word/Portmaneau of The Day:

Awkweird

(clearly Awkward+Weird, or if you want a synoym,

Catcher Davis.

G'nite.

Don't do anything I would do.

Also I'm Extremely pleased to report that, as of today both my real name and This Pen name get several hits on Google !

Cool. I exist