Hugs Are A Gateway Drug

"Take me out tonight
Oh, take me anywhere,
I dont care
I dont care,
I dont care
Driving in your car
I never never want to go home
Because I havent got one,
da ...Oh, I havent got one
And if a double-decker bus
Crashes into us
To die by your side
Is such a heavenly way to die"

-There is a Light That Never Goes Out, The Smiths

“I pledge allegiance to United Turtles of America and to the fruit bats of Borne, one planet in the Milky Way, incredible, with justice and black bean burritos for all.”

- Stargirl, Jerry Spinelli

Harry Edward London London Oranges!

Today is a bright new day in the continued saga of Miss Art Nouveau.
As the (non existant) devout followers of the Grand Nouveau teachings, may have noticed, my blogger identity has now changed. After so long of being Catcher, I'm starting to wonder what I'm waiting for, who can catch me, who ever would even try
And then, wondering around my basement in my socks, watching Buffy on DVD, I found my old copy of Stargirl, the classic of Young Adult lit about refusing to conform.

The back of the book provacably reads
"She was elusive. She was today. She was tomorrow. She was the faintest scent of cactus flower, the flitting shadow of an elf owl. We did not know what to make of her. In our minds we tried to pin her to a corkboard like a butterfly, but the pin merely went through and she flew away."
- Stargirl

Yet again, everything I've always hoped someone would say about me when I'm not around. Everything they never will.

The title character, Stargirl Caraway (born Susan) does strange things like dressing in costumes and personas (which I so plan to do), connecting with nature, and random kind actions (pre- Pay It Forward, and Post Secret {which is addictive}), like singing happy birthday to everyone, waving to people in the hall, sending homemade cards and presents for special occcassions (like Porcupine neckties), keeping records on people, and just completely refusing to crae what anyone else thinks of her (until she is sort of forced to, which makes her the most unhappy she's ever been, until she becomes herself again).
Most important, she has the courage to tell the boy she likes, that she loves him, something I may never be able to do.

This book, goes right up there with The Lorax on my classics shelf.

The front pages of my book read a message across time, penned by my childhood self, in case I lost my way. A real gem in my childish, slanted writing, the I's dotted with hearts.

"Don't forget.
You are Stargirl. You are whoever YOU want.
But I'm just stuck on Susan. I try so hard to fit, but I just don't wear normal well. It doesn't suit me. I'm contrainiess, cynicism, hopes, dreams and scandal. I'm one of a million, yet I am only one. Be that person, stop worrying what others think, stop being good, stop the hypocrite. You may not be accepted, but at least you'll like yourself.
For once..."

Clearly, my childhood self was going through some terrible stuff. I complain now about pain and lonliness, but today I can't even remember how hurt I felt then, it feels so distant, it's as if it's a memory from another life. I really haven't changed much where it counts. I'm still me. Somewhere deep inside, I'm still me.
No one can take that away.
Baby.


(sidenote: I've retitled my poetry book, it's now called Artifical Sweetener)

I cannot even begin to explain how much my childhood self loved this book. When my eight year old self first read this, I decided that one day I would be like Stargirl, finally having the courage to be myself, weird and unapologetic for it. As I'm always assuring my ragtag band of misfits (and myself), the idea of normlacy is relative (and throughly boring!!).

What if we're the normal ones, and everyone else is weird?

But I'm still too shy to accept my own ideals, hiding behind my fringe of frizzy hair and my baggy uniform sweater, and a sullen frown. I'm still waiting to be myself, but I have to wonder if I'll ever actually stop, and let myself live.

To quote Stargirl herself, “I’m not my name. My name is something I wear, like a shirt. It gets worn. I outgrow it, I change it.”
So, now I'm Stargirl, to remind myself that I have the power to be remembered, the power to refuse to fit into some lame cookie cutter image of what a girl should be.
Remember, I'm The Art Nouveau Girl, I'm just better than that.

These days, I'm discovering more and more, that nothing of me is truly original, but rather, tiny pieces stolen from each person I have met in my seventeen short years of life. I would be something unique if I only I could just let myself be, rather than wasting my time rambling on in extremely long blog posts about how miserable it is to be invisible (like that Buffy episode with the invisible girl).
The only really unique things about me are my mutations.

I am a genetic freak, but not where it counts, or count possibly be interesting. Slightly webbed toes, a Gene Simmons tongue that I can reach up to my nose (if I wanted to I could actually pick it with my tongue, but of couse i wouldn't), and a heart shaped birthmark (which I kind of love-actually) on the back of my right upper thigh.

Official Segway.......

There are two anthropological experiments I want to do :

1. Asking random strangers I met in my daily life, to tell me a story and then recording them into a book, which would reveal profound differences between people and how they see the world. What is most important to each person, revealed by thier answear to the simple question: tell me a story...(although, most people wouldn't cooperate., which is really sad...)

2. Inspired by an episode off my brand new season one Supernatural DVDs (a blast from the past, as I watched it religiously in grade nine, and then somehow fell out of it)(also, Dean Winchester is so freaking hot!!! How did I not notice this in grade nine?), the episode with the ghost guy that adapts with the retallings of his legend and becomes something new: The idea of starting a new urban legend, like renting out a rundown house and making it look haunted, and then spreading the legend and watching how it changes with retellings and is altered over time to suit the morals and values needed at the time.
Like a game of broken telephone.

Some days, you just want to run. Just want to get into the car or on a train, and just drive until there's nothing left, just drove until you're anywhere but here (if you lived here, you'd be home by now) . I'm so aimless and bored and yes, lonliness snuck in there too, as always.

And today yet again, I came out of the book closet, when it was again exposed (this time to my entire writer's craft class) that I've conqured the literary hurdle, that is War and Peace. I really don't know why everyone is so impressed, though.... It was just four snowy days in January of grade ten, one weekday, three a weekend and PA day, of shuffling around through work , to and from the Regional building, with the huge 1,450 page book in hand and reading it when ever I had the chance (mostly in and out of taxis). Nothing to be impressed over. I barely remember it, but I remember it fondly.

I love you...
And as always, more later.

- Stargirl

P.S. remind me to get a tape recorder sometime, and catch some evidence on my sister's dark side. Truly I think this is demonic possession at work, either that, or pure unadulterated evil.

When Will People Learn Reality Has Absolutely No Place In My Universe?

``I know a man who gave up smoking, drinking, sex, and rich food. He was healthy right up to the time he killed himself.``
- Just something I heard somewhere

Well... That was quiet a hiatus there, but thanks to a surprsing amount of energy and fueled by Diet Coke, Your Friendly Neighbourhood Art Nouveau Girl is back to bore you all with my strange mix of cynicism, pessimism, and overwhelming cheerfulness.
How do I do it?
Must be the weather, It's finally sunny here in good old Milton (dripping with sarcasm) after long cold winter (particularily in the school which is trying to kill us, by not putting on the heat), and I'm feeling waves of unexpected notaglia. I keep thinking of a quote from an old Recess (so a grade two reference, right?) episode, where TJ regresses back to kindergarten and goes all Peter Pan complex (sidenote: the complex I invented on Urban Dictionary, The Marty Mcfly Complex [doing something because someone called you coward/chicken/yellow] has been seen by thousands of people, and even spurned a spin-off, type 2 complex- cool!) on us, never wanting to grow up. A line from the episode talking abot the Kindergarteners' carefree life, keeps playing through my mind (along with Daria, by Cake): "Their way of life is coming to an end. Soon they'll be first graders."
This applies to me as well. My way of life for the past seventeen years is ending, I'm stepping headlong into the unknown so, I guess my annoying little inner child is clutching desperatedly at straws, trying to grasp on to that last bit of childhood, and I begin the ardous, often teary process of looking back on my (own) so-called life and realizing just how much I have done (moving, bullying victim eating disorder, depression, self- discovery....etc.)

(UPDATE! - Yay! I got in everywhere I applied! Still going to the first school {Carleton} that accepted me, tho. How can you deny a christmas present?)

So I'm going to sit back with the sun and the light breeze drifting down on me, thinking words like sunbleached and lazy, on my back steps and list what I'm nostagling over:


- The Last Unicorn
- Really Rosie
- The Point
- The Wizard Of Oz
- Big Wolf On Campus
- Rugrats
-Boy Meets World
-My Little Pony
- Strawberry Shortcake
-Clueless (the show)
-Carebears' Alice In Wonderland
-Sabrina The Teenage Witch
-Recess
-The Weekenders
-The Little Mermaid
-Powerpuff Girls
- The Zack Files
-Daria (I didn't really get it, but i loved it. I get it now, and I love it even more! We need more smart shows!)
- Student Bodies
-Forties music on sunday evenings
-Books on tape
-Harry Potter Mania
-Jacqueline Wilson books
-Shakespeare Without The Boring Bits
-Babysitter's Club
-Sweet Valley High
-Caroline B. Cooney Books
-Battle Of The Books (Secret Weapon!)
-Chalk drawing on driveways
-Red Popsicles
-Running through the sprinkler
-YTV
- Junie B Jones
- Batman
- Archie Comics
-Spy Vs. Spy
-Those DVDS and C-Roms that came in cereal boxes
-Scholastic Book orders
-Family Dinners
-Running for the Ice Cream Truck- Vanilla Softserve rocks!
- Sun In
-Gummi Bears, Cherry Blasters (inretrospect, dirty....), Fuzzy Peaches, Swedish Fish, Wax Lips, and Pixie Sticks
-Happy Meals
- Those kid's orders at the movie theatre, with a plastic collector drink, little popcorn, and a funsize (although smaller is not funner!) twizzlers in a little cardboard tray
-Juice boxes
-Ketchup Chips
- Peanut Butter
- Jump Rope
-Maze placemats! (still do 'em)
-Cereal box puzzles (ditto.)
-Listening to my Dad shake the house, playing records
- Barbequing
-Stickers on tests and homework
- Old Hollywood Musicals
-Brittany Spears
-The Spice Girls
-Lame Boy Bands (Platium blonde dyed hair, multicolured leather and silver jewelry.... possibly homosexual...must remember to investigate further)
-The Hit List
- Slam Books
-Plastic Bracelets
-Pigtails
-Jelly Sandals
-YA Fiction
-Claire's
-Dial Up Internet (You've Got Mail!)
-Candy necklaces
- Modelling for Oakville Place (before it went all snobbish)
-Clip on earrings
-Never wearing a watch, unless it was filled with candy
-Big tee shirts and leggings
-Dodgeball
- Hello Kitty
-Scooby Doo
-Pepper Ann
-Barbies
-Bowling birthday parties
-Parties in the Mcdonald's party room with their yellow frosted cake
-Pin the tail on the donkey
- Balloon Volleyball
-Recess! (on the Mother Teresa Dustbowl!)
-Elwy Yost on TVO's Saturday Night At The Movies
- Jungle Gyms
- Trick Or Treating
-Moving to three different schools, because of district boundaries, living in the same place
-Scooters (mine was electric blue), and rollerblades (mine were ruby red)

Ahhhhh.....Nineties kids. Good times. You know, I'm so glad I was a kid when I was. I mean, there was so much variety and creativity with children's things. Now they just slap a picture of Hannah Montana, High School Musical or The Joncas Brothers on something and kids slobber all over it. There's no variety to it anymore. If you really wanted to, you could have everything Hannah Montana, including wall paint, garbage can and plates.

It's sad really...

Like they're trying to stamp out orginal thought. I hate all this Disney Chanel brainwashing.

I really miss Daria. She was so witty and amazinglying cynical and proud of it. She never apologized for being who she was and refused to confrom. She was just so awesome, and up on all her pop culture references, and a writer, like me.


I'm loving her grad speech:
"Um... thank you. I'm not much for public speaking, or much for speaking, or, come to think of it, much for the public. And I'm not very good at lying. So let me just say that, in my experience, high school sucks. If I had to do it all over again, I'd have started advanced placement classes in preschool so I could go from eighth grade straight to college. However, given the unalterable fact that high school sucks, I'd like to add that if you're lucky enough to have a good friend and a family that cares, it doesn't have to suck quite as much. Otherwise, my advice is: stand firm for what you believe in, until and unless logic and experience prove you wrong; remember, when the emperor looks naked, the emperor is naked; the truth and a lie are not "sort of the same thing"; and there is no aspect, no facet, no moment of life that can't be improved with pizza. Thank you."
- Daria, 'Is It College Yet?'

So true.
I really wish they would put out season DVDs!

On another unrelated topic, after being throughly annoyed by the robot baby (named after Jacob from Twilight, but I call it babycakes) my friend has to have for parenting class, and brought to work, (although happily not the freakish robot babies from License To Wed) I am more strengthened than ever in my resolve to never have children. I mean everyone else at the meeting wanted to hold the baby and feed it is plastic bootle, and I'm just thinking: Keep that thing away from me!

I swear, I wanted to hit the baby's head againist the wall, it would make it shut up! How do parents ever get anything done? I can barely get anything done as it is!

And i'm not a heartless child hater or anything, I like kids...in small doses. I would be the worst parent ever: erratic, dreamy, impatient and nearly noctural. It'd be like one of those stories of a kid getting raised by a junkie or a feral child with wolves.

In local news, my 'sunshine yellow' laptop escaped the April Fools virus (I had meant to post a piece about april fools day, such as the BBC Spagetti farming hoax, Rick rolls or the Orson Welles War of the Worlds thing, but I was too busy being a child) that was all over the news for the last few days. I was inordinatedly worried because: 1. I`m a natural worrier and 2. I have a habit of downloading random files and applications to get my computer to do things I really don`t understand. But yesterday I got to thinking, lately there`s been a lot of prankish kind of stuff going on what with all the stolen bikes, this april fools virus, the poisoned dogs in parks, and the stories of dead racoons being posed with flowers, (and while I know it isn`t all the same people, if it was....) doesn`t it sound like a lame rip-off of Project Mayhem.

I don`t know...just something to think about.

I was thinking that this virus might just be the last nail in the PC coffin, the worm that launches a thousand Mac orders, but it also it reminds me of my short story from Writer`s Craft a few weeks ago, where a group called the Retrograde Revolution tried to overthrown techology in order to go back in time.

So last night, I celebrated by downloading hours of the likes of The Pixies, The Smiths, The Unicorns, Radiohead, and Tom Waits. 'Cause I'm cool like that, Dah-lings

Oh, and it you ever want to give someone the finger, without getting in trouble with teachers or parents, put your hand flat under your elbow. Now it's sign language for CN tower. Which I am climbing in a few weeks for work. It feels like hell, but it's actually pretty nice after, 'cause you feel all energetic.

-Catcherkins
Your Source For The Sugar Rush Report

Signing off now, Quote on quote.

Question: What do you do if you just want to go to sleep for a hundred years?
What do you do if you just need to escape?

And Sometimes You Just Want To Dress Up Like A Giant Owl And Fight Crime

Message From A Random Fortune Cookie:

"How far you go in life is not as important as how you get there."

Some Quirks of Mine:

(because I happen to be a fantasiticallly Quirky individual and everyone else is fantaically obscessed with Facebook quizzes trying to get everyone to care about how interesting they are and learn every little detail they find so interesting. They kind of scare me being too private a person, I did one on who were you in high school and the quiz decided since I was a slacker and a dreamer, I was a stoner. As If !

1. I am a genetic freak, but not where it counts or could possibly be interesting or helpful. Instead of something cool like being double jointed or able to roll my eyes back in my head, I have slightly webbed toes and a freakishly long tongue that can touch my nose.

2. I would love to be one of those cool girls who can comfortably read comics and stroll into shops and know exactely which issues she wants and how much to pay. I wish I was well versed enough to sustain a conversation with Dr. Sheldon Cooper, because that would really creep him out, a sort of pretty girl who knows her graphic novels, but what can I say, but that I am professed nerd bait. I do love comic books, well the ones I've read anyway, which amounts to not many at all just a few Detective Comics (We are after all a DC loyal household) my dad had lying around the house, even a pervesly telling Catwoman which said a lot about my father who puports himself to be the real caped crusader ( also I am the only girl I have ever heard of who read both her Mom's old Vaniety Fairs and her Dad's MADs). I only own Watchmen, The Joker HC and a well-read copy of Mad Love, but I've also read The Killing Joke, Arkham Asylum and some Harley and Ivy (but its not really my thing if you catch my drift)

Can you tell which comic book villain I am obscessed with? Hint: It starts with J and ends with oker. I have a vested interest in acquiring the Gotham City Sirens, From Hell and Ghost World, though so we shall see. Pretty much done with Archie comics by now though. They're much to predictable and even slightly sexist, and thier new art direction is gag worthy!

3. Remember that old saturday morning cartoon Recess about the adventures of a group of fourth graders on the blacktop? Well there was a character called swinger girl who spent her recesses on the swing set, forever trying to reach the allusive goal of swinging over the top and 'Breaking on through to the other side'. Yeah, well that was basically me except I wanted to fly, I wanted to swing to far up into the sky that I would never have to come down. I wanted to know everything, to see everything, I wanted to soar far away from the ruthless kids in my class, (mainly the girls) who bullied me into oblivion and my parents who at the time fought in thier every spare moment. I used to say I was afraid of heights, but that was never really true. I was only afraid of falling, of having to come back down to earth.

4. There really is no denying that I can be a bit of a submissive doormat at times, even often. Something must have gone wrong in my DARE classes, because I just can't say no. Really if someone I love wants me to do something, even if it does not appeal to me at all, I have to do it.

It really is a flaw that I can often get so caught up in pleasing everyone around me that I end up neglecting my own happiness. Why I am so obscessed with other people's lives? Is it because at the end of the day, all I really want to do is help people? Even if my own sister claims I'm hopelessly self centred, she is the spawn of Damian and Rhoda the bad seed after all. On the flip side, listening to people makes me do things I never would have on my own, even if I really, really wanted to. I am at naussum telling people to make me do things, just so I will finally do something instead of lying around and watching Secret Diary Of A Call Girl episodes on my computer.

5. There is no better feeling in my life than when I sit down to fill a wide expanse of blank paper with my own words. Really only (visual) artists and writers can understand how excited a blank paper makes me feel. Its so full of possiblity, and I could put anything on it, I could make beauty, I could make art, all I have to is pick up a pen. I consider myself endlessly lucky for the power I have a fountain of ideas, like voices whispering in my head, demons who won't let me rest until I fill the paper with thought, though sometimes it can be trying when I just want to sleep. But I am lucky that I have the surest cure for bad thoughts and depression, I'm a word bulimic. I purge on paper, kicking the hurt out of my mind and on to the page so it is no longer part of me but my creation.

6. My dreams, both day and night are so vivid that when I wake or am recalled back to my life, I am never sure if what I dreamed really happened, for weeks after I rush around like a headless chicken or Marie Antoinette trying to reconcile with reality. My dreams are so far removed from reality, like fairy tales that this really doesn't seem to make sense at all, but I can't help it, its true. I have friends who dream about school, permission slips, flunking tests and showing up at school buck naked, while my dreams are wild, hallucinations full of dinosaurs, clowns and gypsy caravan rides around the world. They're split into town distinctive camps either good wish fullfillment or fantasies from which I wake sundrenched and rested and bad dreams of terror and blood that I can never remember by morning and wake up with a start tossing, turning and drenched in my own salty tears.

However the good nights are rapidly disappearing. I only ever have good days now.

7. I define myself in terms of my birthmarks, my own little spots to proclaim uniqueness. On the back of my right thigh is a tan heart shaped birthmark that I totally look, as hearts are my symbol anyway. I have a small dot by my right eye and another on my right wrist. I even have a starlet dot above my highly cupid's bowed lip, just like Marilyn Monroe.

8. Who by the way, I love. Glamourous, beautiful and heart breaking Marilyn Monroe is the perfect sexed up ingenue, the little girl who became a star to be loved and adored, who justed wanted someone to take care of her for once. Plus we shared the same favourite movie as children, The Wizard Of Oz and both have akward stories of growing up and feeling ugly when we developed more than the girls in our classes. I just hope my own story doesn't end so tragically.

9. My first kiss was at age six when I was trying to put on my own productions of Shakespeare plays in my backyard playground with the neighbourhood kids. Naturally I was always the star.

We were doing my favourite, Romeo and Juilet, and my best friend, the boy next door (well really a few houses down) was my Romeo. We tried to be serious actors but we just couldn't understand what love was and what made it so powerful, so after 'rehersal' , alone in the sandbox, we tried kissing for ourselves. I haven't seen him in years

10. I would love to have motorcycle, a big red and chrome old fashioned harley, that I could ride and feel free as the windrushed by my face. I would totally ensconce myself in a tight leather catsuit, oh so naked under leather and drive really fast with my arms out stretched and my eyes clasped shut in euthphoria (but of course, I'm too afraid of ending up like Rebecca, plowed to death by a passing truck. I also dream of thin hot pink streaks in my hair, but would they clash with my carefully planned ensembles?

11. My mother screwed me up in many, many ways, most of them actually more my falut, but the biggest was her lessons on vaniety. She always taught me that if you think you are pretty or smart or talented, then something will happen that will take it all away. Its gotten so that to this day, I am unable to have high self esteem or think well of myself, because I am terribly afraid of being being punished.

12. My psychology class has enstilled me with the weirdest case of hypochodria. Whereas once I tried to explain away only my physical problems, or any ache and pain as anemia, cancer or lupus (but its never lupus), I now fear I suffer from whatever disorder we study, dissociative identity disorder, antisocial personality disorder, manic depression, etc. although I am pretty sure on the last one... more updates later

13. One thing I have suffered from is an eating disorder, what I like to call borderline Anorexia Nervosa, wherein I displayed all the symptoms and behaviours, but somehow was caught and induced to gain weight before I got scary skinny, but at my lowest point I was less than ninety pounds, fainting and shuting down, so maybe my perspective is off. The weird thing about an eating disorder is that even when you consider yourself healthy you are never really recovered. something inside me chastizes me for gaining even the slightest amount of weight or is disguisted when I even so much as eat lunch instead of starving. Sometimes I still look at myself in the mirror and want to die.

14. I might possibly be some kind of psychic. Weird coincidences always happen to me, like when me and my best friend who I will refer to as Lashes watched Urban Legend, chatting about the prophetic song at its opening and then went a sushi resturant where the same song, which is an old song not even often on radio was playing (kinda like Anthony Rapp and Losing My Religion in his book Without You: love, loss and the musical RENT), or when in grade ten after learning at the assassination of Franz Ferdinand (the archduke not the awesome band), the talked about both on Gilmore Girls that night.

Usually I know whose calling or what we will study each day. Sometimes I even get an eerie sense of what a place or person will be like before I have any idea.

One time, pretending to be retirees, Lashes and I crashed bingo night. Looking at the card that explained the different combinations and games that would be played, I noticed one called Love Letter, it sounded so nice that I decided that if I won a game it would be that one. And Low an behold I won Eighteen dollars.

I just hope I'm not going to have one of those Final Destination visions and have to bury the surviours.

15. I am the messiest person that has ever walked in hot pink Forever 21 corkboard sandals, I hoard things like I'm afraid to lose them even if they don't fit or I don't care about them. As a result my room is a pig sty or as my dad affectionatedly refers to it, a crack den, but I just can't keep it clean. I can't! I pile thing or put the in boxes or the back of the closet, but by that afternoon I have to dig through them in a frenzy to find something and never have the time or energy to put it all together again, even if I had all the king's horses and all the king's men. Neither do I see the point of making my bed, it just gets messy again that night, so why bother?

Sometimes I work better in my chaos though. Even though I never know where anything is and am constantly losing forms or putting things in a safe place and then forgetting where that is, I know things better than I would if I was neat. At best it can be (slightly) organized chaos.

16. I am a firm believer in the art of dancing like no one's watching, but the catch is that I only dance when no one's watching. Actually I love it, when no ones' around I dim the lights and pretend I'm a stripper, even pretending to vamp, flirt and toy with imaginary men. It's a good workout actually, and I'm getting pretty good, plus I can finally understand how strippers stay so thin. My favourite dancing songs are the Theme from Grindhouse: Planet Terror and lots of Britney Spears. I just wish my underwear was more exciting.

17. I find it extremely strange that it seems that the only people who are comfortable singing in public are those who are atrocious at it yet those with talent never can. Singing along with writing and travelling is one of my great loves, and I as many have attested am possesed of a pretty good voice. However, I can never do it in public. Nothing shuts me up faster than someone telling me to sing something at a resturant or on a street corner when I first tell them I sing. Its strange that when being a closet writer and singer, whenever anyone needs to talk you or compliment you they go on about how good a singer or writter you are, even when they've never read or heard you. When I'm home, the entire house vibrates with sound, of me sininging musicals, opera, indies, top 40, or classics in my versiatile soprano, but as soon as I get out the door the song stops. Once I treated Lashes to a performace of Popular from Wicked in a near perfect impression of Kristen Chenoweth's Glinda voice (that's another thing, I'm also a great vocal mimic) and since then she kepts at me to sing more for her and sings Popular whenever she straightens my hair for me ( I can never reach the back), as if I'm the Elphaba she's making over (though Elphie and I do have a lot in common). The few times I've performed for an audience, I've been met with acclaim, actually shocking people who suddenly decided I was a superstar, (yet without confidence or stage presence) , even my own parents looked at me diferently. But I don't know...I'm terrified of wasting my singing. I'm happier when I'm singing than anything else (except writing) since I was born!

18. In my mind, my life is a movie and I like Blair Waldorf , am the ingenue star with the old Hollywood looks. Soundtracking my movie has become a fasinating topic of great importance, suddenly my ipod is glued to my head and I get excited to walk downstairs to get a glass of water because I have the perfect song for it. I have playlists for even the simplest actions, imagining someone is watching me and loving the backing or montages. I am forever searching for the perfect song.

19. I am the owner of over 300 purses, nearly enough for every day of the year. They resides in their own cupboard along with my collection of at leat 80 pairs of shoes and barely ever get any use becuase they are so piled up over one another that pulling one out unleashes a veritable avalanche of leather, plastic and cotton. On the bright side, though it can be like shopping in my own closet, finding purses I don't remember ever seeing before. To be fair though, the most I've spent on a purse is the forty on my velvet 60's style Roxy bag, the majority are gathered cheaply from vintage stores, including a 3 dollar Coach, 2 dollar Louis Vuitton, and 10 dollar Dior. People have no idea how much things are worth. At work I'm purse girl at school I liven up my uniform with a new bag each day, but if Freud is right and purses are phallic symbols, then what am I? I think I like purses because if you gain weight, if you get ugly or fall apart, they never reject you. They are the only truly one size fits all.

20. I hate my stupid Lasenza bras. They don't fit and I constantly fall out or feel like either a matronly fat cow or some B-movie go-go girl with her chest exploding out at the sides, that Russ Meyers would love. Some days I like having a larger chest, somedays I feel fat, because after all that is what boobs are, isn't it?

But at the end of the day, everything that makes me quirky also makes me.

Red Riding Hood

On a Sweeter note, after that last super, self indulgent rant post.

Heard this on the radio today.


May just be the most awesometastic song I have heard, as of late. The rhymes are just so amazingly corny, I mean good rhymes with hood? Who knew?



Plus, the added bonus that I heard in on the radio in my grandmother's car on her oldies station, in between Elvis tracks and traffic reports, sadly not Graphic Traffic (we know why you rubberneck), while I'm sitting there in my little red coat and hood, and point toed heels with what looks like kinky hardware on the front of them.

This is the kind of stuff I'm wishing someone would say to me. A hero.

And anyone else think its awesome that when the fairytale was written , a red hood signified a prostitute?





"LI'L RED RIDING HOOD
Owoooooooo!
Who's that I see walkin' in these woods?
Why, it's Little Red Riding Hood.
Hey there Little Red Riding Hood,
You sure are looking good.
You're everything a big bad wolf could want.



Listen to me.
Little Red Riding Hood
I don't think little big girls should
Go walking in these spooky old woods alone.
Owoooooooo!

What big eyes you have,
The kind of eyes that drive wolves mad.
So just to see that you don't get chased
I think I ought to walk with you for a ways.

What full lips you have.
They're sure to lure someone bad.
So until you get to grandma's place
I think you ought to walk with me and be safe.

I'm gonna keep my sheep suit on
Until I'm sure that you've been shown
That I can be trusted walking with you alone.
Owoooooooo!


Little Red Riding Hood
I'd like to hold you if I could
But you might think I'm a big bad wolf so I won't.
Owoooooooo!


What a big heart I have-
the better to love you with.

Little Red Riding Hood
Even bad wolves can be good.

I'll try to be satisfied just to walk close by your side. Maybe you'll see things my way before we get to grandma's place.

Little Red Riding Hood
You sure are looking good
You're everything that a big bad wolf could want.
Owoooooooo!


I mean baaaaaa!
Baaa?"



-Sam The Sham and The Pharohs





Supreme Seal of Approval,
Luv
The Easiest Catch.

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.