Intense Poetry Day

What do I remember of that conversation?
I remember solemn-faced people, morbid talk,
And scrambling for a phone number we’d only need to call once more.

I remember hearing the words “radiation,” and “useless,”
As my mother wrote down information in her
“Notebook of Death.”

I remember my aunt walking in,
Puffy-faced, wet cheeks.
I remember seeing that pain, and tears welled behind my stubborn lids.

I remember her walking to me,
Rubbing my back.
“She’s a fighter, honey. Don’t forget that.”

I remember leaving her house, people whispering with hugs goodbye.
“Text me if you need me.”
“If you need me, call. I’m only twenty minutes away.”

I remember going home, my nose distorted by my crying.
“I’m fine. GO AWAY.”
I woke up this morning, and I was fine.

At least, I remember that you thought so until you read this.

A Miserable Post

The one thing I managed to garner out of today was that I need to chill out. I mean, I know I'm known for being perky, upbeat, and having an eternal smile (or something like that...) plastered across my face and that is just the problem. I try too hard to go everywhere, be with everyone, be there for everyone, and to do everything I want to do, like being here, Twitter, Facebook, etc, and doing what I have to do, i.e., homework.

But, still, I try to do everything on little to no food, under-hydrated and sleep-deprived. Why do I do it? because I couldn't imagine my life without everything I do. I have a beautiful life, marred only by the fact that I don't take care of myself.

Now, don't worry. This isn't a goodbye to blogging. I'd die (metaphorically, because someone just MIGHT take it seriously) if I permanently stopped blogging.

I'm just feeling thoroughly miserable, due to my own stupidity. :'(

A Thousand Splendid Suns

This is super overdue. A book review on A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini.

This is the best book ever. I mean it. The description, according to Wikipedia is "It focuses on the tumultuous lives of two Afghan women and how their lives cross each other, spanning from the 1960s to 2003."

I cannot do this book justice with a review. I cannot describe this book and make it sound as amazing as it is.

This book is told by adding humans, lives, to the...changing Afghan government. It shows the little things in people's lives, like the "Titanic" fever that spread over the city of Kabul in the 1990's, and gave a heart to people that the rest of world seems to have forgotten.

I learned more from it than I ever have from any other book. Ever. I learned how to say shut up in Farsi (Chup ko) and about the Afghan government. I learned about the culture, and the clothing (not as restrictive as you'd think, due to stereotypes!).

Everything (101)

To begin, this is my 101st blog post. I'm proud of me. And I'm very thankful for everyone who makes my small appearance on the internet seem worth it.

But I've been neglecting this, or just putting up things for my English class, like poems, short stories, etc. Maybe it's because people only write about what really matter to them? Well, I don't know what I stand for. I support gay rights, but I'm not an activist. I hate sexism, but wouldn't consider myself a feminist. I'm not much of anything. I'm a little bit of everything.

My whole life, I've discovered, is going to drama, singing, living for the bell at the end of the day, kissing my boyfriend goodbye everyday. I'm just like anybody else, besides randomly breaking out into song. And I'm scared of it. But also, I'm scared to be unique. Unique where I'm from is a death wish. And, the thing is, I'm too into normal to be TOTALLY unique.

And I've never been happier. If you know me personally, don't even bother thinking why. It monopolizes my every thought. :P

I'm pathetic.

However, I'm in love with our play. The Canterbury Tales. It's a...parody? Satire? I think the word is satire. I have a friend who says it appeals to her to do things like drama VERY MUCH, but she's scared of falling in love with acting, as she believes she can't do it because of certain circumstances. I say, go for it. We're fourteen, just beginning our high school careers. This, early on, is the time to fall in love, and have our hearts broken. There are hundreds of people who manage to make small, but manageable careers of acting. If there's a reason one would never be considered for a lead role, then guess what? Supporting characters are the ones that are the most overlooked, because no one wants to "support." They want to lead. Then, we always have our ensembles.

Just letting everyone know there's no reason to be dissuaded. But, she already has a sure course of action after we finish here at SFH (School From Hell). I'm worried about that. I can't think of anything I would wanna do besides... (hold the laughter) singing. And I've told so many people, I could never do that, it's not practical.

But who said dreams were practical?

Now I'm sad. I should go.

Realities (A Short Story by Yours Truly)

A little bit o' fiction for y'all. For those who have read it, no need to stay. For those who have not, please enjoy!


I watched as she slept, my otherworldly glow illuminating various parts of the room as I slowly twirled on the plain black swivel chair. I stopped, facing the bed and saw her navy eyes ice over, and stare into me. I cringed from the possessed look on her face.
“Why are you here? Go away! I hate you! You left me, all alone, you know. You went crazy and Mom and Dad got me the shrink. I don’t know you. I never have!” The judgment in her venomous words sunk through my non-skin. She over my non-body. Her eyes, once a velvet midnight, now a haunting midnight, scanned my arms and she sneered at me. “Nice to see you aren’t mutilated on this plane of existence. It was a lovely way I found you, huh? Drowned in yourself in the bathtub, what a lovely sight! Wouldn’t you think so, hon?” Her voice cracked on the endearment and she turned from me, or, rather, my ominous, ghostly glow. She covered her face with a lace-edged pillow, and I knew she was crying.
“Kirsten,” I said as I reached out towards her. “Listen for a second,” and I was cut off. Not by my tearful sister, or myself, but both us. A string had been cut, I could tell when my passed right through her shoulder. I wanted to explain my craziness, thoughts, actions. I had to get them all out of me, but couldn’t. Time had run out. I couldn’t pat her cheek, kiss her hair, hug her good-bye. I was being taken away, and had to be saved. However, she was on the other end of desperation: all-consuming anger. So, I screamed for her.

I screamed.

I screamed, grabbing the plastic arms of the lawn chair I was sitting in. My eyes rolled over the room I was in. It was on wheels, a trailer attached to a car, all painted to look clownish and foreign. I was trembling in my seat. I recalled walking into the trailer, weighed down by my misery. I had dropped a bill into an ornate box, cradling the cash of all the woman’s other costumers. I had whispered my evil question, and she stroked my cheek, before grabbing my jaw and pouring a strange liquid with no taste or smell in my mouth. I remembered letting the harmless liquid slide down the throat, and being pinned to the chair, not feeling anything, and my eyelids drooping…
I stared at the woman. She was closing a large cabinet and she turned around. She looked at me, her red eyes rimmed in the thickest eyeliner I had ever seen. The strange-colored eyes looked mysterious and beautiful. I knew I looked like a zombie, and rubbed at my eyes.
The woman approached me and spoke. “I told you, girl, that I could answer any question. Did I, for you?” I was still pinned to the chair, and didn’t answer. She leaned in front of my face and “Do you know why you are alive?”
I cringed and nodded, tracing the scars on one arm. For a moment, she watched with a foreign mask plastered She then grabbed my arm and pulled me out of the chair with surprising strength and roughness. “You must go. There are people waiting for us both,” and I left.
I pushed out of the trailer blindly, and nodded at the middle-aged woman who was next. She twiddled her fingers, and looked at me, asking a question. I didn’t have a magic like the woman in there, but as I nodded, I knew I had answered it right. She stepped in quickly, and the wind began to toss my hair.
I saw her, sitting, leaning against a tree about five yards from the trailer, drowning out the world with her headphones. I walked to her and poked her with the tip of my boot. She looked up, ripping the earbuds out of her ears. “Dia! Did she cheat you?”
I shook my head, smiling. I told her, as I pulled my sleeves over my wrists. “Silly girl, she’s no joke,” humor left my face as I told her, “She can answer any question. Even the ones you’re too afraid to ask.”
She looked at me, at my pulled sleeves, and a glaze was painted from the pupils, beyond the whites of her eyes. Even her eyelashes went out straight. “I hope she gave you the right answer,” Kirsten whispered.
“She did.”

A Childhood Favorite

Last night, my good friend RICHARD and I started planning a Disney Movie Marathon, including some of our closest buds. Everybody is totally psyched to actually do this. (Except, ironically, my boyfriend...) I was wondering why, so I decided to analyze why I love Disney movies.

1) The hand-drawn animations. Yes, I was talking before CGI. There's something so much more child-friendly about something that wasn't made on a computer. 2-D is far too underrated. Besides, the little creatures are cuter. Think I'm wrong? Go watch any Universal Studios movie, and then go watch Snow White.

2) They give classic stories another chance in the spotlight. Snow White, Aladdin, The Little Mermaid, Mulan, Sleeping Beauty, Beauty and the Beast, you name it, they're all very old stories. many are centuries-old, others have passed more than one millennium. Obviously, most prevalent in Hercules, the stories are cleaned up to meet the Disney standard everyone is so aware of. As these are movies for young children, I see no problem in censoring it. Little kids shouldn't have to learn the ugly truth before they have to.

3) The music. Did you know that the guy who wrote the music for The Phantom of the Opera also wrote the music for Pocahontas? (Andrew Lloyd Webber, BTW!) It is sophisticated music with amazing lyrics. Maybe, as a singer I'm biased, but they actually hire(d) amazing singers that can do both pop, musical theater, and opera. SOPRANOS FTW!

4)They create a standard. I heard about a mother that refused to let her daughters watch the Princess Movies because of the unrealistic standards they project in Prince Charming. Well, AHEM, if I prefer Prince Eric, who is very gullible, and Prince Phillip, who is basically perfect, then I can do so. I see her point though, and no one wants their child to be disappointed with what life has given them. I imagine, if I was a parent, nothing would break my heart more. On the other end of the spectrum, high standards will keep anybody from settling for someone who doesn't treat them well. And, let's be honest, a little fantasy is what makes the world spin. If no one thought, no one would have any action. That mother should know that the standards of her children are taught by how they are raised, and how they are treated in their home. DURR

I always cry at the of The Little Mermaid. I can't remember all of the great movies. These are conversation starters. I am comment-desperate. PLEASE.

Because I Love This Site So Damn Much

Kim
The only woman that will bring chuck norris to his knees

Nadine
The Most Beautiful thing in the whole world ! , God Was Amased That he made a girl so beautiful

Sam
sam is a very common name. it is usually given to people who are very cool indeed. people by the name sam are the greatest.

Ricky
he male equivalent of a Flo. A loudmouth redneck that turns obnoxious and wants to fight once he has had any alcohol. He starts fights but if someone busts his hole, he immediately starts spouting Oh God, and gets religious because he thinks he’s about to die. Someone you would want to beat to death with a plastic thermos.

Plague Rat
A hardcore fan of the musician Emilie Autumn. Not to be confused with a Muffin, who is a less active fan of her music. They can often be found wearing corsets, drinking tea, crafting, or "spreading the Plague" aka advertising Miss Autumn's music to the world. The also refer to themselves as inmates in "The Asylum"
Emilie Autumn: What time is it, Muffins?
Just normal muffins/fans: ...?
Plague Rats: TEA TIME!

Mallory
A crazy girl that appears to be drunk about 99% of the time. As she's sleeping in the middle of the night, she sits up like shes under demon possession and screams loudly for hours! She is one of the craziest people you will ever meet

Now, as he had the most numerous, and most hilarious amount of these, I hereby dedicate this next part to my boyfriend.

CONOR

someone who is the man
conor invented sombreos

Conor once ate an entire watermelon, including the seeds, then grew an entire watermelon patch in his stomach which fed eleven families for six weeks.

If you were to know conors' true name, your mind would collapse upon itself.


a beast at everything
and really funny

a hippie who enjoys smoking weed and has sex


a person who has 3 of something that most people would only usually have two. for example a third eye, a third ear or a third nipple. conor's would most commonly have a third leg.


A traditional Irish name which means "Of high desire."


conor: gayish tendencies..but not quite..
conor appears to be meterosexual..



Person 1: Man, why does Conor work at Pizza Hut
Person 2: I don't know but he's still awesome
Person 1: Hell yeah

Someone who is a dick and who does not deserve to have such an awesome girlfriend


I think this all speaks for itself.
And, yes, this is Urban Dictionary. Yes, I will ow leave to read the bajillion pages on Chuck Norris.

An Awful Fall Poem. Don't Be TOO Cruel!!

Trees shed their hides,
basking, fully themselves, in this sun.
The air bites their bark,
Their branches swing more freely.

The leaves congregate on the ground,
piling up, scrunching together,
in the yard, and along the side of the road.
Flying through breezes.

I sit on the window seat,
looking out at a world in a snow globe
Everything's falling
down.

*braces self for hate*

Like the Word "Brotherly" Didn't Tell You...

He sits, alone, in his room,
For endless hours.
And I’ve never worried about
Whether or not he’s sad;
His ridiculous laugh, snorts
Through the walls, into my room.
I hear him talk into those headphones
Through the dead of the night.

He sits, jealous, in the backseat,
Because I got shotgun.
But I never thought that he’d
Actually get mad.
Hands stretching around the headrest,
Ready to break my nose,
My voice rising to a shriek
As a crack comes from my face.

He sits, glaring, across the room,
For endless hours.
I’m only worried about
Whether or not he’ll attack.
His eyebrows squishing
Together over his brown eyes.
I see him staring,
Chills running through me.

I sit, alone, in my room,
For endless hours.
I’m worried about it all,
And so sad I’m tearing up.
Suddenly, the game stopped.
He came in
And gave me
A brotherly hug.

Mr. G had better like this. It's fo' English Class

And NerdySam, way to steal my idea, betch.

Teaser Tuesday [2] #thecraved

Why would you do that? The spinet is mine, you told me! It was for this room, but it was mine! Just because you have other children doesn’t mean you let me get brushed under the carpet like dust, forgotten about while pests,” she spat the word through clenched teeth, hissing, spit spraying out in microscopic drops--”go through the things I prize. My life.”
Norah Camberlo looked at her daughter, pleasant and adoring expressions done with, her forehead pulling together. “The spinet is ours. We share in the music. The house has been so quiet with you gone. You have not, at all, been forgotten. We’ve missed you horribly. Your sister wanted to sit on the stool because she wanted to channel her big sister.”
It isn’t right.” Spoken in a childish voice, unsure. Mallory felt her hair, bristly ends sticking out of her bun. She yanked the elastic out, letting the damaged mane fall down like straw, bristly ends scratching her chin.
“Not right? The not right thing is giving up your childhood for an instrument. I know that adapting to being with other people was more difficult than you would ever be willing to admit to us. You are obsessed. It isn’t healthy. You don’t treat others like human, and you focus solely on that.” Cocking her head, she offered a meeting point, halfway between her desperation for normalcy, and her daughter, who was already farther away than imagined. “You father and I have talked for a very long time. We want you to speak with a professional because we think you have Asperger’s.”
Mallory’s fishy eyes narrowed at her mother. “I am NOT crazy.” Her mother opened her mouth to speak, but Mallory gave a look that lacked sanity, despite her argument. She, she just couldn’t take that. The idea of judgments from the people who never looked at her.
She walked out, and clomped up the stairs, not thinking that she would wake the other girls. She stepped into her tiny room and turned on the light. A figure was on the bed.
For the fist moment Mallory gasped until she saw her follow-up prodigy on the bed, a strained look on her childish face, sitting criss-cross-applesauce.
“What are you doing here?”