In That Which My Life Closely Resembles An Oreo (Without Being Half So Delicious)

The tense voices of my mother and sister drift up to me from down the stairs, rising in a hushed crescendo as they have so many times over the course of our living here.

Here being our (technically unofficial/semi-illegal) state-wide move. Here being a 2 bedroom house-y thing with three whole bathrooms. Yeah, I still can't get over having 3 accesible toilets.

Scars

i've been picking at my scabs, lately
because i love the scars they leave behind

i want to point at my knee one day
and say
"that blotch? right there?"
"that's from flying away."

i want to keep a record of my life
in a patchwork of skin
etched like tattoos
so i don't forget who i've been
or the places i've seen
or the people and words and things
that've hurt me


it's been going on for a while, now
my arms are mottled with uneven circles
odd little welts
nicks and burns and bites and bruises

i still have an ugly circle on my right arm
(where a big mole used to be)
they thought it might be something bad
so they nicked it away
and afterwards
i picked it away

"to remember" i told them

(they didn't understand)

Leave My Door Open, Just a Crack (Please Take Me Away from Here)

It's 48 minutes to midnight on December 16th (contrary to the inevitable mis-date of this blog entry) and there's a basset hound on my bed and no less than four containers holding various knit-stuff surrounding me.

Which means, of course, that I'm moving within 48 hours. 

There's a Receipt on My Wall ("This is Just Ridiculous" is Scrawled Across the Back)

My life has always been categorized by destruction.

Er, well- not really. More like by disintegration.

Oh hell, maybe both.

the pavement was thick
and my boots made
the most satisfying scuffing noises
when I walked up

the brass gleamed
like the lights strewn
throughout the fronds
and the house smelled of pine

Choke Me with These Threads of Life

I've had a headache for the past 2 weeks, and it doesn't seem to be go away anytime soon.

One of the biggest contributing factors to this all-encompassing migraine is A, my father's ever asshole-ish tendencies, B, the remnants of my apathetic funk that I still haven't entirely escaped, and C, my mother and sister. 

I just- ugh. Just ugh. I am going to be a shitty teenaged stereotype and just summarize all this with "ugh". Sue me. 

Bubble Over

So.

I, ah. 

I won

???

30 Covers, 30 Days is an event the Office of Letters & Light (OLL) puts on every year, spanning the course of National Novel Writing month. 

Basically, 30 novels-in-progress are selected from the official NaNoWriMo forums. And every day for a month, a different graphic designer creates a cover for the book in under 24 hours.

Back in October, someone emailed me and said I was in the running for a cover. I didn't tell any of my friends, because I didn't want to get my hopes up. And as weeks went by without any further contact, I figured I hadn't made the cut. 

But apparently, I did. 

Lost in A Maze (Of a Thousand Rainy Days)

I am in a funk.

(my mother's words, not mine.)

Though it's true. I'm just sort of. . . meh. My eyelids are made of lead, and I'm taking long, long blinks. There are bloody scratches down my arms, my thighs, and I find myself fidgeting. Picking and trimming and biting and frowning and jiggling and wriggling toes and cracking knuckles. The bags beneath my eyes have reached truly epic proportions, but I'm too busy staying up until dawn to notice nor care.

ive cried myself to apathy
theres nothing left inside of me
(be thankful you can't feel
all these things from the left
they're real)

the pretty girl
with black eyes?
we've seen her pictures
we know your lies

text her
call
fuck her hard
and bare your plastic smile
let the paper believe
let the crowds be decieved
weak in their naivety
clinging to inevitability
let me drown in gasoline
let me fade the way you want
as I said; there's nothing left in me
stop chaining me to these haunts

for thats all I am
a paper

ghost

girl

with nothing left to show
how I wish you'd make sense
wish you'd understand

oh please, just let me go?

All Those Bleary Nights will Shine with Light

I'm meeting my father for lunch tomorrow.

Writing on Napkin Backs Pressed to Barstool Legs

Haha, wow- I think I've sunk to a whole new level of pretentiousness with my previous post. Frankly, I'm impressed with myself.

But! My truly ridiculous dirty partnership with pretentious prose is, surprisingly, not the topic of this post. The topic is, once again, NaNoWriMo.

Well first, it's a belated Happy Halloween. Hope you all had gloriously 2pooky times!

But otherwise. Totally about NaNoWriMo.

She Writes in White Ink

I've been instructed to write something "to make me happy."
The problem is, I have about 4 drafts in my folder right now, all of which are attempts of completing that goal. Of "making you happy".

I can't do it.

Authorial Addiction

I, um.

Wow. 

Tonight is unprecedented. Which I've said before but um,

Wow.

Sorry.

First off: I'm really, really sorry for the general duplicity of my last 2 posts. They're essentially the exact same, just with different words. And that's boring.
And a waste of time.
So, sorry about that.

One Summer's Day

It's 3:45 on a Wednesday afternoon, and I am feeling bittersweet.

The Misconstruable Title of NaNoWriMo

Even though November is about a month away, I'm already getting inproportionately excited over the prospect of NaNoWriMo. Despite having showcased my badges from YWP, Camp NaNo and now NaNo 2012 on the sidebar of this blog, I don't think I've ever really mentioned NaNoWriMo? If I have, please forgive me for the following repetition. If I haven't, then allow me to welcome you to the wonderful world of NaNo.

Pretty Bird, the One-Eyed (Pigeon) Pirate

Meet the best avian pirate throughout the whole Gulf of Mexico!
That's right; it's Pretty Bird!

. . .let me explain. 

Planning, (100!) Posts, & Panic

Since this is my 100th post on this blog, I tried to find some coinciding post to refer to. Perhaps I'd written a post on October 1st before, and therefore, I could use it to marvel at how much my life has changed?

But then I just ended up flipping through old posts and wincing involuntarily at myself. God, I was so pretentious. Still am, of course, but. . . god. So sorry about that. Of course, there's going to come a day when I look back on this post and sigh and shake my head, marveling at my idiocy and childishness.
 History's doomed to repeat itself, and all.

But the actual purpose of this post is to marvel about 100 posts! Wow!

When September Ends

Okay first thing: I'm sorry. For everything. Including, of course, the last two posts. And myself. And everything.
Seriously, I'm sorry.

But now I have good news! As in, not depressingly teenage mope-y news where I bitch about my dad!
It's a miracle of the Lord, I know.

Cause of Death: Vacuum Cleaner

It's funny- I was actually going to write a post last night about how life was great. And although it still is, today's events were definitely a bit annoying in comparison. I guess I should've known better than to jinx it? My father had gone for so long without making any remarkably asshole-ish move, that it'd only figure he'd do it today.

Warning: this is going to be a stupidly long post (including some backstory!), that's really just for me to remember this. I apologize in advance, and offer these slightly better posts instead c:

Southern Death

It's too bright here.

The south, I mean. 

The white-washed walls and the faded red roofs and the crunchy pale grass- they all start to blur together, after a while, mixing with the stark white of the clouds, until it seems like the entire scene was doused in bleach. 

It's too white, too faded and dull- the roar of the cicadas a constant thrum in the back of your mind, the kind of noise that you hear echoing through the house as you stare up at the ceiling and try to will yourself asleep. 

It's hot here, too- despite the fact it's August and, y'know, Fall should be kicking in right about now. You walk outside and you're drenched, cheeks flushed and breath a harsh pant and your knees stick to the backs of your thighs when you crouch down onto the grass. When you walk barefoot along the hot asphalt, it burns your feet if you stay still for too long. 

So you run. 

You run until the sweat-soaked locks of your hair go flying out behind you, until your shirt ripples in the non-existent breeze of the dry air, until the soles of your heels are stained and callused and burnt and you feel the oddest sense of satisfaction later - when you're in your house and the air conditioning is turning the sweat on the back of your neck into a chilled sheen - you feel pleased when you trace your fingers along the thick, burnt-brown skin of your feet, and you smile. 

It's hot and dry and lazy and after a while all of the gas stations and strip malls and Wal-Marts turn into a continuous line until you have no clue what intersection you're at anymore; they're all the same damn thing anyways. You could loose yourself here, amongst the Spanish moss and tanning oil and the condensation that drips down bottles of Diet Coke. 

It's so easy. 

Just drive and drive and drive until you're at the very top, until the state lines blur and you're 3 states away but it still looks the same. There's a 7-11, a Waffle House, a Publix. 

It all looks exactly the goddamn same. 

And it could kill a person. It could, I swear. The bleached asphalt mazes and the gas stations and the palmettos could become the sort of prison that winds itself slowly around you, the kind of death that is long and subtle and sickly-sweet until one day, your last day, you look around and realize what's happened. 

You could die here, could sink down underneath the palms and just wait until your eyes go unfocused, and the little brown anoles come to perch on your waxy calves, to sunbathe on top of your unmoving lips. 

But maybe that'd be for the best. Maybe I should wait for the tendrils of Southern death to come curling around me, maybe that's better. 

After all, it's too bright here.

John Green, Pasta, and Crumbling Pedestals

The problem with John Green is that, while I regard him as one of the greatest men of my time, he never fails in making my mind swim with philosophy and human nature and mirrors and windows and gigantic white cows.

So that means, to be blunt, that I end up writing another silly thing about love and humanity and so on and so forth.

Living in The Blur

A lot of things happened last night, and it only makes sense for me to make note of them. My mother went to her first mediation session yesterday, and it lasted for the majority of the day.

 It went surprisingly well, actually. To compress a lot of legal jargon that I don't fully understand, my mother has full custody and he'll be paying us child/partner support, along with alimony. Which is fabulous, to be blunt. While celebrating last night, we talked a lot about topics we've already gone over. One of them being why the three of us did such a "180" when we got back from our road trip, back in the Spring. Considering the fact that we moved out almost immediately after we came back. It certainly looks bad; two impressionable young ladies, left alone for a week with their mother and returning visibly anti-dad. 

My mother is concerned about it too, always asking if she had actually "brain washed" us, as my father constantly claims. It took me a while, but I came up with a decent way to reassure her. 

The Fame of Mirrored Windows

Writers write to be remembered.

Well, that's my personal belief, anyways. We write because we want someone to look back over the words we've put on a page, and we want them to see us. Here we are, a marker-pin to prove our existence.
We lived. We wrote. We were here.

All those Glittering Dust Motes

I have the terrible tendency of daydreaming.

Some Pretentious Bullshit for my 90th Post

I'm bubbling over

And everyone can tell. 

It’s obvious in the swell of the chaos inside of me, in how it dribbles from my eyes and creates tide pools that reflect my tired face. The swell comes and goes with no discernible pattern, unlike the tide. The moon is a calming presence that I cannot hope to have, and oh if that doesn’t sting- doesn’t prick barbs into my skin as brackish water comes, soothing, out from the pinpricks up and down my arms. I spend days connecting the scabbed-over, clammy dots, trying desperately to find the hidden picture, but the chaos just overflows and washes the lines away. Down, down, down my arms, salt mixing with ink and dripping black tears from the tips of my fingers. Sometimes I paint pictures with the make-shift brush, swirling my fingers on the blank walls like a child. 

But whenever I wake up, they’ve gone. 

So I stopped making them. 

The water never drains though, and it’s risen over the days weeks months years that I’ve been here. From my scarred ankles to my knobbly knees- it’s up to my belly button by now.

Sometimes I swim in it; close my eyes and drift down to the soaked carpet floor, drowning slowly in the chaos that’s been inside me for a lifetime. 

The Dreamy Notion of More

I feel like the evolution of greatness is humanities biggest white lie.

Well, one of the biggest. There's certainly a lot out there.

When There's Nothing Left to Burn, You Have to Set Yourself on Fire

My newest musical addiction is "Your Ex-Lover is Dead", by Stars, because holy shit this song is amazing.

I'm Not Sorry There's Nothing to Save

It's sunny and clear outside, and barely a minute ago something ugly and greasy constricted in my chest as I started thinking about things.

Doctor Who References and Late Night Ramblings

It's 3 AM- well, no, 3:24 AM- and I've started to get a little teary-eyed.


No particular reason though, to be honest. Just that lovely teenage thing were little things mosh together into one big whopping Thing, and attack you relentlessly in the middle of the night when you get up for a glass of water. Self-anxiety and confusion and resignation to aspects of the future. Anticipation and nervous excitement twisting knots in my stomach as I smile and cry all at the same time.

(I think it's pretty safe to say my time of the month may be approaching)

Silent Scream

The thing is, no one cares.

And even if I were to tell anyone, it's not as if anything would change. It'd just be a momentary discomfort, and some added paranoia, perhaps. Nothing even really happened, but I think I wouldn't feel so bad about it if I could tell someone, anyone. But the few people I've tried to tell have ignored me, and I can't even post here.

In Case of Amnesia, Click Here

There's a writing project, of sorts, that I want to do one day. I keep planning it out in my head, scripting sentences and considering plot points.

It's an emergency failsafe, in case I ever forget who I am.

Stereotypical Teenage Postings of another Variety

I threw together a new playlist the other day, and it's been on eternal repeat since. In spirit of summer, and in effort to branch away from my typical melodramatic musings, the following post will now be devoted to my top 6 Summer songs.


1. "Every Teardrop is A Waterfall" from Coldplay's new album Mylo Xyloto, is a surprisingly upbeat song, despite it's misleading title. It's currently the most played song in my iTunes, and I wouldn't be surprised if it because the unofficial anthem for this summer.

2. "Radio" by Hot Chelle Rae dangerously borders on stereotypical pop music, (nothing against that, however) but I'm kind of a sucker for them and it's a fun song anyway. It's a cute love song of sorts, without going too in-detail about how wonderful the theoretical girl is.

3. "C'Mon (with Fun.)", the latest single from Panic! At the Disco was played on constant repeat for almost a week when I first discovered it. It's not necessarily a dancing song, per se, but it's unique and catchy in that special way Panic! At the Disco seems to exemplify- vaguely marching band reminiscent, almost.

4. "Cousins" by Vampire Weekend is an odd little song, that I first heard during a promo for "Life in a Day", and have been smitten with since. It's quirky and energetic, and I always try and sing along, despite the fact that I only know roughly 3 of the lyrics. You tend to feel happier just by listening to it, I find.

5. "All About Us" a collaboration between Owl City and He is We, is the most saccharine sweet love song I will ever hear, and I absolutely love it. It's lovely and smooth and the soft acoustics and vocals make you feel like swaying. It's atrociously adorable, without being specific to the identity of the singers in particular, thus making it the most flawless love song I have have ever heard.

6. "All Men are Pigs" from the mysterious Studio Killers, is the exact opposite of a cutesy love song, and it is wonderful.  It's essentially a sassy explanation of how all men are the same and, well, pigs. You can't just walk when this song comes up on your iPod- you swagger. It's like pure confidence in audio form.

I'm So Sick of Being Tired

I think the most tragic thing one can be depressed about is what-ifs. 

You know exactly what I mean- those fleeting possibilities of the future that seem so wonderful, but can't happen for whatever reason. Breaking up with a girl/boyfriend, and knowing that you could've made it. Taking up a job offer, but maybe you would've climbed the corporate ladder at the other? And sometimes it's not even that specific. Just a vague, general understanding of all the things you'll never have. 

I had a faint idea beforehand, but today I finally realized what's going to break my heart the most about moving in a year. 

The what-ifs. 

Hugs, Shopping Sprees and Packing Tape

I'm not sure why, but I simultaneously need to buy things, and be hugged today.

Welp. When did I become such a chick?

But seriously, I've got some leftover money burning holes in my pocket, and a desperate need of hoodies and other geeky gear. Along with the completely random, out-of-the-blue, longing for a hug. The type that you just kind of melt into, y'know? All warm and soft and snuggly and everything people imagine a hug to be, but isn't. They're always brief and sometimes stiff, necessary and not an actual desire- just a daily requirement of life. Wake up, hug your family members, walk out the door. Eat dinner, hug your wife, go to bed.

I don't want that. I want an actual hug- But then again, I want a lot of things that "should be", those dreamy ideals, and I'll never get them. So I'll be fine with the hugs I get, and I actually shouldn't complain, anyway.

Now, time to address the actual topic of this blog post:

Peachy Insomnia

Please, disregard the previous post.
Forget the previous post.
Ignore the previous post.
Please, shove the previous post into the drawer of your mind that typically houses particularly embarrassing memories.

(You're probably assuming my intentions to be completely different then in reality, however it'd be the best if I don't even attempt to clarify why I'm asking you to disregard it. Also, although I could always just delete it, I have this odd mental obligation not to delete posts on here. Not 100% sure why~)

I've said sometimes, maybe even frequently, that I'm tired.
That's a half-lie.

A Love Letter, of Sorts

There's a person on here, on Blogger, who I admire greatly.

They're intriguing and quirky and talked to me once. And they made a shy, awkward little girl feel like someone out there was listening, which was pretty amazing at the time.

It kinda still is.

But that was years ago, and their memory of this blog, and the odd teen who made it, has probably dissolved. 

Probably for the best, actually. 

But sometimes I stumble upon their blog in my bookmarks bar, and I just spend my time idly scrolling through the posts. They're the kind of person I want to be when I grow up. They write and they travel and take really great pictures. They have lots of equally intriguing friends, and a significant other, and they're a bit of a hipster I suppose, but in a good way. 

Sleeping Beauty Clobbering her "Prince"

I give up.

I do. I give up.

I give up on daydreams and Prince Charmings and happily-ever-afters. I've always kind of berated myself for considering those ideals anyway, but never enough to stop my subconscious from dreaming of "The One". I could hate myself for it, but I could never really stop fantasizing- don't all girls? We want something perfect, something solid in our chaotic worlds of hormones and emotions and uncertainty. We want something we can never get, and it only ever ends in decent guys trying their bests, and failing spectacularly.

But there aren't even enough decent guys! Just boatloads of assholes, douchebags, womanizers, etc. etc. They never even try to fit that ideal, and for good reason: Women want unattainable perfection, in the same way, I suppose, that men do. They all want their respective perfect fantasy women- typically reminiscent of Victoria's Secret "Angels". But hey, to each their own and all that.

Some Days

Sometimes the light goes gray.

Somedays, the clouds bunch together like flocks of pussywillow, and the sky hangs heavy with the moisture that refuses to let go.
Somedays I wrap a scarf around my neck and pretend I'm somewhere else, somewhere Northern, somewhere without dry heat, and sunburns in March.

And somedays I sit on this floral beige couch, wrapped in a scarf and wearing boxer shorts, and I just stare out at the sliding glass doors, and admire the way the overcast skies reflect in the golf course's fountain.
Then the air conditioning kicks in, and I dig my toes into the cushion on the other end of the couch, and sigh a little too loudly.

The Secret Warmth of Solitude

The opening topic that I'm touching on extraordinarily briefly today is true love.

(The groan of everyone who read that is entirely well-earned)

After many years of searching, I've determined that my one true love is none other then my Macbook Pro.
Seriously.
I fucking adore this thing.

Oscar-Worthy Imagination at It's Finest

I used to pretend my life was a movie.

There would be certain moments, just a second's worth, of something that felt vaguely cinematic. It'd be beyond fleeting, but it was all my young self would need- I'd already be singing the crude theme and scrawling fake names with a purple glitter pen- imaginary opening credits, into a notebook.
I'd flip through the pages, pausing on the ones filled with the creators of this imaginary masterpiece, and then I'd make a point of acting as if I was on film (but, of course, was completely unaware of it. My 7-year-old acting skills were really quite something).

To A Man Once called Dad

I hope you're satisfied.

I hope you smile as you roll out of your big, empty bed, and make your way through a silent house, preparing for another day of a job you loathe.
I hope you hum as you take some painkillers, for the hangover your nursing from last night, when you drank your troubles into oblivion and stared blankly at the sports channel, until your eyes glaze over.
 (I hope it makes you feel proud, when you wake up at 3 AM, having fallen asleep on a priceless piece of stolen furniture.)

Pointless post made simply to say that I just spent about an hour playing around with my blog's features. It's basically looked the same way for 2 years- I figured it could use a "face-lift".

So here have some fancy new fonts and colors and things

It is now 2:17 AM and I should've gone to sleep 5 hours ago
Goodnight.

Happy April Fools

I never really thought I would be pleased to say the following 6 words.

My parents are getting a divorce.

They Called it Puppy Love

My titles are getting increasingly more cheesy as time progresses. I'm not concerned with this however, for numerous reasons- the main one being that I don't really care.

As one may be able to deduce from the title, this blog post concerns dogs.

Namely, a Miniature Pinscher mix by the name of Winnie. Well actually, her name is D43011. My mother, sister and I decided on the name Winnie Star Bucks the other day on the drive home.

We went around to a few different dog shelters the other day, before finally falling in love with D43011 at the 3rd and final shelter of the day.

Basically, she's freaking adorable.

Screw Cupid

I woke up this morning, snuck up and pounced on my sister, (just to see if I could scare her; she usually catches me before I have the chance) and then I went to the bathroom.

And promptly got a nosebleed.

I can't even remember the last time I got a nosebleed, but I have a foggy recollection that makes me believe it was in my dad's truck, because I remember thinking, "I can't get blood on the grey upholstery".

Anyway, nosebleeds are interesting sensations. You can feel the blood trickle it's way through your nostril, and it's different then just having a runny nose, because blood is much more watery then mucus.

Wow. I really make intriguing blog posts, don't I?

I'm Awfully Off

Sometimes I can't help but hate myself, and more often then not, my life.

And sometimes self-insecurity will hit me like a brick wall, and I'll just kinda of freeze and look at all of the coolly dressed, confident, attractive people that flow around my frozen stance, the literal pebble in a stream. They have friends. They have a happy life, at least to some extent.

And so do I! I'm not claiming not to have friends, or a decently happy life. Just. . . Just all of my friends (or at least a good number of them) are virtual. And many, if not all attempts on my behalf to change that fact, merely do the opposite of it's intentions, and result in my being more alone then ever.

I Always Wanted to be Snoopy

It's with mild anxiety fluttering painfully in my stomach that I write to this blog.

As I'm sure Future-Me (the sole reader of these posts) will remember quite well, we moved into the apartment with the tacky 80's wall paper in the bathroom, and the ugly floral couches (which, to their benefit, are surprisingly comfortable). I'm sitting at the table that I first did roughly a week and a half-ago, when my mother and I first came to scope out the place. We're here for 3 months, as I'm pretty sure I've mentioned before.

The issue that has compelled me to yet again indulge in writing here, is my meeting with my father tonight. My father has been. . . interesting, in these days of separation. His facebook page is plastered of melancholy statements about love, and a picture of a Lucy from the Peanuts pulling away the football as Charlie Brown goes hurtling, screaming through the air. His comment? "A grin of sadistic glee on her face..."

Nice. Real nice, Dad.

Rolling Girl

I awake this morning to packing.

My mother has decided that she can stay here no longer, has rescheduled her surgery (that would render her immobile for a day) and today we are packing up whatever we may need for a few days. We're not leaving the house permanently; my dad works a 7 AM - 6 PM shift most days, so we'd be able to indulge in the "luxuries" of our house during the daytime.

Clothes, food, books, computers, etc. etc. . . We're packing it all up and leaving. We're also going to be meeting the real estate agent from a few days ago, and sign for the condo we checked out. If we can't move in right away, mom says, we'll get a hotel. She says she needs to breathe, and that dad's not letting her do that.

It's an interesting sensation, I guess. Packing up as if we were moving yet again. I've moved about 4 times in my life, but it's been years since the last one, and therefore I am blissfully out of shape when it comes to art of packing boxes, sharpies and tape. Tissue wrapping valuables is a skill I've long since lost. So I'm just going to jam as many clothes as I possibly can into my suitcase, grab a few books, all electronic gizmos and whatever remains of the Mountain Dew.

Clearly, my plan is fool proof.

Anyway, finger's crossed that the next time I write you, it will be in that condo with the hideous floral couches.

50th Post: Angst Extravaganza!

I'm a little at a loss of what to do currently, sitting in my pajamas at the counter top having finished breakfast.

For the past week, I've woken up somewhere around 6 AM, had to pack up a hotel room, haul luggage down flights of stairs, elevators, sidewalks, help pack up the car and then drive until about 9 PM. And this past weekend, having returned home, I've also had to wake up at 6 AM, sleep on the floor of my parent's bedroom, eat at Panera for breakfast two mornings in a row, go apartment hunting, kill time outside of the house, skirt around my dad and begrudgingly listen in to my parent's teary conversations.

Only Rainbows after Rain

Well, I certainly took my own sweet time in updating this blog, of which I'd apologize for, if not for the fact that I highly doubt anyone actually cares. Which is kinda preferable at this point, in all honesty.

You see, I've been realizing that my theory on the benefits of online socializing, being yourself and not worrying about appearances, has more flaws then I'd expected. Because the thing is, I'm not 100% myself on this blog. Nor am I 100% myself on other websites; although I am certainly more myself on online social/writing websites, I am very different facets of my personality for different sites.

Family Knots

Another year come and gone. As the almost obnoxiously-brightly colored balloons insist on reminding me, It's my birthday today. Things were decidedly more relaxed when it came to celebrating this year, as opposed to 2011. And I'm enjoying it.

However, in the long car rides that my mother, sister and I had to partake in earlier today, we breached the subject of my father.

Ahh, Dad. . .

I feel almost guilty, writing this on the couch when I can still hear the faint beeps of his PDA as he stands by the calendar.

Scratch that.

I feel mega guilty.

Thumbprint to the First Knuckle

There is an entire list of people I want to punch, a majority of which on my elder sister's behalf, because she's too ridiculously nice to ever do so. Of course, I could very well suffer terrible consequences, "physical assault" charges or whatever, but I swear, one day I will just get in a car, drive from work place to house to apartment to park, and punch these people all in a row.

My sister and I have an interesting relationship, I think. I'll do something or ignore her or say something to get her mad at me, and then for the majority of the day we'll skirt around each other, until tomorrow, when we end up happy again.

(We both suck at holding grudges)

But sometimes when we're in the midst of a fight, something else will happen.

She'll get sad.

It's late, and I have an early morning tomorrow, so I'll make this relatively quick. I may expand more upon the topics that are to be touched briefly during the following posts later, but for now, I'll keep things simple with this:

I was going to go to a teen dance tonight. Spent all day progressively becoming more and more nervous about it, and beginning to regret saying I'd go. So when I actually arrived, I walked in, looked around, and walked straight back out and went out to dinner with my family. Ended up feeling like a pathetic person for being so socially anxious and such, and the dinner was nice enough for a popular place on a Friday night. Was a little depressed with myself when we got home, but eventually my father went to bed, and my sister took a skype call with a friend (Note to self: Never use Skype. The layout is way too complicated and confusing.) so I ended up talking with my mother for about an hour.

May I just say that my mother is quite probably the most amazing human being. And that I am incomprehensibly lucky to have such an awesome woman as my mother, and that I'm still sniffling and a little teary-eyed and I wouldn't have it any other way. We talked about a whole host of topics, cried a few times, and it's only due to the late time and early waking time tomorrow that we stopped. I'm only writing this now because I want to try and preserve the feelings, lest sleep dull my memories of them.

Basically, if this were a movie, something really bad would happen in the next scene.

But I refuse to dwell on that cinematic scenario, despite the fact that this entire thing screams cliche. Because I am teary-eyed and smiling and laughing and happy. I am looking forward to the future, for the days and weeks and months where I'll start cooking with her, make things easier around the house. Where I'll write things and maybe she'll read them, where we can talk and laugh and where I can hug her and repeat "thank you" a million times over, like tonight.

I'm ecstatic and hormonal and happy.

So if there is a "take away" message to this post, it's this:

I love my mom.

Observations on Teenage Socializing (or rather, lack thereof)

It's currently 20 minutes till midnight on Friday night, and I'm sitting in bed, propped up against the wall, typing up musings on socializing. I'll refrain commenting on that, so I can get on with the actual topic of this post: Socializing.

Silent Clockwork Hearts

It's with reluctance that admit I tend to wish it was just three people in my family, instead of 4.

The idea of simply my mother, sister and I is almost sinfully appealing.

I say this because my father has, as I'm sure is apparent, been "enraged" for the past days. And, as per usual, the cogs that make my family dynamic "tick" are beginning to rust and wear. Basically, it's becoming aggravating and annoying to the point that it surpasses it's initial fear factor, so to speak. I'm tired. I'm tired, and I don't even have to put up with a fraction of the dilemmas my mother and sister do.

The Elegance of Cattle

It's hard, I've learned, to pose a legitimate threat when you're just barely over 5 feet tall.

Copper Sand

I feel like time must be managed as if it were a set of scales: The past and future. If you fill your days with past, obsess over everything you should of done, all the bittersweet memories and regrets, then the scales tip, and the past ultimately becomes not only your future, but your life. Admittedly, history is always doomed to repeat itself. But if you live your life in the past, it brings it to a whole other scale.

On the other hand, there's the future. When you obsess over the future, over every moment and how it will play out, what you will do in life, where you're going and what must happen, then you cease living. You're not even taking in the present, not even bothering to admire the time you have now. You're just anticipating the future, focusing your every waking moment on your far off goal. And when that happens, you're just existing in a sort of half-life, and not living.

The obvious key of course, in this theory, is balancing the scales. A fool could deduce that. But the reason for this post isn't exactly to wage philosophical about scales and timetables, so much as my utter lack of "time management", so to speak. I'm either drowning in memories, consumed with things I should've said, should've done, or I'm obsessed with the future, with all my dreams and hopes and ambitions and sometimes how pointless and unattainable it all seems.

So. Remember the good times fondly. Take heed of the bad memories, in hopes you can learn things from then. Be excited for your ambitions. Don't dread, but anticipate the future bad times.

Try to balance the scales.

Of Carpets and Wagons

It's been a good few weeks since I last posted here, and I apologize for my belated virtual welcoming of the new year. According to a majority of people, this is the year we are all swept into oblivion and die.

Lovely.

The past few days have been depressingly tense in my family situation. As per usual, my father has been silently bemoaning his job, and acting for all the world like some sort of lion, stalking the kitchen and living room and easily enraged upon the slightest thing. I'm sure it's evident how much fun the weekend family interaction has been.