"Utterly worthless," he called me. The words kicked around like an ox in my mind as I gathered up my discarded clothes and pride from the unclean floor. Anger flamed in my stomach, burning into my bones, creating fuel for my trembling legs. Rising from the floor, from my ashes, I locked eyes with my next obstacle, noticing how the morning light glinted though the windows on the door. It would be an easy escape. One twist of the knob, a foot over the threshold, into free land. Hardly anything fantastical about it. People walk through doors all the time.

The anger in my bones drove my fingernails into the palms of my hand, relishing the real pain, the physical pain, a departure from mental torture. The anger in my bones drew one silent foot into the air, brought it down on cool wood flooring. It was that easy.

I could do it.

I winced as worthless played a repetitive loop in my mind. Dropped my clothes, neatly folded, to the unclean floor.

"I knew you'd never do it," he said as I climbed back into bed.

For Emmeline

For the girl who was fraught with death
who followed it around like a martyr
with flowers in your
hair, and a pencil in your hand.
Did she reach for the moonlight
as she blinked in the face
of two familiar deathrattle eyes?
And for all your odes and well-wrought verses
were you prepared to leave
hand in hand with that spectre
when he grasped your hands in his?
And did she sigh
as the moon chilled the sky
and whisper
"I'd like to stay here,
just a little bit longer,
just a little longer, is all"
But Emmeline, with flowers in your hair,
dead ears caught your gentle cries
and you departed, the flowers falling from your hair,
to join the immortalized.

(A rough draft. If anyone knows the literary character this alludes to, I will be in awe of you for the rest of your life.)

Precious Lifetimes

Breathe in breathe out
never pause, for greatness lies
in every passing second you waste
breathing in, breathing out
someone can do it better faster longer
never stop beating the path
to glory fame happiness
sex love acceptance
decline illness death
you'll be dead long before your funeral
but you'll be three steps ahead
of everyone else.

Weightless

There’s a certain point in your life when you are boundless. Generally it happens in childhood, as you grow up and watch the wonderful world shift around you, and you believe you can do whatever you want to do because you’ve seen it happen before and you don’t yet know of restraints. But sometimes childhoods are tough, sometimes the powers at be don’t allow you to maintain innocence long enough to experience this weightlessness. Never fear; the boundlessness will catch up to you later in life. One day you will wake up, the sun will be shining, and as you breathe in you will feel something crumble away.
Here’s another secret I will whisper in your ear: once you are boundless, you will never again be chained.
That day you wake up and feel your spirit rejoice in every cell of your body, that day when you wake up and everything is so beautiful that it’s nearly painful to look at, it will be a fulcrum in your life. You will never again be laid low by the world. That day will come.
Today wasn’t that day.
You woke up and the world bore down on you with fangs of woe. Outside, the cold sunlight refused to let in any warmth. The air was weighted with worry, and it collected in your lungs like piles of gravel. Immediately, your brain started to churn out reasons why you weren’t going to make it.
The day passed slowly for you. It was filled with the usual pain, boredom. Yes, there was happiness; but it refused to sparkle through the opaque curtain of self-doubt you lowered, and when you looked back on it, the day was a blur of gray.
Yes, it’s hard to look forward when it’s so much more entrancing to look back. Sometimes pain can be beautiful, just as beauty can be pain, and if you don’t pay attention, you can become spellbound by your own sorrow. There’s a certain satisfaction in thinking you know that the world is shit and you’re bound for nothing. I’m here to tell you that you’re not. Tear your gaze away from the hypnotizing sadness and relax in the present.
Above all, don’t worry. What did I tell you? Some day, the weightlessness will come.
Tomorrow will be that day.
You will wake up and notice the beautiful color of the rising sun as it breaks through your curtains and touches you with light. Outside, the sun will gently take your hand as you grab the morning paper. You will taste the air and remember that even the most mundane and autonomous of tasks can be sweet and new. Yes, there will be happiness; it will shine and smile.
Tomorrow will be that day because the world is at your fingertips. You are the only thing in your way. Once you realize this, you can shove aside your carefully constructed barriers and let the weightlessness come and lift you into a boundless blue sky. Tomorrow will be that day.
You will stand up and feel something crumble.
You will be happy.
You will be weightless.
I promise.

Writing is the only way out of this shithole.
Writing is the only way to happiness.
Writing is the only way out of my mind.
Writing is the only way to prove myself.
Writing is the only thing I'm good at.
Writing is the only thing I'm proud of.
Writing is the only way for me to be noticed.
Writing is the only thing I want to love.
But do I love it?

A Lion Among Men

[It's long. I apologize. You don't have to read it, but I need to store it somewhere.]

As thunder rolled around the pitch black sky, a beast stalked the streets of Rome, dragging his mangled paw behind him and squinting through the deserted streets with half-lidded yellow eyes. His gigantic head slowly swiveled from side to side, searching the darkened alleys for signs of life. Ahead of him loomed an arena, majestically lit with torches, a shining beacon in the night. The beast walked with a limping shuffle, but under his matted, bloodstained golden coat rippled powerful muscles. As he neared the arena, the beast gave a low growl, his bitten ears flattening against his head. He bared his long, pointed teeth and stopped, surveying the huge building through his bloodshot golden eyes. The streets were devoid of life, but everyone locked inside their houses felt a shiver of fear shudder through their body as the beast growled, and those safe in their beds drew their blankets closer.
                After a couple of moments the beast ceased growling and resumed his shuddering walk towards the arena entrance, barely visible through the gloom. A steady rain began to fall, but the water could not cleanse the memory of blood from the beast’s back, though he was soaked to the bone. He slipped inside the archway to the arena. To his right was a set of marble stairs, draped in red velvet and covered with flowers. Past winners of the gladiatorial games had their names carved into a slab of marble hung on the wall, and the beast faced this plaque. Leonidas. That was the name he was looking for. The beast growled again before gliding silently up the stairs.
                Echoes of celebrations bounced around the hall, emanating from behind a wooden door at the end of the hallway. The beast padded down the long hall, purring with anticipation. His long nails snagged on the expensive Persian carpet, and he stopped, kneading the carpet and tearing apart the hand-sewn pattern. The shouting had stopped, and men started to filter out of the great room at the end. The beast disappeared into a shadowy alcove, watching with vengeful cat’s eyes until he spotted his prey.
                “Okay, okay, Andreus. We’ll continue this card game tomorrow!” Leonidas laughed, his handsome face lighting up with the glow of celebration and a little too much wine. He threw open the heavy wooden door, marveling again at his considerable strength. His chestnut hair gleamed in the torchlight, and his dark eyes sparkled with jollity. Feeling invincible, he decided to head out for a walk in the stormy night, too full of adrenaline and laughter to sleep. The lion followed behind him silently as he exited the arena.
                “It’s been a great day,” he said to himself as he ambled down the street, sticking to the sides of shops and houses to escape the falling rain. He started to whistle, though the slightly off-key melody was lost in the roll and rumble of the thunder. Flashes of lightning began in the distance, and he watched them with a detached interest. Nothing could hurt him now, he was a god, and he’d earned it.
                The game was a great one. His favorites were always the animal fights- it returned him to a simpler time, where actions were fueled simply by adrenaline and instinct. And today his opponent was a lion- how ironic, indeed, was it to fight the very animal you were named after? Leonidas relieved the glory in his mind.  The lion was led into the arena, shrinking back from the crowds’ jeers and catcalls. His proud golden eyes held fury, and his teeth were bared in anger. Leonidas held the lion’s gaze confidently and assertively, as he always did. He would not back down from this fight.
                He remembered with a rush of joy the feeling of plunging his short sword through the beast’s neck, feeling his arm covered with its warm blood. He’d looked down to find the beasts’ teeth inches from his own throat- he’d caught it mid-pounce.  The crowd went wild- it was a picture-perfect victory. Leonidas stood, panting and waving at the crowd, feeling their adoration. Maybe some gladiators were forced into the fight, but he always went with honor. He lived for the thrill of the kill.
                As he reminisced, the lion slipped from shadow to shadow, growling softly. When he was close enough to Leonidas to scent the wine he had consumed, he roared.
                “What the-!” Leonidas whirled around. Catching sight of the beast in front of him, his dark brown eyes widened in shock. “It can’t be…” he whispered, his heart pounding. The lion smelled his fear and grinned a toothy animal smile. Leonidas tried to scream, but the lion pounced. Finally, he felt sweet revenge at his teeth, and he paused so Leonidas could feel the fear that he’d felt in his last moments of life. Then he ripped his throat.
                That night, every citizen of Rome heard a terrifying roar echo through the streets.

Completing Nicolai

1) Please state your name for the record?
Record? What record? Is this being recorded? Is that legal? It's Abby.

2) If you were a penguin, on the other hand, what do you think your name would be? Hypothetically speaking, of course.
Zooey.

3) Would you consider your ears to be smaller than average, average, larger than average, or freakishly large?
Average. Depressingly and wallfloweringly average.

4) Are you more of a Beatles or an Elvis fan? (If you answer the latter, please proceed to go set yourself on fire and then die in a hole.)
lul who r dey i liek the beetlez

5) Have you ever killed anyone? If so, did you do it with your bare hands?
My bare hands and a bit of cyanide. It was a crime of passion and pizza.

6) If you could use any fruit to describe the size and shape of your head, what fruit would you use?
Are kumquats fruit?

7) Is there any famous person you'd go gay for? Please state their name. This question is, of course, purely for academic purposes.
Emma Stone. And Anne Hathaway. And Paget Brewster. I might have to reexamine my sexuality.

8) If you had the choice, would you rather go to space, meet Paul McCartney, scuba dive in the Pacific Ocean, or sleep with Carmen Electra?
Meet Paul McCartney and tell him I cried throughout his whole Fenway concert and refused to leave until the security kicked us out. And then I could frame his signature on the restraining order.

9) How long have you had your blog? What made you start one?
I don't know. How long have I had this thing? I wanted a place to put my writing where nobody would ever see it. It's been rather successful, with you as my only audience.

10) What is your weirdest phobia?
I don't play favorites with my phobias. They might get jealous.

11) Do you believe in God?
Not a God as defined by any religion I've seen, but a diety, yes. I'm a deist, I suppose.

12) If you could start a collab. blog with any four bloggers, which ones would you do it with?
I don't know four bloggers. I only know you.

13) If you were trapped on a desert island with the same four bloggers you mentioned in the last question, which one would you eat first? With which one would you procreate?
We'd have a very interesting relationship, wouldn't we?

14) What's your favourite 80's movie?
The Breakfast Club, predictably.

15) What kind of music do you listen to?
The kind I've never heard of. It's pretty good, but sometimes there are these long silences that they should try to fix in their next record when it comes out on vinyl.

16) Imagine that you open your bedroom closet one day and suddenly a portal opens up. You can't see what is at the end of the portal, but there is a totoro inside it motioning you to follow him. Would you go inside, even if it might mean you'll never come back?
Yes.

17) If you're a woman, do you find facial hair on men attractive? If you're a man, do you find facial hair on woman attractive?
Only soul patches. And by soul patches, I mean no.

18) Do you like babies?
Are those the evil things that throw up a lot and don't listen to reason?

19) What's the most violent thing you've ever done to an inanimate object?
I feel bad for inanimate objects. I might have thrown a pillow once, but why make the life of something that can't move on its own and lives at the mercy of us animate objects any worse?

20) What's the most embarrassing thing that's ever happened to you?
I tripped a little when I walked once and a guy looked at me funny it was devastating.

21) Do you think the world will end in 2012?
Obviously. Those Mayans.

22) Have you enjoyed this survey? Be honest, now.
Thoroughly.

23) Are you following The Nerd Archives? If not, DO YOURSELF THE FAVOUR OF DOING SO NOW.

Sure do. What would I do without my one follower?

...and then a magical unicorn floated down and said, "Behold, I hold the ambrosia of the gods."

And clutched in its purple hoof was a bag of Nacho Cheese Doritos. It placed the Doritos gently upon my head, whinnied, and galloped away on a rainbow made of human faces.
I really love Nacho Cheese Doritos. Sometimes I think that I write to give purpose to my life, but now I remember that the only purpose I have in life is to eat all of the Nacho Cheese Doritos. All of them.
Of course, this means I must eat all Doritos, past and present and future. And since time traveling hasn't been invented yet, and the Doctor won't take me on as a companion because I'm not blond or red-haired, unfortunately, if you've ever consumed a Nacho Cheese Dorito in your life, I'm going to have to split you open and eat your stomach.
This applies to anyone who eats one in the future, too. So put down that Dorito. I mean it.
Also writing.
This is unpolished and unfinished, I think, so. If you have critique, share it, and I'll only maul your face a little bit.

"But why?" sighs the willow tree
As I stretch beneath her canopy
Nothing gave me better company
Than that softly sighing willow tree.

"Why so sad?" chirps the bluebird
Perched up high on the willow tree
No one offered better advice
Than the truth the bluebird told me.

"Nothing lasts forever," called the satin leaves
Their honest chorus sang to me
as I lay beneath the willow tree
and the weeping willow gently grieved.

"There's always hope," says she
As she reaches her hand to the willow tree
and beckons the bluebird from her perch
and sings a tune for the lonely leaves
and melts away into the night.

And I rejoice in the sun's bright light.

Oh, Woe,

I don't really know. I haven't written anything in a while, so it's strange. Just.. shh.

Doe, look not so innocent
Your soul betrays malicious intent
For all your purity you cannot hide
All the times you've tricked and lied.

Oh doe, look not so surprised
Cannot deer live sinner's lives?
Blink slowly, but understand
The judgment hour is close at hand.

Oh, doe, look not so alarmed;
Only the unrighteous shall be harmed.

Doe, stretch not your neck to me
I've got more important things to see.

Because I'm Going Through Old Shit

Another school project, this time for The Odyssey.
-----------------------------------------------------------------

Odysseus; my Odysseus- my only son, the love of my life, taken from me. Driven to war, to defending his pride and his honor, and now-though the war is over, the Greeks victorious- he still wanders the mighty court of Earthshaker Poseidon. My poor Odysseus- I fear troubles far beyond a normal man’s capacity have befell him and his fleet. I can only hope that his incredible wit and bravery can pull him through these troubles.

My name is Anticlea- I am wife to Laertes, mother to Odysseus. It has been seven years since the Trojan war was ended and Odysseus sent on his way back home- I spend my days in silence, staring out at the sparkling blue ocean and waiting for the day when a white mast will poke above the horizon and bring my son home safely.

Laertes is no comfort- he dresses only in rags, and has refused to see me for days- I think he figures this was somehow my fault, that I could have done something to stop Odysseus from leaving. Oh, men- they can never see their own folly. Instead, they blame it on us women.

            Every day, I go to the market in search of gossip, of any news on my Odysseus. Oh, the tales I have heard! Of monsters, and storms, and the wrath of a god! My poor Odysseus, always favored by the all-loving gods and goddesses of Olympus, held accountable for a deed he couldn’t have avoided! I’ve heard stories spun of hurricanes and typhoons and horrible Lastrigonians- but most of all, of a Cyclops, Polythemus, taking my poor Odysseus and his crew and holding them hostage, of bloodshed and eventually, Odysseus’s cleverness as their savior.

I’ve heard such stories- and yet, my Odysseus hasn’t returned! How much trouble and pain can one mortal possibly endure before cracking? I can’t even imagine.

            The morning dawned as brightly as any other- the sun was shining over the deep blue sea, making it sparkle and shine like a sapphire. However bright it shined, I would never again see it as a thing of great beauty and mystery- to me, it was a monster. A monster working to destroy my Odysseus.

I stepped outside into the sunshine, shielding my eyes from its brilliance. Once they had adjusted to the light, my eyes beheld a peculiar sight. Up the rocky path from the village shuffled a stooped old man, a stranger I had never seen around the market before. He walked slowly, painfully, and I hurried to help him up the path to our house. Zeus Thunderer has taught us mortals of the rules of hospitality, and it would not be right to ignore them now, though my poor heart still aches for my son.

“Thank you, kind madam,” he said once I had him seated at our dining table. I smiled sadly and placed a platter of peasant meat in front of him, the best I could offer since Laertes had stopped working. He ate it gratefully, and when he was finished I cleaned up after him. As was custom, I waited until he had finished his wine and sat back contentedly to inquire after his name.

“My name is Athanasius. I come from lands far from Ithaca- lands I do not think you would have heard of. I am very glad for your hospitality- you should be rewarded. Is there anything you desire?”

Odysseus, my heart screamed, but I was not about to trouble this strange old man with my grieving- just because depression was my only companion for now does not mean I should bring down others’ happiness.

“Well, Athanasius, my son… you see, he went off to fight honourably in the Trojan War, but he- he hasn’t returned yet,” I said hesitantly.
He nodded knowingly. “You want news of him, am I correct?”
I hung my head meekly. “I hope it isn’t too much to ask of you… I just want to know if you’ve heard anything. My son… his name is—“
“Odysseus.” I gasped involuntarily. “Yes! Have you--?” I trailed off expectantly, my eyes shining, watching his every move. He sighed heavily.

“Your son, Odysseus, is with Circe, the witch goddess, on her island. Against his will, I’m sure,” he added hastily, seeing my look of shock and misinterpreting it as horror that he would forget Penelope and have an affair with a goddess. All I could see was blackness- I felt dizzy, and had to grab onto a chair to steady myself.

“H-he’s alive?” I said breathily, grasping at the only good news this tragedy brought. Athanasius nodded, watching my face warily.
“Is he going to be okay?” I asked desperately.

“That is for the gods to decide- I’m sure they’re doing the best that they can. Now, miss, I’m sorry to intrude on your hospitality for so long- I should be going.”

“Oh! Oh, if you’re sure…” I snapped out of my daze long enough to help him out of his chair. Athanasius hobbled across the room, pausing at the door long enough to look back and offer one last condolence.
“May the gods be with you.” He walked out of the threshold and shimmered, disappearing. I gasped again, clutching my hand to my chest. “Of course,” I breathed, wondering how I hadn’t seen it before. Athanasius- meaning immortal. Names were powerful- a god had just visited me.

The next couple of days were the worst of my life. Depression seemed to haunt me at every corner, and I wasn’t the only one. Laertes, after hearing my news, seemed to sink farther into his own sadness, and in doing so, he shrank even further away from me, the only comfort he might have in these lonely days.  

Now, I fear things are getting even worse. I have not heard any gossip, not even the wildest of stories- stories that I have now come to believe as true- and I fear for my Odysseus’s life. Without him, I’m not sure what I’d do. Thinking of his return and hearing of his travels is the only joy I had, with Laertes so far gone, and the gods have seen fit to keep even that bereft of me.

My appetite seems to have fled with my joy- I haven’t eaten in days, and I can feel myself growing weaker and weaker. I know I should eat, but I feel like denying that pleasure will somehow even the score with the gods and send my Odysseus back to me. I do nothing all day- nothing but stare at the ocean, with its endless tides and rippling waves, and send prayers to the gods to help my plight.

I long for Odysseus, for my son, to return home. I know not how long I can go on doing so- my body seems to betray me, and normal actions like walking or moving around seem as impossible as shifting a boulder. Even so, I am not worried- if I die, perhaps one day I will be reunited with my son, my Odysseus, once more; but for now and always, I wait.

           

Because I Haven't Been Here in Ages. Penis.

And also because my schoolwork is draining every inch of my creativity so that the only witty or thought-provoking things that appear in my brain are barely long enough for a Facebook status that nobody will appreciate, here is a story I wrote as a project for school a while back, where we had to describe a utopian society using animals. Like Animal Farm. Because it was an Animal Farm project.
Just kidding. I only have the first part on here. So here's a section. That nobody will read anyway.

Rolling hills covered in lush green grass stretched out as far as the eye could see. May gazed out at the fields in wonder, as she did every morning. Waking up to the same view everyday was in itself a new experience, an experiment with stability, security and happiness.
May couldn't remember the time before she was brought to Crystal Lake. All she could recollect were feelings of despair, loneliness, and fear. But that was all behind her now. Besides, she shouldn't even be thinking of that kind of stuff. Rule number one: forget.
Getting to her hooves, May blinked her great brown eyes slowly and set about her routine. Rule number two: memorize. Each cow at Crystal Lake had one job, and one job only. There was a strict policy about this; any cow attempting another job without written permission from another cow announcing they'd switch duties would be publicly reprimanded. This was the worst punishment one could receive at Crystal Lake, and it had been issued only twice in May's lifetime; once when Harold the educator tried to administer to a cow during childbirth, and once when Serena was caught conversing with a wild fox that lived in a den nearby. That was rule number three: quiet!
The cows of Crystal Lake did not interact with any of the other creatures in the land, not that there were many nearby. The other animals had their wars, their silly power struggles, their complex systems of government. Speaking with other animals would only result radical, dangerous ideas, ideas that could jeopardize the safety and serenity of their community. In the Crystal Lake, every cow lived by one mantra: “Only in simplicity is there peace.” This was the unspoken rule number four.
Life in Crystal Lake was carefree, but very structured. The day began at sunrise, when the cows set off to do their various jobs. There were educators, who spent their days teaching the cows nearing maturity what job they would have; calf -rearers, whose job was to watch and feed all of the calves at Crystal Lake; doctors, who administered herbal remedies to cows who fell ill; funeral directors, who were responsible for conducting the funeral when a cow passed away and taking care of the body (deceased cows were pushed off the cliff that bordered the fields to the east and into the sea; that way the bodies would not contaminate the grass); and May's own job, field tender. Her duties consisted of observing the field, making note of the weather, and letting the cows know when they needed to graze elsewhere.
After a few minutes of quiet ruminations, May meandered towards the bank of the lake, nodding hello to all of her friends as she passed by. The herd all met at the edge of the lake in the morning to greet the sun and prepare for the day. Even the smallest of calves, quivering with youthful energy, could understand and appreciate the beauty of the rising sun. Then they would commence the workday, same as any other, and at 6:00 they would reconvene at the lake, and the field tenders would announce the grazing spot for the day. For two hours they would graze in silence, for there was absolutely no talking unless necessary during grazing. Then there would be one hour for socializing before bed.
This hour of socialization was rarely utilized by any of the cows at Crystal Lake. They found they often had little to talk about. This lack of conversation didn't bother anyone, however, because they all could see by the examples set by the other animals that talking led to discontent, and discontent led to war.
The timetable of the day was never actually enforced, as there were no taskmaster cows, but most cows stuck to it anyway. The lack of leadership in Crystal Lake, too, was for the best. The nature of power was to want more power, and when that kind of greed was introduced to a community, even a rather peaceful, simple community, it corrupted the goodwill of the citizens, a quick-acting poison spreading through their veins. As a result, everyone in Crystal Lake was absolutely, irrevocably equal, from the lowest, scrawniest calf to the toughest bull.
The sun peeked above the horizon, as if checking to see if it was safe to come out. May loved this time of day most of all. The silence, solidarity of the stately sunrise always amazed her, even more so than the dazzling array of colors and blinding light. She let out a low moo, and, to her delight, every other cow around her joined in, a huddled bovine mass greeting the new day as one. May watched with awe as the sun slowly rose, flooding the plains with color.
The herd began to scatter, setting off to do their work. May headed towards the platform by the lake, reserved for field tenders to observe the plains. As she trotted over, she made sure to bow her head in reverence to the stone placed squarely in the path of the rising sun, in a way that it was the first thing graced by the rays of the sun in the morning and the last to lose their embrace in the evening. On the smooth flagstone their manifesto was engraved in flowery capital letters- “Only in simplicity is there peace”- and every cow was supposed to pay their respects as they passed.

Brevity

The brevity of a blooming flower is astounding to me
They live only to smell sweet and soak up the sun
If such a short life is filled with such joy
It forces me to wonder
Is the long life worth living?

Kurt Vonnegut: "smh"

Oh man I did this for a laugh. I need to read my classics. I didn't write out the list, it's taken from Tumblr. The bold/red ones are the one's I've read, the italics/blue are the ones I WANT TO READ RIGHT NOW but I'm either too lazy or I don't have the means to get them.

1) Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
2) The Lord of the Rings - JRR Tolkien
3) Jane Eyre - Charlotte Bronte
4) Harry Potter series - JK Rowling
5) To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper Lee
6) The Bible
7) Wuthering Heights - Emily Bronte
8) Nineteen Eighty Four - George Orwell
9) His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
10) Great Expectations - Charles Dickens
11) Little Women - Louisa M Alcott
12) Tess of the D’Urbervilles - Thomas Hardy
13) Catch 22 - Joseph Heller
14) Complete Works of Shakespeare
15) Rebecca - Daphne Du Maurier
16) The Hobbit - JRR Tolkien
17) Birdsong - Sebastian Faulks
18) Catcher in the Rye - JD Salinger
19) The Time Traveller’s Wife - Audrey Niffenegger
20) Middlemarch - George Eliot
21) Gone With The Wind - Margaret Mitchell
22) The Great Gatsby - F Scott Fitzgerald
23) Bleak House - Charles Dickens
24) War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
25) The Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams
26) Brideshead Revisited - Evelyn Waugh
27) Crime and Punishment - Fyodor Dostoyevsky
28) Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck

29) Alice in Wonderland - Lewis Carroll

30) The Wind in the Willows - Kenneth Grahame
31) Anna Karenina - Leo Tolstoy
32) David Copperfield - Charles Dickens
33) Chronicles of Narnia - CS Lewis
34) Emma - Jane Austen
35) Persuasion - Jane Austen
36) The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe - CS Lewis
37) The Kite Runner - Khaled Hosseini
38) Captain Corelli’s Mandolin - Louis De Bernieres

39) Memoirs of a Geisha - Arthur Golden

40) Winnie the Pooh - AA Milne
41) Animal Farm - George Orwell

42) The Da Vinci Code - Dan Brown
43) One Hundred Years of Solitude - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
44) A Prayer for Owen Meaney - John Irving
45) The Woman in White - Wilkie Collins
46) Anne of Green Gables - LM Montgomery
47) Far From The Madding Crowd - Thomas Hardy
48) The Handmaid’s Tale - Margaret Atwood
49) Lord of the Flies - William Golding
50) Atonement - Ian McEwan
51) Life of Pi - Yann Martel
52) Dune - Frank Herbert
53) Cold Comfort Farm - Stella Gibbons
54) Sense and Sensibility - Jane Austen
55) A Suitable Boy - Vikram Seth
56) The Shadow of the Wind - Carlos Ruiz Zafon
57) A Tale Of Two Cities - Charles Dickens
58) Brave New World - Aldous Huxley
59) The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time - Mark Haddon
60) Love In The Time Of Cholera - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
61) Of Mice and Men - John Steinbeck
62) Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov
63) The Secret History - Donna Tartt
64) The Lovely Bones - Alice Sebold
65) Count of Monte Cristo - Alexandre Dumas
66) On The Road - Jack Kerouac
67) Jude the Obscure - Thomas Hardy
68) Bridget Jones’s Diary - Helen Fielding
69) Midnight’s Children - Salman Rushdie
70) Moby Dick - Herman Melville
71) Oliver Twist - Charles Dickens
72) Dracula - Bram Stoker
73) The Secret Garden - Frances Hodgson Burnett
74) Notes From A Small Island - Bill Bryson
75) Ulysses - James Joyce

76) The Bell Jar - Sylvia Plath

77) Swallows and Amazons - Arthur Ransome
78) Germinal - Emile Zola
79) Vanity Fair - William Makepeace Thackeray
80) Possession - AS Byatt

81) A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens

82) Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell
83) The Color Purple - Alice Walker
84) The Remains of the Day - Kazuo Ishiguro
85) Madame Bovary - Gustave Flaubert
86) A Fine Balance - Rohinton Mistry
87) Charlotte’s Web - EB White
88) The Five People You Meet In Heaven - Mitch Albom
89) Adventures of Sherlock Holmes - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
90) The Faraway Tree Collection - Enid Blyton
91) Heart of Darkness - Joseph Conrad
92) The Little Prince - Antoine De Saint-Exupery
93) The Wasp Factory - Iain Banks
94) Watership Down - Richard Adams
95) A Confederacy of Dunces - John Kennedy Toole
96) A Town Like Alice - Nevil Shute
97) The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
98) Hamlet - William Shakespeare

99) Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - Roald Dahl 

100) Les Miserables - Victor Hugo

Oh, you're still reading?



No poetry here, I'm way too tired.
Though lately I've felt rather inspired-
It's the perfumed springtime air I believe,
but I am actually tired so I'll keep this brief.

In Which I Reveal Works in Progress

I can never actually finish shit though. Whatever.

Punchline:
I want to beat you with my logic
Cold cock you with knowledge
Love's an unusual dichotomy for me
It doesn't go over well at parties.

Untitled:
I could kiss your poisoned lips
I could lay beside you in eternity
But frankly that doesn't interest me
I look towards the dead for tips

Untitled #2:
Strolling through the graveyard in late afternoon
Watching as ragged trees rattle their bones
And sing for our sins on the spring blossom wind
I crack a smile and I'm home.

Trod on the roofs of the dead and gone
Plots staked out in anticipation of fate
Sparrows ride on the aerial tide above my mind
Stop and wonder at the noise they make.

Lay among the silent population
As leaves rustle and discuss the sun
Stained my eyes with ghostly lies and promises
Yet they still say I'm the lucky one.


Yep.

The Start, Possibly, of a Novel?

Normally I don't care if you guys critique my work or not (though I do love compliments, really, keep those coming), but I really want to know if my writing style is interesting when it comes to prose, and whether, basically, you would put up with a whole novel of it. It's something I'm really self-conscious and particular about, because personally, I think it's boring as shit. But ANYWAY I also need to know if this even makes sense. Love you all.


Hazy night swallowed the beams of light thrown from the passing cars with a hungry gnashing of its teeth, leaving red and blue trails across his vision. The cool tinted glass cast a purple glow over the world, a gauzy sheen that only made the night seem more real and cold. The barrier flowed beside him, a comforting companion on his singular journey, a journey of 'self-awareness' and 'relaxation' if you could believe his well-meaning campaign director, which you couldn't, not entirely. It was made of solid concrete studded with metal bars and chopped up by the occasional guardrail, and its presence calmed his thudding heartbeat somewhat.

"What do you think, barrier?" he thought, and pressed his forehead against the nice purple glass that kept him a reasonable distance away from his friend. Separate worlds, it was safer that way. "Do you think he really wants to help me?" The barrier flowed on, offering nothing but its steady gaze through the night. His head bounced on the glass as the town car jumped over an uneven section of midnight pavement, and each crack of his forehead on the glass sent a dull firework off in his mind, an explosion of ashy gray and yellow. Even the fireworks in his mind were dirty.

All of a sudden the barrier was swallowed up by the ground, which was coated in a crystalline dusting of sparkling snow, though the cool green grass poked its spiny fingers through where it was able. James's eyes widened, endless spans of glistening black from his dilated pupils, and he pressed one hand against the glass. Dark hair sprouted on his fingers, which were splayed wide apart on the window. His surprised stare locked on to the stretch of grass where barrier had only recently run alongside their car, and his heart ached for his fallen friend.

Then, as quickly as it had dived underneath the terrain, barrier leapt forth victoriously from the earth and resumed its sprint. A ghostly smile split on James's face, and the window reflected his tombstone teeth with an ethereal glow. As he watched the barrier, so strong and steady, was replaced by a guardrail, which scurried on its spindly legs, only to be overtaken once again by the concrete wall, and the two played a game of cat and mouse alongside the black town car as it sped down the parkway.

A violent buzzing tore his gaze away from the wonders of the nighttime world, and James swiveled on the smooth black leather seat to locate the source. Dave reached into the inside pocket of his expensive charcoal suit to grasp the vibrating phone.

"Hello?" Static burst forth and buzzed busily around the interior of the car, and James shut his eyes briefly against the invasive noise.

"Davey boy!" said a jovial man on the other end, his voice bursting through the static. The silence in the car allowed James to hear their conversation without meaning to.

"Harry, how are you?" replied Dave briskly, his tone clipped.

"Listen, Davey," continued Harry, ignoring Dave entirely, "I was telling Mickey earlier--" Laughter filled the car, though both Dave and James bore stoic expressions. Dave held the phone a couple of inches away from his ear as he waited for the mirth to subside.

"Shut-shut up! Shut up, I said!" shouted Harry to his friends, and after a couple of seconds the car was quiet again. "Anyway, Davey boy, like I was saying, I was telling Mickey earlier that after you've finished with this- this 'vacation'--" Jeers could be heard through the phone's tinny speakers, and James cringed and returned his gaze to the window, though he continued to listen. "When you've finished with that, you need, you have to come back here and BUY US A ROUND!"

 Laughter and catcalls erupted once again and Harry chortled in Dave's ear. Dave could imagine Harry's considerable girth shaking as he went red in the face, the result of too many drinks and faith in his humor. He was suddenly thankful for the quiet car trip, though James was certainly not delightful company.

"Yeah, like you need more alcohol," he returned, and Harry chuckled good-naturedly.

"That may be true, Davey boy, but at least I know how to live! How's the trip going, anyway?"

"We've been driving for the last three hours or so," said Dave with a touch of exasperation, "and we're probably about two hours away. It's peaceful."

"I bet it's peaceful. I bet! You'll be getting all the peace you could ever want, am I right, Dave?" To Dave's great annoyance Harry began another round of laughter.

"Yeah, Harry, yeah. Listen though, I've got to be going now, I've got to go."

"Oh of course. Got business to attend to in that town car of yours, eh?" said Harry, and Dave heard the jest in his voice and the sparkle in his brown eyes. "You do that, then. You work. I'll just stay here, if that's all right with everyone," and in the background Dave heard shouts of consent firing like gunshot. "Just remember Davey boy. You finish up with your work, your important vacation and image-saving, and then you haul ass back here and you BUY US ALL A ROUND!"

Dave sighed and hung up, not bothering to say goodbye, and glanced over at James, who was sitting in his characteristic-as of late- silence, staring moodily out at the upstate New York nighttime plateau. As usual, Dave couldn't fathom what was whirring around in that overactive brain of his, but he hoped it wasn't anything that was going to make his job any more difficult than it already was. Thoughts of work began a parade of worries and stress in his mind, and he rested his head on the side of the car, letting his ruminations swirl.

Look, Shit!

Going on my previously hatched assumption that no, nobody gives a shit what I do, I'm gonna post some works that aren't necessarily edited or polished to perfection, against the advice of the type-A perfectionist/neurotic who inhabits my mind sometimes.

You'll Just Have To Trust Us

What a price to pay for freedom
What a prize is awarded at the end
While the world parades deaf and dumb
Yet still there's this shuddering trend
Violence and inhumanity reigns
What queen has taken her throne?
We're helping, trust us, however faint
You'll just have to trust us on this one.

Other Stuff
Birds and song and sorrow
That's all I can hear
in the depths of my mind a party thumps
and a voice rises from its casket
"hello hello" it says joyfully
a keener joy was never heard
a fierce fright bubbles forth
today something new takes hold.

Absent and Invisible

I've just been lurking lately, because I haven't written anything in weeks and I'm too tired all of the time to do anything really. We have one week left before spring break, and, in typical high school fashion, it's going to be absolute hell. First of all, I have tennis conditioning from 2:30 to 6 every day, and I'm not in shape at all. Three and a half hours of wall sits, planks, sit ups, suicides, drills, push ups, and a mile run every day. I'm kind of scared. Scratch that, I'm really scared.
However, I did realize one thing. The reason I haven't been writing lately, the reason I've found it inexplicably hard to express myself through the written word for like the past month and a half, is because I haven't made time for reading. I keep forgetting that when you stop the intake of creativity, you also pinch off the outpouring of it. To fix this problem, I booked it to the nearest Borders (get it? booked it? to a book store? lamepuns) because they're going out of business where I live and bought like everything in the store because it was like 60% off. Currently I'm reading All the King's Men which, frankly, I'm surprised I haven't read yet, seeing as it's right up my alley. I have a hefty reserve of books now, but I'm also very open to any suggestions.

Well, yes, this is been yet another pointless and writing-free post. I have a plot for a short story brewing in my mind, so we'll see how well I'll be able to start it with my crazy week coming up. I try.

Japan...

I really don’t know what’s going on. I get really freaked out every time we have any kind of inclimate weather, from the craptons of snow we got this winter to the flooding in our state this past week. And now this earthquake/tsunami combo in Japan… it just really, really freaks me out, and it makes me wonder if anyone else is scared, too. I don’t study geology or anything, so I can’t tell you the physics behind this stuff (beyond whatever was in An Inconvenient Truth), but I think that all of us can feel it. I don’t think the world is ending. 2012 is preposterous and I think it’s just stupid that people can believe in that. But we really need to look at what we’re doing to this world… we can pray all we want, but we also have to take action.
I have friends in Japan and I’ve texted my friends who’ve heard that they’re all okay, but I can’t help but wonder what it’s like for those who haven’t heard back, or worse, have heard back and received bad news.
It also pisses me off that while everyone on Tumblr is freaking out, posting links to donation websites and generally spreading awareness, not one of my Facebook friends has posted a status about it, and when I do nobody likes it. Jesus fuck people. Empathy.
I'm gonna go express myself in more creative outlets.
In other news my followers seem to have disappeared, but hopefully this message reaches people anyway.

You can also donate to Doctors Without Borders here, or text REDCROSS to 90999 to automatically donate $10 to the Red Cross, although I've heard rumors about the Red Cross being discriminate in their help, so I'd go with the Doctors Without Borders link if you have the means to do so.

It's Not Poetry, but Surprise Surprise, Writing

I have a problem. It’s not a problem you can see or hear, taste, smell or feel. My problem is myself. I get inside my brain, fuck things up in the vast space. I kick over buckets of self-esteem and chuckle as it spreads bloodlike over the membrane floor. I stack up neuroses in towering spires in the dusty corners that confidence once occupied. While unconscious, I steal into my memory and slip the tiny ones, unimportant ones, so that I might not notice, into my endless pockets and flee. Obsessions crawl through the tiny cracks, attracted to the crumbs of worry left over that the vacuum of apathy missed, crablike on their spindly black legs, sharp teeth clacking as they chatter mindlessly. Dressed in skintight black, I squeeze through multicolored electric passageways into the deepest recesses of my recollections and scribble over some of the clear glass plates in Sharpie, aglow with self-sabotage and adrenaline, and while I’m there I stop to pick up some of the plates filed away in the cabinet that sparkles and shines, throw them up in the air and scream with laughter as they shatter into glittery pieces of doubt and second guesses. Hormones, those little fuckers, spill out of my drooping shirtsleeves and plunk like pebbles all around me, vibrating and pulsing, clotting up the rusting metal doorways to common sense and rationality. Before I depart I draw a ghostly knife from my belt of mayhem and send it whirring through the dead air, whistling a phantasmal tune as it rips a hole in the fragile cloth binding between my sanity and a sparkling void that yawns behind it. It’s only a little hole, so infinitesimal that it cannot be seen with the untrained eye, but every time I visit I fling another phantom knife and worry away at that vital cloth.

The worst part is, as I write I’m already slipping away with my red pen, searching through drawers of accomplishments and records, finding this story and marring it with insecurity, striking through the center a bloody X, the kiss of death for every story I’ve attempted to bring to life.

Matthew Gray Gubler is on Tumblr and I Feel Insignificant

So. It hasn't spilled over onto Blogger yet because I've expressed myself rather fully on Tumblr and Twitter, but I am rather prone to fangirling. Over a lot of different things; mainly music groups, The Beatles, Motion City Soundtrack, etc.
HOWEVER, my latest obsession has been Matthew Gray Gubler, of Criminal Minds fame (he plays Spencer Reid). I mean, I'm not stalker type variety, but... I fall in love easily.
And now he has a Tumblr.
And my Tumblr pretty publicly showcases my, er, love. I'm freaking out a little, but hey, if he ever miraculously follows me back, I think my feelings of joy will eclipse any worry about a restraining order.

My feelings of insignificance stem from 1) a lingering feeling that I'm too young for everything/one I love, and 2) I will never be famous and/or witty. Definitely not witty. Have any of you noticed my insecurity about witticism? I WILL NEVER BE WITTY, JUST MILDLY FUNNY WHY IS LIFE SO UNFAIR.

And Then I Said Fuck it, I'm Not Going to Let Myself Feel Unwanted by an Awards Show

See, I get in these moods with pop culture. If I forget to be properly hyped beforehand- like for the Superbowl- then I end up forgetting or being preoccupied when it comes on. This happened with the Grammys, and I actually can't think of other awards shows but believe me, it happens all the time. And then I proudly flaunt my indifference the next day when everyone's talking and Tweeting and debating about the results.
But I'll tell you a secret.
A part of me, the part that is locked in an eternal catfight with my non-conformist side, DIES.

So I forgot to start watching the Oscars because frankly, I didn't know what time it started or what channel it was on and I was doing math homework and watching Adventure Time/ Criminal Minds, blah, blah, life.
And then I went on Tumblr and saw the Oscars blowing up my dash, and I was like. Huh. Here comes that familiar pang of I'm being left out here.
Because I'm just apathetic about pop culture, obviously I'm up for watching the Oscars passively while I do other things (namely writing this post), so the clear answer was just to ask my mom what channel it was on and turn on the TV. However I'm a total freak, and I started to internally yell at myself.
"YOU CAN'T JUST TURN ON THE OSCARS IN THE MIDDLE OF THEM THEN YOU'RE JUST JUMPING ON THE BANDWAGON AND EVERYBODY WILL THINK YOU ARE WEIRD."
But then I said, fuck it.
And I think I've started off almost every sentence in this post with a conjunction. But I don't give a shit.
I'M WATCHING THE OSCARS AND MY THERAPIST WHICH IS MADE UP WOULD BE PROUD.

Normal Inactivity and an Awful Amount of Alliteration

Sorry I've been away for so long. I'm a bad blogger, but boy, babbling becomes boring briskly. A-plus for addictive alliteration.
[Let me explain. Alliteration is my favorite of all of the literary techniques because it's easy to do, fun to read and makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside, like I'm an actual writer instead of a bored teenager with a penchant for rambling]
Besides the usual excuse (school is super stressful, stupid, senseless), I've also run out of past poems to post. And I'm far to lethargically lazy and lack the drive to actually write more. I've also been supremely uninspired, uncreative and unproductive as of late, so every time I sit down with my beat up, battered (but still badass) journal, I just end up sighing, scribbling some random thoughts in the margins, and then baking cupcakes.
Don't judge.

So I apologize profusely for my lack of posting.

Not that anyone follows me.

Except for my one follower. Hello, one follower.

It's Kurt Cobain's Birthday and I'll Cry If I Want To

Happy 44th Birthday, Kurt Cobain. 
I find it mildly interesting that I can be so attached to someone I never, to borrow a cliche with no intention of giving it back, shared the earth with. Not that I share the earth with anyone. It's my earth. I'm a very possessive person.

I was thinking the other day. I do that sometimes, think. Most of the time I then forget. Like I just did. I can't remember, for the life of me, what I was going to say next.

I'm going to post a legitimate post, either a poem or a ramble or a thesis, in a little while, but I have to post this wish for a happy birthday before it becomes midnight here- and thus not Kurt Cobain's birthday any longer- or it'll bother me.

Why can't I be witty?

Not Poetry

Ways in Which I am Like a Cat:
I sleep a lot
I don’t like change
I yawn way too often
I like the sun
I like comfy places
I stretch a lot
I’m lazy as fuck
I don’t love unconditionally much
I like others to do things for me
I’m manipulative
I like the dark
I like to be clean; I’m kind of a germaphobe
I’m fastidious
I meow occasionally
I can see pretty well in the dark for a human
I do not like vacuum cleaners
I get scared easily

Ways in Which I am Not Like a Cat:
My ears do not oscillate. In fact, I can’t move them at all
I do not have claws
I am not furry
I do not hiss
My teeth are not long and pointy
I like having people around, except when I don’t
My thumbs are opposable

It's Valentine's Day

And instead of spitting out some quips about consumerism or depression, I'm just going to tell you about how I almost burned someone's homework today, but I was foiled by a safety match.
Actually, that's about the whole story. I was coloring with a match, slightly hoping that it would catch on fire because I hated that kid, whose homework I was scribbling on with frenzied abandon, who began to hate me with a passionate passion for no good reason at all about a month and a half ago and I just can't forgive him for that because I thought he was going to be, in my friend's words, my Black Lightning. But then I looked up the difference between regular friction matches and safety matches (the difference being that safety matches have powdered glass in them which causes friction when it strikes the pad, which only works

[Your regularly scheduled blog post has been interrupted for this special announcement: I just watched the series finale of Medium, which is a show I'm not obsessed with but I followed it for the last couple of seasons, and I am crying SO HARD. It was like The Notebook. Your regularly scheduled blog post will resume.]

when the pad also has powdered glass in it, or something) and I stopped, figuring it useless, and flung the match dramatically across the room, where it landed in the corner for some inquisitive and lucky 6th grader to find and wreak mayhem with, if they can manage. And then I got depressed on the bus, fell asleep, daydreamed about zombie killing with a certain extremely attractive person until I was happy again, got off the bus, tried not to slip and kill myself on the melting ice while walking home, sprinted past a dead squirrel conveniently moved FROM THE STREET WHERE NOBODY CARED TO THE SIDEWALK WHERE EVERYBODY DOES, stopped, gagged, got over it, ran inside.
That was my day, or at least the highlights/lowlights of it.

Also, I fell down the stairs yesterday and thought I died for a couple minutes, went into shock (which I believe because my heart was beating super fucking slow) and then got up and realized I just had a bruise back, elbow and ass. Awesome. Black and blue in time for the one day of the year when I get my hopes up that someone will send me a secret note or confess their love or something and nobody does.

This was more melodramatic than I'd hoped. Oh well.

Edit: Oh, I forgot to post a poem and stuff. Poems. Hmm.

How far would I go for you?
Maybe I’ve become
Immune
The clock in my mind is set to June
Who knew?
Nature dies and seasons change
Lives crumble and brim with pain
Bound together by a lifeblood chain
Who gains?
Papercuts and freezerburn
Tides rise and waves return
Firewood for flames yearn
Who burns?
Limbs twitch in dying throes
To this sweet dark night they owe
A last lover’s whisper death bestows
And breathes
Who knows?

...Like I said, not everything posted on this is going to be polished or even remotely good. I try.

Yeah, I May Be a Sadist

Lucifer, Lucifer
Beckon with your forked tongue
Gilded golden guileless fun
Is it true the game's just begun?
Toy with me, coy with me
Duel in the shadows
Lucifer, Lucifer, what do I owe?
What must I owe?

Lucifer, Lucifer, what have you done?
Dangerous dallisome dominant fun
Stripped of the pieces that made me one
Lucifer, Lucifer, what have I done?

Random Exercises and the Scribbling of a Madwoman

Interspersed throughout my writing notebook are random poems I write sort of subconsciously when I'm trying to come up with a line for an actual poem. Thought I'd share, some are pretty ridiculous.

Caffeine:
Tricky to spell
Impossible to smell
Still I can't quell
Shaking like hell
Stressed by the bell
But that's just as well
For headlong I fell.

Untitled Something 1:
The need for acceptance and
the fear of being rejected clash
in the most spectacular way
you can imagine
fireworks tears and song.

Untitled Something 2:
Hopes are like butterflies
Adrift on the ocean
Miles from home and
Brimming with emotion.
What I write makes no sense
So I guess it's called art
But only by those
With a pitiful heart.

Untitled Something 3: (originally part of US2)
My rhyming is weak
my tempo off beat
my words have no heat
the bones have no meat
the legs have no feet
the dog has no treat
the drunk has no mead
the flutist no reed
the cows lack their feed
the addict no need
the pothead no weed
the Nicenes no creed
there's nothing to read
except my incredibly amateur
poetry.

It's Fun To Write Limericks!:
Ah, what fun it is to write a limerick!
Your results could be quite terriferic!
I think you will find
It's a hard skill to refine
Because nothing quite rhymes with limerick!

I give up, this is a writing blog

Nobody really wants to hear about my day. Hell, I don't want to hear about my day. It sucked.
I don't think people necessarily want to read my writing either, but whatever.
This one is a work in progress, and I think it will perpetually be a work in progress. Does that mean it's just a bad poem? Maybe.
I thought I watched the pattern
of the swiftly falling guillotine
rising, falling, darting like death
flashing brightly, blade unseen.

Opposite the guillotine
A golden apple beckons
Inaccessable behind the winking blade
A softly sweeping beacon.

I thought I watched the pattern
Neck outstretched beneath the guillotine
But as I strained for the golden apple
The blade plummeted, vicious and keen.

I thought I watched the pattern
of the guillotine swiftly falling.

But I was wrong;
cruelty has no pattern.

Yeah I hate the second stanza. I hate the whole thing really. Whatever.

I watched the Super Bowl and it was actually really fun

I rooted for the Packers, since they were the underdogs and gosh I love me a good underdog story, and they won. Just goes to show you what magic my support generates.
Just kidding. They played a fantastic game, really, I can't believe I actually had fun watching it! Anyway, it was worth the homework-ignoring that went on. Sweet fuck I'm tired, skiing wears you out, so sorry if this post makes no sense or my sentence constructions are a little off. It happens. So I'll post something I wrote when I wasn't tired. And that makes sense. Hopefully. Am I drunk?

A Poem and Stuff:

There’s a time when the world is magical
Lit with a soul anew
It’s a precious kind of miracle,
The wondrous afternoon half-light.

Spiderwebs stretch across blades of grass
Like a precarious tightrope of beauty
They shine with the light of the rainbow,
In the glow of the afternoon half-light.

Moths anxiously flit from spot to spot
Touched with a golden shimmer
Even the smallest of creatures are exquisite,
Basked in the glory of this afternoon half-light.

Red-gold leaves are scattered throughout the grass
Like jewels throughout a coal mine
Their colors sparkle and dance like fairies,
Feeling the joy of the afternoon half-light.

There’s a time when everything shines gaily
And no creature is left without grace
Every farthest dream seems possible
In the wondrous afternoon half-light.

More Crappy Poetry Because I Can't Be Fucked to Actually Talk About Something

How cruel is a drop of water
if only a drop;
in the midst of the dry desert.
That drop of sparkling hope, fuels a
thirst for many more
to follow.

How cruel is an implication of love
if only an implication;
and not in practise, for it only makes
the heart yearn for
emotions scorned.

How cruel is a taste of heaven,
if only a taste;
what Lucifer threw away with vengeance
but one can not linger; how cruel, then
is but a taste of heaven.

Thus the cruelty of that drop of water,
as innocuous, as innocent as it may seem;
for just a taste of perfection only
makes the absence that much
clearer.

Snow, Julie and Julia, First Strike, and More Snow

As what seems to pervade my entire life in a sort of suppressive manner, snow has once again descended upon my state. Which sucks, because we only got like two days of rest since the last storm... and there's one tonight, and there's one Saturday, and in my unprofessional opinion WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE.

Since I was forced to stay inside today (aside from shoveling. I tried my best to get over to my friend's house, but we got stuck in the snow, and when we finally rolled precariously out of our driveway- I say precariously because the snowbanks on either side make it impossible to see down the street so the possibility we were going to be hit by an oncoming car was present- we got stuck at the end of the street and had to push our car out of a snowbank), I obviously had to comb through my massive collection of books to find one I haven't read recently, and I picked up Julie & Julia. It's a movie now, and I saw it, and it was good, but I still love the book.
It makes me really hungry, even though I would never eat half of the things she makes. So I made myself a turkey and cheese sandwich for lunch which, trust me, is an unusual display of culinary prowess given that usually Ramen is a stretch. That's all related to laziness, by the way.
Then, when I finished Julie & Julia and played my fill of Fallout: New Vegas, I decided I would fork up the $15-odd bucks for the First Strike map pack for BlackOps. Now, normally I don't buy DLCs or map packs because I have no need to, and I didn't really care about the multi-maps, but once I heard they included a new zombie map, I HAD TO HAVE IT, because I really hate Kino and Five is growing old, although it's certainly better. I've yet to try Ascension, but I will soon. As for the multimaps, I DESPISE Stadium and Berlin Wall- especially Berlin Wall- but Discovery is all right. I haven't tried the others yet.
Also I had a bit of a mental breakdown today, but that's nothing new. I threw a bit of a cabin-fever fit when I realized I couldn't go anywhere, and then I stubbed my toe which made my rage rear its ugly head and breathe fire over everything I love. And then I realized I'll probably never be good at Call of Duty, but I got over that, too.
So my mental health state is now stable, but fragile.
I'd also like to make a new YouTube video, but I don't know what it should be about. I filmed something about the Obama interview taking place there, but I think it's passed and it was stupid anyway. Scratch that, I don't want to make a new video. Maybe I'll write something for once.

Poetry is not my forte, okay?

But here. Be forewarned, it's old and shitty, but whatever, I did nothing today because I was semi-sick and tired, so I have nothing else to post.

The intricacies of birds in spring
An innocent, pure and wholesome thing
Every day they visit me
And always take me under wing.

A sheltered life is hard to lead
They opened the cage to set me free
I crawled out and embraced the light
But needy night won't let me be.

Now in my mind the birds take flight
To flee the bloodlust of the night
Though I try to pull away,
This taunting greed I cannot fight.

The birds have fled and ceased to sing
They've left me crowned reluctant king
Alone on this throne I wond'rously think
Of the intricacies of birds in spring.

Dead on my feet

Today was incredibly tiring... ugh. I got up at 8 in the morning- A.K.A. WAY too early for a Saturday, especially when you stayed up till 2 the morning before playin' COD with your friends- to go to an extra credit Chemistry class, which, yes, is as nerdy as it sounds, but I only went because my friend wanted me to and because there were donuts. Then I chilled at a wrestling tournament, which was okay because of the number of guys shirtless or near to it, even though it was not the most rosy smelling of places. Then I went to the mall, where I participated in an orchestrated 5 minute freeze much like the Improv Everywhere one except not nearly as well done because there were like 500 people, so that was fun.
And now I'm just about dead on my feet, because I'm also on my period and therefore I feel like dying and/or committing mass homocide.
Hey, look, now Lounge Act is playing on my iTunes, which is funny because that's what I named this blog.

OH AND SOMETHING AMAZING HAPPENED TODAY:
So there's this guy at my church who looks exactly like Slash when he was young, except with glasses. And his name is James. I kind of love him. And he's 25, but let's ignore that for now.
James has two younger brothers, one of whom is my age (but, tragically, has not taken after his brother looks-wise so far) and another who is younger than that. AND WHILE I WAS AT THE WRESTLING TOURNAMENT, I SAW THEM TAKING A TOUR OF MY SCHOOL. Which means that either middle brother is going here, into junior year which is probably not the case but that'd be amazingtasticcool, or that his youngest brother is going into middle school. I'm just excited. Small world.