Thursday, March 31, 2011

Bluffs Hide the Sky

I don't worry a lot. In fact, I consider myself to be one of the most relaxed, chill people I know. Few things set me off, few things annoy me to the point of anger. Competitions don't interest me, people vying for a top spot or titles bore me.  I've always taken this as a point of some pride, as Lilliputian and trite as it is. But lately I've come to wonder- if I am passionless in this aspect of my life, does it make me passionless in other aspects as well? I could list off the banalities of my anti-existence for you- I could speak of my days filled with time spent alone, sleep, eating. Writing, texting, hanging out with friends. Being drunk, dancing. Boring. I can't think of a single, real-life thing I did today. Passionless. Uninspired.
Drawing from a song I heard today (one that simultaneously struck a cord in me and depressed me), I can sum up my life in a sentence: taking your own life with boredom, I'm taking my own life with wine. How depressing is that statement? Yet I couldn't get it out of my can't really take one's life with boredom, one can't really take one's life with wine (unless one goes on a serious, wild, wine-drinking binge, in which case one would need to consume almost stupid amounts of that fruity alcoholic beverage.) So what do those lyrics really mean? Being so average, so vapid, so vapidly average, that I am indeed killing myself, slowly yet surely, with my tedious, insipid life. And the biggest factor that is bothering me is that I don't mind commonplace things! No, in fact, I used to cherish everyday, simple things. I adored making them complex, velvet. Making a beam of sunlight trailing on my floor a prop for an amazing, inspired, of-the-moment dance. Instead of walking down the stairs, I would trip lightly, making a beat with the gentle thudding of my feet on the floorboards. I used to delight in the most childlike things, such as having an opportunity to eat ice cream, wearing a dress, going on a road trip, applying makeup as I got ready to go out for the day. Dancing in my apartment in my underwear, alone. Singing in the shower. Having fire in my veins. What happened to me?
I hate writing that comes to no conclusion, but in this case, there honestly is none. How could I possibly wrap these couple paragraphs up? With saying, perhaps, how I will try to change, how I will learn to love each day properly. Or I could say that I might never change, and how much this prospect scares me. I could wax on about other worries of mine. I could elaborate on love and life, life and love, love lost, life lost. Or, I could simply say "goodnight" and "see you tomorrow". Sometimes the simplest ways are the best.

Sunday, March 27, 2011

Inspired Always

Right now, things are not going too well. It's late, I'm sick, I'm helplessly and haplessly attempting to do well on a take-home math test which I have been working on for the past four hours or so. I'm not even half done. In my frustrated state, I meander over to a blog of one of my friends'. I secretly adore him, and his assumed unrequited affections lead me to stalking him through his blog. Dear Lord. The biggest reason I do this is because he writes so eloquently...his thoughts tumble forth and make me more inspired to write myself. But somehow when I start writing, my thoughts seem simple and mundane compared to his, and I become bashful with my supposed writing talents. As if anyone actually reads this blog anyway.
The biggest thing I've been struggling with lately is lack of direction in my life. I feel that every moment defines who one is or who one will be in some small way, and by making even the most sub-conscious, infinitesimal choices one is forever adding or deducting from one's personality. This is probably misguided and silly, but I tend to believe it regardless. Take last night, for example. It was one of the worst nights I have had in a while, due to a boy with whom I have a history with refusing to talk or look at me while he talks to a girl standing right next to me, taking care of a boy who tripped on some stairs and needed convincing to go to the hospital for stitches, being at a party where I'm sober and trying to be friendly and introducing myself to new people (since I only knew a couple people) and the girls completely ignoring me, finally getting home around 2:30am and receiving a call from a severely inebriated friend who wanted to crash on my floor, which turned into him, another friend, and I having some very sloppy conversation in which the severely inebriated one said a lot of inappropriate things. I finally head to bed around 3:00am, only to be waken at 4:00am to a drunk call from a boy demanding I bring his keys over to his house. I drove over, drove him to Wal-Mart for a pizza,  and drove him back home; only to find that he had his room key with him the entire time. Around 5:00 I'm back in bed. Longest night ever, and I just wrote a huge paragraph writing about the longest night ever. Shit. New paragraph.
The point is: I did everything I did last night to try to be a good person. A responsible, nice, good person. And I ended up miserable and upset, tired and thankless. What should I surmise from that?
Ugh. I just spent a lot of time writing about things that frustrate me and are actually pointless, since they are over now. See? I told you I'm a bad writer.

Thursday, March 24, 2011

But I Chose Freedom

So here I am on a Sunday afternoon, head still reeling from the night before, stomach still hollow. Perhaps I should eat an orange. Sometimes I like seclusion- I love the freedom of doing whatever I desire to do. Sometimes it's cleaning, other times it's taking a bath, surfing the Internet, playing dress up. Tonight I was aimlessly wandering through my seemingly endless Internet bookmarks and I came upon a site that I had forgotten about. is so's voyeuristic and sort of creepy, but intriguing in what anonymous people will say about others without the repercussions of identity. As I was scanning through people's posts, I saw one that made me pause. It was a girl, asking the men of my university what kind of girl is their "type". She asked of body type, what their type of look was, and even the hair color they prefer on girls. I found this question to be completely interesting.  I suppose it is interesting what guys think about women, but I don't think girls understand that different men like different kinds of girls. If every man loved the whole Megan Fox aesthetic (and many do, I'll admit) then some of them might not think that Lady Gaga is a total babe (she is). I just didn't understand why in the world this girl was wondering what guys like, so she could presumably change something about herself to better please the y-chromosome. Didn't she understand that she is completely beautiful, gorgeously unique, and probably a bombshell in her own right? It drives me crazy that these perfectly lovely girls don't recognize their own beauty, something that stares out at them from the mirror every day.
I'm bored of the girls who gripe about their insecurities when there are plenty of people in the world who have real problems. I feel bad for them, but it's hard to sympathize too much. See, girls are told by everyone that they are beautiful: their parents, their families, their girlfriends, the boys who fawn over them. They either just choose to not believe it or are looking for attention by moaning about their supposed flaws and deficiencies just to be told they are gorgeous (which is a form of insecurity in it's own form). I'm bored of it. And while I have days when I don't feel like a babe, a bombshell- days I refuse to have my picture taken on- I still don't let it affect how I feel about myself. I still toss my hair to my shoulder, slink my way down the sidewalk, whisper sweet nothings coyly in my friends' ears. I just look in the mirror a little less.

Sunday, March 20, 2011

Lost Between Jesus and Suicide

The way people write and how they are in real life are completely different.
Written words don't convey inflection or tone, therefor bypassing some pretty vital aspects of this whole communication thing. Fuck. I've been uninspired for the longest time with my writing. And they say what you should do when you're uninspired is to do something dangerous. Do something that makes you scared, that's outside your comfort zone. All I've been wanting to do lately is drink. And drink. And sleep. I'm just ignoring this life of mine and completely frittering away hours and hours of time that could better be used for learning, for creation, for self-revelation. It doesn't usually bother me, because I feel like my brain is only being used half-assed anyway. I don't do a lot of critical thinking, I suppose. The most I need to think is to wonder if cold cream will clog my pores, or if using baby lotion makes me smell too much like a baby. Whether I should get Smirnoff Passionfruit or Watermelon.
I realize I sound stupid. I probably am.
I need to find something dangerous to do. Something to kick-start me, get me off my ass and start living. Having things to talk about, having adventures to write about. I don't even know where to start.
This annoys me.
I need a change.

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

I Am

I am going to be 19 in a couple months.
I am a female.
I've been to Boston and New York
And lots of other places.
I've been camping with my friends,
And road trips with my family.
I have some of the best friends
And I think I'll keep making more.
I have acted onstage...although I only ever got one line
I know how to play the clarinet.
And I used to love to play around on our organ.
I dance, but I'm not a dancer...Modern dance and clogging for years.
I've tried coloring my hair, but somehow it always go back to red.
I guess the German stubborness even goes to my roots.
I'm 25% French, and I wish I could speak it.
I took Spanish lessons for years, and only remember "hola" and "adios"
Flying by myself was one of the most exciting things.
When I look back, I should have been terrified during it.
I've jumped off a 40ft cliff.
I was not scared until I stepped off the edge.
Shots scare me, but the prospect of dying does not.
I'm in college, and I like it so far.
I was homeschooled most of my life, and instead of being isolated, I made some of my best friends.
I hate being called shy. I view myself as quiet, but not afraid to talk.
I have been in love.
But only once (sorry to the other guys)
I went on my first diet when I was about 9.
I didn't need to diet or lose weight, but I thought I did
I strictly regulated what I ate until about a year ago, and I'm not happy with the changes.
Apple juice is my favorite beverage, iceberg lettuce one of my favorite dinners.
I drink a lot of water too.
I sort of fall in love with some aspect of everyone...the way they smile, their eyes, something.
Sometimes I just need to be alone
And other times I just need to be around people.
I love the rain, I love breezy Summer days.
This is me.
And it's only a small part of me.
There is a lot more.

Saturday, March 5, 2011

Rejection, Lies, and Love

Writing drunk, listening to angry mad music, and thinking about love. I'll bet you're just shocked. Love again. Here we go.
I just had a epiphany. People are always complaining about love: how they can't get it, how theirs go unrequited, blah blah blah. But what people don't seem to realize is how love is right in front of them (sometimes known, sometimes not) and they just decide to reject it. Sure, sometimes you're just not attracted, but the point is that it's right there in front of you, and you are just choosing to ignore it, to reject it. Maybe you don't like how they look, how they act. That's not the point. Even if no one is in love with you at the moment, I'll bet anything that someone has admired you, pursued you at some point, and you were not interested. If you are not loved right now, it's your own fault. Sound calloused? Maybe. But sometimes honesty does.
So don't bitch and moan about how you can't get any love. You probably have. You just chose not to accept it, so it's your fault. They tried, you rejected. No one's fault but your own. Maybe you would be in a relationship, albeit an unhappy one, but hell, you would be loved.
Fuck this shit.
I'm going to go to bed. It's almost 4:00am, and I'm drunk alone.
If you take anything from this....
You are loved, by someone, something.
Let it in, or don't (but don't bitch about it)