| WAT? |
[08 Jul 2009|02:57am] |
Don't ask me how I went a month between updating here. It's kind of strange. I'm busy and also not busy all the time. Or, I guess a better way of saying this is: I'm busy doing nothing. I'm not at home, I'm out, but we're always just doing nothing. Chilling, I guess is a good way of putting it. Chilling like so:
If you'll notice the date, that's when the Lakers pwned Orlando hard and took the NBA playoff championship thingy. Can't you tell that I'm an epic basketball fan? THE THINGY. YEAH. THEY WON IT. Anyway, there was a bit of rioting at the Staples Center, and it just so happened to also be the night that we were out celebrating Cho's 23rd birthday and Silv's UCLA graduation in downtown L.A. Do you know what it's like to party on a high rise rooftop while helicopters swarm the sky and cops race over the surface streets below you? It feels like the fucking end of the world, like that scene in Independence Day where those idiots are throwing a party to greet the aliens 2.5 seconds before the freaky green beam explodes them into particles of human residue.
In short, it was fun. I was going to make this post when it actually happened, but I was too busy doing NOTHING.
Anime Expo '09 was epic as fuck, and ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) pouikee was nothing short of the very best ever. Highlights:
- LOL REX DART AS AXEL AND HOW I COULDN'T MAKE MY MOUTH WORK BECAUSE AXEL AXEL AXEL
- an exceedingly good Gokudera, Lambo, Tsuna, Ryohei, and Aang complete with air scooter (omg)
- a KH and KHR! explosion of cute, the game Twister, caramelldansen, and unintentional obscenity on Saturday evening adequately summarized by this: little Riku cosplayer and little Sora cosplayer frolicking joyously... AND THEN THE SORA GETS ON HIS KNEES IN FRONT OF THE RIKU'S JEANS AND STARTS FIDDLING AROUND WITH HIS HANDS BEFORE MAKING SWALLOWING MOVEMENTS! I, no shit, looked around to see what camera-wielding sick pedo pervert was forcing these innocent little kids (definitely not more than fourteen years old) to simulate such kinky shit. Turns out the Riku had some potion bottle thing dangling from his waist, and the Sora got on his knees to drink from it... finishing by standing up and giving the Riku a HUG. I saw this from a poor angle; I cannot be blamed for poor angles and a gutter mind! It just happened!
- LOL REX DART. I mean SRSLY, she's already a good fic writer; does she really need to be Axel, too? It's just not fair.
- about 80 million people, most of them cosplaying
- dropping a wad of cash on superfluous otaku shit like a kitsune mask (I BLAME DAY 15/117days), a ~*~super kawaii desu~*~ neko hat thing, Axel and Roxas toys, etc. forever and ever
- various Cosplayers of Suck, ex: The Axel of Suck
- watching episodes of KHR! at the CrunchyRoll booth/stage thingy
- trying to figure out if dudes with katana things were actually just dudes or Yamamoto cosplayers
- general feelings of joy and unity, especially when that group of boys burst into the area a bunch of people were sitting in and started a cappella rickrolling all of us
Mostly it was only awesome because I had awesome company in the form of one scorchingly talented artist, but I guess the other shit was cool, too.
The only reason I'm really updating is to post this thing that I wrote a couple months ago. Reading it again now, it makes even more sense. It's also not cryptic at all, which is only slightly less shocking than the fact that this, too, isn't cryptic at all.
“Waterfalls”
I’ve always thought the end of the world would sound a little bit like thunder. Thunder as the ground splits open and swallows up cities and farms and rush hour traffic. Thunder as we run like a crowd of particularly crazed sheep away from the floor that falls behind us like it does in movies. Edge of your seat action, the end of the world. Imagine my surprise to find that the end of the world sounds a lot like birds chirping and a bunch of moms in minivans dropping their kids off for soccer practice. It sounds like a park in the middle of a California winter—sweaty, cloudless, and completely unremarkable. Sitting in my car, a book of P.B. Shelley’s poetry in hand, I thought about the choice I had to make. The book, pages so thin that they tear if you look at them too hard, sat open in my lap, lines of obsessive neon pink highlighter illuminating Shelleyan hope. Hope? When you’re going for your Ph.D. in English, there is no hope. At least that’s how I felt, sitting in my car and hearing the approach of the end of the world: three twenty-five page papers due in five weeks. It might sound relatively easy, but we’re not talking about your bullshit high school papers that masquerade as original thought and quote huge passages with hopes of filling up that three page quota. We’re talking about page after page of literary theory and ideas that you have to pull, screaming, out of your hands and slap down on paper, pasted with blood and hours upon hours of time spent reading, time you will never get back. This kind of scholarship makes you hurt. It makes you sweat in your bed and before a room full of students all politely inquisitive about how if Milton’s Satan is a terrorist, then by extension, so is God. There is nothing easy about it. Despite this, it was never about ability. The question never was, “Can I do it?” Because the answer to that is, “Of course I fucking can.” I’m not the smartest person in the world, but I have a summa cum laude degree that says nine times out of ten I will outwrite you in an essay. Nine times out of ten, I will have the higher score. That’s why the question never was, “Can I do it?” I know I can. The question was, “Will I do it?” Because ability has nothing to do with inclination. Because we fall into the traps of safety and routine. Because I went to graduate school since that was what I was “supposed to do.” Sitting in my car, back stuck with sweat to the seat fabric, I wondered how the hell I had gotten so duped. Tricked. Deceived. Played. The inner tension I felt had finally materialized: my dissatisfaction with graduate work in the form of me and unbearable heat, reparking my car in the shade of trees as the sun set. The form of me in a car, sweating out the seven hours I was supposed to be in class so my family didn’t begin to suspect I’d actually done it. That I’d actually failed. Quit. Dissatisfaction in the form of me and an imaginary handgun. Because the way I live, the things I value… you don’t quit. You never quit. I was reminded of waterfalls. Maybe it was the heat, the way the sweat trickled down the back of my neck and slid into my shirt. Maybe it was the feeling that I’d finally lost it, that I was experiencing my very own quarter-life crisis complete with impulsive decisions and concentrated bursts of hysteria. I was reminded of waterfalls and the slow swell of Hawaiian ocean air, black sand beaches and miles of golden skin. I remembered pulling over on the side of the road to Hana and gaping in open-mouthed sixteen-year-old awe at the forty-five foot waterfall crashing with terrifying force into the most perfect pool of water I had ever seen. There was no hesitation. My sister and I ran like lunatics up the side of cliff, tearing away clumps of damp, dark earth in our haste to get to the top. We were going to jump. Of course we were. If that fat middle-aged tourist with the visor and mirrored sunglasses could jump, then of course we could. Of course, our legs and arms pumping with the kind of apeshit adrenaline specific to reckless youth. We stood at the edge of the cliff and peered over. The feeling I got, seeing the water drop in freefall (nothing romanticized like cascade down or gracefully tumble—this was terrifying) was akin to the moment right before you have a car crash: guts clenching, mouth sucked dry of spit, and a heart-stopping sense of the inevitable. My sister and I looked at each other and shared a collective, “Oh, shit.” She, with a breathless shriek of joy, took a couple steps backward and then careened forward with haste that was either very brave or very stupid. She slipped on a patch of moss right at the edge and tripped off, falling parallel to the water below us. I watched with the kind of wide-eyed disbelief they show in movies, slow zoom close-ups in twenty-four frames per second as the killer is unmasked or the pregnancy test comes back positive. The sound her body made as it hit the water is a sound I will never forget. She surfaced a couple seconds later, a sister-shaped blob of arms and water, and I remember thanking God that she didn’t die. I chewed my lip, hands balled into fists at my side as she treaded water below me. “Does it hurt?” I called down, voice shaking. “…Yeah.” There was no laughter, none of that uncontainable excitement that had propelled her forward just a few seconds previous. There was only the short silence followed by an affirmative. Pause. Yes. Oh, shit. The knowledge that it would hurt, that I would suffer legitimate injury from this, kept me pacing at the edge of the cliff for a full ten minutes. I didn’t have to do it. I could ignore the crazy waterfall jumping freaks behind me, rock-climbing gloves and smirks intact, and slide my way back down the side of the cliff. I’d walk away with a dirty ass and wounded pride, but my skin would be intact. After all, this little waterfall detour wasn’t even part of the plan, wasn’t on our family trip itinerary. I could just walk away, right? No. Ten minutes spent pacing, sweating it out, because you just don’t quit. You do the things you say you will, and you do them hard. You do them furiously, fiercely. I’m not a fucking quitter. So I jumped. I took a breath, grit my teeth, and kicked off from the very edge of the cliff. I fell like a crucifix, feet pointed straight and arms forced out by the flight of falling. I’d closed my eyes at the top, and after an eternity I tore them open only to find myself still plummeting a few feet above the water. Every inch of me slapped against the surface of that innocuous glittering pool. A hammer on concrete, a car into a brick wall, immovable objects against immoveable objects, and it fucking hurt. I was paralyzed in that perfect water, body throbbing like Life had backhanded me and I’d been struck dumb, all thought smashed out of my brain, bitchslapped back into infancy. I flailed my stinging arms feebly, wriggling my way to the surface. There was applause from watching tourists as I broke through, gasping and aching. Later, there would be bruises over 60% of my body. So, sitting in my shitty Toyota in the middle of a sweltering winter, I wondered when I’d become a quitter. When I’d decided to cut and run when things got tough. It became less about Me versus Grad School and more about Me versus Life and how I let it beat me, how I let it win. Cue that imaginary handgun. It wasn’t enough that my planned out life, my salvaged from the wreckage of a fucked up childhood and set on the train tracks to a golden sunset, had been hopelessly derailed. There had to be the dawning realization that I’d done exactly what I’d never wanted to do: given in and given up. I sat and chain-smoked, watching the minutes slip by, and visualized what was going on in class. I visualized how this professor would squint right before swearing, uttering a “fuck” in hushed impassioned tones. I imagined how another professor, a tiny woman fond of platform shoes, would toss up an endless stream of theorists and criticism as I marveled at how such a small body could hold such vast stores of supposedly valuable knowledge. I thought about enduring just one more day of higher education, and was overcome by disgust. I reasoned that sometimes you just have to know when to walk away. The waterfall? The story alone was worth it, worth the way it hurt to walk or even sit, worth the way it made me feel alive. But graduate school? Slaving away for three or more years over shit that only half-interests me so that I can fight tooth and nail over teaching positions? So you take a peek, measure the pros and cons, and figure out if it’s worth it. If it is, you jump. If it’s not? You walk away. There’s honor in that, having the foresight to look before you leap. There’s wisdom in knowing how to pick your battles, knowing when to shrug and turn your back. We can’t win them all, and some aren’t worth winning anyway, right? Right? Fuck that. I tried to reason with myself then, feeling sorry for myself in a car that felt like it was parked on the face of the sun. I tried to come to terms with walking away from something I’m good at, something I have the ability to do. But as each day passes, I come to realize that I didn’t walk away at all; I took a kamikaze leap. I threw myself over the edge with that same impetuousness my kid sister showed as she slipped and fell into Experience with a capital E. Grad school isn’t the waterfall; it’s the sorry beaten slide down off the side of the cliff. Grad school is according to plan, is playing it safe. As much as a twenty-five page paper on the construction of Wordsworth as a poet scares me, the thought of jumping out into the world without the parachute of a Ph.D. puts the fear of death and starvation into my blood, into my cells. “Oh, shit” is right. Those are the sentiments for my entire life, for every fallen expectation, for every fear of the unknown. Every single second as I freefall of the edge of a cliff. But you know what? Fuck it. I spent seventeen years of my life playing it safe. Family trip itineraries, straight “A”s, full of potential, and for what? All of this to find, at the end of my life, that they can write this: She Played By The Rules. I refuse to let that happen. Give me the scars that have stories, thousands of dollars in student loan debts and uncertainty that makes every night sleepless. Give me the sucker punch that makes a life worth living, all the lust and terror that makes your heart beat loud in your ears. Give me waterfalls, lush and raging. The end of the world sounds different than I thought it would. The end of a foreseeable future, of something safe and familiar that I constructed my entire reality around. I jumped off a waterfall as I drove home from the park that day, drenched from the sweat of winter and decision. And unlike the first time, eyes squeezed tight against the rush of the world, of life, I’m keeping my eyes open.
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| The Best Laid Plans |
[03 Jul 2009|05:52am] |
A slight perversion of Burns, probably, and only meant to be used in the context of plans and planning and how things get fucked up, but it's even better than you hoped for.
pouikee has been my house guest since Tuesday, and today we are going to uncover the horror (the horror) that awaits at Anime Expo. It's being held at the Los Angeles Convention Center, and even though Google tells me it's 16.4 miles away from La Maison des Mensonges (AKA THE CRIB, YO), I know better than to trust that wind-y (not to be confused with windy, no hyphen) ass 110 connector thingy by Dodger Stadium. It's all fun and games until you're stuck for an hour in rush hour traffic.
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| A Preface |
[28 May 2009|02:59am] |
| [ |
music |
| |
Hit The Lights |
] |
Before I tell you anything, I have to wash my face, take out my contacts, brush my teeth, take 1,000 milligrams of vitamin C, and put the dogs in their room. Rituals are important and also unimportant. The former because they reveal neuroses, the later because repetition imparts no meaning. That's where Stein can take a fucking seat with her making of Americans a hundred and one million times. You want to know about the making of Americans? We start with a middle class Catholic family. A dad, a mom, five kids who are going to grow up to hate each other. Who are going to grow up and not talk. Who are going to grow up and fight over things like fucking lawnmowers and marble end tables one day after they put their father in the ground. I remember waking up to snow in May and feeling just like you're supposed to feel, second floor of a house that belongs to you, belongs to you, belongs to you in those little girl nightgowns with a bow at the neck, and some lace. Long-sleeved for decency. Because you're a little fucking girl. Upstate New York, I miss you. And Susie Asado was not a fucking flamenco dancer.
[insert nightly ritual here.]
Intimacy feels like two thousand dollars in your hand.
The last time we spoke, kissing close under covers, he was sorry, ravenous. Hunger always sounds savage, thirst always sounds like lust. I was staring at my desk, thinking of ways to make it even more intelligible. I admit to doing it on purpose; one million and one reasons for you to look the other way. Now, look the other way. Ravenous, like he couldn't believe he'd forgotten what the inside of my mouth tastes like. Licking always sounds pornographic, lapping always sounds like promiscuity. It is inevitable that if you have a door under your stairs, I am going to ask if Harry is in. It is inevitable like the end of them is inevitable, exploding all the time on the periphery like optical illusions, cops, and after you've been on meth for too long.
Can't hold a charge. Doesn't stand a chance. Makes me think of Yeats. THE CENTRE CANNOT HOLD. Because things do fall apart and the last image, all the time forever, slouching toward Bethlehem... that stays with me. The impetus, the coming (the second), the inevitable. I keep coming back to that, like Donne talked about, and it can mean so many things: buzz words, seeds planted, perversions of the intellect. It's all intellectual, isn't it? The sex, the fucking, the way I lead you all on like it's something easy. NOTHING IS EASY. If you think it's easy, then you aren't thinking hard enough. Think harder, look closer (love hard, live hard). At least I don't feel like a Dr. Dre song about it anymore --"Now you wanna run around talkin' 'bout guns like I ain't got none. What, you think I SOLD 'em all?". It was a nightmare then. Again, now. I'm still laughing at you, sweetheart.
I was trying to explain that grad school was MASTURBATION and theorists and scholars sucking each others' dicks all the time like it was a fucking orgy of original thought. I don't think anyone got it.
At least he was sorry for it, though. Real sorry, not fake sorry. How can you not forgive someone you love? It's an impossible task. Because it becomes a non-issue. They don't have to apologize because it doesn't matter. This is all idealism. It wouldn't happen in the first place except by accident. THAT IS NOT A FUCKING ACCIDENT, BABY. Even if alcohol is involved. (Zexion, the prodigal roommate, is going to have an Adios Motherfucker because the color is nice and so is the sentiment--head down at Hollywood Billiards, underage and feeling up a fever). Listen, I don't blame you. But how could you, baby? We go back to why this doesn't work: it, theoretically, would never happen. Not if it was TRUE LOVE.
True love true love true love. Yes. Yes, I fucking do.
This is forever boring now. Epic waste of time when I could be jacking off or finishing that prompt or editing that piece of shit chapter or sucking face with someone gorgeous or insufflating Vicodin or mixing a White Russian. Noticing the veins in my hands and wondering why they are so blue today. Or yesterday, whenever that was, sitting there and thinking... whoa. Look at those veins. (We are so mortal.)
In short: drama, and I'm feeling sort of uninspired.
FUN FAX OF FUN:
- I spend a lot of money when I'm bored or overwhelmed by bullshit.
- Plums are pretty good, but only the good ones.
- The trick is to keep going even after the come hits the back of your throat.
- I know a whack ass story about pineapples.
- Shit, I'm still wearing those earrings.
- After you have thyroid cancer and they cut you apart to save your life, you kinda talk like a funny alien.
- Technically, SORA IS AN ALIEN. This is unrelated to thyroid cancer.
- Gato told me she shot heroin through her eye ducts.
- I hate sleeping with blankets or a top sheet or or a duvet or anything like that. In short: COVERS. FUCK THEM.
- Pug pug: to beat something (rug, child) or smack something so as to remove detritus (ass, shoes--both after being at the beach). Maybe only filipinos will understand this.
- Fuck you, Amazon, for e-mailing me in the middle of the night. I'm like WHOA, SOMEONE LIKES ME. Nope. Just Amazon.
- This isn't actually a list. Can you tell?
Ugh, I'm tired. I didn't really talk about anything here. OH, there's one I forgot: Reviews Really Do Give Me Anxiety, But I Love Them, So Keep 'Em Coming (400 Is A Really Nice Number). Was that shameless? Don't give a fuck. Ariza is really growing on me. I'd hit it. Don't even get me started on my boy, Sasha, with his three of AWESOME. I'm not technically a basketball fan, but damn. I find that changing topic in the middle of paragraphs does wonders for confusing the fuck out of people. I remember drinking some Carnation Instant Breakfast shit right before hopping on the shortbus to take me to high school. "High School." I'll tell you all about it in images and half articulated memories that you will never be able to piece together, sitting in trees and footballs landing perfectly in tomato bisque. Mmm, bisque.
In theory, mozzarella/tomato/basil sounds like a delicious sandwich, but mostly it tastes like nothing unless you do it right. Who can do this for me? Porto's makes a soul destroying feta sandwich that costs $4.50, but... oh my god. WE SHOULD GO TOMORROW! Wham was dying for a turkey sandwich today, so tomorrow we decided to try that deli that we used to harass when we were in high school. But we should go to Porto's! There's one in Glendale and one in Burbank. And I'm talking about food because I had a lollipop, a lime, and a couple kuftehs today. And about 85 million pretzels while I edited M's paper. Does this mean I'm starving myself? I dunno, 85 million pretzels is kind of a lot. It's four o'clock in the fucking morning (the Used), and it's clear that I need sleep.
I used to count questions (and stars, and on my fingers).
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| The Trouble With Sunlight [fic] |
[15 May 2009|01:59am] |
Title: The Trouble With Sunlight
Author: Versace Frolic
Rating: PG-13ish
Pairings: light Axel/Roxas
Warnings: Random cursing, humor drier than the Sahara
Word Count: 2,165
Summary: There is no sunlight on The World That Never Was. Isn't that weird? Axel and Roxas go on a "mission" where they don't really do anything except exchange innuendo and flirt all over each other. Also, magic carpets and magic lamps!
A/N: A tiny oneshot for pouikee, who is unfairly awesome and commands a troubling armada of creative skills. This is merely a simple, uncomplicated scene that fulfills her prompt of "Axel and Roxas just hanging out."
( It had something to do with how the sky was always dark. )
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| There is a Massive Bruise on my Left Forearm. |
[06 May 2009|10:50am] |
I live! I don't know why I thought it would be a good idea to hang out with little boys who are all talk, but it seemed like the better choice at the time. And now I'm all banged up and bruised over like we were fighting with swords in a glade somewhere, shoeless and with a kind of animal glint in our eyes. It was like a little dance, a fucking game, and now you have to take the wreckage and tape it all up, hope for the best. The best, the best, the very fucking best, and pretend it's not strange at all when loyalty leaves you on its doorstep. Like it doesn't twist in your guts like being betrayed or being turned away.
Because it doesn't really matter. Not really. I just know that it should, somewhere, to someone. If that someone was sane, maybe. The things I do, no one can know. The things I do, you would never even guess. And they parade around inside the place where my heart should be (IRONY? IRONY?) and make me smile sometimes, laugh others. Like I've l-l-l-lost it, baby.
I am actually working on LB12. I have 800 words and rising, if Axel would stop talking like a fucking idiot and Roxas would stop being a pissy bitch. They just do these things, and I can't stop them. But, god, this bruise on my arm is so alarming looking. It's so hot. I press on it, and my body curls against itself a little. Violence. Sex. They're almost a slant rhyme. Because I am easily wounded. Marked, branded, scared. That's almost a fucking Dashboard Confessional record.
I'm a hotbed of the seven deadlies these days, Wrath probably trumping all at the moment. There's just so much to be angry about. Drug addicts, for one, stupid fucking plagiarizing bitches, for another. Boys, maybe, on their bad days, and assorted other idiocies that I can't believe I waste myself on. I waste myself on you. Time, breath, patience. Such a fucking waste. The real question is why can't I stop? I can stop so many things. It's so easy for me to just turn off the part that cares, that wants, that needs. A practice in sensory deprivation. A practice in delayed gratification. For Yours Is The Kingdom of God. For yours, for mine, for how we are all falling down like ashes, ashes, and plagues, and apples with cloves stabbing them like an over eager halo.
Whatever. I used up all my images the first time I wrote. Used up all my dialogue and all my stories so that now all you get is a poorly-worded rehash of shit you've already heard before. Broken record, maybe. Or maybe I'm just too hard on myself. This is what I seem to remember: that "tokidoki" means "sometimes." Maybe. Sometimes. They aren't so different. So I wear this thing around my neck like a crown of thorns. A Crown of Thorns, just displaced.
Uhhh. I forgot what I was talking about.
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| fuck. |
[20 Apr 2009|01:59am] |
Four nights in a row isn't so bad to hang.
...it's like some kind of disease sinking into my blood. Right now I'm over it. Tomorrow I'll be sitting by the phone again, breaking the law to answer. Pissing my friends off.
FUCK.
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| ... |
[19 Apr 2009|10:58am] |
I didn't actually want to talk about this at all, but I had that pull. You feel it in the pit of your stomach, and it's whispering, "Write." So the thing is I had two weeks of absolute fail, full of disease and disaster and the worst shit ever. Nothing to write home about, though, not really. Couldn't write without the Mac (it's back, now!), couldn't think without some downtime, and then right as I was getting back into the swing of things (Word open, cursor blinking), the floor started cracking.
The thing is I have to play my cards right and close to the chest. Because if I'm not careful, I will fall the fuck in love with this gorgeous kid. Three nights in a row isn't so bad to hang. Three nights in a row, hour after hour after hour. This is what you can't do: READ INTO THINGS. That's my default setting, reading into things. Like how he sings and sings and sings and when I look over to watch, he looks away because I don't think he can stand the vulnerability of it. Chain-smoking when he doesn't smoke at all. And the fucking kissing. Kiss on the mouth, whatever, but when he drops those, soft, imploring, adoring little kisses everywhere else... what the fuck can I think? Hmm? What the fuck can I think. Because IT IS WHAT IT IS, and please don't let me make this something it's not. I don't want to think it's something it's not...
But I don't know what to think about it at all. There are only these things:
1. I feel electric.
2. The slow tumble.
3. I want him.
It's a reckless, knowing-you're-not-doing-the-right-thing feeling. The right thing, the right thing. Like we live in a place where there is right and wrong anymore. What was it? It was a lyric once, and I don't know the band or the song. Something about picking your friends by the beating of their hearts.
This is trouble, but only because of eighty million reasons that don't matter. And one that does.
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| The Sentiments. |
[12 Apr 2009|01:51am] |
Art imitates life imitates art.
It is even more apt this time than it was before. I wonder if it has something to do with the collective unconscious and how we're probably reading each others' minds all the time, or at least someone's reading mine. I'm trying to feel properly affronted, but I can only laugh at the silly fucking circus that so much of it has become. Expected. Like Danny Boyle showed us: it is written. It's already there, somewhere, and maybe I tapped into it. Or it tapped into me, so now I'm thinking of the abyss and how they tell you to watch your fucking back.
I should know better I should know better I should know better, but that doesn't help in the end. Right again. Lyrics: again and again again again again again. It's like a joke with the fucking joke written out. And then you wonder why I think the way I do; believe what I believe. Again and again, and I'm still waiting for someone to prove me wrong. Thought it would be you.
This is about HIGH FUCKING HOPES.
I'm tired and I miss my fucking MacBook. Everyone is falling apart over here, limbs detaching. Detatching? Fuck spelling. All I can do is watch it happen to them and wonder if it's not a better thing that I keep it locked up. But then the argument falls apart, because if it was under my control, this wouldn't be here at all.
Clauses. Loopholes. And all the fucking itoldyousos. I told you so I told you so I told you so. Because that makes it true, doesn't it? Superstitions and lifting your feet and holding your breath. I held my fucking breath. Now we have to surface like my cheeks aren't red and like I didn't like fucking in the back of that car and how we couldn't find the lines anymore. 1 2 3 collapse. That's how it happened. Measured doses in spit and sweat and licking your fingers.
I missed it when I found a replacement for timid hands. The truth is there cannot be a second. A fucking Copeland song before they sucked, and I gave the context away. It doesn't matter, not in the end when it's just you and me and cotton sheets.
Now they can't see it at all. No wonder they think you're fucking crazy.
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| Cue the Sun |
[11 Apr 2009|01:14am] |
So here's the thing: as of right now, 1:14am on Saturday, my MacBook Pro is cashed like a really nice ass bowl. It just turned off on me, and it won't turn back on. I have an appointment at the Genius Bar in Glendale tomorrow/today. SO. Even if I wanted to write LB12, I won't be able to unless this shit gets fixed. If the drive is wiped, I might disintegrate.
It doesn't help that the laptop I used before, this hugely ridiculous Dell Inspiron, has randomly crashed and no one told me about it. I donated it to my brother, and it was working fine last month. Evil is afoot, kids. I'm currently on an equally shitty Dell something something that my sister last used before she got her MacBook. No shit, it took about 30 minutes for it to start up. Word is on here, and I could write there, but all my notes, my outline, my music, my motherfucking everything is on that MacBook. FML FML FML.
Whatever, whatever. This past week has been bad news after bad news after bad news. Funny part is I should be bemoaning my life right about now. I'm not. I'm a little pissed off, a little sad, but HAY. WHAT THE FUCK CAN YOU DO? Shell out a couple bucks and hope for the best. Play TWEWY on the DS. Pick up one of the books that's been at the side of my bed for the past couple months. DO THE LAUNDRY, ahaha. No. Never. Fuck laundry.
But seriously, I was having a talk with You, Me, and Everyone We Know--or whatever the fuck their name is--on the way home after chilling with some friends to offset this suddenly ridiculous turn of events, and I realized a couple things.
Revelations:
- the cost of dreaming's left me in the red
- at least 11,000 people think I'm something I'm not; the courage to let them down isn't something I've still got
- sometimes I want to cheat, but I don't
- I want to quit, but I won't
- 'CAUSE I MADE THIS BED
- give me a shovel, you'll be amazed at at how fast I dig a grave
- you're only brave 'til you're scared
- you're only unique until compared to every other worthless fuck
you can't afford to live like this YES WE CAN, YES WE CAN
you can't be dumb enough to dream so big YES WE CAN, YES WE CAN
Yeah, they're just lyrics. Whatever and fuck you. Do you even know what happened to my Set Your Goals record? I wore that shit out. I played it down to all the burns, all the fuck ups, all the almosts and goddamns. I pumped it in my veins, purged out all the things that don't matter until it really felt like they didn't. I know I say it a lot, but it's not about not giving a fuck. It's about giving a fuck when it matters. For who, for when. I learned that the hard way, getting my ass handed to me by shitty people with shittier values. Handed to me by what God and the government and all of our parents say. It's about re-education, re-seeing. It's about Prometheus Unbound and how maybe Shelley had it right, the smug motherfucker.
Mostly it's about how to count your blessings, suck it up while you can, and cry when it gets tough. I cry, yeah. Cried a couple hours ago. It gets tough, I cry. I cry when I'm frustrated, when I feel helpless. There isn't an embargo on tears. I can still cry them. There isn't anyone trying to shine a floodlight in my face every time I get down on a knee, wring my hands at the soil and wonder WHY THE FUCK, WHY. It's okay to break a little. The important part is knowing how to let it pass, how to see that it's not the end of the fucking world all the time. Patience, trust, way too many fucking cigarettes, and the very best friend I could ever ask for. I've only ever needed one, the one. She gets it where others fail to see the issue at all. She fucks up; we all fuck up. I'm a mean, emotional wreck of a bitch, and I only expect what I give. It's about how you have to build those villages on stilts sometimes, so the water doesn't come up to quick or too much.
I've been wanting a MacBook Air for awhile now, but I think that would be an idiot thing to do right now. There is the possibility of Canada next month, of Vegas this summer, of out of the country next summer. A MacBook Air sounds good now, but when I'm watching the planes fly without me, I'll be kicking myself in the ass.
AHAHA, I'm having a fucking problem. This is how I know it's time to write. Yeah, I had that minor setback where it wasn't the cancer I was hoping for, instead it was this annoying little shroud, fluttering around forever and ever. COULDN'T IT HAVE JUST BEEN CANCER? I would've been ecstatic with cancer, let me tell you. We have to go with the Stones on this one. Can't always get what you want, right?
But I can get it all the other times, so that's okay with me. And now maybe I'll pull up a Word document and see about a couple things. 1:46am has never looked as alive.
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[09 Apr 2009|06:45pm] |
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Just kidding. Not writing anymore. I got diagnosed with something fairly serious, and trying to write now is like trying to move a fucking mountain. Sorry, guys.
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[07 Apr 2009|11:42pm] |
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Writing it.
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| Glissando |
[06 Apr 2009|08:06pm] |
First: Nazis. And how it happened, how any of it happened or could happen again. Because what is wrong with people? How could anyone be so heartless? Where there was a soul, a heart, there is an absence, a void. It is still alarming because we all have the capacity for cruelty. Some of us more than others.
Second: Yes, I can still hear all of you. There can never be any apologies, because that's saying something that shouldn't have to be said.
Intimacy in the form of layers, meaning piled on top of each other until you're clawing it away, scraping it off like crayon over crayons. Colors, smells. Intimacy in the form of skin on skin, of the way it feels when it's you and him and air. Obscenity I can get behind, pennies, dimes, all heads up on the pavement before we walked in and I smiled at everyone in the room and they smiled back in that predatory, hungry way I've come to admire. Look with your eyes, not with your hands.
Secrets don't make friends.
We bought it with loss, and then they hoisted it through the front door. The blacks and whites, and I just remember sitting in the auditorium, pianos lined up one after the other. Sneaking away before school, picking the lock, pushing my way in, and playing in the dark. It's not so different. Before I couldn't type, either. Always about keys and placement and watching the way you watch the road or his chest rising and falling, full of breath. Easy, so easy.
It gets bad. Away, somewhere else that isn't encircled perfectly by those arms, and the depletion of oxygen, the constriction, the tightness. The angle of the afternoon sun turning everything gold and too pale yellow like right in the morning, and all you need in the entire world is that one smile above you, scorching out, incinerating impurities. Because there isn't a moment where I don't feel perfect, beautiful, lovely. That's what it's supposed to be like, what they sing the songs about, paint the lies about. Bring out the goodness in me, baby. Bring it out, chip away, haul it up, refine, chisel. One good dust and blow away from being a diamond, there, held.
It's about remembering to remember, remembering how it felt. That's the only way this is going to work again.
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| GOKUROKU FTW? |
[30 Mar 2009|12:15am] |
Sup, kids. I have written exactly nothing in the last couple of weeks that has not had something to do with Katekyo Hitman Reborn, so the five of you waiting on LB are shit out of luck for now. Gokudera is just too sexy. He's stealing Axel's thunder. And my black little heart.
I have nothing even remotely interesting to say except I was at Foxtail (West Hollywood) last night for Wham's 24th birthday. It was easily one of the most fun nights I've had in Hollywood that didn't involve seeing sexy bands do their thing on stage. Most of the pictures are too scandalous for teh internetz, and I've had to crop out some epic tits for one of them, but I will show you some because I'm ridiculous. I'm also under strict instructions not to post any of Wham on the lj, so she's not in these. Facebook stalk hard enough, and you'll find more.
The dress.
and ( MOAR )
And that's all, really, except that you haven't seen fandom crossover until you've seen Roxas annoying the shit out of Gokudera à la this gorgeous piece of art courtesy of the delightfully talented and devastatingly cute pouikee. KHR owns my life these days, and if you want to blame someone other than me for the fic lag, you can collectively point your fingers at the unholy addictive beauty that is 8059.
Remember when I didn't used to be this vapid? ME EITHER. I should really start that Miller novel before I'm reduced to a puddle of squealing fangirl piss and come. Oh, hey there, blatant disregard for social taboos. I'm tempted to quote The Heathers here, but the context is all fucked up.
Just know that I have your best interests at heart. THE VEY BEST.
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| Something Funny. |
[21 Mar 2009|12:27am] |
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Everything is fucking perfect right now. I can't stop smiling and jumping around and being nauseatingly chipper. It's like some weird galactic wormhole I slipped through where everything is non-stop AWESOME.
And to think... four months ago I was in the deepest little black hole of despair, ready to kill myself. Turns out sticking around was worth it after all. Sometimes I just forget how you have to knock shit off. Like Nic Newsham at two minutes and five seconds in this video:
I remember, the last time I saw GAD before they went on hiatus or broke up or whatever the fuck they're doing now, he patted my head like I was a good little girl while we sung in each other's faces. I remember his sweat tasted like nothing, like humanity. Knitting Factory, Main Stage, June 26, 2006. And then, when we were all screaming at each other ("WHERE'S THE FUCKING CHORUS? HERE IT IS! BUT YOU CAN'T FUCK WITH MY INTEGRITY!"), I remember how the house lights burst on for that one instant, and it was like standing at the gates of heaven.
Perfect perfect perfect moments. I'm a silly girl, sometimes, for forgetting them.
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| THIS BEAT IS SICK. |
[14 Mar 2009|01:25am] |
So I'm definitely supposed to be editing this behemoth novel of death, but Skyler turned fifteen an hour and a half ago, so half the high school's population of boys are in my backyard acting like hooligans and I can't concentrate. This is a half truth, really, because I just got in five minutes ago, anyway. OH, LIFE.
There's nothing really interesting on teh internetz these days except crack pairings and really clever fanfic that I "don't have time" to read. I seriously don't. I have no idea where the hours go. Liv Tyler said there are 24 usable hours in every day, right before that squinty bitch, Renee (accent aigu somewhere) Zellweger, picked her up in a convertible. NAME THAT FILM AND I WILL LOVE YOU FOREVER. Or write you something really nice, I swear.
In other, less retarded, news: YOUR SEX IS ON FIRE.
Clearly I was kidding about the less retarded part.
I don't know, really, except I wanted to show you this:
This, friends, is not what you want your first novel to look like when you pass it over to an editor. You want your first novel to know where a comma goes and how to spell your character's name consistently. I don't know why I do these things to myself. Oh, except for the money part. Seriously, what person objects to READING FOR MONEY? And talking shit for money, when it comes down to it. HAY, YOUR NOVEL. IT SUCKS.
I get paid to do that.
I'm definitely on a new fandom kick lately. Reading a lot of manga and staring at a lot of porn. Because hot boys fucking hot boys is always golden in my book. I'm interested in Death Note and Gin Tama and Katekyo Hitman Reborn! and Code Geass. I want to know about them all, baby. Code Geass pretty bad rite nao because that Lelouch kid is sexy (here's looking at you everworld2662 [hiatus? nooo!]: you've been posting about the most awesome shit ever [FFXII included--been playing forever, still haven't finished], but I can't read it because I don't want to get spoiled D:).
Do you remember that kid that used to talk about grad school 24/7? I kind of miss her. She always had something intense to say about Hot Novel of the Week. Miller's Tropic of Cancer has been sitting at the side of my bed for about eight weeks now. It looks sexier and sexier by the minute. I just have no TIME. I could study all night if I was chowing down speed, too. OH, LOOK. It's that movie again. I wasn't kidding about the writing you something nice thing. I swear to god, I dropped Faulkner and Peter Pan in LB, and no one caught them. Major bum out, kids. Where the fuck did all the slightly geeky, unpretentious lit majors go? To Yale, probably.
I have more pictures. They are ( here )
Now BACK TO EDITING.
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| On Being and Nothingness |
[07 Mar 2009|11:53am] |
Look. I first took this test in a psychologist's office about eight years ago. The results are the same, I'm still classified as the same thing:
Take it, and tell me what you are. It's just... it's so WEIRD because a lot of my attitudes toward things have changed drastically since I was in high school, but my personality hasn't changed at all. I'm still the exact same kid.
And I totally have 4.5k on LB11. I'm finishing it this weekend for sure. And then you can have a real update, I promise.
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| Oh, baby. |
[24 Feb 2009|04:14pm] |
Back and all that for a while now and blah blah blah, but I have to say that all my nerves are crackling. I just got off the phone with a potential client I may be working for in an editorial capacity. YOU LIKE THAT? It will be the first time the client is MINE and not the agency's or J's. I'm debating on how much to charge, since the only time I really freelanced was at $45/hr as a copywriter. That was fun. I still get tripped out looking at what I wrote for it since it's all professional and bullshit and just like you'd expect a car commercial to be.
This is the first day in like a month that I've been home for more than three hours... except I went out to lunch today, so I guess today doesn't count. Point being: I haven't had the time to write, and the outline for lb11 has been done since... the week after I updated? Like a month ago? NO TIME EVER! Too busy loving these crazy people I call my friends and doing grown up things like haul in $$$ and go to meetings and shit. And snagging my own clients. WOO, success feels like power feels like sex feels like gold. Add St. Nick to the mix and you have an afternoon of delights two shades darker than the sun at a fifty degree angle and fading fading.
Work in 30 minutes for like ever, then Ryan and his perfect fucking face, then possible dinner hangs, then sleep. OR WRITING. It depends. I can only write at home, right here. I don't do that café notebook shit. That park people watching blah fucking blah. I guess only real writers do that or something. I have been in that situation exactly once, and all I could focus on was what a horrible cliché it was.
AND OMG CAN'T STOP LISTENING TO LADY GAGA. I blame late nights and fast cars. And him and how I just have to look at him to feel the burn in my stomach like the world is ending. He likes to dance with me and I like to smile at him. He's part of this writing thing. I can't write when I'm happy, but I feel this obligation to the five people that actually read LB. I will totally try to update soon, and I'll try to make it less trite and less contrived than trying usually sounds. ALSO. I think I have an epic picture post coming up. Maybe. I have to see if the pictures that are stuffing my camera are usable or not. PROLLY NOT.
Omg. I'm so excited. It's a weird feeling. I've never actually felt this way before. I think it's called a good mood. OMG JK. See. See what I mean?
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| HEY, SO... |
[15 Feb 2009|07:01pm] |
I'm about to do something crazy.
But you can't be caught red handed if you're not red handed. And I'll catch you kids on the fucking flipside.
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