And by "we" I mean, me, Harley.
I think these last few entries have been rotten in comparison to what I'm capable of or at least where I need to be. I just don't feel very inspired by that sort of productivity.
No negativity or pity parties here.
I am just saying I can do better and I expect better.Something isn't clicking. I just figured if I stated it and got there out there in the open I could get past it.
There's things in my way.
I need to clear out some junk I think.
Cut a few strings.
That jazz.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
YOU WERE MEANT FOR ME.
I lay on the bathroom floor until all the midnights for a month after you left me. Pushing my forehead into the cold, dingy white tile, I wondered why you'd gone, where the redeeming quality was, where the sun was hiding. I'd finger my pink baby blanket mom had wrapped me in as a child but took no comfort for it. There was no consolation prize for this and I didn't really understand what God was trying to teach me when he closed the door behind you and locked all the windows. The only thing that worked when it was supposed to was the plumbing in that clammy bathroom. After I hugged the lid with frail fingers, the toilet, though it did so reluctantly, flushed. Though it came through rusted pipes, the water always found its way to my tired body. Those things worked, why couldn't I?
It would be so much easier if there had been a "why" to go with a "what" but I suppose there are some questions that don't have their answers. For every marvel there is a mystery. It was a small but brutal mystery that left me alone on that bathroom floor every night, pulling up my shirt and looking down at exposed ribs, following them down to a scarred stomach. The worst part was there were scars but no you. My body had proof you'd been there, proof you'd existed. Somewhere inside I knew it. But the world showed no record of you. You weren't there in my apartment,waking me up in the middle of the night wailing like some sort of siren to break my tranquility. You weren't there. Instead I just had this scary, unaffected, silence in your place. I knew you were there somewhere, had been there somewhere. My body knew it. My scars proved it. But as far as the world was concerned you were just a pocket of silence, a blank silence that had never really been there.
I lay on that bathroom floor every night until midnight for a month, just trying to remember the golden locks that I'd never comb, the first words that would never be spoken, the kindergarten graduation I'd never attend, the milk that would never be spilled. Then I realized. Hearts are broken every day and mine isn't the only one chained to the bathroom floor, swaddled in a pink baby blanket where perhaps somebody else ought to be. So that thirty-first night, I got up and went into the bedroom and turned on Letterman. You had been in there somewhere once, tucked securely beneath my heart. I had the scars to prove it. Maybe the world forgets the lost too easily in its eagerness to pick up latenight talkshows and turn the channel to afternoon sitcoms. But all the same you can only swim against the stream for so long before your body fails and it sweeps you along with it. Wherever you'd gone I couldn't follow and you can't hold on to a hand that isn't there. It wasn't time to let you go. There is never a time or place for that sort of thing. But either way, at some point I had to do it. At some point I had to get lost in the television and let somebody else do the talking.
It would be so much easier if there had been a "why" to go with a "what" but I suppose there are some questions that don't have their answers. For every marvel there is a mystery. It was a small but brutal mystery that left me alone on that bathroom floor every night, pulling up my shirt and looking down at exposed ribs, following them down to a scarred stomach. The worst part was there were scars but no you. My body had proof you'd been there, proof you'd existed. Somewhere inside I knew it. But the world showed no record of you. You weren't there in my apartment,waking me up in the middle of the night wailing like some sort of siren to break my tranquility. You weren't there. Instead I just had this scary, unaffected, silence in your place. I knew you were there somewhere, had been there somewhere. My body knew it. My scars proved it. But as far as the world was concerned you were just a pocket of silence, a blank silence that had never really been there.
I lay on that bathroom floor every night until midnight for a month, just trying to remember the golden locks that I'd never comb, the first words that would never be spoken, the kindergarten graduation I'd never attend, the milk that would never be spilled. Then I realized. Hearts are broken every day and mine isn't the only one chained to the bathroom floor, swaddled in a pink baby blanket where perhaps somebody else ought to be. So that thirty-first night, I got up and went into the bedroom and turned on Letterman. You had been in there somewhere once, tucked securely beneath my heart. I had the scars to prove it. Maybe the world forgets the lost too easily in its eagerness to pick up latenight talkshows and turn the channel to afternoon sitcoms. But all the same you can only swim against the stream for so long before your body fails and it sweeps you along with it. Wherever you'd gone I couldn't follow and you can't hold on to a hand that isn't there. It wasn't time to let you go. There is never a time or place for that sort of thing. But either way, at some point I had to do it. At some point I had to get lost in the television and let somebody else do the talking.
FIERCE.
I have obsessions with certain words, or at least the ideas they present. One of them is the word fierce. I've always loved it. It's like a deeper kind of lightning strength. I've always wanted to write a female character with that quality, somewhat a stronger version of Princess Tigerlily from Peter Pan. Don't ask me where it comes from but there it is. I just have a preoccupation with it. Strong-willed. Beautiful hair that has the striking presence of a lion's mane. Brutally honest eyes. Agility. The perception of a hunter. I can't really explain it. It's just something you see so little of and for one reason or another it crosses my mind from time to time.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Friday, May 22, 2009
LOVE YOU SISSY.
A sister is someone who loves you from the heart,
No matter how much you argue
you cannot be drawn apart.
She is a joy that cannot be taken away,
Once she enters your life,
she is there to stay.
A friend who helps you through difficult times,
Her comforting words are worth much more than dimes.
A partner who fills your life with laughs and smile,
These memories last for miles and miles.
When she is by your side, the world is filled with life,
When she is not around, your days are full of strife.
A sister is a blessing, who fills your heart with love,
She flies with you in life with the beauty of a dove.
Whether you are having your ups or downs,
She always helps you with a smile and never frowns.
With a sister you cannot have a grudge,
She is as sweet as chocolate and as smooth as fudge.
Having a sister is not just a trend,
It is knowing you can always turn to her,
your best friend.
No matter how much you argue
you cannot be drawn apart.
She is a joy that cannot be taken away,
Once she enters your life,
she is there to stay.
A friend who helps you through difficult times,
Her comforting words are worth much more than dimes.
A partner who fills your life with laughs and smile,
These memories last for miles and miles.
When she is by your side, the world is filled with life,
When she is not around, your days are full of strife.
A sister is a blessing, who fills your heart with love,
She flies with you in life with the beauty of a dove.
Whether you are having your ups or downs,
She always helps you with a smile and never frowns.
With a sister you cannot have a grudge,
She is as sweet as chocolate and as smooth as fudge.
Having a sister is not just a trend,
It is knowing you can always turn to her,
your best friend.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
MORE THAN YOU COULD EVER CARE TO HEAR ME SAY-BUT I'M STILL SAYING IT. ;)
So I have just decided that one of my new heroes is Walt Disney. I was just thinking about the possibilities he opened up for creativity and I mean the man left quite a legacy. Obviously, I have loved Disney movies since I was a kid and they really were one of the things that made me feel it was okay to have an imagination, especially since reality TV, which has even less imagination than reality if that’s possible, became popular as I grew up.
Wow. I just put my rings on my left hand and I can’t type naturally with them there but it doesn’t seem to bother me when they’re on my right. Just thought I would add that tidbit. ;)
I’m listening to the Aladdin soundtrack. How sweet am I? “Arabian Nights” rocks.
So I think a large part of a writers career has to do with what is going outside of the writing. I wasn’t planning on incorporating any details about my life into this but I thought doing otherwise might be a little boring. Besides, it’s always nice to know about people and dish the dirt, right? It’s better than talking to a brick wall, at least. Well, in some cases.
;)
Something about me…I have what seems like three billion friends, I don’t, but to me I have more than enough, that are constantly wanting to do stuff with me but I have no idea why because I am a total hermit. I like to sit at home and read just as much as they like to go out and be hoodlums, okay… a lot of my friends are dancers/AP students so maybe not hoodlums (but you get the picture) so much as teenagers. Anyways, I am sort of the “hitch” of all my friends. I am amazing, no kidding, with advice and many of them seem to come to me. A few friends of mine jokingly call me Dr.Phil because it seems like I always have the answer. The deal with that is, while I am good with giving advice, I am not necessarily good at running my own life. You know the saying “those who can’t do, teach”, and those who can’t live advise.
;)
I mean, honestly, I’m not blowing my own horn hear, a phrase which I despise by the way and have no idea why I just used it, I am what I consider a great friend. I would do anything for any of my friends. They all have no problem calling me at 3 in the morning because for one, I am generally up until three because sleeping is just not one of my abilities, and two, I’d get over it after I finally woke up. I mean if they just call to shoot the breeze and insist that I wake up, I might be a bitch, but other than that, I get over it. I tutored my cousin and best friend, Candace during finals week with English so that she could pass her senior year and get a diploma, otherwise she wouldn’t have been able to walk. I would get home from dance at 9, shower at her house, study with her until 12, study myself until about 3, go to bed, get up and do it all over again. Everyday of the week.
While that all seems great, I am horrible at enough things to make up for it. I can be snide, sarcastic, and just down-right antisocial. I would do anything for a friend but I am incredibly blunt and have my moments when I would rather slowly pick apart my spleen than be in public, acting obnoxious. I love my friends, but I seriously need my downtime as well.
That might explain some of the writing I do. Some of it’s insecure and fearful, that would be the side that’s social and worried about everything. Then again, some of it’s sarcastic and almost comical, that’s my antisocial and arrogant side. I think all writers have a dual personality. It is highly inconvenient at times and difficult to explain when some people say I am shy, and others say I’m a loud-mouth but that’s the way it goes I guess.
I’ve been talking about spleens today and I couldn’t honestly pick a picture of one out of a stack of other organs if my life depended on it. It would be awesome if I could though, right? Harley, Spleen-Identifier. I can see her now. “I wouldn’t mess with her, man. She knows what a Spleen looks like.”
Okay, so I tend to get off topic. Who ever said that was bad though?
Anyways, that is what I have today. Leave me comments if you want. Or don’t.
Either way, I am fine with it. Trust me, I can talk to myself for ages. It might be fun to tune into that one. I’d make a wicked schizophrenic. J (Oh, no offense to anybody who knows a schizophrenic. I was making fun of myself if anything. Oh, I can see it now. “What do you have against people with mental health issues? Are you conservative?” Oh request: please never accuse me of being conservative because I would have to decide who to kill first: you, for calling me THAT word, or me for actually saying something that makes you call me that. Ok, I joke. Still. Don’t, for the sake of all that is right in the world, do that.)
Off topic once again. Man am I on a roll today! Bye all!
Wow. I just put my rings on my left hand and I can’t type naturally with them there but it doesn’t seem to bother me when they’re on my right. Just thought I would add that tidbit. ;)
I’m listening to the Aladdin soundtrack. How sweet am I? “Arabian Nights” rocks.
So I think a large part of a writers career has to do with what is going outside of the writing. I wasn’t planning on incorporating any details about my life into this but I thought doing otherwise might be a little boring. Besides, it’s always nice to know about people and dish the dirt, right? It’s better than talking to a brick wall, at least. Well, in some cases.
;)
Something about me…I have what seems like three billion friends, I don’t, but to me I have more than enough, that are constantly wanting to do stuff with me but I have no idea why because I am a total hermit. I like to sit at home and read just as much as they like to go out and be hoodlums, okay… a lot of my friends are dancers/AP students so maybe not hoodlums (but you get the picture) so much as teenagers. Anyways, I am sort of the “hitch” of all my friends. I am amazing, no kidding, with advice and many of them seem to come to me. A few friends of mine jokingly call me Dr.Phil because it seems like I always have the answer. The deal with that is, while I am good with giving advice, I am not necessarily good at running my own life. You know the saying “those who can’t do, teach”, and those who can’t live advise.
;)
I mean, honestly, I’m not blowing my own horn hear, a phrase which I despise by the way and have no idea why I just used it, I am what I consider a great friend. I would do anything for any of my friends. They all have no problem calling me at 3 in the morning because for one, I am generally up until three because sleeping is just not one of my abilities, and two, I’d get over it after I finally woke up. I mean if they just call to shoot the breeze and insist that I wake up, I might be a bitch, but other than that, I get over it. I tutored my cousin and best friend, Candace during finals week with English so that she could pass her senior year and get a diploma, otherwise she wouldn’t have been able to walk. I would get home from dance at 9, shower at her house, study with her until 12, study myself until about 3, go to bed, get up and do it all over again. Everyday of the week.
While that all seems great, I am horrible at enough things to make up for it. I can be snide, sarcastic, and just down-right antisocial. I would do anything for a friend but I am incredibly blunt and have my moments when I would rather slowly pick apart my spleen than be in public, acting obnoxious. I love my friends, but I seriously need my downtime as well.
That might explain some of the writing I do. Some of it’s insecure and fearful, that would be the side that’s social and worried about everything. Then again, some of it’s sarcastic and almost comical, that’s my antisocial and arrogant side. I think all writers have a dual personality. It is highly inconvenient at times and difficult to explain when some people say I am shy, and others say I’m a loud-mouth but that’s the way it goes I guess.
I’ve been talking about spleens today and I couldn’t honestly pick a picture of one out of a stack of other organs if my life depended on it. It would be awesome if I could though, right? Harley, Spleen-Identifier. I can see her now. “I wouldn’t mess with her, man. She knows what a Spleen looks like.”
Okay, so I tend to get off topic. Who ever said that was bad though?
Anyways, that is what I have today. Leave me comments if you want. Or don’t.
Either way, I am fine with it. Trust me, I can talk to myself for ages. It might be fun to tune into that one. I’d make a wicked schizophrenic. J (Oh, no offense to anybody who knows a schizophrenic. I was making fun of myself if anything. Oh, I can see it now. “What do you have against people with mental health issues? Are you conservative?” Oh request: please never accuse me of being conservative because I would have to decide who to kill first: you, for calling me THAT word, or me for actually saying something that makes you call me that. Ok, I joke. Still. Don’t, for the sake of all that is right in the world, do that.)
Off topic once again. Man am I on a roll today! Bye all!
HURT.
I'm finding I hurt for a lot of things. I hurt for the people I pity. I hurt for the people I love. I hurt for the people who don't love me. I hurt for the past and I hurt for the future. I hurt for the things I don't know and I hurt for the things I cannot ignore.
I hurt because I hurt myself and I give the world an invitation to hurt me by opening up to it when quite simply, I know better than to do that. The expense of that isn't going to be the present and it's not going to be my life. It's going to be my heart and my trust.
Either I am just paranoid or She did it again. If I didn't love her, I'd hate her.
I hurt because I hurt myself and I give the world an invitation to hurt me by opening up to it when quite simply, I know better than to do that. The expense of that isn't going to be the present and it's not going to be my life. It's going to be my heart and my trust.
Either I am just paranoid or She did it again. If I didn't love her, I'd hate her.
THINGS I WANT TO DO BEFORE I DIE.
1. Become a great writer.
2. Publish a novel.
3. Sing at the top of my lungs in a public place and not worry about what people think of it.
4. Wear a beautiful wedding dress.
5. Spend all day horse back riding.
6. Witness a miracle.
7. Fall into incredible love.
8. Have a child.
9. Speak 8 languages.
10. Travel Europe, South America, and Asia, and Africa.
11. Be somebody's hero.
12. Save somebody.
13. Talk to God.
14. Dance down a street in the pouring rain with my best friend.
15. Watch sunrise from the top of a mountain.
16. Race a car.
17. Spend the night on a beach.
18. Dance with Carrie Ann Inaba, the judge of dancing with the stars.
19. Learn to fence.
20. Learn martial arts.
21. Spend an entire day in an enormous bookstore.
22. Get a unique, tasteful, hidden tattoo.
23. Get married in a small white country church.
24. Live in England for a year.
25. Study abroad.
26. Be in two countries at once.
27. Swim in an ocean where you can see through the water.
28. Swim with dolphins.
29. See a polar bear, wolf, and shark.
30. Read all the classic books.
31. Be able to read a book in another language.
32. Graduate college.
33. Attend culinary arts school.
2. Publish a novel.
3. Sing at the top of my lungs in a public place and not worry about what people think of it.
4. Wear a beautiful wedding dress.
5. Spend all day horse back riding.
6. Witness a miracle.
7. Fall into incredible love.
8. Have a child.
9. Speak 8 languages.
10. Travel Europe, South America, and Asia, and Africa.
11. Be somebody's hero.
12. Save somebody.
13. Talk to God.
14. Dance down a street in the pouring rain with my best friend.
15. Watch sunrise from the top of a mountain.
16. Race a car.
17. Spend the night on a beach.
18. Dance with Carrie Ann Inaba, the judge of dancing with the stars.
19. Learn to fence.
20. Learn martial arts.
21. Spend an entire day in an enormous bookstore.
22. Get a unique, tasteful, hidden tattoo.
23. Get married in a small white country church.
24. Live in England for a year.
25. Study abroad.
26. Be in two countries at once.
27. Swim in an ocean where you can see through the water.
28. Swim with dolphins.
29. See a polar bear, wolf, and shark.
30. Read all the classic books.
31. Be able to read a book in another language.
32. Graduate college.
33. Attend culinary arts school.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
I LOVE YOU.
I love you. I love every little thing about you- your sexy smile, the sound of your voice, the magic in your eyes. I love your gentle touch and the warmth I feel at your side...I love dreaming about you. I love discovering with you and letting go with you. I love each and every once in a lifetime moment I share with you...today, tomorrow, forever.
Why I love you is a hard question to answer. I love you because you care for me like no one else I know. I love the way I feel in your arms, so safe from dangers in the world. I love your eyes, so hypnotic and mesmerizing, beautiful to gaze into, and yet never revealing everything to me. I can't explain everyway that I love you, because that's impossible. But I can say I love you because you are you.
You know that feeling you get when you're on a roller coaster for the first time? Or you're going too high on a swing? Or you hit some certain bumps in the road and your stomach kinda flips? That's the way I feel when I'm around you. Not all the time, but there's those times when you look at me, or you'll hold me; and I can't even explain it- but that's what I feel.
Why I love you is a hard question to answer. I love you because you care for me like no one else I know. I love the way I feel in your arms, so safe from dangers in the world. I love your eyes, so hypnotic and mesmerizing, beautiful to gaze into, and yet never revealing everything to me. I can't explain everyway that I love you, because that's impossible. But I can say I love you because you are you.
You know that feeling you get when you're on a roller coaster for the first time? Or you're going too high on a swing? Or you hit some certain bumps in the road and your stomach kinda flips? That's the way I feel when I'm around you. Not all the time, but there's those times when you look at me, or you'll hold me; and I can't even explain it- but that's what I feel.
Friday, May 15, 2009
SLEEPING GIANT.
I love you. I respect you. I admire you. Sometimes I want to be you. But I'm not you.I'll practice with you. I'll sweat with you. I'll bitch and whine and scream with you.I'll party with you. I'll drink with you. I'll get sick with you. I'll listen to the screaming of by a furious coach with you.But we're different. I don't know what it is, why, or how I got that way but I am. I'm your teammate and you all share a sisterhood with me and a mutual understanding that nobody else does. You understand my passion for this sport and this program but that's only one of my passions.I'm different than you. In that quiet, sober moment of drunkenness, there is something else in the back of my head that says there is somewhere else I want to be, something else I should be doing. I love you. I love my defense and I love my team. I love winning with you. I hate to lose but if I had to do it with anybody it'd be you guys. I'd do anything in my power to help you but there's just one thing in this world I wouldn't give up.There is one thing, one desire, more stubborn than this and it's fighting with you. Just lately it has been a sleeping giant. But all giants, they have to wake up and a sleeping giant is never a morning bird.
SWEET NOTHINGS.
I suppressed a grin as he whispered sweet nothings in nearly silent breaths which tickled my ear, setting alert every nerve along my neckline. I call them sweet nothings because that's what they were. So sugary you could hardly have such a thing every day but wonderful nonetheless. Nothings because no sooner than they had rolled off his tongue and passed in manipulative waves across his lips, had they deserted the threshold of his mind, ceasing to exist. He instilled in me a sourceless feeling that lost its purpose as soon as it was conceived.
DO YOU EVER HAVE RECURRING DREAMS?
Murder. I have recurring dreams about murder. It's almost always a murder I can't stop and is either about myself or somebody else. Unlike in the movies, however, the inevitability is no illusion. The person always dies either shortly before I wake up or I wake up before it happens but there is absolutely no doubt in my mind what happened after I left the dream to itself. I toss and turn in my sleep, slide the socks off my feet, sweat and talk anxiously and none of it goes anywhere because some way or another I always miss a step. My dreams, like my writing, have themes of their own without my choosing: murder, animosity, regret, failure, and helplessness. Blood is optional.
DANGEROUS COMPARISONS
We were sitting in the diner. Or cafe. All the same. Tin chairs that wobbled with every shudder or gut-shaking laugh. Tables that bore the scars of lost battles with water marks and cold coke cans. She looked over a frail shoulder at a girl walking down the aisle. Of course she wasn't alone in watching the designer bag gripped by perfectly sculpted nails and heels attached to long, divinely-shaped legs, saunter saucily away.
She sighed. "You know I've never been chic." Rubbing the corner of her mouth with one hand, she shook her head and flicked ash off her cigarette.
An attractive waitress with a friendly smile balanced a tray of drinks in one hand bravely, raising it above the head of some clod who wasn't paying attention to where he was walking.
She looked at her longingly. "And I've never been graceful."
Picking a dull nail, she looked up at me awkwardly with a crooked grin and then back down at the table, staring pensively at a chipped saucer, the off-white, past its prime coat of paint being kept company by a few meaningless but nevertheless present crumbs. Brushing them aside, she said, "I suppose when you have never been beautiful you pick up honesty and rationality in the absence of a pretty face."
She was right. Her face would never be on the side of a bus for some makeup ad and she wasn't the pretty little waitress that was going to marry the high school quarterback but there was something poetically beautiful about her insecurities; there was something to be desired about her incomplete appearance and wispy hair, yes, but something tangible and appealing all the same.
She sighed. "You know I've never been chic." Rubbing the corner of her mouth with one hand, she shook her head and flicked ash off her cigarette.
An attractive waitress with a friendly smile balanced a tray of drinks in one hand bravely, raising it above the head of some clod who wasn't paying attention to where he was walking.
She looked at her longingly. "And I've never been graceful."
Picking a dull nail, she looked up at me awkwardly with a crooked grin and then back down at the table, staring pensively at a chipped saucer, the off-white, past its prime coat of paint being kept company by a few meaningless but nevertheless present crumbs. Brushing them aside, she said, "I suppose when you have never been beautiful you pick up honesty and rationality in the absence of a pretty face."
She was right. Her face would never be on the side of a bus for some makeup ad and she wasn't the pretty little waitress that was going to marry the high school quarterback but there was something poetically beautiful about her insecurities; there was something to be desired about her incomplete appearance and wispy hair, yes, but something tangible and appealing all the same.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
REVELATIONS.
I don't care if I write something offensive. I don't care if it's profane. I don't care if it's a bit off-color so long as it's real, so long as it means something.I'd rather write something that needs censorship than something that is pleasantly accepted because at least then I am saying something, something somebody else refused to say or couldn't say.Abortion, abuse, violence, drugs, a third world buried in our own society that we don't have to travel by boat to live in, to have clog our dirty, over-oiled pores, that's the life I live, that's the world I know and fairytales are only for bedtime.There is a reason nightmares wake us up in the night, they mean to alarm us, to catch our sweating, panting attention. Don't get me wrong, I want to write whatever comes to me but should I ever become a great writer, should I ever be publishable, I don't want to write what people expect me to write. I want to write what needs writing.
REALIZATIONS.
I love movies but I'm coming to see that my life isn't one.There is no twenty minute safety net for the best friend who left to walk in at the end. There is no visible redemption just beyond the grasp of the screen. There are a great many differences between a film and a life. The first is a story, hopefully enjoyable, about something that maybe half-happened or should have happened. Then second is a journey brutal in terms of the reality it holds and beautiful only when you're willing to look hard enough.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
LIFE IS FUNNY THAT WAY.
I'll never forget it- the moment he went from being the tyrant ruling my thoughts to the GI Joe on the floor I kicked out of my way.Yesterday's giants are today's miniscule scale-models.
THIS CAN'T BE HAPPENING TO ME.
I can't even breathe. It's like I'm looking from a distance, standing in the background. Everybody's saying he's not coming home now.This can't be happening to me. This is just a dream.
I love how when she sings this song it sounds more like it's a nightmare. I love how the word dream can mean anything, even something terrifying. Such a limitless definition for such an unlimiting word.Anyways, this song has been with me all day. It's very good and I love music so consider this a music post for the day. Listen if you like. I believe I might be done for the night. Have a safe and great end to your day.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t19np6iKs2Q
I love how when she sings this song it sounds more like it's a nightmare. I love how the word dream can mean anything, even something terrifying. Such a limitless definition for such an unlimiting word.Anyways, this song has been with me all day. It's very good and I love music so consider this a music post for the day. Listen if you like. I believe I might be done for the night. Have a safe and great end to your day.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t19np6iKs2Q
REAL GIRLS WEAR CONVERSE.
Ladies don't spread their legs... but girls may do cartwheels. Ladies don't spit... but boys may do so. Ladies don't laugh too loudly... but happy people burst at the seams. Ladies don't intrude on men... but men may intrude on women. Ladies are polite, ladies are this, ladies are that. Ladies are robots.
Ladies are poor fakes who attempt to appear human in order to appease society and good manners. Life is natural. It's not well-mannered. You're born crying so why conceal your tears? Mom never had an answer to that one either. She just said it made people uncomfortable, that it was not proper. Whoever set up the rules of propriety obviously didn't do a whole lot of living.
I don't want to be a girl or a boy or a man or a woman and I certainly don't want to be a lady- no matter what mother says. I want to jump and scream and laugh and tell the honest-to-goodness truth. I want to be free. Is that so much to ask? Nobody asked me if I wanted a corset. Nobody asked me if I wanted chains around my wrists. They talk about progress and women's suffrage and freedom but they've replaced social restrictions with euphemisms, heavy-handed judgments, and great expectations. The only difference is these cuffs are transparent. Visible or not the wind can still whip you in the face; audible or not, a church can still chastise you with its murmurs and its pointed glances.
Ladies don't make rude, open comments; they tell white lies. Ladies do not sin. Lying, however, is a sin. Ladies don't do a lot of things but they do contradict themselves. To Hell with being a lady. Give me back my converse and baseball cap and I'll show you a lady with some pride, a lady who can outrun all the boys and be a credit to her gender because a sex's merit is not found in the drawing room or at the dining table; a sex's merit is in the personalities it can boast. It's in the range of characters it produces- not the robots a society turns out.
A person should be judged by her strength- moral, physical, and emotional- not her virtue and some good-for-nothing white dress. Forget your lady's virtue. Mine isn't between my legs and you won't find it in the kitchen. Mine is in my heart and those muddy, unlaced converse. Unlike your heels they don't let out the standard, dehumanizing clack and they don't blister my heels. When my feet hit the ground you won't hear a lady or any of those impersonal echoes they leave on marble floors. You'll hear the concrete steps of me and only me, the deafening sound of where I've been and where I'm going- lady or no lady.
Ladies are poor fakes who attempt to appear human in order to appease society and good manners. Life is natural. It's not well-mannered. You're born crying so why conceal your tears? Mom never had an answer to that one either. She just said it made people uncomfortable, that it was not proper. Whoever set up the rules of propriety obviously didn't do a whole lot of living.
I don't want to be a girl or a boy or a man or a woman and I certainly don't want to be a lady- no matter what mother says. I want to jump and scream and laugh and tell the honest-to-goodness truth. I want to be free. Is that so much to ask? Nobody asked me if I wanted a corset. Nobody asked me if I wanted chains around my wrists. They talk about progress and women's suffrage and freedom but they've replaced social restrictions with euphemisms, heavy-handed judgments, and great expectations. The only difference is these cuffs are transparent. Visible or not the wind can still whip you in the face; audible or not, a church can still chastise you with its murmurs and its pointed glances.
Ladies don't make rude, open comments; they tell white lies. Ladies do not sin. Lying, however, is a sin. Ladies don't do a lot of things but they do contradict themselves. To Hell with being a lady. Give me back my converse and baseball cap and I'll show you a lady with some pride, a lady who can outrun all the boys and be a credit to her gender because a sex's merit is not found in the drawing room or at the dining table; a sex's merit is in the personalities it can boast. It's in the range of characters it produces- not the robots a society turns out.
A person should be judged by her strength- moral, physical, and emotional- not her virtue and some good-for-nothing white dress. Forget your lady's virtue. Mine isn't between my legs and you won't find it in the kitchen. Mine is in my heart and those muddy, unlaced converse. Unlike your heels they don't let out the standard, dehumanizing clack and they don't blister my heels. When my feet hit the ground you won't hear a lady or any of those impersonal echoes they leave on marble floors. You'll hear the concrete steps of me and only me, the deafening sound of where I've been and where I'm going- lady or no lady.
SO WHAT? I DID IT, I ADMIT IT, AND I'M PLEADING THE FIFTH.
I won't be standing up for long, I better learn how to crawl. Ten minutes and I'll be layin out flat on the floor. Eight minutes from losing it a little bit. Five minutes your description might be starting to fit. Three to go and I'm forgetting all that I've ever known. I won't be standing up for long I better learn how to crawl. Here's to problems, fixations, and human weakness. I suppose we all have some sort of sleeping giant in us waiting to be prodded. Never one for moderation, I set mine on fire.
Current Music: Flat on the Floor- Nickelback.
Current Music: Flat on the Floor- Nickelback.
I SHOULD BE OUT IN THAT DRIVEWAY STOPPING YOU.
Tears should be rollin' down my cheeks and I don't know why but I'm not fallin' apart like I usually do. And how the thought of losin' you's not killin' me.
I feel bad that I can stand here so strong, cold as stone. Seems so wrong, I can't explain it. Maybe it's just I've cried so much. I'm tired and I'm numb, baby I hate it. I feel bad. That I don't feel bad.
I don't have a whole lot to say today so it's a lyrics day. Last night my friend Jordan made me listen to this song because he said it reminded him of me and how stubborn I am. I'd have to say given the light of recent events with my "love life" I agree. Things are a mess and they are complicated and I don't really mind it. I suppose if there is any way to live that sort of thing that's it- a certain degree of apathy without the bitterness which is often a result of it. It's honest and imperfect and if it were any other way I don't think I would be able to do it. With its idleness perfection can be an awfully disappointing thing. I know people are going to walk in and out of my life, give and take parts of me. As long as none of them take the best part of me I think that's okay.
I feel bad that I can stand here so strong, cold as stone. Seems so wrong, I can't explain it. Maybe it's just I've cried so much. I'm tired and I'm numb, baby I hate it. I feel bad. That I don't feel bad.
I don't have a whole lot to say today so it's a lyrics day. Last night my friend Jordan made me listen to this song because he said it reminded him of me and how stubborn I am. I'd have to say given the light of recent events with my "love life" I agree. Things are a mess and they are complicated and I don't really mind it. I suppose if there is any way to live that sort of thing that's it- a certain degree of apathy without the bitterness which is often a result of it. It's honest and imperfect and if it were any other way I don't think I would be able to do it. With its idleness perfection can be an awfully disappointing thing. I know people are going to walk in and out of my life, give and take parts of me. As long as none of them take the best part of me I think that's okay.
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