Tiny Explosions

Holy crap, this thing's still here?

2009-04-06T23:22:00.000-07:00

I completely forgot about my blog. For like, a year. More than a year.

Thankfully I don't want to be a parent. I mean, if I can't take care of a blog, what will I do to any potential spawn that pops out of me (did I say spawn? I meant... um... yeah, I meant spawn)?

Let's see, what's changed since last time I posted.... Everything. Everything has changed since last post. I'm still dating Tyson, though. That's about it. Starting with me, my hair's longer, I have a new hunk of metal in my nose, my hair's like 2 feet long now... oh yeah, and I'm now living with my crazy mother, whom I vowed to never talk to again aout 2 years ago. My bedroom's the couch and my kingdom's a 2 room apartment with three people living in it. Why am I here? My wonderful father and I had a fallout due to his new behavior thanks to the influence of his new whore of a wife (I'll write an entire blog on this wicked creature. From the depths of hell, she sprung! She left all but her blondest, most cheerful child behind!) I left behind my pets, my stuff, my clothes, everything I had, and in about 20 minutes made up my mind to walk to mother's and hope things work out for the best. So far, it's not too bad. Even though I still, months later, don't have shit (thanks to no jobs in Wheeling. Mmm, that Wheeling feeling! Feels like... stinky poverty) except for the stuff I bought new after I moved in, namely clothes and college stuff.

Mom's not as crazy as she was. She finally agreed to see a counselor about her bipolar disorder, which means she's not as loud, bloodthirsty, and rampaging as she once was, but she's still a bit... well... let me explain the most current situation.

Mom went to a bar. Mom found a shaggy looking guy. Mom brought him home. Shaggy guys tell us he used to smoke crack but doesn't anymore. Shaggy guy ends up living with us for 3 months, after giving Mom a sob story about having nowhere to go. Shaggy guy still smokes crack. Shaggy guy tomatoes from store to make us spaghetti, then washes the dishes, then hits on my 16 year old sister when he comes home all cracked out, steals mine and my sister's pot (like my smoking pot surprises anyone reading this), busts a potted plant, then leaves for three days. Shaggy guy comes back to the house, is cracked out for days until Mom sends him to the homeless shelter, and finally, after a few more weeks, calls from Shaggy guy's angry ex, and babysitting his kids, decides to break it off.

Then! And then and then and then! Mom starts dating a cop. Then a guy that caught his leg on fire when he was drunk. Now she's dating the cop again. Oh! She's also dating the doctor from work! AND now she wants to move in with her lesbian friend and take my sister and I with her because it'll save money and they're... well, I don't know what's up with mom and her new lesbian friend, but I think Mom's a bit more "open" than she thought (which explains where I got it from, but at least I have taste! Mom's friend has 4 chins, 3 ex husbands, 2 spoiled kids, 1 loud mouth, and acts exactly like Mom but drinks twice as much).

And that's just nipping the bud. But honestly, as crazy as life is right now... it's better than when I lived with my dad those last couple of months. On the day that I left, here's what helped me make my decision:

I spent all day cleaning the house. Dishes, vaccuum, dusting, laundry, sweeping, mopping, cleaning the inside of the oven, microwave, fridge, freezer, vaccuuming the couch and chairs, cleaning my room, Dad's room, Taylor's room (step sister), upstairs, downstairs- everything. Why did I do this? Because Dad's a prick and the only way I could live in his house was to clean up after everybody. This usually took at least 4 hours out of my day, when you have a 4 story house to clean with 3 bedrooms, one small room (my room. 8X10 feet. Dad made me move in here when he married his new wife), 1 living room, 1 dining room, 1 kitchen, 2 bathrooms, 1 basement, 1 attic, 2 backrooms, etc etc etc. This day, I was feeling pretty good and decided to pamper the dogs and cats. My one dog, Sara, my sweet sweet Sara, needed a bath for her fleas. So, I bathed her, blew her dry, then took her on the porch to shave her fur a bit (she's super fluffy) so I could put a bit of flea medicine on her neck to scare away the little pests.

While I was trimming her fur, Sherri (evil wife) asked, "Don't you think you should cut her hair a bit shorter?" I said no, I'm just doing it to make applying the medicine easier, she's fine with fur, I don't mind brushing it. This was the only thing Sherri said to me that day.

Dad came home, and instead of looking around the sparkling house, the equally sparkling and well groomed pets, and the pile of homework I'd managed to finish and saying, "Gee, thanks," he sat me down and screamed that I should never talk to his wife like that again, that I was lucky that he let me live there at all, that I needed to apologize to Sherri for making her upset, that I was just as bad as my mother, and that I because I chose to live with him after the divorce, I owed it to him to keep the house nice and not mouth off to his wife.

To this I replied, "I'm not doing this today. Or ever." And I left and haven't to him since Christmas Eve, where I happened to run into him at a family dinner. Even though I'm living on a couch with very little in my name (dad threw most of my stuff away and turns my 8x10 foot room into a walk in closet for his new wife), housed up with a crazy mom and sister, in a 2 room apartment... life's not bad. I still se my pets though. I sort of break into Dad's house now and again to see them (not really break in, I still have a key there). I don't mess with anything in the house, I just want to see my pets again until I can afford a place where I can have them. So, I sneak into the house now and again while Dad and Sherri are at work, and her daughter's in school, and spend about an hour brushing their fur and spoiling them. Then, when I see one of their cars pass the house, I use the same escape method I used when I was 15 to sneak cigarettes to get out of the house unseen- out the cellar, through the gate, out the front entrance as their pulling into the back!

It sounds kind of sad. And, it is. But... life could be worse. It was a lot worse, for a while, when I lived with Dad. Now I have the chance to do awesome in college again (which is exactly what I'm doing - 3.6 GPA, hells yeah), I'll be transferring soon to a better college, where I'll commute from my aunt's apartment (she'll be renting me a room, and I can have my pets again, plus I'll be within walking distance of school and have enough room for a BIG ass garden, which means not having to spend as much money on groceries), and I'll be able to work on things that matter- like never being stuck in this bloody situation again! Ever!

Never ever ever!

Let's see, some good news... I had my own personal computer for a while, which I got for free. It ended up crashing within the first month that I had it, probably due to the amount of porn on it. What can I say, right? Free internet porn's a bee-yatch. Just buy the movies, kiddos. Oh, and if i can find a job within the next few weeks, I'll be saving up for a big trip. My boy toy and I might be going to Europe for vacation later this summer, if all works out well. We're looking at Italy as a possible destination, but just leaving the States will be refreshing enough. Even better news- there's chocolate in the house! I'm going to go attack that now, actually....

Well, sorry for such a long period between postings, hopefully it won't happen again. Have fun!

PS- Just thought I'd add this pic in. A year and a half later, I'm still with the same dude. Who'da thought I'd be one for even the slightest shred of commitment? (Note my newest shiny metal piece- the metal bullring hanging out of my nose! Boyfriend hates it, but I don't give a rat's ass, it's my new favorite thing and has been since I got it last March)

I've been gone forever

2007-12-07T12:48:00.000-08:00

Yo yo :D I've been MIA for a long time, but now I'm able to post more regularly.

So, another semester of college aced! At least, I hope so. We have yet to get back our final grades for the semester. I'm the youngest person in the class, and so far it seems like I'm kicking all of the other students' asses. Brain power! And thanks to one of my amazing professors, I'm now dating a guy named Tyson (she hooked us up for a critique project and we really hit it off). Poor sucker's seven years older than me (not to mention an entire foot taller than me, coming in at about 6'5), and it's very surprising, even to me, that I'd end up dating someone like him. I usually go after the opinionated punk type just because that's the group I've grown up around my whole life and find the strongest rapport with, so dating an athletic Buddhist who's never been arrested, involved in a riot, or in a mosh pit is very...er....new. I don't think he's realized the full extent of how different we are (BIG surprise for him when he finds out that I don't shave my pits, that I can beat the crap out of most people, that I've been about a centimeter away from having a police record ever since I was 12, and that if it weren't for my current job, my head would be shaved, bright green and orange, and I'd have all of my piercings in).

In other news, I've been thinking of embracing my interest in science and going to school for zoology, possibly majoring in conservation or herpetology. The only problem is that the nearest school with a decent zoology program is about 8-10 hours away from where I live. I don't mind moving, I just don't like the idea of leaving everything behind (mostly my crazy bunch of friends. It'll kill me to leave them behind. Luckily for me, they're the type who'd be more than happy to move with me and squat around the city).

I've also entertained the thought of exploring the realm of astrophysics on a college level, but seeing as how I'm terrible at math and physics (thus ruining the whole dream of being a physicist of any sort), I might as well just stick to passions that I'm good at.

And now I'm taking my leave again. A group of my friends and I are going to try and have the millionth bonfire of the year in a foot of snow and ice.

"Love is like-" Shut up! Quit calling!

2007-08-25T22:23:00.000-07:00

*To anyone reading this post, let me say that you've stumbled across quite the gem, feel free to laugh, and I'm sure that you can relate.*

I'm not the type who likes to date much, and for 3 good reasons:

Most of the people I'm attracted to are at least 5 or more years older than me (5 years older is young in my book), and thanks to my slightly overreactive father, I can't date them (if I did, they'd be dead. Dad has a tire iron he saves just for those special occasions). I'm attracted to those older than me because I usually relate to them better, and because many of the teens my age are...well...stupid. Their idea of a good relationship consists of copious amounts of mediocre nooky and calling each other 20 times a day to exchange pet names and false hopes. I don't see the highlights of that type of relationship.

The second reason is because I'm a bitch. Looks don't mean anything to me, but intellect matters a lot. I have a very low tolerance for stupid people, and I let them know it. Sometimes, my bitchy side kicks in and I go on the "Here's what wrong with you, and here's why I can't stand you, get out of my face or I'll blow up your car" rant (I know, I'm a mean chick). Nothing infuriates me more than someone being a moron.

The last reason is that sometimes the people I choose to date are out of their damned minds- moreso than I am- and I end up in a jam that I can't get myself out of because I find out that they're crazy a little too late.

The following story falls into the last two categories.

Last week, a girl- whom I absolutely adored my freshman and sophomore years of highschool- got ahold of me again. We talked a little and, delighted that she remembered me, I asked her on a date. As I was asking her, memories of her from highschool played in my head- she was nice, very smart, pretty, funny, had a lot going for her, a good writer, etc. I was so excited when she said she'd love to go on a date that I nearly knocked over my chair.

We went to a ska show last Tuesday, and on the 2 hour ride to the venue (it was an out-of-state show), I began to realize that she wasn't quite the same as when I last talked with her. She used to be smart, now she was... well, I suspect she's been huffing paints or something. She was funny two years ago, whereas now she was bland and had no sense of humor. She was pretty then- well, okay, she was still pretty. Just ditsy as hell. Still, I decided to give it a try anyway and live out the night, hoping that she was just shy and acting different. Plus, I know how much it sucks to be on a bad date when you're hours from home.

To my dismay, she wasn't just acting. In the two years from the last time I'd met her, she'd turned into a moron. So, I decided to not ask her on anymore dates.

The next day, I woke up to 10 messages on my answering machine and 3 on my MySpace. The first messages were someting along the lines of, "I love you and miss you, blah blah blah, thinking of you". (It was one date! Go somewhere else with that crap!) Then, the messages became a bit more frantic-"I NEED to talk to you! I don't know what I did wrong! Call me back and tell me what I can do different!"

The time between the first and last messages were only spaced an hour apart. According to my observations, the girl I knew two years ago had transformed into an idiot of the worst kind- the psychotic, obsessive idiot. I've only had a little experience to this breed, but my calculations told me that if I didn't deal with this soon, I would soon be bound within the walls of my own house with the curtains drawn, the doors locked, and a broom in my hand in case she tried to break into the house. Tsuki don't play that.

After a very frightening telephone conversation with the crazy girl, she decided that I was joking with her when I said, "Don't call here anymore, you're a little too...um...well, you're nuts," and then broke into my "Here's what wrong with you, and here's why I can't stand you, get out of my face or I'll blow up your car" rant. She also seemed to think that I wanted her to call me every 20 minutes between 8 pm and midnight EVERY NIGHT. She's been doing this every night since Wednesday and can easily leave over 40 messages in one night. I tried to drill it into her head that she's way more crazy than I am (I'm off my rocker, but this girl is insane!), emotionally unstable, highly unsuited to me, and that I'm the type of person who'd have no problem tearing her apart and draping her hide from my ceiling fan should she continue the harassment.

I've finally gotten a night of silence. The phone hasn't rung even once (probably because I threw it against the wall), and it's bliss.

Hmm. Nearly every woman I've dated has turned out to be like this chick. Perhaps I should just stick with men. My luck with men seems it be a little better, because they don't all turn out to be looney-bin escapees. Just some of them.

The more I date, the more I like my pets. People are crazy, and most of them are very insecure, high maintenance, and hopelessly off-balance. Pets, on the other hand, are usually very level-headed, require only food, the occasional bath, and a treat, and are just happy to be alive. People like excessive cheesy romance, pets like sniffing butts. You can't euthanize people, or toss them outside when they get annoying. And people don't shut up if you try and give them a dog biscuit (they usually talk faster and get a little more pissed off if you do, I recently found out).

Hmm....

Oh! On the upside, she's been sending me a lot of gifts that I get to pawn off for a little extra pocket cash.

What? I need cigarette money.

Flea Markets, Blades, Zines, and Espresso OD

2007-08-18T11:38:00.001-07:00

This week has been as busy as it was liberating.

Our zine is going amazingly well. We should be printing in September (we're taking our sweet time for the first issue), and it's going to be awesome. We might also be doing a podcast with a friend or two in the Ohio area.

Despite the fact that we're taking our time on the zine, we're still pretty busy. I have three interviews to take care of in four days, along with pictures. Then, editting. Then, writing. Then more editting (managing the writing is something I have to do at least four times a day. I've been BREATHING zine content for weeks). Then, we make more patches. Then, we set up another meeting so we can review stuff as a group and make sure we're all on the same page. Then, layout and fighting about the logo. Then, MySpace maintenance. This includes pictures, blogs, bulletins, managing the friends and setting up more stuff with the bands. Then, I check the Yahoo mail and organize the applications for models, writers, artists-everyone, really- and decide who's best suited for the first issue.

That's just the stuff I have to do. Krista (my partner in crime) is just as busy. She takes other submissions, does more interviews than me, and is taking care of layout design, MySpace layout, and setting up a show. It's a shorter list, but it takes just as much time and consideration.

We've been this busy for months. Now we finally have some concrete direction, whereas before we were wondering in the dark, and that helps a lot.

BUT yesterday, I finally got a bit of free time, so I went to the flea market with fifty bucks. I spent all day there, meaning to look for stuff I needed (i.e. toothbrush, tweezers, clothes). Instead, I came home with a sword (real from Pakistan, heehee), two knives, goggles, paintbrushes, a Halloween cape, pepperspray, and a two pirate bandanas (along with other trivial stuff that I'll never need). Hmm.... Still, it was fun. And I love wearing my pirate caps with the Halloween cape and goggles with the sword attached to my belt.

Today, I found a few hours of free time as well, but they were spent thinking I was going to explode. I had gone to a coffee shop in hopes of a tasty chai latte, but the lady working the counter was new and clueless. I left there drinking a "chai" that was more bitter than Lewis Black and had about seven shots of espresso in it. I didn't complain because she was new and I just wanted caffeine.

About an hour later, I walked past the coffee shop again on my way to the bus stop, and the newly hired lady pops her head out and says, "I found out what I did wrong with the chai, come in and I'll make you another cup for free, and I hope it'll taste better." So, I obliged. This cup was stronger, yet not as bitter, as the first cup. Again, she was new, so again, I left without complaint. I drank the whole thing (even though it wasn't my chai latte, it was still pretty good). Now, I have about fourteen or more shots of espresso in me, and the whole way home on the bus, I thought I was going to have a heartattack. I was jittery, my heart was racing, my hands were shaking, and every time the bus hit a bump, I screamed and nearly flipped out (not to mention that I was also talking faster than Speedy Gonzales).

The caffeine effects are wearing off now (though, I'm still typing at turbo speed and ready to blow off the handle at any time), and I'm starting to simmer down a little. That's good, because I have an interview in an hour and still have a bunch of stuff to comb through, not to mention more brainstorming about the podcast.

*sigh* I think I'll go play with my sword and pirate cap until I chill down completely.

Ode to the Lazy Man

2007-08-10T06:44:00.000-07:00

After my "I hate my job!" e-blowout, I mellowed out and settled down for a bit.

No, that's a lie. "I marinaded for a little bit" would be more accurate. I steeped in my angry stew for a few more days and then, *poof*, Tsuki went off the semi-deep end:

I had finished making a call with a particularly nasty person, when all my rage floated back up. I cussed out the next person on the phone, threw my headset at the person next to me (it ricochetted and busted one of the low-hanging lights), grabbed my stuff, told my supervisor to go screw himself (He ran over after I cussed out the lady and started telling me off), then I walked the four miles home in 92 degree weather without any water (I had to walk on the side of the highway, where some creepy guy tried to pick me up. I dug my nails into his face and nearly knocked him senseless while he was still in his car. He almost didn't escape).

And now, here I sit, unemployed, lazing about, and happy as could be, with a few pending applications at the nearest parking garages and Wiccan shops. Ah, bliss....

Ode to the Working Man

2007-07-25T22:28:00.000-07:00

Two words. New job.

Two more words. It sucks.

One more word. Balls.

My new job sucks balls. I decided that, despite my hatred towards telephones, cellphones, adverstising, and credit cards, getting a telemarketing job would be a good idea. Don't ask me how it made sense, even I don't understand it. But now I stand before you all, saying,"Hi! I use telephones for 8-10 hours a day to try and sell people a credit card!" Sure, I get paid decently (about 9 bucks an hour), but man does it suck. I've never been called a "fucking cunt" so many times in my life. I've never been hung up on, cussed out, bitched out, or detested so much in my life. The few people I actually make sales with are blabbering idiots who would take a piece of arsenic coated candy if you show them a little kindness, and the majority of the people I call hate telemarketers as much as I do and show this fact very bluntly.

WHY didn't I just go to Subway, where I can get a free meal everyday? Why didn't I work at Stages, where I can dress however I want and have my hair dyed fun colors because it's a costume shop? Why didn't I paint houses, where my only worry was plunging face first into the ground? WHY, oh, WHY did I have to become a freaking telemarketer? I've only worked the job for a few weeks and I'm already gladly awaiting the day I never have to look at the place again.

Sadly, I desperately need the money if I'm going to act upon my aspirations of travelling a little and living by myself, but damn this isn't the way to do it!

My job has interfered with my sleeping patterns, my reading patterns (It took me from Sunday night to Wednesday morning to finish Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. WAY TOO LONG! I should have had that thing finished by Monday at the VERY latest!), and my over all life patterns. I wake up, I go to work, I get bitched out for what seems like an eternity, then I come home, do what little magazine stuff I can manage to do without having my own computer, then I crash on the couch, hoping to catch a night of peaceful slumber before having to wake up and do it again. I know they say I'm only there for 8-10 hours, but it sure as hell feels like more!

I don't mind having a job, but this is freaking ridiculous. Even the best pacheck couldn't make up for the crap I have to deal with. I detest telephones and I have a strong disliking for meeting people I don't wish to meet, and this job makes me do it every day for far too long.

I know, I know- everyone hates their job. Shut your mouths! Have YOU tried telemarketing? You know all those people you hang up on, or tell them to not call back, or tell them to go screw themselves? I easily make over 1,000 calls a day, and I only make 3-5 sales a day. Guess who the other 995-997 people are? That's right, they're Mr. or Ms. I Hate Telemarketers!

God damn I got to get out of this!

I hate it even more now that I'm talking about it!

I NEVER feel this passionate about anything, unless it's in a good way (such as writing, reading, music, etc). Despite my manner of joking, I have a very cool head, and in most respects, I'm a hard person to piss off. And yet, I've been pissed off every single god damn day since I started this stupid job, and now I can't get out of it because I need money so badly I can taste it and no one else is hiring around our area (really, no one is. It's a ghost town, practically. Oh, no wait- other telemarketers are hiring. God!)

Well, I'm done for today. No amount of complaining- no matter how full of profanities, insults, and exclamation points- can sooth my temper. I'm going to stock off to the couch- my new bed, because I don't want to look at the room I have to act like I'm cleaning every time I get near it- and try to go to sleep.

Oh wait. That's right. I have trouble going to sleep, don't I? Had it for about, forever, haven't I? I can hunker down at 10 pm and won't be asleep until 3 am, at LEAST.

Screw this, I'm living as a bum in a little abandoned van down by the river with a bunch of smelly hippies who have to roast discarded, moldy marshmallows over a lighter they found in the alley. It's WAY better than this sucky Discover credit card crap!

No Karma

2007-06-30T10:22:00.000-07:00

I've noticed, especially in recent years, that the best people in the world are the ones who seem to be most likely to suffer the greatest tragedies. While I don't understand the mechanisms behind this, it certainly seems to be a truth in some screwed up way. Is it the tragedies that make the person good, or do good people really just have bad luck?

This made me analyze myself. While I've certainly suffered a great deal of inconveniences, I've never suffered what would be classified as a true tragedy. I wonder if this means I'm a bad person.... Well, regardless of whether I am or not, I can't say it bothers me too much. It's my nature to worry about myself first and foremost the majority of the time, so it's natural that as long as I'm content, being a bad person doesn't bother me. Still, I don't consider myself to be so terrible. I'm not the nicest of people, and I can't even count the number of times I've done things another's expenses, but there's always someone worse out there.

I guess I'm lucky in that I don't suffer much tragedy, so I should take advantage of it while I can. My lucky streak is sure to run out at some point in my life. One day, I'll stand almost alone and all the people I've depended on, loved, and grew up with will be resting in the grave. I'm sure I'll still have people close to me at every point in my life, but thinking about how I will be raised in one environment and will die in an environment that's completely different is very unsettling. But, them's the cards life deals ya.

On another note, I'd like to bitch about myself for a moment (as though I haven't bitched enough already). Throughout the duration of my life, I've gained awards and whatnot for being something "outstanding". In elementary school, they handed out awards at the end of the semester for having good grades or test scores, and the award came with a certificate and a free meal at a nice restaurant. I won this award every semester without exception. At the end of elementary school, I won first place Stifel (it really wasn't earned, since I stopped doing homework in the 3rd grade. The prize was based solely on my end of the year test scores), which came with another pretty certificate and 100 dollars or something. In middle school, it's the same story. Bunch of awards every year, lots of free stuff. In highschool it changed a little because your grades matter more than test scores, but even though I failed most of my classes, I still had awards tossed my way for something or another. I didn't try for any of them, I've just always received them like candy. In this sense, I suppose I'm to be considered a spoiled child, but I never asked for the awards. Even from the beginning, there was always someone more deserving than me and I was very aware of this. Yet, that person always came in second place to me. I don't know how or why it happens.

And now, since I stopped going to public or private school, I don't get awards anymore. 'Finally,' I thought, 'I will get some relief.' I always thought the awards were holding me back. They were the system's way of saying, "This is the best you need to do and no better," and I had gotten that praise without doing anything at all. Those awards have stunted my potential for many years, and schooling myself was my ticket out.

Apparently, it's not. Considering my age, I have quite a few accomplishments backing me up, but none of them mean much to me. My future is brighter and more promising than most kids my age, yet none of my successes mean anything to me (at least, not in the sense of having done something meaningful). It seems like all my life, the only thing I've had to do was take some stupid standardized test and get a bucket of praise to take home. Most people probably don't understand why something like this would bother me, but it does. I've never had the chance to work towards proving myself.

To the people I've discussed this with (despite my being independent for the most part, I love having a few people I can talk to no matter what. I can usually sort things out by myself just fine, but every now and then it's nice to have someone to go and bitch to without receiving any judgment), many of them say that this is my chance to prove myself. I agree, it is. This is the perfect time. Yet, with every small stone I leap across, they too throw praise my way. I don't want praise dammit, save it for someone more deserving! I want the chance to run with whatever I'm doing without hearing a word about it. While this will undoubtedly come as I age, I can't help but feel a little impatient. I know that wishing for no praise is a stupid thing to wish for (especially since I'll probably crave it in a few decades, after it's all wilted away), but even I don't have the power to change my wishes.

But, I have noticed something. The only time I feel truly accomplished is when I'm doing something secretive or mediocre. After an exhausting jam session with friends, I feel great. I've spent hours with a few friends creating music, we worked our butts off, and we don't hear a word of praise. Yet, there's unlimited invigoration in feeling satisfied with the music and the energy you've created. No one else, even the people watching, people in other bands, or the people who listen to the music will ever be able to understand the distinct energies and sense of accomplishment that we feel afterwards. While other musicians certainly understand it, they will never feel it in the exact same way we feel it (though they will, undoubtedly, feel it to the same intensity), and that's what makes it so precious and satisfying to me. It goes the same for writing. No other writer and no reader will feel the sense of accomplishment exactly the way I feel it when I've finished a story.

Why do these mediocre things mean so much to me? Is this what's considered passion? Is it because they're personal to me? Or, is it because these are some of the few things I have to work hard at in order achieve anything at all, yet I receive no praise for it?

I'm a weird kid....

Camping, Pirates, Music, and Then Some

2007-06-24T15:21:00.000-07:00

Sorry it's been so long since I last posted. I've been busy with the zine, music, and as many know, my comp crashed, so it's not as though I could update half the time even if I wanted to.

As far as my music goes, I've been jamming with this old crackhead hippie who used to let us use his place to hold punk shows. He's whacky, but a wonderful musician. If all goes well, we might be able to play at the Debbie Green race, or however the hell you spell it. Snow, a good friend of mine, is our bassist, and I hope she can keep up with the crackhead. Our "practices" are based solely on improvisation, and we've never played a song the same way twice so far (I've only been jamming with him for a consecutive month, but I've played with him for years in the past. He's always like this, so I know what to expect. Snow's actually pretty good at keeping up).

And for the zine, I don't know what's going on with that. One of my friends is extremely easy to motivate and always follows through with her work, so I asked her to help me. She got very excited and started pumpingout ideas and throwing together stuff like I've never seen before. So far, she's been a big help, but this past week or so I haven't been able to get ahold of her. She's either dead by the river, working her butt off, or for the first time in her life, has run away from something. Even if she's dead, I need those articles. We already made some of the patches (punk zine= buttloads of spraypainted patches), we have many articles, we've almost set up the Myspace, and we're finally starting to butter up a few printing places who are considering letting us print for free so long as we put an ad in our paper. We NEED to finish this, and I need her to be in contact at least once a week. Urrrrrrrrrr.......................

On to exercise! Since I can't drive, and neither can most of my friends, I've been walking 3 miles or more (usually more) every day. In order to get to wherever I need to be, I gotta walk. I've lost 4 pounds in one week, my leg muscles are beginning to resemble a body builder's, and I can now walk long distances without a word of complaint.

Camping! We went camping yesterday. Only one night (all we could afford) and it was fun for the most part. We hiked for 4 hours (well, I hiked for 4 hours. My dad and sister complained and took breaks for 4 hours). We also went canoeing. We borrowed my uncle's canoe and rowed for 3 hours. If you see the parasthesis above, you can guess who did most of the rowing. -_-' Ah, it was fun though. We (I) managed to row the entire distance of the lake (3 point something miles) and back. The only thing is, now I'm sunburnt. I was the only one in the family with a tan, and now I'm the only one with a burn. Go figure.

As for our camping quarters, we somehow found ourselves in the rich-people part of the campgrounds. It's completely beyond me how this happened. All I know is, we were the only tent in a field of RVs, my sister and I were the only punks in a field of Aeropostale and Abercrombie&Fitch, and everyone had really weird, plastic palm trees that lit up at night. It was pretty noisy, with everyone watching television and singing karaoke until 1 am. Ridiculous, I know. Yet again, I'm reminded of why I hate most stereotypically rich people. We drove to the primitive camps, and there we were pleased to find a few tents (not a single RV in sight), a bunch of people praying that their ice didn't melt because they didn;t have money for more, and peace and quiet (also, everyone else was wearing ripped clothing and such, so my sister and I didn't get those weird stares and have to listen to whispers). We got yelled at by the ranger when we tried to move out stuff there instead. So, we ended up stuck in rich camp. That, my friends, was hell.

Did you know that rangers get made when you ask them about how to become a forest ranger while you're wearing chains and piercings? He got all huffy and nearly slammed his foot in the door trying to drive away. I've never seen anyone's face turn so red-purple before in my life.

But, thanks to rich camp, I did get to make a few kids cry. Everyone would stare at me as I walked past them, so I'd turn around really quickly and start running at them. Toddlers don't like that. Neither does anyone else. Luckily for me, it seems that most ridiculously rich people can't fight well so long as you avoid the taser. Also, rich people have a buttload of firewood, just sitting out for the taking. Dad must think I'm an expert wood chopper by now. We had the biggest fire in the camp, and boy, is namebrand food good (Dad kind of figured out where the expensive food was coming from). Oh! We also met this really cool emo boy who'd been staying at the camp for the summer. He showed us some really amazing trails and stuff (like the field of vines hanging over the water- best swimming time ever!) that we never would have found otherwise (mainly because they were off limits). He was also the only one willing to act like a pirate with me (yes, I'm 17 and playing pirates on a canoe, bandanas, makeshift eyepatches, crappy impromptu hats, and everything else. Shut the hell up, it was fun and it was awesome and I will kick your ass if you say otherwise). He wouldn't let me steal anyone else's boat, though (probably because I almost stole his). Shame, too, because we would have come home with some really, really nice boats.

All in all, life's been good. Aside from this effing sunburn. Being a pirate is hard work....

Nightmares

2007-05-23T21:34:00.000-07:00

I’ve been haunted by terrible nightmares lately.

Most of my life, nightmares never bothered me. I had them, but I never felt scared because of them. I was usually delighted the next morning and often wrote a story based on them or kept some memoir of it. Nightmares made my day brighter and captured by fascination like nothing else. Having a nightmare that actually frightened me was very, very rare.

Yet recently, every nightmare I’ve had has scared the jeepers out of me. They’re not exactly scary, either. For instance, not long ago I could have a nightmare about this huge, deformed, truly horrific, monstrous creature mauling my family and friends and it wouldn’t bother me that badly. Actually, those were my favorite dreams because they were so explicit and detailed (essentially, it brought out the sociopath in me). But, just last night, I had a dream about two very normal looking men breaking into our house. No one was killed, but my sister and I were chased. Halfway through the dream, I helped my sister escape the house but for some reason I couldn’t escape myself. So, I went to hide in the attic. Somehow I managed to get hold of a gun, and I hid in an old Christmas tree box until the men came looking for me. I woke up right as the men started to look through the attic and I aiming the gun out of a hole in the box. When I woke up, I was drenched with sweat and I ran to the bathroom to puke.

Content-wise, my older dreams were way more scary, but they didn’t effect me in the same way. My recent dreams are pretty boring in comparison, but the fear I feel both during and after the dream is very intense.

What could have caused such a change in both the content of my dreams and my reaction to them? Yes, I’ve been under an awful lot of stress, but I’ve dealt with much more stress many times before in my life. The situation I’m going through right now is nothing compared to some of the stuff I’ve been through.

These nightmares have been keeping me up at night (right when I‘ve finally straightened out my sleeping patterns, too…), waking me up multiple times during the night, and usually stay with me throughout the day.

Ugh. Hopefully this stops soon, so that I can go back to my pleasantly morbid and gore ridden dreams.

Showtime!

2007-04-26T19:11:00.000-07:00

Wooohoooo!!!!!!!!! There's a show tomorrow! It's been so freaking long since I've been to a good show with a nice, sweaty, packed mosh pit! I hope it's a good one.

The last time I was in a room full of strange people, with a cloud of cigarette smoke (and other smoke) hovering over my head, listening to music so loud that my head hurts, and standing in a puddle of sweat with a bloody mouth was 2 years ago. Sure, I've been to other shows since then- they just royally sucked. Half of these new kids are afraid of going into the pit! It's ridiculous! "The worst that's going to happen is we rush you to the hospital. You'll live, we've been doing it for years!" says I to the pansy emo kid. "No, no, you don't understand," says he, "I have this thing with my back." So I show him my good friend Red's back, which is bleeding in several spots, has a few glass shards in it, the faint outline of a boot print, and many scars. "THAT'S having 'this thing with your back'. Get in there before I throw you in there!"

I miss the good times, back when the cops had to break us up and we had to run down the street with an instrument (can't leave 'em behind) and pray we didn't get thrown into holding....

Perhaps this show will resemble some of the better ones I've been to. One can only hope.... If it turns out to be another one of these crappy "indie" shows, I'm going to be pissed.

*all pumped up* WOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! SHOW TOMORROW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Ugh.... sniffle

2007-04-15T11:23:00.000-07:00

Well, I'm sick, which hasn't happened a lot this year. Slightly sore throat, sneezing all the time, one nostril that won't stop running, and the other is as dry as the Mojave Desert (they switch off now and again).

I've had multiple people tell me that it sounds like allergies, and I suddenly sympathize with anyone who gets this seasonally. I haven't and allergies since I was itsy bitsy (I've always been able to stuff my head into a bunch of flowers and take a deep, deep breathe, emerging with pollen all over my face, and I hug and squeeze dogs and cats until the fur flew off of them, no problem), and I still don't see anything that's the direct cause of it. I have a bunch of animals, and spend a lot of time with each of them (the cat is sitting in my lap right now, snoozing like the furry lump of lazy he is, and I have two dogs at my feet, preventing me from moving my chair), and I can't find if one in particular is the trigger or not. Actually, when I'm around the animals, I don't sneeze as much. Flowers might be the source, so I went around sniffing each of them, and I only sneezed on one of them, but I think that was because a bug flew up my nose.

So, the only thing I can do is wait until it subsides, try to get my head to feel less gooky, and drink as much herbal tea as possible.

Or maybe this is a precursor to the potential rabies? OHHH, speaking of which, I found a way to test for rabies without going to the doctor! I decided to infect the dog, who hasn't had a rabies shot ever (we recently got her, and are taking her for them later this spring). When dogs get the infection, it spreads quicker, so I'll be able to tell within two weeks at the most.

"That's animal cruelty," you say? No worries- if it turns out I do have rabies, I'm infecting EVERYBODY in the area. Even if I have to get a job as a dishwashed and lick the rims of all the cups to do it. If it turns out that I'm dying, I'm taking 'em all with me. :D

Ja ne!

Finally, the freaky hair comes in handy

2007-04-11T20:47:00.000-07:00

I was staying with my Grandma, and I went outside for a smoke. It was probably about 11:30 or so, just about the time when all the creepy dudes and druggies come out.

I'm standing against the building, enjoying my cigarettes, when two guys walk towards me. I'm on a walkway, so I don't think much of it until one of the guys motions towards me to the other guy, and they both started walking closer towards me (it's a wide walkway, they didn't need to walk so close to my side unless they were going to interact with me somehow). They both had this crazy look on their faces, and probably thought I was a prostitute or going to jump me or something.

Now, finishing my cigarette is very important to me, so I let my bangs fall in front of my face, popped the collar of my leather jacket, snarled as menaciongly as I could, the glared at them. They looked a little intimidated, but kept coming towards me. So, I took off my studded belt, doubled it up, and took a step forward. Then, I smacked the belt off the side of a pillar and growled at them while chewing the filter of my cigarette.

And what do you know? They turned around and ran the other way. Heeheehee. For anyone else, this would be satisying enough enough- but not for me. I chased them down the street, and managed to hit their heels with the belt buckle (which probably weighs about 4 pounds or so, and if very sharp).

Tsuki wins again. Huzzah!

I know many people will say, "Oh, you just overreacted." But, really, I didn't. Around here, no one gets close to someone else on the street unless they're going to A) beat you, B) jump you, or C) pull you behind a bush or something and, well, you know. And these guys didn't look like they were just stopping by to ask about the weather.

Wrong Choice?

2007-04-05T12:00:00.000-07:00

As many of you know, I made the decision to live with my dad last February. My mother is emotionally unstable, she doesn't pay much attention to my sister or me, and she's a lot of stress to deal with. She also stole about 4,000 dollars from my dad, after leaving him about 12,000 dollars down shit creek. Yeah, no wonder I chose my father, right?

Well, not I'm beginning to wonder if I made the right choice. Mom isn't much of a mother, but that type of stress if easy to escape. You just get up and leave the house. She won't notice, you won't have to deal with her. My father is a different story.

He cares, but he shows it in a very unorthodox way. He's been trying to help me with schoolwork and such, which I greatly appreciate, but it's like he neevr wants me to stop working. I understand that he doesn't want me to turn out like my mother (who's lazy, to put it into the kindest terms), but it's getting to the point where I haven't left the house in over a week because I have so much work to do. He keeps piling it on, and every time I say, "I just need a break, just an hour of free time, anything!" he flies off the handle, gets pissed, then shoves more work down my throat.

As of right now, I'm almost a week behind in my schoolwork with no hope of getting it done by the weekend (which is what he demanded). ON top of that, he has me doing most of the cleaning in the house, and when that's not done he complains. But, if I do clean the house first, he shows me everything I did wrong, then bitches about the unfinished schoolwork.

My mother is psychotic, slightly neglectful, and a terrible excuse for a parent most of the time. And I'm beginning to wonder if I shouldn't move back in with her. With my mother, I have to deal with random spurts of screaming, but she doesn't give a damn about my schoolwork. According to the school board, I'm classified as an independant studier. This means that my parents don't need to have any involvement in my school work, and the law is just fine with it. At my mother's, no one would question my school work as long as I pass the end of the year testing.

I think I might press to go back to the crazy woman's house. I understand that my dad is worried that I'll come out to be lazy, behind in my education, and all that happy stuff- but in reality, all he's doing is stressing me out and making a really unhealthy environment. What he considers "helping" me with my work isn't that at all (I still do all the work by myself, he just tells me what to do, and then scolds me when I ask for help), and whenever he throws more work on the load, he thinks he's giving me direction (or I've mistaken a cruel dictator for a kind man all these years, and he really is just an indirectly malicious parent). Regardless of how helpful he thinks he's being, I can't do it anymore.

In the past, my house has never really been my home. My sister and I were never there, and when we were, there was constant tension. Now that my parents have divorced... nothing has improved. Instead of only having one house that wasn't a home, we have two. Oh, joy. I wouldn't mind it so much if I could be a squatter like I used to be, but they won't let me until I turn 18. One more year....

On a happier note, I'm polishing my musical talents. I've been playing the piano like a crazy woman, and now that the weather is warming up, I'm goign to start jamming again (I play drums as well). My drumming technique was really rusty last time I went to tune up my drums and get a feel for them again (I hadn't played in a few months), so I'm going to make it a point to refine my skills. I found out that listening to music with excellent drummers helps keep your skill up. It's strange how it works- I guess you can feel the music in your body. Every time I listen to one of my favorite bands or a band with excellent musicians, I can feel my muscles tensing in sync with the drums.

I went to jam with one of my old bands yesterday (visitation with Mom, so I finally got to get otu fo the house), and my hypothesis was right. Listening to music alone kind of acts like practice. Strange, but it works.

All I have to do now is replace my snair head, tune up the other heads, and maybe splurge on a new crash, and we're good to go!

Hooray!

2007-03-23T18:40:00.000-07:00

Teddy posted the comment, so I saved the post about my comments as a draft. My latest personal blog is the post below this one, so please comment on that- not this one.

This Fresh Air is So Foreign....

2007-03-17T21:02:00.000-07:00

I’ve done nothing but procrastinate today. I had SO much work to do (and I still do), but I decided to careen slightly to the left of it all and take a day to enjoy myself.

It was wonderful to have a breather, and it was much more needed than I thought it was. Now that I’m looking at all the crap I have left to do, I’m sure the day would have ended with a breakdown. If I hadn’t taken some time to enjoy myself, I’d probably be curled in a sobbing ball on the floor right now, ripping all my papers to shreds and gnawing on the corner of the couch, cursing everything in the world that came to my mind.

For the better part of my life, I’ve been more of a laid-back person who can always find some pleasure in even the most tedious tasks (this is a euphemism for “I’m good at finding a way to slack off without getting into too much trouble”, by the way), but this recent wave of constant work is really taking a toll on me. I seem to have forgotten how to enjoy each day like I used to. These past few months are really beginning to chip at me. I didn’t realize this until today, when just before I stepped out of the house, it dawned on me that this was the first time in weeks that I’ve been outside to truly enjoy myself. Lately, I’ve only been leaving to A) take a jog/walk for getting-in-shape reasons, or B) to go somewhere else to do more work. It had been WEEKS since I stepped out the door to go and actually enjoy myself.

As many of you know, I’m more of a solitary person. I don’t have social anxiety, and I’m not really anti-social, I just like being alone a lot. But I’ve got to say, I’ve never been more thankful for having other people around me than I was today. Even though all I really did was sit around on another person’s couch, eat chips and dip, and smoke cigarettes while using a can of hairspray as a flame thrower (what can I say? I like playing with fire, and my friends enjoyed the show), it was such a relief to just sit around, doing something other than working or anticipating going back to work.

Maybe I should take a day or two and get the most work that I can out of the way, so I can continue to give myself a day or two of rest and relaxation when it‘s needed. I have a tendency to get into the mind set of “pace yourself, you have all the time in world” (another disguised technique for half-assing it). Yes, I do have all the time in the world, but if I spend every single day sitting in front of work that I’ve “paced” myself with, it’s going to turn mind-numbing and repetitive very quickly-a recipe for disaster. I’m not wired for the repetitive. It sends me into this weird depression and my brain turns to mush and runs out of my nose.

Ah, summer is long overdue. I miss the days where I could leave the house without a care in the world, meet up with someone who didn’t have a care in the world, and go do something without a care in the world. I miss days where I’d open the door to 15 different people on my porch, each one carrying an instrument. I also miss days where I could grab a book and go read high up in a tree or sitting on a bridge without having a string of worries playing a loop in the back of my brain.

Maybe being a bum for the rest of my life isn’t such a bad idea. The only worry I’ll have is food for the day and a bed to sleep in, and in thanks to my family situation, I have to worry about that most of the time anyway.

…Nah, I can’t be a bum. It’d be too disappointing to see myself living a life without achievements. So, I guess the second best option is to keep praying for a better season.

Femininity Discovered and Magazines

2007-03-07T07:19:00.000-08:00

I've never thought of myself as a very feminine person, despite my gender. When objecively analyzed, I'm really very masculine (aside from wearing a little make-up, of course). I'm practically all hormones, the crowd I hang around is composed mostly of guys, I'm terribly sloppy, I haven't been seen in a dress since 2001 (doesn't mean I don't wear them, I just don't let anyone else see me in them), I jump around excitedly and scream whenever I'm listening to my shred-babies-to-pieces music- the list goes on and on.

But just today, I've realized just how secretly feminine I am, and I was extremely surprised. I'll never let anyone close to me know this, but I love romantic novels, movies, and television shows (yep, I'm the chick who hugs her pillows at night with a smile), I'm extremely insecure about many things in my life, including my weight, my writing, my features, etc. When I paint my nails and put on make-up, I feel much better about myself and tend to get all giddy, and whenever I see something cute, I'm cooing on the inside. These may seem like small things, but for me they're pretty big. I've never stopped to take a look and just how girly I can be.

I wonder how many more surprising things I'll discover about myself in my lifetime. Everyone else says I'm full of surprises, but they're mostly referring to my behavior. I'm chronically reckless, and while most of the things I do make sense to me at the time, it tends to leave other people baffled. What others would consider odd is more or less normal for me. This means that whenever I surprise myself, I'm left pretty much speechless- no matter how small the matter is. I've done some downright outrageous stuff in the little time I've spent on this green earth, and yet I still end up hiding things from myself.

Simply amazing....

***

Now, for something a little off topic, I've strayed away from my novel (it was beginning to resemble my own life, and that's a downright scary thing) for a little while, and I've been umping out short stories like crazy. I'm very proud of one of them and have decided to submit it to a magazine. I've been combing through different magazines (small press and large presS) to weigh my options, and I've come to realize, once again, how much of an amateur I am. I get compliments all the time on how "ahead of the crowd" I am, and how "I'm making a future for myself" and all that happy crap, but the truth is that I'm a little 17 year old playing ball on a big, big ball field full of lots of scary possibilities. I'm used to being able to excel in almost everything I do (that, or find a loophole in the system and manage to get ahead that way. I can't count the number of times I've borderline-cheated. In the end, I got there using my own brain, but I usually get to my goal much faster than I should), so now that I'm becoming more ambitious and trying to work harder on the things I'm passionate about- and finding it hard to accomplish- I'm getting a little intimidated. Yes, I write, and yes, if I try as hard as I can, I'll be able to make something of my writing, but I'm at the stage where I'm beginning to think that crawling under a rock and forgetting it all would be the most comfortable thing to do.

Ah, I guess everyone goes through this stage at some point in their lives. Still, the idea is mighty tempting. I suppose I'll just have to trudge on, suck it up, and start submitting, right?

The Busy Bee

2007-03-01T10:10:00.000-08:00

The first day that you're busy, you absolutely hate it. The second day you're busy, you enjoy it just a little. After the second day, it just goes back downhill.

Ever wake up with the feeling that you're sicker than you've ever been before, but you know it's only from mental, and physical, exhaustion? I've been waking up like that for the past week.

I wake up at 8:00, do 4 hours of schoolwork (homeschool), then 3 hours of college, then an hour and a half of hour work, spend about an hour making dinner, then I eat dinner (usually the first real meal of the day for me), then I do the homework from college (usually about another hour) then try to get in about an hour or two of writing, then I have to go review some other stories that people have asked me to go over (about another 2 hours) or help my sister with her homeowork if she needs it. Now it's almost 11 at night, and I try to go to sleep. this never works, since I can't sleep. So I end up staying away until about 4-5 AM, staring at the ceiling, until I finally pass out. Then, I have to wake up at 8 the next morning. Repeat, repeat, repeat, re-friggin-peat.

I can't do it anymore. But, since I'm the only one home most of the time, I have no choice. I'm surprised I'm not dead yet.

What happened to the glamorous days of being able to sit by a tree with a book and doing absolutely nothing? God, does that sound good right now. Hopefully my schedule will free up by summer, because if it doesn't, I'm going to be wreck....

I have about 2 hours of free time today, and after I post this I'm going to try to take a nap. Wish me luck.

What touches the heart of a geek...

2007-02-21T12:04:00.000-08:00

Books have always been the one thing that truly touches my heart. Brings can bring a smile to my face so big that it hurts, and they can make me cry harder than anything life you ever throw at me.

Today was no different.

I found an old gift card a few days ago (Barnes & Noble for $30), so I promoptly ran to the computer to rip Amazon apart for something to strike my fancy. I found the shojo manga series (told you I was a geek. I love manga) that I've been following for quite some time, and didn't hesitate to put two of the volumes I hadn't read yet into the shopping cart.

I got the package 2 hours ago, and have already finished both books. For the first time in nearly three years, I cried my heart out. It was the last two volumes, 20 and 21, and damn were they good. I hate romantic television shows and movies, but when it comes to books and comics (and sometimes video games *blush*), nothing warms my heart more. Thank God I'm home alone, because these two volumes would have made me cry regardless of who was watching (and I'd never be able to live through the next 30 years of teasing!).

It's so sad, seeing the fictional characters whose stories I've been following for years come to an end. I love almost everything in a series to death, but I always get so sad when they end. Puppies, chocolate, and a babies laughter (or whatever the analogy is) don't touch me as deeply as a really good series that comes to an end.

Now with Kare Kano (the manga) finished, I began thinking about Harry Potter. If the final book is the slightest bit tragic, I'll be in a funk for days. I'll stay in bed all day, staring at the wall, crying, "Harry Potter...noooooooo!!!!!" Heeheehee. No, not that exaggerated, but I'll still be upset. But then, if it isn't tragic, I'll be in an even greater funk. Damn you J.K. Rowling and Masami Tsuda, for twisting me the way you do!

Perhaps only more religious readers get this feeling...? I've met a lot of people who read a book, said, "That was good," and moved on, completely contented but not really touched in the slightest. I've met very, very few people who are as moved as I am with stories. Books have an greater impact on me than anything else in this world, yet I have very few people to relate to with this matter.

Lots of people see me as, "Lazy, groin-punch, laughing-at-inappropriate-moments Andrea". This part of me is very true and very prominent. I'l lazier than anyone I know, I love brawling with friends (yet I hate fighting for the sake of drama. Strange, no?), and my sense of humor can be very tasteless at times (still funny though, I think). And yet almost no one knows about the secret romantic inside who dances so willingly with the stories thrown her way that they affect almost every aspect of her life.

Even though I bitch a little bit about so little people liking books the same way I do, in all honesty, I like having my own little secret. It makes books that much more special, sacred, to me. Whenever someone sees me reading a book, with the furrowed brow, the wide eyes, and the well-bitten lip, that's all they can see. When I see someone else reading a book like that, a shiver goes down my spine because I know that they, like me, are taking a glorious dip into a different world- one that's absolutely spendid, mind-blowingly terrific, and alwayds ready to take you through all the twists and turns of life and fantasy you'll ever desire. It's truly a gift, appreciating books. The more respect you give them, the more you'll be swept off your feet- and no one will ever has to know.

...Comics rule.

WHY am I just sitting here?

2007-02-19T00:19:00.000-08:00

There's a MILLION things I could, and should, be doing. Yet here I am, with my butt glued to the chair, doing pretty damn near nothing.

Even in this chair, there's lot I could be doing. I could be reviewing and critiquing a few of the many stories I need to be looking over. I could be writing, I could be checking schoolwork, eating a much needed meal, picking the dirt out from under my finger nails- and it would all be WAY more productive that what I'm doing now. I'm sitting here smoking a cigarette, and before I started typing this, I was staring at the screen for about an hour with the music blaring and the cat swiping at my hair. FOR AN HOUR. Does anyone have any idea how stupid that it?

I don't know how I can be so lazy. I need to do laundry, dishes, making dinner, clean up my room, get some schoolwork done- but, of course, my chronic procrastination decides to set in and let me sit here for an hour, chewing on my tongue and thinking about absolutely nothing.

Does anyone else do this? No? Yeah, didn't think so.

...I could really use a hair cut. Or shave. Either one would work. It's getting too long for my liking. In order for my hair to look less-than-Einstein, it either has to be really long (close to my butt) or really short (damn near bald). Anything in between that and it just poofs up until I take an hour and a half to straighten it (which I usually don't). It could use a good dying dying too, but I can't do that until at least Wednesday, despite the many hair dyes I have right now (they're calling me to use them. They're brand spanking new, and they have to just sit there until then :( Damn it all...). Perhaps I should get my mohawk back? Oh yeah, that sounds good. With Brody Armstrong pixies....

Well, it doesn't look like the dishes will be done anytime soon. I know I won't be doing them for another 20 minutes. I still have stuff to sit about....

EDIT-

Well, I've been awake since yesterday morning, and it's 10:20-ish right now. Let's hope I pass out sometime soon, because I don't think my body can take many more of these sleepless nights. Sure, not sleeping is great when you have stuff to do, but bad when you either A) need sleep, B) won't do the stuff you're supposed to be doing, or C) both A and B.

*Yawn*

The First Explosion

2007-02-18T01:04:00.000-08:00

Hi, for those unforunate enough to stop by my blog. :D

I guess the most polite thing to do would be to introduce myself (like I was ever one to be polite, but still). I'm Andrea, but I often go by the name of Tsuki when dealing with writing and whatnot. I turned 17 on December 14 of 2006. I homeschool and attend college, I'm a writer, I smoke too much, my hair sticks straight up no matter what, and I'm a terrible procrastinator. No matter how much I work out, my weight seems pretty constant (bummer) I love bracelets and Pepper Bites, I hold a strange fondness for fire and explosions, and most animals love me as much as I love them (except for the ones that want to bite my face off).

Well, I think that's good enough for now. Onto the first blog, er, explosion.

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Today, someone refered to me as, "That crazy, freaky chick who digs her nails into everything and listens to Japanese death metal," to which I replied, "Dir en grey is not death metal." I don't know why, but this rings memorable to me and probably will for quite some time.

The fact that this is something that I will remember for a long time, probably forever, got me thinking and analyzing (again). It was once said that the small things are what make life great- the smell of laundry, the burning sensation of your fingertip against the flame of a candle, the white noise of a running faucet, the feel of dog fur, the buzz of electricity- what if it really is the super small stuff that makes life so wonderful? A word, a breath, a feeling- something that surpasses the things that stimulate just the senses present?

I know for a fact that what Someone said will stay with me forever. It holds no real signifigance, and has no reason to stay with me until my death bed. Yet it probably will. Why is this? This is an absolute phenomenon to me! Truly, it is!

Perhaps these small things ring so clear throughout time because in some way they define character? Is it the small things like this that shape us, move us, form us? Someone could experience and survive the largest tragedy of all time and in a few years be, for the most part, fine (give or take a nervous breakdowns or two and some tears). Yet the kid who got picked on for a mere 5 minutes a few times a week will pound a silver round into his head by age 12.

The person who spent most of their lives being beaten, abused, and torn to shreds, then later becomes a prostitute with a will of steel and faith like no other is still considered a bad, "filthy," person. The guy who makes millions by sitting on his ass in a gold encrested recliner and throws a relatively chumpy chunk of change to some well promoted charity is the man who "earned every penny and a seat in God's house". Yet, the prostitute with the disease ridden body (and past) and the heart of gold would give her life to help another, and the pompous bastard probably wouldn't even open his door to a Girl Scout.

While I know many who wouldn't see the relevence to this, I see it very clearly. I see that last paragraph building around the small things in life. The prostitute's past contained small things, unpleasant things, which led to a bad future and still gave her more compassion than most can even imagine. The rich man's past contained small, every day spoilings and an inheritance, the latter giving him a well-known name, a swollen pocket and- according to the idiot masses- the "purest soul ever".

Now that I think on it, the small things really do make up WAY more than one can imagine. It makes up the past, the present, the future. It makes up the every day and the any day, the always and the never, the highs and the lows, the black, the white, and the grey. While the big picture does exist, it's only a frame. The picture is made up of small pixels that seem unimportant. In all truth, one or two of these pixels at a time really don't matter at all. Take them away, the picture is still whole. But if you keep taking away one meaningless pixel after another, the picture fades and fragments, leaving only a frame with nothing to tell. How can something as weak as a pixel have such an effect on the big picture? I just can't understand it!

While I can offer hundreds of different takes on the subject, I'm going to give myself a migraine trying to comprehend it. I understand it in big, large scale examples, and tiny, itsy-bitsy scale examples, but I still can't grasp the whole thing.

"She's that crazy, freaky chick who digs her nails into everything and listens to Japanese death metal." "Dir en grey is not death metal." This small exchange of words will stay with me for quite some time, will never need a reason to stay with me, and will give me plenty of opportunities to think about it's personal meaning and the larger enlightenment it may have to offer.

Hopefully my gluttonous mind will have mulled it over enough to give me some sort of answer by the time I reach my death bed, eh? And hopefully, by then, I'll still be listening to Dir en grey because, frankly, they rock my socks harder than an earthquake.