Right, so I’ve started this grand hullabaloo after telling myself, for years, I was above such peasant rants–seeing as I could just post them myself and then delete them later after realizing that it’s a bunch of teenaged hormonal chatter. However, here I am, blaming it on Kelsea–who I’ll end up calling Snarf, ’cause I like that nickname. She’s got a blog of her own and I really admire her, so I’ve got one too.
…I’ll probably lose interest or forget about this. I always do.
Hm. You know. I really don’t know how to blog. Do I just rant about how I feel and then expect strangers to read it? Gosh. That’s why I go to therapy! Mmm, so I just went to google, god bless that devil’s work, and typed in ‘how to blog’ like a reject. I’m actually pretty insucure like that, I have this compulsive need to do everything right–because what if I’m doing it wrong? And god, now I’m worried if I spelled “insucure” wrong! I’m a writer, see, but my spelling is one of a caveman’s–and speaking out loud is worse. I slur my words like a drunk fool, stammering and stuttering and my sentences crash into one another like a horrific car accident. I also have a bad knack of making up words and re-inventing them as I speak out loud. Feh. But I’m small (still 4′11!) and childish looking. A 17 year old that can pass, no lie, as 10. So I get away with a hell of a lot. It’s “cute” that I talk like an uneducated moron. I also lost interest at looking up how to blog. Thank Science for making up ADHD and convincing me that I have it!
I had some of Venny’s Energy drink, you know? So why aren’t I hyper…? It’s monster and that stuff turns me into ruddy Jack Sparrow! Hurm! Must be ’cause I’ve gotten myself sick again. It’s a simple cold, really. However, I’m pretty proud. That’s two in one month–and I haven’t gotten sick in four-three years. I’m really happy, I hope I get a fever. I’d like to stay home. Though, perhaps that sentence is misleading to most who know that teenagers usually “hate” school. I just want my mom to fuss over me. And turn this “cold” into a fatal illness in my head so I can lie on the couch, hacking and coughing, narrating dramatically of how it was my “last moments”. Oh god. Such ideas!
I rather enjoy school. The people, the drama, the chaos and the hormonal break outs and crazed rumors. Oh god, it’s art! I’m short, as I mentioned carelessly before–my doctor won’t believe I’m 4′11.
Her: Stand up straighter.
Me: I am.
Her: ….Oh. Well… -Measures again.- Straight, dear.
Me: …Okay.
Her: -Measures again, frowning.- Well… we’ll just say you’re 5 foot, okay?
Yaaay.
Where was I? Oh. Yeah. Wonderful school. I’m short, it’s an EFFORT to look up at the many faces of my fellow peers, who all assume I’m a highly depressed “emo” child, ’cause my hair is naturally black and I’m usually too lazy to cut my bangs. I’m also very fair skinned. I don’t really mind that they call me that, it’s interesting they take time out of their lives to notice me–I’m secretly flattered!–and put me into a group when I haven’t really noticed them at all. If you aren’t my friend, chances are, I won’t see you in the hallway at all.
My friends are always nodding in other people’s direction. “You see that?”, “That person gave me a dirty look!”, “She’s staring at you.”, “Hah! He just got pants”.
Yeah. I don’t notice any of that. I don’t see anyone. Maybe if you have glasses my head will do a 380 and I’ll watch you–I’m often attracted to people who are… odd looking. Glasses, mostly–what people call “nerdy”. I have no idea how I spot them. It’s like Spiderman’s “senses”, I guess. Oh, yeah, I should mention.. I’m a Justice League fan–and, yeah, I know. Spiderman=Not DC. Eff that. I don’t like Spiderman anyway.
This brings us to Jesse. He’s a jock at my school, and since 8th grade, I’m now in 11th, he’s felt the need to find me and mock me. Oh please. Don’t give me that “he must like you” runoff that I’ve been hearing for years. Nah-uh. Not happening. See, when I’m “bullied”, I don’t do much about. I’m not upset, I don’t glare, I just shrug and go home happy that someone I don’t know yells things at me. Yay, fun! Righty, so, 8th grade, RANDOMLY, this big tall kid just walks past my locker and screams “GOTHIC” at me. Shoot, I was stunned, I gawked at him, blinking rapidly.
And for the next month, everyday, at the same time, he’d say it over and over again at me. I’d just blink at him. So I started saying back, “I’M JEWISH!” I’m just a Submarine Jew, I only surface for the holidays. Which I’ve quoted from Kristen. I miss her. Anyway. When I hit Highschool, I found that he was in at least one of my classes, every year, with a group of three or four of his football buddies. And that’s when he’d talk to me, when they were around, and he’d get them to “be my friend”, but only for that period. Or he’d point to one of his buddies and try and convince me, for the entire year, that his friend was in love with me. Trust me when I say this, Jesse does this because I think he feels bad about himself and just takes out his frustration on someone who won’t do anything, who accepts the “bullying”. It’s a power thing. He has “control” over me, right? I’m his “look I can make fun of that girl”.
God, I lost my train of thought. Why? Well, in between reading cheesey fanfictions and being on myspace–oh, it’s not what you think, I roleplay! I somehow forgot what I was even talking about. That’s fine. Jesse is pretty boring anyway. I think I should mention that I call him Velveeta. Yeah. Like the cheese. Haha.
I have to say, another large thing that anyone taking a peek at this, should know. I have no idea, at all, how to judge anyone anymore. I remember being in 6th grade, all “gothic” calling people “preps” and “Sluts” or “whores”, as my friends and I sat in the corner of the gym, giggling at anime characters and how we had “sex” all the time, when we didn’t even kiss.
“We used to be obsessive brats. Now we’re obsessive brats with more opinions.”
-Kaggy
I just can’t look at anyone anymore and see anything wrong with what they do. I don’t know them, right? So why should I even really care? They dress nice, that’s fine, they deserve to be pretty. Preps? I can’t tell anymore. Emo, Prep, Gangster. Everyone is just a blurr of color and images, nearly faceless. I suppose I’ve become so involved with myself, I’ve stopped noticing others. If someone wants to sell themselves, or join a gang, or throw up their food–that’s their choice. It doesn’t apply to me or my world. It really, REALLY, bothers me when we’re standing on the snack line at lunch and my friend Sango turns to me and says, “Oh my god, she’s so fat, why is she wearing that?”
…What? And I look. The girl, who my table dubbed as “The Fat One”, is a freshman who is extremely over weight, but she makes herself rather pretty with her clothes, even if it does make her look fat. She’s got really pretty hair and a nice face–she’d be drop dead beautiful if she was skinnier. When I look at her, I can’t help but respect her. You go girl, just because you’re big doesn’t mean you can’t be beautiful! So I’m really stunned. How do you look at someone and think negatively about them?
See, this is what happened near the beginning of the year. Snarf was complaining, something she’s lovely at doing, almost better then me sometimes!, about the unholy math homework. I thank my last math teacher for shoving me into Business Math, which deals with no Algebra. The table of freshmen in front of us are usually rather loud, always screaming across the lunch room to friends. Captain Snarf was flailing her arms crying out in a loud distressed tone,
“Math! Math! Anyone know Math?”
One of the girls screams back, “Shut up you’re bleedin’ annoying!” Only she didn’t use the term ‘bleeding’, if you catch my I-DON’T-WANNA-SAY-EFF drift. Capt. Snarf just flailed. This, of course, led to worse things–somehow we’re in… Table war with them?
A day later Sango turns to me and whispers, giggling, “The fat one looks like she has herpes!” Because she had acne, horribly acne, all over her chin and mouth. Capt. Snarf hears this and points to the table in front of us, saying rather loudly,
“Her?” Point. “That one? SHE HAS HERPES? THAT FAT ONE?”
I couldn’t help but sniggering into my sleeve with Sango as Capt. Snarf stared at us innocently. To say the least, the girl noticed what had been shouted, and turned to give us one hell of a pretty glare. I can’t help it, she has such pretty eyes! And when she glares, they get this glass-like tint to them. I wonder if she knows she’s beautiful? Anyway. She yelled back,
“You ruddy floozy, you have AIDS!” Only it wasn’t worded as nicely, but I like my version better.
My school system as a very odd way of putting their days. It use to be “A or B” days, because there were so many kids and so many classes. For an example, you might have a double period of labs on a A day, or have gym on a B day and a study hall on the A day. Now we have “A, B, C, D, E & F” days because–well, they just keep adding extra classes you can take. I’m telling, you my reader, this, because certain people at my table don’t always have lunch with us.
It was most likely an A day. Cody and his partner in crime, Fran, were at the table that day, and so were the usuals–Alex, who the tabled re-dubbed as Freshman and mocked him for being a 9th grader, Courtney, Capt. Snarf, Me and Sango. I’m not really sure how the conversation fell toward the table in front of us–And I can’t even claim to be even upset by this. Which brings me to what Capt. Snarf told me Thursday.
We picked the girl out of the group–well, Cody did.
Cody: Someone should do something to her.
Capt. Snarf: Who? The fat one?
Cody: -Laughs- Yeah. Her.
Sango: Like what?
Cody: -Holds up his water bottle.- Like pour this on her.
Capt. Snarf: Hah!
Cody: I would pay you, do it, Kelsea.
Me: …How much?
Cody: Dude! Yes. 50 bucks.
Me: 50 bucks?
Cody: Fine you twit [I assure you, he did not use twit], 150.
Me: I’d do it for a 150.
Sango: Such a Jew…
Me: What? I want a 360! But I want the money in my hand.
Cody: Fine, I’ll start saving. Do it at the end of the year, like the last day. Just pour it all over her.
Me: I’ll pretend it’s an accident, and trip.
Capt. Snarf: And you look so small and innocent, they’d believe you!
Courtney: Yeah, let’s keep shouting loudly about it, I’m sure they hear us.
Cody: I want every last drop of the water on her, or you aren’t getting the money.
Sango: -Throwing M&M’s at her.-
Cody: -Throws his empty water bottle behind him, hitting her.- Oops!
Yeah, I know, it’s awful. Plotting to pour water on her. I couldn’t help but say I’d do it–only because I loved the idea of the joke, it was hilarious. I had, while telling them I would, no intention of doing any such thing.
“Everyone is plotting everyone elses downfall.”
-Capt. Snarf
I said I wasn’t. I said there wasn’t a single person I wished bad on, I told her I’d never, ever, want to do anyone harm. Because I don’t. She shook her head to me and said, “You plot your characters downfall.” I gawked and rejected that notion.
I said it didn’t count, she said it did. She said I plotted them, it was worse. And I realized… smacked across the face by a brief smack of reality, that I do, indeed, have times when I plan terrible tradgies for my characters.
Ah. Another thing whoever you are should know, that I think I might have briefly mentioned. I’m a writer. A rather obsessive one at that, and I’m dead terrified of the day I lose function of my fingers or eyeisight. Everything I do, or say, or think about–half of it is me living and the other half goes through a sort of filter of ‘Can I use this for a story? How would this help my characters? If I do this, would it work?’ I steal conversations, quotes, and actions sometimes of other people. My entire world is based around my stories, around my characters. I wake up thinking about it and go to bed dreaming about it. There is NEVER a moment in my life where I’m thinking for just myself. Even now, as I type, I’m figuring away to work it into something else. My reality, like yours, is warpped to fit my lifestyle.
I’ve got a simple truth: Life is tragic, tradgy is beautiful, beauty is art, art is fleeting, and fleeting is freedom.
I’m non-stop about my characters. I’m also studying Quantum Phsyics and the many theories in them, mostly MWI, the many-worlds interpreation to prove Elizabeth’s existance. Elizabeth is extremely important in my life, I’m downright obsessed with her. She’s my favorite character and I’m completely convinced of her existance–perhaps on another plain of reality, but she’s as real as I am. I did not create her, I stumbled across her. She found me.
“Elizabeth isn’t as real as Voldemort, Rin. Voldemort is known by more then half the world, his existance is larger then unknown Elizabeth. He has more of a chance of being on a different plain of reality.”
-Venny
“They’re both on the same plain of existance!”
-Me
Elizabeth, you should know, is hardly like me. And she’s so ruddy dimwitted it’s beautiful! Snappy and rude, floating about without a care of who she insults. God… I love that twit! She’s got this pudge that I just love to poke at. She loves it too, and talks with it sometime–and her hair is worse then a rats nest. She hardly sleeps so she has dark rings under her eyes and her clothes are baggy. She’s a walking abomination!
So I’m trying to pair her off with bloody Vincent. I hate him, only because he can’t stand Elizabeth. Strange, right? And he’s a rather pretty boy stuck in a hate-lust thing with my darling Elizabeth. I love their interaction most of all. But I can’t get them together. I’ve been trying for two ruddy years, and still, nothing! He’d say something sweet and she’d insult him for it. Tsk.
Vincent: …You know, I couldn’t stop thinking about you yesterday.
THIS IS SUPPOSE TO BE AN AW MOMENT!
Elizabeth: That makes you a faggot!
Ahh, the failure!
Mmm.
Faggot=Bundle of sticks.
Speaking of ‘faggots’, I’m bisexual! I was bisexual when everyone thought it was gross! Now it’s a fad? Huh. Yeah. Amazing. Just like being “emo”. It’s cool to see no point in life! Oh golly.
Here’s another important thing about me: I was raised by Lesbians–sorry, ‘Gays’. My mother, my birth, mother announced at dinner a few nights ago that she doesn’t like being called a lesbian. I was half asleep and rather cranky, tricked into waking up. She said it was pasta. It was Eggplant!
Mother: I’m not a lesbian! -Raises a fork in the air.- I’m GAY.
She SHOUTED it at me. She and Laura, her life partner, met when they were 14, in the bronx. Laura’s family, a large insane group of Italians, moved a lot, all over the city, so Laura was always going to a new school, and she met my mother by asking what bus she was supposed to take.
Everyone knew they were gay before they did. Laura’s father once said, “Birds of a feather, flock together!” To which Laura angrily retorted, “I’m not that way!”
They’re 56 now.
My mother realized she wasn’t so straight after she had me. Well, whoops. My dad lives in Alaska now. He’s a drunk. :’D I was 3. My mother has the sanity of the Joker and Laura could beat anyone up, she’s one hell of a tough cookie.
Everyday is an adventure for me, and right now I think I’m going to try and figure out how to sit like L, then write a story till 2 AM. That’ll give me four hours of sleep and then off to school I go. (Maybe I’ll get sick. <3)
