hypocrisy and you: dealing with those little inconsistencies

    Sometimes I really don't know how I should think or act. One moment I will be up in arms over the right to dress how you like and be the person you want to be, and the next I'll be relentlessly picking on the girl who dyed her hair pink and wears all black outfits. What is wrong with me? I honestly do not care how people dress, and if you want to have pink hair, knock yourself out. But then why do I seem to change my mind every other second?
    I think it started with my friends. One of the girls I'm friends with is almost popular, but due to some social awkwardness and an unusual dress sense (we get along so well), she was booted from the likes of the cool kids forever. She is quite loaded (which she never fails to mention when money comes up) and a bit rude and I'm not really sure how much I like her but the overwhelming human NEED to have someone to talk to is too overbearing to ignore. She is my best friend, and I am hers, and I want to have somebody. Anyways, back on topic. Best Friend is very rich but dresses like a minstrel woman, and she still picks on others. She makes fun of people who are too fat, too short, dressed in a way she wouldn't normally (didn't know traveling merchant was 'in' this year, BF) or is just different, and it pisses me off. Honestly, sometimes I just want to shake people and scream at them and ask them why they can't just leave people alone. That's my dream, to be left alone.
    Another problem is the family. I was raised in a super Conservative family, but I tend to swing left on most issues, although I admit there are idiots on both sides of everything. One moment I'll be a bleeding heart liberal weeping for trees or baby pirates in Somalia and the next I'll be all for an all-out nuke fest in any given location. I try to look at my choices and understand why I make them, but sometimes the only reason I have is Just Because. The beauty of Just Because is almighty and all powerful. It can be used for the all-encompassing Just Because I Am Right and I Always Will Be, or for the sacred and near holy Just Because Some Things Are Right and Others Are Wrong. Just Because pisses me off. I want reasons, I want answers.
    Circling the drain now, I want to talk about inner me. Inner me acts tough, but that's just the crunchy nutty coating to the gooey caramel me on the inside. Real me is relatively happy, depending on when you talk to me. Real me enjoys weepy romantic films and secretly hates itself for that. Real me hates it when my monologue starts sounding like a weepy romantic film. Real me also loves people who are different, but not people who are different for the sake of being different. But Outer me hates different people. When I see some motherfucker walking down the street who is completely different and happy besides, I hate him.

Because I am jealous I am not him.

    I've recently come upon an amusing thought. Blogging is like writing a biography when no one cares about your life. And as far as I've seen it's true. Sure there are some blogs that do have regular readers, but those are less personal and more devoted to a singular theme.
    Whatever. I've also been downloading tons of free ebooks all morning, but I think that it has been decided that my favorite book of all time is Phantom of the Opera. Speaking of books, do you know what utterly disgusts me? Twilight and all of its dipshit fans. Never before have I been so offended by a collection of words. The story is fine I suppose, considering it was aimed at little girls with no pubic hair. The thing which truly annoys me is that it's a fucking template of a book. Annoying Bitch Main Character is left so plain that any annoying little bitch can imagine herself in her place. It was not made to accomplish a goal in the author's life or for the respectable enjoyment of just writing, it was made for money, and lots of it. I think it would be funny if Stephanie Meyer just up and died.
    Recently purchased a guitar on Amazon. I got it for only 80 bucks so I'm not expecting fantastic sound, and it's only a beginner's guitar so it's not a huge deal, but I do want to be good at it. I've thrown away all of my other dreams (model, horse trainer, fashion designer, and the completely inexplicable kickboxer) and now I'll I've got left is rockstar. I think I'm scared that if I'm bad or I don't enjoy playing it, reality will kick me in the face and I'll have to come up with a realistic career. Realism has never been my strong suit, and it honestly scares the shit out of me. So, what will I do, become some mild-mannered CEO of a tampon company, buy a nice home in the suburbs and pop out a few kids, then while away my twilight years in death camp in Florida?No, thank you.
    Speaking of marriage and popping out a few kids, I simply cannot see myself ever getting married or having kids. I honestly hate people. There have been a select number of human beings in my life who I have been able and willing to talk to, but none of them have ever interested me long term, or enough to squirt the equivalent of a watermelon out of my vagina. Kids are irritating, whiny, and nine times out of ten they grow up to be uneducated, shitty people. I'm a living example. I completely respect other's rights to have them, but don't you fucking dare ask me to babysit, because Timmy is probably going to get thrown out of the window and hit the ground like a Hefty bag full of vegetable soup before the night is up.
    Christ, it's fucking cold. It's only 5 days into September and the weather has already cooled down too much for comfort. Seasons are shitty. Not only are seasons shitty, the changing of seasons is shitty too. You finally start to enjoy the heat of summer and then WHAM, it's 60 degrees out, motherfucker!
    I don't understand how people can believe in a god, or gods, if you swing that way. How can you look at the stars, and into the millions of miles of black, empty, and beautiful space surrounding Earth, and say, "This is for me." I hope aliens come just to fuck with the Christians.
    The more I write, the less I want to kill people. Is that good thing?

mile 81 review

    I've just finished reading "Mile 81", the new ebook by Stephen King, and while I do love almost all of his other work, this short story is very unwieldy and not fantastic in anyway.
    I like to think of Stephen King as the Short Story King, because after reading "Just After Sunset" I was extremely impressed with his skill. I also enjoy his phenomenal ability to take the stupidest ideas and make a scary story out of them. (Remember Christine? I rest my case.) This ebook fails to impress me or strike fear into my heart.
    *spoilers ahead* This short story starts out with some kid I've already forgotten the name of, and I put the Kindle down not 5 minutes ago. Blame my short attention span if you like, but I can still remember all of my favorite characters from Under the Dome (Barbie and Ollie) and it's been at least a year since I've last read it. For my nonexistent reader's sake, I will call the forgettable child Alvin. Alvin, after being left by his older brother, decides to go mess around in an abandoned rest area on the highway. He finds a bottle of vodka and gets pleasantly buzzed before playing darts with Justin Bieber's face. This right here is what annoys me about this short story. Either Stephen King is trying too hard to get my generation to read his work by throwing in a bunch of cheap gimmicks (Hey, kids don't like J-Beebs, right? Let's put the dickhead in a novel.), which annoys the piss out of me, or he is writing a gruesome parody of today's pop culture (Hey, kids don't like J-Beebs, right? Let's put the dickhead in a novel.), which also annoys the piss out of me. I hate my generation. They're a bunch of idiots who think raccoon eye makeup and fake wolf tails are cool. That's all that is needed to sum up the group of dumbasses I was unfortunate enough to be born around. And the pop culture references are not limited to Justin Bieber! Oh boy, we also get the pleasure of a rambling trip to nowhere paragraph about some kid remembering a Doctor Who episode he once saw! Fantastic.
    Carrying on. After a few games of Dart-Face, Alvin decides to take a nap on some jizz-stained mattresses.  A short time afterward, while Alvin is in a vodka-induced coma, a station wagon driven by no one (THE HORROR! WILL MR. KING EVER TOP THIS FRIGHTENING MASTERPIECE?!) pulls into the parking lot outside, knocking over some orange cones and generally not doing shit else. It's got mud smeared over windows on the inside, blocking your view into it, which is spooky, I guess. A bit later, while Alvin is still sleeping and lying in blessed ignorance of the story he is in, some religious fucknut drives by. Seeing the muddy station wagon, he incorrectly assumes there was a car accident, so being a nice guy, pulls over. When he grabs the door handle to pull it open, it sucks him in and eats him. I'm not kidding. It's like Christine written by a retarded kid. Leaving naught but his cellphone, wedding band, and a few drops of blood, Mr. Good Samaritan has the good fortune to die before anything more stupid can happen.
    Not long after, while Alvin is still asleep, a fat lesbian horse owner pulls up and meets the same fate. The writing in this part is repetitive, and King uses foreshadowing that's about as subtle as a microphone and a bullhorn fucking in a dressing room. I'm not sure if he expects me to feel anything for the characters or if I'm supposed to be the silent observer, but at this point I was rooting for the demon car to eat everyone for the fun of it.
    After that, a couple and their two kids pull up after recognizing the horse trailer that the fat lesbian owned and went to check the car out. The man gets pulled in first, and the woman follows right after because she's a stupid bitch. The kids are left whining in the back seat of their father's car. Here's another thing that annoys me: at this point, the only characters we are seeing are a six year old and another child of a younger age. King does write dialogue for each, and it's really awkward and strange-sounding, and more than a little grating. The clarity of their speech jumps from Stephen Fry to Stephen Hawking in a matter of moments, and I hate kids so I might be a bit biased on this part, but fuck it I'm going to finish this if it kills me. The kids call 911 and Jimmy Fuckstick, State Trooper, pulls up to save the day. He also meets his demise at the hands of the snacking automobile. Finally Alvin wakes his sorry ass up and goes outside. Using a magnifying glass that he bought somewhere for some reason, he burns the car. Really. The car, being extremely angered by this, flies into space. You think I'm fucking joking? Read it.
    I don't know if anything more interesting happened after this, but I probably would've remembered if it had because this short story is so fucking boring. In sum, it sounds like something I would write, which is probably the worst thing I could have said about it.

school, schmool

    First day of life as a sophomore, and it's not too awful. I didn't get many classes with friends, but that's okay. They're supposed to teach me how to socialize and "become a better, more wholesome" person, but fuck that. I'm perfectly fine living my life as a lonely, deranged weirdo with a knack for violent fantasies.
    Speaking of violent fantasies, no matter how much I try to come off as socially normal and in no way insane on the first day, I always manage to fuck it up. Sure, I'm probably skewing things in my mind to beat myself up, but I swear to god, the other kids must think I'm a mass murderer. Or a taxidermist. Both are creepy.
    Everything went fine for the first few classes. I had a few awkward moments, but nothing too horrible. A little stutter now and then, but I kept it under control for the most part. The thing is, the longer the day went on, the worse and more lonely I felt. I would be absolutely peachy-keen for school if it weren't for the group work. Unless I know at least two people in a class, I'm usually stuck alone. And it makes me feel horrible about myself. Whatever, back to the violent fantasies part.
   The last period of the day, Geometry, I accidentally walked into the wrong class and ended up roughly a minute late for my actual class. I knocked and I got let it, but Mrs. T----- gave me a weird look, like I had just disemboweled her dog and strung it up on her front porch by its intestines. Some nice kid showed me where my seat was and I took it, and then we got on to one of the many annoying name games you have to do on the first day, although I couldn't give two shits about any of the people in my class or what their names are. This time, we had to say our names and one thing we did over the summer. I was second-to-last, and I watched in boredom as we went around the room talking about things I didn't care about. When we got to me, I said these exact words: "My name is S-----, and over the summer I went to K-----."
    You could hear a pin drop. I don't know if I've violated some sort of ancient social code that forbids girls with an 's' name from speaking of towns starting with K's, but it went dead silent. Mrs. T----- looked at me and said, "Okay." I really wish I could type the disdain that dripped from her voice, but the limits of modern technology prevent me from doing so. And here's the fun part! For the next five minutes, instead of working out her bullshit logic puzzles, which aren't logic, but more of an acceptable retard test to use in school (Is your hand bigger than your face?), I imagined jabbing a meat fork into her fat ass that was covered in a skirt that could have sheltered an entire African tribe, if it weren't a shade of pink so violent that it made you want to be sick.
    And if someone ever does read this, I'm mostly kidding. I don't have the arm strength to stab a person with a meat fork. Besides, this is just a place for me to vent. It calms me down after a hard day. Oh well, only the rest of the school year to deal with. Happy trails for now, reader(s?).

a goal to keep me busy for the time being

If you must know one thing about me, it's this: I am weird. Not creepy weird, or enjoyable weird, just weird. I'm socially awkward, the magic of makeup is still unknown to me, and I stutter left and right whenever I try to speak. But technology has graced me with an escape into a world where I can hold a conversation without stammering and blushing red with every other word. School is starting, at least for the 10th through 12th grade kids, on Friday, and it's Monday already. Because school is the closest thing to hell on earth I will probably ever experience, I thought I might start this blog as a coping mechanism so I wouldn't string myself up like a marionette before the glory of Junior year befalls my sorry eyes. (I'm kidding about hanging myself, by the way, or at least half-kidding.) Which brings me to the 'goal' part of this long-winded post.

Over this year I want to update this blog, and to use it as a coping mechanism, as I mentioned before. In part, I also want to use it to look back on my past self and see how I've grown and changed. (Provided I do grow and change, and I don't remain a mental 14 year old for the rest of my life. Fingers crossed!) I figure if I have a place to anonymously rant and rave about all of the people I despise, crush on, and befriend, I can make it through one more year. And then another. And then at least one more, just for good measure. After high school, who knows, I might keep the blog. But it's more likely that I will tire of the blog before the year is up and this one sad little post will wither away and be forgotten. Oh well, happy thoughts!

Here's hoping that the depression doesn't get to me before my diploma does.