Since it's almost the end of the year (yay), i though i'd talk about my favorite part of any story. the ending!
A story can be mediocre, but if it has a great ending, there is a very good possibility that it can redeem itself. at least, in my mind. there are several types of endings that come to mind. note that they are not all necessarily good.
Happy ending - Typically how romance stories end. Nobody dies, nobody gets hurt (well, maybe except the bitchy ex-girlfriend, but she's so one-dimensional that nobody cares about her anyway). Your typical kiss-in-the-sunset fade-to-black. Initially, this type of ending might give you the warm fuzzies, but once the high wears off, you'll discover your skeptical cynical side. The Japanese drama Hana Yori Dango ended both seasons with a shadowy kiss. It should come as no surprise that they're planning to make a third (a movie), after the two leads have just gotten engaged by the end of the second season. What's next, Makino and Domiyouji deal with marital woes? Who does the taxes? Obviously, their lovely kiss didn't resolve anything. Just room for more money. At least I get to see the lovely Rui again. If I even plan to watch it.
Tragic ending - My favorite! But of course, it has to be pulled off with a good balance of plausibility and drama. Take Romeo and Juliet for example: it's the classic tragedy in literature.
Me: pffft!
Sure, it's a tragedy. It's the tragic story of two idiotic children who fall in love and wreck havoc in Verona. The whole tragedy could have been avoided. It doesn't help that I absolutely abhor Romeo, who moaned about his unreciprocated love for Rosaline and then proclaimed his undying love to Juliet that very night. Rather than getting all teary-eyed over his death, I was pounding my fists, thinking, "YES! GOODBYE!" I felt more sorry for Juliet than anyone - it wasn't her fault she was heaven-matched with a melodramatic Romeo. In today's world, he would totally be one of those emo boys saying "If life is so fair, why do roses have thorns?"
I think the trick is, if it manages to trigger catharsis, then it's probably a good ending.
Cliffhanger ending - The most famous of this category would be the Sopranos final, which I have not watched (unfortunately or fortunately). These bug the hell out of everyone, but they really are effective endings when done correctly. These are more common outside of American stories - Americans have been hand-fed "happily ever after" since they were children. Sometimes, I prefer these endings instead of having everything wrapped up. You really start thinking about the story even after you finish the movie or the book.
Plot-twist ending - So the story's moving along idyllically like the It's a Small World ride at DIsneyland. You can pretty much spot the ending in the distance, where the ride finally ends. Then BAM! The exit slams shut and some crazy vortex sucks your happy little boat off to another direction.
These really pack a punch, but again, if the twist tries too hard, the entire thing falls flat. If I'm watching a movie on the life story of an incredibly unlucky homeless man, and all of a sudden, the multi-millionaire reveals he's the homeless man's long lost half brother and they all live happily ever after, I am not going to be impressed. And I might be a sucker for a tragic ending, but if a romantic comedy suddenly ends with the two leads being run over by a garbage truck... well, you see what I mean.
Now I will talk about a particular series' ending.
PARADISE KISS by Ai Yazawa
Ai Yazawa is the mangaka for Nana, so naturally, I decided to pick up Paradise Kiss. Nana hasn't ended yet, so I can't really make a judgement on the series yet, but Paradise Kiss was an easy five volume series.
Initially, I was not particularly fond of the series for a few reasons. One, the male lead, George, pissed me off royally. He was arrogant and didn't seem to care about the female lead, Yukari, at all. Heartless would be an appropriate word. Two, Yukari, on the other hand, also seemed rather bitchy and self-absorbed. When she ran away from home, I nearly put down the book because I couldn't stand her childishness. Miwako's immaturity and Arashi's jealousy didn't appeal to me either. The only character I was really rooting for was Hiro, who looked like he was doomed to suffer unreciprocated loves for the rest of his life.
But, of course, the ending completely redeemed the series for me.
Based on Yukari and George's personalities, it was plainly obvious that those two would not work out together at all. They were both too stubborn - they clashed rather than complimented each other. I've read stories on fictionpress featuring these type of pairs - unfortunately, those writers make the mistake of forcing the two together. it completely undermines the story's credibility.
What I liked so much about Paradise Kiss's ending was its realistic quality. George and Yukari parted ways on bittersweet terms. Both knew their lives were at crossroads, but it was still a sad parting. The scene where Yukari finds the clothes George made for her was sorrowful but beautifully done.
The story ends with Yukari engaged to Hiro, who I always thought was a better match for Yukari. She talks about how their honeymoon will be in New York, and they received two tickets to a Broadway musical in which the costumes were designed by George. The last line is probably one of my favorite lines of all time:
"Apparently it's a comedy... but I'll probably cry."
December 30, 2007
December 25, 2007
December 12, 2007
Onion Mythology
By Zeus King Of The Gods
April 14, 1999 Issue 35•14
You know, back in the old days, I really had a way with the ladies. Back then, if I wanted to pick up a woman, all I had to do was approach her in my aspect as a bull or swan, and she'd be all mine, helpless to resist. The move was pure gold. It never failed—even on goddesses.
But these modern women, that's a whole other story. For some reason, they just don't go for it at all.
Take this past weekend. I was at a bar, and I saw this sexy little number sitting all alone at a table in the corner. Hoping to get lucky, I put my best moves on her, coming to her in the guise of a grand bull with eyes of fire. But when she gazed upon me in all my turgid majesty, instead of eagerly mounting me for a ride back to my place on Mt. Olympus, she just screamed and ran away in terror. What gives?
A few days earlier, I was strolling along the river when I saw a comely blonde maiden in a nice tight miniskirt sitting all alone on a bench. Remembering how well it had worked with Leda, from which union did fair and fabled Helen spring, I appeared to her as a great white swan imbued with a golden nimbus and bearing an oversized, inviting phallus. But unlike Leda, the blonde didn't get all hot for me. Instead, she just sort of sat there for a few seconds, looking completely weirded out, and then walked away.
It never used to be like this. I can still remember the time I came upon Europa as a bull as she bathed in flowering fields by the sea. When she looked up from laving her lithe, ivory limbs and beheld a strong white bull garlanded with hyacinths and violet, she was ready to go. Without any hesitation, she jumped up on me, put her feet upon my shoulders and rode me hot and hard all the way to the Isle of Crete. Literally. I ran right across the waves the whole way. Nereids on dolphins cheered us on, and Tritons blew their horns. And the sex was incredible. That Europa was mortal, but she sure knew her Eros from her Agape.
Recently, I tried the same move on another woman, but my efforts met with far different results. Her name was Jennifer Of Winnetka, and I spied her bathing as dawn broke and heralded the time when true dreams most often visit mortals. It was a little awkward, because she wasn't bathing in the usual sea or mountain rivulet, and I had to sort of use my bulls' horns to nudge her shower curtain out of my way. She looked up from washing her hair and, like so many of these women today, shrieked in sheer terror. When I tried to speak to her in seductive tones, she squirted a whole bottle of Aveda shampoo in my eyes. Needless to say, I begot no demigods with Jennifer Of Winnetka on that day.
I don't get it. Have I lost my touch? I'm Zeus, but I can't score for the life of me. And we're not even talking goddesses here. These are plain old mortal chicks I'm striking out with.
Sure, I realize you can't win over every woman instantly. I mean, when I first tried to pick up Hera, mother to gods and men alike, she wouldn't give me the time of day. But then I came to her as a cuckoo and, well, let's just say she warmed up real quick.
I also realize that not every woman goes for the same creature. Take, for example, Antiope. Bulls do nothing for her. But come to her as an man-goatish satyr, and she's a complete nympho. Then there was Aegina. The only thing that got her motor running was when I assumed the countenance of an all-consuming pillar of fire. Weird.
With these modern women, though, no manifestation seems to work. Even my awe-inspiring shower of gold, the aspect in which I fathered Perseus by the fair Danaë, is a total bust. There are some contemporary women who claim to enjoy golden showers, but they are not fit consorts for Zeus.
Apparently, if I want to shake the old golden bough, I'll have to use the trick I played on Alcmena, mother to that ungrateful little bastard Heracles, and come upon my chosen woman as her husband's double. It still works sometimes. But I do wish today's women were a bit more open-minded about bulls and swans and the like. After thousands of years on the dating scene, I've become rather set in my ways.
December 5, 2007
One Mushpot of Gossip
Recipe for Gossip Mushpot
1. Bring one pot of water to a boil.
2. Add the peeled and diced assortment of rumors - violence, sex, drugs, alcohol, etc. - to your own preference
3. Allow stew to simmer for hours until you are nauseated by the revelation that these stories are actually true.
.....
The Yinnster kindly commented today that the majority of my posts are utterly depressing. She has also noted that I do not appear the least bit "emo" in person.
I suppose I do have a fascination with "morbidity." I like reading Poe's works (although I can't say "The Fall of the House of Usher" was extraordinarly outstanding; I still prefer "A Tell-tale Heart"). But the Yinnster did have a good point - this entire whatchamacallit is dripping with the figurative blood "emo" poets want to write their poetry with. I like to poke fun at those cheery artists, but that just proves how hypocritical I can be.
So just for the Yinnster, I will attempt to dehabiller my black asthma-induced Darth Vader costume. (on second thought, Vader was not particularly depressing. villians, with their cacophonous evil laughter, always seem to be having more fun than the good guys.)
.......
naturally, as journalists, the kids in journalism enjoy gossip.
okay, the "kids" i am referring to consist of only three specific individuals, including moi, but i'm sure the others are just as inclined to poke their noses around. there is nothing as captivating as the scent of a juicy piece of leverag- i mean, a juicy story. scent of a woman? psh. scent of a clandestine secret that could wipe said woman's public dignity off the face of the earth? bring it!
i will not name specific people or divulge what i have learned today. i will say, however, that the three of us pretty much pooled all our kills into one big mush pot of rumors. in general, our culmulative newfound knowledge could be divided into Light and Dark, thus proving Forrest Gump's theory that life is like a box of chocolates. Light included the good-natured, harmless pieces. Dark, on the otherhand, would have made a blackmailer giddy with pleasure. the dark stories described the vices of various other students - if each one wore their sins on their chests, we would have the whole alphabet in scarlet letters.
the three of us each added our own ingredients to the nauseating stew, and we took new stories from out of the pot as well. some, i discovered, were more shocking than the others. the one about people i'd already suspected came as no surprise. then there were the ones that had the effect of the electric fly-swatter my piano teacher would flail around wildly whenever a buzzing fly sounded. as in shocking.
i've been stewing over (haha) my newfound knowledge for a while now, and i still cannot understand why these people decided to commit themselves to such ridiculous decisions. Common Sense has all but packed its bags and booked the nearest flight to Tahiti.
WHY?
as far as i can tell, all of it is motivated by the desire to be "cool", so they can brag about their excursions to anyone who cares to listen. can you imagine starting a conversation with the guy next to you on the plane with that sort of story? now THAT's an icebreaker.
i don't know why, and now, i don't really care why they decided to do those things. it is beyond me why anyone would want to be addicted to anything or to fool around with someone and leave their heart on a silver platter. c'est la vie, i suppose. but c'est ta vie fucked-up, not mine.
1. Bring one pot of water to a boil.
2. Add the peeled and diced assortment of rumors - violence, sex, drugs, alcohol, etc. - to your own preference
3. Allow stew to simmer for hours until you are nauseated by the revelation that these stories are actually true.
.....
The Yinnster kindly commented today that the majority of my posts are utterly depressing. She has also noted that I do not appear the least bit "emo" in person.
I suppose I do have a fascination with "morbidity." I like reading Poe's works (although I can't say "The Fall of the House of Usher" was extraordinarly outstanding; I still prefer "A Tell-tale Heart"). But the Yinnster did have a good point - this entire whatchamacallit is dripping with the figurative blood "emo" poets want to write their poetry with. I like to poke fun at those cheery artists, but that just proves how hypocritical I can be.
So just for the Yinnster, I will attempt to dehabiller my black asthma-induced Darth Vader costume. (on second thought, Vader was not particularly depressing. villians, with their cacophonous evil laughter, always seem to be having more fun than the good guys.)
.......
naturally, as journalists, the kids in journalism enjoy gossip.
okay, the "kids" i am referring to consist of only three specific individuals, including moi, but i'm sure the others are just as inclined to poke their noses around. there is nothing as captivating as the scent of a juicy piece of leverag- i mean, a juicy story. scent of a woman? psh. scent of a clandestine secret that could wipe said woman's public dignity off the face of the earth? bring it!
i will not name specific people or divulge what i have learned today. i will say, however, that the three of us pretty much pooled all our kills into one big mush pot of rumors. in general, our culmulative newfound knowledge could be divided into Light and Dark, thus proving Forrest Gump's theory that life is like a box of chocolates. Light included the good-natured, harmless pieces. Dark, on the otherhand, would have made a blackmailer giddy with pleasure. the dark stories described the vices of various other students - if each one wore their sins on their chests, we would have the whole alphabet in scarlet letters.
the three of us each added our own ingredients to the nauseating stew, and we took new stories from out of the pot as well. some, i discovered, were more shocking than the others. the one about people i'd already suspected came as no surprise. then there were the ones that had the effect of the electric fly-swatter my piano teacher would flail around wildly whenever a buzzing fly sounded. as in shocking.
i've been stewing over (haha) my newfound knowledge for a while now, and i still cannot understand why these people decided to commit themselves to such ridiculous decisions. Common Sense has all but packed its bags and booked the nearest flight to Tahiti.
WHY?
as far as i can tell, all of it is motivated by the desire to be "cool", so they can brag about their excursions to anyone who cares to listen. can you imagine starting a conversation with the guy next to you on the plane with that sort of story? now THAT's an icebreaker.
i don't know why, and now, i don't really care why they decided to do those things. it is beyond me why anyone would want to be addicted to anything or to fool around with someone and leave their heart on a silver platter. c'est la vie, i suppose. but c'est ta vie fucked-up, not mine.
November 10, 2007
Alexisabelle
When we were young...
Alexis, the shadow of Isabelle. Alexis, the one nobody noticed - average height, average looks, average personality (with the occasional spark that caused more trouble than admiration). Isabelle was tall and beautiful, cheerful and friendly, turning heads down the street like an electric fantasy. Why Isabelle chose to be her friend, nobody, not even Alexis, could understand.
Alexis was stubborn, obstinate, a non-conformist. She noticed how easily Isabelle could be swayed by others, a preening jade python entranced by the wave of the flute. Isabelle's inferior will power annoyed her to no end, but what could she do? Because polar differences aside, Alexis really did love Isabelle.
When you were still beside me...
The letters kept them together. In script they adopted new identities. They wrote of decaying butterflies, chains of daisies, throbbing flesh of the heart. It was this secret link - the exchange of darkly poetic letters - that kept them united.
Even then, the fear in Alexis remained. And eventually the fear manifested in flesh.
Alexis, the shadow of Isabelle. Alexis, the one nobody noticed - average height, average looks, average personality (with the occasional spark that caused more trouble than admiration). Isabelle was tall and beautiful, cheerful and friendly, turning heads down the street like an electric fantasy. Why Isabelle chose to be her friend, nobody, not even Alexis, could understand.
Alexis was stubborn, obstinate, a non-conformist. She noticed how easily Isabelle could be swayed by others, a preening jade python entranced by the wave of the flute. Isabelle's inferior will power annoyed her to no end, but what could she do? Because polar differences aside, Alexis really did love Isabelle.
When you were still beside me...
The letters kept them together. In script they adopted new identities. They wrote of decaying butterflies, chains of daisies, throbbing flesh of the heart. It was this secret link - the exchange of darkly poetic letters - that kept them united.
Even then, the fear in Alexis remained. And eventually the fear manifested in flesh.
Right then, our minds cradled the same thoughts...
Alexis doesn't know Isabelle anymore. Her name is Isabelle but she is not Isabelle. Isabelle died in a memory, a photograph, a love letter.
Alexis can't remember where things went astray. Perhaps it was when the Nymph came and guided Isabelle towards the underground. Or perhaps it was when the letters stopped coming. Or maybe it was all just a gradual change, creeping up from behind so slowly that nobody noticed until it lurked right in front of their faces.
The Isabelle Alexis knows today is a patch-doll of rumors and gossip, sewn from scraps picked up through the grapevine. Each new patch sewn into the doll is just another jab of the needle into Alexis' heart. But she cannot stop herself from listening for news about Isabelle.
And right then, I was alive...
"She's been hanging out with the Nymph. It's no good. What happened to the Nymph anyway? She was so brilliant back then; and now she's smoking pot every day after school."
"She's been drinking. Especially at parties. She thinks he doesn't notice, but her father knows she's stealing his liquor."
"She only goes to school if she feels like it. Her mother is so busy that she's never noticed."
"They've definitely been smoking at the park. She was telling me how she threw up the first time she tried it."
"She went to that party last night. She was so drunk, and she started flirting aggressively with this guy from that other school. It was almost embarassing to watch her."
It was so easy being with you then...
Alexis knows. The alcohol and the drugs come first. She knows what comes next. But even then, in the back of the mind, there was the hope that underneath it all, the memory hibernated beneath. And when the final scrap was sewn and sealed the memory inside the new shapeless doll, that final hope crumpled to ashes.
"She was so drunk at that guy's last party, she couldn't even walk. She had to sleep in his bed for the night until the next morning.
And haven't you heard? She's already slept with two guys. I'm not even sure what happened, but the police got involved. And her mother found out and she was taken to a rape clinic."
It was so easy.
November 1, 2007
Into the Stars
yay! it's the guitar OLIVIA played in the PV for Into the Stars. too bad i don't own over 56000 yen. =[
October 25, 2007
Killjoy
i can't believe my worst score was math. MATH! of all subjects! if i'd gotten an 800 like i'd gotten with all my practice tests, i would have gotten a 2320. then i wouldn't be retaking the stupid test again.
ugh. math needs to die.
ugh. math needs to die.
September 27, 2007
Lettuce Garden
You're a lolipop that I suck on
You melt in my mouth
I just swallow you down
They can't see me
Because you're in my face
Only I can see you
Tell me you know what you're doing Sir
At least tell me you were thinking Sir
I know you weren't thinking of yourself Sir
Right Sir?
Silent war, Silent war, Silent war
I'd rather die than to lick your blood
I'm not living in, no I'm not living in
Silent war, Silent war, Silent war
Silently moving with Silent weapons
I'm not living in, no I'm not living in
I'm not living in your
Lettuce garden
I'm a lollipop that you suck on
I melt in your mouth
You just swallow me down
You can't see me
Because I'm in your veins
You can feel me
I know what I'm doing Sir
I know what I'm thinking Sir
So don't tell me how to live my life Sir
Right Sir?
Silent war, silent war, silent war
Love never fades away here
We've got an army of angels
Silent war, Silent war, Silent war
Silently bleeding, Silently dreaming
I'm not living in, no I'm not living in
I'm not living in your
Lettuce garden
Silently, Silently, Silently
------------------
olivia - lettuce garden
You melt in my mouth
I just swallow you down
They can't see me
Because you're in my face
Only I can see you
Tell me you know what you're doing Sir
At least tell me you were thinking Sir
I know you weren't thinking of yourself Sir
Right Sir?
Silent war, Silent war, Silent war
I'd rather die than to lick your blood
I'm not living in, no I'm not living in
Silent war, Silent war, Silent war
Silently moving with Silent weapons
I'm not living in, no I'm not living in
I'm not living in your
Lettuce garden
I'm a lollipop that you suck on
I melt in your mouth
You just swallow me down
You can't see me
Because I'm in your veins
You can feel me
I know what I'm doing Sir
I know what I'm thinking Sir
So don't tell me how to live my life Sir
Right Sir?
Silent war, silent war, silent war
Love never fades away here
We've got an army of angels
Silent war, Silent war, Silent war
Silently bleeding, Silently dreaming
I'm not living in, no I'm not living in
I'm not living in your
Lettuce garden
Silently, Silently, Silently
------------------
olivia - lettuce garden
September 20, 2007
Appassionato
So the sirens ring
in appoggiaturas that t-u-m-b-l-e
scarlet parabolas and diamond tangents
barely grazing the point of skin
So the storm clouds cry
crystallized tears that t-u-m-b-l-e
hanging by threads of lightening
barely illuminating your face in the dark
come
don't make me beg for more
come
and lie and die beside me.
---------------------------------------
they say imitation is a form of flattery, but i don't like it. i'm glad she likes my Juliet, but i don't want her trying to imitate Juliet's tone. Juliet's cheeky tone comes to me naturally; trying too hard to be witty comes across as desperate.
it's ironic enough that she wants to be the tragic Shakespearean heroine, Ophelia. So-ophelia. she wants to make ophelia witty. i laugh internally, because i've always thought that Ophelia would be dark and romantic-gothic. in other words, how i usually write. then again, Juliet was never sharp-tongued enough to get rid of that blockhead Romeo. so i guess i did take some creative liberties.
i am not a fan of the dual-advice-columnist concept, but i have little say in the matter. i think the concept only makes sense if the two columnists are a male and a female. however, i shall have to tag along with this without complaint.
well, without public complaint, that is.
in appoggiaturas that t-u-m-b-l-e
scarlet parabolas and diamond tangents
barely grazing the point of skin
So the storm clouds cry
crystallized tears that t-u-m-b-l-e
hanging by threads of lightening
barely illuminating your face in the dark
come
don't make me beg for more
come
and lie and die beside me.
---------------------------------------
they say imitation is a form of flattery, but i don't like it. i'm glad she likes my Juliet, but i don't want her trying to imitate Juliet's tone. Juliet's cheeky tone comes to me naturally; trying too hard to be witty comes across as desperate.
it's ironic enough that she wants to be the tragic Shakespearean heroine, Ophelia. So-ophelia. she wants to make ophelia witty. i laugh internally, because i've always thought that Ophelia would be dark and romantic-gothic. in other words, how i usually write. then again, Juliet was never sharp-tongued enough to get rid of that blockhead Romeo. so i guess i did take some creative liberties.
i am not a fan of the dual-advice-columnist concept, but i have little say in the matter. i think the concept only makes sense if the two columnists are a male and a female. however, i shall have to tag along with this without complaint.
well, without public complaint, that is.
September 6, 2007
Return of Juliet
I have always wanted to be a columnist for the school paper, but I have a feeling that my random entries featured on blogs such as blogspot or xanga will not be well-received. My writing tone tends to fluctuate between arbitrary eccentricity and morbid sophistication - and frankly, some people are creeped out by my entries. (of course, i just argue that an artist is never understood in his/her own time)
Thus, I have decided to apply for the advice column as an anonymous writer known as "Juliet." Hopefully, if I win the job, my identity will remain a secret - if people know who is reading about their problems, they are less likely to be honest and MUCH less likely to write at all. Therefore, if one of my fellow classmates is reading this, I strongly suggest you keep this to yourself.
.............................
Column: Dear Juliet
One of the most famous names in literature, Juliet remains to this day as an icon of tragic romance. Over the course of four days, Juliet Capulet falls in love, marries illicitly, mourns the death of a close cousin, is nearly disowned by her parents, is betrayed by her long-time nurse, becomes suicidal, drugs herself to appear dead for two days, becomes a widow, and commits suicide beside the body of her dead husband.
If there was anyone more qualified to write an advice column, it would have been Juliet.
DEAR JULIET:
I am having problems with a guy, “Paris,” who sits a few seats diagonally away from me in one of my classes. Although he has never spoken a single word to me, several times I have glanced away from the teacher to find Paris turned around in his seat, staring intently at my face. I have tried glaring back, hoping to get the message across, but I still look up from my desk only to meet his unblinking gaze. Frankly, Paris is starting to creep me out. What should I do to get him to stop?
- CREEPED-OUT KATE
DEAR KATE:
Unfortunately, men like Paris never seem to get the hint unless you a) fake your death or b) repeatedly ram the idea into his head that you have no interest in him whatsoever. Unfortunately, pretending to be dead is not only very uncomfortable (a mausoleum with dead bodies is no Bath & Bodyworks), but also extremely exasperating when the make-up work for school begins to pile up.
Thus, I have decided to apply for the advice column as an anonymous writer known as "Juliet." Hopefully, if I win the job, my identity will remain a secret - if people know who is reading about their problems, they are less likely to be honest and MUCH less likely to write at all. Therefore, if one of my fellow classmates is reading this, I strongly suggest you keep this to yourself.
.............................
Column: Dear Juliet
One of the most famous names in literature, Juliet remains to this day as an icon of tragic romance. Over the course of four days, Juliet Capulet falls in love, marries illicitly, mourns the death of a close cousin, is nearly disowned by her parents, is betrayed by her long-time nurse, becomes suicidal, drugs herself to appear dead for two days, becomes a widow, and commits suicide beside the body of her dead husband.
If there was anyone more qualified to write an advice column, it would have been Juliet.
DEAR JULIET:
I am having problems with a guy, “Paris,” who sits a few seats diagonally away from me in one of my classes. Although he has never spoken a single word to me, several times I have glanced away from the teacher to find Paris turned around in his seat, staring intently at my face. I have tried glaring back, hoping to get the message across, but I still look up from my desk only to meet his unblinking gaze. Frankly, Paris is starting to creep me out. What should I do to get him to stop?
- CREEPED-OUT KATE
DEAR KATE:
Unfortunately, men like Paris never seem to get the hint unless you a) fake your death or b) repeatedly ram the idea into his head that you have no interest in him whatsoever. Unfortunately, pretending to be dead is not only very uncomfortable (a mausoleum with dead bodies is no Bath & Bodyworks), but also extremely exasperating when the make-up work for school begins to pile up.
That being said, if you have no interest in Paris, you must make it clear, before he begins to interpret your every slightest movement as a gesture of affection. Sometime after class, approach Paris amiably, as you would with any other classmate. Firmly but tactfully, tell him that you cannot concentrate on Mrs. Montague’s lecture, and could he please focus his attention on the teacher instead? Otherwise, ask your teacher to move your seat, preferably several desks directly behind him where he cannot look at you without a 180 degree turn and x-ray vision to look through the skulls of the students seated directly in front of you.
Hopefully, Paris will comply with your request, perhaps saving his daily admiration of your beautiful face for passing periods, when you will be less apt to notice any penetrating stares. If his fervent interest in your face escalates to borderline stalker-obsession, then that will be an entirely different matter.
- JULIET
- JULIET
August 26, 2007
Daniel Radcliffe = Christian Bale?
Meet this boy.
His parents died when he was young, and he has since dedicated himself to fighting evil.
He is rich, having inherited a fortune from his parents.
He is angsty, and prefers to take on everything himself if he can.
He has a teenage sidekick.
He is popular with the ladies, but has trouble maintaining relationships due to his responsibility to fight evil.
His greatest enemy is the one who killed his parents, and who even now dedicates himself to destroying our hero. He has a very loyal servant.
His public persona is often slandered by the press for supposedly irresponsible behavior.
Clearly, there is only one conclusion to be drawn here: Harry Potter is secretly Batman.
......................
Christian Bale > Daniel Radcliffe
His parents died when he was young, and he has since dedicated himself to fighting evil.
He is rich, having inherited a fortune from his parents.
He is angsty, and prefers to take on everything himself if he can.
He has a teenage sidekick.
He is popular with the ladies, but has trouble maintaining relationships due to his responsibility to fight evil.
His greatest enemy is the one who killed his parents, and who even now dedicates himself to destroying our hero. He has a very loyal servant.
His public persona is often slandered by the press for supposedly irresponsible behavior.
Clearly, there is only one conclusion to be drawn here: Harry Potter is secretly Batman.
......................
Christian Bale > Daniel Radcliffe
August 20, 2007
Eurasian, you're Asian
i have a love/hate relationship.
i like being Taiwanese. i value intelligence and pragmatism. i am not bothered when people call me a nerd, because it is true - both my parents have doctorate degrees. if i didn't value education, i'd be thrown out of the house. there is something sweet about being able to speak Asian languages in America, where people have a much harder guessing what is being said in Mandarin than in Spanish.
that being said, i would like to present a brief anecdote.
there always seems to be ongoing construction at my school - today, there were silver fences strung up all around the school parking lot. i was in a hurry and failed to notice one of the silver fence bars laying around the ground. i tripped, but did not fall. i managed to stablize myself, albeit awkwardly. as i continued walking, some Caucasian boys nearby snickered and laughed, "Asian Fool!" i wondered if i should face them and say something, but nothing came to mind. instead, i ignored them and continued off without bothering to look closely to identify their faces.
thinking back about it now, i wonder why i felt so ticked off. if they had simply yelled "Fool!", i suppose i would feel a little differently. but when they added "Asian" to the insult, i was indignant. what did my being Asian have anything to do with being careless and tripping?
sometimes, i wish i were not Taiwanese. it is a strange thing, but i have learned in my sixteen years that regardless of being born and raised in the melting pot that is America, most Asians still hang out with Asians. this is true for mostly all other ethnicities as well. by association, i am regarded as a workaholic, nerdy, studious bookworm who eats fried rice and plays piano. there is some truth, but much of it is simply a stereotype. there are many unkind people at school - the boy who writes "I'm Asian" as a joke on his backpack, the ones who gripe about our school becoming "Chinatown" when the actual population is about 40% Asian. There are the girls who specifically pick Asian victims out. whenever i've been called out for my cultural background, i've done the same thing i've always done - ignore and walk away quickly.
on the flip side, when the other Asians at my middle school suddenly decided on "Asian Pride" as their excuse for everything, i regarded them with the same disgust as the rest. they acted as if being Asian automatically guaranteed superiority. i found the whole thing entirely revolting and avoided being involved with them as much as possible. i've also noticed that "ABC"s seem to disassociate themselves from "FOB"s as well. Sure, Asian Pride. Just keep two seperate categories: one for American Born Chinese, the other for Fresh Off the Boat.
I probably sound selfish and ridiculous for feeling so, but since I was young, every so often I'd find myself wishing i was only half-Asian: still Asian, but appear just "American" enough to get by without the stereotyping.
i like being Taiwanese. i value intelligence and pragmatism. i am not bothered when people call me a nerd, because it is true - both my parents have doctorate degrees. if i didn't value education, i'd be thrown out of the house. there is something sweet about being able to speak Asian languages in America, where people have a much harder guessing what is being said in Mandarin than in Spanish.
that being said, i would like to present a brief anecdote.
there always seems to be ongoing construction at my school - today, there were silver fences strung up all around the school parking lot. i was in a hurry and failed to notice one of the silver fence bars laying around the ground. i tripped, but did not fall. i managed to stablize myself, albeit awkwardly. as i continued walking, some Caucasian boys nearby snickered and laughed, "Asian Fool!" i wondered if i should face them and say something, but nothing came to mind. instead, i ignored them and continued off without bothering to look closely to identify their faces.
thinking back about it now, i wonder why i felt so ticked off. if they had simply yelled "Fool!", i suppose i would feel a little differently. but when they added "Asian" to the insult, i was indignant. what did my being Asian have anything to do with being careless and tripping?
sometimes, i wish i were not Taiwanese. it is a strange thing, but i have learned in my sixteen years that regardless of being born and raised in the melting pot that is America, most Asians still hang out with Asians. this is true for mostly all other ethnicities as well. by association, i am regarded as a workaholic, nerdy, studious bookworm who eats fried rice and plays piano. there is some truth, but much of it is simply a stereotype. there are many unkind people at school - the boy who writes "I'm Asian" as a joke on his backpack, the ones who gripe about our school becoming "Chinatown" when the actual population is about 40% Asian. There are the girls who specifically pick Asian victims out. whenever i've been called out for my cultural background, i've done the same thing i've always done - ignore and walk away quickly.
on the flip side, when the other Asians at my middle school suddenly decided on "Asian Pride" as their excuse for everything, i regarded them with the same disgust as the rest. they acted as if being Asian automatically guaranteed superiority. i found the whole thing entirely revolting and avoided being involved with them as much as possible. i've also noticed that "ABC"s seem to disassociate themselves from "FOB"s as well. Sure, Asian Pride. Just keep two seperate categories: one for American Born Chinese, the other for Fresh Off the Boat.
I probably sound selfish and ridiculous for feeling so, but since I was young, every so often I'd find myself wishing i was only half-Asian: still Asian, but appear just "American" enough to get by without the stereotyping.
August 13, 2007
Tango
I can remember the feeling exactly three times.
Prince was the first. Taller, older, smarter, faster - the full package and the Ladies' Man. An idol engraved in a stone pedestal. It was only a matter of time before I discovered his Princess in his public declaration of love, asking her to the ball.
Sewage Blonde was the second. The prankster, the athlete, the untouchable. This one hurt less - I could only make out the dim shadow of two dancers that night of farewell. Seeya, written in loopy yearbook letters. Or not.
Orpheus came in a dream, with the lyrical melodies and harmonies entwined in his composure. The night on the cruise boat, replayed. The mysterious goddess caressed his figure, in a tango with his soft lulling words and poetic phrases.
Three times, I had braced myself. Three times, I felt the pain strike anyway. And in the distance, the music of the dance rolls on and on.
Prince was the first. Taller, older, smarter, faster - the full package and the Ladies' Man. An idol engraved in a stone pedestal. It was only a matter of time before I discovered his Princess in his public declaration of love, asking her to the ball.
Sewage Blonde was the second. The prankster, the athlete, the untouchable. This one hurt less - I could only make out the dim shadow of two dancers that night of farewell. Seeya, written in loopy yearbook letters. Or not.
Orpheus came in a dream, with the lyrical melodies and harmonies entwined in his composure. The night on the cruise boat, replayed. The mysterious goddess caressed his figure, in a tango with his soft lulling words and poetic phrases.
Three times, I had braced myself. Three times, I felt the pain strike anyway. And in the distance, the music of the dance rolls on and on.
August 4, 2007
Capriccioso
stand still.
don't move along. impressionist blurs in the window glass. monet and renoir cast spells on the eyes as debussy and ravel enrapture the ears. time lulls, yawns like a sun-soaked kitten curled to sleep by the window. eternal stillness, like the marbled silence of aphrodite and adonis. everything is suspended, hanging by a thread between beads of dew on a spider's jeweled necklace.
don't leave me behind.
don't move along. impressionist blurs in the window glass. monet and renoir cast spells on the eyes as debussy and ravel enrapture the ears. time lulls, yawns like a sun-soaked kitten curled to sleep by the window. eternal stillness, like the marbled silence of aphrodite and adonis. everything is suspended, hanging by a thread between beads of dew on a spider's jeweled necklace.
don't leave me behind.
July 28, 2007
Proof
Prove: Girls are evil
1. Girls need time and money
Girl = Time * Money
2. Time is money
Girl = Money * Money
3. Money is the root of all evil
Money = Evil ^ 1/2
4. Square both sides
Money ^ 2 = Evil
5. By transitive property
Girl = Evil
[urban dictionary definition of "girl"]
1. Girls need time and money
Girl = Time * Money
2. Time is money
Girl = Money * Money
3. Money is the root of all evil
Money = Evil ^ 1/2
4. Square both sides
Money ^ 2 = Evil
5. By transitive property
Girl = Evil
[urban dictionary definition of "girl"]
NOT MY DAUGHTER, YOU BITCH!!!
July 22, 2007
Heroin[e]
Sweet Sixteen, she came with her crystal syringes and glistening needles. A wasted woman, swathed in tattered black robes, neither young nor old, beautiful nor ugly. Just a pale marble face cloaked in midnight, like the unblinking countenance of a Greco-Roman statue.
sleeping beauty. what beautiful morphine eyes. she pricked me.
Locked in the tallest tower, I was delirious - drifting in and out of sleep, hallucinating of dragons and rose hedges. Spider webs woven across my eyes. A knight on a white horse, a chivalrous Prince Charming raising a gleaming blood-dripping sword into the air with the Dragon's carcass at his feet.
I wasn't hallucinating about the slaying of the dragon. I was hallucinating about the knight on a white horse who would come to rescue me from this castle of nightmares.
The Prince stood beside the bed, peering through the veiled screen. He pulled the veil aside and lowered his face to mine. He kissed me. And then crawled into the bed.
I lay there emotionless, wide mirror opium eyes, as he fumbled with the strings of the corset like a cat batting a ball of yarn. Because there is nothing you can do when you are trapped in the tallest tower and your savior is the one tracing the map of veins across your skin.
Sleeping Beauty. what beautiful morphine eyes.
I'd always wanted to be the heroin[e] of my story. Thanks for caring, dearest.
sleeping beauty. what beautiful morphine eyes. she pricked me.
Locked in the tallest tower, I was delirious - drifting in and out of sleep, hallucinating of dragons and rose hedges. Spider webs woven across my eyes. A knight on a white horse, a chivalrous Prince Charming raising a gleaming blood-dripping sword into the air with the Dragon's carcass at his feet.
I wasn't hallucinating about the slaying of the dragon. I was hallucinating about the knight on a white horse who would come to rescue me from this castle of nightmares.
The Prince stood beside the bed, peering through the veiled screen. He pulled the veil aside and lowered his face to mine. He kissed me. And then crawled into the bed.
I lay there emotionless, wide mirror opium eyes, as he fumbled with the strings of the corset like a cat batting a ball of yarn. Because there is nothing you can do when you are trapped in the tallest tower and your savior is the one tracing the map of veins across your skin.
Sleeping Beauty. what beautiful morphine eyes.
I'd always wanted to be the heroin[e] of my story. Thanks for caring, dearest.
July 14, 2007
June 10, 2007
Dear You
Nostalgia and I don't get along. He pours salt on a wound I'd much rather forget, and so I am sitting here thinking about You when I should be doing something productive. Funny isn't, how You and I never get anything productive done. There's always another day, another tomorrow, and then you turn around and see the hourglass, with each grain trickling down to join the ever-growing sand dune at the bottom.
So I had a brilliant idea. Instead of playing this game of Cat and Mouse, which we are such experts at, we can finally put some use to the nonsensical metaphors and obtuse obscurity. And write a book.
How to Scare the Shit Out of Everyone By Writing About Your Crazy Psychotic Dreams: For Dummies
How to Elongate a Simple 'That Bitch Broke My Heart' into Thirteen Lines: For Dummies
How to Use Every Possible Synonym for Red to Describe 'Blood': For Dummies
How to Profess Your Misery Into Obscure Poetry : For Dummies
How to Write to An Undefined 'You' For the Sake of Anonymity: For Dummies
and finally
How to Dissect Every Word and Line in Hopes of Finding a Hidden Meaning: For You.
So I had a brilliant idea. Instead of playing this game of Cat and Mouse, which we are such experts at, we can finally put some use to the nonsensical metaphors and obtuse obscurity. And write a book.
How to Scare the Shit Out of Everyone By Writing About Your Crazy Psychotic Dreams: For Dummies
How to Elongate a Simple 'That Bitch Broke My Heart' into Thirteen Lines: For Dummies
How to Use Every Possible Synonym for Red to Describe 'Blood': For Dummies
How to Profess Your Misery Into Obscure Poetry : For Dummies
How to Write to An Undefined 'You' For the Sake of Anonymity: For Dummies
and finally
How to Dissect Every Word and Line in Hopes of Finding a Hidden Meaning: For You.
June 3, 2007
Murderess: a waltz in 3/4 time
Intro (1/4)
Complete strangers fascinate me. There's something about watching their movements from the quad at lunch hour that keeps the schoolday from becoming dull.
There is a girl and a boy. I've noticed them around school from time to time. He is lean and very tall, with dark brown hair and almond eyes. She is small, yet I imagine that she has a fierce personality. There's a look on her face that says she'll be sweet when she wants to be.
At first, I thought they were a mismatched pair. He looks like a jock; with the nose piercing, she looks like a punk. I would see them on my way to English - she stands on the bench by the trees, arms around his shoulders. This is how they see eye-to-eye. Without the bench, she doesn't even reach his shoulders.
But if you watch for awhile, you can tell they genuinely love each other. They always look like they're joking with each other - none of the awkward tension I've seen too many times between couples that have no communication. Those girls and boys resort to physical affection to ease their discomfort.
Rhys is based on him, as Rory is based on her. I've had fun imagining how they first met.
But in this dream, it didn't matter.
Part I (2/4)
The journo room was packed today. Faces I had never seen before were laughing, crying, and whining everywhere. There were people screwing around the computers - others were just plain socializing.
I walked through the doorway into the room, brushing by Rhys who was in deep conversation with Roseanna. I suddenly remembered - I hadn't seen Rory and Rhys on their bench during the passing period today. They had simply walked off in seperate directions without a single glance.
"No, I don't want to," Roseanna said, though the expression on her face said otherwise.
He read the right lines right off of her face. "Come on, Roseanna," the corners of his mouth tilted upwards. "You know you want to. Just this once, alright?"
She draped her arms coyly around neck. The temptress. The nymph. Disgusted, I turned and walked to the row of computers on the otherside of the room.
Connie was talking to a group of our friends when I approached. "Guess what I found out? That 'hot' cellist actually saw you guys taking pictures of him."
Ariel, Jessica, and G exchanged glances before bursting out in laughter.
"Yeah," Connie continued. "And apparently he likes the one named Lily. The light-skinned one."
"What the fuck? Which one of us is Lily?"
"Haha probably Jessica. Guess what? Now you've got a Stalker #5!"
"Oh shut up!"
I ignored them and turned on the computer next to Jennifer. We were the only page editors working in the room. Connie sat down beside me when I noticed Roseanna and Rhys making out in the chair not too far from where we sat.
"Oh god, can they please get a room?" I muttered. I thought even the Nymph had some decency not to work it in a classroom.
Connie turned to look. "Oooh he's cute," she said. "I'd totally go out with him." (very out of character for C)
"Are you nuts?! If you start something with him, it'll be serious. Let's just say, it's obvious he's definitely not a virgin."
To my dismay, she rolled her eyes. "Whatever. I'm gonna go say hi."
As she stood up, I groaned and turned to Jennifer. "I can't believe she's actually going to do it."
Jennifer glanced over to the chair. "Don't look now. The Nymph is practically giving him a blow job."
I winced. "Someone just shoot me now..." Suddenly, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned and found myself staring straight into Rory's face.
She was not dressed in her usual clothes. She wore a blue track jacket, lime green tank top, black jeans, and leather ankle-high boots. The usual eyeshadow and eyeliner caked on her face was gone.
"He's here, isn't he?" It was more of a statement than a question. She looked cold, the way her eyes seemed to be frosted with ice. I couldn't see any emotion in those mirrors.
Quietly, I pointed over to the chair. He was multi-tasking, talking to Connie without even keeping his eyes off of the Nymph. Rory turned to look and said softly, "Of course. He'd go to Roseanna first." Suddenly, I noticed the gleam of a handle hidden in her jacket pocket. Whether it was a knife, a gun, a stapler, I felt a chill down my neck.
"Rory, please don't do anything stupid," I felt ridiculous, trying to lecture this girl who didn't even know me. I didn't even know why she had come to talk to me. But I tried pleading anyway, because I could see all the fault-lines running across her face. It was only a matter of time before she cracked. "He's in pain too. It's not just you. That's why he would resort to the Nymph. Rory-"
She pressed the handgun against my head. "Sorry, but it's too late now. Don't get in my way." She stood up, distanced herself carefully to get a clear shot at him. I watched in panicked silence. Connie was standing in Rory's path to Rhys.
"Wait a second!" I whispered fiercely. She whirled around and pointed the gun at me. "No no no, but you can't shoot Connie!"
She simply nodded and refocused her attention. I watched in dreaded silence as she walked closer to the chair, closer to Rhys. Jennifer was in complete harmony with her surroundings as I grew agitated.
"I can't just let her kill him!" Jennifer looked at me seriously. "There's not much you can do now," she said quietly. "She's reached the point of no return."
Time seemed to trickle during those last moments. I forced myself not to look, bracing myself for the gunshot, for the scream. Anything.
Part II (3/4)
They were only a few yards apart now. The Nymph's back was facing her. She didn't see what was coming.
Rhys finally saw her, as she stood there watching him emptily. His eyes opened wide. She read the hurt and the helplessness in his eyes. They were mirrors, him and her.
But she couldn't forgive her reflection.
The Nymph screamed as the blood sprayed from his forehead. Gray matter and crimson ribbons of blood flew across the air. The entire room scrambled, screaming in panic towards the door. Rory calmly tucked the handgun inside her jacket pocket and walked towards the door.
Only Jennifer and I remained sitting in there, in complete shock and remorse. '
An administrative official walked around confusedly and fearfully in the room, unsure of whether to run for her life or to tend to the bleeding body sprawled across the floors. "Who did this?" she asked numbly.
"I did." Rory turned around in the doorframe, waving, unafraid of any consequence to come.
Her eyes met mine. She blew a kiss and smiled. It was the first genuine smile I had seen on her face this entire day.
------------------------------------------------------
I can't remember the last time I had such a graphic violent dream. I wonder why those two got tangled into this story.
Complete strangers fascinate me. There's something about watching their movements from the quad at lunch hour that keeps the schoolday from becoming dull.
There is a girl and a boy. I've noticed them around school from time to time. He is lean and very tall, with dark brown hair and almond eyes. She is small, yet I imagine that she has a fierce personality. There's a look on her face that says she'll be sweet when she wants to be.
At first, I thought they were a mismatched pair. He looks like a jock; with the nose piercing, she looks like a punk. I would see them on my way to English - she stands on the bench by the trees, arms around his shoulders. This is how they see eye-to-eye. Without the bench, she doesn't even reach his shoulders.
But if you watch for awhile, you can tell they genuinely love each other. They always look like they're joking with each other - none of the awkward tension I've seen too many times between couples that have no communication. Those girls and boys resort to physical affection to ease their discomfort.
Rhys is based on him, as Rory is based on her. I've had fun imagining how they first met.
But in this dream, it didn't matter.
Part I (2/4)
The journo room was packed today. Faces I had never seen before were laughing, crying, and whining everywhere. There were people screwing around the computers - others were just plain socializing.
I walked through the doorway into the room, brushing by Rhys who was in deep conversation with Roseanna. I suddenly remembered - I hadn't seen Rory and Rhys on their bench during the passing period today. They had simply walked off in seperate directions without a single glance.
"No, I don't want to," Roseanna said, though the expression on her face said otherwise.
He read the right lines right off of her face. "Come on, Roseanna," the corners of his mouth tilted upwards. "You know you want to. Just this once, alright?"
She draped her arms coyly around neck. The temptress. The nymph. Disgusted, I turned and walked to the row of computers on the otherside of the room.
Connie was talking to a group of our friends when I approached. "Guess what I found out? That 'hot' cellist actually saw you guys taking pictures of him."
Ariel, Jessica, and G exchanged glances before bursting out in laughter.
"Yeah," Connie continued. "And apparently he likes the one named Lily. The light-skinned one."
"What the fuck? Which one of us is Lily?"
"Haha probably Jessica. Guess what? Now you've got a Stalker #5!"
"Oh shut up!"
I ignored them and turned on the computer next to Jennifer. We were the only page editors working in the room. Connie sat down beside me when I noticed Roseanna and Rhys making out in the chair not too far from where we sat.
"Oh god, can they please get a room?" I muttered. I thought even the Nymph had some decency not to work it in a classroom.
Connie turned to look. "Oooh he's cute," she said. "I'd totally go out with him." (very out of character for C)
"Are you nuts?! If you start something with him, it'll be serious. Let's just say, it's obvious he's definitely not a virgin."
To my dismay, she rolled her eyes. "Whatever. I'm gonna go say hi."
As she stood up, I groaned and turned to Jennifer. "I can't believe she's actually going to do it."
Jennifer glanced over to the chair. "Don't look now. The Nymph is practically giving him a blow job."
I winced. "Someone just shoot me now..." Suddenly, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned and found myself staring straight into Rory's face.
She was not dressed in her usual clothes. She wore a blue track jacket, lime green tank top, black jeans, and leather ankle-high boots. The usual eyeshadow and eyeliner caked on her face was gone.
"He's here, isn't he?" It was more of a statement than a question. She looked cold, the way her eyes seemed to be frosted with ice. I couldn't see any emotion in those mirrors.
Quietly, I pointed over to the chair. He was multi-tasking, talking to Connie without even keeping his eyes off of the Nymph. Rory turned to look and said softly, "Of course. He'd go to Roseanna first." Suddenly, I noticed the gleam of a handle hidden in her jacket pocket. Whether it was a knife, a gun, a stapler, I felt a chill down my neck.
"Rory, please don't do anything stupid," I felt ridiculous, trying to lecture this girl who didn't even know me. I didn't even know why she had come to talk to me. But I tried pleading anyway, because I could see all the fault-lines running across her face. It was only a matter of time before she cracked. "He's in pain too. It's not just you. That's why he would resort to the Nymph. Rory-"
She pressed the handgun against my head. "Sorry, but it's too late now. Don't get in my way." She stood up, distanced herself carefully to get a clear shot at him. I watched in panicked silence. Connie was standing in Rory's path to Rhys.
"Wait a second!" I whispered fiercely. She whirled around and pointed the gun at me. "No no no, but you can't shoot Connie!"
She simply nodded and refocused her attention. I watched in dreaded silence as she walked closer to the chair, closer to Rhys. Jennifer was in complete harmony with her surroundings as I grew agitated.
"I can't just let her kill him!" Jennifer looked at me seriously. "There's not much you can do now," she said quietly. "She's reached the point of no return."
Time seemed to trickle during those last moments. I forced myself not to look, bracing myself for the gunshot, for the scream. Anything.
Part II (3/4)
They were only a few yards apart now. The Nymph's back was facing her. She didn't see what was coming.
Rhys finally saw her, as she stood there watching him emptily. His eyes opened wide. She read the hurt and the helplessness in his eyes. They were mirrors, him and her.
But she couldn't forgive her reflection.
The Nymph screamed as the blood sprayed from his forehead. Gray matter and crimson ribbons of blood flew across the air. The entire room scrambled, screaming in panic towards the door. Rory calmly tucked the handgun inside her jacket pocket and walked towards the door.
Only Jennifer and I remained sitting in there, in complete shock and remorse. '
An administrative official walked around confusedly and fearfully in the room, unsure of whether to run for her life or to tend to the bleeding body sprawled across the floors. "Who did this?" she asked numbly.
"I did." Rory turned around in the doorframe, waving, unafraid of any consequence to come.
Her eyes met mine. She blew a kiss and smiled. It was the first genuine smile I had seen on her face this entire day.
------------------------------------------------------
I can't remember the last time I had such a graphic violent dream. I wonder why those two got tangled into this story.
May 20, 2007
Finally
It's back.
http://www.fictionpress.com/s/2350077/1/
I almost feel ashamed about writing teen lit. but whatever. you've got to start somewhere.
May 18, 2007
You Might Want to Skip This
screw it. I don't care about sounding sophisticated today.
I don't care who ends up reading this long deep personal psychoanalysis. whatever. now you get to know how screwed up I can get.
I am so frustrated. I was practically sailing through the last few months. I don't know what was the turning point. Maybe it was the day I turned sixteen - suddenly, I lost my motivation and my momentum for everything.
I've decided maybe purging all that frustration will help. I used to keep journals and rant in them. Until I found out my family members were reading them. But they're probably less likely to read this here. I only told one person about this blog. I'm pretty sure others know about this by now, but whatever. I'll be flattered if anyone cares.
Tennis
I was playing pretty damn good last month. I won a tournament during Spring Break - the first in a long time. Self-confidence has always been one of my biggest weaknesses on the court, and I thought I managed to solve the problem. I don't know when it happened - probably around the times my allergies suddenly returned after disappearing for about two years. I was completely unmotivated and pissed at myself all the time. My footwork has gotten lazy again and my backhand sucks ass. I'm having a hard time controlling my temper again - a problem I thought I figured out last month.
Writing
Around December, I came up with a brilliant idea - I took a boring looking composition notebook and started scribbling random stuff in it during class. I'm sure my French teacher started wondering why I was suddenly so studious about French when I aced through all her tests anyway. I was writing in that notebook nearly every day. I plotted the entire storyline, did six character sketches, and wrote random vignettes and whatnot. It was the most complex and original idea I had dreamed up of yet. I posted the first chapter online just to see what kind of response I would get. I probably didn't post it at a good hour, but the two responses I got were both very positive. Inspired? No. At some point, I had exhausted all my inspiration. I was almost forcing myself to sit down, and when I'm forced to think, I don't usually get anything done. My muse is dead.
Piano
I'll admit I was somewhat disappointed when I didn't pass the second round of Panel, but it wasn't a big shocker. I knew compared to the top tier students, it would have been all luck if I made it that far. The good thing was, I finally left the teacher I never got along with. I finally switched over to the teacher I truly admire and respect. I don't know what the hell is wrong with me. Why do I only work hard under extreme pressure? The week before the first round of Panel was Procrastination Week: I played four hours a day for the entire week. My mom could only sigh, "You should have worked that hard from the beginning." And now that it's all over and testing isn't but months away, I'm totally slacking off again!! I should be playing way more than an hour a day. Once again, the motivation to work is gone, the inspiration to actually think about each piece is dead.
The Future
Sixteen sucks. Now you're pressured to start worrying about college and start taking this test and that test and blah. My parents were furious when they found out J and C were both taking the SAT II this June and I had no idea. "WHY DON'T YOU EVER TALK TO YOUR FRIENDS ABOUT THIS STUFF?!" why the hell would I would talk about this stuff when I don't even want to THINK about this stuff? Now my parents are telling me to study study study because I took two practice tests and I didn't get an 800 on either of them.
Plus, they've pretty much assumed that I'll be training for something in the medical field as a career. I don't really have an issue with that, but honestly, I don't know anything about medicine. what if I totally hate it? what if I throw up at the sight of surgery? Though I'm not those weak whiners who scream at the sight of blood. Come to think of it, I had to learn that blood was gross. (In third grade I pricked myself and said casually, "Oh, I'm bleeding!", as if I just talking about something everyday. Like the weather. Meanwhile my friend screamed, "Eww!!! That's gross!")
People usually say something to me like, "Oh you're so artistic! Are you going to take music or writing in college?" The answer is a definite NO. My parents definitely will not pay for me to take anything impractical. The irony is my mom has a Ph.D in art. ART! I asked her once why her parents let her take art. I guess in Taiwan, she could have easily gotten a job teaching Art, perhaps as a professor. I'm not really complaining, I guess. If I can suddenly get so sick of writing, then there really is no point in investing in that sort of thing.
Mental
I have come to the conclusion that you can be depressed without being suicidal.
I don't know if everyone goes through that phase in middle school. The one where you keep wondering who will cry for you after you die? After experiencing three childhood deaths, I've come to the conclusion that people will remember you at first. You're almost an instant celebrity. Then they'll slowly forget about you; maybe once in awhile they'll remember. Well, I was over that stupid phase a long time ago. I am depressed pretty often, but I will never ever take my own life.
My brother and I are complete opposites. He is the optimist, the cocky one. I am the pessimist, or as I prefer, the "realist." I'm rather two-faced as well. I doubt I seem very pessimistic at school; I'm always doing stupid things like coming up with nonsense rhymes for cheesy love poems with G or yelling out loud in the journo room, trying to explain why supermarket eggs don't hatch. I hate how I am 100% introvert. I'm usually not the one to initiate conversations. Sometimes, if I'm not sure how to act around someone, I just avoid looking at him when I know he's probably looking right at me. IT DRIVES ME NUTS.
I don't know if it's a bad thing, but I keep to myself a lot as well. There are some girls who tell their friends EVERYTHING - oh I love so and so or oh I want to have this or that. I don't feel comfortable around people I don't know well. Very few people have seen me go crazy or laughing my head off. I clearly remember two instances when I suddenly exposed my weird side to two people who are now pretty good friends of mine. One of them was with Y. We were walking to practice with J when J suddenly said another one of her clueless statements. I burst out laughing nonstop and Y looked at me as if I had suddenly morphed into an alien. The second was at a Japanese restaurant with W. I was eating green tea ice cream for dessert when my brother made an idiotic remark about the cushions we were sitting on. I was laughing nonstop. W had never seen me laughing that hard - he though they had drugged my ice cream.
I've got a big match tomorrow. More another time. :]
I don't care who ends up reading this long deep personal psychoanalysis. whatever. now you get to know how screwed up I can get.
I am so frustrated. I was practically sailing through the last few months. I don't know what was the turning point. Maybe it was the day I turned sixteen - suddenly, I lost my motivation and my momentum for everything.
I've decided maybe purging all that frustration will help. I used to keep journals and rant in them. Until I found out my family members were reading them. But they're probably less likely to read this here. I only told one person about this blog. I'm pretty sure others know about this by now, but whatever. I'll be flattered if anyone cares.
Tennis
I was playing pretty damn good last month. I won a tournament during Spring Break - the first in a long time. Self-confidence has always been one of my biggest weaknesses on the court, and I thought I managed to solve the problem. I don't know when it happened - probably around the times my allergies suddenly returned after disappearing for about two years. I was completely unmotivated and pissed at myself all the time. My footwork has gotten lazy again and my backhand sucks ass. I'm having a hard time controlling my temper again - a problem I thought I figured out last month.
Writing
Around December, I came up with a brilliant idea - I took a boring looking composition notebook and started scribbling random stuff in it during class. I'm sure my French teacher started wondering why I was suddenly so studious about French when I aced through all her tests anyway. I was writing in that notebook nearly every day. I plotted the entire storyline, did six character sketches, and wrote random vignettes and whatnot. It was the most complex and original idea I had dreamed up of yet. I posted the first chapter online just to see what kind of response I would get. I probably didn't post it at a good hour, but the two responses I got were both very positive. Inspired? No. At some point, I had exhausted all my inspiration. I was almost forcing myself to sit down, and when I'm forced to think, I don't usually get anything done. My muse is dead.
Piano
I'll admit I was somewhat disappointed when I didn't pass the second round of Panel, but it wasn't a big shocker. I knew compared to the top tier students, it would have been all luck if I made it that far. The good thing was, I finally left the teacher I never got along with. I finally switched over to the teacher I truly admire and respect. I don't know what the hell is wrong with me. Why do I only work hard under extreme pressure? The week before the first round of Panel was Procrastination Week: I played four hours a day for the entire week. My mom could only sigh, "You should have worked that hard from the beginning." And now that it's all over and testing isn't but months away, I'm totally slacking off again!! I should be playing way more than an hour a day. Once again, the motivation to work is gone, the inspiration to actually think about each piece is dead.
The Future
Sixteen sucks. Now you're pressured to start worrying about college and start taking this test and that test and blah. My parents were furious when they found out J and C were both taking the SAT II this June and I had no idea. "WHY DON'T YOU EVER TALK TO YOUR FRIENDS ABOUT THIS STUFF?!" why the hell would I would talk about this stuff when I don't even want to THINK about this stuff? Now my parents are telling me to study study study because I took two practice tests and I didn't get an 800 on either of them.
Plus, they've pretty much assumed that I'll be training for something in the medical field as a career. I don't really have an issue with that, but honestly, I don't know anything about medicine. what if I totally hate it? what if I throw up at the sight of surgery? Though I'm not those weak whiners who scream at the sight of blood. Come to think of it, I had to learn that blood was gross. (In third grade I pricked myself and said casually, "Oh, I'm bleeding!", as if I just talking about something everyday. Like the weather. Meanwhile my friend screamed, "Eww!!! That's gross!")
People usually say something to me like, "Oh you're so artistic! Are you going to take music or writing in college?" The answer is a definite NO. My parents definitely will not pay for me to take anything impractical. The irony is my mom has a Ph.D in art. ART! I asked her once why her parents let her take art. I guess in Taiwan, she could have easily gotten a job teaching Art, perhaps as a professor. I'm not really complaining, I guess. If I can suddenly get so sick of writing, then there really is no point in investing in that sort of thing.
Mental
I have come to the conclusion that you can be depressed without being suicidal.
I don't know if everyone goes through that phase in middle school. The one where you keep wondering who will cry for you after you die? After experiencing three childhood deaths, I've come to the conclusion that people will remember you at first. You're almost an instant celebrity. Then they'll slowly forget about you; maybe once in awhile they'll remember. Well, I was over that stupid phase a long time ago. I am depressed pretty often, but I will never ever take my own life.
My brother and I are complete opposites. He is the optimist, the cocky one. I am the pessimist, or as I prefer, the "realist." I'm rather two-faced as well. I doubt I seem very pessimistic at school; I'm always doing stupid things like coming up with nonsense rhymes for cheesy love poems with G or yelling out loud in the journo room, trying to explain why supermarket eggs don't hatch. I hate how I am 100% introvert. I'm usually not the one to initiate conversations. Sometimes, if I'm not sure how to act around someone, I just avoid looking at him when I know he's probably looking right at me. IT DRIVES ME NUTS.
I don't know if it's a bad thing, but I keep to myself a lot as well. There are some girls who tell their friends EVERYTHING - oh I love so and so or oh I want to have this or that. I don't feel comfortable around people I don't know well. Very few people have seen me go crazy or laughing my head off. I clearly remember two instances when I suddenly exposed my weird side to two people who are now pretty good friends of mine. One of them was with Y. We were walking to practice with J when J suddenly said another one of her clueless statements. I burst out laughing nonstop and Y looked at me as if I had suddenly morphed into an alien. The second was at a Japanese restaurant with W. I was eating green tea ice cream for dessert when my brother made an idiotic remark about the cushions we were sitting on. I was laughing nonstop. W had never seen me laughing that hard - he though they had drugged my ice cream.
I've got a big match tomorrow. More another time. :]
May 12, 2007
One-Eighty By Summer
Go on just say it,
You need me like a bad habit,
One that leaves you defenseless, dependent, and alone.
Go on just say it (Are you afraid to),
You need me like a bad habit (Say what you want to, tell me you want to),
One that leaves you defenseless, dependent, and alone.
(Are you afraid to say what you want to, tell me you want to)
You need me like a bad habit,
One that leaves you defenseless, dependent, and alone.
Go on just say it (Are you afraid to),
You need me like a bad habit (Say what you want to, tell me you want to),
One that leaves you defenseless, dependent, and alone.
(Are you afraid to say what you want to, tell me you want to)
Izzy. Izzy. Izzy. That's how it always began, the voice that wafted like perfume rising after the glass stopper. A viscous lilt, like watching the cherry syrup spiral into crimson swirls in a Shirley Temple. Izzy, Isabelle, my belle. His voice drives into the soul almost perversely, the way his lips trace her lilac veins without a single blush of modesty.
I hold my tongue use it to assess,
The damage from way back when it mattered,
But nothing seems important anymore,
We’re just protecting ourselves from our self,
And I don’t think I’ll ever come back down (I don’t think I’ll ever come back down),
I don’t think I’ll ever come back down (I don’t think I’ll ever come back down),
I don’t think I’ll ever come back down (I don’t think I’ll ever come back…),
I don’t think I’ll ever come back…
The damage from way back when it mattered,
But nothing seems important anymore,
We’re just protecting ourselves from our self,
And I don’t think I’ll ever come back down (I don’t think I’ll ever come back down),
I don’t think I’ll ever come back down (I don’t think I’ll ever come back down),
I don’t think I’ll ever come back down (I don’t think I’ll ever come back…),
I don’t think I’ll ever come back…
The agency canceled her photo shoots. They told her she was overworking herself, that she deserved a break. By then, she couldn't conceal the bruises and cuts across her skin anymore. The cerulean roses in her dress nearly camouflaged into her black and blue skin. She would tell them it was an accident. An accident. She had met him and fallen in love with him, that was the accident.
Are you ashamed to say what you want to tell me you want to.
Are you ashamed to say what you want to tell me you want to.
(Come on just say it) Are you ashamed to (Come on just say it) say what you want to tell me you want to.
(Come on just say it) Are you ashamed to (Come on just say it) say what you want to tell me you want to.
Are you ashamed to say what you want to tell me you want to.
(Come on just say it) Are you ashamed to (Come on just say it) say what you want to tell me you want to.
(Come on just say it) Are you ashamed to (Come on just say it) say what you want to tell me you want to.
He was going insane, but she stayed because she thought she could change him. Maybe she was insane too. But by now her need for him was an addiction. She was still a teenager when he caught her in his web, a naive girl suddenly exposed to the city of fashion, lust, and rock & roll. He was the one who designed the clothes she modeled, led her to the music of the city, and taught her the language of lust. His "love" for her coursed in her veins; by now she was so dependent on him - his touch, his voice, his taste - he was her staircase to ecstasy.
I’m making the difference,
It just seems pointless,
With all the obvious lines all out of focus.
Why can’t you just be happy?
Why can’t you just be happy?
And I don’t think I’ll ever come back down (I don’t think I’ll ever come back down),
I don’t think I’ll ever come back down (I don’t think I’ll ever come back down),
I don’t think I’ll ever come back down (I don’t think I’ll ever come back…),
I don’t think I’ll ever come back...
It just seems pointless,
With all the obvious lines all out of focus.
Why can’t you just be happy?
Why can’t you just be happy?
And I don’t think I’ll ever come back down (I don’t think I’ll ever come back down),
I don’t think I’ll ever come back down (I don’t think I’ll ever come back down),
I don’t think I’ll ever come back down (I don’t think I’ll ever come back…),
I don’t think I’ll ever come back...
It was always her fault, he told her. She was the one who drove him to hurt her, beat her, strangle her. He didn't like how the other male models, the photographers, the way anyone else looked at her. Isabelle is a belle. She was so tired of hearing the same stupid pun again and again - she was exhausted by her beauty. Maybe if she wasn't so goddamn attractive, maybe other men wouldn't look at her a split-second longer than they should. But if it weren't for her beauty, maybe he never would have picked her out of the crowd.
Run.
Run while his vision is still blinded by the stars of the city lights.
Run before he picks your face out of the darkness.
(Just come back, just come back...)
Go on just say it, (just come back...)
Come on just say it, (just come back...)
Well I’ll just say it, (just come back...)
I’ll just say it, (just come back...)
I need you defenseless, dependent and alone.
(Just come back, just come back, just come back...)
Go on just say it, (just come back...)
Come on just say it, (just come back...)
Well I’ll just say it, (just come back...)
I’ll just say it, (just come back...)
I need you defenseless, dependent and alone.
(Just come back, just come back, just come back...)
She says live up to your first impression.
Well my best side was your worst invention,
Can't you live without the attention?
Can't you live without the attention?
(Just come back, just come back, just come back...)
She says live up to your first impression.
Well my best side was your worst invention,
Can't you live without the attention?
Can't you live without the attention?
Can't you live without the attention?
Can't you live without the attention?
(Just come back, just come back, just come back...)
She says live up to your first impression.
Well my best side was your worst invention,
Can't you live without the attention?
Can't you live without the attention?
But there is nowhere to run. He knows he has her heart hooked on his line; all he has to do is reel her back in. He has her pinned to the mattresses, her beauty exposed like an impaled butterfly. Izzy, Izzy, Izzy, you don't know how much I love you, he whispers into her neck as the edge of the knife grazes by her skin. The scarlet maps he drew on her skin were always shallow.
But the blade can always slice a little deeper each time.
She says live up to your first impression. (Come on, just say it),
Well my best side was your worst invention (Come on, just say it),
Why can't you live without the attention (I need you defenseless, dependent),
Why can't you live without the attention (alone).
She says up to your first impression (I just say it),
Well my best side was your worst invention (I just say it),
Why can't you live without the attention (I need you defenseless, dependent),
Why can't you live without the attention (Alone),
Why can't you live (Defenseless, dependent),
Why can't you live (Defenseless, dependent),
Why can't you live…without…live…without (Defenseless, dependent, defenseless, dependent),
Why can't you live (Defenseless, dependent),
Why can't you live (Defenseless, dependent),
Why can't you live…without…live…without...
Well my best side was your worst invention (Come on, just say it),
Why can't you live without the attention (I need you defenseless, dependent),
Why can't you live without the attention (alone).
She says up to your first impression (I just say it),
Well my best side was your worst invention (I just say it),
Why can't you live without the attention (I need you defenseless, dependent),
Why can't you live without the attention (Alone),
Why can't you live (Defenseless, dependent),
Why can't you live (Defenseless, dependent),
Why can't you live…without…live…without (Defenseless, dependent, defenseless, dependent),
Why can't you live (Defenseless, dependent),
Why can't you live (Defenseless, dependent),
Why can't you live…without…live…without...
"One-Eighty By Summer" - Taking Back Sunday
..............................
My muse has mysteriously disappeared on me. I haven't been able to write anything decently for weeks. I'm not even satisfied with this one at all - the timing is extremely choppy and there is too much obtuse writing.
I feel like a pressure cooker with all the steam building up inside. But I don't keep diaries/journals where I write about my personal life anymore. Why? Because I've learned as long as you put anything down on paper, anyone will be able to read it. My brother has already confessed to reading my old journals and I don't plan to update him on my current miserable life.
I have no inspiration whatsoever. I'm just tired. Left and right there's always other things I should be doing. Playing more piano, playing more tennis, practicing for SATs, brainstorm ways to surpass the brainiac overachievers I have to compete with. Sixteen is not sweet. It's the same feeling you get when there's two seconds left as you watch the sand run down an hourglass.
Chinese school ended yesterday - it was probably the last time I'll ever see my friend again. That thought didn't occur to me until I read the card she wrote attached to her farewell present. I was about to go to bed when I read it. I can't believe I started crying over a card. I realized then that my childhood is gone. In two years, everything I've known for my entire life will change. I've grown up with the same people and the same friends all my life and found my own niche in society. In two years, everything becomes a blank slate again. The idea is just overwhelming, especially if you're about to fall asleep by yourself in the dark.
Hmm, this almost resembles a journal entry. This is about as personal as it'll ever get in written words.
..............................
My muse has mysteriously disappeared on me. I haven't been able to write anything decently for weeks. I'm not even satisfied with this one at all - the timing is extremely choppy and there is too much obtuse writing.
I feel like a pressure cooker with all the steam building up inside. But I don't keep diaries/journals where I write about my personal life anymore. Why? Because I've learned as long as you put anything down on paper, anyone will be able to read it. My brother has already confessed to reading my old journals and I don't plan to update him on my current miserable life.
I have no inspiration whatsoever. I'm just tired. Left and right there's always other things I should be doing. Playing more piano, playing more tennis, practicing for SATs, brainstorm ways to surpass the brainiac overachievers I have to compete with. Sixteen is not sweet. It's the same feeling you get when there's two seconds left as you watch the sand run down an hourglass.
Chinese school ended yesterday - it was probably the last time I'll ever see my friend again. That thought didn't occur to me until I read the card she wrote attached to her farewell present. I was about to go to bed when I read it. I can't believe I started crying over a card. I realized then that my childhood is gone. In two years, everything I've known for my entire life will change. I've grown up with the same people and the same friends all my life and found my own niche in society. In two years, everything becomes a blank slate again. The idea is just overwhelming, especially if you're about to fall asleep by yourself in the dark.
Hmm, this almost resembles a journal entry. This is about as personal as it'll ever get in written words.
April 28, 2007
Cue the Serenade
He was feeling pretty shitty that day. At least until he looked up.
There you were, your radiance eclipsing the gloom of the rainy day. The streets no longer looked so filthy and infested - it was as if some fairy godmother had waved her wand and all the rats transformed into royal coachmen. Your white T-shirt was completely soaked by the rain and clung to the small of your back. Your gleaming blonde ponytail swished behind you in ambiguous gestures (he tried to decipher some sort of hidden language in those movements) as you pedaled on your bike through the rain.
He managed to catch up to you at the crosswalk of the intersection. He was feeling pretty good. Until you looked up.
And he saw that you were a man.
Must have been the ponytail.
................................................
Obviously I'm not male, so I'm not writing this from any prior experience. Just curious about how often this happens.
(Inspired by an article I-forget-what-it's-called from the New Yorker)
There you were, your radiance eclipsing the gloom of the rainy day. The streets no longer looked so filthy and infested - it was as if some fairy godmother had waved her wand and all the rats transformed into royal coachmen. Your white T-shirt was completely soaked by the rain and clung to the small of your back. Your gleaming blonde ponytail swished behind you in ambiguous gestures (he tried to decipher some sort of hidden language in those movements) as you pedaled on your bike through the rain.
He managed to catch up to you at the crosswalk of the intersection. He was feeling pretty good. Until you looked up.
And he saw that you were a man.
Must have been the ponytail.
................................................
Obviously I'm not male, so I'm not writing this from any prior experience. Just curious about how often this happens.
(Inspired by an article I-forget-what-it's-called from the New Yorker)
April 20, 2007
Don't Read Old E-mails This Late at Night
I miss Rose.
I miss the letters and emails, even if they had snips of rock songs here and there. We wrote so similarly yet differently. Rose's vignettes were lighter, full of optimism and love. Juliet's vignettes were dark, brimming with mourning and heartbreak. There was something fun about exchanging letters with someone who wrote so beautifully.
I miss the crazy midnight conversations on instant messenger, asinine arguments over sunbeams versus moonbeams and daisies in an abyss. Xela Aidyl Studios existed only through AIM.
I miss the laughter and grumbling we shared at every OPP tournament, how we revised our speeches constantly because we were always so unsatisfied with our writing. I wrote the darker stories of heartbreak and loss; now I scream every time someone reminds me of my hideous "Pretty Girl" speech. "Strawberry Fields Forever" was her domain; she was the Lily with the Peace Sign, two bouncing pigtails at every speech tournament.
I (almost) miss the crushing pressure of Policy debate we shared as partners. We bullshitted our way through League, beating a Varsity team to everyone's surprise. We were the slackers that acted like goody-goodies. Half the time, we didn't know what was going on in those heated debates, but we watched each other's backs in those fights.
I miss watching her break those hearts - the endless line of suitors from middle school, her shocking lapse-of-thinking first boyfriend, all the way to the TA in our ninth grade World Cultures class whose first sentence addressed directly to her was asking her out.
I miss the crazy and wild days of eighth grade, when we listened to nothing but "Yellow" by Coldplay and goofed off in Yearbook every single day.
I miss the Rose I once knew, but I cannot find the Juliet I once was. There is no way to turn back time, and this is how it was supposed to end.
I miss the letters and emails, even if they had snips of rock songs here and there. We wrote so similarly yet differently. Rose's vignettes were lighter, full of optimism and love. Juliet's vignettes were dark, brimming with mourning and heartbreak. There was something fun about exchanging letters with someone who wrote so beautifully.
I miss the crazy midnight conversations on instant messenger, asinine arguments over sunbeams versus moonbeams and daisies in an abyss. Xela Aidyl Studios existed only through AIM.
I miss the laughter and grumbling we shared at every OPP tournament, how we revised our speeches constantly because we were always so unsatisfied with our writing. I wrote the darker stories of heartbreak and loss; now I scream every time someone reminds me of my hideous "Pretty Girl" speech. "Strawberry Fields Forever" was her domain; she was the Lily with the Peace Sign, two bouncing pigtails at every speech tournament.
I (almost) miss the crushing pressure of Policy debate we shared as partners. We bullshitted our way through League, beating a Varsity team to everyone's surprise. We were the slackers that acted like goody-goodies. Half the time, we didn't know what was going on in those heated debates, but we watched each other's backs in those fights.
I miss watching her break those hearts - the endless line of suitors from middle school, her shocking lapse-of-thinking first boyfriend, all the way to the TA in our ninth grade World Cultures class whose first sentence addressed directly to her was asking her out.
I miss the crazy and wild days of eighth grade, when we listened to nothing but "Yellow" by Coldplay and goofed off in Yearbook every single day.
I miss the Rose I once knew, but I cannot find the Juliet I once was. There is no way to turn back time, and this is how it was supposed to end.
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