My English teacher is usually entertaining on her own terms, but today she said something completely unfunny that got twisted into something amusing. Surprisingly, G was the one who came up with the idea first. G noted that when she had said, "Is your middle name Mildred?" as an insult, it sounded like the hook of a pick-up line. Thus, a group of my friends and I came up with these during Journalism.
Baby, is your middle name Mildred?
....because you're boring but hot!
....because you've turned in an alarm to my heart.
....because I can see you burning in the hotel room.
....because I'm the White Clown in your parlor.
Are you Beatty?
.... cuz you light me on fire.
Are you Faber?
.... cuz you're whispering sweet nothings in my ear.
Are you Guy?
.... cuz you're the guy for me.
Are you a Fahrenheit 451 Beetle?
.... cuz I wanna ride you at 100 mph.
Do I look like a Mechanical Hound?
.... cuz I wanna inject you with my proboscis.
Let's be firemen and set the beds on fire.
And I've taken out some of the explicitly perverted ones that the guys came up with (such as the one about "flesh-colored blurs").
February 26, 2007
February 20, 2007
Red Threads
I've realized now that everything I write is built on trust. It's the red thread tied between the reader and the writer, the connection a good writer can make. I'm trusting you judge me solely on what I write through your own interpretations, not how others say I am.
Does this sound personal? Maybe it does. Good writing should feel personal.
One thing about me is I like creating stories. The sad thing is that I've never finished writing an entire story in my life. I've dropped so many stories behind me, like Hansel and Gretel's trail of bread crumbs, ready to be gobbled up by crows. That isn't to say I haven't learned or improved. I've reread my old stuff, and to be honest, most of it was the worst crap I had ever read in my life.
There are two stories forming in my head now. I switch back and forth between the two when I get tired of one or the other. I just want to write it all down now so I can look back years from now and wonder just how the hell my mind worked back then.
The first is tentatively titled The Ecstasian Phantom. The story revolves around the idea that two complete strangers can lead strikingly parallel lives. Aurora Maciel was a beautiful yet vulnerable vocalist of the band "Her Highness" who died under mysterious circumstances. Two years later, Charlotte de Chagny, a gifted musician who was not blessed with a showman's charisma to match her talent, leads a double life as a driven high school student at Rosecrans High School and the mysterious Ecstasian Phantom at night. The mask Charlotte wears as the Phantom once belonged to Aurora, which Charlotte discovered in a wooden chest inside an unused room of Ecstasia, the city's opera-house-turned-rock-stadium. The Ecstasian Phantom appears to haunt/protect specifically the band "Her Highness," leading many to speculate that the Ecstasian Phantom is Aurora Maciel's ghost.
Of course, Charlotte has her reasons for watching over "Her Highness." After Aurora Maciel's death, "Her Highness" disbanded and the three other members split off in their separate directions. The guitarist, Rhys Faulkner, was Aurora Maciel's ex-boyfriend and is extremely skilled at the guitar, but the most impressive quality about him is his innate ability to draw energy off of a crowd, something Charlotte sorely lacks. Eventually, Charlotte learns more about Aurora Maciel through a series of interviews with the band members of "Her Highness" as journalism assignment for the school newspaper. As the Ecstasian Phantom, she plays pranks on other bands and eventually manages to bring "Her Highness" back together. Charlotte manages to keep her identity a secret, though two others discover her secret as the story progresses. As she grows closer to Rhys at school, Charlotte is torn between her respect for Aurora and her growing fondness for Rhys.
And I already decided how the story ends, which is remarkable for someone who loses interest in things so easily as me. But I refuse to give away anymore, just in case I actually manage getting around publishing this story online.
The second story is far from being as fully fleshed out as The Ecstasian Phantom. So far, the project is being referred to as Alexisabelle. The two heroines of the story are Alexis and Isabelle, who I have yet to develop into solid characters. Basically, the story is loosely based on my slowly deteriorating friendship with Rose Mortmain. Of course, my life is not nearly dramatic enough for my standards, so I've thrown in a lot more drama into the plot. Alexis and Isabelle were very good childhood friends, though each harbored specific insecurities concerning the other. Alexis is attractive in her own unconventional way; she is not beautiful but her personality is rather ambition-driven and forceful. Isabelle, on the other hand, is a natural beauty with a sweet temperament.
Alexis is rather sore about Isabelle's beauty - Isabelle is always the first one people notice or the one who receives special treatment. Because natural beauty is a quality you're either born with or without, Alexis cannot help but feel inferior to her best friend. She guiltily thinks of Isabelle as being born with an advantage. Isabelle, however, admires Alexis' strong personality and tries to emulate that sort of confidence whenever she feels stressed or pressured. Their friendship gradually falls apart as Isabelle is drawn toward the glamorous yet dark world of modeling and superficiality while Alexis stubbornly sees this as an act of betrayal.
The rest of the plot is up in the air so far. The tentative idea is that Alexis and Isabelle's lives run off in separate paths before reuniting in the end. I've toyed with the idea that Alexis runs away from home, abandoning her previous ambitions for Ivy League universities and whatnot, and rebuilds her own identity separate from Isabelle's. Isabelle will have a relatively successful career as a model until she naively falls in love with a gorgeous yet troubled young man (his profession remains undecided), who eventually becomes so mentally disturbed he begins to abuse her. His condition gradually worsens and in the end he threatens to kill her. As of now, I have yet to decide just how Isabelle manages to escape and how I should bring their lives back together.
One thing the story will centralize on though, is once again, Identity. Alexisabelle's friendship is built on a series of letters quite similar to the ones I wrote with Rose Mortmain as Juliet Kitteridge. The two friends refer to each other with alter-ego pen names through their letters. Though the letters end as they drift apart, the names remain a part of them as they go off their separate directions. Alexis follows her dream to be an author; but I have yet to decide whether she uses her pen name after she runs away from home or whether she uses it as her pen name for her books (yes, confusing, I know). Isabelle legally changes her name to her pen name in an attempt to evade her former lover who is bent on killing her.
I like stories whose central characters grow throughout the story. Thus, Alexis develops her own sense of identity separate from Isabelle and redefines her idea of beauty. Isabelle discovers courage as she struggles in a torrential fight for her life. Charlotte from The Ecstasian Phantom learns how to let loose on stage and perform like a star.
Of course, all this is a matter of whether I manage to actually put the story down on paper now, isn't it?
Does this sound personal? Maybe it does. Good writing should feel personal.
One thing about me is I like creating stories. The sad thing is that I've never finished writing an entire story in my life. I've dropped so many stories behind me, like Hansel and Gretel's trail of bread crumbs, ready to be gobbled up by crows. That isn't to say I haven't learned or improved. I've reread my old stuff, and to be honest, most of it was the worst crap I had ever read in my life.
There are two stories forming in my head now. I switch back and forth between the two when I get tired of one or the other. I just want to write it all down now so I can look back years from now and wonder just how the hell my mind worked back then.
The first is tentatively titled The Ecstasian Phantom. The story revolves around the idea that two complete strangers can lead strikingly parallel lives. Aurora Maciel was a beautiful yet vulnerable vocalist of the band "Her Highness" who died under mysterious circumstances. Two years later, Charlotte de Chagny, a gifted musician who was not blessed with a showman's charisma to match her talent, leads a double life as a driven high school student at Rosecrans High School and the mysterious Ecstasian Phantom at night. The mask Charlotte wears as the Phantom once belonged to Aurora, which Charlotte discovered in a wooden chest inside an unused room of Ecstasia, the city's opera-house-turned-rock-stadium. The Ecstasian Phantom appears to haunt/protect specifically the band "Her Highness," leading many to speculate that the Ecstasian Phantom is Aurora Maciel's ghost.
Of course, Charlotte has her reasons for watching over "Her Highness." After Aurora Maciel's death, "Her Highness" disbanded and the three other members split off in their separate directions. The guitarist, Rhys Faulkner, was Aurora Maciel's ex-boyfriend and is extremely skilled at the guitar, but the most impressive quality about him is his innate ability to draw energy off of a crowd, something Charlotte sorely lacks. Eventually, Charlotte learns more about Aurora Maciel through a series of interviews with the band members of "Her Highness" as journalism assignment for the school newspaper. As the Ecstasian Phantom, she plays pranks on other bands and eventually manages to bring "Her Highness" back together. Charlotte manages to keep her identity a secret, though two others discover her secret as the story progresses. As she grows closer to Rhys at school, Charlotte is torn between her respect for Aurora and her growing fondness for Rhys.
And I already decided how the story ends, which is remarkable for someone who loses interest in things so easily as me. But I refuse to give away anymore, just in case I actually manage getting around publishing this story online.
The second story is far from being as fully fleshed out as The Ecstasian Phantom. So far, the project is being referred to as Alexisabelle. The two heroines of the story are Alexis and Isabelle, who I have yet to develop into solid characters. Basically, the story is loosely based on my slowly deteriorating friendship with Rose Mortmain. Of course, my life is not nearly dramatic enough for my standards, so I've thrown in a lot more drama into the plot. Alexis and Isabelle were very good childhood friends, though each harbored specific insecurities concerning the other. Alexis is attractive in her own unconventional way; she is not beautiful but her personality is rather ambition-driven and forceful. Isabelle, on the other hand, is a natural beauty with a sweet temperament.
Alexis is rather sore about Isabelle's beauty - Isabelle is always the first one people notice or the one who receives special treatment. Because natural beauty is a quality you're either born with or without, Alexis cannot help but feel inferior to her best friend. She guiltily thinks of Isabelle as being born with an advantage. Isabelle, however, admires Alexis' strong personality and tries to emulate that sort of confidence whenever she feels stressed or pressured. Their friendship gradually falls apart as Isabelle is drawn toward the glamorous yet dark world of modeling and superficiality while Alexis stubbornly sees this as an act of betrayal.
The rest of the plot is up in the air so far. The tentative idea is that Alexis and Isabelle's lives run off in separate paths before reuniting in the end. I've toyed with the idea that Alexis runs away from home, abandoning her previous ambitions for Ivy League universities and whatnot, and rebuilds her own identity separate from Isabelle's. Isabelle will have a relatively successful career as a model until she naively falls in love with a gorgeous yet troubled young man (his profession remains undecided), who eventually becomes so mentally disturbed he begins to abuse her. His condition gradually worsens and in the end he threatens to kill her. As of now, I have yet to decide just how Isabelle manages to escape and how I should bring their lives back together.
One thing the story will centralize on though, is once again, Identity. Alexisabelle's friendship is built on a series of letters quite similar to the ones I wrote with Rose Mortmain as Juliet Kitteridge. The two friends refer to each other with alter-ego pen names through their letters. Though the letters end as they drift apart, the names remain a part of them as they go off their separate directions. Alexis follows her dream to be an author; but I have yet to decide whether she uses her pen name after she runs away from home or whether she uses it as her pen name for her books (yes, confusing, I know). Isabelle legally changes her name to her pen name in an attempt to evade her former lover who is bent on killing her.
I like stories whose central characters grow throughout the story. Thus, Alexis develops her own sense of identity separate from Isabelle and redefines her idea of beauty. Isabelle discovers courage as she struggles in a torrential fight for her life. Charlotte from The Ecstasian Phantom learns how to let loose on stage and perform like a star.
Of course, all this is a matter of whether I manage to actually put the story down on paper now, isn't it?
February 9, 2007
With me, Not at me
really, it just disgusts me.
A death is a death. It is that simple. Show some compassion to those who are gone, no matter how they were. I am no fan of Anna Nicole Smith, but I did a double-take when I saw the headline when I came home after school. She was not the type of woman I would ever admire, but the comments I saw were disgusting. Some people really have no respect for the dead. Or even much respect for the ones that are alive, come to think of it.
Obviously, she had her own share of problems and whatnot. Many people didn't like her; I completely understand that, but what I don't understand is why people would go on to say things like "Good Riddance" or "Rest in Hell." All we know about her is how the media has pictured her to be. We can't condemn her based on how the media wants her to be.
I think we underestimate most of these celebrities. They put up with the constant publicity and the immediate biases people hold against them. Your every move is photographed and filmed, all ready to be criticized and scrutinized from around the world. Someone who can keep composure, who can still leave the house with her head held high must have a toughness inside.
And I respect that sort of ability to keep composure, simply because I lack that ability. Howl has been picking on me for as long as I can remember. He's picked on my clothes, insulted my hair, constantly reminding me of how "manly" I am. If he has been trying to undermine my femininity, then fine. If his definition of a girl is those stick-thin girls who don't exercise and instead strut laps around the mall dolled up in Abercrombie, then fine. I am not a girl.
I've said these words to myself over and over again, after all these years. And yet each time a new insult arises, I am offended again. Whether it was Howl or I who started it, but there has long been the illusion that I was one of those fearless violent girls who shut people up with a swift kick in the family jewels. That could not be farther from the truth. I might wish that would happen, but it never will. I simply care too much. I care how people think about me, and I care about the people who think about me.
I am guilty of making initial judgments based on the public opinion as well, but I would never go as far wishing the worst for people. Because no matter who they are, there is someone else out there who is grieving for them. You may laugh with them, "Haha, we knew she'd die of drugs like her son." When the day comes when it's your own loved one who has died and the media turns its back on you
They'll laugh. At you, not with you.
A death is a death. It is that simple. Show some compassion to those who are gone, no matter how they were. I am no fan of Anna Nicole Smith, but I did a double-take when I saw the headline when I came home after school. She was not the type of woman I would ever admire, but the comments I saw were disgusting. Some people really have no respect for the dead. Or even much respect for the ones that are alive, come to think of it.
Obviously, she had her own share of problems and whatnot. Many people didn't like her; I completely understand that, but what I don't understand is why people would go on to say things like "Good Riddance" or "Rest in Hell." All we know about her is how the media has pictured her to be. We can't condemn her based on how the media wants her to be.
I think we underestimate most of these celebrities. They put up with the constant publicity and the immediate biases people hold against them. Your every move is photographed and filmed, all ready to be criticized and scrutinized from around the world. Someone who can keep composure, who can still leave the house with her head held high must have a toughness inside.
And I respect that sort of ability to keep composure, simply because I lack that ability. Howl has been picking on me for as long as I can remember. He's picked on my clothes, insulted my hair, constantly reminding me of how "manly" I am. If he has been trying to undermine my femininity, then fine. If his definition of a girl is those stick-thin girls who don't exercise and instead strut laps around the mall dolled up in Abercrombie, then fine. I am not a girl.
I've said these words to myself over and over again, after all these years. And yet each time a new insult arises, I am offended again. Whether it was Howl or I who started it, but there has long been the illusion that I was one of those fearless violent girls who shut people up with a swift kick in the family jewels. That could not be farther from the truth. I might wish that would happen, but it never will. I simply care too much. I care how people think about me, and I care about the people who think about me.
I am guilty of making initial judgments based on the public opinion as well, but I would never go as far wishing the worst for people. Because no matter who they are, there is someone else out there who is grieving for them. You may laugh with them, "Haha, we knew she'd die of drugs like her son." When the day comes when it's your own loved one who has died and the media turns its back on you
They'll laugh. At you, not with you.
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