American Psycho

I've been reading American Psycho. The book is much more detailed and perverse than the movie. Reading it, I thought about writing my own horror story. I started thinking about the character, whither it would be a woman or a man, stupid or Hannibal-like, what would his motivation be... etc. In my head I saw him as a man who only killed the people who loved him most. As to why he killed the ones who loved him, he didn't what to let them down, he didn't what that responsibility of loving someone back, of holding one piece of the puzzle while they held the other. So he let everything collapse right away before he had love and he could feel loss. Mostly he's scared. In his mind, he is saving his victims from a much worse pain. It makes me a little worried that I have created his twisted mind from my own. I wish I could play the piano... I wish I could do something more productive with my time like learning an instrument or improving my knowledge of the world by traveling the world or even going outside. But, it's much easier to write about things than experience them yourself. Horror for instance. I could go out and kill some people... (I'm not going to.) But, it's much easier and healthier to write about it... or read about. The reason why I'm talking about killing people is because watching horror movies or reading horror novels makes my mom angry, not scared or sick to her stomach, angry. She gets angry because she can't understand why anyone would want to watch or read about murder. To quote my favorite author and song writer Matthew Good, "The telling of such occurrences, though anyways touched by a bit of danger and mystery, never quite lives up to the true depravity of such actions. And therein lies the sickness that we embody as a species. Horrified by the fact and entirely mesmerized by fact sold as fiction." - From Porno Safari. The reason I think that people are so intrigued by horror is that it is so removed from their normal lives that the mystery of a man going through the night and murdering people to fulfill some sick need in his heart is enjoyable. It's as if they like to be close to something so awful that the good things in life seem greater... like being alive. I wonder what our lives would be like if everything was good and nothing was psychotic about anyone. Well, in order for that to happen our brains would have to be removed. See, the brain is just a pot filled with soil and our thoughts, good or bad, are either nurtured or removed like weeds, voluntary or involuntary. All my thoughts are vines, not exactly beautiful flowers. They crawl through my body and escape through my mouth, my hands. At one time my skull was too crowded with bad thoughts and the only way I could relieve the pressure was to write. I think I've reached a healthy balance. The headache is gone and the horrific thoughts have become characters, settings and morals, not actions. But that doesn't make me any less of an "American Psycho".

CONSISTENCY

If you stare at things consistently enough, their consistency begins to break apart and hit you with bone crushing force. It's hot. Sweaty hot. And I'm lying here staring at my fan spinning. I could stare at it for hours and as I watch the blades spin round and round, they would become one moving object. But, in my current state I can see each blade cutting through the air. Consistently, my eyes catch sight of one, then the other. For some reason they seem to tell me something important as if my fan is going to teach me an important life lesson.

There are tiny black flies touching my naked back, my face, landing on my eye lashes and on my computer screen. I'm annoyed, well at least I think I should be. Maybe they are minor annoyances, maybe they are trying to tell me something as well.

I'm trying to make some philosophical finding out of this. I thing I wanted to find was meaning, but now I just see that I've come across and insane. That's cool. I don't want to wait to see what will happen. I want to know what will happen so I don't love just to have a broken heart in the end. That's what I wanted to find. I wanted to find an answer, not meaning. But, now I see that neither the blades of my fan, nor the bugs will give me some mind awakening answer to the problems with my heart.

Umbrae et Pugionis - My never finished nerdy-novel

I - Elders of the Umbrae

Once upon a time, fantasies were made up fables. Theodora did not exist during this so called time, but had learned of its existence from a traveling merchant, while out training for war.

The forgotten time called to her heart every time she opened the forbidden books that the man had sold her. But, the razor sharp threat of war ripped her fantasies apart and made any hopes of freedom unobtainable without the spilling of blood. Freedom would not be found in the yellowed pages of a forbidden novel. And yet, she felt more and more rebellious, turning to these illicit means for freedom. What harm could it do?

Looking for answers, she went to her father, Gaius, being very careful not to mention the books. He had suggested that she learn the traditions of her tribe, the Umbrae. Her father had raised her on the Umbrae morals: actus non facit reum nisi mes sit rea, that the act is not guilty unless the mind is also guilty. He told her the first Umbrian people named their tribe after their founders, who were dubbed ghosts by the only rival they let live long enough to spread the word of the three men who had attacked him in the forest one night. When they were certain that the word was spread, they hunted the man down and brought the body to man’s family—there were no signs of blood on the man; whispers in the dark claimed that he had passed from fright.

In her village, the elders make up the council that rule over all Umbrian peoples; they dress in golden robes and conceal their faces with masks, which depict ancient gods. Some elders had been alive since the Pugionis tribe, the daggers, destroyed the ancient world. Only the elders know of the reasons and actions behind the destruction, but chose not to speak of the past.

The elders only speak when necessary and when they do, a scholar documents every word. It was rumored that there was a room in the council building that contained a library, which was home to all the elders’ words since the beginning. If the elders words were ever questioned or the rules of the tribe broken, the rebel who voiced these questions would be subject to death under the vox laws, no matter the severity of their offence.

Every year during tribal festival, an elder would tell the tale of the unspoken traitor. Theodora knew that the tale was designed to strike fear in the hearts of possible traitors; claiming that even doubting the elders’ ways in secret was deserving of death.

Last year, in an act of desperation, the elders introduced confessionals into the tribes’ routine. Theodora confessed to her fears, while anyone who confessed to doubting or disobeying orders was tortured, and then burned alive. The ambiguity of the rules made them hard to follow and all of the Umbrian citizens were in a perpetual state of apprehension. So, she followed what she could and confessed to what she didn’t, and she trained to be the best, pushing her limits in every separate struggle. She kept the image of the screaming, faceless people out of her mind and ignored her fear of replacing the image with reality and the faceless with herself. She could never imagine that pain, she never wanted to find out what it felt like to have your skin melt.

The world was in a constant state of war and Theodora knew only of the techniques needed to make the perfect kill. Her tribe demanded unwavering strength training everyday; fighting alone was prohibited and all training was to be done with an elder. The elder who was assigned to join her sessions, Mars, was the strongest of the twenty, and although his specific age was unknown to her and his appearance gave nothing away, she could tell that he was the youngest by the way he walked with youthful arrogance.

It was on one of these very “mission” where her view to the world that she had known was draped in the shadows of creatures she never knew existed and the people she had once trusted became a dark blur, merging with obscurity.

Mars had no words for her, and had yet to speak once they left the council building. He only motioned with his hands and hid his expression with his porcelain mask. Theodora read faces well, but with his mask, her relationship with Mars was as unemotional as the expression that permanently rested upon his frozen visage.

The elder knew that Theodora had been training for five years and that she was getting closer to becoming a polished warrior, one that would gladly give their life to the Umbrae. All of the elders had been watching her advancement closely, for they could not deny her dexterity in every task that she had been bestowed. For Mars, it was his task to watch her even closer, to ensure that she never expressed any distain towards the Umbrian laws and to see if she could be trusted.

The other gods had told him that he would be surprised by the words that would be shared while you fought close with a person for years. Unfortunately, Theodora was a woman of little words as well and the silence between them was filled with an understanding of a common goal that was present between allies. The elders knew of this undisturbed silence and it bothered them deeply.

She might become too strong for their tactics and she may need to be broken, so that all her secrets would spill and eventually her black blood. Another unspoken traitor would burn.

II – The Black Blooded

The scent of burning flesh was common amongst the sweetness of the morning air. Not one of the villagers expressed any protests to the smell as they had become accustomed to keeping almost everything to themselves, especially their complaints of death by burning at the stake. The young woman was burning and the villagers hung their heads, praying in secret for the woman to die a quick and painless death. Her shrieks constantly pulled their futile prayers apart and made their rapid steps much quicker. All together, avoiding the stakes made a simple errand time consuming, but it was time that was desperately needed to remain isolated from the watchful inquisitors, or “death dealers” as many villagers referred to them. The paths were filled with many innocents while broken people with broken faces crowded the stakes, getting crazed pleasure from this heinous way of cleansing souls.

They thought to themselves that these were the people that should be burning, not the victims of accusations based on fear. It was easy for the inquisitors to find distraught individuals willing to accuse another person of being a traitor and for trying to talk to another about the rules that prevented them from doing so. The inquisitors were finding the anguish of the black blooded amusingly pathetic.

Since the beginning, the rules had been put in place to make a perfect society. A utopian society, one without civil violence, contaminated thoughts or actions, hatred or vulgarity and weakness. This was the elders’ dream and they would do anything possible to achieve it, even if it meant enforcing perfection with the threat of death. That was the way to ensure that what happened to the ancient world, would not happen to the Umbrae. Technically, the elders did not enforce the laws they only made them. It was the inquisitors that were to be feared and hated for what the elders told them to do. These people were chosen by their loyalty and strength. The problem was that many were too weak to withstand the power of a bribe.

“These present laws are not enough to prevent the traitors from flourishing in our weak state. Yes. Weak.” The leader of the elders’ discussion paused for effect and contemplation. “Something needs to be done to our weaknesses and by weaknesses, I mean the black blooded.”

The scribe quickly scratched out the last few lines knowing full well that any mention of weakness or the black blooded was meant to be uttered, not read in the future. The elder turned to the scribe and asked the man, for the first time in the scribe’s ten years, to leave. The scribe might have been unfamiliar with the situation, but he made the assumption that if he were to stay his paper would be empty of information and full of thick black slashes.

“Now we can speak freely.”

The whole room erupted with a multitude of ideas, most considered crazy, the others not even considered. The elder instantly regretted his previous remark and he began shaking with anger as more voices joined with the chorus.

“Stop. I have realized that this discussion is useless.”

When his words were swallowed up by the pandemonium, the elder stood up from his chair and slammed his chalice on the table, using enough force to make the wine slosh out onto the tabletop and onto his golden robe. The noise receded as fast as it began and the councilmen looked to their leader. Through clenched teeth and a mind obscured with outrage from being ignored, the elder managed to say, “Leave now. I need to think about what has been said.”

After the last imbecile had left the council room, the elder finally managed to clam down enough to face the problems at hand. He was paranoid, that was true, but what if the source his paranoia revealed to be true as well? The inquisitors had failed him time after time by allowing themselves to be bribed by men, proving they were no stronger than the men who bribed them. There was a weakness in his elaborate system and the very system was failing. The reasons for the black blooded deaths will have lost effect if the people realize that money can save their souls. The black blooded will be looked at as the poor who could not afford the bribe, not as the heretics that they had been accused.

The red wine on his robe clearly had made a stain, he thought as he looked down his front. Indifferent to his nakedness, the elder pulled the robe it over his head to fling it over his chair.

Turning towards the scribe’s seat, the elder noticed that the man had left his documentation book on his chair. He picked it up and started to flip through the pages, until he came to the end of the book. Black slashes littered the last few pages, but all of the pages were full of proof that the elders had been struggling with the control of the Umbrians.

I am the ruler of the gods, I am Jupiter and this is my right.

Making sure that no one was watching, the elder moved to the open fireplace, threw the document into the yearning flames and like the many documents that had been misplaced the same way, the elder made sure that blackness permanently erased the atrocious history of the traitors that had been come to be known as the black blooded.

III – The Copious Faults of the Punionians

What a beautiful specimen she was.

Mars was intrigued with Theodora; she was unlike any woman that he had ever trained. Her mind was void of any distractions and she only thought of the kill.

Can’t you see that she is distracting you?

Theodora used her flame spell on an alauda that had set its hungry eyes on her own fiery ones. It let out a squawk and fell to her feet, to be dissolved by the soil.

Mars scolded her in his always-condescending manor, “If you are going to kill a sky demon, make sure that it poses a threat to you. An alauda is not worth a second look.”

She nodded, knowing that he was right, but still hating the fact that he was always right. Then again, the creature had targeted her. Still, she knew better than to open her mouth to a superior. Her father had drilled that fact far enough into her head as she grew up.

With lips glued shut, but with a burning face, Theodora concentrated on the back of Mars’s head and the pleasing image of an arrow sticking out of it.

“Now let’s find a demon worth one of your, gifts.”

His resonant voice rang in her ears and reminded her that her spells were uncommon and the concept that they caused resentment among other fighters always caught her off guard. The jealousy hidden underneath his innocent suggestion was partly due to his own inability to cast spells. As the god of war he could only fight with his steel manmade weapons. This forced him to place reliance on something other than himself, so he made his body into steel to make up for his dependence.

Mars pushed by and motioned for her to follow him into the woods. She couldn’t help but notice how attractive and strong his body was and that when he went by he had touched her arm slightly, but she soon struck those thoughts from her mind as she warned herself of the penalties.

If she were to confess to her lust, Theodora would be branded, a torture tool reserved for women, thus making her unfit for marriage. Marriage was to be beneficial to the whole tribe so, a marriage built on lust would only tear apart the morals that the Umbrians had been built around.

These poisonous thoughts plagued her every minute. Theodora desperately sought freedom from the evil that followed behind her every move, getting closer and closer with every stumble. She found it impossible to walk through everyday life, as jutting stones had been placed on her path by malicious hands.

They had been walking for hours on a path that just allowed for them to walk single file. The ancient trees, which made a roof over the path, blocked their eyes from the sun’s hurtful glare, kept them cool and let them quicken their pace, to wherever they were going. She desperately wanted to ask the elder the details of their journey, but strange apprehension prevented her from doing so. Soon, Theodora no longer recognized her surroundings.

A rustle, one caused by something much bigger than any demon she had ever encountered, came from the trees to her right. Turning her body in that direction, Theodora caught sight of a figure, either man or woman, drenched in what looked like blood. Whether it was the figure’s blood or not was what made her try to take a step closer, only to find Mars’s hand on her shoulder.

“Stop. I’ll deal with it.” His voice was even more muffled than usual behind the mask. “Whatever it is.”

Here it is.

I find it easier to write my thoughts down when I have nothing to do. When my mind is occupied with thoughts of another kind, I will write frantically -but, with a cause, which is unlike now since I am writing about writing about nothing in particular- and make no sense. Maybe I'll write another poem about life in general or a story about growing up and how it is so hard. By now you have probably realized that I'm making fun of myself. If you have not, then sorry for wasting your time.

I hate how my friends never write on their blogs. I wish they didn't have lives and were more like me!

I complain a lot. I complain about complaining a lot. I think that by pointing out my flaws, somehow that makes them ok. It probably just makes them worse.

I'm going to cut and paste some poems that I wrote for english because I'm too lazy to write some more stuff. -I totally forgot that I started writing a book/novella last summer. I'm probably never going to finish it- I just got an awesome idea for a book! Since there are millions of half-finished books out in the world, I should take some and make a book out of them. The stories would never end, but there would be dozens of blank pages after each story so the reader could just write their own ending... that sounds awful. But, here are some of my half-finished stories so I can pretend that I wrote something on my blog.

This is my favorite half-finished story because it has attitude! Here's I Sold My Soul For Drug Money:

Chapter I – Laced Intentions

“Hi. My name is Johnny.”

“To be honest Johnny, I don’t give a flying fuck. Here.” He shoved a medical mask into the boy’s hands. Johnny didn’t hesitate to put it on. Then the man motioned for the boy to follow. Johnny could smell it in the air; the mask couldn’t prevent it from getting to him. It made him hate himself. The need was killing him and there was no doubt that it would be successful. So, he gave in to it, like he always managed to do after the doubt kicked in and followed the man down the hallway, one that looked like in belonged in a horror movie.

“Your family is dead if you told anyone where you are and what you are doing. Then…” The power that he had over the boy went to his thick head and he paused for a second to intensify the words to follow, turning around to poke his thick finger into Johnny’s gut. “We’ll come after you.” The large gun in the man’s hand told Johnny that this was no empty threat. And with that, he saw himself, bloody and limbless, crawling down this very hallway after being subject to the torture of the big man in front of him. That was enough to silence him for the next millennium.

With his mouth-sewn shut with invisible thread, Johnny matched his speed to the long strides of the man until they reached a large room that was so smoky that the ceiling was practically nonexistent. The first thing that set him back was the amount of people working. Not a sound was heard while they were in the hallway and even now, of the approximately twenty people in the room, not one lifted their head from what they were doing. Johnny could see that this had nothing to do with concentration as he looked back at the gun, one that he knew the man would use and had likely used before.

I guess I have to explain to you how I ended up here, the twenty five year old high school drop out, druggie and loner. It’s that one word, the one substance, and one of the many ways to screw up your life. A very expensive “pass time.” I’m telling you, it’ll explain everything. It reveals the reason behind the twitching, the coughing, the hallucinations and the whole mess that comes as bonus gifts in the package of a cocaine addict. Did you find it in that last ramble? Well here’s another clue for you. Cocaine, cocaine, cocaine and goddamned cocaine.

I’ve been told that if I had finished high school and gotten a “real” job I wouldn’t be an addict, but how does that make any sense? At the risk of coming across retarded, let me reiterate, cocaine is an expensive pass time and mostly only people with “real” jobs can afford to get high off it. But, men like me would sell their soul for a single line. Sadly, what I learned, my soul was worth shit.

“Snap out of it, you dumb fuck.”

And snap I did, as the butt of the gun was jabbed into my side. I tried not to cough up my lungs, while the big man giggled as if the whole “causing internal bleeding” idea amused him.

Once I managed to find my breath, I asked, cautiously, “When can I start?”

“The Boss, in other words “the guy you don’t want to fuck with”, will tell you.”

Nodding, not looking into his eyes, and managing to hide the tears, I once again followed the stupid, ass-faced motherfucker deeper into the depths.

Chapter II – Wasn’t Always a Fuck Up

I may have dropped out of school, but you first have to understand that I grew up in a perfect family in suburbia. I’m not entirely sure if all suburban kids turn to drugs… but now that I think about it, that wouldn’t surprise me if they did. Well, who else would be able to afford the expensive ones?

Meet my mom:

“How many carbs are in juice? Maybe I’ll stop drinking liquids altogether.”

“Mom, what about water?”

“Of course I’ll drink water. I’m not stupid.”

“You are stupid enough to screw the mailman.”

“Yes. And you are smart enough to keep your mouth shut.”

Meet my Father:

“Are you happy son? Cause I didn’t buy you that new bike so you could cry on it.”

“Dad, I think I might be depressed.”

“Son… rich people don’t get depressed. Now go for a ride while I work late with my secretary.... Son…”

“Ya Dad?”

“Good things come to those who keep secrets. Things like tuition to a prestigious school.”

“What I’d like is a soul to sell.”

“You have a soul son. Just like me...”

“…and mom?”

“I’ll pay for the therapist.”

(to be continued....?)

This is a poem that I finished last summer with the intent of giving it to my mom and dad, but I decided against it...

We are all deformed by our views of perfection - a poem

Look at me as I am,

I am your daughter, the fuck up.

You can’t see me if you don’t know what you are looking at.

I may be a tarnish canvas, but you’ve never seen the painting beneath.

Never cared to look, did you?

I’ll give you my heart on paper -- you can eat my soul.

That’s why I give it to you,

I like the pain that you give me,

You like the pain that I get.

Judge who I am before you get to know me

Get to know me, then judge who I have become

You knew me, I changed, the end

I can hear your brain throbbing

Throbbing

Throbbing

Robbing me of wordssss

I can see your eyes darting

Darting

Darting

Starting this sweat

Dripping into my veins

I love you, but I made a mistake.

I write about your forgiveness,

But have yet to receive it

You didn’t forget.

You are there, up on your throne

I am here, all on my own

No one fights for my reputation

I never fought the losing battle that I began

All I did was fall, I have yet to get up

You have your hand on my shoulder

It should be comforting that you’re there

Your warmth should make the coldness in my lungs cease to exist

Your hand is strong

I try to get up

But you are holding me down

I panic

You smile

I cry

You smile

I look at you for help

You smile

I scream

You laugh

I give up

You laugh

I stop breathing

You laugh

I am dying

You laugh

I’m gone

You shake your head

It was my fault you say

It was my fault

It was my mistake

It was my deformity

And that was the end

I was at an end

My mistake made a fucking end

It ripped through to the other side and spilled my guts for the first time,

Sorry, my mistake

Read my suicide note

It will tell you everything,

Just not anything you want to hear.

You never wanted to listen

I told you so many times

I’m sorry

I’m sorry

I’m sorry

I’m sorry

But, you didn’t believe me

You held my hand

I couldn’t see you, but I knew you were there

You held my hand

I’m sorry

I’m sorry

I’m sorry

I’m sorry

You held my hand

I couldn’t see, I couldn’t hear

But I could feel the heat of your stare.

The disappointment burning through my lucid skin.

Skin soaked in the aftermath of my mistake.

The mistake that put me here,

With all this voices talking about me,

I’m here!

I’m here!

Aren’t I?

I can speak.

I think… I just wanted to say…

I just wanted to say that I’m sorry.

You let go.

I Had No Tag for Love

Awkward, we fit together,

like two birds with odd feathers.

We talk for hours

about my pencil breaking super-powers...

You make me laugh,

I make you smile.

Please stay with me for awhile.

I wish you would hold me and

carry me away,

kiss me on a rainy day.

The day I discovered

that you liked me too,

was the start of something new.

You reached for my hand,

I grabbed your arm.

I was glowing inside.

Glowing where there was never warmth

or even a slight spark.

But, now I'm aflame,

my heart beating to your name.

But, at the same time,

I'm scared.

I have everything.

I have you.

I'm bound to lose it all eventually.

I caught what I could,

I dropped what I could not.

I don't want to go back.

I don't want to be scared.

I don't want to think about anything,

I just want to feel like this forever.

Gettin' Ova It

Here I am again! Am I happy? Sure. I'm fucking elated.

I've begun to realize that one mood cannot define your life. You are a mixture of all your ups and downs. The downs suck. Obviously, as one could tell from my last "depressoid" post. I love reading over what I wrote in the past because at the time it felt so good to just write what I felt. I wrote stuff on the internet that I could not tell a human being face to face. Then again, that was at a time where I thought that I didn't have anyone that was willing to listen to my troubles. But, now I've learned that my friends are troubled too and love to talk about the shit that happens.

So far this year I've learned 10 epic things about my life and the people in it:

1) My mom is totally cool when it comes to dating and she wont make me come home at 10 pm on a Saturday night.

2) My dad knows that I hate him. He wants to change? Naa he likes being an asshole.

3) My parents are not all-knowing beings, it took me 16 years to discover this? Yes.

4) My friends are cool when it comes to venting for hours and staying up all night.

5) Never babysit a kid with a foot-fetish.

6) Being a nerd and a total loser doesn't mean that guys wont talk to you ;)

7) If I'm not making people happy, I feel like crap. Therefore, I know why I want to be a therapist.

8) I don't think I want to write professionally anymore.

9) I can't imagine doing anything in the future that requires effort.

10) I'm incredibly annoying.

Willfully Blind

I stare at nothing. It has become second nature, a habit that I am unwilling to break. See, it gives me comfort knowing that the thing I stare at has no judgement towards me, no expectations. If I am depressed, I stare at a simple object. My concentration is completely directed at it. My mind is nowhere else. And when I feel so overwhelmed by my surroundings, I just close my eyes and block out all sounds.

I thought this whole depression phase was over. It is supposed to end. It happens to every teenager. I know this. I repeat this. It has a reason to occur in childhood, for the changes in the child's mind creates spaces that are soon filled with confusion and thus depression. So why is it happening again? I don't want to be like this. It would be simple to change, but I'm tired.

I sleep all the time. I get home from school and go to bed. My mom says that it's iron deficiency. I say that I'm tired. Of what? Well that would be the reason for this whole thing.

Yesterday night my father drank enough liquid courage to ask me why I hate him. I didn't know what to say because I never admitted to myself that I hated my father. He kept telling me that he was a good parent because he always gave me enough room. He told me that I only hated him because I was looking for someone to hate. He said his only fault was spending more of his time caring about my brother than me. He told me I have anger problems and that I just had to accept the fact that he was an asshole. I told him that he didn't have to be an asshole, it's not something to be proud of, something to blame your parenting problems on. But, everything I said did not register. I told him that I could never talk to him because he was only open to conversation when he is drunk. I told him that we could talk in the morning when he was sober. He took it as an insult and said something like "that was an awful thing to say", walking away and telling me that I was a spoiled brat. He cried during all this. I cannot tell if he remembers now. Everything was back to normal in the morning. I probably would have thought that I dreamt the whole thing if I hadn't of woken up to the sounds of my dad puking his guts out in the hotel toilet. I'm not sure if I want to talk about it in front of anyone in my family, I might cry or something stupid. I hate that I have a reason now to hate him. Before it was just small things, building up one by one. I guess those small things just got sick of being ignored.

The sad thing is that I probably hate my father more now. And you have no idea how much that hurt me to write.

I'm sad, and I don't want to be.  

I've Got a Creepy Feeling About All This

The concept of change hits you like a breaking ball. It rips through your body and shocks you to your core. There are changes to make the world better. Changes in medicine, education, laws and most importantly: our way of thinking. Sometimes these changes will happen fast and be accepted immediately, but others will only happen though determination and time. One day I feel that I will become like my parents. I will hate the changes to the traditional world in which I was raised because it will signify the loss of my history. Will I hate people who are different than what I consider normal?

It is true, that everyone wants to be remembered. But, who wants to remember a world where people were slaves to their own assumptions of their own superiority, their own definitions of freedom, of what is morally right or wrong. Our language is not universal. We are just animals with the mindset that what we say is definite. That what we do can always be justified by our means. That what we write is read. That what we envision is pictured the same in every reader's mind. We have created a glass dome, in which we are safe from outside influences. In which we are the superior ones. And yet, a spider crawls into the dome and makes a grown man break into a cold sweat. 

we lie to ourselves on a daily basis. willful blindness helps us in our sad plight. let us all follow the leader. let us all deny our abilities. let us all ignore the warnings from our aching limbs. let us all destroy ALL compassion. let us unite in hatred, dance in the darkness, spill the blood, drink the sorrow, bask in our greatness, smile at the wars, defend the death, eat the flesh, deny the facts, swallow the shit, burst with pleasure, break the rebels, follow the leader, follow the rules, follow what is best, we are all tools

we are no longer human.

COMPASSION, DENIED

Please Don't Bring Me Down

I have feelings... tons of feelings.

Ones that well up and burst,

others that I suppress only to hold onto them as long as possible.

I find myself only attracted to complete strangers.

An unhealthy habit. I know. 

Maybe I love too easily, attraction is a second. Love immediately after.

I feel in love with a guy who smiled at me. I'm riding a streetcar named love :)

No wonder I have so much trouble talking to people.

I'm insecure, outside, inside, every side. 

I'm a tired person. 

I'm tired of trying to hide from fuck heads and their fuck-headed comments.

People who can't understand their own words. 

I'm not made of metal. Your sticks and stones will break my bones. I shatter. I'm glass. Words can hurt me. They will always do damage. 

So why don't you stop wondering why I'm not talking to you anymore? 

If you put this much thought into what you say, then what you said...

I don't what to think about you anymore... because it only reminds me of what you said.

No one ever made fun of my flaws before you. I saw them. Now I think that everyone else sees them too. Are you happy now??? ARE YOU HAPPY??? You didn't know me. 

But you thought you saw me. 

I've realized who my true friends are, I've got one back ;) I'm closer to others and I'm just glad that you never got close enough to do damage. With a knife perhaps?

I heard stories and I decided to form my own opinion. 

You are a sad, sad boy who has no idea how to make friends. 

Me. I'm a loner. I don't hurt anyone. 

The Snow Globe

They feel so small
deep within these hard, glass walls
shake them, shake the children, shake the women
the men will fall.

WAR IS PEACE

FREEDOM IS SLAVERY

IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH

The snow is spinning,
spinning around them mockingly.
Soon it lies at their cold dead feet.
SHOUT, CRY:
WE ARE THE DEAD
The process begins again.

Pushed up against the glass
their breath creates steam,
their screams make a crack,
their love burns a hole,
their defiance breaks the Globe.

There is no scream.
A fresh crack in the glass:
are they the first or the last?
To break the Globe?

No. There is no crack. There is no break.
There is no hope.

2+2 will always = 5

Blind eyes see no crime.
Bruised ears hear no scream.
Paralyzed hands feel no pain.
THIS IS PEACE

There is no scream.
Not really,
not even a echo vibrates
off these glass walls.
Just snow.
Spinning,
spinning
in the machine:
turning the gears
freezing all that is human.
It is perfect
It is powered by the snow...
When it stops,
only we will know.

I just watched All the Real Girls and it depressed me so much! What love story ends with both characters in love with one another, yet not together?
Yet again, another movie that wakes me up to sad reality: that love does not conquer all. At least it did not end like the most classic love story, with a double suicide, like Antony and Cleopatra. Now that would have been a downer...

Building Sandcastles_REVISED

I haven't posted in a while, so this goes out to "all you" :) I think I posted this story already, but this is the version that I handed in for English class.

His weary eyes followed the flashing, black bar as it made its way back up to the start of the page. Groaning, he watched as his hours of work were slowly wiped off the computer screen. He took his right forefinger from the backspace and moved his hands through his dark, scruffy mop of hair. Maybe his ex-wife was right. This just isn’t worth it. All the pressure, all the headaches. What is the point? He had nothing to write about because he gave up everything important to him just to pursue his dream. Now, even that is gone.
He pushed off the basement floor, sent the empty chair flying across the dimly lit room and watched as it went crashing into the wall. The sound it made when it hit, told him that the chair had created another dent. Another reminder of his inabilities. The dents were the only things that were reliable and consistent.
Taking off his glasses and placing them next to his notepad on the desk, he began to massage his strained eyes. He had been sitting in the same spot for hours and his back was covered in moist perspiration that had now begun to stick to his green dress shirt. With one hand, he pulled the wet shirt away from his back; with the other he picked up his glasses and put them on. He noticed the fingerprints and dust covering them; he had become unaware of the blurriness after hours of staring at a screen. His wife used to bug him about his dirty glasses.
“How can you possibly see anything with so much grit on your glasses? How many fingers am I holding up?” Jan would say with a loving smile and he would follow along with the charade by pretending to be blind as he groped for her hand.
He fumbled for the banister in the dark with his free hand. Feeling the cool medal hit his fingertips, he grasped onto it and made his way up stairs to make a cup of strong coffee. He hated memories. He hated remembering. He somehow managed to drain it in less than a minute, despite its lava-like temperature. When he went to throw his cup in the sink, adding to the overflow of week old dishes, his eyes caught sight of the front lawn. The lawn was in such bad shape that the people in the community seemed to avoid it as they went for their morning walks. Old people would not stop and talk by it, teenagers would not make out near it, kids would not play on it, and dogs would not even pee on it. The shrubs were once trimmed every week, the grass always cut and the flowers… were now buried beneath years of weeds and neglect. He remembered that his wife had taken care of the flowers. Her once loving and happy face would be replaced with a look of disgust. The last time he saw her she was not too happy either.
“You quit? How are you going to support us as a writer? Why don’t you just ask for your old job back?” Jan asked, getting more and more furious when he repeated the same answer over and over, he had made up his mind.
The fight went on for days, but following a week of quiet seething she found him in the kitchen preparing dinner.
“Fine. You made up your mind. It seems that you have your whole life sorted out. I can’t convince you to listen to me, so I too have made up my mind.” He couldn’t turn to face her, he just nodded. He didn’t say anything to prevent her from leaving. Jan moved out a day later. Her packing had been done long before that night.
So now the bright yellow, romantic, little house on the street had become the depressing, little shack with peeling paint that reminded people that the world was not as perfect as suburbia might suggest.
It was as if there was a neon sign on his door that said: “Hide your eyes, keep your children close, for you just might catch this man’s disease.” He had heard the neighbors talking once, they were an old couple so they had trouble hearing each other and had to practically shout to have a conversation. He listened to their shouting match as they talked about him and his lovely wife, how lucky he had been to find such a caring woman and how happy they had been together before he had a “mid-life crisis”. These people spoke about him as if he had died and the spirit he left behind was who he had become. He had become something to be ignored and forgotten, a horrible and depressing entity that refused to move on, a reminder of failure.
What he really needed was to go outside and breathe fresh air. Maybe a walk would clear his head. He couldn’t remember the last time he had even opened the front door.
Stepping outside, he expected all of his neighbors to poke their heads out their doors just to get a look at the crazy, hermit man. The only thing that happed was that he received an instant headache from the sun. He went back inside to get his sunglasses, which were buried beneath a pile of old newspapers that had replaced his dinner table. He glanced at the date on one of the papers and become conscious of the fact that he had no idea what day it was. Stepping back outside he began walking. His neighbor was having a beer on his front porch. John was waving at him, but he ignored John, kept his head down and walked faster. He really didn’t know where he was going, but stopped went he reached the beach. He saw that the bench was powdered with grains of sand, he brushed some of them off, sat down and then he surveyed his surroundings. There was a young man and woman who were having a picnic. He could hear them laughing and felt the familiar pang of jealously. He turned his head away. There were a few other people. A little boy who was having trouble building a sandcastle, someone he assumed to be the little boy’s mother and a few teenagers swimming in the warm water.
“Hello.”
The voice made him jump and he turned to see who had broken the silence. It was a small woman in her eighties who had sat down beside him. He gave her an awkward smile and turned his eyes to the ocean.
“I’m sorry I scared you. I just thought that you might want some company.” She waited for his reply, but never got one. She looked like she was in pain as she struggled to get up, to leave him to his silence. He felt bad, so he turned and told her to stay. They sat there for a while, each one off in their own little world. The lady turned to him and told him that she had never seen anyone look so sad.
“I thought how odd. It’s such a beautiful day. The sun is so bright. It brings everything alive. See, just look at the ocean.” She said this as she pointed with her finger that quivered from the effort of the motion. He looked, but he could not see the beauty that she could so effortlessly. He lied to her when he nodded his head. It did appear to please the old lady. She once again pointed to various things around the beach and spoke about their beauty. He began to tune her out. He focused on the sand at his feet and started to push it around with the toe of his shoe. He took a quick look beside him and saw that the old lady had gone. He noticed that he still had his sunglasses on and that there was no need for them, so he took them off and put them in his pocket. Then, he went back to pushing the sand.
“Excuse me mister?” He looked up to see the little boy who had been trying to build a sandcastle and his mother standing beside him. “I was just wondering if you had something that I could put on my castle.” He glanced over the little boy’s shoulder to see that he had succeeded in building a sandcastle. It wasn’t perfect, but it was standing. He asked the boy how long it took him to build the castle.
Smiling, the little boy said, “A long time. It kept falling down.” The man asked him why he just didn’t give up. The little boy looked at him like he was nuts and said, “If I gave up every time that the sandcastle fell down, I’d never build one.” The mother added, “Think about it, if every time you built a sandcastle it was perfect, then the excitement of building a perfect castle would fade. The effort makes the finished product much more rewarding. Plus, maybe he’ll be an architect someday.” The mother bent and kissed the top of her son’s blond head, smiling as she brushed sand from her lips with the back of her hand. Convinced that the man didn’t have anything to give him, the boy returned to his sandcastle. The little boy’s mother sat down on the bench.
Once, again both parties were off in their own worlds, at least he thought so. After a while, he noticed her eying him with curiosity. “Are you the man who lives in the little yellow house?” He searched her face, looking for any sign of disgust or horror, but when he did not see either, he nodded his head. “I used to be your neighbor, but when my husband died, my parents forced me to move closer to them. I still cannot resist coming back to the ocean though. It has always held a special place in my memories. I met my husband here.” She smiled at him, but her smile did not suggest sadness as he had expected. She looked more wistful as she turned to the ocean and breathed a great sigh. He could practically see her memories written in her expression and he felt uncomfortable around her vulnerability.
“I always wanted a house like yours, it seemed so perfect behind its white picket fence. It stood there as a monument, so safe from outside influence and I envied you.” After a long pause she continued. “I passed the house today. I didn’t think that anyone lived there anymore. It’s good to know that it’s still serving its purpose.” He looked at her then and thanked her. Laughing she replied, “I have not idea what you would be thanking me for, but you’re welcome.” Shivering she said, “It’s getting pretty cold. The ocean has a way of changing the weather instantly. You better get home.” He watched as the boy and his mother walked away and he couldn’t help but smile. He stayed for a little while, until the sun went down and everyone left the beach to return to warm homes. He told himself that it was his time to go too, so he got off the bench and made his way back to his little, yellow house.
When he got inside, he cleaned his glasses then went down stairs. He fetched his chair from across the room, turned on his computer and began writing. He wrote about pursuing dreams, ones that may lead nowhere, finding people who will support your leaps of faith and the importance of embracing the memories that make you who you are; for without them, one cannot exist. But, more importantly he wrote about a little old lady who saw beauty wherever she looked, a widow who convinced a man to escape his ivory tower and a little boy who built imperfect sandcastles all day long.

Driving No Where Any Time Soon

So, I had an eye doctors appointment on Tuesday. I found out that I can't drive... I might need a CATs scan done on my brain because my eyes have not improved since I was five. Then after I get that done I need to get laser eye surgery again. And maybe after all of this some divine miracle will happen and my eyes will stop being so screwy. I think I have a brain tumor... lmao I've thought that it was a problem since I read a book which was talking about some guy who had double vision and migraines = brain tumors. Sort of scared me a little. It sucks completely.

You Call That Mature?

Fact: People grow up. Another fact: People put too much importance on maturity. Maturity is just a word. Like many other words it is used too much, to frequently inflate peoples' egos.

People tell you that you are mature for your age. BTW: not a complement. AKA: You are not as stupid and annoying as I assumed you would be when I found out that you were a teenager. Immaturity makes life interesting. If the whole world was made of mature people, topics on a rainy day would range from tax returns to what specific colour the wall paint is. So let's PLEASE stop acting like mature adults while we still have our childhood. Someday you will look back on yourself and hate that you never embraced your childish natures. But, if you had put so much importance on maturity, you will also see your childish self as an idiot. When, truly, that's just the way we start out. And you'll ask yourself in the most secluded part of your mature brain what you were thinking when you did those supposedly "MATURE" things, because to the future you, you were as egotistical as they come. I was there with you when you bragged about being so much more fucking mature than us, sorry to tell you but, it was kind of ironic. Do you really think that a mature person would brag about being mature? Jesus fucking Christ. You call that mature? Keep denying that immaturity is biting at your heels, keep running and looking behind you. I seriously hope you trip and fall, because once you do, there will be no one there to pick you up off your ass. Maturity means nothing, neither does immaturity. It's the way people act that make them mature or immature individuals. Mature means being responsible, responsible for your actions, responsible for your stupidity, and responsible for your health. But, that's just me looking through your smoke filled eyes and don't try telling me that your life is so bad that you have to do all this shit. Try thinking about people who matter for once. Your problems, my problems, are not worth reading. I hope this is a phase and that it ends soon.

Impressions are PITIFUL

It's scary in a way, that people are so reliant on the opinions of other people. Whether they need confirmation that they are accepted, beautiful, cool, smart or funny, many people lack the skills to make themselves feel good about themselves. Here's the sad part: Once you are complimented by a person, you strain to be like that, even if you aren't what they see you. At least you are being seen, right? That's when you become someone else, hungering for compliments, spewing pity through every pore, waiting for someone to clog them temporarily. They become you eventually. And that person no longer gets genuine compliments, just ones to shut them up. Is it wrong to stop complimenting that person--to stop encouraging their pity seeking pleas? It makes everyone sad, and a little tired. So, let's be ourselves... as if it was that simple. We'd all be so very beautiful, but for every beautiful person, there is an ugly one to make seem untouchable. We all hungry for something more, it's time to feed that stomach, but not with pity, with courage and eventually confidence. It goes the same way for insults, including ones that come from so called friends. But that's a whole other issue, that I'd prefer not to get into. It's buried under 3000 feet of sand, silt and clay.

Laughing at Yourself Doesn't Accomplish Anything

I've done many stupid things in my life. I've been ashamed, hated, pitied and saved. But, of all the stupid things that I've done that Canada Day is in first place. My father thinks that it is funny to tell everyone and anyone that will listen. Does he think it's funny that his daughter made a mistake? His other perfect daughter would never do anything that would make him upset -- then happy that he has a freaking story to tell to the neighbours. For me it's in the past. For him, it should be brought up at any mention of alcohol and I should laugh. Then why the fuck do I feel like crying? There was nothing funny about it. My heart was beating irregularly. What if it had stopped? Please stop laughing at something that I'm ashamed of, a part of myself that I've gotten over and it has become a part of who I am. Please stop picking at scars. Please stop reminding everyone. Please stop laughing at me.

Try This On For Size

The pigheadedness of people is astounding. It's curious how the fangs appear, as if from thin air, once the person is backed into a corner. The corner closes in and the only way out is through the person blocking you in. Either you can go through them, blast them down or wait until the waves of insults/arguments are passed. Just try to ignore their smug sense of satisfaction as you gather your bloodied parts, wipe their spit from your face and slink by them. The other ways involve confidence, a suicide wish and a few more brain cells. See, if you spend all your life getting beaten up by the "facts", you lose brain cells needed to find the facts. That is their point. To stop you from finding your own way and your own facts. I'm giving up on convincing others to believe what I believe. There is no point, because I could be wrong and I'm only preventing them from finding their own way, plus I've been beaten up by the "facts" way too many times. Just like raising children to be a certain religion or even vegetarian. You have to wait until they can see the facts that you feed them. You tell them the story and let them choose, they'll thank you for it later and they'll understand why they are the way they are. They'll see that they are the product of their own choice and belief. Ex. I've been baptised. It means nothing to me, because I found my own way. I sometime start to wonder what would have happened if my mother took me too church every Sunday. I'd probably not hangout with the people I do, I wouldn't swear, I wouldn't be a vegetarian, I would be scared of gay people, I would read the bible-- not Cosmopolitan, I would be a happy person, I would confess to some "bad things I do", I wouldn't think about suicide (don't worry, haven't in a year since I began writing), I wouldn't have ended up in the hospital, I wouldn't have gone to Centennial and learned about sex and evolution, I would have joined a production course to realize that all the swears have been blacked out (that fucking sucks ass), my blog would be more boring and everything will be very opposite. That scares me to death. It's not those facts, it's the possibility that my mom determined my whole future with that one decision. Power is not always as obvious as a blazing gun. If the whole world was full of god-loving, animal murdering crazies then there would be no nature-loving, plant eating crazies to balance out the whole equation. It's simple science. It's that my mom made the decision to deal with a animal loving crazy when she let me choose. I grew up and I will continue to grow up until I find my way. I'm getting old enough to see the infinite things that could make or break me. I've got a lifetime to figure out if this crazy is right for me, there is always another crazy waiting to be tried on.

The Very Preptarded Line Between Best Friend and Enemy

What do you do when two people you love fight? Me, I sit and try not to get involved. It helps everyone: I get to be lazy and they get to work it out or avoid each other. I know many people who will jump right into a problem and want to get into the thick of it. It just might make them important or something. Now, I used to spit advice at anyone who would take it, well at least nod and pretend, hell if I cared. Advice ranging from boy troubles, funny... coming from someone who has never had a boyfriend, to family issues, equally funny... coming from someone who has never really had any. So, now I'm just starting to learn to shut my trap and sit on my ass. Something that suits me fine. Until that one faithful day that someone yells at me for not caring about their life enough, this will continue. Gossip is a preptarded thing, the less you know the more you want to know, the more you know the more you complain about being in the middle of it. It's simple, step off the playing field, it's someone else's game.

Did We Become Our Shells?

The sad thing about getting hurt is that every time it happens, we put up these walls. Some become so fully enclosed in these barriers that we begin to doubt who we really are. So, my question is, are these shells still us, or are they a decoy, to distract the next possible attacker? It's like our security system, but it's more like those invisible red lasers they have in those jewel burglary movies. Once in a blue moon, someone or something might get through those lasers, whether they have laser viewing goggles or they are just lucky, they are still walking on egg shells once they are in. It's much easier and calmer to watch the sea, instead of jumping into the shark pit. So, we've learned to accept the shell as the person and get on with life. Is that wrong? -- cowardly even? We tell ourselves that it's what the person wants. Really, it's like hiding without the seek. They fall asleep in the closet, under the bed or behind the curtains and we are forgetting about them. They are still waiting to be found. Ignoring the fact that they are still hiding, makes the person behind our walls even uglier.

Please Baby Don't Cry

All of our lives we are told to be strong and not cry. But really it's these people telling us not to feel, who don't want to see the pain in you. They could care less if you held it in until you exploded, hurting yourself and maybe everyone around you. All that they can see is the present dilemma, the water leaking from your eyes, ignoring the pain leaking through your body. Invisible pain is so much easier for others' to live with. Will it always be this way? Will your loved ones let you cry until you are numb or will this "suffocation of emotions" continue until it's too late? I believe that their intentions are good, but they don't want to venture into the reason for the tears or see the pain on your face and know that they might be the reason behind it. And anyways, why should crying make you weak? Doesn't suppressing it make you weaker in the long run? Hiding from things that make you uncomfortable makes you weak. Actual strong people cry out their tears and get on with their life. Or they stand up at a funeral and tell their story, their memories and never ask the question "What if I had done..." because they did and there are no regrets. They face everyday with a new attitude, no matter how bad yesterday was. Yesterday was a day for crying, today is a day for finding things to smile about. I don't care what the text book definition of a strong person is, but too me, and I hope many others as well, it's all a bunch of bull crap.

A few days ago, I told my friend that she was the strongest person I knew. She embraces her emotions, one of the things that makes her such an amazing writer, and follows her own unique path. My life has been filled with many strong women who have taught me absolutely everything that I base myself on and I plan to admire them for the rest of my life. Screw the textbooks.

Ten Ways to Fit Your Whole Summer Into One Day

10. The night before, stay up until 4:00am playing FFXII.

9. Wake up at noon and play FFXII until 3:00pm.

8. Eat lunch just because your stomach is eating you from the inside out.

7. Play with your bunny and get annoyed when she tries to bite wires.

6. Put bunny away and play FFXII.

5. Get stuck in game and look on gamefaqs for a walkthrough. Should take awhile if you have dial up...

4. Realize that school is tomorrow and that you have to decorate your binders with picture of random crap.

3. Step outside, thinking that you should get some sun for once, and realize that the house is a lot cooler, by twenty degrees.

2. Stay inside and stare at the clock, wishing that you could freeze time.

1. Do nothing. The same thing that you have been doing all summer.

Among the Ranks of Other Famous Fat Heads

I was published once again in the newspaper. I got that poem called "What If?" in the August addition. I was very very pissed that the lady who put it in the paper didn't correct the mistake that I pointed out to her in an e-mail. It went something like this:

Before:
While the strong were forced to made a deal with the devil.

After w/ correction:
While the strong were forced to make a deal with the devil.

Then I received an e-mail back that said:

Done. Thanks.

I'm beginning to think that the bitch was laughing at me. If you say that sentence with sarcasm it explains everything. Writing is quiet ironic. You write a sentence or many and they could be taken anyway that the reader wants to take it. Maybe she intended to say, "What's the big deal. You are sixteen and you wrote a poem that sucks. I have better things to do than correct a mistake you should have noticed before you sent it, so ya! Thanks for the tip. I'm gonna go an get a coffee so I can stay awake long enough to kill myself."

It put a damper on a great day, I have to admit. Whatever, it was partly my fault. Geeezzus even when I sent in a picture of my bunny ABIE she spelt her name wrong in the paper. Jessica Shelley's bunny Albie. Albie? As in the racist dragon?

Shrug it off. Shrug it off. Is it possible? My dad read my story in the paper. The one about THAT day. He didn't say anything. I cried in my room. The same as time and time before when my dad lets me down. I shouldn't cry I know, not over him. I'm sick of wondering what it means, but after I told him that I was published again he told me that he could see me famous. Can I see me famous? Naa. I may be a fat head sometimes but I could never do it full time. I told my mom something when she said that I have talent. I said, "It comes and goes." The scary thing about writing is that after you finish a story you always wonder if that's the last one or if there is another, will it be as good? The world is full of the broken glass of broken goals. You know in school when they try to get you to have goals? Well it's all some sort of conspiracy designed to get you to do great things. I'm too lazy. Way too lazy. I could never get a job working with people. For one thing I don't like them and the other, I'd let them down. One thing that people forget about famous people is that they are still people and when they fall or stumble we love it because it reminds us that even golden plated people get scratched by broken glass. I guess deep down some people hide it, but it shows now and then. Stop hiding silly, come out and play. Embrace your jumbled thoughts, if you can gather enough energy to hold them. I know that I'm too lazy to care. How about you?

When Talking No Longer Gets You Anywhere

I was watching the movie Your Mommy Kills Animals, which is about the animal rights movement. Mostly, it shunned Peta and groups that have lost their way. Well, I disagree with that statement on most parts. At least they are speaking out about a cause that seems noble. But, one thing these turd sandwiches said, was that they couldn't understand why wearing fur was so wrong. This one bitch from Australia said that she enjoyed wearing fur cause it was warm and that didn't mean that she hated animals. I was sort of laughing and crying at that point. How can you say that you love animals, yet kill them, skin them for your own benefit? It sickens me to think that these delusional people actually thing that wearing fur or leather is fine, when there are warmer, CHEAPER things to wear. Like a fucking ski jacket. All I can think about now is going up to that girl and showing her my bunny, letting her see the FACE of her fur. Like holy shit, not like it would change her mind about it, but it sure would give me the satisfaction of knowing that she can see how pissed I am. Just like people who have dogs or pets and eat meat, you ask them why it's OK to eat a cow when they would never eat their dog. It's so frustrating. This whole thing. Deep down my parents, and my whole family believe that vegetarianism is a phase, probably some teenager thing about having an identity. In a way it is. I've found who I am and I've found something to fight for. I look back and I hate that I once ate meat without thinking about the animal. I've always loved animals and recently I've seen my former self as one of those delusional turds that I get pissed at. I love that I'm finding who I am. For the first fifteen years of my life I was what I as told to be. Now, I'm thinking for myself, living for myself and loving every minute of it. But, anyways, back to the movie. It was also about the SHAC 7 convictions. And if you noticed, I added the homepage to my blog for anyone who is interested in the case. These people were tried as terrorists because they protested animal testing. None of the people who were convicted did any of the crimes. They were a representation of the whole activist group. They couldn't actually find the people they suspected of the crimes. The sentences ranged from 3 to 6 years and each person was fined 1 million dollars. These people were given a larger sentence than a rapist would have received or even a murderer in the UK. The funny thing is these "terrorists," were these geeky, skinny, vegans who wouldn't hurt a fly. The guy, Kevin Kajonaas, who got the highest amount of jail time was ambushed in his house by a SWAT team who put a gun to his head. The guy was 5'10 and weighed 120 pounds. I remember this thing he said in the movie that went something like this: "Just like time and time before the same questions are being asked. All this for a black? All this for a Jew? All this so women can vote? And now it's: All this for an animal?" He put words to the sad history that is being repeated over and over again. I'm SICK of crying myself to sleep because nothing I say is being taken as valuable information into any one's brain. I'm screaming in the dark, waiting for someone to tell me, not that they care or that they feel the same way, just that they can hear. I'm SICK of being made fun of because I haven't had a boyfriend. I guess it's kinda hard to find a boyfriend if the whole world thinks that you like girls. I've even began to doubt myself. I'm SICK of being laughed at because I TRULY BELIEVE THAT ALL ANIMALS ARE EQUALS. YES! Even the fucking birds and the worms. Everything has a right to life. I'm going to be a vegetarian for the rest of my life. I don't even care if it gets me nowhere in the end. I'd love to say that I hate everyone and everything, but I really don't. It's just a sickness that forms in my heart and has eaten its way out every time I'm told not to scream, not to cry, not to feel. Feelings tell us that we are alive. It's only after the fact that we see this. After the screaming fits and the tears. Sickness is a whole different story. Sickness is what I feel, bitter resentment and anger. But anyways, most of all I'm SICK of yelling into space. Empty space. There is not even an echo. If there was an echo I might be able to convince myself that it's really someone who gives a shit.