Girl's Night

a typical girl's night. spent eating junkfood, watching lame-ass chick-flicks and deciding what girls we think are pretty and what ones we don't.

you can't say it isn't typical, because we all do it. and although it made me think about L's post about how girls are expected to be these 'godesses' that sometimes we all can't be, it was funny when amy and i both agreed that we hated lindsay lohan's eyebrows in mean girls with a passion. and that we didn't beleive that she had never had a boob job. and that the little mole on her lip was pretty gross.

but in picking her apart, we were no where near feeling great about ourselves. you can pick most celebs apart right to miniscule shreds, and still know that push-come-to-shove, most guys would pick the celeb over you any day. that's just how it goes. and i think most of us have come to terms with that a few years back when we realised that mary-kate and ashley weren't all that they're cracked up to be.

so amy and i 'vegged' out on the couch in our pajamas. watching mean girls. and for some odd reason, drinking chocolate milk and pepsi out of brandy glasses.

"she does have manly shoulders."

"eww, she's too pale to be blonde."

"i wonder how she gets her hair so greasy?"

"haha, look at her teeth!"

but the fact still being, that they were the ones on the movie. and hey, that's fine, because if it means having eyebrows like lindsay lohan's to be a star, i'm good in my sweatpants for now. with my choco-brandy. having girl nights with amy.

Lacking

it's actually not that hard just to sit down and type, really, it isn't. but to sit down and type something meaningful, that's the true challenge. and i'm now challenging myself to do that constantly, which is where the writer's blocks come in.

so, just as a heads up, there will be a hold on more short stories for a while. lately life has been lacking the necessary inspiration.

The Parties Under The Bridge

Liera was never invited to any of the parties under the bridge. Not even tonight's, which had been promised to be the best of the year. It wasn't even that they were invitation only; she was just terrified that someone would notice that she wouldn't belong, that she hadn't been asked to come along and had just arrived.

Like an icicle in the Sahara, Liera stood out in a crowd. She did not fit into the picture. Sometimes she, herself, noticed this. Mostly when her face was shadowed out of the photographs, or when, on rare occasions, she seemed to be giving off a pearlescent glow. Almost to say, "Here I am, notice me and the fact that I am different."

Tonight, Liera was glowing harder then ever as she trekked along the train tracks toward the river crossing. The music reached her ears before even the scent of cigarette smoke did. It was loud, intoxicating, and rhythmic beyond all belief. It pumped through her like blood, and she found herself like-wise depending on it to keep her going.

Liera caught sight of a shadow, hanging over the bridge; like a canopy of protection from the outside world. It hovered, delicately woven of the innocence of the children, slightly growing in size as she edged nearer. She was not sure if it was growing simply from perspective.

The bridge was alive. The beach side, infested. Music blared from every possible speaker, many different tunes at once. Liera reached the end of the tracks and stood, shadowed behind the bushes. She watched, and like a cool drink of fresh water, she drank them in. She was a peeper, a watcher. She wished only to observe, but never to participate.

Voices of the kids crept up in the thick summer air towards her, taunting her. "What are you doing here? You do not belong." The shadow above roared it's agreement, it trembled, it shook, and proceeded to sprinkle the night with a light summer rain. Liera watched from the outside, and even when everyone scrambled under the bridge and into pulled over pick-up trucks to avoid the wetness, she seemed untouched by the water at all. Not a single drop reached her, proof again that she was not wanted.

Liera was never invited to any of the parties under the bridge. Not even tonight's. But she watched, like she had done every time before. She did not fit in with the crowd, perhaps her life was destined to be that of an outsider looking in. She was invisible, she was remarkably noticeable. She was distinct.

She was alone while she watched the party, with only the shadow of innocence to talk to. It talked much, for it had many tales to tell. Many secrets to divulge. Liera drank up every inch of this "outside world" like a tall drink of fresh water. And when the rain finally stopped along the beach, it rained a bit on her. For once, Liera did not see it as being left out, she saw it as her being the only one.

Just Leave Me Be

Undecipherable is that which
You inscribed behind
You leave me with memories
You leave me behind

You leave me alone
Leave me terrified
I can’t read what you wrote
And you I can’t find

To decipher this mess
To prove me wrong
You left me alone.
I’m on my own.

Extra Tears

looking back it seems surreal. how things could change so much from what they had been. how she could change so much, in a matter of small short months.

sometimes, when she tried to remember things, or she said memories out loud, they almost made her want to cry. but not in the fact that she remembered what it was like, it made her want to cry for someone else because she could not comprehend how things could ever have been like that. she shed tears for someone else's life, or so it felt.

well, whoever that someone else was, they were sure getting a lot of extra tears lately.

Mmm, Strawberry-Rhubarb

so im sitting here, eating this sick "t.v." diner i just finished "cooking", while i screw around with the internet trying to get my msn to work and wondering what this cranberry apple "dessert" is really made of, when it occurs to me.

the internet sucks.

and so do mothers, i've concluded. no offense to all you motherly readers out there, i'm sure you're all doing a great job, but let me ask you one thing.

say your child has an extreme passion. they are truly interested in something, of harmless nature. say, it's perhaps writing... and well, they write every day, and they write novels, they want to grow up to be a writer... (etc.) maybe they write a three hundred page book that has taken them ages, like seriously ages to accomplish, they actually put thier mind to it and finished something they began... would you encourage them in all this? would you take the time out of your busy schedual to read what your child had wrote? would you not allow them onto the computer to type AT ALL during the week, even if they're not on the internet and not tying up the line?!

i have a passion. it's called my book. i call it my baby. and now the damn baby has been put on hold of it's due date for another year or so. i really truly thought i was going to pop that thing out, but noooooo. seems to me my mom stuck her hands up there and shoved it back in!!!

hey, that apple-cranberry thing was actually pretty good. hmm, kind of like a strawberry rhubard crumble, even though it included none of those ingredients.

soo, if i am permitted the pleasure of writting again, i will proceed to post chapter one A and chapter one B on my blog. im looking for some advice on which one you like more, there's this long and complicated story about why i have too, and im just too lazy today to write it out for you :)

and now i'm going to go and finish eating.

Running From Something

the streets were far darker at night then during the day. she lost her sense of orientation quickly. the roads all seemed to look the same, the night engulfing them all in it's simple darkness. the stars shining down on every single surface, except her, and she walked alone.

the harbour passage was a bitch at night. walking underneath the bridge, she saw so many homeless men huddling to keep out the cold. they yelled things towards her, calling out to her, asking her where she was going. she knew the answer, just not the destination. she wondered what it would be like to sleep out under the stars tonight, to wake up with the frost on her nose, or maybe to be lucky and not wake up again.

she touched her mitten to her nose, whipping away the tears that had run down her face. it's rough texture stung, but only temporarily. walking quickly, she was numb, she was unfeeling, she was hateful. she was something alright, something other then that which she had been.

the boardwalk was empty. the cars, heading out. the streetlights burned yellow patches into the gray snow. she made her way in extreme quiet, in extreme secrecy, in extreme pain.

she had not called ahead of time, but a good fourty five minutes since she had started walking, she reached the waterfront. she reached the little green house. the lights were on, they engulfed her like warmth, they engulfed her entirely and she was still. and she was afraid to move. and she was afraid that all that she had come to know would unravel tonight before her eyes. and she was afraid that like those bums she might end up sleeping homeless tonight. and she was afraid.

then the door opened and she was allowed entry. her eyes colder then usual, her face drained from color, she knew things they had no idea. what was it that she was being exposed to so often? had they no clue? had he no clue? would he help her from what she wished to hide from? who she wished to hide from?

was she hiding from the world that night, while she slept by the soft glow of the lamp, and the goo goo dolls played on the strereo, and she bit her fingers bare? was she hiding? or was she being hiden?

it was too hard and too much for her to comprehend, she would say it again, and as the morning would break across the waterfront, she would deny to herself as much as to the world that those kind of things happen to her.

"we grew up way too fast, and now there's nothing to believe. and reruns all become our history. a tired song keeps playing on a tired radio, and i won't tell no one your name, i won't tell your name."- name, the goo goo dolls.

I'm Grounded On Sunday, Btw

"what do you mean you didn’t wash the dishes?"

"mom, i was home sick today. i figured i'd just wash them tomorrow, when i went back to school and everything, just start everything up again tomorrow.”

"well you were healthy enough to put makeup on!"

"yeah!... oookk..."

"you sounded just like your father when you said that."

"are you trying to be offensive mom? because i love dad, and sounding just like him is fine by me! at least he knew how much of a complete knob you are!"

"there you go again! you're the spitting image of him katelyn! you always have to be rude and have the final word."

"you're the spitting image of the devil !!!"

(and that's how i came to be grounded ... again)

Monkey Mittens

as i write this, i have actual mittens taped to my hands. actual mittens. and i mean, i could easily just rip them off with my teeth if i really wanted to, but no. i find this much to comical, especially seeing as they're brown mittens, in the shape of a monkey's head, complete with teeth and eyes and ears. so it ends up looking like i'm having a puppet show. but, if i scratch hard enough, i can still scratch.


these look exactly like the monkeys, except, well, they're frogs.

today is day three being a chicken, and i'm starting to wonder if they're ever going to go away ... i'm not really disappointed that i missed school today, but if these spots don't get the hell off my face here in the next few days, i'm gonna be some mad!

mike, dylan and levi showed up again yesterday to visit me. this time they at least called before they came, but then again they only called when they were down at the corner store, and i had just gotten out of the shower, wrapped in a towel, covered in sickly spots. they insisted on making me soup, whish was sweet and all, but if you had have seen some of the ingredients in that soup, i don't think you would have ate it either. and they brought me a bunch of bath salts, cough drops, soup, tylenols and whatnot. so that was pretty nice.

(just so you know, the whole time i've been typing this, i've been doing it with my thumbs, and using the spellcheck about every sentence.)

today i would say my appetite is back in full. and, beleive it or not, i think my addiction to dairy products is too. it's quite strange, but about once every two months i go on these milk "binging" sprees, and all i want to drink is milk, all i want to eat is cheese or yogurt or cereal with a lot of milk, and that's mostly all i do eat for about a week. it's been ever since my doctor recommended me to try out that 'dairy diet' or whatnot. but, on the bright side, my hair's growing, my nails are growing and i find myself pretty healthy exam for these damn pox.

so, there's really not that much to say today. i'm home alone while everyone else is in school. teacher called my house last night and told my mom that i failed the majority of my exams. so i doubt i'll be writting a lot lately anways. but i will try this week, seeing as i'm home alone, dying, with nothing else to do.

Me, My Spots, And I

my fingers feel naked. mom made me cut all my nails off today so that i would stop scratching my chicken pox until they bleed. so now all that time i spent painstakingly growing out my pathetic nails was wasted, but i can barely care right now.

it's time for an update. i know i haven't written in a while, and i'm not going to explain to you why. it's not really something to broadcast across the internet, so i'll keep it to myself. but as for the chicken pox, i can tell you about those. well, i'm covered. absolutely covered in chicken pox. right now it doesn't really look like it though because i've slathered myself with calomine lotion to ease the itch. but still, i'm on the verge of an insane itching spree. last night mom threatened to duct-tape oven mits to my hands if i didn't stop itching, but she hasn't yet come through with her promise. i've tried everything, oatmeal baths, calomine lotion, cold cloths, polysporin, everything.

so now, i have this insane desire to play connect-the-dots. i've already made a heart, it's quite nice if i do say so myself. i've also already polished off half a black forest cake myself for breakfast, it was real good too. my appetite has finally returned in a small porportion. i'm home alone today, and for the next two weeks, now though. i really just wish i could have caught these a long time ago, like when i was five or something, i'm going to end up scarring really badly. i have them all over my face, and in my ears, and in my nose, down my throat, well hell, they're everywhere!

yesterday dylan and mike stopped by randomly to bring me chicken soup and a magazine. i thought that was adorable, even though i was in sweat pants and a sweatshirt, covered in spots, which are starting to strangely look like body acne... sick, i know.

there's not really that much to write, but i knew i had to write something, no matter how bad the writter's block has become. (and it's really bad now.) i have a feeling i'll be writting more often now though, seeing as i won't be in school for the next two weeks.

so, if anyone has any suggestions for chicken pox 'relief', please, please, please! leave a comment! the oatmeal baths are shit by the way, all they did for me was make me smell like fresh oatmeal, although i do like fresh oatmeal, well no, they made me itch more. and the calomine lotion tastes funny.