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It’s Been A Bloody Long While

Holy hell-Gods of cynicism.
It seems like I just can’t leave WordPress, no matter how hard I try. Every time I do, I come crawling, sooking and drooling back on all fours like a baby who’s had her pacifier taken from her.

In this case, it’s … something like that. But I’ve done this to myself. I don’t even know if I want anyone to read this; I just know that I’m hurting, someone else is hurting, it’s all my fault and I really need to write about it, because I can’t talk about it. And yes, all of the someones are going to be case sensitive for the purpose of protecting them, like I promised I would.

Anyway. I can’t tell the people close to me how I’m feeling, because either they aren’t supposed to know, they know and they’ll be against the decision I’m leaning towards making, or they’re the one I’m hurting, and I can’t exactly explain all this to them without seeming as though I have some deep mental issues. Besides all that, I’m supposed to be making this decision for myself – the only problem is, I don’t know what decision to make. My heart and head are not exactly harmonious on the matter, and even though my head is beginning to give in, there’s always that nagging little voice, and the flip of my stomach … but I can’t tell what it all means.

Some people believe in signs. I don’t know if I do or not. But I’ve been asking for them, and they’re not turning up. Why can’t something, some miracle, just turn up and help me, give me all the arguments and tell me which is the bigger list – pros, or cons?

And then I’d like some morphine. Thanks.

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Just When You Think You Have The Hang Of It

Okay, so I don’t really feel like writing…

But I had to get this out somehow.
I’m angry, so pissed off, so frustrated, and so … silenced. I can’t talk to anyone about it, because it just gets turned back on me. I can’t even whine about other things for the fear that that will be turned around and used against me, too, just in a completely out of context kind of way.

People I thought I could trust are passing notes behind my back, and the only people who I know for a fact aren’t going to be horrible are my boyfriend and my parents. Is that not sad? That I can’t trust people I’ve known for months, if not a year or more? That people have to pick petty fights over shit I didn’t even notice ’til someone pissed me off?

Maybe it’s naive of me to think that people could possibly act like the mature adults that they want so much to be. Or maybe I should have noticed that when these people can’t hold down a stable relationship with a friend let alone anything more and yet have all the problems to rival a midlife crisis that I should just stay the fuck away from them.

I’m not sorry. I’m not going to apologize anymore. The next person to blame me for something or bitch me out is going to get jack shit of the small slice of nice that is left in me. I never had faith in the world or people anyway – why would I bother trying to keep any of it that had even ever tried to manifest?

Screw everything.

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Vicious Cycle

Had a great weekend.

Oh, wait. No I didn’t.
I always seem to be … the average. Not for lack of trying, though. I don’t have much motivation, but the small amount of motivation I do have goes into the things I most love. Like writing. Or netball.
But I’m still just another figure. Just another average teenager in the middle mark of everything. I’m not bad, but I’m not above average. Not even if I try my hardest, and am passionate about something. It just doesn’t seem to work for me, and I hate it. What am I supposed to do when my best just isn’t enough? When my best doesn’t even reach my own standards?

I hate feeling like I’m not good enough.
I wish I wasn’t such a pessimistic cynic. Can’t I just see the world in a good light, and accept that I’m no better than average, and that’s okay? Maybe the only reason I can’t see it that way is because I feel like I can do better. Maybe I need to try harder. Harder than I can possibly try.

Great, now I’m running in circles.

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World’s Greatest Dad (And Daughter)

It’s my dad’s birthday, today.

And he’s better than all of your dads combined!
Well, he is the world’s greatest dad. Otherwise, how would I be the world’s greatest daughter? It’s just how it is. Anyways, I have no money, so I made him breakfast – bacon and eggs on toast, jealous? – and a hand-made card. Muse (my cat, if any of you readers don’t know who that is) was stepping all over the paper as I was writing, so I signed it from him, too. He seemed to at least be trying to help me make it.

Anyhow, I thought I might do a dedicated blog to him, as I love my dad and he’s always been there for me. He deserves every present and good wish he gets today; there isn’t enough days in the year that are used just to appreciate him.

Happy birthday, Dad. <3

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Expressive

I wish I could write music.

At the moment, I have so little muse for drawing or writing poems, and there just isn’t enough in my boring life to write about. I’ve already expressed all my opinions, I’ve already whined about all there is to whine about. But I still haven’t got it all out, and I don’t feel like I can. Poems don’t come out how I want them to, they don’t express what I want them to, and I can’t put anything together. On the other hand, I can listen to music and hear every one of my feelings in the notes. In the piano, the violin, the guitar, hell– the keytar even speaks to me. But I can’t write music. I can’t even drum up some small tune on my keyboard. I’m not talented like that, and though I can make crappy little jingles up, it never sounds how I want it to.

I can’t sing, I can’t draw as well as I want to, and I have no motivation to practice, because I feel like everything I do comes out looking like a twelve-year-old got a hold of my tablet. I wish I had the motivation to at least practice something. I wish I was good enough at something to want to do it and refine it. I wish I at least thought I was good at something that I’m bad at, so that I’d have the motivation to touch it up.

I wish, and I procrastinate, and I only get done what needs to be done and nothing more. I can’t find anything to strive for; anything that I really want. It makes it harder to go to school, harder to do anything but sit and spend time with Michael, because he’s the only thing in my life that I constantly think about and want to be with.

I hate hormones, and I hate how I am, but I can’t change it because there’s nothing that makes me feel strongly about it– nothing more than boredom and plain, shallow-rooted frustration that I know will go away.

No motivation there whatsoever.

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You Know That’s Illegal, Right?

You know what I hate?

Spitting. I just hate it when people spit. And it’s not only boys – when girls do it, it’s worse. On top of being plain disgusting, it’s also extremely unladylike. I know I’m not particularly one to ramble about etiquette, but at least I only burp outrageously and sit like a bloke when I’m in private.

Anyway, it’s not tough, and it’s not cool. Spitting is gross, and any boys reading this – though I doubt you intellectual people who actually take the time to get through all my rambling would be spitting all over the joint – please know that spitting most definitely does not attract girls. Not ones with any taste, anyway.

What brought all this on? I was walking through the senior quadrangle today, and had to actually change direction because someone had come up with a lugie that big on the paved area. If you’re going to be vile, couldn’t you idiots at least keep it to where people don’t have to walk? I’m not saying it’s any less of an abhorrent habit, I’m just saying I think we’d all appreciate it more if we didn’t have to see it and/or step over or around it.

Moral of the story? Spit on the grass that no one walks on, when no one can see you doing it. You’re utterly repulsive and no one likes you or your bodily fluids.
Thanks.

Oh, and it’s also actually illegal to spit in public. Just in case you hadn’t figured out what the title was all about.

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Osama Bin Laden

Okay, so I thought I might offer a point of view.

I have something half-decently interesting to offer, tonight! I’m not sure, you might have already guessed my train of thought; it has been all over the news.
Oh, and it’s the title:

Osama Bin Laden.

Personally? I haven’t been affected by him or his posse, but I understand that a lot of people in this world wanted him dead – and for good reason. They have had their mothers, fathers, daughters, sons – and any other family members you can think of – taken away from them at his hands. He was a horrible, horrible person, and I know it’s equally as horrible to wish death upon someone, but he goes into the exception pile along with Hitler and those types of scum. It is brilliant that this man is dead.

However, it is equally as bad.

Osama Bin Laden’s death does not mean the end of the war that he declared prior to his demise. His targets are no safer than they were when he was alive and reining. I also believe his death means the assassination – or at least the attempt(s) of assassination – of Barack Obama. I’m not saying I know much about the situation, but if Al-Qaeda saw his broadcast, they’re after America’s Prime Minister for sure, in my opinion. As far as I know (as per the bulletins of channel nine today) they were quite sure to let the world know that they were going to avenge their leader’s death – plus something about a buried nuclear bomb. And, on his broadcast, Obama said that it was he who sent out the troops. I believe that will make him a large target, as well as every other major city of America.

Anyone who’s saying that the death of this vile human being will be the end of the war, is, plain and simple, idiotic. Like I said – it’s great he’s gone. But this is not the end; there is no way that Al-Qaeda will stand by and take this quietly. They’re a terrorist group, for God’s sake! They’re not a bunch of toddlers who’ll get all lost and confused just because their daddy’s dead. They’re adults with brains, with emotions, and with – I’m sure – a hell of a lot of anger right about now. They’re also batshit crazy enough to blow themselves up for the revenge they will seek – the revenge they believe to be their right and obligation – over the murder of their leader, who I’m sure they bowed down to almost as much as they worship their God.

This won’t be the end of the war.
It’ll be the beginning.

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Blathering

So, I don’t actually have a real point of view or stimulating topic tonight…

I just felt like writing. So…

Hi.
…Awkwaaard.

Anyhow, watching the Logie Awards got old fast; why do so many people enjoy it so much? I suppose some of the hosts are funny… Eh, anyway.
Anyway what? I don’t know. I have absolutely no idea. I want to have something on my mind, but I don’t. It’s like an unfinished equation:
Idea + muse = good blog. However:
Muse + no idea = a rambly, bad blog that everyone will probably get sick of half way through because … well, because it’s just blathering. Blathering that has gone on too long already.

I’ll get back to you when I have an idea.

P.S: That’s as good as my math gets, up there. I dropped math two years ago. Words are more my thing.
Just thought you might like to know. Kinda interesting?

…Maybe?

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You’re Lucky You Remember Who You Are

Can you imagine waking up and having no clue who you are?

Just, for a second, think about that. You’ve woken up, and you have no memory of where you were before you fell asleep, who you are, who your family is – or if you even have a family. You can’t recognize your face in the mirror, and when your children and husband come in to see you, you don’t know who they are. You don’t even have the faintest idea of their names, how you met them, or what it was to get married or give birth. You don’t know who your mother and father are – if they’re dead or alive. You don’t recognize anyone, even if they tell you how you know them, or how you met them.

I’m studying memory at the moment in psychology, and this shit is scary.

Wouldn’t you feel so alone? So left out of everything? I don’t understand how people with any kind of memory loss as severe as that keep on living. What would it feel like, to not know your whole life? To be told how many things you’ve done – how old you are – but not remember ever doing them or getting to the age and time that you’re experiencing? And what if you do remember, but only snippets of when you were younger?
Imagine thinking you’re twelve, and looking in a mirror to find wrinkles and grey hair.

I’m no longer scared of getting old and dying. I’m scared of getting old and not remembering how I got there.