I have insomnia. Really, really bad. I’ve always had it; I can’t slow my brain down enough to sleep. I fidget and scratch and roll over and over and over and I’m still awake. I recently started taking Adderal (prescribed–if I were a pill head, I wouldn’t admit it on a blog, that’s for damn sure), which has only made it worse. The first week I was on it, I worked 20 extra hours, and my regular sleepy time went from 1:30-ish AM to 5:00-ish (also AM). So now, my sleep schedule’s all fucked up. I get in to work later and later each day. And I feel like shit because I know this is not what I should be doing. Gah.
Monthly Archives: March 2011
I wrote this a couple of years ago in response to the Twilight craze that had swept through my office (and my team). Grown women–my age and older, some with children–were fawning over this stupid story, and I did not understand why. The shit read like a bad fanfic. The characters were poorly developed, the story was ridiculous, the particulars went well beyond the realm of believability, and Bella? Mary Sue to the extreme. The new girl in town, plain and drab, who faints at the sight of blood, and every boy in school lusts over? Give me a fucking break. At least with Harry Potter, there was a good plot to make up for all the weak bits. Not so with Twilight. It is, in my opinion, utter crap. The following is a parody of the unfinished Edward series. Ladies and gentlemen, friends and neighbors, I give you–
Forbidden Sun: Edward explains to Emmett what he likes about Bella
“What is it about her that you can’t get over? Yeah, she’s human, but so are all the rest of them, and you’re not beating your head in trying to not tear out their throats. Seriously, dude. Can’t you just, like, find another one? Seven decade itch and all; I’m sure one would be just as good as another.”
“You don’t understand, Emmett. They all smell good, but not as good as her. It’s not just a passing thirst. I don’t even think I can explain it.”
When I was alive, I had loved lamp chops. My family had not shared my fascination with this food; my sister, in fact, thought it sad and barbaric. Something about eating a cute animal; she thought it sickening . So my mother only made this dish rarely, and always at my request. What I remember most about that particular obsession was the smell: sure, they tasted lovely, but the smell was what had really stuck with me.
“So . . . you want to feed off of Bella . . . because she smells like a lamp chop?”
Emmett, as usual, did not understand.
“No, you doof. She doesn’t smell like a lamb chop. But that’s what I think of when I see her. Smell her,” I amended. “The best food in the world, the most tempting. Tender. Juicy. Bella.”
Emmett though about this for a moment. A new thing for him; I gave him some time. “You know, you could just take off a finger. Humans are resilient; she’ll survive it.”
He was my brother, and I loved him, but he could be so dumb sometimes.
Bad night, ya’ll. I got backed into a corner. Again. I let my friend talk me into the back-end, which I didn’t want to do, because I didn’t want to put myself on hold anymore. Then, I met up with my boyfriend. We had A Talk (a bit different from The Talk). I cried. He cried. We broke up. I have so many things going through my head right now, but it’s not mine to detail. It’s. Not. Mine.
Today, my friend asked me to be the back-end of the SC franchise. He said he considers me the most realistic of the group, and, so, the best suited for that position. The practical ones, he further explained, were not as involved in the overall creation process, and thus did not benefit from their inclusion as much as the artists. Maybe this is my own foolish pride talking, but I was a bit disappointed that this is all he thinks of me. I may not be a painter, or a musician, but I have a creative drive like the others. My art–or the imitation of which (take your pick, readers, I’ll not protest)–isn’t as apparent or obvious, but it’s still there, damn it. It’s here, in my head, and I’m scratching my eyes out trying to give a literal shape to my visions, to keep myself closer to a whole. I wanted to say no, to get angry or short with him, but what have I really done of late? What have I written down, how have I moved towards my ideal? A poem, a script, a re-write and an editorial, all in the year since I’ve known them. One sad little publishing credit–in digital format–and I’ve got the nerve to feel hurt by his proposal. Oh, I can do it, all right–I’ve done things like it before–but that will take away the scant time with which, I imagined, I’d work on my dreams, as opposed to lamenting the deterioration of them. I’m torn. I want to be the faithful little fawn, so accustomed am I to working for my treats, but I want my own voice, too. I want my own identity. Shit. I feel like crying.
Remember I said I would put in some of my own writings? Well, here goes.
I want to create something beautiful
More than life, more than song.
I want to give you a flower that has no name.
One that glows with wet heat
Luminescent in its beauty.
The flower drank the water I in my misery had saved for you.
Will it grow in spite of me?
Only I can wonder.
I’m not a poet any any means; I just had an idea one day. I did manage to get this published, though.
“Her clothes are blacker than the blackest cloth, and her face is whiter than the snows of Hoth, she wears Dr. Martens and a heavy cross, but on the inside she’s a happy goth.”
– Neil Hannon
I love black and dressing in black. I like the dramaticism of fancy dress. But I could never make myself take it this seriously. There’s a point where my brain says “that’s too much”. This, to me, is too much for the everyday. But cosplay? Oh, yes, please.
On a side note, I really want to do Daft Punk for this Halloween, but doubt I’ll be able to pull it off. My costuming skills are sub-par, and I know nothing about circuitry. I’m such a pretentious fuck that “good costume”, in my book, equals “scary in-depth masterlike authenticity”. Observe.
This is Jia Jem, a prominent Chicago cosplayer, doing Chika from Junko Mizuno’s Miznotic Fantasy (I think; I’ve never actually read it):
This is me, trying to recreate her costume. Suffice to say, I failed miserably, and had to make certain, um, concessions:
See the resemblance? Neither do I. This, dear readers, is what happens when I try to make costumes, or blogs, or anything, really. Well-intentioned–but ultimately poseuristic–shit.
Today’s awesome thing: musicals about organ repossession.
I didn’t like this movie at first. Once I saw all of the DVD extras, though (yes, I am that pretentious fuck who watches the commentary, thanks very much), and I understood what the writers were trying to do, I was absolutely fucking in love. Yeah, it’s a musical, but–it’s about organ repossession. And, ok, Paris Hilton is in it, but–it’s about organ repossession. And, yes, the lyrics are overly simplistic; the supporting characters a bit two-dimensional, and the whole thing is campy in the extreme, but–it’s about organ repossession. If, like me, you like dark comedy, surreal visuals and macabre humor, you definitely need to watch this. Also, you see the repo man repossess a heart not five minutes in. Infuckingcredible.
On a side note: I think Terrence Zdunich is about the hottest thing since–well, ever. I know a lot of people won’t agree with me on this, but, really, ya gotta see this guy in action.
The man is a rock star.
I’m conflicted. Again. I always am. I constantly second-guess myself, question my perceptions, and condemn my own actions. I dream of a life far from myself, but I don’t really think I’m capable of such things, and, when I think of what I am now–what I have–I know that I’ll never be happy, and I get so very, very low. Shit. I’m being vague again.
I don’t write because I tell myself that everything I produce is shit. I’m afraid that I’ll never be any better than that swotty little 15-year old–who read so much, was overly dramatic and oh so pretentious–and could only manage to produce overblown vignettes filled with clichés and her own naivety. I want the things I create to be beautiful. I want everything I do to be the best there is. I want to be perfect, and I am definitely not perfect.
Dear readers, I’m truly sorry for such a melancholic, self-absorbed, and piteous post. I just needed to get that off my chest. I promise, next time, you’ll see the happy.