Wednesday, December 30, 2009


Ummmm.. hey nonexistant readers. It's been a while, eh? That's cause I've moved onto bigger and better things, for the most part. Like Nutritionally Enticing! :D It's my new comic series. View it!

In other news... I got a job. At a grocery store. And this entitles me to my next classification rant on THE MOST ANNOYING CUSTOMER ALIVE.
Now, this particular specimen has never been observed in a complete form. If this had happened, they would be dead in a ditch right now.

The most annoying customer ever (or MACE, as we'll call them) comes up to my line one minute before closing (aka one minute before I LEGALLY NEED TO PUNCH OUT) with a cart FULL of groceries. They have had since early this morning to shop, but didn't. They saw that the lights were off and door was locked when they came in, but went in through the unlocked exit. When I say, "Hi, how are you?" they completely ignore me, even though there is no one else I could have said it to and I said it quite audibly. What a peach. Then, still without acknowledging my greeting, they just start telling me their phone number. (So I can look up their store account.) I realize this halfway through the rapidfire numbers and try to make my slow touchscreen get to the phone-number part fast enough. When I ask them to repeat a few digits, they give me a withering look and repeat THE WHOLE THING repeatedly, screwing up my memorized portion of the number.

The MACE with a cart would also have to have a handbasket to be a MACE, though. They slap the brimming handbasket onto the belt, juuust far enough that I'd need to stretch to get it. They then just look at it. Yup. They're going to make me unload it, because obviously emptying their own handbasket onto the belt LIKE EVERY OTHER CUSTOMER ON EARTH is far too much exertion for THEM, let alone a clearly exhausted teenager. I scan their shitload of groceries in a hurry because of my legal need to punch out before 10. They've put ALL of their considerable produce (none of which has a PLU sticker, of course, and is all organic so I need to spend twice as long looking it up and punching it in) into one of those little plastic baggies, making weighing it by item (which I am required to do) SO MUCH FUN. Especially since they knotted the baggie. Tightly. And they don't want me to un-knot or break it.

As I scan, they continue to just look at their groceries. I shove the scanned items (which are piling up at the end of the belt because I don't have a bagger this late at night) all the way to the end of the belt to give them a hint. They still just continue to stand there. I pointedly do other things to try and send the message. No dice. Now there are other customers, in big hurries, behind the MACE. They still wait for me to bag their groceries for them. So I start bagging. Only then do they slap some reusable bags onto the counter, telling me to unbag half their groceries, which I had done in plastic. I am biting back a "GO AWAYY" at this point.

Then they go to pay. This can go two ways. WAY #1: ANNOYING DEBIT. They pull out their debit card and give it to me, saying "debit." I'm like, "um.. you have the machine there..?" They can't really figure out the machine, so I have to coach them through it. They then ask the limit for cashback. I'm like, fuck. "A hundred dollars." They ask me to do cashback for them, and I'm like, it's in the machine. They cancel their payment like five times trying to figure it out. When they finally get it, they do ask for $100 cashback. I do not have this conveniently (or they tell me NOT to give them a $100 bill) so I am peeling off one-dollar bills as they deplete me of all of my twenties, tens, and fives. Which, of course, I will need for the next person's change. I give them a wad of cash and they glare at me for the inconvenient change, like it's my fault. Sorry, bitch.

WAY #2: CASH. They pay me in a huge bill for a small amount of money, like a $100 bill when their order is about $10. I'm already nearly done counting out change when they say "OH I THINK I HAVE THAT" and start fishing around for coins. I tell them no, it's quite all right, I've got their change done already, they just give me a withering look and make me re-count as they give me inconvenient coin change. Like a quarter when the charge is 7 cents. They make me print their receipt twice. I shank them with a banana and run to punch out before 10.

Ahh, minimum wage.
I am not paid enough.

Thursday, September 24, 2009

L'Amour des Jeunes

I hear a lot about how love sucks. And, nine times out of ten, I do agree. At a young age (teenagers, college types, those that the French would call 'des jeunes') love most typically ends in pain. But who's to say that it's not real? And who's to say that it doesn't feel wonderful while it lasts? Personally, I believe that all love is real while it's happening. Perhaps not melodramatic teenage rantings about how they 'really connected' with their drunken hookup at a party, but people in relationships of most degrees of steadiness do often feel real love. Sure, it may not be marriage-material love, but love it is, because it feels just as wonderful and hurts just as badly as any other kind of romantic affection.

When you're young, love is often flamingly passionate and melodramatic and completely wonderful. It's not often permanent, but it's lovely while it lasts. Some couples are quick to say 'I love you,' while others--which are often showcased on bad TV shows--freak out at those three fateful words. I'm not sure where I fall in those two groups, but that's ok--lots of people are in the middle ground. Some people oppose love in their young years, but they still very well may feel it. I think that romantic affection of any kind--crushes, love, and that weird in-between ground between crush and love that has yet to receive a name (Let's call it 'limbo-rock'.)--is one of the most inflexible emotional groups to exist. I've logicked my way out of many a feeling, but never out of
romantic feelings. I think it's just impossible. The combination of hormones, pheromones, emotions, and stimulus is just too great to resist, no matter how hard you try.

Even though I believe that all love is real, I can't say that I believe that it merits early sex. Try as I might, I'm stuck in my old-fashioned belief that the teenage/college years are too early to be makin' the babies--even with protection. It can still lead to a baby. Sorry. It's true. Either way, love does-not-equal sex, and vice versa. There's intense pressure to have sex, though, which kind of sucks when you're a lone straightedge in a world of risk-takers; especially when you're in limbo-rock. There's even temptation, though it's stained with the heady odor of don't-you-fucking-DARE-you-will-regret-this-SO-MUCH-later. So, my dear teenage allies, don't let love get in the way of logic and get you laid before you're ready, ok? Be ready. Be SURE you're ready. (OHMYGODOFFTOPIC I SOUND LIKE A FREAKISH PARENT.....)

So I guess my random rant is over.... drop me a comment if you feel like it.


Monday, August 31, 2009


Personally, I think society went downhill when women stopped wearing hats, men stopped singing and harmony, and movies stopped including tap-dancing.

Honestly, when I think of America--the GOOD America--I think of the era of Singin' in the Rain. Gene Kelly. Don O'Connor. Debbie Reynolds. Frank Sinatra. Cary Grant. (He's a little further back, but STILL, I would MARRY him.) Men wore trousers. TROUSERS. Pants with a crease, that were actually ON their asses instead of below them. Pants that FIT. And fit soooo nicely. Heehee. But seriously, these pants were awesome, and just tied in witht the whole image of the era. Suspenders, too. They weren't punk back then--they were mainstream awesome. Women didn't leave the house without a hat. An elaborate hat, with pins and bows and flowers and feathers. These hats were the SHIT. There were whole hat-shops for women--whole hat PIN shops for women!--where they could purchase their status-hats that would make them part of high society. Hats were fricking everything back then. Plus, the hats were cute as all get out. And let's face it, hat pins were just gorgeous.

Then there were manners. Women were treated with respect and reverence, even though I know the whole women's-rights thing, the Hollywood dolls were something special. Men didn't grab their asses and say "Hey baby [insert bawdy pick-up line here!]" No, men would lavish the apple of their eye with flowers and gifts and rides in an automobile to the point of utter cheese. I love the "overly forward" characters in movies from back then... the lady-chasers who know the way to a woman's heart--but not the stubborn heroine's! If only the "overly forward" men of today would behave like that, I think I'd just die of contentment.

And the PICTURES! Ah, movies were so beautiful back then. Movies about movies. The Hollywood boom. Amazing songs. Male harmonies in amazing songs. TAP-DANCING. Honestly, even if a movie today has most of the qualities that I listed, you can sure as hell bet it won't have tap dancing. Tap is a dead art in the picture show... a dead art that I mourn every time I watch a musical. Even if, by some measure of obscenely lucky chance, there was a movie with tap-dancing in it, it probably wouldn't have the same all-American charm about it. Forget it, it DEFINITELY wouldn't. There's something special about the soft colors and edges, Debbie Reynold's particular vocal inflection that defined an era's accent, the tap-dancing in rainy streets.. there's something about that era of film-making that was wholesome, classy, and yet wonderfully comedic.

Ah, to live in a time when the phrase "truth, justice, and the American Way" actually meant something. When it wouldn't get you laughed at. Damn, what I'd give to live in the misty world of Hollywood's past.

Fellow bloggers, if proper ladies still wore hats, I'd tip mine to you.


Saturday, August 22, 2009

Emotions en Pagaille

Tim: Pixie makes me think I'm a freaking wood sprite.

You know what really pisses me off, even more than tacos? Emo kids. Because emo kids, as a rule, are probably the most whiny, obnoxious species of human on the planet. They don't have legitimate problems. They want attention. And that's bad, because some people really DO have problems.

Emo kids are not actually depressed, because that would render them not-emo. Emo kids are not cutters, as that would also render them not-emo. Emo kids are the people who think that if they act really depressed and say they cut themselves (or actually do cut themselves) because of petty "emotional turmoil" or something, they will get attention, pity, and even fawning admirers. See, I know of a few emo kids in the relative neighborhood. They all dress "dark," experiment with sexuality (not a bad thing, but I have a suspicion that some of them do it for attention), talk to everyone about how they cut, etc. Oh, and some of them read Twilight and think that because they read a pathetic excuse for toilet paper (but it includes "vampires!" that's totally hardcore, right?) that makes them "dark" and gives them dimension, but I'm not even going to GO there.

See, here's my main thing: if you are a real cutter, you probably do not tell people about it. You have a legitimate problem, and need help. Emo kids like to tell people about--or worse "accidentally" show other people--their cuts. Some even go so far as to show people their cuts on purpose, pretend it was an accident, and make up an obviously fake excuse to get attention and pity. They like to show it off, because it proves that they're "hardcore" or that they're actually messed up or something. Well yeah, they're messed up. But in a different way. Emo kids take a real problem, a problem that is horrible and needs help and, yes, pity, and turn it into an attention-seeking device that absolutely disgusts me. Plus, many of the emos that I've been acquainted with like to go further than their circle of friends--they take their attention-seeking to the Internet. Sure, if you have a livejournal (or, in my case) a blogger account that basically nobody reads, an angsty outpouring of sorrow can be therapeutic. But when you go posting your melodramatic shit about "ohh I just want to DIE, look, I CUT myself and I'm so ALONE..." everywhere you can and sending it to your friends, it gets on the verge of "Where is your house? I need to drop a few atomic bombs." (Yes, I have been literally SENT emo melodramatic rants while talking to people, and yes, it is even more pathetic than it sounds when you experience it firsthand. It's like, ok, WHY are you sending this to me? not only did you create the biggest awkward moment ever, but I just want to stab you in the face for having the audacity to pretty much ASK for pity and attention.)

Next gripe I have? Emo poetry. Thou knowest that thou hast achieved true EMO when thou write'st poetry that includes something akin to the phrase "tears of blood" or praises thine razor blades for their sharpness. Honestly. Emotional outpourings into poems are great. I happen to enjoy raw emotion thrown lyrically onto a page, especially sorrow. It's hard-hitting and meaningful. But when you go SO FAR into the melodrama and attention-whoring, I WILL MENTALLY SHANK YOU. Remember this, emo children. Every time you even THINK the phrase "black tears soak my broken soul," you are being mentally SHANKED.

Now let me write my disclaimer. It's totally healthy and fine to vent to your friends when things go badly. It's all right to even vent onto the Internet. But when you go as far as this, it not only gets annoying, but it cheapens people with real problems. If you tell a real cutter or person with suicidal ideation that they're "so emo," that's going to hurt them. Deeply. You're taking their real pain and their real problems and cheapening it into some sort of horrifying fad. That's not OK. So emos, line up for your mental shanking. You deserve it, you whiny attention-whores.

Tata, loves.


Tuesday, August 18, 2009

Qu'est-ce que Cela Peut Faire...?

It's better to be looked over than overlooked. -Mae West

See that quote above? For all my love of Mae West and her back-in-the-day-female-playya awesomeness, that quote is LIES. Romance is probably the single most confusing and terrifying thing I, and probably most other people, have encountered in their lives. And yet, for some insane, masochistic reason that baffles the world, WE CRAVE IT. Sure, it's probably animal sex-drive, but that's what hookers are for! (I am joking, don't worry.)

Either way, when we know that it's all so confusing and infuriating and painful, why do we always seek out new romantic situations? Why do we crave them when we don't have them? WHAT IS THE PULL?!? Sure, it's awesome when it's going well, but the other 99% of the time, romance/love/whatever is absolutely baffling. Now that may be my general lack of common social skills and sense speaking, but I think I'm onto something. Being probably the only consequence-obsessed person in the country (well, not really, but you get the idea) I find romantic situations to be a minefield of possible fuck-ups, where each potential consequence is no more likely than the next. And why? Because people are DAMN CONFUSING. Therefore, no matter what you do, you basically have the same chance of fucking up. Unless it's something really, really dumb, like thinking it's romantic to jump at your partner while they're sleeping while wearing a gorilla suit or nailing them with a supersoaker when they least expect it--BUT MOST PEOPLE DON'T DO THAT. Though I think relationships would be easier to figure out if they did. Can't you see the conversations?
"Tony just jumped at me in a gorilla suit yesterday--it scared the shit out of me!"
"Oh my God, it must be love!"
Feel free to vomit now. But I think it would be pretty damn funny. Nobody buys flowers anymore anyway (unless they've done something wrong..?). Gorilla suits and water guns are WAY more romantic.

The most baffling thing of all is that we have very little control over our own feelings. Why else would we love people who are bad to us, or be hesitant about what would definitely be a much better relationship? Is it insanity in attraction? Or is it just plain old overwhelmed-ness and confusion because stuff always seems to happen at the speed of light and there's never much reaction time? [I'm voting for the second option.]

Either way, love is confusing. Feelings are confusing. Life is confusing. Currently, I am one seriously confused bitch, and it's not just about romance. This summer work is going to eat my brains for breakfast. Little do my teachers know that I'm doing my book report on
Pride and Prejudice and Zombies.

[I have no idea what I'm going to do.]

So how do you feel? Shoot me a comment.

Tuesday, August 4, 2009

I Fricking Hate Tacos

Me: You have just received the Amish Computer Virus. Since the Amish don't have computers, it is based on the honor system. So please delete all the files from your computer. Thank you for your cooperation.
Tim: u fail at life. im running a virus deleting program right now. like no joke.

You know, people just don't like certain foods. Usually, this is because of taste. But not this time. Because I FRICKING HATE TACOS. Not because of the taste--tacos are great. They're yummy. But they are the single most obnoxious food I have ever put into my body, seriously.

You see, the fatal flaw of the taco is that there is literally no way to eat it without making a mess. I'm not talking about Sloppy Joe Face or Rib Fingers. Those messes are acceptable (even though Sloppy Joes are gross) even though they typically end up with scrubbing barbecue sauce out from under your fingernails. But no. Every time anyone bites into a taco, half the shell decides to shatter, covering the hands in greasy meat, causing said greasy meat to flop out of the taco along with half the toppings because the taco decided to self-destruct just by being eaten. Once the shattered shell and taco stuffing vomits out of its container and onto one's plate (assuming its vomiting aim is good enough to hit your plate and not, say, your lap, spouse, or new white blouse that you wear to prance through the snow to the tune of Andrea Bocelli) there is almost no way to eat it properly, even with a fork. Especially since, half the time, the taco-eater doesn't have the foresight to get a fork out, thinking that a taco is finger food. LIES. Because this mess of taco-spew is slicker than owl crap and will flop off the tiny shell fragments/fork you use to try to scrape it into your mouth. Preferably onto your lap, spouse, or new white blouse...

Yeah. So tacos are probably the most obnoxious food in the world. Seriously. Even more obnoxious than giant jawbreakers (which are seriously impossible to eat without getting sticky sugar-mess all over one's face and hand[s], usually in midsummer.)

So what do you think is the most obnoxious food? Leave a comment and tell me.

Tata, peeps.

Friday, July 17, 2009

Les Enfants

"Tom, if you say REVIEW one more time, I'm going to throw you in the stream."
-Tom and Linnea

After working as an unpaid camp counselor, I've learned to classify the camp critters pretty quickly. While we ration out five--EXACTLY FIVE--club crackers and half a Dixie cup of watered-down Kool-Aid and somehow learn fifteen names by the end of the day, we can also gauge how much trouble we're gonna get from these kidsies.

First of all, we've got the Seat Defenders. These are the kids who HAVE TO SIT IN THE SAME SEAT EVERY DAY NO MATTER WHAT. If someone sits in their seat, they'll either 1) pitch a fit and make the offender move, 2) try and sneakily persuade the kid to move, 3) go to a counselor and report the offender who's sitting in "their seat", or 4) sulk for the rest of the day/till they get their damn seat back.

Next, we've got the Useless Junk Reporters. These are the children who have to run to you every five minutes with some completely mundane thing that they're convinced is either a crisis or we need to know about RIGHT NOW. It becomes especially annoying when the kid is trying to be polite (something that I appreciate but gets
really grating after a while) and goes, "EXCUSE ME" five thousand times until you stop whatever you're doing and devote your full attention to their report.
For example:
"Excuse me, excuse me, excuse me, excuse me, um um um the light in the men's room went off."
"OK, you can still use it, it's not a big deal. Wait, the light's
on right now."
"But um.. um.. it was off before."

A slight off-shoot of this is the Compulsive Tattler. This one's more of a cliché, as we all have dealt with these before. My favorites are the ones who tattle purely to get people in trouble. It's usually over things like line-cutting--I mean seriously, what a crisis, guys! Once, I even got a C.T. who tattled on a kid for calling him a "bad word." The victim hadn't said anything. The tattler acknowledged this. What a genius.

Then there are the Children Who Must Protect the Sanctity of the Games. These children do not allow ANY minor rule-breaches in yard games like freeze tag, "what time is it, Mr. Fox", sharks and minnows, etc. If someone blinks during a freeze, you hear about it. If someone peeks during "Indian Chief" to see who the counselor appointed the chief, you hear about it. If someone keeps counting off hours during Mr. Fox, you hear about it. I once took a compulsive Sanctitator and was like, "IT IS JUST A GAME. CHILL." It went riiight over their head.

My personal favorites are the Future Frat Boys who will Deny their Childhood Soon. These are the little boys who have not yet encountered the world of homophobia. One kid showed up for the first day of camp all in metallic blue: shiny blue basketball shorts, blue t-shirt, blue glasses, and--yup--blue nail polish. He was proud of it. He and the other little boys would hold hands on the hikes, put arms around each other during Circle Time, and hug each other shamelessly. In 10 years, when they are homophobic asses who are denying their own sexualities, I am going to track them all down and remind them of this. Gleefully.

Last is Future Emo Kids of America. These are the depressive kids who won't do anything just to be difficult. They antagonize the counselors. They try to rebel against the system. They ask for an extra cup of juice. Soon, they will be painting their nails black and listening to screamo and renouncing their faith in humanity. Go for it, kids. See you at the Hipster Olympics.

There are so many more kids that I could classify here, but I'm tired. And too shamelessly amused with what's already listed.
Tata, non-existant readers.

PS: Leave comments so I know I'm not writing to air. Thanks a million.

Thursday, June 25, 2009


Worry, to me, isn't an emotion. It's a thing. One could go so far as to call it a creature. It lives in my diaphragm, sometimes traveling down to my stomach or up to behind my sternum. It's just a hard, chlenching feeling that I can't really describe. Like I'm going to gag or something, or start wheezing or heaving. When it gets really bad, it punches me between the shoulder blades and makes my entire chest feel empty.

It doesn't go away. Worry's a permanent tenant. Sometimes it'll hide for a while, and I won't really feel it, but it always comes back. It's worst when it's behind my sternum. That's when I feel the worst. It just sits there, a lead weight, a clenching of some unknown muscle, leaving tension and pain and turmoil. It's a totally shit feeling. It turns everything I say or write into melodrama (like right now--I probably sound like one of those fake-emo Twilight LJ-ers right now.) and makes me freak out about everything. I'm really good at being paranoid. But it's really that thing in my chest that's sitting there, making me gag on my own thoughts. It makes me want to die.

I thought that things would tie me down. Friends, a boyfriend, commitments, a job, AP French. Nope. I still have that overwhelming feeling that it'd be so much better if I were dead. Not that I want to kill myself. Because if I did, I know I'd hurt everyone around me. I'm not that selfish. I don't want to hurt people. I want to vanish without a ripple, maybe just have a few people miss me a little, but miss me like I moved across the world, not like I died and it was "their fault." I don't want to be forgotten, just gone. I don't want people to worry or grieve or hate themselves for something that's totally the fault of that damnable thing that lives in my chest.

Even though I've been happier lately, I still wish I wasn't alive. Frequently. Everything would be so much easier if I weren't alive. I wouldn't have to worry about anything--not the friend with a drinking problem or the boyfriend under house arrest who may not like me anymore anyway or the people who expect too much of me or the sister who just wants me to spend time with her while I sit there wanting to die or the friends who want to hang out but I'm too scared to leave the house or the fact that I can't find any music that'll make me feel better.

I don't know what to do. Any suggestions?
FBT out.

Friday, June 12, 2009

Explication des Emotions

I'm not one who has any patience for suicide. I don't like it. At all. But lately, too much has been going on for me to feel like anything's worth it. It's not that I want to die, I just don't want to live.

Why do they matter? Who cares if you got a fucking C in English class fourth quarter? Why does it matter if you take the AP track or not, why are we so obsessed with the little markings that control our lives? Lately, I've been so overwhelmed by it. My inadvertent strategy is that I'm too scared and anxious to even pick up my homework, so I just don't do it. Then I panic about not doing it. But it's too scary to try. So I panic.

They're demanding. They're loud. They're... there. That clamoring
thereness usually helps me keep my sanity, but lately I haven't been able to deal with it all the time. I've been distant, impatient, jumpy, and sad. Not my usual. They notice, but think they can cheer me up. Sometimes tey do. Some days, they help me forget what's going on in my head. Some days I just silently scream "go away, go away, go away," even when I don't want them to. Because I love them. I just can't deal all the time. I'm worried I'm going to do something stupid, like snap at them or judge them harshly when I just can't deal with myself.

I don't even know what to say. My house feels like a war zone even when everyone's happy. I just feel tension, because I just know something I do will break that happiness. Everything feels like my fault. I'm always on the defensive, always trying to hide, even when everyone cares. I just never know what'll ignite a fuse.

If there was a way to swap souls for a while, I would. I don't want to die. I really, really don't. I just don't want to live. I want to go unconscious and still function, make everyone happy, everything good. I just don't want to
be there. I want to hit fast-forward until my brain starts to get normal again. If it ever will.

How do you tell someone that you don't want to be alive, but that you love them?

I sound so fucking melodramatic. Like a fucking LJ-er looking for attention. I just write dramatically. But I'm feeling this. And I don't know what to do. I need a new brain. Or a different soul. I don't know. I don't want to be alive right now.

Thursday, April 30, 2009

Je Suis Stupide

I hate feeling useless. I've been wallowing in anxiety--which, by the way, is not getting much better--but trying to regain perspective.
I am positive that my parents are not going to be impressed with
this perspective-gaining, though.
I've come to the realization (well, I came to it long ago) that I and nearly everyone I know is so amazingly lucky to be where they are in life. Seriously, there are such unfortunate people out there, people who are living on less than $1 a day, to whom our lifestyle is beyond paradise and our problems beyond trivial.
There are girls who, rather than having the stress of what to wear to a party, are off selling their bodies to pay for their family's food. There are children who are forced into slavery and war. There is genocide going on, and all anyone can think about is their own damn life and their own superficial problems. People are starving to death, being beaten and killed, and there is a shockingly small amount of care in the world for it.
So while this does make me feel a lot better about my own situation, I also feel like this incredibly self-absorbed, insensitive person. And that's why I want to help people.
As soon as I'm out of college, because my parents won't have any form of leverage over me by then, I'm going to join Peace Corps or something and help people. I'll teach kids to read. I'll build houses. I'll solve problems. I'll do whatever I can to make this crazy world into a bit of a better place. Because if I die without having really helped someone in their life, my own life will have been a waste.
My parents aren't going to talk me out of this one. Nobody will. I've wanted to do this since I was about eight years old. There is too much bad going on in the world for me to sit back and live my own life without having helped someone else.
OK, I'm done ranting right now.
But I'm still serious.

Je Perds de Contrôle..

I find it kinda funny, and I find it kinda sad, that the dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had.
I'm tired of everyone telling me to be mature.
I was one of those people who was born middle-aged and gets older every year. Trust me, I'm far too mature for my age. Having anxiety and depression issues doesn't help.
Either way, my issues are too much to control at the moment. I am stuck in too many situation where nothing that I say or do will be able to in any way influence the outcome. And all of these situation drastically impact
me, so I can't go disregarding them.
I hate that word.
Everyone tells me to do it--to box up my anxieties and stick them on a shelf for a while, to relax. What they don't realize is that I did that long ago. Now the anxieties are coming to life, destroying their boxes, and running rampant around my mind. I've already minimized them as much as possible, already stepped back and tried to regain perspective. I've compartmentalized, minimized, rationalized, everything. The problem is that even after being put through the perspective factory, the issues are still there and still big.
On top of it, all of the anxiety and exhaustion and insomnia and demanding people are starting to get to me. I'm deteriorating physically and mentally, now. I'm starting to get sick. It's bad.
I just need to take a break from being everyone's therapist, stop becoming paranoid over little things, stop deciding that people hate me when they don't--and definitely stop thinking that I'm losing everyone around me. I'm not losing
everyone. Just a lot of people. Possibly.
And now everyone on crew will be mad at me.
I'm sorry that I got sick, guys. I know you're short on tech. But I don't think that you'd want me puking on stage from illness (be it physical or mental.) I will make it up to you. I'll try.
I've been dealing with these issues for too long--that must be the problem. It was easy to minimize everything back when they started, but now I'm utterly overwhelmed and at a loss for options. I'm losing control of myself, something that I fear more than anything else. I'm flying apart, and no amount of "grow up" or "compartmentalize" is going to stop the spiral at this point. I either need to totally lose it or shut down for a few days. I'll probably do both. But life will go on. It always does.
I think I need a hug.

Monday, February 2, 2009

Arrêtes! Ne Me Touches Pas Là!

Luke: If women didn't frequently get raped, that would be hilarious.

OK, so over the years I have realized that I have a few issues. Depression, anxiety that should probably be medicated, and a general aversion to strangers. Especially touchy-feely strangers.

Now, this is where I get messed up. I have no real problems with people my age who want to hug when they see me or whatever, even most guys (with whom I'm usually much more shy.) Actually, I'm quite free with contact among people in my age group. But when adult-types go to hug or kiss or shake hands, that's when my "weirdness center" kicks in.

One time, I was at a doctor's office. Super sick. Not a good place to be, as I couldn't really breathe. They had a new doctor in the place, a new doctor who I was seeing. He went to shake my hand, and my stupid touch issues went all insane. Inside, I was all, "NO! DO NOT TOUCH ME." I shook the guy's hand, but not after a not-so-subtle-but-totally-involuntary wince and an abundance of post-contact Purell. (Yes. I am a germophobe.) So far, like 5 other doctors have done this to me--all male. Is this some kind of middle-aged white guy with a PhD thing? What's the deal here? Plus, they all have the weird not-sweaty, I-just-wiped-my-sweaty-hands-on-my-trousers, slightly puffy fat hands, even if they're not fat. It's
bizarre. Hasn't anyone else noticed this?

Continuing with the doctor theme, since I've been to quite a few of them lately, all of these random middle-aged-white-guys-with PhDs seem to require prodding me or making me lie down. I have
issues with lying down. It's like, submission, and makes me vulnerable and stuff. Now, every time I am persuaded to lie down, I typically have a needle jabbed into me or some bodily fluid removed from a facial orifice. Or a large, plumber's-snake esque device fed through my nose to down my throat so a doc could have a live-action view of my nasal cavities. Yum. Yeah so this time I actually was getting blood drawn, and for some reason incomprehensible to me, I am again asked to lie down. Now, pair this irrational fear of lying down with my other irrational anxiety about the veins at the crooks of my arms, and you get one stressed out FBT. Couple this with an extremely high fever, and you get an extremely stressed-out FBT who is dizzy and faintly nauseated and very unwilling to cooperate. And I'm terrified of needles. Yup, it's a really fun time.

Then there are relatives. Although they are related to me, I really cannot comprehend how we can share anything other than a bloodline. All of the relatives and non-relatives-but-we'll-pretend-they-are-for-the-hell-of-it on mon père's side seem to have a thing for contact. Now, because I don't particularly like any of these psycho relatives, I don't really wish to touch them--let alone be in the same room with them for hours at a time while they subtly critisize my clothes/friends/life and then mock me about it. (In the words of my othuh grandmuthuh, «oy vey!») However, after these hours of annoyance and boredom cease, they all do not fail to try to hug/kiss me. Now, the hug is something I have not perfected with adults. It always seems to be an awkward, vaguely pedophiliac moment, especially with my relatives--who may or may not be on crack. So you can probably imagine how this awkwardness is added to when they go to kiss me on the cheek or something. I have to resist the urge to grab the nearest blunt object and swat them away with it. I'm such a charmer. Really. I swear.
(Actually, I do manage to stay quite polite with these folks, contrary to popular belief.)

Yeah, so just tack this onto the Cosmic List of Stuff that Makes FBT a Weird Kid. Because not only do I
have the issues, I REPORT 'em. All for you, folks.

Now, I'm going back to taking my temperature, drinking plenty of fluids, and watching Juno with French dub. PARCE QUE JE SUIS TOUT SIMPLEMENT COOLE COMME ÇA.


Wednesday, January 21, 2009

Pour les Conformistes

I figure that it's high time that I got out the rant that I've been saving for a rainy day. Nothing really preempted this, [well, now some things have, but nothing preempted the first draft] but I just feel like writing right now. So here it goes:

To All You Conformists:

I am proud to be a Goth. Or a punk. Or whatever you decide to call me. I do not dress the way I do to impress people or to shock you. You all are really not that important to me. The truth is, my black clothes and chains and blue hair and neon accessories come from my personal ideas.

That's right. I have ideas and opinions just like the rest of you.

When I get dressed in the morning in my gothpants and chains--you may not believe it--but that's when I feel pretty. Yeah, pretty. To me, pretty's not looking stick thin in Ugg boots and a North Face jacket. Pretty's not a ruffly shirt or skintight jeans. Pretty's not poser-fashion in sack shaped shirt-dresses or whatever the hell's in fashion magazines lately. I feel prettiest in black, when my arms are sheathed in studs and when my feet are clad in combat boots. I don't dress the way I do for anyone but myself. Ever since I was just a tot (probably around seven years old) and I first saw goths/punks/whatever you want to call them, I knew that's what I wanted to look like. I couldn't believe how pretty the girls looked in their studs and chains--that's what I was missing when I looked at myself in the mirror! I had never been satisfied with my appearance until I went «goth». Now, I look in the mirror and can smile, because I finally look how I want to.

And you know something else?
[I'm going to be a bit conceited now, watch out...] I like to think that I can design fashions better than most. And you know why? Because I CAN THINK FOR MYSELF. I'm not another lame poser trying to play the fashion designer, I'm doing my own thing, creating my own look, drawing out my own ideas. I don't copy what's been successful in the past, but draw out my own ideas for a new look in the future.

But the best part of the punk style is the part that nearly nobody knows about. I've found that out of any style group I've ever met (and I have met many), the darkest dressers are the nicest people. Walk into any Abercrombie or Juicy boutique, and the clerk will turn up their nose at you in a display of their obvious fashion superiority. Being snubbed is part of the couture experience, I guess. But walk into a Hot Topic, and the clerk will actually get up and greet you, asking «How are you?» like they really mean it, and enthusiastically chat about fun stores or good music with you. Even my Brooklyn grandmother's noticed this--she's learned that the kids I hang out with (despite their senior-citizen-shocking looks) are actually the «good crowd» (and the most accepting, friendly crowd I've ever met), while the kids who sleep around, do drugs, and all sorts of other unsavory practices are the ones who look so «nice.»

It's time that my studded, spiked, chained brethren were given the good rep they deserve. We should be appreciated for our inherent individuality, our devil-may-care attitude, our surprisingly friendly nature. Just because we have a taste for metal and ink doesn't mean that we're bad people. It's been said for centuries, «don't judge a book by its cover.» This should apply to every cover, even the ones with pictures that are a little «unsettling» to look at. Because we think our covers are beautiful.


Monday, January 19, 2009

Desolée, Miley

Yeahhh... No.

Sunday, January 18, 2009

Trop Folle

Random girl in JBHS Hallway: OK, so I did NOT have sex with that cabbage!

Hey, yeah, so I finally snapped. Like, f'serious snappage. I got so tired of the endless "the wrath" that I flipped out and screamed at my dad for around a half hour. Like, full on mental breakdown, shouting about how she treats me lately and how I'm about to snap and the whole nine yards. Yeahhhhh. So now the madre is trying to tone it down because m'dad told her how totally insane I went... who knows how long it'll last for, but at least she's treading lightly around me for the moment. Good. Because I was seriously considering leaving for a while, and if she keeps it up I probably will. Leave, that is.

I still need to tell her about vous-savez-qui too. Not lookin' forward to that. She'll just use him as another "reason" (totally unfounded) for my "slipping grades" (how about SHE tries high school?). But I have to tell her eventually.

Aaaanyways, I am finally DONE with finals, a very good thing, and play practice and crew are starting again, another good thing. Only for some reason nobody knows when the rehearsal is tomorrow. Niiiice. I really need to find this out.

Anxiety is starting to get to me.... I haven't been sleeping again. Ahh, insomnia.
Wish me luck!


PS: Treat yourself to my fail-of-the-day from FAILBLOG!

Tuesday, January 13, 2009

C'est vrai??


Monday, January 12, 2009

Ah, la vie, je l'adore...

Teacher: You guys are going home soon, right?
Sam: Yeah, my mom's not coming ever!

Today, I feel the pressing need to not only distract myself from the impending doom of finals, but recount a story that I, for one, found more than a little hilarious. Now, the original story belongs to the Playwrite, since she was there and everything, so you're all getting this second hand and I certainly hope that I don't screw up too badly.

So this story originates in the Playwrite's Driver's Ed class last year. During the break, one guy went to the vending machine with the intent to purchase some cookies. Now, the pack of cookies in question was lying on TOP of those lovely annoying coils that dispense the confections. Unfazed, our purchaser put in his money, believing that FATE was on his side!

Yeah, right.

So the cookies don't move. Slowly, people start to wonder what happened to this guy and wander over for the traditional, "What the hell is taking so long, man?" Soon, more money is being contributed to this effort. People try to jostle the cookies free through the cookies' own coils, by knocking another item of food
onto the cookies, etc. etc. Nothing works.

And now it's
on. Like, serious man versus machine, here.

Now, from what I've heard, this Driver's Ed class was divided into many concrete, unmixing cliques. But when it became a matter of
cookies, cliques were cast aside and all the burly young folk banded together to tip the vending machine over and liberate those goddam cookies!!!

But of course, it didn't work.

Accepting defeat, our heroes went back to their Driver's Ed class, their minds still on the cookies that got away.
And the kicker was, the next day, the cookies were

Now, as this story was being recounted by the Playwrite to me and a few of our comrades, Sean (who has yet to get a clever nickname?) suddenly exclaimed, "
OHMYGOD." He was hushed by an eager Playwrite, who wanted to finish her tale. When she came to the end, she asked him what he was "OHMYGOD-ing" about, and he said sheepishly, "Yeah.... I got those cookies."

Irony's a bitch, my friends.
A really,
really hilarious bitch.


Friday, January 9, 2009

L'école qui J'adore

FalseIndigo: Now I'm stumbling around
eating Cheez-its and marinara sauce

There's something remarkable about my school... the jam-packed hallways with their lovely salmon-splatter paint jobs, the girls toting around vodka-spiked Kool-Aid in water bottles, the fact that the theater kids are more popular than the cheerleaders... My high school is certainly not the norm. But it's certainly the best place I've ever been.

If you can get past the whitey-white rich kid feel of it, you can see that it's really a pretty open environment. Sure, most of the kids are racist, sexist, and other discriminatory adjectives that end in "ist", but they're just the jocks and preps and are high most of the time anyway. The people who REALLY rule the school--the "thespians", the AV geeks, the "emo's", the outcasts, the actors and singers and band geeks--they're the people who convinced me to stop hating the human race. Instead of the conformist freaks that I was surrounded by in middle school, I've suddenly been thrown into an environment where the nail that sticks out gets painted vibrant colors and covered in glitter.
My school is, somehow, one of the most tolerant places I know. Sure, I still get weird looks from some of the preppier girls when I flaunt my blue hair and chain-and-studs wardrobe, but now I'm in a position where that can amuse rather than depress me. But the teachers appreciate a person's individuality rather than looking at it with sullen disapproval, and I've never once had my compulsive hand-hennaing likened to leprosy in front of the class (which my French teacher actually did do in middle school, much to my trauma.)

It's such an amusing place to be, too. From the dry laughter at everyday life to the downright ridiculous, Barlow has a lot to offer. For example, where else can one overhear a distraught exchange between two guys like this:
Guy 1: The couch! The couch, man!
Guy 2: Don't worry, man, we'll
get you a couch!
Another thing I found highly amusing (aside from ridiculous snatches of conversation) was the attire of the girls around me. One day, as my locker barfed its usual assortment of paper, textbooks, and random notebooks all over the floor, I happened to glance up at the herd of gossiping gals next to me. Much to my surprise, they were all clothed in the exact same way: Ugg boots, those roll-down-top Victoria's Secret pants, and North Face jackets, all in various colors. None of them could understand my sudden burst of laughter.

Well, right now I'm pretty much out of ideas of what else to write. This concludes my crappiest rant ever.
Thanks to the Playwrite (is that an OK alias for you? haha) for the quote at the beginning, btw.
And for sharing the couch moment.


Thursday, January 8, 2009


Welcome to "NE QUITTEZ" (Don't Go Away in French), my amazing blog of MAGIC. It's where I'll post my rants and freakouts and stuff. YAY. Though right now I'm not terribly motivated ♪

I'm tired, depressed, and totally out-of-character--what a way to start a blog.

You all know me, normally I'm a crazy hyper happy insane punk nut-job of a girl. But today I just need to relax and chill. (But good luck telling that to some people.)

This is just my magical first post of awesome.