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.
FBT OUT.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Monday, January 19, 2009
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!
FBT OUT.
PS: Treat yourself to my fail-of-the-day from FAILBLOG!
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!
FBT OUT.
PS: Treat yourself to my fail-of-the-day from FAILBLOG!
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
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 gone.
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.
FBT OUT.
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 gone.
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.
FBT OUT.
Friday, January 9, 2009
L'école qui J'adore
FalseIndigo: Now I'm stumbling around
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.
FBT OUT.
eating Cheez-its and marinara sauce
singing,
"MY SOUL HAS HERPES"
"MY SOUL HAS HERPES"
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.
FBT OUT.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Bienvenue
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.
BE AMAZED.
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.
BE AMAZED.
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