Favorite book?

Oryx and Crake. Or The Heavenly Village. Or To Kill a Mockingbird. Or Johnathon Livingston Seagull. Or The Woman in White. HARDEST QUESTION EVERRRR.

Ask me stuff, because I have no life and you help to fill the time-void.

Au Revoir

I made a Tumblr. It's mostly for personal stuff, and stuff that I feel like I'd get shit for if I posted it where people I know read it. It's pretty much an internet diary, meant for voyeuristic strangers who want to look into the life of a fucked-up teenager. Haha. If you're really determined, you'll probably be able to find me, but I won't give hints.
But this is probably the end of any semblage of regular Ne Quittez Pas posts.
FBT OUT
 

A Curdling Kind of Feeling

I'm losing it.
There's this feeling in my shoulders and in my spine and it itches because I just want to get out. Out of this fucking town, out of my fucking skin, away from fucking drama and especially out of my head.
I just want to get out of here.
They say that soon I'll be the person I was always supposed to be. But I've never known that person before. What is she like? We've never met. I've been a fuck-up for as long as I can remember. What if we don't get along? Who will I be at the end of this--when I'm the person that I was always "supposed to be"?
I just want to tell someone everything. Have a while to scream it all out, be totally selfish. Indulge my worries. Have them say the right things. Not worry about what they'll think.
Things are shattering and I don't know how to fix them. I want to get out of here. I'm crying for no reason because even though things seem OK I'm still falling apart. This song is playing and it's making me cry harder.
I can't deal with going out of the house anymore. It's too hard. I don't want to flunk out of school or lose everyone, but it's getting to be too much. I can't handle it. I'm trying so hard. Trying so hard every day and I can't even function. I'm losing it. Completely flying off the handle. I can't walk into a dark room because I know someone's crouching in there with a knife waiting to slit my throat. Or stab me. I turn on the light and I'm pumped with adrenaline and my heart is racing and there's so much raw terror in me that it clogs my throat. I hear a noise and I'm convinced my family's been brutally, almost silently murdered in the next room and I can't move because then they'll find me.
I feel like I'm going to throw up. It's taking all my restraint not to throw the computer mouse as hard as I can against the wall. I want to call people and tell them to fuck off even though I'm the one who called them. I want to break things and shock people. Do something heinous.
No. I want to curl into the fetal position and fall asleep and not wake up. I want to get out of here. I want to be a grown-up because somehow that'll make my life so much better. I want to walk down an aisle while music plays and I want to get married. I never will. I just know it. I'm going to screw up somewhere along the line. If I haven't already.
I can't take vitamins anymore because of the viruses. They're in there.
I want to scream for help but I'm afraid of who will hear me. I'm trying to be the cool collected one on the other end of the wires and tubes and LEDs that connect me to someone else right now and be their voice of reason and I'm flying off the handle so I must be doing a shit job. I do want to get out of here, One EskimO. Stop singing that because you know how badly I do. I can't stop listening to you, though.
I need to hold you while I cry my eyes out and have you tell me everything is going to be OK. But it's not going to happen like that because you need the same from me.
Why do people blame me? I don't understand. It's my fault for everything so I guess they have reason.
Doesn't anyone worry about Michigan? There have been earthquakes everywhere and everywhere's going crazy and yet there's a huge faultline in Michigan and we think we're immune because we're America and yet they're going to be next or they're going to be soon and I can see it, can't everyone else? They're so high risk they're so high risk.
I want to scream but I'd wake her.
I wish life was Star Wars because then I'd have a mission and a cause and there would always be something there to guide me and tell me if I was fucking up. And it's space. Space is always quiet.
I'm gonna hurt myself.
I need to go numb, not this fake numb I'm feeling where I just can't feel happy but really numb no emotion at all not this apathetic depression worry that won't go away that's not numb that's stuck. I talk with a flat effect because I can't process happy anymore. It's been 2 weeks of straight depression and longer than that if you count the little breaks of good days when I could laugh and function now I have to push myself I wish I could push myself off a cliff or something but it would hurt and I'm scared of pain.
I'm scared of a lot of things.
I love you I love you I love you I've grown so I need you.
There is a crack in my ring, in the silver from where I've worried it along my finger so much and caused the metal so much stress and it's driving me insane. There's a callous along my knuckle where I kept worrying it and worrying it and couldn't stop. I have hard smooth patches along each finger from where I've rubbed them and ripped at them until the skin is worn-down scar.
I'm so worried about you I'm going to cry and cry and never stop and worry about you forever because I need you.
Why am I such a fuck up? I want so much so much so much you have no idea how much to be normal. I just want to be comforted. That's all I need right now I'm going to cry or die and I don't know anymore. Why am I even posting this? Maybe I'm asking for help. I'm not sure. I don't ever know anymore. Don't ever know at all. I want so badly
to get out of here.

Pour Dire Merci

This is a thank-you.
As a lot of you know, I've been going through a hell of a rough time lately, and come to terms with a lot of my issues. They're far from resolved, but at least I know they're there.
And as a select few know, one of my main issues is confidence and self-esteem.
So I just want to thank you, Tim, Adam, Matt, Luke, Emily, and Evan for trying to help me gain some confidence. You have no idea what it means to me that you all care enough to try to help me improve how I see myself, both outside and in, and to listen to and be there for me even when I'm depressed or paranoid.
I don't plan on publishing this, or sending it to anyone. But if any of you happen to stumble upon this.. thanks. For more than you know.

JE NE SUIS PAS MORTE.

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 http://nutritionallyenticing-fpc.blogspot.com/ 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.

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.
I LOVE YOU ALL.
EVEN THE ONES WHO HATE ME :D

FBT OUT.

Veillards

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.

FBT OUT.