EClara726: well, it only took me a year or so
EClara726: to realize, that you are the center of the universe and the key to the meaning of life
Shur1yTemple: Where is the slot?
EClara726: everyone has a different slot i think, but you are always the key
EClara726: for some people though, you are the key and the slot, i believe

It is the most beautiful thing anyone has ever said to me?

I WOULD PREFER NOT TO.

Bartleby:
Seethestory.
Readthefilm.

I propose a Bartleby revolution! The influenza of indifference will spread.
We must make daily deposits of anarchy into the National Bank of Bartleby.
In the face of opposition, slay your opponent with a halting "I prefer not to."
I'm becoming addicted to cinema.
Not “movies”.
Films.
Cinema.
Brain….belch? Hiccup? Cough? Sneeze? It’s horrible when people say they had a “brain f***.” I can’t even handle it. I might giggle nervously, but inside I’m cringing and my evil gland (not a gland that is evil, but my gland that makes me evil) starts secreting it’s evil secretion and I’m tempted to slap them and say evil things. But it wouldn’t be my fault. I could blame it on my gland. And who wants to pick on a girl with a diabolical gland, anyway? (“Not I,” screams Farmer Patsy)
HALT!
Hiccough. Now that is one of those words that…Well, I have this great analogy containing prostitutes and midgets and bastard sea turtles and stuff, but I can’t share it with you unless you bring me a shrubbery. And after that…a larger shrubbery! Let’s just say that if your brain ever hiccoughs, you’re better off wearing a blue dress and waxing your nipples.
Back to you, Ted!
Coffins are ridiculous! I could explain, but I’m sure you know why they are ridiculous, so I shouldn’t have to tell you. Cremate me, baby. Please don’t bury me in the ground with the clammy worms and the sunken gnomes of ages past.

Update: The Six Glowing Orbs of Possibility:
a. Undoubtedly I was born in the wrong decade. “Jim Morrison” haunts my thoughts, but the music is over.
When the music’s over
Turn out the lights
For the music is your special friend
Dance on fire as it intends
Music is your only friend
Until the endb. They arrived. I shrieked like small child and ripped packages open. How can my sister methodically unwrap, fold, perforate….I must rip. I must claw. I must roll in the sand and I must mash food in your face. I will post evidence of the items to validate my greed and soothe my gluttonous spirit.
c. Acquired larger gauge plugs. Ar ar ar, matey. Somebody stop me.
d. Yes.
e. ::looks around shiftily, hands empty::
f. I found a tentative date. Yeah. Ahee.

Eyeliner will never fail to send me soaring into the stratosphere. I love hiding behing it. I love using as my last line of defense.
Once you've broken every barrier, it's there. And you can never defeat it!!!!!! Unless of course, you have, like, some soap. Whatever.

I fear the apricot drops, scintillating off geometric police officers.
I fear for the boxy ballerina, being pursued by the cackling beast.
I fear for the perspiring ice cube, melting slowing on the gorilla's breast.

Regarding the above: Can you figure out what I'm doing? The pattern? It seems quite obvious to me, but then again, I think Matthew Cuthbert is darn desirable. The first person to figure it out...is the first person to figure it out. I have the urge to say:
Huuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaang!!!
I could go on like this for hours, but I think I'll regret it. It's all about simplicity. I want to delete this entry, but I feel like that would be a tragic abortion of this virtual fetus. Speaking of fetuses, I think I'll name one of my kids Mowgli.
Here's a great line of musical masterpiece for the road:

I'll be waiting
With a gun and a pack of sandwiches
And nothing, nothing, nothing.

(Delayed entry from Thursday)

Bicycle ride.
I conquered The Hill (Part Four)!


There have been three monumental obstacles in my bicycling adventures, and now I have conquered Part Four. I didn't even mean to, today, but I took a wrong turn, and Chelsea will not succumb to the humiliation of walking her bicycle up a hill.
Flushed with victory, I sped off into the jungle of picket fences and dying lawns. Drooling, sweating, grunting, I turned the corner and plundered ahead.

Isn't that great how Pete (the mystical man who rules the events of my life) chose to reunite me with post-puberty-down-the-street-boy-who-suddenly-has-become-a-very attractive-man-man at that very moment? There I was, hair plastered to my face, shirt soaked in sweat, gasping for air, wearing purple stretch pants.

I know, okay. Why do I even own purple sweat pants? And if so, why did I wear them? Pete, you cruel hearted plumber.

I laid on the grass at the park. It had just been cut, it smelled vibrant and alive. I laid there and stretched, inhaling the pulpy goodness. I must have looked like a very "special" girl, writhing, sweat soaked in the grass, wearing my tight purple pants. Very possibly a call girl/escaped mental patient. I probably scarred some of the children there for life. I went on the swings, hoping to enjoy the unadulterated bliss of weightlessly soaring through the air.
The swing set groaned. It protested. I snarled. I got to a moderate height and the set trembled and moaned. It’s really sad, once you reach a certain point, you just can’t play in the playground without having to worry about the whole thing coming crashing down upon you and the coppers having to pry your dead body out of a heap of monkey bars and bright yellow plastic tic-tac-toes.
It is now naked laundry time.

Post.Script. I apologize.

Bicycle ride.
I conquered The Hill (Part Four)!
There has been three monumental obstacles in my bicycle adventures, and now I have conquered Part Four. I didn't even mean to, today, but I took a wrong turn, and Chelsea will not succumb to the humiliation of walking her bicycle up a hill.
Flushed with victory, I sped off into the jungle of picket fences and dying lawns. Drooling, sweating, grunting, I turned the corner and plundered ahead.
Isn't that great how Pete (the mystical man who rules the events of my life) choses to reunite me with post-puberty-down-the-street-boy-who-suddenly-has-become-a-very attractive-man-man right then? There I was, hair plastered to my face, shirt soaked in sweat, gasping for air, wearing purple stretch pants. He smiled and waved and I mustered up a dopey smile and jiggled by purple-rump out of there.

I've added the commenting feature to my fluffy little Blog!
Please feel free to comment away, my pets.
I'll finally find out if anyone really does read this. Arf.

SIX THINGS TO LOOK FORWARD TO AND ONE THOUGHT TO PONDER:
a. See The Doors on Friday.
b. Savor the sweetness of waiting for my items to arrive in the mail.
c. Stretch my earlobes more.
d. Lay on the floor of a perfectly clean room and burn incense, peppermint, wish upon the ceiling.
e. Hold the hand of a boy. I realized I've never really held hands with anyone of the penile persuasion. Interesting. A lot of people are shocked when I say I've never had a boyfriend?
f. Straight from the Che Cafe website:
Saturday, August 9th
Live bands: Bunky (local sometimes pretty, sometimes avant etc... goodstuff www.bunkymusic.com), the castanets ("lyrical genius of Ray Raposa and the musical and production skills of Nathan Delffs [of the Album Leaf]), Liz Janes (maybe you'd call it local bluesy and pretty solo acoustic singing niceness www.asthmatickitty.com), Rachel Jacobs (pretty solo acoustic nicety), the places (you don't even know how nice this is! it's crazy nice! amy annelle's band, the places. i get confused between the band and the solo stuff, but either way, it's nice) - 8PM, donation (for bands).

If this sounds like your idea of a good time, get in contact with me before hand.

Oh, the thought to ponder: This is it.

Somehow, a black hoodie would solve everything.
It needs to be just small enough to be comforting and comfortable and just big enough for your hands to fit in the pockets. Small enough so that a thrifty yellow t-shirt can stick his threadbare head out the bottom and big enough so that Gretchen and Betty don't suffocate. I want to dissolve in it's fuzzy goodness and put my head in your phantom lap. Mmmmm.
Maybe we could go get dinner together. No, I'm not talking to you anymore, I'm talking to el hoodie negro. After we get to know each other better, eventually I could adorn you. I would sleep with you after the first date. You could accompany me on my adventures, because I always will need an accomplice just like you. Silent and dangerous. Black hoodie! You're the mythic fruit of someone else's loom. I can't find you. Please find me. I'll wait for you. I'm waiting for you.

Sinful chocolaty goodness.
I'm sweating cocoa.
Most likely a backlash of watching Chocolat and having insomnia. Mighty hypocritical moment of the day! Merely an hour after bemoaning the horrors of "junk food" and how repulsive it is with my dear Kevin, I am hit by intense chocolate longings. I rummage through cupboards and hit the refrigerators, in search of a small brick of carob or sip of chocolate soy milk. The kitchen is devoid of such items. Panicked, I search the lower levels of the pantry...
The forbidden lairs, the shelves of sin. My choco-sense tingles upon the sighting of a Hostess box. Driven as I am, I am somewhat hesitant to look closer. "DING-DONG!" the cheerful box honks in my face. DING DONG! No! Bah! I recoil.
I shun you, harbinger of explosive fat rolls and needless guilt! I have better things to do. Such as...such as…RIP THE BOX OF DING DONGS OPEN, TEAR THE SHIMMERING WRAPPER OFF THE GLOATING HELLCAKE, AND DEVOR THE MONSTER WITH PASSIONATE ABANDON.

No. Nooooooooooooooooo! Why? WHY? Mmmm, why not. Sink. Gulp. Smack.

I stared at the aluminum wrapper in my hand. Hey, that wasn’t that bad. That felt good. That was…tasty. I like junk food. I do. I should have another!
WHAT?
Logic promptly shat upon the lard that was congealing in my brain. I closed the pantry. I stumbled about the kitchen, wondering what to do next. I deciding upon drinking a lot of water. Like that would help.
So now I’m sitting here, at the computer, writing this as a reminder to NEVER EAT A FREAKING DING DONG AGAIN, OR ANY OF IT’S RELATIVES, ESPECIALLY NOT AT THREE IN THE MORNING, AND ESPECIALLY NOT IF YOU HAVE TO GET INTO A BATHING SUIT TOMORROW, CHELSEA, SO FINISH THAT GLASS OF WATER, THEN HAVE ANOTHER. AND ANOTHER, WHY NOT? YOUR NIGHT OF URINATION SHALL SERVE AS A PUNISHMENT AND A WARNING TO ALL !
I’m just looking out for you. I want the best for you. I’m only doing this because I love you.

[My stomach just growled. Have I stirred it’s passions and tempted it’s carnal desires? Was that a groan of protest and utter rejection? A gutteral warning? It sounded kind of like it said “Muuuutinnnny”. Just what I’ve always wanted. An alimentary revolution.]

Moral of the story is: Vomit.

Post.Script. I didn't literally vomit, but I think that is really the moral of the story. I mean, don't eat the Vomit if you don't want to feel Vomitty and then end up writing Vomit on the World Wide Wretch. So I guess that's the moral of the story.

How can a girl so obsessed with personal hygeine live so comfortably in a stagnant room of filth?
I glide over piles of clothes and sit upon a throne of towels, books, and underthings.
Glasses upon glasses of water line my desk. Potions, lotions, bottles of transparent liquids--
::::interlude::::
My internet was abruptly disconnected whilst in the middle of that post. However, I have changed my perspective. I am repentant. No, no I'm not. I am enraged. I can't tell you what happened today, I can't even bring myself to say it. I will clean my room. I promise. If only I weren't so tired. (Shut up, you insomniac, you know you aren't going to sleep) I know, I'm just going to sit here. The thing is I'm more motivated than ever. But motivated out of fear, and the fear is immobilizing. All I can say is, thank you, National Honor Society. Thank you, Strong Bad. And thank you, Courage.
I love the fact that you have no idea what I'm rambling on about.

Oooh, Led Zeppelin. Yum.

My sister and I went to Target to get the "bare essentials".
We came back with a magnetic chalkboard, a plastic football, and a bobblehip hula boy named Carlos.
Among other things.

My legs were trembling when I made the first cut.

I stirred. Laying in bed with my eyes closed, I smiled. I couldn't help myself, I got out of bed and took out the pair of stork scissors. The stork's yearning mouth opened up and swallowed the first plait of hair. My hair yielded under the stork's hungry beak, cleaving diagonally, brilliantly uneven. Still in a slumbering high, I paused and considered what I had done.
Snip. Snip. Snip.
It took more willpower than Will Power to get me to stop.
But I did.
And I like it.


(Don't worry friends and neighbors, I didn't do anything drastic.)

EBay...my salty addiction. I'm already bloated with auctions I cannot afford to win.
Book recommendation: A Confederacy of Dunces, by John Kennedy Toole

Rock rock rock rock rock and roll / you like an animal / in the dead of night

rockandrollhighschool/closer/blackbird

PAMPFF!!

cricket snaps at his ankles, there is no time to delete: only this pounding woman in his wounded ear screaming all the things he never wanted to hear and telling the stove top oven pop loaded on top of the rain not to drop the thunder clouds and open fire grills. to lick the window sill and soothe the savage beast within, he looks into the mirror. entrails of photographs, he relives the deadly moths. they were caked on the screaming toddlers mouth, he cried to sweeten the marbles on the floor. over his head, wondering which clock tower the staples can feather, the curtains open to expose the wicked way of the ceiling fan.

Added new stuff to the this. that. and...the other thing picture page.

Yes, mainly pictures of me as I am vain and horrible. And subtly abusive. Aaaahahah.

Oh dear. I need to stop being so evil. I feel like I have such a coarse personality. As if I'm lacking empathy and...a soul? When I say I feel guilty, I don't think I feel guilty, I think I say I feel guilty to make myself feel human. At least at the moment. Other times I really do feel guilty. Hell, am I just saying that so that whoever reads this won't think that I'm a hollow wretch? Am I covering my rump for the non-existent reader? Maybe I haven't done anything to warrant guilt. We'll see. I need to be a weepy feminine vessel again. Was I ever?
WHO AM I TALKING TO?

THESE EMPTY QUESTIONS I ASK ONLY SINK ME FURTHER INTO A HOLE OF CURIOSITY.

Oh, new layout, as you can see.
It's so plain.
So plain.
But, that's fine with me.
Keep it simple, keep it clean.
Ignore advertisements.

i should bathe:
reeking like the mind of a sinister
....................................................criminal
......................... I LIE
......................... I LAY
......................... I lied to everyone but
a shower will make it better if
I could only peel off the last layer
of justice, peace, and underwear
then I could wash away those tender
morsels of memory and liquefied
fungus of regret. All those
.............................. THINGS
.............................. THAT THING
.............................. THE THING
people, things you should have done
wonders WHY NOW? If I could only put on my hat and
walk out the door. Wearing a
hat. And. Nothing else but my hat in the shower. Together we
make music. Someday I'll turn
the water on together we will sing in the artificial rain.

I want to be somewhere else, I want to be someone else, I want to be a purer version of me, I want to extract the polution that clouds myself and create a shiny version of me all wrapped up in tissue paper and bulle wrap, perfectly, for all time, at least until I start to rot from too much perfection because without my flaws, who am I? And does that make my flaws my strengths?

Remember in elementary school when they tell you you cannot start a sentence "And..."? Well, later, they say, "Oh, it's tolerable under certain conditions." Well, I do it a lot. And I say "well" a lot. And a lot a lot. I'm being obnoxious. I hate that.

And we hid under the blankets together, hid
from authority, time, and
the smell of sleep.
Beethoven can't save us
now, we are tonight.
We are dreaming.
We are honey.
We can't fail,
we can't cry, and we
don't rhyme. Everytime
our eyes meet and I lick my lips you know
what will happen if you don't put an
END to everything.
Give me the eye and take away your hands.
Together we will play
the heartstrings.

- Excerpt from The Notebook, a notebook (Woo.) I used as a substitute Blog while I was offline. "That's called a journal," you say? Nay, I say, nay. A paper Blog it is.

It's better to help people than garden gnomes.



Blog, sweet Blog, I return to you. And what a strange feeling. I'm sorry for being gone so long. Computer. He doesn't know me anymore. He hums slightly when I stir him, but the bond is gone. He doesn't recognize my cold fingers hitting his keys methodically. And I don't mind, when we were closer I shut reality out. But it was a nice break. Now we just have a casual relationship. I think it's because I ripped his vocal chords out. Eventually I'll plug them back in. But when he doesn't speak, I'm forced to listen to the voices from the other room. And the thoughts in my head. Nice.

Things are strange. I've been acting not like myself. Nicer. A regular do-gooder. Good-doer! I just got it! I met a Rastafarian at the Del Mar Faire and he told me everything I need to know. It seems. Though in retrospect, he really didn't tell me anything. Except that I am the sister of Her Majesty. Which should make me royalty, but actually just makes me a peasant.

I need a mouthful of fake teeth, and then I can have everything I want.
What do I want?
I know what I want. I just need to do it. I just need to make it happen.
I think I might have started something. Lit a match. Under my ass.
Sizzle, sizzle.

BLANK LIKE ET!


I am nobody's little weasel. I am nobody's little weasel. I am nobody's little weasel. Mmmm.