sigh...all flustered out

I was looking up "put on a pedastal" on google because I wanted to find a word that matched that sort of meaning...and somehow I found a blog called: White Women Suck!

I couldn't resist my temptation. I just had to reply...and i must say that I put way more effort into it than I did with this essay. (I hope this guy doesn't find my blog...lol) Apparently, and not surprisingly, your comment has to be approved by him before it will appear. This is another reason why I want to put my reply to it here...I can't have worked that hard for nothing, right?? Right?!??! lol

My comment:

Quite frankly...I don't even see the need for the creation of this blog. Is it even relevant that white woman were treated "better" than other women in the past (and present)? Why are women grouped by the colour of their skin? Why should that be relevant in an age like today? We are all individuals, and we live in individual situations. A person's suffering should not be compared to another's. Everyone lives their own lives and are faced with their own challenges. People who suffer should not bring each other down by saying petty things like "you are not suffering as much as me so you shouldn't talk!" We are in a day and age where every person is unique, and every person's problems are unique. I have less control of the past as anyone else today does, and I'm sure that women, no matter how they were mistreated, had no control of theirs either. I hope you are not suggesting that white women should have been thankful for not being treated as badly as other women were, and therefore accepted their fate? And exactly what do you mean by "white women"? You are making a large generalization about groups of people who were all very different in their own regard.

I do agree that some people have an overpowered sense of feminism...people are far too politically correct, sometimes, but at the same time that applies to anything, not only women. It can apply to politics, religion, and nationalism.

The impression I'm getting from you is that you are bitter about certain women you have met in your life that you have tried to appeal to but failed (I am not blaming either party) and you are taking it out on the majority of them. This 'chivalry' you speak of btw...do you actually even know it's origins? Can you even comprehend what it means? There is a whole history behind that, that I wont get into. Perhaps you should put more research into it before talking about it, especially since you seem to know so much about history when it comes to the suffering of "coloured" groups of women.

But anyway...it's necessary to see that we are living in an age where gender roles and expectations have rapidly and very suddenly changed in only the past - what, fifty years? (In America). Even longer than that, and unfortunately people get caught. All of us get caught within gender confusion, especially men who are given a double standard - to be 'chivalrous' and yet to 'still be a man' and yet to 'give women rights'. It is confusing, but it's confusing for everyone.

We are all changing together, and in the process, let's try to remember the *person* not the group. One person does not make the face of the whole. Reach out to people, don't push them away, no matter how many silly ones you come across. Don't loose faith in the masses just because of a few sorry individuals...and because of the confusion of current gender issues.

More rambles...

I successfully MASS-BSED my essay...it was amazing. I wrote eight pages straight of the most useless things ever! I must say I'm proud of myself. But now I have to go back and source...and correct, everything I bsed about in order to make it sound...

heh...

Like a univeristy student's paper, is the word, I suppose. At least, I need to not get kicked out of school for completely failing to source anything...

(although everything I wrote came from my own mind...heheheheh so I'm not sure they could)

Either way, I need to bring it up to my own standards. This brings me here...flipping through books, searching for supporting evidence, discovering that I totally facked up on various pieces of info...

HMMM This is the hard part, my friends!!! Don't think you can get away with doing mindless blam blam blam on your keyboard. Even English requires you to flip through pages of the novel your studying and say...

"Well clearly by SUCH ____ passage we see that THIS PERSON is completely...etc...etc."

You get my drift. In this case, I'm shooting off random claims without any support. And...repeating my claims over and over, at that. My thesis really has no grounds in the work as a whole...

Ohhh fackers...I'm really just hoping for a sixty at this point. But honestly...I can't see myself just giving up on it. If anything...there's no way I could lower my standards to that level.

FIGHT FIGHT!!!!!!

The question....

The only question this time, is if I really do finish all 8 pages will I be satisfied with the result? These hands...they've produced too much bs. these past few weeks -- is there anything left?

3 out of 8 pages in. 4ish more to go.

After this. One more essay due. (Not started).

The last essay I wrote was crap (I know it). This one is turning out shit too...M. if you really thought I tend to bs., you haven't seen anything yet. At least with my Mac. King essay I actually felt some sense of pride...now all I have is exhaustion. Every word I type is exasperated...

Even this...like dead leaves falling from my lips...I breathe in but I choke on them. It's not beautiful...none of it. Outside the birds chip...Spring slowly creeps in -- can it reach me from in here?

Previous Post cont.

(Slacking off from essaying cont.)

The boy who had burned his eye had just started calling out for help when the campus police came rushing through the crowd, helping the few people of station who had been trying to disperse the curious students. A few officers came forward to meet the group but there was a loud crack and the door behind them went flying off with flames consuming it. The girl managed to gaze a peek behind them to view a man in a grey business suit. The only impressions she could gather of him is that he was thin and tall, with pale short-clipped blonde hair. He wore glasses that covered translucent blue eyes that seemed to shine with wickedness (whether awesome or frightful she wasn't sure - maybe both). The girl had seen all this because she was the only one who had remained still, in shock, as the door had gone flying past them.
"Run!" said the other girl to her, pulling her arm. The girl was only aware of loud shouts of confusion, the police pointing guns to the man and the surge of bodies that erupted in every direction to escape. Because of their position, their group of six were the only ones to run outside in a panic like frightened deer; led by the left-handed boy they all were orderly and purposeful. They made their way down a steep hill that made most of them tumble frantically until finally reaching the bottom, swallowed up by the forest below.
There they lay in silence, some, like the girl, in completely awkward positions. She had tumbled through a large bush and landed on a fallen tree. The consequences were stinging scratches and a sore back, but for the most part she was lucky. All around her came the moans of the others, a gasp here and there of pain. Each of them were breathing hoarsely, most except for the left-handed boy took time to look over their wounds. The burnt-eye boy was proding his wound and his face was contorting quickly into horror. In moments, she felt, they would all erupt into panic.
The left-handed boy looked at her steadily, he had been crouching and peering around, possibly taking in their surroundings. His left arm was tucked safely on his lap while the other kept him steady on the ground.
"Name?" he asked her, his olive skin was smudged with dirt and his close-cut hair had leaves in them. His face, as she had noticed was usual, was serious. He wore the clothes of a fashionable Eurpoean young man, with a graphic t-shirt and well-fitting jeans (versus the type that fell to some boys knees). He had some facial hair, and to her looked like the equivilant of a (possibly?) Spainish David Beckham. Being of a wholly American ancestory (for as far back as that could go) she neither had the ability, nor care, to idenitify his ethic background. She identified him by his crooked mouth that always seemed to frown and his mysterious dark brown eyes. If they caused any effect on her then it was merely a feeling of intense inferiority; confidence radiated from him.
"Alexis," she said slowly, finding that her throat was hoarse. Just speaking had brought tears to her eyes.
Whatever he thought of the name wasn't evident - as for herself, she felt the need to always have an excuse for it - It was the name of my mom's Grandma - as if anyone would care. For the most part, they didn't, and of all times now wouldn't be the time to, anyway.
"David," he told her, and quickly looked on to everyone else. (Alexis was left wondering at the fact that he looked so much like the soccer player) "You guys?"
"What - what is off with you?" the burnt guy erupted; he then spouted aggressive words with no substance - just anger and shock. His voice was rising.
"Shut up," David said sternly, brow crossing. "Do you want them to hear?"
He shut up, lowering his hand from his face. What they saw wasn't pretty - puss and delicate, pink skin molded together over his eyelid. As for Alexis, she was quite close to throwing up. The others might have felt the same because they turned white.
"Hear?" the burnt one demanded. "We were so close to the police - they were handling things. And instead we took off into the woods - why? How should I..." Again he was feverishly panicking, the girl with a disturbed look rose and grabbed him by the shoulders. "Johnathan please!" she told him with a shaky voice, "Get a hold of yourself!"
One other boy with tear and mud streaks down his face attempted to argue reason, "I think we should go back, John needs to...you know, see someone."
"What's your name?" David asked him.
"Felix," he said slowly, unsure.
"Felix you may do that but as for myself, I am staying right here. Call me a coward but whatever just happened there was no act of a terrorist. There was no bomb. What I saw was a man who could make fire pop out of his hand as if he were from a comic or something. If you guys want to deal with that, be my guest. As for me, I'm getting out of here."
"What?" the last boy, chubby but harmless-looking asked, "Are you sure? Tha-that..." he could not continue, every word he gulped down what Alexis assumed was fear.
"I saw what I saw," he responded with closed eyes, and quickly opened them.
It suddenly dawned on Alexis, "Let's call an ambulance," she said quickly, "tell them to meet us..." Alexis found herself slowing down, her words coming out like stones, impossible to pass through her lips. Her body drooped, and she noticed with intense fear that the others were also sinking to the ground, apparently asleep or unconcious.
Desperatly she tried to stay awake, her body swaying no matter how hard she fought.
"This one...up...fight...her out."
A blurred figure approached, but before it could compelte its orders she collapsed to the ground, the effects that had overcome the others finally pushing her to the edge.

Another republishing; A New Tag

Maybe there's some fiction in it all. In everything you see and you touch, leaving after images and thoughts, trailing whispers that leave you wanting more. You're left standing in wonder, "Did this really happen?" and find yourself never sure. The world and all that happens in it is some sort of haze that covers your eyes, like fairy dusty, like beautiful lies. What are we but mere victims on a stage; who is amused by this tormenting charade?
So is it too far to say all is a woven tale? An interlocking web of fiction, of wishes, hopes, dreams, constantly conflicting with reality? Perhaps they are all lies, and maybe all we do is worthless, futile, as we attempt to swim upriver, to our deaths.
Is it not poetic how we grasp out for one another? "Save me!" we cry. "Please love me..." we sigh. But all and all we are just trying to make the best of everything. Even if on a daily basis the world lies to us, even if...we are lying to ourselves. Somehow we spare some moment to bask in each others company, or to enjoy silent moments on our own. Somehow we survive becoming adults, and then survive becoming old. Can we do it together? Can we weave an amazing story? Is it possible to work together, to create a happen ending?
Because maybe there's some fiction in it all.

--------------

I seemed to dream more, back then. There was more fiction in everything. I'm republishing this because I want to inspire myself. I know this is who I am...

Wait...something's coming....Can it bear fruit?:

-------------------


10:30am and the prof was only just starting to talk about the lecture, having just informed her students about the upcoming final and what it would entail. She was a little energetic for such a subject, but it helped to offset the mundane. It was always better when a professor was enthusiastic about what they taught even at the price of sometimes listening to long rants. This older woman was actually the better of all Sarah's other profs, but it was still hard to keep awake through two straight hours of class with only a five minute break in between. At this particular interval she was already losing track of what the prof was saying.
The Holy Roman Empire was split...by what? She had completely missed the line. Sighing, the young student peeked to her right where a classmate sat, wondering if she could see what he had written. Unfortunately he was left-handed, so it was pretty much impossible for her to make out anything relevant. Besides, she felt even if she had read them she wouldn't understand. Notes are a particular thing for each individual, it's like trying to break a code.
She decided it best to focus her attention on the prof instead, resting her chin on her hand and staring intently towards them to help pay attention. She had to squint to make out the prof's face from so far above; she was sitting at the farthest row of seats, right near the door. It was the perfect spot for an easy escape, after all, and for the life of her she had no clue why anyone would want to sit right up at the front anyway.
In some corner of her mind she felt like there were eyes on her and it was somewhat distracting, but in all her life she was never one to take bait of these feminine senses. It was telling her that the boy on her right was looking her way, and rather obviously too - but still unable to be true to her - without a wavering gaze. Within that deep subconscious part of her that was aware of his gaze there was also a hint of excitement; the boy was rather good-looking, so it didn't hurt to think just maybe he is looking my way?
For a moment she scrunched her bright green eyes together, too embarrassed for herself to even let such thoughts fester. There was nothing in her life at the time that left room for boys, and even then, she doubted the idea of one of them looking her way.
If anything, she thought, he is most likely thinking about how strange I must be.
Again she had to scrunch her eyes. There was also no room for self-pity.
"And in the later half of the century..."
She was finally starting to gain focus again when out of the corner of her eye there was movement. Figures streamed in from the doors at the bottom sides of the lecture room so quickly that she had no time to register what was going on before there was suddenly a flash of blazing light that forced her backwards after being hit with a strong heat wave. There was a multitude of cries, all linked together, collecting and then gradually receding. With some awareness she knew she had toppled over her chair and hit the ground. Her first feelings were embarrassment in case anyone had seen. This fear made her rise slightly with her arms and open her eyes. The second immediate feeling was dread, cold and silent, as tortured screams erupted from all around, and laughter; for the life of her she couldn't imagine who'd be laughing.
There was a considerate effort to focus on everything immediately in front of her, and she saw that down at the other end of the row a group of four had survived, although they had been thrown back just like her. To her shock there was soot and burn marks all over them. Desperately she looked over herself and noticed the same, but she felt no pain; all there was was cold, sweat, and the various noises that harassed her senses.
A prodding on her shoulder brought her around in a gasp, only to meet the pain-filled gaze of the boy who sat next to her.
"Call them," he told her hoarsely; it looked like he was gripping his arm. "The door."
She nodded and turned, motioning to the four. They all surprisingly took to her call rather quickly, despite the fact that one was apparently severely burned on the face, directly over his eye. The only girl in the party urged them forward, and all the pair could do is watch as they scrambled like animals towards them. Muffled cries meanwhile continued, along with the scraping of chairs and grunts as if there was a fight commencing. When the girl was very near them there was a loud screech that made them all freeze suddenly, someone cried, help, in agony and the next thing each of them registered was a blazing mass falling in between the two groups. In horror they stared as a lifeless body was consumed with flames. Without anymore need for convincing, the girl was forced roughly to turn around.
"Come on," the boy demanded without looking back. The girl looked desperately at the others, the girl leading them noticed the pair leaving and urged the others over the body. There was nothing any of them could do but run.
Once outside there were too many complicated things to take it. There students flocking every which way, most curious, others running away - hopefully survivors. The unaware ones stared in shock and fear.
Bomb. The word was repeated again and again, and it didn't take long for the other students to take in their injuries.


-----------

Can't go on. It's too late at night and I can't concentrate...This thing is horrible. It's full of run-ons. It's not going in the direction I wanted. Oh well...hm, prob just because I'm tired...because if I think about it I can see where it can go.

aHH Suddenly, I miss Loki. This attempt just seems like me trying to get back to him. haha.


p.s ANOTHER ESSAY DUE MONDAY HAVEN'T STARTED!! :O

Old Regrets Republished

I have just been reading some of my old posts under the tags, "regrets". It seems to me like I put cold-blue and my writing at a much higher regard than I do now. Finishing it is like an...impossible dream now, of sorts. There's only so much time in a day. I go to school, come home and eat dinner with Keane. We watch something together, play a video game maybe, or maybe I have an essay or homework to do, and then we go to sleep. The next day I may have work. No...there feels to be no time to write, not if I want to do everything else.

*deep sigh*

What am I waiting for...? I am just like Minnie and Hanson...

*chews knuckles*

OHH MAN HEADACHEE!! (I guess it doesn't help that Keane is playing drums on rockband...)

OK I can do this, I can DO THIS!!!

-.-


essayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy

EsSAY

I'm so tired of writing essays!!!


...But it's my fault, really.

What would I rather be doing, essays, or solving mathematical equations?

Sigh...*opens up a word doc*.

dark night

The darkness swells up around me
I am dark, I am night.

These feelings, they overwhelm me
I am imbued, I am distilled...

...Dwelling in mystification...
...Breathing in contracted phrases...
...I fade away into non-existence...

Darkness...silence...the hum of a computer left on overnight.

Blinking in artificial light...although it is not far away.


-------------

Tired...another shit poem...........

Should be studying

Well, have a quiz today but woooooo waaaa, can't bring myself to study any more than my "quickly look over notes" plan that I have already implemented. Now it's count-down to doom, but the thing is only worth 5% anyway...

Really, despite that "mini" clock of doom I have about 10 LARGER clocks looming over me. 3 essays due by the end of the month (haven't started) and 4 exams coming up for next month.

*slight eye twitch*

Well, I'm not feeling all that sour for it. (At least for now). I know aunty rose is visiting soon so I'm sure I'll flip out when the time comes.

Nothing creative today..................oh wait, maybe...................

The wind blows intensely,
Pressing up against me,
Howling like a lone, sad wolf

The clouds loom above
Grey like sad eyes
Silent in the cold hue

But on earth it is beautiful
The people spread their wings
Like the birds come back for spring
The smells are wonderful

I take a moment; I take it in.



ARHGHH That was so bad. That was me trying to use "structure" in my poem...but whenever I try to use structure it comes out bad...rawr.......

my determination to NOT SLEEP

I have done it. I have drankeded the COFFFEEES. I will be awake all night now, whether or not I finish this essay soon.

Just wrapping up page 3. Still got FIVE more to go.

Oh...oh...ohhhhh... (This is me singing silently into the night. THAT'S RIGHT SILENTLY.)

Clearly the coffee has disabled my mental capacity to be "witty".

Did I mention it's a large DD? Oh yeah this baby'll last me alllll nighttt longggg.

(Yes I can clearly see the pervertednessness)

*looks around*

Mackenzie King ding a ling...

king's genius

“If some countries have too much history, we have too much geography.” - William Lyon Mackenzie King

HAAHAHA omfg so true.

*chews on knuckles*

Okay here I am just yapping away. I haven't started my essay yet. I haven't felt this much resistance to essay writing in a LONG TIME. Last time I did my history essay I was all GO GO GO GO GO GO GO and I made a mad dash for the finish line, just barely making it.

Is it the fact that I finished on time before that I presently am unworried?

Maybe I'm just tired of being so stressed out and depressed. I've been so ill lately, not only physically but mentally. I'm tired of drowning myself in the river. I want to be that free spirited person again who smiled even as the rapids approached. I think I am, it was one decisive moment - it always is. It was like waking up from a dream, or rather...returning after a very long time, as if, someone else was occupying my body before.

Regardless, I don't want others impressions of me to kill me. If anyone thinks I'm lazy, unreliable, and that I wont ever amount to anything then they are welcome to do so. Perhaps it is more to do with my own self-hating personality, and people don't actually think these things about me, but either way I want to be myself. Ashling said to me that it's a good thing I'm more worried, and taking things more seriously; although, I should try to find a balance between both my personalities. I'm not sure I can, but I don't want to start from the stressed out side. I want to start from the "easy going" me and then make my way to a happy medium.

*looks at open air*

Oh yeah I'm supposed to be WRITING...an essay right now? 8 pages you say?..........

Oh it's due tomorrow?

Ha.

I've determined that I think for the first time in my life I'm going to pull off one of those infamous "all nighters". I think I need coffee for that, though...

Anyway, point being that instead of killing myself with worry, I'll find a way and doooo it. Even if it means skipping more of my morning class...

Been hearing them geese. Welcome back, how was California? (lucky bastards)

i am not, but am, and will, and are being and ceasing forever

I am but a tiny insignificant voice in the mass,
Others are stronger than mine, they are more fierce and powerful than mine,
I am squished in between, I fall through the cracks, I cannot see the sky.

The world is a living, breathing, thing,
It festers unimaginable energies, impossible, indescribable, real:
Tragedies, comedies, romances, and those things in between.
I am a part of them yet not, and still can be on a micro level.

They drown me out.
I get swept aside.
But I am still a drop in the sea.

Seeing is believing, but what I believe isn't real,
And I'm okay with that.
Everything around me is a hoax of my own imagining,
But I already know that.
Insignificant as I am, this is my telling, spinning, of reality
So I can live with that.

Treasure me as someone who told you of secret things,
Private things that exist in lonely basements,
That manifest themselves in haunting ravines.
There are whispers merely for you and me,
There is a micro world of dreams.