déesse - goddess, female deity.
saleté - dirty.
February 2003
March 2003
April 2003
May 2003
June 2003
July 2003
August 2003
I don't like my boyfriend on the Internet. He's always so mean to me.
E-mail #1:
You suck donkey balls
Hahahha!
(I wrote back to this one, ‘I guess that makes you an ass.')
E-mail #2:
Lalalalalalalalalalalalalalla
Blahblahblahblahblahblah
Hahahahhaha your at school now so fu to you.
They all end with a song quote and "Love" and his name, but that signature's tacked onto the end of every e-mail he sends, so I don't feel that it's genuine when the rest of his e-mail speaks otherwise.
I realize he's only joking, but still. I realize also that I pick on him, too, but face-to-face, and I smile and/or touch him affectionately when I do to show him that I don't mean what I'm saying. I can't get that through an e-mail. And his stupid little comments hurt. He could have at least stuck a colon-bracket smiley on the end.
I'm pissy and moody today, anyway. Damn tomorrow - the start of that female dilemma of doom.
I got off my computer before ten last night - a rare thing. I spent the rest of my evening listening to loud Otep and organizing my poetry binders. I even wrote a new poem, by hand, but, as I tend to think of all my work, I think it sucks.
He was sweet to me then at least, saying that I always think my work sucks and to him, it's always "quite good... really good, actually."
There's nothing that I want that I haven't found in you, he says.
I wish I could say the same.
I bet he couldn't list a hundred reasons why he loves me. I bet he couldn't write a two-thousand word essay detailing what he loves about me. I've done these things. He writes me poems that describe how much he wants to fuck me, but leaves out waking up with me the next day. He buys me flowers, and tells me how much less they were than what I thought he paid for them. He tells me he doesn't want to get married or have kids. He used to want these things, when we first got together, after... after I admitted to wanting these things. Maybe that's it - maybe he confessed to wanting the same to keep me happy, and is reverting back to the truth now, hoping I've forgotten the lie after all this time.
The thought of being BLESSED... with you for life....
Damn it.... And I got all skanked up today in eyeliner and the lip ring and collar and low-cut shirt and he's made me think and RUINED MY FUCKING DAY.
My e-pal Jack is talking of coming to New Brunswick for a little while this summer. Score! I eventually want to hook up with Steph and Rae, too. Steph lives a million billion miles away, though. (sulks)
Adam's not coming in to see me today as promised. (grumpypout) He's on the hunt for another job, and has an interview tomorrow at the Tim Hortons Joel works at, so he'd dedicated four days this week to snooping around. But, Raw didn't come on until one-thirty last night, pre-empted for not one, but two stupid playoff games. Stupid hockey. They wouldn't pre-empt hockey for a Heavyweight title match! I feel like kicking my brother in the nuts. ‘‘Your sport bumps my sport out of schedule!"
Leaving now. I have a ton of work to do.
The sun is shining, the sky is bright blue....
Grrr. I have a lot of work to do today. My assignment's due Wednesday, and I've got two parts of ten done.
Adam lost his job. Winston something hired him on "full-time," gave him six days' worth of work in two weeks, then at the end of the third week fired him, claiming he didn't have anything for Adam to do. Adam's father, for once, is supportive of his son, is livid and is calling the labour board to report the incident. Adam quit a full-time job that he liked to work at that pet store; had he known it was going to suck so hard, he could have stayed at the bakery and come over smelling like flour instead of wet puppy. He could have afforded Driver's Ed. He could have moved out. He could afford to buy me flowers spontaneously. Though, that's the least of my worries - I'd continue to love him if he had less than the little he has now. But it was sweet.
Adam desperately wants to move out so we won't be treated like a couple of untrustworthy preteen sluts when we're at his house, and so he won't be treated like one when I'm not there. His parents smoke marijuana daily and now scheme to start growing their own. He wants to rat them to the cops, but fears to while he's living there because they'd surely throw him out or beat him.
Cole and I are getting a PlayStation 2 for his birthday, May first. Kickaaaaaaaaaass.... I'm going to stock up on Smackdown: Shut Your Mouth and a multi-tap so we can play six controllers.
I wish I could take pictures of my current characters for that game, that reside on Joel's memory card. All three have heavy black definition of their eyes, dark lipstick, and fishnets to their elbows. Emily's lips are navy, she wears black pants with silver decorative stitching and a white tank top cut low to show off her massive jugs, and her hair is bright orange. Sienne's hair is, as of yesterday, bright blue, and she's in black pants, a red bra, a red-and-black waist corset, and a sleeveless fishnet top. Tessica is so cool that I haven't modified her since version II; her hair and lips are a matching dark purple, and she wears black pants with swirly dark-pink patterns and the black fishnet top under a black leather halter. Emily is the closest to how I would look, how I wish I looked, though. The orange gradient of her hair is beautiful.
Yeah... all wishful thinking, vicarious models of my inner self, the one that could escape if my outer self weren't so lazy. And also, makes for boring reading. Pictures would be better. Perhaps... hmm, I wonder if there's any way I could get some. A flash would bounce off a TV, and a webcam won't take a still of anything back-lit.
At lunch, I was people-watching again. This time, I was focused on Behzad, a student in Database Programming who's a refugee from Iran. He was gazing out the window at the tall, wide office building across the street.
I wondered, as I watched him watch the rows of windows, what he was thinking about.
What's his opinion of that building? Does he think it's as beautiful as I do? Does he long for a bigger city, or a smaller town, or is this place perfect to him? How about his homeland? Did he live in a big city there, or a smaller town? Does he miss architecture, markets, cleaner-smelling air, beautiful green plains? Or the food? Does he think we're a bunch of weirdos over here, that we all look different, dress funny, talk funny, write funny, have strange customs or are lazy because we only work five days a week and get thousands of TV channels? Who did he leave behind in Iran that he could be thinking about, worrying about, missing right now?
It must be hard to pack up and leave your life behind for a new one. We don't have enough respect for immigrants.
<BummedFromFODEntry>
I hit a bunny on the way home last night. A little white bunny, crossing the road, scared and darting this way and that. It jumped right under my right front tire.
Devastated, I instantly busted out bawling and lost control of the car. Somehow I wrangled it to the opposite shoulder of the road, crying so hard my chest hurt, my lungs were heaving, and my sobs sounded more like screams. From the passenger seat, Adam parked my car, turned off the ignition, reached over and held me and soothed me softly - with his tone of voice more than his words, as I heard none of them in my state of panic.
The great thing, though, is that when he went outside with a flashlight to get it off the road... nothing was there. No dead white bunny, no blood on or damage to my car, and no sound of nearby bunny cries. And believe me, he searched thoroughly - even under my car, with my headlights off.
I wasn't driving very fast, fifty (thirty, in miles per hour) at the most, and I didn't hit its midsection, I'm fairly sure. So I may have only bumped its head or hind legs and it kept going after a moment of shock.
I sure hope so. I always prayed I'd never hit an animal.
I realized two things recently. One:
Adam and I were in Child Studies together last year. For the first class project that required us to work in pairs, he and I decided to collaborate on a written report. We needed to reserve a topic; duplicates weren't being allowed by the teacher. The good ones were being snapped up, and I couldn't think of anything.
Adam instantly suggested child abuse, and we went with it. I remember thinking it was an absolutely brilliant idea - a broad topic that nobody else had had the brains to come up with, as most choose "abortion," "adoption," "step-families," "God's innocent little angels perverted by their heathen, homosexual so-called 'parents'," and so on.
I've only recently realized that he was able to come up with the subject so effortlessly because abuse had been a dominant part of his own childhood. But what's funny-not-ha-ha is that, I'm sure I inherently realized Adam's past life was full of shit when I first met him again in high school. His eyes... spoke to me then of mystery, secrecy and pain.
Two:
I really do fit what people who've known me all my life are constantly saying: You were always different; you just didn't know or accept it back then.
I dyed my hair violet in the second grade and used to try to colour it blue with markers.
Funny how you forget those things somehow, and then when they come back to you, you wonder how you could ever have forgotten them.
</BummedFromFODEntry>
Sorry about that. I don't make a point of filling two sites with the same crap, but for once, I came up with an informative post in my FreeOpenDiary instead of the usual emotions-loaded garbage I put up there.
I was telling this story to Marisa this morning - another random fact I just remembered, triggered by a revelation in her most recent entry.
Near the end of high school, in homeroom, I found a sheet of looseleaf with a looong numbered list of male names. The names nearly covered the sheet, in columns, listing all the way down the thirty-two lines at least twice. Class was relatively empty, so I picked it up, skimmed the names, recognized none, and had just lost all interest when Patricia piped up desperately that she needed it back. I asked her what it was; she wouldn't say. I kept the sheet from her, and started bugging to know why it was so important to her. She kept repeating her answer, and was growing ever more frantic and, seemingly, humiliated, and I felt bad and considered stopping my assault, but I felt I was right on the edge of the answer and so, persisted until she finally spit out, nearly on the verge of tears, I think: that it was a list of people she'd done "things" with. Physical things. "Now can I have it back? Please...."
Now I felt really guilty and embarrassed, so I handed it back silently, and she retreated. I had expected it to be a list of members of one of her many extracurricular affiliations - she was in TADD, the yearbook committee, the dance committee, school theatre, school PR, student council, the Christian Student Fellowship (haha - see my last entry for my thoughts on that inconsistency) - or people she had to contact for sponsorships of something... or something.
Patricia is one of my boyfriend's three exes.
Daaamn, that was a long list.
The Girl Guides changed their cookie maker. Now Dare makes their cookies, instead of Mr. Christie. The chocolate cookies taste the same as the Christie ones, but the white ones - formerly my favourites - are hurtin' a bit compared to their former excellence. They're a bit... grittier, I find, and the filling more marshmallowy-sweet.
I saw my boyfriend's ex recently, and good fucking lord, is she ugly. She had ten layers of flesh-coloured face paint passing for makeup on her face and sports the second-ugliest hairstyle I've ever seen on her - a faded, flaky, bleach-damaged car-rust-orange short cut with her nearly-black natural roots growing in. On top of that, she was dressed in dumpy, baggy clothes. Now, I'm all for people looking however they want, and some people could make the package I just described (minus the makeup - that was just ghastly), and I normally will never pick on you for how you choose or even don't choose to look, but hell, I have to admit, seeing her looking like a frazzled, overweight, middle-aged single mom of quintuplets who hasn't slept or done laundry all week venturing out for groceries was a sneaky, guilty pleasure. I know, I know, it's despicably shallow and inadmirable of me, but I felt like a goddess in comparison to her.
I mean... damn. She really looked like shit. Well, she is one, anyway, so she may as well dress the part.
This entry sounds terribly catty. Let me assure you, I do not only dislike the girl because she once dated my boyfriend. I could give a fuck less about that. I could, however, give you some scant details of just a few of the vendettas I have against her.
• She was constantly calling Joey an ugly fag and making fun of him when we were together. Her reason? He'd warned her that her dumbass, pot-head boyfriend was going to break up with or cheat on her, and she didn't believe him, accusing him of trying to cause trouble in her relationship. Days later, Gordon did indeed leave her for the girl with whom he had been, obliviously to both women, cheating on her - my friend and cousin Karla, also a friend of hers.
• She got me in trouble with Karla for ratting a secret to Karla's gay best friend Kirk, then saying that I'd done it, when a) I hadn't even known the secret at the time of its insensitive blaring, and b) I didn't even know Kirk.
• She told her best friend Amanda all kinds of things I had stupidly confided in her about my... (ahem) personal life. She and Amanda then had a blast broadcasting to anyone in the school who would listen to their crap for two seconds what a slut I was.
• She dated Adam on and off, mostly off, from grades six through nine. During their rocky "relationship," she dumped him multiple times, for such mature reasons as, "So-and-so said what's-her-face said he was going to dump me so I better do it first. That'll show him!" Despite this, she still hasn't gotten over the fact that Adam is now with me, is cold and mean to him in my presence, and pretty much won't speak to me if she isn't forced by circumstance to awkwardly make nice. She now pokes around in my business with Adam through secondary sources - her cousin and her cousin's ex, Adam's friend Ryan.
Plus, she's one of those annoying wenches who's like, "I'm a Christian! I'm waiting for marriage!" but talks about, thinks about, writes about sex all the time, is constantly grabbing guys' butts, running her hands all over their thighs, making out with strangers, gushing about how hot she is for so-and-so this week. Hmm... and here I thought lust and impure desire was the actual sin, not the act of intercourse.
And she's like, "I don't listen to pop anymore. I'm into heavy metal, like Nickelback and Creed."
Oh, sure. You're badass. Now excuse me while I retrieve my eyeballs from the back of my head where they mistakenly rolled.
Here, a black man with tightly-curled black hair, skinny jeans and bright red sneakers. There, a girl in a breezy pink skirt and knee-high black boots. Passing close by, a burly man with long, naturally-orange hair and matching beard tossing a limp-wristed wave to a friend. A bald guy with glasses, strongly resembling Moby, and his short-haired girlfriend park their bikes in front of the coffee shop and head inside; seconds later, a girl with black and green hair and "hippie" clothes walks past the door. A tall young man with patched short-pants, striped socks, and a faded blue mohawk slinks down the sidewalk with his hands in his pockets, laughing in response to a comment made by the short girl in the warm black coat he's walking with. Inside, one man that could pass for a bouncer and another for a movie star are network administrators. Krista, a pregnant vegan, munches her salad and ramen noodles. Rick talks of his disdain for spicy foods, drinking root beer from a Sprite bottle.
I love downtown during the day. I love to people-watch. My hometown provides so little of that. If I sat at my living-room picture window and looked out for two hours, I might see one person walk by. I could car-watch much more effectively, but I find that so impersonal. I'm left only imagining the types of people driving, whereas when I get a sense of what they look like, their clothes, their hair colour, their age, I feel closer to them.
The pitas I found in my lunch today were mouldy! I ate the one with the least mould, picking off the spots, but it tasted stiff and stale. The other was too peppered with it. What a tragic waste of salsa and cheese.
I want to write something, but I have precious little to say.
I got some good news this afternoon, though. I'm getting another big chunk of student-loan-related money. The difference between my loan and my tuition payment will go to my hot little hand. And the difference this time is a cool eighteen hundred bucks.
Ooh, yeah. I'm going on a gothy shopping spree. I still haven't gotten those boots I want, and now I've got eyes on a white fishnet top and some thigh-high fishnets. Or, ah... mega-spikes, anyone?
And yes, I'm aware that it's extremely stupid and selfish of me.
I keep dreaming that I live in New York City. I've always had a desire to experience the city, and that coupled with these recent dreams makes me think I might try to worm my way into living down there for awhile. I'm not thrilled at the prospect of having to give up my proud position as a Canadian and inherit the label of "American," what most perceive as a dreadful, ugly thing. Knowing, from many years of life on the outside, how badly the rest of the world thinks of Americans sours me on the idea of becoming what so many hate. But New York is a beautiful, huge, fascinating city.
Adam, the lucky goose, has been there, and didn't like it. He says it was big and scary and smelled bad. But I'd love to be a big-city girl. In a high-rise apartment with a view of the city and all its lights at night. Mmm... Times Square. Drool.
Yes, I'm aware I'll have to sell my mother to afford to live there. Not that I would. Hence, why I always dreamed as a child of becoming a pole dancer.
It's sad, but true. I don't want to be one now, of course. But when I was a little girl, my vision of my life was just that. Living in a high-rise apartment, pole-dancing for a living, and my life would end at thirty when I'd become a fat drunk living in a ditch. But I was also an idiot child who thought sand felt yummy to chew and rape was free sex.
Check it out. My lava lamp's got morning wood.
I have to be with you to live, to breathe
you're taking over me
I think Adam's losing his patience with my Joel problem, as am I, as well as losing it with Adam himself. Last night, he snapped at me for being tired and not wanting to spring up from where I lay on Joel's comfy bed (not in contact with Joel, mind you). This morning, he snapped, "Damn it, what?" when I wanted something. In the two nights he spent here, he got sex-crazed four times. This morning, he wouldn't get out of bed, convinced that none of his friends likes him, and then, while on his downer, got to believing that he sucks because he still lives with his parents and has no licence, no car, and limited income. At nineteen. As though I expect him to be a fucking entrepreneur with a million dollars, his own mansion, and an Escalade.
Augh. I need to be single. For like, a million years.
I've been debating avoiding everyone for awhile while I get things sorted out with me. Joel, especially. I feel terrible, but I think it may be necessary. Adam's both been told and caught on to the fact that I have feelings for Joel, and wrote, in a blog entry I wasn't supposed to read:
I have a girlfriend but I don't know for how long because she is..... ummmmm. She has feelings for another guy but I've been told it's nothing.
And she compares me to her old boyfriend. Well me and Joey did this and Joey and I did that. I'm sorry I don't have any money and my parents don't like her.
It's a little disheartening, because I love her and I can't see myself without her.
Love you Emmie
No matter what
I had been going to respond to that as compassionately as I could, but then I found this comment in response to the lack of sex between us:
The way I see it is that you don't want me and won't have me and that's that.
Ouch. So I've said nothing.
I've been sick. Not coughing, sneezing, no runny nose and no puking, just feeling nauseous, crampy, and dizzy. My father's had these symptoms for a week, and he's been home from work with them. Mine's clearing up, though, as today I'm able to get warm, and able to sit up to type this. I even ate a bit - a sliced pear for breakfast and a little cold Alpha-Getti at lunchtime. I called Adam last night to come spend the night with me and he biked down in the cold, the sweet man. He babied me. Fed me grapes and entertained me with his videogames and made my bed this morning and spent forever looking for my comfy beige bra I was pouting for. (We didn't find it. Mopems.)
Though, Adam whined when I mentioned I might not feel up to driving out to Joel's tonight, while Joel said if I wasn't feeling well, he "didn't even want to see me." I've known that while both are wonderfully compassionate, Adam is a bit more self-driven than Joel - a bit more id than Joel's superego. Which is ironic, because a big ego is far from what Joel has.
I dragged a couple of my classmates to Tim Hortons yesterday on our lunch break when Joel was working. Selena said he had nice eyes. They teased me about blowing kisses and typical third-grade "you're-friends-with-a-boy-heehee!", the difference being that they didn't mean it, and believed my defenses that he and I have just been friends for five years. Or maybe not. I wonder if I actually convinced them of that lie, because I sure didn't convince myself. Joel says his older brother, who was in the store talking to Joel across the counter as we left, teased him about much the same.
I have tons of work to do on my website, but I don't feel like doing it now. I did fix one major bug, however, and add a disclaimer to the Creations section.
now I see what I really am:
a thief, a whore, and a liar.
This blog is all fucked up. I can't save templates, meaning I can't change the code at the bottom of my entries that leads to the busted-up-worse-than-FreeOpenDiary commenting site. I may just get a LiveJournal and fuck this thing.
In the meantime:
My father's been sick all week. I've had to drive myself to school every day since last Wednesday now, resulting in me always being late for school. Today I was the latest I've ever been - fifteen minutes. Which is good time for me for any other occasion, but I'm never so late for school. Anyway, surprise, surprise, the class wasn't doing anything when I finally showed up, so no big deal. But yesterday I totally forgot I was supposed to meet Adam at the mall at four o'clock, and got in my car at that time and went home. He waited for me. I feel like shit, but even before I started explaining and over-grovelling in a panic, he'd forgiven me with a laugh.
I did dye my hair bluer, and it has been a boost to my spirit. Observe.
I know I can stop the pain if I will it all away....
Joey and I had a big blowout fight Saturday night, which I started and probably deserved. He actually said "Fuck you." I just cried the whole time, though my messages conveyed the anger I wish had taken me physically over the sadness.
I called Adam afterward. He was home alone, and softly insisted that I come spend the night in his bed, in his arms. I wasn't long winning myself over on the idea. I sneaked out the back door in pink pajama pants and my comfy grey high school hoodie, hugging the soft stuffed lamb he got me for Easter, and stole my mother's car.
When I got there, he put in some Evanescence, made me some hot chocolate and fed me barbeque chips. I curled up in his lap in the La-Z-Boy while he played Final Fantasy 8, and when I murmured that I was getting tired he shut down the game and we went upstairs to bed. I squealed at being able to snuggle up in his arms and go to sleep in a temporary bliss where my problems were forgotten.
I think I'll dye my hair tonight. Bluer. It'll be a boost to my self-esteem and, I hope, my mood.
Why am I alive? Really. Did the god I don't believe in put me on this planet to be everyone else's example of what not to be if you want to be happy? Is my existence just a cruel joke to me, a perversely-amusing little game to him? Do I really fucking need to learn another lesson in the tearing of my heart, the breaking of others, constantly coping with major indecisions? What am I to learn from this? I don't know how to push these thoughts to the back of my head, these feelings to the dark parts in the bottom of my heart yet. Do I need to learn to file? Am I not good enough at being my own goddamn secretary?! Please, fucking god, somebody, answer me, please. I wish... I wish you could train me what to feel and what not to.
I had to drive myself to school again today because my father's still sick, making this the third day in a row I've driven myself into town. I got stuck behind a school bus on the way in.
I knew I would be late for school, I hadn't had enough sleep the night before, my hair needs to be washed, and I had a test today to look forward to. So I was grumpy. Still am, in fact. And I got stuck behind a bus full of little dorks - fifth/sixth graders, would be my guess.
We pulled up to a STOP sign, the bus still in front of me. The little fuckers were just staring at me out the back window of the bus. I looked around, awkwardly, at anything but them, knowing they stared for several seconds, turning around to tell their friends, who would then join in the staring. I figured it was my hair they were staring at, and still, that might have been it. But maybe they were just trying to psych me out.
Anyway, it worked. A little while up the road, I glanced away from my driving to catch a glimpse of the kids again. This time they were making the 'Loser' sign out the back window at me - you know, the 'L' with the right hand.
Purely instinctively, I growled, flipped them a nasty finger, and snapped my sun-shade down so I couldn't see them anymore.
I gave a bunch of little kids the finger.
Is it wrong of me to be fucking proud of that?
Oh, and I got my domain up. [www.sevengem.net]
I have now amassed twenty-two Evanescence songs. That's double what's on their debut CD. Meaning I now have the equivalent of two Evanescence CDs. And I'm not done, oh, no.
My coolass cousin Tyler dropped in for awhile tonight and we bonded over how drool-worthy Amy is. I showed him my desktop, which is plastered with the photo of her I included in my April sixth entry. I played him previews of several songs, and he loved them all.
I had a productive day. My group's presentation of our business proposal went over well - the class, even the guy that likes to try to stump people with tough questions, was stunned by our idea, how well we'd fleshed it out, how much work we'd put into our presentation, the fact that we'd made up a company and business cards for it, even. And Selena looked really nice!
I bought over $100 worth of stuff today, for less than $20. I struck a belt sale at Ardène, five for ten bucks. Considering the former individual price tag on each belt read either ten or twenty bucks, I indulged in some excessive impulse buying, and bought six. Red and black and grommeted and studded things. Lovely. After that I went to a thrift store and picked up the skankiest, glittery-denim, low-riding miniskirt.
So I'm a happy Emily. And, I got Joel to call me cute. He's so damn... shy in person. He's courageously flirty, sometimes even dangerously so, in his e-mails and our talk over the messengers, but face to face, he blushes and looks away and smiles coyly and beats around bushes quite a bit. I find that so adorable. Better than a guy who would look me in the eyes and flat-out tell me I have a hot ass. The rare admission a shy guy makes means all the more, because I know how hard it must have been to gather up the courage to say that, and thus, it must have been important.
Come to find out, the porn-hound in the previous entry wasn't my brother or any of his friends. It was my boyfriend, and he claims it was a "long time ago." Silly man.
I'm not one of those girlfriends that cares if the guy looks up porn - pictures, video, words, hell, anything he can get his hands on is fine with me. It's harmless, fantasy. I mean, what are the chances he's going to see a girl so gorgeous, so captivating, in a porn that he'll leave me and drive to Las Vegas to be with her? I'm secure enough in myself to let him indulge in media fancy. What he's getting and not getting from me is real, and no matter what he may get with a porn, it isn't me. Anyway, he claims to be thinking of me when he takes in this stuff, not Jenna Jameson.
I get to see Adam this afternoon, speaking of. He'll be at the mall across from my school when I go over after my dismissal from class at four.
I cut my nails last night, finally. It sounds, and feels, weird for them not to be clicking on my keyboard keys.
Kevin Nash is back on RAW. All the old wrestlers are coming back - Stone Cold, Goldberg, Sable, Roddy Piper, and now him. Lita ought to follow suit. Raven, too, with his old image. Damn him getting fired.
Gross. I just found evidence of a bunch of porn stories my brother and his friends were reading on my laptop.
In my WordPad recent-documents history list:
A:\Young&Smooth
A:\Girl Friday
A:\Cable Girl
Bllllaaaaaaaahhhh.
Today is one of those days that you just know, from the minute you wake up, is going to be bad.
I didn't get to sleep until one-thirty last night. I woke up extremely tired this morning, as a result. I slept on my hair funny and it's flipping out majorly on one side. I cut my middle finger in the car. I tripped going up the stairs to my classroom's wing of the school and hurt both my knees. And I'm starving.
I need to get serious on this domain registration; I want to get my new site up and running. I'm toying with sevengem.com or something along its lines.
I did jack fucking shit today. (I said a poopy word!) Except finally figured out what the fuck was wrong with my website's FTP account. I had my login information wrong. The system must have changed it and send the notification e-mail to the e-mail address I'd had specified for my account, which, I found out today, was an account I don't even have anymore. No wonder I was never getting my password reminders.
I hate it when I'm downloading an MP3, and when the file's just about to finish the person I'm downloading it from goes offline. Fuckers! Would it kill you to stay online for a few more minutes? And then I can't find another source to resume the file from, so I'm stuck either with an incomplete song or starting all over again. Stealing music is sometimes the best form of theft discouragement.
The song I was getting - duh - Evanescence. 'Missing.' I know, I probably say this every time, but fuck, I looove this song. From the loud gasp for breath that breaks the silence of the beginning to the small catches in her voice in the slow, haunting chorus. And can you believe this, Steph? They're a Christian band from Little Rock. But god, I love their music to fucking death, and Amy makes me weak in the knees. god, just look at her.
That's enough poopy words out of me today.
I guess I should have been a little more clear in that last entry that Nick is being deployed to Germany as a systems analyst, and I'm really only mourning Rae's however-temporary loss at this time. I hope I didn't scare too many people. Sheesh, I didn't know my blog has so many readers! The ones I figured I did have I thought would know what I meant, and so I didn't take the time to explain that as I probably should have to avoid causing a lot of worry.
Rae still deserves, and gets, my big fat e-hugs.
As for my day in my little corner of Canada:
Adam started his new job at the pet store. So Smackdown nights return.
We had a pot-luck lunch at school today. Adam sent me red roses for no reason! I blushed and dropped a lot of things. Chris gave us the afternoon off.
I redid the layout of my online diary. It took me forty-five minutes. It still looks like shite, but not as huge a pile of it as before.
I went to a university-student performance of Shakespeare's Twelfth Night which I thoroughly enjoyed. The acting of the parts of Feste, Sir Andrew, Sir Toby, Maria, and, to a slightly-lesser extent, Malvolio was fabulous. The fog machine wasn't kind to my eyes or throat, though - both are dry and a bit bothered now.
I found out my grey eyeliner doesn't run as bad as my black ones. I also realized that I really, really need to cut my fingernails. The parts that extend beyond my fingertips are now just as long as the parts attached to them.
My sister's home for the week. She gave me a shirt and a vanilla candle. A gothy-looking red shirt, bright red, with half-length sleeves, that ties in the front with black ribbon. I'll wear it tomorrow if I get some occasion. The boys and I had plans, but massive-for-the-season amounts of impending snow may cancel or modify them. Drat on you, stupid snow. And on you, Bush. I pee in the snow that's freezing the logical parts of your brain.
I forget that I have two friends with boyfriends in the American military, one of whom was recently deployed. When I was informed of that, it hit me like a ton of bricks. This is a fucking war, in which people die - not that I didn't know that already. But when it touches your own life, especially mine in Canada, it feels all the more realistic than it ever was before.
I cried to hear that news. I was hot and cold and shaking and crying (sobbing, and almost shedding tears) when I replied to Rae with my lame attempt at sympathies. I know if I were in her position, words couldn't comfort me enough, especially not those of a girl online I'd never met. But I do love you, girl.
I mean what I said in the last entry. By Matt Good, if something happens to Nick.... I didn't think it was possible for me to hate Bush any more than I did, but I do. I hate him more today than I ever did. Because he took Rae's fiancé out of the home they'd newly created together and shipped him overseas. He made someone I love cry, he's making her worry, and he's putting her future at risk. That fucker! And for what?! Will any of America's objectives be met? Will they get Saddam out of power? Probably not! Will the Iraqis feel liberated and free? No! They're just pissed off, and with damn good reason. Will America rid the world of terrorism and evil? No! By any conventional definition, Bush committed an act of terrorism with his constant threats and "pre-emptive" strike on Iraq. Will America get Iraq's oil supply? Hopefully Iraq burns it to shit. Maybe the war would just fucking go away if they did that, because we all know that all Bush wants is oil and to make his dick feel big, and getting rid of the first will kill his metaphorical, pompous hard-on.
I'm angry with myself now, among others. What right do I have to complain about the war when I haven't got to stare it in the face like these women do? Like the soldiers do, and their families, their siblings, cousins, parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, nieces and nephews, friends, girlfriends, boyfriends, spouses, children, roommates? Think of how many people this touches... how many whose lives have been so upset by Bush's needless war. How many in America... how many in Iraq. The rough numbers alone make me want to puke.
I had a friend, O'Dell, who moved out of Nackawic in the summer between grades eleven and twelve. He joined Cadets that summer, and talked of moving back to his homeland, the country south of us. I wonder if he did. I wonder if he's over in Iraq, or fearing the possibility. Maybe he's dead. Maybe he was one of those killed in the idiot mistakes American troops have been making in friendly-firing. Maybe in the last seconds of his life, he knew the feeling of a bullet felt singing through his brain matter. Or maybe he's been taken as a prisoner of war. He had brown hair, big teeth, and bad breath, and was awfully fond of his orange button-up shirt. I was convinced for two years that I was in love with the guy. He went to my high school. He danced, but never went to dances. He always said "stink" instead of "shit."
That should be enough to make you realize, if for some dumbass reason you don't already, that these are people in this war, not chess pawns. And that includes the Iraqis. I'm tired of hearing people say the whole country should be bombed or talk of the place like their lives are worth less than ours because their skin is darker or they speak a different language or their economy isn't as "great." Joe Blow in Iraq doesn't support Saddam. He doesn't even like him. He bitches about the current system of government, but is forced to live under his as we are forced to live under ours. Joe Blow in Iraq gets up, wishes he could sleep in a little later, grudgingly sticks his feet into his shoes and goes off to his nine-to-five day job just like the rest of us. They're not fucking over there throwing parties when Americans die and wishing more would. And the few that may aren't representative of the many, just like the few Western-worlders who cheer when Arabs are killed aren't representative of a dominant racist attitude in America.
I reach but I feel only air at night -
not you, not love, just nothing.
I run to you,
call out your name,
I see you there, farther away.
try to forget you,
but without you I feel nothing.
don't leave me here, by myself
I can't breathe.
Still creaming myself over Amy Lee. I finally get the 'Bring Me To Life' video. I think. It's less stupid to me now. And plus, I just love the scenes where she's writhing in bed entirely too much. God damn it, she is the most gorgeous thing I've ever seen. Fuck Jessica Simpson - Amy Lee is my new most orgasm-worthy female.
I took some gaw-juss webcam photos of myself. Or so I think.
Joel and I are talking about guns, and I'm crying and my heart is pounding, hard. And I have no idea why. I guess I have this incorrect picture of him now, holding a gun to my face and being menacing, when really, he's only admitted to having shot a partridge once, and shaken me up with this new revelation that he has knowledge of and experience with firearms.
It's amazing how I can make myself sound happier in words than I am.
If your Nick gets pulled into this horrible war, Rae, and something, god damn it anything, happens to him, if he so much as breaks a toenail, I'll drain my bank account and fucking fly to Washington and do something horrible to Bush and/or his fucking White House. I'll hire a rapist to break in and sodomize him until his colon is turned inside out. Because then, his stupid war will have become personal to me - it will have broken open the heart of someone I love and poured fear and concern into it until it overflows. Not that I don't think it's absolutely terrible now, and if any of the people for whom it's become this personal would do what I vow to do, I'd be eternally grateful. Come on, just one. Please? I'll give you all I've got.
"U.S. TROOPS KILL 7 JORDANIAN WOMEN AND CHILDREN"
I wish the war would go away. I wish this were all a bad dream I could open my eyes and wake up from, in a cold sweat, with Adam's arms around me to soothe me back to sleep. The memories of the awful dream of war, of people dying, crying, their cities being blown to bits would fade into a dirty dream, from which I'd wake up damp with something else.
My newspaper - Canadian media, not American propaganda - reported last week that America's military in Iraq has suffered an estimated 28 casualties, not including POWs. The reported number of Iraqi civilian casualties: 4,000. That's already more than died in the World Trade Centre attacks, if the stat is true, and I hope to hell it's inflated.
I gots me Evanescence. The version of 'Whisper' isn't the one I had downloaded - I like my download better. It's been remixed, is much shorter and more wispy and sad and technologically-artistic. Other than that, Amy Lee makes me cream myself. The end. Rae - get 'Solitude' and 'Lies.'