It's Thanksgiving!

So apart from it being Thanksgiving, I got to wake up late, (Yes, 8:44 is pretty late for me) and I get to enjoy all this sunshine! And I don't have to go to school for three more days. Tonight I'll sit down with my family and eat that traditional thanksgiving day dinner.
It's makes me wonder what time Martha Stewart was up. And what she did last night, did she have people staying over?That must be kinda stressful. I wonder how many people she's entertaining at her house? And then Bush. What do you think he's doing this morning? Does he have to make a speech on Thanksgiving day? Will he have to invite stuffy officials who make lame jokes and cough all the time into their monogrammed hankies? Or how about Bill Gates? He probably has it easier than both of them, although he'll have to invite computer people. And I doubt it would be fun to talk about electronics over an hour of dinner party. Or Angelina Jolie, she'll have to have perfect makeup and an extremely stylish dress on. And she'll have to be affectionate to Brad, gotta recover her composure after all those magazine covers blaring "Angie Breaks Down! Exclusive interview inside!"

It makes me feel lucky to be me in a way, even though they're famous and beautiful, and successful, and really good cooks, but they'll be having a crazy day, and probably won't be able to enjoy much of it. And I'm able to get up at 8:44 and write this to you guys instead.
I love my life.
Happy Thanksgiving. Hope it's everything you want it to be.

Procrastinating..

I've got to be doing my notes and my math. So only a short post today.
When you're feeling happy, you should have happy games, correct? Here's one of my favorite sites ever. Really addicting and not a laser machine gun to be seen!
www.orisinal.com
I love this weather. It cool and blustery and crisp. And the leaves are all swirly. Doesn't make me miss summer. Not one bit.

Boredom... Dom.. Dom.. Dom.. Dom..

I'm extremely bored.
And I'm trying to pretend that I'm doing something constructive so that I don't have to do my homework. Does that ever happen to you? You convince yourself that you'll do your homework, very very soon, and then, suddenly it's Sunday night and you still have homework to do? Happens to me all the time.
I'm craving the city too. The grundgy, wet city. Cafes and markets and apartments, and trash and public art that isn't made out of tractor parts, and big old intricate buildings, and quiet bookstores, and that kind of slate color that appears when it rains on the sidewalk and the sleek, purposeful people. I'm craving the city as one might crave chocolate (Which don't get me wrong, I crave too. ) I just love being there. It makes you feel important.

A quote and a poem. Not a quote from a poem.

Quote o' the day: May those who love us, love us, those who do not love us, may God turn their hearts. And if he does not turn their hearts then may he turn their ankles so that we may know them by their limping..

Ode to the paternal study
Phone rests silently in a moon-color cradle,
Red box of dice,
Three gargoyles, still with ennui,
Silence, all but thrumming technology,
Coatrack, overused,
Pencils in a glass container,
Ice cream maker in the cuboard,
Mama printer and Baby Printer,
Click tapping of the keyboard,
Spoon glinting in the lamp-light,
Creaking, spinning chair,
Eye are heavy-lidded tulips.
Dust on the monitor,
Blue light on the USB connector,
Fish handle, whirli handle,
Contacts drying up like scales,
Answering machine displaying two messages,
Yellow plastic cup,
Papers everwhere,
Scanner down beneath my feet,
paper shredder lies defeated,
Tired now, more than ever
Office.

Smilies and Superficial

Ok. So I'm playing Guild Wars. Yes, Guild Wars.


Insert laughter at my nerd-like habits here


Done? Excellent. So, I'm playing Guild Wars, and I'm trying to get some nice new armor for my mesmer*. I notice another mesmer* in my area and run over to her to inspect her armor. I must be pretty obvious, because two minutes later, she waves at me, in a "What the heck are you doing, you strange and perverted grandpa?" sort of way. So I explain my staring.


"Just admiring your armor*"


And then. She starts.. Slowly at first, and then snow balling into a obsessive stream.

^.^ It's ok..

XD

(At this point, I'm not freaked out yet. Just curious. So I post again)

It goes great with you hair color..

Thanks. I love your face

._.

Oh.. Thanks.

Should have made a factions* mesmer*.

:/

XD

(Silence on my part. I'm trying to count smileys. Note that each new line is another post.)

Well, cya! I'm off to explore!

^.^

Oh. Good Luck.

Thank you

XD

Best of luck to you too

Thanks.

X3

8 smileys. In one conversation. I shudder to think about the amount of paper she uses when she writes letters. This is over usage of the beloved smiley, right? Or am I just too submerged in the stone age?



About once every week, I get someone asking why I wear what I do. (I wear lots of flowy long dresses and several combinations of leggings and skirts.) I look over myself carefully, making sure that I'm not wearing a clown suit, because by the look their giving me, I might be. No, same old, same old..
"Ummm. It's comfortable?"
Why though? I mean, it truly baffles me. I mean, I dress differently, but not that differently. I don't ask people why they wear holister t-shirts and short plaid skirts, so why do people ask me? And the truth is, I don't wear my clothes to be different, I wear them to be myself. I'm not sure if I'm offended or just confused. Should I be? Or am I entirely overreacting?
Gives me a lot to think about.

On the Outside

Have you ever been in one of those situations where everyone around is having "inside" conversations" and are talking about things you have no idea about. (ie: Magazines, clothing stores, disliked teachers, methods of washing one's poodle, the real estate of boxes, various cute guys, favorite whiny soap opera plots, adorable pet tricks and high jinxes, favorite flavored water contests, bands that only they have heard of, etc etc.) It's really awkward, but seems to be a survival instinct in teen environments. It happens all the time and I think it actually becomes a subconscious reaction to feeling out of your depth. Being on the outside is extremely difficult and embarrassing, because no matter how much research you do, you will never know exactly what they're talking about, because truthfully neither do they. They just want to look as though they belong, because that's intimidating and safe at the same time. It's fascinating. But it sucks..

P.S. I wrote this for my health class and thought I might share it with you. Happy Belated Halloween!
Just a Taste

The appearance of the flickering fluorescent light threw the morgue into an eerie half light and for a moment, I pause in the doorway. I consider the slim white drawers to my right and left, labeled so carefully with their occupant’s names, date of death, and medical condition. I breathe in heavily, allowing that pervasive stench of morbidity and embalming fluid to soak my senses. But one must not linger on doorsteps. I glide down the stairs, tucking the brass key into my coat pocket. Mother and Father are far too careless with their things these days. I spin around gracefully in the quiet, and my fingers alight on a cabinet. I peer at the label. Poor Sarah Atwood, died of pneumonia, the dear.
I pull open the cabinet with a flourish and regard the lovely youth that lies before me. Her auburn hair is slightly fanned around her face and her complexion is as pale as ivory.
“Aren’t we pretty?” I whisper, and my fingers creep onto her face. I carefully peel off her left eyelid. “Maybe just a taste..”
As I chew on the succulent flesh, I think about my predicament, and about how it all began.
I had always been a rather impressionable person, easily swayed and not particularly confident. On the night when it all started, I was at a party. I was pretty tipsy, so it was no surprise that at about 8:00 I found myself telling Shirley that my parents worked at the morgue. I must’ve have said this rather loudly, however, because at the very moment the words left my lips, three heads turned directly to me. The one closest to me, a cold, pretty, black haired girl, raised an exaggerated eyebrow. She turned to the others who seemed suddenly so fascinated with me, and gave them a brief grimace. At this point, I demanded more punch and made my way, stumbling to the kitchen. As I wound my way back to the living room however, I was confronted by the raven girl.
“You’re parents work at the morgue, Hmm? Ever been in there?”
“Yeah once or twice. What’s it to you?”
“My friends and I would love a tour, dear. Could you perhaps….?” She trailed off, and her face became achingly hard to refuse. Her friends came up behind her and I briefly noticed that they were twins and that they too, were distantly and icily elegant. I wouldn’t- couldn’t- disappoint them.
“Okay.. sure. Let me get my coat.”
* * *
I drove them to my house, and fumbling with trembling hands I unlocked the door. The house was silent, my parents were evidently asleep. I stubbed my toe on the doorstep. Biting my lip to keep from swearing, I slipped the familiar brass keys, the keys to the morgue, off the hook in the mudroom. Then I was out again and sweeping into the car, starting up the ignition and speeding away into the night.
When we arrived at the morgue, the three girls acted as though I had just fulfilled all of their heart’s darkest desires. They slid open the cabinets in obvious and frightening delight. The raven girl, who introduced herself as Maeve, turned to me.
“Have you ever wondered what blood tastes like?” She asked innocently. I shook my head.
“Really? People have said that it tastes like chocolate. Hey- Why don’t we just try, one, tiny, single, drop?” She paused, and my mind deliberately processed what she had said. Curiosity thrummed in my heart. The alcohol made everything slow.. What would it taste like? Surely, a minuscule spatter wouldn’t hurt anyone. And I wanted to show them that I wasn’t repulsed by such an idea. Maeve opened up a drawer and slid one perfectly manicured nail along the cadaver’s neck. Blood, like a liquid garnet dribbled out. I reached out my finger, and touched it to the wound. I raised my finger to my lips and licked the blood . My brain sped up, and suddenly I was ecstatic. I had never felt this way before. I concluded that the blood made me feel this way. Maeve, reached down and took some too. She smiled and giggled. “Mmmm, delicious……”
* * *
Three days later I found my self creeping into the morgue again, my new friends tailing me. Once we were all safely in, we fell upon the bodies. The twins, named Kei and Reine, who rarely spoke, shared the blood of a rakishly scarred teenager about my age. Maeve sucked on the blood of an old man and grinned at me, and I noticed that her two eye teeth were subtly fanged. I smiled back as I squeezed the precious red fluid out of a middle aged woman into my palm and lapped it up. Ah! That glorious feeling! Seeking it was so natural now. I felt so confident and beautiful when I drank the blood. I was no longer disgusted by my new own habit, either. No one could stop me from doing what I what I wanted. Not my friends, not my parents. No one.
I vividly remember when I first blacked out. I had been drinking blood for two months and my mind was fixed on when I would next be able to be invincibly confident. Blood and cadavers entered my thoughts often now, and I was okay with that. But the blackout was a result of something that would change my feeding experience forever. On October 31st of 2007, I peeled a fingernail off of Emily Jenson. Some skin came off with it and curled lusciously and appetizingly. I thought for a moment and then I popped it into my mouth, chewing. Maeve was aghast. We argued that night, she saying that eating flesh was going too far. I screamed back, desperately, that I had not gone too far, and that if they didn’t want to join me, then they could go home. Minutes later I collapsed, the need for more flesh claiming my mind completely.
And they did go home.. They never came back to the morgue again. And so I was alone.
* * *
I continue to chew the eyelid, and but the feeling I’ve come to expect is rather distant. I only feel a vague shiver at the back of my skull now. This is shame really, but my habit is no longer bloodlust, but instinct, for I cannot survive without flesh and blood. I no longer enjoy the company of the living. They do not need me, nor I them. When it comes down it, actually, I never really needed them in the first place. I feed whenever I can. People find me distant and rather intimidating. I hear them speak about me in muted voices, but I gave up caring when I first drank blood. I close up the cabinet and leave Sarah Atwood to her endless slumber. And then I whisper into the sleeping white room.
“Just a taste….”