We interrupt your regularly scheduled programming of the awkwardly written and lovingly titled "Hora Mortis Nostrae" to bring you yet another quick update on my ridiculous life and a blogging survey named Nicolai (don't ask, I didn't name it) as well as another plea for advice. So here goes.
Update:
I have spent so much time with Waywardsoulboy this week that it's beginning to be a tad ridiculous. We keep staying up all night talking, and then I'll go home for sleep and a shower, and then we'll go off and live our own lives for a few hours, and then we'll be right back in his basement, listening to 70's rock on vinyl and discussing the puzzles of the universe.
I took your advice, and went with the flow. What may have simply been a deep friendship is now, most definitely, a romance. I know this because I found out today that Wsb is a fantastic kisser, as well as an aggressively passionate fuck (which is always nice, because I hate boys who are boring in bed) and well, now we're both pretty sure that we have surpassed simple friendship.
It's an infatuation, but we both know that in 3 weeks, he'll be back in boarding school on the other side of the world in Hampshire and I'll be here in Hicktown smoking cigarettes and being devious. It's all very (500) Days of Summer, in that we both know it's a relationship now but we refuse to call it one and are going to continue to stick with "just friends".
Advice Plea:
Few and foreign followers, I ask you, am I setting my self up for absolute disaster here? Or am I simply capitalizing upon the potential for a summer romance that isn't a romance? Am in too deep here? Is 3 weeks of absolute bliss worth the inevitable emotional hardship of knowing that he's going to be beyond reach for 9 months? Help!
Nicolai:
1) Please state your name for the record?
Julia, nice to meet you there Nicolai.
2) If you were a penguin, on the other hand, what do you think your name would be? Hypothetically speaking, of course.
Alexander Winslow IV
3) Would you consider your ears to be smaller than average, average, larger than average, or freakishly large?
smaller than average
4) Are you more of a Beatles or an Elvis fan? (If you answer the latter, please proceed to go set yourself on fire and then die in a hole.)
I enjoy them both equally, but I don't have any Elvis on vinyl...
5) Have you ever killed anyone? If so, did you do it with your bare hands?
Nope, nah.
6) If you could use any fruit to describe the size and shape of your head, what fruit would you use?
Passionfruit. Complete with the spikes.
7) Is there any famous person you'd go gay for? Please state their name. This question is, of course, purely for academic purposes.
Oh Nicolai, you raunchy survey. Most likely, Natalie Portman.
8) If you had the choice, would you rather go to space, meet Paul McCartney, scuba dive in the Pacific Ocean, or sleep with Carmen Electra?
Meet Paul McCartney, I've already slept with Carmen Electra... In space, while scuba diving.
9) How long have you had your blog? What made you start one?
A year and some change I believe. Cassi had one, so I wanted one too...
10) What is your weirdest phobia?
I have a really sever fear of lying down in bathtubs. Like, standing in one to take a shower is totally fine, but laying down in one is kind of scary.
11) Do you believe in God?
It depends on the weather.
12) If you could start a collab. blog with any four bloggers, which ones would you do it with?
Hmm. Christopher, Eeshie, Ross, and the chick who writes Lemons Don't Make Lemonade. Y'all seem like witty people.
13) If you were trapped on a desert island with the same four bloggers you mentioned in the last question, which one would you eat first? With which one would you procreate?
I'd probably eat Christopher... I mean, there can only be one blonde on the island. And I'd procreate with everyone else, cuz, I mean, I couldn't just pick one!
14) What's your favourite 80's movie?
The Breakfast Club
15) What kind of music do you listen to?
Nicolai, the question should be "What kind of music DON'T you listen to?". Because I listen to everything, execpt I dislike country and improvisational jazz.
16) Imagine that you open your bedroom closet one day and suddenly a portal opens up. You can't see what is at the end of the portal, but there is a totoro inside it motioning you to follow him. Would you go inside, even if it might mean you'll never come back?
FUCK. YES.
17) If you're a woman, do you find facial hair on men attractive? If you're a man, do you find facial hair on woman attractive?
No.
18) Do you like babies?
Not particularly. I mean they're cute, but they're very labor-intensive and loud. Who needs em', you know?
19) What's the most violent thing you've ever done to an inanimate object?
I threw my phone off the roof of a parking garage once.
20) What's the most embarrassing thing that's ever happened to you?
Hmm. My voice cracked while I was singing a solo at school assembly once. That wasn't so fun..
21) Do you think the world will end in 2012?
If it does, I'm throwing the party :D
22) Have you enjoyed this survey? Be honest, now.
Yes, Nicolai, very much.
Survey from: The Nerd Archives Go read it and give Christopher some love!
Anyway. I hope you've all had lovely days.
Julia
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Friday, July 29, 2011
Hora Mortis Nostrae (pt 3)
Well, before we get back into the story, I have to tell you guys about my life so that I can ask for advice. OK? Ok.
So two nights ago, I hung out with Wsb for the first time. What started as a smoothie run turned into us hanging out for 14 hours straight. We smoked and drove around and avoided the cops like 5 times in a row. Seriously, what the hell does Hicktown PD think is gonna happen on a Wednesday night? There were patrol cars everywhere. We ended up at his house, where we talked and listened to Pink Floyd on vinyl all night. After getting donuts in the morning, we parted ways and crashed all day.
Then, last night, we had a late night dinner, stargazed in a field, smoked, and talked more, but I went home at 3 a.m. because his mom woke up and wondered why there was a blonde girl in her house at 3 a.m. Now I think she think's that I'm sleeping with her son, but actually the only even remotely romantic contact I've had with him was running my fingers through his hair while he lay on my lap while we were talking.
Few and foreign followers, help. I don't know what to think. I've spent a fuck-ton of time with this kid, and yet I've known him for all of about 72 hours now. Do I smell insta-romance, or just a really tight friendship? Gahhh I'm so lost.
Anyway! Now back to our regularly scheduled programming:
Recap: Gabrielle and Felix are now in a city above the clouds, which we're all just going to assume is Heaven (or what you will). Gabrielle has led Felix into an executive-looking conference room in an executive-looking building, and Jesus has just walked through the door.
Part Three
"Yes?" he answered blithely.
I've just spoken to Jesus... and... and he heard me. He looks at me and raises an eyebrow at my stunned silence in response to his question. Gabrielle pipes up.
"Jeezy, this is Felix. Felix, meet Jesus Christ, former peace activist."
Oh my God, she calls him 'Jeezy'. Like, as a nickname. I get the feeling that she's the only one who's allowed to do that, so i extend my hand and somehow manage to squeeze out a semi-coherent "Nice to meet you, Mr. Christ."
Jesus looks me very seriously in the face and firmly shakes my hand. Then he and Gabrielle burst out laughing. She laughs so hard that she doesn't seem to notice the random white feather caught in her hair. I shyly try to tell her she's got a feather in her hair, but she's laughing too hard to notice.
"Erm, you've got a... well, there's a little.. er..." I motion at her hair and she brushes her fingers through it, freeing the feather, which floats to the ground.
"Shedding again, Gabby?" Jesus chuckles. He collects himself then turns to me. "Welcome to Heaven Inc, Felix. Sorry about that, after two thousand years of watching over people, meeting them in person still never gets old. Anyway, we're going to take you to see the boss, and she'll explain some things to you. But, here are the basics: You're dead. The form you're in right now is the imprint of your body, which your soul is using as a container.
"Here at Heaven Inc, we catalogue all incoming and outgoing souls. During their time on Earth, souls create a sort of tally of good vs. bad, and based on the amount of marks on their tally, once dead, the souls return here fore a certain period of time, resting, recuperating, and cleansing themselves before being chosen (by a lottery system... well, ok it's more like a Bingo spinner) to be sent back to Earth to inhabit the body of a newborn baby and start the whole process again. The Hindus had the basic theory right, except humans only reincarnate as humans.
"Like I said before, souls accumulate a tally during their lives. Souls with more marks on the bad side stay up here for longer, and if you pass a certain amount of bad marks, your soul is kept up here indefinitely. So, you don't have to worry about Hitler coming back. We, here at Heaven Inc. measure the tallies, run the soul lottery, cleanse the souls for recycling, and transport souls back and forth. We run the show." Jesus leads us out of the conference room and down to the end of the hall.
A stark black door with no handle appears before us. Jesus presses his palms into the center and the door glides open, revealing a white room with glass furniture and a large window on the opposite wall. "And now, you're going to meet the one who's in charge of it all. Her title is God, but her name," he pulls me into the room, and in front on a large glass desk, with a white leather chair facing away from us. The chair rotates towards us. "Her name is Fiona."
Reclining in this massive white leather swivel chair is a tall woman with long dark hair and olive skin. Her icy blue eyes are wide but heavily lidded, and a faint smile plays around her perfectly formed lips. She is wearing a flowing red wrap dress with nude patent heels. She leans her chin onto her hand and smiles at me.
And that's when it hits me. I'm looking into the eyes of God. And she's a woman, the woman.
She speaks in this deep, melodious voice, but her tones are extremely authoritative. She knows who she is. “I need you to deliver a message,” she says. “And to deliver the reply. I’d go myself, however, for diplomatic reasons, I’d prefer not to enter the public sector at this time.”
“Uh, ok, yeah I’ll go. I’ll do it.” I stammer. I feel like an idiot. I’m talking to God and I can barely form full, cohesive sentences.
“Good, good. Jesus here will accompany you,” Fiona hands me an envelope. “Deliver this to a being named Kale. You’ll have to get past his seven pets first, but you should be able to manage that in due time. Kale lives on the top floor of the Hell building. Jesus knows the way there. Go now, little darlings. Oh, but Gabrielle, stay here, we have to discuss something.” She smiles and turns back towards the giant window behind her.
I take that as my cue to get out. I exit the room and Jesus follows me back out into the dark hallway. He snatches the envelope from my hands and hides it in the folds of his robes. I look at him and raise a quizzical eyebrow.
“That envelope contains a message from God, you can’t just go waving it around in public, people will get violent trying to find out what it says. I should know.” He chuckles darkly, but I get it. We’re on a top-secret mission for Fiona. Jesus turns on his heel and leads me out of the building.
We walk through the placid night air for a few blocks, and then we turn onto Hell Street. The placidity of the night evaporates instantly as the scene of the street unfurls before my eyes. Hell Street is essentially Times Square on monkey crack. The streets are lined with nightclubs, bars, theaters, and bright lights. There are drunk people everywhere having a good time, and from what I can see, Hell Street is basically a non-stop party.
There is a gap in the lights on the left side of the street, which we walk towards. The gap turns out to be a building with no exterior lights. All the partiers walk past as though it doesn’t exist, but I can tell from their tiny sidelong glances at the building that it’s something they fear. The general agreement seems to be to simply pretend as if the Hell building isn’t there and just party on past it.
But Jesus and I walk right up to it. It’s nowhere near as tall as Heaven Inc, but it’s just as black, shiny, and ominous. It looks as though there are only about eight or nine floors. I see the address modestly posted in silver lettering next to the door: 7 Hell Street
Jesus pushes open the door and I follow him in.
We are in a large, grey room, lit with nastily fluorescent bulbs. There is a doll-like girl perched on the arm of a dentists chair in the middle of the room, her eyes are closed, but she’s smiling mischeviously. She’s wearing a greying, raggedy ballgown, but the front of the skirt has been torn so much that her spindly legs can be seen.
She flicks open her eyes and I see that they are completely black, all pupil, no whites. Her eyes snap and connect with mine and I stare deep into the dark pit that is this doll girl. She rises and begins to walk towards me.
She stares at us with shiny, wide, jet black eyes. Her dirty cheeks pull her torn lips into a smile. Her head cocks to the side like she's some puppet. She starts to speak with this creepadelic disembodied child's voice. "Welcome to Hell. We've been waiting for you. If you can get past myself and my six brethren, then you get to talk to master. But it won't be easy. At all."
The sight of her up close is terrifying. Her skin is yellowy like parchment and shining like porcelain, her mouth is closed but still smiling with vermillion lips, her entire body is standing gracefully, but her torn up grayish bloodstained ragged dress show sorrow. She’s horrifically beautiful.
The pliers in her dainty hand don’t help much.
“Time to scream,” she giggles at us. She grabs me by the neck and drags me towards the dentist’s chair. Jesus tries to follow, but metal bars sprout from the linoleum floor and wrap around his legs, holding him fast. All he can do is watch as the girl settles me into the chair.
“Polly, stop it, we’ve been sent b—“ Jesus screams, but a metal bar wrap around his mouth and cuts him off.
I’m sitting in the chair, frozen by fear, and Polly examines my face. Her eyes lock on something just above my left eye, and it dawns on me. I have an eyebrow piercing, a slim silver ring. In fact, I have lots or piercings (all above the neck) and I’m suddenly regretting them.
A small, disgusting smile spreads across her lips as she raises the pliers. She clamps them around my eyebrow piercing, beginning to twist them around. As she twists she starts to pull, slowly and a searing pain takes over that half of my face. She continues to pull and twist the piercing, stretching my skin painfully outward, grinning at my hard breathing and steady grimace. When my skin can stretch no farther, I feel ripping and a pain that I can’t even describe.
I scream, I can’t help it. Her hand jerks back, the pliers still tightly holding my eyebrow ring. I’m breathing heavily, staring at the small ring held by the pliers, trying to comprehend what just happened. She just tore it out of my face.
She begins to laugh as if nothing could have given her greater joy then watching me scream. I think I want to vomit. I can feel blood starting to flow over my face, getting in my mouth and running down onto my shirt. She sees the blood also. It is running over her hand and down her arm, just a few little trickles. I can’t look at her so I glance away.
Jesus is looking horrified as the girl appraises the rest of my head looking for another piercing. “Look at me, ” she hisses. “Look into my eyes.” I obey her. “You are going to die here, in this building.“
I’m in Hell.
Muahaha. To be continued.
Julia
So two nights ago, I hung out with Wsb for the first time. What started as a smoothie run turned into us hanging out for 14 hours straight. We smoked and drove around and avoided the cops like 5 times in a row. Seriously, what the hell does Hicktown PD think is gonna happen on a Wednesday night? There were patrol cars everywhere. We ended up at his house, where we talked and listened to Pink Floyd on vinyl all night. After getting donuts in the morning, we parted ways and crashed all day.
Then, last night, we had a late night dinner, stargazed in a field, smoked, and talked more, but I went home at 3 a.m. because his mom woke up and wondered why there was a blonde girl in her house at 3 a.m. Now I think she think's that I'm sleeping with her son, but actually the only even remotely romantic contact I've had with him was running my fingers through his hair while he lay on my lap while we were talking.
Few and foreign followers, help. I don't know what to think. I've spent a fuck-ton of time with this kid, and yet I've known him for all of about 72 hours now. Do I smell insta-romance, or just a really tight friendship? Gahhh I'm so lost.
Anyway! Now back to our regularly scheduled programming:
Recap: Gabrielle and Felix are now in a city above the clouds, which we're all just going to assume is Heaven (or what you will). Gabrielle has led Felix into an executive-looking conference room in an executive-looking building, and Jesus has just walked through the door.
Part Three
"Yes?" he answered blithely.
I've just spoken to Jesus... and... and he heard me. He looks at me and raises an eyebrow at my stunned silence in response to his question. Gabrielle pipes up.
"Jeezy, this is Felix. Felix, meet Jesus Christ, former peace activist."
Oh my God, she calls him 'Jeezy'. Like, as a nickname. I get the feeling that she's the only one who's allowed to do that, so i extend my hand and somehow manage to squeeze out a semi-coherent "Nice to meet you, Mr. Christ."
Jesus looks me very seriously in the face and firmly shakes my hand. Then he and Gabrielle burst out laughing. She laughs so hard that she doesn't seem to notice the random white feather caught in her hair. I shyly try to tell her she's got a feather in her hair, but she's laughing too hard to notice.
"Erm, you've got a... well, there's a little.. er..." I motion at her hair and she brushes her fingers through it, freeing the feather, which floats to the ground.
"Shedding again, Gabby?" Jesus chuckles. He collects himself then turns to me. "Welcome to Heaven Inc, Felix. Sorry about that, after two thousand years of watching over people, meeting them in person still never gets old. Anyway, we're going to take you to see the boss, and she'll explain some things to you. But, here are the basics: You're dead. The form you're in right now is the imprint of your body, which your soul is using as a container.
"Here at Heaven Inc, we catalogue all incoming and outgoing souls. During their time on Earth, souls create a sort of tally of good vs. bad, and based on the amount of marks on their tally, once dead, the souls return here fore a certain period of time, resting, recuperating, and cleansing themselves before being chosen (by a lottery system... well, ok it's more like a Bingo spinner) to be sent back to Earth to inhabit the body of a newborn baby and start the whole process again. The Hindus had the basic theory right, except humans only reincarnate as humans.
"Like I said before, souls accumulate a tally during their lives. Souls with more marks on the bad side stay up here for longer, and if you pass a certain amount of bad marks, your soul is kept up here indefinitely. So, you don't have to worry about Hitler coming back. We, here at Heaven Inc. measure the tallies, run the soul lottery, cleanse the souls for recycling, and transport souls back and forth. We run the show." Jesus leads us out of the conference room and down to the end of the hall.
A stark black door with no handle appears before us. Jesus presses his palms into the center and the door glides open, revealing a white room with glass furniture and a large window on the opposite wall. "And now, you're going to meet the one who's in charge of it all. Her title is God, but her name," he pulls me into the room, and in front on a large glass desk, with a white leather chair facing away from us. The chair rotates towards us. "Her name is Fiona."
Reclining in this massive white leather swivel chair is a tall woman with long dark hair and olive skin. Her icy blue eyes are wide but heavily lidded, and a faint smile plays around her perfectly formed lips. She is wearing a flowing red wrap dress with nude patent heels. She leans her chin onto her hand and smiles at me.
And that's when it hits me. I'm looking into the eyes of God. And she's a woman, the woman.
She speaks in this deep, melodious voice, but her tones are extremely authoritative. She knows who she is. “I need you to deliver a message,” she says. “And to deliver the reply. I’d go myself, however, for diplomatic reasons, I’d prefer not to enter the public sector at this time.”
“Uh, ok, yeah I’ll go. I’ll do it.” I stammer. I feel like an idiot. I’m talking to God and I can barely form full, cohesive sentences.
“Good, good. Jesus here will accompany you,” Fiona hands me an envelope. “Deliver this to a being named Kale. You’ll have to get past his seven pets first, but you should be able to manage that in due time. Kale lives on the top floor of the Hell building. Jesus knows the way there. Go now, little darlings. Oh, but Gabrielle, stay here, we have to discuss something.” She smiles and turns back towards the giant window behind her.
I take that as my cue to get out. I exit the room and Jesus follows me back out into the dark hallway. He snatches the envelope from my hands and hides it in the folds of his robes. I look at him and raise a quizzical eyebrow.
“That envelope contains a message from God, you can’t just go waving it around in public, people will get violent trying to find out what it says. I should know.” He chuckles darkly, but I get it. We’re on a top-secret mission for Fiona. Jesus turns on his heel and leads me out of the building.
We walk through the placid night air for a few blocks, and then we turn onto Hell Street. The placidity of the night evaporates instantly as the scene of the street unfurls before my eyes. Hell Street is essentially Times Square on monkey crack. The streets are lined with nightclubs, bars, theaters, and bright lights. There are drunk people everywhere having a good time, and from what I can see, Hell Street is basically a non-stop party.
There is a gap in the lights on the left side of the street, which we walk towards. The gap turns out to be a building with no exterior lights. All the partiers walk past as though it doesn’t exist, but I can tell from their tiny sidelong glances at the building that it’s something they fear. The general agreement seems to be to simply pretend as if the Hell building isn’t there and just party on past it.
But Jesus and I walk right up to it. It’s nowhere near as tall as Heaven Inc, but it’s just as black, shiny, and ominous. It looks as though there are only about eight or nine floors. I see the address modestly posted in silver lettering next to the door: 7 Hell Street
Jesus pushes open the door and I follow him in.
We are in a large, grey room, lit with nastily fluorescent bulbs. There is a doll-like girl perched on the arm of a dentists chair in the middle of the room, her eyes are closed, but she’s smiling mischeviously. She’s wearing a greying, raggedy ballgown, but the front of the skirt has been torn so much that her spindly legs can be seen.
She flicks open her eyes and I see that they are completely black, all pupil, no whites. Her eyes snap and connect with mine and I stare deep into the dark pit that is this doll girl. She rises and begins to walk towards me.
She stares at us with shiny, wide, jet black eyes. Her dirty cheeks pull her torn lips into a smile. Her head cocks to the side like she's some puppet. She starts to speak with this creepadelic disembodied child's voice. "Welcome to Hell. We've been waiting for you. If you can get past myself and my six brethren, then you get to talk to master. But it won't be easy. At all."
The sight of her up close is terrifying. Her skin is yellowy like parchment and shining like porcelain, her mouth is closed but still smiling with vermillion lips, her entire body is standing gracefully, but her torn up grayish bloodstained ragged dress show sorrow. She’s horrifically beautiful.
The pliers in her dainty hand don’t help much.
“Time to scream,” she giggles at us. She grabs me by the neck and drags me towards the dentist’s chair. Jesus tries to follow, but metal bars sprout from the linoleum floor and wrap around his legs, holding him fast. All he can do is watch as the girl settles me into the chair.
“Polly, stop it, we’ve been sent b—“ Jesus screams, but a metal bar wrap around his mouth and cuts him off.
I’m sitting in the chair, frozen by fear, and Polly examines my face. Her eyes lock on something just above my left eye, and it dawns on me. I have an eyebrow piercing, a slim silver ring. In fact, I have lots or piercings (all above the neck) and I’m suddenly regretting them.
A small, disgusting smile spreads across her lips as she raises the pliers. She clamps them around my eyebrow piercing, beginning to twist them around. As she twists she starts to pull, slowly and a searing pain takes over that half of my face. She continues to pull and twist the piercing, stretching my skin painfully outward, grinning at my hard breathing and steady grimace. When my skin can stretch no farther, I feel ripping and a pain that I can’t even describe.
I scream, I can’t help it. Her hand jerks back, the pliers still tightly holding my eyebrow ring. I’m breathing heavily, staring at the small ring held by the pliers, trying to comprehend what just happened. She just tore it out of my face.
She begins to laugh as if nothing could have given her greater joy then watching me scream. I think I want to vomit. I can feel blood starting to flow over my face, getting in my mouth and running down onto my shirt. She sees the blood also. It is running over her hand and down her arm, just a few little trickles. I can’t look at her so I glance away.
Jesus is looking horrified as the girl appraises the rest of my head looking for another piercing. “Look at me, ” she hisses. “Look into my eyes.” I obey her. “You are going to die here, in this building.“
I’m in Hell.
Muahaha. To be continued.
Julia
Hora Mortis Nostrae (pt 2)
Incase y'all haven't guessed, this story will be coming to you in seven parts. Pay attention to the numbers mentioned, too. I hope you guys like it. I mean, we're not even to the really good part yet.
Anyway! Now back to the story.
Recap: Felix has just rushed into the middle of an intersection to pull a mysterious girl out of the busy street. Instead, they are both hit by an SUV, and after the impact, the girl leads Felix away from the scene, leaving their bodies behind.
Part Two
The girl reached out and grabbed my arm, pulling me farther and farther away from my own body (which I suddenly wish I was still inside) and out of the intersection. As the paramedics arrive, sirens blaring, SUV driver still screaming and crying hysterically; I realize that I am most likely dead. The farther and farther the girl pulls me from the mess in the middle of the street, the more I am sure that I have just died and am now entering the afterlife.
Oh my God. I'm dead. I've just died.
This is a moment I've been wondering about since early childhood, and here I am, simply on the other side of the street. No white light, no fall into never-ending darkness, no, I just got up and walked away. I'm honestly a little disappointed at how anticlimactic this has all been.
The sound of a stretcher hitting the ground snaps my attention back to the scene before us. One of the bodies has been covered by a tarp, and the other is surrounded by bustling EMTs. I can't tell for sure, but I think the girl's body may have survived the whole ordeal.
I feel a tug, and the girl begins to lead me down the street in the same direction that I originally intended on going. Her eerie silence continues as we walk, but I can bare it no longer. I have some serious questions that need to be answered now.
"What the Hell were you doing in the middle of the street? Who are you? Where are we going? Are we dead?!" I spray out the questions in a blustery stream of confused-sounding words at the girl. She stops, looks at me, and taps the tip of my nose with her index finger. A mischevious grin spreads across her face and her eyes connect with mine.
Those eyes are terrifyingly beautiful, clear grey with a bright gold tint outlining the irises, and are thick with understanding. This girl has lived a while, and knows something I don't. Suddenly, she speaks.
"I'll explain everything once we're upstairs. By the way, my name is Gabrielle, and you have access code E15:20, you'll need to remember that in order to get in. Hold onto my hand and exhale when I tell you to."
I grab her hand and she slugs me in the stomach, forcing the breath from my lungs with her sharp, unexpected blow. I squeeze my eyes shut and try not to breath until she lets go of my hand. Then I keep my eyes shut, trying to contain myself as I try to refill my stunned chest cavity with oxogen.
When my eyelids finally relax and part, they reveal the truth. At last, I know where one goes after they die.
We are standing in the middle of a street, but it's dark out. There's a single white feather floating through the air. Everything sort of has a yellowy glow, and there's this faint pulling beneath my feet, as if we are in motion, but are moving incredibly slowly. The streetlights eminate clear, blue light. The buildings are normal looking, like on a city street, but each have odd quirks, as though that city street might be in Soho.
I have this inherent knowledge that we are in a city in the clouds; Heaven. Gabrielle looks at me and grins.
"Let's go see the boss." she sighs.
She leads me through about six blocks of this odd city, and I realize that the buildings aren't quirky, they're simply mixed up. As we walk by a particularly odd building, it hits me that it is simply mixing architechtural styles from all over history. Huh.
When we stop, we are standing in front of a large, steely skyscraper, with dark tinted windows like a glistening black sheet towering above us in the still, night air. The address is emblazoned above the large entry way: 666 Heaven Street
Though it seems as though the entire city is asleep, Gabrielle pulls me towards the building. Once through the revolving doors, I see that we are in a huge, silent lobby. Along one wall there is a reception desk that is a hundred feet long, with as many telephones sitting on top, and all the way at the end is one lonely receptionist who was unlucky enough to get the graveyard shift.
We approached her, and she glanced up from her copy of The Lady Chatterly's Lover. She didn't even ask our names, she just looked at Gabrielle and picked up her telephone.
"Gabrielle's back...got some kid with her, real character, with all these ridiculous piercings and the weirdest t-shirt,"
Um, hello? I'm standing right here, lady.
"Anyway, I know the boss'll want to see her, even at this unholy hour.... Oh no, they can come up by themselves, you don't have to send anyone.... Yep...Yep, they'll be up momentarily." She motions for us to go.
"No, he doesn't know a thing. You'll have to explain once they get up there."
Gabrielle pulls me towards a large, silver framed elevator and presses the call button. There's a quiet ding as the doors slide open. We enter, and she types in a code on the touch-screen pad on the wall; D9:20. And then we go zoom.
The lift travels upwards so quickly that there is literally a low zooming sound. I watch the numbers on the floor counter scroll through 200, and we finally slow to a stop at floor 214. The doors sleekly ding open, and I know instantly that we're on the executive floor, because there's another reception desk before us, but this time, with only two telephones. As we approach the desk, the smiling secretary sitting behind it presses a button, and nods at Gabrielle.
Gabrielle holds up two fingers in the peace sign and sticks her tongue out at the secretary, then swiftly turns and leads me down a darkly lit hallway and into a conference room. I sit at a random chair at the table and look straight ahead in dumbfounded silence, trying to process the last ten minutes. Gabrielle plops down across from me, and is about to speak, but suddenly the door opens and the last person I was expecting to see walks in, sits down next to Gabrielle, and grins at me.
"Um.... Jesus?"
To be continued.
Julia
Anyway! Now back to the story.
Recap: Felix has just rushed into the middle of an intersection to pull a mysterious girl out of the busy street. Instead, they are both hit by an SUV, and after the impact, the girl leads Felix away from the scene, leaving their bodies behind.
Part Two
The girl reached out and grabbed my arm, pulling me farther and farther away from my own body (which I suddenly wish I was still inside) and out of the intersection. As the paramedics arrive, sirens blaring, SUV driver still screaming and crying hysterically; I realize that I am most likely dead. The farther and farther the girl pulls me from the mess in the middle of the street, the more I am sure that I have just died and am now entering the afterlife.
Oh my God. I'm dead. I've just died.
This is a moment I've been wondering about since early childhood, and here I am, simply on the other side of the street. No white light, no fall into never-ending darkness, no, I just got up and walked away. I'm honestly a little disappointed at how anticlimactic this has all been.
The sound of a stretcher hitting the ground snaps my attention back to the scene before us. One of the bodies has been covered by a tarp, and the other is surrounded by bustling EMTs. I can't tell for sure, but I think the girl's body may have survived the whole ordeal.
I feel a tug, and the girl begins to lead me down the street in the same direction that I originally intended on going. Her eerie silence continues as we walk, but I can bare it no longer. I have some serious questions that need to be answered now.
"What the Hell were you doing in the middle of the street? Who are you? Where are we going? Are we dead?!" I spray out the questions in a blustery stream of confused-sounding words at the girl. She stops, looks at me, and taps the tip of my nose with her index finger. A mischevious grin spreads across her face and her eyes connect with mine.
Those eyes are terrifyingly beautiful, clear grey with a bright gold tint outlining the irises, and are thick with understanding. This girl has lived a while, and knows something I don't. Suddenly, she speaks.
"I'll explain everything once we're upstairs. By the way, my name is Gabrielle, and you have access code E15:20, you'll need to remember that in order to get in. Hold onto my hand and exhale when I tell you to."
I grab her hand and she slugs me in the stomach, forcing the breath from my lungs with her sharp, unexpected blow. I squeeze my eyes shut and try not to breath until she lets go of my hand. Then I keep my eyes shut, trying to contain myself as I try to refill my stunned chest cavity with oxogen.
When my eyelids finally relax and part, they reveal the truth. At last, I know where one goes after they die.
We are standing in the middle of a street, but it's dark out. There's a single white feather floating through the air. Everything sort of has a yellowy glow, and there's this faint pulling beneath my feet, as if we are in motion, but are moving incredibly slowly. The streetlights eminate clear, blue light. The buildings are normal looking, like on a city street, but each have odd quirks, as though that city street might be in Soho.
I have this inherent knowledge that we are in a city in the clouds; Heaven. Gabrielle looks at me and grins.
"Let's go see the boss." she sighs.
She leads me through about six blocks of this odd city, and I realize that the buildings aren't quirky, they're simply mixed up. As we walk by a particularly odd building, it hits me that it is simply mixing architechtural styles from all over history. Huh.
When we stop, we are standing in front of a large, steely skyscraper, with dark tinted windows like a glistening black sheet towering above us in the still, night air. The address is emblazoned above the large entry way: 666 Heaven Street
Though it seems as though the entire city is asleep, Gabrielle pulls me towards the building. Once through the revolving doors, I see that we are in a huge, silent lobby. Along one wall there is a reception desk that is a hundred feet long, with as many telephones sitting on top, and all the way at the end is one lonely receptionist who was unlucky enough to get the graveyard shift.
We approached her, and she glanced up from her copy of The Lady Chatterly's Lover. She didn't even ask our names, she just looked at Gabrielle and picked up her telephone.
"Gabrielle's back...got some kid with her, real character, with all these ridiculous piercings and the weirdest t-shirt,"
Um, hello? I'm standing right here, lady.
"Anyway, I know the boss'll want to see her, even at this unholy hour.... Oh no, they can come up by themselves, you don't have to send anyone.... Yep...Yep, they'll be up momentarily." She motions for us to go.
"No, he doesn't know a thing. You'll have to explain once they get up there."
Gabrielle pulls me towards a large, silver framed elevator and presses the call button. There's a quiet ding as the doors slide open. We enter, and she types in a code on the touch-screen pad on the wall; D9:20. And then we go zoom.
The lift travels upwards so quickly that there is literally a low zooming sound. I watch the numbers on the floor counter scroll through 200, and we finally slow to a stop at floor 214. The doors sleekly ding open, and I know instantly that we're on the executive floor, because there's another reception desk before us, but this time, with only two telephones. As we approach the desk, the smiling secretary sitting behind it presses a button, and nods at Gabrielle.
Gabrielle holds up two fingers in the peace sign and sticks her tongue out at the secretary, then swiftly turns and leads me down a darkly lit hallway and into a conference room. I sit at a random chair at the table and look straight ahead in dumbfounded silence, trying to process the last ten minutes. Gabrielle plops down across from me, and is about to speak, but suddenly the door opens and the last person I was expecting to see walks in, sits down next to Gabrielle, and grins at me.
"Um.... Jesus?"
To be continued.
Julia
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Hora Mortis Nostrae (pt 1)
Oh dear lord... I don't know how well this is going to be received, but here is the first part of my story. It's fictional (duh) and it's based on Catholic beliefs and mysticism. I truly do not mean to offend anyone with my take on this stuff, I just found it interesting. And no, I'm not trying to copy the Da Vinci Code or anything like that. Anyway, if you have no knowledge of Catholicism, really the only thing you absolutely need to know to understand my story is this:
There are seven deadly sins that every human is guilty of: Pride, Lust, Gluttony, Sloth, Wrath, Greed, and Envy.
There are seven heavenly virtues that every human can work to achieve in order to purge themselves of these sins: Humility, Chastity, Temperance, Diligence, Patience, Charity, and Kindness.
Note that each sin has a corresponding virtue. I've listed them in corresponding order as well (Pride is stopped with Humility, etc).
Ok.... well, here goes....
Prologue:
"Ave Maria
gratia plena
Dominus tecum
Benedicta tu
Et benedictus
Fructus ventris tui.
Sancta Maria
Mater Dei
Ora pro nobis
Peccatoribus
Nunc et in
Hora mortis nostrae."
Every Sunday, without fail, my mother would tell me, "Felix, it's time for worship." and then she'd press a rosary into my hands and drag me to church where I'd solemnly sing these words along the rest of the congregation. As my apathetic tones rose through the thick chapel air and joined with the voices of the choir, I'd always end up glaring at the large crucifix above the altar and feel resentment swelling up from the pit of my stomach. If Jesus died a few thousand years ago, then why should I spend my Sunday mornings singing to him, let alone to his even more dead virginal mother?
I'd sing every hymn and raise my palms to the arched chapel ceiling, and listen to every sermon. My mother would clutch at her bible and her rosary and hang upon every word that priest spoke, simply expecting that I'd do the same... But I went church every Sunday for eleven years, and through every moment of it I became more and more convinced that God didn't speak Latin. As it turns out, She does; but I'll get to that later.
Part One
The wind in the summer is soft and rippling, necessary, but not actually cooling. As a breeze caught my jacket and ruffled my hair, I realized that the air had only gotten warmer. I groaned, frustrated, as I made my way down the suburban street towards the home of my best and brightest friend, Marc.
Marc was a stocky music snob who somehow managed to attract girls like I attracted trouble. He lived in the neighborhood across the street from mine, a suburban hell right next to a suburban hell. As I approached the the one busy intersection between my side of suburbia and his, another summer wind blew through the trees. The cars rushing past are kicking up dust into the air, which swirls feebly inches above the ground, then settles, only to be kicked up once again.
Suddenly, I hear that unmistakable screech of tires, and I look up to see a girl standing in the middle of the intersection with her eyes closed, an almost placid expression on her face. As one car narrowly misses her and skids out of the way, without thinking, I run out and grab the girl's wrists, trying to pull her out of the street. Instead, I have dragged both her and I into the path of an on-coming SUV, which tries to slow, but hits the both of us.
I hear the smack before I feel it, but the impact is crushing. The girl and I go flying, limbs thrust out at odd angles, before we hit the ground ten feet away from the SUV. The hot pavement presses into my cheek as I struggle to stay conscious. I can feel blood in my mouth, squishing between my teeth. I try to lift my head to see what has become of the girl, but I can't move. My eyelids threaten to close and I strain to stay awake, listening hard.
The driver of the SUV, a woman, has become hysterical, and is now blubbering into her Blackberry, trying to explain to the 911 operator that "It wasn't my fault! I couldn't stop! They were in the middle of the road!! One of them's bleeding pretty bad-- " I bet that'd be the girl. What was she doing, standing in the center of an intersection? Did this girl have some intense death wish?
Did I just thwart a suicide? Wait, is she dead?
Sirens pick up in the distance, and I give up the fight to keep my eyes open. I can still hear the woman screaming into her phone, but she sounds like she's yelling down a tunnel. I'm still conscious, barely.
Suddenly, there's this horrible yanking in my gut, and then I'm looking at two mangled bodies lying in the street. I look up to see the girl, standing above her own body, with a perturbed look on her face. She beckons me out of the street, and I follow, leaving my body behind.
Shall I continue?
Julia
There are seven deadly sins that every human is guilty of: Pride, Lust, Gluttony, Sloth, Wrath, Greed, and Envy.
There are seven heavenly virtues that every human can work to achieve in order to purge themselves of these sins: Humility, Chastity, Temperance, Diligence, Patience, Charity, and Kindness.
Note that each sin has a corresponding virtue. I've listed them in corresponding order as well (Pride is stopped with Humility, etc).
Ok.... well, here goes....
Prologue:
"Ave Maria
gratia plena
Dominus tecum
Benedicta tu
Et benedictus
Fructus ventris tui.
Sancta Maria
Mater Dei
Ora pro nobis
Peccatoribus
Nunc et in
Hora mortis nostrae."
Every Sunday, without fail, my mother would tell me, "Felix, it's time for worship." and then she'd press a rosary into my hands and drag me to church where I'd solemnly sing these words along the rest of the congregation. As my apathetic tones rose through the thick chapel air and joined with the voices of the choir, I'd always end up glaring at the large crucifix above the altar and feel resentment swelling up from the pit of my stomach. If Jesus died a few thousand years ago, then why should I spend my Sunday mornings singing to him, let alone to his even more dead virginal mother?
I'd sing every hymn and raise my palms to the arched chapel ceiling, and listen to every sermon. My mother would clutch at her bible and her rosary and hang upon every word that priest spoke, simply expecting that I'd do the same... But I went church every Sunday for eleven years, and through every moment of it I became more and more convinced that God didn't speak Latin. As it turns out, She does; but I'll get to that later.
Part One
The wind in the summer is soft and rippling, necessary, but not actually cooling. As a breeze caught my jacket and ruffled my hair, I realized that the air had only gotten warmer. I groaned, frustrated, as I made my way down the suburban street towards the home of my best and brightest friend, Marc.
Marc was a stocky music snob who somehow managed to attract girls like I attracted trouble. He lived in the neighborhood across the street from mine, a suburban hell right next to a suburban hell. As I approached the the one busy intersection between my side of suburbia and his, another summer wind blew through the trees. The cars rushing past are kicking up dust into the air, which swirls feebly inches above the ground, then settles, only to be kicked up once again.
Suddenly, I hear that unmistakable screech of tires, and I look up to see a girl standing in the middle of the intersection with her eyes closed, an almost placid expression on her face. As one car narrowly misses her and skids out of the way, without thinking, I run out and grab the girl's wrists, trying to pull her out of the street. Instead, I have dragged both her and I into the path of an on-coming SUV, which tries to slow, but hits the both of us.
I hear the smack before I feel it, but the impact is crushing. The girl and I go flying, limbs thrust out at odd angles, before we hit the ground ten feet away from the SUV. The hot pavement presses into my cheek as I struggle to stay conscious. I can feel blood in my mouth, squishing between my teeth. I try to lift my head to see what has become of the girl, but I can't move. My eyelids threaten to close and I strain to stay awake, listening hard.
The driver of the SUV, a woman, has become hysterical, and is now blubbering into her Blackberry, trying to explain to the 911 operator that "It wasn't my fault! I couldn't stop! They were in the middle of the road!! One of them's bleeding pretty bad-- " I bet that'd be the girl. What was she doing, standing in the center of an intersection? Did this girl have some intense death wish?
Did I just thwart a suicide? Wait, is she dead?
Sirens pick up in the distance, and I give up the fight to keep my eyes open. I can still hear the woman screaming into her phone, but she sounds like she's yelling down a tunnel. I'm still conscious, barely.
Suddenly, there's this horrible yanking in my gut, and then I'm looking at two mangled bodies lying in the street. I look up to see the girl, standing above her own body, with a perturbed look on her face. She beckons me out of the street, and I follow, leaving my body behind.
Shall I continue?
Julia
Finger Tutting
Blar de blar de blar. Do you ever feel like that? Like blarrrr? I imagine that's the sound a fat blue kitten would make while walking around on its hind legs trying to balance. Blar de blar de blarrrr meow.
I got bored and decided to try to learn how to finger tut by watching YouTube tutorials... if you don't know what finger tutting is, it's basically break dancing using only your hands and wrists. It's uber duber sick to watch and actually kind of easy to learn. People use variations of finger tutting at raves when they give glove light shows (the gloves have LEDs in the tips of the fingers, they're really cool to look at). I figure, I rave enough that I should probably know how to some sort of cool shit by now.
Even if you're not one who's into techno or raves or anything like that, I suggest you look up finger tutting or gloving videos, they're really killer. You won't fully appreciate light shows unless you've gotten one in person, though...
Anyhoo, Christopher, you've inspired me. I kind of want to write a short story now. Perhaps on this blog... in like 4 or 5 installments... because I've realized that the way I write on this blog is very stream-of-consciousness style, not literary genius style. All my posts are basically my slightly edited inner dialogue, but if I wrote a story, you few and foreign followers would be able to see a whole new side to my writing.
I don't know. Christopher, would you be offended if I wrote a story?
I painted my finger nails orange today, and they're rather fantastic.
Julia
I got bored and decided to try to learn how to finger tut by watching YouTube tutorials... if you don't know what finger tutting is, it's basically break dancing using only your hands and wrists. It's uber duber sick to watch and actually kind of easy to learn. People use variations of finger tutting at raves when they give glove light shows (the gloves have LEDs in the tips of the fingers, they're really cool to look at). I figure, I rave enough that I should probably know how to some sort of cool shit by now.
Even if you're not one who's into techno or raves or anything like that, I suggest you look up finger tutting or gloving videos, they're really killer. You won't fully appreciate light shows unless you've gotten one in person, though...
Anyhoo, Christopher, you've inspired me. I kind of want to write a short story now. Perhaps on this blog... in like 4 or 5 installments... because I've realized that the way I write on this blog is very stream-of-consciousness style, not literary genius style. All my posts are basically my slightly edited inner dialogue, but if I wrote a story, you few and foreign followers would be able to see a whole new side to my writing.
I don't know. Christopher, would you be offended if I wrote a story?
I painted my finger nails orange today, and they're rather fantastic.
Julia
Monday, July 25, 2011
So Very Serendipitous
I just talked for 3 hours with a boy I've just met. We'll call him Waywardsoulboy. Wsb from now till never.
It was so unexpected... He likes philosophy, weed, bass guitar, and Paris. We know a ton of the same people, and it's very odd that we'd never met before tonight. But it's definitely very cool that I've made a new friend. Instances like this restore my faith in humanity; you can still meet a random dude and be friends by the end of the night.
He's interesting, he's very intense, and he lives in England for 9 months out of the year. I would consider myself officially intrigued.
This is all so very serendipitous!
Julia
It was so unexpected... He likes philosophy, weed, bass guitar, and Paris. We know a ton of the same people, and it's very odd that we'd never met before tonight. But it's definitely very cool that I've made a new friend. Instances like this restore my faith in humanity; you can still meet a random dude and be friends by the end of the night.
He's interesting, he's very intense, and he lives in England for 9 months out of the year. I would consider myself officially intrigued.
This is all so very serendipitous!
Julia
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Friday, July 22, 2011
What Do You Want To Be When You Grow Up?
When I was 6, I would have rolled my eyes at you and said "Psh, easy. An opera singer veterinarian." and then pirouetted proudly in my tiny floral dress (my mother thought that as a 6 year old girl, my wardrobe should consist only of floral and pastel dresses, because God forbid her darling child should ever want to play in the mud with Hotwheels... which I did, frequently, ruining my little wardrobe of floral dresses)
I really did want to be an opera singer veterinarian when I was little, though. In my optimistic, naïve, little heart I didn't know that singers are dime-a-dozen and that being a veterinarian could involve watching puppies die. Wow, morbid, sorry!
But seriously.
'What do you want to be when you grow up?'
A question whose simplicity is staggering, yet wholly perplexing all at the same time. The paradoxical, multifaceted words form one simple sentences that can be deconstructed into so many new things that the root of the actual question is lost. Taken completely literally, word for word, the answer would be something like:
"I want to be alive, but as a 4'10 done-with-puberty female, my chances of growing--let alone growing in any upwards direction-- are very slim."
Harty har har. I have a job now, and once school starts again that's going to consume all of my time, but I'm only just realizing that I'm almost done with high school. It's only just starting to dawn on me that I'm thundering towards adulthood with absolutely no idea where I want to end up.
I know, I know, you few and foreign followers, ye elders especially, want to say "Darling, you're 16, kindly shut up and don't worry about it." however every other 16 year old I talked to today seems to have an exact layout for the rest of their life. I know that I could never try to plan my entire future, so I've been trying to think of what i want my career to be, and even that is difficult.
I feel like my 6 year old, floral dress-clad self, changing my ideal career with every movie I watch. Except now I know what sort of career my family expects me to live up to. Now, if y'all read my last post, you know that my parents really could care less what I do with my time right now. I neglected to mention that one of the only reasons I'm allowed to get away with the massive amounts of crazy stuff I do is because I've maintained pretty flawless grades my entire life, because the one and only thing my parents ever tear themselves away from their jobs for is to get on me about my education.
Here is a short summary of parents' academic careers, just so you know:
My father skipped a year of high school, graduated cum laude from Oberlin University, then proceed to build ion lasers for Notre Dame, Southern Florida, and Pitt (all universities) and was enjoying a career with a PhD in nuclear physics when he met my mother, who went to Harvard when she was 16 (seriously) and, after graduation, was commissioned by the Navy to go on a high-priority mission for about 3 months in Antarctica, and once returned decided to finish a PhD in astrophysics.
And yet, despite both of my parents having PhDs, and my father becoming a licensed audio engineer (because nukes just got boring, I'm completely serious) my family is still living just above the poverty line and neither of my parents appear to be all that happy.
I'm just sort of wondering, what is the point of all that schooling and excelling and pressure if you're not going to be rich and content with yourself? Will my career dump me back in some Hicktown with (heaven forbid) a family and a tiny house? Should I expect anything more?
Why do I have to know what I want to be when I grow up?
Julia
I really did want to be an opera singer veterinarian when I was little, though. In my optimistic, naïve, little heart I didn't know that singers are dime-a-dozen and that being a veterinarian could involve watching puppies die. Wow, morbid, sorry!
But seriously.
'What do you want to be when you grow up?'
A question whose simplicity is staggering, yet wholly perplexing all at the same time. The paradoxical, multifaceted words form one simple sentences that can be deconstructed into so many new things that the root of the actual question is lost. Taken completely literally, word for word, the answer would be something like:
"I want to be alive, but as a 4'10 done-with-puberty female, my chances of growing--let alone growing in any upwards direction-- are very slim."
Harty har har. I have a job now, and once school starts again that's going to consume all of my time, but I'm only just realizing that I'm almost done with high school. It's only just starting to dawn on me that I'm thundering towards adulthood with absolutely no idea where I want to end up.
I know, I know, you few and foreign followers, ye elders especially, want to say "Darling, you're 16, kindly shut up and don't worry about it." however every other 16 year old I talked to today seems to have an exact layout for the rest of their life. I know that I could never try to plan my entire future, so I've been trying to think of what i want my career to be, and even that is difficult.
I feel like my 6 year old, floral dress-clad self, changing my ideal career with every movie I watch. Except now I know what sort of career my family expects me to live up to. Now, if y'all read my last post, you know that my parents really could care less what I do with my time right now. I neglected to mention that one of the only reasons I'm allowed to get away with the massive amounts of crazy stuff I do is because I've maintained pretty flawless grades my entire life, because the one and only thing my parents ever tear themselves away from their jobs for is to get on me about my education.
Here is a short summary of parents' academic careers, just so you know:
My father skipped a year of high school, graduated cum laude from Oberlin University, then proceed to build ion lasers for Notre Dame, Southern Florida, and Pitt (all universities) and was enjoying a career with a PhD in nuclear physics when he met my mother, who went to Harvard when she was 16 (seriously) and, after graduation, was commissioned by the Navy to go on a high-priority mission for about 3 months in Antarctica, and once returned decided to finish a PhD in astrophysics.
And yet, despite both of my parents having PhDs, and my father becoming a licensed audio engineer (because nukes just got boring, I'm completely serious) my family is still living just above the poverty line and neither of my parents appear to be all that happy.
I'm just sort of wondering, what is the point of all that schooling and excelling and pressure if you're not going to be rich and content with yourself? Will my career dump me back in some Hicktown with (heaven forbid) a family and a tiny house? Should I expect anything more?
Why do I have to know what I want to be when I grow up?
Julia
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Disfunctionality
I know it's 3 am and this is my 3rd day in row posting on this damn blog and no one gives a shit and I should just go to sleep, but how the hell am I supposed to sleep when I have so much on my mind? I mean, insomnia is eating me alive, so I might as well write about what's going on in my head before this whole thing turns into some crazy 'Fight Club' scenario and I end up making soap and bombs in my kitchen.
The whole creating-an-army thing might be fun though... I mean, what's so wrong with being a corrupting influence? I love being the corrupting influence! I'm the 'bad' kid and I'm fully aware of the fact that every one of my friends' parents perceive me as such. I don't fully get it, though. I mean seriously; why am I the 'bad' kid? Why can't I just be seen by all of my friends' parents as the 'independent' kid or the 'awkwardly intelligent' kid or the 'thinks for her own damn self' kid? Why is the fact that I define my own values such a terrible thing?
The most judgmental people I meet are my friends' parents. They're all so vastly over-protective of their children, it's like they can smell the rebellious instincts radiating off of my skin when I shake their hands and introduce myself, and they smile that 'I don't trust you' smile and say things like "Well, our Lisa lives her life at a higher moral standard than you're probably used to." as if I can't comprehend the level of goodness their child has achieved, while I happen to know that their Lisa has a pesky little cocaine habit that she nurses every weekend.
I've been taught the difference between right and wrong. I know murder is terrible and should never be done, stealing is a crime, and that lying can be really dangerous. I know the fundamentals of human decency, the ten commandments, and not only the seven deadly sins, but the seven heavenly virtues (and I'm not even Catholic).
The difference between my parents and the parents of almost all of my friends is that my parents are aware of my behavior (ok, not all of it, but they've basically caught on). They don't like it, condone it, nor approve of it, but at least they're not in denial about it. I'm not a sheltered kid, and I've been allowed to build my independence, which is not a bad thing. I mean, my parents definitely won't be getting any awards or commendations, because the only reason I've been allowed so much freedom is because they don't give a fuck. But I'd rather my parents not care than try to protect me from the facts of life.
I think it's worse for the development of a person when their parents try to control their every decision and don't respect the opinions and choices that should really only belong to the child. The over-protected child struggles the most when they're finally allowed an ounce of freedom. The sheltered kid is overwhelmed by a dangerous world when they are finally given the opportunity to be independent. Is protection really the right way to go?
Because of the disfunction I was raised around, I've become incredibly independent. I have shaped my own world view and follow my own set of rules. Above all, I think for myself . I make my own decisions, just like every sheltered kid will eventually have to do by his or her self. Why is the fact that I do so now enough to get me labeled in all parental circles as the 'bad' kid?
Why is my independence such a threat?
Oh wow... that kind of turned into a gut-spill. A ranty gut-spill. Sorry, I usually try to keep that sort of thing to a minimum... but, hell, I don't even know if anyone read all that. It seems like no one has the patience, nor desire, to read all this crazy stuff that leaks out of my brain during these wee hours of the morning. I can't really blame them. (This is where you comment and reassure me that someone out there appreciates this blog... I know, that statement was a shameless compliment-fish. I'm only human.)
This post is way too long already... insomnia is making me ramble.
Julia
The whole creating-an-army thing might be fun though... I mean, what's so wrong with being a corrupting influence? I love being the corrupting influence! I'm the 'bad' kid and I'm fully aware of the fact that every one of my friends' parents perceive me as such. I don't fully get it, though. I mean seriously; why am I the 'bad' kid? Why can't I just be seen by all of my friends' parents as the 'independent' kid or the 'awkwardly intelligent' kid or the 'thinks for her own damn self' kid? Why is the fact that I define my own values such a terrible thing?
The most judgmental people I meet are my friends' parents. They're all so vastly over-protective of their children, it's like they can smell the rebellious instincts radiating off of my skin when I shake their hands and introduce myself, and they smile that 'I don't trust you' smile and say things like "Well, our Lisa lives her life at a higher moral standard than you're probably used to." as if I can't comprehend the level of goodness their child has achieved, while I happen to know that their Lisa has a pesky little cocaine habit that she nurses every weekend.
I've been taught the difference between right and wrong. I know murder is terrible and should never be done, stealing is a crime, and that lying can be really dangerous. I know the fundamentals of human decency, the ten commandments, and not only the seven deadly sins, but the seven heavenly virtues (and I'm not even Catholic).
The difference between my parents and the parents of almost all of my friends is that my parents are aware of my behavior (ok, not all of it, but they've basically caught on). They don't like it, condone it, nor approve of it, but at least they're not in denial about it. I'm not a sheltered kid, and I've been allowed to build my independence, which is not a bad thing. I mean, my parents definitely won't be getting any awards or commendations, because the only reason I've been allowed so much freedom is because they don't give a fuck. But I'd rather my parents not care than try to protect me from the facts of life.
I think it's worse for the development of a person when their parents try to control their every decision and don't respect the opinions and choices that should really only belong to the child. The over-protected child struggles the most when they're finally allowed an ounce of freedom. The sheltered kid is overwhelmed by a dangerous world when they are finally given the opportunity to be independent. Is protection really the right way to go?
Because of the disfunction I was raised around, I've become incredibly independent. I have shaped my own world view and follow my own set of rules. Above all, I think for myself . I make my own decisions, just like every sheltered kid will eventually have to do by his or her self. Why is the fact that I do so now enough to get me labeled in all parental circles as the 'bad' kid?
Why is my independence such a threat?
Oh wow... that kind of turned into a gut-spill. A ranty gut-spill. Sorry, I usually try to keep that sort of thing to a minimum... but, hell, I don't even know if anyone read all that. It seems like no one has the patience, nor desire, to read all this crazy stuff that leaks out of my brain during these wee hours of the morning. I can't really blame them. (This is where you comment and reassure me that someone out there appreciates this blog... I know, that statement was a shameless compliment-fish. I'm only human.)
This post is way too long already... insomnia is making me ramble.
Julia
Monday, July 18, 2011
It's A Funny Story...
I hate when people say that and then the story is totally not funny. Or even that interesting. Or is just completely lame. It's like, uh, bud, you got my attention, might as well make it worth my while by adding some ninjas and explosions or even a few ironic situations into your story about how you had to go to the grocery store to buy milk and tuna but they were out of tuna and that's why you're late for work. I mean, really.
On a completely different note: I adore Pandora Radio! I just type in 'dubstep' and I have an instant, infinite playlist. It's a total life-saver for long bus rides and when I have to write essays (essays? in the summer? unfortunately... yes.) and basically any time I need to listen music that I don't own.
Speaking of things that are musical... I think I might create some music of my own. I was thinking I might make a few techno/dub tracks because I know how, and have all the equipment I'd need in the recording studio in my basement, being the daughter of an audio engineer and all. I have no intention of ever becoming a famous DJ, but since I have the means, might as well get a few of the ends, you know? Boredom can be such a beautiful thing.
Anyway, I found the cutest little bottle of bright neon pink nail polish and am very excited to use it. I bleached my hair again last night, too, and now it's closer to white than blonde. I'm very happy.
What should my dubstep artist name be?
Julia
On a completely different note: I adore Pandora Radio! I just type in 'dubstep' and I have an instant, infinite playlist. It's a total life-saver for long bus rides and when I have to write essays (essays? in the summer? unfortunately... yes.) and basically any time I need to listen music that I don't own.
Speaking of things that are musical... I think I might create some music of my own. I was thinking I might make a few techno/dub tracks because I know how, and have all the equipment I'd need in the recording studio in my basement, being the daughter of an audio engineer and all. I have no intention of ever becoming a famous DJ, but since I have the means, might as well get a few of the ends, you know? Boredom can be such a beautiful thing.
Anyway, I found the cutest little bottle of bright neon pink nail polish and am very excited to use it. I bleached my hair again last night, too, and now it's closer to white than blonde. I'm very happy.
What should my dubstep artist name be?
Julia
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Summer Nights
Some nights, I think it's best not to meet new people or go on crazy adventures or party. It's better to not think about silly Manwhoreboys or moments you regret or the amount of moral corruption that you are probably responsible for among your friends (this coming from the most un-saintly teenager America has ever seen).
No, sometimes it's easier to just have a cozy night in, eating donuts and talking about life with an old friend in the warm night air. I think that swinging on the swings at the park with all the rose gardens at 3 am is infinitely more pleasurable than a night of drinking; and I'd rather look at the stars with an old friend than a new one.
That's not to say I'd refuse an opportunity for excitement, because when one is granted I'm always the first to capitalize upon it... Just, occasionally, the nights that are quiet are the nights I enjoy more.
Looking at clouds and thinking of you,
Julia
No, sometimes it's easier to just have a cozy night in, eating donuts and talking about life with an old friend in the warm night air. I think that swinging on the swings at the park with all the rose gardens at 3 am is infinitely more pleasurable than a night of drinking; and I'd rather look at the stars with an old friend than a new one.
That's not to say I'd refuse an opportunity for excitement, because when one is granted I'm always the first to capitalize upon it... Just, occasionally, the nights that are quiet are the nights I enjoy more.
Looking at clouds and thinking of you,
Julia
Friday, July 15, 2011
Drunk-Watching
Oh lordy lord, 2 posts in one day? Unacceptable, we simply cannot tolerate this.
Too bad ;)
First!! Harry potter was fantastic!! They did such a good job with the conclusion!! Ahhh!
And I guess now would be a good time to let you all know that I went to go se the movie with Mwb.. but nothing happened! I wouldn't even hold his hand. I'm putting myself on a self-imposed boy diet for the rest of the month. No physical shenanigans, not even kissing. And this is to remind myself that there is more to that gender than anatomy and nymphomania. Plus, I really don't want to go down that road again with Mwb especially.
Second!! After the movie in Denver, I had to take the bus back to Boulder, where I was then stranded for about an hour on Pearl Street waiting for my father to come pick me up because I had missed the last bus back to Hicktown. For those new readers who don't know, Pearl Street is a magical place full of hippies and rainbows and good food. It's technically a pedestrian mall that takes up about 10 blocks. And interspersed amongst the stores are numerous bars, pubs, and restaurants that were very busy on this lovely Friday night.
All of these bars had outdoor patios, and drunk people were walking around on the mall barhopping, so basically Pearl Street turned into a drunk person fiesta. I kept getting hit on by 30 year olds, which I always love because it's flattering in a twisted, Lolita-esque way.
To bide my time during the hour I had to wait, I invented a hobby called Drunk-Watching. It's like bird-watching, but much more entertaining. The way it works is you park yourself on a bench in a high-traffic area and enjoy a few cigarettes while observing the many species of drunk people walking about. These are the species I've discovered so far:
Sluttious Inebrious- The Tipsy Sluts: These women were short skirts and high heels, talk loudly, and flirt with every man in sight, including hobos, janitors, scary looking possible rapists, and roving groups of fraternity brothers. Always travel in packs of three or more, when one is left behind she becomes whiny and may cry.
Philosophus Budweiseriam- The Beer Philosopher: This guy thinks that he can carry on a deep conversation after pounding 4-8 Buds. He can't, but he'll sure-as-Hell try.
Broski Fraternitae- The Frat Boy: Easily identified by a tool-bag hair cut, Ed Hardy or Polo t-shirt, flip-flops, or tendency to yell. He can handle a large amount of alcohol, but will most likely exceed his limits and proceed to start a fight, pick up the fat chick, or vomit/urinate publically. Will always travel in packs of four or more, and the more company one has, the louder he will be.
Unsexyium Obeseia- The Mondo Girl: This girl has a great... personality, despite possibly weighing a metric ton. She becomes overly confident when intoxicated and begins to flirt with her friends, regardless of gender. She may remove articles of clothing, dance, sing, or otherwise call attention to herself. She is the girl who becomes attractive after a few beers, but definitely won't be in the morning. Proceed with caution.
Creeperium Extremious- The Super Creepster: This man is over age 40, has extreme facial hair, gnarly teeth, is either homeless, sleazy, or massively overweight, and thinks that winking at passing women and calling them 'baby' is alluring. Keep your distance.
Bucketsium O'Funium- The Fun One: This man or woman has not yet become completely plastered, and has retained their wit, sense of humor, and excitement. They have the ability to hold their liquor and lead mostly-coherent conversations. Do not let this person have another drink!! They will rapidly turn into the final and most dangerous species observed:
Intoxicous Obliteratum- The Trashed Guy: He cannot stand up, walk, speak, or pee on his own. Occurs in females as well. He will slur his sentences, fall on people, and most likely cover his friends in some form of fluid bodily secretion by the end of the night. He's probably had enough to the point where he won't remember much in the morning, so catch him on film while you can.
Yeah. My hour of waiting for a ride was hilarious! And talking to these people was fantastic. Everyone had good vibes, and was friendly, and had funny shit to say. Fun times.
Hope you all had nice evenings,
Julia
Too bad ;)
First!! Harry potter was fantastic!! They did such a good job with the conclusion!! Ahhh!
And I guess now would be a good time to let you all know that I went to go se the movie with Mwb.. but nothing happened! I wouldn't even hold his hand. I'm putting myself on a self-imposed boy diet for the rest of the month. No physical shenanigans, not even kissing. And this is to remind myself that there is more to that gender than anatomy and nymphomania. Plus, I really don't want to go down that road again with Mwb especially.
Second!! After the movie in Denver, I had to take the bus back to Boulder, where I was then stranded for about an hour on Pearl Street waiting for my father to come pick me up because I had missed the last bus back to Hicktown. For those new readers who don't know, Pearl Street is a magical place full of hippies and rainbows and good food. It's technically a pedestrian mall that takes up about 10 blocks. And interspersed amongst the stores are numerous bars, pubs, and restaurants that were very busy on this lovely Friday night.
All of these bars had outdoor patios, and drunk people were walking around on the mall barhopping, so basically Pearl Street turned into a drunk person fiesta. I kept getting hit on by 30 year olds, which I always love because it's flattering in a twisted, Lolita-esque way.
To bide my time during the hour I had to wait, I invented a hobby called Drunk-Watching. It's like bird-watching, but much more entertaining. The way it works is you park yourself on a bench in a high-traffic area and enjoy a few cigarettes while observing the many species of drunk people walking about. These are the species I've discovered so far:
Sluttious Inebrious- The Tipsy Sluts: These women were short skirts and high heels, talk loudly, and flirt with every man in sight, including hobos, janitors, scary looking possible rapists, and roving groups of fraternity brothers. Always travel in packs of three or more, when one is left behind she becomes whiny and may cry.
Philosophus Budweiseriam- The Beer Philosopher: This guy thinks that he can carry on a deep conversation after pounding 4-8 Buds. He can't, but he'll sure-as-Hell try.
Broski Fraternitae- The Frat Boy: Easily identified by a tool-bag hair cut, Ed Hardy or Polo t-shirt, flip-flops, or tendency to yell. He can handle a large amount of alcohol, but will most likely exceed his limits and proceed to start a fight, pick up the fat chick, or vomit/urinate publically. Will always travel in packs of four or more, and the more company one has, the louder he will be.
Unsexyium Obeseia- The Mondo Girl: This girl has a great... personality, despite possibly weighing a metric ton. She becomes overly confident when intoxicated and begins to flirt with her friends, regardless of gender. She may remove articles of clothing, dance, sing, or otherwise call attention to herself. She is the girl who becomes attractive after a few beers, but definitely won't be in the morning. Proceed with caution.
Creeperium Extremious- The Super Creepster: This man is over age 40, has extreme facial hair, gnarly teeth, is either homeless, sleazy, or massively overweight, and thinks that winking at passing women and calling them 'baby' is alluring. Keep your distance.
Bucketsium O'Funium- The Fun One: This man or woman has not yet become completely plastered, and has retained their wit, sense of humor, and excitement. They have the ability to hold their liquor and lead mostly-coherent conversations. Do not let this person have another drink!! They will rapidly turn into the final and most dangerous species observed:
Intoxicous Obliteratum- The Trashed Guy: He cannot stand up, walk, speak, or pee on his own. Occurs in females as well. He will slur his sentences, fall on people, and most likely cover his friends in some form of fluid bodily secretion by the end of the night. He's probably had enough to the point where he won't remember much in the morning, so catch him on film while you can.
Yeah. My hour of waiting for a ride was hilarious! And talking to these people was fantastic. Everyone had good vibes, and was friendly, and had funny shit to say. Fun times.
Hope you all had nice evenings,
Julia
Underneath The Moon
So it totally figures that the day after I write a post about how much it sucks to be broke and jobless that I would land a job. But I did, and I love it. I get paid $10/hour to basically walk around neighborhoods passing out flyers.
And nowwww I'm going to Denver, and I believe I shall be seeing the final Potter film. Good times.
Underneath the moon the world spins happily,
Julia
And nowwww I'm going to Denver, and I believe I shall be seeing the final Potter film. Good times.
Underneath the moon the world spins happily,
Julia
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Ballad Of The Broke Teenager
I HATE MONEY.
It's official. I simply cannot stand the idea of funds and stocks and capital and economy. I hate this stupid recession we're in because our country thinks its federal taxes should go towards pay increases for college football coaches, and not military or political leaders, or even charities or non-profits. Worst of all, I hate the fucked up job market that is only fucked because companies can no longer afford to pay their current employees, let alone new ones.
As such, it is now mid-July, and I still don't have a summer job!! And it is definitely not for lack of trying, because I have applied to every place I could think of; Starbucks, local restaurants, coffee shops, salons, grocery stores. I mean, this costume managing gig is great, but my superiors decided that due to low funds, it had to remain a volunteer stint.
I'm sick of volunteering!! Volunteering doesn't pay for my burritos!! My savings account has been reduced considerably, and I know I'll build it back up again once I get a job, but no one is hiring!! Gaaaaaah!
I'm broke and tired of being turned down, and I have a car to pay for now. I needs de skrilla... but since I can't get it, I've decided to take the 'mature' route and HATE IT. I hate money!! I hate that things cost money! I hate that burritos cost a lot of money!!
I'm seriously considering becoming a hobo on Pearl Street, and living with the rostas for the rest of my life. It'd be hard, but they don't give a fuck about the stock market.
Would I look good with dreads?
Julia
It's official. I simply cannot stand the idea of funds and stocks and capital and economy. I hate this stupid recession we're in because our country thinks its federal taxes should go towards pay increases for college football coaches, and not military or political leaders, or even charities or non-profits. Worst of all, I hate the fucked up job market that is only fucked because companies can no longer afford to pay their current employees, let alone new ones.
As such, it is now mid-July, and I still don't have a summer job!! And it is definitely not for lack of trying, because I have applied to every place I could think of; Starbucks, local restaurants, coffee shops, salons, grocery stores. I mean, this costume managing gig is great, but my superiors decided that due to low funds, it had to remain a volunteer stint.
I'm sick of volunteering!! Volunteering doesn't pay for my burritos!! My savings account has been reduced considerably, and I know I'll build it back up again once I get a job, but no one is hiring!! Gaaaaaah!
I'm broke and tired of being turned down, and I have a car to pay for now. I needs de skrilla... but since I can't get it, I've decided to take the 'mature' route and HATE IT. I hate money!! I hate that things cost money! I hate that burritos cost a lot of money!!
I'm seriously considering becoming a hobo on Pearl Street, and living with the rostas for the rest of my life. It'd be hard, but they don't give a fuck about the stock market.
Would I look good with dreads?
Julia
Monday, July 11, 2011
The Simple Truth
Fair warning; this one's gonna be pretty shallow, so if you're looking to read anything over-emotional, incredibly existencial, or even poetic, you may want to look elsewhere today. Just sayin'.
My friends, this epic journey began waaaaay back during Christmas break last year. I decided to put some bleach on my hair. My goal was initially to have hair so blonde it was practically white. It took around a year, but that goal was attained in January. My hair was white, and it fucking rocked!!
Alas, after three short weeks, I was forced to dye my hair back to a darkish brown for a school production, and that was fun for a while, but all the time I wished for my white hair again.
In early June, I decided to become blonde once again, bleaching my hair twice in one day, resulting in a considerably lighter, though slightly yellow hue. After this latest round of bleachings, I decided to give my hair a rest from the chemical shenanigans due to it's heightened level of damage and fragile-ness. Through constant toning, I have managed to get the color to a very pale, though still yellowy, sort of color. And I like it.
However, it is not white. And my roots are starting to show. The sad truth is that I must once again assault my already mightily abused hair with bleach! I'm afraid that it won't survive. But that unique, silvery white color was so fantastic to have. It's not fair that it was only mine for three weeks! I want it back!
And so, some time this week, I will have to put my faith in the hair Gods and pray that my hair won't fall out if I bleach it again. Godspeed, hair, Godspeed.
I'm a bleach addict!
Julia
My friends, this epic journey began waaaaay back during Christmas break last year. I decided to put some bleach on my hair. My goal was initially to have hair so blonde it was practically white. It took around a year, but that goal was attained in January. My hair was white, and it fucking rocked!!
Alas, after three short weeks, I was forced to dye my hair back to a darkish brown for a school production, and that was fun for a while, but all the time I wished for my white hair again.
In early June, I decided to become blonde once again, bleaching my hair twice in one day, resulting in a considerably lighter, though slightly yellow hue. After this latest round of bleachings, I decided to give my hair a rest from the chemical shenanigans due to it's heightened level of damage and fragile-ness. Through constant toning, I have managed to get the color to a very pale, though still yellowy, sort of color. And I like it.
However, it is not white. And my roots are starting to show. The sad truth is that I must once again assault my already mightily abused hair with bleach! I'm afraid that it won't survive. But that unique, silvery white color was so fantastic to have. It's not fair that it was only mine for three weeks! I want it back!
And so, some time this week, I will have to put my faith in the hair Gods and pray that my hair won't fall out if I bleach it again. Godspeed, hair, Godspeed.
I'm a bleach addict!
Julia
Saturday, July 9, 2011
See-Sawing At 3 A.M. With A Man In A Hamster Suit.
I don't really feel like disclosing what kind of night I had last night, but it was fabulous. And the title of this post really did happen. I am completely serious. I also haven't slept at all since yesterday morning, and very enjoy Trident Layers chewing gum. That is all.
Have a nice day?
Julia
Have a nice day?
Julia
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Labor-Intensive
Fuck my pretty blonde hair.
No seriously, fuck my pretty blonde hair and my make up collection and my new Forever XXI sundress and my limited edition hot pink Vans. Fuck my see-sawing weight (It's 93, no wait! It's 96. Actually it's 95. Now it's 98, she's getting porky. Oh no, down to 93 again, phew) and habit of weighing myself after every meal. Fuck all the skin serums and spot treatments I use religiously. Fuck my X5 magnification face mirror, and my full length mirror, and my compact mirror, and every reflective window I have ever walked past.
It has become very apparent to me that my life revolves around my appearance. Namely, upon improving and hiding my own physical imperfections and staying up to snuff in the wardrobe department. I put in so much work to look pretty and skinny and acne-free, and I can't even seem to do that effectively. It's very frustrating.
I mean, what the hell does the media want me to think here?! Glamour Magazine gives me advice on weight loss, skin care, and fashion, and then proceeds to tell me that I'm beautiful just the way I am, but I'm still trying to memorize the weight loss tips, so that other thing about my natural beauty just gets lost and I can only remember that Greek yogurt has fewer calories than traditional yogurt.
I'm not one to sugar coat, so I'll just be straight up: the main issue here is that I feel very ugly and I work very hard to try to not feel ugly. This feels like an uphill battle, and I'm getting mixed messages from all sides about how I look. If I was actually pretty, boys would love me instead of just fuck me, right? But then my best friend tells me I'm beautiful and complex, and that boys are stupid. It's confusing and frustrating and I'm losing faith, but I'm working harder than ever to look good now.
WHY??? Why do I do this every day?
Julia
No seriously, fuck my pretty blonde hair and my make up collection and my new Forever XXI sundress and my limited edition hot pink Vans. Fuck my see-sawing weight (It's 93, no wait! It's 96. Actually it's 95. Now it's 98, she's getting porky. Oh no, down to 93 again, phew) and habit of weighing myself after every meal. Fuck all the skin serums and spot treatments I use religiously. Fuck my X5 magnification face mirror, and my full length mirror, and my compact mirror, and every reflective window I have ever walked past.
It has become very apparent to me that my life revolves around my appearance. Namely, upon improving and hiding my own physical imperfections and staying up to snuff in the wardrobe department. I put in so much work to look pretty and skinny and acne-free, and I can't even seem to do that effectively. It's very frustrating.
I mean, what the hell does the media want me to think here?! Glamour Magazine gives me advice on weight loss, skin care, and fashion, and then proceeds to tell me that I'm beautiful just the way I am, but I'm still trying to memorize the weight loss tips, so that other thing about my natural beauty just gets lost and I can only remember that Greek yogurt has fewer calories than traditional yogurt.
I'm not one to sugar coat, so I'll just be straight up: the main issue here is that I feel very ugly and I work very hard to try to not feel ugly. This feels like an uphill battle, and I'm getting mixed messages from all sides about how I look. If I was actually pretty, boys would love me instead of just fuck me, right? But then my best friend tells me I'm beautiful and complex, and that boys are stupid. It's confusing and frustrating and I'm losing faith, but I'm working harder than ever to look good now.
WHY??? Why do I do this every day?
Julia
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Bigcitydreams
My nails are painted two different colors, my hair is unstraightened and the roots are starting to show, and I'm flashing back to 8th grade because my iTunes has been playing nothing but NeverShoutNever for the past 20 minutes. I keep thinking about the awful clothes I used to wear (neon EVERYTHING, bandanas, and skinny jeans which were also neon..) and how in two or three years I'm probably going to look back at my wardrobe (a skater-retro mess) and think "Oh Dear God, how could I let myself be seen in public?"
It's funny to reminisce about who I was two and a half years ago. In fact, even thinking back a year is weird. It's like from middle school to high school, my personality completely rewrote itself. That's the way it has to be, though, because if I never changed, I'd still be a scared, misunderstood, attention-hungry child with no idea how to reach out to those around her. If I didn't mature past the frightened puppy stages, this blog wouldn't be nearly as exciting as [I like to think] it is. And here I am, thundering towards junior year, wondering what the hell happened to all those endless days when I thought I'd never grow up.
Anyway, I'm kind of enjoying my blue and silver nails and untamed mane today. I'm even enjoying listening to this NeverShoutNever song I did a cover of once.
I wonder if I'll miss Hicktown in two years when I get the hell out of here. I tell myself I won't, because growing up in this tiny, culture-less town is horrifically boring. But I wonder if when I live in whatever large city I decide to go to, surrounded by diverse people and constant noise, if I'll miss the quiet nights and endless farmland. Probably not.
With a lot of my friends graduating and just staying put to go to college, instead of going off and living independently, I'm starting to doubt my own big city dreams. It puzzles me that people with all the potential in the world would stay close instead traveling to wear they can utilize their talents to their fullest extent. Is the pull of family and home that strong? Why have I never felt it?
My friend was talking to me yesterday about how he went to New York City for a few days and loved it, but became homesick almost instantly. I went to Europe for over a week during spring break and didn't miss my bed once. My friends think I'm crazy, they all want to go to college in-state. One of my best friends who graduated last year got a great scholarship to a college in Seattle that she had really wanted to go to, but decided to stay in state and go to a college that's 40 minutes from her house. This sort of thing simply boggles my mind!
It's not like I come from an abusive household or anything. I mean, my family is crazy disfunctional, we don't even eat dinners together on holidays, but it's not like my parents abuse substances nor their children. My house is tiny, but adequate. I get freedom and independence, my life is not some urban horror story. I don't know why I'm the only one who actively wants to leave it behind.
Puzzlement.
Julia
It's funny to reminisce about who I was two and a half years ago. In fact, even thinking back a year is weird. It's like from middle school to high school, my personality completely rewrote itself. That's the way it has to be, though, because if I never changed, I'd still be a scared, misunderstood, attention-hungry child with no idea how to reach out to those around her. If I didn't mature past the frightened puppy stages, this blog wouldn't be nearly as exciting as [I like to think] it is. And here I am, thundering towards junior year, wondering what the hell happened to all those endless days when I thought I'd never grow up.
Anyway, I'm kind of enjoying my blue and silver nails and untamed mane today. I'm even enjoying listening to this NeverShoutNever song I did a cover of once.
I wonder if I'll miss Hicktown in two years when I get the hell out of here. I tell myself I won't, because growing up in this tiny, culture-less town is horrifically boring. But I wonder if when I live in whatever large city I decide to go to, surrounded by diverse people and constant noise, if I'll miss the quiet nights and endless farmland. Probably not.
With a lot of my friends graduating and just staying put to go to college, instead of going off and living independently, I'm starting to doubt my own big city dreams. It puzzles me that people with all the potential in the world would stay close instead traveling to wear they can utilize their talents to their fullest extent. Is the pull of family and home that strong? Why have I never felt it?
My friend was talking to me yesterday about how he went to New York City for a few days and loved it, but became homesick almost instantly. I went to Europe for over a week during spring break and didn't miss my bed once. My friends think I'm crazy, they all want to go to college in-state. One of my best friends who graduated last year got a great scholarship to a college in Seattle that she had really wanted to go to, but decided to stay in state and go to a college that's 40 minutes from her house. This sort of thing simply boggles my mind!
It's not like I come from an abusive household or anything. I mean, my family is crazy disfunctional, we don't even eat dinners together on holidays, but it's not like my parents abuse substances nor their children. My house is tiny, but adequate. I get freedom and independence, my life is not some urban horror story. I don't know why I'm the only one who actively wants to leave it behind.
Puzzlement.
Julia
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
AMERICA!!
I have red Mardi Gras beads hanging from the rearview mirror in my car now because I stole them from my friend Drew. Drew, along with about 12 other people, made my night absolutely fantastic. That sounds way dirtier than I expected... get your mind out of the gutter!!
What I mean is that I hung out with a very large group of people during the festivities on this most auspicious of nights. Ah, America, any excuse to party and blow shit up, right? Oh wait, I think there's some sort of historical significance to this holiday huh...
My night began with a hearty helping of various meats smothered in barbecue sauce. Mmmm. Also flat soda and walnut brownies. Double mmmm. There was a jazz festival thing in the swanky, artistic neighborhood in town. My friends and I all met up and feasted picnic-style on this grassy knoll thing. We messed around and played on the hammocks and stuff, good fun.
Then, it was time to witness the traditional blowing up of various brightly colored explosives: FIREWORKS BITCH! My shitty Hicktown usually has a lame show only lasting about 15 minutes total and with kind of anti-climactic pyrotechnics, however, this year, the show was over half an hour and I nearly went blind during the grand finale. It was fantastic. I looooove fireworks :)
We all got ridiculously tweaked out on energy drinks. I, of course, drank Monsters. I have a love/hate relationship with Monster energy drink. I love them immediately, but I hate getting jittery and nauseas hours later. But, luckily, I was distracted so the tweaky-feeling didn't hit me too hard.
One of the people in our giant group of loud teenagers owned a gymnastics gym, so we watched the show from the parking lot, which was chill, but after it was over, my friend convinced her mother to let us mess around in the gym for a while. We spent like an hour jumping around on the trampolines and into the foam pits. Three of the girls in the group were on my school's gymnastics team, so they all enjoyed showing off their mad skillz at handsprings and flips and stuff.
The best part of the night was when my friend hooked up a sound-system so that we could play music. This prompted one guy in the group (who happens to flamboyantly gay) to start showing off his uncanny ability to shake his ass like Shakira. It was scary. A bunch of the group joined in and we had a mini-dance party. He and I bonded a lot because we were basically the only two who knew how to dance reeeeeally well (I'm tootin' my own horn here, but seriously, I have skillage in the dance department). So fun!!
When everyone got tired, we all went to this kid's house and watched The Excorcist. Holy shit. That movie is hella screwed up, and the little girl in it is straight-up terrifying!!
After a night of barbecue, fireworks, energy drinks, dancing, and horror movies, I can safely say that this has been one of the best 4ths ever.
One guy in our group kept screaming out "AMERICA!" during the fireworks show, and then periodically throughout the night. It was funniest when we were watching the movie, and little girl was having one of her episodes, and he just yelled it out right as she screamed "Fuck me!". His timing was great!
How was your 4th?
Julia
What I mean is that I hung out with a very large group of people during the festivities on this most auspicious of nights. Ah, America, any excuse to party and blow shit up, right? Oh wait, I think there's some sort of historical significance to this holiday huh...
My night began with a hearty helping of various meats smothered in barbecue sauce. Mmmm. Also flat soda and walnut brownies. Double mmmm. There was a jazz festival thing in the swanky, artistic neighborhood in town. My friends and I all met up and feasted picnic-style on this grassy knoll thing. We messed around and played on the hammocks and stuff, good fun.
Then, it was time to witness the traditional blowing up of various brightly colored explosives: FIREWORKS BITCH! My shitty Hicktown usually has a lame show only lasting about 15 minutes total and with kind of anti-climactic pyrotechnics, however, this year, the show was over half an hour and I nearly went blind during the grand finale. It was fantastic. I looooove fireworks :)
We all got ridiculously tweaked out on energy drinks. I, of course, drank Monsters. I have a love/hate relationship with Monster energy drink. I love them immediately, but I hate getting jittery and nauseas hours later. But, luckily, I was distracted so the tweaky-feeling didn't hit me too hard.
One of the people in our giant group of loud teenagers owned a gymnastics gym, so we watched the show from the parking lot, which was chill, but after it was over, my friend convinced her mother to let us mess around in the gym for a while. We spent like an hour jumping around on the trampolines and into the foam pits. Three of the girls in the group were on my school's gymnastics team, so they all enjoyed showing off their mad skillz at handsprings and flips and stuff.
The best part of the night was when my friend hooked up a sound-system so that we could play music. This prompted one guy in the group (who happens to flamboyantly gay) to start showing off his uncanny ability to shake his ass like Shakira. It was scary. A bunch of the group joined in and we had a mini-dance party. He and I bonded a lot because we were basically the only two who knew how to dance reeeeeally well (I'm tootin' my own horn here, but seriously, I have skillage in the dance department). So fun!!
When everyone got tired, we all went to this kid's house and watched The Excorcist. Holy shit. That movie is hella screwed up, and the little girl in it is straight-up terrifying!!
After a night of barbecue, fireworks, energy drinks, dancing, and horror movies, I can safely say that this has been one of the best 4ths ever.
One guy in our group kept screaming out "AMERICA!" during the fireworks show, and then periodically throughout the night. It was funniest when we were watching the movie, and little girl was having one of her episodes, and he just yelled it out right as she screamed "Fuck me!". His timing was great!
How was your 4th?
Julia
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Like Dubstep Jesus
Alright 3rd post in a row regarding concerts! But concerts aren't fun to hear about unless you were there, unacceptable Julia. Oh... well I'm going to tell you about it anyway...
Basically, my father is the editor of a music magazine, so he was called upon to interview Glitch Mob for an article and decided to bring me along (since he knew I love them). So I tagged along as his 'assistant' and sat in on the interview. We got comp tickets from the band's publicist, so later we went to the concert. Right as we were walking in, my father bequeathed to me the greatest gift anyone could ask for: a press pass. I was able to walk through VIP, in front of the gates, and right up to the edge of the stage to take pictures :D Unfortunately, I can't share any of them because they're all technically property of my dad's magazine's publisher. But still, friggin awesome. I danced my ass off for the entirety of the 6 hour concert/rave.
So that just about sums it up, but here is the technical stuff, for anyone interested:
Venue was Red Rocks Amphitheater (you know, the one where U2 filmed 'Under A Blood Red Sky'), artists were as follows (in performance order):
-Com Truise, an ehh ok dj.
-The New Deal, progressive techno.
-Mimosa, possibly the most charismatic dubstep dj I have ever seen.
-Lotus, more progressive techno. Not their biggest fan, but they're talented.
-The Glitch Mob. Trio of sexy-as-hell dubstep djs who basically create music that sounds like sex.
My two favorites were Mimosa, who is essentially like a dubstep Jesus, ahhhh I love him! And Glitch Mob, because they're nice guys and their set blew every act before them out of the water.
Speaking of water, I never realized what a commodity it is until I attended this 6-hour concert at an outdoor venue, at around 7,000 ft above sea level (because Red Rocks is in the Rockies). I mean, I'm fine at elevation, I grew up here; but I swear, I mooched about 8 bottles of water tonight. My friends and I mooched like a million cigarettes and some cans of Mike's Hard Lemonade too. Winsauce.
Anyway, my ears are still ringing like crazy from the bass, which was, by the way, the sick-nastiest filthy loud bass I ever witnessed at a concert. Dear lord. Anyway, ears are ringing: that is a sign of a good night.
I looooooove dubstep ;)
Julia
Basically, my father is the editor of a music magazine, so he was called upon to interview Glitch Mob for an article and decided to bring me along (since he knew I love them). So I tagged along as his 'assistant' and sat in on the interview. We got comp tickets from the band's publicist, so later we went to the concert. Right as we were walking in, my father bequeathed to me the greatest gift anyone could ask for: a press pass. I was able to walk through VIP, in front of the gates, and right up to the edge of the stage to take pictures :D Unfortunately, I can't share any of them because they're all technically property of my dad's magazine's publisher. But still, friggin awesome. I danced my ass off for the entirety of the 6 hour concert/rave.
So that just about sums it up, but here is the technical stuff, for anyone interested:
Venue was Red Rocks Amphitheater (you know, the one where U2 filmed 'Under A Blood Red Sky'), artists were as follows (in performance order):
-Com Truise, an ehh ok dj.
-The New Deal, progressive techno.
-Mimosa, possibly the most charismatic dubstep dj I have ever seen.
-Lotus, more progressive techno. Not their biggest fan, but they're talented.
-The Glitch Mob. Trio of sexy-as-hell dubstep djs who basically create music that sounds like sex.
My two favorites were Mimosa, who is essentially like a dubstep Jesus, ahhhh I love him! And Glitch Mob, because they're nice guys and their set blew every act before them out of the water.
Speaking of water, I never realized what a commodity it is until I attended this 6-hour concert at an outdoor venue, at around 7,000 ft above sea level (because Red Rocks is in the Rockies). I mean, I'm fine at elevation, I grew up here; but I swear, I mooched about 8 bottles of water tonight. My friends and I mooched like a million cigarettes and some cans of Mike's Hard Lemonade too. Winsauce.
Anyway, my ears are still ringing like crazy from the bass, which was, by the way, the sick-nastiest filthy loud bass I ever witnessed at a concert. Dear lord. Anyway, ears are ringing: that is a sign of a good night.
I looooooove dubstep ;)
Julia
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