Bryn.

I may have lied to you all.

I did make that alias blog.

But I felt so silly trying to write something.

My skin crawled a little bit,

I was very disappointed in myself.

Trying to hide things.

This is my blog, and part of says: "Screw everyone else and write whatever you so please."

That's my "Reckless Abandon" side.

Usually, I ignore that side of me.

But sometimes, I just have to listen, because sometimes, it preaches reckless abandon pretty well.

Like right now.

I'm thinking about writing something totally uncalled for.

Brash and brutal and cutting and crass.

Part of me wants to scream something.

IN ALL CAPS!

But if I did,

Oh.

Would there ever be complications to my life and the lives of others.

All I can say is:

Sometimes I high five you and feel like I'm going to die.

You continuously give me that I'm-going-to-puke-due-to-stomach-butterflies feeling. (Which isn't so much appreciated.)

I like your arms.

I've saved all of the conversations we've had. (Pretty creepy, right?)

And so much other stuff.

And I kind of just want to say your name.

Right now.

But you know something?

I'm not stupid.

Because if I typed out your name,

I can promise you that somewhere, there would be a jaw hanging open in utter disbelief and possible contempt.

I can promise that someone would giggle maniacally.

And I can so certainly promise that he'd somehow find out.

And seriously, if that happened,

I cannot explain the immensity of awkward and ridiculous that would stem from that.

One of your names (first, middle or last)

ends with "Y".

How specific was that?

Try to deduce from THAT!

Ha!

I'm going to bed now...

Goodnight.

And sorry if this was taunting?

I love you, he whose one name ends in "Y".

Enjoy The Silence

Don't you just hate getting shipped off places?

Places that are usually nice, but for some reason, you just don't want to go?

I understand it'll only be for what... 32 hours?

But I just don't want to go.

No, Wapak is just fine. Everything is just fine there.

And the problem is the just part.

It stopped at fine. Wapak saw no need to excel and become an awesome town.

Sometimes I wonder how the first man on the moon came from such a town.

I'm taking a moment to be purposefully annoying.

This blog was started to hold poetry.

It holds rantings.

This blog was started as a sort of diary-type-ish-thing.

It's now sort of exposed.

And I feel as thought there are things that can't be said here.

I'm highly considering coming up with an alias and starting a separate blog.

I'd keep this one.

For the real me,

The me I can bare to whoever may read.

The other blog?

Somewhere to place detailed accounts of ridiculous, crass, rude, or passion-ravaged thoughts.

Because some are meant to be seen.

And others aren't.

And the goal of the other blog

Is to have zero followers.

I feel sort of dangerous.

Contemplating an alias.

Another identity under which to store such

Horrid thoughts.

And it's going to be awesome.

And I dare you to try and find it.

To figure out my alias.

To find the other blog.

Because as soon as I post this,

There will be a new gmail account,

A new name,

A new blog,

A separate life.

And I'm hoping that nobody ever finds it.

So it's a challenge.

Have at it.

And if you find it.

Let me know.

The line that just came to mind?

"If I told you, I'd have to kill you."

That applies here, too. :)

Goodnight.

I love you.

And you will probably be prominently featured in this alias-blog.

Good Ol' Fasion Nightmare.

Here is a story about a woman I briefly encountered at a coffee shop. This is all fiction of course, but this is what struck me. So even if it isn't flattering at all, here it is:

She was sitting on the navy sofa that had a habit of swallowing people up when they sat there. She looked about ready to be swallowed up too, but not by the couch. She had a certain melancholy look on her face. And a very curious black eye. A rather prominent one at that, and you could see the passersby sneak quick, invasive looks at her wound. The black eye was the physical manifestation of her old life. Yes, a past life. Laura was moving on now. The black eye? From her former dealer, Ross. Ross was a heroin dealer, and Laura a heroin addict. Laura had been quite desperate to get her hands on more heroin, she was going through the earliest stages of withdraw. And this had been only two days ago. But she went to Ross, broke as could be, and begged and pleaded with him. She just needed enough to shoot up once. Just once, and then she would find the money and pay him back. Ross wouldn't hear it, and when she started to cry... he decked her. Good enough to send her spinning, and soon falling onto the pavement. Something about this caused her Laura to have an epiphany. What had she done with her life? 32 years old, unmarried, jobless, practically homeless. She'd been spending her life, more so, wasting her life on this addictive drug. And despite that she was still shaking and cold, and feeling on the brink of death, she walked home and slept and promised herself that she'd change. She was doing this for herself, no one else. The heroin had to stop. And she knew that. And so it did. But the withdraw still nagged at her constantly. And Laura, being the person she was, was at a loss for what to do. She wandered into the very center of town and here she sat on the navy blue sofa. And suddenly, she knew what she was going to do. She quickly went about snatching up magazines and proceeded to rip them apart on the sofa. She was getting strange stares from the people in the shop, but she was simply to thrilled to care. She would collage her old life together out these scraps of glossy magazine paper. She would show what her life had been. And what it would be, now that she was no longer in the clutches of heroin.

That's the story of the drug-addicted Laura, based on a woman I actually saw. With an actual black eye, who was actually ripping magazines up in Mean Bean last night. Whoever she is, I believe she's got a good story to tell.

Don't Slow Down

Well.
I'm sitting in a library.
Because obviously, that's where spiffy people hang out on Wednesday evenings.
This is a true fact.

And age is a crippler.

But most things are good.
And this is really cliche, but I'm thinking the library is stifling my "creative vibes"
Or something to that effect.
Maybe I should rant about something?
Maybe I shouldn't.
What's there to say that hasn't been said.
Answer: Nothing.

Or so it may seem,
Words have all been used.
Unless you're Shakespeare or Dr. Seuss.
Then you've gotten to the point where you can come up with your own words
And people are just fine with that.
Everything is just peachy if you're Shakespeare or Dr. Seuss.

But for the rest of us lowly folk.
We have to deal with mushing words together in many overly used expressions and hope
That nobody notices how drab our speech patterns are.
Because really, there is no such thing as original thought.
Just creative thought.
A way to rearrange things that's aesthetically pleasing and sounds inventive.

Oh, hey look...
I did rant.
And wow, that may be one of the more intelligent things that I've said all day.
Because today hasn't been a very intelligent day.

Days do not have IQs.
That was rather ridiculous of me,
But I suppose you know what I mean.
At least, I can only hope as much.

I'll probably be back here later.
Because there are more things to be said,
But they're silly and lovey and I don't want to bore you now.
I've given you forewarning.
So. Return if you please.

Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa

That is the "Skiwi". A funny little "Hacked In Real Life" finding.

It's funny because:

A) The sign is of a kiwi! How often do you see that?

B) It has funny vandalism.

C) Skiwi is fun to say. (Meaning, say it out loud, silly!)

I applaud whoever thought of such clever vandalism, you made my day.

I'm not quite sure what to say today.

I could tell you about my hatred of school, or my obsession with a boy, or the weather. Or something. Anything, really. I could say anything.

"Anything."

It's been said before, it'll be said again.

Anything.

It's all encompassing. Without being threatening. It's so mundane; you never give thought to the word when you say it, do you?

I didn't think so.

But I hope now you do.

At least once, as you know,

The word is more than it seems.

It's layered and stacked,

Meaning upon meaning.

You can use it in so many variations.

What makes "Anything" special?

What makes anything special.

Sometimes the answer to "Anything" is "Everything". Another loaded word.

But then again, is there a difference to these words? Sometimes, I don't think there really is. What are the two but over-used, mundane, and average, all-encompassing words. To be tossed around so flagrantly.

But maybe we should take more care in our "Anything"s and "Everything"s.

At least, we should try.

That was a much unneeded rant.

There's a red plastic goat staring at me.

I am currently fascinated by this object. Who decided a plastic goat was needed in a game of Lincoln Logs? Who decided the goat should be red? What type of person makes a goat red? I think I feel bad for this poor plastic goat, singled out amongst its peers and brethren, its color quite deceiving. One lone goat in an entire container of Lincoln Logs. I haven't named this unfortunately unique creature, but I believe a proper name will come in time, I cannot just slap a name onto such a peculiar object. It's sort of like the red velvet Jesus piggy bank I saw on television one time. Where do these strange object come from? Red velvet jesus' and red plastic goats? Who thought that such things should exist in such an unforgiving world? I think the goat's destiny was determined from his creation, he is a memento of strange, an icon of individuality, a frontrunner for red goats everywhere to rally with. I wonder where the other red goats are? Are there any more? Have they been lost and forgotten? I shall not forget this red plastic goat. I will remember him fondly, and perhaps use him as a good luck charm. For what could be more lucky than such an object? I can think of nothing, this is for sure. Rabbit's feet are old hat, and four leaf clovers... well, they exist in vast quantities. But a red goat? I think he's lucky.

Another unneeded rant.

I have a thing for saying what doesn't need to be said.

I like talking, typing... I like words. Stringing them along like beads to form what shouldn't be said. What needs to be said.

I also like listing things I like:

Sunshine. (lollipops and rainbows!)

The Beatles.

Scrabble.

Kimya Dawson.

Juno.

Greek and Roman mythology.

Psychology/sociology.

The color grey.

Hugs.

Trees.

Music.

Guitars.

Happy movies.

Star Wars.

Seinfeld.

I'll stop. Because I could list forever.

Oh, I forgot an important one: The Sea!

I like the sea a lot.

So today I've alerted you of the Skiwi,the Red Plastic Goat, and a useless list of things I like.

I'd call this list a total failure.

Unless you dig those sorts of things, then I'm glad I could satiate your needs for such things in a blog post. :D

Hmm.

*Thinking sounds*

...

What else can I say?

Can I say that sometimes I question the validity of this blog? Somedays I make myself slightly neurotic? And that I clean when I'm upset? Can I say those things? Because again, they don't need to be said. But if I don't say them, and if I bottle them all up inside and never tell anyone, I think I'd be driven to insanity. I think I'd begin mumbling constantly to myself. Sometimes, I have to say things. I blurt them out, or just say them quietly, to someone who's only pretending to listen. I sneak words in edgewise and hope they go unnoticed. I write them down. I put them here, on this blog, for your peruse.

Can I say that I sort of just talked at one of my teachers today? I think he brought it upon himself, truly, he said we should talk. About the funeral and things. Can I say I took advantage of his offer? I'd say not? He's so nice. Such an odd sounding three-word sentence. I would deliberate over something so simple. It's a simple sentence. "He's so nice." I probably could've said something more literate, advanced, and awesome. But I didn't. I gave him three words. Somehow, I think that's enough? It's a compliment, I think. I hope he thinks it is, at least.

Rant, rant, rant. It's all I do.

My life:

AP US work, Essay, Rant, Rant, Rant, Sleep.

It's a pretty good system I've got going here. Pfffft. :)

Also. See second paragraph beginning with "Can". That one about me talking at my teacher? He said something intriguing. "I don't want to paint your family as callous." When I said I was the only one who cried at the showing, he replied with this before saying more. And that thought has given me pause. Maybe my family is callous. Maybe they're just bad with emotions. I'm not sure. But obviously, I'm overly emotional and ridiculous. And I'm perfectly ok with that. I am who I am.

And currently that's somehow alright.

Weird, right?

Ok, goodbye, I've got things to do. (See list of my life above.)

Adieu!

I love you, although I didn't rant lovey-obsessively about you today.

You Won't See Me

Verdict on this weekend:

Best and worst of my life.

Friday and Saturday?

Friggin' sweet.

Sunday and Monday?

Friggin' awful.

I mean seriously.

The mixed feelings going on here are intense.

I got a car.

I lost my great-grandpa.

This is the extreme of bittersweet.

And today.

I bawled.

And I hate doing that in front of other people.

But how can you not cry

When the VFW men hand your great grandma the triangularly folded flag?

And when you see her break down and cry?

How can you yourself not cry?

When they fire the 21 gun salute,

And the minister says his last words of parting.

If that doesn't make you weep,

I'd venture to say some part of your heart is defective.

Because it's the saddest thing I've ever endured.

And believe me when I say I couldn't stop crying.

It was pretty bad.

And, I had a minor panic attack when the minister was doing the actual service.

He was up there ranting on about Jesus and how far the current generation has "fallen".

I took offense.

I was furiously wringing my hands and sobbing,

And I'm really surprised I don't have bruises.

Because was mauling my hands.

I wanted to just scream.

I felt like I was at a modern Whitefield sermon.

The guy who held field services?

Yeah.

It was horrible.

And all the crying makes it look like I haven't slept in days.

Which may as well be true.

Because that's how I feel too.

I'm just.

Exhausted in way,

The mental-emotional way.

I could use a nice little hiatus from emotion.

I've been overwhelmed by pathos.

Maybe school will provide that numb feeling I'm needing.

Mindless school work.

Papers and editing and lectures.

Verb tenses and conjugations,

Math problems I won't ever need to know.

Yes, I believe the next two days will be quite numbing.

At least, I'm hoping so.

Because I'm getting off this emotional rollercoaster for now.

And hey, maybe things will get better.

You know, mental-emotionally.

Because other than that, things are fantastic.

But it's not the other things that matter.

So I'm going to go and try to fall into routine seamlessly,

Goodnight.

I love you.

(You're super-nice, by the way.)

Highway

"And we don't say a word. There's nothing to say that hasn't been heard."

And I don't know why I'm here, why I'm continuing to type.

Because I have no words to say.

Today was quite possibly one of the worst in my life.

How could I be the only one to cry?

Was everyone else aware of some trick of the mind that keeps you from crying?

Are they hardened to emotions?

I had to stand outside for half and hour, by myself, trying to stop crying.

The rest of the five hours I sat in some sort of stupor, on a sofa covered in a pineapple motif.

It was the only piece of furniture in the funeral parlor that didn't match the wallpaper.

I did not go up to the casket.

I think I would have truly lost it, had I done so.

And tomorrow? Oh tomorrow will be horrible.

I can't do this.

I can't.

Because the thought is making me cry. I am crying right now.

Here, at the computer, tears are rolling down my face.

I can't actually see what I'm typing.

Because my vision is blurred with tears.

My face turns all blotchy and red when I cry.

So it's very apparent to anyone I see that I've been crying.

Silent, and salty.

That's what crying is.

And what can I do to stop this?

This sick feeling? These bulbous tears that snake down my face?

I can't do anything.

I am powerless to emotions.

They control me.

It was stupid of me to think that I'd possibly be ok.

My steps towards okness were flawed.

The path to being ok is pitted and rocky, and very uphill.

And my energies have been drained.

In twelve hours I will wake up and have to piece myself together.

Get spiffied up and load my pockets with tissues.

I can't do this.

And I want more than anything to have my inbox say "(1)"

So I can go to bed feeling a little more ok than I am feeling now.

I want to knock myself out with benadryl and sleep until Tuesday.

But guess what.

Nothing goes as wanted, planned, or expected.

So the heavy feeling will continue on.

Good night.

I love you.