ah ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.

Okay, so I was just on IMDB (I love IMDB. I just...ah, It's such a great website.) and I was reading the forum posts on some Satoshi Kon anime (Perfect Blue, I think?) and this person asked "how old were you when you first saw this movie"? (I was kind of shocked that most of the people who commented had seen it when they were, like, 14/15.  I mean, Perfect Blue is a VIOLENT, disturbing movie. It's Disturbing with a capital "D".) So I'm reading the comments, and this one person said something along the lines of "I'm 23. I was just curious to know if all you 14/15 year olds understood the movie when you saw it..." And I read this and I thought, oh, it's a caring adult (or someone pretending to be a caring adult - this is the internet, after all) "...because when I saw it I didn't understand it at all, but then I started using drugs like LSD and PCP and getting high everyday on stuff like marijuana and suddenly, anime and FOREIGN FILMS started making a lot more sense".

UM.

WELL.

WHAT.

WHAT DOES THIS SAY ABOUT ME?! I love anime and foreign films (and have never had any trouble understanding either of them...well, except maybe Paranoia Agent sometimes, and maybe some other things...BUT THOSE AREN'T SUPPOSED TO MAKE SENSE), and I've never taken a drug in my life.

lol, I'm back again. Clearly I haven't gone to bed yet.

So, Shojo Beat magazine is ending! Frick, that pisses me off. I haven't bought the magazine in two years, but I still like to read it. Manga (save for Naruto) seems to be coming out so slowly lately.

Dammit.

When Jane and Scarlett are approached by a producer who wants them to be on his new series, a "reality version of Sex and the City," they can hardly believe their luck. Their own show? Yes, please!

Soon Jane is TV's hottest star. Fame brings more than she ever imagined possible for a girl from Santa Barbara—free designer clothes, the choicest tables at the most exclusive clubs, invites to Hollywood premieres—and she's lapping up the VIP treatment with her eclectic entourage of new pals. But those same friends who are always up for a wild night are also out for a piece of Jane's spotlight.

In a city filled with people chasing after their dreams, it's not long before Jane wakes up to the reality that everyone wants something from her, and nothing is what it seems to be.

L.A. Candy is a deliciously entertaining novel about what it's like to come of age in Hollywood while starring in a reality TV show, written by a girl who has experienced it all firsthand: Lauren Conrad. "

*falls off cliff*

*jumps back up*

*falls off again*

So I was just on ebay to see if they had any volumes of angel sanctuary for sale for cheap and I saw some on sale but...the description said "epic shonen-ai/yaoi by Yumi Tamura".

Um...what?
 

Some half wit keeps calling my house and then not leaving a message on the answering machine.

It happened six times in forty minutes yesterday, and it's happened three times today.

WHO ARE YOU?!

Oui, c'est vrai: j'adore Paris. 

Aujord'hui, happy_mystic et moi ont vu le film Paris Je T'aime. C'est le deuxième temps que je vois le film. C'est un film fantastique, et tres beau :)


Paris, une belle ville de l'amour

Et, aussi, Gaspard:


Il est beau aussi.

J'espère que je visite le ville de l'amour dans le futur.

I got to hold buckets of blood today.

I'll leave you to interpret what it was I was doing.


 

I had one of my infamously strange dreams last night (though, I must say, the queen of the strange dreams has got to be danyellalot  0.o hers really take the proverbial cake), perhaps because of the MEGA HUGE SUMMER THUNDERSTORM (yay!) that was raging outside my window.

So I'm sitting on this hillside, wearing a white sun dress

white sundress

and eating cranberries (I don't even like cranberries). And while I'm sitting there, this guy wearing a really strange mask
 

LAWL I AM SO SEXAY

(and a really fancy tux?) walks up to me and says:

GUY IN CREEPY MASK: hey, gimme some of your cranberries.
ME (DISDAINFULLY*): I'll give you some if you take off that mask.
GICM: but I NEED this mask**!
ME (HAUTILY): well, tough toenails, buster***.
GICM: damn...you're so crafty. Well, I guess I have no choice.

And then the GICM takes off his CM and...it's Katan!


Katan.

What. I just stare at him and go, "here are your cranberries", and he thanks me for them and sits down on the hill next to me. And we're just sitting there, not talking, eating cranberries, and then suddenly this boy with shiny blonde hair (Raziel?) appears out of nowhere and just goes, "NO! THOSE CRANBERRIES ARE OUR ONLY HOPE!"

and Katan and I just stare at him and keep eating. And the kid is getting really angry, and he goes "YARGH!" and makes a mad dash for the cranberries but Katan just sticks out his foot and trips him.

ME: well, that wasn't a very angelic thing to do.
KATAN: hm, I guess it wasn't.

And that was my dream. It seems that my strangest dreams always have something to do with random characters from stuff I like and fruit (see the Sweeney Todd/bagel/grape dream from last year). 

* Why am I always so insolent in my dreams?
**I'm fairly certain a character says that in a chapter of Godchild where he needs a mask to become insane, or something.
*** .....I don't even know what to say about this.

Guys, don't forget to joina_penny_blood ! Start submitting stories, entering new possible names for the naming contest, and sending me your questions so I can make a FAQ page!


 

I spent my whole day reading and drawing.

And I did it without guilt, because I wasn't doing it to avoid doing schoolwork.

*SQUEE!*

I'm done. I'm done with school. Ah it feels sooooo good. I feel like a bird flying away from a cage. Or a person being released from prison.

I guess in a way I am a person being released from prison.

Today at the mall,painter_girl227did a spit-take. I've never actually seen anybody do a real one before. It was hilarious. And then, we were laughing really hard, and she said, "agh, my CAGE hurts!"

and then we were like..."wait, cage?"

ah, so funny.
 
It feels so good to be free! I don't have to do any homework tonight. It's the first night in a really long time.
 

ha ha, there's an ad on my journal for finding 'hot, single' scuba divers in my area. The ads are always funny, but this one really takes the cake.
 

MÄRCHEN.

my mother, she killed me.

                                                                

                                                              
                             she’s crying,

                                                                little silver star-drops brimming from her eyes like

                                                                raindrops onto parched earth, and her cornflower eyes are reddening, and

                                                                she knows

(deep inside her gouged out heart)

 it’s ugly, but she doesn’t really care.

my father, he ate me.

                                it’s the bones that cause the agony.

they’re beautiful, in a way—almost as beautiful as he once was,

                                but not quite. he was white, too, but much darker,

                                with ebony hair and cherry lips,

and green

bottle

eyes

that whispered  secret desires.

where were those eyes now?

my sister, marlinchen, gathered my bones,

                                                                there are brambles, cutting paper fingertips like barbed wire,

                                                                in the dirt beneath the tree.

                                                                her fingernails hurt, but she persists.

                                                                her corncoloredcurls are sticking to her forehead with sweat,

                                                                and she knows that that’s ugly, too,

                                                                but doesn’t do anything about it except for wipe at her forehead impatiently.

                                                                she privately thinks that it’s ‘impatience’ that should be the virtue,

                                                                not the other way around.

neat as can be, laid them beneath the Juniper tree.

                                the hole is small, and

dark

and damp

and cold and cramped, too,

and she feels a new wound blossom on her heart because she’s leaving him in it,

 but whatelsecanshedo?

tweet, tweet!

it’s begun to rain, heavy black drops cascading in a torrent around her.

her dress is soaked through, accentuating her slender body

and making her hair heavy and dark against her skin.

it’s time to go in,

but she just.

doesn’t.

want to.

and her tears are really falling now, because she feels like she can’t leave him,

and great, racking sobs are coursing through her body,

and as she pushes the bones into the hole she feels the urge to scream.

as the thunder booms over her head,

she does.

what a lov-e-ly bird am I.

‘beloved,’ she chokes, “i love you. iloveyou iloveyou ilove you don’tleaveme.’

Um. Well. I don’t really know where this came from. I was reading stories by someone I really admire on deviantART and had the urge to write one myself. It’s supposed to be sort of stream-of consciousness, like a diary entry, and that’s why it uses a lot of weird spaces and “and then”s and run-on sentences and such. Um. Yeah, that’s it. And also, the male character in it is inspired by someone I know, but is by no means a real person.

Cinderella.

We were friends once—the sort of friends who

popped the heads off of dandelions and who

played four-square behind the school until our fingers were bruised and who

 I’ve been watching him for a while, from my secret place at the back of the classroom. I study him as he laughs and argues and chatters almost endlessly with another boy—a boring boy, with wheat colored curls and muddy eyes.  But he isn’t boring—no. He’s tall and spindly—almost skeletally slender—but strong, somehow.

 He’s always doodling and scribbling with his pen.

(always the same one, too. how it hasn’t run out of ink yet is a mystery to me).

He draws corkscrews and whirligigs and chains and ringlets in black—the same color as his hair— ink on his wrists and sometimes on the veins that criss-cross and spider-web up his arms.  And he draws on his jeans, too—strange symbols and cursive words. The jeans are old and ugly, ugly, ugly; they’re the color of summer storm clouds, and with vicious scissor cuts in the thighs and knees. When he draws on his jeans I sometimes wonder if ink gets on his legs and decide I would like to find out.

I notice one day after class that there’s a girl who clings to his arm in the hallway,

talking in his ear and

running her thumb over his bottom lip and

tracing the inky patterns on his arms with her chipped black fingernails.  He blushes when she touches him, which makes her laugh, though not unkindly. They fit perfectly together—a beautiful jigsaw puzzle.

I think that maybe if I sew a red felt heart on the left side of my shirt it will make me feel better, because every time I see them together,

With her hands on his beautiful mural-arms

 and her breath in his ear,

In class, we’re forced to work together on a project. We go to his house after school, and the whole time we’re walking there I can feel this electric current in-between us, itching to electrocute me if I get too close to him. We stand a good three feet apart the whole way.

When we’re working on the project, he’s so polite to me that it’s almost as if he’s forgotten the dandelions,

the four-square,

and the flower-print carpeting. But then again, maybe he has.  

I feel like we’re starting to communicate a little better. I can talk to him without stammering now, although he insisted that the stammering didn’t bother him, and he even laughed a little when I said I was nervous being around him.

(Sometimes I’d like to seal my mouth shut with superglue and princess stickers).

When he talks to me over our work, I notice that he’s got a beautiful voice, sort of rough and hoarse but at the same time smooth and clear as honey. It’s like steel wool being rubbed on velvet. I like to hear him say my name, because no matter what comes after it he’s still talking to me.

We sit close enough when we’re working together that I can count the freckles on his nose. He’s got seventeen. They’re so light compared to mine that they’re almost invisible, but they’re there all the same. Sort of like our bond—we’re bonded by the fading memories of the dandelions,

the four-square,

and the flower-print carpeting. He’s actually been more talkative lately and more casual, and I wonder if it’s because of our shared memories. But then I think maybe, just maybe, it’s because we’re getting closer.

One morning when I’m watching him I notice that purple and black and red shadows are blotting out one of his eyes. A bruise. I wonder where he got it, and vow to ask him later.

He tells me that they had a fight, and she punched him. Hard.

I’m shocked and confused and a little angry—angry that she felt she had the right to hurt him. I ask him why they fought and he says something about green eyed monsters and envy and then I’m even more confused but he just laughs and tells me not to worry my pretty little head.

We have to turn in our project a few days later. It’s well-done, and will probably get an excellent grade, but every time I look at it I feel the urge to tear it to shreds. Why would I want a good grade when he’s going to be so far away from me? He says that it was nice to work with me, and hopes we can work together again in the future. I nod in agreement, wishing it were two weeks ago.

I’m going to hate just having to watch him again.

And I never did ask about him getting ink on his legs.
 

He asks me one day if he can talk to me after school. I agree immediately; I’m expecting that we’ll talk about the project, which we got back in class today.

But when I find him after school, he doesn’t have the project. In fact, he doesn’t have anything with him other than his school bag. And then he suddenly tells me that he’s always had a sort of thing for me, ever since the dandelions,

the four-square,

and the flower print carpeting. I’m speechless; he then says that he’s been watching me for years (but insists it’s not been in a creepy stalker way) because he’s always thought that I was the only girl he could ever really truly like. And I’m still speechless, because I can’t find words to express how I feel about this development. I want to tell him that if I could, I would write our names in stars across the night sky,

that his smile makes me feel as though I’ve swallowed a star and it’s struggling to get out of my chest,

that he is more glorious and beautiful and wonderful than any person on the entire planet (even if he was probably going to get ink poisoning),

and that he fills my heart up with happiness,

but instead I say that I’ve been watching him, too, and then I ask him if he gets ink on his legs when he draws on his jeans. And he laughs and says that yeah, sometimes he does.

And I stare at the pale constellation of freckles on his nose,

the bruise-colored shadows his eyelashes cast on his cheekbones,

the bones that shine through his paper skin,

the candy-cane lips mangled by harsh winter winds,

the inky locks of hair that fall over his sea glass eyes,

and feel so overwhelmed that I need to sit down for a second and take a deep breath. And when he sits down beside me and plants a soft kiss on the swell of skin between my jaw and my neck, I know that no childhood memory could possibly compare to the promise of a

beautiful

and inky future.

1. Your Middle Name: Diane.
2. Age: 16 (going on 17!)
3. Single or Taken: ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha single.
4. Favorite Movie: too hard to say. My loves include Amelie, Shakespeare in Love, Sweeney Todd, Sleepy Hollow, Kamikaze Girls, Sense and Sensibility, A Room with a View, Breakfast at Tiffany’s, the Music Man, Juno, Howl’s Moving Castle, and many, many others.
5. Favorite Song or Album: song: too hard to name. album: too hard to name. The one I’ve probably played the most is the Sweeney Todd soundtrack.
6. Favorite Band/Artist: Goo Goo Dolls.
7. Dirty or Clean: …? Clean.
8. Tattoos and/or Piercings: tattoos :)
9. Do we know each other outside of LJ?: uh-huh
10. What's your philosophy on life?: be happy :)
11. Is the bottle half-full or half-empty?: Half-full, always.
12. Would you keep a secret from me if you thought it was in my best interest?: Um? Yeah, I guess so.
13. What is your favorite memory of us?: so many fond memories of lunch time…and Star Trek.
14. What is your favorite guilty pleasure?: cookie dough.
15. Tell me one odd/interesting fact about you: I like certain things for purely aesthetic reasons and words for purely sound/image reasons.
16. You can have three wishes (for yourself, so forget all the 'world peace etc' malarky) - what are they?: FRICK, I HAVE NO IDEA. I wish for world peace and an end to world hunger. OH SHI- you said I couldn’t wish for that. Um? At the moment, I would wish for the knowledge that I will safely get into a good college next year…?
17. Can we get together and make a cake?: anytime :)
18. Which country is your spiritual home?: Britain, always. Or Japan.
19. What is your big weakness?: I hate feeling like I’ve been a bitch/bad person :(
20. Do you think I'm a good person?: yes :)
21. What was your best/favorite subject at school?: English English English English English.
22. Describe your accent: um…what?
23. If you could change anything about me, would you?: nuuuuuu
24. What do you wear to sleep?: pajamas…? A Wisconsin badgers t-shirt and star-covered pajama bottoms.
25. Trousers or skirts?: trousers, but skirts are okay too.
26. Cigarettes or alcohol?: Cigarettes.
27. If I only had one day to live, what would we do together? (If you have no idea, just say something crazy, it'll entertain me!): WHAT HOW CAN YOU PUT ME ON THE SPOT LIKE THIS.
28. Will you repost this so I can fill it out for you?: yes.

mistyeyedreamer

OH DEAR GOD IT'S 1:52 AND I AM SO TIREDDDDDDDDDDD