Ate too much….

I think, I found the perfect song. I mean, it’s an old song, it’s an old Linkin Park song. First song I heard by them, I think, in a Cardcaptor Sakura anime music video. Maybe, their first hit? First single? Who knows, who cares? I know I don’t. But it’s a really good. In the End.

 

Viggo Mortensen, or however you spell his last name, is incredibly…hot. Everything he does, everything he says, touches, looks at, just his presence on my TV screen makes me want to scream and die. He has such a strange look, such a wonderfully dangerous and demented? Scary? Look in his eyes. It makes me want to…well, alright.

 

I don’t feel like explaining that whole song thing. I mean, if you know me, I suppose, and you’ve heard the song, you’d understand. But, then, the point of keeping a dairy, blog, journal thing, is to explain such random references and all my feelings so that one day when I look back at the awful mess that is, was and will be my life, I’d understand. But, really, I’m too damn lazy.

 

I like him, a little, shut the hell up already! Stop bothering! Life is tormenting. I want to kill PEOPLE!!! WITH SHOTGUNS!! RIFLES!!! PISTOLS!!! (Maybe I just want to play Halo.) I don’t, I have, I feel like a stuffed chicken, so bloated, so big, so roasted and juicy and delicious…and I’m not exactly hungry, but food references get me. I, I don’t know anymore.

 

What the fuck? WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS SUPPOSED TO MEAN YOU BITCHES!?!?!? Nature is a bitch. Life is a bitch, what isn’t a bitch? C’mon, what the fuck is wrong with you people? I just wanted to play MapleStory! MAPLE FUCKING STORY!! IT’S A DAMN KOREAN MASSIVE MULTIPLAYER! GIVE ME A FUCKING BREAK EVERY ONCE IN A FUCKING WHILE YOU STUPID DIPSHIT MORONS!!!

 

Alright, I think, I think, I think, I might be alright, I might, I might, I might…not. I’m not exactly crazy, hormonally imbalanced, confused, possibly insane? ]

 

I can’t sing at all, but that’s the fun part.

 

I really should write that novel. I’m awkwardly inspired. It’s strange.

 

I need to clear my head. Really, that Buddhist thing might actually work out for me in the end. I’m always, constantly in denial. Admitting things to myself is hard, it’s painful even.

 

Yeah, him, what a guy. Heh, god, why the fuck do I get mixed up with these people? What did I do to deserve the pain and pleasure of knowing these fine souls, who, otherwise, would have been just fucking fine without me and I would’ve been equally fine without ever knowing. ANY OF THEM!

 

Spare me, please? Pretty please? Be my cherry on top?

Scream. Loud. Clear. And hopes someone hears you. Yeah, hope, not much of that going around. Take a dive off that cliff, not doing you any good just standing around. Flapping cloth in the wind, futile attempts to fly, they’re not very good wings. Enjoy it, while you’re there. The sharp rocks below, forget them. Live in the moment, moment of free fall, give yourself to gravity. Forget how cold the water is below, forget how much it’s going to hurt, in fact, it’s not going to hurt at all. Don’t regret your decision, a bullet to the head, poison? Nothing as good as running off a cliff with a running start, arms flailing and hoping, that maybe, maybe, you’ll miss. There it is again, hope. Motherfucking thing.

 

Are you just a little angry on the inside?

 

Oh, that was a good scene. That was ridiculously hot. God. Heh.

 

Yeah, some people are just creepy. But, he’s…okay. I guess, because I’ve been sitting next to him for a really long time. Well, it’s alright.

 

I’m over him, totally, no way. But, I’m trying really hard, but I see him and then I forget all my ranting and raving and all my purpose and all that…work. Trying to forget him is hard. It’s…rather….painful. Know that?

 

He wakes three hours early anyway, the pills weren’t that helpful. He sits there for a while, staring at his toes, the little hairs sticking up on his toes, his floor, the wood panels on his floor, the curves, twists, valleys and dips in the floor, his floor. It’s dark outside, streetlights burn amber squares of his window on the ceiling, cars pass occasionally. It’s cold, the elastic waistband of his boxers was uncomfortable, he pulls on them with a snap.  

 

Little Korean boys break my heart. Ha.

 

“Take this, really, I insist, take this.” He presses a sheet of paper in her hand. “It’ll help, I swear.”

 

I really think it’s a sign from God, that I can’t play MapleStory. Maybe that’s how bad it is for me. But then again, it just might be my horrible computer.

 

I miss everyone and no one at the same time, it’s really freaking me out. Everything freaks me out, whoever said that made an excellent observation.

 

Cheesy dance music makes me happy on the inside, every once in a while.

 

I THINK I’M GOING CRAZY

 

I’m such a fucking hypocrite. I think, I am, oh my dear god, I’m turning to one of them, with problems and the need to talk. I THINK I AM REALLY STRESSED. IT IS WEIRD.

 

Breathe woman, breathe. And I think I just broke my computer table chair.

 

No reservations for what he says, I suppose, is the way to describe that particular personality. A willingness, maybe too much so, to express his ideas, something along those lines.

 

A…Royai drabble? Perhaps, I’m trying that 100 theme thing. Here goes.

 

They have really catchy song titles, Sleep Now In the Fire, Calm like  a Bomb and what not.

 

MY CURE!! FOO FIGHTERS!!! Yessss, I’m saved. Please win a grammy.

 

Or maybe, maybe, a Royai fanfic. Not a oneshot, but a decent multi-chapter thing. I’ve got to think. I really like that scene though, Eastern Promises, that was a decent movie.

 

Laine’s seen him twice, sitting in the lunchroom, in a little corner, bulky headphones glued to his ears, eyes tracing patterns on the tiled floor, dressed in black with that faded blue messenger bag. He never looked up to meet her gaze, to catch her in the act, so she stared, uninhibited, day after day. She’d catch sight of him, corner of her eye, as she walks with her tray. The fruit cup sloshes as she drops the Styrofoam plate on the table. She takes on last look and then sits.

            “I can’t believe he did that.” Madison whines, her blonde curls bouncing, pouting, she stuffs a forkful of broccoli in her mouth. Eyelashes curling upwards, majestically defying gravity, a pinkish tint above her vacant, blue irises, the hollowness of her eyes, Laine wonders just exactly how much of Madison is behind those eyes, those perfectly painted, trimmed and processed eyes. How much beauty in that Garden of Eden, the perfect aquiline nose, the plumped lips smeared with glitter, and the

            “Did what?” She asks with feigned interest. She peels back the tab on a fruit cup, licking the juice off her thumb, all the while keeping an eye on him, headphone boy she’s labeled him.

            “You know,” Madison gesticulates with her plastic spork, drawing circles in the air, “I told you, like,” a pause, she’s contemplating, “yesterday. Like, yesterday.”

            Laine thinks for a moment, sometimes she just stops listening to Madison. Rude, she knows, but. It’s the same story every time, insert name here. “Oh, that.”

 

Okay, okay, I’m done, the more I think about what I’m going to write next, the more I think of Mean Girls, the more I think of Lindsay Lohan, the more I think of how boring, how trite, how perfectly delirious and condemning high school life actually is. Oh god, please kill me.

 

Foo Fighters, oh god, I love you guys.

 

There was something suffocating about the city, something stagnant, that somehow with each breath, there was less and less air, less and less time, less and less space left on this earth. It were as if the entire city was plastered in gray, varying shades of gray, from rooftops to shallow puddles and alleyways,

 

“Do you,” he begins, slow, simple, steady, walking towards her across the empty room, blue moonlight spilling across the floor. He catches her lower waist in one arm and slips a lock of her auburn hair behind her ear. And then, he whispers.

           

 

I’m also sick and tired of the reality of war. Jesus, I know it’s bad, books say it’s bad, the pictures say it’s bad. I’m through, I’m done with hearing that it’s bad!

 

Speaking of which, I ought to write that thing…

 

Lieutenant Saxon, something, I guess. Heh. Oh god, more Joan Crawford. She is terribly unattractive.

 

So, there was this little girl, with curls that bounce up and down and up and down when she walked, tied up with some disproportionately large pink bows that bounced with her curls. All dolled up in that lacy dress of hers, with those shiny white shoes similarly adorned with pink bows on the top, she’d skip, hop and walk up and down that block. The creepiest thing is, no one else ever saw her. Must’ve been such a bitch to walk with those damn curls.

 

Murderous intent, much?

 

Oh god, for the love of God, why is everything so cheesy, so simple? So open and shut and done with. GOD!!! DAMNNNNNIIIITT!!! Stupid morons.