This from Abby...and it makes me happy...it's too bad Abby and Happy don't rhyme...Appy and happy...Abby and habby...i like habby....

Maybe soon it'll be all better...maybe soon I won't feel blind terror every time an announcement comes on the intercom. Maybe I'll stop screaming at people to wear their seatbelts. Maybe I'll just remember that I got to see him last. Maybe I'll remember I didn't know him that well. I'm so sorry...so sorry. I remember, I don't want to. Perhaps soon everyone will stop asking me about it. Perhaps soon it'll all just go away. I won't hurt, I won't cry, I'll be numb.

I hate air conditioning. First it's beautiful outside, just open the door and let real air in. Turn on a fan, but the air conditioner is loud, it uses a lot of electricity, and it gets too cold eventually. Last night I had the windows open and I was lying on my bed with no covers on. I wake up this morning and my sister has turned on the air conditioner...AND IT'S REEEEALLY COLD! Ack...I don't like the cold. Me and Minnesota aren't going to get a long well in that way. Their summer is like our fall, their fall is like our winter, their winter is something we've never experienced, their spring is still winter..and then we come full circle. And it rains a lot. (Lot's of lakes do that) 
But I have to admit, I'm pretty excited, not about a new school, I'd rather be homeschooled, but getting away from all this might be good. Then maybe I wouldn't be so uptight.

So I've decided on a new book. I can't seem to stick with one book I've started to write. I have different moods in which I write. The whimsical one (as seen in a previous entry) was written while listening to Death Cab For Cutie, it was raining and thundering, I had candles, and it was 2 am. That makes for a different type of story. But I found that if I tried to write while I was angry, the story began to sound different. So I stopped. I started writing another story, but the character sounded too much like me, if I wanted a book about me, I'd write my own story. So I've started on a new one...I think it's okay so far, but I hate starting books because they sound so boring in the beginning. But I haven't written much...but it's going, and I guess I'll just switch between books with my moods.

I am an aspiring artist, a wannabe poet, a lover of animals, a hater of spiders, a gardener, a closet rap lover, a country hater, a rock critique, an aspiring music journalist, an anonymous magazine contributer, a lover of photography, a mystery blogger, a fashion mishap, enemy of stereotypes, not what you think, a carnivore that loves vegetarians, a mess that loves to clean, a cook, a sister, a daughter, a granddaughter, a best friend, a weird dancer, the one that makes people laugh, the only one that can make Wibbs smile, a can't wait to be a mother, a teachers helper, no one's little girl, a potty mouth, a fairy god mother in disguise, a toiger, the bottom of the dog pile, the salt in your wound, the bandaid fairy, the oldest child, a wannabe seamstress, and that's who I am.

        Unless I missed something.

I'm moving.

Again.

I have to stay with my dad this summer.

Again.

I don't know what to do.

Again.

I'm getting really moody.

Again.

I'm scared of what's going to happen.

Again.

Some children are born scared. They enter the world screaming, are sent to chambers to be hooked to machines and other means of creating artificial health. They grow up in a padded box. They never run in the summer barefoot, they never skin their knees, they have everything handed to them. They grow up to be cringing, needy, and scared of the world.
Some grow up different. Nico grew up different.
Go back in time. In London a girl with a shaved scalp and leather bound body meets an American with a mohawk, piercings, and a motorcycle. Love at first sight exists even for punks. Maybe even more so. They slammed into writhing pits together, screaming “Fuck you!” at bands and being showered by beer and spit. They’d be flying by the end of gigs, wrapped in eachother, wet with sweat and their pale bodies clinging to one another.
One morning the girl wakes up and feels different. She just knows. That night instead of throwing herself into people and screaming at singers, she goes to get ice cream with her yankee boyfriend.
She licks her cherry chocolate ice cream cone and her boyfriend licks her lips.
Then she kisses him. “I’m pregnant.”
He steps back and looks at her. She looks so tiny, even in the leather and boots. Her blue eyes turning amethyst with tears as she waits for his response.
He smiles and she breathes a sigh of relief, which turns into a gasping laugh.
He picks her up and twirls her around. “I love you, I love you, I love you…”
She has a girl she names Patti Nico, after Patti Smith and Nico from Velvet Underground. Patti Nico grows up running the streets of London. While her parents slam to new favorites like Siouxsie Sioux and Sex Pistols, Patti Nico plasters Bowie and New York Dolls all over her walls. She wears platforms and glitter. At 17 she discovers the underground glam clubs. She’d go with friends in exaggerated glitter and rainbows. They’d suck on cigarettes and elongate their accents, acting posh and elegant.
“It’s my time.” Patti Nico drawled to her friends as they watched their ashes glow and the smoke curl to the lights.
Patti Nico traveled to America to see where her father was from. She met a beautiful boy. He sat outside a pink and orange store with a guitar on his lap, his pale blonde hair flowing down his back and a head band around his head. A group of boys sat with him smoking and playing guitars. His eyes opened lazily and he smiled a lazy smile.
“Hey.”
He lectured her on the capitalist America, racists, feminists, hypocrites, and the facists everywhere. He’d adorn her body with flower paints and kisses, she’d braid his hair.  They went to a nude protest at the Washington Memorial fountain and ran from cops. They streaked, smoked weed, and saw Bob Dylan in concert.
They lived in communes and Patti Nico wrote letters to her parents with the return address “Peace and Love from America”.


Here's a little more. I still have a whole lot, but I didn't get to finish.....

  The sky glows lavender with danger sending a false sheen of beauty, everything is covered in a pink air. The sky opens up and a streak of white light bolts to the ground. The growl of some ancient beast fills the sky and trembles hearts. The wind shrieks as though it were filled with white hot pain.
  A girl stands alone.
  With every flash of light her eyes turn electric, with every clap of thunder her heart swells and her ribs shake. Her white dress glows pink and is wrapped around her rail thin body like a cocoon. A small smile challenges the wind.
   She is not afraid.


This is the beginning to a story I'm writing. I've not been able to sleep due to forces beyond my control, so I paint, watch movies, and last night I was struck with sudden inspiration. Mainly because I had finished the Weetzie Bat books for the millionth time and because a huge storm was threatening our lives at work. So I sat with Robert, drank his coffee, and wrote this. I'm a lot further, but I want to see how everyone likes it so far. If you don't, tough shit.
  I am having a bit of a problem though...So far it sounds too similar to Francesca Lia Block's writing. So I don't know how to disassociate my writing with hers. I'm trying though, but it seems to disrupt the mood...ehhhhh....

My brother and I always have fun when we're home alone. We staged a "samurai" fight outside our house after watching Kill Bill. We are currently watching volume 2...after which we will watch Fight Club. Then for our birthdays I'm taking him somewhere to eat and we're gonna get comics, he was talking to me about how he wants some. I'll turn my bruvver into a nerd yet!! ^_^ But the fight was pretty cool. We had people slowing down and staring at us. Then we leapt between couches while screaming like banshees. My stomach really hurts though, because I couldn't stop laughing. He couldn't either. I still have a shit load of homework to do, but this is way funner. I should probably do it. But I'm not gonna. Not yet. I didn't go to track. I should just quit and get more hours at work. But not yet!!! I have a chemistry test, an algebra test, and a French test....all on my birfday *pouts* Poop heads. But I think that my brother and I are about to stage another fight...he just ran in here screaming and karate chopped my arm and then ran into the door. Excuse me...

If I were a villan, I'd kick ass.

I could kill those I hate and still attend school and pretend to be horrified when people turned up dead. I could use my abilities to manipulate people into giving me pretty things. I'd want to be like Catwoman...whips rock my world. Mon oeil!!!

Now all I need is a super cool villan name....hmm....

oooooh, dear......

I took waaay too much Bendadryl before school and I couldn't stay awake. But I didn't want to be itchy all day, so I took some. And then I couldn't stay awake. and while I was awake I was acting really weird...kinda woozy like. And I laughed like I was on major drugs...but I wasn't. Everyone was kinda outa focus, too. I hope I can just go to the doctor, get a shot, and go back to normal. Or as normal as I ever was, scha right.

Mon Oeil!

I'm all itchy...like all over!! :(

And it's not appropriate to itch one's chest area in public.

I had to work until closing tonight...it was kinda fun. I got pie and I stayed with all the old people!!! The kept telling me it was past my bed time and telling me I was too young to have hot flashes....it's really really HOT!!! EVERYWHERE!!!! But it was fun. Me and Brooke sang rap songs into the mic and Jason kept chasing me with cajun barbeque wings (he bought us all buffalo wings tonight!!) and i finished a drawing with my new calligraphy pens!! woot!

my birfday is on wednesday...and i'm buyin me a movie! :) *R rated, ha!*

By the way...I'm not actually Jill's nipples. Though if she'd give me a chance I'm sure I could be.

Real to do list Take 2:

Apologize for spilling salsa on Becky.
         -as a side note....don't laugh

Bring back the ADD rings
         -another side note....i forgot.

Challenge Winston to a weightlifting thingy....
         -no side note

Send really late birthday present to Abby...because I can...
         -side note: make sure it's legal to send that...

Wash work apron....it looks gross with a capital OSS

Pick out birthday movies...sha!!! Turning 17, that means I'll buy all the $1 rated R movies at Hastings I want! Because they actually check to be sure...now I can laugh at the stupid workers!! STOP ME FROM BUYING DAZED AND CONFUSED??? WELL I'M BACK AND GETTING MORE.....MUCH MUCH MORE!!!

Real to do list:

DAMMIT!!!!!! I STILL DON'T HAVE ONE!!!

wait...wait...no....DAMMIT!!!

TO DO LIST:

make a real to do list

It's building up. I put so much into a story for journalism...a feature story. I put a little extra in there for reading, to interest the reader, and they eliminated half of it. Now I admit a good writer would admit when they got carried away and correct the problem, but I don't see it. It was fine. It was a feature. A news story I'd understand. But I know creativity gets you nill in this business...but it's being sucked out of me!! No one wants creativity! If I get too creative in anything, they'll actually pull it out of the pile and hand it back, telling me to take out the fluff and make it basic. It's like they're slowly damming my mind and soon the flood waters will break and my thoughts will splash all over the pages. A story is building. I can feel it. Something with a part for everyone, everyone's life experiences, yes and no, good and bad, truth and lies. It's not a good thing to admit, but I can be a good liar. I used to be a pathological one. I've gotten over this (and I admit when I lie if I do) but I know I can think of some good ones. I think that every writer out there, preferably fiction writers, has the potential to be a great liar. In otherwards every writer could be a politician. Sorry...little joke. Oh, dear...I still have algebra left to do. It's late. Because I am a procrastinator. Hoo-rah. I'm also a bit of a hypocrite...I used to claim to hate rap...but I love it. I'm listening to Kanye West right now...next up is Da Back Wudz....meeeehhhhh.......So tired......2 miles a day for track. I thought Ste. Gen was hard...nahnahnah....I hurt in places I didn't know I had. I discovered really hard muscles in my inner thighs...I was thoroughly convinced they were my bones...but they aren't...*sigh* I think I'll nap before doing algebra....yeah...

"So many wishes. I didn't have a cent on me and wasn't sure it counted if I wished on someone else's but it still felt like a powerful place to be, a mall fountain blinking with so many underwater, copper eyes, with so much wanting."

"I turned back and watched New York City recede behind us, as if the whole island were floating away in the summer wind, this island like a birthday cake for an ancient giant with a mammoth appetitie, a cake on fire with its blazing windows and broken promises, and kept ones, too, everyone's fifteen minutes and everyone's could-have-been, everyone's one-that-got-away and no one, lost children and grown-ups trying to get lost in its neck-cricking height, its rushing streets, its tunnel-deep icy-officed smoke of a thousand cigarettes clouding your eyes. All the light floating away from us as we headed into the night-cloak coast of the other side. Just the other end of the water, but another world and so far away."
              -Dimple Lala
                 born confused

http://www.che-lives.com/home/modules.php?name=idiotson

I wonder if much like the song, I too have kaleidescope eyes. While I realize that song was written while on highly halucinogenic drugs, I think I may. Not in appearance (though that'd be flippin awesome!!) but in my vision. I see so much...That's actually different than what someone else sees. I told Teresa today that she was really pretty and she didn't get it. You know those Russian models with the steely blue eyes, bump nose, high cheek bones, blonde hair, and thin hairless bodies? That's Teresa. Braces off and you got yourself a model. I see it. I'm the only person that can see how scared Brenna Ferguson is. I watch her in class every time her ex boyfriend gets near her and I see her eyes widen and fists tighten. He raises his voice, whether joking or not, in class and she closes her eyes as though she can block it out. I know. It's obvious. But I ask someone and they look away and deny it. I fell in track and I had blood down my leg...it covered my shamrock and I stared at it. If I believed in that sort of stuff or if my life was being analyzed like a book you might call it foreshadowing. It looked so foreboding. No one else saw that. Jay said I was strange and helped me up. On Wednesday I woke up to take my mom to the Osage Center to meet her car pool. I got dressed quickly, put on sneakers and a hoodie. I got out my cd of memory music (ie. Coldplay, Oasis, Frou Frou, The Shins) and listened to it. Windows down, birds chirping, sky pink, and I felt myself wanting to cry. It was so beautiful. Just the feel of the breeze, the promise of spring, the music's promise of a better tomorrow, the car's reminder of my privelidge. I loved it.

I see weird things and get weird emotions. It's like my brain completely interprets things weird. Like an old man alone at Bob Evan's makes me want to cry. So I go and talk to him. A couple holding hands or wheeling a baby through the mall makes me laugh. Rhonda acting all white makes me mad...if I can't act black then why can she act white?? I just find things weird. Different. Not weird, excuse me. But I'm going to stop rambling. To all the chillins in Ste. Gen...here's my number...you know the area code (hint: same as your's) 561-6168 or 561-6166

      Love yous guys