Writing Under Pressure

We've all lost our minds. 

This sort of mind talk is bizarre.

 A bar of chocolate is good. 

Goodness lies in the beholder’s tummy.

Fat is the source of happiness. 

Being happy means being free. 

Freedom is a lie. 

I lie everyday. 

The days are going by faster. 

Speed means higher risk of accidents. 

There are no accidents. 

When a crash occurs, it is caused by a demand of the speeder’s subconscious. 

Dreams formulate from the worries of the subconscious. 

All dreams come true. 

Truth is but a fraction of the bigger story.

Elves tell part of the truth.

I am an elf. 

I am a mythical being. 

Mythology is an area I need to concentrate on. 

Juice is made from concentrate. 

Precision brings lockers full of lined up books.

Books have paragraphs.

Paragraphs contain sentences.

Sentences are made up of a string of words. 

Words are made of letters. 

Letters are curved strokes on paper.

Paper is made of wood. 

Wood comes from trees. 

Trees are cut down by humans. 

Humans are out to destroy the method of communication we all use—words. 

I feel philosophical for someone who just flooded the staff bathroom at the office. 

Succession

Churning the turquoise lake of memories
Each tear a star, a fallen story
From the seeing skies
Of weeping sorrows
The dark chasm of loneliness drops
The edge of the world looms
He waves, a whisper of air
I see him no more
I wear his shoes
And tread the grassy plains where I used to frolic with Imagination
Where we used to avoid the rocks that jut out
Rocks placed carefully by Mendacious Inspiration
Now I tread on them and tear his shoes to shreds
My feet bleed like broken promises
In the distance the sun sinks and the moon comes up to light the morning
Birds don't heed the humans' need for repeated chronological structure
Coming and going as they please
They add to the ruckus that are my insecurities
Hills roll like my shoulders as I try to straighten
Unable to align a back that has been overloaded with fears
Fears that attack from all sides and angles
For we are all donkeys carrying loads
Some loads are light as the leaf of the aspen tree
The one I sit under as I count my woes and lose track of them
In the rings of old stumps nearby
The other loads are the crushing pressure of being underwater for too long and I let go
My breath bubbles out in front of me
Tangible like the smoky tendrils on a cold day
Floating to the surface facedown I try to tread water but sink
For bodies that are 70% water this one only seems to be made of cookie dough
As I sink I watch the schools of fish
Separated into their different sects
Behaving as they have been pre-determined to
A shark carries me to the usual place
We pass lairs of those who have made their pact with Solitude
Loneliness awaits me at the start of the tribe of the Chief Current
I renew my application as Loneliness's heir and the Chief sends me rushing to the surface
Where I will sit and watch the turquoise sky
Where I will collect my tears in order to breath on them
So they can float to become stars
And fall once more

Solitude, or More Suitably Titled: I Hate Idiots

I've recently made the discovery that I'm a little old hermit stuck in the body of an almost-20-year-old. So I bid everyone to just get on with it call me Geezer Girl, AKA: The-Long-Awaited-Aged-Superhero. 

I already want to yell at everyone. Lord help the kids who come near my lawn when I'm 50.

I hate you. I hate the world.

Back in the good old days...

And you thought you had to deal with Grumpy Cat. I am the God of Grumpy Cat. 

I've come to hate all loud noises. Everything is suddenly a loud noise. People talking, people laughing (this especially annoys me), the sound of gossip making its way across telephone lines over the country...

I yearn for solitude yet when I have it, I wish for companionship. When I've got someone around me, I hate their every breath. Is this normal for a teenager-turning-adult? I don't think the problem is with me, however. It's with the stupid idiots surrounding me. All my friends are either:

A) not in the country

B) characters in books

C) memories of their past selves who now no-longer give a crap about our friendship

Yes, I am hating the world. 

It's not just that either. The people left here are the ones who don't appreciate the things I like. When I'm fangirling over something, I'd love to have someone who's read/seen the same thing. Online fandoms are lovely but I want someone who loves the things I do in real life. Who I can talk to. Hold on, you say. The world is a vast place full of different-minded people. Surely you can find at least ONE PERSON whose interests coincide with yours. 

My first answer: 

My second answer: no, you fool. No, I can't-- and not for lack of trying. I feel miserable here. I like no one. I'm a bonafide misfit. I'm not as sociable as I'm famed to be. I no longer tolerate idiocy and hypocrisy. Sometime ago I tweeted out, "To be a social creature you must reach a balance of intelligent speech and a certain tolerance level for idiocy". I can't reach that level of tolerance. As much as I try, I can't bring myself to smile at the mocking tones of people who still think I'm in the smaller university I've been attending for the past 2 years. The people who smirk as they wonder out loud why I'm fat. Those who advise me on healthy eating habits "to keep the bulk off, dear" as if I've been carrying around a bag of bulk that I don't want to relinquish. And especially the ones that make it their business to make sure I know that a teaching degree isn't as hard to attain as a degree in sciences. 

This isn't a question of caring about what other's think. It's a question of being able to deal with the sneaky curveballs people keep throwing while they talk to me. Once in a while it's entertaining to throw one out, I'm guilty of having pitched my fair amount of them. But dang it, if we're playing baseball the whole darn time then can we at least have some proper pitching?!?!?

Erm, where was I? 

I might not be an old grump but I am someone who can't tolerate this sort of stupidity anymore. Stupidity that contains  a myriad annoying undertones such as racism, scoffing, undue nosiness... I've become so confrontational that I had to stop myself from screaming at my shadow the other day to ask why the heck it was following me. 

I have no idea how this is related to the past paragraph. Work with me here...

Along with solitude, my old man senses hate light. I love the dark or just regular sunlight lighting up the rooms. I hate light bulbs with the passion of a thousand burning stars. 

Take that, light bulbs. 

I've developed a particular aversion to white light and I can only handle soft yellow light from weakened light bulbs. I'm either an old man or a vampire. I hate the heat, thrive in the cold, and love to wrap myself in my fluffy blanket and slippers.

This whole solitude thing stinks. I really hate people. Not all people, seeing as I jump at the chance to talk to the ones who have moved far away and my body threatens to go into cardiac arrest when I get a long-awaited email from the adrenaline rush... just idiots. I hate idiots. 

I used to be someone who tolerated the foolish such a people person. 
The good times are gone, sonny-boy. 

"Est-Ce Qu'elle Est Mignon?" and Other Important Questions

After volunteering all of last week (more on that later), I came back home to a bag of overdue library books. Being the oaf that I am, I'd taken out a book that had a week limit and kept it for more than 2 weeks. I rushed to the library and payed $16 of my $25 fines... However, what was significant was the trip to the library. More importantly, the elevator trip to the second floor of the building that the library is in.

I would've preferred this to the awkwardness that will ensue...

I walked into the library and dashed into the elevator feeling like a boss for catching it before the door closed because that meant I'd reduced 5 minutes of time waiting for the elevator because I refuse to take the stairs and burn calories. Of course, that feeling of success was shortlived. There was a cute Asian kid standing next to his very pregnant mother and they were speaking French. I know that shouldn't be surprising seeing as I live in Canada and all that but I found him surprisingly more endearing because he was a kid WHO ACTUALLY SPOKE French (and yes, it's my all-time favorite language after British, Irish, and Australian english accents. I know they're not languages, begone fiend!). I smiled at him and he whispered something garbled to his mother who responded with a question. She asked him est-ce qu'elle est mignon? which roughly translates into is she nice? Of course, the little snot finally found his voice as he yelled at her with much conviction: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOON and proceeded to laugh as if she'd said the funniest thing since idioms.

 This is exactly how I wished to reply to that little piece of poo angel.

 Instead I yelled out, WHAT? I'M NOT? and gave him one of those jokingly-stern looks. Of course, the mother peered at me strangely and I realized that they hadn't understood that I was addressing his response to her question about me. I meekly mumbled something incoherent about him being adorable and was that FRENCH he was speaking? Needless to say, it was one of those moments when I felt that I could do some damaging physical harm to someone had I not been afraid of the damage to my reputation. I was angry because I couldn't help but wonder what it was about me that wasn't nice. Kids are usually such great judges of character and I found myself mulling over the fact that someone who was supposed to be able to see the potential goodness in people hadn't seen it in me and for the next couple of days I kept stressing out over that moment. My faith in humanity has subsided a bit and I'm not so sure if mean people are born or nurtured. 

One good thing that came out of this is that I've regained confidence in my French skills and I also take the stairs wherever I go to avoid being stuck with annoying kids and their mothers. 

Mother's Day

Mother's Day this year has come across as a bit anti-climactic... What used to be a day for showing my mom how much we love her now just feels like any other day. We've been so busy that I forgot to buy my mom a present and I think she knew that when she opened the box with a watch in it. I've bought her some of these watches before so she knows they're at a two for $10 deal. It's not that the price of the gift matters to her but I know that I always splurge on gifts ESPECIALLY on Mother's day and that knowledge made me less enthusiastic in giving her the gift.

This should be a metaphor for me and my gifting failure... I'll let you know when I work out if I'm the rabbit being thrown in the snow or the snow being flattened by a rabbit. 

This feeling of guilt is growing because my mother actually thanked me for the gift A LOT. I want her to like it and be happy but I'm not convinced that it was enough and honestly, I'd bought that watch for myself. It was on a day that we were going to a park and I persuaded my mom to let me go to the mall to exchange a bracelet that had a missing gem and even though she said I was JUST to do the exchange, I'd went and bought 2 watches and a ring. I know, I'm a shopaholic and a liar. 

In other news, I'm making myself feel more miserable about putting off learning new French vocab and not cleaning my messy pile of clothes and about a jillion other things. 

Yep, today's going to be as joyous as smashing your toe into the computer hard drive while singing along to the overdue Winnie the Pooh CD from the library when you were 7. No, that did not happen to me nor did my whole toenail peel off that day to reveal a purple bruise that engulfed my pinkie toe. 

Happy Mother's Day. 

It's All Over...

When I finish reading a group of related books (any type of grouping- series, trilogy, etc) I feel like I want to curl up into the fetal position and cry for a bit. Finishing off the last book, you know there isn't going to be a continuation to your protagonist's story. You know that you won't be seeing the characters go on new adventures, you won't be able to laugh or cry with the them... YOU FEEL ALL THE FEELS AND YOU CAN'T FEEL THEM WITH THE CHARACTERS ANYMORE BECAUSE IT'S ALL OVER

Probably the best representation of life after reading a great book...

Or maybe this one is more accurate...

Sigh, the reason I'm all angst-y is because I've finished reading Tamora Pierce (aka: thegreatauthorwhoisallawesomesaucenessandpowerofthemillionsofdivinerealms)'s Beka Cooper books.

Get up, go borrow these and READ them. Do not stop for anything... except bathroom breaks. Those are sorta important.

I'm already jealous of anyone who is going to pick these books up and read them for the first time. They were the greatest books ever and I just love the Tortall universe that Pierce has created. I used to think that Keladry of Mindelan was my favorite Tortallan girl but now I'm not so sure anymore. I've set a new goal for myself to read all things Tortall and Pierce.

Le person discovering Beka Cooper for the first time

I haven't said much about what the story is about.. I fear that if I say anything then I'll just turn into a lifeless zombie.

However, what I CAN give you is the summary of the first book (from goodreads.com, otherwise I'd give away all the plot twists and sigh there are some I can't forget or avoid talking about):

Beka Cooper is a rookie with the law-enforcing Provost's Guard, commonly known as "the Provost's Dogs," in Corus, the capital city of Tortall. To the surprise of both the veteran "Dogs" and her fellow "puppies," Beka requests duty in the Lower City. The Lower City is a tough beat. But it's also where Beka was born, and she's comfortable there.

Beka gets her wish. She's assigned to work with Mattes and Clary, famed veterans among the Provost's Dogs. They're tough, they're capable, and they're none too happy about the indignity of being saddled with a puppy for the first time in years. What they don't know is that Beka has something unique to offer. Never much of a talker, Beka is a good listener. So good, in fact, that she hears things that Mattes and Clary never could - information that is passed in murmurs when flocks of pigeons gather ... murmurs that are the words of the dead.

In this way, Beka learns of someone in the Lower City who has overturned the power structure of the underworld and is terrorizing its citizens into submission and silence. Beka's magical listening talent is the only way for the Provost's Dogs to find out the identity of this brutal new underlord, for the dead are beyond fear. And the ranks of the dead will be growing if the Dogs can't stop a crime wave the likes of which has never been seen. Luckily for the people of the Lower City, the new puppy is a true terrier!

Are you actually still sitting there? GO GET THE DARNED BOOKS.