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myOtaku.com
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• 1993-05-02
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Female
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• 2005-05-30
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• Life preserver :)
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• Belina
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• http://i204.photobucket.com/albums/bb281/Soul_Resistance/Untitled.jpg... Nuff said
Anime Fan Since
• Ever since Pokemon
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• I'm not that obsessed anymore, to be honest. Mostly just Kare Kano, Ceres, Furuba, Ouran Highschool Hostclub, FMA, and, of course, ShinChan. X3
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• Make it out of here in one piece
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• Paranoia, mood swings, and the occasional emotional meltdown
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• :)
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myOtaku.com: X Shadowme X
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Monday, February 8, 2010
Argh.
Alright.
First of fall the past 2 posts were just excerpts from a rough draft of this crappy short story I'm doing for creative writing, so the story itself is actually pure fiction. The emotions are real though.
Second of all, *hugefuckingepicsigh* I'm so sick of this. It seems like no matter what I say or do, I always end of offending someone. I'm so damn tired of censoring myself. I wish everybody would just get the fuck off my back and let me be me.
I am not a saint, I am not perfect, I am not this pristine, never-said-a-cuss-word-or-told-a-lie-in-her-life, naive little kid, and I refuse to act like I am.
Don't get me wrong, I wish I was perfect and a saint, but I'm not, and people (not anybody on here, but kids at my school, my family, and my teachers) need to get over that. I am who I am. Take it or leave it.
ACCEPT ME, DAMN IT!!!!!
'-__-
'-___-
T_______________T
:/ /:
*sigh*
:(
'-__-
Kay. Now that that's out of the way...
I have writers block, school tomorrow(I think), microsoft wordpad is not cooperating, and I am in desperate need of liberation.
Just put me in a car full of my closest friends and drive. I don't care where, just crank the radio, sing along with me, and drive.
I need to laugh.
I need to smile and frolic and all that happy shit.
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Friday, February 5, 2010
I am absolutely addicted to the stuff. The day I decide to quit using hair dye is the day Courtney Love actually shows up to something sober and not hung over.
Still, Bree insists on prattling on about the evils of “that toxic venom of commercialism” for about ten hours, but I deigned not to pay attention. Normally, I would have, just to humor her, but at that very second, Jasper “Jazzy” Striffy entered the cafeteria. As he walked by our table on his way to the diagonally across from ours, I could not help but let a sigh escape my lips. Some days, Jazzy is so perfect, I can’t decide whether I want to be with him or simply be him.
He is very gorgeous, very gay, very British foreign exchanged student, and completely fabulous. Angling from shoulder length in the back to jaw length in the front, his pin straight, jet black, blonde-streaked hair especially is an absolute master piece. The way he always decorates himself with Victorian era dress pants, dress shirts, and vests, yet still manages to look fresh off the scene; the way his choppy, yellowish blonde bangs drape over his eye brows and stop just above his long, black lashes to accentuate the contrast between his dark brown eyes and flaxen bangs; the way his mouth curls up in a droll smirk when he finds something amusing; the way every move he makes is quick, deliberate, and decisive; the way he calls his bangs a “fringe”—I love it!
Good God, I want to be that fabulous!
I try not to be so materialistic and superficial, but honestly I’m just another fashionista wannabe. The truth is, I have next to no style, and I desperately want some. It’s not just the look, either. I want the status, I want the reputation, and above all, I want the confidence. I want to stop picking out my flaws and automatically hypnotizing myself into thinking I look like a catastrophe within five seconds of looking into the mirror. I want to be able to take a compliment without thinking people are just saying it to be nice. I want Starbucks and I want glitter and I want to be able to transform everywhere I go into a runway with nothing but my sheer fabulousity.
Unfortunately, the first step to being fabulous is believing you are fabulous, and most days the only things about myself I’m comfortable with
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Thursday, February 4, 2010
More crappy incomplete stuff
Long hair.
What the hell is up with everyone and long hair?
In the olden days, when a women committed adultery or slept around, she got her hair hacked off in a sort of deformed Peter Pan cut as a punishment. On TV and in movies, in the ‘70s and ‘80s, all the attractive, ultra popular girls had long, flowing manes that somehow managed to look somewhat regal and fabulously unsophisticated at the same time. Now, everywhere you look, nine out of ten girls have either long or mid-length hair. Only the apparently socially retarded “weird kids” would ever be caught dead wearing their hair short.
Ordinarily, this wouldn’t bother me so much. Personally, I happen to think my stylishly disheveled, jaw-length, angular semi-bob looks great on me. Not only does it suit the bone structure of my face, but it also suits my personality—it’s edgy, it’s different, it’s bouncy, it’s perfect for me.
Here’s the thing though. Everywhere I look the few girls with short hair that are not anti-social or psychotic or completely hideous—myself included—are constantly getting ignored by the male species for girls with shoulder-length, chest-length, or hip-length hair. Sometimes these girls are honestly not even remotely attractive, inside or out.
I must say—this annoys me. Contrary to what has unfortunately become popular belief, I have feelings too, and becoming a mere fly on the wall simply because of the length of my hair does not do them any good. Furthermore, I do not find it especially amusing when, on the rare occasion I can manage to find a guy I like who actually likes me back, he prods me to grow my hair out every other week.
I do not want to grow my hair out. I used to have it long when I was in middle school, and, as I’ve said before, I look better and am more comfortable with short hair. Although it might be fine for some people, to me, having long hair is a huge pain in the ass. It takes longer to wash, longer to brush, forever to straighten, and I could never get it to behave, no matter how much product I put in it.
That said, when I told my friend Jackie this for the millionth time on Monday and she responded that I should stop being a baby and grow it out anyway, I was less than pleased. Is it just me or does it seem like I’m always either getting ignored or being nagged?
“Seriously, Les,” She said, dipping her French fry in a glob of ketchup on her school lunch tray. “You would look so much better with another inch or so. I’m not saying you should be freakin’ Rapunzel or anything; I just want to see you try something new for once.”
“Really, Bree?”
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