Think Of The Children

I normally stay out of this sort of thing. I blog about personal matters, inane things, and the agony that is Twilight. I rarely dive into the clusterfuck that is politics. I don't talk about world events. I stay away from the news. But I can't do that this time.

They were children.

They were my baby sister's age.

After I got home from work the day of the Newtown shooting, after I'd done my Internet thing where I catch up on the world, after I read everything I could find about the shooting, my morbid imagination kicked into high gear. I imagined all the children who wouldn't get to grow up. I imagine all the mothers who would never hug their babies again. I imagined all the older siblings who would never move from annoyance to affection regarding their younger siblings. I imagined what would drive someone to do that. I imagined all those small, broken bodies.

I imagined Gracie's among them.

I cried for a good half-hour.

I called her, talked about stupid things; Pokémon cards, videogames, comics books, and T-shirts. I listened to her voice, and wished to God that I could have been there to hold her. I've been looking forward to going back to my parents' for the first time, just to see her, to hold her, to remind myself that my baby sister is still alive, that she's still with me, that her innocence hasn't been ruined.

And then today, I was on Facebook, and I saw something that just made me angry.

It was a picture comparing Obama to Hitler and Stalin for disarming the country. When I saw that, it hit me that, for some people, this isn't about the victims. It's not about what happened. It's not even about the killer. To them, it's all about the fact that their precious rights, that fuck only knows if they even goddamn use, are being ~taken away~.

I'm sorry, but no. This is not about Obama being a "socialist", or black, or whatever the fuck your problem with him is. This is not about your rights. This is not about your guns. This is not about the fact that you, personally, would use your gun to save a life. To sum up, THIS IS NOT ABOUT YOU. This is about a very disturbed man who did not receive the help he needed, and somehow got into an elementary school with three guns and now he, six other adults, and twenty children are DEAD.

I don't give two flying monkey fucks what your views on guns are. I honestly do not care. If your concern for your precious guns has overwhelmed any grief you feel for these lives cut far too short, your opinion has just dropped so far in my estimation that I cannot even fucking see it anymore. If you are more concerned for your guns than for the people who have suffered this horrible loss, go to hell. And if your guns are so important, than fucking take them with you.

Maggie Smith has spoken.

This, That, and The Other: An Update on Life

It is one in the morning. I have a maths exam in eight hours. If it were up to me, I would not be awake right now.

But it's not up to me. It's up to my biology. Because guess what.

I'M FUCKING NOCTURNAL.

World, you need to shape up. So many people are all about inclusiveness: include the blacks and Hispanics and gays and all those other minorities, and I'm not bashing that, but how about we get a little inclusiveness for the nocturnal people? How about we get more all-night stores and restaurants, more night classes and work opportunities for people who function better at midnight than at noon?

Seriously, my sleep schedule can flip in a day. No matter how much sleep I have gotten during the week, when I don't have anywhere to be before, I will literally sleep until one or two in the afternoon. I went to bed at five AM yesterday morning. I woke up at two-thirty in the afternoon. I am perfectly peachy, and would be happy to spend the rest of my life like this. I'm not going to get to do, but I can hope, can't I?

I don't even know what the point of this is. I'm angry and upset about something completely different, and I feel like yelling and swearing about it, but I can't react the way I want to, so I suppose that's where this came from.

Maybe I'm just feeling misunderstood and excluded. Not like that's different than usual, but hey, what can I say? I have to have a talk with my German professor at eleven about social anxiety, and I have to figure out how I'm going to get through it without yelling at him or crying. Merlin only knows if I'm going to manage...

On a completely different note, I've decided to post at least once a week from now on. Perhaps it will be a Twilight recap. Perhaps it will be a ramble of ramblyness, like this one. Perhaps (this'll be fun) it will be a short story of mine. Who knows? But there will be a post every week.

With that, dear readers, I leave you and go back to my GameBoy.

Night

I step outside into the icy cold. My breath fogs in front of me, and I smile. A memory drifts on the still night air, a memory of eighth grade, a time before I knew of my allergy, and "the only good thing about smoking". I let the memory float to me, and then past, choosing instead to look up at the night sky.

It it cloudless, save for the steam coming out of the paper mill to the north, so similar to my own foggy breath, but so much bigger. A little to the south, I spy Abby's buddy, Orion, and above me, I think I see the Big Dipper. I grin, my knowledge of astronomy so very limited.

I should have been home hours ago, but my Big started watching Firefly, and I couldn't exactly walk away. It's midnight, and I'm tired, and I still have to shower; the night is cold and empty, but I am fine walking this way by myself.

I take a deep breath to revel in the night; the air is icy, and it pierces my lungs. My body is wracked by coughs from my brand of the Con Death Plague, and I remember that I should really be wearing a hat, a scarf, and probably a thicker coat. I couldn't be bothered, though, to find them on my way out the door to my social group meeting.

I am almost at the door to my dorm now; I tread a longer path than usual, to avoid the snow and keep my shoes from getting wet (they're canvas, and they take a long time to dry). I do not want to take my hands from my pockets to open the door; I'm not wearing any gloves, and my hands chap easily when it's this cold out. I have to do, though, because it's midnight, and not many people will be around to let me in. I pull out my ID and swipe it through the lock, yanking the door open before it has a chance to be an ass and close on me.

Inside now, I am almost immediately warmer. I trudge up the fourty steps to my room, and practically fall through the door. I wave at my roommate. She grins back. My coat comes off and I am cold again. I should shower and go to sleep. I have class and work tomorrow and I'm tired and sick. But I haven't been writing, and I feel the need to do. So I sit down, open my browser, and, still chilly, start to type.

I'm Still A Princess

My first name is Sarah. It’s not a secret. I put it on pretty much everything. I introduce myself as Sarah Kate—and want to be called Sarah Kate—because Sarah is so common, and it’s less confusing to have a differentiation. But my name is Sarah. It’s Hebrew; it was the name of Abraham’s wife, and it means princess.

My mom used to call me that when I was little. I’m her first daughter, and she used to tell me about how we once promised to always be best friends. Before my baby sister was born, Mom would tell Neenie and me stories about Princess Sarah the Brave and Princess Annie the Kind. I was her princess, and she would always be telling me how beautiful I was.

It’s been at least ten years since I last heard a story about Princess Sarah. I’ve changed so much since then, and I’ve learned so much about myself. I’ve learned that the reason I tap pens against tables is because it keeps me focused. I’ve learned that it’s okay to cry without a good reason. I’ve learned that I’m never really going to understand people, but instead, I have the ability to just look at a set plan and know how to put it together. I’ve learned that on the sliding scale of sexuality, I lean more towards women, but that men are okay, too. I’ve learned that I do not fit into a traditional gender role; I am gender neutral, and only seem more masculine because I look female.

Princess Sarah wasn’t any of that. She was very ladylike, though the most important thing in her life was keeping her people safe from the dragons that would constantly plague the city that her parents ruled. She had no romantic interest, in either boys or girls. She never cried, because she was so brave. She always took care of her sister, Princess Annie, and she was always so focused on saving everyone she could. And she always did; she would save the day before anyone died, she was just that good.

I know now that I’m not going to save everyone in the world; I’m not even going to be able to protect everyone in my reach. I still try, though. I will always try to keep my friends afloat, to battle away the dragons that plague them. I will always take care of my Neenie, even from as far away as I am. Though I shake and tremble and occasionally have to physically anchor myself to something to stop myself from running away, I do the scary things, the uncomfortable things, the new things, the things no one else will do and the things done in front of people, I stand up for others and for myself, I put my trust in others when it would be so easy to just stay jaded, I speak my mind and damn the consequences and no one ever knows how absolutely paralyzed with terror I am at every moment I am doing it.

I am not the same Princess Sarah that I was when I was eight, but I am still Princess Sarah the Brave.

I’m still a princess.

Twilight, Chapter 11

I’m going to take some time out of my day, turn on some nice, calming piano music, and go the fuck at this.

Why? Because it’s never going to get done otherwise.

Without further ado:

Chapter 11: Complications

Bella and Edward wander into Biology, and apparently everyone watches. Is this Bella’s conceit talking, or does everyone really have nothing better to do before class? I, for one, would be drawing the hell out of something, as per usual.

Anyway, the teacher shows a movie and an entire page is devoted to describing the sexual tension between Bella and Edward. Badly written sexual tension. God, if I ever write this poorly, someone just shoot me in the face.

Anyway, Biology ends, then Gym happens, and there’s conversation with Mike about the way Edward looks at her THANK YOU GOD THAT SOMEONE HAS NOTICED THAT THIS IS UNHEALTHY but Bella ignores Mike and heads outside. Edward is there, as probably will become the norm, and he was mind-reading during class and now he’s pissed that any other guy is even talking to Bella and DOES ANYONE ELSE SEE AN ABUSIVE RELATIONSHIP. I CAN’T BE THE ONLY ONE.

So there are boys all over Rosalie’s car, and I SWEAR TO GOD I AM NEVER USING THE WORD “OSTENTATIOUS” AGAIN. EVER.

They drive home and Edward continues to act the dick, refusing to respect Bella’s privacy. Then there is a veiled mention of the running. I giggle, thinking of baseball. Edward thinks it’s funny that he scares Bella. WHAT THE FUCK YOU GUYS. WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK. I just cannot even at this point, okay. Honest to god. He thinks it’s funny. FUNNY. He thinks it’s FUNNY that he scares her. Good god in heaven…

We’re moving on so that I don’t explode all over my roommate. There’s some hilarious cluelessness going on. Bella still can’t figure out why Edward doesn’t want to take her hunting. IT’S BECAUSE HE WILL FUCKING EAT YOU YOU MORON. So he has to spell it out for her.

But yeah. So that happens. Then more terrible sexual tension, then ~parting omg~, then undiagnosed horny dreams, then comes morning and Charlie is still my favorite character. He is clearly the only person who actually cares. I wish to god that Bella would bring Edward around and actually hang out with Charlie so that Charlie could see how horrible this whole thing is and then be all “Bitch this ain’t happenin’,” and, like, shoot Edward. Or maybe call in the Slayer Squad. Or something.

But nope. I don’t get that. I get more fuckwittery from Bella and Edward and…honestly, it’s not even worth it to make fun of what goes on in that car. Suffice to say that Edward asks questions, Bella answers, and it’s boring as all fuck. Apparently he’s psychoanalyzing her. Or something. I don’t even know.

And then the whole day is skipped and come Biology and HOLY CRAP THEIR TEACHER’S NAME IS MR. BANNER PLEASE GOD PLEASE LET HIS FIRST NAME BE BRUCE OH THAT WOULD BE BEAUTIFUL BECAUSE THIS BOOK COULD SERIOUSLY FUCKING DO WITH SOME GODDAMN AWESOME BRUCE BANNER ACTION.

And then nothing happens. And then more nothing happens. It’s all questions and answers and we really get none of them (siriusly, guys, we don’t learn a thing about Bella), and then Edward mentions that it’s twilight LOL I C WAT U DID THAR and Charlie will be home soon. And then Meyer tries to be poetic (I can tell that it’s her because it sucks ass) and then Jacob! Yay Jacob! I still like Jacob!

And also Billy and Charlie and apparently Billy ~knows deep down~ that the Cullens are vampires or some shit and hey! What’d’ya know! I’m done!

It’s past midnight and I have a midterm tomorrow so this is SK, signing out!

Politics

I don't like politics. I run very far and very fast from politics.

It has nothing to do with disagreeing with my friends. My best friend and I will probably always vote against each other, but that's because different things are important to us for different reasons. I don't get mad at her when we discuss our differing opinions, because I know that certain things have shaped her life just as different--but no less important--things have shaped my life.

I will not argue with you about your voting policy. I will not argue with you about you opinion on who is better. I may, occasionally, engage in healthy debate about the way I think things should go, but I will not argue.

And this is why I don't like politics.

I had a debate in my English class on Wednesday. We read Oedipus the King over last weekend, and split into sides based on whether we thought that Oedipus was a victim of the prediction made about him before his birth, or if it was his character and choices that led him to his fate.

(For those who don't know, Oedipus the King is the Greek story about the guy who was sent away at his birth (him mom wanted him killed), and was raised by another king and queen because of shepherds. He grew up to kill his birth father and marry his birth mother. Greek legends are nasty as hell, really...)

Personally, I was in the "Human beings are illogical dumbfucks, I'm going to Vulcan" camp, but since I had to pick one side or the other, I went with "This is not Oedipus' fault". And I could expound on how it isn't. Maybe I will, because it's interesting, but it will be in another post. I'm trying to make a point (shocker!) here.

The thing is, in this debate, there were a bunch of eighteen-to-twenty-three-year-olds. The "immature" ones. The "entitled" ones. The ones who were raised to be spoiled and think that they are the second coming of Christ. Or something. However the hell you want to describe my generation. That was who was participating in this debate. You know what, though? We were respectful. We actually listened to each other. We brought up well-thought-out points and counterpoints. We actually debated.

To tie this back into the beginning and title of this post, there are some things that I have never heard the "mature", "unspoiled", "intelligent" participants of political debates say that I heard in that room. For example:

"I never thought about it that way."

"I concede your point."

"I understand why you see it that way, even though I don't see it like that myself."

Admittedly, the media would have a field day with any politician who said that. The opposing side would be all "OH MY GOD THEY DON'T STICK TO THEIR OWN BELIEFS HOLY CRAP THIS IS HORRIFYING THAT SOMEONE IS CHANGING AND GROWING ENLIGHTENED BECAUSE THAT IS WRONG YOU AREN'T SUPPOSED TO DO THAT YOU SHOULD TOTALLY VOTE FOR OUR CANDIDATE BECAUSE HE IS IMMOVABLE."

I mean, they wouldn't phrase it like that, because the way I said it makes it clear that change is a good thing (or, at least, I think it does), and the media sources would want to make it seem absolutely terrible. I don't know why. I probably never will. See, if I heard a candidate say that, I don't think I would give a flying monkey fuck what his policies were. The fact that he would agree that he might be wrong or that his opinion isn't the only valid option would make me respect him immensely, and my respecting someone means one hell of a lot more (generally) than my agreeing with them. Any politician who says something similar to that has my vote.

It bothers me that Obama supports abortion. It bothers me that Romney thinks gays don't have families. It bothers me that Obama isn't really working with the Catholic Church on the contraception issue. It bothers me that Romney doesn't seem to care about  hardworking poor people. Both these people have their faults. I don't even know how I'm voting at this point. But I would be swayed immediately by someone who listens, someone who understands, someone who respects their rival. That is all I want in a president. I want someone who isn't afraid to be swayed by good, strong arguments. I want someone who cares about what the other side thinks, even if he doesn't agree with him. I want someone who takes everyone's opinions into consideration, and then makes the best decision for the majority.

Who the hell knows if I'll ever get it, though.

This

This is why I left my parents' house:



So I can come and go whenever and wherever I want.

So I can cuddle with my friends on the couch and fangirl to our hearts' content.

So my fails are met with giggles and gentle corrections, not disappointed looks and sighs.

So I can make jokes about my neighbors having loud sex.

So I can swear.

So I can work at at job I love, and not one my parents force on me to get me out of the house.

So I can do what's best for my health, and not end up hurting myself to keep up with my parents' wishes.

So I can sit in a comfy chair and read for hours on end without interruption.

So it's okay for me to be mostly gay, and I don't have to hide it from the people who are paying my rent.

So I can be the nocturnal creature I am.

So I can use my free time as I see fit.

So I don't have glares coming at me from all directions when I show up with another five comic books.

So I can read whatever the bloody hell I want, and not worry about getting in trouble.

So I can actually clean the everliving fuck out of a paint-sink.

So I can finally be who I really am.



I left my parents' house so I can find a home.

<_<

>_>

*whispers* Okay, all clear.



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Open Letters

So this happened last spring, and I decided that it’s time I write an open letter.  Or two.



To my sophomore-year gym class teacher:

Dear Mr. Walsh,

I doubt you’d remember me.  I run errands for the library, and I’ve often given you DVDs and fixed your laptop.

Remember me?  No?  Okay, let’s try this:

I’m the blue-haired loony who spent every free day pacing the edge of the gym.  I never spoke.  You laughed at me a lot, especially on days when we didn’t have to dress and I showed up in Doctor Who and Star Trek shirts and spent the entire period reading.  I was pretty spacey; you never could hold my attention, and you often had to call my name repeatedly.

Remember now?  Oh, good.

Your laughter and constant shouting of my name brought a lot of unwanted attention to me.  I get the feeling that if you had never put the spotlight on me, my life wouldn’t have been the hell it was that year.  It still would have been hell, but perhaps not as high a circle as it ended up being.  I’m not saying all of it’s your fault; you may have called attention to me, but my classmates didn’t have to pick on me.  Still, teasing the geek?  For being smart as opposed to athletic?  And for reading?  Really?  Aren’t adults supposed to be above that?

Still, maybe next time you walk into the library while I’m working there, you’ll recognize me and see how things are.  I’ve single-handedly fixed half the computers in there.  I know exactly where everything is.  I helped sort out the bloody design of the place.  All the librarians love me, because I’m bright, I can help with the books, and I can teach them how to do tech things.

Did you notice?  Did you see that everything they love me for is what you teased me about?  Did you know that I endeared myself to my boss over the summer on the first day by teaching myself how to do something she wanted, and then teaching her?

I used to say that listening to you talk dropped my IQ by a point or two every time.  I realize that you’re probably not smart enough to understand the technology that I work with and fix every day, and that probably puts you a little in awe of my technological magic (because that’s what it is), and that maybe you’re a little afraid of what you don’t understand.  You’re not going about this the right way, though.  You want to befriend the smart kids who can fix your webcam and microphone.  You want to be nice to them.  Because we can tell.  We know who teased the nerds, and we’ll fix your webcam, but we can install viruses, too.  We know how to make your computer flash you the bird at random times.  We can externally access your computer and steal your files.  But on the other hand, we can tell who was nice to the nerds, and we’ll fix your webcam, but then we’ll do a scan to make sure that you have no viruses, and make sure that all your connections are up and running.

I’m not making threats.  I’m just saying, be nice to the smart kids, and we’ll be nice back.  Be mean to the smart kids, and we’ll be the ones in power pretty soon, and then we’ll make your life hell.  We’re kind of vindictive that way.

—Sarah Kate



To my eighth grade graduating class:

To Whom It May Concern:

So, does anyone remember me?  You probably all do, actually.  I mean, there were only sixty-four of us; we all knew each other by name.  But, in case you don’t, I’m the kid who challenged your views of how people should be.  I’m the one who was completely beyond your comprehension.  I’m the smart one with all the answers who didn’t know shit.  I’m the one who never swore.  I’m the one who never thought about dying her hair, painting her nails, or putting on make-up.  I’m the only one who didn’t have a problem with the socks.  I’m the non-conformist of non-conformists.  I’m the one you simply did not understand.

And I remember, very clearly, that you reacted with hostility.

I got left out of almost everything, picked last in gym class, left to work alone on group projects.  My books were stolen.  I was treated like I wasn’t there.  I was hit more than once.  When I made the slightest mistake, everyone laughed.  I was expected to be perfect, yet viewed as always wrong until someone confirmed what I said.

There were light points, though.  You were grudgingly impressed whenever I was forced to share my writing with the class.  I remember one incident from sixth grade, when the silence after I’d read a story was punctuated by admiring whistles and a surprised look from our teacher that a twelve-year-old could be so deep.  More than once, I heard, “Don’t forget us when you’re famous.”

I’d smile and blush and promise not to, only to cry at home that I’d never be able to.  Whether I end up the rich, famous author, or the technician working on your computers, I will never be able to forget you or what you did, though I’m sure you’ll only remember enough to say, “I knew her in grade school!”  If you see my name on a book, you’ll think, “I always said she was good!” and if you hire me to fix your computer, you’ll think, “I always thought she’d never amount to anything.”

Really though? I don't care any more. I'm finished being upset that you thought that "different" meant "weird." I can take on huge projects by myself now, because I had to do before. I can take being wrong, because I know I'm not perfect. I have the ability to disappear into crowds and sneak away, because I know how to make people ignore me. Most of all, though, I can fight back and stand up for other people, because I know how much it sucks to be on receiving end of it.

In short, "I'm burning bright thanks to your rejection fuel."

Whatever I end up doing, I'll love it and shine like a star in my field, and that's one hell of a lot more than I can say for most of you.

—Sarah Kate

Always

I wrote this post on 20 July in my notebook, but I never got around to posting it because of reasons. Still, it's a good post, and I'm going to share it unchanged from then.

I read a lot. Everyone who knows me should know this. I generally don’t go anywhere without a book (except work, of course). Ironically enough, I couldn’t read until the end of second grade, just after I turned eight. That summer, though, I quickly graduated from Dr. Seuss and the Berenstain Bears to Harry Potter and Redwall.

I’ve waxed poetic on Redwall before. I wrote an obituary of sorts last February on the one-year anniversary of Mr. Jacques’s death. I’ve mentioned that this series is the reason I write, that I’ve learned so much about writing just from reading these books. I could extol the virtues of these stories until I’m blue in the face and your ears fall off (no, really, I can).

The thing is, I can tell you all this, but never get my true feelings across. So instead of telling you why these books are brilliant, I will show you my reaction to them.

A couple weeks ago, I went to the bookstore. This was probably a bad idea, because no one could come with me, and I had to restrain myself from buying ALL THE BOOKS. (It didn’t work too well; I walked out with three in my hands and two more on order.)

Wandering the Science Fiction & Fantasy section, as I am prone to do, I found the Redwall books. This was the second section of them I had come across, because they are generally put in the “Young Readers” section (I mean, they are for ten-to-twelve-year-olds). At the end of the group of Brian Jacques’s books, there was a paperback copy of The Sable Quean, the last Redwall book published before the author’s death.

Now, it isn’t the very last one; The Rogue Crew was published post-mortem. Still, when I picked it up, I almost started crying. It felt like holding the end of my childhood in my hands. I fought back tears, told myself that I’d cry when I got The Rogue Crew, decided which other books to buy, purchased them, and left.

Fast forward to today. I was essentially on-call at work, just chilling in the building, waiting for people to need me. I had brought along The Bellmaker to continue my read-through of my whole shelf—for those of you who don’t know/couldn’t guess, The Bellmaker is part of the Redwall series. It was as I was finishing the book, reading through the epilogue, that I was it, and remembered.

At the end of practically every single Redwall book is some take on this message: Redwall’s gates will always be open to those who mean no harm, however young or old they are.

I used to smile at that line, knowing that it meant that however much I grew up, I’d always have the safety of Redwall Abbey and Mossflower Wood to return to when life got hard. Today, I broke down and cried, because of the word “always”.

The message doesn’t say “until you grow out of childish fantasies.” It doesn’t say “until you don’t need it anymore.” It doesn’t say “until the author dies.” It says “always.”

True, once I buy The Rogue Crew, I will never again feel the glee that a brand new Redwall book brings me. Once I finish reading it, I will know all the tales that will be told of this land. Once I turn its final page, I will have absorbed every single word the man wrote. But I will still have the books. I can still reread them whenever I want.

So now, whatever else changes, whoever leaves me, however old I grow, no matter what happens, I will always have the safety of these places, the companionship of these characters, the knowledge that something in this world is okay to keep me going.

Always.

Romance

So I broke up with my boyfriend last week.

Don’t get all weepy on me. I’m fine, it was my idea, I wanted it to happen, etc., etc. Honestly, I’m happy it’s over. The boy put way too much pressure on me. I was his only source of happiness~. He could see us together ~forever~. He practically had our headstones all ready. He’d talk about how we could get a house together and we’d garden in it and we couldn’t have cats.

See, here’s the thing. When he talked about that, I’d never see it. I’d look into my future, and I couldn’t see a house and a garden and no cats. All I ever saw was a London flat and my Speckle and my Neenie and ALL THE KITTIES. It seems to be a thing now. When I look, when I think about what might happen, I only ever see that. Just me and Speckle and Neenie in a flat with kittens named after superheroes.

It’s made me realize something. I’m not going to be one for commitment. Not romantic commitment, anyway. I mean, I’m incredibly loyal as a friend, and I will always stand by the people I love, but I’m getting off track…

If I look into my future, and all I can see is my two best friends, there has to be a reason for it. I’ve been saying recently that every single one of my significant others should, and probably will, be jealous of Emma Lee, and it’s true. She is my Speckle, and she is the most important person in my life. I care for and love her just as much as anyone would their One True Love, though not quite in the same way. Because I have that in Emma, I don’t need or want it in anyone else.

Maybe all this means that I wasn’t born to be a monogamous person, much the same as I wasn’t born to be a heterosexual person. I’m fine with that. The only real problem, though, is making other people fine with that. I don’t want every break-up of mine to be nasty, and I’m afraid that a lot of them will be. I just want clean, easy relationships where we don’t ask too much of each other, and both recognize when it’s over.

Maybe I’m asking too much of the world. Maybe I’m being selfish and lazy. I don’t know. I do know, though, that I’d be absolutely crazy to go out and look for another life partner when I already have one, and probably even two, despite the fact that they’re my sisters.

I Love My Parents

Honest to god, I do. If you heard me complaining about them on occasion, you might not be so sure, but let me tell you, I love them with all my heart.

That doesn't stop me from hating them at times, though.

When I was little, I used to say that my parents were the best parents ever. Granted, it wasn't too hard to think that, what with my limited worldview and all. I was sixteen before I even heard my parents disagree. They didn't argue, and they certainly didn't fight. Not in my hearing, anyway. They let me be interested in the things I wanted to be interested in. I mean, maybe it helped some that my parents are both minorly geeky, and I was interested in geeky things, but when I wanted to play with Pokemon cards and videogame systems instead of Barbies and Polly Pocket (for example), they let me.

(As an aside, it was damn hard to do it, really, because my big brothers didn't want a ~girl~ tagging along. I ended up playing by myself throughout most of my childhood. Until I met Kaila, anyway, but that's a different story entirely.)

So anyway, to Little SK, this was enough to make my parents the Best Parents Ever. But then I went out in the world, and realized how sheltered I'd been.

I do not understand the majority of pop culture references made by anyone.

I did not know what the modern connotations of the word "gay" were until eighth grade, nor did I even know of the word "bisexual" (ironically enough).

I could go on and on about all the instances when my parents tried to do the right thing, only to end up making the wrong choice and fucking me and my brothers up completely (fortunately for them, my sisters missed most of the blunders by the grace of being the fourth and fifth children), but that would take too long. Each instance really deserves its own separate post. So instead of doing that, I will grace you with a realization I have come to rather recently.

My parents never encouraged me.

Oh sure, they did the regular, parent-y things like coach my soccer team and lead my Girl Scout troop and try to get me to get good grades and whatever, but they never encouraged me in what I wanted to do.

I have been writing stories since I was ten. In eight years, eight years, my mother and father have collectively asked to see my work twice. My grandfather asks to see it more than they do. In the four years I have been writing poetry and one year I have been drawing, they have never asked to see any of it.

I don't expect them to be like some parents who are all, "Okay, my kid wants to do this, so I'll sign him up for classes and get him all this stuff for it and how-to books and I'll learn with him and it will be so much fun, dammit." I don't want them to be like that. My stuff is my stuff, and I'll learn how to do it on my own, thanks.

I just...I wanted encouragement, growing up. I wanted to know that when I was doing what I wanted to be doing, they were proud of me. I don't want the happy hugs and "I'm so proud of you" just when I brought home straight A's and Honor Society induction letters and 34's on my ACT. I want a "Congratulations!" when I tell them I finished another poetry journal. I want a "That's my girl!" when I tell them that I finished writing a book. I want them to brag about me, not because I'm smart, but because I'm creative and I make beautiful things and I'm going to be an author and I wrote a children's book that my bloody teacher wanted to publish!

Dearest readers, I haven't hurt myself in almost a year and a half now, and not once have my parents told me that they're proud of me for coming through it, or that I'm strong because I haven't slipped at all, or just held me because I looked like I needed it. I'd not have made it as far as I have if I only had them to lean on. The only reason I have made it is because I have wonderful friends and I'm fucking stubborn as hell.

I know nothing is perfect. I know that life isn't fair. But once, just once, I want my parents to take something of mine, something that they have asked to look at, go through the whole thing, then hug me and tell me that they are proud of me.

I'm going to keep going the way I am, no matter what they do. Still, it'd be nice to know.

Twilight, Chapter 10

Dammit, I want to be rereading Elegy.

There’s pretty Kate/Maggie things and sexy Batwoman awesomeosity and I was IN TEARS DAMMIT.

Also I want a Loki.

But I have to do this.

Chapter 10: Interrogations

I Used to Dye My Hair...

...but then I took an arrow to the knee.

...

...

I get nothing for that? Man, you have no sense of humor.

Granted, with it being me and all, that was probably the more obvious route I could have taken that.

On a more serious note (Serious? Me? Really?), I've stopped dying my hair. I tell people that it's expensive, and I'm probably just going to be playing with my tips (get your mind out the gutter!) from now on. For a while, at least.

That's not really true. I seem to be pretty good at that. Telling people the not-really-true stuff, I mean. I suppose I do it because it's easier, because it doesn't get me angry, doesn't make me shout, doesn't goad me into saying things that I'll regret later.

The truth? The honest-to-god, I'm-saying-this-because-this-is-my-blog-and-I-don't-really-care-anymore truth? I stopped because it was making me feel stifled.

Crazy, right? Free expression, stifling someone? Doesn't make any sense. But then, a lot of things in this world don't make sense.

The problem with expressing yourself is being the one who dares.

So many people look at you and think, "Damn, I wish I had her confidence! She is walking around with bright pink hair. She must be awesome and just not care what other people think!" And it's true. I dyed my hair blue and pink and purple and red and blonde because I didn't care what other people thought, and I wanted to show it. It was never a confidence thing, because god knows I have absolutely jack shit in the confidence department.

The problem is being one of the few who dare.

So many people see you, and wish that they could dare, too, but they think they can't, for some reason. So they want to live through you. I'd never be able to count to amount of times people have told me, "Oh, you should do this with your hair next," or "Maybe that tattoo would be cool."

They don't get it.

What I'm doing here, with my hair and my tattoos and wearing guys' clothes and staying up until sweet fuck all at night, isn't me trying to be different from most people or fit into another group of people. This is me expressing myself. Sure, having black hair with pink underneath would look cool (Romana Flowers, anyone?), but it isn't me. I am bright colors and positive words and comfort over looks and functioning better at night.

Yes, suggestions are nice. People can give me ideas that I might not have come up with on my own, but resonate with me in a way that makes me want to use them. But they have to stay suggestions. I'm not going to spring for every crazy idea, because that isn't me. Yeah, I do crazy things, but everything I do has a reason that makes sense to me, even if the reason is "Why the hell not?"

So if you think that your friend would look good with electric blue hair, by all means, tell her! But don't follow it up by asking every week, "So when are you going to dye your hair blue?" IT GETS FUCKING ANNOYING. We do what we do because we want to do it, not so that we'll look cool or be more popular, or just have people talk about us. If you're pushy about your ideas, what we do will stop being fun.

Let other people ruin our fun; there are enough assholes out there to do it for gits and shiggles, that we don't need our friends doing it, too.

</rant>

Twilight, Chapter 9

I’m writing this at work.

No, I’m not slacking. I’m sitting through the SAME GODDAMN ORIENTATION PRESENTATION for the THIRD TIME.

I’m nearly bored to tears.

Anger is probably a better option.

Chapter 9: Theory

Twilight, Chapter 8

This chapter is Hell on Earth.

There should a lot of facepalming going on.

But that’s what you’re here for, isn’t it?

You people are sick…

Chapter 8: Port Angeles

Twilight, Chapter 7

I’m trying to get better at this. I really am.

It’s just… Packing… And college… And this is painful…

But that’s why you read this, isn’t it?

I hate you all…

Chapter 7: Nightmare

Twilight, Chapter 6

Well, these are getting closer together.  Maybe by the next book, I’ll be doing them every day!

The next book… Mithros forbid…

Chapter 6: Scary Stories

I Wrote A List This Week

This isn't all that uncommon a thing for me to do. I write lots of lists. Lists of books I want need to get. Lists of things I have to do. Lists of what my mom needs me to get at the store. I remember things better when I write them down, and I feel more accomplished when I check things off. Plus, I know that everything is done when the whole list is finished.

But this list is a special list. This list is a list of things I need to bring with me to college.

I'm sure some of you are thinking "Already? It's only the beginning of May!" I'm sure I'd be thinking that, too, if the person were anyone other than me. But only if I didn't know the reason. The reason I already wrote this list is that I'm leaving soon. Twenty-three days from now, actually.

See, I got a job this summer, working at my college. My big brother goes there, and he hooked me up at the theater he works at. I'll be working forty hours a week, and living with his awesome, geektastic girlfriend, Jordan. This is going to be a huge change for me; I know that it will be Fun and A Good Experience, but it could also be Frightening and Lonely, and it will definitely be New and Different. I have many complicated feels about this, and it will probably be a good thing for me to get them down and sort them out.

The first think I'd like to address is my house and homelife. In this aspect, things can only get better. Yes, I'll be providing for myself, living with someone who I have only met three or four times, and will have to manage everything on my own, but I honestly can only see this as an improvement. I currently live with my parents and two younger sisters; my oldest brother has moved out, and lives in Chicago, and I will be joining my other big brother in Wisconsin this summer. I love my family, don't get me wrong, but my baby sister (she's almost nine now, but she'll always be the baby) has an Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD), and it can make life hell sometimes. She can be this sweet little girl, who loves to hug you and hang out with you and looks up to me and our other sister so much and wants to be just as cool as we are, but suddenly, with no visible cause, she can become unreasonable, throwing fits over the smallest thing; she won't respect our personal space, she has no filter between her brain and her mouth, and never thinks how hurtful the things she says can be, she doesn't get that sometimes, big girls are irritable and in so much pain they literally cannot move and just don't have the patience or the will to deal with anything stressful.

I don't want anyone getting the wrong idea. Like I said, I love her, with all my heart, and I will do anything to help her. I'm so grateful to the people at her school, to the staff, who know exactly how to handle her, and to the other students, who love her imagination and think she's the coolest and are almost always so nice to her and make her feel like the most popular girl in school and, really, I think she might be. I'm so happy that she can have that, because I know the hell that kids with mental disabilities can go through in school. I flew completely off the handle one day in Gym class because the teacher was being an ass to someone like my sister, and nobody said so much as a negative word about the kid in my hearing for the rest of the year. I hope that my baby sister doesn't ever have anything like that happen to her, but if she does, I hope that there is someone like me to stand up for her.

Now that I (hopefully) have convinced you of my love of my sister, I think it's safe to say that she is one of the things that make me cry the most often. The unreasonableness, the temper tantrums, the just not getting the fact that Neenie and I just need to be left alone sometimes, are so hard to reconcile with the sweet girl she can be. It's desperately difficult to deal with, and there are times when I have to babysit her, and once she's in bed, I just sit down and cry, and I'm damn certain that it will be so much easier when I don't have to deal with that sort of thing on a daily basis. But then I love her so much, it hurts to think that.

Also included in my homelife are my parents. I remember saying, when I was little, how my parents were probably the best parents in the world. I think back and remember that, and then remember how much they managed to screw up. Maybe Neenie and Grace have it best, because my parents had three kids to practice on before them, or maybe what they do is more noticeable. Or maybe my parents were so afraid of doing the wrong thing that they did it anyway.

When Neenie was in fourth grade, her teacher was a bitch of the highest degree. This was the final year in our elementary school before the students started switching classes; English, spelling, math, science, social studies, all were taught by the same teacher, so Neenie had to spend the whole day with the same woman. My sister would come home sobbing, because the teacher made fun of her, almost every single day. My parents went to see the principal, and I think I'm going to love that woman for my whole life because of what she did. She couldn't fire the teacher, because the pastor had the final say in those matters (don't get me started on him), but she told Neenie that she could come down to the office whenever she needed to, because the teacher was being mean, because another student was being mean, or just because Neenie was feeling down. So my parents did something about that. They don't seem too bad, do they?

Well, look at the other side of the story.

When Neenie was in fourth grade, I was in seventh. Now, I didn't have a teacher going after me, but I had most of my classmates on my back. Neenie has always exuded an aura of confidence (however much we both know she lacks it) that has made her a favorite among her classmates. I never had that. I was smart, geeky, and socially awkward from the ground up. I had been homeschooled until sixth grade, and I didn't have any idea how to interact with my peers until about eighth grade. I'm still kind of clueless. They teased me mercilessly because of this, and I came home crying almost as often as Neenie. My parents never did anything.

When I started to self-injure, I think it was kind of obvious. I'd show up in the morning in my pajamas--a tank top and pajama pants--with cuts criss-crossing my shoulders, but my mom took the cock-and-bull story about falling into bushes that I fed her for the longest time. She only ever did anything about it when my dad saw them, too.

My big brother thinks that she was afraid of making a mistake. Perhaps she was thinking that I was just clumsy and kept taking the same fall over and over, or maybe she was in denial. All that I know is that it made me feel even more alone.

But they did eventually get me help, and I got better.  I'm still better. You could almost say that I'm flourishing. Almost.

They got better, too. They helped me get through things, they did what they could to help me get better, and they were very, very gentle with me. For about five months.

Once those five months were up, though, I started seeming like I was okay again, the support and the gentleness and the care that they had been showing me faded slowly away, until they got to the point where they act like nothing is different from before. They have started, again, some of the behaviors that put me in the hospital in the first place. They yell at me for doing things wrong when I think I'm doing them right but I'm not because my parents have changed the rules again and forgot to tell me. They don't take what I do seriously. They tell me that I need to take time for myself, but get angry with me when I do. They make hurting, cutting remarks that undermine my self-esteem and confidence.

I have to deal with this sort of shit in my own home. And my friends wonder why I think so poorly of myself.

I never get out. I'm trapped in a house that isn't a home, with people who don't seem concerned about my welfare, and I'm dying to just leave. These are the reasons that I got the job at the theater in the first place, and why I'm so happy to be going. But there are reasons that I want to stay, too.

I'm a part of a wonderful youth group. I left St. Damian, the parish of my childhood, and the school where I spent three years learning, to go to a church twenty minutes from where I live, where my only connection is that it was the place my dad and his siblings went to school. Why did I do this, you ask? Because my three years at the school sucked. Because the pastor was a homophobe, and I couldn't sit through another damn sermon about how gays were bad and wrong and going to Hell because they didn't conform to the Bible. Because the place where I ended up had a group of loving, supporting people who let me be myself and stood by me through hell and high water. Because the sixty-something-year-old youth minister told one boy to get off another boy's lap because "that's so gay. Not that there's anything wrong with that."

They are wonderful human beings, the epitome of what the Catholic Church really should be, who take the real meaning of the word "catholic" to heart, and make it truly universal. I'm going to miss being a part of this group, all the friends I leave behind, the love and support they have given me, and the two hours of being open and honest and just having fun every week, and I know that they are going to miss me.

My social life has taken an upturn recently. Specifically, I actually got asked to prom by a friend of mine, and that's something that I never thought would happen. But this kid; he's a friend of mine, and I've sort of half-liked him ever since we met. He's cute and geeky, and he's one of the few guys I've met who are actually really nice (the total is, like, seven or something, and two of them are my blood brothers and another is like my little brother). I mean, I have quite a few guy friends, but most of them can be complete assholes sometimes.

But anyway, so there's this boy who has asked me to prom. Unfortunately for the both of us, I had to say no. No, I'm not doing anything the night of or whatever. I just really hate dances; I hate dancing and crowds and noise and really bad music, and that's pretty much the summary of a school dance. So we're currently treading those awkward waters frequented by two socially awkward people between a slight miscommunication (he thinks I was out-and-out rejecting him) and clearing it up, but hopefully this will work.

Except that I'm leaving soon, so God only knows where this will actually end up going.

Then there are my other friends. My best guy friend (and my "little brother") and I came up with this hilarious plan to build ourselves a little hut thing behind my house this summer, and it would have been so much fun to build it and paint it and hang out in it all summer before I left for college and he started classes (at a local community college) in the fall. Because I'm going away to work, that plan completely fell through.

This is just a little sample of what's going on. My friends and I had a bunch of plans (road trip, hanging out, swimming, and all sorts of other stuff) that won't happen now because I'm really only going to have ten days of summer break between my last day of school and when I leave to start work.

But the hardest part of leaving is definitely the fact that I don't get to take my little sister and my best friend with me.

These are two different people, but they can both share the same two roles. Neenie, my freshman (they make great pets), has been considered my best friend since sophomore year. I don't know how it happened, other than gradually, but suddenly we were super close and loving each other and still a little teasing but in a nice way now and sharing interests and all sorts of things, sort of like what happened with me and my big brother, Chris, but fortunately before my senior year. Emma Lee, my lovely co-host on our recently-conceived podcast (shameless!plug is shameless), has been my best friend since the first day we met in 2008. We are similar enough for it to be awesome and kind of freaky, but different enough that we fill in the gaps in the other's character. When a lot of people think about soulmates, they picture the perfect couple. Emma and I aren't in a romantic relationship--we never will be and the thought is pretty weird. We are soulmates, though, completing each other, best friends for forever and a day, and we know we'll make it through hard times because we have done before.

I'm going to miss these two desperately. Even though I don't get to see Emma every day like I do Neenie, it's still going to be hard being so much farther away from her. Nothing will change in our relationships because we are four hours apart, I know that, but it still hurts to leave.

So, when the day comes to go, I'm going to leave with mingled joy and sadness, because sometimes good-bye is a second chance, but the hardest part of this is leaving you.

What Friends Are For

If you’ve read my entire blog, you should know what happened last year.  I wrote about it in my YASaves post.  For those of you who don’t remember, just got here, and/or are too lazy to go and read that, let me explain.

…No, that will take too long.  Let me sum up:

Depression runs in my family.  It’s a genetic thing.  In addition to the unfortunately high risk for depression that I was born with, when I was ten, something traumatic happened (I’m not going to get into that just now; it deserves a post of its own.).  Not a year later, I was tossed into the maelstrom that is sixth grade with no prior experience dealing with my so-called peers, and that was hellish.  Things got better through junior high, and, when I started high school, I thought things were going to be okay.  They weren’t.  Through fuckwittery, bullshit, lying, and way too much estrogen for anyone’s good, I was deeply wounded and lost almost all my friends.  More than a year later, my mom finally managed to wrestle her head out of her ass and I was hospitalized for self-injury.

I’m proud to say that in I have been safe for one year, three months, and twenty-three days.  Life is still hard, and things still hurt, yet I’ve not once slipped on the long road to recovery.

Today, though, I almost did.

Tomorrow, it will have been one year since Elisabeth Sladen left us forever.  This morning, my Psych teacher played a very sad documentary called Boy, Interrupted, the true story of a boy with bipolar disorder who committed suicide at fifteen.  My mom has been cracking down hard on me.  I don’t know whether or not I’m going to get a job up at my college over the summer, and it’s starting to stress me out.

All these elements combined to make a really shitty day.

I got the frightening, sickening empty feeling that has a long history of leading to doing things I later regret.  It is an emptiness so fierce and intense that it aches.  It physically hurts, and it is one of the few pains that I cannot bear.

As I left my school’s library, where I spend my study halls, to go to my last class of the day, I was in the worst state I had been in for months.  I walked along the hallway, and met a very close friend of mine, as always happens.  Like usual, he gave me a hug—the kid has to be the most physically affectionate guy I’ve ever met.  I meet him on the opposite end of the school from my class, and I have to wade through freshmen to get to where I need to go, so I normally keep that particular hallway encounter relatively short.  Today, I let myself cling.  My friend realized something was wrong, so he set his books down and embraced me fully.

Just a moment of his affection, the reminder of his love for me, was enough to make the emptiness inside me go away.  Letting my friend hold me up, just for one moment, gave me the strength to get keep going.  I made it through the school day.  I worked on the set for my school’s play.  I walked home.  I’m still safe.

There are some times when I look at my friends, with all their idiocy and problems and the necessity for me to be the adult, even when I’m the youngest, and I wonder why I bother.  I wonder how much easier it would be if I didn’t have to deal with their hangovers and family troubles and school absences and dropping grades and the knowledge that I can fix at least some of these things and the worry about the ones I can’t fix.  Then I have days like today, when I’m feeling broken and lost, and all it takes is a hug from a friend to feel better.

Maybe they can’t help me as much as I can help them, but the help they can give is damn important.

And that’s what friends are for.

Twilight, Chapter 5

We should make this more interesting. How, though? Hm…

Oo! I got it! Naked blogging!

…You aren’t allowed to be naked! I get to be!

On second thought, how about not?

Chapter 5: Blood Type

Unpopular Opinion Time

I’m going to do something I don’t normally, and give this a preface.  Why?  Because I don’t want my head bit off, and I know that’s what can happen if someone with a strong opinion reads this.  I’m probably going to anyway.  But the preface:

My opinion on contraception is that…I don’t have one.  If you want to use it, that’s fine.  If you don’t, that’s also fine.  I have no need of an opinion on this matter, and don’t foresee one for a good long time.  The issue of contraception is something that should be decided between partners, not in Congress.

That being said, I’m getting fed up with the hullabaloo around the contraception issue.  No, a bunch of old, white men should not have the final say in women’s health.  No, women going to get abortions¹ should have to have wands stuck in their privates, just because.  Yes, women who want contraception should have access to it.

Note my last statement, especially the bit about women who want it.  The picture that has been painted of the Catholic Church during this whole thing is unflattering: it’s a huge, mammoth beast who gives no craps about women and their health.  It’s unreasonable and demanding and misogynistic.  It wants what it wants, and it’s not going to take no for an answer.

Okay, again with the backing up.  Yes, the Church wants what it wants, but d’you know what it wants?  It wants its rights as laid out by the First Amendment.  It wants freedom to practice it’s religion peacefully, without other people horning in and telling it what it can and can’t do in relation to faith.

You know something that’s bothered me about this whole shebang?  You people protesting the Church’s protest have lost sight of something important.  You know how what they don’t want to do is to have to provide insurance covering contraception for employees of Catholic organizations?  You know how it makes sense that most people employed by Catholic organizations would be Catholic themselves?  Can you see what I’m getting at?

Chances are, the women whose rights you are defending² would not use the contraception in the first place.  Because of their beliefs.  Because they are Catholic women, making their own choice to follow their beliefs and not use contraception.  Would you want to take a wad of bills and flush it down the toilet?  Because that is basically what you are asking these companies to do.

Maybe you’re one of those who have been vocal about this, and you’re feeling attacked.  I’m sorry; that was not my intent.  Maybe you never thought about it this way, and need time for contemplation.  Take all the time you need.  Maybe you’re unswayed, and still think that Catholic organizations should provide the insurance.  Okay, you do that.  I just feel like, good as your intentions may be, the women who this would actually affect should be taken into consideration.

*shrugs* Just a thought.

¹I’m not getting into this.  I have an opinion, and well-thought-out arguments to defend myself with.  What I don’t have is the energy or patience to deal with the foot-stamping, whining, and childish “No, you’re wrong and I’m right and LALALALA I’M NOT LISTENING” that inevitably, in my experience, comes of this.

²Yes, I see that you’re defending them.  I thank you for the thought, and I’m sure they do, too.

In Which I Get Personal And Interpret a Song in a Way it Probably Wasn't Intended to Be

There is a song called “Jar of Hearts”, sung by Christina Perri.  It’s about a girl running from the hopeful return of someone she has been in an abusive relationship with before.  Looking at it, it would appear that the relationship was with a boy who has a history of abusing and abandoning people, and maybe that’s what the writer intended.  Maybe it is the story of a girl staying away from a boy, who has hurt her before, when he tries to come back.  But maybe it’s something more.

I heard this song on a bad day.  It wasn’t the first time I’d heard it, and it wasn’t the first time this idea occurred to me.  But this time, it was a source of strength against temptation.

No, I can’t take one more step towards you

‘Cause all that’s waiting is regret.

Don’t you know I’m not you ghost anymore?

You lost the love I loved the most.

In this, the first verse, there is a declaration of independence.  “I’m not going to accept you this time,” it says.  “I don’t love you anymore, I don’t need you anymore.  I’m walking away.  The only thing choosing you would give me is regret, and I don’t want that.”

I’ve learned to live half alive

And now you want me one more time.

This small couplet is accusatory.  “By the time you left,” it says, “I was half dead. And you’re thinking about coming back?”  The implied anger and indignation of this couplet can be easily felt.

And who do you think you are

Running ‘round leaving scars

Collecting your jar of hearts

And tearing love apart?

You’re gonna catch a cold

From the ice inside your soul

So don’t come back for me.

Who do you think you are?

The same indignation from the previous couplet is echoed in the refrain.  “Who are you to do all this?” it demands.  “Who are you to hurt so many people?”  It continues, “If you keep going like this, you’re going to end up cold and dead, and if you have me in your clutches then, I’m going to go down with you.  But I don’t want to, so keep away.”

I hear you’re asking all around

If I am anywhere to be found

But I have grown too strong

To ever fall back in your arms

The second verse again declares independence.  “I don’t need you,” it says again.  “You may be looking for me, you may be tempting me back to you, and yes, it would be easy to come back, but I’m strong now.  I won’t take the easy way out, especially because I know what it will do to me in the long run.”

The couplet and the refrain are repeated.

And it took so long just to feel all right

Remember how to put back the light in my eyes

I wish I had missed the first time that we kissed

‘Cause you broke all your promises

And you’re back

You don’t get to get me back.

The bridge is perhaps my favorite part of the song.  It admits weakness, the struggle to regain control, and expresses the wish that it had never happened.  “You promised me things,” it says.  “You promised me relief and hope and happiness, and you didn’t give me any of that.  You made me hurt.  You can apologize and smile and look pretty all you want, but I’m standing firm, and you are not getting me back.  I refuse to surrender to you again.”

As the refrain repeats twice more, I wonder at the hearts that have been collected.  In my interpretation of the song, what is doing the hurting and collecting is not someone who moves from person to person, snagging their hearts on the way past, but a self-destructive tendency.  So do these hearts represent everyone who has participated in this tendency?

I rather think not.  The song can be sung by everyone who has hurt themselves intentionally, but the hearts do not refer to the others who have done so.  The hearts represent all the people who are touched by one person’s self-destructive acts.  So many things are hurt by this action; trusts are broken, relationships are damaged, people are wracked by guilt, wondering what they could have done to stop this.

So many of us do this, thinking that we are only hurting ourselves, that this is okay, because at least we’re not taking it out on other people, and besides, we’re not really worth as much anyway, are we?  I tend to think that maybe, the people who think like that would stop when they realize how much else they’re hurting.  I know I did.

As I lay here, under my warm, toasty covers, at quarter after three in the morning, typing despite the fact that I know I need to get up in two and a half hours, I look back at what I wrote and realize that, no matter what this song is really talking about, no matter how you interpret it, it has a message it’s shouting loud and clear, and that message is, “I don’t need you anymore.”

“I don’t need you anymore.”  It’s a thought I myself often express, in the usual arrogant, pigheaded manner of teenagers everywhere.  Of course I don’t need older, wiser people.  I know everything, and I know it way better than they do!  A lot of the time, that arrogance and pigheadedness is undeserved, unwarranted, and I do need these older, smarter, wiser people.  But sometimes, it’s not.  Sometimes, I really don’t need what these people and things are giving me.  I don’t need my aunt’s opinion on being “weird” and what will come of that.  I don’t need my mother’s lectures on tolerating other people’s stupidity.  I don’t need my father’s angry glares every time I make the slightest mistake.

I don’t need the silver flash of a knife and the scarlet drip of blood to make me feel okay.  Not anymore.  I am stronger than the pull of this, I have walked away from it once, and I can damn well stay away.  I’d like to think that I never needed it, but now I know I don’t.  So you can bloody well stop tempting me, because really, who do you think you are?

Twilight, Chapter 4

So, who’s been waiting for this?

*crickets*

Yeah, I thought so.

Onward anyway…

Chapter 4: Invitations

Twilight, Chapter 3

So I watched two episodes of Sherlock.  I wanted to watch the next one, but there was dinner and so there will be chores and taking Neenie to the store (I don't even know okay) and watching Criminal Minds and the things are an hour and a half, for god's sake, so it just wasn't happening.

On the other hand, I can bring Twilight to school.  I'm not happy about it, but it's probably the only way this shit's getting done in a timely fashion.  And I do not want it hanging over my head until I go away to college.  Hopefully, there aren't 192 more chapters left in the whole shabang (yes, I'm counting down until I leave.  Already.  Judge me, why don't you) and I can get this done relatively soon.

In all honesty, though, I'm much more interested in the dried blood on the side of my hand than doing this.  But whatever.

So enough with the preface:

Chapter 3: Phenomenon

Twilight, Chapter 2

Are you ready for this?

…you sadist bastards.

Chapter 2: Open Book

I Just Remembered Something Sad....

It's been a year to the day.  The thought is making me want to cry again, want to mourn the disaster that was 2011.

What disaster? some of you are probably thinking.  2011 was great!  Well, my lovelies, I've got one word for you: Borders.  The closing of this great store in and of itself would make the whole year a debacle, even without the addition of two deaths.

Yes, I realize that people are taken from us daily.  Yeah, some of you may have lost people very close to you.  No, I'm not an unfeeling bitch, I'm just very, very sad right now, and have decided to take care of myself for the moment.  (Do you see this, Mom?  Are you proud?  Or am I being "selfish" again?)

The later death (I seem to be going about this backwards...): Elisabeth Sladen, the wonderful woman who played Sarah Jane Smith on Doctor Who and The Sarah Jane Adventures, was my hero and role model.  When I learned that she had passed away, I spent the weekend watching everything with her in it that I could get my hands on.  I wanted to do something, make it so that I'd never forget her.  I could change what people called me again. It had been so easy to switch from "Sarah" to "Cat", I could do it again, and in a way that would honor her.  Any form of "Elisabeth" was out of the question.  That's nowhere in my name.  I could be "Sarah" again, like she was to the Doctor, but I wanted a little more.  Why not use my middle nae as well?  Then I could be "Sarah Kate."  And so I am.

On to the earlier death, and the point of this post.  One year ago today was the death of the author Brian Jacques.  He was a man whose name I have known for about as long as I have been able to read.  He was the author of my favorite books, the inspiration for my childhood games, the means of bonding between myself and my cousin.  He is the reason I've gotten as far as I have, almost reached adulthood, still alive and breathing, and not six feet under by my own hand.

You'll often hear me say that one of the highest compliments I've ever been paid was when my friend Morgan said that I remind her of J.K. Rowling (yes, I realize she's not the best author in the world, bad writing style and whatever, but I don't think you comprehend the enormity of the fucks I do not give.  The woman's a genius).  If you come on me at the right time (though how you'd have managed it, I shudder to think.  Creep) you'll see me stare at the shelf in my school library that contains all the Tamora Pierce books and hear me murmur, "I want to be just like her someday."

But before I was reading Harry Potter, before I'd even heard of Tortall, I had practically devoured Redwall, Mossflower, Martin the Warrior, Mattimeo, and so many others.  I'd seen this world created by a single man, this woodland and this abbey and this ancient volcano and the rivers and streams and oceans and all the creatures inhabiting each, I'd seen them and read of them and learned about them and thought, "I want to do this someday.  I want to be just like him."  I wanted to write, to show everyone a culture I had created, me, just me, and to give the future kids who'd be in my shoes the joy I'd experienced at the other end of this man's pen.

He taught me so much without even knowing it.  He taught me how to paint a picture with words, how to develop characters, how to make backstories interesting, the beautiful use of character death, how to create aspects of a story, but keep them casually off to the side, because, really they're not that important but you should know about them oh wait that actually had a lot to do with the story so glad he mentioned it.  He taught me what it means to be someone a kid can look up to.  He was the type of person you could idolize, and dream up to be so awesome and wonderful, and when you met him, was really was that awesome and wonderful, and he was kind and interesting and cheerful and funny, too.  He was the kind of role model who you could meet, the exception that proves the rule that declares that you should never meet your heroes.

His books are young adult books.  They can be found in the children's section at Barnes&Noble.  They're aimed at ten- to thirteen-year-olds.  And yet, Here I am, 81 days from becoming "an adult in the eyes of the law" and I'm still rereading them, still finding new and wonderful things.

So, all this just to say something simple:  Here's to you, Mr. Jacques, thank you, rest in peace, and I hope you don't mind if I cry occasionally.

The Adventures of the Whovian Shelf: NO

BAD IDEA

The Adventures of the Whovian Shelf: Are You Sure He Said 'Pirate'?

"It's 'Yo ho ho,' not 'Yo yo yo!'"

The Adventures of the Whovian Shelf: So THAT's What You Meant

Two horse power, or 150 horsepower?

The Adventures of the Whovian Shelf: The One on the Mantlepiece?

"ALL THE SKULL JOHN.  I ACCIDENTALLY ALL THE SKULL."

The line belongs to angrybeige.  She wins all the things.

The Adventures of the Whovian Shelf: Revenge

Nine and Ten did eventually discover the switch.  Revenge was subtle.

The Adventures of the Whovian Shelf: Pants

Eight learned that the hiring of midget ninjas greatly enhances pranks