The Days I Hate

Struggling with depression, I have bad days and good days. I have horrible days, and I have great days. It's easy to see how I would love the good days and hate the bad days. And I do.

But the days I hate the most are not the bad days.

The days I hate the most are not the days I struggle to keep from crying almost every second. The days I hate the most are not the days when I have to ration my energy from the moment I get out of bed so I can make it to the point where I can go back to bed. The days I hate to most are not the days when I cannot stand to be touched. They are not the days when I can hardly move. They are not the days where everything pisses me off. They are not the days when mindless frustration and rage boils so close to the surface where anything can send me into a screaming frenzy.

No, the days I hate the most start with a smile. The days I hate the most start with confidence and strength and responsibility. The days I hate the most are the ones that last long enough to let me fall.

It always hurts more to fall from a great height than to sit at the bottom of a hole.

The worst days are the days when I can stand up straight for most of the time, but sag before the day is over. The days I hate the most are the days when my pills work, but wear off.

And I know why.

Shakespeare said that 'tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all, but Shakespeare clearly wasn't depressed. Because having a good day, and then losing it before the day is over just makes the fight feel futile. Having a day when the pills wear off is just a reminder that it's the pills that make everything okay. Having a day when the pills wear off just makes obvious the reason I didn't want the pills to begin with.

I remember being fifteen and talking with a man for half an hour, and then having the man telling me that I'd be better off receiving extra serotonin from an outside source. I've been saying that for over a year, I said to myself. I wasn't a hypochondriac; just a very self-aware fourteen-year-old. So what made this man's opinion, this man who had known me for half an hour, more valid than my own? Why was it that I got help when someone else said I needed it, and not when I did?

I thought for a few minutes about refusing the pills. I sat in silence as I considered what it would mean. It would mean an end to the slight independence I had treasured and nurtured for the past five years. It would mean that the attempt to make myself self-sufficient had failed. It would mean that my effort to help my parents by making one less worry for them had backfired, and now I was an even bigger worry. But most of all, it meant that I didn't have control.

I accepted the pills because maybe the monthly drain on their wallets would make my parents pay a little more attention to me. Maybe this concrete proof positive that their middle child wasn't unaffected by the break in the family would push them towards healing. But no, the pills were accepted as the cure, and the illusion of being okay was accepted in place of actually being okay, because it was easier. And my fragile illusion of control was shattered.

I needed that control. I still need it. In a world where so many things are beyond my control, having control over my body gave me a comforting illusion of safety and security. That's why I can't give up my control. Giving someone else control over my body is the ultimate form of trust for me, and it hurts bitterly when that trust is betrayed.

Daily, I entrust my wellbeing, my brain chemistry, my most essential self, to little blue pills, and every time they fail, that trust is shattered, and I am that much farther from trusting anyone else that completely. But I have to go through the possibility of being betrayed every day, because it's better for the rest of the people in my life if I can never fully trust anyone than if I spend days on end in bed, too lethargic to move.

And people wonder why I don't get close to anyone.

The Care and Keeping of Kitty

This is something that I need everyone who knows me to understand. Not just see. Not just hear. Understand and accept. And I really do mean everyone. Every single person, from my boss to the person to whom I talk in class, from my best friend to a passing acquaintance, this is a thing you need to know, and I really don’t think anyone has gotten it yet.

Having me sit down and watch other people work and then telling me not to worry about it is like sticking an alcoholic in a wine cellar and telling them not to drink.

It will not happen.

If you are desperate for me to be okay with it, you have to say something like this: “I want to do it." “I like doing this sort of thing." You can NOT say: “Don’t trouble yourself." “You’re fine, just stay there." or anything else related to that.

You have to make it, at least in my eyes, about your comfort, not mine. If, in reality, you want what’s best for my physical health and peace of mind, make favors to me about you.

Growing up, I was taught that putting myself in any place other than last is selfish, and that there is nothing worse than being selfish. I was not taught—did not learn—that if I don’t take care of myself, no one will, until I was fifteen, and by then, the habit of putting myself behind everyone else was so ingrained, that I’m still trying to break it, and I still feel guilty as all get out when I put myself ahead of anyone else, even when I know that I need it.

This is why talking about my problems is so hard for me. This is why I can’t call people at three in the morning when I’m crying too hard to sleep, even though I have to work in five hours. This is why I always surrender in conversations when others interrupt me. This is why I always volunteer for the shit jobs, why I always pick up the extra shifts, no matter how tired I am, no matter how much I just want to rest.

I don’t actually think it, but my subconscious whispers to me: “You aren’t as good as they are. You aren’t as important. Let them sleep. Let them talk. Let them rest. You don’t matter." I try to fight back, I try to speak up and speak out and make myself heard, but I have been conditioned my whole life to think this way, and it’s only been a year since I left the constant presence of people who still (despite knowing what it does to me) force this bullshit down my throat.

So, in the end, friends of mine, what I’m saying is that I need you to take care of me sometimes. I’m trying hard to kick this thing in the teeth, but I really do need your help, and it’s so fucking hard to ask for it because, get this, it makes me feel guilty and selfish. ("You should be able to do this yourself. You’re not strong enough. Why should you expect them to help you when they have their own problems?")

Most of all, though, I need your reassurance. The occasional, unwarranted “I love you," or “You’re adorable," no matter what my mood is like before or after, never goes unnoticed or unappreciated, and it makes all the difference the next time I must fight my demons.

Art Is Hard

My big brother graduated college this weekend. I'm going to miss him when he leaves for the west coast this fall, but that's not really the point of this post. Because the ceremony was yesterday afternoon, a good part of our family came to congratulate him. My parents, my sisters, my oldest brother, an aunt and an uncle, and both sets of grandparents.

We went out to dinner Saturday evening, and I got seated across from my maternal grandparents. Now, I love them to death; my grandpa was one of the first people to encourage my writing. He used to ask to see what I'd written between times we'd seen each other, and then read it aloud (I would ask him not to do, and then hide under the table in embarrassment when he did it anyway). Since my writing has kicked up a bit, and our visits aren't as frequent as they used to be, he's stopped asking to see it, and started asking about it. So, on Saturday, I decided to tell him--and, by extension, my grandma--about my Minecraft project.

I started by explaining Minecraft. Now, my grandparents aren't the most tech-savvy of people (and the Understatement of the Year Award goes to...), so I told them that it's basically a videogame version of LEGOs for adults. Once they knew what I could do with the game, I started telling them my plans; use Creative Mode, create a small community surrounded by a huge wall, create a huge world outside the wall, make a dissatisfied character, tell the story of how (s)he finds a way past the wall.

The idea is really to use Minecraft as the medium with which to tell my story, instead of words or pictures or words and pictures, to film it, and to post it on YouTube. When I told my grandparents this, my grandpa's first question was, "Will people pay to see it?"

I didn't really know how to respond. I mean, everything else aside, I'm pretty sure that that would be illegal. I may own a copy of the game, but Minecraft itself isn't mine; I'd have to get permission and pay royalties and all sorts of other ridiculous bullshit that I can't even pretend to understand.

But let's look at the aforementioned everything else that I put aside. I've been working on this project since January, and not once did I even consider the idea of charging for this. Yeah, if everything works out and the gods of fortune smile on me, I want to be a successful author when I graduate college. Much as I may joke about becoming rich and famous, though, that's never what it's been about for me. Writing, and every other type of art I do, has always been about the art itself. When I say that I want to be successful, that it would be lovely to be as beloved and as widely read as, say, J.K. Rowling or J.R.R. Tolkien, for instance, it wouldn't be lovely because of the money; I want to know that something that I have done, something that I have created, has touched people. I want to know that I have helped someone the way Brian Jacques helped me. I want to receive letters like ones that I myself have written, telling me that the stories I have told have given someone enough light to make it through the darkest times of their life. All in all, though, I just want to make art for art's sake.

Maybe I'm spoiled in that I'm surrounded, on the Internet, by people who see art as I do; not as a means to an end, but as the end in and of itself. Maybe it's that, being so surrounded by people with a passion for what they do, I've forgotten that there are people out there who simply don't care, who do their job because it's a job and it brings in money.

Or maybe it's because my grandfather isn't an artist, and so he doesn't really know how it works. He doesn't understand the blood and sweat and tears and heart-wrenching agony that go into creating art of any sort. He doesn't understand the passion necessary to keep at it, even when you're only getting quarters thrown at you for standing on a corner, reading your work. He's never felt the pounding of a story longing to be free, no matter what it takes, even if no one wants it. He's heard of these J.K.s Rowling and Stephanies Meyer (what now, Grammar Nazis!), and he thinks that it's just churn out a novel and get rich quick.

Maybe, if I could organize my thoughts while speaking, and not just when I'm at a keyboard, brain-vomiting onto the screen, I could have explained it to him. Maybe, if I weren't so afraid of offending him, I'd have been able to explain the concept of art for art's sake. Maybe, if I weren't so damned shy, I'd have quoted Amanda Palmer at him: "Stop pretending. Art is hard."

Remember

It is three in the morning, five days before I turn nineteen. I am so scared of the things I must do while nineteen. I must be up in six hours to be at the theatre in seven, but I cannot sleep. Instead, I remember.

I remember being tiny, playing frog in a pond-themed kids' area in a mall. I remember slipping, falling, lying on a bench, unable to breathe or remember how I got there.

I remember being little, having a friend, a "friend", and a stuck-up brat. I remember ignoring Barbies and Bratz in favor of creating worlds in chalk on my friend's giant drive-way. I remember learning my first swear word. I remember forgetting it a few days after, only to remember learning it the next time I heard it, years later. I remember the first time I gave up on another person. I remember being teased, though I don't remember for what, by my "friend" and the stuck-up brat I remember leaving without telling anyone, walking the half-block home, being missed immediately. I remember my mother scolding me for worrying the brat's mom, only to stop reprimanding and start hugging when I burst into tears. I remember telling her, being told, very gently, to ignore her and the brat would stop, but to never leave without telling anyone again. I remember being coddled for the rest of the week.

I remember being homeschooled through fifth grade. I remember the first—the only—"D" I got on a report card. I remember realizing that I wasn't as smart as my siblings. I remember knowing that it wasn't going to be as easy for me. I remember the disappointed look in my parents' eyes. I remember realizing that they thought I hadn't tried. I remember promising myself to work as hard as possible so I never had to see that look again.

I remember Friday afternoons that stopped when I was seven or eight. I remember my Daddy coming home for lunch. I remember wrestling in the family room and people sandwiches on a golden couch. I remember learning to ride a bike. I remember falling, crying, being cheered up, getting back up and trying again. I remember Daddy-and-Me Days and Mommy-and-Me Days. I remember one day every four months, going out with one of my parents, doing whatever I wanted. I remember Atlantis and the Rain Forest Café and riding my bike through forests. I remember being happy.

I remember my big brother, the oldest of the four of us. I remember Weird Al and "Stairway to Heaven" and secret stashes of chocolate in his desk. I remember being teased by the brother between us. I remember my biggest brother sticking up for me. I remember the neighborhood boys teasing me, just because I was a girl. I remember both my brothers sticking up for me. I remember being loved.

I remember second grade. I remember getting bitten by my friend's dog over the summer. I remember going to Oregon, a single stitch still in my knee, unable to wade in the ocean with my siblings. I remember waking up one early September morning, not understanding what was going on. I remember trying to comprehend what was happening. I remember being seven and not getting it. I remember the "friend" and the stuck-up brat moving, getting a new neighbor, making friends. I remember that spring, going to New York with my Daddy for my Communion trip. I remember driving past the ruins of the World Trade Center, not being allowed in the Statue of Liberty, roller skating in Central Park, turning down a play on Broadway. I remember going to Washington, D.C. afterwards, meeting the rest of my family. I remember learning to read that summer. I remember yelling it down the stairs to my Mommy. I remember, "That's nice. Go back to bed." I remember running to my big brothers' room, yelling that I read a book. I remember a noise of disinterest, and "You probably just memorized it." I remember being crushed. I remember my older friend moving away. I remember getting closer and closer to my new friend and my little sister.

I remember 2003. I remember learning that my mom was going to have a baby. I remember my brother upset about the due date; it was six days before his birthday. I remember an emergency C-section almost a month before the due date. I remember her umbilical cord was wrapped around her neck and could start choking her at any second. I remember being nine and not knowing what that meant and just being excited that we were having a baby! I remember my not-so-new-anymore friend being jealous but loving my baby sister to pieces.

I remember summer 2004. I remember drama camp. I remember acting in Annie. I remember a terrible night. I remember reading late and hearing shouting and my oldest brother's fist in the wall and him slamming the screen door as he ran away. I remember my mom crying and my dad shaking. I remember sitting with my other big brother and learning about what "drunk" meant. I remember being thirsty. I remember crossing the kitchen. I remember my oldest brother on the ground, handcuffed, shouting and swearing at the police. I remember my friend's dad coming to stay with us for the night. I remember Auntie taking over after that. I remember milkshakes that were supposed to make everything better. I remember the pact to keep this from the littlest two at all costs. I remember not being allowed to talk to "other people" about it. I remember translating that to "don't ever talk about this." I remember bottling everything up after that.

I remember starting regular school. I remember not knowing what to do. I remember not having a thick skin. I remember changing what I could so I would fit in better. I remember wearing skirts—even though I hated them—and pressuring my mom to let me start shaving—even though I didn't understand it—and starting to play sports—even though I didn't care about them. I remember still being teased for being the smartest, for actually reading when we were supposed to do, and even when we didn't have to do, but could if we wanted. I remember the best thing was the teachers. I remember wanting to get the hell out as soon as possible.

I remember my first crush. I remember not understanding it—why was I thinking about a woman like that? I remember being scared that something was wrong with me. I remember creating a fictitious crush and letting that leak so that no one learn how I was thinking about my teacher. I remember watching Tin Man and feeling the same way about the lead actress, Zooey Deschanel, and wondering what on God's green Earth was wrong with me. I remember hearing about "gay". I remember Googling it. I remember crying from relief.

I remember freshman year. I remember my brand new best friend on 22 April, 2008. I remember Doctor Who over the summer. I remember a hell of a car-pool and getting closer to my brother and the housing market crash and having to leave private school at the end of the year. I remember lying and keeping secrets. I remember leaning on my new show, praying with my wavering faith for a madman with a box to come rescue me. I remember my big brother leaving me.

I remember public school. I remember swim team and a determination not to make friends and a cold silence broken by a Doctor Who joke. I remember opening up to my team, finally telling someone about my sexuality, being accepted at face value.I remember coming out to my private school friends. I remember bullshit and fuckwittery and poor communication from everyone—including me. I remember everyone leaving me—or maybe it was me leaving everyone. I remember the fifteen minutes after every practice when we could just be stupid and laugh our asses off. I remember getting up every morning just for that. I remember my best friend coming back and the two of us wondering if we could ever again be what we were and healing our relationship and being stronger now than ever before and my promise never to go back. I remember becoming best friends with my little sister. I remember learning about my baby sister's mental health issues.

I remember my own mental health issues being identified. I remember being hurt and self-destructive. I remember my parents swallowing my lies. I remember when they finally didn't. I remember being promised that they had seen it before, that they just hadn't known what to do. I remember saying that it would have been so much better had they just called me on my bullshit in the beginning. I remember thinking that, at least then I wouldn't feel so goddamn invisible anymore. I remember starting to sort it with my parents' help. I remember not being able to talk to them. I remember they never made an effort to keep communication flowing. I remember, six months in, they figured I was okay and everything went back to "normal". I remember "Let's pretend this never happened." I remember going on without them. I remember having my friends to help.

I remember starting this blog. I remember longing to leave. I remember my first girlfriend. I remember why that didn't work. I remember my first boyfriend. I remember how much that didn't work. I remember getting my tattoo, my permanent reminder of love. I remember leaving. I remember leaving the hell my parents' house had become, but leaving my two best friends, too.

I remember finding my home. I remember making my new family. I remember the bliss of the summer, tainted only by what I didn't realize was an emotionally abusive relationship—though it was long distance. I remember refusing to put up with shit, even before I realized what it was. I remember breaking up with him in the worst fucking way possible. I remember starting moving into my dorm. I remember starting classes. I remember falling in love with my campus, with my professors—yeah, even the boring ones—with my social group, with my friends. I remember getting even closer to my big brother. I remember the first time my anxiety was accepted by an adult without need of proof or disappointment. I remember having problems and breakdowns and cry fests. I remember being happy anyway.

I remember my life tonight. I remember what I have done, what I have gone through and what I have gotten through. I remember that it could be worse. I remember that that's never much help. I remember all the scary things I still have to do. I remember my friends, my campus family, my big brother, my little sister, my best friend. I remember my own strength. I remember my strength when supported by all these people.

I remember that I can do anything.

Five days from nineteen, five days from the beginning of the year that will truly make me an adult, and I am not longer afraid. I store away the fear, though, and my subsequent vanquishment of it, for the next time I must remember.

Neverland

I don't want to grow up.

I don't mean that I wish to forever remain eighteen. Much as I love it here, I don't want to be in college forever. I do want to get older, gain experience, go on with my life, do things, learn things, meet people. I just don't want to grow up.

I don't want to lose the child-like joy I find in simple things. I don't ever want to feel like I can't play. I don't want to give in to the idea that, because I am a grown-up, I cannot play certain games, watch certain movies, or read certain books.

I don't want to grow up.

I want to read books all day, carefree. I want to play pretend games. I want to take my plastic, collapsible lightsaber and have a duel with my Big in the middle of campus. I want to be silly and stupid in ways that won't ruin my life. I want to play videogames and board games and watch Disney movies.

I want to remain a child.

Some days, I stop for a moment and I think about what I've done. Today, I worked in a theatre for four hours. I did my homework. I had a meeting about housing for next semester. I got my medication. I signed up for an Amazon selling account, so I can get rid of my textbooks. I made appointments for tests. I made a doctor's appointment. I have nothing but responsible. On days like those, I feel proud of myself. I have managed, so far, to stay afloat in a world that rejects people like me: the depressed, the socially anxious and backwards, the troubled, the lost. But, too, I feel disappointed. I look at my accomplishments, my adult-ness. and I'm sad, because, in all that responsibility, I haven't truly done a thing for myself. I haven't read, I haven't written, I haven't drawn, I haven't played.

On these days, I have grown up. I am not a child.

I don't want that. I accept that, to be totally independent of my parents for the rest pf my life, I have to be responsible. I have to make and keep appointments, work, take care of myself. I understand that I have to be an adult. But I want to be able to stay child-like, at the same time.

It's a matter of happiness. Children are happy with small accomplishments, with little things. Most children are easy to please: a little attention, a small gift, a short, silly story, and they are content. That is what I want. I want to remain easy to please. I want to keep my happiness at a nice day, a new book, a random hug from a friend.

And I want to be able to cry. I have been told that I am a rock, a source of strength for my friends. Much as I love that, I want it to be okay for me to break, to fall apart. I don't want always to have to hold myself together, until I am so fragile that the smallest touch will shatter me. I want the option of a good, therapeutic cry when I need it. I want be able to throw a fit, to punch pillows and break things, because it makes me feel better.

I want the option of being childish. I don't want that door closed to me. I promise to be responsible, to think and to do the right thing, but I want to be a child sometimes, too.

In the words of the good Doctor, there's no point in being grown up if you can't be childish sometimes.

These Scars Are Different

On my eighteenth birthday, almost a year ago now, I got my very first tattoo. My mother wasn't happy about it, but she didn't have to be; I was an adult by then, and I used my own money.

I had actually requested that it be a Christmas present the previous December--not the actual tattoo, I'd still pay for it, but the parental permission required to get a tattoo before I was an adult. Obviously, my parents said no, and, actually, the fact that they did kind of hurt.

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.



/;;;\

\;;;\

/;;;/

~;;;~

\;;;\

/;;;/

~;;;~

/;;;\

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>