victormakesart (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
victormakesart) wrote2006-08-03 08:41 am
victormakesart) wrote2006-08-03 08:41 am
(no subject)
What follows is the Insecure Rantings of a Teenage Girl followed by some lighter stuff because I felt guilty about being upset for God-knows-why. :D Enjoy. Or not. You know, I bet no one'll read it. I'm screaming into a void. Here goes. Deep breath.
My mom's giving me deadlines to read a certain amount of pages per day. That wouldn't be so difficult if the books weren't so violent. Normally, when I read violent books I can read them at my own pace. The way I've always thought of it is that there's a box in my mind that I can lock details away and let them diffuse. That way I can avoid the gruesome parts, and absorb the facts. But the quota I have means I have to read it too fast and I get caught up in the details. Each individual way that a bone can shatter. The angles, the motions, the breaking strain. And it lists itself. And my head hurts. And it hurts to breathe. Get me 10 CCs of frivolous poetry, stat!
A guy friend of mine called. His greeting was, "****ing psycho." I won't deal with the word because it isn't right-proper. There are a few things wrong with what he said. Number one, Joey picked up the phone. Two, I understand that my hold on sanity is precarious at best, but I don't exhibit psychotic tendencies. Three, it isn't nice to say things that make me lose the people-words. It isn't playing fair.
I also don't like it when he says vulgar things and then delights in the fact that he can tell that I'm blushing over the telephone.
NO MORE SAD.
People made of grass duck through my imagination. Dried and brown and green and flexible. Old and young. Their eyes are black and gold and their teeth are little and sharp like needles.
Stripes, plaid or spots? A mix of those is fun.
If I'm awake, without fail, I'm hungry around 2 a.m. Never during the day.
Birthday hats are odd-strange looking.
My mom's giving me deadlines to read a certain amount of pages per day. That wouldn't be so difficult if the books weren't so violent. Normally, when I read violent books I can read them at my own pace. The way I've always thought of it is that there's a box in my mind that I can lock details away and let them diffuse. That way I can avoid the gruesome parts, and absorb the facts. But the quota I have means I have to read it too fast and I get caught up in the details. Each individual way that a bone can shatter. The angles, the motions, the breaking strain. And it lists itself. And my head hurts. And it hurts to breathe. Get me 10 CCs of frivolous poetry, stat!
A guy friend of mine called. His greeting was, "****ing psycho." I won't deal with the word because it isn't right-proper. There are a few things wrong with what he said. Number one, Joey picked up the phone. Two, I understand that my hold on sanity is precarious at best, but I don't exhibit psychotic tendencies. Three, it isn't nice to say things that make me lose the people-words. It isn't playing fair.
I also don't like it when he says vulgar things and then delights in the fact that he can tell that I'm blushing over the telephone.
NO MORE SAD.
People made of grass duck through my imagination. Dried and brown and green and flexible. Old and young. Their eyes are black and gold and their teeth are little and sharp like needles.
Stripes, plaid or spots? A mix of those is fun.
If I'm awake, without fail, I'm hungry around 2 a.m. Never during the day.
Birthday hats are odd-strange looking.