My friend Patty is raising money to make her new album. You can listen to a demo of one of the singles above, and listen to more of her music on her Bandcamp page.
If she raises $1,250 dollars before the end of her campaign, so in the next seven days, she will get a Rebel Alliance lower-back tattoo. That’s right, a Star Wars tramp stamp. And she hates needles.
I personally need this to happen. If you have any money and are interested in supporting an independent musician who makes brilliant music, and also want to make the same independent musician get a ridiculous tattoo that she will be explaining was because of YOU for the rest of her life, please pitch in ten dollars to pre-order the album. I promise it’ll be groovy.
Only five hours left! Please think about donating if you haven’t!
you see the light I carry around, that glows from inside my chest, but haven’t yet noticed it only emanates from deep cracks, valleys and splinters and bullet holes.
i don’t know if you want to love a girl who’s had more time, who has acquired more scars, who will never be whole enough for someone like you.
i don’t want to scare you, but one day soon you’ll notice a crack or two, a shadow. i hope you are brave enough to avoid the temptation to caulk them, to remember that they let the light through, to remind me that i’m more than the voids that litter my skin.
i hope that the light will be bright enough for you to want to stay.
I was at the main stage concert last night at Vidcon, dancing along with my friends, enjoying the end of a lovely convention.
And then Timothy DeLaGhetto performed his parody of Call Me Maybe. The lyrics of the song detail stalking a woman, taking pictures of her ass without her consent, sending her pictures of his genitalia without her consent, and at the very least implies sexually assaulting her. DeLaGhetto literally sang the lines “But now you’re looking all scared / That makes me more horny” and then a couple of lines later says “Where you think you’re going BITCH?” In the music video for the song, the girl is tied to a chair while he sings “Now here’s my penis / so kiss it maybe.” I won’t include a link to the video here, as its triggering and grossly offensive, but it won’t be hard to find, if you need to see it for yourself.
I’m terrible at estimating the number of people in a crowd, but let’s just estimate that there were 2,000 people watching yesterday, not even including those who were watching it over a livestream or who will see it later on YouTube. When taking into account that probably about two-thirds of the audience was women, and one in four women will be sexually assaulted in their lifetimes, there could have been about 300 people in the room who got the same sinking feeling in their gut during his performance. Being triggered about past trauma is a serious issue, and when making the decision to perform this song, DeLaGhetto didn’t take into account that he was singing to those who have endured the harassment and assault he is mocking.
My friend has been engaging with DeLaGhetto on Twitter, and after being called out for the song’s performance and its rape implications, he has been extremely unapologetic, telling us that we “don’t reallyyyy listen.”
The thing is, we encounter toxic waste like this all the time. We hear boys talking about raping people when we log into Xbox Live; we see women sexually assaulted in movies and television to further the plot; we are catcalled on the street and told that we cannot take a compliment. There are very few safe spaces left. However, I very much believe that Vidcon strives to be one of them, and can make this a reality.
DeLaGhetto said that he performed at last year’s VidCon, and hopes to be invited back in 2014 as well. I urge whoever makes these decisions at the convention to not invite him back, and to more carefully screen their performers. I also encountered a group of performers (Awkward Kids) who performed on the festival stage and used the word “gaytard,” slut shamed in their set, said the phrase “you’re pregnant, deal with it”, and actively mocked diabetes. People have the right to write songs about whatever they want, but Vidcon should not give these people attention, and become a positive place where people can feel safe.
(I’m tagging some the urls of some women who were running the lovely Women on Youtube panel as well, in hopes that someone who has more exposure in the community could get this seen more widely, and possibly prompt some change.)
We were waiting in line to go on a water slide when he first told me he wanted to marry me. We’d been in the water for hours, wrinkly like we’d been together for sixty-five years. His eyes were wide as my bikini clung to my skin, like he hadn’t seen me in much less before, when he said those words: “I’m going to marry you someday.”
I wanted to run away so fast that the lifeguard blew his whistle. We were only seventeen. That’s not the kind of thing you can say to a girl who loves you. That’s not the kind of thing that can be put back.
I smiled, but I’m not sure it made its way to my eyes. I didn’t want to go on the slide anymore. My stomach was already flopping around in my abdomen.
As you can see, for my post today, I wrote a little play. I didn’t know how else to post it except in screenshots. If you’re interested, the read more link below will whisk you away to the rest of it. (It’s really short, promise.)
A cross hangs on the wall, right between the line of blow-up Letter People and a bulletin board full of finger paintings. A man hangs there, blood blowing from his hands, caked into his hair. I’m surprised the same people who banned books in the library asked for this to be hung here. It could be traumatizing for a kindergartner, but we’ve all grown up around bodies like these, and no one bothers to look for too long. It watches us as we play, as we learn to share and count to one hundred. It follows us as we age, as we learn algebra, physics, The Great Gatsby, until we are old enough to hang one for ourselves, until we are the ones showing corpses to kindergartners and saying they are beautiful.
You always loved the stars. The night we fell in love, You wooed my by naming those pinpricks in the sky, Pointing out pictures of warriors and animals and lovers. Your eyes were so excited and you looked so happy, I pretended I could see them too.
I had a mental breakdown while working retail today. My insides crashed like timpani drums, my fingernails dug into the counter. I couldn’t count change to save my life. But outside, I was smiling, telling people, “I’m good; how are you?” My smile barely faltered. Maybe that’s strength, or maybe it’s cowardly to exude that much insincerity. I’m not sure.
I want to know what would have happened if I’d told one of them how I was really feeling. I want to know what I would do, if confronted with the same situation. I like to think I would help in some way, but honestly, I’d probably just say I was sorry and leave them to drown.
You tell me that you’ve never been in love, not really, and I feel an overwhelming sadness for you that makes me want to take you into my arms and kiss you until you can’t breathe, to bring you to an Italian restaurant and refuse to let you pay the check, to write you poems and songs and letters. I want to make you fall in love with me, just so you could feel the warmth it brings. But that’s not fair to you. I’m not one you would want to love.
I think how easy it must be, to have never been in love, to not have little snippets of yourself scattered all over, and to not have little ghosts of others inside you. And it must be beautiful, to be waiting patiently to finally be swept off your feet, to fall in love correctly, in perfect form.
But I couldn’t give up the feeling of intertwined hands, the blues and browns and greens of their eyes. They are a part of me now, as I am a part of them, and I know what it’s like to be in love.
Before I can stop myself, I lean forward and kiss you.
It takes about three and a half hours to get to Chicago by car, if traffic is good and you can manage to avoid too many stops. I had planned on us getting there around 6:30 after adding in some cushion, and had even made a dinner reservation.
However, I soon realized: Dee was a stopper, and I wasn’t very good at saying no to her.
In the first hundred miles, we’d somehow managed to stop four times. At a Lion’s Den Adult Superstore, not because she was in the market for anything they sold, but to laugh at the terrible porno titles and the silicone dicks, and ending up feeling a bit morose for the rag tag men we met there. At two gas stations to use the rest room and buy soft drinks, where we also ended up picking up gummy worms and novelty lighters and four packs of playing cards. And at a mom and pop style diner, simply because they had a billboard on the side of the highway saying that they had the World’s Greatest Coconut Cream Pie, and she insisted we needed to try it. (Although I doubt it was the World’s Greatest, I’ll admit, it was pretty good.)
Needless to say, we weren’t making very good time.
Dee sat beside me in the passenger seat, her knees up against her chest, hands fiddling with the radio. She had to keep doing this pretty consistently, as we kept losing the signals as we moved forward, and she was fairly picky. At the moment, she seemed to have found a station that played entirely 80’s hair metal. She turned and stuck out her tongue at me and screwed up her eyes, then danced around in her seat, somehow making it look natural, her long curly hair whipping around her face as though caught in the wind. I laughed good-naturedly, bobbing my head as best I could while driving.
It was all a bit awkward, because I didn’t even know Dee that well. I had a crush on her, but in the way that you like people you barely know, in an afar, a-little-creepy sort of way. They do cute things, they have nice faces, but you don’t know enough about them to be sure whether you’d have real feelings or compatibility.
We’d been in a few classes together, and had finally gotten partnered up for a project, which had allowed me to get her number, which had allowed me to begin texting her. We’d just been texting about little things, and somehow I let slip that I’d never had Chicago-style pizza. Before I knew it, I’d somehow agreed to a road trip to procure some the next day. I was having a nice time, but if we didn’t hurry, we’d miss our reservation at the pizza place, which was the whole reason we were going, and who knew if we’d be able to get another one.
“A scenic overlook!” Dee yelled in excitement, pointing out the window at a sign that said that one was coming up in two miles.
“Dee…,” I said, trying to keep annoyance out of my tone, but she must have heard it, because she wilted, just a bit. I felt bad. I was all for adventures, I really was, but it was almost seven already.
“I know, I know. Just one more. Promise,” she said, giving me that pouty lip that girls always do. “I love the crap out of these things.”
I knew I should have kept going, but I found myself saying, “Okay, we’ll pull off quick.”
She grinned at me, extending a hand to squeeze my shoulder. It was a bit of an odd gesture, and I wasn’t sure what she meant by it, but it made me grin back with a sincerity I wasn’t expecting. I saw the light that I’d brought to her eyes, and though it was stupid, I realized that I would do pretty much anything I could to put it there.
We got off at the exit, stretching as we got out of the car, even though really, it hadn’t been too long since we’d gotten out. She started walking in the direction of the scene we were supposed to be overlooking, and when I didn’t follow her for a second, she reached out like she was going to grab my hand, but then balked, like she realized that this wasn’t acceptable, that the intimacy wasn’t there. There was a pause, and in it, I wished she had just grabbed it. “Come on,” she said, grabbing my shirt sleeve, and pulled me on.
The view wasn’t much to look at, which I’d been expecting. We were just in Illinois, after all. There were some trees and a lake, and it was nice, but it would never find a picture on a postcard or anything. I glanced over at Dee, expecting to see indifference, but found only awe. “It’s beautiful,” she said, her jaw a little slack.
I wasn’t sure what she saw, but it was obviously different from what I did. I tried inching closer to her, to see if the angle changed anything, but it was the same. “Why do you like these things so much, Dee?”
She looked at me, seeming to ponder this. “They’re a break in the monotony, I guess. From the pavement and the yellow lines and all the stupid drivers. They’re a chance to breathe? To step out.” She paused. “The stops are the most interesting part of the journey, anyway. They’re what you tell everyone about. They’re what make stories.”
I instantly regretted being annoyed with her about stopping, if it meant so much to her, and I realized she was right about our little detours. The important part of today had been laughing over coconut cream pie, holding up ridiculously sized phalluses, competing over who could eat the most gummy worms in two minutes. I hadn’t tried the pizza yet, but I knew it wouldn’t compare, wasn’t what I would remember.
We stood for a few minutes, and I stared at the view, really looked at it. I saw the way the leaves on the trees were budding, the light that reflected off the lake, the ducks swimming around in its water. I like to think that, after I stared at it for a few minutes, I saw a fragment of what she was seeing, a sliver of the beauty. I looked over at her, seeing the tranquility of her face, the way that the setting sun added pink smudges to her dark eyes. “Thank you for making me stop,” I said to her, meaning it sincerely.
And before I knew it, her hand was slipping into mine.
I never believed in ghosts until I met him, until he showed me the way the pantry door opened by itself, the orbs he insisted I’d missed because I’d chosen the wrong moment to blink.
I suppose I didn’t believe in them, but I humored him, and that’s almost the same thing.
If he thought there was a spirit about, he would call out, asking its name like an old friend. I would kiss him, closing his lips, because I didn’t want to know if they would answer.
Ghosts float around, trying to make an impact on the natural world but always coming up short. They strive to be noticed, to be heard, by someone, anyone. They are shadows of their former selves, not realizing that their state of matter ever changed.
I realized he was so fascinated with ghosts because he was one of them.
This March, I’ve decided to post a new piece of writing here every day. I’ve been wanting to do something like this for a long time, and I’m excited to be sharing more writing with you lovely people!
My wonderful and talented friends Nadia and Patty are joining me in this endeavor as well, and you should check out their blogs. And if you’re feeling up to the challenge and want to participate, send me an ask and let me know! Let’s be friends!
A thousand layers come between us, And no matter how many hours I spend peeling them off, You’re always bundled up again in the morning.
You tell me you need retouching, Blurring yourself so profoundly That I don’t always recognize you in a crowd. Your saturation is high, beaming reds and yellows, Your curves to die for, But you can’t see it, even when it’s magnified.
I wish I could erase your background, Render you a new one where you’ve always been loved, Without the heaviness, one not confined to greyscale.
But all I can do is hold you while you shake, Bake you sugar cookies and let you dictate the Netflix queue, And hope that maybe I can add some hue for a while, Some pinks (#F52887) or greens (#57E964) for a change.
A thousand layers come between us, But when you shed them, You are radiant.
You are chocolate-covered espresso beans, And pages read by flashlight in the middle of the night. On some days, we’re Lucky Charms marshmallows, Bass beating in your chest cavity at a rock concert. But sometimes we’re the smell of wet paint, The feeling in your feet before you fall down the stairs, The interminable pod race in Phantom Menace. And that’s okay. You tell me that without drops, A roller coaster is just a track.
You grab my laptop, hold it behind your back, and say, ‘Kenzie, get off Tumblr; Let’s go outside.’
We are Holden Caulfield gallivanting around New York City, Scoffing, complaining that the lights are too bright. The blinking red hands shout at us, begging us to stop, But we run through the intersection as cars slam on their brakes, Our laughs grotesque and cold. Sometimes I wish we could just enjoy things Instead of mercilessly picking them apart.
We are the jump-kick of justice, Handcuffing criminals and kissing while police read them their rights. People assume that you’re the hero and I’m your trusty sidekick, But I know you see us as equals, partenaires dans le crime. I get tangled up in your cape, trying not to fall behind.
You keep me on my toes, caffeinated into the night.
(This poem is a response to the 20 Little Poetry Projects writing exercise. Although it does not contain all 20, many remain intact.)
Write some sort of film or musical or webseries or something with Patty.
Finish a draft of The Unfortunates. (Or, if you don’t want to, another novel, but not including a NaNo one.)
Make at least 40 graphics to post to Tumblr.
Start staying in touch with people better. Stop losing friends because you’re too shy.
Maintain one of the jars full of happy moments of 2013.
These are a little late because I was in Canada visiting friends, but here they are! I’m super serious about New Year’s Resolutions, and my ones from last year didn’t go so well, so I have high hopes for this one. Happy 2013 everyone!
I remember when Adeline was still here, when her house smelled of saltwater taffy and the leather of her riding saddle. Her hair, more raspberry blonde than strawberry, whipped through the wind as she stood at the top of the hill we loved to climb in mid-July, when it was covered in little blue flowers. We’d stay up there all day and fall asleep on a blanket in the dewy grass after reading Hemingway or Woolf by the light of a jar of fireflies.
Sometimes our hands would touch, or she’d kiss my cheek, or we’d lay almost overlapping looking at the stars. I realize now I lived for those times, for the flush on my cheeks before she moved away. I loved her before I knew what love was.
Of course, it’s easy to remember things through a beautiful haze that wasn’t there. I’ve blocked out the boys she’d sometimes bring up to the hill, the way she’d drag them into the forest and leave me to read alone. I’d forgotten the scars I saw when she wore a two-piece bathing suit, between when she uncrossed her arms from her stomach and when she made the plunge into the water.
I can even forget the towel bar, the yellow bruises on her neck that couldn’t quite be covered with makeup, the blue flowers I insisted on putting in her hands, if I drink enough cheap wine and am far enough away from that town, that hill, that night. I can forget that I never told her that I loved her, that maybe if she felt loved, she would have stayed.
I can sometimes forget, but I’ll never stop remembering.
It’s so cold outside that I can see my breath. I raise my face towards the sky, letting out all of the air in my lungs, pretending I’m a dragon or a chain smoker. I’ve been outside for probably a little over an hour. Maybe soon they’d let us inside, where I’d at least have some artificial light to keep me company.
I hear someone say “hey,” but assume it isn’t addressed to me until I feel a single finger tap my shoulder. It’s attached to a guy about my age, wearing a coat that practically devours him in its puffiness.
“Do you not have any gloves?” he asks, looking down at my hands, bundled up tightly in the ends of my sweatshirt sleeves.
I shake my head, and he unzips one of his jacket’s many pockets and tosses me a pair. I flash him a smile; he beams back.
“I’m Shelby,” I say. “I didn’t know we’d be outside.”
“Oh, you’re a newbie?” he asks, teasing. I nod. “Yeah, they always make us wait outside here. It’s probably masochistic that I keep coming back, but they have the best deals. Oh, and I’m Mark.”
“You come here every year?”
“Yeah, and usually hit up a couple of other places, too. I would go through hell for cheap electronics.” He sees the unpleasant look on my face. “What?”
“I hate Black Friday. I wouldn’t be here, but my mom got sick and begged me to get an Xbox for my brother.”
“Ah. Are you just here for the Xbox?”
I tell him I’m not; I’m probably getting an iPod for my mom too. He’s getting things in the same departments, but he says they’re on opposite ends of the store. He lays out a plan, sending me to the video games and him to the Apple products, to better the chances of getting what we came for.
The doors open, and I shoot up from the sidewalk. Once we’re inside, we part ways, quickly maneuvering through the crowd. I grab my Xbox and Mark’s Wii, and sprint away from the rack before I get trampled.
It takes me a while to locate him again in the throngs of people, all shoving elbows and angry shouts, but his coat is hard to miss, and we’re in and out within twenty minutes.
“Well that was relatively painless,” I say, and mean it.
“I’m glad your Black Friday experience wasn’t completely traumatic,” he says. “I have to get to another store, but….” He pulls a Sharpie from his pocket, takes my hand, and writes his number on my wrist. “Call me, okay? We can hang out somewhere that’s not twenty degrees or teeming with soccer moms.”
“Deal,” I say. He squeezes my hand—I didn’t realize he was still holding it—before turning around and walking to his car. I walk to mine as well, a spring in my step despite it being five a.m.
I love how honest you are in your writing. I can especially relate to feeling ashamed of not being sophisticated enough for others. I've struggled with that for a lot of my life. You seem like such a sincere and confident person. Hearing your experience is so encouraging, and I'd love to be Tumblr friends with you :)
Oh wow. This made my day, anon. Seriously, thank you. I’ve been feeling pretty insecure about my writing lately, and with NaNoWriMo, especially, I needed the push to know that someone is actually reading my words and enjoying them.
I’d love to be friends with you too! Come off anon, okay? :)
You absolutely MUST give Patty Pierzchala’s new EP a listen. The lyrics are phenomenal and the melodies will be in your head for weeks. (Seriously, I can vouch for that.) All five songs are only $1. Plus, supporting independent artists will give you good karma/indulgences/a happy feeling in your chest. What are you doing here? OFF WITH YOU! TO THE BANDCAMP PAGE!
Our fingertips are caked with powdered nacho cheese as we pile on sixth floor lobby’s couches, still wearing dresses from the ball. Too tired to keep dancing but too excited to sleep, we wait limbo, eating snacks and trying not to count the hours until we have to go home again. Exhausted witches and wizards trickle out of the elevators in various states of inebriation, and as they walk past, we ask, “Do you want some Doritos?” Some shrug us off, but most eagerly join our circle, and for a time, we pass around the bag, forgetting we’re strangers.
(Author’s Note: I wrote this about an experience I had at Leakycon, a Harry Potter convention that took place this year in Chicago. It’s for a flash-fiction contest for attendees of the convention. If you like it, you can go vote for it by clicking the heart here.)
UPDATE: This won the contest, and I received a Kindle for it! Eep!
The stakes are high for Pixar’s new movie Brave. After Cars 2 didn’t even make back its budget, another lackluster film could mean disaster, and would certainly start critics pondering whether the studio already hit its peak. Also, Brave features Pixar’s first female protagonist, and in a princess movie, no less. From the film’s marketing campaign, it’s obvious that Pixar is worried that it won’t be able to coax little boys, one of its largest demographics, out to see the film. So the questions are: first, is the film good? And even if it is, will it sell?
However, these questions aren’t easy to answer. Yes, I think Brave is very good. However negative reviews are already coming in, and everyone I went to the screening with seemed very lukewarm about it.
As I left the theater, I heard several people say that Brave “just doesn’t feel like a Pixar movie,” and I can agree to an extent. We don’t expect princesses, epic battles, and discussions of fate in Pixar movies; we expect to see talking toys or animals or cars and to leave feeling like our heart just got a hug. This film is definitely out of Pixar’s comfort zone. It’s darker at points, and it doesn’t have the same the same fantastical feel. You would be served very well by going into Brave expecting it to deliver more Disney than Pixar.
However, there is still Pixar magic to be found. The animation breathtaking, especially on the landscapes and Merida’s hair. I’ve never seen an animated film as visually stunning. The soundtrack is beautiful, sprinkling well-timed vocal tracks into the score in the studio’s signature style. The quality of the writing is also definitely a credit to the studio; they’ve always created complex characters that we grow to love and care about, and they deliver again in Brave. Also, while the overall tone is more serious than we’re used to, the movie still has a lot of laughs. (Also, make sure you get to the theater on time, because of course there’s a short preceding the movie, and it’s adorable and stunning.)
As I think we all expected from the previews, Merida is a strong princess. Her story doesn’t revolve around her finding her Prince Charming; instead, she is actively against being thrown into a love story that she doesn’t have a hand in writing, which I found ridiculously refreshing. Merida is badass and strong-willed and quite endearing. However, I think my favorite thing about Merida is that she is flawed. She’s selfish, she’s immature, and she messes up. I’m sure many will dislike her for these reasons, but they are what made Merida resonate with me. She felt real.
The film also makes smart use of the Disney Princess archetype—it uses it enough to keep us comfortable and make us realize that we’re watching a Princess movie, but also manages to blow some of the dust off of it and make something new. This variety, as well as the movie’s abundance of action scenes and and Merida’s little triplet brothers, should keep little boys entertained.
Brave is not what you expect from a Pixar film, which will undoubtedly cause some to have a negative knee-jerk reaction. However, I urge you to resist comparing it to the studio’s other films, as they bear few similarities, and let it stand on its own. Pixar has gone out on a limb with this one, and I think it’s a steady one, if audiences give it a fair shot.
Girls, go see this with your moms. You’re going to want to give her a huge hug after the credits roll. Boys, just go see it. Hollywood thinks that you won’t see movies with girl leads. Prove them wrong.
When I saw the promotional stills and posters for Snow White and the Hunstman, I was cautiously optimistic. Given the recent trend towards strong female protagonists and princesses, I thought we were bound to get an awesome retelling of the fairy tale, with a sassy Snow White who kicks major ass. Unfortunately, this is far from the case; if you’re coming to Snow White and the Huntsman looking for an strong, empowered princess, you will be sorely disappointed.
This Snow White is no Mulan, Tangled's Rapunzel, or the Snow White on ABC's Once Upon a Time. She spends the vast majority of the movie running away from danger and being saved by besotted male characters. There are no fewer than four males who try to make a move on her after falling for her charms, but as a member of the audience, I wasn’t sure what these charms were supposed to be. Snow fights for herself a grand total of twice, and it is not until the last twenty or so minutes that Snow White does anything remotely badass, or wears the armor she’s shown in on the posters. We get more insight into the personalities of almost every other character than we do Snow White, as her actions and dialogue aren’t at all illustrative of her as a person. Without doing anything besides being the king’s daughter and being beautiful, she is hated by the queen and put on a pedestal as tall as Mt. Everest by everyone else we meet. In short, she’s a Mary Sue of epic proportions, and kind of a feminist nightmare.
Also, to what you’re probably wondering: Kristen Stewart is definitely passable in the role, and sometimes is even quite good. Her acting is several steps above anything she did in Twilight, and only managed to distract me a few times. (Also, I didn’t even notice a single case of lip biting, which is unprecedented.) Her British accent is patchy, but never noticeably laughable. Though she often comes off one-dimensional, I think it’s mostly the fault of the movie’s writing rather than Stewart’s portrayal.
Despite how much Snow bothered me, I didn’t hate the movie. It was visually stunning, especially in the Dark Forest, and the music was great. (In particular, the song “Gone” by Ionna Gika and the way it was used gave me chills.) I also thought the narrative style was lovely, especially at the beginning. The movie was extremely faithful to the original Snow White narrative, which felt uncreative to me but will probably be a plus for others.
Also, a couple of standout actors saved the film for me. Charlize Theron, who plays Snow White’s evil stepmother, really steals the show with some incredible acting, and the effect work on her and her birds is ridiculously well-done. She is delightfully creepy, and surprisingly, we get some idea of her back story and motivations, so her degeneration is upsetting to watch.
Chris Hemsworth as the huntsman, best-known as Thor in The Avengers, also does a brilliant job. He has a good story arc, he’s written well, and Hemsworth runs with the material. Watching him act is a delight.
Overall, the movie is a mixed bag. If you’re game for a beautiful, generally well-done adaptation of Snow White, you’ll love it. However, if you’re a feminist or looking for it to bring something new to the table, I would wait for the DVD.
“FANCY writing is not confusing and obscure. Good writing is clear. There’s often the idea that you’re supposed to be incomprehensible. That idea is absurd. If you say, My writing is deliberately obscure,’ I think it’s kind of like saying, ‘I am deliberately kind of an a$$.’”—
Your eyes are brimming with life, Your skies always blue and rarely ever cloudy. I’m drawn to you, Not becaue of your eyes or your sunny disposition, But because I’m genuninely curious How much it would take to make you like the rest of us, How many curse words and taken-back I love you’s It would take to break you, To take the life from your eyes.
She looked at me with those warm brown eyes, the color of hot chocolate when I dump in five or six scoops of powder instead of two. Her lips quivered, the way they did she was cold, or in this case, lonely. They probably no longer tasted like her cinnamon lip gloss, but like vodka and menthol cigarette smoke and the saliva of another boy, and when I thought of her tasting like that, I couldn’t even look at her.
That night, I felt like destroying something beautiful. I wanted to yell at her until her mascara smeared down her cheeks; I wanted to make her feel the ice that was paralyzing my chest. Because one lapse in judgment, ten seconds, could undo months of forehead kisses and stuffed animals won at theme parks and the things done sneakily under bedsheets.
But in the end, when she started crying and my voice felt hoarse, I didn’t feel powerful. I just felt emptier than when I’d started, and like a dick to boot. I could barely hear her apologies and pleas through my pulse pounding in my ears.
Finally, I got up off of her bed and simply walked out the door. I didn’t grab my favorite sweatshirt or my Kickass DVD or even the ring with the little diamond in it that I’d saved up all summer to get her. Those things would always make me think of her anyways, and they’d probably end up in my trash can after a week or two.
We hadn’t been friends before we started dating, so I got the luxury of not even considering being friends after. She left me a couple of voicemails and text messages, but I deleted them without hearing what she had to say. Even though I was ignoring them, they stopped far before I felt they should have.
I saw her in the grocery store about two months after that night. By that point, my mind had made her into a monster, and a horrific one at that. But when I saw her, she was just wearing a hoodie and picking out breakfast cereals, and I couldn’t hate her. I just couldn’t.
When she noticed me, she gave me a small, sad smile with the left side of her lips, that seemed to say, “I’m still sorry I was a bitch and hurt you like that.” I shrugged my shoulders and gave her a little smile that I meant to say, “Hey, it happens. I’m ok.”
And then I walked towards the pop tarts, she walked towards the oatmeal, and I never saw her again.
Disclaimer: This is already published in two publications. Plagiarizeit and die.(No but really, please please don’t plagiarize it.)
Become generally more secure with myself and my body.
Go on at least one date or something. Your love life consists of tumbleweeds blowing in the desert breeze.
End 2012 happier than when it started.
Happy New Year’s Eve, everyone. Stay safe and have a blast. I plan ring in the new year drinking an entire bottle of fake wine, playing Catan, and watching nerdy TV shows on Netflix with my 3 best friends, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. <3
Read 100 books. That’s right. 100. (This didn’t happen, but I did read 72, which is quite a few in and of itself.)
Go on a road trip. (Nashville!)
Don’t date anymore slackers/asshats. (Granted, I didn’t date anyone, but baby steps, I suppose.)
Get into an awesomely fantastic college that you’ll love. (Emerson?) (Got into every college I applied to, and did end up going to Emerson.)
Finish watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer, The Office and Avatar: The Last Airbender. (Didn’t finish The Office, but watched Angel, How I Met Your Mother, Dollhouse, Pretty Little Liars, and some Skins and Doctor Who. Good enough, I say.)
Lose at least 10 pounds. (Yeah, no. That was pretty ambious.)
Get another piercing/tattoo. (I realized that I don’t want another piercing, and damn, tattoos are expensive.)
Blue hair. Definite must.(I had my blue hair for about 2 months in the summer. It was more green, but whatever. It was boss, and I miss it.)
Go to Leakycon.(Went, and it was absolutely amazing.)
Finish Argus Filks.(We pwned this CD. You can listen to it here.)
GET MY LICENSE. (Yeah, this didn’t happen either.)
Develop more of a personal style. (Still working on this.)
Finish at least a first draft of a novel. (Preferably The Unfortunates.) (Although I’ve made tremendous bounds in my writing this year, finishing a novel was not one of them.)
Win a writing contest. (Unfortunately, I didn’t really end up applying to many, so this didn’t end up happening.)
Win at least one scholarship. (Ditto.)
Start writing fan fiction again.(You can read what I’ve written so far here.)
Learn to play the ukulele. (After I found out about my carpal tunnel, I was too scared to try this.
Get 500 followers on my reblog Tumblr and 100 followers on this one.(I’m totally happy with the way this panned out.)
Keep in touch with my best friend Patty. (Done. :))
Step out of your comfort zone and meet a bunch of amazing people at college. <3 (I’ve met a couple of amazing people, but I’m still quite shy.)
Although it was kind of depressing filling this out, I’m more than happy with how this past year has gone. I’ve come a very long way, and I finished about half of these, which is better than I thought I would be able to say.
I’ll be posting my 2012 New Year’s Resolutions tomorrow once I finish writing them. Have a great start to 2012, everybody! <3
Fic: Ewoks, Homosexual Stimulation, and Captain Picard
Title: Ewoks, Homosexual Stimulation, and Captain Picard Fandoms: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Dollhouse Rating: M Pairing(s)/Character(s): Topher Brink/Andrew Wells Summary: Topher Brink and Andrew Wells meet at Comic-Con, and sparks begin to fly. Andrew’s totally smitten, but Topher refuses to accept that he’s not straight. Will Andrew be able to get Topher to open up before they have to go back to their separate lives? Basically, if you like adorable, nerdy boy slash, this is the fic you should be reading.
Read the first chapter here! If you like it, please add it to your favorites or something, because I probably won’t post about it after this.
I like food too much to be anorexic, And hate throwing up too much to be bulimic. So I’ll go half of the day without eating, Then stuff my face with Snow Caps and Doritos And continue my toxic relationship with food.
I’ve always been a bit of a nervous flyer, the little girl who spent her whole flight chewing the cinnamon gum her mom gave her to keep her ears from popping. She would stroke my hair and put a finger to my lips when I asked her how high up we were or why our seat cushions even needed to be floatation devices.
It wasn’t that I was an irrational child. I was just aware of my abysmal luck, even at that age. I knew that if one of the flights leaving the Baltimore airport were to crash on that day, it would be mine. So I snuck a rabbit’s foot in a pair of my socks when my mom wasn’t looking, and said a few hail mary’s before take off and landing. Not because I thought they would help, but because they sure couldn’t hurt.
At twenty years old, I’m still a bit jittery getting on airplanes. I have to drink two black coffees before even thinking about boarding, and I always think about using the fake ID I never use to get one of those outrageously priced mini bottles of white wine. I try not to replay the pilot of LOST in my head over and over, and I try not to count the layers (probably just plastic, insulation, glass, and metal) between me and certain death.
But, after we’re over the Atlantic Ocean, when the black water turns into the welcoming lights of cities and town, I’m glad I got on the plane. There’s no better feeling than trying to figure out which pinprick of light belongs to his house; no better feeling than knowing he’ll be waiting in front of the baggage claim with a sign that says my name; no better feeling than being wrapped up in his arms after nothing but letters and Skype calls for four months.
He makes me feel safe, even when I’m 30,000 feet above the ground.
I always feel a little bit weird about celebrating Thanksgiving, The day when the pilgrims and Indians became friends, Only for the first to betray the latter. It reminds me of throwing a party on the birthday of Benedict Arnold, Or celebrating the day Magneto turned against Professor X. Plus, I don’t eat turkey, so there are no turkey endorphins to make me feel better about it.
But, no matter how messed up its roots, Thanksgiving is one of the better holidays. It’s not filled with trinkets to prove something or obligatory cards or green beers. It’s about tasty gluttony and seeing the family that you only see a couple of times a year And maybe doing some introspecting about what matters most in life.
I’m thankful I got to visit home for the first time in three months, Sleep in my own bed, not write essays, and go to Taco Bell. I’m glad that I got to run around an empty parking lot with my best friends this week, And that college has eradicated any trace of writer’s block my body had been holding inside.
But I’m also thankful that my dad didn’t drag us to Thanksgiving mass, And that I have my headphones to tune out my little brothers. I’m glad that the goody two-shoes façade has worked for another day, That there’s no way for them to see the words I think and write down, Words like atheist and democrat and possibly bisexual.
I’m thankful for the friends and the family, The food and the Black Friday sales, And most of all, I’m thankful that I get to live another day in hiding.
You didn’t die, but it sure felt like you did, When you started breaking yourself And wearing eyeliner that looked like It’d been put on with permanent marker.
One day at lunch, you let us peek Into your backpack to see the bong you’d received. And when your eyes lit up brighter than I’d ever seen them before, I knew I’d lost you.
You had huge dreams, of falling in love And singing punk rock to masses as fucked up as you. You wanted to write books, travel to Spain, Be an artist, solve mysteries like that guy from CSI.
But I saw you in Wal-Mart last week, Your hair still straight and your spirit broken like a horse’s. But your eyelids were getting their color From sleepless bags, not eyeliner.
You told me you worked at a hardware store, And you’re engaged to a boy who should definitely be a man by now. I didn’t tell you what I was up to, how I was doing. I didn’t want to seem like I was rubbing it in your face.
Your dreams were meant to take you higher, Than the moon, than the ceiling, or at least your sofa. But instead of reaching higher, Honey, now you just get high.
Crushes on strangers Love poems are too creepy Will write them haikus
I had this idea after trying to write a poem for a boy I admire from afar. Writing a long, love poem type deal felt borderline stalker-ish, but I was inspired by this one thing in particular about him and didn’t want to let it go. I realized that writing three lines felt much less weird than writing twenty, and I’d still captured what I saw in him in that little glimpse of like.
I wrote about five of these haikus (because they’re addictive once you start trying them out) and will be posting them throughout the next week. I hope you guys enjoy them.
And if you want to take a crack at writing your own, romantic or platonic, tag them #haikus for strangers and I’ll check them out. :)
My NaNoWriMo status graph has been extremely depressing lately, and I’ve been too embarrassed to post it. However, I kicked yesterday’s butt, so I thought would post yesterday’s, just to give a general status update.
We’ll call this Mackenzie-is-still-quite-behind-but-will-catch-up-very-soon.
"seize the day" is tattooed on her arm in Latin. carpe diem.
but she sits in her dorm and plays tetris. she stares at the boy in her drama class and wishes she had the guts to recite a soliloquy to him. she lives through the fictional people whose lives she follows on netflix.
she’s not studying abroad this semester. maybe next year, she tells herself. and she’d love to drop out of college, but she has to think of her future.
why seize today when you can dream of wait for worry about tomorrow?
Sometimes I wish I could draw Sketch, paint, sculpt, create something concrete Because a picture’s worth a thousand words And even if I write ten thousand They don’t look as nearly as pretty
When I was nine, I was told I’d be an artist some day, And the teachers told me I had “talent” Whatever that even is But at eighteen, I still draw like that My dogs have four legs in a straight line And my people look like stick figures Who decided to eat a couple hamburgers
So words are the best I can do Little pieces of art that only exist inside the brain But I know that when my words are put on pages, Bound together with an author blurb and a dust jacket I’ll weep at its beauty And forget that I ever failed Drawing 101
My best friend Patty wrote an entire album devoted to the Seddie arc of iCarly and the ship in general. And on top of that, the songs are hilarious, well-written and extremely catchy. They’re stuck in my head constantly, and I find myself humming them all the time.
Plus, all 7 songs are only $5, and you can listen to the entire album at the link above for a limited time.
So why are you still reading this and not listening to the awesome songs? Off with you!