Skin Deep

Flesh is only skin deep,
and he watches you weep even though
It shocks him down to his toes;
A revelation he didn't want to see.

Snapped away rubberbands fall
to the ground and you stall for time,
Thinking of the bloodshot lines
you'll use just to hurt him.

His smile reaches his eyes,
and his tongue doesn't lie with ease;
yet that softly spoken degree
of absolute distrust remains.

Hurting you without intention
seems to be his transgression, his one
unfaltering flaw; why you can't succumb
to his supposed truths.

You love him like your own flesh
and blood, but flesh is only skin deep
and he watches and weeps as you cut
away the ties that bind.

Is it still raining? Is it still raining inside my head?

I wonder.

Bloody Vaginas and Personal Reflections

Lately I've come to the conclusion that... It's extremely difficult for me to admit when I'm pissed at a friend. I'm too afraid of losing them to explode, so I just take it. I tend to just pretend like I'm not mad at all, but then blurt out snarky little comments instead of just flat out owning up to my emotions. And I know my friends well, because I genuinely care about each of them, but because of that I know exactly what snarky little comment to say at the given moment that will piss them off the most. But I don't realise that I'm doing it until I've already said it.

I opened my first ever bank account today, completely independent from my mother's reach. I convinced the lady at Suntrust to bend company policy and allow me to open an account without a co-applicant (the standard procedure for those under 18). I can now buy whatever the fuck I want online and not have to tell anyone jackrabbity about it.

Also, yay! By the end of next week I will have my debit card and my $50 dollar visa gift card to play with. I was going to buy shoes, but I decided to be obnoxiously responsible and put it towards an MUA or something for a shoot.

My wrist is still fucked up, which is outrageously annoying considering that I have to deal with that in addition to the period cramps from lucifer himself.

What the fuck is the deal with naproxen not working? There's no freaking way I've built an immunity. Acetamenophin and ibuprofen do not work, I will DIE if naproxen starts failing me.

No, seriously, I would quite possibly puke up my intestines from the pain if I didn't have working medication.


Yes, this has been a rather dramatic post from yours truly, [even by my standards] but let's blame the PMS, shall we, and call it a night.

guess who grew balls?

Oh yes, bitches, I did!

I finally PMed models that I'm really into possibly shooting-- usually either a model responds to a casting call or PMs me at random, and they're okay, but not people that I would probably reach out to on my own.

Two replied, but one seems kinda flakey so I dunno. The other one, Lauren, though, actually said more than 3 words, so yay! Here's her port:

She's shot with Jay Bowman!
http://www.modelmayhem.com/pic.php?pid=6538128


--

Sidenote: I just OD'd on KrispyKreme. Nom. Sugar rush, much?

Sidenote #2: My wrist is killing me.

Adendum: Season 4 of The Hills starts on Monday! And next week Gossip Girl starts again. Wh00t.

Yes, I watch a lot of tv. I like stories, fucking sue me.

Rawr. Frustrated!

Shooting on the seventh, maybe. With a model I'm unsure of...But a concept I'm really into. I'm going to be sad if it turns out crappy.

Meh. We shall see..Plus, it's in september, so hopefully it will be a little cooler!

Bleh.

Nerves are already jangled up.

Yay for me!

I am getting this bike, hopefully. Will order soon. Pray that it isn't damaged in shipping and that it's simple enough for me to put together ^_^

http://www.amazon.com/Pacific-Shorewood-Womens-26-Inch-Cruiser/dp/B0013VFFAK/ref=sr_1_4?ie=UTF8&s=sporting-goods&qid=1218767488&sr=1-4

It's a modernised cruiser, which I really like. I'm not the biggest fan of the paint job but it's cute enough and I love the style and the fact that it's got 7 speeds. I'm only going to ride it around town but still, paved or not, there are some bitching hills.

I've always, always wanted a bike with the cruiser styled build. Yay for me. *dance*

Survey

[Random 60]
(I snipped out all the boring ones)

[01]. What is the closest photograph to you?:
http://thetragictruth-of-me.deviantart.com/art/A-Distant-Figure-42014576
It's the one and only print I've ever purchased.


[03]. Do you think photographs are important?:
Well, it is kind of what I want to do with my entire life, so yeah, I should hope so.

[05]. What kind of desk is your computer sitting on?:
The bed kind, yay! Snuggleable and multifunctional, what more could you possibly ask for?

[11]. What is the first thing that comes to mind when I say England?:
Pretty bloody accents, aye? Yes, that was a little Canadian at the end, sue me.

[14]. Do you have a lot of furniture in your bedroom?:
Let's see... I have: Bed, antique bedside table, loveseat, bookshelf, tvstand, sheet of plywood, and my seamless paper and stand.

[17]. Are you scared of childbirth?:
Yes. I have been saying my entire life that I will adopt. Pain and I don't do well unless I control it. I would have to seriously love and trust my husband to consider having a baby via pregnancy. Of course, I'm never going to be married, so that's a moot point.

[18]. Do you still talk to the person who has hurt you the most?:
Yes.

[19]. Has anyone ever accused you of something serious that you didn't do?:
Ye...No. I tend to actually be guilty of what I'm accused of ^_^

[23]. Do the people you live with really know who you are as a person?:
Absolutely, definitely not.

[28]. If you were a faerie, what colour wings would you have?:
black with rainbow glitter! Clear-fucking-ly.

[34]. Who was the last person to give you flowers?:
I have never ever received flowers. Wait. No. Once, when I was in fifth grade, for my first theater production, my father sent me flowers. It's the only time he's ever sent me anything without a girlfriend urging him or picking it out for him. He's more of a cash and run kinda guy.

[37]. What was the last song you REALLY sang to?:
Name of the Game. Mamma Mia soundtrack.

[39]. What was the last historical figure you studied or researched?:
Ummm. Is it horrible that I don't recollect anyone but my first grade project on Rosa Parks?

[45]. What makes you envious?:
Talent and skill.

[47]. What is your favourite dog breed?:
Huskies.

[50]. Would you happily make a fool of yourself in public?:
I have done so many times thus far.

[55]. What is the furthest you have ever travelled alone?:
Um. I dunno. Tennessee? Though my favorite experience of being alone was only for a few hours but it's probably my favorite memory to date. We were in Florida this summer on a three day vacation and I got to picnic on the beach at eight o clock at night-- dusk-- all alone. Single most amazing, peaceful experience of my life. I can't explain it, but it's something that will stick with me for my entire life. It's the first time I've ever felt a connection with the ocean.

Fuck 20 Questions, Here's 20 Facts

I realise that I'm about fifteen times better at gay ass poetry than straight up prose. Which is funny, considering I can't stand most poetry, and I absolutely adore reading actual books. Fiction, of course, because let's face it, real life is entirely overrated.

Another note; I recognise that most everything that I write is morbidly depressing, and I swear I'm honestly not this bad. The most I can figure is that I'm so goddamn playful all the time in my dealings with people of course I must be slightly insane. That, and writing is the only way I dare utter thoughts sometimes. Even then, it's just Becks: The Slightly Less Filtered Version. Tonight, I don't want to play that game, so let's play Twenty Things About Becks She Bets You Don't Know.


I'm secretly a total pushover.
As much as I love animals, I don't want a million of them. Too much work.
Speaking of work, when I don't want to do something, I do it badly, and charm someone into stepping in and finishing for me.
I take I Hate You's better than I Love You's. But I cherish the latter.
The less you let me get away with stuff, the more I want to let you in on my secrets.
I'm not afraid of failing, I'm afraid of trying.
I feel a little sick when I link people to this blog; my filter is mostly off here.
My father molested me until I was three and I sometimes wonder if that's just a lie my mother convinced herself to be true. I don't remember it at all. But the man scares the shit out of me.
I love making people laugh and sometimes it pleases me to be a little mean.
I tasted eggs a total of one time, when I was four, never again, never prior. I don't think they were even that bad.
My youngest older brother and I skipped school together when I was in kindergarten. It's still one of my favorite memories.
I relate the most to my other brother who is a complete psycho, and it scares me that I can identify with him so much. Perhaps that's half the reason I hate him so much.
I can wheedle my way into and out of almost anything, but I don't consider it appropriate. I do it anyway.
I have never smoked pot, and to be honest, I really don't see the appeal. That shit reeks, okay?
My favorite color is black, but it was bright motherfucking neon orange until I was thirteen. I even wore the color.
I really want to give myself barbiedoll bangs. But I'm scared of fucking up, my hair is wavy, and I know I'd have to straighten it everyday, and that's too much freaking effort.
I refused to dissect a frog once. But I went to the lab anyway just to get out of class.
I think it would be neat to have a polkadot ceiling.
Hamsters hate me. The entire species. I'm not even joking.
I make the best sex noises ever.

Baked Syphilis and Cheesecake

Ask for this write. It's too personal to post.

i like

eyeballs.

True motherfuckin goddamn story, yo.

I am like a foreign language
With the right Rosetta Stone
You can decode the gods'
words and I am no exception.

You can read me like a book
If you care to count the pages
I will reveal the secrets in this chest
One by one until there are none.

The prettiest crystals have
to be cleaned; smear the dirt and
grime and slowly it will gleam
Don't drop me.

Most mysteries are just un-
explained facts you've yet to discover, and
unlimited hypotheses will get you nowhere
without a few experiments.

Vaults aren't meant to be broken, they
are meant to be opened or elsewise there
would be no lock on the oh-so-supposedly
inpenetrable steel doors.

And so it seems that I may be a little evasive
but I promise you, tap lightly on my walls long
enough, and they will fall down in slow motion or
like the Great Wall of China, my defenses crumble

Even as they stand.

Far Too Gone

Exhausted are the tunes I had for you
Blithering idiots give a round of shattered
applause; they embrace images of themselves
Reflecting back at them through cracked glass

I wore a secret around my neck of a ribbon
made with blue and an empty locket created
Hollow like the promise of friendship; and
a fleeting facade of memories we never made

So I took it off and put it down and let it
fade away-- It swings gently on the closed
door of my bedroom every time I leave
Like a vague recollection of my existance

Another eyelash fell today upon my cheek
And I wiped it away without blinking; I will
not waste a wish on your unhappiness--
The independent nature of my dependency
would never allow it.

Lovers aren't forever but friends are for
never, and such is the nature of life; better
to be gone than rebel against that and maybe
in truth, I'm far too gone for you.

But for old time's sake let's write this final
verse, sing an old remembered song; and
I will flit away on that last sweet melody,
you always did like that pretty note.

I didn't write this for you.

Music runs through my veins like a disease from the masses, and I get it. There are certain things in life that I don't look for the explanation in. Music. Theatre. Art. There's an innate knowledge of the why within those things. I wonder, then, how much of ourselves really put into those activities. Are they a core part of our souls, or a mere fragment? Without music, would our eyes still dance? If we did not perform, would we be so determined to pretend? If we failed to create...Would we perish? Or is it all just a lie our hearts give to us?

I am an enigmatic anomally that should have ceased to exist long ago. I feel like I was born off kilter and I never did find my balance.

I try.. So hard to be everyone's rock. But I have no idea what I'm saying most of the time and I just make it up as I go along. I fuck things up worse.

I want someone to be my rock. I don't want to be cheerful all the time or understanding or fun, I want to be stubborn and disagreeable and destructive and have someone say that they care about me anyway. They don't need to love me, if they'd just care, really care... That would be enough.

It's funny, you know, when I think about dying, I know that the people around me would be much better off. I am a poison, and that kills me a little inside every time I realise it.

She's already threatening to kick me out

as soon as I turn 18. I should be thrilled about that birthday when it comes but the reality of it is I'm terrified. Yes, I want a little freedom, but I'm not prepared for total independence. And that's exactly what could very well happen.

The fact is, I'm a total lazy bum. I hate work. Anything that requires any kind of effort with zero interest tends to bore me to the point of tears. Besides, when I did work... I didn't get to save my money. There was no point in continuing; mom was basically making me give her all my earnings one way or another. Bleh. I do realise that I'm spoiled, stubborn, manipulative, and I've never really been punished a day in my life. Seriously. I've never even been grounded. I just get told what a piece of shit I am (in my head I repeat that sentence with a sarcastic little laugh).

So yes. I have no work ethics; hell, I barely even have ethics at all, depending on who you ask.

The thing is, because I'm a year behind in my classes-- having fucked around, I didn't actually fail a year, I just didn't complete enough credits, it's entire my fault and due to my enthralling procrastination skills-- I won't be graduating until I'm nineteen. That leaves an entire year in my mother's house where I will have to succumb to every whim and agree with fervor that I will never succeed at anything. And somehow still manage to cling to the hope that maybe I one day will.