... So I'm starting work tomorrow morning. Not the actual work of which I'm actually looking forward to (i.e. gallery work). Oh no, mother decided it would be a good idea, since I've been far too lazy so far (which, to be fair, I agree with), for me to work in the factory. Father's factory that is. So now I'm meeting one of the HR guys tomorrow morning discussing which department I'd like to work for. Accountancy, not so much. Production, also not so much. QC... urgh, no. The guy apparently suggested that I could work for the Export department, which sounds like it'll be more interesting to me. But come on! Despite the fact that I'm not doing this pro bono at least, I have no interest in the field. At all. Hell, I'd mind waitressing less. This whole behind a desk job thing I've done before and it drove me nuts. Plus, I'm working for my father, and that is something that I had promised myself, years ago, that I would never do. My dad's business and my interests clash totally. And it's so easy for people to say "oh, she got the job because it's her dad's company", and it'll be TRUE and I hate that. Sure, if I work in the gallery I wouldn't get it through my own means because the gallery owner is my great aunt's friend, but she seemed excited to get me on board, plus it's a stranger that I'm working for, and I know that if I slack off or something she'll fire me. I don't want to be some charity case. And again, desk job.
When my aunts found out I was taking a GAP year and wanted a job, they couldn't understand why I didn't just ask my dad for a secretarial position or something. It irritates me to no end. Sure, I know the benefits of using your connections, but still.
That said, the new chapter of Vampire Knight was amazing. There's so much tension now and the story, it seems, is finally coming to a climax. Aidou is... god, there is so much love for Aidou. And I really am not a big fan of Yuki/Kaname. Kaname/Zero, however, is <3.
Tuesday, 27 November 2007
Monday, 26 November 2007
I want eggs, spam, spam, bacon and spam
Seriously, what's with spam messages? No, I do not want to be inundated with a million messages from random places, such as getting a degree online from Phoenix University or whatever, or buy medication; no I would not like to purchase viagra. No, I do not need nor want to "enlarge my penis" before OR after 2008. For one, I'm a girl and as such lack the proper equipment. And for fuck's sake, I may find women attractive, but I do NOT want to check out your sexy bod on some bogus profile through a link that will undoubtedly kill Poe (my laptop).
That aside, I kill myself with deadlines. Whoops, part 3 of Hellhound novel not yet completed, despite the fact that I had just under half of it done before posting the previous part. I've been busy, sort of. And I'm easily distracted. So now I'm simultaneously trying to write something that's not total crap and procrastinating from doing said writing by reading. And apparently also procrastinating from applying to University. Say it with me: oh holy shitting fuck. I need to get application stuff ready like, three months ago. Since time unfortunately won't cooperate with my needs, I'll just have to settle with writing my personal statement and getting my forms done A.S.A.P. Of course, I should've done that all along, but hey.
Also, in fiction, why the hell do the good guys always get pissed and go "no, you killed Kenny!" (substitute with appropriate name) when the bad guy kills one of their own? Especially when they go there specifically to kill said bad guy? Seriously, even when bad guy says "go home, I am in no mood for games" or whatever. Oooh, ego blow, but fucking hell. It's your own damn fault for trying to kill the bad guy. Far be it that the bad guy actually defends himself and is defensive because you're trying to cut off his head. *rolls eyes* What're they supposed to do, drop their weapons, spread their arms and go "here I am, the sacrificial lamb to your divine justice, oh end my life so that my evil deeds are ended"? Pfft. Get real.
That aside, I kill myself with deadlines. Whoops, part 3 of Hellhound novel not yet completed, despite the fact that I had just under half of it done before posting the previous part. I've been busy, sort of. And I'm easily distracted. So now I'm simultaneously trying to write something that's not total crap and procrastinating from doing said writing by reading. And apparently also procrastinating from applying to University. Say it with me: oh holy shitting fuck. I need to get application stuff ready like, three months ago. Since time unfortunately won't cooperate with my needs, I'll just have to settle with writing my personal statement and getting my forms done A.S.A.P. Of course, I should've done that all along, but hey.
Also, in fiction, why the hell do the good guys always get pissed and go "no, you killed Kenny!" (substitute with appropriate name) when the bad guy kills one of their own? Especially when they go there specifically to kill said bad guy? Seriously, even when bad guy says "go home, I am in no mood for games" or whatever. Oooh, ego blow, but fucking hell. It's your own damn fault for trying to kill the bad guy. Far be it that the bad guy actually defends himself and is defensive because you're trying to cut off his head. *rolls eyes* What're they supposed to do, drop their weapons, spread their arms and go "here I am, the sacrificial lamb to your divine justice, oh end my life so that my evil deeds are ended"? Pfft. Get real.
Sunday, 25 November 2007
Sheldon Novel
Bit of the first chapter I wrote for my NaNoWriMo novel. Which I stopped writing, for now, but have every intention to continue again.
It wasn’t every day that you get to see your own grave. Then again, he didn’t think that it was an experience that most would relish to have. It was raining, of all inane things to happen, and the sky was dark to make the atmosphere have a suitably horror movie-esque feel to it. The thought made his lips twist in a wry smile because God, wasn’t that ever appropriate. He stood vulnerable under the unease of Mother Nature with nary an umbrella in sight to give him protection. Then again, Sheldon supposed that it would be moot, what with him being dead and all.
Fingers trailed over cold stone, numb and wrinkled from the chill of wet clothes clinging onto skin even while the letters carved into the gravestone burnt itself onto his retina:
Sheldon felt the familiar tickle of hysterical laughter at the back of his throat, his eyes stinging so that he was unsure whether the wetness on his cheeks was merely caused by the rain, or also by tears. Beloved son? Whose? A philandering father who was too busy enjoying his separation from his frigid, Catholic wife by sleeping with as many nubile young women as possible? Or the said frigid Catholic mother who was so embittered by her husband that she turned all that rage, all that misplaced religion and buried him in it? The same mother that had declared that he was not her son after she had found out his interest in other men? Lies, all lies. Even his brothers had abandoned him after their parents separated, moving away and neither hide nor hair was seen of either of them for years.
He had no one, no one that he would call his kith or kin, no one who had given a rat’s arse about him, not since he left home at sixteen. He’d given up on such simple-minded hope and built his kingdom with his own two hands. Granted, it wasn’t much of a kingdom yet, but all that mattered was that it was his, and he owed it to no one. He’d taken pride from that thought, pride that he supposed was cold comfort now that it didn’t matter anymore. There were no flowers on his grave, no woman or man weeping for the loss of him. Only cold emptiness, awful loneliness. And the ghost of himself, thinking back on his life and regret bitter and vile on his tongue.
He sank to his knees, uncaring for once in a long time about mud stains on his black jeans. His fingers delved slowly, almost with a morbid sense of reverence, into wet soil. He halted when it had gone in halfway to his knuckles, imagining the body under all that earth and wood reaching up to the touch of a soul somehow given body and corporeal form. Then his hand fisted, catching a handful of earth before his body shook. Sheldon’s forehead fell almost as slowly as a drifting feather onto the freshly turned earth of his grave, felt the rain sliding water on him, around him, through him and thought that the body buried six feet under would at least be buried with a touch of him. It was only right, after all. It was him under there, wasn’t it?
He didn’t hear the approach of the figure, wouldn’t have anyway through the sound of whistling wind and lashing rain, and the warning grumble of thunder in the sky. No, it was more of an awareness, a prickle in his scalp, goosebumps on the hologram of his life-filled flesh that made him aware of the person who stopped just short of his grave, not saying a word. Sheldon knew who it was, though. Who else would do such a thing as to stand under the fury of a building storm without the protection of an umbrella? There was no telltale sound of rain beating against canvas, so he was sure. That, and the acrid scent of smoke mixing with rain and mud answered him. The figure didn’t speak, though, just waited as Sheldon’s body shuddered, breath deep in an attempt to even itself out. Even in death, Sheldon had his pride. It was one of his lesser vices.
“I thought I said I wanted to be alone,” he managed to croak out, voice hoarse from disuse. He felt the toe of a boot kick lightly at his foot, then again as he ignored it.
“I gave you an hour,” a man’s voice answered him, a voice that was deep and gruff, husky like he’d smoked two packs a day for the past ten years, warm bite like whiskey. “Get up, your face is probably muddy.” Sheldon laughed humourlessly at that, despair tingeing the sound. But his voice when he spoke was tired, low. So much so that he wondered if it was unheard over the thunder.
“Oh leave me alone. Haven’t you bothered me enough?”
“Difficult to do that, seeing as how I’m supposed to be your guide.” Irritation clouded the voice, made him know that he wasn’t exactly priority one in the man’s life. Man… hah. He looked enough like a man, that was fact. He wasn’t, though. The entire situation was ludicrous enough that Sheldon would have laughed and thought that he was part of some big cosmic prank, if it wasn’t for the fact that he remembered dying. He remembered how time seemed to slow down as he noticed the approaching car, too fast too stop, too quick for him to move away. He remembered the pain upon impact, how it had shattered his bones, thrown his body several feet, the dull thud of his head against concrete and the warm ooze of blood quickly pooling to soak at his clothes. He remembered the difficulty of breathing, on of his bones puncturing his lungs so that each breath was a difficult, wet gasp. Mostly, he remembered how clear and yet far away he had felt, agonizingly aware of slipping consciousness behind a red haze of pain. The kick at his foot pulled him rudely from his memories and he turned his head, glaring at the man. At Death. Azrael.
He was tall, very tall. In Sheldon’s limited experience with taller-than-average human beings, he would have placed Azrael at almost 7’0”, if Azrael hadn’t corrected him and said that in human terms, he was 6’6”. Sheldon himself wasn’t short, he was at least past the 6’0” boundary by about an inch or so, but he felt dwarfed in the face of Azrael’s height and rangy strength. Sheldon was slender, toned only from jogging and tennis that he played at least twice a week. Azrael looked like some kind of ancient warrior who built his strength in battles and wars. It always disgruntled him to look up at Azrael, since that was rarely so. Many assumed that he would be slighter than his real height, due to his slenderness, the pretty features his childhood had seen matured into a beautiful face that stopped both men and women alike. It was a gift and a curse, his face, and he had learnt to wield it like the finest weapon.
“Please,” he whispered, knowing how pathetic he looked, using how pathetic he looked. He didn’t know if Angels felt as humans did, but it didn’t hurt to try. Azrael, however, seemed unmoved. “Please, just a little longer. I just want to…”
“It’s your own grave,” the angel said, bluntly. “If it were family or a lover’s, I’d understand. I won’t be tolerant to a bit of Narcissistic self-pity, so just get your arse up and move. We’ve already wasted enough time.” He almost didn’t see it, Sheldon was so fast. But superior reflexes saw him dodging the bit of dirt before it hit him square between the eyes. He felt a bit of admiration at the man’s aim, before it was squashed down by temper. “Now, that wasn’t very nice. And look what you’ve done, you’ve desecrated your own grave.”
“I just died!” Sheldon shouted. He had pushed himself to his knees, and now got to his feet unsteadily, propping himself up on his gravestone. “I just got fucking hit by a stupid drunk driver who didn’t even have any decency to stop and call a goddamn ambulance. No, I had to lie in that goddamn road and feel myself bleed to death. It was utter shite and now you want me to move on, whoo hoo hello my afterlife? When my body’s lying six feet underground with a headstone that’s spewing utter tripe about loving family and being missed and having been blessed by a man from a religion I don’t even goddamn believe in? Fuck you!” He whirled around, stomping away with his blood boiling in his veins. Stupid angels, stupid afterlife, stupid… everything. He was only 25 years old, his life had barely started, his career was just beginning and now… Oh god.
He felt his legs give way and he fell to his knees, sobbing. A man who had not shed a real tear in years felt despair crushing down on him. His body shuddered with the force of his sobs and he could dimly hear Azrael’s footsteps, could practically taste his awkwardness as he shifted on his feet, discomfort like bile in the air, so that he choked with it as he gasped in now-unneeded breath. Lightning flashed, illuminating gravestones, trees, the grass in stark relief. He closed his eyes, tried to breathe in, grasped desperately at control. When he opened them again, the next flash of lightning illuminated finely cut features, a surprisingly full and generous mouth, a figure strangely dry and untouched by rain. Azrael, his mind provided him with the name. Death. Closer than ever before and beautiful, eerily so.
It wasn’t every day that you get to see your own grave. Then again, he didn’t think that it was an experience that most would relish to have. It was raining, of all inane things to happen, and the sky was dark to make the atmosphere have a suitably horror movie-esque feel to it. The thought made his lips twist in a wry smile because God, wasn’t that ever appropriate. He stood vulnerable under the unease of Mother Nature with nary an umbrella in sight to give him protection. Then again, Sheldon supposed that it would be moot, what with him being dead and all.
Fingers trailed over cold stone, numb and wrinkled from the chill of wet clothes clinging onto skin even while the letters carved into the gravestone burnt itself onto his retina:
Sheldon Michael Darcy
1982 – 2007
Beloved son and brother
You will be missed.
1982 – 2007
Beloved son and brother
You will be missed.
Sheldon felt the familiar tickle of hysterical laughter at the back of his throat, his eyes stinging so that he was unsure whether the wetness on his cheeks was merely caused by the rain, or also by tears. Beloved son? Whose? A philandering father who was too busy enjoying his separation from his frigid, Catholic wife by sleeping with as many nubile young women as possible? Or the said frigid Catholic mother who was so embittered by her husband that she turned all that rage, all that misplaced religion and buried him in it? The same mother that had declared that he was not her son after she had found out his interest in other men? Lies, all lies. Even his brothers had abandoned him after their parents separated, moving away and neither hide nor hair was seen of either of them for years.
He had no one, no one that he would call his kith or kin, no one who had given a rat’s arse about him, not since he left home at sixteen. He’d given up on such simple-minded hope and built his kingdom with his own two hands. Granted, it wasn’t much of a kingdom yet, but all that mattered was that it was his, and he owed it to no one. He’d taken pride from that thought, pride that he supposed was cold comfort now that it didn’t matter anymore. There were no flowers on his grave, no woman or man weeping for the loss of him. Only cold emptiness, awful loneliness. And the ghost of himself, thinking back on his life and regret bitter and vile on his tongue.
He sank to his knees, uncaring for once in a long time about mud stains on his black jeans. His fingers delved slowly, almost with a morbid sense of reverence, into wet soil. He halted when it had gone in halfway to his knuckles, imagining the body under all that earth and wood reaching up to the touch of a soul somehow given body and corporeal form. Then his hand fisted, catching a handful of earth before his body shook. Sheldon’s forehead fell almost as slowly as a drifting feather onto the freshly turned earth of his grave, felt the rain sliding water on him, around him, through him and thought that the body buried six feet under would at least be buried with a touch of him. It was only right, after all. It was him under there, wasn’t it?
He didn’t hear the approach of the figure, wouldn’t have anyway through the sound of whistling wind and lashing rain, and the warning grumble of thunder in the sky. No, it was more of an awareness, a prickle in his scalp, goosebumps on the hologram of his life-filled flesh that made him aware of the person who stopped just short of his grave, not saying a word. Sheldon knew who it was, though. Who else would do such a thing as to stand under the fury of a building storm without the protection of an umbrella? There was no telltale sound of rain beating against canvas, so he was sure. That, and the acrid scent of smoke mixing with rain and mud answered him. The figure didn’t speak, though, just waited as Sheldon’s body shuddered, breath deep in an attempt to even itself out. Even in death, Sheldon had his pride. It was one of his lesser vices.
“I thought I said I wanted to be alone,” he managed to croak out, voice hoarse from disuse. He felt the toe of a boot kick lightly at his foot, then again as he ignored it.
“I gave you an hour,” a man’s voice answered him, a voice that was deep and gruff, husky like he’d smoked two packs a day for the past ten years, warm bite like whiskey. “Get up, your face is probably muddy.” Sheldon laughed humourlessly at that, despair tingeing the sound. But his voice when he spoke was tired, low. So much so that he wondered if it was unheard over the thunder.
“Oh leave me alone. Haven’t you bothered me enough?”
“Difficult to do that, seeing as how I’m supposed to be your guide.” Irritation clouded the voice, made him know that he wasn’t exactly priority one in the man’s life. Man… hah. He looked enough like a man, that was fact. He wasn’t, though. The entire situation was ludicrous enough that Sheldon would have laughed and thought that he was part of some big cosmic prank, if it wasn’t for the fact that he remembered dying. He remembered how time seemed to slow down as he noticed the approaching car, too fast too stop, too quick for him to move away. He remembered the pain upon impact, how it had shattered his bones, thrown his body several feet, the dull thud of his head against concrete and the warm ooze of blood quickly pooling to soak at his clothes. He remembered the difficulty of breathing, on of his bones puncturing his lungs so that each breath was a difficult, wet gasp. Mostly, he remembered how clear and yet far away he had felt, agonizingly aware of slipping consciousness behind a red haze of pain. The kick at his foot pulled him rudely from his memories and he turned his head, glaring at the man. At Death. Azrael.
He was tall, very tall. In Sheldon’s limited experience with taller-than-average human beings, he would have placed Azrael at almost 7’0”, if Azrael hadn’t corrected him and said that in human terms, he was 6’6”. Sheldon himself wasn’t short, he was at least past the 6’0” boundary by about an inch or so, but he felt dwarfed in the face of Azrael’s height and rangy strength. Sheldon was slender, toned only from jogging and tennis that he played at least twice a week. Azrael looked like some kind of ancient warrior who built his strength in battles and wars. It always disgruntled him to look up at Azrael, since that was rarely so. Many assumed that he would be slighter than his real height, due to his slenderness, the pretty features his childhood had seen matured into a beautiful face that stopped both men and women alike. It was a gift and a curse, his face, and he had learnt to wield it like the finest weapon.
“Please,” he whispered, knowing how pathetic he looked, using how pathetic he looked. He didn’t know if Angels felt as humans did, but it didn’t hurt to try. Azrael, however, seemed unmoved. “Please, just a little longer. I just want to…”
“It’s your own grave,” the angel said, bluntly. “If it were family or a lover’s, I’d understand. I won’t be tolerant to a bit of Narcissistic self-pity, so just get your arse up and move. We’ve already wasted enough time.” He almost didn’t see it, Sheldon was so fast. But superior reflexes saw him dodging the bit of dirt before it hit him square between the eyes. He felt a bit of admiration at the man’s aim, before it was squashed down by temper. “Now, that wasn’t very nice. And look what you’ve done, you’ve desecrated your own grave.”
“I just died!” Sheldon shouted. He had pushed himself to his knees, and now got to his feet unsteadily, propping himself up on his gravestone. “I just got fucking hit by a stupid drunk driver who didn’t even have any decency to stop and call a goddamn ambulance. No, I had to lie in that goddamn road and feel myself bleed to death. It was utter shite and now you want me to move on, whoo hoo hello my afterlife? When my body’s lying six feet underground with a headstone that’s spewing utter tripe about loving family and being missed and having been blessed by a man from a religion I don’t even goddamn believe in? Fuck you!” He whirled around, stomping away with his blood boiling in his veins. Stupid angels, stupid afterlife, stupid… everything. He was only 25 years old, his life had barely started, his career was just beginning and now… Oh god.
He felt his legs give way and he fell to his knees, sobbing. A man who had not shed a real tear in years felt despair crushing down on him. His body shuddered with the force of his sobs and he could dimly hear Azrael’s footsteps, could practically taste his awkwardness as he shifted on his feet, discomfort like bile in the air, so that he choked with it as he gasped in now-unneeded breath. Lightning flashed, illuminating gravestones, trees, the grass in stark relief. He closed his eyes, tried to breathe in, grasped desperately at control. When he opened them again, the next flash of lightning illuminated finely cut features, a surprisingly full and generous mouth, a figure strangely dry and untouched by rain. Azrael, his mind provided him with the name. Death. Closer than ever before and beautiful, eerily so.
My charade is the event of the season
There's something about the lyrics to that song that just gets to me.
Once I rose above the noise and confusion
Just to get a glimpse beyond this illusion
I was soaring ever higher
But I flew too high
Though my eyes could see I still was a blind man
Though my mind could think I still was a mad man
I hear the voices when I'm dreaming
I can hear them say
...
Masquerading as a man with a reason
My charade is the event of the season
And if I claim to be a wise man, well
It surely means that I don't know
On a stormy sea of moving emotion
Tossed about I'm like a ship on the ocean
I set a course for winds of fortune
But I hear the voices say
...
Carry on, you will always remember
Carry on, nothing equals the splendor
The center lights around your vanity
But surely heaven waits for you
Carry on my wayward son
There'll be peace when you are done
Lay your weary head to rest
Don't you cry (don't you cry no more)
It's mainly the verses that get to me. Plus, the guitar riffs are awesome.
I'm pretty caught up in Caellach's story. I wonder if I should write some shorts or drabbles around the same concept of the story, perhaps looking at Caellach's childhood or some aspect of "the incident". Maybe even a look at his and Fionnlagh's friendship.
Recently, I keep smelling sampoerna from my window. Usually I just think it's my brother since he smokes them and his room is next to mine, and I keep my windows open. But I know for a fact that he hasn't been to the house for a while, and I'm smelling sampoerna now. None of the night guards smoke them, either, so... big mystery.
Also, why the hell am I listening to Barry Manilow? It's on my current playlist along with The Carpenters. Then again said playlist also contains Jamiroquai and Patrick Wolf. Changed layouts for both my writing and RL journal on LJ, and the title to this one. Dreaming in Abstract. Seemed somewhat apt. If I ever write an autobiography, it'll be titled "Coffee, Cigarettes and Notebooks". It kind of seems to be the theme of my life, especially the author part my life. The coffee and cigarettes are everything else. Or perhaps I should change the coffee to Mango Passionfruit Frappuccino... or Milo Ice. But it doesn't quite have the same ring to it.
If I ever get another tattoo, it'll be an ouroboros. This one, to be exact.
This familiar image of the serpent biting it's own tail is meant to imply infinity. Or, possibly, eternally being stuck in the material cycle.
Never say I don't have meaning in my tattoos. I mean, the quill and the "Et in Arcadia Ego" all have perfectly meaningful meanings to me. Quill to signify my dream of being a writer, the quote from Nicholas Poussin, a French Renaissance painter and meaning "Death is present also in Arcadia", which I took to mean that there is bad with ever good and vice versa.
Since this post so far has been an exercise in pointlessness, why not just add a little list. Little known fact about me:
Once I rose above the noise and confusion
Just to get a glimpse beyond this illusion
I was soaring ever higher
But I flew too high
Though my eyes could see I still was a blind man
Though my mind could think I still was a mad man
I hear the voices when I'm dreaming
I can hear them say
...
Masquerading as a man with a reason
My charade is the event of the season
And if I claim to be a wise man, well
It surely means that I don't know
On a stormy sea of moving emotion
Tossed about I'm like a ship on the ocean
I set a course for winds of fortune
But I hear the voices say
...
Carry on, you will always remember
Carry on, nothing equals the splendor
The center lights around your vanity
But surely heaven waits for you
Carry on my wayward son
There'll be peace when you are done
Lay your weary head to rest
Don't you cry (don't you cry no more)
It's mainly the verses that get to me. Plus, the guitar riffs are awesome.
I'm pretty caught up in Caellach's story. I wonder if I should write some shorts or drabbles around the same concept of the story, perhaps looking at Caellach's childhood or some aspect of "the incident". Maybe even a look at his and Fionnlagh's friendship.
Recently, I keep smelling sampoerna from my window. Usually I just think it's my brother since he smokes them and his room is next to mine, and I keep my windows open. But I know for a fact that he hasn't been to the house for a while, and I'm smelling sampoerna now. None of the night guards smoke them, either, so... big mystery.
Also, why the hell am I listening to Barry Manilow? It's on my current playlist along with The Carpenters. Then again said playlist also contains Jamiroquai and Patrick Wolf. Changed layouts for both my writing and RL journal on LJ, and the title to this one. Dreaming in Abstract. Seemed somewhat apt. If I ever write an autobiography, it'll be titled "Coffee, Cigarettes and Notebooks". It kind of seems to be the theme of my life, especially the author part my life. The coffee and cigarettes are everything else. Or perhaps I should change the coffee to Mango Passionfruit Frappuccino... or Milo Ice. But it doesn't quite have the same ring to it.
If I ever get another tattoo, it'll be an ouroboros. This one, to be exact.
This familiar image of the serpent biting it's own tail is meant to imply infinity. Or, possibly, eternally being stuck in the material cycle.
Never say I don't have meaning in my tattoos. I mean, the quill and the "Et in Arcadia Ego" all have perfectly meaningful meanings to me. Quill to signify my dream of being a writer, the quote from Nicholas Poussin, a French Renaissance painter and meaning "Death is present also in Arcadia", which I took to mean that there is bad with ever good and vice versa.
Since this post so far has been an exercise in pointlessness, why not just add a little list. Little known fact about me:
- I smoke a lot. Yes, we all knew that, but did you know that my morning cigarette consists of my smoking in the shower? As I take said shower? Well, now you do.
- I like stiletto heels. I wear them. People seem to find this strange, I don't live in converse though it might seem as though I do, but not so much recently.
- I don't actually like writing poetry. Hence why I do it not so often. But sometimes I get the urge to put pen to paper and not just ramble on about myself or my random thoughts, or write pointless bits of stories that I never finish. However, I get very, very frustrated with my own perceived inability to write poetry.
- I have an obsessive personality. Yes, we all know this as well, but it extends beyond men, oh the shock and horror. I have a leaning-on-OCD obsession with my stationary. I only use one corner of my eraser at a time. If someone borrows said eraser and uses a fresh corner, I get a little freaked out and pissed off. I also buy a few same type of pens in the same colour and number them. Because I like to use up one pen at a time and if someone needs to borrow my pens, I give them one that I've already used (usually the one I was writing with at the time) and use a new one myself. I don't like giving people my new, unused pens. My obsessive personality also comes out in Photoshop. I tend to spend ages and ages making sure details are right. Like, if I'm using another layer to change the colour of a photo or something, and want only one aspect of that photo changed, then (taking the example of hair) I make sure to go around every single goddamn strand of hair if possible, so that it looks as authentic as possible.
- I fully support gay relationships. I don't see anything wrong with it and it gets my hackles up whenever someone says derogatory comments about said relationships. In fact, I'm a fan of the gay. In fact, I read gay fantasy fiction.
- I has an obsession for the Japanese things. Like their music (rock, because JRock rocks the motherfucking Casbah), their TV (JDramas are much fun), their comics (manga, how I adore thee) and their cartoons (anime, shall I compare you to a Summer's day?).
- While I have guy-ish tendencies in my choice of movies, I simply cannot take horror movies. I'm a wuss. Anything to do with ghosts and psychologically freaking me out and I bail. But I freak out quietly because I hate having other people see me weak.
- Has to do with what I said in point seven. While I hate to be perceived as weak, I cry quite easily. I hate it when I do, but hey. Also, I fake tears pretty damn well. I can cry on will. I have freaked out my brothers and sister many a time due to this.
- Although I bemoan my being single like most girls, I actually have intimacy issues... okay, that's not quite right. I have commitment issues. I'm very skeptical about declarations of "I love yous" and the like. I pretty much take it for granted that whatever relationship I get into is going to end anyway, especially at this point. Although I'm a romantic at heart, I'm cynical about my contemporaries' relationships.
- I'm a believer of trying things out before you decide it's not for you. And aside from my seeming tobacco addiction, I dislike it when people fall to so-called "addiction". I believe that if the strength of will is there, any habit is possible to break out of. As such, people who use inebriation as an excuse for their behaviour I have absolutely no sympathy for. If you say you couldn't keep your goddamn panties on because you were "too drunk", screw that. If I could do it, I'm pretty sure other people can as well.
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