*not really edited or pretty language, I must admit; I don't even know what I was trying to say*
The person I consider myself closest to in my life is my best friend, Hannah Gabrielle Maxon.
We've known each other since I was twelve, and our friendship has lasted through a lot of obstacles--including an eighteen hour time difference when she and her family left California to try life in Australia. (As you might imagine, I was depressed for about half a year, until they came back).
But being friends with Hannah has taught me more than any of my other friendships. I think there is always one relationship in your life, romantic or platonic or familial, that changes not only your life, as does every small thing to touch it, but also your heart and your mind and your personality.
Before I met Hannah, I was... well... a full out bitch and a fake. And totally unaware of it. But those first few weeks of eighth grade so many years ago, when I was the new girl, she reached out to me and reminded me that sometimes, being yourself is the best option. I liked to think I was just shy back then, but that's not really true--I've always been outgoing, when I want to be. It was more of an excuse for hiding myself--the me I now know--than anything else.
Whether I was afraid of being rejected by my new peers or I thought I was so much better than them that I couldn't give them the honor of being real, I put up a front--carried a book around with me at lunch and breaks to discourage talking, gave them the bitch-brow whenever they did something I thought was weird to actually do in public, behaved like all eighth graders actually do.
But by the third week, I'd realized something--honestly, I envied these people around me, especially that weird Hannah girl. She was smart, if a little ditzy; tall and blond, just a tad awkward; funny and really strange, but seemingly quiet. And yet, I got the feeling that she was just living her life. Unlike me, she wasn't concerned about what other people thought of her or if she should really want to make friends people. She didn't think as much as I did; she just lived.
It took about a month of knowing her before I finally started letting my guard down. By the time we hit May of the next year, she was my closest friend in the world and I'd finally lost the walls around me, let myself out of the cage I hadn't even been aware I'd built. I wasn't afraid to laugh at jokes that shouldn't be funny, we talked in book-speak for kicks and giggles, I fought and made up with her all the time.
It was different with Hannah. There wasn't any drama involved. With my other friends, I held grudges--oh did I hold grudges. In fact, I used to make my friends write me letters when they apologized for something, because I wanted them to put as much remorse and effort into apologizing as they had put hurt and annoyance in me; it was an even trade in this way. But with Hannah, I'd usually be mad for a little while until she tried talking to me again and got me to start laughing, even when I didn't want to. We can always make each other laugh; in fact, I was employed to come with her for her senior pictures simply for the express purpose of making her smile genuine, as my laugh is prone to do.
The longest I ever stayed mad at Hannah was three days--this after she told me she and her family were moving out of the country within the next three weeks. Mostly, I was shocked by this. I didn't believe her, actually, but after getting confirmation from her sister and her mother, I was forced to accept the inevitable: for the second time in my young life (halfway through ninth grade, at this point), I was going to lose my best friend. I began to wonder if I smelled at this point--she assured me that wasn't the reason, but recommended a new body spray anyways in the hopes of cheering me up.
I don't remember much about the end of freshman year. I know I got in fights with the friends I had left, found a new clique, and withdrew back into myself again. I was clinically depressed, my grades dropped, and I checked my email daily for the latest news from Willoughby Girls High School.
Hannah and her family moved back one week before the beginning of sophomore year, two days before Hannah's fifteenth birthday. I spent at least an hour with her every single day until school began, hanging out at her cousin's house, a cousin I really liked because he could play guitar, was funny, random, and a little weird.
By this time, I could admit I liked weird. By this time, I could admit it was because I was weird (and still am).
As another of my friends still says, when Hannah was gone, it was like I had been trained to behave in polite company; when she returned, I was out of control and crazy again. I laughed more, I made up retarded jokes and stories for fun, and I let myself be who I wanted to be.
Years later, as Hannah and I loom on the point of a larger separation, I know that, really, things won't be all that different. No, I won't see her four to six times a week, and no, I won't get to hug her younger sister (my adoptive younger sister), and I won't get to hang out with the cousin beyond a few times when we go quading out at the ranch, but...
Hannah and I are like sisters. We have the same reactions to many things, we notice random details at the exact same moments, we call each other when the other is driving past our house by coincidence; my personality and mannerisms have been taken on and changed by her, until I feel as if I've been two people in my life: Hyacinth without Hannah, and Hyacinth with Hannah.
The Hyacinth with Hannah is here to stay, even when we end up chasing different paths in a few short months. I've been altered so completely by this strange girl that I'm a completely different person than I was before that awkward August day when we first met.
In fact, because of her, I'm me. The real me.
Hannah is my non-blood-related sister. Our friendship, like the ocean, is constantly changing and always vastly obvious, even when fighting. Unlike the strings that bound me to Marissa, the threads holding me and Hannah together are plated in such strong coating that scissors will never fully break them; instead, they'll glow softly for the rest of our lives, and perhaps afterward.
And when she ends up getting married in however many years, after she's a successful international businesswoman, I'll be her Maid of Honor, giving the tearful speech about how I've never known a more wonderful person, and warnings/promises that I'll be the first in line to kick her lucky husband's ass if he doesn't behave himself--this between, of course, the tale of that time when we were younger when we made up Jeremiah's long complex story at four in the morning, and the silly way we used to turn and double-team people who tried to get us to stop fighting each other. As if we would ever stop fighting (or loving) each other; it's the funniest part of our friendship.
~ Hyacinth
Music Rec: 'Jump in the Pool'--Friendly Fires
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Mr. Hyacinth
Physical description: green eyes, long eyelashes, average length dark-hair, about 6'2 or 6'3, lean or lanky, possibly a light smattering of freckles on his shoulder or nose, maybe a tattoo or piercing.
Personality description: funny, sweet, annoying at times, honest, sarcastic, conscientious, occasionally dorky, active, intelligent, headstrong, slightly protective, he knows I can handle myself, doesn't treat me like I'm lesser than him because I'm female, and lets me have my own views on things like politics and religion.
....poor guy....
I've never found him, sadly; this is just speculation. This is who I WANT Mr. Hyacinth to be.
Honestly, I doubt I'll ever find a Mr. Hyacinth to match this description.
The current almost-Mr. Hyacinth does have the green eyes, the dark hair, and most of the personality. Of course, he goes to private school and studies the Bible in class, so we have a little bit of friction (not the good kind) between us. Oh, and he barely touches me. Seriously, he'll hug and give me his arm, but the kid won't even grind on me while dancing.
When I imagined Mr. Hyacinth, I kind of imagined him a little hornier, truth be told. (Oh, I can't believe I admitted that).
I know I've spoiled myself. Because I read so much fanfiction, and many of my favorites are slightly smutty, I've deluded myself into thinking all men are sexy, sarcastic, and funny at the same time. Very few of them really fit into that category.
Honestly, I'm kind of ashamed I've put so much thought into creating him. Especially since ever guy I ever write looks like the above mentioned. And acts like him. Which is pathetic, truth be told.
Have you ever done this? Created a make-believe person so perfect for you that suddenly your real life guy doesn't match up? I think this is reminiscent of the Twilight phenomenon with Edward. I sailed that ship for a while, before I came into Port Realization and suddenly he was a character flat as a board, prudish, and chauvinistic. Er, yeah. More like crashed into Port Realization.
Sadly, I didn't discover Mr. Hyacinth in a book somewhere or in a coffee shop on Wilma Road. Rather, I took aspects of him from characters I loved, the guys I know in real life, and what I imagine men can be like eventually. Because of this, I sincerely doubt I'll ever find the boy as I have described him. I've screwed myself over, thanks to this.
Next thing you know, my life plan will go down the drain because I've set it up too perfectly.
In case you're wondering, I'm getting a 4 year degree in English, minor in Creative Writing; move on for my masters in English, preferably from NYU; get a position at some publishing company as an editor's assistant, move up; (somewhere along this timeline I've met and fallen in love with Mr. Hyacinth and now we're married, by the way); have my kids--two boys (William and Nathaniel) and one girl (Schuyler or Kyrie, depending on Mr. H); earn money to support everyone with my hubby; afford a brand new Audi dream car; live life between with fights and love and friends and love and cats and kids and books and love and Mr. H.
Yeah... not looking so likely to play out as perfectly as I want it to.
Damn.
But, I blame corporate America. And Disney movies I watched as a kid. They've crafted a type of life nobody actually lives, and now I'm stuck with unreal expectations. Oh, and I blame fanfic and the wonderful authors on there too. (I take no credit for this failure, by the way.) Mr. Hyacinth as described will never exist.
But, on the off chance he does.... don't hesitate to send him my way. I'll probably gasp for air and flutter and have a hot flash and then calm down and smile like I'm not insane. Which I'm not. Really.
... not convinced? Me neither...
*sigh*
Hopefully San Fran will be a welcome change for me and I'll forget all about him and manage to fall in love with an ordinary guy I can treat extraordinarly, rather than an extraordinary guy who doesn't exist and becomes ordinary.
~hyacinth (A Ms. lacking her Mr.)
Music Rec: "My First Kiss" by 3OH!3 (unfortunately, featuring Ke$ha)
Personality description: funny, sweet, annoying at times, honest, sarcastic, conscientious, occasionally dorky, active, intelligent, headstrong, slightly protective, he knows I can handle myself, doesn't treat me like I'm lesser than him because I'm female, and lets me have my own views on things like politics and religion.
....poor guy....
I've never found him, sadly; this is just speculation. This is who I WANT Mr. Hyacinth to be.
Honestly, I doubt I'll ever find a Mr. Hyacinth to match this description.
The current almost-Mr. Hyacinth does have the green eyes, the dark hair, and most of the personality. Of course, he goes to private school and studies the Bible in class, so we have a little bit of friction (not the good kind) between us. Oh, and he barely touches me. Seriously, he'll hug and give me his arm, but the kid won't even grind on me while dancing.
When I imagined Mr. Hyacinth, I kind of imagined him a little hornier, truth be told. (Oh, I can't believe I admitted that).
I know I've spoiled myself. Because I read so much fanfiction, and many of my favorites are slightly smutty, I've deluded myself into thinking all men are sexy, sarcastic, and funny at the same time. Very few of them really fit into that category.
Honestly, I'm kind of ashamed I've put so much thought into creating him. Especially since ever guy I ever write looks like the above mentioned. And acts like him. Which is pathetic, truth be told.
Have you ever done this? Created a make-believe person so perfect for you that suddenly your real life guy doesn't match up? I think this is reminiscent of the Twilight phenomenon with Edward. I sailed that ship for a while, before I came into Port Realization and suddenly he was a character flat as a board, prudish, and chauvinistic. Er, yeah. More like crashed into Port Realization.
Sadly, I didn't discover Mr. Hyacinth in a book somewhere or in a coffee shop on Wilma Road. Rather, I took aspects of him from characters I loved, the guys I know in real life, and what I imagine men can be like eventually. Because of this, I sincerely doubt I'll ever find the boy as I have described him. I've screwed myself over, thanks to this.
Next thing you know, my life plan will go down the drain because I've set it up too perfectly.
In case you're wondering, I'm getting a 4 year degree in English, minor in Creative Writing; move on for my masters in English, preferably from NYU; get a position at some publishing company as an editor's assistant, move up; (somewhere along this timeline I've met and fallen in love with Mr. Hyacinth and now we're married, by the way); have my kids--two boys (William and Nathaniel) and one girl (Schuyler or Kyrie, depending on Mr. H); earn money to support everyone with my hubby; afford a brand new Audi dream car; live life between with fights and love and friends and love and cats and kids and books and love and Mr. H.
Yeah... not looking so likely to play out as perfectly as I want it to.
Damn.
But, I blame corporate America. And Disney movies I watched as a kid. They've crafted a type of life nobody actually lives, and now I'm stuck with unreal expectations. Oh, and I blame fanfic and the wonderful authors on there too. (I take no credit for this failure, by the way.) Mr. Hyacinth as described will never exist.
But, on the off chance he does.... don't hesitate to send him my way. I'll probably gasp for air and flutter and have a hot flash and then calm down and smile like I'm not insane. Which I'm not. Really.
... not convinced? Me neither...
*sigh*
Hopefully San Fran will be a welcome change for me and I'll forget all about him and manage to fall in love with an ordinary guy I can treat extraordinarly, rather than an extraordinary guy who doesn't exist and becomes ordinary.
~hyacinth (A Ms. lacking her Mr.)
Music Rec: "My First Kiss" by 3OH!3 (unfortunately, featuring Ke$ha)
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Why So Serious?
I often wonder how people perceive me, whether they think me rude or sarcastic or funny or moody or serious... And then I'm reminded that my constant mood swings and flip-flopping emotions change their perceptions whenever they see me.
They can clearly see the smile on my face and in my eyes, insane though it may appear; the crease between my eyebrows and the anger glittering in my irises is a clear 'back off' statement; the clear and open-eyed look on my face means I'm listening intensely and thinking.
But in my writing, I'm not visible. There are not tell-tale hand tremors to be noticed by readers when I'm nervous, no teasing smirk to let them know I'm only joking and I didn't mean it.
Which is where my tone comes in. Or is it my topics? How I write? I set out not only to inform, but to make readers feel emotionally connected--whether they laugh or cry or, hell, anything in between, I want them to imagine themselves in the same situations, or form an opinion about something.
I've noticed the posts on my blog aren't... well, they aren't necessarily cheerful or funny. In fact, for some reason, I come off as serious in quite a few (in my own opinion). Some, because of my topics--I'm very reflective on this blog. Others, because I was feeling lame that day? I don't know why.
So for today, I'm going to try not to reflect on anything. Instead, I'm writing a list. A list doesn't even have tone, most of the time. Today, I attempt the art of toneless.
Of Things To Do:
*Call Jenny and set up a hair cut, possibly for Friday before the fashion show. Ask for Les' senior picture.
*Finish scholarship crap. Yes, crap. It's more annoying than an application to college itself.
*Make flashcards with derivative, antiderivative, inverse functions, integration of log(arithims) and natural logs, ect.
*Call Nick, plan fashion show performance
*Stop by Barnes and Noble (get gas first!)
*Get gas when I get money for my article in the paper... any day now, check, I'm waiting...
*Shave my legs
*Call Laurie about job interview results
*Congratulate Qutob and Mortensen on pregnancies
*Write both papers on Dorian Gray
*Write Ayn Rand final research paper
*Research prices/grants/loans for SFSU
*Proof-read/edit final pages/index
*Start new story?/continue old idea
*Wash Sharpie mustache off of index finger now that Zack can't yell at me about 'shaving' it off
*Find something else to do besides scan facebook, blog uselessly, read fanfiction, and ignore assignments
Better get started, I suppose.
~hyacinth
Song Rec: "Gold Guns Girls" by Metric
They can clearly see the smile on my face and in my eyes, insane though it may appear; the crease between my eyebrows and the anger glittering in my irises is a clear 'back off' statement; the clear and open-eyed look on my face means I'm listening intensely and thinking.
But in my writing, I'm not visible. There are not tell-tale hand tremors to be noticed by readers when I'm nervous, no teasing smirk to let them know I'm only joking and I didn't mean it.
Which is where my tone comes in. Or is it my topics? How I write? I set out not only to inform, but to make readers feel emotionally connected--whether they laugh or cry or, hell, anything in between, I want them to imagine themselves in the same situations, or form an opinion about something.
I've noticed the posts on my blog aren't... well, they aren't necessarily cheerful or funny. In fact, for some reason, I come off as serious in quite a few (in my own opinion). Some, because of my topics--I'm very reflective on this blog. Others, because I was feeling lame that day? I don't know why.
So for today, I'm going to try not to reflect on anything. Instead, I'm writing a list. A list doesn't even have tone, most of the time. Today, I attempt the art of toneless.
Of Things To Do:
*Call Jenny and set up a hair cut, possibly for Friday before the fashion show. Ask for Les' senior picture.
*Finish scholarship crap. Yes, crap. It's more annoying than an application to college itself.
*Make flashcards with derivative, antiderivative, inverse functions, integration of log(arithims) and natural logs, ect.
*Call Nick, plan fashion show performance
*Stop by Barnes and Noble (get gas first!)
*Get gas when I get money for my article in the paper... any day now, check, I'm waiting...
*Shave my legs
*Call Laurie about job interview results
*Congratulate Qutob and Mortensen on pregnancies
*Write both papers on Dorian Gray
*Write Ayn Rand final research paper
*Research prices/grants/loans for SFSU
*Proof-read/edit final pages/index
*Start new story?/continue old idea
*Wash Sharpie mustache off of index finger now that Zack can't yell at me about 'shaving' it off
*Find something else to do besides scan facebook, blog uselessly, read fanfiction, and ignore assignments
Better get started, I suppose.
~hyacinth
Song Rec: "Gold Guns Girls" by Metric
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Anti-Nice
Today is one of those days--I'm alone, it's quiet outside, sunny if a bit breezy. Nice. Nothing bad happened today, nothing great either. In fact, overall, my day was just nice.
I don't like 'nice' days.
Call me dramatic, but I prefer my days to be memorable. I like to think back and pull a one-liner from a friend out of my memory, or recall how my first teacher of the day had one of his bipolar episodes halfway through class, or even snicker at the discussion about boobs we had while taking a test in Government and Politics. Or maybe the ink on my hands will have a story behind it, or the bruise on my shoulder will have a funny joke from my lab partner to match it. Hell, I'd even prefer my eyes to tear up as I ponder the depths of math I will never, ever understand.
But no. Today, I find my mind blank. I vaguely remember sleeping through my alarm clock and waking up to my brother's an hour later, copying Calculus homework in Lit while discussing themes of The Portrait of Dorian Gray (which I've yet to read), telling my friends that if I have to be around people I'd prefer to be within a foot of them, and attempting to cheer my almost-sister up during business publications.
If I think back to yesterday, I'm forced to conclude it was also a 'nice' day, because I have no memory of the first half of it. I tend to forget the 'nice' days. They don't have any sticky substance to prevent them from slipping out of the tangled cords of my mind--no sweet honey, no tart lemon juice, no gooey colorful putty.
Sure, I enjoy pretty weather when it's seventy degrees out and the sun is shining and there's a slight breeze--who doesn't like days like that? And yes, I admit I appreciate it when someone holds the door open for me out of kindness and I can smile at them in return. I even feel pleased whenever I find a shirt that I really love because it looks good on me and gives off the right vibe for my day.
But I enjoy the rain as much as the sun, because it's not as common and it has a beauty of its own. I appreciate it when somebody says something mouthy and I'm forced to use my sarcasm to insult them back for pissing me off. I feel pleased when I wear something that actually offends the delicate dress sensibilities of my friends because it's shapeless and comfortable.
I don't know. I just don't like 'nice' days. Bad days are better; good days are better. But nice? It sits in the middle, twiddling its thumbs airily, and soon drops out of memory, overshadowed by days following and preceding.
If I'm going to live this life, I'd at least like it to be as far from bland and nice as it possibly could be. That's all I'm asking for.
~ hyacinth
Song Rec: "Devil's Dance Floor" by Flogging Molly
I don't like 'nice' days.
Call me dramatic, but I prefer my days to be memorable. I like to think back and pull a one-liner from a friend out of my memory, or recall how my first teacher of the day had one of his bipolar episodes halfway through class, or even snicker at the discussion about boobs we had while taking a test in Government and Politics. Or maybe the ink on my hands will have a story behind it, or the bruise on my shoulder will have a funny joke from my lab partner to match it. Hell, I'd even prefer my eyes to tear up as I ponder the depths of math I will never, ever understand.
But no. Today, I find my mind blank. I vaguely remember sleeping through my alarm clock and waking up to my brother's an hour later, copying Calculus homework in Lit while discussing themes of The Portrait of Dorian Gray (which I've yet to read), telling my friends that if I have to be around people I'd prefer to be within a foot of them, and attempting to cheer my almost-sister up during business publications.
If I think back to yesterday, I'm forced to conclude it was also a 'nice' day, because I have no memory of the first half of it. I tend to forget the 'nice' days. They don't have any sticky substance to prevent them from slipping out of the tangled cords of my mind--no sweet honey, no tart lemon juice, no gooey colorful putty.
Sure, I enjoy pretty weather when it's seventy degrees out and the sun is shining and there's a slight breeze--who doesn't like days like that? And yes, I admit I appreciate it when someone holds the door open for me out of kindness and I can smile at them in return. I even feel pleased whenever I find a shirt that I really love because it looks good on me and gives off the right vibe for my day.
But I enjoy the rain as much as the sun, because it's not as common and it has a beauty of its own. I appreciate it when somebody says something mouthy and I'm forced to use my sarcasm to insult them back for pissing me off. I feel pleased when I wear something that actually offends the delicate dress sensibilities of my friends because it's shapeless and comfortable.
I don't know. I just don't like 'nice' days. Bad days are better; good days are better. But nice? It sits in the middle, twiddling its thumbs airily, and soon drops out of memory, overshadowed by days following and preceding.
If I'm going to live this life, I'd at least like it to be as far from bland and nice as it possibly could be. That's all I'm asking for.
~ hyacinth
Song Rec: "Devil's Dance Floor" by Flogging Molly
Monday, March 15, 2010
Broken Strings
When you meet someone, you don't really consider what might happen or who they'll be to you in twenty years, if you'll remember them on sight or ever know they continue to exist, living their lives.
There's a danger in this.
When we see people on the street, in a classroom, at a protest, we don't know who they are. And then you talk. And then you do know, at least partially. You know if you would ever want to talk to them again, and you may be either thrilled or disappointed when you realize you'll see them everyday at the same time or never again.
But when you see someone every day, you're talking to them, helping them and doing work with them, and somehow you're forming that bond between two people, that golden string that ties everyone together. It's a tangled thread, twisted around strands from other peoples' lives, forming knots to fix the breaks that may occur when someone leaves you.
When that girl you've been sharing classes with for three years commits suicide, that thread that bound you to her--the one that carries all of your happy and sad memories, the painful and the bright and the funny and the strange--frays, breaks, separates, cut by the scissors of the Fates, scissors weilded by a girl your own age, who has more power than anyone else in that moment.
And suddenly, you regret ever becoming friends. You regret all the times you teased each other in chemistry for being the worst procrastinators in the history of that school. You regret hearing stories of each others' lives, the tear-jerking and laughter-inducing. You regret getting help on your calculus, regret letting her say anything when analyzing a book, regret arguing over gay rights and health care and politics with her.
But most of all, you regret the things you don't know. You regret only ever reading a few of her poems, especially because they're shockingly pretty. You regret not knowing enough about her life at home, though you've heard some of the horror stories. You regret not knowing... you regret not knowing that she was suicidal to begin with.
You start to wish you'd known, so you could have done something, anything, to help. You feel guilty, guilty as hell even though it's not in any way your fault. You should have known. You should have seen something was wrong. But how could you have? When she was so determined to hide it from you, how could you have known?
There's no way.
One day, she's alive and well, laughing and arguing in your first class of the day. The next she's gone, and you figure she's sick again, as always, and will come back to class in a week with a sheepish smile and a 'Hey, everyone. What'd I miss?"
You don't find out until the morning after what everyone else knew the night before. Someone tells you as soon as you step out of your car, because you're far too cheerful to be aware of the situation, and the shock sets in, bone deep and cold and terrifying, paralyzing. It takes you ten minutes to realize you should be crying, five minutes to remember you're supposed to be breathing, three minutes to frame a coherent question without stuttering.
And when you walk into that classroom, see her empty seat, everything finally sets in, and you're more than surprised to realize that, more than anything else, you're angrier than you have ever been in your entire life.
How dare she put everyone through this, again, not two months after the loss of another classmate? How dare she leave this classroom without her input on the novel we all read and loved on Monday? What the hell drove her to this?
You spend an entire hour crying loudly, falling apart in front of classmates, and you don't even give a damn. Let them see, let them feel the same way you do. They do, you know they do, even if they can't show it. But you feel guilty again, because some are trying to help you, moving around the classroom to sit next to you, lend you the tissue box, hold your hand between theirs: Nobody should have to help you, because it should be your job to comfort, your shoulder to lean on. You're the strong one, the empathetic one, the compassionate one. You're not the one to fall apart when others are in need of help. This makes you angrier.
The school hires grief counselors for the second time in as many months. They're worse than the first round. They say the entire class is diagnosed with post traumatic stress disorder. They say you're going through shock, and that's the reason you've gone numb after four hours of knowing, two classes of seeing her empty seat staring you in the face, seeing the tear tracks down your classmates' faces.
The counselor they send into your first class the next day fumbles, tells everyone, "You may have known Marissa or Dillon..." You think? She sat right behind me, you bitch. Do your research before you try to help us next time. And stop using the white board, it'll stain and Qutob hates it.
You're angry, still, by the third day, but it's less fiery, less of a burning feeling in your chest. You feel hollow instead, as if the cavity between the bones of your rib cage is suddenly filled with a heavy nothingness, as if you're full of emptiness. You close your eyes, but your hands reach out to touch others, to grab onto their sleeves and hips and fingers, holding them close to you though your head urges you to let them go now: to forget, to leave them before they leave you, to cut the strings on purpose instead of having them snap surprisingly to leave the threads hanging, broken and frayed, when you least expect it.
Despite it all, you grow closer to others, use them to pull yourself out of the murky waters of depression, at least by a few inches.
And then, you write. Or you try. And fail. And quit.
The words stop flowing, the world stops spinning, you stop caring. Screw it all, you say. Important deadlines and papers? Not important. Classwork? Who cares. Making new friends? Not a chance.
You wallow and hope nobody else notices. They don't: they are wading through the swamp of life just as slowly as you are, trapped under dirty water and bloody banks with you. No one can help, because we are all submerged and there is no one on shore with a vine waiting to pull us out.
Until, finally, the image in your mind grows to be too much, the last few seconds of her life on repeat in your dreams, both waking and sleeping, even a month later. As you open your computer again, you open your words, and they flow onto the page willingly, only to slow two months later as you near the end, that crucial scene.
But, on a deadline, you finish, turn it in, post it.
Three days later, the floodgates open again. You can feel, you can cry, you can blame.
And you know that the first conversation you ever had with her has affected your life forever. When you first saw her, you had no idea things would end like this, or progress in such a way. But they have, and you are, utterly, impossibly, inexorably, changed.
The strings weave back together in a pattern not nearly as fine as before. It's obvious they've been cut and hastily repaired. But they go on, as your life must, because you refuse to follow the same path. You don't weild the scissors of the Fates, you refuse to control the strands of others' lives. No. You will go on, writing and remembering, until you draw in your last rattling breath, and your strings all snap at once, allowing you to fall, at long last, finally, toward the nest of thread spread underneath to catch you, the tangled threads of those you have lost serving their final purpose.
~ hyacinth
Music Rec: "Set Fire to the Third Bar" by Snow Patrol
Written: March 15, 2010;
Date of Change: December 1, 2009
There's a danger in this.
When we see people on the street, in a classroom, at a protest, we don't know who they are. And then you talk. And then you do know, at least partially. You know if you would ever want to talk to them again, and you may be either thrilled or disappointed when you realize you'll see them everyday at the same time or never again.
But when you see someone every day, you're talking to them, helping them and doing work with them, and somehow you're forming that bond between two people, that golden string that ties everyone together. It's a tangled thread, twisted around strands from other peoples' lives, forming knots to fix the breaks that may occur when someone leaves you.
When that girl you've been sharing classes with for three years commits suicide, that thread that bound you to her--the one that carries all of your happy and sad memories, the painful and the bright and the funny and the strange--frays, breaks, separates, cut by the scissors of the Fates, scissors weilded by a girl your own age, who has more power than anyone else in that moment.
And suddenly, you regret ever becoming friends. You regret all the times you teased each other in chemistry for being the worst procrastinators in the history of that school. You regret hearing stories of each others' lives, the tear-jerking and laughter-inducing. You regret getting help on your calculus, regret letting her say anything when analyzing a book, regret arguing over gay rights and health care and politics with her.
But most of all, you regret the things you don't know. You regret only ever reading a few of her poems, especially because they're shockingly pretty. You regret not knowing enough about her life at home, though you've heard some of the horror stories. You regret not knowing... you regret not knowing that she was suicidal to begin with.
You start to wish you'd known, so you could have done something, anything, to help. You feel guilty, guilty as hell even though it's not in any way your fault. You should have known. You should have seen something was wrong. But how could you have? When she was so determined to hide it from you, how could you have known?
There's no way.
One day, she's alive and well, laughing and arguing in your first class of the day. The next she's gone, and you figure she's sick again, as always, and will come back to class in a week with a sheepish smile and a 'Hey, everyone. What'd I miss?"
You don't find out until the morning after what everyone else knew the night before. Someone tells you as soon as you step out of your car, because you're far too cheerful to be aware of the situation, and the shock sets in, bone deep and cold and terrifying, paralyzing. It takes you ten minutes to realize you should be crying, five minutes to remember you're supposed to be breathing, three minutes to frame a coherent question without stuttering.
And when you walk into that classroom, see her empty seat, everything finally sets in, and you're more than surprised to realize that, more than anything else, you're angrier than you have ever been in your entire life.
How dare she put everyone through this, again, not two months after the loss of another classmate? How dare she leave this classroom without her input on the novel we all read and loved on Monday? What the hell drove her to this?
You spend an entire hour crying loudly, falling apart in front of classmates, and you don't even give a damn. Let them see, let them feel the same way you do. They do, you know they do, even if they can't show it. But you feel guilty again, because some are trying to help you, moving around the classroom to sit next to you, lend you the tissue box, hold your hand between theirs: Nobody should have to help you, because it should be your job to comfort, your shoulder to lean on. You're the strong one, the empathetic one, the compassionate one. You're not the one to fall apart when others are in need of help. This makes you angrier.
The school hires grief counselors for the second time in as many months. They're worse than the first round. They say the entire class is diagnosed with post traumatic stress disorder. They say you're going through shock, and that's the reason you've gone numb after four hours of knowing, two classes of seeing her empty seat staring you in the face, seeing the tear tracks down your classmates' faces.
The counselor they send into your first class the next day fumbles, tells everyone, "You may have known Marissa or Dillon..." You think? She sat right behind me, you bitch. Do your research before you try to help us next time. And stop using the white board, it'll stain and Qutob hates it.
You're angry, still, by the third day, but it's less fiery, less of a burning feeling in your chest. You feel hollow instead, as if the cavity between the bones of your rib cage is suddenly filled with a heavy nothingness, as if you're full of emptiness. You close your eyes, but your hands reach out to touch others, to grab onto their sleeves and hips and fingers, holding them close to you though your head urges you to let them go now: to forget, to leave them before they leave you, to cut the strings on purpose instead of having them snap surprisingly to leave the threads hanging, broken and frayed, when you least expect it.
Despite it all, you grow closer to others, use them to pull yourself out of the murky waters of depression, at least by a few inches.
And then, you write. Or you try. And fail. And quit.
The words stop flowing, the world stops spinning, you stop caring. Screw it all, you say. Important deadlines and papers? Not important. Classwork? Who cares. Making new friends? Not a chance.
You wallow and hope nobody else notices. They don't: they are wading through the swamp of life just as slowly as you are, trapped under dirty water and bloody banks with you. No one can help, because we are all submerged and there is no one on shore with a vine waiting to pull us out.
Until, finally, the image in your mind grows to be too much, the last few seconds of her life on repeat in your dreams, both waking and sleeping, even a month later. As you open your computer again, you open your words, and they flow onto the page willingly, only to slow two months later as you near the end, that crucial scene.
But, on a deadline, you finish, turn it in, post it.
Three days later, the floodgates open again. You can feel, you can cry, you can blame.
And you know that the first conversation you ever had with her has affected your life forever. When you first saw her, you had no idea things would end like this, or progress in such a way. But they have, and you are, utterly, impossibly, inexorably, changed.
The strings weave back together in a pattern not nearly as fine as before. It's obvious they've been cut and hastily repaired. But they go on, as your life must, because you refuse to follow the same path. You don't weild the scissors of the Fates, you refuse to control the strands of others' lives. No. You will go on, writing and remembering, until you draw in your last rattling breath, and your strings all snap at once, allowing you to fall, at long last, finally, toward the nest of thread spread underneath to catch you, the tangled threads of those you have lost serving their final purpose.
~ hyacinth
Music Rec: "Set Fire to the Third Bar" by Snow Patrol
Written: March 15, 2010;
Date of Change: December 1, 2009
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Controlling Epiphany
Sunday March 14, 2010; 3:44 pm Pacific Coast Time (daylight savings time is back, dang).
I'm usually one of those outgoing loud friendly people you randomly decide to tell your life story to. I don't know what it is about me, but something draws people toward me. I often wonder if I have a sign on my back that says 'Professional Listener--FREE Services!'
Either way, I'll let you talk if I'm in a good mood. If you want to make a strange metaphor about fish while you're trying to get me to register Republican, go ahead. If something absolutely forces you to talk about your next door neighbor, who is a writer, I suppose I can stand and listen for twenty minutes. If you see me at a gas station and I half-smile at you because we're pump neighbors, feel free to tell me how you have been stood up twice by the same guy before leaving inexplicably.
At school, I'm the girl who can't help but answer the teacher's questions. I genuinely like my teachers and my peers and, occasionally, even my classes and the material. People may have the first impression that I'm a little awkward, but they change their minds after actually talking to me. I'm likable. And I like people.
Sometimes.
Other times, I just want to be alone. Usually, there are a few days per month that I just can't stand other people. I won't laugh at my friends, I'll glare at my homework, and I am ready to burst into frustrated tears and cutting words at any moment, if prodded in the wrong direction.
Which is where yesterday and today come in.
Yesterday: The day started off well--it was sunny and bright outside, if a little windy (thank the Delta Breeze for that). I got up late as usual, ate breakfast, pet my cat, and decided to take the Rottweiler for a walk.
The walk was nice. It got me away from my family for an hour and a half, because I followed a different trail than usual. In fact, I ended up at a friend's house, then at the skate park, before turning around to head home again.
After, I sat down, opened my laptop, and prepared to empty my head onto the white screen in front of me.
I was interrupted.
The little brother was conspiring against me. As he knows, I can't write a thing with people hovering over my shoulder. Some people are pee-shy. I'm writing-shy (and pee-shy, actually, but that's not the point). I quickly grew annoyed--after two minutes, I was prepared to bash him over the head with my beloved computer.
So I stood up and headed outside to count Rollie-Pollies in the grass where my mother was planting her spring pansies next to the tulips.
I didn't get any writing done all day.
Today: I got up late, ate breakfast again, chatted with the family, and sat down to write. I'd gotten no further than four sentences before I was being yelled at to get up--family bike ride time! (Mom's idea).
Now, I must specify that I'm not a fan of bike rides, or the gym, or running. I enjoy swimming and yoga and random dancing to music on my iPod as I vacuum.
And my family bike rides? They're long. The last one I recall was 27 miles down the American River in Sacramento. My butt-bones were so sore I almost cried when I sat down in the car to drive home again.
So I was a little resistant to the suggestion. But once the parental unit decides something, there's no getting out of it. They assured me it would be a short ride down to the river--a mile there and back, no big deal. We'd be home soon.
I knew they were lying.
And yet I found myself on my bike, whining after the next five miles of not-so-smooth river terrain had passed. Hills, ruts, grass, mud, rocks, sand... And every impact absorbed by my left wrist and my poor butt. Every time I tried to take another path I knew would lead me home, the family called out to me and forced me to continue on.
I was severely... annoyed... by mile six. It was windy as hell, chilling my sweat and my skin, and I made no secret of my discontent with the situation.
By mile seven, I was ready to cry in frustration. These sadistic people must want the family argument my mother had hopefully suggested we abandon when we left the house.
By mile eight, I had begun to ignore my family by leading the way, forcing myself to go faster even though my quads were burning.
At mile nine, I fell to the back of the pack and let them ride forth, because we had finally made it back to the safe, paved streets of town. I walked over the overpass, in no mood to force my tired legs to carry us forth, and used the downward glide to get me halfway to our neighborhood, passing my family grouped around the flat tire of my brother's bike. Ha. Served them right.
I returned home at long last, and found that my legs would barely support my weight after the tenth mile, two hours of hills and grass and bugs in my face. My Yankees cap was soaked with sweat, my hair nasty and stringy, and my skin was freezing to the touch. I told my mom she was a sadistic liar, pouted at her, and hurried upstairs to spend an hour in and under hot water.
I thank my lucky stars daily for plumbing and wonderful showers.
And now, as my brother asks me for the time, I can't even be bothered to answer. No, I can't even say three small words to him. In fact, all I can do is glare at him and hope he leaves--he has.
So maybe it's not just me. Sometimes. Maybe a lot of the time it's my situation. Maybe I'm spoiled and I like things under my terms, under my control.
Most likely, it's the second guess.
I'm a perfectionist, I know this. I'm slightly OCD about eggs and the way I shave my legs and how I eat my M&Ms and how messy my room can get before I'm sorting things by color, hanging by occasion, and folding by brand. Meanwhile, when my parents bug me about how 'messy' my room is, I tell them it's totally clean and they can't see it behind my closed door anyways, so why does it bother them?
I just never realized how much I liked control.
So my lessons for today?
1. Even when I'm not in school, writing is hard to accomplish with my family home at the same time. It's a miracle I can finish any story with their constant interruptions.
2. I can't trust my family when they say it'll be a 'short' bike ride. Even when I'm going skiing tomorrow and know I probably won't be able to even stand because of today.
3. I'm a control freak. Lovely. I've always wanted to know that about myself.
Alas, here I sit with a sinus headache, sore from my hips to my heels, unable to work on a story because my annoyance is too great. So I take it out on my seldom-used blog. And feel a little better, because I'm finally alone in the house.
Now they leave.
Nice, guys, real nice.
~hyacinth
Music Rec: "Shark In The Water" by V.V. Brown
I'm usually one of those outgoing loud friendly people you randomly decide to tell your life story to. I don't know what it is about me, but something draws people toward me. I often wonder if I have a sign on my back that says 'Professional Listener--FREE Services!'
Either way, I'll let you talk if I'm in a good mood. If you want to make a strange metaphor about fish while you're trying to get me to register Republican, go ahead. If something absolutely forces you to talk about your next door neighbor, who is a writer, I suppose I can stand and listen for twenty minutes. If you see me at a gas station and I half-smile at you because we're pump neighbors, feel free to tell me how you have been stood up twice by the same guy before leaving inexplicably.
At school, I'm the girl who can't help but answer the teacher's questions. I genuinely like my teachers and my peers and, occasionally, even my classes and the material. People may have the first impression that I'm a little awkward, but they change their minds after actually talking to me. I'm likable. And I like people.
Sometimes.
Other times, I just want to be alone. Usually, there are a few days per month that I just can't stand other people. I won't laugh at my friends, I'll glare at my homework, and I am ready to burst into frustrated tears and cutting words at any moment, if prodded in the wrong direction.
Which is where yesterday and today come in.
Yesterday: The day started off well--it was sunny and bright outside, if a little windy (thank the Delta Breeze for that). I got up late as usual, ate breakfast, pet my cat, and decided to take the Rottweiler for a walk.
The walk was nice. It got me away from my family for an hour and a half, because I followed a different trail than usual. In fact, I ended up at a friend's house, then at the skate park, before turning around to head home again.
After, I sat down, opened my laptop, and prepared to empty my head onto the white screen in front of me.
I was interrupted.
The little brother was conspiring against me. As he knows, I can't write a thing with people hovering over my shoulder. Some people are pee-shy. I'm writing-shy (and pee-shy, actually, but that's not the point). I quickly grew annoyed--after two minutes, I was prepared to bash him over the head with my beloved computer.
So I stood up and headed outside to count Rollie-Pollies in the grass where my mother was planting her spring pansies next to the tulips.
I didn't get any writing done all day.
Today: I got up late, ate breakfast again, chatted with the family, and sat down to write. I'd gotten no further than four sentences before I was being yelled at to get up--family bike ride time! (Mom's idea).
Now, I must specify that I'm not a fan of bike rides, or the gym, or running. I enjoy swimming and yoga and random dancing to music on my iPod as I vacuum.
And my family bike rides? They're long. The last one I recall was 27 miles down the American River in Sacramento. My butt-bones were so sore I almost cried when I sat down in the car to drive home again.
So I was a little resistant to the suggestion. But once the parental unit decides something, there's no getting out of it. They assured me it would be a short ride down to the river--a mile there and back, no big deal. We'd be home soon.
I knew they were lying.
And yet I found myself on my bike, whining after the next five miles of not-so-smooth river terrain had passed. Hills, ruts, grass, mud, rocks, sand... And every impact absorbed by my left wrist and my poor butt. Every time I tried to take another path I knew would lead me home, the family called out to me and forced me to continue on.
I was severely... annoyed... by mile six. It was windy as hell, chilling my sweat and my skin, and I made no secret of my discontent with the situation.
By mile seven, I was ready to cry in frustration. These sadistic people must want the family argument my mother had hopefully suggested we abandon when we left the house.
By mile eight, I had begun to ignore my family by leading the way, forcing myself to go faster even though my quads were burning.
At mile nine, I fell to the back of the pack and let them ride forth, because we had finally made it back to the safe, paved streets of town. I walked over the overpass, in no mood to force my tired legs to carry us forth, and used the downward glide to get me halfway to our neighborhood, passing my family grouped around the flat tire of my brother's bike. Ha. Served them right.
I returned home at long last, and found that my legs would barely support my weight after the tenth mile, two hours of hills and grass and bugs in my face. My Yankees cap was soaked with sweat, my hair nasty and stringy, and my skin was freezing to the touch. I told my mom she was a sadistic liar, pouted at her, and hurried upstairs to spend an hour in and under hot water.
I thank my lucky stars daily for plumbing and wonderful showers.
And now, as my brother asks me for the time, I can't even be bothered to answer. No, I can't even say three small words to him. In fact, all I can do is glare at him and hope he leaves--he has.
So maybe it's not just me. Sometimes. Maybe a lot of the time it's my situation. Maybe I'm spoiled and I like things under my terms, under my control.
Most likely, it's the second guess.
I'm a perfectionist, I know this. I'm slightly OCD about eggs and the way I shave my legs and how I eat my M&Ms and how messy my room can get before I'm sorting things by color, hanging by occasion, and folding by brand. Meanwhile, when my parents bug me about how 'messy' my room is, I tell them it's totally clean and they can't see it behind my closed door anyways, so why does it bother them?
I just never realized how much I liked control.
So my lessons for today?
1. Even when I'm not in school, writing is hard to accomplish with my family home at the same time. It's a miracle I can finish any story with their constant interruptions.
2. I can't trust my family when they say it'll be a 'short' bike ride. Even when I'm going skiing tomorrow and know I probably won't be able to even stand because of today.
3. I'm a control freak. Lovely. I've always wanted to know that about myself.
Alas, here I sit with a sinus headache, sore from my hips to my heels, unable to work on a story because my annoyance is too great. So I take it out on my seldom-used blog. And feel a little better, because I'm finally alone in the house.
Now they leave.
Nice, guys, real nice.
~hyacinth
Music Rec: "Shark In The Water" by V.V. Brown
Thursday, March 4, 2010
FanFiction: My Guilty Pleasure
So, I have an obsession with fanfiction. It's embarrassing. Quite embarrassing. Understandably, I have never told anybody in my Real Life world. When my mother asks me what I'm doing on the laptop, I tilt the screen further toward my stomach and innocently answer, "Writing," while I minimize the screen to reveal the open and untouched Word Document behind it.
The amount of time I spend on http://www.fanfiction.net is... well, I'm pretty sure it's about equal to the amount of time I spend in school. Which is pathetic and embarrassing. To make it even better, I'm also an author on the same site. Under this pen name, sadly. If you're curious, you can go read a bunch of really good fanfiction from my favorites list. It's mostly smutty and angsty. Which is about when I curl up and die of embarrassment, hoping that you don't know me from my Real Life.
But I happen to like reading it--I'm addicted for a reason, after all. It's... emotionally stimulating. Wait, not like that, sheesh. I mean... well, sometimes. Not that it's the reason I read! No, not entirely.
I read fanfiction because... well, let's start my list.
1. It's free.
2. A lot of it is absolutely amazing writing. Seriously, some of these stories are 450,000 words. Want an example?
3. They make me cry, they make me laugh uncontrollably, they keep me up at night thinking about the possibilities.
4. I like reading incomplete fanfics, because I like thinking ahead in the story and trying to predict the next twist in the plot. It's especially nice when I guess correctly. The complete stories, I love them, really, but the experience of reading them is not the same. I guess I just like the anticipation?
5. If the people on fanfiction are writing/reading this stuff and living normal lives, surely I can too?
6. Oh yeah... I write it myself and I like to compare my work to the work of others.
7. Review system. True, not many of the reviews are helpful for critique purposes, but they make me smile just the same. I like being able to talk to fellow authors and hear back from them, as well as hearing the thoughts of my own readers.
8. Some of these fanfic authors are real published authors! What a gem... read it for free before it comes out on shelves under different names!
9. There are so many stories, and finding the polished jewels in the pile of rubbish is tiring, but worth it.
10. Making friends with fellow authors. I beta, and somehow end up becoming pen pals with people in Canada and France and fellow Californians...
11. It's a place I can post ideas and see how they'll be responded to, even if it is a crappy story.
12. It's an escape from the chains and boundaries of Real Life. My life is so boring compared to these stories...
Wow, I didn't know my list was so long. I'm sure the list against fanfiction is just as long, though...
1. It takes up so much time! Seriously... I'm reading it whenever I can. Sometimes I choose it over my Real Life friends.
2. I have unrealistic expectations from my life and love now.
3. Since I started reading, I am now a smut-lover. And UST? Yeah, constantly searching for sources in Real Life, which is disappointing... because there aren't any.
4. I learn random things, spout them out at inopportune moments in Real Life, and have to blush and stumble my way through lying... "Oh, I just... read it somewhere." "Where?" "Er... um... I mean... I don't remember?"
5. I'm not losing any weight sitting on my ass reading all the time... And I'm lightheaded whenever I stand up from my reading spot.
6. I don't have nails anymore. I can't stop biting them as I read. At least while I'm writing they're occupied and I can't chow down nervously.
7. I would probably die of embarrassment if people from Real Life discovered my secret, read my horrible writings, and read the shockingly-smutty things I read every day and look forward to.
8. The fandom I live in... is probably the worst guilty pleasure of them all. I hate the books, the movies, and yet... the fanfiction is so irresistible. Seriously, what I read is better than the damn hardbacks that started it all.
9. I don't sleep when I have a chapter waiting to be read, or when I'm expecting reviews, or when I've just read something so emotionally charged that it keeps me up half the night imagining what might happen next or in the future.
10. I embarrassed of being embarrassed of it! What the hell?!
So yeah. Somehow, I'm thinking the good outweighs the bad. Not much I can complain about, now is there?
Unless you consider that instead of enjoying The Fountainhead like I've been meaning to do since January--I'm four hundred pages in and currently on hiatus because fanfiction is more appealing at times--I'm reading about the many different--better--versions of the two flattest literary characters of all time.
Damn.
~ hyacinth
Music Rec: Mumford and Sons - "Dust Bowl Dance"
The amount of time I spend on http://www.fanfiction.net is... well, I'm pretty sure it's about equal to the amount of time I spend in school. Which is pathetic and embarrassing. To make it even better, I'm also an author on the same site. Under this pen name, sadly. If you're curious, you can go read a bunch of really good fanfiction from my favorites list. It's mostly smutty and angsty. Which is about when I curl up and die of embarrassment, hoping that you don't know me from my Real Life.
But I happen to like reading it--I'm addicted for a reason, after all. It's... emotionally stimulating. Wait, not like that, sheesh. I mean... well, sometimes. Not that it's the reason I read! No, not entirely.
I read fanfiction because... well, let's start my list.
1. It's free.
2. A lot of it is absolutely amazing writing. Seriously, some of these stories are 450,000 words. Want an example?
I watch them twisting all around me,
I give them what they think they want to hear,
When thunder rolls in and lightning strikes hard
I tell them there is nothing to fear.
My thoughts run cold in daytime,
Whiskey heats up the night,
My heart beats loud when I hear her voice,
Singing baby won't you do me right.
I watch her every movement,
Her every twist and turn
The look she gives me sets my brain on fire,
Damn, what a lovely way to burn.
~Tropic of Virgo, by In.a.blue.bathrobe
3. They make me cry, they make me laugh uncontrollably, they keep me up at night thinking about the possibilities.
4. I like reading incomplete fanfics, because I like thinking ahead in the story and trying to predict the next twist in the plot. It's especially nice when I guess correctly. The complete stories, I love them, really, but the experience of reading them is not the same. I guess I just like the anticipation?
5. If the people on fanfiction are writing/reading this stuff and living normal lives, surely I can too?
6. Oh yeah... I write it myself and I like to compare my work to the work of others.
7. Review system. True, not many of the reviews are helpful for critique purposes, but they make me smile just the same. I like being able to talk to fellow authors and hear back from them, as well as hearing the thoughts of my own readers.
8. Some of these fanfic authors are real published authors! What a gem... read it for free before it comes out on shelves under different names!
9. There are so many stories, and finding the polished jewels in the pile of rubbish is tiring, but worth it.
10. Making friends with fellow authors. I beta, and somehow end up becoming pen pals with people in Canada and France and fellow Californians...
11. It's a place I can post ideas and see how they'll be responded to, even if it is a crappy story.
12. It's an escape from the chains and boundaries of Real Life. My life is so boring compared to these stories...
Wow, I didn't know my list was so long. I'm sure the list against fanfiction is just as long, though...
1. It takes up so much time! Seriously... I'm reading it whenever I can. Sometimes I choose it over my Real Life friends.
2. I have unrealistic expectations from my life and love now.
3. Since I started reading, I am now a smut-lover. And UST? Yeah, constantly searching for sources in Real Life, which is disappointing... because there aren't any.
4. I learn random things, spout them out at inopportune moments in Real Life, and have to blush and stumble my way through lying... "Oh, I just... read it somewhere." "Where?" "Er... um... I mean... I don't remember?"
5. I'm not losing any weight sitting on my ass reading all the time... And I'm lightheaded whenever I stand up from my reading spot.
6. I don't have nails anymore. I can't stop biting them as I read. At least while I'm writing they're occupied and I can't chow down nervously.
7. I would probably die of embarrassment if people from Real Life discovered my secret, read my horrible writings, and read the shockingly-smutty things I read every day and look forward to.
8. The fandom I live in... is probably the worst guilty pleasure of them all. I hate the books, the movies, and yet... the fanfiction is so irresistible. Seriously, what I read is better than the damn hardbacks that started it all.
9. I don't sleep when I have a chapter waiting to be read, or when I'm expecting reviews, or when I've just read something so emotionally charged that it keeps me up half the night imagining what might happen next or in the future.
10. I embarrassed of being embarrassed of it! What the hell?!
So yeah. Somehow, I'm thinking the good outweighs the bad. Not much I can complain about, now is there?
Unless you consider that instead of enjoying The Fountainhead like I've been meaning to do since January--I'm four hundred pages in and currently on hiatus because fanfiction is more appealing at times--I'm reading about the many different--better--versions of the two flattest literary characters of all time.
Damn.
~ hyacinth
Music Rec: Mumford and Sons - "Dust Bowl Dance"
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