I don't ever want to lose this video:

Confession time.

I settled. I had settled for Library school. I looked at my options in first year and said, the hell with it, I’ll go to library school. Truthfully, I don’t want to go. Truthfully, I put off applying this summer for so long, I couldn’t get in. Truthfully, I put off applying this FALL for so long, it’s too late to get in, in January. Truthfully? I don’t care. I don’t want to go to Library school anymore, so as people are want to do, they question me. My older sister’s home from the U.S. now and she’s just tried to grill me on my “plans for the future,” and I made up some bullshit answer and left the room. I don’t know what I want to do with my life.

I looked up schools; colleges, universities, etc. I looked into training. But what it all boiled down to, every single time, was “do I really want to do that? No.”

I can’t for the life of me figure this shit out.

I have no skills, no talents, no interests.

In grade 5 through 6, I wanted to be a herpetologist (studies reptiles,) until my older sister told me that there was no future in it. In grades 7 through 9, I wanted to go into Egyptology, until my older sister once again told me there was no future in it. I even toyed with combining the two: studying retiles in Egyptian mythology, until I was reminded with low grades in Biology that I royally suck in any scientific field (which was needed for herpetology).

I have no interests. I watch tv, play video games, and surf the internet. I’m not passionate about anything anymore, and I hate that! Everything in my life is just....blah. I don’t care. I can’t care. I want to care, but I just can’t seem to do it! I can’t even write anymore, and it’s killing me.

So now what?

What now?

For a short time I toyed with the idea of going into some kind of artsy class, but I’ve never really ever been encouraged in any way, artistically, so it was just sort of a fantasy. Anyways, it’s both of my sister’s that are artsy. I’m just sort of...a blob of worthlessness.

I don’t want to talk about it with anyone here, because every time I do, I just panic and start feeling like a...well, a worthless blob.

I have no skills.

I have no talents.

I settled for library school, and now I’m not even going there.

“It’s kind of pathetic, living at home with mom and dad,” says my older sister. Well, thanks.

I truly feel that, maybe, if someone during my childhood had pushed me, had even forced me into doing things, maybe I’d know who I was. I took piano lessons as a child, when I wanted out, all I did was say so and they let me quit. Meanwhile, my older sister was pressured into staying in it, and now she’s professionally trained. Both my sister’s were in a singing choir, both pressured into staying in it, now the older is in the Graduate Musicology program at UCLA, and the younger is taking Art Fundamentals and soon Graphic Design at college. And me? I was offered to join the choir. I told my parents I couldn’t sing. They said ok, fine. And then, overtime, both sisters took occasional opportunities to make fun of my “singing” when I was singing in my room. So, really, was I ever told differently? I said I couldn’t sing. They basically said “You’re right.” I said I didn’t want to play the piano anymore, they said “Kay, whatever.” I didn’t want to join any clubs or teams in elementary, highschool, or uni, no one said anything. I almost failed 3 classes over the past 4 years, and all anyone ever told me was “You did your best.” NO! I didn’t! I spent nights meant for studying on the computer or watching tv. I slacked off, and only one person talked to me about grades, my German History prof, who I felt like I was letting down, so I worked my ASS off, and still almost failed. I felt like SHIT, and mom said “Oh, well, you did your best.” But my BEST is not GOOD ENOUGH!

I don’t want to blame others, I hate doing it, it makes me feel like shit. I shouldn’t do it, because that’s one thing I was encouraged to do and feel: it’s always, all of it, my own fault. I’m fat, because it’s my fault. I’m not the brightest, it’s my fault. I have no goal in life, it’s because I’m lazy and don’t want to think for myself.

But it just seems, this one time, that maybe it’s not ALL my fault. Maybe if someone had had just a titch of faith in me, if someone had encouraged me, pressured me, told me that I could do it, maybe then I wouldn’t be feeling as worthless as I do, as lost, as alone, as, as... stupid as I do. Maybe it’s not all my fault. But even if it’s not, that still doesn’t help me in the long run. That doesn’t help me give a definitive answer to “what are you doing with your life?” This Christmas is going to be hell. The entire family (extended and otherwise) is going to be asking my sisters about their grown-up adventures, then either ignoring me or asking me “so, what the hell are you doing?” and whichever they do is most assuredly going to be followed by one of those looks. Those looks that is plain black and white language among Italian families that says “I worked for years, and immigrated to this country, and didn’t speak a lick of English, and saved and pinched money, and brought up blank number of children before I was blank years old and I’m still struggling and you’re, what? Sitting on your ass, playing video games at age 23? Pff.”

So here’s a question, Italian family, if you have such wisdom, why did you not encourage, push, and pressure me into achieving?! Why did you let me “just get by,” when I could have soared?! Why did you have only scant amounts of faith in me?! And so why are you, now, not helping me?!

I feel like that’s all anyone’s doing. They question and question and question and then leave. They don’t help. They tell me that their brand of “help” is telling me that “It’s kind of pathetic, living at home with mom and dad.” Thanks. I know that already. Why do you think I feel more like shit than I usually do?!

I need help from my family! I need directions from my family! I need my family to act like a family! I don’t know what to do with my life, with myself, and, like usual, all my family seems to do is tell me “oh, that’s nice dear. Also, you’re pathetic. Do something with your life. And F.Y.I, you can’t sing.”

So what’s it gonna be, hm Kristen? Maybe you can take...ummm....goldsmithing at the local college?! Sounds like a goddamned plan to me!

"I'm a lot better...

...before you really know me."

"You know, like, you know all those books I have that I won't let you read?...It's just all of these love poems that are about you."

"I act like an idiot 'cause, I dunno, 'cause I have a void in my heart."

PostSecret: Confessions on Life, Death and God from Frank Warren on Vimeo.

I have a crush on a boy...

A sort-of-story I began writing in October:

I have a crush on a boy. This is bad. The last time I lusted after a boy like this was in grade 11. The year, I personally believe (me, without any training in the field other than what I gleaned from dated high school books and fledgling Wikipedia articles,) my self-diagnosed depression began and thrived.

There was a boy.

            He wasn’t really all that and then some, if you know what I mean. He wasn’t the bees knees, or all that and a bag of chips, he was simply average. He had his group of friends, and I had mine, they just seemed to cross paths occasionally. And by “occasionally,” I mean he dated every single one of the girls in my group, for various periods of time. Breaking up with one and taking the next one on a date a day later. He was, simply put, a serial dater. I can’t really tell you how things evolved. But I can explain how the crush developed, and how I forcibly broke my own heart so no one else could.

            I think, maybe, that I let the idea of him into the inner chamber of my heart because, simple as it is, he spoke to me. Flashback:

I am in grade 11. I am 17 years old.  I am the quiet freak in a gaggling group of girls. I am fat, seen by myself as worthless, ugly. My best friend, my Siamese cat Sasha, is ill and will soon die. I am depressed. I wear black t-shirts, of which I own countless numbers. My puffy hair is untamed and parted down the center of my head. I have yet to begin maintaining my brows, and I am fat, fat and ugly. A year later, one of those gaggling girls will corner me in the library and tell me not to be embarrassed if I’m gay, since I don’t giggle over boys like the others do. I will be too shocked at the assumed implication that I will not be able to tell her that the reason I don’t obsess over boys like the rest of them do is because I am convinced that my inherent ugliness and girth “gross boys out,” as it were, so I see obsessing over them as a waste of my time and effort.

I am in grade 11, and this average, Ontario farmboy talks to me. I slowly become stricken.

I try to ignore these feelings, try to convince myself that he, like most other boys, is a jerk. I watch him date through my friends faster than I can recognize the development of a crush. By friend 4, I begin to daydream. By friend 5, I’m trying to plan out, in my head, how the conversation will go when, not if, he asks me out. By friend 5, I’ve convinced myself that he was only dating them because he was too shy to ask me out first. That he was my knight in burnished armour.

            I panic. I find myself watching friend number 5 with growing jealousy. I begin to imagine nightmare scenarios, where he dumps number 5 for me, or worse yet, we go out and friends 1 through 5 turn on me for it. So I break my heart. I find reasons to despise him, I find flaws in his character, in his person, and extrapolate on them until he is nothing but dirt in my eyes. I take all of those panic situations, those nightmares, and convince myself that they will, without a doubt, happen. I hate him.

            But when he breaks up with friend 5, and begins to go out with some other girl from outside my group, I hurt.

            I start to feel a hole being dug into my gut, under my ribs, just below the surface. It’s like hunger pangs I can’t satiate – it is all consuming. I had broken my own heart, out of fear. He had inadvertedly broken up with me, out of disinterest. I hurt, like hell.

I have a crush on a boy.

            He is nothing spectacular. He is simply average. He has his group, and I mine. We just happen to cross paths occasionally. He is nothing special. He just talks to me.

            He has some of the kindest eyes that I have ever seen.

I’m going to have to break my heart again, before it’s too late.

I can't stop watching...

It's almost hypnotizing! D:





So odd. So alien like. So different. So amazing!

So utterly amazing!

Sort of crap piece of short fiction

{A fat girl can dream, can't she?}

***

Moments 1

          He roughly grabbed at the tiny fists beating his chest. His six foot plus frame dwarfed her five foot two frail and hurt, yet large and substantial body. She had been crying, taking out all of her withheld anger and frustration at the thin-obsessed world, at the men who failed to see her shimmering light, on his broad chest. Her hands secured in his, her face holding the mixed emotions of anger, hurt, sadness and surprise, he made a simple decision. Closing the inches between them in one swift motion, he captured her trembling lips in a kiss both filled with, and fueled by, a desperate need.

            Her eyes, now the size if the moon, shone green as un-spilled tears threatened to betray her. She slowly lowered her lashes, succumbing to the tears, which cascaded down her blushing cheeks to flow along her jaw line. He released her hands to caress the nape of her neck, running the rough pad if his thumb just under her ear. She shivered and, hands still trembling, leaned into his form and his kiss. Resting her hands onto his firm chest, she felt his heartbeat, as he felt her pulse under her ear, both beating in a rapid and panicked unison.

            It felt as though, clichéd as it was, the world had stopped. As though all the sounds around them had been muted by the pounding of their now entangled hearts, that all other people had vanished, leaving a world shrouded in a cloak of black and white tableau, leaving only the exploding colours behind their closed lids to remain. Her lips were on fire. Trapped in his, she could only taste salt and honey and she quickly found herself addicted to him. She had never felt so safe, secure, had never felt something so sure as his hard chest, his soft lips, and the growing fire within her.

            He was lost, lost in the scent, the taste, the feel, everything that made up the woman resting against him. His knees nearly buckled with the surge of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. His fingers worried and wound themselves into her dark hair, feeling each strand glide against pads of index and ring. She was made of silk and lemon juice – soft, smooth, acidic, a deadly combination which formed a poison he was sure would consume him.

            How had they been so blind to each other for so long?

            A noise, the door latch hitching, announcing an intruder, forced them apart. Out of breath and confused, they caught each others' eyes, and for the briefest of moments, fell in love. They turned their bodies away from each other and became, once again, close acquaintances, left to count their misgivings and sift through the shattered remains of hearts left broken.

           

            Her throat was closed off, she daren’t utter a sound.

            His footsteps were far too loud, but carried on in a desperate bid for freedom.

            Both silently told themselves to never fall for her eyes, or his warmth, ever again. Both terrified of what could have been. Terrified of what was now a lost moment.

Loves it!

I'm really sad this show was canceled. ):


{SPOILER}

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XFfpX1vsQUY

I simply cannot wait!

Up

From perezhilton.com:

"The folks at Pixar helped a dying girl fulfill her final wish when one of their employees hand delivered a DVD of the film Up to the family's residence for a private screening.

10-year-old Colby Curtin was diagnosed with a rare form of cancer in December 2005, and ever since she saw a preview for Up, she'd been excited for the poignant film about a man who goes on an adventure after the loss of his wife by tying balloons to his house and flying away.

After the family had made a request that was never fulfilled for a wheelchair to take Colby to the theaters, a family friend began frantically calling Pixar as Colby's health dramatically worsened.

Finally the friend got through the automated messaging system by guessing a name. Pixar immediately sent out an employee to the girl's home in Huntington Beach armed with a DVD of the film and a gift basket of toys. The family sat around to a private screening.

Colby had difficulty keeping her eyes open through the film because of the pain she was in, so her mother narrated it to her.

Colby died 7 hours later and we hope her final moments were that much more comfortable for having her final wish granted!

Rest in peace, little angel."


Further proof that there is both supreme kindness, and supreme sorrow in this mess of a world.

Battle Trailer

Fuck it, I love 4PP.

4PP

I'm drowning myself in a group of young men who play video games, and who are fucking awesome.
It's how I'm fixing things, obviously. :/

This is why I love them:

My marks aren't good enough.
Marks weren't supposed to be out until the 22nd, and then the date was changed to the 24th of June, but I just checked the page and my low to mid 60s and one 54 are glaring at me, laughing at me. Making me want to throw up.
My marks aren't good enough.
What do I do? What do I do? What do I do?
I'm filling out the application anyway, who knows, maybe they'll take pity on me.
Fuck!
What do I do?!
What happens if they say no?! What do I do?!

I hate having to hear of dreary, undesirable, desolate situations, I really do. But when I do, they don't seem to affect me emotionally all that much. The situation, though, regarding a little girl from the Woodstock area of Ontario, though...it just seems like too much.
Many of the girls I went to uni with either knew the family involved, or were friends of friends, and since most of them are from London and the surrounding areas, they would have seen the posters. Hell, even here, back at home, I saw a few posters.
I won't type names, since there's the whole "google" thing that I try to avoid, but I will post a link to an article:
Here and here.


They knew her and her family. They fucking knew her!
My mom says that authorities suspect there may have been sexual assault involved. Sickening! Horrifying! Those god-damned wretched individuals!!

"There's now no hope that the eight year old will be found alive."

Precious

This looks... exceptional.

This is un-fucking-believable.
I am so livid at the world, and I have no explanation as to why. It's that hole in my gut again, and I hate it!
My parents and younger sister are down, and at first it was okay, but then the grandmother started being all...grandmothery, you know, being a pain in the ass. So it went downhill from there.
I was fine when my sister and I went to the mall (by ourselves) and then to Chapters (by ourselves), but as soon as I got here, after I proclaimed to my father how fucking crazy I'm going and how I fucking hate my step-uncle (which was brought up when he said he had to stop and pick up some beer because the ass was coming over for dinner tomorrow). My dad semi-yelled at me, telling me that said step-uncle has his problems, but they're not my problems.
Well, they are when he ladles them on top of everyone.
So I got bitchy.
And then my room here is being torn asunder by my neurotically-neat-freak for a mother because my ex-step-aunt has decided that she's going to fly in to London from BC and spend a week sleeping in the other room. This week? I have 3 exams in 4 days and I'm panicking!
The first one on Monday is in the class I got 37% on the midterm. And it's German history. Fucking god damn germans! I'm sick of it! Just fucking sick of it!
And then, since my last exam isn't until the 25th, a full 9 days after my 3rd exam, I was planning on going home. Except, apparently, I'd have to take the bus and I really don't want to have to fucking do that shit right now.
So I told my mother I'm staying here.
She's all bitchy now, but I don't care anymore.
I just want to be left alone! God damnit! Just leave me alone!!

And now a classmate wants me to type out two, 8-page notes for her, and my mother's nagging me ("We came here to see you, and you're just sitting at your computer!" Well, I HAVE TO.) She said "Well then, we might as well leave." Fine, go. "So, are you not coming out for supper with us then?" And I told her that I don't eat supper, so tough shit. She said "Fine!" and left in a huff.
It's true, though. I don't eat supper.
I don't eat.
And I'm still fat and miserable, and I hate every aspect of my life right now, and I'm sorry I'm being emo, but tough shit, it's what I am.
And my younger sister gave me a mini-lecture as to diet and exercise and basically told me that if I'm unhappy about how I look, then to loose some weight because, sweetheart, you're not gonna be any happy fat. Thanks loads, sis.
Fucking unbelievable.

I don't know what I'm doing with my life anymore.
I'm just so confused and fed up and I'm starting to think that the best solution is the final one: run away and jump off a bridge.
I just...I need to be alone.
Stop shooting at my feet and making me dance for you.

I need to stop watching BBC romantic mini-series'

I'm going to die alone, aren't I?

"intuned"? "in tuned"? ???

I thought "intuned" was a word. You know, to be "in tune" with something, but minus the space.
It's 2:15am, and I'm crying over the made up word "intune." I'm trying to finish this clusterfuck of a Korean history essay, that was technically due this afternoon, but I'm taking the 2% off a day and handing it into the office tomorrow. It's supposed to be 10-15 pages in length, and last time I checked, mine was 4. I don't care anymore. Seriously, if it's 4, or 5, I'm handing it in. He fucked us over anyway.
The prof gave a list of 52 topics to choose from.
He's also teaching an Asian history class, and that class basically has our list of topics. So all of the books are out. I have 2. 2 plus my textbook. Because how many fucking books on Korean history are there in a Canadian university library? TWO! That's how many!!
He was all "You know there's journal articles guys," in class the week before, but like SERIOUSLY. He gave us a list of some Korean history journals to use, and of the 4 I could get to, one was only full of recent newspaper headlines, and another was IN KOREAN. Thanks man, pro.

So I give up.
And I'm crying over compound words I thought existed.
And I have to get up at 7:30am to go to German history for 2 hours.
And my back is killing me, and now my right shoulder feels like someone's digging a knife in it.
I'm shaking like a leaf, or like I've had 15 cups of coffee (I've had one cup today, in the morning) and I feel like I'm going to throw up. Brill.

At least I got an extension on my 30 page Technology and Society paper.
Thank god.
If that was still due on Wednesday, I would seriously be dead. Or planning death. So much like now, only more and worse.

I just want it all to be over. Just...everything. Over. I just don't fucking care anymore.

Twitter-fucked.

I have no idea how they did it, but three people found me on Twitter, hence why it now asks to log in when this page loads. I privatized it.

Person one: A uni friend. I haven't spoken to her in a while, because we have no classes together, and she's majoring in something different than me, but it was okay. I mean, she's pretty rad.

Person two: An old "friend" from high school. The one who asked me in grade 12 whether I was gay or not. Because I didn't enjoy gossiping about boys like she and the other girls did. I've sort of really been pissed off at her since then. Here's why I didn't talk about boys in high school: I was, am, and forever will see myself as being ugly as fuck, so I don't see the point. I'm not homosexual (not like there's anyhting wrong with that, I have a friend whose a lesbian and it's one of my life goals to find myself a gay best friend. XD ), I like boys. I really like boys. Boys just don't seem to like me. Also, I'm shy. Fuck.
So I stopped posting updates on Twitter.

Person three: My dad. Fuck, man. How'd that happen?
So, PRIVATIZE! D:<

Really, I thought I had covered my ass in all areas on that thing. Same with this thing. Maybe I need to change the email address here soon. I'm terrified of people I know finding this blog who I don't want to find it. If that sentence makes any sense...


In other news: I'm freezing cold. But it's not cold here. I'm shivering, but I'm also sweating...wonder why..OH, RIGHT, migraine.
I have to finish my essay (due tomorrow) and I'm in pain, so I'm staying home today. So there. ):<

books books books

It's about 52 million degrees in this house, I swear.
But it's raining out, and hitting my window, so I can only open it a crack. The German-asaurus is trying to make this house a tropical hot-house, isn't she? I have the vent in my room blocked up with a phonebook (because the vent's in this house are a hundred years old and can't be closed) and my fan blowing me in my face. It's not helping.
ANYWAY! I'm working on my American History essay this weekend, it's not due for another 2 weeks, but I have my reasons:
- The week after it's due, both my Korean History and my Technology in Society papers are due.
- I want to get it over and done with, and finally,
- 4 of the 7 books I have from the library on my topic seem to be overdue. I'm being charged .50 cents per book for every day they're late. So far, then, I owe $2. My bus doesn't go up to the school on the weekend, so I'd have to bus-hop, walk and walk and walk to get up there, something I'd really rather not do. Also, I think I heard somewhere that, if you return your overdue books, they won't let you take them out again right there, on the spot, which is not conducive to my work, since I need them.

The email they must have sent me about them being due soon must have gotten lost amongst the COUNTLESS emails sent by both Brescia and UWO, so I must have ignored it, and maybe even deleted it. So, by Monday, I will owe that damn school $1.50 per book. Really, like they don't already have enough of my money.
Most of these books were last taken out in 1992. So, clearly there's a demand for them.
I'm just sort of really pissed. When I'm Queen of the Libraries, I have a plan for these situations:
If the book(s) any student has taken out is/are due the next day, the computer will scan the system to see if said book(s) is/are in high demand that year. If not, the student gets an email the next day, informing them of the overdue book(s), but said student is able to re-new said book(s) via the library website, because no one else want's said book(s), would want said book(s), needs said book(s).
I mean, really, how many people are writing an essay on Angelina and Sarah Grimke? NONE, that's how many. Yeesh!

Heavy Rain Demo

I've been watching and watching this demo for the PS3's upcoming Heavy Rain. I don't own a PS3, I'm a Nintendo gal, but I've always been impressed and in awe of the Playstation's animation quality, in regards to realistic characters and settings, in comparison to the other consoles out on the market.
I was re-directed to this demo from various other YouTube videos, and was struck.
The animation is brilliant, as per usual, but the dialogue? For some reason I find it so utterly remarkable and captivating! Ms. "Mary Smith" is one good "actress."
When this game comes out, I'm going to have to rent a system and the game just so I can see it in real life.



Just in case you want it (or I want it, later on), someone wrote up the script for the monologue. Here it is:

Voice 1: Go ahead, take a seat. Can you give me your name and your age, please?
Mary: My name is Mary Smith, I'm 24.
Voice 1: Have you ever taken any acting lessons, Mary?
Mary: Not really, I couldn't afford it. But I watch a lot of films and I learned so much by watching them
Voice 1: Have you shot anything recently?
Mary: I've had a few big parts, little things here and there. Nothing very serious for the moment. I'm always too tall, too short, wrong hair.. heh, there's always something wrong with me.
Voice 1: Ok, have you learned your lines?
Mary: Yes.
Voice 1: Let's get started. Mark it please.
Voice 2: Casting Heavy Rain, Actress Mary Smith. Take one.
Voice 1: And... action.

The first time I saw you, I knew you were the one. I thought these things only happened in the movies, you know? Pounding heart, the sweaty hands and the shaky legs. I was coming out of the theatre and it started pouring heavy rain. So there I was soaking wet, teeth chattering, freezing cold and then you came up to me. You looked me straight in the eyes and said "Need an umbrella, Miss?" You sent me flowers for weeks and said you'd love me forever, 3 months later we were getting married. God it sounds so stupid. It's such a corny romance.

But real life never ends with being what you think it's going to be. You think it's going to be one big happy fairy tale. And then one day you wake up in an average little house leading an average little life, and your real dreams are about paying the bills and maybe some day getting a bigger T.V. As you realise that maybe that wasn't the life you were dreaming of. You realise maybe things could have been different, and maybe I actually could have lived with all that, but then one day it all just slips.

It starts with something small, a little lipstick on the collar, a few nights when you come home a bit late. At first I tell myself that I'm crazy, that you would never do such a thing. But just to ease my mind one night I follow you as you leave the office, I follow you to the seedy hotel where you meet the girl... and then my whole world falls apart.

I come home, and I cry for hours in my kitchen. I get the gun from the draw in the bedroom, and I tell myself that if this is all that life has to offer me, then I can do without.

But then I change my mind, after all I'm not the one who's cheating. So, quietly, I wait for you to come home, sitting in my average little kitchen. Obviously when you get home you don't suspect a thing, so I press the fucking gun against your forehead, and I take a few seconds to watch the fear grow in your eyes. You tell yourself 'She won't do it, she doesn't have the guts! She's just trying to teach me a lesson.' But you are so wrong, honey. I sentence you to death for turning my life into a soap opera cliché. For stepping on my dreams, for not giving a shit about me all those years, and for lying to me, and betraying me and humiliating me. I'm making an example out of you for all the assholes out there who think they can just keep fucking us over and over.

Good bye, my love.

Mary: So, how was it?
Voice 1: Very nice.
Mary: You think I might stand a chance?
Voice 1: Someone will get in touch with you and let you know.
Voice 2: She wasn't too bad, huh?
Voice 1: Doesn't matter, she's still too tall for the part. Next.

I love Lexus commercials.

One was "suggested" to my on YouTube (the middle one) and then I remembered the "moment" one and it made me smile. They all do. Always.












I was never one for cars, but I think that if I ever get around to getting a license, I'd want a Lexus, if only so I can be reminded of the beautiful commercials that go along with it, every time I pull it out of the imaginary driveway.

I'm just feeling progressively more and more fed up and frustrated, with life in general.
I'm sick of it. All of it. Just sick of...life these days.
I'm jittery and stressed to the gills, and have essays and presentations and work to do, and I have to keep the smile on my face all the time. I'm just so sick of it all.

There's enough medication in this house that I could overdose. Purposely. It's getting to that.
I just want to scream and sleep and cry and sleep and sigh and sleep and finish whatever needs to be finished because that's how I feel -- like I need to finish a million things and none of them are even close to being done and I'm drowning. Again. And I'm so lonely.
I'm just sick of it all.

This is really important.

Seriously.

I'm heading home for reading week tomorrow at 8am with my dad.
First we're heading to Toronto, though, so he can get some needles poked in him to help his back (acupuncture) and then home. 5 hours of driving? Sure, but then home.
Man, I need this.

Gonk.

Hurrah! Handed in!

Goodnight.

blink blink

Oh my good gravy, I'm tired.
Good thing this class is only an hour long, then I'm back here for sleeeeeeeeeeeeep.
I just keep blinking and blinking. I'm like a...sleepy fish or something. D:

END OF THE PARTY! D:<

Gaaaah. I want to finish this thing, but I can't yet. Guuuaaaauuuh...
Oh great, just when I thought I'd just about finished it, it turns out that within the circle willing to take down Hitler, dissension rose. Brill.
You know what? Screw this. I'm ending this party.
...he had used ever possible avenue of influence to sway Germany to his side...blah blah blah...it was his control over every aspect of German life which had led to the grumblings of the German people...blah blah blah...the abandonment of him by his officers....THE END! D:<

So, I'm about 2/3's of the way done this thing.
And I'm sort of sad. See, my mom phoned Monday, and I spoke to my dad, and he said that maybe he should come down this weekend. I laughed and the like. It was because my mom told him about how I didn't eat anything on Sunday. Heh heh.
So, I phoned again tonight, on my self-proclaimed break, and asked my mom if he was serious. Aaand, no. He wasn't.
Hence why I'm sort of sad.
I'm lonely here.

Oh well, next week I'm being picked up to spend the week at home for reading week. :3
Which means I get to go to the dentist so I can ask him why my jaw cracks and snaps loud enough for my friend beside me to hear it during Korean History class. Guuuh.
I'm sort of positive that it's lending to my headaches.
Yay.

Oh well, one more week, one more week.


BACK TO MY ESSAY!


PS. I'm also posting again so I can get the Queen post off the page, since it seems to be still messing up the layout of my blog. :/
I'm just clever like that. D:

Essay time! D:

Hm...apparently my last post screwed up the layout of my blog. Interesting. Oh well, it will right itself eventually, I'm sure.
In other news, I have a German history paper due tomorrow. Anyone want to write it for me? It's about Hiiitlerrr. Sounds like fuuuuunnnn. Come ooonnn. I swear, it'll be fun. Come on. Please? Maybe? Maybe not? Awwwww. Pleeease? No? Oh well, I better get to work then. :/

Find me somebody to love...

I was downloading the key word lists on Sunday for my Korean history class when I noticed one of them was titled "Under Pressure:The Opening of Korea and Foreign Pressures in the 1870’s and 1880’s" and that led me to a downloading spree of Queen songs.
I used to listen to Queen when I was really young. I think my favourite song when I was five was "I Wanna Ride my Bicycle," and "Crazy Little Thing Called Love." I can distinctly remember sitting in the back seat of our old old car, leaning forward between the front seats where dad was driving and my older sister sat. I remember listening to Queen on a tape on our way to Sudbury. I don't remember why we were going. I mean, we go every year on boxing day, but why was it just me and my sister and dad...? Well, my little sister would have either been just born or at least 1...so that would make sense. The 6-ish hour car ride wouldn't have been a good idea.

I also remember my uncle.

He was the middle of three. Like me.
His looks remind me of that of Freddy Mercury (I think it's the mustache).
I can't remember much of him, but what I do remember is only happiness.
I can remember that he used to chase my older sister and I around my grandparent's house, pretending he was a monster. When he finally caught us, he'd lift us up, flip us around so that we were sitting on his shoulder, he'd then flip us over again and pretend to bite our bums. Then he'd tickle us and we'd laugh and laugh and laugh!

I don't remember when he got sick.
My dad told me last year that he moved to Toronto. He got sick there. They knew he was sick, but no one talked about it. He moved back home when it got really bad. He remembers seeing my grandfather giving my uncle a bath because he was too weak to do it himself.
My dad told me that he remembers the day he got the call. He was in a meeting, but he just left the meeting room without a word. The rest of us drove up soon after.
All we (my sisters and I) were ever told was that he "was very very sick and the doctors couldn't do anything to help him."
I suppose it wouldn't have meant anything to a one, six, and eight year old if you were to tell them that their uncle had died of AIDS. I only learned about 5 years ago.

My dad told me last year that, although the family was accepting of his homosexuality, whenever they spoke of my uncle (if ever), they avoided the cause of his death. I'm not sure why. I suppose it's because I grew up in a drastically different society than them. It's understandable, I suppose.

But I'm so proud of him, and I miss him terribly whenever I hear Freddy Mercury crooning away.
My older sister has seen his name on the AIDS memorial in Toronto.
My uncle was the first Emperor of the Gay and Lesbian community in Toronto, there's a scholarship in his name at the UofT, and every time I remember that, I'm filled with the warmth of the utmost pride in him.

I was reading information about the scholarship and my dad is listed as an honorary winner of the award, and I broke down in tears.

I'm so sad that I didn't get to know him better. I'm so sad that he didn't get to know me. I'm so sad that I'll never know what it would be like to have him as an uncle now. And yet, I'm so happy that he's at peace. I can only imagine the pain he felt, the pain my father still feels when he thinks of him.
When my dad told me about him, we were sitting in Tim Hortons and he almost started to cry. My dad...he's not a crier. He's such a strong, stubborn man.

I just wish, wish I could have known him. Known him as more than the uncle-monster who chased me around the house, biting my bum and tickling me until I couldn't breath.

Can you love a relative you barely knew? I think so.
I'm terrified that I'm disappointing him.

I didn't get a chance to do what I intended to do in the previous post. I waited about 30minutes for the bus in the snow before it showed up, going the opposite way, therefore it would be another 20 minutes until it showed up. I turned around and went back to bed. Really, I would have been severely late for my first class and, as we all know, I hate my afternoon class, am going to fail it and, at this moment in time, don't really give a shit.
So maybe on Monday I'll do some vandalizing.

In other news, I am going to both snap and die.
I am going to snap if only because I'm so insanely stressed right now, and essay due dates are looming, and tests are approaching, and I have yet to apply to post-grad school, and I'm sinking into depression again.
I am going to die because my father has been diagnosed with type 2 diabetes.

My mom is down this weekend and, so far, other than a visit to a friend, this weekend has been complete shite. She's hearing tales of woe from the grandmother who is becoming irritated with me because it appears she wants me to read her mind. Case in point, earlier this evening, my mother came into the back room where I was watching the discovery channel and told me that I should "at least try to be kind." I asked what she was talking about and mom told me "she wanted to sit out here, so you should have read her mind."
Seriously.
Like, really?

So I'm up in my room now. I had gone down to the front room for about 5 minutes, couldn't find anything to watch, gave up reading "The Fat Girl's Guide to Life" but because at the moment I am feeling insanely fat, I gave up and came back up here.

This afternoon at lunch (mom and I had gone out), she told me about my dad (after eying me rather disapprovingly after I ordered a Pepsi). My dad's in denial. Really, we saw it coming. He's big. He's Italian. He eats. That entire side of my family is that way. Hell, at big family dinner's, my Nonna tells me I'm her favorite because I "try at least one of everything." Which is great, it means I have tried and love roasted eggplant and artichokes and other weird, or at least weirdly prepared, vegetables and seafood. But that's also bad, because it's something I've taken into my life as an absolute: food is love.
I know I know I know, I'm supposed to be flabulous. I'm supposed to be loving my body for what it is. But when I'm told by my mom to "just be aware. It can be hereditary" and that now she's "thinking of putting [me] on the same restricted diet" as my dad...well, I smiled and nodded but it felt like she had already put a death sentence over my head.
You know what, I probably do have diabetes. I probably am going to die because of my weight. But I'm also sure in my firm stance that "ignorance is bliss."
I had a friend in highschool. We went out for lunch one day. We were the only two of our group at school, and she was used to going out for lunch with her dad (a teacher at said school) and he was busy. So I volunteered to tag along. I brought my own lunch with me, I just went as company. As a good friend.
She ate her fries with mayo. I had never seen someone do that before. I asked her about it, nervously, but she answered quite calmly and comfortably that, hey, you only live once, so she was going to enjoy every bit of the time she had. I envied her. I sat there and ate my cheese and crackers and wondered why my mom insisted, after I told her about that, that my friend was going to die an early death. Why did my mom have to put that death sentence over her head?

Why does my mom have to put that death sentence over my head?

She told me that my dad is trying to cope, but it's going to be hard because he, like me, is set in his ways.
His second-in-command-type guy at work has type 1, and my mom told me that he told my dad that the first thing to do is not blame yourself. To not tell yourself that it's your fault that you're in this mess. My mom wishes he hadn't told my dad that. She hates it. She, and we, and my dad to probably, know that it is his fault. Our family's relationship with food is a passionate one. It's the Italian, food=love/food=acceptance mentality.
I told my mom that, maybe, for now, it's best that he doesn't blame himself, or he might sink into a depression. My mom agreed, but she's just waiting for him to start blaming her for his situation.
I tried not to say anything.
Really? I'm sorry, but that sounds a little self-centered.
If he doesn't blame himself, then maybe he'll be motivated to make the changes that need to be made! In the end, it's his health that matters, not her sense of blame.

So now my mom wants me to make the same changes. Fine. Sure. Whatever. As long as she's the one who tells that crazy Nazi downstairs about it. The same crazy Nazi who, when her friend was diagnosed, was convinced that the woman wasn't "that sick" and that all she needed to do was stop eating cookies and cake. Sure. Fine. You tell her, mom.

All I've ever been told in my weighty years of life is over-friendly words of "advice."
I just had to eat my fruits, then I'd be fine.
I just had to walk more, then I'd be fine.
I just had to realize that I'm probably doing to get and die from diabetes, then I'd make changes and be fine.
I just had to lose a few pounds, then I'd be "such a pretty girl."
I just have to love myself more, then I'd be fine.

It's the last two, the last two that I've heard from my grandmother and my own mother, so many times, that make me wonder why they even care. I mean, if I'm not good enough by their standards, why even bother mothering me? Taking care of me? Talking to me? Caring about my life?
If I only lost a few pounds, then I'd be so much better in their eyes.

What about my eyes, huh? How can I start loving myself in this toxic environment?
How can I start loving myself ("enough to lose the weight") if their "love" is making me hate myself?


I'm going to die, because I'm fat. There, that's something about me I can accept. Thanks mom.

Self-Loving-Vandalism

I'm printing them out and cutting them up now.
I'll bring tape to school tomorrow.
I'm waging war on self hatred.
I'm preforming an act of self-loving-vandalism.
Baby Jesus and Buddha help me. D:

Fuck, REALLY?

She’s already disappointed in me.
I made the mistake about 15 minutes ago of going downstairs to watch tv. I went to the front room, because she was in the back (on the phone). I’m there for about 3 minutes and she’s creeping her way over, standing in the doorway, asking me “What? Do you want to go back there?” I say no, I’m fine where I am. “Are you suuure?” Yes, I assure her, a tv’s a tv, I don’t really care where I am. I’ve been flipping channels this entire time, I had been watching some cartoon on YTV, but I’ve learned to change the channel when she comes in, or else I get a round of tsk’ing. So I’m flipping. And she beings her form of “German Flipping Out,” eg. Questioning me about why I’m not eating. It’s 7:46pm, and as noted before at some point in my rambling on this blog, she eats specifically and precisely at 5:30pm, whether she’s hungry or not. She had hollered up the stairs at 5:30, asking what I wanted for supper. I had told her I wasn’t hungry and in the end I can make my own dinner. She did her whole “Come oooooon” in frustration thing as usual, and I just repeated my stand.

So I was flipping channels, and she was food-flipping-out. I told her that I can make my own food, that, reminder, I had been doing so these past two weeks. I told her that I’m not hungry (I ate breakfast/lunch at 3:30, really) and that when I am, I’ll make something. I then told her, again, that if I’m not hungry, I don’t eat. That while she was away, some nights I didn’t eat until well after 8, 8:30 – mostly because I just forgot about the whole “supper” thing.
She then pulls out her most irritating of cards: She tells me that that is why I get headaches. With her, it always comes back to my eating. My headaches, in her muddled mess of a head, are obviously the result of my eating. She did the same last night, when she came home. She saw a banana on the counter, did the “And you didn’t eat the banana?!?! What did you eat? Junk?!” To which I responded that since I’m clearly alive and scurvy-free, I had obviously been eating fruits and veg, which I had been by the way. And, again, last night, she told me that my not eating her food at her scheduled time was obviously the cause of my migraines. I spazzed last night.

So just now, as she started on her “that’s why you have headaches!” tirade, now coupled with her new “well that’s not nice. I have to eat alone now” guilt trip, I turned off the tv, told her “FINE. I’ll eat WHATEVER you make WHENEVER you want. FINE!” to which she said “Well, I already ate, so it’s too late...” to which I turned off the light, said forcefully “I KNOW” and stomped in to the bathroom to wash my hair.

Like, seriously? Again? Still? Again and still?!
“I have to eat alone now”?!?!?! What?! What, was she holding banquets with all the fucking idiotic buffoons from this side of the family when I was gone during Christmas? What about when I’m gone during the summer? And, really, fuck it! You ate alone YEARS before I came to live here, and next year, SUR-FUCKING-PRISE, I’m not setting one foot back into this onion and cabbage reeking hellhole so, SORRY GERMAN NAZI, you’ll be eating ALONE!

Truth is, now I am getting hungry, but I’m just going to ignore it.
I may be trying to conquer my body weight issues, I may be trying and TRYING to come to terms with my “flabulous” flab in the face of this horribly unjust and cruel world, but tonight? Tonight I’m fat. “Fat” as in lardy, huge, monstrous, grotesque, gross, ugly, obese, chunky and all the other euphemisms. Tonight, I’m not eating.

Oh, and for the record, if I hear one more tale of the eggs, omelettes, coffee and how all the good people are German, and how her pilot was German, and how the pilot that safely landed the plane in the river had German blood in him, I am going to freak!

Her Return from "Cooba"

So tomorrow (technically today) at some point during the day (neither my mother nor I know the time), my grandmother comes back from her 2 week trip to Cuba. Or, as she mangles it, "Cooba".
I've been free this entire 2 weeks. I've been free to do my own grocery shopping, my own laundry, make my own meals, plan my own day around me and not around a neurotic German witch. I will admit, I missed quite a few classes these past two weeks; some because of legitimate migraines, others because, well, the thought of waking up at 7:30am to go to a 2 hour German History lecture made absolutely no sense to me at 5am when I woke up, thirsty and groggy.
It's been absolute bliss.
I'm now 22 years old, and yet if she thinks I'm not awake yet at 9:30am on a Monday morning (because she doesn't hear me running around upstairs), she will honestly start hollering up the stairs, demanding for me to bring down my laundry so she can wash it, ask-yelling why I'm not up yet. This past Monday, I turned off my alarm, and fell back to sleep for another 2 hours. Bliss.

I had my moments of boredom, but I have those all the time. I had my moments of loneliness, but again, I have those all the time. I have also had my moments of fear, when it's 2am and the house rumbles and it takes me a solid 30 minutes to reassure myself that it was just the snowplow going by outside that did it, and not some hooligan breaking in.

But it was freedom. Safe freedom. "Safe" because in the end I only had to pay for my food, not any other bills. "Safe" because my mom and sister came down on the weekend to abate some of the loneliness. "Safe" because I knew that I could take those 2 weeks to relax without any real, dangerous consequences. I could sit in the back room and eat popcorn while watching X-Men at 1 in the morning on a Friday and not care if the volume was turned up too much or if I had left the window open in the kitchen too long because I didn't even open the window this time (whenever I make popcorn, she claims that the smell is going to kill her [like how cold water will kill you, or walking outside without a wool hat on in slightly below freezing temperatures will kill you], so I have to make sure the door to her room is closed, and the kitchen door is closed, and the other kitchen door (the one that leads to the front room) is closed, and that the window is open. It's too much hassle, so I just don't eat popcorn anymore), and I don't have to groan at the knowledge that the next morning I'll be asked the same question every time I eat popcorn: "What? Can't you go to the toilet after you eat that?!" because she's freakishly obsessed with my bowel movements.

It was a safe and re-affirming freedom.
And now it's over.
I think this is one of the most depressing nights every year: the night before I know she'll be home.

And as soon as she get's home, it will be time for "Stories from Cuba!" or "Complaints from Cuba that I Hear Every Single Year".

- The airport was horrible. She hates the airport. She's never going again.
- The plane was horrible. It was too loud, too cold, too stuffy. She hates the plane. She's never going again.
- They didn't give them food |or| the food they gave was horrible, she didn't eat it. She's never going again.
- The airport in Cuba was a mess. She hates airports. She's never going again.
- They had to go to the farm. She had to eat their food. She doesn't trust "poor people" food. She only ate tomatoes and drank no water. They had a skinny dog. They're poor, she hates it. Why do they always have to go? She hates it. She's never going again.
- They went to mass. Only good part of the trip.
- There were so many Germans at the resort. She almost sounds like she hates her own "people".
- There were not enough chairs. They played bingo. She hates bingo. She's never going again.
- They always wanted to go for walks - she can't walk far anymore, so it was horrible |or| No one wanted to walk with her, so they just sat around. It was boring. She's never going again.
- She burnt in the sun and doesn't understand why. It's not her fault. Nope, even though she doesn't put any sunblock on and sits in the sun, roasting like a lobster for the entire time. Her lips burnt, again. She hate's it. She's never going again.
- She ate omelets and mango's and had "strong coffee" (espresso, she just doesn't want to admit it, but my great-aunt and uncle who go with her will gladly say it was espresso). She only liked the food. The eggs the eggs the eggs and the omelets...over and over and over again.
- German people German people German people...over and over and over again.
- The flight back was horrible. They didn't give them food |or| the food they gave was horrible, she didn't eat it. She's never going again.
- The eggs omelets and mango's.
- The farm and poor people. She hates it.
- Germans.

Aaaaand repeat.
Summary: She's never going again.
And yet, every year, she goes. And every year, I have to hear ALL about it.
And then, in the span of one, maybe two days, the entire house reeks of onion and cabbage again. And I awaken to the sound of her marching around at 7 in the morning.

Leaving here is the one upside to the end of this chaotic year.

Inauguration

I must say, the Obama's are by far the most beautiful First Family I have ever seen.
And, being in History, I've seen my fair share of First Family pictures.
Really, gorgeous! And young! And so full of hope!
A hope I have not seen, nor read about, in the American people in such a long time!
I mean did you see Michelle's dress at the ball? She is one classy lady.

What an amazing family. What an amazing couple!

I send my hope and heart out to my American cousins, from my little Canadian-frozen-bedroom: Good job, America! I can not wait to see you soar!

Oh, no no no...

Pooh died! As in very very recently!
Oh god!
Maybe it's because it's 1:54am, maybe it's because I'm really not feeling all that well and can't sleep at all, maybe it's because I've watched all of the videos with him in them, maybe it's because when I first found Suzi's blog, I read it through from the beginning and learned all about Pooh's increasing problems, and the fluids, and how he was a "picky" eater and wouldn't eat which was making it worse...maybe it's because every time I hear about a cat dying, I think of Sash, or maybe it's just because it's 1:56am. I feel so horribly devastated now. It's like losing Sasha all over again, but it's different...it's like as if he had died while I was in London, so I wasn't there.
Now I feel worse than before.
I think I've cried enough to send me into an exhausted form of sleep. At least that way I -know- I'll sleep tonight.
I think I'll be digitally attending the candlelight vigil for him at 10pm, though.

Flabulous, darlink!

CNN is, at this very moment, doing a feature piece entitled "Oprah's War on Weight."
At the bottom of the screen they're flashing various quotes and stuff about/from her. the latest one was her quoted as saying "How could I let this happen again?"
She claims that, at her lowest point, she felt "like a fat cow." Really? Oprah? I thought that you were supposed to be empowering women? I thought that you, of all flabulous ladies, would be beyond this shit.
I'm slowly coming to terms with my body issues, whit my weight, my 255lbs, but it doesn't help that on a particularly shitty day, CNN is airing Oprah's supposed "war on weight," as though there's nothing of greater importance to talk about. You know, just maybe. :/

Be proud of your flab, darling! It makes you you.
My fat makes me: huggable, cuddly, warm, soft, expansive, unique, special, more, a goddess.
I think someone needs to send her a copy of Fat?So!, oh, and her best buddy, Dr. Oz is it? He needs a major dose of fat acceptance training/sensitivity training and/or to be castrated.
Flab is fab! Knock me down and I'm so heavy that I'll fall hard, on your face! D:<

35%?
Thirty-five percent.
That is THE lowest mark I have EVER received in my entire educational career. It is BELOW failure. BELOW failure!

I can barely remember taking the exam, so when we got them back this morning, I didn't think anything of it. I just put it in my bag, as per usual, and resigned to wait until I got back to the house to look at it, as per usual. I thought that the worst I could get would be in the low 60s, again, as per usual. But 35%? Really? How much of a complete failure am I? Mom always tells me to "just do your best, it's all we ask." I was thinking over the holiday break that, if only they had some higher expectations of me, then maybe my marks would be better, then maybe I would be up at 2am every night studying. But instead they settle for my "best" which, clearly, is complete shit!
My prof wants me to make an appointment to see him. What I am supposed to say to him? "Well, see, no one really cares about my marks (since they already have my older sister, the glory child), and it's a known fact to my parents, that my brain freezes and empties just as the exam sheet is put under my nose, so I have no explanation for the mark. I did the work, I studied, I had three other things due that week and another four due the week after. I guess I just choked?"
That's my only answer to that pitiful mark.
I'm so depressed now.

This week was shaping up to be not that bad. I was taking it easy, trying to slowly get used to the whole "school" thing again, after nearly a month off. Getting myself excited for when the old bird downstairs goes to Cuba, when I'll have some time to myself. I was happy. I'm now crushed.

I'm so ashamed of myself! So angry!
I got a 50% on my Stats test in second year. I laughed hysterically at it. Jessie told me it was some kind of defense mechanism in my brain. I was hurt, but I just couldn't stop laughing. But now? In math, I can see me failing tests. I'm not a numbers girl. But this? What a waste of 4 years at school! This just basically ruined my entire last year. 35-fucking-percent?!

I'm not going to class tonight. I'm going to tell the old bird that it's because his flight was delayed or something (he's always going out of the country to study and such). In truth, it's because I can't STAND to act the sham of a student that I seem to be. It's not like I'll be missing much. The topic is "Where did it all begin? Columbus and the idea of European civilization. Slavery, colonialism and the making of minorities" which is something I talk about in all of my classes, so I should be okay.

But I'm just so angry and disappointed in myself! I'm sinking again, I feel so out of touch with everything and yet so acutely aware of this failure.
I just...I don't see the point of existing anymore.

It's 1:02am here at home.
I don't want to go to sleep.
I just can't.
The sooner I fall asleep, the sooner I'll have to wake up. The sooner I wake up, the sooner I have to go back to London. The sooner I get back to London, the sooner all of that stress compiles again.

Graduation? Shit, I'm fucked. I can't...I just can't.


I can't fall asleep I won't fall asleep.