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More stuff about everything. Well, okay, mostly about being emo and lesbians.
So, last Tuesday I had an emo attack of the *worst* sort, which led to me curled up on the floor crying and holding my boxcutter. Not cutting myself, not cutting anything else (although I was tempted to butcher my jeans just as an outlet) just playing with it. Eventually, my brain kicked in and went all "hurr, you're a writer, why don't you write on yourself instead of not-cut yourself. Doesn't hurt anyone!"
So...I did. I wrote an exceptionally emo poem called "Litany of Hate" using myself as the canvas. I wrote it mostly on my arms and legs, and have done my best to reproduce the not COMPLETELY behind the walls bits here:
A litany of Hate
A very emo poem by Katarina Whimsy. (A/N: Yes, that really was the subtitle. I may go emo, but at least I'm full aware of it.)
(Authors Note: This really isn't meant to be read in any specific order. I simply wrote things as they came to me, on whichever piece of me either seemed appropriate or didn't have anything else scrawled on it. Also, you only get about two thirds of them. I haven't knocked my walls *that* far down.)
I hate
I hate not having enough time to make everyone happy
(I hate being emo)
I hate being a scaredy-Kat
I hate that I hide my pain
I hate that I'm not strong enough to get help
I hate that it's kinda my fault that I had scars on my upper arm from the taco shell incident (A/N: paraphrased)
I hate being right handed
I hate not having a muse
I hate that people see me as weak (A/N: This one took far too much thought, simply for the week/weak thing)
I hate that I love
I hate how round my tummy is.
(I hate that I have body issues) (A/N: Oh jesus. I am cute and tiny like a hamster, and when I take a deep breath, you can count my ribs, but I am not blessed with a flat tummy and it's a stupid stupid stupid thing to care about, but it drives me mad. Bodyrant over.)
I hate that I hurt
I hate how badly I need to escape
I hate being stuck in this world (A/N: Not always true. But damnit Doctor, where the FUCK are you?)
I hate being easily guilted
I hate that I will never make a difference (A/N: Jesus CHRIST, that's emo. *facepalms*)
I hate that I think it matters that I don't shave my legs (A/N: Bla, bla, more body issues. Whatever.)
I hate that I like the way I look in heels
I hate that I feel that I have to make everyone happy
I hate not knowing who I am (A/N: Ironically (or something like that), about six hours later, I spent an hour in utter transcendental perfection where I knew exactly who I was. It was very nice, very special. You know how in musicals, people are all like "I feel like SINGING!" I literally felt like singing. Yeeeeeeah.)
I hate that I can't be sexy
So! Results.
First off, I looked like a work of *art* and felt considerably more stable then I had before. See, when I cry, my goal is not to eventually get happy again, it's to eventually get to a non-crying, stable situation where I can think like a rational human being and not a ball of paranoia. Those familiar with Her (Lovely bit of smoke and shadow who whispers to me my insecurities) can see it as actually shoving Her back into the pit.
But I looked like a work of art. Ignoring the slight paranoia in the fact that my roommate might come home and any moment and be all "Kat, why are you sitting on the floor without a shirt on and writing on yourself?" I was exceptionally pleased with the outcome, mostly because it Looked Cool. I am shallow and distractible, men in kilts make my brain stop working for a few moments, and interesting things make me smile even when I'm full on with the tears. (Aside: Dear computer, STOP BEING SLOW, KTHANKS!)
Which leads me to the logical conclusion of "Hey, sometime when I'm *not* busy crying, I should get a sharpie and scrawl interesting things onto myself." It would be cool. Also, I would not have to wear long sleeves for the next week because it wouldn't actually be highly personal.
Secondary result is the aforementioned long sleeved thing. I've found another reason to add to my ongoing list of "why Sorcy doesn't actually cut herself" and having to find and wear a proper shirt, all the time, just so you don't have to avoid a lot of awkward questions about something that happened when you were very much not in the same mood as you were then. That sucked. Soyeah, now that I've scrubbed most of it off (Notetoself: Sharpie doesn't come off easily. You actually do have to scrub and hard, which means normal showers are evil. Bollocks and all that) I can wear t-shirts again, which is a highly good thing.
Tertiary result is that I ocassionally got people reading me. The only bits that were easily visible were "I hate" and "I hate being right handed" on my right and left hands respectivly, but that still raises questions. It's a bit similar to the problem I have with my glorious army/button jacket, I get people staring at me and it's very confusing for a moment until I realize that they're just reading my buttons.
But being read is actually kind of cool, and, me being the bad person I am (Okay, me being me and having just watched far too much Coupling) I think that at some point I need to write a lesbianpornerotica involving a librarian who manages to bring a book to life, said book takes the form of a very attractive woman...who...
OH DEAR SWEET LORDS OF MY MOTHERS, MY EYES! I'm sorry, my brain has just taken the concept of porn, gone rifling through my head for any reference to anthropormorphic books, found The Pagemaster and OW THE PAIN! In other news, apparently Lenord Nimoy played Jekyll and Hyde, which I did not know. Also, I can't actually remember what that version of J&H looked like, because I get stuck on the crap as hell animated version, with the LSD bits and the monster-Hyde, and the cat, and the CURE FOR BALDNESS!
Which, as long as I'm digressing, was STILL better then the Hasslehoff version. Damn, I miss my clone.
...where was I? Ohyes! Book takes form of attractive woman with words written all over her, stuff happens, lesbians, woo. This may be my intense biblophilliac tendancies coming to light though. Also, breasts. Oh dear sweet gods, I sound like Jeff. I...honestly can't tell if that's a bad thing or not. o.O
MOVING RIGHT ALONG! (I didn't take my focusdrugs today, does it show?) (Also, I totally was kidding about actually writing said porn, but then my brain kinda forced the opening scene into my mind which is NOT A GOOD THING, GAH! When I said I hated not having a muse, this was *so* not the response I was looking for)
Tertiary result again (since I very much like the word 'tertiary') was...Hmm. Shirts, being read, looking like a piece of artwork. I actually don't think there is a second tertiary result. Which means this particular digression is done with. Groovy!
Logically, I think the next thing to do would be an analysis of the poem itself, but I'm bored of writing this, and will do so later. (Later here having a meaning ofbroken'never'. [/scruffy!Norrington]) I'm off to go scrawl down random things in the writersjournal about bits of world that I have been building since sixth grade. Ta!
~Sor
MOOP!
(((Apropos of nothing, I appear to have coined a new term in the dictionary of useful Kat-stuffs. Before the Walls. It's the general equivilant of things that are behind the walls, except that you lot get to read it.)))
Postscript: My English class is rubbing off on me. I actually went back and fixed the text of the second cut so that it had proper parrallelism. On a side note, what does ETA mean? I got that it's some sort of "I edited this" shorthand, but I don't actually know the rest.
So...I did. I wrote an exceptionally emo poem called "Litany of Hate" using myself as the canvas. I wrote it mostly on my arms and legs, and have done my best to reproduce the not COMPLETELY behind the walls bits here:
A litany of Hate
A very emo poem by Katarina Whimsy. (A/N: Yes, that really was the subtitle. I may go emo, but at least I'm full aware of it.)
(Authors Note: This really isn't meant to be read in any specific order. I simply wrote things as they came to me, on whichever piece of me either seemed appropriate or didn't have anything else scrawled on it. Also, you only get about two thirds of them. I haven't knocked my walls *that* far down.)
I hate
I hate not having enough time to make everyone happy
(I hate being emo)
I hate being a scaredy-Kat
I hate that I hide my pain
I hate that I'm not strong enough to get help
I hate that it's kinda my fault that I had scars on my upper arm from the taco shell incident (A/N: paraphrased)
I hate being right handed
I hate not having a muse
I hate that people see me as weak (A/N: This one took far too much thought, simply for the week/weak thing)
I hate that I love
I hate how round my tummy is.
(I hate that I have body issues) (A/N: Oh jesus. I am cute and tiny like a hamster, and when I take a deep breath, you can count my ribs, but I am not blessed with a flat tummy and it's a stupid stupid stupid thing to care about, but it drives me mad. Bodyrant over.)
I hate that I hurt
I hate how badly I need to escape
I hate being stuck in this world (A/N: Not always true. But damnit Doctor, where the FUCK are you?)
I hate being easily guilted
I hate that I will never make a difference (A/N: Jesus CHRIST, that's emo. *facepalms*)
I hate that I think it matters that I don't shave my legs (A/N: Bla, bla, more body issues. Whatever.)
I hate that I like the way I look in heels
I hate that I feel that I have to make everyone happy
I hate not knowing who I am (A/N: Ironically (or something like that), about six hours later, I spent an hour in utter transcendental perfection where I knew exactly who I was. It was very nice, very special. You know how in musicals, people are all like "I feel like SINGING!" I literally felt like singing. Yeeeeeeah.)
I hate that I can't be sexy
So! Results.
First off, I looked like a work of *art* and felt considerably more stable then I had before. See, when I cry, my goal is not to eventually get happy again, it's to eventually get to a non-crying, stable situation where I can think like a rational human being and not a ball of paranoia. Those familiar with Her (Lovely bit of smoke and shadow who whispers to me my insecurities) can see it as actually shoving Her back into the pit.
But I looked like a work of art. Ignoring the slight paranoia in the fact that my roommate might come home and any moment and be all "Kat, why are you sitting on the floor without a shirt on and writing on yourself?" I was exceptionally pleased with the outcome, mostly because it Looked Cool. I am shallow and distractible, men in kilts make my brain stop working for a few moments, and interesting things make me smile even when I'm full on with the tears. (Aside: Dear computer, STOP BEING SLOW, KTHANKS!)
Which leads me to the logical conclusion of "Hey, sometime when I'm *not* busy crying, I should get a sharpie and scrawl interesting things onto myself." It would be cool. Also, I would not have to wear long sleeves for the next week because it wouldn't actually be highly personal.
Secondary result is the aforementioned long sleeved thing. I've found another reason to add to my ongoing list of "why Sorcy doesn't actually cut herself" and having to find and wear a proper shirt, all the time, just so you don't have to avoid a lot of awkward questions about something that happened when you were very much not in the same mood as you were then. That sucked. Soyeah, now that I've scrubbed most of it off (Notetoself: Sharpie doesn't come off easily. You actually do have to scrub and hard, which means normal showers are evil. Bollocks and all that) I can wear t-shirts again, which is a highly good thing.
Tertiary result is that I ocassionally got people reading me. The only bits that were easily visible were "I hate" and "I hate being right handed" on my right and left hands respectivly, but that still raises questions. It's a bit similar to the problem I have with my glorious army/button jacket, I get people staring at me and it's very confusing for a moment until I realize that they're just reading my buttons.
But being read is actually kind of cool, and, me being the bad person I am (Okay, me being me and having just watched far too much Coupling) I think that at some point I need to write a lesbian
OH DEAR SWEET LORDS OF MY MOTHERS, MY EYES! I'm sorry, my brain has just taken the concept of porn, gone rifling through my head for any reference to anthropormorphic books, found The Pagemaster and OW THE PAIN! In other news, apparently Lenord Nimoy played Jekyll and Hyde, which I did not know. Also, I can't actually remember what that version of J&H looked like, because I get stuck on the crap as hell animated version, with the LSD bits and the monster-Hyde, and the cat, and the CURE FOR BALDNESS!
Which, as long as I'm digressing, was STILL better then the Hasslehoff version. Damn, I miss my clone.
...where was I? Ohyes! Book takes form of attractive woman with words written all over her, stuff happens, lesbians, woo. This may be my intense biblophilliac tendancies coming to light though. Also, breasts. Oh dear sweet gods, I sound like Jeff. I...honestly can't tell if that's a bad thing or not. o.O
MOVING RIGHT ALONG! (I didn't take my focusdrugs today, does it show?) (Also, I totally was kidding about actually writing said porn, but then my brain kinda forced the opening scene into my mind which is NOT A GOOD THING, GAH! When I said I hated not having a muse, this was *so* not the response I was looking for)
Tertiary result again (since I very much like the word 'tertiary') was...Hmm. Shirts, being read, looking like a piece of artwork. I actually don't think there is a second tertiary result. Which means this particular digression is done with. Groovy!
Logically, I think the next thing to do would be an analysis of the poem itself, but I'm bored of writing this, and will do so later. (Later here having a meaning of
~Sor
MOOP!
(((Apropos of nothing, I appear to have coined a new term in the dictionary of useful Kat-stuffs. Before the Walls. It's the general equivilant of things that are behind the walls, except that you lot get to read it.)))
Postscript: My English class is rubbing off on me. I actually went back and fixed the text of the second cut so that it had proper parrallelism. On a side note, what does ETA mean? I got that it's some sort of "I edited this" shorthand, but I don't actually know the rest.
no subject
As for birds...Uhhhhhh...
Lemme see if I can get ahold of the parrot goddess...she'll know what to do...
~Sor
no subject