Friends locked, tbh.
comment to be added.
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40 comments | Here we go again
the finer art of heartwork
08 December 2008 @ 03:30 pm
so i wrote shane's creative writing homework. this is the product of about 20 minutes
( i wrote a hit play )
( i wrote a hit play )
06 December 2008 @ 08:22 pm
19 August 2008 @ 02:11 pm
Whitley Zandler
Dr. Turner
Creative Writing
19 October 2008
Title
Quick. Imagine a girl with big brown eyes, the deceptive kind with gold threading through the irises. The kind that you could maybe stare at for awhile. A girl with dark brown hair that falls straight from her head, that shakes slightly with her movements, hanging just below her over-developed breasts. This girl has an all-over tan, like she might have spent her summer sun-bathing naked in her backyard, if she didn't live across the street from a grocery store. She is slender in a way that suggests her body is much older than the rest of her. She saunters with the kind of desperate confidence that only reeks of insecurity.
The reality is, this girl is the epitome of what every mother hopes their daughter never turns out to be. The bright red lines on her arms—something her father pretends not to see on the occasional weekend she visits. The cigarette hanging loosely from her swollen lips would even be an acceptable trade for what is to come. Because, it, honestly, is that bad.
This girl, this nightmare, she could be the inspiration for Lifetime movies; she could be the reason behind pamphlets or books, all pointing towards the same piece of advice: “Teenage Daughters and What NOT to Do.”
She gets grounded for a month when she is 11 for slitting her wrists with a pair of fabric scissors, succeeding only in accruing an addiction that lasts until she is 19. At 12 she gets high for the first time with her best friend's sister and an 18 year old from the Army they met in the Wendy's parking lot. This girl is the one that your parents wouldn't let you hang out with when you were that age. The one even the teachers heard rumors about.
Right now, this girl is fourteen and she is in a park. She might grow up to be a writer, or a teacher, or a doctor but right now she is focused solely on destroying herself. She is pretending to enjoy the beer in her hands, the stranger who supplied it's mouth on her neck; she is pretending to enjoy the feel of leaves in her hair and his hands moving ever-so-slightly to the button on her jeans. Besides making official her high-school reputation, besides throwing away her virtue, and even besides changing the way her father will look at her from now on, what she is really doing, is conducting a test on humanity.
Maybe though, maybe she is just seeing how far she could carry herself away. Maybe she is just expecting someone to save her. It could be a fatal flaw of hers, if you discount everything else you've learned. As this stranger, this boy who's name she can't quite remember, breathes against her cheek, she's thinking she probably shouldn't be doing this. That, maybe, she shouldn't have taken this so far. This nightmare has just turned into everything we fear from female adolescence. But in reality, she is just another teenage slut.
And what she is thinking, now, as he pulls away from her and she struggles to put on her pants, is that no one is going to be there to protect her. This ungrateful little slut is thinking she can't count on anyone but herself. And maybe, learning that tiny little fact, even the way she does, maybe this fourteen year old nightmare saves herself.
Dr. Turner
Creative Writing
19 October 2008
Title
Quick. Imagine a girl with big brown eyes, the deceptive kind with gold threading through the irises. The kind that you could maybe stare at for awhile. A girl with dark brown hair that falls straight from her head, that shakes slightly with her movements, hanging just below her over-developed breasts. This girl has an all-over tan, like she might have spent her summer sun-bathing naked in her backyard, if she didn't live across the street from a grocery store. She is slender in a way that suggests her body is much older than the rest of her. She saunters with the kind of desperate confidence that only reeks of insecurity.
The reality is, this girl is the epitome of what every mother hopes their daughter never turns out to be. The bright red lines on her arms—something her father pretends not to see on the occasional weekend she visits. The cigarette hanging loosely from her swollen lips would even be an acceptable trade for what is to come. Because, it, honestly, is that bad.
This girl, this nightmare, she could be the inspiration for Lifetime movies; she could be the reason behind pamphlets or books, all pointing towards the same piece of advice: “Teenage Daughters and What NOT to Do.”
She gets grounded for a month when she is 11 for slitting her wrists with a pair of fabric scissors, succeeding only in accruing an addiction that lasts until she is 19. At 12 she gets high for the first time with her best friend's sister and an 18 year old from the Army they met in the Wendy's parking lot. This girl is the one that your parents wouldn't let you hang out with when you were that age. The one even the teachers heard rumors about.
Right now, this girl is fourteen and she is in a park. She might grow up to be a writer, or a teacher, or a doctor but right now she is focused solely on destroying herself. She is pretending to enjoy the beer in her hands, the stranger who supplied it's mouth on her neck; she is pretending to enjoy the feel of leaves in her hair and his hands moving ever-so-slightly to the button on her jeans. Besides making official her high-school reputation, besides throwing away her virtue, and even besides changing the way her father will look at her from now on, what she is really doing, is conducting a test on humanity.
Maybe though, maybe she is just seeing how far she could carry herself away. Maybe she is just expecting someone to save her. It could be a fatal flaw of hers, if you discount everything else you've learned. As this stranger, this boy who's name she can't quite remember, breathes against her cheek, she's thinking she probably shouldn't be doing this. That, maybe, she shouldn't have taken this so far. This nightmare has just turned into everything we fear from female adolescence. But in reality, she is just another teenage slut.
And what she is thinking, now, as he pulls away from her and she struggles to put on her pants, is that no one is going to be there to protect her. This ungrateful little slut is thinking she can't count on anyone but herself. And maybe, learning that tiny little fact, even the way she does, maybe this fourteen year old nightmare saves herself.
08 April 2008 @ 12:38 pm
i'm doing this thing where i attempt to write every day.
pleassse let me know what you think
( very shortish thing idk )
pleassse let me know what you think
( very shortish thing idk )
06 April 2008 @ 06:09 pm
"Would you just kiss me?" she asks, and with that she is breaking one of her rules. She justifies this by thinking maybe, somehow, all her problems will dissolve between the cracks in her lips as they connect with his. She could, of course, attribute that to her ever-present desire to be saved by someone (anyone?). And honestly, with every sip from the bottle her line of sight is more blurred, and yet he only looks more and more like some kind of knight in shining armor. It's the kind of cliché that fits perfectly with her only seeing what she wants (though not to the point where she is blinded.)
"I refuse to be a character in one of your stories!" But while he says this, he is lacing his fingers within hers. Or maybe is standing, she's not so sure the positions even matter at this point. But his eyes are lackluster and he is looking at her in a way that can only make her breaths harsher and she, she is finally understanding, admiring the way she can convince herself that, more than anything, she wants him.
Band-aids on both their sleeves cover the kind of pain they are running away from. Already she is thinking he could save her. And he, he is probably thinking she'll end up a scar herself.
"They're not always unhappy endings," she offers, but he will never understand. What she wants to say is, "I could be falling in love with you right now," that is, if she had the slightest idea of what love consists of, or if it exists at all. Maybe, she is just falling, or maybe it is just what she thinks he needs. In that self-loathing kind of way, maybe she is just aching for a broken heart. He keeps telling her it is just the music, just the moment, and she despises his rationality.
His eyes though, they are fierce with unmistakable longing. Though his heart beats faster with it, regret stings his tear ducts, and he is so fucking sure that nothing good will come of this. And she, she is desperate to be his mistake... but not quite desperate enough. Still, she'd like to think if she put her mouth to his he wouldn't be able to stop himself.
He pulls her toward him, his fingertips explore the safe side of her, if there is one. His lips leave marks on her forehead, her cheeks but his mouth—it is begging for her to stop. The syllables stick to the edges of his lips in an urgent kind of way and it almost doesn't matter what he is saying. More so that his voice continues to crack and his gasps are evident and his fingers massage bruises into her scalp. It is true what they say about actions speaking louder than words (especially when his words are so unappealing to her desires.) This, this is what she means when she is explaining compassionate deception.
The looks he gives her, the way his arms feel wrapped around her, they are breaking her. Tears slide down her cheeks and he whispers against her earlobe, "I envy that you can cry in front of me." She thinks it might be an insult.
What she knows is, the liquor is sticky on her lips (syrup in her bloodstream.) It is probably the cause of all this over-glorification, still she can't help thinking that's just taking the easy way out. It's so indie-hollywood, the kind of movies on her shelves at home, and her idealistic mind just can't help but to eat it up.
Everything about him devastates her. She wants to hide behind the illusion of apathy, though the alcohol infecting her is dishonesty enough. She is torn between extracting herself from the situation and the idea of her lips against his. But god damnit, they could fucking save each other, and she can't let that go, so instead she breaks a rule and lets him lead her fingers to his hair.
"I love when girls run their hands through my hair." His hands are shaking when he touches them to her face and she looks at him with some kind of familiar fear, and he is hurting her and she wonders how he feels about it.
This scene is soaked in tenderness and it is just the kind of deception she has always run away from. And he, he is running too, though neither of them far enough to end up anywhere but within each others arms (And that is another rule she is breaking.)
“Don't you see? We're the kind of people the audience wants to end up together in the end.” This is what she wants to say, but honestly, her vocal chords can't find it in themselves to even bother and she can already imagine his responses and none of them are pleasing.
She collapses against him, resigned to whatever he's done to her. “I wish you knew, I wish you knew.” She whispers against his skin over and over. She needs him to understand the significance of how she feels right now. She needs him to know that she, really, has never been this type of girl. She needs him to know that he has changed her life, and especially; she needs him to know that, perhaps, this is not a good thing. Or maybe, she just needs... him.
"I refuse to be a character in one of your stories!" But while he says this, he is lacing his fingers within hers. Or maybe is standing, she's not so sure the positions even matter at this point. But his eyes are lackluster and he is looking at her in a way that can only make her breaths harsher and she, she is finally understanding, admiring the way she can convince herself that, more than anything, she wants him.
Band-aids on both their sleeves cover the kind of pain they are running away from. Already she is thinking he could save her. And he, he is probably thinking she'll end up a scar herself.
"They're not always unhappy endings," she offers, but he will never understand. What she wants to say is, "I could be falling in love with you right now," that is, if she had the slightest idea of what love consists of, or if it exists at all. Maybe, she is just falling, or maybe it is just what she thinks he needs. In that self-loathing kind of way, maybe she is just aching for a broken heart. He keeps telling her it is just the music, just the moment, and she despises his rationality.
His eyes though, they are fierce with unmistakable longing. Though his heart beats faster with it, regret stings his tear ducts, and he is so fucking sure that nothing good will come of this. And she, she is desperate to be his mistake... but not quite desperate enough. Still, she'd like to think if she put her mouth to his he wouldn't be able to stop himself.
He pulls her toward him, his fingertips explore the safe side of her, if there is one. His lips leave marks on her forehead, her cheeks but his mouth—it is begging for her to stop. The syllables stick to the edges of his lips in an urgent kind of way and it almost doesn't matter what he is saying. More so that his voice continues to crack and his gasps are evident and his fingers massage bruises into her scalp. It is true what they say about actions speaking louder than words (especially when his words are so unappealing to her desires.) This, this is what she means when she is explaining compassionate deception.
The looks he gives her, the way his arms feel wrapped around her, they are breaking her. Tears slide down her cheeks and he whispers against her earlobe, "I envy that you can cry in front of me." She thinks it might be an insult.
What she knows is, the liquor is sticky on her lips (syrup in her bloodstream.) It is probably the cause of all this over-glorification, still she can't help thinking that's just taking the easy way out. It's so indie-hollywood, the kind of movies on her shelves at home, and her idealistic mind just can't help but to eat it up.
Everything about him devastates her. She wants to hide behind the illusion of apathy, though the alcohol infecting her is dishonesty enough. She is torn between extracting herself from the situation and the idea of her lips against his. But god damnit, they could fucking save each other, and she can't let that go, so instead she breaks a rule and lets him lead her fingers to his hair.
"I love when girls run their hands through my hair." His hands are shaking when he touches them to her face and she looks at him with some kind of familiar fear, and he is hurting her and she wonders how he feels about it.
This scene is soaked in tenderness and it is just the kind of deception she has always run away from. And he, he is running too, though neither of them far enough to end up anywhere but within each others arms (And that is another rule she is breaking.)
“Don't you see? We're the kind of people the audience wants to end up together in the end.” This is what she wants to say, but honestly, her vocal chords can't find it in themselves to even bother and she can already imagine his responses and none of them are pleasing.
She collapses against him, resigned to whatever he's done to her. “I wish you knew, I wish you knew.” She whispers against his skin over and over. She needs him to understand the significance of how she feels right now. She needs him to know that she, really, has never been this type of girl. She needs him to know that he has changed her life, and especially; she needs him to know that, perhaps, this is not a good thing. Or maybe, she just needs... him.
17 February 2008 @ 11:31 pm
"Would you just kiss me?" she asks, and with that she is breaking one of her rules. She justifies this by thinking maybe, somehow, all her problems will dissolve between the cracks in her lips as they connect with his. She is finally understanding, admiring the way she can convince herself that, more than anything, she wants him.
Band-aids on both their sleeves cover the kind of pain they are both running away from. Already she is thinking he could save her. And he, he is probably thinking she'll end up a scar herself.
"I refuse to be a character in one of your stories!" But while he says this, he is lacing his fingers within hers. Or maybe is standing, her vision isn't so great, especially when she's seeing only what she wants (but not to the point where she is blinded.)
"They're not always unhappy endings," she offers, in a way that he will never understand. What she wants to say is, "I could be falling in love with you right now," that is, if she had the slightest idea of what love consists of, or if it exists at all. Maybe, she is just falling, period. He keeps telling her it is just the music, just the moment, and she despises his rationality.
His eyes though, they are fierce with unmistakable longing. Though his heart beats faster with it, regret stings his tear ducts, and he is so fucking sure that nothing good will come of this. And she, she is desperate to be his mistake... but not quite desperate enough, though she'd like to think if she put her mouth to his he wouldn't be able to stop himself.
He pulls her toward him, his fingertips explore the safe side of her, if there is one. His mouth is begging her to stop, but his lips leave bruises on her forehead, her cheeks and this is what she means when she is explaining compassionate deception.
The looks he gives her, the way his arms feel wrapped around her, they are breaking her. Tears slide down her cheeks and he whispers against her earlobe, "I envy that you can cry in front of me." She thinks it might be an insult.
What she knows is, the liquor is sticky on her lips (syrup in her bloodstream.) It might be the cause of all this over-glorification, still she can't help thinking that's just taking the easy way out. Everything about him devastates her. She wants to pin his arms to his sides, to extract herself from the situation or at the very least to hide behind icy apathy. But god damnit, they could fucking save each other, and she can't let that go, so instead she breaks a rule and lets him lead her fingers to his hair.
"Do this, I love it when girls run their fingers through my hair." And his hands are shaking when he touches them to her face and she looks at him with some kind of familiar fear, and he is hurting her and she wonders how he feels about it.
This scene is soaked in tenderness and it is just the kind of deception she has always run away from. And he, he is running too, though neither of them far enough to end up anywhere but within each others arms (And that is another rule she is breaking.)
She collapses against him, in that resigned type of way, "I wish you knew, I wish you knew" (What you've done to me.) She whispers it into his clavicles, over and over. She needs him to understand the significance of the way she needs him now. She needs him to know she, really, has never been this kind of girl. She thinks this might look like romance, but it fucking feels like tragedy. She wants him to know that he has changed her life. She wants him to know that, perhaps, this is not a good thing.
Band-aids on both their sleeves cover the kind of pain they are both running away from. Already she is thinking he could save her. And he, he is probably thinking she'll end up a scar herself.
"I refuse to be a character in one of your stories!" But while he says this, he is lacing his fingers within hers. Or maybe is standing, her vision isn't so great, especially when she's seeing only what she wants (but not to the point where she is blinded.)
"They're not always unhappy endings," she offers, in a way that he will never understand. What she wants to say is, "I could be falling in love with you right now," that is, if she had the slightest idea of what love consists of, or if it exists at all. Maybe, she is just falling, period. He keeps telling her it is just the music, just the moment, and she despises his rationality.
His eyes though, they are fierce with unmistakable longing. Though his heart beats faster with it, regret stings his tear ducts, and he is so fucking sure that nothing good will come of this. And she, she is desperate to be his mistake... but not quite desperate enough, though she'd like to think if she put her mouth to his he wouldn't be able to stop himself.
He pulls her toward him, his fingertips explore the safe side of her, if there is one. His mouth is begging her to stop, but his lips leave bruises on her forehead, her cheeks and this is what she means when she is explaining compassionate deception.
The looks he gives her, the way his arms feel wrapped around her, they are breaking her. Tears slide down her cheeks and he whispers against her earlobe, "I envy that you can cry in front of me." She thinks it might be an insult.
What she knows is, the liquor is sticky on her lips (syrup in her bloodstream.) It might be the cause of all this over-glorification, still she can't help thinking that's just taking the easy way out. Everything about him devastates her. She wants to pin his arms to his sides, to extract herself from the situation or at the very least to hide behind icy apathy. But god damnit, they could fucking save each other, and she can't let that go, so instead she breaks a rule and lets him lead her fingers to his hair.
"Do this, I love it when girls run their fingers through my hair." And his hands are shaking when he touches them to her face and she looks at him with some kind of familiar fear, and he is hurting her and she wonders how he feels about it.
This scene is soaked in tenderness and it is just the kind of deception she has always run away from. And he, he is running too, though neither of them far enough to end up anywhere but within each others arms (And that is another rule she is breaking.)
She collapses against him, in that resigned type of way, "I wish you knew, I wish you knew" (What you've done to me.) She whispers it into his clavicles, over and over. She needs him to understand the significance of the way she needs him now. She needs him to know she, really, has never been this kind of girl. She thinks this might look like romance, but it fucking feels like tragedy. She wants him to know that he has changed her life. She wants him to know that, perhaps, this is not a good thing.
15 January 2008 @ 03:32 am
i'd really have to make a mixed cd. but if i couldnt do that it'd be thursday, and i'm undecided on which album.
10 November 2007 @ 03:37 am
So, just putting all this out there... Friday Nov. 9th 2007 was officially the best day of my life.
Key points would be
+ the amazing bruises on my thighs
+the lovesong writer, cross out the eyes, for the workforce drowning
+satarah and chris!
+ geoff singing to just satarah and me with his arms around us during Understanding in a Car Crash. I suck at show reviews but that was the best show I've EVER been to.
+Circle takes the square, and the chick being so ridic. hot. and me fangirling over her.
and especially:
satarah: "No. YOu don't understand. I have to be close to the barrier. I want to touch it."
whitley: "omg I want to touch it too!"
Christopher/Max: "Whatever you want whitley, no. just NO."
Ashley: "Idk what you guys are touching but whatever it is, i'm touching it too!"
Key points would be
+ the amazing bruises on my thighs
+the lovesong writer, cross out the eyes, for the workforce drowning
+satarah and chris!
+ geoff singing to just satarah and me with his arms around us during Understanding in a Car Crash. I suck at show reviews but that was the best show I've EVER been to.
+Circle takes the square, and the chick being so ridic. hot. and me fangirling over her.
and especially:
satarah: "No. YOu don't understand. I have to be close to the barrier. I want to touch it."
whitley: "omg I want to touch it too!"
Christopher/Max: "Whatever you want whitley, no. just NO."
Ashley: "Idk what you guys are touching but whatever it is, i'm touching it too!"
08 November 2007 @ 10:13 pm
"How is it possible, he thinks, to miss a woman whom he kept at a distance so that when she was gone he would not miss her. Only then does he realize that wanting part of her and not all of her had hurt them both and how he cannot justify his actions except that... well... it was life."
30 September 2007 @ 04:31 pm
30 August 2007 @ 01:16 am
why y i am updating via my wii and tbh shit is complicated. my cpu is fucked so christina text me about plans next week. ily mwah
14 August 2007 @ 07:08 am
28 July 2007 @ 12:34 am
I wrote a piece of fanfiction today. It's Frank/Ray you can read it here. In other news I burned my wrist and it looks like a scar from a suicide attempt. Which is kind of cool, but mostly just really fucking painful.
I also made a mix cd trading comm, which you should all join because it'll be fun.
http://mixcdtrade.livejournal.com
That's all. I love all of you in a friendly way and none of you moreso than that. Except Irina, who is ridiculously hot and devastatingly underage.
I also made a mix cd trading comm, which you should all join because it'll be fun.
http://mixcdtrade.livejournal.com
That's all. I love all of you in a friendly way and none of you moreso than that. Except Irina, who is ridiculously hot and devastatingly underage.
01 July 2007 @ 10:14 am
I know I'm not idealizing you, because I am and have idealized other people. It is not the same. I'm doing so much better now, though, regardless of what I have said, I am and as usual, will be, yours if you want, because you never forget the ones that get away.
**
I have always wanted to be apart of everything that kept us together, but I am, like I have said, only half of everything I've ever wanted to be. Perhaps, that was because I only wanted to be those things, so I could be as much a part of you as they are. So I could be as much a part of them as you are, but for some reason, things only revolve around you. Of course I got caught up in that, yet, I find that, the one time I put one of them before you, they are the ones who ended up fucking me. You, and they, are the reasons I've been second guessing all my friendships for the past six months and more.
**
All of you make me question who I am, I never know the answer. I feel like I am only made up of everything I think any of you have ever wanted me to be. Everything that I am, and the major things that make people hate me in the end, are just me building up for the inevitable self destruct. From our first conversation, I'm already eroding the foundation of whatever is beginning. It's shitty for me to be defined by who I am friends with, to lose friends for the same reason. Maybe all I'm really doing, is looking for someone to save. In all honesty, right now, I have more tattoos than I do friends--everyone else is just convenient for me to feel like I'm doing something more than listening to myself talk.
That's all this is anyway. When was the last time any of you started a conversation with me, when I wasn't talking about deleting, or including compliments for you in a post, or only commenting because I asked you to? I mean, that's okay, that's totally fine, the thing is, I want friends. Despite me feeling like I'm a horrible person, I think I actually am an okay friend. I just get so sick of one-sided situations and second guesses. The consistent people are sometimes never the people you expect; the funny thing about that is, the two people who I find always around if I need them are the reasons I made this journal. They are the two people who really got me into fiction, and livejournal, and yet, I'm not close to them at all. However, they have never failed me, and I have serious respect for both of you. I hope you know who you are...
I'm going to get in bed and think about Satarah and Jes and slumber parties and Elliott Smith and maybe for once I won't be so sad to wake up.
**
I have always wanted to be apart of everything that kept us together, but I am, like I have said, only half of everything I've ever wanted to be. Perhaps, that was because I only wanted to be those things, so I could be as much a part of you as they are. So I could be as much a part of them as you are, but for some reason, things only revolve around you. Of course I got caught up in that, yet, I find that, the one time I put one of them before you, they are the ones who ended up fucking me. You, and they, are the reasons I've been second guessing all my friendships for the past six months and more.
**
All of you make me question who I am, I never know the answer. I feel like I am only made up of everything I think any of you have ever wanted me to be. Everything that I am, and the major things that make people hate me in the end, are just me building up for the inevitable self destruct. From our first conversation, I'm already eroding the foundation of whatever is beginning. It's shitty for me to be defined by who I am friends with, to lose friends for the same reason. Maybe all I'm really doing, is looking for someone to save. In all honesty, right now, I have more tattoos than I do friends--everyone else is just convenient for me to feel like I'm doing something more than listening to myself talk.
That's all this is anyway. When was the last time any of you started a conversation with me, when I wasn't talking about deleting, or including compliments for you in a post, or only commenting because I asked you to? I mean, that's okay, that's totally fine, the thing is, I want friends. Despite me feeling like I'm a horrible person, I think I actually am an okay friend. I just get so sick of one-sided situations and second guesses. The consistent people are sometimes never the people you expect; the funny thing about that is, the two people who I find always around if I need them are the reasons I made this journal. They are the two people who really got me into fiction, and livejournal, and yet, I'm not close to them at all. However, they have never failed me, and I have serious respect for both of you. I hope you know who you are...
I'm going to get in bed and think about Satarah and Jes and slumber parties and Elliott Smith and maybe for once I won't be so sad to wake up.
27 June 2007 @ 03:24 pm
This morning I woke up covered in blood. That's my attention-getter. Will probably perma-delete soon, but I haven't decided yet.
26 June 2007 @ 08:00 pm
So I paid for an apartment in Springfield today... I move in August first. They have lots of cats and they're kind of weird and very gothic and they have a huge porn collection and within 10 minutes I saw a real live naked chick. Oh, and there's a wiccan alter in the kitchen. But my room is big and there's internet and air conditioning and I get to bring a kitten, so I'm happy. K I"m going to go take a nap before work.
05 June 2007 @ 01:16 pm
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
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okay for all you guys who are sad or whatever, it's nothing personal. i made two posts saying, "comment to stay" and you didn't comment, giving. me the idea that you ddint want to be friends. i'll add you back if you want like i said i'm not picky.