the finer art of heartwork

lol for creative writing

you.fake.it.like.you.matter@gmail.com — Mon, 08 Dec 2008 21:31:13 GMT

so i wrote shane's creative writing homework. this is the product of about 20 minutes

Shane Willey
One Act
Creative Writing
Dr. Turner
08 December 2008
Future Possibilities

Samantha is a female in her late 20s. She is intelligent and quick-witted. She sits alone in a booth of a mostly-empty restaurant. She picks at the collar of her shirt impatiently.
Enter John. He is a male, late 20s early 30s, casually dressed. He looks intentionally disarrayed. He appraoches Samantha.

JOHN: Are you Samantha? Alex said you'd be dressed very professionally.
Samantha smiles, shakes John's extended hand.
SAMANTHA: Yeah, that's me. Emily mentioned you were... carefree.
JOHN: [Laughs]. I've had a busy day. May I sit?
SAMANTHA: Please.
It is silent for a few moments. Samantha laughs nervously.
JOHN: I hate awkward silences. To tell you the truth, I've never done this before.
SAMANTHA: Well, I would believe you, but the truth is, the type of people who say they've never done things before are usually the people who do those things all the time.
JOHN: Touche. So... Samantha, what do you like? What do you do? Tell me all about yourself.
SAMANTHA: If I told you all about myself I'd leave here never knowing a thing about you.
JOHN: Well aren't you just impossible to please?
SAMANTHA: If I weren't, I wouldn't be here right now.
JOHN: I'm okay with that. They told me you'd be... challenging.
SAMANTHA: Oh really? How easily I've become a conquest.
JOHN: (undeterred). Well, I have nothing better to do.
SAMANTHA: (offended). If that's the case, then I DO have other pressing matters, and we can just call this a failure. [Gets up to leave.]
JOHN: Oh, don't go. I apologize for making fun of you. It's just that, you're obviously nervous and perhaps slight embarrassed by even being here. I bet you feel insecure, inadequate and especially better than the type of girl who must resort to blind dates.
SAMANTHA: (still angry). Oh, you've got some nerve. First off, you haven't the slightest indication what exactly my emotions are about this. Secondly, it's more than a bit hypocritical to suggest I'm the type of girl who must “resort” to a blind date, or to even think that perhaps I myself had nothing better to do and wanted an evening of mindless entertainment.
JOHN: Except, you already said you had more pressing matters.
SAMANTHA: I've had it. It was... nice to meet you.
JOHN: Come on now, this isn't so bad, is it? At least we've cut through all the artificial bullshit date questions. Can you tell me the last person who induced such a torrent of strong emotions from you?
SAMANTHA: I could, but I don't think you'd be pleased with the comparison.
JOHN: What's the worst that could happen here? You walked in here attempting to make a connection impossible. Everything I've said you've turned into a personal attack. You had no intention of making any kind of effort. Now, if you'll promise to take down the high-maintenance holier-than-thou mask, I'll promise to give you a great evening of mindful entertainment.
SAMANTHA: I will sit down, but only because I promised Emily I'd give you at least 30 minutes.
JOHN: So I've got 30 minutes to sweep you off your feet.
SAMANTHA: They're planted firmly in the ground.
JOHN: Well I'll start by telling you what I like about you.
SAMANTHA: Flattery will get you nowhere.
JOHN: I think you're smart. You're obviously passionate. And you're beautiful. Why are you here?
SAMANTHA: I told you, I promised Emily.
JOHN: No, I mean, you are SO beautiful. Usually girls that gorgeous have one or ten men to occupy their time, or they're too busy with work to care what they look like.
SAMANTHA: (blushes). So maybe flatter will get you somewhere.
JOHN: Oh no, don't tell me.
SAMANTHA: (worried). What?
JOHN: You're one of them.
SAMANTHA: One of who?!
JOHN: Them. One of the “she dont know she's beauitful” type of girls. The ones they sing about in country songs.
SAMANTHA: I don't even like country music.
JOHN: You're really not making this easy on me.
SAMANTHA: And I have no intention to do so.
JOHN: Why are you so dead-set on this failing?
SAMANTHA: And you say I'm impossible to please. I'm sitting here, conversing with you. What more do you want exactly?
JOHN: Show some interest?
SAMANTHA: Then be interesting.
JOHN: Well alright then. I'm a lawyer.
SAMANTHA: (impressed.) Are you?
JOHN: No. I was conducting a test to see if you're as shallow as you act.
SAMANTHA: Could you please explain to me how you intend on winning my affections by degrading, humiliating and LYING to me?
JOHN: I'm just saying, if you put a fourth of the emotion into giving me a chance as you do getting pissed off, this could work.
SAMANTHA: After all that, why do you want this to work?
JOHN: Well, why not? Like I said, you're beautiful. You make me laugh.
SAMANTHA: I make you laugh at me!
JOHN: It's good for the soul either way.
SAMANTHA. You're impossible.
JOHN: Well, then we have a lot more in common than you thought.
[Waitress appears.]
WAITRESS: How are you two this evening?
JOHN/SAMANTHA: Fine.
WAITRESS: Alright... Well, my name is Kelly and I'll take care of you tonight. Can I start you off with a soda?
JOHN/SAMANTHA: Coke is fine.
WAITRESS: Aw, that's so cute, you two saying the same thing at once like that.
Samantha sighs and glares at John while he chuckles. Waitress exits.
JOHN: See, we just met and we already know what the other is thinking.
SAMANTHA: If that were true, you'd be long gone by now.
JOHN: So catty. Are you ever going to have a regular conversation with me?
SAMANTHA: Why are you so dead set on the stereotype of getting to know me? If you can give me one excellent reason why it would be a great idea for me to bare my soul to you. If you can say why it's worth it for me to put forth all the effort of telling you my deep dark secrets just so I can go home feeling vulnerable and wait a couple days for a call that won't come, and then be angry with myself for opening up to you then I'll take it into consideration.
JOHN: We could be soul-mates.
SAMANTHA: Ha.
JOHN: I'm serious. You never know until you give it the chance.
SAMANTHA: If that were the case, then I'd be giving strange men on the subway “a chance.”
JOHN: Is the idea of growing old with me so terrible to you?
SAMANTHA: The idea of talking to a man I just met about growing old together is a little horrifying, yes.
JOHN: Besides the fact that this is all hypothetical, weren't you the one who was just chastizing me for sticking to the conventionalism of dating? It doesn't hurt to think about.
SAMANTHA: Are you saying you like me?
JOHN: I find you intriguing.
SAMANTHA: Well you find me intriguing now. Wait awhile. I have mood swings, I'm needy, I'm jealous. I eat when I'm upset. You won't like me when I'm older and fatter. What you've learned on this... date, if you could call it that, isn't enough for you to give me any kind of guarauntee. And I'm much too cautious to do anything without a gaurauntee.
JOHN: If you want a guarauntee, you've got it.
SAMANTHA: No!
JOHN: I thought you said you wanted gaurauntee.
SAMANTHA: I do, but if you're so easy to give it to me then it's not legitimate.
JOHN: I said it was, it is.
SAMANTHA: And you've lied before. How do I know you won't lie again?
JOHN: See, we already sound like an old couple.
SAMANTHA: Okay, we'll do this your way. How many children do you want?
JOHN: How many do you want?
SAMANTHA: See, this only furthers my point. You're already compromising your life's desires to fit the possibility of what mine are. You will continue to do this, because you want me. And because you have offered me this gaurauntee, you are obligated to do such. In the end though, you'll resent me for it. And in 20 or 30 years, when I've had the chance to fall in love with you, you'll end up being a bitter old man who only harbors resentment for me. Eventually you'll leave me cold, alone and much too old to have a chance to love ever again.
JOHN: I see you've thought this through.
SAMANTHA: Oh, I have. And is it really worth all this to end up ruined for everyone else?
JOHN: While all that may be true, you admitted that you could fall in love with me. We could have a house in the country with children and live happily ever after.
SAMANTHA: I much prefer the city, and don't even get me started on the kids.
JOHN: An apartment in the city then! And what about the kids?
SAMANTHA: Why, anything could happen. One could die at birth, which would of course send the other into a spiraling depression and in her confusion with life and death she'll be led to a life of crime that could only result in a series of five or so murders commited along the coast of the Mississippi River!
JOHN: That's not even remotely likely.
SAMANTHA: But it could happen.
JOHN: Samantha, I could give you everything you've ever wanted. I could make you happy, and I would. We'd have everything, you and me, if you gave it a chance.
SAMANTHA: John. This is our first date. And if I'm not mistaken your thirty minutes are up.
Samantha gets up to leave.
JOHN: And how did I fare.
SAMANTHA: Not too well, but you put forth a valiant effort. Although you did try, this is it.
John stands up to tell her goodbye. He leans in for a soft hug.
JOHN: This isn't the end, Alex gave me your phone number.
END.

you.fake.it.like.you.matter@gmail.com — Sun, 07 Dec 2008 02:22:38 GMT

come on guys, i want to know your opinions of the new fob!!

you.fake.it.like.you.matter@gmail.com — Tue, 19 Aug 2008 19:12:31 GMT

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.

you.fake.it.like.you.matter@gmail.com — Tue, 08 Apr 2008 17:39:18 GMT

i'm doing this thing where i attempt to write every day.
pleassse let me know what you think

Her tongue grazes his neck and he tastes like strawberry and kerosene. She thinks its only fitting, with the way his skin burns against hers, that their bodies will result in some kind of fire.

It's the kind of secret he doesn't bother to keep and the memory of his whispers ("I will hurt you, you know") they hide in her stomach next to that sense of impending doom.

The dread hangs in the back of her throat, threatening to suffocate or gag her.

It is the same way her happiness only serves to reinforce the pointlessness of everything. It is the confliction in her vocal chords as she sighs against his ear and her fingernails versus his spine when his fingertips are on her hip bones. The way that every beginning will only result in an end and the middle is what ends up forgotten.

But fuck, there are patterns on etched on his ribcage from the couch and this kind of internal conflict is best forgotten when his teeth connect with her collarbones. And honestly, it's not even this that makes her forget. It's just the teenage female conditioning that sex is the equivalent of affection, never mind the years she wasted trying to break that pattern. And that is probably wrong, but its the kind of complication she can't be bothered with attempting to figure out, though if you knew her, you'd understand the way her brain obsesses over all of it when she is alone and has nothing to do but think.

It's these fucking thoughts that will be her demise, because maybe every second he's not telling her she's beautiful she is convincing herself she is not, and really what is that worth? She'd be lying if she said she didn't believe him for the most part, just because she trusts him that much. And maybe when he is not around she's staring in her mirror, reminding herself of every blemish, and these are just things to think about while he's opening doors and doing every little thing she ever imagined for herself so she doesn't get too close.

But then he is asleep against her, and his breathing is shallow against her breast or thigh, and maybe she can feel his heartbeat against some part of her that isn't afraid to enjoy this. And his eyes might flicker open for a moment while his hand intertwines with hers as she runs her fingers through her hair. Maybe she has never felt so safe touching someone, and maybe this has never felt so completely right. And maybe no one has ever been so amazing, to her. Maybe, no one has ever been so beautiful. She, really, has never wanted so badly than to just enjoy this. Honestly, it's more like she doesn't know how. But his eyes, and his mouth, and his skin, and especially all of it somehow connected to her, are every reason to try.

rewritings

you.fake.it.like.you.matter@gmail.com — Sun, 06 Apr 2008 23:10:44 GMT

"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.

you don't recover from a night like this...

you.fake.it.like.you.matter@gmail.com — Mon, 18 Feb 2008 05:41:49 GMT

"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.

What Do You Have To Say? - Put It On Repeat

you.fake.it.like.you.matter@gmail.com — Tue, 15 Jan 2008 09:33:06 GMT

If you could only listen to one album for the rest of your life, which one would it be (and why)?

View 128 Answers

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.

i'm afraid...

you.fake.it.like.you.matter@gmail.com — Sat, 10 Nov 2007 09:42:15 GMT

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!"

you.fake.it.like.you.matter@gmail.com — Fri, 09 Nov 2007 04:21:23 GMT

"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."

you.fake.it.like.you.matter@gmail.com — Thu, 30 Aug 2007 01:18:33 GMT

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

you.fake.it.like.you.matter@gmail.com — Tue, 14 Aug 2007 12:09:07 GMT

who will survive and what will be left of them > the black parade.

you.fake.it.like.you.matter@gmail.com — Sat, 28 Jul 2007 05:37:41 GMT

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.

you.fake.it.like.you.matter@gmail.com — Wed, 18 Jul 2007 03:44:26 GMT

I got a kitten!!!!

you.fake.it.like.you.matter@gmail.com — Sun, 01 Jul 2007 15:30:01 GMT

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.

you.fake.it.like.you.matter@gmail.com — Wed, 27 Jun 2007 20:25:43 GMT

This morning I woke up covered in blood. That's my attention-getter. Will probably perma-delete soon, but I haven't decided yet.

you.fake.it.like.you.matter@gmail.com — Wed, 27 Jun 2007 01:02:03 GMT

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.

thigh tattoos

you.fake.it.like.you.matter@gmail.com — Tue, 12 Jun 2007 00:59:24 GMT

the friendscut plz

you.fake.it.like.you.matter@gmail.com — Tue, 05 Jun 2007 18:18:22 GMT

acrylicktears
andmyheartfails
andnightsgrow
bonestructure
cassilis
chapterfour
chokeme
crashingparties
evaline_kid
falsify
batboy
isthismyfate
jewelosco
likeweeds
lovelygonzo
loveswizardrock
megankelly
mirrorscrack
mrshcaulfield
saltyliquorice
xmangoes
xxdance

edit:
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.

you.fake.it.like.you.matter@gmail.com — Wed, 02 May 2007 00:17:16 GMT

Rant came out today...
*looks at you all very patheticly while still begging very cutely*

you.fake.it.like.you.matter@gmail.com — Sun, 22 Apr 2007 19:05:40 GMT

http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0385517874/ref=pe_pe_5400_5073850_pe_snp_874

someone please please please buy me this.

you.fake.it.like.you.matter@gmail.com — Mon, 09 Apr 2007 18:43:01 GMT

Movies I've seen so far that I remember since last month:

Pan's Labyrinth
Citizen Kane
The Cure
The Pianist
Alien
Aliens
Rosemary's Baby
The Birds
North by Northwest
Rushmore
Dr. Strangelove
Memento
Mermaids
Crash
Broken Flowers
Proof
Blades of Glory
300
Taxi Driver
The Graduate
Full Metal Jacket
House of Yes
Just Like Heaven

i'm selling all my mcr shit.

you.fake.it.like.you.matter@gmail.com — Sun, 04 Mar 2007 05:58:14 GMT

Selling a ton of My Chemical Romance stuff:

Life on the Murder Scene cd/dvd signed copy, used but very good condition
make an offer

The Black Parade Limited Edition box set, opened, but also excellent condition.
make an offer

I brought you my bullets, you brought me your love album, used good condition
make an offer

3 cheers for sweet revenge, used good condition
make an offer

revenge hoodie size adult medium. used, good condition, no marks, etc.
make an offer

Sick of dripping eyeliner down my face.

you.fake.it.like.you.matter@gmail.com — Mon, 26 Feb 2007 07:13:36 GMT

Whitley is ________.

Fill in the blank.

you.fake.it.like.you.matter@gmail.com — Tue, 20 Feb 2007 02:15:22 GMT

Haha, because I like being nice (sometimes)
Comment and ask me a question, no matter how personal or whatever, and also your username and I will tell you:
1. One thing I like about you.
2. Something that reminds me of you.
3. What song I would dedicate to you.
4. One thing I dislike about you.
5. The answer to your question.

Comments are screened so I am going to post again and fill the information out in a separate post. Go anon if you just want to ask me a question or hate me or do whatever idc.

you.fake.it.like.you.matter@gmail.com — Wed, 31 Jan 2007 07:26:04 GMT

hope you like your layout, bb.

<3333
Nat