Shotgun Journal

Hey all.

So last summer, Effi and I reminisced about a story we wrote together with Beccy, Kim and Rach about a bunch of angsty high school kids and one very messed-up birthday party.

Together with Mike we joked about writing another one. About a Porn Store.

And because I was bored today, here it is.

http://community.livejournal.com/pornemporium/318.html

If you want to contribute to the story, or simply want to be a member and watch for updates, post here and I'll let you in.

Said Effi,
"Why don't we
Go drink tea
and plant a tree
And swim the sea
live happily
Watch the Grand Prix
Eat a sweet pea
Buy a CD
And you can sing me
a melody?"

And you know what I said?

"Effi, you're on crack.
Happy freaking birthday."

^__^

Happy one-eight, my lovely love luff luff.

She places her hand on mind, a gentle squeeze.

"Are you okay?"
"Yeah... I just... My mum looked like she was crying in the audience. She says it's nothing, but she might just be saying that so I get through the performance."
"Oh... Is there any reason she might be upset?"
"My Grandpa... Is very sick."
"I'm so sorry. I... I'll pray with you."
"..."
"Oh, you're not into that kind of thing?"
"... Mmm...Not really."
"Well, I'll pray for you, then. Do you mind if I pray for you?"
"I... I think that'd be okay."

It's amazing how a bowed head and a few whispered words can mean so much. Thank you so much, my dear friend. Even if you never read this, even if you can never know how much that meant to me, thank you.

Mmm... Alienation.

Tastes like aliens.

What type of Fae are you?

Wheee. Finally got the Eurotrip pictures loaded. <3

ZOMG HAPPY BIRTHDAY KIMMAI!

I'd like to grind his head into little itty bitty pieces. Why should I suffer at something I love for the sake of his fucking ego?

It's funny how we all have these "Failures to Communicate", in which what needs to be said is left unspoken.

And yet... What should stay silent travels through the grapevine faster than any self-respecting gossip would like to admit.

I need to learn to keep my mouth shut.
Secrets are what they are for a reason.

If I lied to myself enough, could I make it a belief?

And if I believed in it, couldn't I consider it real?

And if I thought hard enough that it was real, maybe... just maybe...

There's no place like home, there's no place like home.

Europe was AMAZING!!!

[size=9] I've fallen in love with a virtual reality.

Artifical sweetners are often better than the real thing. [/size]

http://kevan.org/nohari?view=Lisney

I wonder if maybe I'm just a drama queen.

Get your own spectral analysis from Area 23®

Blackmail is spelled with an "El". I love my timing, for I now have a slave.

"Fore!"

The golf ball soared across the expansive grounds of the castle and landed dead center in the middle of the moat. Well, at least it hadn't hit the window this time. Or the tree. Or the other window.

"God-fucking-fore!"

Another white ball sailed through the air and smacked a passing Koopa square in the shell. Death by angry golfer.

The assailant herself was pacing the Mushroom Kingdom's finest driving range, having run out of little balls to whack the hell out of. She was dressed to the nines, as always, in a frilly pink dress and heels. Her prim, flouncy blonde hair was frizzy with the heat of the summer day, and lost somewhere within the voluminous curls was the golden glint of a crown. Her petite, pretty face was screwed up in an angry scowl and her fists shook with rage.

With nothing to hit/throw/bludgeon, Princess Peach Amelia Toadstool threw her golf club to the ground with frustration. That low-down no-good spaghetti loving tub of lard! She had invited him to the castle, for a cake made especially for him, and what? He was hours late. She had been stood up. Her, a member of the royal family! How dare he!

Queen Elizabeth wouldn't have put up with this. She would have deported that goddamn broomhandle moustache all the way back to Italy in a minute. Peach assured herself that she would never again grace Mario with her presence. She was...

"Too good for him, right, Toad?"

"Y-yes Your Highness." The little fungus seemed rooted to the spot with fear, his eyes wide under a crown of polka dots. He was the caddy, an entire bag of golf clubs on his back that were just waiting to be thrown/tossed/eaten in rage.

"I mean, come on. It took me forty-five fucking minutes to cook this cake! Why isn't he here?"

"He's very b-busy, miss, fighting Bowser and all."

Fighting Bowser, fighting Bowser. Peach's nostrils flared angrily and she swooped down on the little toadstool.

"And for what? To stop him from capturing me? We all know Mario's got a hard-on for the lady in distress. And what do I get for it, eh? What do I fucking get?"

The flat iron had been pulled out and now quivered in her grip. In between tennis lessons, kart driving, golfing, being kidnapped by giant turtles and nurturing her beloved vegetable garden, Peach really was a terrible cook. The souffle she had baked for the absent plumber was more like a lopsided brick of butter and icing. But to her, it was wonderful, a sign of love for her boyfriend. And he fucking stood her up.

"No commitment, that's what I get!"

Letting out a cry of sheer rage, Peach threw herself -frills and all- onto the soft green grass of the castle's grounds. She stared up into the sky, forcing herself to meditate back to peace. Toad, finding the will to move, made a hasty bow and dropped the golf clubs to the ground, taking off to find something safer to do.

Peach watched him go, upset and more than a little hormonal. Everyone was abandoning her. All of her subjects, gone! Maybe she'd give Bowser a call later. At least he paid attention to her.

Peach sighed and slipped a ciggy out of her pocket. Lighting it with her neon pink Bic, she stared up at the clouds and cradled her comfort blankie between her pouting lips. What would Queen Elizabeth do? She was one hell of a ruler, so what would she do with a rude, simpleton, italian for a boyfriend?

She wouldn't let it get to her, that's what. She'd stiff the asshole till he figured out how important she really was. It's what any independent, modern Princess would do. So excited by this new conviction was Peach that she didn't notice when her palm pilot beeped.

"You've got mail."

Peach pulled the tiny machine out from under her dress -where she kept everything- and stared at the screen absent-mindedly.

A letter from Mistress Raven.

Who the fuck was Raven? She skimmed through the email curoiously. Preliminaries? So Mario was going, eh? Well, then. She'd better attend. It was time that chauvinist got his what-for.

And the hellbringer was Peach.

I must be some sort of catalyst. Everything is because of me, but I am not hurt by it. I am immortal. I can’t be hurt, and it makes me cold. Death threats uttered by loved ones are little more than dust on the wind. Self-hatred is as bland as a Monday morning. Consequence is but a grain of sand on the beach. Love, passion, fire and flame is but a flicker in the icy snowstorm of existence. I am a digital creation, each pixel fueled by logic and mathematical equations. The cathode in the back of the screen is projecting myself in two dimensions: listlessness and procrastination. Food, who needs food? I need electricity, magnetism, power, flight. I need to soar away from these problems, up, up, into the air, away from the pane of glass that shows me my life. Let me Defy Gravity. Let the stained colours fade from that window, let it be frosted over so I only see my insides, squelching about in mechanic bliss. Ignorance, unimportance. Everything is less when it is frosted over. The cold numbs the pain. Watch me freeze over, teachers, watch me freeze over, problems. Leave me be, for the fire is dead and never going to start. Laziness, addiction to the pixelated view have come to reign. Let them have their fun. Let me have my peace.

Let let let let let me stop bitching. Let let let let let whatever deity rules me hear my pleas, be it Fate, fucktards, fallacy or friends. Turn these insistent cries into something productive, damnit.

The only thing worse than stress is if it’s your fault. Its become a task I can never fulfill. Let me sleep, papers, books, pencils and pens. Let me dream of something other than tests and failure. Let the dream dictionary and horoscopes tell me my life, so that I don’t have to worry.

Netting bugs, netting ideas, netting lies to envelop my life. Put off the real. I hate it so much, and it hates me. Go away, leave me to my love, my ice cold passion for non-existence.

I have become so adept at frostbite.

Like the toy doll, locked away in plastic paradise, a silicon society that thrives on inner torture. Tossed aside by her creator -if there is one- left in such rejection that her face is preset to scowl at the world outside of her inorganic anarchy. Synthetic, sympathetic, pathetic and eclectic. At least she has nice hair.

And so ends another bitter anecdote on the pages of life, a mark of one more little emo kid crying out in sheer self-concern. I am digital, I am plastic, but I am not real. Real is noxious, a toxin in the air that chokes out hope and the will to move from my little hidey-hole of digital and virtual reality. Barbie lungs filter out the poison, but the air is so cold....

I must be freezing inside, too.

FWEEE! We should do this every weekend!


Beccy... you left your cd at my house.

And your pants.

Oh. My. God.

And I was the only one who saw it. Damn that was sexy.

Happy Birthday, Beccy XD

Ten wishes for Christmas? Does that include my bday, too?

1. Something handmade just for me, that took care and effort (ie a drawing, a craft...)

2. A good old fashioned pen pal

3. Howl's Moving Castle on DVD

4. Tickets to a broadway show

5. A snail mail letter, written by either a stranger or a friend.

6. A leather-bound journal (that pages can be ADDED to. Set number of pages= nuuuuu!)

7. Something symbolic. (For example, last year Aj gave me a charm bracelet, and one of the charms was strawberry, because my last name in french loosely means strawberry. It means a lot to me when people remember little things like that, that I mentioned in passing and they remembered.)

8. An article of clothing someone like me would not normally own

9. Something that would make me out-of-the-ordinary

10. A book

Annnnnndd... I'll put an extra one because my birfday is nearby!

11. Something to inspire me. Dream books, an ornament, music, a picture, or even a simple written reminder of something wonderful...