I realize this was kind of quick. Oh well. (Alice in Wonderland is on) (I thought you'd like to know) Anyways. The story I'm about to show you is not named. I rarely name stories. It may be a bit confusing. I've had my English teacher correct it, but I haven't updated all corrections. It will have run-ons. It will have grammatical errors. If it bothers you, I'm sorry. It bothers me too. If you think of a good name for it email me at; its-all-under-the-table@hotmail.com (also, if you wish, tell me what you think. or just add me for fun, whatever works.) ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ There once lived a girl who was exceedingly proud of the beauty she bestowed. She had not always been that way though. Growing up as a child she had wealth beyond belief and all the nicest and most luxurious things in life. However, her parents were absent more often than not. She knew only her nanny. The nanny treasured the girl and taught her to be proud. She was often teased in school, she would come home day after day crying. The nanny would always tell her the school children were jealous of the girl's infinite beauty. Soon she grew confidence, but it soon turned into conceit. When someone didn't do as she pleased, she immediately accused them of jealousy and dismissed the problem at hand, never resolving anything. The nanny eventually saw the behavior and tried to correct it. The effort was in vain though. The child dismissed the beloved nanny. The nanny heartbroken, gave the child a few words of wisdom, "Do no let these conceited ways get the best of you, or someday you will see the lasting effects." The child thought nothing of it and went about her self centered ways. She filled her room with luxurious mirrors. Her most prized possession, apart form her beauty, was her vanity which she often sat at watching herself brush her hair. She counted every stroke. She was often thought of as ruthless, rude, and unkind. Although teased as a child she learned nothing from the experience. She teased her school mates often about their ugly appearances. She had no friends, although she was far from lonely. Her greatest friend was her own reflection, for it would never leave. One day she looked into her mirror, and her reflection was gone. She commenced to panic, but soon quieted her worried mind. She patiently waited for it's return. Knowing it could not be gone forever. A week or so after the event she awoke and went to her vanity, there her reflection was peering out at her, "Miss me?" it asked. She was taken back, she struggled for words wondering if she had lost her sanity. The reflection reiterated the question, this time the girl spoke up, "Well, yes. I did miss you. I'm certain you missed me as well?" The reflection laughed, 'Why would I miss such a revolting creature as yourself?" "I am beautiful!" yelled the girl. "Poor poor child,"said the reflection sadly, "you are the ugly duckling dear, it's quite sad," The girl turned her nose up, "How do you say such things? You are after all my own reflection, you are me." "Tisk Tisk child, oh how naive you are. I am what you want to see not what you are. I am the beautiful swan you wish you were," the girl began to sob. She climbed into her bed only to look up at her mirror covered headboard. There lie her reflection staring back at her. It smiled and began to mock her, "Oh how beautiful I am, it's okay to be jealous. Perhaps someday you will be as pretty as me,"the reflection giggled cruelly and carried on. The girl hid under her lavish blankets, she put a heavy silk pillow over head, trying as hard as she could to block out the voice. She eventually fell into sleep, dream she did not. When she awoke she recalled the horrendous nightmare. She shook it form her mind. The girl rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and headed for her full length mirror. There it was, in all it's glory. her reflection. Yet, it stood still, and moved exactly as she did. She moved closer when she was within inches of it it shrieked. She screamed in terror. The reflection only laughed, 'Oh ugly girl, you frighten too easily." "I am not ugly!" she screamed. They began to argue back and forth. Once again the reflection outsmarted her contradicting every work that spilled from her mouth. The girl quickly gave up and left the mirror. Everywhere she went there was always a mirror or window in which stood her reflection mocking her at every chance. Day in and day out she dealt with the agonizing voice. One afternoon she became so fed up she ran for the kitchen. The obscure reflection in the toaster stared at her, "What are you doing?" it asked. "Oh you'll see soon enough,"she smiled. She ran back to the room, a meat tenderizer in hand. She looked at the reflection in one of her mirrors, "I've had enough of you!" she began smashing the mirror, she went about smashing mirrors throughout her room. Despite the sound of breaking glass the reflections laugh over shadowed it all. She stopped and looked at it. "You can't destroy all the mirrors in the world, you foolish girl," the reflection went about laughing. The girl took up her smashing in anger. Suddenly a shard of glass flew back at her and pierced her skin. "Ouch!' they yelled in unison. She looked up quickly. The girl smiled as an idea quickly took place within her mind. She ran for the kitchen again. Out she pulled a lengthy knife, the reflection stared up out of it, "Up to something, I see." it said menacingly. She ran to the full length mirror and stared at the reflection. She sliced her shoulder. The reflection yelled for her to stop. She began slicing various parts of skin. Each time the reflection yelped, "Do you surrender?"asked she. "Never!" responded the reflection, "I'll be with you till the end, you wretched little cur," the reflection flashed a satisfied smile, thinking it had won the battle as usual. Infuriated and irate, the girl had had enough. Tortured by her own mind she grabbed the knife, "Till the end? Then let this be the end!" She stabbed herself in the stomach. She dropped to her knees along with the reflection. She pulled the knife out and thrust it in again. This time dropping to the floor completely. The reflection spoke on e last time, "Do no let these conceited ways get the best of you, or someday you will see the lasting effects." The girl cried out in terror, she pulled the knife out once more but died before the blade once again pierced her flesh. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The end. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ If it seemed gruesome, I'm sorry. I'm a murder/tragedy writer. I guess this is more of a suicide. Oh well. I generally write murder.

My wrists smell like nag champa. The thoughts swarming my mind consist of three things; whats wrong with me? is -insert name- okay? whats it like to take acid? The last one seems random, but I've thought about that a lot lately. I lied yesterday when I said I came home and painted. I tried out some new paints, but grew bored and uninspired. I ended up throwing my paint brushes in the sink, having a break down, and going to sleep. I was really inspired by the sub too. =\ I just don;t know anymore.. Did I ever know? Are you going to answer my questions? (I'm waiting) asshole. bleh. I failed my bio test today. I didn't study for it, we had time to study in class, but I decided to sleep. We had a test in english as well, but I rock at english and couldn't fail that class if I tried. I'm not bragging either, I'm perfectly serious. My sister sucks at english and history, and rocks at maths and science. I rock at english and history, and suck at maths and science. I haven't talked to her in a good while. I've been meaning to call her. The thought of talking to her for a really long time (we always have great discussions) is really repulsing. Which is fucked up, I love my sister.. I also need to call my friend Emma, even though she blew me off, like always. But that was like around Christmas. Again, the thought of talking to her for a really long time is repulsing. I don't want to talk to anyone, I just want to hide away. I think I might take a risk and post a short story later. Please. Do not steal my story. Every story I write is like a child to me. No kidnapping, please. Quote of the Day: ~“Nonviolence is a weapon of the strong”~ --Mahatma Gandhi Seriously kids, violence isn't cool. You're name isn't Tyler Durden, we should treat everyone with respect. I myself am guilty of being non-respectful, but that doesn't mean I don't try to be kind. That sounds 'gay' but I don't care. We are so fucked up, if I could just reach out to one person and make them want to be a peaceful individual I'd feel I had made a difference in this cold world.

I had an amazing substitute teacher in art today. He's been subbing for the past few days, but I was bashful as hell to talk to him. So Mar did, and then we started this discussion about how the art world is such a mess. Then Mar left the conversation and we started talking about what kind of art he liked doing. I asked him about painting, and then we started talking about artists, and then I ended up showing him my first abstract painting. He liked it. Then he gave me a bunch of tips, which were amazing. He really inspired me. I came home and painted. [I should be telling this to someone, I was excited to, but I think I fucked that up.] I feel really guilty, I kind of, not really, sort of, blew someone off. Now they're away, and have been for the past two hours. Fuck. I haven't slept well for the past 3 nights, maybe four..I don't know. Time is an illusion, unless you ask Aristotle. Smoke on that shit. I hate this. When I'm down or whatever I'm really sarcastic and joke-like. Which is not me at all. Does anyone actually keep up with my depressing journal? If so, why? There's a user on here who has been posting a novel, chapter by chapter. That's how Dickson did it. At first, at least. Did you know that? Anyways, I emailed him and told him what I thought, he emailed me back today. I told him I was a writer too, he said I should put some of my work on sm. I might. I don't know. I'm fucking tired. 9 more minutes, and then I give up, and I'll just have to leave Mr. Away a message. Man, I feel like shit. I don't know, I had pretty good day I guess. I think I have serious paranoia problems. lol. That's not funny. I guess. I don't know. Do I know anything? -well yeah. -lots of things. -example? -a shit load of useless knowledge -that explains nothing. -fuck off. Ah, I just love my mind. Gah. I don't know what to do anymore. Quote of the Day: ~"Don't join the book burners. Don't think you're going to conceal faults by concealing evidence that they ever existed. Don't be afraid to go in your library and read every book... "~ --Dwight D. Eisenhower

When ever something bad happens, or I'm let down by something or someone. I tell myself everything happens for a reason, and try to shrug it off. [I'm starting to think this isn't true.] I miss journaling on here, but I never seem to know how to explain myself. I just draw a blank. Things have been really up and down lately. Someday I'll sit down to write on here and be able to explain everything. If you haven't heard iron & wine, go listen, now. Seriously, I just bought The Shepherd's Dog. It's incredible. I'm in deep love with Boy With a Coin. http://youtube.com/watch?v=TLNyVLbqdEg [I didn't think there'd be a video, I was wrong. What a nice surprise.] Quote of the Day: ~"“If you're losing your soul and you know it, then you've still got a soul left to lose”~ -Charles Bukowski PS I have a lot of things to be reading. I just got The Old Man and the Sea by Hemingway and To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee from the library. I've read to kill a mockingbird before, if you haven't I highly recommend it. I also bought two books at this rummage sale sort thing at my mom's work. I bought Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain and Picture Perfect by Fern Michaels. Picture perfect is a murder/mystery novel I'm excited to read. Then I have The Talisman by Stephen King on it's way. The librarian ordered it for me. I'm almost done with the old man and the sea, but I've been reading very leisurely. It's not really like me. I guess it's nice though. [sorry for the long PS]

"anyoneeeee. im bored! someone respond???" Hello, sunshine. How are you?

So, I still don't know what the fuck my problem is, or why i feel so goddamn, down all the fucking time. To make life even better! My inside/outside cat has to be kept outside. My inside cat, that I've had for ever and ever is sick. She's been sick for the past week. My birthday is in three fucking days, and I'm wondering who all will remember. I just told my ceiling to fuck off, and that I hate it. (directed at 'god') I told it something like, 'if you do fucking exist, then strike me down, ole mighty one, fuck the lord, see? I'm taking your name in vain, smite me, I fucking challenge you, smite me!' and more ranting..at my ceiling. While also pacing like the crazy bastard I just so happen to be. So now, I'm sitting here, ranting to an online journal. Hey, all you strangers, why are you reading this? So great, it's just a cat right? right.. fuck this. My mom told me earlier and after about ten 'I don't want to talk about this.' 's she let it go. I'm listening to Vivaldi. Play me something nice Fabio! Concerto in D minor, RV394 - 3 Yippee yay. I've been practicing my smile for my birthday, and my excited face. Which is harder than what you'd think. Okay, enough of this. I hope you all had a dandy time reading it. Quote of the Day: ~"Anger makes dull men witty, but it keeps them poor."~ -Queen Elizabeth I

I don't know anymore. I just don't know. I give out advice to all these people. In fact, a girl I met via here asked me for advice today. On two separate things, and I gave her advice. She said it was good advice, and that I always give good advice. That I help her out. Which is great, I'm not bitching about that. I'm stoked I help her out. It's just, why can't I take my own damn advice? Why am I so indecisive when it comes to my problems. If you were to right now, add me on msn, and ask me for advice on whatever problem you had, I could almost, if not immediately give you advice. But when it comes to my problems, I can't make up my damn mind on anything. Of course not, that would make life easy. I can't explain what type of mood I'm in. Because I can't explain anything. ever. I am screwing everything up right now. I can't get one thing right. I can't even paint. I was sketching a tree, that I planned to paint. I didn't have that great of a day, so I was going to paint. So I sketch up this tree, it looks fucking awful. I love drawing trees, it's great fun, I draw them up in class a lot lately. But the one time I need to draw a tree, of course not. Life just gave me the finger. Yesterday I painted this killer painting, I was in love with it. So I lay it on my drawing board to dry, 20 minutes later I go to lift it up, it tears completely in half. Are the painting gods pissed at me? I just bought a bunch of new paints too. I was so excited to use them. Now I just feel it was a waste of money. This not even what I'm mad about. I can't even write in a damn journal anymore. I'm so very sick of myself. I'm sitting here listening to Vivaldi, performed by Fabio Biondi. Trying to calm down, trying to relax, sketching a tree. The only think I end up getting was failure. I wish Hank Chinaski were still alive. He could write up some more poems, and publish them, and I could read them. I finished his book. In case your wondering, Hank Chinaski is Bukowski's autobiographical character. He is called that by various people in some of the poems I've read. I'm getting off subject as usual. What was my subject? Oh yes, I'm pissed off, and I can't portray why. Oh fuck, none of you care. Why are you still reading? Stop Reading This It's Nonsense. Work? I didn't think it would. Hello. How are you today? Terrible, I'm sorry to hear that. Would you like a stick of gum? No? Too many calories, or what? Oh, watching you're figure, I see. Well, summer is coming up soon. We wouldn't want to have any chub for bathing suit season, now would we? You porky bastard. This is entertainment.. I wish I had more Bukowski to read. His poems are so very honest and blunt. They don't feel like some fairy tale world, where a princess is rescued, and they live happily ever after. His sad poems aren't written in metaphors and smilies, they are written exactly how one would talk about something sad. He makes you feel like he is sitting in front of you, having a casual conversation. In one poem, he even talks about if this poem will be published, and if you are reading it. How he may be dead and gone. How he is talking to you, and how he is alive for that moment. I fiercely love that poem. Surprisingly, I am not so angry anymore. Vivaldi is still pumping through my speakers. In case you were wondering. I downloaded some Jefferson Airplane today, I still haven't gotten around to listening to it. Right now, I'm just eating up my Vivaldi. If I were to throw a party and be able to invite anyone I could this is who I'd invite; Bukowski, Hemingway (Bukowski wrote a poem about the hatred of Hemingway, its about a girl who hates him, I love it), Vivaldi, Carl Czerny, Prokofiev, (we would be having a concert, I'm guessing) River Phoenix, Gandhi, and John Lennon. Okay, this became my 'people who are deceased party' Who would you invite if you had one? Okay, I'm done. I hope you enjoyed all that. Quote of the Day: ~“If you're losing your soul and you know it, then you've still got a soul left to lose”~ ---Charles Bukowski

I finally got the book I've been waiting to arrive. It's not the book I wanted, but it's a book of poems by Bukowski, I can't complain. The book is: The People Look Like Flowers at Last; new poems. Today people kept asking what it was about, I'd say a lot of things. It was a book of poems. Then they'd read the title and assume it was some girlie book. If they knew the poem that title was derived from, they might not think so. Let me show you a few lines. [a girl had just told him to love her, and left. the streets are flooded with people singing about love] but after she leaves I feel odd I lock the door go to the desk and take the pistol from the drawer. it has it's own sense of love. LOVE!LOVE!LOVE! the crowd sings in the streets. I fire through the window glass cutting my face and arms. I get a 12-year-old boy an old man with a beard and a lovely young girl something like a lilac [theres more, that will do for now] Later he kills the girl that told him to love her, and the frog she brings home. Real girlie. haha. I borrowed a book from a friend, it was okay. I finished it in a day. I haven't given it back, it took her a week to finish it, I don't want to come off as a jackass. I'm letting her borrow Alice in Wonderland & Through the Looking Glass. I'm a bit scared she'll make a massacre out of simple meanings, she's one of those people who will read something on the internet and automatically start believing it instead of forming her own opinions. At the same time, she claims she's 100% originality... oh yeah. People call her a hippie, but fuck, she brings it on herself. She buys shirts that say 'hippie' and such on them. She says it bothers her that they call her that, but I know it's for attention. I really dislike her sometimes, but she's okay. This is Ali by the way. So, today was one of those days when I just kind of float through, pretending like none of this is happening. That's what I've come to love about routine, it becomes second nature, so there is no need to think. You just do it. I wish I could tell you all that I feel so much better now. That I had some sort of epiphany and feel like my old self again, but I can't. Because I don't, and there's no use in lying to a bunch of strangers. I was trying to read some more a little while ago. I think with poetry you have to be in the mood to read it. Earlier Bukowski's harsh words and mean undertones sounded like butterflies and rainbows to me. I think I'll read before I go to sleep. That seems to put me in a relaxing mood. A friend read this journal yesterday, she told me she was always there for me to vent to. Even if it be via email. She said she knew exactly how I felt, and that she could tell I was an intelligent person. She has no idea how much that meant to me. That's all for now. Quote of the Day: ~"Don't try"~ -written on Bukowski's tombstone.

I had a lot of thoughts running through my mind when I clicked on 'add entry.' Now I really don't know where to start or how to even say what I was thinking. Which is kind of how it always is. A friend tried to get me to open up to him, to tell him my problems and all that bothers me. I just told him a little. About as much as I put in this journal. It was an awkward stop-stalling conversation, I didn't know how to say how I felt. I didn't know where to stop, or end, or pause, I didn't know anything. I ended up just feeling worse. Last night I tried telling someone something, well, I was seeking advice more than anything. They didn't understand at all. I gave up. It was funny though because they didn't say 'please tell me, I'm worried about you' it was more like 'please tell me, I feel like a bad friend' Because it's always about how you feel, right? When I sit here and listen to all your damn problems, give you as much advice as I can, knowing you will throw it all to the wind. I don't do it because it makes me feel like a 'good friend' I do it because I want people to feel better, I want others to be happy. Is it so hard to return that favor? Just once? This has nothing to do with what I meant to write in here.. My mother asked me again today if I need to be put on anti-depressants. She said it in a jokingly manner, but that's just how she deals with uncomfortable things. I know she's just trying to help, but it just makes me feel worse. She tries to comfort me, but I just want left alone. I think people are sometimes too focused on finding the 'one.' That person that will supposedly make them complete, instead they forget about life. They ignore all the beauty around them, and when they don't find that 'one' as quickly as they hoped to, they become depressed and upset. If people would stop being so obsessed with finding a whole other person to complete them, and just complete themselves life would be a lot happier. The 'one' shouldn't complete you, they should compliment you. I guess I don't really make sense anymore. Finding the 'one' has nothing to do with how I feel now, it's just a random thought that was lingering in my mind and happened to pour itself out of my fingers, onto these sorry keys. Sorry readers. Have I always been this down? Was I just able to ignore more easily before? What's wrong with me? I keep telling myself this is just some teenage angst and will be gone by tomorrow. And every morning I wake up feeling no better than the night before. This is useless. Quote of the Day: ~"Do something every day that you don't want to do; this is the golden rule for acquiring the habit of doing your duty without pain."~ --Mark Twain

Please humanity, stop giving me signs to give up on you, and instead give me something to believe in. To see something someone said, and think to myself 'wow, they have __.' [insert, wit, intellect, compassion, etc] Instead I am littered by statements that have little substance. People trying to be witty, trying to cut others down, while simultaneously making fools of themselves. [yes, something sparked this thought] Example. [these are comments from a cover of modest mouse that I really enjoy] *Person 1* (1 week ago) Show Hide bukowski clearly said "dont try" Why would you instult him like that!??!? *person 2* (1 week ago) Show Hide Try putting your l's in the right place sometime. It's fun. For real. Person 1 was rude in the first place, but person 2 made a fool of himself by telling him to use l's correctly, when Person 1 had actually messed up the t... I'm sorry for such a weak example, but I'm not going to type out conversations I've had with people lately. Not only would that take too long, but they wouldn't be the original context, thus ridding itself of the moment. I gave up on even speaking today. I'm not an extremely talkative person anyways, but today I just cut it out altogether. I kept getting the 'what's wrong?'s and the 'your awfully quiet's. These statements were coming from the people that usually pour shit out of their mouths instead of actual words. I counted how many times Ali complained to me, and also how many times she initiated conversation with a complaint. Total complaints: 38 Initiations: 9 I have 4 classes with her not counting lunch. I think those numbers speak for themselves. There are so many people like that. It's not even the complaining, it's the way they complain. It's not like they are seeking advice, or merely venting. They are whining. Especially with Ali, I mean, she has a pretty great life. Her mom is a bitch, but apart from that she is spoiled rotten by her 'daddy'[yes, she seriously still calls her father daddy...is that weird to anyone else?] Today she was complaining that she didn't get an A on a paper because she forgot her name. [it was an essay we had to do in world history] I was angry with my grade as well, but I didn't sit there and bitch about it. Forgetting her name was her own fault, that's the first thing your suppose to do, we've been told that since 1st grade. For my paper I got marked down 7 for bad handwriting. Which put me one point away from an A. It's not that I care about making straight A's because I don't. It's that I put a lot of thought into that paper, and I really honestly tried. Which I rarely do in most classes. I told mrs. p I needed to type it, that I'd write out my rough draft and then type it so she would know I didn't c/p. She refused, I told her she wouldn't be able to read it, I knew she wouldn't. She told me to write neater. So I wrote as neat as possible. It's my fault my sister got my mom's handwriting and I got my father's? sorry. At first I figured that was just her main criticism, which was fine as long as I fucked something else up. So I asked, 'is this all that was wrong, was anything irrelevant?' she said something like, 'no, it was all relevant, I just couldn't read it.' It was only out of 75 so getting marked down 7 points dropped me a bit. I guess I was mostly angry because I got dropped a whole letter grade for bad penmanship, it's not like I can just change my writing, if I could I would. [I apologize for the venting] So I'm sitting there with a lower grade then what I deserve because my handwriting is shit, and Ali is complaining she didn't get her precious A because she forgot her name. It was her own fault. Get over it. Maybe I just let people get to me, I don't know. It just seems like the more I try to ignore people complaining the more they do it. Someone actually complained for me today. yeah.. It was in world history, they looked at my paper, and starting voicing how unjust it was. They hadn't read the paper, they just looked at what she wrote. Because I don't speak or bitch constantly like you do, does not under any circumstance mean you need to do it for me. [you: not the reader | you: the moron in my w/h class] I hope this all lightens up soon. [I apologize for all my pessimistic entries lately. Then again, I'm sure there is someone out there who is just giddy reading this, because this a sort of drama, a personal drama so to say, and people seem to love that.] Quote of the Day: ~"The fear of death is the most unjustified of all fears, for there's no risk of accident for someone who's dead."~ --Albert Einstein