WIN.

Sometimes I hate my body.
Sometimes I hate my body more than I ever thought possible.
I am told that all girls go through a phase of hating their bodies; that they feel too tall, too short, too fat, too busty, too small-chested. Society tells me that all women compare themselves, causing a hatred.
My hate is not like this.
I hate my body because my body hates me.
It's mutual.
It's not consensual.
My body hates itself and therefore attacks itself.
It attacks my fingers, my arms, my feet, my knees, hips, shoulders, jaw, kidneys, eyes.
It hates itself. So tries to destroy itself.
Sometimes I'm okay and sometimes I let it get to me.
It infects me, like it infects my body.
But I fight against it.
Sometimes I win and sometimes I lose. But I try.

MIA

I haven't been on here in quite sometime. It's been a busy few weeks with medical issues, school starting up, and Rush week. This is sort of my release from the confines of school assignments and the stress and struggles of life. I never claimed to be a good writer, nor are many of my stories finished, proofread, or long. I just write what is in my mind. Sometimes I just have to get it out. And so they end up here. Or sometimes they do. I sometimes forget to post them.
Regardless, I promise to start writing and posting again. Because I love it.
As my literary hero, Ray Bradbury, says, "Love is easy, and I love writing."

Cinder-Block

                We sat upon that cinder-block wall. It wasn’t romantic, but for us it was. It was a five-star restaurant complete with waning, flickering candles and far too many forks to handle. I can give him that much, at least. He tried to be romantic just by being there with me, holding my hand as I rested my head perfectly in the crook of his neck. His neck was as warm as a midnight blaze and smelled as fresh as the first afternoon rainstorm of summer. The cinder-block wall, in all its roughness and course surface imperfections, was my utopia. It was an escape from reality, from work, school, parents, but as much as I glorified that wall, I know it was the boy who was my true refuge. I allowed myself to fall too comfortable into that boy’s grasp that I scared myself. I scared myself so much that I foolishly forced myself to believe that it was the magic of that broken-down wall that was my refuge. It was safer that way, and even now? Much safer. During those blind months, that wall was my sole reason for living.

                “Angel?”

                His blazing, blue eyes reflected my soul. Gazing into those eyes, I couldn’t even be mad that Colin abruptly spoke, causing me to vacate that perfect crook  in his neck. “Yes, baby?” I asked, knowing full well what he wanted.

                “Well, love. You know how much you mean to me. I love you more than you can imagine. It isn’t hard to imagine, really. I mean, you’re beautiful. You’re perfect. You are the smartest girl I have ever met and sweeter than I even thought possible. You really are, you know, Laine. I don’t know if you realize that……”

                “Well, um, thanks, Colin,” I managed to sputter.

                “You know I wouldn’t hurt you…….”

                I’m pretty sure my shocked expression said it all. What? Hurt me? Why would he mention hurting me? This isn’t good. This is bad. This is very bad, horrid even. This is horrid. As I searched for more synonyms, he continued on. Damn.

                “…. For the best. I am not who you think I am. I know everyone says that. Kinda like the it’s not you, it’s me. But no, not the “I’m not who you think I am” in a book or movie or serial killer kind of way, just in an “I’m not nice” sort of way. You know I’m not good with words, Elaine……” he trailed off.

                Bullshit. Bullshit he’s not good with words. Mister Creative-Writer over there. Mister Five-Thousand-Words-A-Day, published poet, Master Debater, perfect punchline. Colin was good with words. Colin was the best with words. Well, maybe not the best. He was no Byron or Silverstein, but he was certainly an Auden. Colin was amazing, if you were into that kind of stuff. The only time I ever saw a flicker of hesitance within him was when he couldn’t hide behind his pen or a joke. The truth was a new and foreign concept to Colin and one which he never sought to learn the language of.

                “Whatever.”I planted my hands on the unforgiving surface of the wall and hopped down. My palms instantly stung as the course cement tugged at my skin. I acted as if nothing could stop me as I sucked up the pain, aware that this would remind me of this night for at least a week during the healing process. Damn.

                “I honestly love you,” called Colin, as if this proclamation made my position any easier. I didn’t look back least I turn into a pillar of salt. Although I’m sure a pile of salt wouldn’t be capable of feeling the crippling sensation that gripped my soul. Perhaps I should have looked back….or at least listened to his pathetic reasoning for breaking up with me.  Oh well, I chose my path and now I must stick with it. Damn.

Five.

I asked my friends to give me five random items for me to form a short story around and I started as soon as my first friend responded.
He gave me:

• The Sphinx
• Alarm clocks
• C-17
• Cardigans
• Rays Player

Okayyyyyyyyyyy (Later he told me that they were things he had "lying around his room")
Surprisingly, I started rambling on and didn't stop for a good 30 minutes. It's not the best storyline, definitely not developed yet, and I haven't proofread. My tense even changes multiple times, I'm pretty sure....... But it was fun. And I was told to post it now, so for once I'm following directions. I might elaborate and try to finish it, though, since for once in my life I haven't become bored with it and abandoned the would-be story after a paragraph or two.

We made it. We were finally going home. Well, not quite home in the typical sense. We were on our way back to the FOB but it was home to us. Back to the rest of our unit, and back to internet access and phone access. I can’t lie; I was probably more excited about waiting in a two-hour line for a fifteen-minute call than I was for getting my license on my sixteenth birthday. And trust me that was a day I had been counting down to since I got my first Twin Mill hot wheels car. Needless to say, I was a little bit more than psyched. I bet my facial expression was what really gave it away, though. Even my helmet and sunglasses couldn’t hide how I was beaming. Looking around at the rows of smiling faces in that C-17, I could tell that at least a third of the soldiers were looking forward to the same thing that I was.

We were such a rag-tag group. It was pretty perfect, too. As much as we all hated to admit it, we all fit into one stereotype or another. Or we just got mocked so much for it that we latched onto it began to fulfill the typecasting. Not a one of us could remember anymore, but then again none of us were all too good at distinguishing events anymore. That whole deployment was basically a blur, punctuated with good stories. At least, we thought our stories were completely hilarious. I snorted to myself. Why even try to deny it? We were hilarious.

To my left, Smith was telling a dirty joke to anyone who would listen while, on my right, Finnegan was rambling on and on about how he suspected that his girlfriend was screwing some Rays player. I confess that I was only half-listening. As bad as I felt about not being there for him, I couldn’t let him bring me down off of this high. We were getting was getting close, I just knew it. In a few seconds we would be landing, but as I realized this, something dreaded happened. I knew it was too good to last. It was too easy, we were too close, we were too detached from the war for a moment, I could hear it.  Rockets streaming, screaming through the air. The high-pitched screeching was too much to bear.

______________________________________________________________________________

I slip my arm out from under my pillow and turn my annoying alarm clock off. It was all too real, the dream, but I was used to this kind of thing. Sighing, I will myself to move from the comfortable confines of my bed. Light streaming through the slanted blinds on my window, pigeons cooing on the fire escape, a slight chill in the air. Looking at the clock one more time in case it magically moved back about ten minutes, I hastily run a comb through my bed-head and tug the first cardigan I could find in my clean laundry hamper over my head.

“Hello, Monday.”

Just another day at the office. I still wasn’t used to my civilian job. I don’t think I ever will be fully. It isn’t like people say; it isn’t a release to be at the coveted 9 to 5 job. It wasn’t nice to “not be in danger” as I’m constantly told. I could die being hit by a bus, or tripping over my own two feet and landing on my head in precisely the right position. It wasn’t even the luxury of being able to choose my own clothing. It just…. Wasn’t me. I never was one to sit still for long, be confined by a desk, by a clock. Working odd hours, night-duty, being there when called no matter what I was doing worked for me. Neither brainwashing nor training did that for me as some of my buddies hated it more than I could tell you, but for some reason it was just how I was programmed to function. The danger didn’t really bother me either. Even when I was at a combat outpost I wasn’t too worried. I had to trust in my training, I mean, there wasn’t anything I could really do if the shit hit the fan but trust in my training, my commanders, and my buddies. Somehow we would get through it and worrying wouldn’t make the situation any better.  And as far as the clothing went? My morning ritual used to be five times as short not worrying about what I was supposed to wear, what would look good, what was “in.” I wore what everyone else did, give or take a few details and on a normal day I didn’t even have to think about what to grab. Muscle memory got me dressed and those damn boots might as well have been attached to my feet at all times. But even lacing them became second nature, although I suppose that makes sense.

I had always wanted to travel. See the Eiffel Tower in Paris, The Coliseum, the Sphinx, the Great Wall. As a kid I used to marvel at my Dad’s National Geographic magazines, I’d stay up late with a flashlight under my covers reading all of the articles when I was supposed to be sleeping. I was a weird kid, but I knew what I wanted. I wanted to be a part of something, reading about these snapshots of history. Every picture told a story of the people who once stood there and the events that surrounded them. It was something bigger. Small pieces adding to the whole, captured on film, printed, sitting in my hands. I wanted to be a part of something. I wanted to changed history so one day some kid could be looking at a photograph, thinking of the people who shaped the image and think of me.

For years I played various scenarios in my head. At one time I was a photo journalist, traveling around the world capturing images on film. It made the most sense to me. I could be the one delivering the images to the kid directly. It made sense. Later on, I just decided that I would become rich and buy a plane. Travel on a whim. Become friends with dignitaries, royalty, millionaires. Or maybe I would sell all my worldly positions and buy a sailboat. Alone, without a care, I could sail my vessel to wherever the wind decided to take me. But as I matured, I realized that all of these scenarios were selfish. Nothing innately good would come out of them. So really, I wasn’t shaping cultures of changing history, I was only living a superficial life that would soon be forgotten after I left the Earth.

That was when I saw an ad in one of Dad’s old magazines. “Join the Army, See the World.” I don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner when I first read this issue how many years ago. Join the army. I would be a part of something timeless, something good, something true and selfless. See the world. I could travel to exotic lands, see the sights, and take in all that the world had to offer. It was perfect. And so the next day I went down to the recruiting office to see what I had to do to join the army.

Pancakes.

I am in love with this idea.... And I think I have a new project for this semester.
http://www.jimspancakes.com

Hehe.

SO CUTE

Nikolai.

I want to visit this in my lifetime.

Paint.

Late night writing and romantic comedies. My life has become melancholy and full of longing, but an artist must suffer for his art. Perhaps the inspiration for my writing may be drawn from my life or inspiration for my life drawn from my writing but either way it is all from me. It is a constant battle; between realistic hopes or fictional fantasies. Real life may never live up to the words on the page as my mind has a tendency to wander to childlike innocence. An unrealistic dream of a perfect prince sweeping the princess off of her feet when even she did not recognize the true damsel within. But yet the unknown damsel may find her prince within the charmingly clumsy best friend and thus inspire hope as to a simple and pure romance. As an artist inspires the art, the art inspires the artist. It is a friendship unlike any other, when fiction becomes the truth and a new reality sets in. It is love. Much like the happily ever after on the final page.

Crayons.

I was asked to describe you but I simply couldn’t. It wasn’t that you weren’t memorable enough. No, no. It wasn’t that. You were burned into my mind like an image on film. You were there and there was no escape from that fact, it was just that the words to do so were what escaped me. Being a writer, words were my friends; like crayons to a child, or acrylics to a painter. I knew all of the names, all of the luster, the texture, the color. But none of these colors seemed brilliant enough to do justice. I couldn’t simply paint a blue sky when you were a sunrise. I couldn’t draw a mountain when you were the entire landscape. You are the landscape. You are all around me.

Even now the words escape me.

That doesn’t happen.

I just don’t know.

New.

You've got a brand new soul and a cross of gold <3

Literature.

WIN.

http://www.stumbleupon.com/su/29eE6H/www.desertdomes.com/

I was stumbling fast and already clicked the "stumble" button. I quickly saw the tagline and immediately hit the back button, hoping my first thought was correct. And indeed it was.

The tagline was a BUCKMINSTER FULLER PUN.

I have a weird thing with Buckminster Fuller creating the geodesic dome.

That is all :)

Necessary.

At times I wish I could escape

From myself

From the confinement of my body

From the desires, remembrances, scars within my mind

I want to escape but I want to cower

In the corners

In your arms

It’s pitch black but here I lay

Reaching out for the body that isn’t there

Curling up

Closing eyes

Steady heart

It’s my nightmare, my worst fear, my reality

All alone but my heart calls your perfect name

It’s more a need than a longing

But I don’t want you to hear the desires, remembrances, scars

I don’t want to share

I don’t want to heal

But I want you to know

Be my escape

Swing.

Swing Kids is on TV right now. Between my love of swing/big band/jazz music and my fascination of World War II/World War II culture, this movie is amazing. I haven't been able to find it anywhere so it has been since 10th grade (5 years) since I have seen it and I've only seen it once, but it has made such an impression on me. I guess I shall be staying up a bit longer. :)

Major.

I'm in love with this video.

Yet.

Splinter.

An old 15-minute LIO

Sitting here, I can’t fight back the tears that well up until they spill over and come crashing down as hard as the aching in my chest. A crippling feeling hits the pit of my stomach as goosebumps slowly crawl from my tips to my very core, yet a smile dances upon my lips. As much as the memory of you leaves a bitter taste, I can’t help shyly smiling because you are the best thing that has ever happened to me. The once upon a time of us made me who I am today, even if I can’t quite stand who I’ve become. Now my whole being is crawling with the goosebumps left by the memory. If only those small, temporary bumps were the only scars you left behind. Those marks don’t have to be covered in public; they could be due to a fever or a cold sea breeze. I look out upon the ocean and then down at my dangling legs. As I lay back, I feel the splintered wood cut into my bare, sun-kissed shoulders. This was where we began on a night much like this. The gulf breeze blew my hair across my face but I didn’t stir to fix it. My vision too blurred by the tears made it a pointless gesture. Breathing heavily, my back arched against the hard dock until it slowed to the rhythm of the waves. The solitary sea gull cawing in the distance reminded me of myself. Confused, alone, calling out to no one, too late. Getting intoxicated by the salt air, I try to remember that this is all for the better, I am bigger than this, and I am bigger than the raw sores you left me with. Pushing myself up from the worn planks, my bare feet grip the rough edge, toes flirting with the open air beneath them. I draw a breath. Once more I am drunk with the salty scent. I turn my back to the waves and begin my journey back to the shore, but catch myself being summoned. Without pause I turn around and run. I can feel the cracks in the boards beneath me. Freedom is coming. Freedom from him, from myself, from life itself.  I dive in.