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 |   My first blog about my life, my favorite music, my opinions, my feelings. Whatever. |
This is the first blog I've ever had! You'll have to bear with me because I'm still learning how to do this whole thing. I'll admit that it's bit of a mess right now. I started blogging for "The Soundtrack of Your Life"  and I couldn't just let it end there! I don't think there's any point in keeping a separate blog for all of the blogging groups I want to join. I'm going to keep them all in this one so I can grow into an eclectic pot of confusion.What you'll find here:  My opinions on everything. Blog prompts for various groups. A different song everyday that means something to me. Experiences I've had in lifeWARNING This blog is rated GC and will contain offensive language, stories, and opinions. Please don't read if you're easily offended! My intentions aren't to offend anyone, so trust my warning and turn back now or forever hold your peace!  Things I'll be using this blog for:  "The Soundtrack of Your Life"  "Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise"  "30-Day Blogging Challenge ON HIATUS" I want to hear from you! As I mentioned before, this is my first blog. I'd love to hear from anyone who reads this. Leave a comment, rating, or review. Let me know what you like to read about. Have a suggestion for me to write about? I'd love to hear it. The best thing about a blog is the exchanging of opinions between bloggers and readers. I want to keep us all interested. Plus, it's just nice to get a little love sometimes. Let's get to know each other.   Charlie ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only **   ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only **
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| 30DBC: Write about your job, or your hobby, or another favorite pass-time, BUT make up new words to describe what it is you're doing. Challenge your readers to guess what you're talking about in your comments section./c} 30DBC: Ah, you guys don't wanna hear about my job. It's sooo boring. I just fire up the doohickey and press the thingamabobber until the parabola pops up. I have a set of Snickers bars for any given kumquat and those are due every couple weeks. I try to whiptail the basic pumpernickels first because that sets up the kibbles for the rest of the project. The last few days are a blubber of discombobulated hogwash. I've been trying to squelch the fuddy-duddy stuff first, but I always end up lollygagging the first week and finagling during the second. As you can tell, it's really difficult being a squeegee. This is the last entry for the Muse of Music blog. I'm out of room after this, but it has been a long time coming. I'll think of a name for my new one tonight, hopefully. |
Artist: Brand New Album: The Devil And God Are Raging Inside Me Song: Jesus Christ [Embed For Use By Upgraded+] Lyrics "Has he turned his back on his faith?" The question is a whispered dinner table conversation, a parental meeting with the priest, a worried look on your parents' faces. Your father tries to talk to you as he straightens your tie for Mass. "You know, Charlie, your mother and I are concerned with your lack of interest in church. You don't want to attend anymore?" "You guys don't go," you mention, buttoning the sleeve of your white Oxford collar button-down. They hadn't gone in a long time, except on holidays. "We don't attend Mass regularly, but we do celebrate our faith in other ways." "Can I celebrate mine in a different way?" He sighs stepping back to look at you in your Sunday's best. "Your mother and I attended church our entire lives, even when you kids were young. You're old enough to go by yourselves now." "Grandma and grandpa still go." He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. The conversation is laborious. "Yes, Son, and they'll be here in about five minutes, so why don't you get your shoes on?" Two days later, your parents pick you up from school during the middle of last period. You sit in the center of the back seat. "Where are we going?" Your question is ignored as your father turns the radio on lightly. When the car turns onto the familiar road, you know where you're going before the steeple even comes into view. "What's going on?" you ask, panic creeping into your voice. "Just a meeting, Charlie. Calm down," your father replies, glancing at you in the rearview mirror. "It's Tuesday though." Your mother looks out the passenger window. "Am I in trouble? Ma, am I in trouble?" "Shh, no, just sit back in your seat." The priest's office is somehow more cluttered than you would imagine. Maybe it's a harder job than it looks. He has huge rows of books in the mahogany built-ins. In all your years at the church, you've never seen the inside of his office. There's a degree on the wall behind him, but you can't make out what it says. Do priests get degrees? It's a certificate of priesthood, you decide, bouncing your legs as you wait for him to begin. He stares at you, the sun starting to get low behind him through the windows on either side of the back wall. You shrink into your chair as the stare down continues, feeling as small as you probably look to him. Finally, he clears his throat and begins. "Charles, your parents have brought you here today because they are concerned about you and your future." You wonder where they are now. "Surely you understand that when I hear parents saying that their child has lost their way, it is a loss to the church as a whole. You know we only want the best for you?" You nod. "And when a parents tells me that their child has turned against their religion, it makes me wonder where we could've gone wrong." You freeze, staring at his stern face. "Would you say that is an accurate statement, Charles?" "Would I say what is an accurate statement?" Your voice shakes, betraying you in your time of need. "That you've turned against your faith." "No," you say too quickly. He stands, walking over to his bookshelf and runs his finger along one of the spines. "You know. I had a lot of questions when I was your age. It's okay to have questions." He turns to look at you then, walks over and sits on the edge of his desk in front of you. "What sort of questions do you have, Charles?" Everything you wrote about in your journal, all the biting poetry, slips your mind in that moment. "I don't know." He smiles. "It's okay. Just take a deep breath and tell me what your concerns are. This is a safe zone. Nothing leaves this room." You think for a minute, try to come up with something, anything, before conceding. "I don't have any concerns, Father." He exhales deeply, stands up and walks back around the other side of the desk, taking his seat once again. "Tell me, Charles, when was your last Reconciliation?" You shrug in response. "You don't know when your last Confession was?" "I don't know, Father. It was a while ago." "Estimate?" You try to imagine the last time. It seems like a distant memory. "Maybe last year?" He leans forward, clasps his hands together and shakes his head in disapproval. "Do you believe, Charles, that you have any mortal sins to absolve yourself of?" The last few months pass through your mind like a projection screen just beyond your stony eyes. You nod. "Yes." He nods knowingly. "Well then, we'll start there." He stands and heads toward the door, turning back to say, "Everything is going to be okay. You know we only want the best for you, right?" You rise slowly. "Yes, Father." ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Jesus Christ I’m not scared to die But I’m a little bit scared of what comes after Do I get the gold chariot Or do I float through the ceiling Or do I divide and pull apart 'Cause my bright is too slight to hold back all my dark |
| 30DBC Take 1: "I wonder where I could get a white drowf?" Take 2: What do I do when the proomtz are florked? WTMR Prompt 1: How do you find motivation on difficult days? WTMR Prompt 5: List your favourite words/phrases that you find yourself often saying or using in your writing. WTMR Prompt 6: Have you ever been told you "think too much" or are "too much of a perfectionist?" 30DBC Take 1: Where could you get a white drowf? White Drowf sounds like something I've snorted at some point, especially when you ask where you can find it. I've got a guy, but it's gonna cost you an arm and a leg.  Just go to this address and wait in the back alley for several hours while he does whatever it is dealers do when they aren't on time. I swear, there's no one busier than a dealer. They're always showing up at half past late as fuck saying, "Aw, shit man, you been waiting long? I got hung up." There must be a lot of wires in their homes that they're getting tangled up in as they're trying to leave the house. When they get outside, the branches of the trees reach out like arms and twist around their ankles. The telephone lines get caught around the wheels of their cars. Poor guys. It's really not fair.Take 2: What do I do when a prompt's fucked? Well, is the above not evidence of my self-management skillz? Really, if I don't get a prompt or don't like it, I usually just don't write for it. I send out a couple prompts a week for BCOF and it's not easy to always hit a homerun with them. There are always going to be people who hate talking about whatever while others are like, "Hellz yeah, I've been waiting for you to ask!" When they're just completely confusing or have a little typo, I just kind of run with it because it's funnier that way. You've gotta roll with the punches, life's too short! WTMR Prompt 1: Most days are difficult motivation days for me. I find myself taking a long time to do simple tasks and not working on what I should really be doing. Like, right now for example, I have two papers to write, one computer project, one quiz, and two discussion boards to post on. Am I doing them? No, I'm writing a blog entry.  But, once I get this done, I'll basically just force myself to do what I'm supposed to be doing. I definitely work off a reward/guilt system. Like, if I've wasted a lot of time, I'll guilt trip myself into doing my actual work. If I've not goofed off much, I'll just promise myself something awesome for completing my tasks.Like, let's see... If I can finish everything except my two papers today, I'll probably have a friend over tonight and drink a little bit, maybe watch a movie or something. I find drinking and watching movies to be super relaxing. That's like, my ultimate chill zone where I don't have to worry about all the other shit I need to do. I think people should watch more movies... and drink more... I don't know, don't ask me. WTMR Prompt 5: There are definitely words that show up a lot in my poetry. Words like toxic/poison, shadows, whispers/whispered/whispering. I try to stay away from them because I feel like they come up a lot. Other than that though, I don't really have any words or phrases that I write over and over. I guess I just write a lot of poetry that has to do with subjects that could use those words. In real life though, I totally use the same words over and over. I use 'like', 'dude', 'super' (instead of very), 'chill', 'legit' ... basically just annoying words that have crept into my vocabulary over the years and won't go away now. I remember I started using the words 'bro' and 'legit' as a joke. My friends and I would say them in a joking way and then they stuck. You have to be careful about stuff like that because pretty soon, you're saying shit like, "Yeah, brah, hella legit" and you don't even realize it. WTMR Prompt 6: Have you ever been told you "think too much" or are "too much of a perfectionist?" I get told both of these things all the time. I literally can't sleep at night because I can't shut my mind off. I took an assessment for my College Studies course and it said that I'm too much of a perfectionist and should be more accepting of when something is 'good enough'. I feel like I'm a slacker in some areas and a perfectionist in others. There are some things, like work, where I'm like, "Yup, that's close enough. Done!" And then there's school, where I'll retake a test I got a 93 on just so I can try to get a 100. Yes, I've done that multiple times. The way I see it though, is that every point is going to help as the semester goes on. At the end, I don't want to be like, "Shit, I have to get an A on this final or I'll end up with a C or D. I think it's okay to be a perfectionist sometimes. In my opinion, it's also okay to think a lot. It seems like thinking comes into play a lot with smart people. I'm not trying to say that I'm smart. It just seems like with people I know, the smarter they are, the more they think. It makes sense. I mean, stupid people aren't going to sit there thinking all the time. Their mind works in a different way where they don't even have to actively stop thinking; they never started to begin with. |
Artist: Oasis Album: Definitely Maybe Song: Live Forever [Embed For Use By Upgraded+] Lyrics The owner is a 40something-year-old from Yemen or Oman or something like that. He keeps telling you how the U.S. needs to 'get over' 9/11 as you experiment with the espresso machine. Andi, the girl who hired you and pronounced her name On-Dee for some reason, had all but glossed completely over the crazy owner during the interview. You told her she looked like Cameron Diaz and she told you to never say that again, so you dropped it, assuming she must get it a lot because she looked exactly like an overworked version of Cameron Diaz. She had offered you a smoke, something you definitely didn't expect to ever happen during an interview, and you took it gratefully. After all, it is rude to make someone light up alone, or does that only apply to drinking? "How old are you anyway?" Andi/OnDee had asked. "Sixteen." She laughed and shook her head. "Right, we sell hookah here, kid. You gotta be at least eighteen." You shrugged. "Then I'm eighteen." It became a regular routine. You'd walk over and open the cafe at six in the morning, for the 'big morning commuter Rush' that never ever came. Instead, you'd spend the morning laying on the couch in the lounge area, reading books and inhaling coffee like it was oxygen. Andi/OnDee would be late by at least an hour and a half, usually strolling in around eight with a shitty look on her Cameron Diaz face. The owner would roll in around noon and demand shot after shot of espresso. Eventually he would come out of the zombie phase and transition into the complaining phase. Some days it was his wife, others it was Americans in general, and on the super special days, it was you specifically. "You know the problem with people your age?" "That we aren't legally allowed to work for you and you could get in trouble?" you would almost always respond. Things quickly evolved from, "Go to this mini mart that'll sell you cigarettes and get me a pack of Newports" to "Hey kid, my wife's driving me crazy. Go find me some Xanax and I'll pay you time and a half for today." It was all under the table anyway. Plus, to be fair, his wife was a complete nutjob. When Heather got hired, it was fairly obvious she wouldn't last. The first day, she asked about W2 forms for taxes and the look on the owner's face was priceless. She was a sweet girl, senior in high school, with a sunny disposition and blonde highlights to match it. She was always talking about how the owner 'forgot' to pay her for a shift or 'misplaced' her check. It was probably her second month there when the owner simply said, "Get rid of her" and you and Andi/OnDee looked at each other. "I don't care how you do it, but make it seem realistic. One of you write her up for something, then a couple days later the other one write her up and put her on final warning. I'll do the last one and get rid of her once and for all." You reminded him that you weren't a manager and he promoted you right away. Not that it mattered. After Heather was gone it would just be you and Andi/OnDee managing each other. Little did he know though that you and Heather had been hanging out outside of work. You were new to the city and she was close to your age. You were hanging out at some diner when she mentioned that she needed to get her last two checks so she could sign a lease on an apartment. Naturally, you committed the ultimate betrayal. "Sorry to be the one to tell you, but dude's about to fire you so he doesn't have to pay you." You didn't expect her to lash out in anger saying that her uncle is a lawyer and she was going to sue him if he didn't pay up. The next day was tense as you waited for her to show up and give him an earful. It happened at around three o'clock. She must've been waiting to make sure he'd be there. You were just about to leave when she threw the door open and stomped right up to him, yelling about tax evasion and her lawyer uncle. The owner jumped up and got in her face, so of course you had to run over and intervene, saying unhelpful things like, "Just give her the money." It ended with him angrily scribbling out a check and throwing it on the ground so she had to pick it up off the floor. She took her apron off and threw it at him as the few customers in the place looked on in amusement. The owner didn't speak until she slammed out the back door and squealed away in her car, then his eyes rested on you. "Did you do what I think you did?" Suddenly the two of you were fighting. A customer walked in and right back out after they saw the scene unfolding inside. "Get out, just get out!" the owner shouted, pushing you toward the door. You grabbed your smokes off the table and said something like, "That's cool, because I quit." To which he replied, of course, "You can't quit because you're fired!" As you started to walk out, he must've realized that this meant he'd have to wake up at five in the morning to come open up shop the next day because he started saying things like, "Oh, you're just gonna walk out now? That's real nice! Jen will be happy to see you go." Jen was the late night worker who you stupidly 'dated' for a little while, just long enough for work to be extremely awkward after things went south. "Yeah, well, fuck you and fuck Jen," you reply on your wait out the door, the true mark of a wordsmith. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Maybe I don't really want to know How your garden grows Cause I just want to fly Lately, did you ever feel the pain In the morning rain As it soaks it to the bone |
Artist: Creedence Clearwater Revival Album: Pendulum Song: Have You Ever Seen The Rain? [Embed For Use By Upgraded+] Lyrics The first notes hit and Kira looks at you. It's only natural to belt out the first lines. Dillon sighs loudly, leaning back in the computer chair. "Are you guys serious? This is a library." You look around. "Dude, there's no one here." "Chill out," Kira agrees, tapping her foot and singing along. She pulls out her pack of cigarettes. "Can I-" "Yes, Charlie, you can bum one," she interrupts. Dillon looks at both of you incredulously. "Guys, seriously, you can't smoke in here. You're gonna get me kicked out of school." You laugh. "Nah, man, they want your tuition way too much to boot you for having a couple friends light up inside." "They might kick us out of your school," Kira says. The community college library has cleared out by 9:30 at night, it's only really popular around finals anyway. There's a library attendant, but she sits at a desk in the front in case someone wants to check out, not in the back corner where a few rows of computers are set up. Every time you come here, it reminds you that you should probably be in school, but you push the thought from your mind as you watch Dillon attempt to finish his paper over your obnoxious singing. There's just no other way to enjoy the song, it's human instinct to sing along. "My dad likes this song," Dillon complains. "That's cool your old man's got a good taste in music," you smile, ashing on the floor and rubbing it into the carpet with your boot. "Charlie, don't do that," he motions to the floor in general disappointment. "Where am I supposed to ash?" "Um, outside, the same place you're supposed to smoke." 'Hideaway' comes on next and is greeted my another heavy sigh. "God, can you guys listen to anything else? Maybe something better?" "Better?" Kira says, utterly offended. "This is Creedence. It doesn't get much better than CCR." You look at her in wonder. She's like no one you've met before, into the same things as you, but less showy about it. You could never tell by looking at her all the things she enjoys. She looks over and your heart jumps into your chest. You look away immediately and glance back to see her smile to herself as your face heats up. "Can we go soon?" you ask again, feeling suddenly antsy. You start bouncing your legs impatiently. Dillon sighs, staring at the cursor blinking on the screen. "You guys should just go without me. I still need to edit this when I finish, and I have a quiz due too." You raise your eyebrows and look at Kira. She jumps up and smiles at you. "Well, hey then, let's get out of here!" You're surprised to see her enthusiasm. You figured she would either wait for Dillon to finish, or just call it a night and not go to the club at all. You've never spent time alone before. Instead, she's up and ready to go as soon as his sentence ends. "You'll take the bus?" you double check and Dillon nods, waving you off with one hand as he continues to type with the other. The two of you rush quickly out into the humid night air and laugh when you've both forgotten where you parked. You finally find her car and jump inside. She turns the key in the ignition and the stereo sings loudly, "Well my father was a gambler down in Georgia. He wound up on the wrong end of a gun. And I was born in the back seat of a Greyhound bus rollin' down highway 41." "Oh my god, CCR!" she screams. You laugh bumming another cigarette from her pack. "Dude, this is the Allman Brothers." You both break up into laughter again and start singing also as she squeals out of the empty library parking lot. You're just mesmerized by her and the music and the possibilities of the night. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Someone told me long ago There's a calm before the storm I know It's been comin' for some time |
Artist: Catfish and the Bottlemen Album: The Balcony Song: Sidewinder [Embed For Use By Upgraded+] Lyrics If I have to spend one more night staring at that flashing green light while you're out doing god knows what, or worse yet, sleeping next to me, I think I'll unravel just enough to horrify you a little bit. If I have to spend one more hour sitting across from an overeducated psycho-analyst in a dim-lit office listening to a calm, unnerving voice tell me that I've isolated myself, not atypical of someone with my condition, I think I'll reach down her throat and rip out her larynx so she can't ever speak another soothing word. Because what kind of life is this anyway? Where every day feels the same. If I have to spend one more minute watching you talk on the phone about shaping me up, bending me to meet your needs, I think I'll find an empty overpass where I can spend the afternoon drinking away your voice. And, I swear to God- If I have to spend one more second watching you put on your judgmental face and complain about all the things that you've done for me versus all the things I've done to you, like a strung out version of Lady Justice, I think I'll find another bed to wreck, a new place to rest my weary head, because I've not gone blonde in a minute and it's time for a comeback. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Give me some madness I can get off on I want to endorse you I want you to exhaust me Give me some mindsets I can rub off on 'Cause when you act placid You know that I can't stand it |
| 30DBC: GAMES - Video Games, Board Games, Parlour Games, What's your pleasure? BLOG CITY: Anais Nin said: “Something is always born of excess: great art was born of great terrors, great loneliness, great inhibitions, instabilities, and it always balances them.” Do you think emotional excess is necessary for creativity and writing? BLOGGING CIRCLE OF FRIENDS: Memories, imagination, old sentiments, and associations are more readily reached through the sense of smell than through any other channel. – Oliver Wendell Holmes Do you agree with this? Do you have a specific memory that is associated with an aroma? 30DBC: Parlour games? Hmm. {e:monocle} I do like video games, but I feel like they're super time-consuming with little reward. If I've got a couple hours to do a hobby, it's not going to be playing a video game because I have nothing to show for the time, it feels wasted. If I spend a couple hours writing or reading a book, I've got the piece I've written or the knowledge I've read. If I play a video game for two hours, uh, I dunno, it just doesn't do it for me. Now, if I have a surplus of time, that's another thing. The more time I have, the less I worry about wasting it doing something pointless, so I'm all for video games in that case. Board games are fun to play when you want to keep your hands busy while with a bunch of people, especially if you all don't know each other well. It's a way to spend time getting to know each other without having the pressure of keeping a steady stream of conversation going. You can play the game for a while, talk about something unrelated, then go back to the game without having any awkward silences. The only time board games aren't fun is when you're playing with someone who's super competitive. There's always ONE person who just loses their shit for some reason. Like, "God dammit, if I land on Boardwalk one more time I'm going to shove these hotels down your throat!" Then everyone else is like, "Okay, Tom, chill out..." I'm just not super competitive in general. When people start getting super competitive over a game, it's my cue to go have a smoke.  BLOG CITY: Necessity is a strong word. I wouldn't say that emotional excess is a necessity for creativity and writing, but it sure can't hurt either. I think being in touch with your emotions makes you more observant, in general, of things around you. If you're compassionate, you notice people and how they might feel in a situation. You can then turn those observations into realistic character attributes and situations for stories and poetry. When thinking of poetry and a lot of writing, there are strong emotions involved (typically). Of course you're always going to have poetry about sterile things like flowers or snow, but a lot of times, those poems actually involve a lot of metaphors for real-life emotional situations, so really, it's hard to escape that aspect of creativity. I'm not super confident with my response on this one. I will say though that the more creative a person is, the more emotionally aware they seem to be, in my experience. BLOGGING CIRCLE OF FRIENDS: I think I've answered something similar to this at one time, and I can't remember what I said then, but I know the first thing that came to mind was vanilla. I love the scent of vanilla. It reminds me of girls I used to know when I was like 13-17 years old. When I smell vanilla, I'm instantly brought back to those memories. I think people attach memories to various things. I don't think we're all the same in that regard. Some people attach memories to sights, sounds, and feelings they had at the time of the memory. I, for one, attach music to memories. I've done it as long as I've been listening to music, which is as long as I can remember. I've spent a lot of time listening to music and analyzing lyrics, so it's easy for me to relate a memory to how I felt when listening to a song around the same time. It probably helps that I always have music on, so it's difficult to even have a memory without some sort of music attached to it. |
Artist: Blind Melon Album: Blind Melon Song: Dear Ol' Dad [Embed For Use By Upgraded+] Lyrics Your shoe squeaks against the shiny linoleum floor. The janitor must have just come through with his mop. The secretary eyes you from the brim of her glasses and pretends to be overly interested in the paper she holds in her hand. The clock above your head ticks loudly in the silence. Your heart thuds in your chest, an anxious song. The office door swings open finally and in walk your parents. The look on your father's face prompts an immediate apology. "You're going to be sorry," is his low, threatening response. The secretary stands up and walks into the principal's office. There is a tense silence between the three of you and you stare straight ahead at the wall, refusing to make eye contact despite their angry stares. "The principal will see you now," she in a cruelly bored voice upon exiting. Your father grabs your arm, pushing you in front of him as though you'd make a clean escape had he not shown you how to stand and walk like a normal person. It's a dominance thing. The principal is waiting with his fingers pointed downward, sprawled across the oak desk. "Please, have a seat," he says, gesturing to the chairs in front of his desk. There are only two, so you sit in the cheap plastic one next to the door. It reminds you of the chairs at the kid's table during holidays. No matter, the exit is much more accessible from here anyway. He sighs loudly, then clears his throat before beginning. "Folks, you've been brought in today because your son seems to be in real trouble. We've seen youth heading in the same direction as Charlie and, after today, we, as a faculty, are concerned. The truancy and occasional schoolyard spat are to be expected of someone your son's age, but, selling prescription medications to other students goes way beyo-" "I wasn't selling anything!" you protest from the back. The principal glares at you. He's always had it out for you. "Young man, I'm trying to speak to your parents here. I'm sure you'll have a chance to talk." Your father turns around, all red in the face. "You do not speak until you are spoken to, do you understand me?" You're not sure if the question is rhetorical or if you're being spoken to for a response, so you just lower your head and bite your tongue. Obedient, obedient, obedient. "Quite frankly, we could have had your son arrested today." Your mother's hand flies to her mouth. "Oh, thank you so much for talking to us first. I promise, we will get this straightened out. We'll make sure he doesn't have access to his medication from now on." "I wish I could say I thought that would solve the problem," he states plainly, staring between your parents directly at you. On the way home, you look out the window to avoid the glares every few seconds in the rearview mirror. The dead silence of a boring spring day, not early enough in the year to be interesting and not late enough to be summer. "What are we going to do?" your mother breaks the silence, emotion high in her voice. "Ma, I swear I didn't-" Your father whips around in the driver seat, completely forgetting the road so he can point in your face and say, "You better shut your mouth right now." "The road! Watch the road!" she cries, sounding even more upset now. You cover your face as he veers to the left, getting fully back in his lane. There is a long drag of silence as he grips the steering wheel so tight his knuckles turn white. Finally, "I'm telling you, this kid is a bad seed." "Shhh, don't say that!" the panicked passenger seat voice pleads. "No, I will not be quiet. He is a bad fucking seed. He's a loser." Your mother turns around to look at you with red-rimmed eyes, as you yawn and go back to looking out the window. What else can you do? ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Now I know I'm always right, that's a thought that never even crossed my mind |
Artist: Modest Mouse Album: The Lonesome Crowded West Song: Trailer Trash [Embed For Use By Upgraded+] Lyrics Chelsea moves to California and comes back a changed woman. She calls herself that, a 'changed woman'. You sit on the floor, cutting even lines. It's a treat, a celebration for her return. Jimmy falls through the trailer door, another dent, surely. "You're already drunk?" Noah asks. Chelsea ignores them and continues. You watch her dramatic hand gestures. Those are new. Apparently you learn a lot of things in art school, like which herbs to mix when you draw a bath and how to inhale oxygen optimally into your lungs. You cough through your cigarette and she snatches it from your mouth. "See, this! This, Charlie, is killing you! Every time you smoke a cigarette, you lose thirteen minutes of your life." She snaps it in half and drops it into an old cup of water. Your hands search the dirty carpet for the remainder of your pack before she goes on a cigarette-breaking rampage. "Oh god, Chelsea, get off your soapbox," Danny says, opening a bottle of wine. "Let's celebrate your first year!" Jessie walks in with a half gallon of vodka and the party is ready to commence. You take the cut straw to one of the lines. Sweet mercy. "Here," you offer Chelsea, standing up and motioning for her to sit down. "Oh no, no, no, Dear Charlie." She calls you that. "I'm straight edge now. I have been for months." "What's that?" you ask, genuinely curious. She seems a lot happier now, you don't mind listening to her stories. "It means that I keep my body pure. No alcohol, no cigarettes, and definitely no drugs," she eyes the table wearily on the last one. "Really?" "Yeah, and it's not just that either. I only eat raw, vegan food now. I don't drink caffeine AND I've renewed my virginity. It's all about living a cleaner, healthier lifestyle. It's great. I feel so much better. You would too!" You look around the room to see if anyone else is hearing what you're hearing, but they're all too preoccupied with themselves. It's just another excuse to get messed up. It's not about Chelsea at all. "Why on earth would you want to do that?" She laughs. "You're too funny. I know you don't get it right now, but someday, you will." Her smug, knowing tone really bothers you and you feel your jaw clench. "Okay, but you can't just say that you're a virgin now. Like, if you meet some guy, you can't just claim that you're a virgin." She furrows her eyebrows. "Um, yes, I actually can. I've been reborn as a virgin, so yes, technically, I am." Someone passes you the bottle, but you haven't finished the conversation. "Well, if you want to be technical about it, I literally had my dick in you, so... no, you aren't." Her arms cross defensively. "I can't believe you! I'm doing something that actually makes me happy and you have to come along and try to ruin that for me. What is wrong with you?" Suddenly you have everyone's attention as they look on, waiting for something, anything to happen. You both stare at each other. God, why can't you just keep your mouth shut? "Alright, I'm sorry," you relent. She smiles, loosening her tense shoulders. "It's fine. I'm sure you'll grow up someday too, Charlie," she says, condescending as hell. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Taking heartache with hard work Goddamn, I am such a jerk I can't do anything |
| 30DBC: Did you ever get really drunk and do sumthink stoopid? Tell the truth or lie. 30DBC: I've never been drunk before, but I do know someone who knows someone who had like three drinks in a row one time. I think he died. But for realsies, I haven't been drunk in like forever. At least two weeks, which is forever for me. That's what I should do tonight. I should get drunk. I've done homework and worked allll day long. I deserve a drunken break, right? Plus, I have lots of alcohol I bought at the store a couple weeks ago and never got into because I was too busy. For shame! I will begin drinking my head off as soon as I finish this entry. Maybe watch a movie or write a poem. Why not? I wrote a poem for the Merit Badge projects. It was a prompt I suggested, so I had to come up with something. Here it is in all it's 'glory'.
Let's see, to answer the prompt directly- YES, I've done a million stupid things while drunk. I've accidentally walked into the wrong house, had unprotected sex, gotten into ridiculous fights, and fallen down more stairs than I care to count. I've blacked out, asked the cops for directions, and stolen a 'lost' puppy. I've been hateful, hurtful, poetic, adventurous... You name it. Who hasn't done something stupid while drunk, really?? |
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