Birthday • 1992-08-03 Gender •
Female Location • Canada (Montreal, Quebec) Member Since • 2006-04-08 Occupation • Grade 9 Real Name • Haidee
Personal
Achievements • Award of Exellence in Drama and Visual Arts. Anime Fan Since • 1999 Favorite Anime • Can't choose ONE Hobbies • Drawing, painting, singing Talents • Anything Artstic
November 13, 2006
Been a while since I've made anything other than abstract themes. Surprisingly enough, this layout doesn't have an FF12 inspired title, which is too bad. For those who have Hikari in their hands, remember to follow the terms and enjoy the design. It's not always I steer away from monotone - or try to steer away for that matter.
Current Mood: Blank/Clueless
Currently reading: cut
Hello everyone,
thankyou do muhc for your comments *hugs* I'm sorry but I don't really have much to say today, I'm so glad it's friday xD and that you like my layout *hugs* today last period my teacher was passing back tests, and he asked me why I didn't choose to go into the IBO program (it's suppose to be harder) I just otld him I had no clue x3 now that I think of it, I wouldn't want to go to IBO because my marks would go down 10% (it's the marking system that's harder and all wonkey 0.O)
So I figure it's better this way xD Anywho, I'm sorry if I don't visit everyone today ._. I'm a very busy person @_@ and I have to get ready to go to that wedding.
Anyway, iv'e been reading this book called 'Cut' yeah you guesssed it it's about a girl who cuts herself, it's very intersting you find out so many new ways to cut yourself xD (not that I do) I like the writing style it's very..erm....good. It reaminds me of the book 'Speak' another amazing book! Here is a summery of each book:
Speak
By: Laurie Halse Anderson
"In the summer before her freshman year of high school, Melinda Sordino is raped at a party by a popular senior, Andy Evans. Melinda calls the police and they bust the party, but she does not report the rape. When those attending the party find out that it was Melinda who called the police, they refuse to speak to her and Melinda begins her freshman year as an outcast. Melinda's art teacher, Mr. Freeman, asks his students to focus on one randomly chosen topic and make it "say something" by the end of the year. Melinda is assigned the subject "tree."
Over the course of the year, Melinda works to regain some confidence and regain Rachel's friendship. The development of her tree artwork mirrors her gradual regrowth. When one of her former friends, Rachel, begins dating Andy Evans, Melinda works up the courage to begin telling her story, if only in fragments. At the close of the novel, Andy confronts her, but this time Melinda finds the strength to defy him. "I *SAID* NO!" she yells, and this is a major turnaround point for her, as one of the issues factoring into her silence and self-blame was that she was in shock, and couldn't say no. Victim blame is typical of rape survivors, and it is not a victim/survivor's fault.
Though Andy locked the door, they are discovered by the lacrosse team and the truth comes out. Realizing the truth, the students no longer treat Melinda as an outcast but as a sort of hero instead. And finally, Melinda tells her story to an adult - her art teacher, Mr. Freeman.
Melinda reappears very briefly in another of Anderson's books, Catalyst, which is about a high school senior at the same school dealing with a personal crisis. Around a third of the way into the novel, Melinda gives advice to the teen while woking on an art project."
It's a very interesting read, I find I liek books like this.
An here is Cut
Cut
By: Patricia McCorminck
"You say it’s up to me to do the talking. You lean forward, place a box of tissues in front of me and your black leather chair groans, like a living thing. Like the cow it used to be before somebody killed it and turned it into a chair in a shrink’s office in a loony bin. Your stockinged legs make a shushing sound as you cross them. "Can you remember how it started?" you say.
I remember exactly.
It was at the last cross country meet, right around the four-mile mark. Everybody else had passed me a long time ago, just like the week before, and the week before that. Everybody —except a girl from the other team. We were the only ones left in last stretch of the course, the part that winds through the woods and comes out behind the school. Our shadows passed along the ground slantwise; slowly, they merged, then her shadow passed mine.
The soles of her sneakers swam up and down in front of me, first one, then the other, a grid of ridges that spelled out the upside-down name of the shoe company. My steps fell in time with hers. My feet went where her feet had just been. She leaned in around a corner, I leaned in around a corner. She breathed, I breathed.
Then she was gone.
I couldn’t even picture her anymore. But what scared me, really scared me, was that I couldn’t remember the moment when I’d stopped seeing her. And I knew then that if I couldn’t see her, no one could see me.
Sounds from the track meet floated by. A whistle trilling. Muffled applause, the weak sputtering of gloved hands clapping. I was still running, but now I was off the path, heading away from the finish line, past the cars in the parking lot, the flagpole, and the Home of the Lions sign. Past fast food places and car repair shops and video stores. Past the new houses and the park. Until, somehow, I was at the entrance to our development.
It was starting to get dark now, and I slowed down, walking past houses with windows of square yellow light where mothers were inside making dinner, past houses with windows of square blue light where kids were inside watching TV, to our house, where the driveway was empty and the lights were off.
I let myself in and flipped the light switch. There was an explosion of light. The kitchen slid sideways, then righted itself.
I leaned against the door. "I’m home," I said to no one.
The room tilted left, then right, then straightened out. I grabbed hold of the edge of the dinner table and tried to remember if we stopped eating there because it was piled with junk or if it was piled with junk because we stopped eating there.
On the table, there was a bobbin of thread, a roll of batting, a glue gun, a 1997 Krafty Kitchens catalogue. And a knife. Next to the catalogue was a special craft knife with the letters EXACTO on the handle. It was sleek, like a fountain pen, with a thin triangular blade at the tip. I picked it up and laid the blade against the doily. The little knots came undone, just like that. I touched the blade to a piece of ribbon draped across the table and pressed, ever so slightly. The ribbon unfurled into two pieces and slipped to the floor without a sound. Then I placed the blade next to the skin on my palm.
A tingle arced across my scalp. The floor tipped up at me and my body spiraled away. Then I was on the ceiling looking down, waiting to see what would happen next. What happened next was that a perfect, straight line of blood bloomed up from under the edge of the blade. The line grew into a long, fat bubble, a lush crimson bubble that got bigger and bigger. I watched from above, waiting to see how big it would get before it burst. When it did, I felt awesome. Satisfied, finally. Then exhausted.
I don’t tell you any of this, though. I don’t say anything. I just curve my spine into the couch in your office and hug my elbows to my sides. My mind is a video on fast forward. A video with no soundtrack. And finally, you sigh and stand up and say, "That’s all we have time for today.""
This book I just started a LOVE...I'l be goign now to finish reading it xD
