Wednesday, February 24, 2010

please ignorrre
Project?
“You’re name’s Brenda, right?” He asked, turning away from the mirror to face me.
“Actually, it’s Breni.”
He wrinkled his perfect brow to form a facial question mark and began to saunter towards me.
“Well, it is short for Brenda, yeah, but most people just call me Breni because I think it fits me better and…” I let my voice trail off. He was standing so close to me, I could smell his Armani cologne. Like the rest of him, it threatened to put me in so deep a daze, I almost went comatose.
Bending his long frame down to my level, Jazzy stared into my eyes for what could have been seconds or years. I lost track of time. I lost track of everything in those deep, dark brown chasms of eyes that could have swallowed me whole.
Finally, he chuckled softly, leaned into the crook of my neck, and whispered, “You’re as red as a cherry, darling.” Jazzy then proceeded to bestow a small kiss on my check, which made the skin on my face buzz and undoubtedly turn even redder, take my arm, scribble something on it in black eyeliner, and turned to go.
“When you’re done crying over your ex—and I mean for good, not just for now,” he told me. “Either come see me or call that number. We have a lot of work to do.”

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Tuesday, February 23, 2010

The following conversation just occured to me:

Me: UGH! My ex-boyfriend is so annoying! Srsly. What was I on when I was dating him?

Her: Well, judging by the way you 2 used to kiss each other good bye, I'd say it was mainly his lap.

XD Sorry. I just had to share that.
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going to be okay, but I didn’t hear him. As if robotic, I pushed past him and got in the car. The second my mom peeled out of the driveway, I began to wail, fresh tears bursting forth, as if my arm had been cut off. For nine months, I had sacrificed so much for that boy. He wasn’t my first kiss and he wasn’t my first time, but he was my first everything else. I had given him my heart, my innocence, my trust, even my lungs, in a way, as I was deathly allergic to dogs and cats, and Jon owned both in abundance. All my efforts, all my sacrifices, had been for nothing. I don’t know how long I cried after that, but it was dark out by the time I stopped.
I felt a little bit like I had in my dream when I watched myself shatter into a million pieces—detached, as if all this was happening to some friendly but distant acquaintance. The girl I had been for the past nine months, the strong, happy, peaceful, loving sprite I had let Jon transform me into, was the broken, glass doll on the floor. I could not be her anymore without getting trampled on. Maybe she was dead, maybe she was simply comatose, but either way, for the moment she was gone.
Clearly, however, I could not let this go unattended. A vital part of me had died. I needed to replace that part as soon as possible. I needed to be reborn. With this thought in mind, I went inside to leave my mom a note, then headed out, armed with nothing but a rosary, a cell phone, and what little money I had in my purse. Not daring to think of anything else but the road in front of me, I hiked down to the nearest convenience store, purchased the brightest, boldest, most rebellious color of hair dye I could find, then walked back to my house.
At some point, when Jon and I had still been together, I had told him I would die if we ever broke up. Since we had broken up and I was not willing to die, I figured I might as well dye instead.
Not even my mother, who opposed my hair-dying habits almost as strongly as Liz, dared to stop me. She did not understand my logic, but she knew I was hurting, and she figured hair-dye was better than crying. Hell, not only did she not stop me, she helped me do it.
That evening, in the bathroom, as my mother squeezed the toxic-smelling, neon liquid onto tendrils of my hair enveloped in crumpled bits of plastic wrap and talked to me about life and love and music, I was strangely reminded of birth. It was just me and my mother and the rain beating against the windows, and she was designing me, molding me, coaxing me out into the world, playing both the role of the mother in labor and the doctor.
While I waited the prescribed half hour it took for my hair to absorb the color, I thought about Liz, my mother, Jon, my new hair, and potentially my new self.
Liz liked my hair but didn’t like the length and how I colored it. My mother liked my hair and my imaginative ways of styling it, but also didn’t approve of my dying it. Jon always loved the yellowish blond color I dyed it, but constantly whined that I should grow it out and stop straightening it.
Nothing I did with it was ever good enough for anybody. In most situations, the same applied to me. Liz always complained that I should be more image-conscious. Jon had constantly nagged me to be more free-spirited. My mother periodically told me to stop being so damn negative. Everybody was always on my back and in my hair.
As I stripped out of my bathrobe, slid the plastic wrap out of my hair, stepped in the shower, and turned the water on, I imagined them all being washed away down the drain with the dye.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Liz practically had a heart attack when she saw me Monday morning. She spent a total of five minutes staring at my head and sputtering, which on any other day I would have used to retreat, but I was bound to be criticized sooner or later. It might as well be sooner.
“What did you do to your head?” she finally demanded in horror. “It’s pink! It’s hot freaking pink!”
No, it was not pink. It was yellowish blond with chunky magenta highlights, but I didn’t bother to correct her. Liz was on a roll. There was no stopping her now.
“Seriously, like… Oh my gawd, Breni! I can’t even find the words, this is just… How could you?! It looks like you let your little sister color on your hair with spray paint.”
After about ten hours of this, she concluded with a huffy, disgusted threat to disown me if I ever tried anything like this again. As if on cue, she then proceeded to ask if Jon had seen my new hair yet and if he had, what did he think of it?
With a sound somewhere between a sigh and a groan, I said, “No, he hasn’t seen it yet, and quite frankly I don’t really give a flying fart in space what he thinks.”
That was a lie. I did care what he thought, but I knew I shouldn’t. He surrendered the right to have any control over my life when he broke me apart.
At my callous response to the mention of the former love of my life, Liz’s jaw dropped yet again. Before she could recover and begin berating me all over again, though, I told her we broke up.
“Oh…” She said quietly, the astonishment on her face turning to sympathy.
Gathering me into a hug, she told me she was so sorry and that this was horrible and that if I wanted to cry, then cry.
“It’s okay,” she told me in a pitying tone that would’ve embarrassed me had I the energy to be embarrassed. “Just get it all out. A horrible, horrible thing just happened, and you have the right to be upset. No one would blame you if you bawled like a baby for days.”
Liz spent the rest of the morning contradicting everything my mother had told me last night. My mom thought I could do better, but Bree obviously disagreed. It wasn’t so much that she thought Jon was the greatest guy in existence as much as it was she thought he was the greatest guy I was capable of attracting. Every other guy I had ever been attracted to was out of my league, according to Liz.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Not until the very last period of the day did I give in to the despair spawning at the back of my head. I had been fighting so hard throughout the day to keep myself distracted, but this approach back-fired. It was like trying to plug up a geyser with a giant cork. The pressure continued to build and build until I couldn’t take it anymore.
Hastily asking the teachers permission to head to the levorotary, I grabbed the hall pass, not even bothering to fill it out or get it signed, and sprinted to ladies room. The second I was in, the tears burst forth. To get more privacy and to hide from my own reflection—there’s nothing more depressing than watching yourself cry—I locked myself in one of the stalls.
Everything felt so hopeless. Not only had I lost my boyfriend, I had lost my best friend, and nothing ever hurt me more than the loss of a companion.
I was caught up in meditating about all this and feeling sorry for myself when a strange, British, masculine voice interrupted my thoughts.
“Is it the boyfriend?”
I knew this query was directed at me because it was far too quiet for there to be anyone else inside the bathroom besides the voices owner and me.
“Um, what?” I asked, somewhat dazed by the loss of body fluid from all the crying.
“The reason you’re crying—is it the boyfriend?”
“Well, ex-boyfriend now,” I murmured, and began to push the door open to see who the voice belonged to. Even though I had suspected it was him, I still couldn’t help but be stunned at the sight of Jazzy poised in front of the wide, full-length mirror, reapplying his coal-black eye-liner. From across the cafeteria, Jazzy looked like a model, but up-close, he was so beautiful, so alluring, so striking, he reminded me of a succubus. I couldn’t just stand there staring at him all day though, so I blurted out the first thing that popped into my head.
“Er, this is the girls’ room.”
Without missing a beat, he capped his eye pencil, gave me a slow smile that almost rendered me comatose, and drawled out, “Yes, sweetie, I know, but in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly the portrait of heterosexuality and I haven’t gotten any in months so I don’t really trust myself in a lu full of young, indisposed American blokes who may or may not care to experiment with their sexuality.”
Despite his somewhat androgynous facial features, his voice was completely, deliciously masculine. It was a voice I could have spent my entire lifetime listening to.
I was just beginning to zone out and fantasize about that voice, those lips, and that body when Jazzy interrupted my thoughts again with an abrupt, affirming “Okay.”
“Okay, what?”
“Okay, I’ll accept you. You can be my new project.”



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Monday, February 22, 2010

I felt a little bit like I had in my dream when I watched myself shatter into a million pieces—detached, as if all this was happening to some friendly but distant acquintance. The girl I had been for the past nine months, the strong, happy, peaceful, loving sprite I had let Jon transform me into, was the broken, glass doll on the floor. I could not be her anymore without getting trampled on. Maybe she was dead, maybe she was simply comatose, but either way, for the moment she was gone.
Clearly, however, I could not let this go unattended. A vital part of me had died. I needed to replace that part as soon as possible. I needed to be reborn. With this thought in mind, I went inside to leave my mom a note, then headed out, armed with nothing but a rosary, a cell phone, and what little money I had in my purse. Not daring to think of anything else but the road in front of me, I hiked down to the nearest convenience store, purchased the brightest, boldest, most rebellious color of hair dye I could find, then walked back to my house.
At some point, when Jon and I had still been together, I had told him I would die if we ever broke up. Since we had broken up and I was not willing to die, I figured I might as well dye instead.
Not even my mother, who opposed my hair-dying habits almost as strongly as Liz, dared to stop me. She did not understand my logic, but she knew I was hurting, and she figured hair-dye was better than crying. Hell, not only did she not stop me, she helped me do it.
That evening, in the bathroom, as my mother squeezed the toxic-smelling, neon liquid onto tendrils of my hair enveloped in crumpled bits of plastic wrap and talked to me about life and love and music, I was strangely reminded of birth. It was just me and my mother and the rain beating against the windows, and she was designing me, molding me, coaxing me out into the world, as the doctor probably had when I was first born.
While I waited the prescribed half hour it took for my hair to absorb the color, I thought about Liz, my mother, Jon, my new hair, and potentially my new self.
Liz liked my hair but didn’t like how I colored it. My mother liked my hair and my imaginative ways of coloring and styling it, but thought I was sometimes too bold. Jon always loved the yellowish blond color I dyed it, but constantly whined that I should grow it out and stop straightening it.
Nothing I did with it was ever good enough for anybody. In most situations, the same applied to me. Liz always complained that I should be more image-conscious. Jon had constantly nagged me to be more free-spirited. My mother periodically told me to stop being so damn negative. Everybody was always on my back and in my hair.
As I stripped out of my bathrobe, slid the plastic wrap out of my hair, stepped in the shower, and turned the water on, I imagined them all being washed away out of my hair with the dye.





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Sunday, February 21, 2010

Read the post below this one
Not until lunch time did I finally manage to get it out of him. Apparently, he had been doing a lot of thinking over our brief separation period and had concluded that I was but a manipulating, heartless, Satin-spawned succubus. Well, those weren’t his exact words. What he actually said was, “It just frustrates me how every time we see each other, we end up fooling around,” but what I heard was, “I think you’re a loveless, soulless, sex-craving whore and that you’ve just been using me all these month for cheap, sexual thrills.”
This thought was completely preposterous. Firstly, we did not end up fooling around every time we saw each other. There were times when we just hung out too.
Secondly, we had been together for almost a year. Jon was crazy if he thought the only reason I had stuck around that long was because of weekly make-out sessions. As anyone with a computer and internet access knows, there are plenty of other ways to get thrills besides using random guys from one’s school.
Jon disagreed. These differences in opinion led to a very heated discussion and the heated discussion, in less than a minute, escalated into a colossal fight.
I spent the last five minutes of the lunch period and the first half hour of the following class period crying my eyes out, and the rest of the week trying to stall the inevitable. Alas, no matter how much space I gave him and no matter how hard I fought to keep our love from dying, Jon thought me clingy and my affections irritating. I had become but a burden in his eyes and it tore me apart.
Neither I nor Jon had any idea how it happened, but clearly something vital in our relationship had broken, and there was no repairing it. That week, as I desperately flailed day after day to keep our romance alive, I felt a little bit like a child trying to resurrect her dead puppy. That’s how hopeless the situation was.
Finally, I could delude myself no longer. The relationship had to end lest the pain get worse. That Saturday, I went over his house with my mom parked in the driveway, waiting to act as the getaway car driver, and told him that things had changed, that we had changed, and that I couldn’t take it anymore. Not even able to look at him, I took a deep breath and ended it. Then, I broke down in tears right then and there, as he just stared at me with wide, round eyes, doubly blinded by the salt water in my eyes and the sunshine streaming in through the open door in the garage. Not being able to take seeing me in tears even then, Jon awkwardly placed a hand on my shoulder and mumbled something about this being for the best and everything going to be okay, but I didn’t hear him. As if robotic, I pushed past him and got in the car. The second my mom peeled out of the driveway, I began to wail with fresh sobs. For nine months, I had sacrificed so much for that boy. He wasn’t my first kiss and he wasn’t my first time, but he was my first everything else. I had given him my heart, my innocence, my trust, even my lungs, in a way, as I was allergic to dogs and cats, and Jon owned both in abundance. All my efforts, all my sacrifices, had been for nothing. I don’t know how long I cried after that, but it was dark out by the time I stopped.
The present me could not take this strain anymore. She needed a rest--a long one. Someone else had to take her place in the meantime. Someone tougher, wiser, and stronger. In order to do that, I needed to be reborn. With this thought in mind, I went inside to leave my mom a note, then headed out, armed with nothing but a rosary, a cell phone, and what little money I had in my purse. Not daring to think of anything else but the road in front of me, I hiked down to the nearest convenience store, purchased the brightest, boldest, most rebellious color of hair dye I could find, then walked back to my house.


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   I have no mood.
Stephy... You and your comments are proof to me that God exists. Srlsy. They're just that vital to my survival.

The reason I am allegedly going to hell is because last night I was bored and desperate, so I watched porn in anime form. It was one of the most inane things I have ever witnessed, it didn't turn me on at all, and the only thing I could think throughout the whole thing was "So THIS is what guys want? Really? This is it?"
I am built NOTHING like the so-called "heroines" of anime pornos. My chest is flat, my ass is fat, and my hips are sharp and bony enough to kill someone on impact.
So if all guys want is some starry-eyed chick with tits the size of basket-balls and waists the size of wall nuts, clearly I am screwed. (No pun intended.)
But yeah.

The following conversation occurred to me in church today.
Her: I have been reduced to nothing but a small, insignificant church mouse!
Her mother: But you're a cute church mouse. :)
Her: I have been reduced to nothing but a small, insignificant church mouse WITH A RIBBON!

XD I have no idea, but this struck me as hilarious.

In other news, Shane Dawson did this thing on youtube where he examined the effects of pressure on people and instructed us, his noble underage sex slaves/fans/stalkers to state one thing we are proud of about ourselves.
Well... Here's what I'm proud of.

1. My hair, as always, is AHBLOODYMAZING. (Thank you, L'Oreal.)

2. I have finally learned how to properly apply eye-liner without stabbing myself in the eye at least 15 times. (Now it's only about 10 times.)

3. I am capable of mesmerizing small children with my myotakuing. (My little sister and her friend are looking over my shoulder as I'm typing this.)

Anyway, I gotta go.
ily
~Belinda

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Saturday, February 20, 2010

0___0
I am going to hell.
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Friday, February 19, 2010

   erg.
I'm sad.;.;
I don't want to deal with anything right now. Honestly, I don't think I could even if I did. I feel like roadkill.
Too depressed or dead inside to move.

I had one friend tell me that if I really want something, I'll get it. But I've wanted him for 3 and a half years now and I never even came close to having him
*sigh*

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Thursday, February 18, 2010

:'( Awwwwwwwww, yeah. I've gotten into another Dan relapse.

URRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGH!!!!!!!!!

This is so annoying. '-__- Why can't I just let it go?!

I want him. I don't want a boyfriend, I don't want love, I don't want a happy ending I. JUST. WANT. HIM! And it's killing me.

Like a toddler screaming for the latest toy and pounding it's fist on the ground, I want him.
I can't post the link or the video on here because I gave up Lady Gaga and her music for Lent, but her song Bad Romance perfectly depicts what I'm feeling right now. It's the only love song I know of that can really convery the kind of insistence and need I have for him.
I just... he's been horrible to me in the pat. I shouldn't feel this way about him, but I do.
I'm gonna go waste away in the dark now
~Belinda
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Wednesday, February 17, 2010

Hey, guys. I got a couple of questions for you all to answer, just for yours (and my entertainment).
I'm dead tired though, by the way, so if I make really obvious speeling or grammer errors, I apologize in advance.
Anyway...

1. What is one thing or one person or even one group of people that are so annoying/stupid/loud/disgusting, they always kill any feelings of lust you have without fail?

This one group of kids in my Spanish class. '-__- All they ever talk about are boobs and boners and blowjobs, and so thay're not exactly the most enjoyable company in my opinion.

2. Are you dizzy?

Yes'm ~_~

3. Do gray and black go together?

Theoretically, yes, but I never thought it looked any good. To me it just looks downright drab and depressing.

4.What do you think about needles?

Eh. I'm alright. I'm not particularly fond of them, but I'm not terribly afraid of them either.

5. Do you like your neighbors?

Not particularly. Some of them are pretty friendly. I never had any problems with any of the adults, but the kids are pretty stuck up.

Other then that: I am so damn hungry. '-___-
And I can't eat, because I'm fasting because it's lent. Arrrrrrrrrrrgh.
ily
~Belinda
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