Wednesday, October 17, 2007

I'MA GOING TO SEE HAIRSPRAY THE MUSICAL, BITCHES!!!! >:D
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Tuesday, October 16, 2007

THE CATALYST, CHAPTER 12: THE SCREAMING BEGINS WHEN THE DREAMING ENDS
I was dreaming.
I can’t remember when I started dreaming. Or even when I fell asleep. But I was definitely dreaming. There wasn’t a doubt about it. Otherwise, I would’ve had at least a shadow of an idea of how the Hell I ended up buried under the covers of my bed when I didn’t even remember leaving my English teachers class-room. Not to mention the ultra surreal cold, wet, soft something hovering towards my fore-head being gingerly held by an even more surreal sighing, muttering, unfamiliar-sounding someone looming over my bed. (Since the someone was muttering in fluent Spanish I knew for a fact that it wasn’t either one of my parents.)
Now, due to the fact that this was a dream, there obviously wasn’t any actual way I could be harmed. Therefore, I was robbed of all prudent caution.
Which is why the second I felt the aforesaid cold, wet, soft something touch my fore-head, I instantaneously grabbed the hand of the aforesaid looming, muttering, sighing someone. At being so abruptly captured by my grip on their wrist, the figure gave a cry of surprise and started to struggle to loosen my grasp. Upon forcing my eyes to flicker open and my seemingly iron-festooned arm/hand to examine my forehead, I discover that the wet soft something was a wash-cloth. And thank God, because if it had been the tongue of some rabid ferocious beast, I would’ve screamed bloody murder and bloodier damnation regardless of weather the nightmare could hurt me or not.
“Who are you…?” I murmured lethargically, peering at the mysterious intruder through my glimmering, dilated orbs. If this were reality instead of just a dream, at the sight of him, my heart would’ve probably skipped so many beats that our encounter would’ve ended with a trip to the emergency room.
He was about half a foot taller than me, making him somewhere around 6 feet, 5 inches, with a somewhat husky, yet lean frame. He was just full-bodied enough to be a seemingly fantastic substitute for an extra fluffy, human-sized Teddy bear. (Meaning, he wasn’t fat, just cuddly.)
His eyes were light brown, with a ring of crimson out-lining the pupils, his eye-lashes unusually long and black for someone who didn’t wear make-up. As for his hair? Well, like most indisputably cool kids these days, his bangs were unnecessarily long, angularly cut, and dyed/bleached a different color than that of the rest of his tresses—the bangs were blonde, the rest dark brown—and, despite his probable best efforts to straighten it, the tips had a bit of a wave to them. Hence the adorable flippy-ness of his hair. (And hence me wanting to tackle him to the ground and force my way into him.) At the moment, the sandy blonde locks couldn’t seemed to decide who they liked contrasting with more- their owners fair complexion, their owners cherry-tinted, milk chocolate-flavored gaze, or their dark brown, silken shining neighbors adorning the rest of the intruders pretty little head. (In the end, they decided to do a combination of all three, which looked bloody gorgeous.)

However, despite the long, more-noticeable-than-usual eye-lashes, semi-maternal countenance, and ultra stylish bangs, his appearance was more ageless than androgynous. Meaning, he wasn’t so much effeminate as much as he was boyish-looking. Still, his features appeared way too soft and undefined for him to be described as masculine.
Add his cream-colored semi-perfect skin into the equation and you’ve got Mr. “I’m-too-sexy-to-stay-out-of-the-dreams-of-15-year-old-emo-poets.” And, yes. If any of you still care, he’s an Alichino. The dictionary definition of one.

At my inquiry of his identity, he just stared and blinked at me for a minute. Then his perplexed face relaxed into an “it’s-so-@!*$ing-beautiful-it-might-as-well-be-Heaven-sent” smile and in a confidence-inviting, matter-of-factly voice, he told me: “I’m your guardian angel, honey.” Now, bearing in mind that this was just a dream and pretty much anything is possible in dreams, I did not scoff at the super Ali’s claim. However, I sure as hell didn’t believe him either. Come Hell or high water, I knew perfectly well all the Ali’s would always either disregard or dislike me. They would also always be one of the farthest categories of humans from angels EVER. Therefore, there was just no way that Mr. Super Ali here was ANY kind of Heaven-sent, much less an angel, much less a guardian angel, much less mine. (Translation: No, not even in my dreams.)

So I gave him a weary sigh, let go of his wrist, and exasperatedly murmured: “No you’re not.”
His eye-brow arched in puzzlement, as if he didn’t already know perfectly well what he was. “I’m not?”
I nodded. “You’re not. You’re way too-“I was about to say “too much of an Alichino,” but I knew he wouldn’t understand that, so I caught myself at the last second;”-…human to be an angel.”
“Well, then what am I?” He, of course, already knew the answer to this question. He merely wanted to know what/who I thought he was.
Once again, I raised my exhausted hand to his oh-so-invitingly soft and strong one. I flinched. His skin was bloody glacial.
I locked eyes with him and said: “You’re C.A.I.”
But he just grew more puzzled still. “Kai…?”
“No. Not Kai, C-A-I.: Cold As Ice. C.A.I.”
“Oh…” For a few seconds, the adorable perplexity on his face dissolved into neutrality and didn’t appear again until he asked: “You think I’m cold?”
I shrugged. “Your hands are cold.”
“Oh… Then why are you still holding them?”
Again, I shrugged. “I don’t mind being cold. I like your hands-they’re so different from mine. Besides, if I hold on long enough, I might just freeze to death… Then I’d never have to deal with this shit ever again.”
At this, he chuckled and remarked: “You’re a real pessimist, you know that?”
“Am not.”
He made a “pshaw” noise, signifying that he had obviously heard this excuse before, then patronizingly replied: “Oh, of course not. Let me guess: you’re a ‘REALIST,’ right?”
“No… I’m a SURrealist.”
“What’s that mean?”
“I dream a lot more than I think.”
“Oh. Well, me too.” This time, it was his turn to shrug.

Then, out of completely nowhere, C.A.I.’s hoodie pocket started singing the chorus to “Sadie Hawkins Dance” by Relient K. (Excerpt: “The Sadie Hawkins dance/ in my khaki pants./ Girls ask the guys./ It’s always a surprise./ There’s nothing better./ Baby, do you like my sweater?”) Right as I removed my air-guitar-anticipating grip from C.A.I.’s ice-cold hands, my fellow surrealist reached into his Sadie Hawkins-loving pocket to extract a Sadie Hawkins-singing cell-phone. Meaning, his hoodie wasn’t to blame for the ultra up-beat Christian-rocking sound-track after all. (Which made so much more sense, considering, as we all know, hoodie pockets think Relient K is the worst thing that came into existence since AIDS.) And did I care that I would look completely ridiculous tangled up in the sheets of my bed rocking out to a 10-second long ring tone? Hell no. I continued my fit of exceedingly chaotic air guitar riffs to the super blithe pop/rock song long after C.A.I. answered his phone. (Oh, sure I was tired, but too tired for an inexplicitly spontaneous thrashing-spree of head-banging, mosh-pit-inspired goodness? NEVER.) And even though I obviously couldn’t hear what was being said on the other side of C.A.I.’s phone-call, this is an important conversation, so, with the help of the Jay’s and Shanty’s recollection of the exchange, I’ve managed to include it. That said, let the dialogue begin!

C.A.I.: “Hello?”

Jason, anxiously: “Hey. What happened, Shanty? Where are you? Is Yuki, er, Belinda okay?”

C.A.I./Shanty: “I’m at Belinda’s house. As far as I can tell, she seems fine. Well, except for the cut…”

Jason, obviously alarmed: “What?! What cut?!!? What did that bastard, Malluste, do to her?!?! And how long was she alone with him?!? Seriously, man, what happened?!?!?!”

C.A.I./Shanty, calmly: “Well, I don’t really know exactly how long she was with him. I’d say about 20 minutes, maybe more. But like I said, except for the cut, she’s pretty much alright.”

Jason, ultra brusquely, almost screaming: “WHAT CUT, SHANTY?!?!”

C.A.I./Shanty sighs, and then exasperatedly replies: “Calm down, Uncle! It’s just a flesh-wound. Nothing’s broken. As far as I can tell, all Vashoutoh did was carve a word onto the skin on h-“

“CARVE A WORD ONTO HER SKIN…?” Interrupted guess-which-obviously-scandalized-bassist. There was a 10-second pause, and then Jason ominously murmured: “Oh, so she’s been marked, has she…?”
For a while, nothing came out of the angered poets mouth but a string of furiously muttered derogatory curses directed toward Vashoutoh. When the abuse-fest finally ended, the question that Jay simply couldn’t help feeling compelled to ask was the next thing to shatter the silence: “So, what word did the little son of a bitch carve into her?”

“I dunno, I never got a good luck at it. It must’ve been pretty big though. I mean, her shirt was SOAKED with blood.”

At this, Jay exasperatedly sighed as if it had been him who had fought Vashoutoh and his Reapers, been knocked to the ground with an iron candle-stick, and lugged my heavy frame all the way to Shanty’s blue Honda instead of the lithe Alichino just barely managing to not collapse unto my bed. “Man….” Said Wen-Wen. “I can’t believe this shit…. So, anyway, what was Yuki-slash-Belinda’s reaction when you rescued her?” BANG.
Thus began another awkward silence. During which, Shanty gnawed on his bottom lip and desperately tried in vain to find an adequate way of answering his uncles question without provoking anger. Unfortunately, when you’re dealing with a temperamental prima donna like Jay Wen, confrontational catastrophe simply cannot be avoided.
“Um… Yeah, about that…” stammered the soon-to-be-victim of guess-which-human-bipolar-dynamite-stick. “Ya see, in order to rescue her, I kinda had to knock her out.” And begin count-down to celebrity freak out: Five. Four. Three. Two. One. …

“WHAT?”
The above ejaculation was so loud, that even I, who had been singing monotonous Pop Punk karaoke for the past 5 minutes, heard Wen Wen’s voice as if he was lying/sitting right next to me.
That said, you could only imagine how much damage it did to Shanty’s ear-drums.
I swear, if I were him, I would’ve burst out in tears.
“Well….” Shanty went on. “You said you didn’t want her to know that you sent me to watch over her and I didn’t want her getting suspicious and asking questions about, you know, who I was, how I knew to come get her, and all that; so….”

“So you practically beat her to death until she was unconscious,” said Jay, flatly, obviously not pleased with his nephews methods of secrecy and discretion.

“No, I didn’t BEAT her,” replied Shanty, defensively; “I just injected one of Vashoutoh’s sedation drugs into her arm with a needle.” It wasn’t until the words had left his mouth that Shanty realized how incredibly stupid it was to tell Jason this.

The human Mardi Gras decoration instantaneously pounced. “Oh, so you just unknowingly used a random serum from a psychotic, suicidal cutters collection of drugs assuming it was nothing more than a harmless stolen sedation prescription when it could’ve been a lethal batch of poison. Well, why didn’t you say so, Shanty? I mean, nearly killing her with what could’ve been poison is just SO much safer than clonking her on the head.” As he sarcastically said this, Jason showed as much mercy as a Nazi would have.

Shanty was silent. He simply bit his lip and stared at the floor. “Sorry…” he muttered, just barely above a whisper. He obviously wasn’t used to being talked to by his uncle like this.

Unfortunately, “sorry” evidently just didn’t cut it. “Oh, no, really Shan-Shan,” continued guess-which-sarcastic-Wenterz; “now that you nearly poisoned her to death, I just feel SO much better about entrusting her safe-keeping to you! I mean, I could’ve simply hired a professional to look after her, but that would mean Yuki would, you know, actually make it through this week unharmed. And with my entire career depending on her, well, God forbid that should happen!” As Jay sardonically raged out that last sentence, his voice rose to such a volume that Shanty had to hold the phone at least a foot away from his ear.

Shanty remained silent. And for a couple minutes, so did Jay. Then, a regretful sigh of the lecturer to the lectured passed through the line and Jason awkwardly murmured: “Uh, Shanty, look, I’m sorry. It’s cool, I shouldn’t have been blown up at you like that. Just, uh, be more careful, okay?” (“Wow…. And I thought I was bipolar…”-Hey You)

“No, it’s alright, I deserved it. You were right, I shouldn’t have used Vashoutoh’s drugs,” replied Shanty indifferently, pretending he hadn’t been affected by his Uncles’ scolding the way he had.

But evidently, his uncle knew better than to believe his nephew hadn’t been hurt. Therefore, let the semi-endless spewing of atoning compliments begin! “And, remember, I love you like a cutter loves his switchblade, ‘kay, kid?”

“Okaaaaaaay,” said Mr. “I’m-too-macho-to-return-my-doting-uncles’-affection,” attempting to appear as if he didn’t enjoy being fawned over like this.

“And, I swear to God, you’re one of the most ---ing awesome people it has EVER been my pleasure to know!” Jay went on, starting to go into a rant.

“Um, thanks…”

And then Jason went on to make a comment about Shanty’s dead obsession. The connotation of which is so embarrassing that concern for not only Shanty’s reputation but for your lack-of-nausea prevents me from including it.
Poor Shanty was speechless. No matter. Jay went on without him.

“Seriously, dude: you’re smart, you’re mature, you’re nice, you’re hygienic, you’re cute- AND you make one hell of a burger! And that’s just the beginning. You’re also an awesome-tastical athlete. And not to mention….”

It went on like this for about another 2 minutes before Shanty FINALLLY hung up. At that point, his face was sherbet-colored with mortification.

“Who was that?” I inquired, taking a break out of my own aforementioned “In-case-of-extreme-boredom” Perky Punk karaoke-fest to indulge in my Alichino-inspired curiosity.

“Well, from what I could gather, it was either my great grand-mother reincarnated or an ultra scary episode of emo love…..Or both.”

“Oh…”

“Well, anyway…….” He said dismissively, edging his way toward the door. “You better get some rest.”

I nodded. “Yeah, you too, C.A.I. You look totally wiped, dude.” And he did. The bags under his eyes looked so dark and heavy that I was half-tempted to pack my Skull Smilie Face-covered head-band, Paranoia! Academy T-shirt, and cell-phone in them and take them with me to the annual Skull Smilie Face-Loving, Paranoia! Academy-Worshipping, Cell-Phone-Owning Eccentric Artist Stereo-Type Convention down in Pennsylvania. Unfortunately, before I could tell him this, I got distracted by what I thought was an intruder but turned out to be just a freakishly gargantuan deer. By the time I returned my gaze to where he was, the correct wording of this sentence had already turned into “where he USED to be.” Because, by then, he was gone. He had completely disappeared. No traces remained. Almost as if he was never there. But, hey, this is a dream. People are supposed to do weird crap like this, right?

No, the part that was REALLY weird was even though I was dreaming and therefore already asleep, I felt exhausted. So, since now that C.A.I./Shanty had left and therefore there was nothing to stick around for, I lay my head back down on the pillow and began to seek out another dream. A more surreal one. One that would get me as far away from wretched reality as I wanted.

Unfortunately, I awoke two hours later without the memory of a single other fantasy. No, in the stead of the memory of a brilliant dream, what I awoke with was a throbbing pain in my head, a complete lack of any recollection of leaving school much less going home and taking a nap, and an oh-so-irritating, perspiration-provoking ache on the front of my ribs. The latter was the first thing I examined when I gave up on falling back asleep. And when I did, I found that the cause of the ache was a wound that dominated the majority of my rib-cage. The perspiration was the fault of the equally oh-so-uncomfortably large bandage that prevented the lesion from becoming infected. At this discovery, I grew confused. This didn’t make any sense. Not only did I apparently magically teleport myself unto my bed without noticing, but I also had a gigantic gash just below my chest that I had absolutely no recollection of receiving. And not only that, but when the Hell did it get so dark out-side?! Last time I looked at a clock, it was only 1:30!

When I consulted the digital clock on my night-stand about this paradox, it was revealed that the current time was actually 20 minutes to 10 PM.
Meaning, I had apparently been asleep for over 6 hours.(And about this, I only 1 thing to say: EHH???) I pondered this oh-so-confusing absurdity for about 10 more minutes before finally shrugging it off with a melancholy sigh and an apathetic “Aw, screw it. I need sugary caffeine.”


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Friday, October 12, 2007

Dude....

Shadowmesta ish bored. :[
However, I do have news.

Unfortunately, it's not good.
Turns out That Bitch didn't trip after all. No, he just stepped on Sebastians foot and yelled really loud than pretended to trip so Sebas-chan would get in trouble.
Of course, my reply upon hearing this was: "DANIEL BENNOT, YOU STUID MOTHERFUCKER, WHY WON'T YOU JUST DIIIIIIIIIIIIIE????!!!!?!?!"

Oh, and we saw the film version of Of Mice and Men today. Twas pretty good. Here's poem I wrote about one of the scenes. Hope y'all like it.^^

Count down to the gunfire and count up the bullets: One-"put him out of his misery;" two-"from the lack of teeth in his mouth to the lack of hair on his scalp;"
three-"he's already been replaced;"
four-" Oh, and don't worry about the mess. We'll cover it up with the bass."
This time, we're not going to stay.
We're going to escape.
Put the mice where your men lay, we'll put the money where the rabbits stay.
Captivated stares and calculating glares.
A 2-for-one deal? Sorry, honey, you can't have your fragility and keep it too.
Count-down to the trigger release and count up the scars:5,4,3,2,1:
We'll replace that glove of vasaline with broken bones and blood.
__________________________________

Er, yeah, not some of my best work. Anyway, here's a video. Happy Friday, y'all.




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Thursday, October 11, 2007

   BWAHAHAHAHAHAHHA!!
[INSERT EVIL SNEER HERE]
Hey, guys.
Guess what. My awesometastical new best friend Sebastian tripped That Bitch for me on the bus-ride home from school. It was bloody BRILLIANT. The bastard nearly fell flat on his face. I swear, I'm so marlooching happy, I could cry.
This, of course, calls for mounds upon mounds pictures to celebrate.^^



Yes, that's a naked picture of Daniel Radcliffe. Deal with it.


The sad part is, this is actually 100% true for me.'-___- (Well, technically it was just an ultra naughty Kai Hiwartari fan fict, but still....)


KUMAGOROOOOOOOOOOOO!!!! XD (Yeah, people who don't read/watch Gravitation won't get this...)

And with that, I leave you.

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Monday, October 8, 2007

LET ME BORROW THAT FUCKING TOP!!!
fnanfanfkalnfkent3itjr93hjjs39rj48s....

Recently got an old A.F.I. CD outta the library. I swear, Davey Havoc sounds exactly like a screamo, punk/goth version of Bob Dylan. It's messed up, man.

And, in other news.... Well, there is no other news. Everything is blissfully boring and uneventful.
And thank God, because if I had to put up with 1 more day of that stereo-typical high-school drama shiat, I'd cut off my own face and stick it in a jar of formaldehyde.
Anyway... Here's a video to compensate for my boring-ness.

XD.... Uh-huh.....~Shadowme(Yuki Cold)~
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Friday, October 5, 2007

*DEEP BREATH* Alright. I know most of you will find this unbearably cheesy because, well, everybody does. But it must be said. I'm tired of hiding it. So bear with me. If you don't like it, you can stop reading it.

I.AM.A.JESUS.FREAK. As in, I love God, I love my religion, I love the Blessed Virgin, and I LOVE Christ. To me, he's not just some carving of a person on the cross, he's my friend. My best friend. My everything.
But lately, my relationship with him has been slipping. Every time I pray, instead of actually talking to Him, actually meditating on everything He did and said, I feel like I'm just going through the motions. Because he just feels SO far away. And I believe this is due to the fact that I'm going to public school now. You see, last year, when I was in my home school co-op, we started every Tuesday off with mass and ended with a rosary. Therefore, we prayed a lot more. Not to mention, we were praying with people who KNEW how to pray and this just made the atmosphere automatically more reverent. So with all this religion-oriented stuff, it was easy to maintain a good relationship with God.
However, when I started going to public school... Well, obviously we didn't have a single one of the 3 aforementioned things. Hence my lack of communication with The most Awesometasticalist Person EVA!

My point is, because of this, I might be leaving public school and go back to home-schooling. I don't care if I lose all my friends from school. Quite frankly, I'd trade them all for Him.

Okay, and end cheesy-tasticalness. Who's in the mood for some music? I am!

Ahhhhhhhhhm I love that song. Okay, I feel better.
Love y'all. ~Shadowme
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Wednesday, October 3, 2007

Today was clash day at my school. (F.Y.I.: Clash Day is a day during spirit week in which everybody gets to wear clothes that do NOT match.) Man, it was freakin' awesome. I wore a belt as a choker necklace-slash-collar, a blue pair of leggings under purple jammy shorts with cartoon tropically dressed pigs on them, a red "AMERICAN HOTTIE" T-shirt, and 2 completely different sneakers. Fun, fun, fun. ^^

Now, ordinarily, I wouldn't have supported school spirit at all, because, as we all know school sucks, but, hey, it's fun to not match. Tomorrow is Hawaiian Day. Probably not gonna dress up for that 1. Don't have anything to wear.*shrug* The day after that is School spirit day-GAG ME!-during which there's a Pep rally. The only bad news about this is, that means the homecoming dance is coming up...'''-__- How depressing.

Speaking of which, a certain lying, manipulating Jordan asked me to the dance twice in the past 2 weeks. [INSERT HOSTILE SCOFF HERE]Yeah, after he lied to me about Dan just to see if I would break down in tears when I found out it wasn't true, the bakayaku expects me to DATE him. T-T Yeah, right. *sigh* Man, I got head-aches...
I'm gonna go fry my brain with hours and hours of Civ III now. Love ya'll <3 *hugs and kisses*
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Monday, October 1, 2007

Okay, I just posted the latest chapter of my story and I have 1 thing to say about it: I AM SOOOOOOOOO SORRY!!! I know it was SUCH a disappointment v.v And especially to have kept you waiting so long for! I promise the next one will be better.
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Sunday, September 30, 2007

The Catalyst chapter whichever: "FROM STALKERS TO BODY-GUARDS TO NARRORATORS"
(Authors note: In order to start from the time-frame of which I wish to begin, I'm going to have to let Shanty narrate this chapter. Mostly because he was the only other person there and I am unable to do so because I was unconscious at the time. And, yes, I know, he’s not half the fabulous narrator I am, but give him chance, huh? So, anyway, here we go...)

Okay, everyone still remember where we’re supposed to be in this story? Is everybody still following me?... I didn’t think so. Here, let me do a bit of scene-setting for you.

Where you're supposed to be is some abandoned blood-stained, crudely decorated principles office in some over-crowded, individuality-abolishing public high-school located somewhere in Baltimore County. When you're supposed to be is about 10 or 15 minutes after I got slapped up-side the head and knocked to the ground via an iron candle-stick in the hands of a girl physically fit to put Cal Ripken to shame. (I think Belinda said her name was Cori, or something…)

Understand? No, of course you don’t. You were probably too busy wondering what took our lazy bum of an author so long to write this chapter to have even paid attention. Therefore, let the shoving-of-forgotten-information-down-your-throats begin…

The infamous guitarist of the ultra clichéd Dashi & The Attention Whores, Vashoutoh Malluste, or "God/Kami," as he refers to himself, just escaped about 10 minutes ago by jumping out the window and driving off in whichever-glamour-re-defining-sports-car he’s driving these days. But not before practically stabbing Belinda to death with his oh-so-merciless oral switch-blade of a vocabulary, after murdering about a 4th of her fellow students with the assistance of his army of leather-festooned grim-reaper-wannabes. (Or, “Reapers” as we like to refer to them.) Who, by the way, have all either been knocked out by me and are now gathering dust on the floor or have evacuated the building with their Satin-spawned leader. Oh, and did I mention, due to about a 4th of the school being killed, the police are now starting to arrive in the parking lot, where my extremely suspiciously placed blue Honda is parked? In other words, I have barely any time at all to slip an unconscious, abused-looking student in a bloody sweat-shirt, from a school that has just been invaded, ransacked, and terrorized, past the police, and all the way home, then find a way to sneak her into her own home without breaking in or leaving any suspicious, investigation-inspiring evidence that I was there, and do it all without keeling over from the anguish of the bloody, oh-so-painful contusion at the back of my head. [“Wow…. Run-on sentences, anyone?”-Mikey Ralphson.]

Yeah, I know. It's almost too simple, isn't it?

But, hey, I suppose my rockstar uncle wouldn't have promised to pay me a million dollars or so to endure simple situations. Or ones that don’t involve being whacked and shot at by Reapers and rock/pop star groupies. So, Uncle Jay, if you're reading this: trust me; you are DEFFINITELY getting your money's worth. But I’m getting off topic. So let "The Unconscious Damsel in Distress Being Rescued and Returned Safely Home by her Knight In a Not-so-shining Pair of Girly Jeans And a James Addiction T-shirt" scene commence. And: ACTION!!
My first thoughts, upon picking the girl up were: "Damn. How can anyone so skinny be so freakin' heavy?!" My second thoughts, upon discovering that my new throbbing friend residing at the back of my head didn’t like it when I lifted and carried heavy teenagers, were: "Okay, note to self: never turn your back on the robust chick with the heavy object while trying to apprehend and taunt her celebrity crush." And, my 3rd thoughts, while attempting and, by some miracle, succeeding in denying the police-officers and detectives who were currently gathering in clusters, all over the school, the sight of a certain cuddly-physique’d, girl-pants-wearing nephew of Jason Wenterz transporting a certain statuesque, potential co-lyricist to the formers blue Honda were: "Oy.... Where's an invisibility cloak when you need one?" No, on second thought, forget that: Where's a Marauders Map when you need one? Actually, not even an enchanted map, just a regular one would've sufficed perfectly. And when I say perfectly, I mean PERFECTLY. After all, this was Carnary Hall High-school I had to wonder about in. This was the school of THIRTEEN THOUSAND students. (Well, actually, now it's only about twelve thousand, eight hundred, and seventy-one, considering a 4th of the student population is now dead.) Therefore, it was not only a crowded school, but a colossal school. That stated, you can only imagine the eternity of fun I had searching all over the damn labyrinth of education for a single stair-well that wasn't being investigated by police and that led straight to the parking-lot. Eventually, I just ended up taking the fire escape. (Why I didn't think of that earlier I have no idea.)

So I shuffle down the stairs of the oh-so-blessedly conveniently placed escape, make sure I sneak past the cop-cars as discreetly clandestine as I can, haul my motionless body-shaped cargo into the front passenger seat, slide into the alcove in front of the stirring wheel, and, finally, leave. However, right before I accelerate into high velocity mode, I pause to dart a weary glance at the clock. 2 in the afternoon. And yet, it already feels like midnight. Looks like it too, the sky being plagued with thunder, lightening, and rain, and being entirely devoid of sun-shine, and all. However, at that moment, I hadn't any more time to reflect on the horrible weather, as my restless heart was now screaming for the momentum of a long, numbing, relaxing car-ride. So I drove. And while I did so, I couldn't help listlessly reminiscing about the "good old days." If this had ever happened 2 years ago, with Natalie in the place of Belinda/Yuki, I would've probably been sick with hysteria by now. If it were Natalie, part of me would be sick with paranoia that she might never awaken, part of me would be overjoyed that I had received the privilege of driving her home, part of me would be in total infatuated awe of her supreme radiance, and most of me would be over-come with the oh-so-irrepressible urge to pull over at a vacant parking-lot somewhere and run my fingers through that cloud of golden hair, over that melancholy, oh-so-adorably pugnacious face, and across those pigments of golden-brown, soft, silken skin. (Hmmmm.... I wonder if obsession is as obsessed with me as I am addicted to obsession.)

The good news is, that this is not 2 years ago and therefore the unconscious young lady in the passenger seat is not Natalie. At all. In fact, so far, Amy Winehouse and Joseph Stalin seem to be more alike than Belinda Sako and Natty Haruhi. Meaning, she is not at all at risk of being molested/harassed by me.
Oh, don't get me wrong, the girl was a cute kid and all and, hell, with a bit of eye-liner, lip-gloss, and a less frumpy shirt she might even be able to pass for a teen model. But she wasn't Natty. And it wasn't just the fact that she wasn't Asian, short, and blonde. Or that she didn’t wear a third of the amount of eye make-up SHE did. Or that her legs looked positively mutilated. Or that her hair didn’t do that cute flippy-floppy thing that Natalie’s always did. So, what was it, then? What was it that convinced me she wasn't anything like HER? Well, for one thing, Natty wouldn't be caught dead wearing a rosary bracelet like Belinda was. Natalie was not simply agnostic; she was the dictionary definition of cynical. She believed in God, but as far as I knew, she never believed he cared, never believed He could be trusted with her life much less those of man-kind.
Secondly, Natty would've never let Vashoutoh orally obliterate her the way he did Belinda. No, the jaded little punk had far too much of a quick temper to take vocal assaults from the likes of Vashoutoh Malluste.

Then again, it probably wouldn’t have mattered, because Natty would have never been captured by Malluste in the first place. In fact, at the time, she would either most likely be skipping school or fearlessly fighting against the Reapers. Therefore, Vashoutoh either wouldn’t have known where to look or Natalie would have gotten herself killed before he could even get a chance to meet her. Whereas, Belinda was simply on her way to the bath-room when she saw some guy she knew being harassed and shot by a reaper, got scared, and was hidden in a closet by some janitor who just happened to be in the hall-way at the time. Nuff said.

So, unless you have any interest in watching me drive and Belinda spontaneously blurt out incoherent things in her sleep such as: "DO NOT INTERRUPT THE MOMENTUM OF A VENGEFUL BANANA-DANCING JURISDICTION!,” I suggest you skip to the part where I arrive at Belinda's house. It was a reasonably wide, respectable-looking rancher with a gratuitously big yard containing a swing-set and a sliding-board discreetly stationed at the edge of the property. And not only that, but it appeared to be located in a reasonably decent/G-rated community. This either meant Belinda's family was somewhat rich or she simply had a lot of siblings that required a lot of room and security. (I found out later that it was the latter. Bel-Bel's the eldest of 6 kids.) Her house was, as Uncle Jay mentioned to me 1 or 2 hours/eternities ago, very close to my dwelling. In fact, there was but a not-so-steep hill and about several or so houses along the way separating us. This would make stalking/guarding her indisputably easy. Matter of fact, I kind of wish sneaking her into her own house could've been just as obviously easy.

After all, I just wouldn't feel right about leaving her out-side on such a rainy, freezing day. I could tell she already had a cold from the congested sound of her voice and her swollen-looking glands. If I left her out now, she might catch pneumonia. And I just wouldn't be able to answer to my conscience if I ended up making her even MORE sick. I sat with her on the sheltered, roof-covered porch for about 5 minutes, meditating on how to sneak her inside. If the house had been vacant, I could've simply used my lock-picking kit to open up a door. But since at least one parent was home, as I could tell by the white mini-van in the drive-way, I would probably have to be more discreet about it. "Damn. This is gonna be tricky," I half-sighed, half-complained wearily to no one in particular. Because, really, who was there to complain particularly to? After all, since I was the only person on the porch who was awake, I wasn't really anticipating a response. Nevertheless, I still got one.
"Huh...? What're you talkin' about? Dude, it's like so simple..." Belinda half-droned, half-replied in her sleep.
However, she was obviously dreaming about something completely differing from the subject of my contemplation, because the next thing out of her mouth was: "All ya gotta do is move your hand down a bit, then a few inches to the left. Like this-" She then demonstrated with her own hand the instructions she had just given. The only problem with this was, at the time, I was holding her in my lap, cuddled in my arms to keep her warm. Meaning her hand was then benignly slumped against my hip. So when she moved her hand "down a bit, then a few inches to the left," and jiggled her fingers against the crotch of my jeans, well, it was a rather awkward moment. However, she obviously hadn't meant to do anything so risqué; her being entirely unconscious at the time and all. (Or, at least, she CLAIMS to have been…) And as if this wasn’t sufficient enough evidence of her blamelessness, the next words her sub-conscious chose to produce were: "There, you see, Caiden? It's totally easy. All you gotta do is that with the albino elf. And then, all the candy should come out of the hemorrhoids-shaped piñata, so Beckett the evil Care Bear-seducer shall be defeated, and all the good citizens of Podleville will be saved." ("Hey! Who're you calling an evil Care Bear-seducer?!"-William Beckett) So, unless you consider dreams about hemorrhoid-shaped piñatas, albino elves, and Podleville-dominating Care Bear-seducers, who are apparently distant relatives of a certain brown-haired, tight pants-wearing Academy member, to be at all "Sigmund Froidian" fantasies, I'd consider the whole potential sexual harassment law suit nothing more than an accident. However, that does not mean I did not have a reaction to being groped by a sleeping someone at least 5 years younger than me. In fact, I nearly jumped. Nearly jumped, nearly threw Belinda 10 feet in the air, and nearly broke into a fit of less-than-polite exclamations. But by some miracle, I managed to not throw the fit of the century. Matter of fact, I decided to pretend it never happened. (Pretend it never happened until now. And now that I did remember it, I have only one comment: BOUNDRIES, Belinda. BOUNDRIES.) [And, yes, I know I’m a baby, but I’m the only narrator you got right now, so ---ing DEAL.]

Anyway, after racking my mentality for the best (and most discreet) way to get Belinda safely inside for about 3 more minutes, I finally concluded that there was simply no better way than to place Belinda in front of the door, ring the door-bell, and hope either one of her siblings or parents came to bring her in. So I did. But after I rang the door-bell, I darted behind one of the brick pillars that was supporting the porches roof and that was just big enough to conceal my lithe frame, so as not to be seen. (Ahhhh, I’m feeling like a stalker again already.)

I heard the door being open and half of an inquisitive, masculine-sounding “hello?” which was cut off by a horrified gasp as whoever the greeter was viewed the unconscious Belinda strewn across the concrete. While he was distracted by what looked like the corpse of Belinda “Yuki Shadowme” Sacko, I dared to dart a glance at him from my hiding place behind the pillar. He was a lanky, somewhat cherubic-faced boy who looked to be about 13 with short, sandy blonde hair, brown eyes, and pimply, pink-ish, adolescent skin. He was evidently one of Belinda’s little brothers, because the next thing he did was hysterically thunder back into the house with an urgent call of “MOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!!!!” probably assuming the worst about the abused-looking semi-cadaver left on the porch. “Oh, relax, Robert.” mumbled said abused-looking semi-cadaver in response to the summoning of her mother. “It’s ONLY Marilynn Mansion’s doppelganger. No need to drag mum into this…”

While being introduced to the aforementioned satanic, holder of “your lovey-dovey sad-and-lonely” and receiver of your “Tainted Love” doppelganger, Belinda was then promptly carried inside by her mother and little brother.
And, while this so-called “ending” of my part in this installment of The Catalyst is the very dictionary definition of anti-climatic, I am afraid I did not do a single other interesting thing for the rest of the day. Therefore: The end. So long and good night

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Saturday, September 29, 2007

Errrrrrrrgh.......... SATTTTURRRRRRRRRDAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!
"2 more weeks, my foot is in the door."
''-__- Well, nothing worth mentioning really happened yesterday except that one of my poems I submitted to my schools Fall poetry festival thingie may or may not be published in the school paper on Monday. I guess we'll have to wait and see. Other than that, I've got another short story for y'all about/inspired by That Bitch. This one's a bit less of an autobiography though and doesn't really have an ending. But I figure I put way too much effort into it for it to be gathering dust in my word document forever, so here it is:

PROLOGUE


Hey.
See that guy over there? The oh-so-hideously adorable one with the scar on his nose, the lost patience in his confused hazel eyes, and the oh-so-inviting tuffs of light brown hair concealing the majority of his cream-colored fore-head?
No, of course you don't. If you did, I wouldn't have to ask. Because if you did, I would already be able to tell by the way you would now be gaping incredulously at him, over-flowing with disbelief, as you wondered what the suicidal sheep he's doing here, on the bus to Perry Hall High, when, according to pretty much everybody, he's supposed to be being slowly crushed to death between the thoroughly massacred realms of his sub-conscious and the blankets of a too-clean hospice bed in a too-clean hospice room, plugged into some sort of ultra complex life-support system, with the clip-board beside his bed identifying him as” DANIEL AARON PRETTY," located somewhere in the quarantine wings of St. Menus's Hospital. What you would do next really depends on the relationship you had with the aforementioned Daniel. If you were one who simply knew but did not talk to him, you would merely continue to stare at him and ejaculate some dumb-founded exclamation. If you were a bit closer to him than this, you would disbelievingly address him to make sure you weren’t just hallucinating, and then begin to excitedly interrogate him as to how he made out of his coma so easily and so suddenly. If you were even closer to him then this and had spent the entire weekend practically choking yourself to death on your own paranoia that he might never wake up, you would unhesitatingly give some exclamation of euphoria at seeing him awake and seemingly healthy and then half-tackle, half-hug him to the ground.

Or, if your relationship to Dan was anything like mine, you would simply stare at him perplexedly for a few minutes, contemplating his unexpected (and unwanted) prescience, then infer that, judging by the fact that no one except you seems to be able to hear or see him, he must be a ghost of some kind. And then, assuming you loved/hated/stalked/wanted to molest him as much as I did, you would of course watch with unlimited mirth and malicious bemusement as Dan practically re-kills himself trying to be heard through the oh-so-uncompromising line dividing the plane of the living and the plane of the dead. Trying to be heard through the oh-so-uncompromising line dividing the plane of the living and the plane of the dead, and then fail miserably because apparently, for some stupid reason, I'm the only one who can see/hear him. Ya dig?
No, of course you don’t.
You were probably too busy wondering how many hoops I had to jump through to avoid being sued due to all the similarities between the plot of this story and that of “The Invisible” to have even paid attention. (Which reminds me: BITE ME, COPY RIGHT INFRINGEMENT!!)

So, here, let me sum up what you missed: Daniel Aaron Pretty is in coma. A fraction of his soul (A.K.A. his ghost) is now haunting the school-bus. And due to it being utterly impossible for him to interact with anybody he deems worth interacting with, he is now on the verge of turning into a Poltergeist. Okay? Okay. And why does this concept make me so happy, you ask? Why does the thought of being attacked by a malevolent spirit make me squeal with glee? Because it’ll be DANNY’S malevolent spirit. It’ll be DANNY’S frustration and anguish. It’ll be DANNY who’s the desperate ghost. And, that, dear readers, is just another reminder that he’s dead. He’s finally dead. As in, nothing more than a gloomy manifestation of a failure to let go of a lost life. A lingering spirit. A symbol of an oh-so-misplaced admiration and an ancient grudge. A wretched reminder of what I could’ve had but was always too much of a coward to obtain. And for this, I hate him. Hence my pleasure in his torment. However, it is not solely vengeance that has made me so happy.

No, it’s actually mostly the fact that now he’s just as invisible and unalive as I am. And that, dear readers, makes us even.

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