Monday, September 3, 2007

I'VE GOT HEAD-ACHES AND BAD-LUCK... AND WRITERS BLOCK
Well.... It's labor day.... And I'm sleepy. And, er... That's it. O_o Other than that, all I've got is writers block and unrequited love. Therefore, we shall now refer to labor day as "What the bulimic monkeys am I supposed to say/write/draw?!" day. kinda like how what was formerly known as Valentines Day is now "Give me candy!" day.(Not to be confused with Halloween... Although considering how horrific love actually is, I might just combine Halloween with Valentines day. Yeah, that would make sense.) So, anyway, Happy "What The Bulimic Monkey Am I Supposed to Write/say/draw?!?!" Day, guys.^^ See y'all tomorrow.~Shadowme
Comments (4) | Permalink

Friday, August 31, 2007

..Oy.....''''''''''''''''''''-______________--
It's Friday. OH.MY.P.M.S., thank God it's Friday. *collapses* Guys, I am so worn out. I swear, I could throw up. And in continuation of this glum, ungrateful mood: ONWARD WITH THE COMPLAINING!!

Okay, first off, my gym teacher is a bitch.Ya see, I accidentally left the paper, on which my locker combination was written, at home today and when I tried to get it from her, I was stupid and didn't write it down, so I forgot. So I went to get it from her a second and apologized that I had to ask again. She looked at me as if I had just shoved half-rotten animal guts in her face. I nearly cried! I mean, I understand I was stupid for not writing it down the first time, but she doesn't have to telepathically slap me for it! T_T Seriously.

Secondly, my math assistance teacher, Mrs.Pipkin, has absolutely no idea how to teach kids with math-learning disabilities. I mean, you'd think she would, considering she teaches a class called math ASSISTANCE: hence she teaches kids with special needs all day, but no, she's completely unqualified for the job. It's freaking maddening! I swear, you have no idea how obvious it is that she just wants to rush through the entire course and barely cares at all about our education. *exasperated sigh* Man, math is hard enough for me without all these apathetic ass-holes complicating it even more...'''-___- (Although, my other Algebra teacher, Ms.Imwold, is actually helping me, which makes her bloody awesome.)
And then there's all this despair-inspiring unrequited love shit I have to deal with... ///_-
Which brings us to our emo poem of the day.

You're a heart-ache, I'm a head-ache.
But I suppose it doesn't matter now that we're both about to break.
I am now and forever stuck between wishing you cared and wishing I didn't.
And, oh, don't play dumb. We both knew how this was going to end.
With me slipping on banana-peels and you walking on egg shells.
I was never chronically depressed, just chronically addicted.
Comments (1) | Permalink

Tuesday, August 28, 2007

Damn it... '-___- Twas the 2nd day of school. It was far worse than the first. Why? Well, 1st of all, I got lost. Then, I got my MODS confused and I was in lunch when I was supposed to be in American Government. Which would explain about 45 minutes of the damn class.//___- I also ended up writing a bunch of emo poetry about my latest obsession.(A.K.A. Some pretty-ful guy who lives in my neighborhood.) Argh... I swear, it's like the "Danny incident" all over again, only worse because now I actually have to deal with the son of a bitch in real life. Hence, I repeat:ARGH!!!>:(
*sigh*... But I'll leave the rest of the emo-ness for this post up to the professionals.
Translation:Shut up and watch the videos I'm about to post.


I know it's a crappy vid, but I love the song. Alright, I'm gonna do my best to survive another suicide year. Y'all stay beautiful,kay? Kay. Love,Shadowme(Because I sure as Hell don't)
Comments (2) | Permalink

Sunday, August 26, 2007

The Catalyst, chapter 10:WHEN NOBODIES WANNA BE SOMEBODIES...
Tmp, tmp, tmp, tmp...
There is nothing left in this eerily abandoned hall-way but the hallow sound of the Reapers foot-steps as they march and the horrible sight of the bullet-pierced cadavers littering the blood-stained floor. (For obvious reasons, I do my best to avoid looking at the floor.) Every now and then, I risk a glance at the ominous, morbid, graceful-enough-to-be-ghost-like figures semi-walking, semi-floating beside, behind, and in front of me. They are all so sleek-looking. There is not a single out-of-shape or frail-looking one among them. However, I'd say they're more acrobat-like than muscular. Meaning, they're not just bulky, but they're also statuesque enough to move so gracefully to a point where they almost don't look human. Every step, every swing of their arms, every wiggle of their fingers looks so fluent and natural that if they hadn't just wiped out a third of my school, I'd assume they were all professional dancers. Of course, the other thing that would throw me from this assumption would be that not all of them appeared to be in the same range of age. Hell, some of them even looked as if they were a year or 2 younger than me! And, for this, I only had one comment: What kind of gang, or clique, or mafia, or whatever the hell this was forced mere pre-teens and young teenagers to be MURDERERS? I mean, they were only KIDS! Who would possibly be sick enough, besides terrorists and the like, to let a mere child wield a gun? I mean, did they have any idea what that did to their child-hood, their innocence, their SOULS?? They might as well be raping 3-year-olds, the sick sons of bitches!

For this, I shot the adult reapers what I hoped was the most venomous glare I had ever performed. They didn't notice. But I felt 100 percent assured that they would in a few seconds when these empty hall-ways were reverberating with my screamed lecture/blasting-spree on just how corrupted they were. Fortunately for them, however, I never got the chance to throw the semi-tantrum, semi-lecture, semi-blasting-spree I had been saving especially for Hell-spawned psychos like them, because just then we reached our destination. Which was the principles office. Or, at least, what USED to be the principles office. Now, it was evidently head-quarters for whichever-spawn-of-a-witch-doctors-toilet was the leader of these horrible creatures. (After all, I highly doubt that the principle would hire a gang of mass murderers and set them loose upon his precious school just to track me down and ask me why my grades have been slipping.)

One of the reapers, who had been walking at the front of the group and looked to be about fifty-something, walked up to the office door and knocked. "Master Kami? We found her." The lead reaper announced. And from beyond the door, there came a reply: "Very good. Bring her in. The door's unlocked." And, sure enough, it was. So they did. The room hadn't changed much since it's pre-Massacre life-time. In fact, the only thing that was really different about it was the blood-stains on the carpet. And, of course, the fact that the person who now sat in the principles chair was no longer the principle, but the leader of the reapers. And since he was their leader, it only makes sense that he would be wearing their uniform too, right? Wrong. Oh, no, for if he were to wear those oh-so-elegantly subtle black robes with the matching halo, that would mean he actually had a whole other reason to get dressed besides to call attention to himself. Or rather, to BEG for attention for himself. His shirt was nonexistent, his scarlet vest was too small and louder than a screamo concert, his pants were black and ripped to a point of semi-transperent-ness, his top-hat was auburn, and his tights were royal purple. (Yes. He was wearing tights. Oh, God help us...) And then there was his mask. Oh my bulimic pigs, his mask! It was one of those really pointy-nosed New Orleans ones, which are designed to look like the faces of birds. Only, it was painted every flamboyant color "Master Kami" could have possibly fit on it. Um, yeah. Can you say magenta, chartreuse, mauve, aqua, aubergine, and tangerine? (No, seriously, can you?.... Yes? Good. Now, try to spell them without looking at this page.) For a few seconds, all I did was stand in the door-way, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the intensity of Kami's ensamble. No such luck. My eyes still burned. My head still throbbed. My vision still blurred. And my inner stylist still sputtered dissaprovingly. My first thoughts upon seeing this Kami character were somewhere along the lines of: "Dear Gawd, I'm about to be interrogated by Freddie Mercury reincarnated!" I also had to wonder why he had gone through so much trouble to get me here. And then, as if on cue, Kami Mercury looked up from the magazine he was reading, slid his eyes analytically up and down my willowy, fragile frame, then said casually: "So, you're Jason Wenterz's favorite groupie, eh?"

My shocked response was instantaneous. "W-what?!! Where the Hell did you hear that?!!" There were only 2 people in the world who I EVER let accuse me of being a groupie. Cassie and Aaya. (Well, actually they were only teasing me, but still...) And not even they ever had the nerve to call me a Jay Wen chaser. I mean, it is one of the most obvious things in the world that I don't like Wenterz THAT WAY. I never fantasized about meeting him, I never blushed when he looked at the camera while I was watching him on TV, I never fell asleep reading the Mobile Fallout Shelter lyrics in the hope of making some sort of romantic mental connection with him, and I have NEVER wanted to even kiss him much less be his concubine. Matter of fact, he often scares the living crap out of me. I never fantasized about meeting him, I had bone-chilling night-mares about meeting him. I don't blush when he looks at the camera, I turn pale with dread when he looks at the camera. I don't spend my nights trying to relate to him through his lyrics, I spend my nostalgic moments wondering what the Hell he was thinking when he got that hideous buzzcutt. So no. I am not Jasons groupie any more than Tiger Woods is the queen of England.

Instead of answering me, Kami shifted his gaze to my legs and held it there. "Nice scars."

"Huh?"

"The scars. On your legs. They're cute. I like 'em. Did you do that yourself?" There was a note of admiration in his voice as he said this. Even though he was wearing a mask, I could tell he was smiling. Smiling in the manner a heavy metal fan does when he sees a fellow fan thrashing to the chaotic riffs of "Chop Suey" by System of a Down.

"Um, on accident, yeah. I fell off my scooter 1 day and they got scraped on pieces of glass."

"Oh..." He was obviously disappointed that I hadn't gotten the apparently "cute" scars on purpose. Well, there goes our potential fellowship..."Well, they're pretty, anyway." He said, then pointed to a rather-oddly shaped one above my knee and remarked: "That one there looks kinda like a microphone."

"Oh. Really? Uh, thanks." I stammered awkwardly, still struggling with the concept of it being possible for scars to be "cute." It was then that I noticed all the permanent white slit-marks adorning Kami's wrists, arms, shoulders, and neck. What REALLY creeped me out was the one on his arm that featured a skin-carving of a shattered heart, which was beneath the engraving of the morbidly sarcastic question: "WERE YOU USING THAT?" It was creepy because, except for the fact that it was white and a little less noticeable, it looked more like a tattoo than a scar. Meaning, not only did he not consider cutting a sin, but he also thought of self-mutilation as an ART-FORM. In his mind, it was about as shameful as getting his ear pierced. In his mind, every single suicide was the ultimate master-piece. And that probably meant that he thought pain, affliction, and suffering were beautiful too. To prove this, he also had what looked like a cigarette burn or 2 on his neck, in the center of a scar that was designed to look like a choker necklace. I suppose the burns were supposed to be gems or charms on the "necklace," or something.

Suddenly, pointing at my wrist, he remarked: "But that one there looks a bit plain. Rather crude, actually. How'd you get it?"

"Wha...? Oh, this?" I indicated the slit-shaped scar on my wrist. "That's, uh, just a birth-mark." Well, actually it was a 7-months-after-my-birth-mark. But I never felt like repeating the story of how I got it, so whenever anyone asked about it, I managed to pass it off as a birth-mark. However the truth was, if my cousin Jack hadn't caught his Pagen friend, nick-named "Goethe," in the act of trying to sacrifice me to the Devil in order to cast some sort of sick spell all those years ago, the so-called "birth-mark" most likely would've been a death-mark. Hence my parents never letting any of my baby-sitters ever have friends over our house again. (In fact, for the longest time, they didn't let anyone watch me besides my grand-mom.) According to Jack, he hadn't known Goethe was even in a cult much less one that allowed human sacrifice. Back then, Goethe had been nothing to Jack but some blonde, frizzy-haired kid he was rather fond of and in a band with. Never in his life did Jack dream that Goethe would even entertain the idea of attempting to bleed an infant to death. Especially not Jacks 7-month-old cousin. And yet here I am, 15 years later with a slit on my wrist and a nasty scar on my chest from where he stabbed me. However, what really creeped me out about this oh-so-disturbing occurance is that the Goth's spell had required me to be bled to death as well as few drops of his blood mingled with mine. Meaning, I've got his satanic, human-sacrificing, filthy, filthy blood in my veins. And somewhere out there, he's got a great deal of mine in his. (EWWWWWWW!!) For obvious reasons, I did my best not to think about this. So once the lie about my "birth-mark" had been uttered, I went right back to staring and being scandalized by Kami's so-called "body-art."

Unfortunately, my staring at his many "master-pieces" of what he thought of as "body-art" did not go unnoticed. "What'cha lookin'at, love?" He asked, following my gaze to his semi-severed body. "Oh, this?" he pointed to the choker."That's nothing! You should see the one my dad gave me for my 16th birthday." And then, he hiked up the bottom of his buttoned vest a few inches, taking a moment to inform me, with excited pride: "Now, this one's my favorite!" And sure enough, there it was. His favorite scar, just above his stomach. It was a single searing word, written in bold, shameless, capitalized letters, right across his rib-cage: "BLASPHEMER" For a few seconds, all I did was stand and stare, shocked and scandalized. It wasn't so much the word that chilled me as much as it was the fact that his FATHER had done this to him. His own FATHER had cut Kami open in the shape of his label. His own FATHER had mutilized him. His own FATHER had probably nearly bled him to death.

"Well?" He said hopefully, smiling from ear to ear, obviously over-flowing with pride for his favorite "master-piece." "What do you think?"

"Um..." I stammered, unable to look away from the horrible former wound. And yet, considering this mentally ill scar-addicts alias, Kami, was Japanese for "god," I suppose his father had him labled correctly. But before I could say anything offensive, it then occurred to me that I am at the mercy of this self-mutilating prince of insanity, and that if I ever hope to get out of here alive, there is no doubt that I'll have to tell him what he wants to hear. So I play along. "I-I love it! It's brilliant! Very, um, defiant.But... Why does it say 'blasphemer'?"

At this question, the smile on his face automatically disappears and even though he's wearing a mask, I can just feel his eyes darkening. "Well... That's a long story." ("It's a long story that your alias is the Japanese word for god? Um, dude, I can sum up that story in two words: Superiority complex."-Andy Warrest) And then came the uncomfortable pause. During which, Kami sat there, radiating morbid nostalgia as if grudges and hateful reveries had suddenly replaced oxoygen for him, and the recollection of his apparently tragic past was the only thing that filled his lungs. (Seriously, I was nearly suffocated to death on his hateful, brooding radiation!) Well, actually I suppose I can't really count it as a pause because during the whatever-it-was, Kami muttered softly: "He didn't approve of my art, my father..." Pause, pause, pause... And then, once he was over it, he did what any naturally flamboyant Freddie Mercury incarnate would do: he acted as if the awkward pause had never happened. "So anyway-!" He cheered in a frolicsome tone that was so perky it made me question his masculinity. "Have a seat!" This command was accompanied by an overly theatrical hand-gesture to a vacant chair and a maniacal grin equal to that of the Batmans' Joker. Now, I was too frightened that if I disobeyed, he might start speaking in that horrifying falsetto again. So I sat.


The second I did so, in the indicated chair, the reapers, who, I just noticed, never left the room, immediately tied me to the seat so I couldn't escape. (Hmmm, why do I suddenly feel as if something painful is about to happen?) But Kami, being the sinisterly smiling psycho that he was, just continued to beam at me as if it was the most naturally courteous deed in the world for the host to tie their guests to chairs. "So," he chirped, once the tying was complete; "I heard you got to meet Jay Wenterz yesterday. That must've been cool."

"Umm... Actually it was a little strange."

"Hmm. You don't say..." mused Kami. Then he held up the magazine article he had been reading and informs me that: "This magazine thought so too."

At the sight of the magazine, I gasp. Oh,crap. Crappy, crappy, crappity, crap! There, at the top of the page blazes the caption: "LONG-LOST NIECE OR SECRET LOVER?" And beneath it is a picture of Jason kissing me on the fore-head in the air-port parking-lot. This cannot be happening. My "I-think-Jason-Wenterz-is-over-rated" reputation is completely ruined! Just to make sure it's real,-and I hope to God that it's not;-I swipe the article from Kami's hand and start to read, in total horror, as the horrid publication proclaims me as either a teen prostitute or some kind of over-ambitious Wenterz fan-girl.

At my aghast reaction to the story, Kami chuckles. "Yeah, congratulations, sweetie," he says. "You're famous!"

And with that, he takes the magazine back into his hands and, with a look of the utmost seriousness, tells me: "Turst me, kid, you don't want to know the rest of the theories. It only gets worse. But basically, the gist of the article is that Wenterz invited you over for some 'weekend fun.'" When he sees the miserable expression on my face, he hastily adds: "But you must remember, this is the exact same --- that said Cameran Diez was gonna run for president, so I don't think any sane person would trust these so-called 'reporters' opinions too far. I know I don't." And just to be sure I cheered up, he threw in a sincere "I'm-on-your-side" smile with a charismatic wink just in case. (And, of course, I was instantly set at ease, because if not even Kami, the most insane person I have ever met, believes these rumors, I've really got nothing to worry about.)

I smiled back. "Thanks, Kam." (Although, if you expect me to call you "God," in either English or Japanese, you're seriously deranged.)

"Any time, honey! But, uhhhh, just outta curiosity: why were you with Wenterz yesterday?"

"Oh... Um, he asked me to be the co-lyricist for Mobile Fallout Shelter. Apparently he's having a bit of writers-block. I turned him down though."

For a minute or two after I told him this, he just stared at me with a face full of disbelief. Then, his expression morphed into a sort of relieved smile and he said "Good. That was a very good call on your part. Turning him down, I mean." He then shakes his head, semi-bemused, semi-dissaprovingly, as if smiling at someone elses stupidity, while saying: "I mean, YOU? As a CO-LYRICIST?? For the HUMAN ---ING SHIELDS?!" He laughs: "What was Wenterz thinking?! You're not even fit to be a ROADIE for his band!" I didn't join him in his Wenterz-mocking. He was obviously making fun of me too. And sure enough, the next words to come out of his mouth were: "I mean, I could understand hiring a co-lyricist. Even a teenage lyricist! But YOU?! No ---ing way, man!" At this, I just had to speak up.

"And what makes you think I would do such a crappy job?" My voice was half full of acid and hurt pride. And so was my heart. "After all, you don't even know me!"

At this, he stopped laughing. He cocked his head to one side and, as if contemplating a particularly confusing line of poetry, softly repeated: "Don't even know you...?" He smiled. He blinked. He chuckled. He said: "My dear girl, just because you don't know me, don't assume I don't know you. Matter of fact, I know all about you. I know exactly who and what you are."

I get the feeling the only reason he calls me "dear girl" and "honey" is because he can't remember my name. He obviously doesn't give a rats ass about me. Not pleased with his arrogance, I replied: "Oh, really." Not a question. Just an answer. And a sardonic one at that.

"Yeah. Really." His voice was icy. His expression was emotionless.

My eyes narrowed defiantly. "Well... prove it."

"Okay," he accepted my challenge. And then, without the least bit of hesitance or mercy, he began spewing out the most personal details of my soul and identity. All of my secrets. " You're in love with some super difficult, over-dramatic-enough-to-be-masochistic li'l pretty boy who either doesn't know or doesn't care that you exist, but you're ashamed of it because the only reason you like him is because he just seems SO mysterious and SO beautifully enigmatic. But mostly just because he's cute. This shows that you're shallow and you hate that. Which is why you're never able to admit you love him. As for religion, you come from a very pious family and you not-so-secretly long for saint-hood. In fact, you're considering entering a convent when you're older because you believe that you're not meant to get married because almost every guy outside you're family always treated you like crap or like you don't exist. And that drives you absolutely insane inside because you're secretly starving to death for affection, even though you'd never admit it. Hell, even if there was a possibility of you not dying miserable, alone, and horny, you know you wouldn't be able to commit to a long-term relationship anyway. You're too lazy, too narcissistic. You're only ever in it for the fun. Which is ironic, considering how much you resent men for only caring about the physical ---. Yet you're almost the exact same way. Therefore, you are both a hypocrite and a superficial li'l bitch. Hence, you hating yourself... And to everybody who has ever known you, it appears as if you like you're invisibility, as if you flow with it 100 percent naturally. Almost as if you're immune to loneliness. You lie to them and say that you do.... But you don't." Pause... He tries to look into my eyes, tries to guess what I'm thinking. I look away. But I can still tell he's giving me one of those haughty sneers that seems to maliciously inquire: "Shall I go on or have you heard enough?" I have heard enough. No matter. He goes on. "You hate it. Even though you've learned to tolerate it, even though you've already learned that you're better off alone and invisible, and even though you claim to be immune to loneliness, you can't stand it. And every now and then-every oh-so-rare now and then- you get a very powerful urge to defeat that invisibility, that feeling of insignificance, and to be noticed. To stand out.... To feel special.To BE special." And then, there was another pause. I suspect the reason behind this pause was to see my reaction. So far, I just kept my gaze down-ward and my lip bitten, obviously embarrassed. I feel as if he's staring right through me. Almost like he's examining my soul naked. This is impossible. He knows me almost as well as I know myself.
Then, in the same solemn, calm voice, he continues: "And your parents, who love you more than you will ever know, always tell you that you ARE special and that they love you. But it's not enough for you to be told. Especially not by your family. No, you want someone to prove it to you. What you REALLY want is one of your precious pretty boys or crushes or whatever you call them, to love you back. But they never will. Because they don't know how. Hell, they barely even know you exist." Another pause. Dot, dot, dot, dot... "And you're too scared to prove your significance to yourself. Too scared to do it by yourself. So, as a result, you have no confidence and very little self-worth. Which is why you are forced to thrive on the praise you receive from everybody else..... Everybody but you." Another pause. He appears to have no more to say. I still don't meet his eyes. But I do speak. In a quiet, strangled murmur of a voice, but I speak nonetheless.
"How...? How did you know...?"

"Because, honey, there are 1000 other girls just like you. Flitting about, always trying to convince themselves that they're something special, always over-compensating for their dullness by being so creative, so original... Always trying to earn some extra praise so they can get through the day. Because God forbid they should ever be left alone with that voice of their self-loathing complex at the back of their head, telling them they're nothing. And you know, kid, there's a word for people like you: Wannabes."
At this, my gaze instantaneously shot back to his face. Was I pissed? You bet I was."What?!"
"Oh, I'm sorry," he said, with mock apology, seeing the furious snarl wrinkling my face. "I suppose the more accurate term would be attention whore."
I could feel the blood rush to my face, as the anger hardened my heart and spawned 10000 violent, malicious images of various cruel misfortunes be-falling Kami.
"Be quiet." I command, stonily.
He ignores me. "And that, sweetie, is why it is utter insanity to think that you're not even worthy of being a roadie for M.F.O.S. And even if you were-"
"I-I said be quiet!"
"-they would still eat you alive."
"Shut up!"
"Because, you're right- you are NOT special. Because people who are, KNOW they are. They don't need to thrive on praise and compliments like you s-"
"HEY!!! I THOUGHT I TOLD YOU TO SHUT UP, ASSWIPE!!!" I scream, forgetting that I am at the mercy of said ass-wipe. "WEREN'T YOU LISTENING?!?!?! I ALREADY TOLD JASON NO!!!! YOU DON'T NEED TO BITCH ME UP LIKE THIS!!! I NEVER ACCEPTED THE DAMN JOB, OKAY?!?!!??!!! AND HOW CAN YOU POSSIBLY CALL me AN ATTENTION WHORE, WHEN you're THE ONE DRESSED LIKE A ----ING CIRCUS CLOWN!!!!!!"
For a few semi-awkward seconds after that, nothing filled the room but the sound of me trying to catch my breath and the semi-afraid, semi-bemused expression on Kami's face. Evidently he never expected me to fight back. When he doesn't say anything, I take it upon myself to go on. "And besides," I murmur with as much intensity as I can muster, looking him straight in the eye. "If I'm such a pathetic little attention whore, then why are you so damn jealous?"

He didn't try to deny it. He didn't admit that he was either. But I could tell by the solemn solemn, unsmiling look on his face that I had definitely called him on something. With the same lack-of-a-smile adorning his masked face, he rose from his seat, locked the door to the principles office, and came over to my side of the desk. Leaning over to peer into my defiant gaze, he whispered: "Do you know why I had you tied up?"

"No. Why?"

"Well... Before I killed you, I just wanted to mark you as what you are." As he said this, he went back over to the other side of the desk and retrieved something out of one of the drawers. It was a knife. A carving knife. Holding the knife to my chin, thus forcing me to look into the shadow of his mask where his eyes should be, he smiled insidiously. "So, let the branding begin." And, to my horror, it did. He lifted up my shirt just enough to bare the bottom of my rib-cage and started to rake the blade across my stomach. Whatever word he was carving, he was carving it in the exact same place where he had his "BLASPHEMER" scar, and with the exact same blatant, shameless letters. Did it hurt? Hell yeah. But I wasn't so much in pain as much I was scared. Like, completely terrified. I mean, after this, Kami planned on KILLING ME! The questions and the matching paranoia kept racing through my mind: Would dying hurt? Would he chose to kill me quickly or just torture me until I begged for death? And what would happen once I died? Where would I go? Would I simply cease to exist? Or would I go to Heaven? Or Purgatory? Or Hell? Well, I guess all these questions would be answered soon enough. After all, I was already seeing my life flash before my eyes. Oh, and what a short life it was! Too short. Far, far, far too short. Now, what occurred next is very hard to describe, because it all happened so fast. So please forgive me if the following events seem a little confusing. Well, lets see...

First, Kami finished engraving his latest "body-art masterpiece" into my stomach and told me so. Then, one of the reapers handed him a gun and he aimed it at me, saying: "Well, princess... I guess all that work you put into being a 'good Catholic' is finally going to pay off, eh?" He didn't smile when he said this, but a chorus of snickers drifted from the gathering of assembled reapers. It wasn't so much Kami's taunt that pleased them as much as it was my soon-to-be execution. They lived to watch others die. Therefore, they couldn't wait to see the light leave my eyes. I, on the other hand, couldn't bare to watch. So I closed and locked my eyes tight, waited for the bang of the gun, and tried to remember what I could of "The Act of Contrition." 'Oh my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended thee...' No bang. Just the sound of the door bursting open, a cry of surprise, and a bunch of crashes and punches as a fight broke out. Thinking the scene was probably horrible enough to scar me for life, I didn't dare open my eyes. 'In choosing to do wrong and failing to do good, I have sinned against you...' Still no bang. More yells, more cusses. Unfortunately, I couldn't remember any more of the prayer, so I started to frantically murmur the Our Father. "Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name..." More whacks, more crashes. A gasp of pain. But still no bang. I was so confused and terrified, I was about to cry. "Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done...!" More whacks, more gasps of pain, more bodies hitting the floor. And then, the frantic sound of foot-steps as somebody approached the office. Oh, PLEASE let it be the police! At this ray of hope, I started to calm down a bit. "On our earth as it is in Heaven..." There were no more bodies hitting the floor. But there was the unmistakable sound of metal being dropped. I smiled. Kami's assailant had managed to disarm him. "Give us this day our daily bread..." The sound of frantic foot-steps stopped as they reached the office threshold and Cori alerted Kami that the police were here and they had to escape. Only, she didn't call him "Kami." She called him Vashoutoh. (Well, actually she called him "Vashie-kins," but I was later informed that it was short for Vashoutoh.) Whoever had managed to disarm Kami/Vashoutoh then informed him that he had no chance of escaping on his watch. Or at least, he tried to. "And forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us..." Unfortunately, before he could finish that sentence, someone- I'm assuming it was Cori- hit him from behind with something heavy enough to knock my savior and Kami's captor to the ground. "Lead us not into temptation..." There was the sound of broken glass as Vashoutoh/Kami jumped out the window, the very distant thud of him hitting the ground, and the murmured cusses of frustration and pain as the failed captor hoisted himself up off the ground. "But deliver us from evil..." I opened my eyes. It was raining outside. There was a flash of lightening, a mere moment of clarity, and then, everything went dark... "Father, Son, Holy Spirit...Amen."


Comments (3) | Permalink

Saturday, August 25, 2007

ROMANCE MURDERER
My head hurts... I is bored..... I kinda feel like writing a love story in which every last one of the characters gets brutally mutilated and shot. Yeah, that's what I get for reading extremely lovey-dovey romance manga and murder mystery novels in the same day. '-__-
Comments (4) | Permalink

Thursday, August 23, 2007

   Oy...
*sigh* Went to orientation at my high-school today.And you will not believe this: there is a boy there who looks EXACTLY.LIKE.DANNY.HICKS! Seriously, when he first walked in the door, I was like:"W.T.F.?!!??! I thought Dan was staying in Michigan! >///<" Oh, and I also made a total ass out of myself with another cute boy who lives across the street from me... *sigh* High school: love it already.'''-___- *kicks can* I REALLY wish I didn't care...

PLEASE JUST DON'T PLAY WITH ME, MY PAPER HEART WILL BLEED...
Comments (3) | Permalink

Tuesday, August 21, 2007

Oh.MY.BULIMIC.CHICKENS.

Guys, a RyRo look-a-like just signed my guest-book. His name's Tristan... O.o

Anyway, I got registered for high-school today. In order to do so, I had to take the Maryland State Assessment test.'''-__- *kicks random dirt clod* Damn it, I've been assessed! T___T I also tried to sketch the guy who was sitting in front of me at the dentists office, but he wouldn't stop moving. So I had to stop. Anyway... Er, video time, then, I guess...


Should I talk slower like you're a retard, should I talk slower like you're retarded? XD

What DoesYour Eye Color Say About Your Relationships?

People with green eyes have the most passion when they are in relationships, and they have long lasting relationships. People with green eyes are also the hottest. They long for the touch of another.
Take this quiz!








Quizilla |
Join

| Make A Quiz | More Quizzes | Grab Code

Oh, that's creepy...0_0 That was wicked accurate.

Comments (1) | Permalink

Sunday, August 19, 2007

The Catalyst, chapter 9:INTERVENETION
"Wait," said the skeptical, questioning voice of Andrew Sora Warrest from 31 miles away, over the phone. "So you hired a BODYGUARD for the girl even though the only apparent danger she's in is either that of suicide or Vash?"

"What do you mean ONLY Vash?!" Came the somewhat irritated, anxious reply of Jason Cain Lethium Wenterz. "Man, that guy's a psycho and you know it!"

"Well.... Don't get me wrong, I know he's screwed up, but... do you honestly think he'd hurt the girl?"

Jason sighed. Andy just didn't get it. It had been a mere 15 minutes since he'd hung up on Shanty and 5 minutes after that, Mr. DragonBall Z hair had called. And Jay had spent the past 10 minutes explaining to said Rocker-of-the-scarlet-Dragon-Ball-Z-tresses that he had found a co-lyricist and had just successfully hired a body-guard for her. Unfortunately, Andy obviously didn't consider the apparently "small" chance of suicide or Vashoutoh Malluste tracking her down sufficient reasons to hire a protecter. Hence: this conversation.

"Andy," Jay said firmly. "Trust me, this guy's more than just a reckless emo, he's gonna make a move. I don't know, I've just got this really, really bad feeling that he's a second Brendon Micheals."

"Er, Brendon who...?"

"Dude, don't you remember?! Brendon Micheals, the guy I knew when I was, like, 14? The one who was so jealous of me for winning back-stage passes and tickets to a David Bowie concert that he poisened my mother to death so I would have to go live with my dad and step-mom in Chicago? THAT Brendon Micheals...? Remember?" After saying this, he shoved a rather large Christmas cookie in his mouth. Munch, munch, munch, munch... (Yes, he was eating Christmas cookies in the middle of May. Incoherent poets are too cool for correctly timed traditions.) He was also flipping through the pages of one of those absurd celebrity gossip magazines. You know, the ones that claim Jack Black is related to Big Foot and that Dick Van Dyke and Miley Cyrus are secretly dating and getting high on marajuana together? Yeah, it was an old guilty pleasure of Jasons to read such magazines. (Not that he actually believed their bazzare claims, but, hey, at least they were entertaining.)

"Oh yeahhhhh..." Andy remembered. "That was back when you lived in Baltimore, right? Yeah, okay. But Jay, even if Vash is crazy enough to murder her or whatever, how would he possibly find out?"

Jay thought this over. He was about to agree and concede that he might've been a bit paranoid in hiring Shanty to watch over Yuki, when he came across a picture in the magazine of himself with Yuki. Now, here's the twist: It was a picture of him kissing her on the fore-head outside the air-port. Here's the twist to the twist: The caption above it read: "LONG-LOST NIECE OR SECRET LOVER?" And, finally the twist to the twist to the twist: In smaller text, below the photograph, blazed the question: "Who is she, what's she doing with Jason, and why doesn't Nicole know about this?" (Now, it was that last question that made our human Mardi Gras decoration particularly paranoid at the possiblity of his singer/actress/super model grilfriend, Nicole Rosson, seeing this article.) Jason was so shocked that he started to choke on the Christmas cookie he had just stuffed into his face. Aw, dammit! thought Jason, this can NOT be happening. How, oh how, could it possibly be happening? Oh, but it was. Now that the girl was in a magazine with him, there was no way Vash wouldn't find out about her. Oh, sure, he probably didn't read celebrity gossip publications, but news traveled fast. After all, there was that lovely little thing called the internet to consider... Not to mention, e-mails and phone calls. Therefore, in less than 24 hours, the gossip of his so-called "love affair" with a high-school student would no doubt spread all over the interweb. Oh, not that andybody in their right ming would believe the lies of such an absurd magazine. After all, this was the exact same trash that said Paris Hilton had a huge crush on the prime minister of Canada. It wasn't his reputation Jason was worried about. Seriously, not even a psycho like Vashoutoh Malluste would fall for such out-rageous, scandelous Hollywood dribble like this. But Vash would still no doubt be curious about the picture. About the girl. About why Jay seemed so close to her. And above all, what she had to do with Jason. After that, it would only be a matter of time before he started looking for answers. Looking for answers by tracking down Yuki. And once he found Yuki... Oh, Gawd, let's not even think about that. Jason felt feverish with paranoia. (However, it also could've had something to do with the fact that bits of Christmas cookie were now starting to invade his lungs.)

"Jay...?" came Andy's concerned voice somewhere through all the choking. "Are you okay?"

More coughing. Less breathing. Finally, Jason was able to spit out the horrid Christmas tree-shaped antagonist of his lungs into a napkin. (And into the trash-can it went, the hell-spawned little assassin of suger and sprinkles. Okay, thought Jason, no more trying to inhale Christmas cookies and read celebrity gossip at the same time...)
However, when Jay did speak again, he sounded anything but jubilant at his victory over festive sweets of suger, sprinkles, and suffocation. He sounded sick and dread-stricken. "Aw, Andy, you will not believe this, I-" Just then he was interrupted by his phone alerting him that somebody else was trying to get on the line. "Hold on, man. I got another call." And, indeed he did.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Wen Wen. It's me." At the sound of his girl-friends voice, the panic started to set in deeper. She did NOT sound happy. Not quite furious either, but definitaly not happy.Oh, crap! thought Jay, maybe she saw the article!

Nevertheless, he managed to keep his voice casual. "Hey, baby. What's wrong? You sound down."

"Well... It's just that some girl called me a minute ago and told me it was raining sperm." At this, Jason had to to stifle a laugh. Poor Nicole got prank-called all the time. "And then I hung up on her but she kept calling me back and saying a bunch of hurtful ----. And some of it was that you were cheating on me with some high-school girl named Linda or Melinda or something lke that. Oh, not that I believed her, of course. But, uh, then I saw this picture of you kissing some high-school age girl on the internet, and- oh, don't worry, I don't believe any of the rumors or anything- but,uh, out of curiousity: who is she?"

Sigh... So she HAD seen the gossip and photograph. And even though she said she didn't suspect a thing, Jason could tell she was worried. Then again, him telling her that the girl was his bands new co-lyricist would probably only sound more disconcerting. After all, since Jay was the lyricist, that meant him and Yuki would be spending alot of time together, writing songs and such. Oh, not that Nicole actually had anything to worry about. Jason wasn't into under-age girls. Espcially not under-age girls like Yuki. Besides, she obviously wasn't attracted to him at all, either. He thought her awkward and boring, she thought him sinister and vapid. (Not to meantion the whole him once writing a song titled "The Only Good Thing about Divorce is You Get to Sleep with Your Mother.") Therefore, there was very little chance of them even becoming friends, much less lovers. But Nicole had been cheated on before by her previous boyfriends and it had all usually started with them trying to convice her that the potential "other woman" was merely a "friend" or "colleague." But that so-called "friend-ship" had always seemed to develop.
Therefore, no way in Hell would Nicole be calmed down by the whole "she's just my bands new co-lyricist" speech. Hence the next thing that came out of Jasons mouth:
"She's, uh, my niece. You haven't met her yet because she lives all the way in Maryland so we don't get to talk much. But, you'd like her, she's a good kid."

"Oh... Okay." The worry had completely drained out of Nicoles' voice. Success! She had bought it. And, really, why shouldn't she have? After all, Jason was a notorious doting uncle. It would make perfect sense for him to give his niece a bit of a good-bye kiss before she headed back to her home town. And thus that suject of conversation was abandoned. At least, for the next hour or so. During that hour Jay and Nicole talked and joked of such things as obsessed fans, stupid musicals, tours, prank-callers, managers, small Spanish dogs that any reasonable person would drop-kick, and candy bars. Alas the joyous verbal merry-making of the 2 was promptly then brought to an end by one very pissed-off Andy Warrest. For, soon after Awndrew arrieved at the residance of you-know-which-non-benevolant-Human-Shield, he then proceeded to glare daggers at Jason for forgetting about him on the tele-phone and telepathically demand that Jason tell him what he had discovered that was so horrible/shocking/choking hazard-like. Now ordinarily, Jay would've just ignored him, but it was very difficult to do so when he wouldn't stop sprinting about the room, whimsically screaming: "THERE ARE DEAD SCENE KIDS LIVING IN MY CLOSET!!!!!" And: "OH MY BULIMIC PIGS!!! WAFFFFFLLLLLLLLESSSSS!!!" And so Jason had to hang up. Because, let's face it, when there's a hyper Asian guy with red, colossal, wax-like spikes for hair running up one wall, on the cieling, and back down the oppisate wall like a ninja, thus acting like he's on about 10 pounds of speed, while screaming about the gothic-looking, eye liner-wearing cadavers living in his closet and syrup-accompanying breakfest foods, how can you even think of concentrating on a word your girlfriend is saying? ("Shyeahhhh. Just TRY to ignore me and not make me do annoying and distracting things, I dare you!"-Andy Warrest.)

"Man, why'd ya have to do that?" said Jay, obviously irritated at being made to hang up. "Nicole was about to tell me about her..." And then he said a vulger slang term for a certain part of the female anatomy which I refuse to repeat.

"To TELL you about it? What, now that you've seen it a million times she has to TELL you about it...?" retorted Andy, rolling his eyes.

Jay considered this. Andy had a point there, he had spent lots of time with a bare-No-way-in-Hell-am-I-ever-saying-where'd Nicole. Not to mention, once you've seen one I-ain't-gonna-say-what, you've pretty much seen them all.

"So, anyway," Andy proceeded, "What's so shocking that you had to start choking on your cookies and worry me half to death?"

"Awwww, you were worried about me?" Jay gushed in a teasingly girly voice.

"Yes. I mean, if you ruined your singing voice nearly choking to death, that would mean I would have do the backing vocals. And if I did the backing vocals, then I would surely accidentily awkaken an ancient, horible, fluffy race of monsters from ten thousand years of slumber and then the world would be over-run be said horrible race o' fluff, and it would be all my fault because... well, let's face it, I can't sing for ---. Therefore, it is of the utmost importance that you mantain your singing, er, screaming voice."

"Well, if you say so, Sir Pointy Head, but I know somewhere deep down you LOVVVVVVVVE me!"

"That's Sir STARBURST Head to you, punk! Now shut up and tell me about your horrifying discovery."

And, well, Jay did not shut up, but he did tell Andy about his horrifying discovery. (Because how could he possibly have pronounced coherent sentances and shut up at the same time?) By the end of the explaination, Andy was frozen with aghast dread. Frozen with aghast dread to a point where his usually slanted jet black eyes widened almost to the size of an owls. He only had 1 thing to say about Jay being caught in a rather questionable pose with a minor on camera. And that thing was a timid, dread-stricken: "Oh, shit."
Jay nodded gravely. "Yeah. I know."

"And why where you kissing her on the fore-head and reaching up her shirt, again?"

"Well, I had to put the tracking device on her and I didn't want her to notice so... Yeah, the kiss was just a distraction." ("And I suppose I would've found it perfectly normal for you to nearly yank my arm out of its socket and kiss my fore-head, then...?"-Yuki)

Andy gave him a quizzical, somewhat patronizing look and asked: "Why didn't you just buy her shoes with a tracking device already in them and then give them to her?" ("Because then I wouldn't have been able to creep out the people reading this half as much as I did with the kiss."- Jason Cain Lethium "I-am-scary-and-proud-of-it" Wenterz.)

"Ya mean they actually HAVE those?" said Jay, surprised. This time, HIS eyes widened. (Not half as much as Andy's did, though.)

In reply, Andy nodded, giving him an obvious "how could you not know that?!" look.

"Oh..." murmured Jay, not-so-obviously recoiling from the sting of Andy's telepathic "duh"s and "you're an idiot, aren't you?"s. Fortunately he then managed to come up with an excuse as to why buying Yuki objects with tracking devices already in them wouldn't work: "Well, yeah, but then there wouldn't be any gurantee that she would wear the shoes and they would just sit in her closet gathering dust. So I needed the tracking device to be on her skin." And thus Jay's dignity was saved.

Or, at least, it was until Andy informed him that: "Jay, it didn't HAVE to be in a shoe. They also have 'em in cell-phones. Paranoid parents use 'em on their kids all the time."

"Oh...." Again with the defeated murmuring. Again with the telepathic "duh"s. And again with the excuses to save his dignity. This time, he went with the classic, frustrated "Well, I didn't know about 'em at the time, okay?!" However, it came out sounding more like: "Well... I didn't know about them, Andy." He then shot Sir Starburst Head a glare that carried the impatient telepathic message of: "SO JUST GET OFF MY ASS ABOUT IT, OKAY?!!!"

And evidently Andy got the message, for that was the last Jay heard of it. No, Andy had other things to be curious about. One of them was, out of all the prodigious poets in cyber-space, why had Jay designated Yuki as the potential co-lyricist? The answer he received was quite simple.
"Well..." said Jay. "I just liked her style the most." The answer Jay didn't give him, however was quite complicated. Oh, not that the what Jay said wasn't true- he did like Yuki's poetry very much. But the entire truth was a bit trickier to explain. You see, it wasn't Jasons writers block alone that had caused Yuki to be the co-lyricist. In fact, Jay had already written about 4 songs for the new album which where perfectly acceptable. Oh, not to say that those 4 songs had come easy, for they hadn't. But, no, the main reason Yuki had been chosen were the words Jasons late 4-year-old niece, Maria, had murmured on her death-bed last year right before she died. What made this particularly abnormal was that Maria had been asleep when she said these words. She had been sick, in bed, with a fever, completely konked out. The only person in the room at the time had been Marias' mom, Jasons sister, Lilly, who had been sitting by her daughters bed-side, worrying and wondering, when, all of the sudden, the frail little victim of pneumonia had said: "Read it and laugh...." There was a pause. "Maria...?" Lilly asked, unsure if her daughter was just talking in her sleep or becoming delirious. "Read it and laugh. Because we're all too damn apathetic to care, much less cry," Maria went on. "And you're only one scar away from losing all your humanity. But the REALLY sad part is, you think you're better off that way. 'Keep your head above the water'...? No, forget the water and the waves. Just keep your heart above the flames." At this point, Lilly was completely convinced that there was something wrong with her daughter, because, well, when's the last time you heard a mere 4-year-old girl talk like this in her sleep? And so, the worried mother tried to awaken the apparent medium from her trance by calling to her and shaking her gently. And yet, Maria kept on reciting: "Because when apathy is the closest you'll ever get to happy, you can only imagine what passion will do to you. Especially when you've got no one to share the it with. But if it's any consolation, that last 'I don't need you' was only half true. Because this so-called immunity to being lonely only works half the time..." There was another pause. For a few God-forsaken seconds, it seemed as if Lillys' "little angel" had gone to join all the other angels. But Maria was still breathing. Eventually Her eyes opened oh-so-slightly, as she turned toward her mother, and whispered in a sickly and choked up version of her own innocent voice: "Mommy...?"
Lilly leaned closer to her daughters ashen face, her eyes over-flowing with love and concern. "Yes, sweetheart?"
Maria opened her mouth to speak, coughed, and tried again."I-I see the King..." And Lilly could tell from the expression on Maria's face that she didn't mean Elvis. "He wants you to write down what I just said and show it to Uncle Jay. An-and mommy?"
"Yeah, hon?"
"I love you." Maria was gone by the time her mother finished saying "I love you too."

And yet, the poor bereaved mother still managed to respect her daughters final wishes. To say the least, Jay had thought it very odd. Very odd and very infuriating. After all , did God REALLY think his so-called "beloved" children so insignificant that He could use their precious last words just to set up another one of his "fateful situations"? That He could simply kill off a sweet-as-can-be little 4-year-old just to request a Mobile Fallout Shelter-composed melody for His lyrics? That He could use one of Jasons beloved nieces as if she were no more than a pawn in a chess game? HOW COULD HE POSSIBLY DO UNACCEPTABLE ---- LIKE THIS AND CALL HIMSELF PERFECT?!?!?! It was events like this that had led Jay to lose faith in "the King." And yet he still kept the paper on which was written Maria's last words. Why? Who knows. Maybe he just kept forgetting to discard it, maybe he believed somewhere deep down that there was a reason for the poem, or maybe he simply never got around to throwing it away. But he kept it. And although as the months passed, he seldom ever looked at or even thought of the poem, he never really manged to completely forget about it. It always seemed to be haunting the very back of his mind as if is was a pair of concert tickets for a blind date that hadn't happened yet. It simply didn't make any sense. Why would God have channeled such a meaningless cynical poem into the mouth of a dying little girl? And furthermore, what was Jay supposed to do with it? He just could not let it go. All the same, a mere half-year later these questions were answered in the form of a young 15-year-old, Baltimorian internet junkie by the user-name of X Shadowme X posting on her Myotaku web-page the exact same poem Maria had recited before she died. At first, Jason was flabbergasted. How on earth could this young, distant, internet teenager, who, according to her, had never once been to Illinois in her entire life, much less met Jay's niece, have known that poem? Was she psychic? Was it a miracle? Was this some sort of sign that he should meet this X Shadowme X? And then, just as Jasons train of thought started to reach it's highest point of what under normal circumstances would be called absurdy, reason started to kick in. Perhaps this poem, suggested logic, was no more than lyrics to a very obscure song both Maria and this X Shadowme X had heard on the radio. Yes, perhaps, neither Maria or Shadowme had really created it, but were simply repeating it. Yes, yes, that must be it. Surely this was no more than a simple coincidence. And so Jason left a comment on Shadowme's post containing the so-called "miracle lyrics" that inquired about the identity of the artist who had wrote them, and thought no more of it.
Thought no more of it, until about 5 months later, he received a rather short response from Shadowme that said: no, Linkin Park had not written the song Jason asked about. And, in fact, it wasn't even a song but a poem she had written while on vacation in North Carolina and was called "Things I'll Never Say to The Lover I'll Never Know." She then thanked him for the comment and, well, that was it.

And with that, Jason was thrown back into the doubt and shocked-into-silence bewilderment the victims of Divine Intervention always experience. Not knowing what to think, not knowing what to believe. Just to make sure Shadowme was telling the truth-and he hoped to God that she wasn't-Jason did a google search on "Things I'll Never Say to The Lover I'll Never Know lyrics." He got nothing. Absolutely nothing. Not even a link to an undiscovered, ultra obscure Myspace band. At this point, Jason was panicking. Why? Well, let's see... He did NOT want to be in some mystical, God-sent plot to save the world, much less some random Baltimorian he had never even met. He did not want to serve a God he scorned for taking away so many of his loved ones. And he sure as Hell did not want some Heaven-sent, life-changing epiphany that would change his perspective forever. He was fine with who he was. So, in the hopes of finding that the mysterious lyrics had been nothing more than some sort of forgin pop song, which would mean he could just forget this whole damn episode ever happened, he shortened his search to the poems title and took out the "lyrics" part. Again, he got nothing. At this, he threw himself on the ground, contorted himself in the most reverant-looking kneel he could manage, closed his eyes tight, and whispered a desperate, beseeching prayer of: "No... Please. Find someone else! I'm no good for this job, I swear! Hell, I don't even know what this job is! C'mon, I'm just an irreverent eye-liner wearing rockstar heathen! I don't even go to church anymore! I mean, You know me, I'm just Jason Cain Lethium Wenterz! I couldn't even keep my mom from going insane much less save the whole damn world!..." After much more hysterical begging, it finally occurred to him that so far nobody except himself had said anything about saving the world. So far, the plot involved nothing more than a poem, a poet, and a dead Maria. Therefore, unless there was an evil scientist who had discovered a sickness that could make pneumonia-infected 4-year-olds recite poems that sounded uncannily like emo love songs written by 15-year-old cyber poets in Baltimore, Jason could relax. So, once again, he attempted to forget about the whole thing and went right back to his life of touring on the road, playing shows, signing autographs, doing interviews, and indulging in the Mobile Fallout Shelter fan-girls obsession with his and Mikeys alleged Shounen Ai-ness. (And to anybody out there who doesn't know what Shounen Ai is: DON'T ASK.) However, no matter how long or how hard he tried to pretend it never happened, whenever he got on of a computer, he always found himself staring into the light blue field of the background of Shadowme's site. Found himself staring into the light blue field of Shadowme's site without ever really recalling why he was there or when he had even clinked on the link to the page. Finally, the "miracle poems" haunting him had driven him so crazy to a point where he had been forced to take action. So he had finally met this X Shadowme X, also known as Belinda, also known as Yuki.(See first chapter for details.) And that, dear readers, is why you-know-which-Baltimorian-chronically-depressed-blogger was designated as Mobile Fallout Shelters co-lyricist. Therefore, if any of you are jealous of Yuki for being picked to work with everybodys favorite incoherent poets/musicians: don't blame her, blame Maria for reciting one of her poems before she died.

"Wen Wen...?" Andy called to him, thus awakening Jason from his reverie, bringing him all the way back to the present. When all Jay did was grunt and continue to stare off distantly into space, Sir Starburst Head was forced to use his high-school nick-name. "YO, MAN-BOOBS!! YOUR PHONE IS RINGING!!" he yelled from somewhere beyond all the nostalgia. And, sure enough, it was.
So Jason picked it up. "Hullo?"

"Hey," it was Shanty. He sounded tense. Worried. Foreboding.

"Oh, hi, Shan-Shan. Where're you?"

"In Belinda's school. I've got bad news."

"Yeah?"

"You know those creepy guys in the black robes and halos who are always hanging around Vashoutoh? They're here. And they've got guns.The ground is covered with what I'm assuming to be their victims."

At this, Jason felt the warmth of his blood abandon his body and the invisible phantom of dread tightening his throat. A shiver ran up and down his back. And even though Jay tried to deny it, tried to feign ignorance, tried to wish away the existence of what the presence of the reapers must mean, what Shanty said next utterly shattered any hope of blissful denial. "Uncle Jay, he's here." Shanty's voice did not have the slightest trace of fear in it. Or at least not fear for himself... "He's here and he knows about Belinda." A moments pause. A seconds pause. A minute's. 2 minute's. And then: "You know what to do," came the icy, murderous reply that sounded so sinister, Jason might've been telling Shanty to rape and murder an entire class of pre-schoolers. And then, the click of Jay hanging up. However, Shanty did not call him back. He did not hesitate a moment longer. For, he did, indeed, know what to do. The bad news was, evidently, so did Vashoutoh Malluste.

Authors note: Hey, sorry the majority of this chapter was so boring. I just wanted you all to know, Vashoutoh's name is pronounced "VASH.OH.TOH," not "VAH. SHU.TOH." (Although, if you think it sounds better the other way, I guess you could call him that... Can't say Vash is going to be too pleased about it though.)
Comments (2) | Permalink

Saturday, August 18, 2007

Mood: Lonely... Disconnected....Empty...
Ish awaiting: the arrival of my non-existent prince.
Is listening to: The emptiness of this room.
Feeling like: I am the only one who's awake and restless in this sleeping city and there's nothing left for me to do but wander. Everyone else might as well be dead.

My friends/pimpage: redmoonchick(we're only liars but we're the best), shallowheart(I'll get to speaking, let you all know how I feel), deadonarrival(you're a regular decorated emergency), Homsar88(there are dead scene kids living in your closet, there are living poets dying in my basement), RapidXHopeXLoss(I'm not o-fucking-kay), Project X (HAPPY, HAPPY, JOY,JOY!)

fnjfniafniafnejr9hjrsjkwijr389rjemfnijr9j3...
This website makes me feel so cold. So abandoned.
Which is weird, considering it used to feel just like a 2nd home to me... What happened?
Comments (2) | Permalink

Friday, August 17, 2007

I wonder if I felt half as pathetic as you look.
I wonder if my head hurts half as much as your heart aches.
I wonder if my clenched fists bled half as much as your eyes sear with tears.
I wonder if my heart is as broken as your bones.
If so, then I guess that makes us even.
If not, then read me and weep.
Because, honey, I am your worst night-mare.
But don't ever go thinking that you're the blameless victim here.
After all, you were the one who dreamed me up in the first place.
---------------------------
Hey. Might post again later. Consider yourself warned.
Comments (4) | Permalink