Sunday, July 8, 2007

You scored as Emo kid, You're emo. SMILE! It won't kill you. Maybe you'll see one day that life isn't always so horrible and STOP CRYING. If not, then break your Dashbord Confessional CD and use the shards to finally end it all. Just curious, are emo kids emo because nobody loves them, or does nobody love them because they're emo? P.S. Don't seriously kill yourself. I don't want to get sued here. Emo kid 80% Gangsta 70% Punk Princess/POSER 30% Druggie 20% Punk 10% Prep 5% Nerd 0% Goth 0% In high school, were you a nerd/goth/prep/gangsta/punk/poser/emo/druggie? created with QuizFarm.com

http://anagramssolved.com/
*SOB* FINALLY, a quiz that understands meeeeeeeeee!! ;-;
Shyeah, the last time I took this test it said I was a poser. NOT TRUE!! >.< In other news, sorry I wasn't around yesterday. I was over in West Virginia.... Shyeah. Twas over at my uncle Nicks.
Twas fun.

Anyway, we might be going to the pool soon. The good news is, those damn teen stereo-types I talked about a while back haven't been bothering me lately. Maybe it's just because I've been isolating myself so much lately...("NUMB ME UP, BABY!!!") Well... I ain't got nothing else to talk about. So, like, bye. I love y'all. *hugs*
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Friday, July 6, 2007

I'M BACK WITH EMO POETRY AND HYPER HYPERNESS...
Well... Here I am, waiting for the effects of the copious amounts of sugar I've just consumed to wear off. *bounces off walls* In the mean-time, here's some youtube-sent distractions.

This video is queer. But I love Jimmy's fuzzy shoes and pants. XD
Robert says "yo momma!"...

XD
And, in other news, our mouse is totally broken.'-___-

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Thursday, July 5, 2007

PIMPAGE!
Alright, people. I know i promised y'all more Wentz-parodying, but it's time for a bit of shameless advertising. So everybody go over to the site of wolfblade227 and READ.HER.STORY. Cause, trust me, despite the fact that it has no Fallout Boy parodies, it's bloody brilliant. I promise.

Pete: Hey! Shadowme, what are you doing posting on MY site?
Me:*sigh* Wen Wen, we've been over this. You already have multiple blogs to post on. In fact, you've got them coming out of your ass. So there's no way you need to take over MY site too. So, please, just... HEY! PETE, ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME?!

Pete: Mmmm... Dude, your mirror tastes goooooooood...
Me: Right... so anyway... Jenny, I hate to sound like I'm making excuses, but there's something seriously wrong with my computer that won't let me come to your site. Every time I try, the cmputer freezes up. So if I haven't been visiting, that's why. *looks over shoulder to check on Pete* DEAR GAWD!!! WEN WEN, WHAT THE BULIMIC COWS ARE YOU DOING?!?!!!?!

Pete: *blink,blink* What? I ain't doing nothing. Oh! What's that?! *climbs down and goes over to tube of whatever*
Me: Um... Pete? I don't think you should touch that. 0_o

Pete: But why nawwwwwt? It's all icky and gooey and fun! And it looks yummy too.... And I didn't get to eat lunch OR breakfast, so... I wonder...
Me:PETE, NO!!!
Pete: *eats blue goop* Hmmm...

BLARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGH! *throws up*
Me: Ew... Somebody's gonna have to clean that up. O.o

Pete: Dude... I don't feel so good.
Me: '^^ Umm... Kids, don't eat questionable substances.~Shadowme
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Monday, July 2, 2007

THERE ARE DEAD SCENE KIDS LIVING IN MY CLOSET!!
*reads previous post* OH MY SCHIZOPHRENIC CHICKENS!! I'M LOSING MY ABILITY TO WRITE EFFECTIVELY!! ;_; Noooooooooo!

Pete: Hi,Shadowme.
Me: Oy! Wentz, what are you doing here?
Pete:Well...

I heard you were losing your ability to write well and since you took over for me when I had writers block in your fan fict, I'm taking over for you.
Me:*blink,blink* So, you want to run my blog...?

Pete: Yesh. *munch,munch* Oh, schorry, I didn't get a chanshe to eat lunch. Ya mind?
Me: Er,no...O.o But WHY do you want to run my blog?

Pete: MMMMMmmmm... That's some good guitar. Steel strings... Yummy.
Me: Er, Mr. Wentz? About my blog...?

Pete: Oh, right, your blog. Sorry. Um, well,frankly, Shadowme, you're boring. And if I have to read one more of your unbearably dull posts, I might just rips my balls off. And my fan-girls would not be happy about that. So give me the key-board. Like, NOW!
Shadowme:;~; But... It's MY site.
Pete: Too bad, get outta my way. Lemme type.
Me: No.
Pete:*glare* I said...

...LET.ME.TYPE!!
Me: Noooooooooo!!!

Pete:SCREW THIS!! I'M KICKING YOU OFF!! *pushes me outta the way*
Me: *crash* Ouch! >.<

Pete:BWAHAHAHAHAHA!!! THERE!! NOW YOU ALL SHALL BE SUBJECTED TO MY SEXY SEX APPEAL AND INCOHERENT POETRY!!! PREPARE TO BE AMUSED, O READERS OF SHADOWME!!! BWAHAHAHAHHA!!
Me:Dude... I'm still here
Pete: Good point. Oh, guards!...

...AWAY WITH YOU, HAG!!
Me: *gets carried off by Petes security guards* AHHH@ HELLLLLLLLLLLLLP!!

Pete: *strikes pose* Uh-huh. That's right, bitchs. That's what y'all get for ---ing with "Jason Wenterz"

To Be continued
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Sunday, July 1, 2007

FOOD, NOT CONDOMS
Dude... I'm sleepy. And brilliant. Anyway, sorry if I didn't make it to your site on Saturday, I was a conferance all day. Which reminds me: THEIR STARBUCKS CLOSED AT 3!! I mean, I woke up at 7 o'fucking clock in the morning and I couldn't get any caffeine! '-__- But I still managed to have fun. Mostly just wondered around the exibition hall with my friends. Oh, and I found this 1 bumper-sticker that said:"FOOD, NOT CONDOMS." Yeah, I stuck that on the back of my shirt and walked around with it on my back the rest of the day.I bet your wondering what the caption means. Well, I have about 3 interpretations on it. But 1 of them is that the slogan is actually missing a word and it was originally supposed to be:"EAT FOOD, NOT CONDOMS." Which makes alot of sense, considering food tastes so much better than plastic contraceptives. So yeah, guys. Stop putting condoms on your salad and use crutans instead! XD Well... I gotta wake up early, so I gotta go. *huggles* Bye.~Shadowme~
P.S. GO READ REDMOONCHICKS STORY "MUSIC AND MURDER." I GET A CAMEO IN IT! AND THE STORY IS AWESOME^^
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Thursday, June 28, 2007

The Catalyst, chaptor 6: SOUL-EATERS AND EYE-PLEASERS
Danny Rossurie, Daniel, Dan Dan, em0taku, Savestheday, DaRo, Nny Rie, and “HEY YOU, WITH THE HAT/HOODIE!!” All these names, I know. Mostly because all these names belong to the same person. And said person, of course, is Daniel Keyth Rossurie. Daniel Keyth Rossurie, as in every anime/computer/emo geeks favorite potential rock-star. Daniel Keyth Rossurie as in every star-struck, female, teenage masochist’s favorite affliction. Daniel Keyth Rossurie, as in every vapid, pretentious, spoiled Britney Spears worshipper’s least favorite scene kid. And, Daniel Keyth Rossurie as in my favorite liar. At the mention of said liar, the blood-vessels nearly explode out of my skin and unto the upholstery of the seats, in 10000 tiny drops. The blood rushes to my face, the shivers run up and down my spine; and the sickness re-animates itself in my stomach. At this, somewhere from the catacombs of my left-over detachment, a soft voice cries out in dread: “Just because they don’t have bars… don’t assume this isn’t a prison. And just because they don’t have fangs… don’t assume they’re not vampires.” Okay, OW! Why “ow,” you ask? Oh, it’s just that at the ominous warning from my sub-conscious, the sour sickness swirling and twirling around beneath my skin just grows more gruesome. And I know from experience and re-experience that within minutes, said sour sickness will have my heart by the veins. This just can’t be. Daniel Keyth Rossurie is at MY school? It can’t be. He disappeared, he’s gone for good; he’s dead to me. It’s impossible. It just HAS to be a night-mare! Fortunately, I never get the chance to tell Cori this, because seconds after those last 2 oh-so-horribly beautiful words so gracefully escape her lips, mom pulls up in front of the school. “We’re here!” She half announces, half sing-songs to me because I’m obviously not paying attention. My lip quakes. My hand shakes… I can’t take this… I’m about to throw up. “O-okay. Er, Cori-la, we’re here, so… See you inside,” I stammer. Unfortunately Cori notices the shakiness in my voice, and the last thing I hear before I hang up, is a concerned: “Wait, Bel, What’s wron-?” Click. And then, the dial-tone. When at a loss for words, state the unstated. When at a loss for composure, escape at all costs. “Bye, sweetie! Have a great day at school.” Says mom, blissfully unaware that Hell just froze over-AGAIN- and is currently preparing to unleash its icy wrath on me-AGAIN. “Bye, mom,” I automatically respond, doing my best to reflect her at-ease cheerfulness. And with that, a good-bye kiss, and a feigned smile, I’m out the door. Out the door, and into the Hell-fire. (Well, technically it’s a Hell-blizzard, considering it just froze over, but you know what I mean.)
And while tearing down the hall-ways to Mr. Montgomery’s class, where said Hell-blizzard awaits, my mentality keeps up a steady, conviction-filled, rhythmic beat of: “This can’t be happening, this can’t be happening, this can’t be happening…” But it is happening. Because if it weren’t happening, then this would be just another bad dream, and if this were just another bad dream, than this would be the part were the evil, blue-skinned Dr. Hate tries to turn Mikey Ralphson, Marilynn Mansion, Aaron Carter, and Sir Pointy Head, the spiky, pink-haired, punk rocker gold-fish, into creepy, repulsive, transsexual versions of Hilary Duff and Hannah Montana. And I don’t know about you, but I didn’t see any traces of evil, blue-skinned, deranged Hilary Duff/Hannah Montana fans or punk-rocker fishes, satanic rockers, notorious flamboyant hip-hoppers, or even blonde-haired Human Shield singers on my way up here. Besides, if I’m not dreaming and this isn’t actually happening after all, then that can only mean I’m being Punk’d, and as we’ve all discovered, I’m way too boring for Mr. Kutcher to be intrigued enough to feature me on his hidden-camera show. However, this proof that I wasn’t dreaming or being Punk’d did not at all stop me from trying to convince myself that I was either dreaming or being Punk’d. It also didn’t stop me from reminiscing. In fact, most of my thoughts at the time where consumed by the oh-so-familiar image of those eyes. (That face, that hair, that voice, that sensuality, that cynicism, and those eyes…) Those watery, blue, callous, dull, unreadable, sneering, demonic eyes. Alichino eyes. The kind that can —and usually will-- drive you utterly, death-cravingly mad with just one flirtatious glance in the direction of another girl. The kind that just assure and reassure you, over and over again, with the utmost conviction and faux determination, that you won’t EVER be harmed, despite the oh-so-barely noticeable, yet ever-so-perpetual under-tone of: “I’m too good to be true.” The kind that lie, the kind that cheat, the kind that betray…

Well, actually I didn’t spend too much time on the eyes per se, but the rest of him is just as disarming and demonic, just as much an Alichino, so it really doesn’t matter which body part. I mean, either way, I’m still miserable. Still miserable, still divided, still penetrated, and still intoxicated. I just can’t help it. What can I say, I’m obsessive and the Ali’s are addicting. This is simply what they do to me.
And just what is an Alichino, you ask? Oh, they’re nothing special. They’re nothing unique. Trust me, they’re EVERYWHERE. But they are complex. So, if you are to have a proper understanding of them, we’re going to have to take it slow. First off, let’s take a look at the pronunciation: ALI. CHI. NO. (Notice how even the name has a certain allure and sensuality to it. Almost like some form of exotic alcohol.) Now, in my mind, the “A” can stand for at least 5 things, these 5 things being: allure, addiction, amusement, attraction, and affliction. The “L” is for Liar. The “I” is for Infidelity. The “C,” for Calculating. The “H,” for Heart-breaker. The second “I,” for Irreverent. The “N” is Numb. And finally, the “O” is Oblivious. Because the Ali’s have absolutely no idea what they are or what they do to kids like me. They’re almost completely ignorant to their powers. As far the definition? Well, that’s the tricky part. But here are some as-close-as-I-could-get-to-synonyms: Heart-breaker, beautiful liar, soul-eater, human drug, wonderful caricature of intimacy, serial user, eye-pleaser, player, libido-feeder…Yeah. We’ve all got our names for them. But, either name, you get the gist, right? An Alichino by any other name is just as tempting. Until, of course, you figure out they’re all just a bunch of brilliant, over-cunning actors/con-artists with cruel intentions, deceptively angelic allures, and gorgeous faces. Then, for a limited time, the spell weakens enough for you to escape. The affection is replaced by anger and the awe is replaced by bitter jealousy. It’s a horrible feeling. Even if it does save you from the deadly trap that is the oh-so-tempting allure of an Alichino, it’s still horrible. You just feel so restless and spiteful and furious. And the anger keeps gnawing and gnawing at your mentality like some kind of parasite until it’s got nothing left to feed on. And then, when the metaphorical anger parasite leaves you, where the relentless fury used to be, there’s nothing left but disconnection and emptiness. And hunger. Lots and lots of emotional hunger. The good news is, if you’re clever and willing enough, after all that, you get out and you’re safe. Safe from the self-doubt. Safe from the uncertainty. Safe from the jealousy. Safe from the hatred. Safe from the self-demolishing addiction. And safe from the lies/betrayals. The trick is, this realization doesn’t stay with you. So you have to get away while your heads clear. And that’s exactly what I did. Or, at least, I thought I did, until now.
But evidently not. Because he’s back. And it’s even worse, because this time he’s not a 1000 miles away in Michigan, with nothing but a key-board, a computer, and an internet connection. This time, when I look at him, I’ll have to see the razor-sharp apathy in his face and the malicious arrogance in his eyes. This time, when I talk to him, I’ll have to see him smirk at the shakiness in my voice and the fragility of my confidence. And this time, when he lies to me, I’ll have to feel the malice thickening the air around us and crushing me like a vice; robbing me of all clarity. Forcing me to listen. Forcing me to believe. For, such is the fate of those banished to the emotional dungeon that is addiction to Alichinos. However, when I do stumble into the class-room, all out of breath from running and worrying, our Rossurie seems anything but threatening. In fact, as Mr. Montgomery chews me out for being late, in front of everyone, I have to wonder if Danny is even awake. He’s just sitting there. Sitting there with his lop-sided head in his hands and his detached gaze on the floor. Must be a hard first day so far…Either that, or a very boring one… “Belinda!” The razor-edged shout/command of Mr. Montgomery sheers through my thoughts. “Did you hear a word I just said?!”
My head automatically half turns, half snaps to meet his impatient, worn-out, frustrated, wrinkled face. “ Er, yessir. Sorry. Won’t happen again!” And off I go. Although to be honest, I’m not sure if he was scolding me for being late or for just wearing a skirt in such crappy weather… or both. Nevertheless, without the least bit of hesitance, I’m off towards my desk before our middle-aged regular caricature of poise, Mr. M., even has the chance to think about abusing/verbally bitch-slapping me further for standing around too long. And, when I get to my desk, guess what I discover. No, really, just guess... No, I did not win the lottery. No, Jason Wenterz is not my long-lost uncle. No, I was not Eloise Jarvis McGraw in another life. (Ha! Yeah, I wish.) And, hell no, my desk is not being haunted by the chess-playing ghosts of Jack the Ripper, Marie Antoinette, and Homer
Oh, no, dear readers. What I discovered was, Danny’s seat/desk is RIGHT.IN.FREAKING.FRONT.OF.MINE! (LIKE, HOLY ANOREXIC HAMSTERS ON HELIUM!! IT JUST KEEPS GETTING WORSE!) At this horrifying discovery/realization, my eyes automatically snap towards the Crucifix bead on my rosary bracelet, and I soundlessly murmur: You’ve GOT to be kidding me. Nevertheless, I still take my seat. But not without another imploring look at my rosary bracelet and another soundless prayer of: Oh, please ,please, PLEASE be kidding me!

But no, He’s not kidding me. Because, guess what- it can and does get worse. How, you ask? Three words: assigned partner projects. Four more words: Danny is my partner. (Two more words: this sucks.) You see, we’re supposed to put together something about a Middle Ages historical figure we admire, or at least, are fascinated by. And I do reasonably well in History class and Danny just got here, hence he obviously has no idea what’s going on in school, so Mr. Montgomery, our teacher, assigned us each other as partners. And there you have it. Danny is my partner. Danny is my partner… The words echo through my mind. And the echo is so monotonous that I end up whispering it to myself out-loud. “Danny is my partner…” I’m not exactly sure how, but the words come out feeling/tasting both sweet and dreadful. Almost like a wrapped-up “Dove” chocolate that’s been left out in the rain too long. All sticky, and soggy, and wet. So messy, to a point where you almost wonder if it’s worth getting it out of the wrapper to eat. But still chocolate, nevertheless. So I “eat the soggy, wet, sticky chocolate” a little louder, with a little more detail this time: “Daniel Rossurie is my partner.” And then, just because I can’t believe it, I incoherently mutter it to myself one more time: “DANNY.---ING.KEYTH.ROSSURIE IS.MY.----ING. PARTNER.” ( Yeah, Bryce, the guy who was sitting next to me, actually turned and looked at me as if a cat had just climbed out of my mouth, at that one.) Ehheh… Yeah, ‘twas louder than intended. But luckily, our adorably oblivious Alichino, by some convenient miracle, doesn’t hear me. How do I know this? Well, it just seems rather strange that, after class, he would turn to Cori, on my right, and ask her who this “Melinda”-- (HE MISPRONOUNCED MY NAME!!)-- was, when he already knew it was the creepy stalker-like chick sitting behind him. And what did I do, when he turned to my best friend for Belinda-identifying assistance, you ask? Well, there were a lot of options…

And my body seemed to want to make use of them all. “Scream!” advised my instincts. “Blush!” commanded my heart. (And of course, I had to obey that one, just a bit.) “Run away!” implored my inner-wuss/anti-confronter. “Um… I-I don’t know!” cried my self-doubt/uncertainty. “Eat something!” Moaned my stomach. “Drink something!” Croaked my rather dry throat. “Throttle Cori the second she points you out!” screamed my inner-demon. “Wash your face,” suggested my pores. “Write a poem about it,” said my inner-poet. “Jump out the 3rd story window!” half-chanted, half-sung my inner suicidal/Emo. “Slap that pathetic, conceited liar/Alichino upside the head!” shrilled my inner-feminist. “Take it off!” cheered my inner-ho/libido. “A.K.47 the whole damn school!” yelled my potential serial killer. “Just sit there like the idiot you are and have an internal nose-bleed…And fix your hair, you slob!” abused my self-loathing complex. But, despite all this brilliant/suicidal/abusive/distracting advice, I just had to go with my inner-Cute Is What We Aim For-fan-girls suggestion. So, when Cori said “here she is!” with a point in my direction, and when Danny turned around to face me with a semi-smile and a non-too-enthusiastic “hey,” the first thing out of my mouth was: “I’ve got the gift of one-liners and you’ve got the curse of curves!” Yes. That’s right. I quoted lyrics at him. (It was honestly the most logical action I could think of…)At the sight of his surprised “you’re a psycho, aren’t you?” look and awkward silence, I took it upon myself to go on: “And with this gift, I compose words on whichever question comes forward…Are you perspiring from the irony or just sweating to these lyrics?” (And at the time, this quote doesn’t fit at all because I’M the one who’s sweating, and he’s just sitting there wondering how long it took me to escape the mad-house.) And what is his response? Well, first he just continues to looks at me as if I had just screamed “FIGHT BREAST-CANCER!” as loud as my lung-capacity/vocal cords would allow, while smoking a cigarette. Then, finally, he awkwardly stammers: “Okay then. So I take it you like Cute is What We Aim For…. Awesome.” And then he turns back to the front of the room and his evidently fantastic view of the floor, probably thinking I’m a psycho. A Cute Is What We Aim For-loving psycho. At this probably accurate guess at our Rossuries current opinion of me, oh-so-callously harsh reality sheers through my hope and it immediately deflates. My heart spontaneously combusts. My inner-ho violently cusses. My inner-emo tearfully slits her wrists. And my face temporarily collapses. Yeah, I know, I know- I’m over-reacting AGAIN. But I can’t help it. No matter how many times Danny disappoints me, I just cannot persuade my memory to safely label him as the semi-insensitive, manipulating, reckless, somewhat callous, completely oblivious-to-peoples-feelings jerk he is. My memory just never listens. So I’m always and forever being caught up in the trap that is the oh-so-deceptively angelic allure of the Alichinos. In other words, I’m a compulsive Ali addict. Meaning, their essence has been permanently engraved into my instinct. Meaning, my fascination with them is not simply a desire, but an uncontrollable impulse. And no matter how many times I discover/realize that the Ali’s are all just one giant health hazard and that’s all they’ll EVER be, I just cannot get over it. In other words: I’m a complete masochist when it comes to this crap. I swear, with my exaggerations, I shall be the cause and escort to my own grave. (Just call me drama queen, people.) And the fact that my self-loathing complex is currently abusing the crap out of me doesn’t exactly help matters. “You idiot!” shrills the horrid demon. “What were you thinking?! Didn’t I tell you to just sit there and let him do all the talking? You just HAD to open your mouth didn’t you?! Gawd, you’re such a ---ing disgrace! Why can’t you just be normal? Why can’t you just stay shut up and wallow in the shadows of obscurity where you belong? Why can’t you just…?” There was more, but at this particular moment, that’s all I can remember. (It probably wasn’t really worth remembering anyway. All I recall is that it was loud, angry, abusive, and it made me REALLY regret not taking the advice of my inner-emo.) The good news is, eventually the ridicule comes to an end. And after said maelstrom of insults from my self-hatred subsides, minutes later, there is nothing left but the vague semi-silence of my class-mates gathering their belongings together, about to go to the next class. Well, that, the echo of my dejection and the memory of the eerily fitting, dread-stricken warning I received a mere twenty-something minutes ago:

“…Just because they don’t have fangs, don’t assume they’re not vampires.” And just because they never made me bleed, don’t assume I’m not their victim.

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Tuesday, June 26, 2007

COOKIES AND OVER-DRAMATIC RANTS, ANYONE?
Wow... 7 comments. Thanks, guys.^^ Here. Have a cookie.*hands out cookies to y'all*
Let's see... Watched T.R.L. today. Shia Lebauf had to make out with a Tennis ball. X3 And The Plain White T's performed Dalila. (sp?)
Okay, now just because I'm bored and I spent about 4 or 5 hours today rotting my brain away with the T.V., I'm gonna go on an emo-tastic rant. Ready? No? Too bad. LET THE STUPIDITY/ANGER/MELO-DRAMA/TACKINESS BEGIN!

Okay. I hate the pool. And it's not just because the bath-room smells and the people who run the snack bar don't know how to make decent pizza. Actually, to be honest it's not the pool, itself I hate. It's the teenagers who go there. Why? Because the teenagers who go there are COMPLETE ADOLESCENT STEREO-TYPES. They're loud, they're unoriginal, they're insincere, they're irritating, and they travel in groups.I hate them. Because they make me ashamed of what I am-a loner. An individual.An anti-stereo-type. They make me feel like there's something wrong with me because I don't have friends in real life that I get to see everyday. They make me feel like a loser. Oh, don't get me wrong, I always knew I was a loner, that I wasn't cool, that I was different. Yeah, I always knew that I was what my peers deemed as a "loser." And I was perfectly okay with that. But THEY made me care.And they made me hate it. Oh, not that they ever said anything to my face. Not that they ever openly abused me or targeted me for some cruel attack on my self-esteem. To be honest, I'm not even sure if they intended to make me feel what I do. All I know is, they invited me in to their little clique just to make me see what I missing, just to make sure that I regretted being what I am, just to get a little amusement out of the loner freak who's always swinging on the play-ground talking to herself.And then they kicked me out. They stopped hanging around with me. They stopped talking to me. They just stopped.
So, yeah... Here I am, back at square one. Only now, I'm about 9 times lonelier and more jealous than when I started out, and whenever I see a mascara-clad, social butter-fly adolescent nymphet giggling and yakking away on her cell-phone, I feel like throwing up. In conclusion: death to all teen stereo-types. Long live the "losers."

And end psychotic, pointless, jealousy-ridden rant.Who wants another cookie? * hands out more cookies*
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Sunday, June 24, 2007

What, only 2 ----ing comments?!?! YOU GUYS SUCK!
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Friday, June 22, 2007

GSFSR4$%gsg
Hey, like my new theme? Yes? Good.
Now then... ON WITH TEH EMO-NESS!!
Shyeah, I been in a bad mood almost all week. Anxiety, laziness, anger, boredom, emotional starvation... This calls for youtube. ON WITH THE DISTRACTIONS!!

*GASP!* Wentz fan service! But, wait a minute, that means... HE'S NO LONGER WITH PATRICK?!?! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

Annnd.. That's all. So long and whatever.
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Thursday, June 21, 2007

The Catalyst, chaptor five (I'm back with avengence... and cameos)
So long, Wonderland. It was nice meeting you. And hello, normal life. Welcome back; where’ve you been?
Such are my thoughts, upon awakening to the less-than-thrilling sight of this twilit, unorganized, long-familiar room. Yes, my room. My oh-so-generic, nostalgic, comforting, average-sized room. Despite the messiness of it, it’s quite plain. The off-white walls are mostly barren except for a practically ancient Pokemon poster, a small Washington D.C. painting/souvenir, 2 crucifixes, old manuscripts I’m especially proud of, and a printed-out picture of The All American Rejects. Yup. It’s angsty adolescent-tastic. Still trapped in my usual morning trance, which is often identified as the foremost consequence of waking up from a horrible night-mare in which you didn’t get nearly enough sleep; I dreamily glance across the room from my unorganized, half-finished pile of encyclopedias, dictionaries, algebra, and mediocre book reports on hopelessly dry American Literature, at the digital clock on my night-stand. 20 past 4 on a rainy Monday. Lovely. But not as “lovely” as the fact that almost every exasperatingly irritating potential groupie girl in school is going to want to-and probably will- viciously interrogate me about yesterdays little rendezvous with their “Jay Wen Dearest.” Meaning, I’m going to have to endure an entire day of: “STAY AWAY FROM JASON, BITCH!! HE’S MINE!!!” Yeah. Wheeee. (I swear, I’m going to kill whoever let it slip to the rumor-mill that I was invited to his house.) And as if all this weren’t mundane enough, there’s also this vile cold coating my sinuses in an extra unwanted layer of mucus and suffocation, while simultaneously afflicting my dehydrated throat. (IT HURTS!!!) However, somewhere during saying morning prayers, eating some semi-substantial breakfast (oatmeal), taking my pills (ANTI-DEPRESSENTS AND ANTI-BIOTICS!), and getting ready for school, I decide to shrug off the lethargic humdrum of my life--or half-life, rather--and figure it’s a lovely day to be over-flowing with apathetic as-close-as-I-can-get-to-bliss. Because if I keep caring that my life is angst-provoking as Hell and that I am definitely and probably always will be the mortal enemy of everything having to do with glamour—or even comfort,--then there’s a good chance I’ll drive myself mad and end up nose-diving off a bridge or something. (And as we all know, nose-diving off bridges is very bad for your health.) Plus, when the very angry minority of my teachers explode at me for not doing all my home-work, my only defense will probably be to not care. (So, support apathy or don’t, damn it!)
That, and no matter what happens today, I know I’ll always have my awesome-tastic loony bin escapees/friends on Myotaku. Which reminds me, before leaving today I got the opportunity of logging on to said web-site, and, to my lack of surprise, my comment box and Private Message in-box (see 1st chapter), in reply to yesterdays journal entry/post/up-date, was simply over-flowing with eager Mobile Fallout Shelter fans wanting - no, actually DEMANDING to know all about what went down with me and Jason yesterday. “Wow,” I murmur as my eyes widen with amusement at the cyber panic of the M.F.O.S. fans, virtually clamoring for the details of my meeting with Jay. “I get to meet a celebrity, and suddenly it’s like I almost AM a celebrity. Weirdness.” And although I found all of the attention in general rather concerning and uncomfortable, I was especially alarmed when I came across Cassie’s message.
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Subject/title: The only reason you know is because you were never there
Sender: redmoonchick
Hi. How are you? Good? Good. In response to you getting to go to Jay Wen’s house, I only have one thing to say: WHAAAAAAAAT HAPPPPPPPENEDDDDDDDDDD?!?!?! DID HE PROPOSE TO YOU?! DID THE PARAZZI STALK YOU AND HIM AROUND THE WHOLE TIME?! WHERE’D HE TAKE YOU?! DID HE SEE YOUR POST WHERE YOU WERE MOCKING HIM SHAMELESSLY AND BITCH-SLAP YOU?!?!?! WAS MIKEY THERE?!?! WAS KYO THERE?!?! IF HE WAS, DID JASON START MAKING OUT WITH HIM?!?! DID YOU GET ME AN AUTOGRAPH FROM HIM?!?! WHAT DID YOUR PARENTS SAY/DO?!?!?! GIVE ME ANSWERRRRRRRRRRRSSSSSSS!! Or else I’ll take away your cookies and throw rotten broccoli at you! *holds up fistful of broccoli threateningly* T_T
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Hmmm. Now, I have no idea why, but while reading that, I just couldn’t shake the feeling that Cassie had forgotten to take her anti-anxiety medication this morning. Perhaps it’s the fact that she sounded as frantic as if a time-bomb was strapped to her chest…? Or, maybe it was her threat to steal away every bit of my round, sugary, Heaven-sent yummy-ness (A.K.A. my cookies) and throw bitter-tasting, long-expired, snot-green veggies at me. (GASP! Oh, horrible horrors! Not the veggies!!)Unfortunately there are at least 28 other messages just as urgent (and half as threatening) as Cassies in this over-flowing virtual mail-box. And since I slept late, I don’t have nearly enough time to reply to all these questions AND post. So, instead of attempting to send over 29 lengthy replies at once, I just decided to send 1 big response by posting/up-dating about it
(The following is an except from http://www.myotaku.com/users/x_shadowme_x. [Yes, X Shadowme X is my user-name. Wheeee, product placement!])
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Title: “Clichés and eye make-up go together like you and nausea.”-Andy Warrest
Hey, how y’all doing? Evidently well-enough to drown me in questions about Jason Wenterz. Which reminds me, in reply to redmoonchick/Cassie: No. He did not propose to me. Or bitch-slap me. Or make-out with Kyo... And he’s still single. So please…. JUST… PUT…THE… BROCALLI… DOWN, DEAR… >_< *dives under couch to escape angry horde of random Jay Wen fan-girls*
But, I swear, you should’ve seen the look on my mothers face when I told her Jay Wen wanted to fly us over to Illinois for a visit. At first, she didn’t know who Jason Wenterz was, so I was I was like: “Dude. Mobile Fallout Shelter, remember?” Mom: “Oh, right.” Then, she assumed the guy who had sent me the message was actually some creepy, over-zealous pedophile posing as Jason in order to lure teenage girls into his home. So she ended up taking along a hand-gun with her to Illinois. XD I was like: “Mom, what kind of predator would tell his victim to bring a parent with them?” (Besides, everyone knows Jason Wenterz has neither a myspace or Myotaku of his own…..Or a cell-phone, apparently)
Anyway, we leave for Illinois around 9:00 AM the next morning and we get there at, like, 11:30 or so. When our plane landed, we exited it and looked/waited for whoever Jason probably sent to pick us up. And with the way mommy dearest was glaring at every middle-aged man with a Play Boy issue-slash-every alleged over-zealous pedophile who occasionally poses as world-renowned rock stars on myspace rip-offs, I seriously thought she was going to shoot the first person she saw holding a sign that read “(INSERT NAME EVEN SEMI-REMOTELY SIMILAR TO MINE HERE).” But Jasons’ person wasn’t holding a sign. Wanna know what’s even weirder? Jasons person was Jason. Yes, that’s right: he, a world-renowned rock-star, went to pick us, 2 obscure Baltimore native nobodies, up HIMSELF. (My exact thoughts: “Ummm…Wasn’t this guy supposed to be the most arrogant rock-star in forever, or something?”) And it’s a good thing he did, because once my mom saw how short he was, I think she relaxed a little. (Yeah, the guy’s only about 5’4’’.) Although I think his stainless skin and “I-doth-be-eth-teh-sex” charisma might’ve also had something to do with it….Yeah. Apparently his fan-base is not just limited to 13-year-old Emo chicks now. *cough, cough*>_> So anyway, he drives us over to his house in has dads mini-van…(Yes, that’s right, a mini-van. Not a Mercedes. Not a Lamborghini. Not a Porsche. Not a Bentley. Not even a Sazuki. A MINI-VAN. ) And to my moms delight, on our way over, he put on a R.E.M. C.D. (Argh…R.E.M. *shudders*) Well, then, of course, we enter his house and unfortunately except for his dog, EmiGo, said house is empty. So, no I didn’t meet the rest of Mobile Fallout Shelter. T_T Damn it. *pout, pout*
Now fast-forward to my mom leaving the room because she has to go to the bath-room. And, I can’t really remember how we get on the subject of M.F.O.S., but we do, and get this: Mikey, Brent, and Andy wanted ME.TO.BE. M.F.O.S. ‘S. CO-LYRICIST! Jason said so. He even offered me the job. 0_0 *drops dead of shock at memory* But I turned him down, because frankly I don’t want to be a lyricist, I want to be a writer….And there’s no way I’d be able to work with Jason that long… Because he scares me. A lot. And Mikey makes me nervous. Hella, hella, hella, hella nervous. (‘Cuz he is long in the back, short in the weineh! Sucking my moth like a vacuum cleaneh…) Not to mention, the world would simply be knocked off its axles if the Human Shields started making sense. But the good news is, Jay didn’t/isn’t holding it against me, so…yeah. The “better” news is, I gotta go to school now. Yay! 3 CHEERS FOR SLEEP DEPRIVATION AND UNWANTED EDUCATION!! (…And rhyming X3) Well, eros! ~Shadowme(Yuki/PattyCakez the Hobo)~
Date: April 5, 2009
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After typing all this, I click on the “add post” button and wait for the next page to load, just like I’ve done countless times before, ever since I was 12. When the page does load, in the upper right-hand corner of my computer screen, are the 6 sweet and simple words, in red, forever imprinted unto my memory: “Your Otaku life has been up-dated.” I don’t know what it is, but there’s something oddly soothing about that sentence. (It’s almost like a “welcome home.”) Then again, that exact same feeling dwells throughout the entire community. A feeling of familiarity, of innocence, of security, of promise… Almost like a sanctuary. A sanctuary where you can say almost anything you want and never, ever be judged/scrutinized/hated for it. That, and when your about to emotionally implode yourself into a tearful, suicidal, angry mass of nerves and cusses, like I am now, you can simply go to 1 of your friends sites, listen to their play-list for hours, and let whichever Alternative/Screamo/Punk/Techno pretty-boys scream/whine/ “badadadadadap, ooh-whoa!” your cares away, until either your ear-drums bleed or your distress subsides. Whichever comes first. (Unfortunately my teen-angst crap has a body-count, so the bleeding ear-drums would probably come first for me.) Yeah, like I said: Utter teenage sanctuary. (Even if it does occasionally make your ear-drums bleed.) In fact, as usual, the second I’m supposed to log off, I’m instantly over-come by the urge to stay. But I can’t. Why? Because I slept late, because my parents are forcing me to go, because my friends will be wicked pissed if I don’t show up, and because if I don’t, I’ll lose my reputation as the sulky-faced, artistic brat who evidently only shows up just to bitch about having to show up. (With this façade, I can do no wrong.) The good news is I missed the bus so my mom has to drive me. And thank God, because as far as I can remember, there is not a single bus-ride that has ended well for me. The bad news is, our washing machine is busted and all my pants are dirty. So I have to wear a skirt. In 40 degree weather. Damn it… But luckily it’s not really what you would call a mini-skirt. It goes down to about 2 inches above my knees, and it has shorts under it, so I guess it’s more of a “skort.” However this does not at all compensate for the fact(s) that I have nothing that goes with it, the weather’s freezing, and my legs are disgusting. (So disgusting, in fact, that concern for your health prevents me from going into deeper detail.)
Anyway, there I am, in the front seat of our practically ancient sea-weed green Ford 15-passenger van, bitterly preparing to take on the entire world, armed with nothing but an oh-so-sexy black MP3 Player/Sansa, a navy blue hoodie, a pencil, a wad of tissues/Kleenex for my cold, somewhere around 1,000 pages of loose-leaf paper, and an unbelievably icy sense of detachment. And conveniently enough, the song that’s currently blasting through my ear-drums and into my thoughts (or lack, thereof), on said sexy Sansa, is “Me Vs. The World,” by Halo Friendlies. Lyrical sample: “Hey boys,/ hey girls,/ hey anybody who will listen to me./ In case you haven’t noticed,/ it’s just me against the world today./ I fell outta the wrong side/ of the bed and landed in the worst mood;/ with that stupid alarm clock screaming at/ me from across the room…” Want to know what’s even more convenient/strange? My MP3 Player is on shuffle/random. Translation: My Sansa, entirely on its own, just matched up a song that fit my mood (and the mood of this story) PERFECTLY. (Hmm, why do I feel a “Stranger Than Fiction” relapse coming on?) Or, at least, it did the best it could with the songs I have on it. If it had ANY song to choose from, it probably would’ve been somewhere more along the lines of: “Send My Love To The Dance Floor” by Cobra Starship. Mostly because “Send My Love…” is more desolate, and “Me Vs. The World” sounds too up-beat to be entirely accurate. (Still, Sansa was pretty close.)
Although I can only imagine what must’ve been running through my poor mothers head as her seemingly depressed, miserably infected, supposed-to-be-lethargic daughter started cracking up, completely out of the blue at the oh-so-trivial event of her music player playing a song. Yeah. I mean, she looked at me as if I had just told her that I had been born with false sexual organs and was actually a boy. However, I think you’d laugh too if it just occurred to you that a mere machine knew you (and what your needs/wants are) better than (almost) anyone else you’ve ever met. I mean, that’d be like dating a toaster. No, actually that would be like marrying a toaster, having an affair with the DVD Player, then going to your car for marriage counseling! It’s just plain pathetic. Ridiculously pathetic. Of course, the event of my MP3 Player “knowing me” was obviously just a coincidence and I was obviously over-reacting, but you must remember, I only got about 3 hours of sleep, there wasn’t enough time to get a sufficient amount of breakfast, I thrive on unnecessary drama, I’ve got a cold, and I just suffered about 3 minutes of freezing weather in a skirt because my mom had to get something before driving me. So, severe mental stress + not enough food + sleep deprivation + a cold = massive amounts of over-reactions. (Translation: for those of you who think I’m being irritatingly emo/over-dramatic and won’t shut up about it- bite me.)

And said massive amounts of over-reactions were probably what lunched me into the anxiety attack/self-loathing complex episode. You see it all started when I got a call on my cell-phone when we were about 3 minutes from school. By some miracle, I was able to hear the ring-tone above the music blaring through me, then paused my Sansa, and answered the phone: “Hello?”
“Hey. Where you at, Beli-wa?” Now there’s only one person in the world who calls me “Beli-wa.” Corinth Hiwatarski. Cori-la. (Yes, those “-wa’s” and “-la’s” are from “Pretties” and “Specials.” Blame it on the Scott Westerfeld novels.)
“Oh, sorry I’m late. We’re on our way over right now. Where’re you, Cori-la?”
“In the girls bath-room. I mean, not the stall, of course, but… Anyway, Mr. Montgomery is wicked pissed that you’re late.”
“Shyeah, what else is new?”
“Mm, yeah. Still, you best watch your ass today. Wouldn’t want to get chewed-out ‘til tears before even having a chance to meet Mr. Michigan.” As she semi-drawls out that last sentence, there’s a note of flirtatious smugness in her voice.
“Er…Who?”
“Oh, just this new transfer student from Michigan. Durand, I think he said. He’s wicked cute. Like, perfect face, black, silky scene hair, light blue eyes, lip piercing, hoodie…Yeah, he’s, like, almost a replica of the younger, Punk Rock Paul McCartney, or something.”
“Really? Is he an Ali or just a pretty-boy?”
“Oh, definite Alichino, girl.”
“Oh. Cool. I think… Well, anyway, what’s his name?”
“Danny Rossurie.” Hey. I know that name. I also know the meaning of it: I’m screwed.

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