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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