myOtaku.com: X Shadowme X

myO Still <3's You

Vitals

Birthday
• 1993-05-02
Gender
• Female
Location
• Here
Member Since
• 2005-05-30
Occupation
• Life preserver :)
Real Name
• Belina

Personal

Achievements
• http://i204.photobucket.com/albums/bb281/Soul_Resistance/Untitled.jpg... Nuff said
Anime Fan Since
• Ever since Pokemon
Favorite Anime
• I'm not that obsessed anymore, to be honest. Mostly just Kare Kano, Ceres, Furuba, Ouran Highschool Hostclub, FMA, and, of course, ShinChan. X3
Goals
• Make it out of here in one piece
Hobbies
• Paranoia, mood swings, and the occasional emotional meltdown
Talents
• :)

myOtaku.com: X Shadowme X

Friday, September 14, 2007

Autobiography, anyone?
*sigh* I'm in the mood to write something. But I'm sick of poems. So I suppose I'll turn this into an extra wordy post that sounds more like a first person narrative. It's prolly gonna suck because I'm not gonna bother editing it, but how else am I supposed to vent? That said, let the rambling commence...

Damn it. I can't decide what hurts more: My stomach or my head.
If you should ask why these 2 are in such a sorry state, I must designate my heart as the perpetrator. Well, no, not THE perpetrator, but one of them. I believe a great deal of the blame should also go to the cuddly-physiqued, long-haired, I-pod-equipped, somewhat effeminate lad seated across from me. His back is turned and hunched to me, but I know practically by heart what he looks like from the front, side, and almost every other angle you could imagine. Seated to his left and right are his fellow jack-asses, Jordan and Kevin. The boy seated to my left, however, is actually rather sweet. Perhaps because he's at least a year or 2 older than everybody else at this bus-stop, and is therefore more mature. His name is Gus. Sitting across from him is his younger brother, Mod. (Yeah, no idea why his parents named him that.)
So far the only 2 people conversing consistently are Kevin and Jordan. Every now and then, Mod or Gus or Dan might chime in, but for the most part, the majority of us forlornly school-bound teenagers are morosely silent. Morosely silent and not-so-silently morose.(But, hey, what do you expect? I mean, we've been up since 5 or 6 in the morning.)
However, I, unlike everybody else sitting on this pathetic stoop by the rode, actually have a good reason to be depressed. (Well, a good reason to be depressed besides the mountains upon mountains upon mountains of work we're all bound to be assigned.) Which brings us back to my half-broken heart and aching stomach and head. You see, the aforementioned Dan, who is now subjecting himself to deafeningly copious amounts of Velvet Revolver, Guns 'N' Roses, and AC/DC via his I-pod, is my latest obsession. Obsession-slash-object of unrequited love. Meaning, his prescience is quite unbearable. Completely maddening, actually.
I mean, have you ever seen a cat-owner play with their pet by way of a pen-shaped device which is actually a sort of flash light that emits a red beam which cats are, for some reason, always impulsed to chase and attempt to capture? And the cats owner, more because of their own amusement than the cat's, always feels inclined to rapidly change the beams position and therefore make the poor kitty practically keel over with exhaustion and disappointment? Well, I am the cat and Danny is my light. (This is a dramatization, of course, but you understand.)
I chase him, I stalk him, I guard him, once or twice I left anonymous stalker notes in his mail-box, but it's no use. He is but a light, an apparition, and is therefore intangible. Intangible, untouchable, and, of course, unattainable.
In fact, by now, Dan is almost nothing more than a wretched reminder of what I can never have. Just another side-effect of an unfulfilled dream. And for this, I hate him. Every time I see his disgustingly beautiful face and hell-spawned oh-so-molestable countenance, I shake with the fury and impulse to throttle him. Trust me, nothing-and, I repeat:NOTHING good can come of his prescience. (Hence my broken heart, churning stomach, and half-shot nerves.)
That said, hereto after we shall refer to him as Hey You and That Bitch. Because, quite frankly, there's no way in Hell I'll be able to say or even write his name without getting sick. Ya dig? Good. Now back to the bus-stop...
"Hey, Mod," said Gus, "d'you know when they're selling the tickets for home-coming?"
No answer. Dot, dot, dot, dot...
The next sound that came from our direction was Gus giving his music-absorbed brother a tentative rap on the head.
"Ah!" cried the victimized Mod, "What the ---, dude! Ya didn't have to ---ing beat me!" At this fine display of stupidity-filled exaggeration, Gus rolled his eyes.
"Dude. I TAPPED you. Like, suck it up, man. Anyway: you know when home-coming tickets are on sale?"
"Nope."
At this, Gus cursed and returned his listless gaze to the ground.
"Uh, when is home-coming, anyway?" I inquired.
"October 8th. Ya goin'?" Gus.
"Um, yeah, maybe. I dunno." Awkward pause....
"Hmmmm... All the bitches love me because they know that I can rock," murmured Jordan, meditatively. And end conversation.
Now, fast-forward to when the bus arrived.
We all shuffled over to our seats, me making sure to award the driver, Ms.Patty, with her daily friendly smile and good-morning greeting as I walked past.
Same old, same old. It's been going on like this for about 3 or 4 weeks now. Before that, I didn't have a bus-driver. Or a bus-stop. Or a bus. Because, before this, I was home-schooled. And the year before that, the year before that, the year before that, and about 5 or 6 years before that. Yes, that's right: I have been home-schooled up until this year, 9th grade. However, I am NOT some freaky, introverted home-school stereo-type. So PLEASE do not expect me to be. Thank you.
Anyway, fatefully enough, I ended up sitting in the same place as I did yesterday. Which was DIRECTLY behind the seat of That Bitch. "Hmm..." I reflected. "So, since I'm in the same position as yesterday, shall I attempt to repeat yesterdays actions, as well?" Why, yes, I think I shall. However, getting up the courage to repeat yesterdays actions wasn't quite as easy. It took me a full 15 minutes to even touch the rims of his seat. It took me a full 21 minutes to give the hood of his jacket, which currently hung loose about his back, an almost nonexistent tap. Eventually, however, I FINALLY summoned the nerve to oh-so-discreetly feel the the bottom tips of his light brown scene hair, then rapidly yank my hand away. I did this over and over and over again until we arrived at school. The tuffs of hair I touched were the closest to his throat. I realized this with a thrilled sense of mirth later, as I reflected how close I had come to FINALLY strangling the adorable Bitch. For some reason, the oblivious Hey You didn't seem to notice. And thus, just this once, I managed to enter the damn labyrinth of information with the most mirthful grin you could imagine painted on my lips.
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