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

Wednesday, July 29, 2009

My original intention was to write the most scandalous, controversial, conspiratorial story in history. I wanted to hear some gasps. Be praised by some critics who are paid to criticize for once, instead of just by my friends and my grandmother.
But there were a couple problems with this.
The first problem is, I'm old-fashioned--no-sex-before-marriage, never-been-high-a-day-in-my-life old-fashioned--so everything I find shocking is just old news to everyone else.
My English teachers always told me to not speak readers directly. No second person pronouns allowed.
They also told me to never start a sentence with the word "and."
And so, I guess that makes me a pretty shitty writer. Hence the second problem.
To tell you the truth, though, I was always more of a poet than an author, and there is in fact a very vast difference between the two.
If you're an author, you have to think up story-lines and characters and plot twists. Not to mention, subtext.
If, however, you are a poet or a lyricist, all you have to do is make sure the words sound good together. Honestly, they don't even have to make sense, as long as it has good connotation. And it doesn't matter if what flows out of the pen is complete, incoherent, vulgarly inadequate trash because it's "art," so no matter what, there's always going to be one person out there who likes it.
I'm not saying writing poetry is easy, but there's a hell of a lot more freedom in it than writing short stories or novels.
In all my years in the literary world, 3 of my poems have been published, and none of my stories.
I have completed countless poems in my life-time and zero short stories and/or novels. I've started about 14 of them, but for whatever reason, I can never finish them. The chapters of these unfinished manuscripts that I've shown my friends and family have always received outstanding acclaim, though, so I know for a fact I can write. I just can't finish anything I write.
Maybe it's because I've been taking this all too seriously. Maybe I've been thinking too much of the publishers and the editors and the critics and the rules. So fuck 'em all.
I'm just going to tell you all what happened regardless of whether or not this is worthy of being published. Knowing me, it's probably not, but right now I just can't bring myself to care.

On August twenty-fourth, 2007, I fell in love with a stranger.
As peculiar as it sounds, this concept was nothing new for me. I was still just a child in the body of a teenager at that point, so I'd been giving away my heart like a free I-pod for years.
But this time was different. When I saw him, I almost stopped breathing, and I instantly knew that for the rest of my life--or, at least, for however long I went to the same school as him--I would spend every waking minute thinking about him, looking at him, obsessing over him, practically stalking him. I also instantly knew that it was hopeless. I mean, I couldn't even talk around him much less to him. How could I possibly even begin to think about charming him into liking me back?
So, far a few weeks, I tried to force myself to hate him or at least make him hate me so as to give myself an excuse to stop practically dying of electrocution every time our eyes met. Because as beautiful and crucial as love is, after all, when it's unrequited, it's just a pain in the ass.
And even after my attempts to sabotage my hopeless infatuation and just get a grip on myself, it continued to be a pain in the ass. Only, more so then because the love of my life was now not only unattainable, but thought I was complete, repulsive, spastic freak.

Much of the year continued in this manner with me killing myself over him more and more with each passing day, depicting my descent into insanity with countless depressing and/or frustrated poems written in his honer, and with him not even pretending to care.
Until, one day--and I'll never have any way of knowing if this was a cruel joke or simply a brief lapse of judgment on his part--I witnessed a sign of hope that almost made up for what felt like a century of tantalization. We were in the cafeteria during our lunch period. I was on my way to the bathroom when I noticed he was looking right at me.
Without further notice, he stood up, and brought his hands together in the shape of a heart. Sort of a half-assed sign-language for "I love you."
I was so happy, I almost threw up.

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