Bringing in the New Crap.

Ugh. Yes. I have decided, (most likely due to the giant nothing else to do) to be the stereotypical blogger and talk about New Years Eve. It`s so depressing. Don`t agree? What is the main mode of celebration on this wondrous occasion? Drinking yourself into a fucking abyss, pardon the french. Why, on such a "joyous" holiday, would everyone drink themselves into such a deep oblivion they forget all of the year BEFORE, list all of the things they hate about themselves, and then pledge to change everything about themselves to be "better off"? Fuck. That. Shit.

 I want you to stay snarky/bitchy. I want you to be chubby. I want the only thing YOU change for the new year to be your happiness. I have a lot of friends, who, at this moment, are going through a lot of shit. They are either falling into depression, already there, or just having an awful time. I don't want them to wake up and be different people this year. I just want, out of all the things one can wish for on New Years, my friends to be happy. Sure procrastination is awful, and you should probably do less of it, but hey, maybe doing it (even just a little) keeps you sane. I don't want you to be late to everything (ahem, Jade), but hey, I'd rather you be late but still THERE. Why do I wait upwards of two hours for my friends sometimes? It's not because I'm patient. It's not because I like to be "holier than thou" when I'm on time. I'm there when I'm supposed to be because I LOVE MY FRIENDS. I'm there because I want to see you guys as soon as possible. Never doubt that.

Tonight is the annual NYE (thanks for the acronym, J.) party. There may be alcohol there, which, on any other occasion might have made me wary. This year I am not. Why, you might ask? Because I am sick and tired of swearing off things before I know what they're like (except drugs, man. NEVER). While I don't judge my friends for doing these things, I'd be lying if I said their inebriated state didn't scare me. Well, afterwards they never seem to care or be in any sort of trauma. Maybe I'm judging it a little too harshly. I'm not saying I'm going to get royally smashed, just saying that having a glass of wine with friends won't kill me.

Oh! Speaking of drinking, my cousin, let's call her Arf (no, she's not a bitch, she's lovely. "Arf" is an inside joke) who is now presently in university, told me of a drinking game they play there. I was originally excited over the name of it, because I am a loser.

It's called Wizard Sticks. :D

What you do is get copious amounts of alcohol (mostly in either cans of beer or wine coolers) and sit down with a couple of your shithead friends. Once you finish one can, you tape a new one to the top of it, and drink that. Once your wizard stick is four cans long, you and the aforementioned shitheads "fight a boss" aka, take a shot of a much stronger alcohol (i.e., vodka). This happens every time ANYONE's stick either reaches four cans, or has four more cans on it. When your wizard stick reaches your height, everyone does a shot. And because everyone is most likely different heights, every time their cans reach THEIR height, everyone else has to do another shot.

Ugh, I' doing an awful job of explaining it, but that's the gist. It sounds completely disgusting. It's excess, if you ask me. But hey, if you can handle it, why not be a wizard? 

Kidding! Do not over drink!!! Be safe, have fun.

And Happy New Year's, my people. Till next time.

Chloe.

Irrationally Smart.

University, or more accurately, the planning for it, will be the death of me. For institutions supposedly for higher education, their websites sure are fucking stupid (pardon my french). I swear to god, a trained monkey could make a website easier to navigate. Props to the techno-geeks throwing these things together, trying to put all this information into one place, but from where I sit (in front of my computer, staring blanking at the glowing screen before me), really, what the hell do you think you're doing? I believe, and I may be wrong here, that these sites are solely for the entertainment of those who created them; so they can sit back and laugh while everyone else gets redirected in the largest, most complicated circles you've ever seen in your short life.
I've been on this computer for around six hours now, tearing out my hair and tearing at the eyes in utter frustration and sheer, impotent rage.

I want to slap someone.

Repeatedly.

And beyond the obvious problems with paying for such education, residence, textbooks, and meal plan, there is social aspect to things. Wow, there's really no way of saying that without sounding like a complete hermit (hermit, writer, the words are practically synonymous, heh?). I am, as most would suspect by this point (you know, being a blogger and all), I am not a very social person. Not what you'd call a party animal either. Hell, I don't even drink. I don't want some sorry ass drunk roommate swinging into our shared room at three in the morning dragging in some "bad boy" (and I don't mean Bad Guy, TOTALLY different ballgame there, no argument) and falling all over each other not four feet away from where my unfortunate ears are sitting, me, of course trying in vain to sleep. What if I had an exam the next day, hmm? Not that my roommate would care, I gather.

Can't you just hear my teeth grinding? I can. And it sounds like the gates of hell screeching open, rust flaking to pieces, falling like demented snowflakes to the hot, molten floor.

I dislike researching for University. I dislike applying for programs. I think, though, perhaps the Independence it offers could be good for me. Don't get me wrong, I don't think I'll ever be that aforementioned party animal, nor the sorry ass drunk. Maybe, just maybe, I'll be me, and a little bit better.

Yeah, and maybe the juggling, flying ass-clowns from my last post (or was it the one before that?) will come out my butt. I hope it's all its cracked up to be. I want to go where I can learn things I'm interested in. Where I can finally be with other hermits--I mean writers, like myself.

Yup, blog still not revamped. Hope you liked what happened to show up here anyways.

Chloe.

For Lack of Anyhting More Interesting to Say.

The most random shit ever. The other night, after having a very fruitful conversation about blogs with my friend, Jade, I realised that I really don't care what ends up on here, or even if they read it, just that I continue to have things to SAY. Things I feel like saying. Things I feel like I need to say. After this aforementioned conversation, I then proceeded to write my own little 'journal' entries that I realised could be turned into future blog posts. I will be updating more frequently, I believe (don't hold me to that), and even more than that, Jade agreed to help me amp it up, to look better in general. Now you actually have something to look forward to, should you come back.

FYI: Pictures are IMPOSSIBLE to place!!! I tried, and maybe it was just my netbook (*ahem*, FAILBOOK) but nothing really moved, it all just appeared at the top and sat there looking all sardonic and mocking my technological illiteracy. Yeah, I can hear the techno-geniuses cracking up like hard-boiled eggs (oh yeah, world-class simile, baby).

On to the initial point of my new post, I scribbled a little something down the other day, and for a lack of anything better to do with it, I've chosen to share it with you. It's not really well edited, it's not literary gold. It's just something I wrote.

Oh yeah, and it's about a whale.

Possibly more than that, but I'll leave it up to you to decide.

On a sandy beach amidst a sea of dancing glass, lies a whale, its body snugly fitted into the recesses of the damp earth. In the distance, the sun glimpses off the peak of each wave; every tiny reflected fragment shining in the yet-living, beached whale's eyes. Teasing it, one could say, with the final glimpses of it's home and where it should be, safe, and free. The whale's fins flap uselessly at the sand, and the broken bottle beneath it prick and cut it's tough skin; it hurts, but not as much as the last rays of the setting sun highlighting a home it will never be able to return to. The pinks, oranges, and yellows reflected there a water colourist's palate, dashed across a wash of the purest blue, fading ever darker into the deep indigo of the night time sky. A breeze rustles the leaves on the nearby trees. The whale only just notices the wind.

As the night presses on, the less it moves. The whale's fins finally stop, and it relaxes, letting it's eyelids drop to a heavy half-mast. The whale has given up. The moon, a pale disk floating in a ballet of bright, silver stars, draws higher in the sky, painting it's glowing hue even farther across the rippling ocean waves. Even in it's darkest hours, the whale can always see hope. It can always see the way home.

This has nothing to do with religion, nothing to do with depression. I'm not really sure what it is, it's just something I wrote. I hope you enjoyed it. I think I'll name the whale... Norton.

Norton the whale. How poetic. :)

Till the next (and hopefully fully upgraded) post.

Chloe.

Of Shakespearean Proportions.

I feel like Ophelia. As in Shakespeare's Ophelia. A character one might call weak... but I would call beautiful. Ophelia's dilema (good lord, that sounds like the title of a bad english class essay!), everything she went through, was for one thing and one thing only: love. Love from her father Polonius, love from her lover, Hamlet (jr.), even a lighter sort of love, a love akin to approval of her nobility and social acceptance. Without a doubt Ophelia had reason to go insane (oops, spoiler alert... more Hamlet spoilers ahead) whether it be the result of her obligations to her father, her love for Hamlet (whom she discovers is "mad"), to eventually the death of her father, slain by her then former lover.

**That little explanation was awful, so if you are actually interested in reading the play or doing any writing referring to Ophelia, please look into a proper synopsis.

I can't help but feel her shows of strength, few and far between that they were, showed a very deep and interesting aspect to her character. I believe there was a very small piece of Ophelia that believed she was strong enough to face it all... but in the end her reliance upon social approval and the love of the people closest to her proved to be her undoing. I am not suggesting that one should not love their relatives, friends, or lovers (key word there being "love", duh.), I am simply stating that all of us, even the most hopeless of romantics (a group to which I acquaint myself) succumb to the overwhelmingly devastating bitch called reality. The farther you drift into the clouds, the harsher the landing.

I feel as if I am in a bubble, drifting along the currents. Never really rising all that high, but never quite touching back down. It bursts when it is at its highest, when the fall will be the most shattering. Fear not (those who actually read or care), I will not be throwing myself melodramatically into a lake and drowning anytime soon. My problems are nothing. I look at my friends and all they have to deal with, and I feel bad for allowing myself even a second of self-pity. I add wind to my sails through their happiness and move on, optimistic once more (was the sail metaphour counter-productive to the bubble simile?).

Speaking of my last bracketed comment, who, other than me, reads the word "simile" too fast and instead gets "smile"? I supposed that's why I attribute the stylistic device as being a happy one, much unlike the gothic/emo poetry it so frequently peppers... which once again brings me back to master Shakespeare, in all his twisted, foul and fair glory. Everything he writes is an example of that (all of his plays, that is). From the fair Ophelia dying a foul deal, to the foul Lady Macbeth wearing her 'fair' face. Most instructors will tell you in order to appretiate Shakespeare's writing properly, you must first understand them. I am inclined to disagree. To grasp a deeper meaning, perhaps. But to simply appretiate, stand back and state quite simply that: "Hey, that's damn pretty" is a skill in itself. Analyzing may help you to understand, but it sure doesn't help you to enjoy (again, jus my B.S. opinion).

That was Shakespeare's real gift. Most of his audiences were not educated, or at least not on the same revolutionary level of thinking as he was. To be able to paint imagery and tell stories well enough so that anyone can sit back and enjoy them is a beautiful thing, much like the underappreciated Ophelia.

Ps: Favorite Shakespearean quote? "The time and my intents are savage-wild, more intense and inexorable far than empty tigers or the roaring sea." From Romeo and Juliet. I can't find the Act, Scene or line numbers because there doesn't seem to be any good websites for that anymore. Sigh.

This has been... nice. Hopefully I'll write again soon.

Chloe.

Falling for the "Bad Guy"!

Hello again. Long time. Been working hard on other projects *ahem*. Anyway, this rant is especially close to my heart. It enflames me and it enrages me; therefore I must be at my best. The point of this rant begins with my explanation for the quotations around 'bad guy'. I say 'bad guy' because there is two different ways of looking at "evil" (I despise that word by the way...very labelling.) characters. The stupid way, and the way I see it. Well, there's probably more than two, but I'll leave it up to you to decide. There is the leading male who is supposedly 'bad' or 'evil' to begin with. Now, these characters are not usually wholly evil/bad, their personas are as weak and flimsy as a house of cards, waiting to be blown over by some horrendously opinionated critic *ahem*. They are simply men (or boys) who have either been through some traumatic past event and are suffering on the inside, or worse, those who simply think they're bad-ass, which is the furthest thing from cool (Edward Cullen, perhaps?).

Then there are those I love. Those brave few who show up so rarely that it brings a tear to reader’s eyes to see them again. Those messed-up, socially awkward, murderous, severely-flawed men who lurk in the shadows and simply love, never to have what they want, and only to ensure the heroine has a happy life (the spoiled bitch!). They have deep connections to the reader and a long, complicated past. A side note here, ask yourselves: why do these minor characters have such a detailed past? Why are they crafted with such care?

Because they're more interesting. It's obvious the writer didn't like the leading man near as much as this tragic soul, so she gave him a thicker, more fulfilling persona and past to attempt to make up for all they lose in the course of the story. I love this awkward male. It is he that, in the end, is always punished for the most foolish of things. Loving, for example. For being ugly or disfigured, for caring too much... it pulls at my romantic heartstrings. The one example of when this sort of thing goes right is Beauty and the Beast. An example of when it goes as most do: Phantom of the Opera. Edward Scissor Hands. Punished. And for what?

Nothing. Nothing, I tell you. It pisses me off. I'd like to see the captured female stay with the creepy male who captured her, to witness him murder her boy-scout of a lover and live the rest of her life knowing he did it all for her... and love him for it. To see the true male inside, to heal but not "fix" him. To love him for his many and varied faults. Picture the scene:

"Mary?"
"Yes, Max?"
"I killed him for you."
"WHAT?"
"I pulled out his heart and mailed it to your old address. We're going to have to go and get it soon, before it starts to decompose." Mary is stunned silent for a moment, dwelling on the sheer brutality of what Max has just described.
"Killed him... for me?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"He didn't deserve you. No one will love you like me."
"And if I escape? What then? Will you hunt me down and kill me? Send my heart to your own address?"
"No."
"What will you do?"
"I'd go on loving you. I'd watch you the rest of your life, knowing I could give you no more happiness than you had then. That you'd live a better than I could ever give you."
"And if I perused another man?" Max turns his head; his eyes squeezed shut in unexpected pain.
"I'd be lying if I told you I wouldn't kill him." Mary sighs and shifts her weight.
"You don't give a girl a lot of options." Max smiles weakly, looking down at his feet.
"I Know." he pauses before drawing his gaze back up to hers. "But God, do I love you."
"Oh, Max." The words are said on a sigh. She pulls his head in, resting his cool forehead against hers. She smiles up at his sad face, breathing quietly with him in the dark. She presses her lips softly to his, causing him to jolt. But he returns the kiss with a hesitant one of his own. Their eyes shut, and they are at peace. They know that when they open their eyes, the other will be there waiting to help them through the trouble ahead.

This has been one of my Random Rantings.
'Till Next time.

Chloe.