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.