Music. :D
Monday, September 28, 2009
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Thaw- Fiona Robyn
Here's an excerpt of a novel by Fiona Robyn, called Thaw- WHY CAN'T I FIND THE UNDERLINE ON THIS THING? *searches frantically* Well, crap, I can't find one. Guess I'll go with bold. Okay, as I was saying, Thaw.
Snap, I can't find the excerpt.
*spends another 30 minutes looking for it*
Ah. Found it.
These hands are ninety-three years old. They belong to Charlotte Marie Bradley Miller. She was so frail that her grand-daughter had to carry her onto the set to take this photo. It’s a close-up. Her emaciated arms emerge from the top corners of the photo and the background is black, maybe velvet, as if we’re being protected from seeing the strings. One wrist rests on the other, and her fingers hang loose, close together, a pair of folded wings. And you can see her insides.
The bones of her knuckles bulge out of the skin, which sags like plastic that has melted in the sun and is dripping off her, wrinkling and folding. Her veins look as though they’re stuck to the outside of her hands. They’re a colour that’s difficult to describe: blue, but also silver, green; her blood runs through them, close to the surface. The book says she died shortly after they took this picture. Did she even get to see it? Maybe it was the last beautiful thing she left in the world.
I’m trying to decide whether or not I want to carry on living. I’m giving myself three months of this journal to decide. You might think that sounds melodramatic, but I don’t think I’m alone in wondering whether it’s all worth it. I’ve seen the look in people’s eyes. Stiff suits travelling to work, morning after morning, on the cramped and humid tube. Tarted-up girls and gangs of boys reeking of aftershave, reeling on the pavements on a Friday night, trying to mop up the dreariness of their week with one desperate, fake-happy night. I’ve heard the weary grief in my dad’s voice.
So where do I start with all this? What do you want to know about me? I’m Ruth White, thirty-two years old, going on a hundred. I live alone with no boyfriend and no cat in a tiny flat in central London. In fact, I had a non-relationship with a man at work, Dan, for seven years. I’m sitting in my bedroom-cum-living room right now, looking up every so often at the thin rain slanting across a flat grey sky. I work in a city hospital lab as a microbiologist. My dad is an accountant and lives with his sensible second wife Julie, in a sensible second home. Mother finished dying when I was fourteen, three years after her first diagnosis. What else? What else is there?
Charlotte Marie Bradley Miller. I looked at her hands for twelve minutes. It was odd describing what I was seeing in words. Usually the picture just sits inside my head and I swish it around like tasting wine. I have huge books all over my flat — books you have to take in both hands to lift. I’ve had the photo habit for years. Mother bought me my first book, black and white landscapes by Ansel Adams. When she got really ill, I used to take it to bed with me and look at it for hours, concentrating on the huge trees, the still water, the never-ending skies. I suppose it helped me think about something other than what was happening. I learned to focus on one photo at a time rather than flicking from scene to scene in search of something to hold me. If I concentrate, then everything stands still. Although I use them to escape the world, I also think they bring me closer to it. I’ve still got that book. When I take it out, I handle the pages as though they might flake into dust.
Mother used to write a journal. When I was small, I sat by her bed in the early mornings on a hard chair and looked at her face as her pen spat out sentences in short bursts. I imagined what she might have been writing about — princesses dressed in star-patterned silk, talking horses, adventures with pirates. More likely she was writing about what she was going to cook for dinner and how irritating Dad’s snoring was.
I’ve always wanted to write my own journal, and this is my chance. Maybe my last chance. The idea is that every night for three months, I’ll take one of these heavy sheets of pure white paper, rough under my fingertips, and fill it up on both sides. If my suicide note is nearly a hundred pages long, then no-one can accuse me of not thinking it through. No-one can say, ‘It makes no sense; she was a polite, cheerful girl, had everything to live for,’ before adding that I did keep myself to myself. It’ll all be here. I’m using a silver fountain pen with purple ink. A bit flamboyant for me, I know. I need these idiosyncratic rituals; they hold things in place. Like the way I make tea, squeezing the tea-bag three times, the exact amount of milk, seven stirs. My writing is small and neat; I’m striping the paper. I’m near the bottom of the page now. Only ninety-one more days to go before I’m allowed to make my decision. That’s it for today. It’s begun.
The bones of her knuckles bulge out of the skin, which sags like plastic that has melted in the sun and is dripping off her, wrinkling and folding. Her veins look as though they’re stuck to the outside of her hands. They’re a colour that’s difficult to describe: blue, but also silver, green; her blood runs through them, close to the surface. The book says she died shortly after they took this picture. Did she even get to see it? Maybe it was the last beautiful thing she left in the world.
I’m trying to decide whether or not I want to carry on living. I’m giving myself three months of this journal to decide. You might think that sounds melodramatic, but I don’t think I’m alone in wondering whether it’s all worth it. I’ve seen the look in people’s eyes. Stiff suits travelling to work, morning after morning, on the cramped and humid tube. Tarted-up girls and gangs of boys reeking of aftershave, reeling on the pavements on a Friday night, trying to mop up the dreariness of their week with one desperate, fake-happy night. I’ve heard the weary grief in my dad’s voice.
So where do I start with all this? What do you want to know about me? I’m Ruth White, thirty-two years old, going on a hundred. I live alone with no boyfriend and no cat in a tiny flat in central London. In fact, I had a non-relationship with a man at work, Dan, for seven years. I’m sitting in my bedroom-cum-living room right now, looking up every so often at the thin rain slanting across a flat grey sky. I work in a city hospital lab as a microbiologist. My dad is an accountant and lives with his sensible second wife Julie, in a sensible second home. Mother finished dying when I was fourteen, three years after her first diagnosis. What else? What else is there?
Charlotte Marie Bradley Miller. I looked at her hands for twelve minutes. It was odd describing what I was seeing in words. Usually the picture just sits inside my head and I swish it around like tasting wine. I have huge books all over my flat — books you have to take in both hands to lift. I’ve had the photo habit for years. Mother bought me my first book, black and white landscapes by Ansel Adams. When she got really ill, I used to take it to bed with me and look at it for hours, concentrating on the huge trees, the still water, the never-ending skies. I suppose it helped me think about something other than what was happening. I learned to focus on one photo at a time rather than flicking from scene to scene in search of something to hold me. If I concentrate, then everything stands still. Although I use them to escape the world, I also think they bring me closer to it. I’ve still got that book. When I take it out, I handle the pages as though they might flake into dust.
Mother used to write a journal. When I was small, I sat by her bed in the early mornings on a hard chair and looked at her face as her pen spat out sentences in short bursts. I imagined what she might have been writing about — princesses dressed in star-patterned silk, talking horses, adventures with pirates. More likely she was writing about what she was going to cook for dinner and how irritating Dad’s snoring was.
I’ve always wanted to write my own journal, and this is my chance. Maybe my last chance. The idea is that every night for three months, I’ll take one of these heavy sheets of pure white paper, rough under my fingertips, and fill it up on both sides. If my suicide note is nearly a hundred pages long, then no-one can accuse me of not thinking it through. No-one can say, ‘It makes no sense; she was a polite, cheerful girl, had everything to live for,’ before adding that I did keep myself to myself. It’ll all be here. I’m using a silver fountain pen with purple ink. A bit flamboyant for me, I know. I need these idiosyncratic rituals; they hold things in place. Like the way I make tea, squeezing the tea-bag three times, the exact amount of milk, seven stirs. My writing is small and neat; I’m striping the paper. I’m near the bottom of the page now. Only ninety-one more days to go before I’m allowed to make my decision. That’s it for today. It’s begun.
Pretty interesting, right?
I'm super excited to read this, and I hope you guys are too.
I'm super excited to read this, and I hope you guys are too.
Cya!
*poke*
Monday, September 14, 2009
Hey!
Heeey!
Turn your head...
¡soıpɐ .ʇı s,ʇɐɥʇ ʞuıɥʇ ı '11ǝʍ
px
.ǝbɐuʍd .ɥoo
.noʎ ,uı11ǝʇ ʇ,uıɐ ı ʇɐɥʇ
...dıssob ʎɔınظ ǝɯos sʇob ı 'os
(:
...ǝɟı1 ʎɯ ʇnoqɐ ʇsod ɐuuob ɯ,ı '11ǝʍ .ɥɐ1q ɥɐ1q ɥɐ1q ¡uʍop ǝpısdn s,ʇı 'ɥsob ʎɯ ɥo 'buıʞuıɥʇ ǝɹ,noʎ ʇɐɥʍ ʍouʞ ı ¡uuǝظ sı sıɥʇ ¡ǝuoʎɹǝʌǝ ʎǝɥ
Turn your head...
¡soıpɐ .ʇı s,ʇɐɥʇ ʞuıɥʇ ı '11ǝʍ
px
.ǝbɐuʍd .ɥoo
.noʎ ,uı11ǝʇ ʇ,uıɐ ı ʇɐɥʇ
...dıssob ʎɔınظ ǝɯos sʇob ı 'os
(:
...ǝɟı1 ʎɯ ʇnoqɐ ʇsod ɐuuob ɯ,ı '11ǝʍ .ɥɐ1q ɥɐ1q ɥɐ1q ¡uʍop ǝpısdn s,ʇı 'ɥsob ʎɯ ɥo 'buıʞuıɥʇ ǝɹ,noʎ ʇɐɥʍ ʍouʞ ı ¡uuǝظ sı sıɥʇ ¡ǝuoʎɹǝʌǝ ʎǝɥ
Saturday, September 12, 2009
:D
SO, SO YOU THINK YOU CAN DANCE STARTED ON WEDNESDAY!
XD
WELL, I ONLY GOT TO WATCH THE LAST AUDITION, BUT AS OF TODAY, I WILL BE REVIEWING EVERY EPISODE!
EXCEPT FOR THE FIRST ONE.
AND THE SECOND ONE.
I'LL UPDATE ON THURSDAYS, SO STAY TUNED, AND STAY IN SCHOOL!
XD
WELL, I ONLY GOT TO WATCH THE LAST AUDITION, BUT AS OF TODAY, I WILL BE REVIEWING EVERY EPISODE!
EXCEPT FOR THE FIRST ONE.
AND THE SECOND ONE.
I'LL UPDATE ON THURSDAYS, SO STAY TUNED, AND STAY IN SCHOOL!
AAAAAAUGHHHHHHHHHHHH
OKAY, FOR THOSE OF YOU WHO R ALSO BLOGGERS OUT THERE...
HOW THE HECK DO YOU HAVE A PIC FOR THE FOLLOWING THE BLOG THING?!?!
I MEAN, I SERIOUSLY CAN NEVER DO THAT! PLZ COMMENT! IT'S DRIVING ME CRAZY!
HOW THE HECK DO YOU HAVE A PIC FOR THE FOLLOWING THE BLOG THING?!?!
I MEAN, I SERIOUSLY CAN NEVER DO THAT! PLZ COMMENT! IT'S DRIVING ME CRAZY!
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
LMAO
As ya'll know, I'm on a Max Ride spoof craze. Okay, if you haven't read the third book (unless you're Stefan) DON'T READ IT.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
:)
OKAY, SO I FOUND THIS PIC ONLINE. IF YOU HAVE NOT READ MAX, DO NOT READ THIS. IT MAY BE INAPPROPRIATE, BUT WHATEVER. [:
ZOOM! (ZOOM ZOOM ZOOM! LOL, SRY.)
ZOOM! (ZOOM ZOOM ZOOM! LOL, SRY.)
Monday, September 7, 2009
AWWWW
Okay, so, for those of you who read Max Ride, I found this pic on the internet and found it ADORABLE.
Check it out!
If you don't get it...
Oh, jeez.
-_-
*pokes Fang*
He looks like a little girl.
*eyes bulge out*
I wants those overalls...
Wait...
I don't wear overalls. O_O
Awww, their leetle wings are so small!
Jeez, they're small... And Jeb's huuuuuuuuuuuuuge!
THIS IS SO SAD.
I AM DEPRESSED.
YOU KNOW WHY?
I WON'T TELL YOU, CUZ I DON'T KNOW EITHER.
SORRY, I JUST HAD TO POST. I'M BORED AND I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO BESIDES STARE AT MY COMPUTER SCREEN LIKE THIS.
8|
KK, TTYL!
YOU KNOW WHY?
I WON'T TELL YOU, CUZ I DON'T KNOW EITHER.
SORRY, I JUST HAD TO POST. I'M BORED AND I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO BESIDES STARE AT MY COMPUTER SCREEN LIKE THIS.
8|
KK, TTYL!
Friday, September 4, 2009
NINA!
SOOO... I was looking at Nina's blog... and they had this tag thingy, so I'm gonna post it here. Here it is:
If you get more than 30, I strongly recommend some counseling.
If you get more than 20, you're paranoid.
If you get 11-20, you're normal.
If you get 10 or less, you're fearless.
Tag 10 of your friends and find out if they have paranoia.
I fear...
[ ] black people
[ ] the dark
[ ] staying single forever
[ ] being a parent
[ ] being myself in front of others
[ ] open spaces
[*] closed spaces
[ ] heights
[ ] dogs
[ ] birds
[ ] fish
[ ] spiders
[ ] flowers or other plants
Total so far:1
[*] being touched
[ ] fire
[ ] deep water
[ ] snakes
[ ] silk
[ ] the ocean
[*] failure
[ ] success
[ ] thunder/lightning
[ ] frogs/toads
[ ] my boyfriends/girlfriends dad
[ ] my boyfriends/girlfriends mom
[ ] rats
[ ] jumping from high places
[ ] snow
Total so far:3
[ ] rain
[ ] wind
[ ] crossing hanging bridges
[*] death
[ ] heaven
[ ] being robbed/mugged
[ ] falling
[ ] clowns
[*]dolls
[*] large crowds of people
[ ] men
[ ] women
[ ] having great responsibilities
[ ] doctors
[ ] tornadoes
Total so far: 6
[ ] hurricanes
[*] incurable diseases
[ ] sharks
[ ] friday the 13th
[] ghosts
[ ] poverty
[ ] Halloween
[ ] school
[ ] trains
[*] odd numbers
[*] even numbers
[ ] being alone
[*] becoming blind
[*] becoming deaf
[*] growing up, old
Total so far: 12
[ ] creepy noises in the night
[ ] not accomplishing my dreams/goals
[ ] needles
[*] blood
Total: 13
:3
If you get more than 30, I strongly recommend some counseling.
If you get more than 20, you're paranoid.
If you get 11-20, you're normal.
If you get 10 or less, you're fearless.
Tag 10 of your friends and find out if they have paranoia.
I fear...
[ ] black people
[ ] the dark
[ ] staying single forever
[ ] being a parent
[ ] being myself in front of others
[ ] open spaces
[*] closed spaces
[ ] heights
[ ] dogs
[ ] birds
[ ] fish
[ ] spiders
[ ] flowers or other plants
Total so far:1
[*] being touched
[ ] fire
[ ] deep water
[ ] snakes
[ ] silk
[ ] the ocean
[*] failure
[ ] success
[ ] thunder/lightning
[ ] frogs/toads
[ ] my boyfriends/girlfriends dad
[ ] my boyfriends/girlfriends mom
[ ] rats
[ ] jumping from high places
[ ] snow
Total so far:3
[ ] rain
[ ] wind
[ ] crossing hanging bridges
[*] death
[ ] heaven
[ ] being robbed/mugged
[ ] falling
[ ] clowns
[*]dolls
[*] large crowds of people
[ ] men
[ ] women
[ ] having great responsibilities
[ ] doctors
[ ] tornadoes
Total so far: 6
[ ] hurricanes
[*] incurable diseases
[ ] sharks
[ ] friday the 13th
[] ghosts
[ ] poverty
[ ] Halloween
[ ] school
[ ] trains
[*] odd numbers
[*] even numbers
[ ] being alone
[*] becoming blind
[*] becoming deaf
[*] growing up, old
Total so far: 12
[ ] creepy noises in the night
[ ] not accomplishing my dreams/goals
[ ] needles
[*] blood
Total: 13
:3
HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEY!
SO GUESS WHAT?
TODAY, MY FRIEND TIFFANY CAME OVER, WELL, SHE'S STILL HERE, BUT-
TIFF: WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO SAY?
JENN: NOTHING, JUST DON'T INTERUPT ME.
TIFF: KAY......
JENN: SO, I WAS SHOWING HER SOMETHING IN THE GARAGE, AND LIKE MOST HOUSES IN MY NEIGHBORHOOD, THE INSIDE OF THE HOUSE'S DOORS ARE ALWAYS UNLOCKED, BUT WHEN YOU COME FROM THE OUTSIDE, IT MIGHT BE.
SO I FORGOT TO CHECK, AND WE ACTUALLY GOT LOCKED OUT.
WE STAYED OUTSIDE FOR LIKE, 30 MINUTES, AND LIKE-
TIFF: JENN, IT WAS LIKE, TEN.
JENN: HEY, THAT RHYMES! WHEEEEEE! ANYWAY, WE WERE BANGING ON THE DOOR AND MY DAD WAS UP IN THE ATTIC SO HE COULDN'T HEAR US, SO WE HAD TO RING THE DOORBELL LIKE, A HUNDRED TI-
TIFF: MORE LIKE 20.
JENN: ... GREAT. WELL, IT'S 1/5, I WAS CLOSER THIS TIME... NO WAIT...
YEAH, SO THEN MY DAD FINALLY LET US IN AND WE WERE LIKE, CRACKING UP.
TIFF: IT WAS AN ADVENTURE!
JENN: YEAH, YEAH.
SO, IN OTHER NEWS, I GOT CATCHING FIRE, THE NEW HUNGER GAMES BOOK! IT IS SOOOOOOOOO GOOD.
TIFF: UH... YOU MEAN THE KILLING/MAIMING BOOK?
JENN: YEAH, THAT.
WELL, YEAH, I'M REALLY HYPER RIGHT NOW AND I THINK I'M GONNA BREAK THE COMPUTER IF I STAY ON LONGER, SO SEE YA!
WELL, I DON'T KNOW HALF OF YA'LL THAT ARE READING THIS... BUT WHO CARES.
TIFF: ONE MORE THING! DID YOU KNOW THAT IF YOU MIX THE LETTERS OF WHO, YOU GET HOW! I FIGURED THAT OUT YESTERDAY!
JENN: WHOA! THAT IS SO AWESOME! HIGH FIVE!
OWWWWWW!! MY FINGER!
WE NEED TO WORK ON THIS HI-FIVING THING...
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