how should memories function?

i've considered myself invincible on many levels. i'm invincible because i do not feel or rather, the feeling doesn't not linger with the memory and the memory is as present to me as a beautiful film that i no longer carry the patience to see. like atonement. i shook and held myself back through that film, never shedding a tear. the thought of the ending affects me like a magical sentence, the words are so beautiful that they linger with me, but in a sense that i can only wish for those feelings again. and i get them, for the present, at the present, but as time and people fade and no longer become a staple, i become detached and lose them to a memory that does not occur to me as reality. but is this invincibility or is this a bulletproof defense mechanism?

i haven't been sleeping properly for the past week or more.

in that wild insomnia, i wrote a raw short story that my professor really liked. and that story ate at me. i couldn't put it down, i couldn't stop thinking about it. i kept drawing it up again, rereading it and trying to figure out a way to build and improve it - it wasn't until i spoke to my professor that i knew what was wrong. still, i couldn't sleep. then i talked to a friend who broke down how internally the story related to me. then i started to get obsessed with connecting the dots. reading in between the lines to see what kind of answers i could find, but nothing worked. nothing until i opened a page and just started writing again. i rewrote the story rape blossom into one complete short story and now there's a larger sense of peace. for now. i think i've sated this demon. i might be good to sleep for a few days now. or maybe one more night's worth of writing and then it'll leave me alone. but let me sleep. i can't think of another story. and they're all set in cars right now. i don't know if i can submit both pieces in my portfolio like that. anyway... im such a liar. i don't have the guts to tell either of them. or anyone. or even myself, i think because there's so many mental blocks that i don't understand what is bothering me. there's obviously something on my mind that only the metaphors in fiction can release...

nevermind,

I heard this song, and now I know how you feel. By that look on your face, I know this is exactly how you felt at the moment. And I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I just don't want to see your face and be reminded. Perhaps in both routes, it's not about the one I want to take or the one less traveled. I'll just take the risk, and not use the road at all.

How does swimming sound? 

on my period. thanks.

What does any of this mean anyway?

I used to be so patient with people. They could say things I would listen, care and not judge. The past year my patience has worn thin. I sincerely don't give a crap about certain things or people. Perhaps I'm more genuine, more genuinely a bitch in that sense. In many ways, I think back and prefer the other girl, the "nice" one that could be swept under the rug. She kind of reached out and tried to build friendships. I feel that in the past, I would make an effort to try and connect with people. Now, I could spend hours alone and feel a certain comfort. The emotions that filter down the stairs never concerned me, or the tense emotions that cross between the residents of this place.

Every single time people see me they ask the question. "How is your house?" I just shrug and admit that I don't hang out with the other girls. They have their lives, and I have mine. Why the expectation for us to hold hands and be buddy-buddy? Sure, it's a great picturesque way to describe this place. Some people want the face of a warm home, as if they want to be transported from their house into yours, but this house 725 Ostrom is a tenant-rental situation. And I'm okay with that.

How can I explain this. 

Forget it, I'll be the first to admit that I'm not close with anyone in this house. And it doesn't bother me, so why all the questions asking me, "how the house is doing?" If you want to know, then ask the individuals you care for, not the gossip you're digging to spill. Secondly, I'm the worst person to ask. My answer is always "I don't know, I don't talk to the other girls." And I'm fine with it like this. Fragments. Whatever. You can have me like an open book.

Why the expectation that we have to be all sisterly and lovers? The conception of this house was a shipwreck from the start. The forced nature (albeit of good intent) to portray a happy family is ignorance to a sinking ship. I'm okay with it as long as you acknowledge that this idea of familial perfection isn't going to happen. 

Look, I like sinking. I'll sink, you can swim. 

Or give me a reason to appreciate breathing.

I'm heartlessly uninterested in creating some homey atmosphere.

the LA board game

If you haven't noticed or know me (because I fail at writing blogs and just writing in general these days), let me tell you now that I have been in Los Angeles for the past six months. Oh my god, no - even longer. Jan. Feb. Mar. Apr. May. June. July. Aug. Eight months - almost a year - and just a confirmation that I can just get by in a blah blah blah attitude towards Los Angeleese.

The highs of discovering myself: Being less restrictive about my choices for careers, understanding myself.

The lows of discovering myself: Become more of a bitch, unsure about my opinions.

Is this a result of not taking any shit or experiencing so much shit? 

I'm starting to realize the more opinions you have, or the more you understand things, the more complicated defending your own beliefs are. How do I explain why I'm okay hugging this person but not that person - and I've known them for the same amount of time?

Internally, I feel as if I've become this bitch just because I want the right to pick and choose my friends. I don't want to conform to other people's idea of reality or comfort zone... That's fake. Yet I get told off for not playing the game. People are so happy when you play along with them. I don't know what's worse.

Although, is achieving friendship a right, a privilege... chance? I know in Syracuse I want to be closer to some people than others care for me to. Like, at SU there was a person I liked hanging out with. Deep inside I always knew we weren't that close, but I wanted to be close. (Our conversations never got there though, so now I'm realizing it'll just never happen.) When I finally heard the confirmation about how the person felt... yeah, it hurt. Still, I backed off. I didn't go "I WANT 2 NO U. LET ME IN UR LYFE." Not going to lie though, the tone I got the information in makes me really adverse towards so and so. It was so bitter.

Some people say I'm independent, others say I'm not opening up, and then some say I'm disrespectful. Disrespectful to who? Me or them? By forcing me to act the way they want me to, isn't that making me uncomfortable? But am I making them uncomfortable by acting the way I do? 

Pleasing people is so hard to do, I just want to DGAF about it. I thought it was okay to open up accordingly, but I got judged. HARD.

In these eight months, people have told me what/who I should be. It makes me so uncomfortable, unhappy and upset.

I've been told:

• I need to have more confidence (because I don't like being in pictures).
• I need to be happier (because I'm not smiling 24/7). 
• I need to be less "dark" (because my humor isn't understood).
• I need to open up (...why? I don't know you, and I know you think information given to you is privy to everyone). 

They frustrate me so much because they don't believe I can be happy the way I am. To them: I can only be happy according to their definition of happy. It makes me uncomfortable. I don't play games, but they get hurt when I try to play the game and fail. I never thought being yourself could be so difficult in a group that claimed to be accepting, but didn't like the way you were.

So here is what I have learned in LA. 

You have to play the game to win.
Just don't get caught cheating.

what do you do

Fifteen minutes ago, I found out someone I knew of has passed away. I reviewed life around those who knew them, and it was almost as if things had become normal. On the outside. But for me. Curiosity racked my brain as I tried to figure out, what happens to those left behind? Beautiful words they'll never read. Emotion they'll never know - why does it come out after the sentiment "too late now."

Death is not so glamourous when the deceased doesn't know how much of a ripple effect they have caused. the irony is that death is for the living, some reminder that there are goals to be reached or that words should be said. the greater irony is how forgetful we can be to resume life as if death did not affect us directly. Thousands of people in Japan. Hundreds elsewhere - numbers are just vessels.

I barely knew this person, but somehow I feel their after effects pulsating around me. It's like being bowled over again. Graduation in a year. the real world. Loneliness. Apathy. Marriage. Relationships. Life. Having experienced a funeral, then vicariously experiencing through others how they will attend a funeral ... my hands are shaking. I've lost a lot of words that I want to force out, but every time I write, I delete. Every time I look back, I puke and want to shred... bits and parts of me.

With the knowledge that life is more... or that death never just around the corner waiting, it's just always waiting right there - could you or I leave the world now as someone satisfied? Or would you go with some regret, some "wish I could've" statement. 

I don't know where I am yet. But I think I know how I want to go, or where I'd like to be when I go. 

Only. Where is this person that I feel like I must gut myself to find? Sometimes I feel so angry I wish I could ... 

reducio!

Yesterday I went to Alhambra to Gallery Nucleus, one of my favourite spots outside of LA. I'll be honest though, I haven't been outside the corner the bank because the two times I've been there were for gallery openings (because those are the BEST). The first time around was for an Edward Scissor Hands Fan art exhibit, and the other was for Harry Potter Fan Art Exhibit with easily over than 1,500 people. It was such an awesome experience it made me want to re-read Harry Potter and just seriously become apart of this phenomenon. While Hollywood was craving over the LA BAFTAs, I swooned in a Harry Potter fan event.

Oh yuck, why is my necklace always screwed up these days.
Double yuck did not care about my hair this day.
Triple yuck, I was too lazy to wear makeup.
Quad yuck, also too lazy to buy a sharpener to fix my eyeliner pencil.
My fault.

I swooned around in line for Butterbeer (yum!) and played around with a mystery Bertie Botts beans. Licorice vs skunk? Top banana vs pencil shavings?? Strawberry jam vs centipede? Coconut or baby wipes?? I actually preferred baby wipes over coconut! I didn't have the guts to try peach or boogers or was it vomit? There was both options... How is it that I am willing to walk through the night at 3AM, in the middle of London, but the thought of chancing mystery beans shares the shit out of me?

  

Sadly I also experienced my number one regret of the year. While we were waiting in line, a very cute Draco Malfoy drove up and got stuck in a full parking lot. As he reversed, he yelled, "Reducio!" and backed up. I fell in love with a boy who Tom Felton should've grown up to be. Big eyes, sandy blonde hair and skinny, skinny, skinny! Of all the pictures I took, I really wish I asked to take a picture with him. Oh my god, I regret not talking to him so much. Where is a better place to crush on someone than a Harry Potter event?!? 

art in the streets: moca

In an art gallery words aren't often spoken. 

A street art gallery none the less does not contain the "hide and seek" joy that true graffiti has. 

Got yelled at twice. "Please stand 18 inches from the art work."

"Please keep off the grass." Okay, I will

Obey.