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the blindest black.

eduardo alone
so, i have a whole new array of blogs to comment on. hey, new people! i hope we get to know each other better. it's good to meet you and stuff. (:

so, christmas has passed, and i can't believe that it's 2012. i better make the most of this year because, as i'm sure everyone knows, it's the end of the world soon. and yet i spend every day reading fanfiction and watching tv and movies and playing with my cat and i think it's a pretty awesome way to live. WHO'S WITH ME

also, i saw sherlock homes: game of shadows the other day. i'll cut my little rant on it, because there are spoilers and i hate spoiling things for people.

because slashy goodness was deliberate and i want to rant about itCollapse )

i hope everybody had a happy new year! am i the only one who didn't go out and party? i just laughed with my sister and mum and drank southern c. & lemonade for most of the night. and watched way too much csi. (my mum has watched her way through ten seasons since a couple of months ago, so that's not unusual.) i also surfed the forums like a nerd, haha~

and this is a short entry, because it's getting late and i have so much homework to do. argghhh, i feel sick thinking about it.

swordlights.

red mark.
so, i really haven't been online recently. i feel bad for that but there's just been so much going on that i couldn't even find time to log in. how sad! the work currently piling up on my shoulders is frankly daunting and i'm online in a bad attempt to stop thinking about it (which obviously isn't working because i'm typing about it right now argh).

and dammit i have such a rant stored up agh

rant rant rantCollapse )

anyway. on to new topics: i don't think i've ever fallen this hard. it's really frustrating. i'll write more tomorrow.

Tags:

keep your friends close

violets.

title: keep your friends close.

pairing: draco/hermione
author:
[info]withabcde
rating: m/nc-17
wordcount:  3,498
disclaimer: not mine. (but it totally happened.)
summary: all too soon i am gone once more and the chill doesn't matter, because his body is flush against mine and i can't help my hands pushing past his robes and losing themselves in the black and green. dramione, after-war, PWmuchP.


Keep Your Friends Close.Collapse )

mosquitoes cradled in amber.

scotty
it seems only natural that he reach forward to catch her when she stumbles, but she slaps him away and presses her face to the wall. he does not try again but hovers uncertainly, because this has not happened before. he hopes that she knows what to do. she opens her mouth and breaths in brick dust loudly.

"you know what i did before this?" she asks him, and he knows that she is dying.

it is obvious in the blood that she is spitting onto the pavement with a brave grimace like she is a twelve-year-old trying wine for the first time. and like the twelve-year-old, it is glaringly and painfully apparent that she is far too young for this.

he does not reply. he does not know what to say; he does not think he needs to.

"i wrote poetry," she says. and laughs.

he watches and thinks to himself that it is amazing. because it is, because she is throwing her head back and laughing at herself, blood and all, three shots front to back and laughing like she will never laugh again. and, he supposes, she really won't.

and that strikes him as something worth laughing for.

(edgeland: absalom/alice conversation.)

-------------

So, I started writing again. Finding time to do so is rare and almost never happens when I am inspired, but once I get into it I can write for hours. Unfortunately it pales in comparison to the stuff my sister can come up with - she's one of the most beautiful poets I know, no bias - but I enjoy putting it down. I'll probably explain the story further in a later post.

In other news, school as usual is too much of my life. Thank MacJesus for the strike the next three days, because it's a sad life when I go home and have to nap. I didn't even get a chance to change out of my school clothes on Monday; I woke up and it was 6am next day. It's kind of hard to explain the disbelief of sleeping so long and wasting an entire day. I just can't believe that nobody woke me up.

My school is Catholic and therefore seems to think it has the right not to celebrate charity events such as Children in Need or Red Nose Day. The reasons for this are that the charities promote and encourage the use of condoms. Gee church, think you should get with the times? The female's body kills sperm cells whether you use a condom or not; I guess in the end it's if you put them in a little baggie that sends you to Hell. Oh man, I'm screwed.

So my point to this is that while every other school raises money for these worthwhile causes, we do nothing. Absolutely nothing. Some friends and I decided to do something about this. We're trying to organise a protest for the next non-uniform day. It'll be like a Gay Pride day, except in a Catholic school and with less flamboyancy. We want people to come in wearing badges, armbands, t-shirts, the works. All to defy Catholicism in a wonderful swoop of controversy. I want a t-shirt with 'HOMOSEXUALITY IS GAY' on it. Think that'll make a few points.

In final news, this journal entry was supposed to be short but apparently my fingers don't care. Keep typing little guys, wait till I wake up and my eyes are bloodshot I can't see you. Man, I think I'm about to fall aslee

counting dandelions.

eduardo alone
So, in the end it takes my inability to unscrew a bottlecap in order to think about working out. I like to believe that I am a petite and fragile person, but in truth I am just short and feeble. Every time I go to drink some Fanta, I am thwarted by those shitty little bottles. It's always so mortifying to have to hand it over to some unimpressed friend. But really, my poor little hands are so raw after trying.

However, I now realise that perhaps this does not constitute a hardcore exercise regime. What I need to do is find a MacBuff and I'm set. Said MacBuff's skills would also include spider-catching, suit-wearing and that other thing which involves a bed and optional candles. I'd like somebody who can really let me be the best of me (and not the funny one or the problem kid, not the twin or the one who hangs with that Indian girl, what's her name again...?)

I'm also sick of people around me with such perfect backgrounds. Mum and dad still together and married, older siblings in university with sparkly fucking grades, upper-middle class lifestyles and every opportunity. Now that my twin sister has dropped out of school and I've moved into my mother's - who casually converses with me while sparking up a joint with her boyfriend - I've been labelled as a problem kid at school. My parents, even when they were together, were never well off. My closest friends happen to be from the wealthier part of town, with ambitious married parents and normally, that doesn't bother me (much). What rubbed salt in the wound was my long-time friend Subula inviting me 'round to her house for a few days after Boxing Day; she said her mum thought it would be nice for me to have some food since I probably didn't get fed much at my mother's.

Obviously I was bloody humiliated at the time and made a point of turning her down, because I'll be damned if I'm a fucking charity case, but I don't care much if they think I'm the one with nothing as long as they don't heap their stupid pity on me. (Knowing what life is like, now that's a whole lot of something.) I have a lot of respect for someone who knows what it's like to curl up in bed without heating but goes home with a smile anyway. That shit makes a person a lot more appealing than the banality of money and the easy lifestyles some people lead.

That's not to say that people who have things like married parents, a house they've lived in all their life, successful siblings etc, are not without their problems. It's just they sometimes make me laugh. "Show me a rich man and I can show you a poor man for every dollar he has."

Not to change the subject, but I was walking down the street the other day after a particularly exhausting session of Zumba when this little kid passed me. I thought I'd be nice - contrary to the typical teenager stereotype of hostile moody little shits - and actually smile at her. At the crucial moment of meeting her eyes in order to unveil the smile of all smiles, I stepped on a stone which in its spare time probably likes to impersonate knives and other assorted Sharp and Painful Things. The smile, which I recreated later on to fully comprehend its true horror, became a hideous grimace and I flopped to the ground in a puddle of pain and agony, with a yelp that I like to think came off as "oh dear this is inconvenient" but was probably closer to "ahh fucking aah I want to kill you small child". Needless to say the kid ran away and I limped home in defeat and shame. I'll stick with the stereotype.

- abcde.

the orange reckoning.

eduardo alone
I'm so submerged in my dreamworlds that I sometimes worry.

Worry; is that right? I think it scares me a little, too. I suppose everyone has different terms for it: burying your head in the sand, attempting to escape the unsatisfactory life you lead, fantasizing. I'm just dreaming. And that's what I do, whenever I have the time - when I sit on the bus home, when I'm lying in bed, when I'm sitting in class. I can spend hours just dreaming of this otherworld that I'll never breathe a speck of (and yet I have done nothing but breathe it all my life).

Being able to write this down is a bittersweet feeling. I don't have to think of other people and of judgement; I can speak of breathing dusty cobwebs and fingers crawling up chests like spiders and nobody will think pretentious idiot, she tries too hard; I can stop trying to think about the stares and blinks and thoughts and maybe for once I can just stop fucking dreaming (even though really, I know that it is pretending, and saying otherwise is pretending, too.)

And I suppose it's bitter despite the sweetness of forgetting, because I know I'm writing this as quickly as I can and trying not to think of how everything is spiralling, again, so that I can close my eyes and dream of better things. I think if I am happy underneath these eyelids and in the darkness of closed curtains and pulled-up covers, perhaps waking up won't be so bad.

- abcde.

memories; one.

eduardo alone
When I was thirteen, I decided that it was a good day to try alcohol. Said alcohol was property of Jack, a long-haired stoner whom I found inexplicably attractive. For reasons I cannot fathom, we eventually began drinking by a bike-shed which was, coincidentally, just down the road from my father's house. As you can probably imagine, my dad then showed up just as I was a few gulps past giggly. (I later found out that this was because Jack, O wonderful Jack, texted a friend where he was and who he was with. Aforementioned friend told his mother this in passing, who happened to be buddies with my stepmother. Stepmother kindly told dad.

As my father floated ominously towards me, it occurred to me through my drunken haze that here approached my impending doom. I decided that it would be a really, really good idea to run away very fast. Unfortunately my legs thought that this was a totally lame idea. So, I passed the vodka to a bleary Jack and wobbled over to meet my dad. The conversation went something like this:

dad: what the fuck do you think you're doing?

me: i love you.

dad: get in the fucking house. right now.

me: like, so, so much.

dad: i can't even begin to tell you how disappointed and angry i am.

me: i just have so much love for you right now. let's hug.

dad: you're not even taking this seriously. the least you could do is apologise for your actions. i am sick of -

stepmum: pete, i really think we should let her sober up before -

me: I'M NOT DRUUUUNK

At this point the conversation spiralled into a very angry shouting match in which I participated, for the most part, by lolling on the couch and rubbing my nose (which seems to go completely numb when I'm drunk. This is how I gauge my tipsyness.) Once I actually became sober this lecture was repeated and I was grounded for the whole summer. Suffice to say, this episode deterred me from alcohol for a few years. On a side note, I can't drink a vodka&coke without smiling.

Tags:

a different kind of alphabet.

eduardo alone
So, it's my first post on this site for a long time. I vaguely remember having one of these as a kid, but I'm not about to reintroduce myself. Just check my username; that's who I am. You know, I think I'll just jump right into my life.

The kind of people who say that looks aren't important are the facial equivalent of those guys who squeak "size doesn't matter!" Aforementioned plague-faced individuals like to extoll the virtues of having a wonderful personality to anyone within hearing distance (me. Always me.) They come up with these great lines like "oh, its so important not to become narcisstic and vain, its just great to be great, don't you think?"

Firstly, I want to grab these flackies and tell them that unfortunately (and wonderfully, because it means that I'm not the only shallow fucker alive) the world does not work in this way. Perhaps these Quasimodites wish for a society which wants to bone Mother Teresa and dry hump Ghandi but sadly, we all love sexy little honeybunnies and tall bastards with the hair that flops just right. Forgive me for being a little primal, but looks and smell are two of our most basic human mating criteria. We have needs. Like, big-boobed maids or guys over 6' with cheekily perched howled hats. Oh, and preferably with good hair. It's just a necessity.

Secondly, I want to know where these generic little boxed-up personalities have come from. Everyone goes on and on about how their latest lover is so funny, so kind and caring and perfect oh jeez they're the one... are individuals a dying species? What happened to the indefinable qualities that hide in the spiderweb cracks and dusty broken seams of peoples minds? It's one of the most beautiful events in a relationship, to peel the skin-thin layers away gently moment by moment until one day you catch a glimpse of this stunning little centre that you never knew was in there... I suppose it's a kind of inevitability. How can that even happen when you're dating someone with a personality as original as bad fanfiction?

I've been thinking about this a lot recently. In a way, it's because of my ex-boyfriend. We were together a long time, and when we split up it took a long time to get over him. I'm sure it happens to everyone - that moment when someone walks past who uses the same perfume or cologne (a particular nostalgic punch to the face) and so on. So, getting over this guy has made me think. Think of what? I'll tell you what. Sex. Makin' love. Rolling in the metaphorical hay. A tumble. All of which I am not having at this present moment. And that, in a small and rather painful nutshell, is my problem.

I thought I would be a good little girl and play it nice for a while, perhaps practise some purity and innocence (hahahaha.) I'm going to store up this frustration and release a raging lust beast of infinite lusty proportions when I next get some action (lustily). I actually came across my friends making bets on how long I would last. Apparently the longest is 'til Halloween. What would I do, jump a bloody goblin? (lol literally ohoho.) I'm so proud that my willpower is obviously held in such high regard amongst my mates. In fact, I'm not even bitter. At all. At any rate, I'll have to make do with pr0nz and French maids until then.

Speaking of, I'm supposed to cosplay as a maid at the con's in April. It's a TMM outfit but who really cares, its pure unshameful fanservice and every time I look in the mirror I will 'gasm a little. That's all on the con' front for the moment, because I'm absolutely sick of hearing about it from Alice (who also happened to meet a guy. He seems pretty brick. My chav alert went off initially but he's also a geek; the two balance out.)

McJesus, this entry is running too long. I just have too much to talk about when I have a free run of things. I'm going to leave this for now and post more whenever, after I've died on the couch.

- abcde.

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