So...I can't stand it when you raise your hand in class, and the professor makes a gesture that prompts you to spew forth another one of your obnoxious diatribes on the workshopped story's faults. Problems. Mistakes. Whatever you call them, I don't care. Point is, I don't agree with anything you say. I think you're wrong: completely, totally, utterly. I wonder what you snorted right before class that you could be able to cook up something so ridiculously far-fetched that people could still recognize it as an opinion. The part I love the most is that as much as you trash stories, your own work isn't much to brag about. This is an opportunity where I could go off on your pieces, but I won't because I'm a good person. Also, I'm too lazy, and the list of your writer issues would require another post. Anyway.
You're an asshole, and you own up to it. Fine, I can respect you for that. However, what crawled up your ass and died? Why are you always on my case? I don't even want to say something resembling a declarative statement in front of you, lest the hint of whatever emotional investment mysteriously imbued in my dialogue incites your inner douchebaginess and has you automatically challenging me to a verbal sparring match, which--obviously--I am too lazy to be bothered with. So, explain yourself please. Go annoy someone else. It's apparent enough that we have differing views and opinions, and I don't like to argue and debate. Why latch on to me? Take for instance this past Tuesday night. For the better part of an hour, you attempted to provoke me in every way possible after the (thankfully) one class we shared was over.
Okay, maybe I'm being too mean about this. Maybe there exists some redeeming qualities deep deep DEEP within you. It would be nice if you revealed them now and show me that you are more than just another typical, arrogant, obnoxious musician/wanna-be writer. Otherwise, I don't think I have it in me to forgive myself for what I'm about to confess:
You're really infuriating and really weird and I really want to jump your bones. Really, really badly. I can't even explain it. Fuckity fuck fuck.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
UST
Spilled by Someone at 12:11 AM 0 random groupings of words
Monday, October 26, 2009
Age is Just a Number
I like my ex-advisor from high school. Eleven years isn't too bad, yeah?
Fuck.
Spilled by Someone at 11:15 PM 0 random groupings of words
Saturday, October 24, 2009
I Like Death Cab For Cutie And I'm Not Ashamed to Admit It
There's a tear in the fabric of your favorite dress
And i'm sneaking glances.
Looking for the patterns in static
They start to make sense the longer i'm at it.
Ivory lines lead
Oo wha-ho, oo wha-ho
Your heart is a river that flows from your chest
Through every organ
Your brain is the dam
And i am the fish who can't reach the cord.
Ivory lines lead
Oo wha-ho, oo wha-ho
Oh, instincts are misleading
You shouldn't think what you're feeling
They don't tell you what you know you should want.
Ivory lines lead
Oo wha-ho, oo wha-ho
[x2]
Oh, instincts are misleading
You shouldn't think what you're feeling
They don't tell you want you know you should want.
Ivory lines lead
Oo wha-ho.
[x2]
Spilled by Someone at 1:31 AM 0 random groupings of words
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
How to Become Homeless in Less Than Ten Days
I am now an English major.
OH SHIT WAIT I CHANGED MY MIND I DON'T WANT TO BE A HOBO PLEASE--
Too late. Did I make the right decision?! T__T
Spilled by Someone at 8:19 PM 0 random groupings of words
Friday, October 9, 2009
An Inconvenient Truth
I have a lot of friends who are, for some reason or other, psychologically damaged. I don't know why or how I attract them, but it happens. All the time. Maybe it's because I had sensed an inner darkness within them from the get-go (which would be about the only thing I can sense), and I had an irresistible need to figure them out. Maybe they're like my little projects that I want to fix--do I even like fixing things? I'm not sure. I'll let you know when I come to a satisfying answer.
Or maybe I can just cut to the chase and admit that the reason I'm so much closer to my fucked-up friends is because I'm looking for darkness within myself too. That sentence makes about as much sense as quantum physics, but it's true. I come from a loving, happy family that has its own hang-ups and issues, but nothing like what I've heard from other people. The more Dirty Secrets they tell me, the less complicated and interesting I feel as a person. I come off boring and two-dimensional because I'm always vacillating between giddiness or mopeyness. And whenever I am legitimately sad, my reasons for it pale in comparison to some of my friends' deep, dark Depression Sessions.
It's as if I don't have a right to feel anger or sadness or depression or any other negative emotion because I come from such lucky circumstances. What reason do I have, really? I wasn't abused or abandoned or neglected or had parents who shot up and drank every day. Sure, I've been hurt by a guy. I have a semi-complicated relationship with my father. I've tried to commit suicide before. All of these are isolated incidents though (except the dad bit.) Other than that and a few other minor problems I won't delve into, I am whole and undamaged. I am normal.
So no matter how strange I am with my noises and sound effects and laughs, or emo about my family/self-existential mini-crises, I am still considered to be normal by society's standards.
And I hate normal.
This post sounds selfish and self-absorbed, which is kinda the point of having a blog, but anyway. I'm not making light of my friends' Closet Skeletons. I don't want to exist in that extreme; I wouldn't wish it on anyone either. Somewhere in the middle would be nice, though. I can be interesting and multi-layered and mysterious and complicated and hard to figure out.
Instead I am a typical, normal girl lost in a sea of typical, normal people. And that is a truth I'd rather not say out loud.
Spilled by Someone at 11:02 AM 0 random groupings of words
Monday, October 5, 2009
Into You Like a Train(wreck)
Dear *****,
I've known you since we first exchanged hellos at the April Preview in Middlebury. From that point on, we've been in the same freshman seminar, the same dormitory, the same circle of friends--same everything. Fast forward one year: not only are we in the same dorm building and floor, we're in the same suite. One year, six months. That's how long I've been aware of your existence. That is also a lengthy amount of time for me to desensitize myself to you. You know, of course, what I'm talking about.
A fair number of my friends like you, and you've hooked up with some of them. From what I've seen, you neither discriminate nor have a specific preference. Anyone goes (which is nice.) Now this is the part where I stop sounding so eloquent.
In all the months of knowing you, there have always been two crucial assumptions underlying our every interaction: 1. I'm not your type, which means there is 0% chance of us ever bumping uglies, and 2. You're not my type either. I have a mini-confession to make. Even though you're not my type, that doesn't mean I never sneak an admiring glance or two at you. Dude, you're freaking eye candy (and you know it.)
So while assuming from the get-go that the day we ever make sexytime is when hell freezes over, I have been perfectly content being friends with you. Whenever my friends make comments like, "DAMN HE'S HOT!" or "RAWR DELICIOUS!" I laugh and say (with no small amount of smugness), "He's my suitemate, you know." All without melting into a puddle. So of course in the midst of this semi-happiness, God decides to mock me--again. Meaning that you decide to ATTEMPT to make a move on me, for the first time ever aowfashfju.
I have to hand it to myself: I had desensitized my senses to you to the point of looking at your post-shower-droplet dripping bod with nothing but indifference. Yes, I'm that good. Then again, I managed to pull it off because I had thought I would never have a shot with you. Until this weekend, where you TOTALLY MESSED THAT UP. Despite the fact that we were thisclose to making whoopie on your bed (WITH YOUR ROOMMATE ASLEEP AND IN THE SAME ROOM NO LESS), I said no and stopped it before one of us lost all vestiges of self-control. I'm glad I said no; otherwise, I would just be another notch on your bedpost. Instead, I'm the one who got away.
That's not to say, however, that I have absolutely no regrets. Do you have any idea how difficult it was to tell you "No, I can't?" It was only when I touched you that I realized the full extent of what I had been missing out on. I was not desensitized in those moments. I've said it in real life, and I'll say it here: you are one hot motherfucker. There isn't one area on your body that isn't toned and smooth, and you smell wonderful. Like, fabric softener-faint soap whiff-cocoa butter fucking awesome. Sigh. I was crazy to go back to my room alone, but I did it.
In conclusion, I must redo the desensitizing process. It will take a while, but it will happen. At least nothing's awkward between us. See you later, suitemate.
Arousingly Yours in Dreams Only,
Esa
Spilled by Someone at 9:48 PM 0 random groupings of words
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Headlights
I'm trying to fight off the residual effects of drunkenness that still have a tight hold on me so I apologize for the typos and lack of grammar/syntax. I went out tonight for the sole reason of getting drunk and forgetting I had work to do the following day. I had fun in my friends' room, dancing to Spanish beats with a bottle of Smirnoff in my hand. And then I returned to my room several hours later, stumbling along the way.
After all the alcohol wears off, I still feel unfulfilled and hollow. I wonder how long this feeling will last.
Spilled by Someone at 2:23 AM 0 random groupings of words
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Chasing Pavements
Spilled by Someone at 4:31 PM 0 random groupings of words