Okay, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. This is just hilarious though.

Having recently been hit with the emo stick, I think I shall take up this dependable recourse in times of woe--that is to say, writing. (Please try not to burst a gut. I don't like being served with hospital bi--yes, no, I'm quite aware of how typically teenagerish this sounds, and no I don't want your opinion on it. kthxbai. (Jerk.))

(I'm arguing with my computer again...I have named my computer, which is bad enough in and of itself, but now I'm *arguing* with it. This does not speak very well of me, sanity-wise.)

Ahem.

On this note, I should mention that Sanity and I have recently stopped speaking, parted ways, and gone running in opposite directions. Why, might you ask?

The reason, in truth, has to do with a certain Russian--(not so) affectionately dubbed by friends and peers who have had the good grace to listen patiently while I moan over his most recent transgressions and soul-rotting hardships and (and and and)--yeah.

I'm not going to go into that all again here (as, if you're reading this, I'm sure you've already heard it half a billion times. For that I'm sorry. HE IS NOT WORTHY.)

Whiiiich is totally why I'm still talking to him at 11:23 at night, when the world knows I should be doing my homework. Which is why I still care that he's sarcastic at me when all I need to is talk to someone. Which is why my hands are trembling and I just want to weep right now. Which is why I just want to make him okay and not lied to and-and-and. Which. *sigh*

Delusions of grandeur.

You know, I once read the summary for this movie at my grandparents' house. It was about this woman who, for the space of a month, would take a man into her appartment and 'fix' him. troubled men, sad men, angry+troubled+sad+men.

And then there were the women from Allende's House of Spirits--the ones she was talking about at the end of the book? The ones that were the foundations of society, the backbone, the glue and love and holding of the world. I want to be like that, a woman who can let the men come into my house and bear their children and then let them go with my love because I keep going on and living and on and on and on and on. I want this.

And me?

I thought I could be like her/them. You know, open my heart, share it around, 'fix' people, and let 'em go. Catch and release, right?

Epic fail--cuz why? I can't let go. Or something...something along the way went wrong and now here I'm standing in my metaphorical kitchen with my metaphorical magnets and their metaphorical repulsion, trying to jam them together as fast as I can, arguing with them, 'gosh damn why don't you just fucking stick?!'

Or something.

Maybe I'm standing at the break in my connection wire, one half in each hand, and thinking, 'well damn' and 'oh well.'

...

Iiiiii feel better for having had that rant. This new-found composure will no doubt be catapulted (sp?!) out the window the minute that my little arrow thing-y hovers over the 'Rodeon says--Gmail...' tab--((along with my SOUL))--but...I keep wanting to fix it/him/iiiittttt. (<---I has an acknowledged 'fix-it' complex. It is being worked on.)

(ish.)

Kitzy, Queen of Ditzville, over and out

((This was written some time ago (think nearing the end of summer?), but I think that it deserves to be posted. I think it was worded really well.))




Gah, how be-ist life? Life be-ist crappy and should totally be fired on account of not being fair. Yes, life, you hear that?!

FIRED, gosh dammit! ......

Anyone ever noticed that it's kinda hard to glare daggers at an object/person/supernaturally-swishy-entity that doesn't physically exist? Yeah, me neither, but you should try it some time.

Let's see, so what has been going on in my meager, pathetic existance recently? Well? Hmm. Broke up with Patrick. For the first part of the summer, I was thinking that whoever said that what doesn't kill you only makes you stronger needed to be shot. Now though? I'm a different person, really! No joke! I can feel it.

Now I think that the bat turd needs to be be bludgeoned over the head with a hockey stick. (Wash, rinse, repeat.)

I'm sure that there are more painful things to live through, but I can't think of many. I mean, so many promises and so many beautiful, pretty, sparkly dreams that were held up with toothpicks and the Emperor's Imaginary Clothes. I mean, really--and here I am again now. Walking away from my toothpick palace, dusting off these itty-bitty splinters, and trying to remember that not all castles are torn down like that. Some stand forever.

(Psh.)

Okay, so if you followed my crappyily serpantine anologies, 'grats and sorry bout the ensuing need to drown your sorrows. Drink's on me.

But so yeah.

But, you know, whatever. Summer...What else?

Grandmother. I knew it was coming, but it still doesn't seem real. I hope to whoever's with an ear out that she's okay, and that she knows how much I love her. We miss her like crazy, specially mom and the sisters. Grandmother, I hope they have hummingbirds up there. We had hummingbird plates at you reception and everyone loved them. Mom said that she thought that you would've liked them, and I totally agree. I'm sorry that we never finished Pride and Predjudice--I was tempted to skip ahead to the very end so you'd be able to get to the good part where they get together. I think you'd've laughed like crazy. I miss you so much.

Summer...

And Erick, my crazy-on-love cousin/uncle/whatever-the-quailegg-he-is, who inspires a rather peculiar strain of terror in me. Blame Jeffrey, but he asked if nothing had ever happened--I told him I didn't know and not to cry over spilled milk--or things you can't change. I hope he understood.

Ugh. You know what? I'm just depressing myself. Oi!

BS, over and out.