a little slice

so I’m pretending that I’m not liking one of Simple Plan’s songs right now. I inadvertantly dled it while looking for some other punk-pop song that can remain unamed for now.
I’m writing essays for Staples, and realizing more and more how genuinely terrible I am at doing everything. But I really hate crying about everything, literally or not. I feel just like everybody else, teenage angst. I feel like I’m trying, inadvertantly or not, to be different.
I got this journal to be open somehwat…but now I realize that I am just hyper aware of ppl reading it. But I know nobody reads it lol.
This is a dumb post…I’m going to go now..

So this is for MacShane: Guess who it’s about….

Upon the chair there where she sat, embracing those words with lucid eyes, rest her hand. Short like her, skin ran across those bones, over the nail, around the knuckle through the valley and to a plateau: Raised and prominent. Resting lay a cool, blue, pen. Buzzing around, floating through the air, coffee filled the room. As she lift her pen, to highlight what life meant. Drift. Slowly, slipping, sliding, falling, into place, off the page, she fell into…
Barely there, under her feet, pressing against the soft arch, intruding the space between her toes, the grass grew. A shepherd walked through her. Through her apparent, weightless, body. Alerted, her eyes gently twitched, as she gave way to the cattle in tow. As she surrendered she noticed a diamond ring in the sky.
“Bailey’s Beads,” she thought, “the moon is jagged, not smooth. She is even more beautiful when the sky is Pink and PeachPuff.”
And then she was gone…
Giving in to the ground, sprawled out, she lay unconscious. Circumnavigating her neck, raised up, minute links, chained, held her—geometric triangles, laid one on top of the other. She lay face up. Her open hands by her side, rest, gently, into the soft, willing grass. Broken. A mile away, sitting, was the Frisbee that dropped from the air.
Her dream journal was always open for entries: Tanglewords.

Is it really legitimate to submissively demand an apology for a complete misunderstanding? Because if it is, aren’t you really demanding for the other person to appologize for not knowing? How can you be raped in the A for not knowing?

This quotation yearbook thing, way out of control, I seriously took about an hour to think of one, at that it’s not even a good one, why are random anonymous people signing my blog? Please tell me who you are random blog people.

Emotions shouldn’t cast themselves as the leads when they really should be understudies, just in case, logic doesn’t follow through, which is more often than not.

The senior class play is really getting to me…I have dreams about it…(go to liz’s live journal to find out what they are )