Omen

I was sad about the reason I'm usually sad. And then I opened my journal and put it down on my pillow, and the two marker ribbons, tied together, fell in a perfect heart shape. This must be an omen... I'm not sure what though. The ribbons fell on a green pillow, meaning, it was a red outlined heart, filled with green. I wish I'd taken a picture, but I already moved my journal.

This is too weird. What does a heart made of two ribbons, filled with green mean? You don't think so deeply about love and then randomly have your journal ribbons randomly open up into a PERFECT heart. I don't believe in coincidence. This is a warning, a metaphorical expression of my mind, or a foretelling... I'm just not sure which and in what way.

Provoking

I always wanted my blog posts to be thought provoking. But now, I'm not sure if there is anything very thought provoking about September days in a preteen's life. What is thought provoking? I dissed American culture and Human culture, I cried over worthless guys, and exploded in splurges of words that don't make sense. I've written about my neighborhood, my fingernails, my window. I recently did a joint project with one of my friends. That was really fun. Maybe I should do that again. Either one of you, if you want to do a joint post about something like Heartbeat, reply.

What is thought provoking to people? Things that other people point out things that never crossed their minds, or make interesting points on a common subject, or do something strange. Well frankly, I'm quite ordinary, so whenver I'm done discovering things, I've got an issue with this little blog. Maybe I am just cursed with the end of the summer stuff. Finish homework. Last fun. Get ready. Nothing going on, but everything is on the horizon. Happy Labor Day Weekend.

Repost

This is a repost of "heartbeat" because this was a project between me and Lola based off of an earlier conversation. You can see Lola's version of living with an internal heartbeat, by clicking the link to her blog. (her name). Enjoy!

Ba bum. Ba bum. The heartbeat is where I live. Inside of itself, the heartbeat is a world, a society, a culture. Either the heartbeat is all that, or all that is me, and only me. A one person existence that can feed off of itself. Ba bum. Ba bum. Isn't that a bit scary? A bit wrong?

As long as can be remembered, the heartbeat has existed in my head. Like how people hear things? You know what I mean? I hear the heartbeat. Ba bum. Ba bum. But not from my ears like the people do. I hear the heartbeat from inside my head. Ba bum. Ba bum. Because the heartbeat goes on, so do I. It is the metronome, the measure, meter, that keeps all in order. I live, breathe, think, because the heartbeat keeps balance. Ba bum. Ba bum.

I woke up on a Thursday and it was raining. Is it me, or does it rain often on Thursday? The heartbeat answered. Of course. Ba bum. It was about seven in the morning, and the sky was nothing but darkness and navy blue. I got up out of bed so I could go attend my eight thirty class in psychology. My closest friends always told me not to get too involved in the subject, so that I would think I could fix myself. But frankly, I'm fine. Ba Bum. The heartbeat is company to me. So I got up on this Thursday, dreading leaving the house, because the world looked pretty soggy from the third floor. I made coffee. Is it something magical and necessary for college students to live off of coffee obsessively? That's right. Ba bum. It's college. Ba bum. Some people who were willing to believe I'm not insane and talk to me, asked me if I ever got headaches from the heartbeat. And I ask, "Are internal motherly heartbeats supposed to hurt your head?" Unfortunately, this remark tends to loose me those friends that were willing to ask the question to begin with. So I'm a lonely soul.

On Thursday, the sound of rain on the street of Chicago was crazy, buzzing and streaming and flying. IF there aws a sound I recocnized to be getting to me, it was the rain, and the cars sliding on the wet pavement. I walked down the staircase and then I realized, I heard something. It was the heartbeat. Wait! I don't usually hear the heartbeat like this! I'm sorry. I'm dying. Ba bum. Ba bum. I sped down the stairs faster, like running would make the sound calm down. What? Heartbeat got faster and faster, and I panicked, and I ran. I ran past the people, and the people stared. I reached the lobby of the apartment building. Now I understood the meaning of a heartbeat, 'cause it was horrible. Heartbeat was angry at me. And then all at once, as I was reaching for the handle of the door outside, I fell. I don't know why. I was already dead, but I had a last thought. A realization. The heartbeat had stopped.

Uninspired

Guess what. You guys are lucky today, on account of me, spending all last night organizing my goals, and worrying and whatnot. So you don't have to hear it! (applause). There's just one little downside. I'm uninspired. I really can't think of anything to blog about. My chalkboard, cable box, the SAB poster on my wall even though I hate SAB? I want to do my nails. It's one of my favorite girly-girl activities. I have several new shades of purple, and a green. I am obsessed with the color purple, did you know that? Since Kindergarten. And you know what else? My room is painted orange. Which is why my colors are purple and orange. And green. I'm not sure how green got tossed in there, but it did. So how about I pose a question to make this post a bit interesting. Do you have color(s) you associate yourself with, like a high school team might? And do you paint your nails that color if at all?

Sorry for this lameness.

Mosquitoes

I love summer. I love the warmth, lack of bedtime, lack of homework, rehearsals, tuition fees and math. I love the grass and the extra sunlight, I love the shirtless boys star-dang it! I HATE the mosquitoes.

With a deep passion! I know everyone does, but really, let me rant. They are tiny little demons with no purpose except sucking our blood all summer until they shrivel up and die when the frost comes. They either swarm in large quantities, or seem to come out of nowhere, and you don't realize they're attacking until after the fact when you can't stop scratching your legs.

So far, I have acquired a total of having thirty bites on me at once this summer. Legit. I was dying. I would have to wake up in the night to put on anti-itch from mid-thigh, all the way to between my toes. And still scratch my skin off in my sleep. Up and down my arms, and on my face? This has gone too far. I'm loosing it I swear. If you see some person downtown or in the park tomorrow, screaming for nuclear war against those tiny bugs, you know who it is.

Paranoia

When you can't breath 'cause you can't cry so you stare at the mirror and look at your eyes like why are you doing this to me, holding me in misery because my misery is only to come because I kill stories before they are done.

And I'm afraid of my reputation 'cause I know what they all say "Stalker!" But I cry in terror 'cause I won't have him run away "I am NOT a stalker! I am NOT a stalker!" all I want is someone to talk to who won't listen to the hopeless fool, I put my trust in him... that proves me as equally stupid.

Men

So, I've been spending some time by my window. And I discovered that there is a parking sign outside my window, where the men of my block like to gather. They stand around it like a central point of importance, so they can discuss the motorcycle parked beside them, and complain about the reckless existence of their younger generation. They stand there between four and five in the evening, as they always do, overlooking the block. They think that they are seeing everything, in control. But aha! It is ME who sees them. From my second story window I see them all, the men who congregate around the parking sign.