People are rarely what they seem. And misanthropy. LOTS of misanthropy.

Everyone is always quick to assess others. Much to my distaste are the statements I hear from others about myself, statements made when the person knows little of me beyond a few hours of interaction. You know me do you, have solved the mystery to your satisfaction? I try not to be too bitter about it; such stupid answers are not really harmful to me as a person—quite the contrary…they are beneficial. It is good that people know so little of me, that all of their instinctual “knowledge” is a load of bullshit. This means play my part well, that my masks are even impenetrable to the “gut instincts” of other human beings.

I always get the remarks that I’m “very sweet”. It’s as though I’m not even there when they’re talking; I’m just an inanimate object incapable of understanding the esoteric goings-on of the so-called “adults” of the world. Since when did the “experience” of years of stupidity and ignorance equate to a deserved respect? Quite frankly, the older someone is, the more biting my judgment. If you’re old AND stupid, my opinion of your intelligence is going to drop considerably. You’ve had years to figure it out, and therefore no excuse to be a bumbling moron polluting the air with your tremendously lacking mental capacity. I’m just saying.

It takes on average, three years to fully be exposed to a person’s inner workings, and that’s just the easy ones. The people who don’t want to be found out…good luck digging the truth out of them. But the fact is, even the best actors have holes in their masks, little quirks that insinuate a VERY different personality than the one that they are allowing you to see. Basically, it’s just a matter of getting a good grip on that mask and tearing it off. Generally this is done by not-so-nice means, as the smarter ones are never keen on you learning the truth, on seeing through the lies they have so carefully constructed.

The better you get at understanding your gut instincts—I mean true instincts, not just the ones designed by society—the more likely you figure someone out sooner rather than later. And who doesn’t like saving a little time? It becomes a bit of a game after awhile, predicting other people, learning their thoughts. The terrible truth is, whether we realize it or not, everything is right out there for the entire world to see. Luckily mass stupidity is rampant, as is the severe misinterpretation of body language and speech. People say one thing, but usually mean another. Their body says it, even their words say it. So incredibly easy to read, yet no one does. This is why I can get away with ill-formed lies without ever being questioned. People are positively blind to others. We’re so focused in our little constructed worlds that we can’t determine when others are faking it. Fault of the egotistical, really.

I have time on my side. I look a lot younger than I am, especially when I dress more teen-like. When I go into college wearing a suit, I look older, and no one can guess my age properly. It’s SO DAMN easy. It doesn’t even require thinking about it, just do it. This U.S. is based on how you appear. Skinny and pretty is admirable, suggests all positive qualities, while fat and ugly suggests all negative qualities. Simple psychology. And no matter what you look like, if you dress a certain way, behave a certain way, get yourself to look a certain way, you’ll get respect without even trying for it. It is completely pathetic how easy it is to sway people. The thought of it makes me sick. There is nothing here. It’s a world of blank eyes and blank minds.

There is nothing HERE! I feel like I live in a world of robots who can’t think for themselves. Mass fucking psychosis. It makes me want to die because human beings are so hopeless. There are times that I don’t want to be associated with this species. At all. As they say, guilty by association.

I have to sit back and ask myself if there is hope for any of them, me included. We say we are everything, but all we have to show is nothing. A lack of understanding of the world around us, and most of all, a COMPLETE lack of understanding about ourselves. People don’t even know what they are. They have no clue. They live in a world of dreams and playhouse mirrors that distort their reality. They aren’t even good enough to be termed “sheep” or “cattle”. It’s beyond that, it’s like a virus. Doesn’t think, just does.

I know now that a big part of my constant depression is over the fact that there is nothing that can be changed, me or anybody else. I don’t even care about the world, its fate anymore. What should such a thing matter to something that is barely alive?

Each thing we do is the same motion repeated again and again in different ways. Everything is written off as “new”, when it is simply a dressed-up version of old. Civilizations rise and fall, people live and die. We claim individuality so much that we desperately believe it. But we are the same old thing, repeated yet again, another mistake, another scar in the history of the world. But someday it will be so scarred that it will not mend. It will be a battered canvas that can no longer be painted upon afresh. Done, finished. Humanity is but a blink in the life of something so ancient. We will not last forever.

And maybe it’s that, that “disgusting” truth that no one wants to face, that intrigues me. People only care about the future because they picture their line in it, that continuum of themselves. Honestly, no one deserves to breed, but far be it for me to stop them…. The future is basically an indication that humans have conquered everything. The thought that there could be a future without people is something humans don’t like to think about. It spells that delicious word: failure. People despise failure. Not only that, but they like to placate themselves with the thought that the world wouldn’t exist without people in it. I can say with certainty already, nothing will miss us.

We are “evil” just like any other animal, however we allotted ourselves to top spot. In doing so we sealed our doom. With so many of us, we do not play the game by the rules. We overpopulate. Disease runs rampant. It is always the smallest things that make the bigger things fall. Ironic, isn’t it? It will not be some super-animal that will destroy us, but a simple little virus. After all, we don’t much deserve a heroes death. We go out with a flicker, nothing more.

A fitting end, in my opinion to such squandered potential.

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Please don’t poke out my eyeballs.

I had to get a new prescription, since I seem to be so damn blind. I’m having trouble reading street signs and that sort of thing. I DO NOT like to get eye exams, they are right up there with my list of horrible experiences much better avoided. I’d rather go to the gynecologist, honestly, at least in that scenario all I have to do is cough, look the other way, and basically ignore whatever’s going on. You can’t ignore what’s right in front of your face—namely your eyeballs—unfortunately.

I think I have a deep hatred of eye exams because of the first time I went to get one. The optometrist was very rushed and rude with me, and I ended up with a prescription that wasn’t near strong enough. I had to keep those glasses for quite awhile, as we couldn’t afford to get me new ones. I learned to be very forceful with the optometrists since I always seemed to get bad ones who didn’t give a shit whether or not I would be able to see with the prescription that we’d selected.

So I go to the store today with mom, with NO idea what is going to be happening later…. She decided she wouldn’t tell me I was going to get an eye exam, that way I wouldn’t whine and try to weasel my way out of it. When we end up signing up for an appointment, I’m not very thrilled, obviously.

I get to stare at a barn that goes in an out of focus, then I get pushed over to my least favorite part of an eye exam, the infamous “puffer”. It shouldn’t be all that frightening, but like I said, I’ve been scarred for life by my first visit to an optometrist. He didn’t tell me that the machine was going to puff air into my eye, so basically what happened was I immediately lurched backward when it released the air, much to his annoyance. I sound like I’m being a baby about all of it, but honestly, my vision is the most important function for me. I’m an extremely visual person, especially learning wise. I’ve been hit in the face with just about everything, I’ve gotten an assortment of foreign objects in my eyes, and I once got a very bad cut in one of my eyes that took awhile to heal. Needless to say, I am very protective of my vision, constantly making sure my eyes aren’t in harm’s way when I’m doing whatever I’m doing. Sight is the one things I am not willing to lose. As a result I don’t like ANYTHING done to my eyes. I refuse to wear contacts and I would die before I’d get Lasik.

I got over my fear of the “puffer”, but I still always flinch and usually have to have the process repeated a couple of times on each eye because I end up blinking. Well today, I had the receptionist doing this part of the exam, and naturally she wasn’t in a great mood. She keeps adjusting the machine wrong so that it’s way too high, then when she actually starts trying to get it close enough to my eye…she gets too close. I feel the thing pressing against my eyelashes (and she keeps pushing it forward!) and immediately jerk my body away from the machine. I can tell she is not thrilled with this, but she isn’t outwardly rude or anything, and just tries again. I had already told her that this was not a test that I liked…. Anyway, when she tries it again, she pushes it far too close, going past my eyelashes and not stopping…so you can guess what happens. You’re not supposed to poke somebody in the eye with that thing, that much I know. You’re just supposed to get close enough to puff air at them. I don’t know if she just couldn’t tell she was getting too close, or if I was being a little more paranoid than I should have…either way I’m not going to worry about it. She gives up and has me do a different test.

Then the optometrist comes in during the test and takes over, much to my relief. From there on I get the typical eye exam. The optometrist is very nice (which made me happier and less tense) and takes her time with me. I’m shocked when the little board comes up (you know, the one with the big ‘E’ at the top), and I can’t make out that E. I know it’s an E, but its so blurry without my glasses that it looks more like a couple of blob-like lines than anything else. I knew my vision got worse, but Christ, is it really THAT bad?

What was really great was that finally someone was able to figure out why I have a lot of light sensitivity. I go out into the sun and I literally have to shut one eye because it feels like someone is shining a huge flashlight on my face. It takes several minutes for me to adjust, even when the sun isn’t all that bright. For a long time I thought I was just being a wuss, or that I was spending too much time in my dark room and the contrast was making it hard for my eyes. But then I started driving at night and was literally getting headaches from the lowbeams of people’s headlights, and at times I would be driving with one eye closed because they would be watering so bad. It didn’t bother my mom while she was in the car, so I finally realized I might actually have something wrong with my eyes.

Turns out it actually is real, I’m not just imagining it. The gist of it is that I have lighter pigmentation in parts of my eyes (from what it sounded like, it has something to do with the parts behind my actual eye), which makes me more sensitive to bright light. Nothing can really be done about it, except for sunglasses. I usually wear transitions, but I opted to go for sunglasses this time so that I could get a lot darker lenses and I wouldn’t have to wait for my glasses to adjust when I go outside. Hopefully that will help, though the night driving is still going to be a bitch. But it’s nice to know I am not crazy. :)

Back to the receptionist lady. Mom told me later that she had been in one of the other rooms crying, really upset about something. So now I know it wasn’t just me…. She helped me get select some glasses to look at, and so did my mom. I ended up getting another pair of black ones with plastic frames…haha. I’m a creature of habit, yes.

This is a really bitchy entry, isn’t it? Ah well. The power went out which got me up early, so I’m sleep deprived. I think I got like two hours of sleep, so I’ll most definitely be going off to crash now…. Then later I can come back and delete the whining if I feel like it….

The thoughts of the wicked.

dita von teese

My masochistic tendencies seem to be at an all-time high. It’s a bizarre feeling, especially for someone who doesn’t like to think of themselves as “weak”. I used to associate masochism with weakness, with neediness, and a collection of other words that I strive to avoid. But time has taught me that there is another side to masochism, and that is endurance. Endurance is strength, perseverance. Not so weak sounding, is it?

I’ve always off-handedly called myself a sadist and at times a masochist, but it is only now that I see how they are completely integrated into my being. I live my life to both please and hurt myself. I take pleasure in the hurt, both from the standpoint of the sadist inflicing it, as well as the masochist who endures it.

People always talk about sadism and masochism from a sexual point of view, but to me, it’s beyond that: it’s life. There are people who can learn to ignore their instincts for the most part and there are others in which it is so strong that there is no avoiding it; it must be faced daily.

I have to repeatedly ask myself what I’m doing. ‘Why?’ is the biggest question. I hate myself for everything, for being. And there are times when I can feed on that, use it, implement it. That is where I find power. It’s the sadist that laughs, getting the masochist angry, pushing and pushing and pushing. Little flash here, little flash there…remember yourself at your most horrible…remember all the things you’ve said and done wrong. Now use it.

I know now that I can turn off nearly anything, all feeling, all connection…. But I can’t turn off my self hate. It’s both damaging, as well as a cheap ploy by my unconscious to keep me breathing just a little longer…. Fuck, if I could only explain how much I hate it…. It’s pain, a pain I don’t want. I hate it for keeping me alive. I hate that I can’t just finish myself off. What the hell am I waiting for? What is so grand that I have to feel like I should be here?

Some days I eat once, and barely at all. I get off on it in a lot of ways. It’s a new way to show dominance, mastery…. It’s my fucked up little way of saying to the world that I don’t care. I can starve to fucking death and I won’t give a shit. I am always hungry, yet for some reason it doesn’t bother me…. You can put plates of food in front of me and I don’t care; I don’t want it. It’s not even about losing weight half the time, it’s about proving my own worth to myself.

College is very close. Another year of boring classes and feeling like a human tick. I just want everything to end, I don’t care if I come out of it dead or alive.

I should have been named liar
But then again I was never meant to be
I should have been
That little lump of tissue, nothing but…
An abortion thrown away in a garbage can

It’s 2:19 am. I don’t know if I’m making sense or allowing my lunacy some free reign. My head hurts.

The things you own end up owning you.

I had one of those days that reminds me just how little I’ve grown, and how I still manage to make the same mistakes time and time again.

I’ve always admired the extremist philosophies behind the movie “Fight Club”. Yes, the things you own do end up owning you, like it or not. And even now it is hard for me to realize such things. In my numb haze, I hardly know what it is that I treasure. Until today, when it almost all got taken away….

The worst words in existence belong to a computer, more specifically, the one I’m typing on right this moment. You know what they are?

Hardrive not found.

Now comes the story, what I did, in spite of the 5 or 6 times this has happened to me in the past….

I download a program that people use all of the time. My computer, for some reason decides that it doesn’t like the program. Crash. Burn. I have the worst luck. People never believe me when I say this, but honestly, it’s the terrible truth. I am VERY cautious with what I download onto my computer (because of past problems), yet, no matter what, every computer I own has dumped me at one point or another. For instance, my last computer…. I download the new version of Internet Explorer. Crash. Burn. I once had a computer screen blow out on me. Scary as shit. And I can’t tell you how many times I’ve uploaded something that should have been simple, and all of a sudden the computer just…died.

Today I downloaded what should have been a simple writing program. It’s standard for the site I’m planning on using (nearly everyone on there uses it), and it supposedly works well with Microsoft Word as well as WordPerfect. Great, right? Wrong. You know what happened? I download it. I click on the program to open it. Crash. Burn.

My computer was so lost that it resorted back to DOS. Yes, bloody fucking DOS. I’m sitting there going “WTF???!”. Everything gone in an instant. Hardrive not found. My computer doesn’t even remember that there is such a thing as Windows Vista. It’s asking me, “Search for hardrive?”

I panicked. Freaked out. Died. Whatever you want to call it. I haven’t backed up my stuff since January. That’s so much stuff it is unimaginable. I had a moment where I was covered in a cold sweat thinking to myself, “My life is on that fucking machine. Every pathetic piece of me is there….”

In “Fight Club”, Tyler Durden says, “Just let go.” I have my five minutes of panic, ripping out my own hair, immensely frustrated…. And then…nothing. You know what, if you lose everything, SO FUCKING BE IT! I did it, it’s my own stupid fault. Accept it. Get over it. Panic leaves, and suddenly I feel…okay. I have my stuff from January, I should be grateful. So what if you lost your writing…it’s all in your head, stupid. So I accept my fate.

My dad’s giving me the traditional “you’re totally doomed” look. He’s a miracle worker with computers, never took a class in his life, but he always manages to at least get some of my things back when a crash happens. So I’m hopeful that at least he will get the computer to remember what Vista is. At least then my computer won’t be a heap of a couple thousand dollars worth of garbage.

He got it back. Can you believe that shit? He fucking fixed it. I still have everything. It took a couple of hours to get the program I loaded off, because that piece of shit DID NOT want to leave. It refused to even show up in the program listing, so we could remove it the regular way. We had to do a system restore from yesterday, then Vista crashed AGAIN. Somehow, yet again, dad managed to get it back. Let me just say it again: this computer, top of the line, best money can buy laptop, couldn’t even find its own hardrive. I have no idea how he fixed it. I’m so fucking relieved right now, and exceptionally pissed at myself…. I really don’t know how those emotions work together, but then again, I’m pretty messed up as it is….

I immediately started backing up files. This computer, though I am loathe to say it, is a piece of me. It means more to me than any living thing ever could. It’s taken the place of friends and family, of human contact…. It’s my port in a storm, my world for venting, my secret keeper, my weapon…. It’s…everything. If I didn’t have it, I can easily say that I’d have killed myself by now. If I didn’t have my writing, my email, my bullshit…I would be nothing. And that’s a scary thing.

I hate myself for it, for my dependency….

Filling up an empty soul with material possessions.

They say that money doesn’t make you happy, that things will not bring lasting happiness. I wonder if “they” have ever been in my position. When you’ve never felt true, unadulterated happiness, sometimes the weakest of pleasure is beyond imaginable. It seems unreal, untrue, and most of all, it stinks of lies. I ask myself over and over again, How could it be?  I am amazed sometimes that in this world of pain there is such a thing as pleasure, something that doesn’t hurt. For a long time I mistook my own pain for pleasure; I did not know any better. I think that forever, any remnant of “happiness” in me will always be spotted with pain. Happiness, even in the most diluted of forms, is a sick reminder of something I can never have. What I call happiness, is not in fact happiness at all, but a moment lacking pain. Not numbness—that is another beast—but a feeling of…normality. A moment where I am not completely hateful of each breath. There isn’t really joy attached to it, only a gratefulness that for once in a great while I don’t have to continually endure suffering.

The idea that money brings happiness scares people. It has long been secretly acknowledged that being alone means being unhappy, being lonely. Humans are social creatures, as my psychology professor seems to be so keen on saying. They need company, compassion, love, etc. I have come to understand that my lack of loneliness and my love of being alone is something people assume is either a show I put on, or an indication that I have something inherently wrong with me. Fine, so be it. Think what you will, it does not make my feelings any less real. With such strange likes, strange ways, comes odd solutions to my own problems.

The hole inside each person’s soul is generally a place filled by a god or another human being. (Yes, sick people, I like puns. And no, that one in particular did not escape my attention.) Which is why the thought of “completing a soul” with a bunch of shit one acquires, is so bizarre an idea to the general public. If you do not understand a person, you could not possibly know what it is that will complete them, can you? Now I’m not saying that material possessions will “complete me”, but I do believe that they can fix some of my problems.

Whenever I make a choice, I take ages to decide; it’s my way. I took months and months and months to finally select a corset for myself. Corsets are sort of like a controling person: rigid, spiteful, and all-encompassing. A controlling person doesn’t just “exist” in your life, they own it. Every damn piece of it. With a corset, you tighten it to get yourself to appear more to your liking. With control, we bend our universe to view us in a certain light, truthful or untruthful. Corsets and control are one in the same. They both point to the answer that people despise: human beings are stupid, exercise a little control over yourself and you get them to do whatever you want of them. Change their perceptions, basically. Things allow me to change perceptions, because of this, I like money. Not only that, but things bought bring me a sense of satisfaction. I like being surrounded by what pleases me, just as much as the next person.

I’ve attempted to have a circle of friends, to obtain a feeling of connection amongst other people. Obviously, it didn’t work. No matter how much I have in common with anyone, it doesn’t matter, because in the end I cheat on them with myself. Me and me run off into the sunset and live hatefully ever after. I get sick of people expecting me to completely revamp myself to fit into their pathetic little agenda. And they always hide it so simply, like they think they aren’t going to get caught…hmph.

Books, reading, that seems to be what I enjoy the most. I like the idea of being in a different place, a different time, being someone else. It suits my boredom well.

So sure, maybe money and lots of useless shit doesn’t equal the traditional idea of happiness. For MOST people. But at least it is enough to make me feel better, less bored. If it quells the boredom then it is most definitely worth it. And to me, not being bored, not being in pain, that’s a really great thing. If I have to use an odd method to obtain it, so be it. At least I have an answer and I don’t have to go around pining after a god that doesn’t care or a person who doesn’t want me, but an idea of me.

At this point, I change for no one.

Yes, I think this picture relates what I’m talking about very nicely.

Hatred. Complaining. Venting.

I feel the need to state that I am in a pissy mood. A really foul, irritated, unintelligent (and uncaring of said fact), mood. I just want to verbally beat someone, or perhaps go drive my fist into some undeserving inanimate object. I’m guessing it’s a mix of waiting too long to eat dinner (we had nothing to eat in the fridge, and I was forced to wait until 8:00 when the groceries were brought home), the end of yet another hormonal cycle of doom, and overall a complete hate of anything and everything that DARES even try to stand in my way. Even if it’s someone trying to be helpful. Uhg. The last thing I want is someone trying to be helpful or caring. I want mean, hateful, something I can lash out at without repercussions or suspicion from others. Because everybody knows that if somebody else starts it, you have every right to finish it. *sadistic grin*

This would be a good time for me to turn on the 360 and maliciously attack all enemies, but for some reason I feel compelled to write instead. Maybe to cause others suffering…I’m not entirely sure.

It’s times like these when I realize exactly why it is that I used to have so much trouble around other people. And it also forces me to remember what it was about others that used to bug the shit out of me. Like the fact that you can’t have a mood and be LEFT ALONE. I go off all by myself and people get offended, when the truth is I am being friggin’ NICE. I could just bitch in your face, say “fuck you and your entire family”, but NO…. I take the highroad and stalk off to sulk in private and vent frustration at my own inability to compare to my own standards…instead of taking it out on YOU. Now really, which would you prefer? Honestly…. I feel like I’m surrounded by a bunch of two year olds. Incompetent. Emotionally retarded. Every time I turn around somebody is getting in my face about SOMETHING. The funny part is that it is generally something I didn’t do, and the reprimand was unwarranted in the first place.

You know what is excessively creepy? People who stop their cars to shoot the breeze with you….

When they don’t even know your name.

The other day I went for my walk. Lately I’ve been going every single day, weekends included, so naturally I’ve encountered more people than usual. So I’m making my way out of the subdivision, and this truck decides to stop a couple of feet from me. I don’t think anything of it, because people (tourists, mainly), stop me to ask me for directions all of the time. Even though I barely know where town is, let alone some campsite in the middle of the woods that they are searching for.

It’s always campers! I LIVE here. No, I don’t camp here, so obviously I don’t really know where the campgrounds are, only that I HATE the people who OPENLY laugh at me when I tell them, “I’m sorry, I’m not sure where the campground is”. MAYBE BECAUSE I HAVEN’T BEEN CAMPING IN MY OWN BACKYARD YOU DAMN MORONS. I swear. Do you know all the campgrounds in the fucking middle of nowhere? Of course not. I was trying to be helpful by telling them how to get back to town and find someone to ask or purchase a map, and the assholes laughed in my face. Fuck you very much. Next time, I’m going to give you directions to Alaska, damn pricks. Go camping there.

Back on subject…. So this guy pulls over and starts talking to me. At first I can’t hear him (headphones be blaring music far too loudly for outside sound to reach my eardrums), so I pull of my headphones, only to hear something…creepy.

“I see you walking all of the time.”

Honestly, how do I end up in these situations?

“Last winter I saw you walking up in the snow way up in the mountains.”

I nod. Yes, chances are it was me, Creepy Stalker Man. I am known for psychotically trudging around in knee-deep snow way up there in “the mountains” as you call it.

I say nothing to him at first, only calculate very quickly how much the conversation should be worrying me. “Yeah, I walk a lot.”

Stupid rookie mistake, shouldn’t of said that. Creepy Stalker Man doesn’t need anymore information than he already has. Come to think of it, I vaguely remember seeing his truck in the woods once or twice.

He seems to not really care that my look is one of hostility, and keeps talking. “You must. How far do you think you go?”

“Uh…” I think for a minute, not really sure why he’s so interested, every reason I come up with one of malicious intent. “Four or five miles.”

“Yeah? You must be in really good shape.” Oh Jesus. Malicious intent indeed. Not good. Must get away…now….

I grin awkwardly and shrug, swallowing the urge to say something nasty and give him reason to seek me out in the woods. He says goodbye and drives off when he realizes I’m not going to say anything more.

If that isn’t just a tad bit creepy, I don’t know what is. Do I have “I want to be bothered by creepy people” printed on my forehead? I just hope that he’s some nosey old man, not one of those “retired” serial killers that I see all of the time on true crime shows. Oh well. He’s old. I could outrun him.

Writing, failure, and a will to do better.

“Bad art is tragically more beautiful than good art because it documents human failure”

The first time I heard that, I laughed uncontrollably. That’s how I like to think of my “art”, as failures. I never quite get what I want out of it. With writing, I hate how I can’t articulate, and with drawing and painting, I never can quite create the image in my head. With drawing and such, I realize that one has to practice in order to accomplish anything…and I don’t. Haha. So it is understandable that I can’t draw for shit sometimes. With writing, however, I have no such excuse. I write more often than anything else, I breathe writing, day in, day out. It’s a constant in my life, because it allows me to forget where I am and centralize myself around one thing, whether it be writing a useless entry about how I’m feeling, or writing a story. I read other people’s stories, normal people, mind you—not famous authors or poets—and can’t help but want to strangle myself for not being able to pull that calibre of writing from my own brain.

A friend said to me once that my characters are too angry, and that she hated my main character. I thought that statement was sort of funny…it hurt a little, but the sadist couldn’t help but find the irony hilarious. I have the problem of projecting myself into who I’m writing. It’s an urge that I never seem to be able to completely ignore. Every time I write a character, whether I like them or not, they are almost alwaysgiven a piece of myself. With my main characters, there are admittedly several…ahem…similarities between them and myself. My main character in my novel for instance…the one my friend hated…I don’t know how much more obvious I could have made it. You hate my character, you hate me. That was why I laughed. My character shows the side of myself that I hide from the world, and captures the very few traits that I happen to like about myself.

Writing is like a field full of mines. There are so many things I used to avoid talking about, so many characters that never sprouted because I was worried what others would think of them. I found myself writing a very odd story the other day, one I plan to NEVER let anyone else read. The characters are different from many of the others I have written. For some reason, every time I sit down to type a paragraph or two, I end up with pages of writing without even meaning to. I don’t have to think about what I’m writing; it’s just there…as though it has always been. I tap into it, and I write. I don’t worry about plot, this story is purely for character development. And that’s the conclusion I’ve come to as well: I am not the entirely plot driven author with the somewhat bland characters. My stories are completely focused in character and little else, that is my weakness. I make myself imaginary friends…people who seem real to me. I lose myself in it so much, that I forget sometimes that these people aren’t real. They are more a part of my life than anyone else…I guess because they are incapable of harming me unless I will it.

You only get better through practice, that much is clear. I think I just need to stop trying so hard and allow the words to come to me rather than bashing in my skull in a vain attempt to get them out. If it takes 6 months to get out a chapter, so be it.