I'm Just Hopelessly Hopeful

I hate quoting Fall Out Boy. It makes me feel like either one of those sad, loser teenage bags of useless or an incredible fangirl, neither of which I'm a huge fan. But sometimes it's the only verbalisation that makes sense.

Something just hit my switch
To make me not care about anything
The point where staying awake isn't worth
The heartbreak my head gives
Sleep isn't the problem
It's the getting there that's hard
Don't make me think about me
Make your life the only one in mind
The questions and comments just rile me
I can't stand the confrontation
Make my decisions for me
Before I spill my guts over the table
The words make my skin itch
At where my head adjoins my neck
Where I could peal off my face
And you could see the real underneath

I want to get to the point where I can do this

I am an accident waiting to happen

I can't pick a single lyric, so just listen to the whole song.

The Dresden Dolls: Truce

You can have Washington, I’ll take New Jersey
You can have London but I want New York City
I should get Providence – I’ve got a job now
Los Angeles – obvious – that's where you belong now

You can have Africa, Asia, Australia,
As long as you keep your hands off Cafe Pamplona
We can split Germany right down the middle
You'd hate it there anyway
Take Berlin and we’ll call it even

You can take all of the carry-on baggage
I'll trade the saskia jokes for the alphabet language

And special occasions we'll split between parents
Who forced us to hate them on alternating weekends

You call it over and I call you psycho
Significant other?
Just say we were lovers and we'll call it even
We'll call it even

I am the ground zero ex-friend you ordered
Disguised as a hero to get passed your borders
I know when I’m wanted, I’ll leave when you ask me to
Mind my own business and speak when I’m spoken to

I am the tower around which you orbited
I am not proud, I am just taking orders
I fall to the ground within hours of impact
I hit back when hit
And attack when attacked

You get Route 2 between Concord and Lexington
I want Mass Ave from the square to my apartment

And if we should meet through some misunderstanding
I’ll be very sweet, very patient, and forgiving
(Now get off my side of the state)

And if we should see one another in passing
Despite these techniques, there is sometimes no avoiding
(There must be some kind of mistake)

We'll raise high the white flags and bow heads and shake hands
Declaring the land we're on un-American
We'll call it even
We’ll call it even

I am the tower around which you orbited
I am not proud I am just taking orders
I fall to the ground within hours of impact
I hit back when hit
And attack when attacked

And I am an accident waiting to happen
I'm laughing like mad while you strangle the captain
My place may be taken but make no mistake
From a little black box I can say without shame
That you've lost, that you’ve lost
Do you know what you've lost?

So take whatever you'd like
I'll strike like the States on fire
You won't sleep very tight
No hiding
No safe cover
Make your bed and now lie
Just like you always do
You can fake it for the papers but I’m on to you, I’m on to you

So take whatever you'd like
I'll strike like the States on fire
You won't sleep very tight
No hiding
No safe covers
Make your bed and now lie
Just like you always do
You can fake it for the papers but I’m on to you
I’m on to you
I’m on to you
I’m on to you

Remind me to use this.

I Want To Be Somewhere In Between..

...But What Will They Say?

Why Are You Wearing That Stupid Man Suit?

Nothing

Every Avenue // Nothing

Things That Reek of What The Fuckery #4

Alright, so this is mostly for the muso— which I am told is the proper term for a music-o-phile— in me. I generally succeed at my attempts to be an open-minded, all-types-welcoming person, and I admit sometimes I fall several football fields short of that goal when it comes to music, but Jesus tap dancing Christ! If you can get through that whole video, either your ears, eyes, and brain all have hemorrhaged or you have no common sense and taste in sounds.

Because in actuality, that scarcely qualifies as music. There is a reason gangsta rappers and hardcore bands stay very far away from each other. When the first thing heard on your song is a synth playing a strangely Indian-inspired riff, the second thing should NOT under any circumstances be a screamer/growler/whatever the fuck noise you're ripping your vocal cords apart to make, and it should go without saying the third thing should not be a white boy rapping about being an a club "looking at a sexy now."

What the fuck does that even mean, you whiny twerps? Who are all those women, your ex-girlfriends who realised that you're borderline mentally retarded and dumped your genre-confused asses? The only thing that made sense about this video was the guy in the pig suit, and that says something.

All that's a lot of me being offensively-defensive of two things I love: music and intelligence. It can easily be summed up in seven words:

PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF FUCK, STOP.

A Big Batch of Duh

From "Why They're Hot". Yes, it's exactly what it sounds like.

Thank you, Google.

Makes me wonder a little bit where our priorities lie on the internet.

All Things... Depressing, actually

Elitism and the new Cobra

I am currently listening to the new Cobra Starship record "Hot Mess" and on the eighth track, I have yet to be impressed. I wasn't crazy about the album art when Gabe and Ryland and Alex and Victoria all showed it to their twitzombies. To be honest I think it's ugly as fuck and that woman is going to regret that tattoo for the rest of forever (though depending on how much of that picture was her and not being costumed up, maybe she won't.)

Don't get me wrong. I love Cobra Starship. I think Gabe Saporta is incredibly clever in his own very strange mixed-up way. You could conceivably even call me a fan and I wouldn't argue too much. But this summer has been one of phenomenal releases and musical ventures. I went to Bamboozle. Blink 182 got back together. Third Eye Blind, All Time Low, and Green Day put out new music.

So after all of that and more, this pales greatly in comparison. It seems... mediocre or less. Not to mention Saporta is playing up the asshole-rockstar-getting-laid-so-much-I-have-to-rap-about-it persona. I don't like that Gabe. I like the funny, sweet, nearly-gentlemanly Gabe I met outside the Fillmore.

I'm on a song called "Move Like You Gonna Die" and the chorus of girls calling out numbers is kind of annoying me. It's sad, but I can't wait for this song to be over. I don't quite feel that way about the album as a whole, but it's easily ignorable, like something you could put on at a party and everyone would talk over it.

In terms of the first half title, I don't want anything I enjoy to fall short. I want to be impressed. I generally keep low expectations so I'm never disappointed, but here I stand, feeling just a bit salty about this space of time.

I'll have to go back and listen again. Maybe find something I can love about this album.

~

Instead of moping about how disappointed I am, I am going to be happy. Why? you ask. Because Modest Mouse never fails me, and their new video was directed by Heath Ledger. And it's clever.

King Rat

There's a man in my head

Actually, there are several, but one in particular is prominent at the moment. He is a brooding poet lounging on his fainting couch, pondering the misery of life. In actuality, he is a woman masquerading as a man, feeling lost in the world, but right in her breeches and tailcoat.


He wears this shirt beneath...


...this coat, and black and white vertically-striped pants, having kicked off his boots and left them somewhere in the house for the servant to put away. He is greatly revered as a poet and admired by both men and women for being of great beauty. The written word is his true love, however.

My, How Times Change

"I'm usually the bad guy. That's how it always seems to be," explains the guitarist to MTV News. "I've tried not to read a lot of the comments our fans have been making about this, because I really hope they don't think it was me who caused the split. We were all just going in different directions, musically. That's it."

"The photo was taken a couple of weeks ago — I do remember, believe it or not. I'm not gonna tell you whose house it was at, but yeah, there was a party the night before, and I slept on the couch, and we took a picture. I didn't even really know [the cocaine] was there."

Ryan, Ryan, Ryan... What the hell happened to you? You used to have such personality and pizazz and...NOT be a moron. I blame your questionable taste in women (as seen in this photograph) and that time you spent in a cabin in the woods. I think it drove you insane—I use "the piano knows something I don't know" as evidence. Sure, it's a good line, but you sound mad as a balloon.

Shame, really. I used to be in love with that kid. Ah well.

We Live in a Strange World

We live in a strange world, where not only will people—yes, human beings, the self-proclaimed most intelligent race on the planet, and in some cases the universe—will make ridiculous things so pointless that other people will be fascinated by said items for years and years, but where other people will buy these ludicrous products.

I have one such product at my disposal for exposition. Now, you've all heard of the Magic 8 Ball, correct? Well, I have something better! ...In some definition.


Yes. The Answer Me Jesus. As if Magic 8 Balls weren't weird enough, let's shape one like a god and saviour and throw some heresy into our fun! Not only is the thing Peptobismal pink enough to make anyone uncomfortable, but I have to admit that it has an incredible amount of detail in the design.


But of course, since it's a Magic Religion Satire, it has to have a polygonal die with "answers" floating in blue water on the inside. And it does. Such sayings include, "I still love you", "I died for this?", "Repent!", "I would!", "Resist the Devil", "Have faith," and my personal favourite, "Let me ask my dad."

Aside from the utter glee that this brings to the wholly paganistic former-Catholic part of me, it fills me with a feeling that just makes me go "....bwaaah?" Really, there's no other way to describe it. It whizzes past confusion laughing maniacally at its own ridiculosity—and the fact that it's fucking pink—and dances around like something out of a Monty Python sketch.

Found at a rummage sale by my stepmother, purchased as a gift for a friend. Find your own on the internet, another magical land of weirdness.

What is up with everything dying?!

Las Vegas quartet Panic At The Disco have officially been cut in half: As of earlier today, guitarist/primary songwriter Ryan Ross and bassist Jon Walker have departed from the group. Ross and Walker have issued the following statement regarding the split on their website:

"Ryan Ross and Jon Walker will be leaving Panic at the Disco to embark on a musical excursion of their own. Though the four of us have made music together in the past, we've creatively evolved in different directions which has compromised what each of us want to personally achieve. Over the years, we have remained close and honest with each other, which helped us to realize that our goals were different and that parting ways is truly what is best for each of us. We are all excited for the future, you should be too.

-Ryan & Jon"

The band's website also says a message from vocalist Brendon Urie and drummer Spencer Smith will be coming shortly, and that the band's upcoming tour dates with Blink-182 will still go on as scheduled.

So... pretty much my good day is a little bit ruined. I love Panic(!) at the Disco, and yes I refuse to let the ! die because it made them so interesting. But I suppose it's good Brendon and Spencer are staying together and Ryan and Jon are staying together. STILL!

Things That Reek of What The Fuckery #3

I never thought I'd have regular segments on a blog, but so it seems. And this one's a doozy.


Westboro God Hates The World Music Video - Watch more Funny Videos

I'm... near speechless. I don't think I've ever heard anyone say the phrase "fag beasts" much less sing it. But seriously, they're ruining music, one of the purest expressions of love and human emotion, with your disgusting, relentless hate. I don't see how they can justify preaching this. I thought the New Testament God was all about love and forgiving your neighbour and such. Or maybe I misunderstood for thirteen fucking years of my life.

That little girl at the end makes my chest hurt. Her parents do not deserve to procreate.

Classy Victorian Cross-Dressing Prostitute

That pretty much describes what I'm about to display, all of which I love. But the classy is the most important part.


As I said to a friend of mine when I saw it, I want to get married in this dress, or one like it.


Then I came across this, and I must admit I wouldn't mind getting married in this either. See, when I was little I never thought about ~my dream wedding~ like a lot of girls. I was too busy playing with legos.


I was also a fan of this one, mostly for kicking around being bloody fantastic in, or perhaps going to some swish party. I also like the grey one.


And this just because it's fab.


I have wanted a tailcoat for as long as I can remember, and here it is, the perfect one!


Since I am human, I enjoy shiny things. I enjoy this shiny thing very, very much.






...Yes, I know; I am obsessed with music and cross-dress too often. But you can't hate me for it. It's what makes me awesome. Hopefully.

All of these things— if you wanted to check out more yourself or maybe purchase something for me as a gift— can be found at this lovely website.

Dear Mister and/or Missus Sender

I've been thinking about gender and sexuality recently (recently here having the meaning of "pretty much since I hit high school and realised it was an issue"). A lot of the process involves wanting to know more about... well, everything, because I feel that I've taken more things for granted than I should.

Let's take these one issue at a time, shall we?

Gender first. I've always distinguished the point between sex and gender because there's a huge difference: how you view yourself versus what you've got to work with. For me, it's never been an issue, and that's because I never questioned it. I had internal sex organs, so my parents bought me dresses and bows and pretty things and grew my hair long, but they never mentioned it; nobody ever said explicitly "you are a girl and this is how girls are". I never thought to challenge the assumption that "female" on the outside matched "female" on the inside. Thus, the truth of it is that I don't think of myself in terms of gender. I am a human being that happens to have internal sex organs, breasts, and what are considered more feminine psychical features. It's external. Internally I might as well be air.

The exception to this truth— because for me, it is reality— is when I find myself attracted to a guy, which brings me to the second issue. I went to Catholic school growing up, but I also lived in San Francisco, so it brought about an interesting juxtaposition in terms of sexuality. I knew that there were men who were attracted to men and women who were attracted to women and both attracted to both (the whole "there is no such thing as bisexual" argument is bullocks), but nobody ever talked about it. The Church views homosexuality as a sin—which is one of the reasons I do not put stock in organised religion, but that's another argument— so I never really learned about it. When I went to high school, I learned some, mostly through experience. But all of everything I know about sexuality and sexual orientation is theory, except for that sick desire to... I still haven't really figured it out. I wouldn't know what to do with a boyfriend or girlfriend. All I know is that something in me urges me to try and be close with someone.

However, I've been questioning more. Why should I limit myself to a label and a social norm just because other people say it's right? I see beautiful women all the time and appreciate all of them. I see beautiful men all the time and appreciate them as well. And no, I will not change the adjective for genders, because I don't think I should have to. When I look at someone, I see a person. Not a male or a female or a transsexual. Not gay, straight, or otherwise.

I've gotten away from an idea here that I meant to bring up, so I'll backtrack. I never think of myself in terms of female until I'm attracted to someone (and I mean enough to make me question the whole meaning of existence as to why I feel that way). It happens most with guys because that's happened more often. When I'm into a guy, I have to think about the outside: how messy my hair is, how much skin I'm showing, how much makeup I'm wearing, whether I'm wearing makeup, how my body looks in my clothes, covering up the parts about myself I hate. It all makes life complicated because of three things. I'm trying to impress someone enough to pay attention to me and look at me in terms of something I don't even believe in. I don't give a flying fuck about impressing people the rest of the time; if someone doesn't find me interesting, that's their problem. I have to pretend I think I'm worth paying attention to. It's hard to camouflage the things about yourself you hate when there's nothing about yourself you like.

That's my little shpeal. Anyone reading will probably try to fit me into a niche so they can pretend they understand what I mean. I don't fit into one of the usual "sexual" orientations. I don't fit into a "usual" gender. I don't see what good it will do me or anybody else to try to transmogrify myself to fit into a cookie cutter. I wish I could make someone understand, but that would be as futile as explaining how a voice sounds in your head: no translation or explication will ever be good enough.

I don't enjoy having questions and no answers. Maybe it's just that I want somebody to acknowledge this. Asking for understanding is too vast a desire. Nobody feels how you feel, because even if they've felt something similar, it's completely unique to you.

And I can't tell if that makes me brilliant or impossibly lonesome.

I Am Still Not Getting What I Want

Is it enough to have some love
small enough to slip inside a book
small enough to cover with your hand
because everyone around you wants to look

it is enough to have some love
small enough to slip inside the cracks
the pieces don’t fit together so good
with all the breaking and all the gluing back

and i am still not getting what i want
i want to touch the back of your right arm
i wish you could remind me who i was
because every day I’m a little further off

but you are, my love, the astronaut
flying in the face of science
i will gladly stay an afterthought
just bring back some nice reminders

and is it getting harder to pretend
that life goes on without you in the wake
and can you see the means without the end
in the random frantic action that we take

and is it getting easy not to care
despite the many rings around your name
it isn’t funny and it isn’t fair
you’ve traveled all this way and it’s the same

but you are, my love, the astronaut
flying in the face of science
i will gladly stay an afterthought
just bring back some nice reminders
and i would tell them anything to see you split the evening
but as you see i do not have an awful lot to tell
everybody’s sick for something that they can find fascinating
everyone but you and even you aren’t feeling well

but you are, my love, the astronaut
flying in the face of science
i will gladly stay an afterthought
just bring back some nice reminders

yes you are, my love, the astronaut
crashing in the name of science
just my luck they sent your upper half
it’s a very nice reminder
it’s a very nice reminder

and you may be acquainted with the night
but I have seen the darkness in the day
and you must know it is a terrifying sight
because you and i are living the same way

All of this has meaning to me. And somehow nobody seems to take notice.

Something To Do With Nothing

Nothing, I just like her.

Things That Reek of What The Fuckery #2

Maybe this'll become a regular segment. Who knows.



Seriously. What the fuck?

The Despair Factor

I'm afraid of being right.

Who Wants To Live Forever?

Today is my nineteenth birthday.

No existential angst, thanks. I had a moment of that last night. Mostly I'm just trying to look forward to today and tomorrow. I get to see a bunch of East Bay friends, some of whom are performing.

Very excited Cbot.

These feelings tend to leave me with a hole in my chest

So... yes.

Busy busy busy.

No, not really. Mostly I've just been throwing myself onto the bandwagon that is Twitter. It's a tad easier than dragging out Constantine, finding an internet connection, and word-vomiting out a post. Usually by which time I've forgotten what I was thinking. (Constantine, for the record, is my laptop. Unusual, considering I named my hard drive Eris Kallistrate many months ago when I got it. Two separate entities. Does this perhaps mean Constantine is a transsexual? Curious.)

Transgendered technology regardless! Today this has come to my attention:


I love Eddie Izzard, and putting him together with Lego animation, well. The heart rightly squeals in not-so-girlish delight. I believe that there should be more Lego-influenced media. That White Stripes video simply isn't enough.

Speaking of delight, my birthday is in two days. For those of you who are familiar with my history of birthdays, you're wondering why the hell I'm excited. I am never excited for my birthday. This year, however, I don't care about presents really. My mind is more preoccupied with the show I'm going to at Blake's in Berkeley. Please Do Not Fight, Django James and the Midnight Squires, and Jon Devoto of the Matches are playing, and they're all sterling chaps— and lovely lady, Erin— with whom I've hung out and of whom I enjoy the company immensely. Plus those crazy Dizzy Balloon kids are going to be there, as well as all my other favourite East Bay/music scene people.

The mind boggles.

However, before that (tomorrow as a matter of fact) I have to present a piece of poetry for my communications class. Slam poetry isn't my usual medium, and it's not one I claim to have any knowledge about aside from that it's harder than it looks. Why did I write the assignment in this way, you ask?

No clue. Moment of insanity.

I also have to turn in a portfolio of bullshit assignments for my social anthropology class. Call me an overachiever for doing the take-home final mere hours after it was assigned, but I call it laziness: I am not going in next Wednesday to turn it in. I have better things to do. Like lunch with certain people who've been in bloody Maine for three months.

Urgh, that reminds me. I have another paper to write before Monday and a huge fuck-off final in Music History to study for. Both things I will do later. And not now.

Procrastination is the great equilizer.

Good morning, desolate

It's unusual being the only one awake in the house at 10.22 on a Saturday. My mother, usually awake around six or seven, fell asleep on the couch again a few minutes ago and the rabbit... no, I take that back. Asphodel just hopped up to my feet, but he was asleep under the dresser a second ago. However, my mother spoke— at unusual length, considering when I got home— about the terrible migraine and illness that overcame her yesterday. Yeah yeah, she already made the swine flu joke, but it's slightly more serious since drive-a-spike-through-my-head-to-make-the-pain-stop migraines were my first symptom when I had pneumonia last year.

So where does this leave me? I had a frozen waffle— yes, still frozen— a while ago, and I really have no other interest in eating except maybe a cup of tea. Which I can't make because I don't want to wake up my mother. Instead, I am sitting at the computer, frequently getting lost in thought as I write to no one about nothing and listen for probably the 50th time to the Dresden Doll's "Boston." No mean feat considering it's seven minutes long.

I had so much intention for this post; talking about how I hate the traffic going across the bay, how we trekked maybe half a mile around Berkeley in the rain, how everything in an unnatural state, including my hair, must revert to a natural state. But all of this somehow seems unimportant and not even worth expanding on to nobody now. It would be terrible for my sleep cycle, but I feel like going back to bed. I was having an alright dream; no bitches encouraging certain alcoholic guitarists to sluttery, no being covered in gallons of blood.

"Don't worry who all these jokes will be lost on. Come back to bed, my darling. There is nothing in the world we can count on. Even that we will wake up is an assumption." I couldn't have said it better myself, Miss Palmer.

Fuck it. I have a witch to burn.

Results for Once

Apparently being angry, hungry, headachy, and sleep-deprived creates results. Those results happen to involved shower rooms, slutfuck bitches, and Josh Randall, but hey, it's some result.

...My mind is a very strange place. I know. You don't have to tell me.

God damn it.

I am hungry and angry and my head hurts like a motherfucker.

But none of that matters, because I'm just going to go to bed now and try not to wake up in the morning.

Q&A

Q: Don't you ever dream of some place better where the lights shine brighter?
A: Quite often, and more and more often as the days pass.

Q: Have you ever wanted to disappear?
A: Only every day of my life since I was five.

Q: Don't you ever feel like you've been destined for something bigger than your skin?
A: I have too large of an imagination and dreams that cannot be contained. Don't give me a messiah complex too.

Q: If I put this revolver to my head, will god turn against me instead of taking pity on a broken man?
A: Likely, though it depends on which god we're talking.

Q: Does this deafening silence mean nothing to no one but me?
A: I know how you feel.

Q: There's a sick little suicide in all that we do. Which one's for you?
A: I have pick only one? Multiple causes mean hedging my bets.

Q: Why do you sing to everybody but me?
A: I don't sing for anyone, love.

Q: Why do I let it go on?
A: Lack of alternatives.

Q: Are we the waiting unknown?
A: If you have to ask, you'll never know.

Q: Where is your boy tonight?
A: I don't know where or who, but I hope he is a gentleman.

Q: Where were you when I needed you most? Why did you leave me alone?
A: I was right here. You just weren't looking properly. And I never left. You did.

Q: Have you heard of my religion? It's called the Church of Hot Addiction.
A: Preaching to the choir, baby.

Q: Can you keep a secret?
A: Too, too many.

Q: Why do I wear sunglasses in the home when the sun went down about an hour ago?
A: One word: migraines.

Q: You've got standards, girl. What the hell are you doing with me?
A: I like you. You can stay.

Day #6908

Today I have been alive for 6908 days, and it is the first day, I believe, that I have been officially alone. My parents and half-sister, along with her grandmother, have gone off to the Grand Canyon until Friday. I was left fifty dollars to buy food and told "Try not to spend it all." For the record, we have no bread, no milk, no cheese, no tortillas, no vegetables, no meat, nothing I would want to put in my mouth in the freezer...

Yeah, I'm going to be dead in two days.

Speaking of which! I also have to take care of my stepmother's cats, which admittedly isn't too bad-- just set out food for the vagabonds, make sure there's water-- but I have the sinking feeling that the old one is going to die before people get back. I mean, she's nearly 18 years old. That is a plenty long life for a cat. Problem is, if she does kick, I'm going to be blamed for it. Not to mention that I have no idea what to do with a dead cat. All terrible jokes aside.

So... we'll see what happens. I'm not having a great string of... weeks anyway. This might be the cherry that drives me into the loonybin.

Ignorance Is the Leading Cause of Death

...Not officially, but it's probably up there, at least for things that lead to situations like this:

April 9, 2009 - An 11-year-old Massachusetts boy, Carl Joseph Walker-Hoover, hung himself Monday after enduring bullying at school, including daily taunts of being gay, despite his mother’s weekly pleas to the school to address the problem. This is at least the fourth suicide of a middle-school aged child linked to bullying this year.

Carl, a junior at New Leadership Charter School in Springfield who did not identify as gay, would have turned 12 on April 17, the same day hundreds of thousands of students will participate in the 13th annual National Day of Silence by taking some form of a vow of silence to bring attention to anti-LGBT (lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender) bullying and harassment at school. The other three known cases of suicide among middle-school students
took place in Chatham, Evanston and Chicago, Ill., in the month of February.

"Our hearts go out to Carl’s mother, Sirdeaner L. Walker, and other members of Carl's family, as well as to the community suffering from this loss," GLSEN Executive Director Eliza Byard said. "As we mourn yet another tragedy involving bullying at school, we must heed Ms. Walker’s urgent call for real, systemic, effective responses to the endemic problem of bullying and harassment. Especially in this time of societal crisis, adults in schools must be alert to the heightened pressure children face, and take action to create safe learning environments for the students in their care. In order to do that effectively, as this case so tragically illustrates, schools must deal head-on with anti-gay language and behavior."

Two of the top three reasons students said their peers were most often bullied at school were actual or perceived sexual orientation and gender expression, according to From Teasing to Torment: School Climate in America, a 2005 report by GLSEN and Harris Interactive. The top reason was physical appearance.

"As was the case with Carl, you do not have to identify as gay to be attacked with anti-LGBT language," Byard said. "From their earliest years on the school playground, students learn to use anti-LGBT language as the ultimate weapon to degrade their peers. In many cases, schools and teachers either ignore the behavior or don’t know how to intervene."

Nearly 9 out of 10 LGBT youth (86.2%) reported being verbally harassed at school in the past year because of their sexual orientation, nearly half (44.1%) reported being physically harassed and about a quarter (22.1%) reported being physically assaulted, according to GLSEN’s 2007 National School Climate Survey of more than 6,000 LGBT students.

In most cases, the harassment is unreported. Nearly two-thirds of LGBT students (60.8%) who experience harassment or assault never reported the incident to the school. The most common reason given was that they didn’t believe anything would be done to address the situation. Of those who did report the incident, nearly a third (31.1%) said the school staff did nothing in response. While LGBT youth face extreme victimization, bullying in general is also a widespread problem. More than a third of middle and high school students (37%) said that bullying, name-calling or harassment is a somewhat or very serious problem at their school, according to From Teasing to Torment. Bullying is even more severe in middle school. Two-thirds of middle school students (65%) reported being assaulted or harassed in the previous year and only 41% said they felt very safe at school.

Carl's suicide comes about a year after eighth-grader Lawrence King was shot and killed by a fellow student in a California classroom, allegedly because he was gay.

STOP THE HATE, PEOPLE.

Why I want to be Amanda Palmer when I grow up

Things That Reek of What The Fuckery

http://laist.com/2009/02/23/anti-gay_westboro_baptist_church_pr.php

It's the picture that gets me. Apparently this group protests military funerals too. What the hell, guys? Why not just protest individual people? Stand outside their house and yell, "Boo! Down with Alex!"

My brother and I were going to get some friends together and protest another of our friends once. It would have made about as much sense as these fucking people.

Deity of the Day for Tuesday 24 March 2009

ACAT
From Mayan Mythology

ACAT: God of Tattoos and Tattooing. And we don't mean military ones.

The Maya often decorated themselves with body art which was of deep mystical significance. No cheesy anchors or "I luv Prudence" tattoos for them — they favored designs of the utmost Godliness. Having the symbol of a God tattooed on their flesh would, they believed, give them just the faintest whiff of Godly essence themselves.

Tattooing can be a nerve-wracking business. It's all very well scribbling a wobbly picture of Marilyn Monroe on someone's elbow, but what if you're inscribing the utterly holy face of a God and get the nose wrong? It's enough to make anyone's hands shake.

Luckily tattoo artists can call upon ACAT for assistance. He blesses the ink, the needles, the skin, and the funny buzzing machine. More importantly, he guides the hands of the tattooist at every stage of the operation — for perfect results every time.

We know several tattoo artists who would greatly benefit from ACAT's advice. So if you're thinking of getting a tattoo, make sure you visit a reputable establishment that's a member of the A.C.A.T. Guild. It's your skin.

~

Who else thinks that's awesome?

We Can Be All I Said Once In Your Head

libation \ly-BAY-shun\, noun:

1. The act of pouring a liquid (usually wine) either on the ground or on a victim in sacrifice to some deity; also, the wine or liquid thus poured out.
2. A beverage, especially an alcoholic beverage.
3. An act or instance of drinking.

Gee, I wonder why this is the word of the day. It may have something to do with this unnecessary excuse for America to get shitfaced today known as St. Patrick's Day. I'm convinced that no one actually gives a damn about being Irish or heritage or what have you.

The girl next to me in Anthropology class yesterday said that she loves this day because she's Irish. I asked if she wasn't Irish every other day of the year. She said that, well yeah, but today's the day she can really show her pride in it. I asked if she needed an excuse to be proud of who she is. She didn't answer--just shrugged-- and the guy behind me called me cynical. I turned, looked at him, and shrugged.

I am cynical. I'm not going to deny it because it's who I am, and I believe you should have pride in who you are regardless of what day it is.

I've been thinking about Twitter a lot recently. (I know I have no segue, but I couldn't expound one.) On the one hand it's pointless, as are most things on the internet, and I'm certain that I'd become hopelessly addicted to it, updating on every damn thing that comes to mind. On the other hand, however, I like the idea of telling people the random thoughts that run through my head. Isn't that what this is for, though? Isn't Twitter just microblogging? Why should I microblog when I already blog? Why the hell is "blog" a verb?

To further alienate myself from "normal" non-music-obsessed society, I need to rock right out of this hole and go. Also my back needs to stop hurting, but that's due to sitting on the ground leaning up against a wall. My posture is usually better.

Someone just tripped over me. Assholes, I am far from invisible, even if I'm sitting down.

~Edit: 13.15~

10 Tips to Survive the Road (from our friends of Dizzy Balloon, who cannot spell)

1. Floor is good. Carpet is great. Couch is best
2. Drink lots of water, because not only is it healthy it's free!
3. Let your facial hair grow when playing 21+ shows
4. Don't sit next to the sick guy in the van
5. Don't let guitarists drive
6. College meal cards from friend are awesome
7. Be prepared when playing with a band called Shrimp
8. Red Bull gives you wings
9. When driving through the desert trust the GPS
10. Go with the flow, the road is unpredictable

Forever's Not So Long

Forever's Not So Long from garrettmurray on Vimeo.

I don't know about you, but I came here to dance

ululate \UL-yuh-layt; YOOL-\, intransitive verb:

To howl, as a dog or a wolf; to wail; as, ululating jackals.

I don't know about you, but I think that's one of the best words ever. Say it to yourself. Yooooo-yuh-late. Ululate, as in, I mentally ululated when I dropped my waffle on the kitchen floor. Hello, gravity, you old shitbastard.

For some reason I find myself annoyed when I get up and get ready to go to class and then discover that it's been cancelled. Usually I discover this by the time I'm already in the city and on campus, but today I was lucky enough to check my email before leaving. So now I have time to have a nice cup of tea and not have to rush out the door to dozingly half-pay attention in class.

Watching a movie in my second class though. I will be out like a light in the back.

Also, my brother just got a Twitter. WHY DO I HAVE THE INESCAPABLE URGE TO UPDATE PEOPLE ON EVERY FUCKING THING I DO? THERE IS SOMETHING ROTTEN IN THE STATE OF DENMARK.

Again also, when did Batman cartoons start ripping off King Arthur? And why did they just drop the Green Arrow off a cliff? And why did Morgan Le Fey turn Merlin to stone? WHY DID BATMAN AND THE GREEN ARROW JUST PULL EXCALIBUR FROM THE STONE? WHAT IS THIS FUCKERY?!

Writers are liars and thieves

And to be truthful, we're kind of proud of that. Except for the writers of Heroes. They're just shameless, idea-deprived bastards. Anyway, back to my point, I'm stealing an idea for a post from my honeybuns, Justy Rae.

parry \PAR-ee\, verb, noun:

1. to ward off; turn aside (as a thrust or weapon)
2. the act of warding off

Parry, as in, I REALLY WISH I COULD HAVE PARRIED SLIPPING IN THE FUCKING MUD THIS MORNING. (Not a perfect use, but good enough for government work.) Gods. I hate this; my right leg and left knee are still soaking wet even though it happened about 2 hours ago, and I have to sit through another class with muddy jeans. I must look disgusting.

I'm pretty sure I smell like dirt and grass, too.

I hate the smell of dirt.

And I'm allergic to grass.

Also if another fucking person steps on me, shit will go down and I am not going to clean up that much blood again. Or at all.

~Edit: 15.56~



I love Amanda Palmer. If I have to grow up, I want to be her.

Forget To Want

Like I'm going to tell you how I am.
You know you don't really care.
That nicety is hollow and wants something more.
That's how I am.

I've got so much hate roiling inside me
Though you'll never see a drop of it.
If it's just me,
I'm the only one I have to hate.
Forget about me; we'll both be better off.

Forget what you were taught.
Forget what you know.
Forget what you think.
Right now, in the place you’re at,
Thinking’s just going to dig you in deeper.

Stop and breathe.
This was just a nightmare
Tattooed into your mind
Burning on your lips.

Don't complain about the things you couldn't change
Or the things that were never yours to start.
Be good, get better, or give up
Your only choices or to go home.
If you can find that at all.

It doesn't hurt here.
I don't want to be in pain.
I don't want to be miserable.
I don't want you to hate me.

Well, you can't always get what you want.
I need a reason to believe.

You'd Think With An IQ like Mine I'd Be Smarter

Well, shit. I'm sitting at the cafe on campus I usually sit at and little oblivious me just noticed that it started raining. And what am I wearing? Well, currently a t-shirt and vest, but I'm sitting on my leather jacket. You know, one of those ones that have no hood? I also have no tie to do up my hair for when I turn into a fuzzball.

Today's gonna suck, I can tell.

I've Got A Feeling

A bad one. Well, I'm not exactly sure if it's for Bad for certain. For a minute or three I thought that it was that feeling I get when I know I've forgotten something, but then I realised that I don't need a lot of stuff today. So now it's more a sense of foreboding, that something is going to happen today and I probably won't be pleased with it.

Unless the string of Bad Days has finally knocked my brain into or out of whacked and I've gone fully schizo. I'm probably going to be really jumpy and paranoid today, and in the end it'll probably be for nothing at all.

Did somebody die? Is someone sick? Has a plane crashed into something today? The not knowing is killing me.

Another Year (or semester)

So apparently it's finally fallen upon me to be justly annoyed because I, like so many before me, have to return to school. It isn't that I don't like school-- I do-- I just don't like having to get up every morning and drive into the city for sometimes as little as two hours (like today) to sit in a room full of people whose names I can't remember and not talk to any of them.

Of course, most would say this is my fault. Branch out! You'll never know unless you try! Just suck it up and make friends! No, yes I will, and shut up, either of my brothers.

Then again, anything would be a marked improvement over sitting on the sidewalk with headphones in, typing away at a computer in front of the building in which my next class is. But I did just remember why I love this school in particular, with that incredibly attractive guy walking by just now. He's probably an upperclassman and would thus have no interest in me. However, I have seen several people already whom I recognise; mostly it's the people I've seen in my daily sitting-around-and-watching-people-pass-the-cafe sessions from last semester.

Who knows? Maybe I'll get lucky in my first class and someone from one of my classes last semester will appear. It is the required class for first years after all.

Fuck this sidewalk is cold.

These are a few of my favourite... words

It pains me that I just made a Sound of Music reference. I hate that musical. But anyway, since I'm still not back in class yet and immensely bored, I found this little ditty called Wordle from some friends online, and it takes you blog or journal or whatever, and gives you a pretty picture of what words you use the most; the bigger, the more frequent. Here's the one that I made for this blog:



Shocking, I uses the words "band" and "song" the most. I'm not a music freak at all.

Suddenly Twitter makes sense to me

Maybe it's the fact that it's nearly midnight, but like the title says, I understand the point of Twitter. For reasons unbeknownst to me, I feel the need to update people I know on the fact that not only can I not sleep even though I'm tired as hell, but I'm also sleeping in my friend's empty, creepy-in-the-dark, cold as fuck house and listening to the Spill Canvas. I mean, that's what Twitter is for, isn't it? Helping people stalk you and everything you do.

On that note, I heard a stand-up comedian say something genuinely funny earlier, and I actually laughed aloud for a few minutes. "Since the dawn of MySpace and Facebook, it's been so much easier to stalk people. I remember the days when you just needed a van. Maybe some candy or puppies. But now you can just hop onto the internet!"

I think the cartilage in my nose is freezing, and my fingers are fucking numb. Hard to type. Have to go back and fix terrible typos which annoys the shit out of me. But I'm going to attempt making biscuits tomorrow, the first thing I've actually cooked in this house since I've begun watching it. If I don't get lazy and just eat a poptart instead. Wish me luck.

You know, suddenly blogging makes perfect sense too, since this little spew of word-vomit is the reason blogs were invented. So tired. Can't sleep.

Holy Tramps!

Oh, whoa. Apparently another year has passed. No, I'm not going to go into the usual depressed "What the fuck have I got to show for it?" rant, because, really, I don't feel like it right now. All I'm gonna say is that shit happens, and sometimes shit doesn't happen as often or quickly as you'd like it to.

I do realise that it's 22.41 on the sixth of January and that I probably should have written this the majority of a week ago, but in hindsight (and foresight) it really doesn't matter. Who reads blogs nowadays anyway? Except for potential employers. And college administrators. And possibly soon-to-be-outraged parents.

But moving on from that! I had a pretty decent New Year's day—don't ask about my New Year's Eve, I'm being unusually positive–and I hope all of you did too. I don't usually have a resolution because I feel that if you're going to set goals for yourself, they shouldn't be based on something as trivial as the calendar companies making more money.

Now, I can't really think of more to say because I've drained my creativity for the evening writing, helping a fellow writer with writing, and... well, actually that's pretty much it. So now I believe I'll go to bed. Ah, sweet sleep, how I have missed thee.