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To get this out in the open, I know that I complain.
A lot.
You don't have to tell me.
And because I complain, I must be emo. People complain all the damn time, but as soon as someone actually takes the time to write it out in a way not subject to the hurried layout of a note passed during math class, it becomes a sonata of endless, psuedo-gothic whining.
If you took the time to look at what I actually write about instead of telling me I use too many adjectives or that my attitude is "so depressing and dark," maybe you'd understand that I am as far from emo as can be.
I love my life. My life ******** rocks. If you don't have my life, you don't know what you're missing. But "my life" is not what I complain about most of the time. As a matter of fact, it's one of the few things I'm willing to praise unabashedly. It's the way the world around me functions that bothers me. People go through the day-by-day, doing exactly what I get accused of doing: crying about how horrible life is.Not my life, b***h. I got it made. 3nodding
Your life, though? Wow, it must suck to be you!! You got an X-Box for X-mas? Oh, but no games. Go cry because your parents don't love you, you selfish p***k.
Oh, your mom came home late that one night last week, gave you money and told you to order pizza? She must totally neglect you. You poor, tortured, over-reactive soul.
You know what? unless you go home every night to an empty, drunk, or scream-filled home, I don't think you have much license to complain. There are people all around you who've never known a warm hug, not to mention a hot meal. They may have heard of that fancy new game system, but they're content with having got a new book for their birthday. Why? Because their parent finally remembered they exist. Or better yet, maybe they finally got a parent who loves them.
The next time I hear a real emo kid talk about how no one understands them - and maybe he's right ; I don't understand how someone who can afford to wear a new pair of girl's pants everyday (regardless of gender) can whine about being neglected and restricted- I might just have to cry, myself.
 Patchy · Tue Jan 03, 2006 @ 03:15pm · 2 Comments |
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Just A Little Black Rain Cloud |
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"When it rains, it pours."
So sayeth the ever-enigmatic "They," anonymous purveyor of all infallibly logical knowledge throughout the known universe. One must wonder how these observations, however sensical they may seem, came to be. What it a simple acknowledgement of the rain itself? which rarely if ever falls in the piddly amounts known as "light showers" (a la the weather channel)? Or was the generalization made, as so many assume it to be, as a metaphor for the amount of experiences one encounters in their lifetime?
But I digress. I chose the saying on behalf of my mother, who had the good graces to cover her emotions with anonymous quotations. As we sat on the edge of my bed, discussing the fickle jester known as fate and its consistent mockery of our life and the lives of those around us, I had to agree with the tidbit of wisdom she let loose from her mind. "When it rains, honey, it pours." Yeah. It really does.
She had gotten home from driving my stepfather to Glenbeigh, a rehabilitation community for recovering alcoholics and drug addicts, and those of these who were not yet recovering, and needed the extra push to start. Or, in my stepfather's case, to start again. He had been voluntarily incarcerated there for 5 months for alcoholism and a heroin addiction for 5 months, and after only 5 weeks of being home, he returned. I say this simply and without opinion or emotional stress because, while he filled the position of father figure in my mothers eyes, I saw him only as having the title. Thusly, and because he made no effort to earn the credentials of a true father, I am not deeply affected by his problem or how he chooses to resolve it, nor am I in need of pity. I am, however, very much affected by how these things are dealt with by my mother, who means very, very much to me. It is again on her behalf, in that case, that his return to the rehab center troubles me at all. I pity her, strong-willed as she is.
After driving from Salem, OH, up to the center in Butler, PA, staying long enough to make my stepfather's arrangements, and driving back home, one would have to have a fork lodged in their eye to not see my mother was exhausted. Her stress, fatigue, and overall uncharacteristically emotional demeanor was unsettling, and I thought it best to leave her be. So I left with Jeffrey for a few hours, and when I came home, my mother had fallen asleep. But she seemed just as tired the next day as she had been after her return from Pennsylvania, and just as distressed. Still, she went to work, and my sister and I went to school. The day progressed in spite of us.
She came from work at six, as I lay supine on my bed, trying to relax while Jeffrey and I chattered lethargically back and forth. My conversational effort was wan. Another persons stress can tax the psyche of the person who is most empathetic to their dilemma; I was exhausted from worrying about my mothers worries. But I am cold and heartless to those not close to me, and this may have been karma's counterattack to my usually aloof nature. So, as "they" say, there is no rest for the wicked.
Ah, but there is apparently no rest for those who are not so wicked as well. Mommy dearest tapped her nails on my door, her own way of letting me know who it was that required access to the organized chaos of my room. She came bearing tidings of my dearly loved grandfather's hospitilization (for reasons I am not at liberty to discuss). I could not help that think fortune was perhaps pissed off at my family, and doing all in her power to make us pay for some offense of which I had no recollection. She sat with Jeffrey and I..."When it rains, honey," she said, "it pours." Oh, mom. You know you're right.....
Patchy · Wed Dec 21, 2005 @ 03:29pm · 1 Comments |
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'Tis the Season...But for What? |
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Patchy · Tue Dec 13, 2005 @ 03:20pm · 1 Comments |
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Well, ladies and non-ladies, it's finally happened: I approach the event of my first-ever one-year anniversary. I know this may not seem like a lot to some couples with more tenure in the relationship field than myself, but I'll tell you, I've never felt happier.
Jeffrey Bash is the most wonderful, considerate, and entertaining (albeit in a somewhat immature way at times... rolleyes ) individual I've ever met. In retrospect, I haven't met that many people, but whatever floats my boat, you know? Continuing on, I must tell more of the love that burns for him like several tiny flaming squirrels eating spicy buffalo wings. That's pretty damned hot. But I really love this kid. There's a lot of reasons why.
I don't think a lot of people have a very good conception in their minds about teenage relationships; they think they're short-lived, based on reckless infatuation, and centered around mindless sexual activity as a means of guiltless instant gratification. The sad part is, most couples thoughtlessly conform to this modern stereotype, giving cause for all sorts of social hooplah and the decline of moral fiber within our young generation.
Not so with Jeffrey and myself. While our love is indeed intimate at times, sexuality is not an integral part of our attraction to one another. I respect his values (though he is a Catholic and I a naturalist) and views, and he respects mine. We can thouroughly enjoy each other's company in more ways than are expected by the definition of todya's teen relationships and, contrary to what many people believe, and sometimes rightly so, our age difference does not affect our behavior with one another. I am so thankful that being around Jeffrey lets me be myself and allows him to be himself, and that we're free to grow as individual people while still being devoted to the needs and wants of one another. Jeff is attractive and intelligent, making him sexy in an almost deadly way...Like James Bond or something. And he fits eaily into most overhead storage compartments.
I guess what I'm trying to say in my own dry, cosmically confusing way is that I've become attached to this man like one of those damn burrs stuck on your shoe after a forest hike...minus, of course, the annoying little pricklers. I would give up the world just to see him each day, because I know he'd do the same for me. ******** the generic conception of dating; if love like ours is trivial, I'll stay shallow and blind for the rest of my life.
I love you, Jeffrey M. Bash. Keep on loving me, too. heart
Patchy · Mon May 23, 2005 @ 02:32pm · 2 Comments |
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The Woes of a Heavily Medicated Society |
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You remember the good old days where people just dealt with their own problems? When a close friend was all you needed to soothe heartache, or a friendly smile was the best cure for a bad day?
Of course you don't. For those methods of cheering oneself up are now outdated, their uplifting simplicity overthrown by a more effective (and more expensive) newcomer: medication.
Off the bat I myself would like to admit to taking pills. I have a bad case of obsessive-compulsive disorder accompanied by frequent panic attacks, something that has been with me for many years now. Nonetheless, I am ashamed to be part of a biologically equalizing trend of mood elevators and antidepressants. So, allow me to continue with this hypocritical nonsense, like so:
It's ridiculous. The first time a kid doesnt pay attention in kindergarten,
he's automatically ADD and treated with Ritalin for the rest of his life. A young man acts depressed one time becuse his girlfriend stood him up, and his mom sends him to a shrink. He comes back labeled "manic-depressive," and they drug him up with Seraquil until further evaluation. What happened to the days when you could cry on a parent's shoulder without them telling you to go get a psycho-analysis?
Wouldn't it be better if we focused more on eliminating what was causing the problem instead of muffling the problem itself? I mean, if people just tried to be a little more open with each other, they wouldn't have to take so much emotional burdening on themselves. Maybe the only real medicine we need is a pair of listening ears.
So to all the people out there on Prozac because a you were bullied as a kid, grow up, get over it, and move on. Trauma is something that happens to everyone, and a dead hamster or a schoolyard punk does not a psychological disorder make. The next time you feel sad, call up a friend or a brother/sister. If you don't have either, then perhaps it's time to get yourself a cat or dog. I garauntee it'll cost you a lot less than a bottle of purple pills.
Patchy · Mon May 02, 2005 @ 04:50am · 2 Comments |
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So You Wanna Be Original. |
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During a study period last week in school, I sat reading and picking at a thread on my pants, not really paying attention to the words in front of me. Behind me was a student I never really got along with, goes by the name of Mackenzie Zoccolo. Biggest gossip-whore in school. I'm ignoring her constant whispering, though the mention of my name continually pops out of her sperm-soaked mouth. Again and again. She and her groupies are laughing at me. Again.
After a few minutes she taps me on the shoulder and asks me if I ever wear anything besides T-shirts. I ignored that too, and kept on reading. She scoffs and tries to get my attention again, this time by dropping a piece of paper on my lap. I figure I'll get it over with, and open up the little note.
It says, simply, "Poser-Dike."
Hmm. Thanks, that's real original. And your spelling's great, too.
I threw the note away and let it be, knowing full well retalliation does not a settlement make. I get that a lot, anyway. I get called a goth for wearing black, a punker for having a bunch of silly rubber bracelets, and a dyke for wearing boots and comfy t-shirts. So, for getting out of bed in the morning and dressing in whatever finds its way onto my skin, I get ridiculed for not having an original sense of style. I suppose if anyone knew I had a pair of Mudd jeans in the eighth grade, I'd get called a prep too. Ya just can't win.
Everyone claims to be original cavorting about in a style they so proudly dub their own. But then, as soon as someone accidentally buys the same (insert clothing/jewelry item here) as them, it's a social battle over who wore what first. It's pathetic, and sadly rather common.
I've learned, over time, to be happy with the way I am, content with my place at the bottom of the social food pyramid. Still, some of my friends are not so well-adapted to the nitpicking that accompanies a wardrobe costing less than $100 a day. I get a lot of complaints over who said what and why, and nothing usually comes of it anyway.
Let them b***h, gripe and tease. So I wear a Sonic the Hedgehog tee and spend less than half an hour on my hair. And so what if my dearest friend is not a nominee for homecoming queen? "Originality" is the last thing on my mind. At least I don't have to have a stock holding to afford my pants.
Patchy · Mon Apr 18, 2005 @ 02:59am · 1 Comments |
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Since early childhood, and for reasons even I don't know, my creativity has been a rampant rhino trying to make mad love to my subconcious. In other words, my mind has a tendency to suffer lively imaginative spasms. So, in the spirit of all things lazy and American, I have unscrupulously used the internet to publicly post my somewhat tweaked ideas.
I have had, in my mind, the idea for a comic for some time now. I just never had the means to get it "out there." But then a friend and I made a website, I figured it might be worth a try to put the thing up as a webcomic.
Voila, we have Drunk Duck, a free comic hosting site. Lucky, huh? I put the comic up as Ransom, so go tell me how I suck if you get the chance. Here's the link to the host site:
www.drunkduck.com
If you'd rather not burn your eyes with my scribbles, go check out some of the other webbies on there. They're pretty funny, and some of 'em are really well-done.
That's all for now. Chao.
Patchy · Tue Mar 29, 2005 @ 02:39am · 0 Comments |
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Well, it's like the title says. I'm an angry little person. And these are my unbridled and potentially offensive thoughts. So for my first entry, I'm going to answer some questions you may or may not have, depending on how much of an a*****e you are. Think of it as "preventative bitching."
-Yes, I'm supposed to look like this.
-Yes, I do in fact have a boyfriend.
-No, I'm not a n00b. Screw you.
-Yes, I find squirrels, the color pink, and Homestar Runner highly amusing.
-No, I don't want to be your friend unless I already am.
-Yes, I read comics, play videogames, and watch cartoons four or more hours a day. Deal with it.
-No, I will not donate to you. Ever. Ever ever.
-No, I'm not doing this for attention. That's for all you little bastards who go home and carve stars into your arms and ankles with your mommy's kitchen knife because you think your parents don't love you since they wouldn't buy you that new ******** Hawethorn Heights CD. Go ******** yourselves.You're emo, your music sucks, and ICP rules anyway.
-Yes, ICP does in fact rule.
I DON'T CARE THAT YOU'RE COOLER THAN ME.
And that's that. Tune in next week for more exciting adventures featuring Nerd Girl, and her trusty sidekick Geek Boy.
Patchy · Sun Mar 27, 2005 @ 10:00pm · 0 Comments |
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