Library Adventures - Part 1

M/M Romance

I’m not even sure how I ended up reading m/m romance. In case you are wondering, m/m is what is known in manga as B.L –boy’s love- or simply gay romance. All I know is that I was looking for the novel behind two yaoi anime series and came across a Z. A. Maxfield novel called “Drawn Together”.  It had both aspects I was looking for: Manga and Yaoi. Even the cover art reflected that. It gravitated around an avid manga fan who uprooted himself, sold his possessions and pulled his saving to finance a trip to an anime convention where his favorite manga author Yamane was supposed to show up, convinced that Yamane is his soul mate. Only Yamane with his diminutive stature and soft features is not the woman of Rory’s dreams but a haunted and hunted man tired of being mistaken for a woman. At that time I found myself drawn to the sweet sentiments between the two men. The smoothness of their coming together even during times of hardship made me think “Yes, that’s exactly how it’s meant to be.” The wit was quite different from what I was used to especially that i hadn't had any experience in m/m romance novels before. The repertoire and comic scenes were fresh and unpredictable, perfect for a relaxing read, especially when you are resting from a particularly stressful read.  From there I started reading a novel of this flavor in between novels of the same series. I next moved on to another Maxfield novel, this one called “Rhapsody for Piano and Ghost”. This was another beautiful novel where the characters came together with the aid of another form of art, this time music.  The characters were marvelous and the eternal connection between the dancing ghosts was what pushed me to read it all in one sitting. I guess the fact that both books were of the same author and had the same type of cover art was perhaps good incentive to pick up this second one but in truth, reading  the synopsis only closed the deal and made me want to figure out what the deal is between the dancing ghosts and the piano prodigy. From there I moved on to the St. Nacho’s series which was just as packed with passion for art and a connection with people. I have to admit though that I did not read this series in order neither have I read “Physical Therapy” but I am dying to read ”The Book of Daniel”.  And on and on it went. I fumbled my way through this genre and decided on what I liked and what I didn’t. I decided that I liked romances that revolved around sweet guys who discover their attraction to each other through a common ground like music or art or a video game or book. I learned that I didn’t mind the sexual content but hated the books that were excessive because they felt like written porn when I didn’t like watching porn. I also noticed a lot of books that gravitated towards crude language and derogatory actions. That I certainly did not like.

 A week ago I discovered Zathyn Priest. Zathyn Priest is not your average garden variety m/m author. For one, he is a man. From my limited experience, most authors who write in this genre are women with pseudo-names and do not point out to their gender before the end of the book where the author’s note or description resides. Priest’s writings are not only engaging but also challenging attempts to test the boundaries on the contemporary and the socially acceptable. He does that not only via the sexuality of the characters of his books but also by the stories he tells. Unlike so many authors who have turned the m/m domain in writing profession into a strictly erotica domain, Priest thrives on developing the plots and characters of his stories. Until I saw is profile on Goodreads I couldn’t have known if he were of the female or male gender through his writing even after reading four of his books. Even by looking at the profile picture he had, he would totally look androgynous to the hapless looker. I had to scour his profile for any sign of his gender and finally found a single ‘he’ a single 'him' and the word 'guy' in the description. I was secretly overjoyed. Maybe there is hope for this genre if it is not solely written by women portraying how they wished men were like but by a man who actually wrote about sensitive loving men. I guess I was feeling particularly stalker-ish at 3am in the morning especially after I had read “The Slayer’s Apprentice”. On a last note, I am not saying that erotic content is a bad thing per se, me being an avid yaoi fan. I am saying that most man/man romance books tend to forget about developing decent plots and deeper characters opting to choose redundant or shallow personal conflict and cover the holes with excessive sexual content.

My Old Saved Chats

I was going through my old documents to clean up my laptop (I call him lappy and he calls me snooz or master or admin). I do that a lot I have a sort of OCD for keeping my laptop data organized. Anyway, I found records of old chats I had saved at one time in my life for all different reasons. Some because I liked what we were talking about, some because I was learning something new and some because they documented moments when I gained a new love or friend. It is shocking how much those good memories could bring joy or pain depending on when you are reading them. It’s funny how even if the words say are all the right things, they just hurt because they are saved proof of lies spoken or promises broken.

In a specific chat, I remember telling a friend how much I wished we were like computers. That all we have to do is scan our hearts and then press ‘heal’ and everything would be mended back and everything will be perfectly good again. I told him how when my friend said that all I need is a new view on love to change how I think about it I told him that it’s not like architecture; it’s not like I have the top view of the structure and all I need is the side view so I can see in in the proper light like a painting. But I do wish it is only i don’t think it is that simple. I tell him how damaged my heart is and how much I can’t experiment with it anymore, and he tells me that in life we are in a continuous state of experimentation, from the new ball pen i picked up earlier to the bakery down the road from my place. I tell him I don’t mind experimenting with life; it’s my heart I mind experimenting with. I guess i didn’t mind loving those pastries I picked up that day. But that is the thing with pastries. I loved them; I ate them, end of story. You can’t go around doing that to people, yet some people love you then destroy you end of story (I won’t say eat you that would just be inviting trouble).

That was a long time ago about two years ago I think, back then I was hurting. Before that I was un-comfortably numb and itching to feel again. I didn’t know what kind of blessing I was in but now I do. Now I’m just comfortably numb. I appreciate beauty and goodness from afar. You may say that I live on the margin of life instead of diving in this sea of conflicting interests and maliciousness intents of the heart. I say I’m only that way when it comes to matters of the heart. It might be a cowardly thing to do, but just this once I am willing to be a coward. I’m one of the bravest people you may ever meet when it comes to a million other things but if there is one thing I learned, it’s that a heart is physically a very small thing but stopping it emotionally is like stopping it physically, it cripples everything around it. The person shrivels and dies in all ways imaginable. If you want to murder someone without taking his heart, trick him into giving you his heart, play with it then throw it back at him. You don’t have to throw it away; the fingerprints you leave behind are enough to cripple him for a very long time after that.

Hearts freely given away tend to accumulate fingerprints of the people who handle them. You might have given you heart to someone new but the prints of his predecessors are still there and he may just be another pair of prints. Whoever is reading this; if I were you I’d make sure whoever is handling my heart has his gloves on. As for me, mittens are not my thing; boxing gloves are because I wouldn’t give my heart away again without putting up a good fight. 

The Bound Rage

Blinded by light, bound by the dark

Starving for the dusk, oh so stark

How fortunate for me, i know no fear

How fortunate for you, that i am here

Trapped in ice, chapped are her lips

a crows circles her throne, swoops and dips

Her eyes wide open, color of coal and fire

black by day and by night, sapphire

Heinous hellhounds guard at her tomb

Cerberus, curled up like in a womb

turn your heads and bite your throats

Worship at their feet like sacrificial goats

Longing for release even for just a while

Stinging silently for what they defile

the world around her feeds on her ache

nipping like dogs waiting in turn to partake

A sacrifice of blood and soul

But not willing, not at all

Her release will be for vengeance not cure

And by that time i am sure

That everything will be set ablaze

Acheron

“Anytime, agriato."

Jaden inclined his head respectfully to him as Ash spoke in Jaden's native tongue and called him brother. It wasn't a language the demon broker heard often. He gave Ash a slight imperial bow before he vanished.

THE THINGS I HATED

Okay peeps, news to Sherilyn Kenyon, arigato does not mean “brother” and if the demon lived in our time as it clearly states in this second part of the book entitled “ACHERON Present Day”, then I’m certain he would meet plenty of people who speak Japanese.

Like almost everything that interests me, the resentment that sparked in me was born of a book I was reading - Acheron- and surprisingly a really good one even though it surprised me and broke my heart many a times. I was pretty satisfied with the material until I saw this and it rattled my chains. As an avid manga and anime fan I can’t stop myself from being so pissed I’d be spitting nails and lightning bolts the moment I read that. People! No matter how good the novel is, if you don’t know that language, never be too afraid to Google the expression you want to use or ask a friendly Jap. It’s really frustrating when you are reading this really good stuff and suddenly come across something so blatantly wrong you wanna bonk someone on the head. Add to that a couple of clichés like “The one thing I learned from Astrid is that life isn't about finding shelter in a storm. It's about learning to dance in the rain” and you’ve got real frustration.

GENERAL TAKE

In all truth, this book is so very deliciously frustrating and heartfelt that you are torn between putting the book down to stop from hurting and waiting and hoping that in the next four hundred pages the gods are gonna cut the poor fella a damn break. I mean the boy was born to the ultimate god couple – Apollymi the destroyer and Archon the creator- one of which did not want him. He was conspired against by two pantheons even before his birth and then hidden in the human world and disguised as a prince only to be sold as a prostitute by his father and uncle. All that goes on until his mother breaks out of her prison. She then sets on to annihilate her own husband and pantheon, drown Atlantis and then destroy half of grease to avenge her son who wants nothing but her love and to be left alone. And how could she not, she is the goddess of destruction “Apollymi the Great Destroyer.” My last thoughts about Acheron; damn that guy is a pushover to first trust a chick like Artemis and then abuse him even after he regains his much greater powers. It just makes me grind my teeth to think about how even after he gained power he let himself be used as a pawn. 

Personally, as a ruthless schemer, I rate his IQ or a base of ten to be a three.

Games We Made Up When We Were Young

Like almost everything I hub about, this topic was brought up after reading a book. To be honest, it was three books of the same series by Simone Elkeles. I finally got around to reading the Perfect Chemistry trilogy after reading Leaving Paradise and Return to Paradise. Both paradise books were so good that I didn’t want to read anything for a while after I finished the second book. That was also part of the reason it took me a year to try read the three books. Of course I read a book a day until the three of the Fuentes boys’ stories were known to me. I have to admit though that they weren’t as intense as the first series I mentioned. 

Going back to the topic at hand, I came across what the Fuentes boys called the Fuentes Olympics. Part of these memorable activities is nabbing their mom’s panty hose, cutting off the legs at the top and stuffing a tennis ball into the leg. The ball-filled sock is then twirled around and let fly in open space. The winner party is the one responsible for the farthest toss. This game is called the “Panty Discus Game”.

This brought back some memories of mine - specifically two- one of which involved baby milk scoops and the other involved lots of mud and kinder eggs.

Growing up, my sisters and I had a crazily wild imagination. We would go around constructing arenas made of Legos, building blocks, artificial trees, animals, mini doll furniture and sometimes even clay dough and vegetables. Those arenas would be our mini golf courses. Marbles doubled as golf balls and the scoops doubled as golf clubs. At the moment, my brother was a new infant and mom had a continually growing supply of baby formula that came with deep scoops. Those were the tools of our trade at the time. My two sisters and I spent more time designing the golf course areas, obstacles and ramps than playing the course.

 

The other game we improvised when we were kids was a bit messier to say the least when we moved to the suburbs where we had our own garden. By that time, my older sister –six years older than I was- was no more in the picture and was too old for the ideas I had in mind but my six years younger brother was always game for anything nasty, mushy or messy. The idea was to mix mud with water and fill kinder surprise yellow egg shells with the mixture and wait for it to try and tip it off leaving a mound of mud. Sadly, in winter we would forget the mud eggs outside causing the balls to melt and make the terrace ledges muddy. In short, we had a very pissed mother who sent us back out to clean the mud off after the rain stopped.

After that I came up with the “Puke Game”. This involved making a mud concoction look as much as diarrhea or poop as possible. We would add seeds and grass to the mixture and place it on a big tree leaf to dry up a bit before we remove the leaf and leave it as a pleasant surprise for the unsuspecting.

The Hunger Games

A week ago I finished this three-book series that puts so many other books I have enjoyed to shame. I am not one to pick up YA(young adult) books off the shelves I pass by in cyber space and the covers of the books were so understated that I passed them three times a day for a whole month before downloading the first book. I am not sure if these books were properly labeled by Goodreads because labeling this series as a YA read would be a total understatement and would simply be selling it short. From my short experience with YA books, I see that books that fit the bill describe the protagonist’s journey as a coming of age; shallow or not-very-shallow experiences with responsibility, peer pressure, boys and sex in increasing order. Needless to say I wasn’t very impressed and our relationship was a fleeting thing. Katniss and her friends in this book regardless their age are literally young adults. And by that I don’t mean it to describe coming of age I mean young people who have been forced by life’s circumstances to act like adults. The setting is in a greatly unjust world where thirteen sectors strive and starve and a Capitol –more like a capital to that world- where rich people engorge themselves with delicacies they take from the other sectors. It’s already been seventy four years since the revolution in the poor districts and the children are still paying for their ancestors’ dream of freedom and equality. Every year, the president in the capitol reminds them that he still controls not only their livelihood but their lives as well when from each district a boy and a girl are chosen via lottery to battle against each other in a constructed arena to the death.   There will be only one victor who will receive riches he can only dream of and his district will be rewarded as well with extra rations of food that year.

Katniss is the “man of the family” after her father died in a mining accident when she was twelve. She does illegal poaching in the capitol’s woods and trading in the black market so her depressed mother and young sister do not starve to death. On the year he sister’s name goes in the lottery for the first time her sister is picked and she decides to go in her stead. The boy picked that year is the baker’s son who saved her and her family from starvation the year her father dies. Only one of them will be allowed to come back, this is the boy she will have to kill to get back to her family. Things don’t turn out the way they are expected to in the two remaining books that follow.

If there is something I know about myself, it is that I am not quick on the waterworks, but so many times I found myself tearing up and towards the last chapter and epilogue I found myself flat out bawling. It’s a deep story that grips your heart making it expand at times and squeezes it making your soul contract at other times. This series knows how to end, it might not be what you wished for, but unlike other books that leave an open ending for writers who don’t know when to stop expanding on the characters and plots the series end at three.

This is an excerpt of the epilogue of the last book of the series

My children, who don't know they play on a graveyard.

Peeta says it will be okay. We have each other. And the book. We can make them understand in a way that will make them braver. But one day I'll have to explain about my nightmares. Why they came. Why they won't ever really go away.

I'll tell them how I survive it. I'll tell them that on bad mornings, it feels impossible to take pleasure in anything because I'm afraid it could be taken away. That's when I make a list in my head of every act of goodness I've seen someone do. It's like a game. Repetitive. Even a little tedious after more than twenty years.

But there are much worse games to play.

Just One of the Guys

I just finished reading Kristan Higgins’s Just One of the Guys and it won’t take any arm twisting for me to say that it was quite a page turner. Not only is it a story many young women could relate to, but is filled with moments when you stop laughing because you think you bust an organ and hope you get away with something minor like a busted spleen. The humor is witty the repertoire is engaging and the characters are too steamy for you to want to put the book down. It’s about the O’Neil family, specifically the O’Neil girl. She is the only girl of four handsome boys and an honorary O’Neil who just happens to be the love of her life. She’s tall, more like hulking and is simply a jock. The first time she gets in a dress her brothers say she looks like her older brother Lucky in drag. She is quite endearing, with a soft spot for her hideously pound-rescued dog with saggy jowls, yellows eyes and a bad case of drooling syndrome. I can’t even imagine myself loving a dog like that (though I did once have a cat ‘Rusty’ who’s eye got gouged when she was a kitten and for some reason the wound keeps getting infected). Her only girly attribute is a fear of ‘the twins’ blood and gore.She has a wacky love for The Lords of the Rings Trilogy and tends to spend her days in shorts and ratty LOTR t-shirts kicking ass at pool and watching the Yankees. Simply put, she is not the perfect specimen for the feminine female and with a name to put a dictator to tears, Chastity Virginia O’Neil. No one messes with the O’Neil girl unless they want to deal with the rest of the clan, three firefighters, a bomb detonator and a chopper paramedic who has the Medal of Honor. Needless to say things are very promising in the dating department and seem to blow up when her boyfriend dumps her saying she’s not attractive enough to which she replies that she carried his spindly freckled ass half a mile the day they went hiking and he got tired.

Here is one of the quotes I loved:

Maybe we can get together for drinks later on at the old watering hole where us journalists like tohang out.

That should be “where we journalists like to hang out,” Al, old buddy. ―I‘m…I don‘t… I can‘t hear properly. The Tooth has taken control of me.

Drinks it is, then, Alan says. “Awesome.”

Jesus. How did that thing get so gray? Doesn‘t Alan know his own tooth is rotting away in his mouth? Shouldn‘t it be pulled? It certainly should be capped. As Alan talks, the gray tooth blinks darkly, Alan‘s narrow lips moving around the words that I‘m ignoring, fascinated by the evil power of The Tooth. Like Tolkien‘s Ring, it has a hypnotic, undeniable power. One tooth to rule them, one tooth to find them, one tooth to bring them all, and in the darkness bite them.

In short, awesome read and I’m glad I picked it up

Racist Food

Its been a week since the John Mayer frenzy and one day since the condemning post regarding said record artist, i'm listening to a track that says "here, they come to snuff the rooster" yup Alice N Chains. I'm not sure if that's a step up or down the hallway of no return, but i think i'm liking the mood. After all, six hours ago i was listening to Johnny boy sing about dancing in a burning room.

Now, getting on to the the topic at hand which certainly isn't my taste for morbid lyrics. I'd say is funny how companies tend to have certain racist tendencies regarding naming merchandising if only it really were funny. Introducing the negro biscuit. The prime rib to this mess-up feast; Eti's choco/vanilla biscuits are called -yup you guessed right- 'Negro'. 

Well, it is a chocolate cookie after all, and a black one at that. I can't help but roll my eyes at that. Hasn't anyone noticed these racist cookies of doom? And i don't mean those extra fleshy pounds on my ass kinda doom at that, i mean a totally different kind of doom. I've known about them since i was about ten. Other sold foodstuff that had been in the market for a long timer have been pulled out and renamed and i'm talking about a country that just happens to be in the sinking hellhole located exactly in the middle of war and nowhere. Particularly, a really good chocolate bar; im not sure if it qualifies as a bar if not a ball -haha get it? chocolate ball?get it? -that had a name that literally translates as "Head of the slave" or 'Ras i 3abed' in Arabic. I think one or two years ago the Lebanese company 'Ghandour' changed the name to 'Tarboush Ghandour' or 'Ghandour's Hat' where tarboush is a kind of Lebanese traditional head-wear that people normal in the head no longer wear, and by that i don't mean in the physical sense but more of the mental health sense.

Sadly, other companies did not follow suit or restrict themselves to teaching kids how to eat Negro cookies and Slave heads, they decided to teach household wives the proper way to deal with a slave's head. That is to clean pans with Negro Steel Wool; its name helpfully being translated to 'Seef il 3abed' in arabic on the packet or translated to 'Slave's Steel Wool' the darn thing simply states 'Negro' on the darn package. 

I'm sure the list of racist offences do not stop here and we sure are bringing up our children around a lot of social baggage and hate.I'm not sure the rest of the world would be able to bring their ideals up to date.Name editing should be a simple enough task if we want to make sure our kids don't grow up like a special version of hicks. Funny that, Lebanese hick version 1.0

    

Diluted Passions

It’s been a while since i did this and i am not sure it’s a good or bad thing. The things that i am passionate about could be counted on one hand, two of which are music and reading and they often come hand in hand. I have developed this passion for John Mayer music. 

I'm trying my best not to look up what he did/is doing in his life i hear it's not quite pleasant. I'm taking a break from reading a fiction novel by Caitlin Kittredge called Street Magic. It's part of the Black London series and not a bad one at that. Though i think I’m only giving it the time a day because i just finished the Nocturne City five volume series and it was completely worth the three days i spent on it. The protagonist in this series seems a bit more diluted even with the brit humor and cussing. I guess for a non-brit, it’s hard to keep a smile from creeping onto your face when the words "wanker" and "tit" are used as casual cuss or exclamation remarks. Hmm i guess I’m getting sort of used to watered-down brit humor. 

I’m quite hooked on the song "Edge of Desire" it’s simply heartfelt and perfect for the times you feel you just want someone to shut up and hold you no strings attached. I was listening to that same playlist two and a half hours ago while i was making my coffee-flavored custard. It's a pretty nifty idea to layer your pan with layers of chocolate cake and top it with coffee custard. Yup i made the custard and then ate a damn apple instead. 

Whats Your Poison?

I finally realized how utterly ridiculous it is to have a blog entry titled by a date that is just automatically displayed above the post. Yes! i have seen the errors of my ways and thus the lame title of this entry. I'm not sure why i'm blogging its 2:30am and my teeth are killing me. NO its not due to an overly chocolated evening or anything of the sort i just got my teeth pulled out. NO i am not 80 and i don't plan on replacing my teeth with dentures i'm just removing the little bastards aka my wisdom teeth.
Darn, my hands are looking too wrinkly  guess when you peel a hundred onions and peppers and then dice them the effect couldn't be too good. Mom is making her famous liver saute. Dad just spent a fortune on tissues and toilet paper i wonder what has gotten into him. Most peeps would go on a shopping spree and end up buying shoes or a fancy suit. Well....not dad. He buys a jumbo 20kg jar of mustard a 22kg jar of tomato paste and a shitload of toilet paper. The next day he gets mango puree. Fancy that!

Thursday March 9th 2011

          Wounds that heal with time...they are so many. But time makes us forget, momentarily at least, while writing about these wounds opens them up again. No biggie, were all grown-ups here...well not too grown up to have a dear diary-ish blog. Hmm i wonder where this came from. I feel like typing in a smiley but i know it won't look good on my doom and gloom page especially on a bad day and i'm looking at it.
          I'm glad i have friends, even if i know they are temporary. I just finished thanking God for them a moment ago. On days like today they warm me inside out. Not many people are willing to pack up a Tupperware to let you have a taste of a dish their mom made the previous day. I should know, its a friggn hassle carrying it around when you are commuting with a big-ass laptop, bag, books in the middle of a storm. Yet, it feels perfectly cozy when you share a home-cooked lunch with friends. There is something very special when its comes to sharing a home-cooked meal with friends. Maybe that is whats behind the Japanese obsession with a "bento" or lunch box. Almost every anime i watched had to have a bento-deprived character tucked up somewhere. Usually this character is the son of a well-off successful working family. Poor bento-less people.
          Finally, the chapped nail-polish is gone i guess i had enough sleep to wake up in a good un-soured mood, or maybe, just maybe, things are on the way to getting better? 

Monday March 7th 2011

          I started this day looking like a mortician with my black on black n chipped black nail polish. I didn't mean to dress myself in that, that morning but i seem to have dressed my body with the color that fit my mood's spectrum. Last night I fell asleep crying on my brother's shoulder. I couldn't get myself to my own bed. I found myself hugging a pillow and marching towards his bed. One moment he was holding me, the next i was sobbing ever so lightly. I swear i barely made any noise i didn't even shake, yet he knew. That's the way it has always been between us. Or i guessing tears can be heard hitting a pillowcase.  I only had three hours of sleep that night but it was one of the most relaxing sleep experiences i ever had. And though i woke up in a black mood, it was not related to my precious hours of sleep that night, of that i am assured.
          I'm glad i write anonymously here, i wouldn't admit to crying myself to sleep to almost anyone. I do have this image of the tough independent person i need to keep. I have to stay solid to those who use me to anchor their lives. I just told my friend to try be happy and then told her that i don't practice what i preach. At least i don't have to pretend much for her sake like everyone else. 

Sunday March 6th 2011

          A friend of mine thinks 50% of her music reminds her of me. Sad we're not close anymore. Sad i make sure no friendship lasts so long. It's not like i do it intentionally. I honestly don't, but its like my psyche is used to putting distance between me and people who potentially could become important to me. Whats even sadder is that all of these songs are melancholic. I tried changing that by sending her two cheery ones but the lyrics are even more melancholic. I guess i just cant do happy like the average person. Too bad i think happy would look better on me.

Seems i'm so close to tears these days i cant help it that even a sad song in a language i don't understand can get the water works started up again. Never thought i'd become a sap, i must be dying of something terminal that i don't know about. So few are the things that make my heart beat and even those things people want to take away from me. When will i earn the right to feel that silly smile on my face in my heart? Haven't i had enough sadness to earn it by now? Haven't i put enough of these smiles on other people's faces to earn one secret all for myself? Won't you leave one piece of my heart big enough to pick up with my fingers?

Wednesday March 2nd 2011

         Aishiteru. Funny how this foreign word makes "i love you" sound so puny. Don't you think so too? It's okay it doesn't matter what you think because for once all what matters in this corner of the world is what I think. Lucky me, the only place this matters is cyberspace and in a corner i let only one person see. Funny you wonder? Funny or bitter i dare not ponder. Maybe we need a new word for love, maybe then we wont take saying it so lightly. Why does "Aishiteru" sound like an eternal pledge to me when i love you sounds like every song i hear, every other book i read and every shackle i imagine? Those three words have become our world's greatest cliche'; just vile words, more vile that gum stuck under a desk.
        I pity those words that lost their meaning. Imagine the color red loosing its meaning like that. Wouldn't it be a shame? When red is still there but no one can conceive its presence, its beauty and its variations and versatility? Can you imagine a world where red is just like blue or green? any other color.....but red.
        Yet here's a sadder thought. Imagine red loosing all its meaning but the value of its wave length in the color spectrum in the same way love is dissected into quantitative measurements. Its too late now for love but i think I'd be sad for that poor color, more sad than the usual that is.

       

Tuesday March 1st 2011

What does it say about me if the only time I feel consolation is when I imagine them dead? 

Does that make me a wicked person if i'm too tired of fighting for myself that i want my adversaries to just save us all the time and drop dead? Is it so much worse if those adversaries were my parents? Would it be so wicked if those thoughts were for them and not the kid who tortures the local cat population?

Is it me or is there this specific spot in our chests that is specifically allocated to hurt when people you trust break that trust? This specific spot on the crown of my heart that hurts every time i think of how things should be and how they actually turn out...