Knitty Kitten

So. Another month. Another blog.
School is almost over for me for the term. After all the work I've put in I'm glad to have two weeks of being up to eye-balls in wool. And stuff.
The stuff is taking over the house. Especially the lovely bags that have become my children. They are stuffed into a closet where they stay, longingly waiting until I choose them to see the light of day. Which one will I pick tomorrow I wonder?

Busy Bee Meets Another Laura

Just when I thought it was going be be okay.
Hah!
School is a rollercoster. One minute I'm thrilled and the next minute I'm bawling my eyes out for twenty four hours.
The ' incident' shall we call it has been dragged on until next week. They mask it under the name ' closure' but let us all be grown up and call it what it is by it's big, FAT ugly name: Confrontation. I'll have to sit there on the other side of the table and tell this woman I barely know why I decided to throw a hissy fit in the guidance consellor's office on her account( supposedly).
The life line has been temporarily in hybernation for now. I don't know if it is writers block or if I'm just too lazy and covet my time watching television instead.
To whomever is reading this ( besides my imaginary friends Shandon, Jessica and Hilary who told me in a dream that they prefer to be called Shandi, Jess and Hills-to which I replied that Shandi sounded like a prostitute and anyone with the nickname Hills was bound to have social problems,plural)I'll write soon I promise. It's hard to believe that you've joined forces and are begging my agent for me to uncover my next plot, but I can't take the pressure. You'll live, ok? And stop sending my orange-flavored chocolate that you have to smack over concrete to break up. It upsets my ulcer.

Type A Personalities

The idea of drugs scares the crap out of me. All of the aspects of it. Especially the dependecy where eventually drugs are all you are and what you have left.
And it hits everyone, rich or poor normal or messed up.
An only child for instance, with loving parents and a promising future shouldn't even of had the inclination to try blow. Was it out of boredrom? Self-hatred? Or merely self-absorption?
Or the kid down the street with a fancy car and all money could buy ending up shooting heroin in a graveyard, homeless.
It disgusts me. The want to escape life and the situations that force people there.
It all boils down to hatred of one's self. Not being good enough. Feeling everyday that you don't deserve happiness.
I'm not preaching to anyone, not even to myself.
Someone once told me about different types of personalities. Either you're an A and you could do the drug and be fine and not become addicted or a Type B... ( we all know what happens then ) She never told me there was a Type C.

Who Are You?

I don't really understand how this whole thing works.
Who exactly is reading my profile? Is it really that interesting?
Well then. Enter my mind if you will.
Ate an enormous amount of spicy food. Am really appreciating the burn-your-esophogus motif.
Realized a few things about friendship. It's a hard reality. Totally give and take, and most of it give. I feel resentful of this most of the time. Give yourself to someone and then suddenly you get smacked in the face with a hydrostone brick. Or have to choose between self preservation or loyality. It's a fine line. Especially when one has to choose people to attend your wedding ( which by the way you wanted it small and now it's become this huge affair).
Down to the nitty gritty of this situation: it's my wedding. I'm getting married. I don't care a flying fart if you enjoy the buffet spread or if you liked my god-damned wedding dress. It's about me and my husband and the time that has been given. So enough of the pity-parties and squabbling. GROW UP!! and look around. Our little bubble is small.

Taking A Break

Too tired to write today.
To tired to look at another book at about the Halifax Explosion or try to track down information that was meant to be buried deep in the on-line pile of sludge.
Two more weeks left of the place I call Satan's Lair. Oh, it isn't all bad. I've met people. A lot of people. Special and important.
I look over the past entries and cringe at the negativity.
A broken down doll, suffering from breath to breath. HA!
Don't let that facade fool you. I'm as spoiled and pampered as you can get. It doesn't mean I don't think about things. Tons of things. Things that keep me from sleeping. And they aren't even that special these things. Do you know that I actually contemplate which hand bag to use the next day? Because I have over fifty to choose from?
Ridiculous.
Lately I've accepted the grace of an active mind. Some days the wine dulls it for awhile--which hasn't happened in large quanities in months--most of the time I get through it.
Because despite having to work at a shitty job or having to sort out your life and the people in it...it's worth every minute.

This thought brought to you by the letter C. And you know exactly what that means.
( Wheeeee, italics!!!)

Write What You Know

Decided to shelf The Island Of Eve. The plot couldn't develop and after reading fantasy/futuristic novels I got tired of trying to think up a whole planet. I don't think I'm up to the challenge yet. I can't even write a damn complete story. However, pot of gold at the end of the optimistic rainbow.

The Scarlett Shoe--a lot of research, let me tell you. It's compelling stuff but I hope I don't get lost in it. What happens if I can't write? What happens if I never do sell a story?

An artist is continually plagued with self-doubt. It's your nature, programmed from birth to always question. Question your talent, question your ability to actually function as a productive human being. Question everything in the whole universe. And then feel horribly selfish and self-absorbed and a complete spore. Yes. A spore. Off rotting cheese.

I don't feel like a spore today. Maybe tomorrow.

The Moment Of Regret-Part One

I really did something bad I think a long time ago.
It was awful. And she was awful too, in her moments. It felt like she was my mother at some points. I don't think anything has clouded my judgement of my memory of her.
She was temperamental, hysterical and kind. I think she had a good heart.

She once told me a story about a woman who pretended to be her friend. One who sent her card with angel wings. Then she promptly stabbed her in the back and caused her pain. Well, on further reflection I wonder how she bended the truth of her story. If maybe in her mind she was a martyr. It certainly feels like her attitude towards me is biased.

I don't pretend to be perfect. I'm far from it. I've hurt people--really hurt people and I'm ashamed to say some of it was intentionally done. That stings really, to see it in print. For someone who can cry at the drop of a hat when it comes to empathy for peoples' pain...that's so contradictory it makes me smile.

I ought to apologize, but I'm hesitant.
I didn't mean for things to get so complicated. We won't speak ever again but you won't forget me no matter how hard you try. Or maybe you will. Maybe I'm not worth your time.
Either way I wish her well. She finally did pursue her dreams and maybe I had a small part in it. I'd like to think so.

We really are self-absorbed.

Around the World in Twenty Minutes

Interesting. Trying to write at least once a day. It hasn't been going very well. I secretly hope this blog isn't read by the masses. It's not like I'm worried that some creep is going to like my mind and stalk me all around the internet. But there just isn't anything I want to share until I've edited it, spell checked it and given it a home. ( Publisher, or garbage receptacle)

Had brilliant idea for a story and then it fizzled out. I want to write something that hasn't been written before ( naturally ) but even if it's been analyzed to death I could spin it a certain way. Which brings me to The Island Of Eve. Such a good title, but I don't know how I feel about dealing with clones and mass destruction. I don't want to go all Judy Blume about it and start writing about my first sexual experiences ( which frankly wasn't that hot) or Meg Cabot with her sparkly books that scream cotton candy and pink. I also want to avoid the typical: girl is bullied, girl bullies, girl becomes sick, girl finds out she is dying, makes friend with the girl she's been bullying, learns about life. Which actually sounds pretty good to me. Moral of the story: a shitty book and kids hate the whole life-lesson thing. Dear Liza. Oh God. Am I seriously contemplating this? I like reading fantasy books too but how long can I take writing about a dandelion that speaks? I really had that idea as a kid. Talking flowers. Wrote it all down in Sunday School classes. Got made fun of real quick. It sounded like a good idea in my head.

Things I like to write about:
- fantasy
-ghost stories/supernatural ( there is no need for vampires or werewolves)
- relationships

Things I despise:
- vampires and werewolves
- love stories featuring vampires and werewolves
- preachy books
- trying to find a proper notebook to write in
- half-written garbage
- political and moral issues
- internet dating
- the weather network
- the word kinesis
- my job serving mediocre food
- my sweet tooth that is doing my belly no good
- writer's block for years

Live on Carmit, Live On

Second day as blogger. Frightened to show other people, even J. Have possessed the most lovely lap top in store. Young teen age girl had hands on it and it felt like a violation. Hopefully her father advised her against it. After the comment, " So what makes this so special?" as she unfeelingly turned it's precious little swivel head ( I could hear the screams so piercing in my ear) I knew immeditaley she was not worthy. Hopefully Carmit and I will bond together in the days ahead. We will write endless compositions together, as one whole entity. We will let our imaginations soar over the blue pond and dream of European danishes. Scarves and Italian leather bags. We will inspire hundreds of those young adults with their thirsty little sponged-minds.

And we will choose to ignore Chelsea's spelling errors. We are not perfect. Machine and human. Let the relationship begin.

The First Words

I almost have nothing to say. Perhaps it's too late on this lovely Friday evening. I like Fridays because I have two days where I don't have to be at work. I realize they do not call work "vacation" and have somewhat accepted ( half-heartedly) that these two words do not have the same meaning. I have to stop complaining. A truly great thing I've been waiting for for five whole days has happened today. The little intricacies of life are what make life worth living. Even if it does involve inanimate objects in all their pristine glory. bowl.