You're at the top of my lungs

Welcome to my phone calls at 6:00 in the morning.

Me: Hello
Melissa: Liz!
Me: yeah
Melissa: Liz?
Me: Yeah.

Melissa: Oh its Melissa
Me: Hey
Melissa: Umm Lyn-Z is pregnant
Me: What?
Melissa: Lyn-Z is pregnant
Me: Holy shit!
Melissa: Yeah and the worst part is Gerard is leaving the band to look after the baby.
Me: *silence*
Melissa: They're finishing the album and then thats it he leaves to look after the baby.
Me: WHEN THE FUCK DID THIS HAPPEN?
Melissa: Yo Alex, when did it happen?
Alex(in background): yesterday
Melissa: Yesterday
Me: Oh my god.
Melissa: Hold on, I'll put Alex on and she can read the article to you
Me: okay
Alex: hey Liz
Me: Yeah
Alex: It's April fools day...
Me: YOU BITCHES!
Alex: *Laughs*

Fucking April Fools day....... The stranger thing is, what were they doing awake at 6 in the morning?

I have so much to do. Odds are, this will only be useful to me. You can stop reading, hit the "Back" button, whatever.

Sketches:
newageamazon(In progress)
tryingtofindthewords(FIX LEFT EYE!!!!!!!)
xblankface(Remember to attack her to get a picture where she's smiling and looking at the camera. No making faces!)
gilliebean(finish during math tomorrow)
jenrrray(start SOON)

-Write science assignment. Hand it in on time.(not likely)
-Do math homework, including the homework you haven't done everyday for the past month.(Also not likely)
-Do Egyptian press for art. Don't cut your finger with the carving knife again, stupid. That hurt, remember? Don't repeat it.
-Stop talking to yourself
-Listen to Chase the Light 7472087883427 times. Again.
-Repeat the previous task with Pretty. Odd..
-Write a fun letter to the weather man on channel 7. I think his name is Frank, or something. Ask for him to forecast pure sun until October.
-Honestly, stop talking to yourself.

Sometimes I feel like I have a foolproof plan. I feel lik I have a one-way ticket to a happy ending. The ticket is in my hands; I'm gripping it with all my might, yet I'm careful not to crumple or bend it.

I decided, even at my ridiculously early age of 14, that I would avoid love at all costs. I was going to treat it like the plague, like it was uncurable and fatal.

Sure, I've had relationships, but I allowed none if them to be serious in any manner. At the words "I love you," I would immediatley turn off, say good bye, end the relationship. Thanks, but no thanks. After all that, I have yet to utter those unforgiven words to anyone other than my family.

There's a saying that goes if you stay at the bottom, no one can make you fall. If you bottle everything up, build your walls with brick and allow no one to pass, there's no way anyone can break you.

As it turns out, there's a page missing from the handbook I've been following, the one the explains the catch to my Master Plan. You can't protect a heart from everything, even from love. With my seemingly bad luck, I've found my "perfect match".

It seems like I've been pushed off the edge I've been avoiding in my life. I've fallen fast and hard, and it almost makes me want to pray that they're the one to save me.

But what do I need saving from? Myself? Love? A little mixture of both?

I can't stay here at the bottom forever; it seems like he's determined to lift me back up. How long until he pushes me back down himself? What if he breaks me afterall?

Am I too young to be thinking these things? Probably. In fact, I'm even more certain than that. Yes, I am to young to know what love is, but I can't explain this anyway else. People say they understand how I'm feeling, but it's much bigger than something I can fit into words. It's like explaining how it feels to die. It can't be done.

I'm scared that if I keep hiding like this, my heart will turn black and frozen from the lack of use. But I am still scared of love, too. What happens when the relationship is over? Do we go back to where we started, or do I have to build my walls all over again?

What if he's been planning this from the beginning? What if it's all a conspiracy to break me and push me down farther then I've ever been before?

I don't want to see him again ten years from now, walking down the street and pass him without a second glance. After all my relationships, I always end up hating my ex-boyfriends. Something always goes horribly wrong, and I don't want that.

This is my first "long term" relationship. Nothing is really compicated. Sometimes I feel like "complicate" is a fake word we tack onto something to make it seem worse than it really is when we're looking for something to blame our lives on.

I want a relationship to be like a pair of headphones. Stupid metaphor, I know, but let me keep your attention for a moment longer. Headphones deliever words and melodies that make everything seem amazing. They tell you things about yourself that you never knew before, and then they tell you even more.

So, I don't know what my new plan is. Do I even have a plan B?

Hell, no. My plans are numbered.

Busy, busy, busy!

People bustling around, wearing the same shirts, grey dress pants, and overly sensible shoes. They speed walk in the halls, not stopping to speak to anyone. Hello, goodbye, see you later. Sorry, can’t talk right now, I’m busy, I’m going to be late.

Nobody has time for anybody. They are not here for socializing, they are here to get an education and secure a favourable future.

I stick out like a sore thumb. I take my time, blowing bubbles with my gum as I slouch through the halls. I say hello to everyone who looks vaguely familiar. My lock sticks and I have to try unlocking it again. I don’t mind; I have nowhere to be.

The bell, signalling the start of class, rings and within seconds everyone disappears. My locker creaks open and I am the only one left in the hall, save a few teachers. But the teachers disappear too, their heels clicking on the hard tiling.

Papers fly as I search for my math textbook. I pull apart my bag, digging through gym clothes and yesterday’s lunch. I find it at the very bottom. How typical. I stand, take the time to fix my skirt that has become unrolled, make sure I have my mp3 player and cell phone stuck in my pocket, and straighten a Beatles magnet that has fallen from my locker door. Only then do a slouch my way to my next class.

I come in late, and my teacher doesn’t even comment on it. She is probably surprised I even showed up; this is the third day this week! She is used to me coming late. She doesn’t even mark me down as truant anymore.

I don’t fit in with these people. Yes, I am smart, even taking advanced classes, but I have no motivation. I have no interest in becoming a rocket scientist or a doctor or a speech pathologist. I want to write, draw, and act.

I have no time for the real world, the way these people don’t have time for mine.

Yes, my friends. Yes.

They're pretty much beautiful. It took me a second to figure out how to switch my record player to 45, but I did it. They sound amazing. Most of them were my grandmother's, a couple of them were my mom's. My grandma found them hiding in her storage room, were they've been for about the past twenty years.

So, here I was, eating my Lucky Charms while innocently lurking buzznet, when my sister woke up to the sounds of Penny Lane(which, I might add, is a pretty good way to wake up) and came downstairs. She flops a limp hand the general direction of the stack of about fourty-odd 45s.
"Aren't they supposed to be bigger?"

Now of course, I was forced not to explode at my sister. How was she to know, especially seeing as vinyls are one of my passions. I like them, and they look perfect with their old, semi-faded pictures. HOW COULD SHE HAVE POSSIBLY GUESSED THAT 45s EXISTED?!??!???!?!!?!??!?!?!?!?!??!?

I'm done ranting and raving now. Now excuse me while I listen to Paul McCartney/Michael Jackson songs.
-Liz

Truly. There are windows open and fans going and paint fumes and it makes me shiver. Of course, I could fix it. At 6:15 in the evening, I should probably be out of my boxers and tank and be wearing real clothes by now.

But I am lazy. I like my black and red computer chair more than it should be allowed. Plus, I've been scrubbing windows all day, working so my parents will pay for me to get my hair chopped off. They're probably the cleanest they've been in the ten years we've lived in this house.

So, I haven't decided if I've earned this break. I'm going to take it anyway. I'll probably end up shutting a couple windows and suffering through the paint fumes, though.

Canadian March + Boxers and Tank Tops = Bad Idea.

Peace, lovers.
-Liz

Okay, so I based this piece of an icon. I couldn't find a picture that really inspired me at the time, so I found this icon. I don't know who made it, but I stole it anyway.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Swans are stunning, beautiful creatures; elegant and slender. They look magnificent, and are often associated with love.

But if you have ever seen a swan up close, you would know what they were really like. They are vicious and will attack almost anything that gets in their was. The Romans even used to use them as guard dogs.

Swans are attacking me.

The swans have no feathers, no beaks, and I have no desire to find out if they have webbed feet. Instead they are blonde, beautiful, and are each a perfect size 0. There are four of them. They all have equally interchangeable names like Jodie or Jennifer.

They always seem to see me just enough to make my life miserable. They knock my books out of my hands in the halls, trip me in the cafeteria on my way to sit with no one, they get me detentions for cheating when they are the ones cheating on me.

Usually it is all pretty harmless, except for this morning of course, when one of them slammed my locker shut on my own hand when I was reaching for my Geography text book, creating enough pain to make me scream and cringe, and a loud enough sound to make everyone in the hall way stare at me with extreme curiosity, before leaving to go to their next class or lunch. Not really concerned, just looking for some form of entertainment.

But that was hours ago. Now it's quiet as I walk down dark streets and alleys. My dirty, beaten converse are even quieter on the pavement. I hug my arms and shiver, even though it isn't that cold. I pull the hood of my thin black jacket up as the streetlight above me burns out. It seems as if even the lights are displeased with me.

I walk down another street, then another, then seven. I don't know where I'm going; I've never been to this part of town before. There's a man dealing some kind of pills on the next street corner. Women wearing too much make-up stand at street corners as well, looking bored. I assume that I am in the "wrong part of town."

I pass him, the dealer calls out to me. He tells me that I look like I could use some fun. He's selling three blue little pills for fifty dollars. I stop him before he can even tell me what they are. I buy them, taking them in my bandaged right hand.

As soon as the three pills are in my hand and I have given him his money, I keep walking. As I walk, the buildings get dirtier and older. The low-income apartment buildings have disappeared completely to be replaced by old warehouses. The three pills are still gripped tightly in my right hand, and although I can't feel them through the bandage I know they're still there. Now the buildings are no more than crumbling brick and boarded up windows. The only windows that are still showing are dirty, cracked, and have been drawn on. They won't be fixed, only forgotten.

There are less people around me; less people to care. The only people I can see are two men on the other side of the street, smoking on the front steps of another building. I stop at the warehouse in front of me, made of dull, decaying brick and rotted wood. Everything seems damp and cold, although it hasn't rained in days. I try the door. It's unlocked, but it sticks. I push against it with my side until it pops open, pills still gripped in my right hand. I tug at my hood more until my face is covered with shadows.

As I had guessed, the warehouse was empty of other people and everything else. The only thing in the room was the metal columns holding up the roof. I walked to the far side of the room and back again, pacing.

I was not one to take drugs. At seventeen, I didn't feel like I had enough problems for them to serve a purpose. Of course I had thought about it, but before now I had never actually done anything. Today felt different; today those little pills felt worth the trouble.

I stepped pacing, and looked down at my hand that still gripped the blue pills tightly. I opened my hand and rolled the pills between my fingers where the bandaged stopped; they felt smooth and strangely cool against my rough skin.

Do I really need these? For all I know, I bought fifty dollars worth of colored sugar. They might do nothing at all. For all I know, these pills could kill me. Am I really ready to die, for everything to be over? If I take these three little blue pills, I might never get a chance to see the sun again, to grow up and live. I'll never fall in love, never go to university, never get a real job. It's not likely, but it's a possibility.

I stop rolling them in my fingers. It take one in my other hand, and bring it to my lips. The hard shell feels wrong against my skin, like it might grow spike any second. I put it back with the other ones, throw them as hard as I can to the other side of the room, and run.

Or do Gene Simmons and Hulk Hogan sound EXACTLY the same?
Seriously, think about it. My sister's lurking, watching TV in the same room, flipping channels between Gene Simmon's Family Jewels, and some Hulk Hogan show I don't exactly know the name of. You can add that fact in yourself.

But my point is, I can honestly not tell the difference in their voices. They sound creepishly similar. It's rather scary, actually.

I'm not sure the world can handle two Gene Simmons, and I definately know the world can't handle two Hulk Hogans.

 

Think about it.

Me: So, I don't know if I've posted this before. I might have. I found it kiding on my computer, and thought I'd share. Constructive criticism would be wonderful, and I don't mean the kind where you tell me I need to be locked up. I already know that part.
On with the strange writing thingy!!!!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Like any other day, I dreaded showing up at school. I felt sick this morning anyway.
As my mom tugged at me to get up, she said, "Thank goodness it's Friday."
At the time I guess she was right. It is Friday, the weekend is a few hours away but I still didn't feel well. But in the end, it doesn't matter how I feel, or what I care about. All that matters is my regular attendance to this poor excuse for a learning facility.
I didn't show a grim interest toward school because of the work or the teachers; no definitely not.
I cringed at the thought of school because of the people who go there. I wasn't bullied or scrutinized by anyone. I was simply ignored. But that's not what bothered me, because I had a best friend, Sophia, who was always there for me. I could confide in her with anything and I trusted her with my life as she trusted me with hers.
So being ignored was not the issue.
The issue was the drug problems, the violence that came with it and the colossal social barriers that existed. But most of all, it was the reputation that was placed upon us.
About 80% of the students that attended were likely to commit a mass crime by the time they graduate.
But that's just my assumption.

A normal day. A normal, dull afternoon to be specific.
I was doodling inattentively on my worn civics notebook.
Get me out of here. I don't belong.
After a few long lasting minutes I stopped, looked up and sighed. My day was going about its regular routine.
"May I please go to the washroom?" Sophia blurted out during the lesson. "Go." Mrs. Dawson sighed. I leaned back in my grimy chair and folded my arms across my chest. My eyes scanned Mrs. Dawson, the current supply teacher. Her eyes were small and there were black lined bags underneath each one. She obviously didn't sleep last night. Her hair was tightly pulled into a bun at the back of her head; gray hairs sprouting in blotches all over. Her face seemed rather smooth for the most part but her laugh lines stretched from one end of her face to another. I shuddered at the thought of her ever once being young, and turned my head to face the P.A system mounted on the wall. I put my head down and closed my eyes.

"Staff and students please proceed to lockdown mode."
My head sprang up, my eyes shot open. It's just a drill.
I look around and nobody is moving. I fix my eyes on Mrs. Dawson, her facial expression is clear to me. She's scared.
This is not a drill.
"You heard her, move, move!" She cried. Within seconds, everybody in the room was scrambling towards the furthest corner from the door. You'd think we're used to things like this at our school, but truly, we aren't.

Now, we're all jammed into one small corner. I swear I could almost smell the fear on some of the people I was pushed up against. I didn't feel frightened at all but in my head I was screaming so loud. My eyes were nervously darting around the compact room until I noticed the second door.
The second door leading to the stairwell. I knew that we could all get out from there. We'd be led to the main entrance hall and have a way out.

A sudden silence swept over the room. And then several gunshots were fired. The group of us suddenly shouted out and squeezed a little closer together.
"It's alright, it's going to be okay!" Mrs. Dawson hushed us.
More shots fired and it's getting closer now.
"Mrs. Dawson, the back door." I whispered to her.
"You know the protocol, we must stay here!"
I could tell by the look in her eyes, the fear that flickered inside those small beady eyes, that she truly wanted to flee out the back door.
A couple more minutes of complete silence and then the doorknob begins to rattle. Gasps are shooting out of every single person's mouth. I glance over toward a boy in my class, Andrew. The look on his face is solemn. It's almost as if he doesn't care about his coming execution. I cringe and place my head in my hands. I begin to sob.
The doorknob is rattling.
The door bursts open. A boy from my school stands in the doorway. His dark eyes are fixed on the teacher, he shifts glances towards some students in the furthest row forward.

We're all staring in the face of death. A girl is saying a prayer quietly to herself.
Gunshot.
She's the first to go. I turn my head away in pure shock and look down. My eyes are wide open and I know my facial expression is far from fabulous. I'm terrified. I'm going to get shot; this is not the way I wanted to go. This is not the way.
"I'll give you 10 seconds to run." The words escape from his mouth so cold and meaningless. He's giving us a chance to run for our lives yet we all remain still.
"I said, run." He sniffs anxiously and wipes his face with his arm.
He pulls the trigger and shoots Andrew who is only inches away from me. He falls forward and his eyes open. He's not dead. I want to help him so bad but he's doing this for a reason. Like an animal in the wild avoiding death, he'll pretend; play dead. His eyes meet mine and then they close gently.
Everyone's running.
"10" he says tranquilly.
Gunshot. A girl falls beside me.

I run. I have no idea where I'm running to; where I should be running to. I'm running down the halls. I'm going so fast, faster than a cannonball. Faster than the speed of light. I guess all those years of track had to be good for something.
I turn a corner sharply and slow down. I'm panting and crying. How is this happening to me.
I pace quickly towards the girls bathroom and enter quietly. I lock the door.
When I turned around I was in for more than I could handle. My head was cleared of all previous thoughts and this feeling of pure disgust rose in my stomach. I was petrified.
Sophia is lying on the bathroom floor, her legs splayed out, her arms over her head. She's laying in a pool of blood.
I cover my mouth and fall to the ground. Tears stream down my face and I turn and look the other way. I crawl over to her lifeless body and check for any sort of pulse. I know it's useless. Her face is drained of all colour, her body is still and cold, her eyes are fixated on the ceiling. She's dead.
I let go of her and struggle to stand up.
I stumble towards the door and unlock it. I bolt out of the bathroom and down the hall.
I'm running.
I see Mrs. Dawson walk out from around the corner. She's so calm; the look on her face is hard to read.
"Mrs. Dawson," I yell "Mrs. Dawson, help please!" I continue running.
He comes out from behind her, gun in hand.
I stop dead in my tracks. I'm closer to him now, he's about 4 feet away.
"Please, no." I plead.
He shoots Mrs. Dawson in front of me. She falls to the ground.
He shoots her again, and again.
I cover my mouth in horror.
"Why are you doing this!" I cry.
"I guess I'm just a part of that 80%." He retorts.
I stare into his somber eyes. I'm speechless. I'm fearing for my life.
He takes a few steps towards me. I walk backward quickly and trip. He continues walking forward.

My heart is beating so loud, I can hear it in my ears. My head is throbbing.
Beat.
Beat.
Throb.
Throb.
The gun is in my face. I'm staring down the barrel. I can smell the gun powder.
I can smell death.
His thin finger on the trigger; he pulls it back. I close my eyes tightly and face death.

"Now, Ms. Worthington, I know my class is not the most interesting of the day and I may be a supply teacher, but the least you could do is pretend to be paying attention during my class."
I look up at Mrs. Dawson, standing in front of me, her hand on one hip.
I'm sweating profusely and my hands are shaking.
"Eugh, what's the matter? It looks like you've seen a ghost!" She said, raising one eyebrow.
A loud beep came over the P.A system followed by the voice of our principal,
"Staff and students, please proceed to lockdown mode."

Tap, tap, tap.

I drum my fingers on the table, the sound echoing through the overly bright room. The light makes my eyes hurt, so I shut them, blocking out the world. I've been looking at these walls for too long anyway.

I wish it were darker, that it would rain. Something. This place is too, too cheery. It should show some of the personality of what it really is.

I'm almost sure that I shouldn't be here. It wasn't my fault; I didn't do it. But isn't that what all crimminals are supposed to say?

I suppose this doesn't really count as a prison. There are no bars on the windows, no fences, no guards outside my cell with guns they don't really need.

Yet, I'm trapped here. I'm here for something I didn't do, something that shouldn't have happened. They couldn't prove it because I didn't do it. There was no evidence yet I was convicted anyways. I can still remember the judges voice: cold, and hard.

"Insane," he had droned out, sounding like a machine, a robot. Something manufactured and molded until it was no longer human and didn't resemble what it used to be.

Insane. Sanity gone, perished, terminated, deminished, dead. Sanity proven negative.

Sanity denied.

Yes, that sounds like something one of these robots would have said. Sanity denied, like I failed a test or something, and we weren't talking about something as intricate as a person's thoughts.

Maybe this is a test, maybe I did fail it. But there are too many "Maybe's" in that sentence for my liking.

I lay my head down on the cool tabletop. The skin on my forehead is squished flat. I can feel my heart thumping steadily in my chest. Maybe if I try hard enough, I can slow it down so it's almost stopped, and the robots won't be able to detect me creeping out of here. I'll get out of this prison.

Not likely. I bet they would be able to figure out a few more ways to keep me here in this hell.

Maybe I am going crazy.

There's a knock on the door. I don't answer; I don't need to. The nurse on the other side comes in almost instantly. I sit up and look up at her bleakly.

She gives me two small white pills, and I take them, chasing them down with a glass of water from a small plastic cup. If the cup were glass, I would take a bite. Crunch-crunch-crunch. Maybe on the way down it would slice me into pieces.

But it's not.

She makes me open my mouth, checking that I have, indeed, swallowed them. Then she gives me a sugary-sweet smile. The kind of tentative smile you'd use on a dog that might bite. She turns and leaves without saying a word.

Any more days like this and my head will surely implode.

I calmly walk over to the bathroom, closing the door behind me. I flip the lid of the toilet up and spit out the two pills and then I flush the toilet. I get up, ignoring what I just did because I've done the smae thing every other day I've been here. It's just not worth it anymore.

As I'm walking out the bathroom, an envelope is slid under the door. I pick it up. It's from my older sister, Bridget. She was the only one who believed I was innocent, that I was sane.

I don't read it yet, I don't open it. I stagger to my bed and place it under my pillow. I'll save it for when I really need it, for when I need something to keep me from breaking down.
I lay down and close my eyes.

How am I going to get out of here? It needs to happen soon, too, or else I really will go insane.

My fingers clench the sheets beneath me, grounding me, like I might float away if I wasn't too careful.

Does thinking you're the only one who's sane make you crazy?

The sun and the wind are at full force on my face. My dirty white running shoes are silent against the paved sidewalk, muted by the rain. The air is wet and cold as the Earth begins to thaw. I think the Earth wants to go back to sleep and wait until summer. I know I do.

In one hand I'm holding a bright yellow umbrella; protecting myself from the elements. The bottoms of my jeans are soaked about a foot from the cold pavement, but at least the rest of me is dry, snug within my coat.

In my other hand, I'm holding my iPod. The headphones are in my ears, but there's no music playing yet. I'm still searching through my playlists as I walk, looking for that perfect song to fix what I've done.

But my mind is not connected to what my hands are doing and to where my feet are carrying me. In my mind, a battle is going on between my conscience and I.

I need help; help that I'm not being given. I just want to forget. That's all I ask. I feel like I can no longer trust, like I can no longer believe. The most difficult thing in my life is now happening, and I cannot seem to live through it. I don't think I can bear it another minutes.

I expected so much more from myself. My conscience was supposed to be my protection, and it was supposed to be there to distinguish my rights from wrongs. Now I'm ashamed of it, of my own thoughts.

I twirled the cool plastic of the umbrella between my fingers, doing my best to watch where I'm going and keep searching my iPod at the same time. It's not a hard task though; it seems that I'm the only one crazy enough to take a walk in the rain.

Am I no long capable of feeling emotion? I want to, and it doesn't matter which one I get either. Happiness and pride are preferred, but misery and guilt are welcomed as well. I just want to be able to tell if my heart's still beating. I'm not sure it is.

By now, my socks are even soaked, and they squish uncomfortably between my toes as I continue to walk. I'm not even sure where I'm walking to, I'm just following my feet. I end up at a playground. It looks strange and ghost-like; for the first time in what seems like years, there's nobody here but me. It's probably something to do with the cold and the rain.

He doesn't hate me. I wish he would. Knowing that what I said was worth it, knowing it was justified and I had a good reason.

There's no need for anyone to scold me. I know I've been wrong. It only makes me afraid that I'll end u being evil. I don't want to be evil. I want to be right. Lately, they seem like one in the same.

I wipe one of the swings of with the sleeve of my coat, so when I sit down I'm only half wet. I keep the umbrella above me, leaning forward and resting my arms on my knees so it will fit away from the chains. I rock slightly, never letting my feet leave the ground.

He bothered me, I swear on it. I couldn't take it anymore. Of course I cared. how could I not? I cared enough to not keep him inside. Inside this place that has lost all capabilities normal of such an organ. Never would I allow him to keep believing I could still feel. That I could still love him.

Was I being selfish? Am I still? Should I have kept on pretending? Kept on deceiving? I do not believe so. No, it shouldn't be right. Maybe a lie would have been nicer, but he would have wanted to know the truth. It's the lies and the masks and the paper words that hurt the most.

I wished to be honest. Be blunt, and be open. It's unfortunate that I perfected these techniques, for now I wish I hadn't. I watched him walk away. I watched him sit alone. I wish I had never spoken, never said the irreversible words that took him away forever.

The rain gets softer, filling my ears with a quiet buzz. I still haven't found a song to listen to. I close my umbrella and set it on the ground beside me. I pull the hood of my coat up to keep my hair dry, but still allowing the rain to fall on my face.

I think I'm beginning to understand: his pain is my punishment. I suffer in watching him hurt. I, the evil force, have brought all this grief and heartbreak into the heart of another. And he, right now, is probably asking his conscience the same things. And that hurts, that he would question himself. He does not deserve this hurt. I deserve to grieve for his hurt. This is my punishment. My quilt, my deadened emotions. My heart has stopped with his.

So, my dear conscience, maybe I was harsh to you, as I was harsh to him. Perhaps everyone I speak to now will only meet the ugliness which unleashed at that moment I spoke with him. Maybe he will forgive me. Maybe we can both love again. I suppose the penalty is the fact that I don't know, and I might never find out.

I find a song and press play. It's like a drug, getting louder and faster until I can feel it pumping through my veins. The witty lyrics and powerful melodies engulf my body and I would kill to stay here forever.

Not quotes from the script, but just random things we say in 6 hour long rehersals.
BEWARE!


(During the Crucifixtion. Scott, who plays Judas, died a couple songs before this)
Me: "Scott, aren't you supposed to be dead?"
Scott: "Why do people keep asking me that? I'm standing beside a guy with poorly crafted paper mache devil horns. Why aren't we asking him: 'Hey, aren't you supposed to be not real?' "
Me: "....."

The BIG free pizza debate:
Pizza Guy: How do you know it free?
Kelsey: Because I have a clock!
Pizza Guy: I have clock too!
Scott: And what does your clock say??
Pizza Guy: It says "Don't give them free!"
In the end, we got it free.

Nick(playing Jesus)"was Pilate actually a pilot?? .. oh wait they didnt have planes back then."

Scott(Judas): I will not perform until I get an Oreo!

Steve(our vocal directore talking about Sean, who plays Annas and likes to disappear):"Okay Sean... where's Sean? I swear that kid is polkaroo"

Scott(Judas): "What if the school is locked on a snow day?"
Me: "Then we break down the doors in the name of God!"

Dylan(Caiaphas):"Let's sing a song. Lets sing a duet. Lets sing Cher. IF I COULD TURN BACK TIME!"


Well, I thought it was funny. For most of it, you probably had to be there to understand. We have a whole facebook group for this kind of thing. I'm sad though, because Friday was our last performance. Now what am I supposed to do? I feel like a piece of my life is missing, and it is. I've been a part of this since September, and now it's gone. I'm thinking of filling that void with this new band I'm supposedly going to be in with my friend Stirling. Maybe we'll actually take it out of the garage this time.

-Liz

Gerard Way.

Shirtless.

No, listen. I've got it all figured out.
It has become my mission in life to let him know that it would end all the world's suffering. Seriously. Kids in ethiopia won't be starving and there will be no global warming and it will mean WORLD PEACE. And Gerard is all about saving lives. This is like, the biggest life saving thing EVER in the history of THE FUCKING UNIVERSE.

So it shouldn't be too hard to convince him. even if i have to chrlorofom him and take the pictures my damn self while he's passed out. Wait. What? I never said nothing... (You guys know that wasn't serious, right? I mean, mostly.)

And no fake photoshopped pictures either. No cheaping out on us, Mr. Way. Those poor Ethiopian kids can tell the difference between photoshop and real shirtless Gerard Way pics.

The entire world will be too overwhelmed and in a haze of *OMG THE SEX* to do anything evil or untoward to eachother. it will be amazing. Seriously. UTOPIA.

GERARD, THINK OF THE KIDS! WORLD FUCKING PEACE.

Now remove your shirt before I knock you out and do it for you.

Guitar Hero, Legend of Rock. For obvious reasons. I mean, come on, a cartoon Slash is on the cover. Hello?


I need this book. Seriously. With the writers strike, which I do support, by the way, I am missing my daily dose of Colbert. This should satisfy until it's over. I mean, there's STICKERS!!!!! There used to mark your favorite place in the book or to give other books with the Colbert Reader's award. What more could you want?


No, I don't want Pete Wentz for Christmas(that comes later). I've wanted this sweater since it came out, but there's the problem of my parents not allowing my to order online. They are even less-likely to let me drive to the Chicago Clandestine store.


Yes, I do want Patrick Stump. Calm yourself.







And lastly, I would like Greece. The whole country. You should all work hard towards getting it for me. Good luck wrapping it.
Merry Christmas,
Liz

THIS IS A TRUE STORY. READ TO BELIEVE.

On September 20, 2006, a young girl received a Chain Message  from a friend. The message said that if she did not pass it on to 25 other friends, she would have bad luck for the next 10 years. It also said that her boyfriend would dump her, she would fail all of her classes, she would get bad karma, she would never have a good love life, and, worst of all, she would definitely be murdered in her bed by the ghost of six year old girl with a bread knife that very night. Unfortunately, this poor girl, for an unknown reason, thought that she was above the Chain Message God, and not only did she never send the message on to her friends, she DELETED THE MESSAGE. Gasp. That same night, she slept in her bed. Nothing happened to her. The End.

Thanks to chain mail I:

I no longer have any sneakers -- but that will change once I receive my free replacement pair from Nike.
I no longer worry about my soul, because at last count, I have 363,214 angels looking out for me in addition to all of you dear friends.
Thanks to you, I have learned that God only answers my prayers if I forward an e-mail to seven hundred of my friends and make a wish within five seconds while scrolling down a page.
I no longer have any savings, because I gave it to a sick girl who is about to die in the hospital (for the 1,387,258th time)...
I no longer have any money at all - but that will change once I receive the $15,000 that Microsoft and AOL are sending me for participating in their special e-mail program.

If you don't send this darn e-mail to at least 144,000 people in the next 7 minutes, a large flock of pigeons with a wicked case of diarrhea will land on your head at 5:00 PM (EDT) this afternoon and shit all over you.

I know this will occur, because it actually happened to a friend of my next door neighbor's ex-mother-in-law's second husband's third cousin's beautician.

My exams are coming up, and my friend sent me this. I thought I'd share, although I probably won't even attempt anything on this list, because I'm shooting for at least 80% on all four of my exams.

1. Get a copy of the exam, run out screaming "Andre, Andre, I've got the secret documents!!" Have a friend taking the exam with you scream "RUN FORREST, RUN!"

2. Talk the entire way through the exam. Read questions aloud, debate your answers with yourself out loud. If asked to stop, yell out, "I'm SOOO sure that you can hear me thinking." Then start talking about what a jerk the instructor is.

3. Bring a Game Boy. Play with the volume at max level.

4. On the answer sheet find a new, interesting way to refuse to answer every question. For example: I refuse to answer this question on the grounds that it conflicts with my religious beliefs. Be creative.

5. Run into the exam room looking about frantically. Breathe a sigh of relief. Go to the instructor, say "They've found me, I have to leave the country" and run off.

6. 15 min. into the exam, stand up, rip up all the papers into very small pieces, throw them into the air and yell out "Merry Christmas." If you're really daring, ask for another copy of the exam. Say you lost the first one. Repeat this process every 15 min.

7. Come into the exam wearing slippers, a bathrobe, a towel on your head, and nothing else.

8. Come down with a BAD case of Tourette's Syndrome during the exam. Be as vulgar as possible.

9. Bring things to throw at the instructor when s/he's not looking. Blame it on the person nearest to you.

10. As soon as the instructor hands you the exam, eat it.

11. Every 5 min. stand up, collect all your things, move to another seat, continue with the exam.

12. Turn in the exam approx. 30 min. into it. As you walk out, start commenting on how easy it was.

13. Get the exam. 20 min into it, throw your papers down violently, scream out "Fuck this!" and walk out triumphantly.

14. Arrange a protest before the exam starts (ie. Threaten the instructor that whether or not everyone's done, they are all leaving after one hour to go drink.)

15. Show up completely drunk (completely drunk means at some point during the exam, you should start crying for mommy).

16. Comment on how sexy the instructor is looking that day.

17. Come to the exam wearing a black cloak. After about 30 min, put on a white mask and start yelling "I'm here, the phantom of the opera" until they drag you away.

18. If the exam is math/sciences related, make up the longest proofs you could possible think of. Get pi and imaginary numbers into most equations. If it is a written exam, relate everything to your own life story.

19. Try to get people in the room to do a wave.

20. Bring some large, cumbersome, ugly idol. Put it right next to you. Pray to it often. Consider a small sacrifice.

21. During the exam, take apart everything around you. Desks, chairs, anything you can reach.

22. Puke into your exam booklet. Hand it in. Leave.

23. Take 6 packages of rice cakes to the exam. Stuff at least 2 rice cakes into your mouth at once. Chew, then cough. Repeat if necessary.

24. Start singing "Welcome To The Jungle" by Guns n' Roses. Just because.

25. Walk in, get the exam, sit down. About 5 min into it, loudly say to the instructor, "I don't understand ANY of this. I've been to every lecture all semester long! What's the deal? And who the hell are you? Where's the regular guy?"

26. Do the entire exam in another language. If you don't happen to know another language, use pig latin.

27. Bring a black marker. Return the exam with all questions and answers completely blacked out.

28. Every now and then, clap twice rapidly. If the instructor asks why, tell him/her in a very derogatory tone, "the light bulb that goes on above my head when I get an idea is hooked up to a clapper. DUH!"

29. From the moment the exam begins, hum the theme to Jeopardy. Ignore the instructor's requests for you to stop. When they finally get you to leave one way or another, begin whistling the theme to the Bridge on the River Kwai.

30. After you get the exam, call the instructor over, point to any question, ask for the answer. Try to work it out of him/her.

Like I said, I won't be attempting any of these, but I thought they were funny. Or at least something to waste time on. And I don't want people to think I'm insane, so I proably won't be eating my exam.

Okay, so, I know my french is disgusting. I still don't know I have an 84% average. But, ANYWAY...

Drama, drama, DRAMA!!!!!!!!

Okay, so let me introduce you to the main characters of this messy love triangle. There is me(like, duh), Ryan, and Vicki. Can you handle that so far? Okay, good.

My high school Semi-Formal was on Thursday. I went, without a date. Ryan and Vicki were going together. (With me so far?)
Vicki told Ryan to Fuck Off(!!!!!!!) (exclimation point) the minute she got the $45 corsage. Then she ran off.

(It gets worse.)
(And better.)

Okay, so, Ryan is my friend. So me, Ryan, and a bunch of other people were dancing together. Everyone eventually left to go get food, but Ryan and I stayed. So, we danced together for the better part of the night.
Then Vicki came back.
Vicki came, pulled me away from Ryan, and asked if she could dance. I would have been okay with it. I mean, she was technically his date, after all. But Ryan said no.

Vicki leaves, and then Ryan and I dance again. He asks me if I wanted to go out with him sometime, and I said yes(I went skating with him yesterday). Vicki started danced on the amp in front of us, then she promptly fell off and bruised her tailbone.

Does the above evidence make me a skank? Yeah, maybe, but if it does then I'm pretty sure I'm okay with it. Guilty as charged.

-Liz

So, I could possibly have a kidney infection. Possibly. I went to the doctor, and he said I might. He's doing a test, and the results will be back in tomorrow.

Yeah, like that helps me.

But anyways, he said that the worst that could happen would be me having to chug some nasty antibiotics, so, you're not getting rid of me yet.

Infected Kisses,
Liz

Does parenting really sit on intellectual ability?

I don't think so. Parents who are very smart can have more than their share of flaws. Plenty of us had parents who were smart enough but couldn't help us with our geometry homework. Love may not be all you need, but it's definitely one of the major fundamentals.

So if someone is mentally disabled, do social services have the right to take children away from them? 

Just some random thoughts.
The Color Liz

My NaNoWriMo. It's done. My book is not allowed to see the light of day yet, looking back I need to change at least one third of it.
But I wrote my 50k. 51 355 words, to be exact. I don't care about what anyone say about my crappy novel, but I earned my purple bar.

You have no idea how good it feels to have November over and done with.

Hugs and Kisses
The Color Liz