Most people are afraid of dying. You ask them what their one fear is out of anything, and it's the answer a lot of people give. I realised that I'm not really afraid of dying. What I am afraid of, is that I'll come back as someone else and not have the same views of things that I think are right in this lifetime. I'm fucking terrified of becoming someone in another life that I fight against in this one. Someone who is rude and who thinks that people shouldn't be able to think for themselves. Someone who hates people who aren't "the same as them" in belief or otherwise. Someone who has a closed mind and is too stubborn to open it.
I'm honestly terrified that, even though I won't remember being in this lifetime, when I come back as someone else, I'll be one of the worst people I can think of in this life. The fact that I have no control over who I come back as truly scares me to no end.
February 25, 2012
December 14, 2010
How to Tell If You're a Writer
Found this on a reviewer's profile page and laughed so hard.
For all my writers -lessthanthree-!
How to Tell if You're a Writer
-If you talk to yourself.
-If you talk to yourself about talking to yourself (i.e. ‘I wonder why I talk to myself so much?’)
-If, when you talk to yourself, you sometimes speak as if talking to another person (i.e. ‘Okay, so have you ever noticed that the word ‘deliver’ could mean removing someone’s liver?’)
-If, after uttering a profound piece of wisdom like that above, you stare at the cookie in your hand in awe and say, ‘Wow, this is good stuff for sugar highs!’
-If you live off of sugar and caffeine.
-If people start to notice that you tend to check your e-mail every day for a week, then suddenly disappear off the face of the planet.
-If your e-mails tend to be pages long and incredibly random.
-If, when replying to someone else’s e-mail, you are sometimes so random that you fail to address the original message altogether.
-If you tend to collect the Bic Stics people leave lying around, kind of like picking pennies off the ground.
-If, no matter where you are in your room, you never have to so much as get up to reach a pen/pencil and paper.
-If the letters are starting to wear off on the keys of your keyboard.
-If people think you might have A.D.D.
-If you think it’d be cool to have A.D.D.
-If you start constantly talking in third person, past tense.
-If you think about making lists like this, and start giggling for no ‘apparent’ reason.
-If your friends don’t even bother to look funny at you anymore when you start giggling for no apparent reason.
-And finally, the number one way to tell if you’re a good writer: If you failed English 101
For all my writers -lessthanthree-!
How to Tell if You're a Writer
-If you talk to yourself.
-If you talk to yourself about talking to yourself (i.e. ‘I wonder why I talk to myself so much?’)
-If, when you talk to yourself, you sometimes speak as if talking to another person (i.e. ‘Okay, so have you ever noticed that the word ‘deliver’ could mean removing someone’s liver?’)
-If, after uttering a profound piece of wisdom like that above, you stare at the cookie in your hand in awe and say, ‘Wow, this is good stuff for sugar highs!’
-If you live off of sugar and caffeine.
-If people start to notice that you tend to check your e-mail every day for a week, then suddenly disappear off the face of the planet.
-If your e-mails tend to be pages long and incredibly random.
-If, when replying to someone else’s e-mail, you are sometimes so random that you fail to address the original message altogether.
-If you tend to collect the Bic Stics people leave lying around, kind of like picking pennies off the ground.
-If, no matter where you are in your room, you never have to so much as get up to reach a pen/pencil and paper.
-If the letters are starting to wear off on the keys of your keyboard.
-If people think you might have A.D.D.
-If you think it’d be cool to have A.D.D.
-If you start constantly talking in third person, past tense.
-If you think about making lists like this, and start giggling for no ‘apparent’ reason.
-If your friends don’t even bother to look funny at you anymore when you start giggling for no apparent reason.
-And finally, the number one way to tell if you’re a good writer: If you failed English 101
September 12, 2010
Bellatrix and Voldemort
I didn't think I'd do this, but I get the feeling that it'll need to be said.
As some of you know, I enjoy putting together Harry Potter fan videos and posting them on YouTube. Well, I'm going to be doing a Voldemort/Bellatrix one and I plan on putting it to the song Gabriel by the band Lamb. Now, at first I was swearing that I would definitely go to hell for making a video of evil set to a song of angels. However, the entire reason I was drawn to it was the wording. Placed to a soft, calming beat and the careful wording surrounding the phrase, 'my angel, Gabriel' makes the song a peaceful, warming piece. However, if placed to an upbeat, intense rhythm, and the extraction of the phrase so carefully placed in the current song would make the song itself seem to be about one who was greedy and selfish when it came to his/her love.
Which brings me to my reasoning. The contrasts of the peaceful song set with Bellatrix's insanity and obsession with and love for Lord Voldemort is wonderfully chilling. If you think about it, the song is all about obsession and longing and even, to some extent, love.
I can fly, but I want his wings. I can shine even in the darkness, but I crave the light that he brings. Revel in the songs that he sings. My angel, Gabriel. I can love, but I need his heart. I am strong, even on my own, but from him I never want to part. He's been there since the very start. My angel, Gabriel. My angel, Gabriel. That's the day he came to me. Angel's wings carried him to me. Heavenly. I can fly, but I want his wings. I can shine, even in the darkness, but I crave the light that he brings. Revel in the songs that he sings. My angel, Gabriel. My angel, Gabriel. My angel, Gabriel. Ooooooh, my angel, Gabriel. My angel, Gabriel. My angel, Gabriel. My angel, my angel, my angel. Ooooooh. Gabriel, Gabriel, Gabriel, Gabriel.
She can fly, but wants his wings? She is strong on her own, but never wants to leave him? Obsession and love mixed into one, which is exactly Bellatrix's relationship with Voldemort, though he doesn't care and never will.
Now, this may not the meaning behind the song itself, but in the context that I plan on using it in, this makes sense, right?
As some of you know, I enjoy putting together Harry Potter fan videos and posting them on YouTube. Well, I'm going to be doing a Voldemort/Bellatrix one and I plan on putting it to the song Gabriel by the band Lamb. Now, at first I was swearing that I would definitely go to hell for making a video of evil set to a song of angels. However, the entire reason I was drawn to it was the wording. Placed to a soft, calming beat and the careful wording surrounding the phrase, 'my angel, Gabriel' makes the song a peaceful, warming piece. However, if placed to an upbeat, intense rhythm, and the extraction of the phrase so carefully placed in the current song would make the song itself seem to be about one who was greedy and selfish when it came to his/her love.
Which brings me to my reasoning. The contrasts of the peaceful song set with Bellatrix's insanity and obsession with and love for Lord Voldemort is wonderfully chilling. If you think about it, the song is all about obsession and longing and even, to some extent, love.
I can fly, but I want his wings. I can shine even in the darkness, but I crave the light that he brings. Revel in the songs that he sings. My angel, Gabriel. I can love, but I need his heart. I am strong, even on my own, but from him I never want to part. He's been there since the very start. My angel, Gabriel. My angel, Gabriel. That's the day he came to me. Angel's wings carried him to me. Heavenly. I can fly, but I want his wings. I can shine, even in the darkness, but I crave the light that he brings. Revel in the songs that he sings. My angel, Gabriel. My angel, Gabriel. My angel, Gabriel. Ooooooh, my angel, Gabriel. My angel, Gabriel. My angel, Gabriel. My angel, my angel, my angel. Ooooooh. Gabriel, Gabriel, Gabriel, Gabriel.
She can fly, but wants his wings? She is strong on her own, but never wants to leave him? Obsession and love mixed into one, which is exactly Bellatrix's relationship with Voldemort, though he doesn't care and never will.
Now, this may not the meaning behind the song itself, but in the context that I plan on using it in, this makes sense, right?
June 06, 2010
I Get By With A Little Help From My Friends
Technically, I get by with a lot of help from my friends, and I find that I sometimes take them for granted. For which I would like to apologise for.
Also, I'm fine now. False alarm. My sleeping habits were wonky and my eating habits were even more so.
AND DAD IS COMPLETELY MOVED OUT SO YAY!
Also, I'm fine now. False alarm. My sleeping habits were wonky and my eating habits were even more so.
AND DAD IS COMPLETELY MOVED OUT SO YAY!
May 19, 2010
Troubling Thoughts
So, I fear I'm slipping into a depression. I woke up this morning at three in the afternoon. So, technically, it wasn't even this morning. But still. I didn't get to sleep until a quarter to five, and even then, it was punctuated with tossing and turning, weird noises and even weirder dreams. When I actually did get up, I had to drag myself out of bed. I never have to drag myself out of bed. I lay there for an hour after I wake up and then get restless, so I get up.
I've been talking to myself. Answering myself too. While I've nearly always done this, my multiple personalities seem to be making more constant appearances and I fear the worst. I reply to my own comments with dry sarcasm as if someone else were in the room with me. This is not a good thing and I am well aware of this fact, hence my fright.
I also seem to speaking as though I am from the late 1950s. To which I say the following:
WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH ME?!
I'm afraid that everything I mentioned in my last post is finally building into something that, once it finally breaks, I won't be able to sift through and climb on top of. I fear that, for the first time, it'll get the best of me and I'll stay buried underneath and no one, not even JD or Michelle or Emma or Elaina or Flo will be able to work together to drag me out. Work is boring and repetative. Home is ear-piercingly quiet, even when Mum moves about. And I just find myself not caring about anything anymore. In fact, I truly believe that I wouldn't even care to shower if I a) didn't have to work, or, b) could actually remember how much better showering makes me feel.
I'm teetering on the blurred edge of depression and living for the sake of living. I need help. I need ... someone.
I've been talking to myself. Answering myself too. While I've nearly always done this, my multiple personalities seem to be making more constant appearances and I fear the worst. I reply to my own comments with dry sarcasm as if someone else were in the room with me. This is not a good thing and I am well aware of this fact, hence my fright.
I also seem to speaking as though I am from the late 1950s. To which I say the following:
WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH ME?!
I'm afraid that everything I mentioned in my last post is finally building into something that, once it finally breaks, I won't be able to sift through and climb on top of. I fear that, for the first time, it'll get the best of me and I'll stay buried underneath and no one, not even JD or Michelle or Emma or Elaina or Flo will be able to work together to drag me out. Work is boring and repetative. Home is ear-piercingly quiet, even when Mum moves about. And I just find myself not caring about anything anymore. In fact, I truly believe that I wouldn't even care to shower if I a) didn't have to work, or, b) could actually remember how much better showering makes me feel.
I'm teetering on the blurred edge of depression and living for the sake of living. I need help. I need ... someone.
May 05, 2010
April 25, 2010
Once Upon a Time...
Could I be neglecting you more?
Quite possibly, but I refuse to at this point in time. Kindly hold off throwing the rotten vegetables until after I explain myself, please and thank you kindly.
Allow me to start this properly: Once upon a time, there was a girl named Iggity* (*name has been changed for privacy. Though, Iggity doesn't care, she's just honestly considering legally changing her name to Iggity. Anywho...).
There was a girl named Iggity and she lived a different life from normal teenagers. The details are too long to list, but to sum it up, Iggity had to grow up faster than her friends did. After some time, Iggity's mum was married and Iggity, her mum and her step-dad moved from a really crappy city to an only slightly better, bigger city. They lived there for four years, and in that time, Iggity went to high school, made new friends, fell in love, graduated, fell out of love, and gained a rather interesting job that she, to this day, thought she was underqualified for.
Iggity loved her job, even though it took up majority of her time and energy. She was at her job for three months (officially, for it had started as a cashier job for the holidays) when she learned that her grandmother (who was in the hospital, but quite alright) was going to be moving at the end of that month. Being the person she was, Iggity would travel the three hours to her grandmother's house to pack, stay overnight (for it would always be late when Iggity got to the house) and pack some more the next day before leaving, taking three hours on city transit to get home, only to collapse into bed and get up early the next day for the morning shift she had been given.
By now, you, the reader, are most likely gaping at the screen and wondering where the happiness in all of this is. Keep in mind that, just because a story starts with "once upon a time", doesn't mean that it will, indeed, be a happy story through and through. So we continue.
Iggity continued this routine of travelling for three hours and packing on her days off until everything was finished (with help from a family friend and a day of her mother and father packing what they could). Her grandmother was completely packed up and in a week, she was to be moved to a closer home, which would cut the three hour travel time down to one hour (something that cheered Iggity considerably).
However, three days before her grandmother was to be moved, Iggity's mother informed her that her step-father was leaving because he had things he had to deal with on his own. And for the next month, Iggity picked up extra hours at work so she wouldn't have to watch the man who had been more of a father than anyone else pack his stuff while cheerfully chatting with a friend he brought along to help out. She knew that the cheerful conversation was an act; a mask, if you will, so they would all feel comfortable while he packed up.
So, dearest reader, that brings us to this point. Iggity writes to you now, only feeling slightly apologetic for neglecting you for nearly a month and a half, and asking that you forgive her, for her life -- and all of the complications that can make that word a virus -- was holding her back and she hardly has the time to write her own stories, let alone a blog.
However, I suppose I can leave you with a piece of Iggity's current situation that makes her believe that everyone will "live happily ever after".
Though he has been mentioned before, Iggity shall mention him again, for he has been a rock through this, even though the two have only known each other for almost three months. His name shall not be mentioned, for he shall know who he is, should he read this, and he should know that Iggity is eternally grateful for all that he has done for her in the past four weeks. It has helped her through something that she feared would turn out like the first time; horridly unfair and depressing with life slapping her in the face as the frosting on a horribly burnt cake. She just wants to say, 'thank you for always being there. It means more than you know'.
Iggity is the person you know who takes things in a comedic sense when she can. She has to, because it's her escape. If she didn't, she would most likely become one of those "gothy/emo" teens that she loathes so much. Can you say 'hypocrite'? She certainly can, and she hates the thought of being on the receiving end of such an insult. So comedy became her shield, because she prefered hearing laughter and groans of disapproval at a rubbish joke than the murmurs and chuckling of "popular" people as she passed by.
There's a phrase that Iggity has loved for years. She stumbled across it when looking for pictures and she immediately felt connected to it.
"She painted on a smile and learned to pretend".
Iggity understands that you must be a little bored by now and that many of you might have closed this window paragraphs ago, but to those of you still reading, she appreciates your time, and wishes to assure you that, though this is still quite depressing/angst-ridden, there is somewhat of a happy ... well, it's not exactly an ending just yet, but it's nearing the end of a life chapter, so it counts. She supposes.
Anyway, she just needed to explain what was happening and though some of it seems to be connected by maybe one word or phrase, it all made sense to her while she was writing it and, really, that was the main point, for it is currently a quarter to one in the morning and her thoughts are all over the place, so the fact that this is actually written coherently is a wonder all on its own.
Hopefully it will not be as long between this post and the next one.
Many hugs,
Iggity.
P.S. The happy ending is Scotland. It always will be. -lessthanthree-
Quite possibly, but I refuse to at this point in time. Kindly hold off throwing the rotten vegetables until after I explain myself, please and thank you kindly.
Allow me to start this properly: Once upon a time, there was a girl named Iggity* (*name has been changed for privacy. Though, Iggity doesn't care, she's just honestly considering legally changing her name to Iggity. Anywho...).
There was a girl named Iggity and she lived a different life from normal teenagers. The details are too long to list, but to sum it up, Iggity had to grow up faster than her friends did. After some time, Iggity's mum was married and Iggity, her mum and her step-dad moved from a really crappy city to an only slightly better, bigger city. They lived there for four years, and in that time, Iggity went to high school, made new friends, fell in love, graduated, fell out of love, and gained a rather interesting job that she, to this day, thought she was underqualified for.
Iggity loved her job, even though it took up majority of her time and energy. She was at her job for three months (officially, for it had started as a cashier job for the holidays) when she learned that her grandmother (who was in the hospital, but quite alright) was going to be moving at the end of that month. Being the person she was, Iggity would travel the three hours to her grandmother's house to pack, stay overnight (for it would always be late when Iggity got to the house) and pack some more the next day before leaving, taking three hours on city transit to get home, only to collapse into bed and get up early the next day for the morning shift she had been given.
By now, you, the reader, are most likely gaping at the screen and wondering where the happiness in all of this is. Keep in mind that, just because a story starts with "once upon a time", doesn't mean that it will, indeed, be a happy story through and through. So we continue.
Iggity continued this routine of travelling for three hours and packing on her days off until everything was finished (with help from a family friend and a day of her mother and father packing what they could). Her grandmother was completely packed up and in a week, she was to be moved to a closer home, which would cut the three hour travel time down to one hour (something that cheered Iggity considerably).
However, three days before her grandmother was to be moved, Iggity's mother informed her that her step-father was leaving because he had things he had to deal with on his own. And for the next month, Iggity picked up extra hours at work so she wouldn't have to watch the man who had been more of a father than anyone else pack his stuff while cheerfully chatting with a friend he brought along to help out. She knew that the cheerful conversation was an act; a mask, if you will, so they would all feel comfortable while he packed up.
So, dearest reader, that brings us to this point. Iggity writes to you now, only feeling slightly apologetic for neglecting you for nearly a month and a half, and asking that you forgive her, for her life -- and all of the complications that can make that word a virus -- was holding her back and she hardly has the time to write her own stories, let alone a blog.
However, I suppose I can leave you with a piece of Iggity's current situation that makes her believe that everyone will "live happily ever after".
Though he has been mentioned before, Iggity shall mention him again, for he has been a rock through this, even though the two have only known each other for almost three months. His name shall not be mentioned, for he shall know who he is, should he read this, and he should know that Iggity is eternally grateful for all that he has done for her in the past four weeks. It has helped her through something that she feared would turn out like the first time; horridly unfair and depressing with life slapping her in the face as the frosting on a horribly burnt cake. She just wants to say, 'thank you for always being there. It means more than you know'.
Iggity is the person you know who takes things in a comedic sense when she can. She has to, because it's her escape. If she didn't, she would most likely become one of those "gothy/emo" teens that she loathes so much. Can you say 'hypocrite'? She certainly can, and she hates the thought of being on the receiving end of such an insult. So comedy became her shield, because she prefered hearing laughter and groans of disapproval at a rubbish joke than the murmurs and chuckling of "popular" people as she passed by.
There's a phrase that Iggity has loved for years. She stumbled across it when looking for pictures and she immediately felt connected to it.
"She painted on a smile and learned to pretend".
Iggity understands that you must be a little bored by now and that many of you might have closed this window paragraphs ago, but to those of you still reading, she appreciates your time, and wishes to assure you that, though this is still quite depressing/angst-ridden, there is somewhat of a happy ... well, it's not exactly an ending just yet, but it's nearing the end of a life chapter, so it counts. She supposes.
Anyway, she just needed to explain what was happening and though some of it seems to be connected by maybe one word or phrase, it all made sense to her while she was writing it and, really, that was the main point, for it is currently a quarter to one in the morning and her thoughts are all over the place, so the fact that this is actually written coherently is a wonder all on its own.
Hopefully it will not be as long between this post and the next one.
Many hugs,
Iggity.
P.S. The happy ending is Scotland. It always will be. -lessthanthree-
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