I've Russell T. Davies on my mind. My friend finally finished The Writer's Tale and so I get my book back. So, other than flipping through that, I'm inspired to attempt better dialogue and other forms of writing. And, of course, I've followed my urge to spam her inbox. (Following the inentation, font format and such of the book we're well onto eight pages now. We communicate a lot in a day.)

Alas, other than that I have the set back of a mole that I distrust. (I'm a redhead, of course I have many moles. They come with the freckles.) My doctor isn't very fond of it either (oh, mole, why have you changed?) and is sending me to a dermatologist. What fun.

I've also come up with some ideas. When I was horrible, remarkably, ridiculously livid, I wrote a story. Granted, it wasn't something I would normally share, but it wasn't exactly of low quality. And I actually found it really entertaining. So one of my projects will be to come up with a collection of angry writing. (Unfortunately, I can only work on this when I'm extremely angry--more so than is normally inspired by aggravating scenarios. That's a bit of a setback.)

And now, while I'm off to do things off of this creepy piece of technology that takes away my fun in a pencil and paper, I leave you with this:

Inexperienced

Today I wonder, more so than usual, why is it that most adults feel the need to belittle those younger than them? To push off our experiences, troubles and emotions as insignificant and inferior? Are our lives not real? Are the emotions we feel fake, some simulation from mechanism that float overhead? Do we really only feel once we've reached adulthood--which is what, thirty now? Or forty by some standards. It's always "You don't know what stress is." And yet I've clearly experienced enough of something to be reduced to some ill-working human, terrified to trust, often found hiding, suffering from migraines, and with all the basic signs of what any adult would call stress: acne, stray strands of whiting hair.

However, if for some reason between the ages of seven and seventeen (before one is technically considered an adult) you are diagnosed with a fatal disease, never fear. You will not die without having been respected. Upon the news you become filled with wisdom, as if by magic, and experience beyond your years. (Clearly this is possible and adults are not speaking out of their asses when they subjugate others once more for someone even younger as this person is so very wise now that she/he is dying.)

Normally, this does not surround me enough that it aggravates me. That, or I am intelligent enough to shut out something that I know will cause me to do something rash. (However, my father is more irritable a creature than I am. And only gets more irritable when I, as is often as the extreme introvert that I am, am in a shut-down introvert mode and refuse to acknowledge him with more than a nod of my head. Thus today has been a very trying day on my nerves.)

Brontë World

My friend sent me this glorious video after learning I've read one and have another sister in my stack of books to read. (If only they actually had feminist vision. . . Or even worked together, considering Charlotte tore apart Emily's writing.)

Also, I've unfortunately been informed that someone I know (it's a very confusing relationship) finds my sister more terrifying than me. This is a great injustice and must be rectified: she's so not scarier than me.

Duet With Myself

I thought I'd share the brilliance. I think I've wasted a significant enough amount of my life going through his videos to share with whoever hasn't found him yet.

To rant

They say ranting relieves pressure. I say gibberish is a stress reliever. But I'll still take a rant.

Everyone gets to a point where they feel forgotten, right? I've been feeling so constantly. Perhaps because no one in my family seems to understand what an introvert is and likes to shove me about in places and situations that only amount to a pounding head and great terror. I'm different, they don't understand it. Hiding in my room for so long all the time? What could be going through my mind? They don't like it. I'm broken, wrong. I must be fixed. Unfortunately for me, it amounts to all ranges of hell. So maybe not forgotten in existence, but no one clearly pays enough attention to realize I'm running lost.

It seems as though every day gets worse--I can't even be around six people talking without my vision fading and my ears ringing oppressively anymore. And the response from my friends? Scolding for not attending a party.

At the same time, though, I don't want to be left alone entirely. Is it only those extremes though? A party where I may combust or nothing at all? A friend I've helped in Chemistry all throughout the year (I took AP, she was struggling with regents) is having a group of people help her study for her final. I'm not one of them. In the whole scheme of life, it really isn't anything, but I feel forgotten. Or inferior, maybe. After all, with my other friend I'm hardly needed. No one ever is.

Maybe I'm just in a bad mood. I mean, really, what else am I mad about today? Tuna. Of all things, tuna. I was hungry yesterday, I hadn't had a proper meal at all and so I was trying to make a sandwich after I showered only to be informed my father was cooking a meal (that I had to wait another hour and a half for). So I had to stick the tuna I'd just made into the fridge. I'd eat it the next day, fine. Just let me be. (Of course, I fell asleep, tired after having to drive a drunk sister home at two thirty in the morning and being a bit of an insomniac as it is.) But today, where was my tuna? Oh yeah, on my drunk sister's plate.

It's been a while, I know. Too long, probably, since I've last written anything. School's over (well, sort of. I'm still doing work so I'll have to track down my Chemistry teacher before the 23rd and, of course, there's tests.)

Really, I haven't written anything. I've posted something, sure, but it's another thing stolen from an English assignment as I felt guilty: Just a Day. I know, I'm horrible about keeping up with things.

What could I write in this, though? This blog when I had not written anything new? That I had to my cousin's wedding for a girl that no one had met before? That because I'm such an extreme introvert and I get migraines I felt as though I had a hangover all of the next day but for some stupid reason went to school anyway? And, of course, because of that, I got a migraine near every half hour. Self-destructive, perhaps that's what I am. I'm still not quite sure.

Perhaps I should write about the power of a ginger's glare: how it forces people to back away slowly from touching a the glaring redhead, or to delete a picture they've taken of the redhead. A redhead, satanic? Perhaps. Regrettable? Never, not when a ginger's glare has so much power.

What is there to write, to rant?