Schoolbound Enemies

I'm afraid I've been living under the realization that I have no creative energy. That, and what few ideas I have, I do not have the time to write about. (Oh, the joys of AP classes.)

It is shameful, I know, to give up so easily on that which is loved in regards to the horror that is homework. Of course, that is not all that I am subjecting myself to. For, what is life without false fears and miserable points of depression? What is day to day progression without wondering just what the purpose of being is, and why people who are allegedly so close to you chose to continuously do things that seem designed to hurt you?

Perhaps that goes without saying, though? Perhaps I simply blow such things out of proportion?
I wonder though, if anyone else struggles to evade the voices of so many others yelling at them within their own minds.

I have come to a point where I in order to appease the shouts, I have become deliberately offensive, cruel in regards to religion. Although, in my defense, the piece followed all that was required of my paper for school. However, I failed to realized that my teacher was catholic (should that be capitalized?), and so I offended her. Twenty-two point deduction.

That's alright though. It has been far too long with teachers that I respect and like. It has been unnerving. It has been quite a while since I have done something terrible, something to attribute to the satanic reputation people attribute to me and the hate I can apparently inspire without even trying. Indeed, perhaps this has been long overdue. And I shall take it as a challenge, no matter how my grade shall suffer.

However, I am ranting. I am lost within the maze of my own mind. I am typing for some reason. I have actually posted something.

It is not truly something that I wrote creatively, on my own time. Rather, something I managed to write because of an odd relationship with a teacher and a subject I loathed. And a write-up I enjoyed so much and wrote in such a way that I simply had to post it.

It is rather cold-hearted and differs greatly from the rest of my writings, in honesty. It is perhaps far more revealing than all else that I have written. But to lose it would sadden me. And so, loosely shaped upon the (hardly) changing role of women in the 19th century: Conformity.

Mibba is gone.

Er, mine. That is. And I really didn't think that through fully, because now there's two really good stories that I can't finish reading. Still, no matter. It was eating at my head. And, really, I do that enough myself. I don't need that as well.

A few days ago I added another fragment to my Fictionpress which I am currently to lazy to provide a link for at the moment. (Sorry about that. I'm feeling lathargic, laggard, lazy and sick.) That day, whichever it was, I had finally summited myself to what I believe was my seventh head analysis (er, formally, and not including that bloody CT scan). And to some outcomes that I was not particularly fond.

I was also suffering from the confusion of a former teacher calling me compassionate (which, for me, a jarring and mind halting word) and then accusing me of doing various evils. And so, I had to address that. (By letter, I chose, for I'd had enough confrontation and analysis of my head for the day.) Alas, that was Thursday, I believe. I'm not entirely sure. The letter, I know was. And followed by a long weekend now coming to a close, which means that tomorrow I get to look forward to the response.

Life would be ever so much easier if I was simply a nice person.

My computer seems to have developed an affliction to google.

It does that, all too often. It wouldn't let me reach google -- or anything connected to it, which includes this, for the past week. Of course, eventually it got sick of that and decided not to let me download any stories to Fictionpress as well.

So, I have a story that was never meant to be a story. Something rather short for a one-shot. Smote by Fictionpress until it finally loaded last night and only now can I write this.

I really should just do my homework or read more often. Then maybe I wouldn't get so annoyed.

At any rate, here is All But Alone.

And I am off to finally do my essay before school starts on Thursday.

Back from the treacherous heat of Virginia! (Ooh, don't take that personally if you're from there.)

It really was one of the greatest vacations. We stayed at a plantation of sorts -- The Powhaton Resort -- which, minus the legions of geese and their egestions, was brilliant. And then, just around that my dad got us tickets to Busch Gardens (that one's based on all of the European countries and has some of the greatest rollercoasters I've been on, though I still prefer the Dragster), Water Country USA. Although I'm not really a water person. Well, in a matter of ways. I'm a swimmer, literally, but I can't stand just being in water. Weird. And then Colonial Williamsburg which was, by far, my very favorite.

For those who don't know, Williamsburg was the capital of colonial Virginia. And, funded by Rockefellar Junior, they basically recreated it. They restored the eighteenth century homes and buildings, have reenactments, and everyone who works there is incredibly kind. Not to mention great in their history -- which they do while dressing up like eighteenth century colonists, of course.

I didn't log on just to ramble about my vacation, though. I did also finally finish that story -- or one of them -- that I've been promising you. This one's called Finding Myself and is now located on my Fictionpress. This would be the lesbian story that I so wanted to try out so very long ago. Although, please, don't let that bias you away from it. Aspects of love, as ever with my writing, are subtle.

Alas I'm afraid if you want my opinion, I haven't rewritten it enough and it still churns as rubbish to me, so feedback would be lovely.

Hah, I managed to use the dialogue (in an all dialogue work, no less). Again, typed, not written. Strange month, this: No, Never

Editing, cutting, rewriting, adding. That one-shot I started and promised may just happen yet -- don't hold me to that, though. I'm going away for vacation the last week of this month, out of state. I doubt I'll have internet. And, if I do, I won't use it.

I've been typing these revisions as well -- been an odd month for my writing, it seems -- so no hope of my finishing it out there if I don't finish it before then. Sorry about that. The beginning bits still horrify me, actually. The first two sections -- the original two sections. I can't rewrite them entirely, though. But I'm afraid they may throw away any person who comes to read it. Perhaps if I wrote another snippit to slip in front? But I never write out of order.

It's been in my head, though. So, salvaging...

Oh! Before I forget. I also got another flash of dialogue in my head, no where to place it yet though. (I'm mean, though, saying that, because I won't put it on here. It just doesn't click in my mind to put an unfinished clip somewhere it can be snatched when you can't properly prove it's yours if you use it later.)

It's pathetic the things that get into my mind, really. I've just written a fragment based solely upon the famed Chicken/Egg argument because it fluttered into my head and I couldn't shake it. It's on my Fictionpress, because I couldn't very well just leave it somewhere to rot (and I actually typed it, I didn't write it out in a notebook first like I normally do, which is just odd.) -- It's On You.

And now, thanks to my best friend, I'm itching to buy this book about Russel T. Davies (recreator of Doctor Who and writer of the first four season along with this years specials, for those who don't know of him). Unfortunately, the only place it's in stock is Amazon, and I don't exactly have a credit card -- curse my being under age.