Standing here in all my stupidity.

Oh we of the broken hearted.
At first I was hesitant to post this; people sometimes take too much liscense with their blogs....I'm always a little uncomfortable showing myself to the world, I hide behind humor and a plastic dinosaur. But another of the lonely hearts club band urged me; hopefully if you mind sop you will abandon me here.

There was this path on base in California which I would take whenever I felt wearied by the world. If the proper music was playing through my aged and tempremental headphones, and the lighting was just dusky enough....and that smell of rotting carcas (oh, how I love coyotes) wasn't too strong....I could feel the world stretch before me. The real world, not the tangible one where smog chokes lungs, and people claw at each other with haphazard words. I retreat into the world of Meg Murray, Holden Caulfield, and the myriad characters that will never trully see light because kids these days don't understand the beauty of reading the first and last words of a good book. Some, here, would say without tv...I dunno. I like Strangers with Candy, Aqua Teen Hunger Force, and Monty Python too much.

With the right music I can feel all my hopes gather about me; all my dreams for the future playing tag in the twilight, pulling each other's hair and flicking each other's earlobes. Immature, but precocious...
But these dreams seem distant now. I can hear them, but I begin to doubt if I will ever see the grow to fruition, or if they will be cancelled like Arrested Developement.

I taught myself to fear the world that surrounds me; to build barriers, so that I might continue to believe that the world of my childhood was the real one. It's stunted me; I pretend to feel as others do, but who knows what pretend is. Maybe we are all pretending for sake of convenience.
Maybe I need to check my dictionary more often. AH! Aha. Alexandra, you cut yourself again. You are bleeding like that night so long ago when all the world hurt too much, and the anger could only be expressed in rage against yourself. You destroy everything you have ever created--you keep it only for yourself, because you are so afraid of the world.
But I am begining to see that All those carefully constructed defenses are really just so many houses of cards. Watch them crumble, topple, fall.

I watched the ending of Amelie twice on wednesday...it seems so perfect. Why do I crave that? I want happiness. I want Nino.

I should return to the main point before you stop reading. Assuming you cut through the shite.

I finally spoke to him--the boy that turns me into a lobster; the boy with the half moon smile. Oh how the brush off hurts.
So I started this entry in my diary...and I found out that my friend is in the broken hearts club, too.
I decided to give us rules; all good clubs should have rules...and a tree house, but I have never been one for a hammer.
But the only rule that seems to fit is...we shall....we shall....we shall...

My words are cracking, my thoughts are breaking, and my fingers have long since put up the picket lines.

Look for our symbol in the sky.




You wish for everyone to be gloriously and euphorically happy. I wish for my scars to fade.

Blurred beyond compare

Despite the numerous efforts of fate, I have finally finished Both of my papers. It is only 2:02...the day is young, the shower is calling, and my head has managed to detach itself from my body, and is now perching amongst the buttons on my roommate's Pace poster. Hmm....what a lovely thing procrastination is....every time I recieve an assignment, I vow I will not succumb to its siren call. Yet, like Lewis Black is annually dissapointed by candy corn, I too find that Procrastination, though so enticing, is not the fair mistress she seemed. Kind of like the hooker I picked up while lurking in the dark alleyways of Paris.
Well, seeing as I smell vaguely like said alleyway of Paris, I think I am going to hop into the shower before curling up in bed with my bio book. Oh, yes, I have a test tomorrow...this was fabulous planning on my part. I could be part of Bush's strategery committee.
Creative speller until the day I finally get offed by a grammar enthusiast, aka Daniel.

I swear, my printer just said goodnight to me.

What a graceful letdown...

It is that time of night when you aren't entirely sure of the spelling of graceful...or even if it is a word. I know; I just looked it up in the dictionary I won at post prom. Sure enough, there it was lodged between grace cup and graceless. Curiosity struck, and I have found that gracile, grackle, and gourami are in there, too. The gracile gourami narrowly escaped the clutches of the grackle.
Tonight didn't start with much hope; the inhibitionless memeber of our posse had flown the coup. Try as I might, I have never been a graceful dancer--I am ungainly, I flail. Generally, with full understanding of my ineptitude, I dance as oddly as possible. As always, my philosophy rears its ugly head: Make them laugh.

My dissapointment stems from one thing, and one thing alone: My own inability to vocalize my feelings. Perhaps, dear reader, you know the pangs (haha...she just said the word pang. Yes Jamie, I know. Let me pretend to be angsty) of liking someone and not being able to even broach the simplest of topics. Maybe like me, you can't even say hello to him without turning a distinct shade of lobster.
Well....Lobsters, I should probably turn in the evening. Maybe tomorrow will be my day.

Oh...and as a point of interest (and do not cheat and use a dictionary):
If you can tell me the meaning of "xebec" , I might love you forever.

My fifteen measley minutes

I'm sitting at my computer, completely aware of the papers and tests looming ahead of me (oh Tuesday, how hast thou betrayed me), yet unable to focus on Psych research. Instead I found a new outlet, safe from the prying eyes of my parents (oh yes...who else can boast having Both of their parents as their Myspace friends), but public enough that I might spark someone's interest. By my estimate, I have another ten words to capture yours.
This could be interesting; maybe I can entice you to allow me a whole paragraph to charm you.
My name is Alexandra--my mother bestowed me with Alexander the Great's nomer because I was obstinant from the start. I was a hair away from being named Nym, but having already bestowed my brother with Nyr, Mom felt that she needed a child sans sports affiliation. Besides, I turned out to be a Red Socks fan. Although Piazza is one of the coolest ballplayers to ever appear in a shampoo commercial.

I've lost you.
Yet I persist in typing. My thoughts are jumbled; I am trying to impress you. Besides, technology confounds me.
So far I have given you my name, my favorite baseball team, and the fact that computers terrify me--not nearly as much as Zombies, but still...
I've been keeping journals--scribbling my thoughts into illfated notebooks--for as long as I can remember; I suppose the internet was the next logical step.

Are you still there? I may sound pretentious now....well, I probably will later, too. At this point my friend Jamie will chuckle, possibly even turn from her computer and roll her eyes at me. Jamie understands me more fully than anyone else, aside of course from my dinosaur Harold. She saved me from crashing into a bike today--you would think that after so many years I would be better at walking. I tell Jamie the true things about me; sometimes she laughs...mostly she laughs. It is alright, I just pretend that she is laughing at my wit.
I may try to be witty--it will probably just sound like I couldn't tell which was the oregano, and which was the actual marijuana. As point of fact, I don't smoke or drink. The one time I did attempt underage inebriation in college, I got smacked in the face by a boy who'd lost his depth preception, and called a lightweight. It was the truth.

But on that note I have to go. If you made it to the end of this...well, I admire your fortitude, and I am jealous that you have so much time. Hmm....psych paper, or waffle house? Decision of the titans.