An image to haunt you

Taking pictures of my Guy Fawkes mask in different lighting conditions is amusing.

Commander Keen!

I put together a Commander Keen costume for my first-ever convention!

Read more below…

A dream that has been plaguing me as of late.

I had a dream earlier. No, not a dreamcast.

But nonetheless, I’m afraid to wonder about its symbolism.

So, here’s this young woman, maybe 26 years old, writing a novel about the horrors of life, but in a much deeper context – I cannot for the life of me remember much else about the writing itself. And here she goes, this young woman with her whole life ahead of her, and somehow flattens herself through the laminating/scanning machine whilst screaming, screaming, always screaming. And the copy that comes out after her body filters through and is bleeding everywhere – is just frightening as fuck. Her face is contorted, her body is mangled. The book is finished, the copies have leaked out, her body on top. Her current mate comes to the office where she was working on it, and discovers her, screams like a little girl when he discovers the remains of his once-vibrant partner. The book itself is thereafter known as being haunted. It frightens me. This woman was so fucking afraid of what she had discovered whilst writing that she felt the need to get away. The rest of the dream took place at subway stations where she had been spotted. She chased me throughout Sherbourne and I was afraid for my life. I couldn’t find my way home and it was agitating. Frustrating, that no one came to my aid. Yonge subway had taken a detour and was going down to what was now thought of as the ‘haunted section’ (at least in the dream) in which I was far too afraid to venture into. I began reading her writing, her haunting descriptions, and I too felt the need to simply leave. To escape what had been haunting her since the dawn of time, because NO ONE should have been forced to go through this. I stayed though – continuing to read and pour the toxic information into my mind. Somehow, I managed to stay. I had reached some plateau where it all didn’t matter. I don’t remember much else about the dream, and I’m not sure I want to.

Fake/Repressed.

I hear my words pouring out and sometimes I think I’m such a fake and I think they know it too.

No Subject

I loooooove mudkips.

That’s the most profound thing I can think of to write here at the moment.

The center cannot hold; it all falls apart.

I don’t like to think about my past. Childhood is a blur of a tomboyish attitude. It’s neither depressing nor pleasant, but it’s mine. Alone throughout. I don’t recall ever feeling love, in fact I was a very “distant” child. Trying not to get involved with anyone. They paid no regard and this was fine with me. Meant to happen that way. I don’t like to think about my past, really.

I worry about what others think. My insecurities overrule my reasoning and I grow restless and paranoid. You aren’t supposed to know this though I believe they always do. They know I am awkward and nervous. Always. I don’t like being seen this way but I cannot seem to project the correct image. Myself always shines through and ruins everything. I want to control my insecurity but I know no masterful inventors.

The center of attention is something I have dreaded. Being the one they all stare at. They wait to be fed information, or be entertained, or challenged. They wait. I stare out and my lips cannot move. Frozen. They stare back and my face is blank. I cannot do this. I need an interruption. I don’t care how long I wait in silence, the point when the silence turns to bewilderment, to greedy laughter. I wait, and it will come along and take me away. Fix me. And then, life will be ready and waiting. Waiting for me, depending on me, to mold it into a style that fits. I would like others to be proud of what I have made, but I dislike showing off.

I stand alone silent and everything is at peace.

This is my sanctuary.

Life and death, by any stretch of the imagination, are meaningless. Keep moving on with the Universe until you fade out.

I am on the phone with Ben and I don’t feel all that awkward even though we both don’t talk all that much. What the fuck is up with that? Who knows. He seems a lot like David, maybe that’s why I’m so oddly comfortable. He doesn’t know how cool he is. I enjoy him immensely. I might get to meet up with him tomorrow…

Ranting at the Ridiculous

2007 ramblings copied from an old spiral notebook from high school. Read more below…

Pale Blue Dot

Here we are. A tiny speck in the infinite landscape. How much else is out there? What, WHO, is out there? I don’t want to be alone in the Universe, that’s far too depressing. Thinking of myself in this way makes me feel insignificant, but it is not a feeling unknown to me. Feeling useless, feeling small and unnecessary, that is commonly fed to my central system. This is understood. I am only a human. An insignificant dot, in a vast system too large for comprehension.

And this frightens me immensely.