Story opener-blog book (?)

Patterned scraps of fabric fluttered in the autumn breeze. Chasing one another’s tails, which flickered in the swirling wind. Paisley, polka dot, and houndstooth delving down into ducts of air, and prompted upwards by a gust of southern breeze. The tortuous heat of the summer had left the small town blown from a sprinkling of quaint wood homes, to sharp shards of the remaining flamenco lacquered wood. The inhabitants of the town reacted similarly. Contrasting from a tight knit family to mere neighbours. Much had occurred the past summer.

satirical speech on popular music

“Beez in the trap, beez, beez in the trap.” In this quotation from the popular song, “Beez in the Trap”, by Nicki Minaj, Minaj states several disagreements with the manifestation of modern society. Minaj has chosen to use “beez” to symbolize individual living in modern times, and “the trap” to represent the circular structure of society. As an entirety, “Beez in the Trap” represents that we were born into this world only to conform and die a few short years later, evident in Minaj’s existential lyrics. Minaj continues to question the routine of the world in her song, “Stupid Hoe,” in which she continuously states, “you a stupid hoe, you a, you a stupid hoe,” clearly telling young women to respect themselves and their bodies, and to make intelligent, educated life decisions.

Several thousand pop stars, or should I say, my heroes, continue to spread messages of loving yourself and one another, and having a great time. Without popular music, we may have never coined terms such as “yolo” or “swaggie”, and if you’re feeling a little spicy, “yoloswag.” I mean like, swiggity swag, what’s in the bag? Yoloswag is in the bag.

I really hate when people say they prefer old music over new music, like, do you want a medal or something? What do they even mean by old music? Do you want me to bust out some Beethoven so you can get your groove on? Or some Mozart so you can take a one-way train to Funky Town? It’s honestly so pretentious when people try to force their artistic audible diarrhea on me! I do not care in the slightest about your made up bands like Nirvana, The Cure, Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, Dépêche Mode, The Rolling Stones, David Bowie, Ramones and The Smiths. Who are the Smiths? A bunch of sad lumberjacks? And I’d better whip out that pentagram, because Led Zeppelin sounds like some sort of satanic cult! Get with the times people!

I’m so glad that’s in the past, hahaha (Hairflip), and now everyone can focus on what truly matters, today’s modern music. With the catchy beats and inspirational lyrics, it is incomparable to older music, which sounds like doodie-pie! I mean, have you heard Skrillex? It’s like he stared into my soul and saw all of my deepest desires. I always tear up when the bass drops!

Another great thing about pop music, is that most songs sound super similar, so there wont be much of a problem choosing a favourite artist, since there isn’t too much variety. I mean, Does anyone actually expect me to choose between alternative, country, folk, rock, indie, shoegaze, garage rock, post punk, garage punk, art rock, Celtic reggae, Christian black metal, Doom metal, goth folk, or emo? That is way too much of a decision for me, and no one actually cares about those genres, so I won’t look cool if I say that I listen to them. Everyone will just point at me and say, “oh, look at that hipster kid, she’s too cool to listen to normal music, we should all throw our shoes at her.” Please keep in mind that shoes really hurt when they’re thrown at you.

To sum it all up, if you’re not listening to the good stuff, you’re basically no one. Life would be so much easier if there weren’t those stupid hipsters who want to be “old school,” then we wouldn’t have to throw shoes at them. I know my kid is going to be the exact same as me, and only listen to the music synonymous with his or her generation, but I’ll always know that my music is better.

slave

Lights on, lights off.

The glare of the screen illuminated his face. He stared into the monitor’s soul, searching for an answer. An existential problem, worthy of help, was not questioned, but rather a request on whether the the most recent product of a large corporation was worth purchase. This had become his life. A life of consuming.

Lights on, lights off.

He consumed endlessly. Products filled his home, surrounding him in a vile, materialistic cave. Surviving by taking and receiving, he stripped the heart and soul of his home, replacing warm welcomes with the cold metallic sheen of miscellaneous items. Symbols of his wealth and apparent achievements shown through possessions.

Lights on, lights off.

Although he viewed himself as money, a product of his hard work, as well as a revolutionary individual, he had truly become a slave to the soulless glare of a computer screen.

A slave to click.

Add to Cart.

Purchase.

Ship.

True satisfaction and fulfillment mimicked by things.

Lights on, lights off.

Inconsistently Consistent

Sometimes I like to imagine my life as a paradox.

Although I am still breathing, I seem to lack an interior pulse. A certain lust to live, to love, and to dream. I do have inspiration and aspiration, yet no motivation. Although my brain may age physically, and will continue to clasp onto bits of meaningless information, my mind and mentality still remains in a wasteland of teenage suburbia, clinging to the faded sepia toned photos of dead poets above my bedside, remaining live as I sleep. I like to imagine they converse, about trivial things such as the temperature of the previous day, and reflect upon the glamour of the golden age. They don’t, by the way, because they’re just photos. Although they remain perfectly preserved, ageless in glamour upon a meticulously printed page, the personas that have occupied them have been delivered to the next world. The next world seems entirely more interesting, as this one remains to be slightly boring.

Rustling the fine wisps of my hair into an updo, I allow myself to rest.

My face blends into the material of the pillow. The poets watch me.

Paint a Vulgar Picture

The artist lay beside her husband. The sheets wrapped around their silhouettes, sticking to their delicate outlines. She stared in the incomplete visage of the beautiful man, the man whom she had married.

The extents of her husband’s persona was confined to the barriers of her mind, imagination, and soul. Yet she loved the man as a whole, although he was only half. Perhaps her undying adoration for her own husband was an extension of her own narcissism. A fatal fault of her own self’s vanity.

His striking blue eyes, unblinking, never left the tiled pattern of the ceiling. Staring into an endless pattern of black and blue and black and blue. She turned the stiff canvas towards herself, rumpling the pristine quality of the white sheets, and kissed his painted cheek.

“Good night, I love you.” She told him

She gazed into his single eye. She spoke sincerely. She did love him, yet the only emotion he was able to return to her was that of pain.

She tired during the seemingly endless hours of the evening, working feverishly over his crescent face. Yet, as she dabbled the brush’s bristles in the paint, it grew increasingly difficult to even touch the canvas where her husband lay, incomplete. As soon as she neared the canvas, a freezing effect possessed her, leaving her unable to the slightest movement of her hand.

She believed that this effect was caused because she had painted her soul into her work, along with the lifelike caramel tones of his skin, and the warm curve of his lips. Trapped between the fibers of the material, she was unable to paint a drip onto even his concave nose. This was the reason the painting’s eyes shined brightly when she was near, giving them a significantly realistic appearance of endearment.

Though his eyes boasted adoration, she feared if he could speak, he would not return her words of love and praise, but rather spit vile, poisonous, hate, eating at the girl’s body and mind as if it were acid. Wasting her body to a decomposed mass of organs. Yet she would love him still, even as he shouted:

“A hateful fire burns within me. I cannot bear your presence, let alone your endless childish jabber.”

Although he would shout, she would pretend that he still harboured sliver affection for the poor girl, his creator.

If the canvas were able to utter a word, he would scream.

“It would be better to die a death by boredom than to survive as only half.”

She would attempt an explanation, expressing her worry of distortion to the man’s beautiful visage.

The latter would perhaps be more painful to both half of the man, as well as his shy bride. What had hurt her creation would hurt the girl, perhaps doubly.

Even if he were to howl in pain, her passion for her creation would never cease, and she only found joy when the complete figure of the man she had painted came to her in beautifully lucid dreams.

There they would dance, waltz as gracefully as fleeting swans, under the heavy night sky. Under moonlight they pranced, laughing in unison at shared glances and common humour. Yet they would never touch, even in the confinements of the creator’s fantasy.

When she would wake, warm, salty tears would flow in rivers, feeling a sense of desperation. How she regretted these dreams, and hated the calm of the night sky. She now loathed rest, as the recurring fantasies only set flame to her desire.

Every night, she would kiss the floor in prayer. Facing the evening sky, where the stars shined as brightly as endless amounts of vintage car’s headlights, she would should towards the heavens, begging for a peaceful rest. One without lifelike visions of satisfaction.

The dreams still arrived nightly, always at the same time, as the girl was indeed a slave to her own mind.

Good to Be AKA Getting Compliments from Really Cool People

I, personally, respond really uncomfortably to compliments.

Included in my spectrum of responses to praise are:

• The shy giggle. After the giggle, I become really quiet, unable to muster a response.
• The classic “No i’m not” or “You’re much better than I am.” This is called the self deprecation method, something which I actually learned is not appropriate as a response to compliments. Just suck it up and accept your praise, kind of like being force fed soup by your polish grandmother.
• The unbelievable response. Kind of like “What? Are you serious?”

For some unfathomable reason, I was recently complimented, on the same day, for my writing and fashion sense by two of my biggest mentor/inspirations/friend-crushes.

The first being my writing, I was literally shocked. I couldn’t. I couldn’t carry on. Being complimented on your writing is always a good self esteem boost, but being complimented by my biggest mentor left me in awe. To put it into words, it was similar to when I found out Tyler Durden was actually the Narrator’s separate insomniac personality. Crazy shocking.

The second happened later in the evening. I was complimented by one of my biggest style inspirations, the Classic Cool Girl Who Wears Really Cool Vintage Clothing archetype, I’ll call her. Believe it or not, this is not a title of a Fall Out Boy song. CCGWWRCVC (this name sounds like a keyboard smash) was speaking to my friend and I casually joined the conversation. She told me she always saw me in the hallways and that she really admired my unique style. As soon as it hit me, I literally almost had a heart attack (I had eaten a lot beforehand). I couldn’t even fathom what was happening in that moment. Since she’s graduating this year, I feel like the torch was passed onto me. I really need to start putting more effort into my outfits.

Great, more pressure.

Stay golden, California Children.

xoxo

Hailey

Song of the Day

Don’t Look Back into the Sun

The brisk afternoon entered as the cotton clouds stretched across a crisp blue sky. Light wisps of wind’s breath would occasionally send a crumbly leaf drifting into view. September had stretched into October pleasantly, flawlessly.

A pair of green eyes stared into the clouds, with gaze so intense that the perfect puffs seemed saunter away from her gaze, burning a hole into the sky.

“When I was younger, I’d always imagined that clouds would taste like vanilla ice cream.” Mabel announced, crinkling her freckled nose with a warm smile and a snigger.

The boy who accompanied her stared at her visage, her rosy cheeks and endearing expression couldn’t help but make him grin. Her green army jacket fluttered in the breeze.

“You’re ridiculous.” The boy answered, half jokingly.

“That’s why I’m the most interesting, Harrison.” She grinned at him, and winked in jest.

She really was the most interesting, Harrison thought to himself. Mabel scampered up a hill framed by browning autumn grass. Harrison watched her flop onto the ground and lie down.

“I didn’t know this was a race!” Harrison called after her, his voice echoed. He jogged towards her.

Harrison awkwardly found his was up to the top of the hill, which was much higher than what he had thought only seemed like a mound of grass. He laughed heartily, for no good reason. During his time with Mabel, he had transformed from the faint-hearted face of purity, to a slightly less faint-hearted version of purity. ‘Sort of like a butterfly, which had begun as a caterpillar, but was still sort-of a caterpillar.’ He thought to himself. ‘Wait, that doesn’t really make sense.’

He found his breath hard to catch, as it had seemed to run much farther than he did. He huffed and puffed; his heavy breath emitted a frozen fog as it exited his lips.

He found himself looking down at a smiling, freckled face, with ash-blonde hair unfurled and tangled across the nearly dead grass. Her pristine green eyes almost closed in laughter.

Mabel chuckled. “Why are you so competitive? Not everything needs to be a race!”

“Why were you running, then? Harrison inquired, his face twisted in confusion.

“Sometimes I feel like I need to run away.” Mabel sighed. Her face dropped into a more subtle expression tinged with sadness.

“Not really though, you’re joking. Right?” Harrison asked. His eyes widened in fear.

“No.” Mabel stared off into the distance, facing the stone bricked castle, where Harrison resided.

The house was ancient, many great members of the Weathers family had inhabited and lodged in the comfortable mansion. In fact, many members of the Weathers family still dwelled within the stone bricked walls; some immortalized by painted portraits, while others did not exactly “live” in the house. Perhaps the more appropriate term would be to spend their après-life in the fortress. Drifting amongst the halls, unseen and unheard by most. Most average people do not notice the bizarre. To realize the existence of the strange, one must truly be peculiar themselves. Harrison, as much as he did not like to admit, was an odd boy.

Harrison observed that his crouched companion was upset. He sat down beside her. Not saying a word, both stared in to the distance at the brilliant abode.

Powder-like blanche flakes began to fall delicately from the now graying sky.

Clothes Envy

You know the feeling.

The feeling when someone is wearing the most fabulous outfit you’ve ever seen, and you would literally slash at the fabrics of the core of the universe, subsequently ruining all perception of time, and humanity just to own that outfit. In a completely literal sense.

The agonizing feeling takes the form of jealousy, allowing the demons of envy to consume you, wondering why that girl could dress so well, and you must sit here looking like a miserable pile of steamed anus, a pleasant visual.

Whether it be celebrities, friends at school, you desire their wisdom in the fabric arts.

Not having nice clothes tears at the seams of my heart. My clothes are me, I am my clothes, we have a bond. The way I dress allows me to experiment creatively, and show off my dramatic flair. Lately, I’ve taken to sixties and seventies garbs, with a bit of grandmotherly knits mixed in. My spring look can be defined and described as an “austrian grandmother appearing as an extra in the Sound of Music.” Previously, it was “punk rock grandmother.”

As the seasons transition, my sense of style does as well, creating a different sense of wardrobe envy.

Man, it’s a vicious cycle.

Song of the Day

Dealing with Being the Worst

Hello my internet pals,

Something that’s come up recently in my life is the topic of writer’s rejection. I’m assuming that it can be understood what writer’s rejection is, but I’ll explain it anyways, just in case y’all aren’t following.

Writer’s rejection can be one of two things:

1)After receiving a negative response, or no response at all, anxiety and self hatred consumes you. You begin to judge yourself and all past creative ventures. Your conscience begins to whisper into your right ear, ‘you suck.’ Then subsequently due to your self loathing attitude, your life  becomes the extended plot-line of Cherita from Donnie Darko. While you may try to say “Chut up,” you are constantly told to “go back to China, bitch,” by your peers (or your letter of rejection), and Drew Barrymore starts to swear at your unitentionally. Except this isn’t your peers nor Drew Barrymore saying this (as much as I wish it was Drew), it’s you. In actuality, self hatred is a destructive, and circular cycle. If you choose to follow this method, might I suggest banging your head against the wall exactly 143 time, no more nor less; making a tower out of oreos because you are the oreo queen, then proceed to eat them all; or sticking a pencil so far inside your ear you touch your brain, and subsequently forget how to do math.

2) Moving on with your life because you’re still fabulous and it’s only one person’s opinion. Tossing your blown-out hair over your shoulder glamourously and sliding on a pair of designer sunglasses whilst walking away from multiple explosions. Take a note from Cher Horowitz’ book, proclaiming you’re “audi.”

Sure, it really does suck not being good at what you think you’re good at, but hey, you get back on that horse, even if the fall may leave you with a dislocated tailbone. You’ll never be a cowboy with that attitude. Even if you don’t want to be a cowboy, you do want to be a cowboy.

And if all else fails, you could try macrame.

song of the day

living in the state of dreaming.

A quote that inspires my life goes as follows:

“Reality depresses me, I need to find fantasy worlds to escape in.”-Noel Fielding

I heard this quote sometime during September of 2011, and I can honestly say, that I had never found a more powerful quote, never anything that I had found so painstakingly similar to myself. My entire life has been a struggle between my imagination, and the duties of my real life.

Ever since I’d been but a youngin’, I’d always loved creating stories, and playing pretend. Although it may have seemed like a childhood phase, I never really grew out of my state of imagination. With age, my dreams have escalated from a sweet tune of childhood to vivid, bizarre thoughts.

Although I guess I’m (apparently) more mature at this stage of my life, my childhood’s message of vivid fantasy has helped me realize my dream of writing. Creating a fantastical world to escape in.

The moral of this seemingly meaningless blog post is: follow your dreams. I mean, that’s super duper cliche, but also super true. Your dream may not be writing, or drawing, or you may not have a dream, but the first part of your dream is to discover your own dream (does this make sense? Dreamception).