have a nice life, miss sobriety.

Break-ups.

The very word sends an unwelcome shiver to my core.

Unfortunately, sometimes you've got to do what's best for you and him. You must be brave and say the word. Because it's what is right, even if you hate doing it.

Like they say: What happens will happen. What will be, will be.

Post-break-up is the worst time for me. I'm still processing everything that was said. Everything that was done. Everything in our past. Every word, every smile, every laugh, every kiss, every embrace. And that hurts. So much.

I know my ladies out there here me on this. Maybe the gents as well.

We all have different ways of handling this state of depression.

Some resort to beer and highs. Not the best way to handle anything, at all. It does nothing for your benefit.
Others break down and instantly crawl back to their ex-lover and cry, "I didn't mean it, take me back!" Which is sad and somewhat pathetic. I can't help but feel sympathy for these people.
And there are those like me that grab the dark chocolate covered espresso beans, choking on tears, and sit in front of the television watching "Interview With a Vampire" and "Wayne's World 2". This type is the indulging type.

But I'm also the kind to lay in bed all day, just laying there. Doing nothing but staring at the ceiling, living my past experiences. This is if nobody motivates me.

Who honestly does the 'right way to handle that situation'? By that I mean looking at the positive aspects and going on with a huge smile on your face. Everybody falls into a rut. In time they will move on, but not like that so soon.

And don't you hate it when you can't make people understand your pain? Even though they say the do, they don't. Because this is YOUR pain. Not theirs. They can't feel YOURS.
And that's what adds to the hurt.

cut me down with a blunt butter knife and call me suzy.

You know that turns out to be really good for you?
Watching incredibly, mind-blowing stupid movies.
Like the newly released (somewhat) "Journey to the Center of the Earth".
Oh my god, it is so typical Disney material, you're laughing at every idiotic/supposed-to-be-hilarious line and move.
Seriously.
I'm sure a guy could really take on a dozen man-eating plants at once and then make a big show of punching the last one in the throat and ripping off his sleeve as if to say, "Yeah. I am the very symbol of macho. Worship me, ladies."
Oh, please save us from this embarrassment!
No wonder foreign films are so much better than America's.
Anyway, it's good watching stupid movies once in a while because you need something to laugh at and it shows you just how good other ones are compared to that piece of crap.

Some conversations I thought was amusing:

(me on the phone with Bo, mum-s ex and good friend)
Bo- Hey, is your mom there?
Me- Uhm, no actually. They're at church.
Bo- Oh. Why aren't you with them.
Me- ...I slept in.
Bo- Good excuse.
Me- Yeah.
Bo- Keep up the good work.
Me- No problem.

(me and mum in the kitchen just now)
Me- So, I've been sticking with the apple a day thing.
Mum- Noticed any benefits yet?
Me- Uh, no not really. Am I supposed to?
Mum- Well, they'vre packed with a lot of vitamins that are really good for your skin. And it's got silicone.
Me (looking at apple)- Don't they use that for boob jobs?
Mum- Different kind.
Me- Ah.

(Online conversation between the b-fraan and I)
Ben- My interpretation of you ---> l
Me- My interpretation of you ---> O

feet in different slippers.

Christmas in... five days. A week, to be techinal (not counting week ends). And, quite frankly, my family has no idea what the hell we are doing.
I just really hope someway I can get an opportunity to introduce Ben to the fam-fam (not parents, more of the siblings/in-laws type of fam-fam). I mean, Geez, give me a chance.

Anywho. Presents (of the scarf variety) are being finished and handed out early. Some will have to wait. Yesterday I had received gifts of my own from Cath and her family. Very exciting. They exactly what I like (Starbucks chocolate, Jones Cream Soda, Victoria's Secret perfume, freshwateer pearls, and so much other sweet, darling stocking stuffers. Not to mention a hand-glass blown orange Les Paul figurine of which I adore).

Unfortunately, I have not received a single rose nor iTunes gift card. But I shant raise my hopes to high. I've learned not to have great expectations. Somehow whenever I do, they are shot down most unkindly.
There seems to be a pattern here.

it came a blossom fright.

Christmas time is here. And, oh, it shows. Snow has miserably fallen out of self-humored spite and laughs at my unavoidable suffering. Why, oh WHY does this depressing state have to be so cold? Honestly it's not fair. We have average of eight months of bitterness and only... four months of warm/hot sun? I feel cheated.

I was pondering just what the best holiday gifts are. And I've come up with a small list and reasons. Naturally, this list is the best presents for the female variety.

1. A single flower (well, this would have to be part of the whole present. Only getting a flower is kind of a disappointment, don't you think?) Favorably of the rose variety. BUT have some kind of originality and pick a different color than red. A red rose is a bit overused, is it not? I say a single flower because, though bouquets are fantastic, a single would relay a message similar to "you are the ONLY one for me, my love". Something cutesie like that. Here's a list from a list of some colored roses and their meanings to make things easier for you fellas:

Pink is the rose conveying the meaning of elegance and grace. I recommend this if your girlfriend is a dancer.

Generally the yellow rose is associated with friendships, but also means warmth and joy. I think this would be a good flower to give to a growing crush.

The white rose carries the meaning of purity and commitment. A nice pick for a pre-engagement hint or a token of your honor and devotion.

My personal favorite, the orange rose. This one signifies passion, excitement, and desire. Aren't they precious?

Lavender is also a very unique color symbolising enchantment. Does she enchant you?

2. Gift Cards! So many and yet you can't get enough! I looove these things. Whoever invented the idea of gift certificates should honestly get a Noble Peace Prize or something fancy like that. He's changed the world.

So anyway, here's some that you can take in mind: iTunes, Hot Topic or American Eagle (depending on her taste), Michael's (for the creative type!), Barnes And Nobles (for the adorable nerd type), Starbucks (who wouldn't want one of these?), Target (comes in handy for make up supplies), Forever 21 (awesome store), and I think that's just about it because I can't concentrate anymore for some odd reason.

3. Frankly, just get whatever the hell she's been raving and mooning over. Easy, right?

-cough- So, if you're feeling generous.... I'DREALLYLOVEYOUIFYOUGOTMEANYOFTHESE! MY SIZE IS SMALL, BUT EXTRA SMALL IS GOOD TOO! ALL OF THESE ARE FROM HOT TOPIC!

heh heh.

i am a rock and i feel no emotion.

No doubt that I have writer's block as of late. I simply have been too overwhelmed or unmotivated to write down anything. Or type. Whatever you like.
Much and nothing has happened.
Tomorrow is Ben and my two-monther. Which should also mean that my brother's wife is also two months along.

What I must say is that I've entered the realm of which I'm finally figuring out who I am, what I believe, what I stand for. Never would I have thought that this time in my life would be so gosh darn confusing.
While I'd love to discuss my religious beliefs, I'd much rather not. That I am still pondering over. So many questions that stand unanswered. I like logic. I'm finding it hard to find logical answers, hence my point.
Lately I've been opening my mind and keeping it that way. By doing this I've found so many options and understanding so much more on different perspectives. Some that I'd never believe I would ever come across.
I know I'm growing up. At an increasing rate. By this, I mean mentally. To be honest, I don't think my parental units have taken much notice (or refuse?). Oh, I'm still a helpless infant who needs guiding hands every freaking second of the way (notice dripping sarcasm).
I'm going to be a completely normal and typical teenager when I say I can't wait to get out of this hellhole.
Oh, sweet Mexico, here I come!

hear the bells calling, they're dying.

Christmas is coming up quickly and I find myself crocheting scarves frantically. I wish we weren't in such a recession as we are. Dumb government. Really, they are behind EVERYTHING. And when I say everything, I mean everything bad that has happened to this country. Well, that's my opinion. And I won't go too deep so I won't have the men in black suits at my door tomorrow morning. -shudder-

I guess to distract my strong blamings, I will rave about what I REALLY BADLY INSANELY want for this Christmas.



The sweet peacoat. Sigh. I believe this one is from a Deliah's catalogue, but whatever. The sleeves are just long enough and it looks like its a bit form fitting. Perfect. I wonder if they have an extra extra extra small?

Watch me get one of these:


HA. I haven't actually looked around in there for a year. And why I say a year is because I got one of them for Christmas from a family member. Made the best of it and got a pair of skinny jeans.

What would be better, but not as much as a peacoat is this:

Whoot!!

Edith Piaf, hero.

One thing I never get tired about raving about is the French film La Vie En Rose, a heartwrenching, mind-exploding, incredible (absolutely incredible) story about the life of Edith Piaf, a famous singer in the 40s and her terrible, terrible life. I cried like a baby watching this a year ago. I strongly, STRONGLY push you to watch this. You will NOT be disappointed.

Just a little snippet:

knack for consequences and jury.

I am probably one of the laziest people you shall ever meet. I procrastinate errands and duties because I just feel like doing them, including this blog. Seriously, how hard is it for me to get my lazy butt up to the computer chair and click/type away? For some reason, I have a problem with it. How hard is it, E?!

I honestly could have a grueling scorn with myself on this subject. Kinda like Gollum from Lord of the Rings and his self-arguement in 'The Two Towers'. Very epic.

First trimester just ended, and I started the second today. Found out I got the second highest score on my final exam in Geometry in my class. Very nice. And that was the exam I was really sweating over. Whoot!
Hm. Oh! And now that my new trimester started, it turns out that Ben and I share second hour Biology and fourth hour American Literature together. Yay! Before we only had lunch, so that was a slight bummer. Now he has to suffer me darting pencils at him for an average fo three hours a day.
Just kidding. I only did that once today and it was a nice shot, too. Barely missed his head and almost stuck into the board behind him. He deserved it. Threw MY pen at my head, darn it all.

Are abusive relationships normal??

meanwhile, in atlantis...

Today, it just feels like a movie. One of those sad, dark-lighted movies that really don't make any sense and leave you with a feeling of moroseness and wonder at the end.

I can really imagine it.

The camera sweeps slowly over the messy kitchen, stopping ever so slightly by the table, where notebooks are splayed out and a cereal box lays, undisturbed. The sound of typing is faint in the backround. The camera moves on, now moving to look out the glass back door. Outside it is fall. No leaves are on the trees and it is raining and the sky is grey. Now the camera turns around and displays the source of typing: a young girl of sixteen sits stooped over the keyboard, bags under her tired eyes, baggy hoodie and pants, and short hair pushed away from her sharp features by a headband.
She stops typing and sighs, drooping lower in her roller chair.

Girl: Lonliness... is the mere insect that chews through your skin and pushes itself into your bloodstream. When it settles in your heart... it lays its eggs and when they hatch, the little lonelies fill all your veins. But where it stings the most is where the mother lies, in your heart.

Camera zooms in on girl. She closes her eyes and her hands go up to her chest, placing them on her heartbeat.

Can you not see that? 'Cause I can. 'Cause it's me and how I feel right now. Lonely.
What I'd give for a big fat gift card to the mall and just shop my little lonelified heart out.
Or to go see a movie.
And not stay at home and finish a geometry project.
Ew.

please close curtains, we don't want to see your face.

Fatale, I, have (I swear by it) the nuttiest teachers that ever did teach. And that, mis amigos, is NOT a good thing.

Names have been changed.

Mrs. Night: Oh, now here's a good one. This lady is a creeper, if ever one. She's short and pudgy with squinty, searching eyes and claims she has a husband down in Florida (why he's down there and not here, I don't know, but do I blame him? Not one bit.) and has countless stories of 'Darkstar', her herioc horse and all their adventures. She teaches business management (the most pointless class in history). Oh man, but when she creeps, she creeps. She has the windows by the class doors covered with construction paper for some odd reason, so when someone knocks, she scuttles over and pulls back a piece with a paper handle she stuck to the back of it and peeks out.
Let me tell you, when you're the one doing the knocking, having the face of Mrs. Night peering back at you out of nowhere scares the bejeezers out of you.
Creepin'!

Mr. Finks: This man is my geometry teacher. When not teaching unhumane torture methods, he's a sports coach. How someone can do both of those, I have no idea. He's not creepin', but, wow, can he get strange. Especially when he has his two cups of coffee in the morning. And I, unfortunately, share his first hour. I get the first aim of fire.
"WHOO!" He jumps into the class at 7:30 am (not a good time of day for me, mind you). And he isn't exactly slender, so I feel the wave of vibration go under my feet on the other side of the classroom.
"MATH IS FUN! ISN'T IT FUN?"
Even from where I sit, I can tell his pupils are dialated. I groan.
Although, I'm not really complaining about Finks. He found out that I'm an 'artist', and showed me the amazing works of Escher and even gave me his book on Tessalations. How cool!

Mr. Callin: Because we have a new student teacher, Mr. Running, I don't have Callin as my normal world history teacher. Thanks be to God. It is not rumor, but fact, that Callin's coffee (which he constantly has) is spiked. Particularly with Jack Daniels and such. I don't know how he pulls it off or why he hasn't been caught over it, but he's obviously master at it. He once left a cup sitting behind Dani, and overrun by curiousity, I sidled over and sniffed at it tentatively. The man is obviously over seventy with a permanent purple nose (which is rather distracting) and a mouth that looks like it was made by slitting a line into his face. It's rather confusing.

Miss Party: Profesora de espanol. Probably one of my most annoying teachers I've ever had. She's as thin (maybe thinner?) than me and she has to be over thirty. Huge lips with huge eyes and a tiny nose. Her proportions just don't match and you know what? It's frustrating.
What's really irritating is how she rambles. About EVERYTHING. She quite literally will go on for ten minutes saying how we are just about to take our test. And then once we have our test, she goes over the instructions (which are the same ever time). At that point, I'm all ready a quarter into it.
One of her other habits that really rubs my nerves raw is her extensive use of 'um'. My close friend, Stacie, once actually kept record of how many times she said that blasted word in one class period (77 minutes): 42 times. How ridiculous. I tried and gave up at mere siete. The more I paid attention, the more I began to see red.

How ridiculous can school get? Not much more than this. I would go on about Mrs. Webbie, but that'd take a whole post on its own.
Be grateful I won't get into that subject.

xoxo

shh don't tell.

I went on a date yesterday.
With a charming young man by the name of Flat Stanley. He is quite the charmer, let me tell you. Inviting me to a French film, you can't get anymore classy. Ben should be worried. Very worried.

Alright, let me give you the dirty scoop. My nephew sent Stanley to me for me to show him around the state and see the sights. He's got a head of strawberry blonde hair and deep-set blue eyes and a mouth full of teeth forever in a wide grin. Quite a catch. Caught my eye, I will admit.

Before the movie, I donned an evening cocktail gown similar to this:


me: What do you think?
Stanley: ...
me: Speechless, eh? Oh, you.
Stanley: ...

During the movie, Le Papillon (highly recommended), the little devil made a snatch for my hand!

me: You charmer!
Stanley: ...

After the movie, we went to a cute cafe. Very tres chic. he knows how to impress a young lady, lemme tell you.


Haha, alright. So maybe we didn't go to a cafe and Flat Stanley is a drawn man on paper and he didn't hold my hand during a French Film (and possibly he spent that time in mum's purse). Just maybe?

gotta love them, bless their souls.

I really can't get over just how loudly amazing the band Muse is. And no, I don't drool over them because they are associated with Stephenie Meyer and her "Twilight" series (which I adore). I liked them before coming into the knowledge that she used them for muse (ironically).

They have a hypnotic 80s sound with ultra unique twists of their own. The lyrics they come up with are absolutely phenominal, so deep and sometimes sad. Like 'Starlight', my personal favorite, along with 'Falling Away With You' and 'Blackout'. Holy matrimony, good songs. They incorporated an Italian guitar sound to the last two. The singer has an absolutely INCREDIBLE voice. So amazing that I'd marry him just so I could chain him up and force him to sing to me 24/7. Incredible.



"Starlight" for your enjoyment.

a light at the end of the bottle.

While sitting in my so highly advanced black roll-y chair, munching on a Nature Valley Maple Brown Sugar bar, I ponder today.

Ending friendships suck. All the yelling and steaming and all the RAWR!
It gets old, y'know??

But sometimes it seems necessary.

Even if you were best friends with the girl for four years. No matter.

What is the best way to cut off from a friend?

1. Don't, DON'T say "It was all your fault anyway!" under any circumstance. UNless it really was all her fault.
2. Speak calmly. And throwing big, sophisticated words of debate and anger is highly suggested for it throws your opponet off for a few minutes. Use this precious time to plan for the next attack as they try to understand what the heck you just said.
3. You don't owe them any explaination on what they did that was so bad. If they really thought about it, they would know. Or they just don't want to admit it.
4. Smile. This really catches them off guard and say with authentic ease, "Ttyl, girl. I'm off to start my new and better life."
5. Walk off with a Paris Hilton-esque strut.

Wala.

all the good times we had can only last so long.

It is fact (and maybe unfortunate at that)
that we all do change over time's range.
Kick and scream, or split at the seam,
all you want, dear friend (for I believe we are at our end).
'It's all your fault,' you say without halt.
Don't try to blame this on me, what will be will be.

a little bit off in the attic.

So what? We're all a might kooky in our own ways. EMBRACE IT! EMBRACE! -shakes fist-

I'll outloud and proudly stand to my feet and declare, "I'm a weirdo, and I like it."
My weirdness defines me, and that's just it.

So what if I'm one of the most unnormal bookworms you'll ever meet? Or that I wear red leopard print skinny jeans like these (only in red):



Or that I'm an avid Star Trek fan?? It's, well, me. And if anyone's gotta problem with it, they can go drink some toilet water. Mmm. (Blech!) Why should I be fake?

I really don't get why teenagers refuse to let the real them shine through, and instead blend in with the crowd. Well, I do understand that they don't want to be teased to pure humiliation, but come on now. Be proud of who you are!

Let's admit it, people. We've all got stuff we don't want to outright say because it would make us 'weird' and not 'fit in'.

For an example or two, say the school's most popular jock is secretly in love with grindcore. Oh, golly, what would his friends do if they found out? Well, his friends wouldn't be real friends if they took offense and cast him out. His interests define him. So what if he's not into the whole rap and hip hop scene that the typical prep and jock is supposed to into? It's him, doggone-it.

Or, per se, the little emo girl who secretly yearns to cheerlead. And why the heck shouldn't she go after her wish? Because a 'REAL' emo doesn't do anything to show school pride and just doesn't give a crap about anything. Well, back off, ladies and gentlemen, let her show who she really is and what she can do.

Who cares if it seems a little unorthodox?

Wear who you are, show who you are, do who you are.

And so, by God, I'm gonna show who I am! With the help of these cute icons. ^^

we are all so over-cooked.

I'm seriously done with drama. Sick of it. Disgusted of it. Retching at the thought of it.
Who needs it? Only those who can't figure out anything better to do with their lives, I suppose.
Unlike me, who has suddenly found herself with a full plate and can hardly balance it on her head.
As soon as I get myself into a little courting, some girls find it necessary to latch their teeth onto my neck and scratch at my back, trying, no INSISTING, on annoying me with petty words and rumors.
Really now.
Sigh.
I'm so above this.

GAHH. Why doe people have to be so pitiful?

Cough. Anyways.
I'm actually not making a huge deal about this. And if you're ever in a situation like so, then you shouldn't, too. Because those people are really ridiculous and not worth one miniscule breath of your energy.

On the contrary, I'm quite content with life. I've got my friends who love me, a sweetheart of a boyfriend who always proceeds in making me tongue tied (he's a master at it.), and my books who comfort me. And paint. Can't forget my acrylics.

See? When it all comes down to the bare bones of it all, you'll see what's really important and the mere whisperings of a pesky fly are rather better left unnoticed and uncared for.


Well, aren't you precious.

october nights.

Generally around this time of year, I'm on a daily hype about Halloween. This holiday is the parents' dread and the childrens' love.
For little boys, who wouldn't want to be a bloodied vamp?
And for the girls, who wouldn't want to be a flouncing fairy or a beautiful Cinderella?
And for the dogs, who would want to be a plump pumpkin? Oh, I pity those poor animals.

Back in my young days, I didn't care about how much the Halloween costumes cost. As long as it was cool and different and scary.
Nowadays, I'll look online and gasp, cover my little mouth and utter, "Oh my!" and close the window. Sixty bucks for a Southern Bell costume is highly blasphemous.
Which brings me to my conclusion. Why spend a crap load of money for a cheap armful of material that doesn't even look good in the first place when you can actually MAKE your own for probably a third of the price?

This also reminds me of my argument of the adult costumes. Mainly the women's. IS THIS SOME EXCUSE TO SHOW OFF YER BOOBS AND BUTTS FOR ONCE BECAUSE PEOPLE CAN'T STAND LOOKING AT THEM ANY OTHER DAY??
Cough. Sorry.


Seriously, woman. Don't you think you could cover up just a little? Have some dignity!

Anyway. So this year, I'm not entirely sure as to what I'll be. Why not just dress like a freak and go hang out with some friends? It's fun and costless, so it sounds promising.

i'm cursed and don't deny it.

Disappointments seem to make a regular attendance in our lives. With every good event, there must be a bad side effect. What's up with that?

You know what I've learned?
Don't expect what you want to expect.

For instance, my homecoming date asked me officially Monday night. We were both very excited until today, he was suspended for rather stupid reasons. Henceforth, no homecoming. No Benjamin for two weeks, as well. No sitting the night away, making fun of the desperate girls on the dance floor whom strive for any guys' short attention. No skipping through the dancing throng and basically getting on everyone's nerves. No wearing the cute red dress so simliar to this:


Oh yes, very upsetting.

Though, one must face reality and realise that no, there is nothing you can do. The only way to semi-cheer up those blues is to have a non-homecoming party with Dani and a Monster to share. Not to mention the most-loved 'Aqua Teen Hunger Force' to keep us company.

Let's face it, life sucks.
But, you can take the initiative and make it a wee better. And it wouldn't hurt to admit that you're crying like a baby in the inside because NOTHING works out for you. EVER.

But friends like these help:



I love you guys.

my smile is upside down.

I'm just one of those people that are easily made happy.

And you know what?

You should be TOO!

When I go through my little happy-making list, I see that I enjoy life for the small things. And from what I've heard, that's good. Good is good. Baa-aa-aa. Woah. Sheep! Random much?

E's Happy-Making List

• Getting five or more six pink Mentos in a row in the little package.
• I Love You
• Good and cheesey macaroni and cheese.
• A surpising ending in a book or movie.
• Songs that make sense
• When the parents actually LEAVE you alone.
• 'Knock Knock.' who's there? 'Smell-Mop' Smell-mop who?
• A lovely cuddle.
• Learning a new chord on the guitar.
• The rumbling purr of a kitten.
• A piece of writing you're actually proud of authoring.
• A baby's coo (directed at you, specifically. Usually children loathe me).
• The money your friend finally remembered he owed you.
• The rush of the ocean wind on your face.
• Your friends being complete idiots.
• Your football team actually winning a game.
• A dream where you're not being hunted, killed, or teased to pure humiliation.

i really have no idea.

Today is just one of those rambling days. You know? The kind of day where you just don't care what the heck is going on and you're just there, flowing along and talking about whatever hits you rmind first.
Yeah.
Today was like that.

And no, the fact of being sixteen STILL hasn't hit.
In-sane.

Anyway. So I was sitting here wondering what in the world to blog about, and I came up with, quite frankly, nothing.

So, just now, I'm going to share one of my wistful daydreams. I'm an avid Paul Simon fan, I jest you not. My favorite song is 'Father and Daughter'. While listening to this exeptional song, I get the image of a beautiful little girl with wide dark eyes and black tendrils sweeping off her shoulders as she gazes into her own father's black orbs. The father takes my daughter's hand in his and twirls her around, the song whisking them gracefully. And all I do is sit and watch with a smile on my face, my heart warming overdramatically with tears pricking my ears. I can see her innocent face, with my olive complexion and small, plump lips opened in a tinkling laugh. Oh, my baby.

Something adorable like that.

And for your own enjoyment (as well as my own), I give you the best of Paul Simon. And while you listen to this beautiful song, picture the dark haired little girl dancing with the dark haired father in utter and complete happiness.

day of saints

Sweet Sixteen.
Or sour. Whatever you prefer.

Still hasn't quite processed that I'm a year older. Craz-ay.

Maybe a combination of glow sticks, a disco ball, and the local senior citizens club would help.
Hmm. Ideas, ideas.

coughin up misery

I love rainy, dismal days. They just have this muse-filling inspiration for me. They're the kind of days that are perfect for a brush, canvas, and assortment of acrylics.

They're also lovely for shooting my immune system into bloody bits.

No offense taken, I promise.

Everything beautiful must come with a tragedy side effect.

So, obviously, I've come down with a sore throat that is getting increasingly worse. I refuse, however, to miss one day of high school. I'm a over achiever for perfect attendance nowadays (mostly because if I miss one day, it adds up to missing three days, homework-wise). I can proudly state that I had perfect attendance last year and not one tardy.

Whoo.

So, Mr. Virus, go burn and writhe in hell. You're not getting me to bow down to your ruthless ways.

i've got too many candles on my cake to comment.

I love birthdays, really, I do. Particularly gag gifts and whatnot. But the food is pretty exciting in itself as well.

There's too many September birthdays for me to remember. My friend Sean's, a nephew or two, Miss Ive, and, heck, even the wand-waving Hermione Granger (property of J.K.Rowling).
And mine, not too mention.
The nineteenth, for those who have extreme loss of remembrance. -glare-
Maybe a sweet sixteen will bring more of the freedom I long for.
Wishful thinking will get me nowhere, unfortunately.

Two days ago was Sean's sixteenth. I got him three packs of gum. Hell, you think I know what guys want? Gum works. Everyone likes gum. I like gum.
A few months earlier, I was shopping for a card for Catherine and came across a line of cards featuring David Hasselhoff.
Absolute genius.
SO I got one for her, and bought one last Tuesday for Sean.
The front looked somewhat similar to this:


What a creeper.

To top it off, I put his three packs of gum in a spectacular Victoria's Secret bag that was laying around.

His face was priceless when I shoved it into his hands.
"I'm scared to look inside," He laughed (so hard that he was crying).
"Yeah, Sean, I really actually bought you a thong."

Ah, good times.

september- the time of havoc.

Never has so much remorse and regret squelched through my marrows. I am, said Fool. I am, said Sorrow. I am, said Filth. I am, said me.

Confusion as we know it is just a clever delusion to keep us from right. Chaos' arms, hold me sweetly. I've forfeit this repetitive world. Happiness and love always comes with the price of tragedy and unforgivable mistakes.
He got his hair cut today. But I didn't muster a single word; he never notices when I've a new plea upon my dancing lips. Are we so oblivious to ourselves? And whilst he angers over spilt wine, I anger over snide remarks of yesterday's phases.
We should all burn together. Linked by arms and twirl in flaming unison, our screaming a rejoiceful song.
I don't feel like talking. Have my guilt-ridden words caused you pain? For if I didn't tell you, the rumor would writhe within my core and rot my organs slowly. Am I really so hideous that a drained corpse is held higher in your obvious dreams? I drink more than a crippled pirate king and not once thinking of you. No, I haven't doubted your professed claim, but I have doubted your wandering and lustful eyes.
I've still got four more bottled friends on my left. I don't see your face on the glass bottom, I swear, really. Your very name sends my nerves waving with firey electrical impulses. Though I'll admit the bitter aftertaste has a bit of loathe to it. I'll enjoy my last moments with utter vengeance. You dared to waste my pretentious seconds and diluted emotions. All fun and games in your mind, a dance around the maypole. All up until it all crashes and burns, leaving you sticking your bloated tongue out to catch the floating ash.
The air tastes of autumn and this scene needs a vital change. You once told me you loved me. I'd rather down acid than hear you ever say that again.
Coniving.
Manipulative.
Charming.
Monster.
It saddens me that your lips taste like addiction. I'll watch every wench fall and slowly crumble into non-existance.
I bet your bones are beautiful. I want to snap them with my fingertips.
Break you, my dear.

what's on the platter?

Cat owners around the world will have millions of stories to tell about their precious. About how darling and sweet they are, how silly they can be.

I've got a story from early this morning at six a.m. when I got up for my first day as an official Sophomore.

Runtsky is an orange and white American Shorthair male cat of quirky qualities. I swear he's half dog since he'll play fetch. He has an obnoxious obsession with Q-Tips (these we throw for his fetching game). The thing is is that he'll hoard all his Q-Tips in or around his water dish or food bowl. Along with the occasional plastic wrapper or hair tie.

Anyway, so this morning, I was stumbling around the kitchen thinking about breakfast when I heard a squeak for help.

Holy thorns, a mouse, surely! I stared at where the cries were coming from, the water dish, in which a dark grey mass was thrashing around in the water.
Nay, a mouse twas not it's being, but a frantic mole!

I sighed in relief and observed it as it snuffled in the water, drowning fast. This was new for the hunter kitty. I fetched a tupperware and scooped it out, promptly dabbing it with a paper towel.
I let it go and felt extremely sorry for the poor creature.

For now, I think it will be required to be checking the water dish daily.
I'll be the ARRV (Animal Rescue for Runtsky Victims).
I so should have my own tv show for this. Exciting!

Tell me your cat stories!

i hate you so much right now.

Dear Gregory Smithey or Smithy-Idon'tgiveacrap.

I despise you. I KNOW what your Buns of Steel Video is all about, really I do.
You like to know that the millions of steel buns-wanting women across the nation are going through traumatic pains while bowing under your smooth-sounding whims.
I FELL VICTIM.

My legs are now sources of burning jell-o, thank you very much. And I think the consistency of jell-o and steel are very different.
And when you ask, "Are you feeling it?" You know that we're not just feeling it. We're SUFFERING it. All for the glorious and shapely buns o' iron.
You disgust me.

And when you say, "Look at that french fry... And that carrot cake!" Just what are you implying?! Am I too fat and sugar-infested to handle your video of inhuman torture?

You, Mr. Whateveryournameis, are an inferior menace to the society.

Hugs and Kisses!
E. Fatale.

here's to you.

Just this morning, I've never felt so appreciated and honored.
Other then being sent 80 duplicate text messages as a joke at 7:30 a.m. from a rather mischevious friend (of which I considered possible mutiny for the slightest second), it's been a lovely day. And it's only 12:00 in the nose!
I was looking at my blog, just checking onthings, and decided to go to Miss Ive's sandinmyswimsuit.
Lo and Behold! A post all about l'il ol' me.
I swelled with gratitude and pride as I read the glowing report.
Love you, Ive.
Couldn't have asked for a better sister.
And just so you all know, I adore Coldplay, and especially their new hit, "Viva La Viva".

Here's to you Miss Ive, just because The Shins are incredible and I hope you like them:

holy cullens.

So Bloody Excited.

Aren't you?!

ancient vows and happy feet

Beside's Sister Kim, I had another wedding to attend: Brother Ben. His fiancee, Steph, was absolutely gorgeous (as usual), I must say! Ben looked smashing, as did his son/my nephew Liam.
The wedding took place at an elite war memorial. And when I say elite, I mean ELITE. I was postively blown away by the beauty of the gardens and courtyards and and and just EVERYTHING. It was very first class, if you know what I mean. And I'm a country bumpkin so I know what I'm talkin' about when I say it was nice.
The wedding itself was very nice, not too long or too boring. Emily, my oldest sister, sniffling by me made it a tad humorous for myself.

Let me tell you: The reception was by FAR the best I've ever been to! Miss Ive can tell you that.
In fact, I sat by her during the dinner. Let me tell you something about Ive: she's so funny about her drinks. At first she started with a beer. Then I looked over and saw that was gone and in place was a scotch (very fancy). She ordered a coffee as well at the same time. Now tell me that isn't funny in the least bit!
"I'm so not writing about this for weeks," she laughed as she took a sip of Scotch.
"Oh," I snickered. "but I am."
And it's even funnier because up on the dancefloor, she had another alcoholic beverage in hand while dancing, pausing here and there to take a drink.

Before I left, I stepped outside to give Ben his aviators he had me hold on to for the wedding. He was chatting with a group of his twenty-something and thirty-something friends.
"This is my little sister," he said, putting his arm around me.
"Like, Seriously?" A man asked. "Like, little little sister?"
They were all staring at me in wonder.
"Um, yeah. Baby sister right here." I grinned.
"Woah."
"Yeah, I'm almost sixteen." I laughed.
That's when they all started really staring and laughing indisbelief.
"So you're not like, thirty or something?" the guy asked.
Well, thank you, Mister Knowledge.

The thing about our family is that not ONE of us are sane in the least bit. It's up to Steph to be the only one. I wish I could describe what the dancefloor looked like with all my siblings and Ive up there. We should go into circus business.

Really, it was the best night ever. I've never danced so much in my life.
Note to Self: Need more Family Functions. Bring Disco Ball. Kidnap DJay.

our pathetic pleasures

I'm very sorry to say that we humans seem to derive amusment from the smallest, most irrelevant happenings.




If you laughed at this very hilarious video, my point is proven.
The baby bit his brother's finger and caused him pain. So what? Well, it's funny. Pain is funny. The kid's face as he realises This Hurts! is funny.

We all get a thrill out of insignificant things. For instance, two days ago I was paid $30 from my babysitting job. My mother and I went to Target for a few supplies and I thought, Hell, I can get whatever I want!
So in the freezer aisle, I picked up the Toaster Strudels (Raspberry, if you must know) and waved them in her face.
"I'm gonna buy 'em! Watcha gonna do about it?" I danced around a little and threw them in the cart. She never used to let me get those things, ever.
"You're really pathetic, you know? Getting all excited over that." She laughed and shook her head.
Oh, well... Whatever.

Yesterday my little American Eskimo saw a hot air balloon that was dangerously close to the ground. He peed and zipped to the backyard. Now I nearly peed because I was laughing so hard. How sad. I sure wasn't laughing later when we figured that Juneau had taken the escape route a couple blocks down because he was so freaked.

Now, I must ask: If what we usually laugh at is pretty stupid, what IS funny, then?

greedy grins and selfish smiles

I know in all of our lives, we get something precious taken away from us. Sometimes it's so unexpected, that we have to stand there, blink a few times, and process s l o w l y.
I've had that happen to me recently... I processed quite quickly and didn't like it at all.

Which brings me to my advice:

Whatever you hold close to your heart, person or possession, be greedy with it/him/her every moment of everyday. You never know when or how that something could be ripped away from your life.

So drive that Mercedes all over town every night! Who cares if gas is $4.00 (apparently not Bush!)?
Smother your lover, even if he or she gets all wrinkly from all the saliva-y kisses.
Polish that wedding ring obsessively and slobber over its beauty!
Listen with a smile on your face to your parents singing that love song to each other. They won't be there for you forever. You know what? Sing it with them. 'I bless the day I found you...'

how to save thousands of dollars.

Yes, it's just as simple as this:

Don't have kids.

Well, I'm not pressuring you to, but I've been utterly convinced today to follow those three, blessed words.

I've always never been a fan of small children.... But earlier this afternoon I was confirmed. My three nephews (along with 90% of my family) were over for a birthday celebration for two of them.

They were bored. I was innocently in my room talking with Catherine.

They attacked.

Literally.

For kids of ages six, seven, and ten, they were rather wrathful. They did anything possible to annoy me. Crawling, punching, pushing, pinching me out of my room. My tolerance was on level zero.
I had to constantly remind myself they were of my own flesh and blood. I withstood their little game and threw them around, attempting to rid myself of the pests.

Eventually this all stopped when their grandfather (my dad) took them to the beach. Ah, sweet silence, solitude, and seperation.

But, honestly, do you know how much money you save if you don't have kids?! I say.

city of misery

I must apologise for the disappearance. I was whisked away on a secret journey to New York City for the celebration of my sixteenth birthday (which isn't until September). Was I surprised? I was having a hysterical breakdown in the backseat.
New York is just as I imagined. Huge, crowded, dirty. Absolutely beautiful. The best part, I have to say, was the food. You haven't LIVED until you eat in Little Italy.
I must say, however, stay away from Chinatown. I was reading the outside menu of a little restaurant and came across the dishes of:
'Crap Fish and Rice
Sweat and Sour Chicken
etcetera.'
There seemed to be an awful lot of Crap fish. I played it safe and got the seafood fried rice. Although when attacking it with my chopsticks, I found long, rubbery white things that I wasn't too sure about. Crap fish?
You are what you eat.

The greatest thing about being a tourist in a huge, overcrowded city is the fact that you don't know one soul there. This, I took advantage of.
We were standing in the one hour wait line for the Empire State building tour. I got bored, and Catherine started poking me. I let out a ear-piercing wail that would normally come from the mouth of a distressed one year old. I shocked the life out of the toddler in front of me and probably anyone in the four foot radius. And believe me, I didn't quit.
"STOOOOP ITTT! IMMA TELL DADDYYY!" I shrieked, stomping my foot.
Believe me, I don't have any problem with publicly humiliating myself. In fact, I get a kick out of it.
And that's what the best thing is. When you don't know anyone, act like a complete and utter moron.

mystery is key.

It has come to my attention that some of my viewers are curious as to WHO the heck is this E. Fatale. Well, I'll tell you, E stands for EVILLLL.

And the picture below is an inkling of what I appear to be:


Mhm. Better believe it, chumps. Imma blog-addicted, anger-loving chimp. With attitude.

bruise some dignity.

I was looking through my envelope of treasured notes today and I found one from my friend Chandler. It was Freshman year during American history... Fifth hour (last period of the day), I remember, and first trimester. Our class was watching a movie... I think on the meat packing industry (very interesting, I recommend you watching it).
It goes something like this:

ChanChan- Hi. do you want anything else besides one Kit-Kat?

Me- Umm, no... Why are you getting me one again? I'm really confused and it's dark.

ChanChan- Because you're my competition and since you became it, my grade has raised in this class. So I'm rewarding you so that you feel that you actually have a purpose in life and go do something drastic like kill someone. And so you can gain some weight because you are really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really skinny.

Me- >=[ RAAWR! I'm not as skinny as I used to be! Dangit!

ChanChan- Christ, you must have been like the skinniest person ever.

Me- ...Shut up.

PENNY SAVING TIP: If you're really skinny, don't help anyone.

you are what you choke down.

Catherine took me out for Chinese today to cheer me up. It worked. A little. It's nearly impossible to get me out of my state of misery or my mind out of the gutter. You know, I think I like being sad and lifeless.
Sweet, if you think I was dramatic before, you should see me now. No joke. I'm like the undead Juliet, a corpse princess spouting off poetics lines of depression. Attractive? My eyes hold no happiness.

Anyways, it was one of those buffets that I love, because I can get whatever I want and how much I want. Woo hoo (Wamu). I think I had four plates of individual stuff... But that doesn't matter.

"I dare you," I smirked. We both stood staring at the gross rolls of sushi.
"I might if you will." She made a face.
"Fine." I grabbed a piece that had orange tinted rice with what seemed carrots and corn in it. Dear God.
She didn't grab a piece, of course. I have to be the taste tester first. Is it poisonous? If E dies first, yes. If she twitches and writhes on the ground? Don't eat it. Poke her, too. Just for the fun of it.
The three of us sat at our table, Cath, me, and her mum. I stabbed at the pathetic disgust with my chopsticks.
"I'm clueless as how to eat this thing," I stabbed at it again.
They laughed. I retched. It smelled horrible. Like.. raw fish (Good job, E!)
I believe it took me a few minutes to muster of my bravery and pick the sushi up with my hands and sink my teeth into half of it.

I've never tasted anything more fishy or terrible in my life (except for seaweed and anchovies). I chewed, and they laughed harder at my face. Oh, sure, they can laugh. They're not the ones suffering! I swallowed with a little difficulty, ignoring my body's screaming and pleading gagging reflex. I choked that crap down with mac and cheese, pronto.

My first real laugh since Monday came a little later on when I was poking Catherine, trying to get her to eat her sushi, which she picked up a little earlier.

"Et yo sushay," I prodded her, just as a Chinese waitress walked by. Oops. I snorted into my arm and tried not to cry with laughter.
And then I couldn't stop. We both had tears streaming down our cheeks as I choked on my pudding and stuck my finger in her tapioca. Immature? Mm, just a might bit.

The real good time was just as we were leaving and Catherine finally popped the sushi into her mouth.
Now that was funny.
Her face instantly morphed into a look of pure terror and nausea. She actually started rocking back and forth as she chewed, her eyes tearing up.
Naturally, I was snorting and wheezing with laughter, banging my fist on the table. She ended up spitting it out and I ended up getting a fantastic picture of her face.

I had fun. Even though not for one moment did I forget my troubles.

LESSON: When you're feeling depressed, go to a cheap Chinese buffet with your friends and dare each other to eat the grossest thing there. I guarantee it's a blast.

smelling sharpies.

We all do stupid things. It's human nature. Sometimes we just do too many stupid things that we basically lose sight of what we're really supposed to be doing. Making sense? We forget the line between right and wrong or the consequences of what might happen.

Well, I'm gonna save your pennies and tell you what do do. Because I'm bossy and miserable like that.

1. Keep your mushy mush stuff to yourselves. Once it's out, it never gets back in. Like the fat puppy through the doggy door because his butt can't fit.

2. Think of the pros and cons. If it has more pros, go for it. More cons? Keep it, yo.

3. Did something really stupid? Saying sorry in a heartfelt way helps. Sometimes.

4. Bang your head against the wall multiple times, like me. It makes you think straighter.

5. Laugh. Then cry.

Laugh because what you did was ridiculously funny the way it comes out. Then you cry because... well. I guess it just depends on the situation. You know I love you.

lemme at cha.

The Wii is perhaps the most technologically advanced and graphically amazing game system in history. Not only does it have really fun games, it also provides a discrete way of exercise, mainly in the arm region.

And I, mind you, do my best to avoid any type of exercise unless I'm having a rare moment of self-motivation.

Wii Sports, ironically, is my favorite game for the Wii. It has tennis, baseball, bowling, boxing, and, unfortunately, golf (for which I have no patience nor understanding).



Two days ago, I decided to try boxing for the first time. Generally when playing one of the sports for the first time, it'll go through a sequence of showing you how to play and control your Mii (player). I tried to speed it up and my enthusiasm for the game needed no pushing.

I was in the ring (or more of my person) and I was up against a mean looking dude with no hair and big eyes. I growled. Make my day, bucko.

I gripped the two controllers and started throwing my fists in the air, punching wildly. I can imagine what I looked like, arms flailing wildly.

"IN THE FACE! DIE! PUNCH YOU IN THE FACE!" I screamed, leaping around the room. I was beating this wimp to a pulp.

"E," Catherine's voice sounded slightly amused, the point of which I ignored her.

"DIE!" I shrieked again, giving him a blow to the face. Muaha. E, the dominate ruler. I'll own your soul, pig.

"E, it hasn't started yet."

"What?" I snapped, irritated how she was interrupting my winning.

"It hasn't started yet. It's showing you what to do."

I stopped, looking at the now still players on the screen, as if they were chatting all this time about daisies and such.

"Oh."

anger don't need no fixin

Last night I found myself in one of those predicaments that I'm sure everyone finds themselves in often.
And I'm pretty sure I didn't look so pretty.

Count your blessings you weren't there next to me.

Just to go over rather briefly (because if I really start going, I won't shut up.) I had a livid fight via text with someone I hold closest to my heart, except for my dear friend Catherine. Mainly it was about my relationship with gays and how that person found that highly disgusting that I talk/am friend with some.
Well, staple me to a wall and call me paper. Apparently I've done something terribly, terribly wrong.
Frankly, I don't give a flying rat's hat. And let's just say my language over that conversation could have been a little more PG-rated. Oops (notice dripping sarcasm).

While sitting there, rage running through my heated veins, I could practically hear the grinding of my teeth echo in my room, and the shredding of my poor pillow. I'll admit, I threw my phone twice, but instantly grovelled after it. That thing is my life. So, I resorted to not throwing things and feeling my pupils dilate. Very interesting. Note- feel eyes dilate once a day.

Being me, I decided to make a short list of others things to resort to when you find yourself royally pissed.

1. If you find yourself grinding your teeth, grab Mr. Cuddles the Teddy Weddy and stuff him in your mouth. Save the teeth!
2. Have the urge to scream? Stick your head out the window and shriek at the kids next door to ge the hell off your lawn, even if they aren't. Who cares if they think you're nuts?
3. Kick the nearest, soft thing to you, cat or not.
4. Tearing your pillow in half? On to the mattress! Fulfill your dream of becoming world's strongest person when angered (aka The Incredible Hulk)

garden of life

"I'm out to the battlefield," I stepped through my screen door and was greeted by such a wave of heat, my church clothes were sticky immediately.
"May the force be with you." my mum replied, thinking herself witty.

When I say 'battlefield', I'm hardly underestimating. My garden in the backyard seemed like it was under alien invasion. You couldn't even tell I have lillies or whatever I planted last year. More of what mum planted.
Looking at that green, forest, it was rather humorous. My poor neighboors had to endure that sore sight for the whole spring and summer. As long as their whiney, screaming children suffered, I don't feel much remorse.
Nevertheless, it was rather morbid. I took out my phone and snapped a picture. Sending it to my heart, John, I wrote, "My garden. xD It needs some work."
"Just a tad." he texted back. His sarcasm has never been sharper.
Just a tad? Someone could quite literally be lost in that jungle. And I, armed with hatchet and spear, must enter it and hack it all down, and save their poor, tortured souls.


I don't even know why the idea crossing my mind that wearing khaki pants and a little sweater in ninety degree weather wasn't a good idea. Or the fact it'd be worse weeding. I'm not to bright with a little thing called common sense at times. I lied. I really mean all the time.
Obviously, I instantly regretted it as I pulled on the dishwashing gloves (we didn't have any gardening gloves that weren't covered in spider poo or whatever it was.) and faced the music. I wasn't one inch into that monster and my knees were already up in plants pretending to be daisies.
As I pulled and ripped ruthlessly, I began to think. This garden (if you will) is very much like life.
When we don't keep up on things, erasing the 'stuff' we don't need, it grows and grows until we're being choked. Everything gets out of control and we have to work three times as hard getting rid of it than we did planting what we did want and need.

Up until that point of my thought train, I found myself staring down a gigantic tan spider resting on a black-eyed susan. Needless to say, it's rhetorical to ask my reaction. I must have jumped back four feet in one quick movement.

"Ohmygod, I was just face to face with a spider!" I texted to John, still recovering.
"Ahhhhh" was his response.

'Ahhhh' indeed.

It took me a few short minutes to get back into gear. I cautiously checked every flower I went by to make sure no deadly tarantulas were creeping about. Before too long, I was ripping every suspicious plant out of the soil mercilessly, lily or not.
I began to ponder again as sweat formed on my brow.

Even we do get motivated to start cleaning our 'weeds' out from our lives, we start out pretty good, but then we get lazy. We tear out the bigguns, but leave the tiny ones that are just beginning because we don't feel like bending over and trying to pull them out.

Fifteen minutes later I ran back in the house, done done DONE with all this dandelion and chinese lantern business.

If you really want to know, all I accomplished was making the stone path visible. To hell with the other weeds poking out on the sides.

To the Bride and Groom

Weddings are stressful buggers, as we all know. For my sister, Kim, it's hell, financially. For me, it's a rose-infested nightmare.

In the beginning of her engagement, she told me one night (while watching my dogs do a load on the lawn) of her fairy tale wedding with Andy. It would be in the golf course when all the flowers were blooming and she'd have me with four of her best friends as the bride's maids, all in cherry red gowns. And I thought, sweet, a bride's maid.
"I want you to be my maid of honor, E." she smiled at me.
I stared at her, owl eyes even more owl-y. "Me? What about your friend Nikki... Or Melody?"
Me. A twiggy, bug-eyed fifteen-year-old being a maid of honor stroke such a wave of blasphemy in me, I laughed.
"I want you, my baby sister, to be next to me when I get married." she replied, then gave a peal of giggles. "Andy's best man is his brother, Eric. Which is pretty funny because he's, like, three of you. Watching you two walk down the aisle together will be hilarious!"
Oh, great. A man twice as tall, and three times as wide walking me down. I'll be jogging to keep up. That'll look lovely.
"That also means," Kim cut in, snapping me from my ridiculous thoughts of me having to sprint to keep pace with a giant called Eric. "You'll have to do the speech. Knowing you and you're writing, you'll do fine."

And that's when it all crashed down on me. Speech? That's every teenager's worst enemy! It's horrible enough at high school, but in front of maybe forty people?

The toast is probably every maid of honor's phobia, at least every one that I know.
This conversation, in fact, took place many months ago, in the year of 2007. Since then, Kim has called me and said that financial fate was not friends with her and Andy. The golf course was off. To the Court Room! She then told me about the reception.

"Oh, it's gonna be great, E. We're gonna have a DJay and he's gonna play everything!" She did a little dance maneuver that is usually distinguished with hip hop and the like.
"Even... rap?" I hid my grimace, thinking of my parents sitting on the side line, with the sticky bass and vulgar words going through them. And me, being in the throng of grinding twenty-somethings. Dear God, if you're there, HELP.
"Yeah, of course." she laughed, pushing me slightly as we walked through my screen door.
Oh, perfect.

She called me a few months later and gave me the sad scoop of how finances were getting tighter. Her voice sounded frazzled and worn. A side effect of the wedding, no doubt.
"We got the court house, but I had to cut all my bride's maids out except for you. And now all the people that can attend are close friends and family." She paused, sighed, then added, "And I had to cancel my wedding dress order and your dress, too. They were too much out of our budget."
At this, a little gloom cloud rained on my head. Darn. I loved Kim's beautiful, flowing white dress with scarlet trimming. And, not to mention, the gorgeous, strapless apple red dress that actually fit my tiny frame.
We planned to go dress shopping together, but that ended not happening. Me and mum found a red one for me at DEB that was roughly forty bucks, and Kim found an exact replica of her previous gown for hundred dollars cheaper. I guess some things do work out. Hallelujah.

The bridal shower was orginally supposed to be at an elite country house. Notice how I say 'originally'. Budgets had to be cut in tighter. It ended up being at Nikki's house, which was nice. A lot of Kim's family members were there, who I've never met and felt a little awkward around. You see, Kim is my dad's daughter. He was married to her mother until he divorced her, found my mum, had me, then married her. We were the 'other' family.
While there, Kim was describing to Jen (Miss Ive, as some of you may know her) her bacherolette party.
"Yeah, I went with a couple friends earlier to a bride party that was to get you to buy this company's products. You know, sex toys and other sexy things. So, I ordered some of those for my party..."
Something I really didn't want to know about my sister or come into the conversation about.

The time had been going so fast, I completely forgot about... THE SPEECH. The more I remembered about it, the more it began haunting me. I'll be completely honest and admit I had I nightmare about it. 'To the Bride and Broom- Groom! I meant Groom! Oh crap."
Should it be long and detailed, or short and witty?
I feel like I'm stressing more than the Bride! For some help, I resorted to begging Jen (aka Miss Ive) for advice.

"Short, and to the point. Maybe three lines at the most. Some of the best toasts are that." she said today while I scrubbed dishes.
Whew! Now I can cross 'write a novel' off my list for toasts.
You know, I think I got something.

"Love is forever and kind
Love is a big pain in the behind.
Kim and Andy, the best to you."

introductions are futile. ANIMAL TESTING

Ladies, check your war paint.

I have recently been informed just why exactly all the huss and fuss is about every time I look at a shampoo bottle it says 'No Animal Testing'. And how.

According to PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals)Media Center, millions (millions!) of animals, domestic or wild, are being locked up in laboratories for the experimentation of biology, psychology, biochemistry, physiology, genetic cloning, and bio-warfare. The research I read is incredibly, unbelievably, hellishly grotesque. Before coming into knowledge, I never gave it much thought whether my conditioner or lipstick was animal tested or not. To be honest, I thought the labs just put the finished product onto the animal. Like applying lipstick on the dog's slobbery mouth to see how well the color stood out and if it was durable or not. I was terribly naive.

One example of this brutal truth takes place in the Columbia University. Inside the laboratory, a PETA investigation crew came across caged baboons. These primates, they saw, were suffering and dying from untreated, careless surgery that was conveniently done without painkillers. Some of the monkeys had metal pipes implanted in their skulls for research of stress. For the female baboons, they were purposefully impregnated and given ridculous amounts of morphine and nicotine. Their unborn babies underwent surgery as well. Have these brutes any shame? This is just one example, mind you. Imagine all the rest of the universities and organizations that are injecting and torturing millions of animals that, frankly, can't fight for themselves. This is inhumane. It must be stopped.

As previously stated, I say to all my female readers, go to your make up bag and pour it out. Look at each individual container and search for the words 'no animal testing'. As for you men, check your hair gel and body spray. If you care, throw it out if it has no indication of no testing. Give a little help to these creatures. What really blows me away if the fact that some people can watch or read stories like this and not blink an eye or have a piece of their heart crumble. I pity them.

To help you and save you some time (I am the Penny Saver, after all), I've researched a list of companies that DO test on animals. If you have a product by any of the listed, I implore: please throw it out. Tell your friends. Start a revolution.

The list I've found at http://search.caringconsumer.com/, and I thank them from the bottom of my heart. Here goes.

Arm & Hammer (Church & Dwight)

Bic Corporation

Church & Dwight (Arm & Hammer)

Clairol (Procter & Gamble)

Clorox

Colgate-Palmolive Co.

Cover Girl (Procter & Gamble)

Dial Corporation

Johnson & Johnson

L'Oreal USA

Lever Bros. (Unilever)

Max Factor (Procter & Gamble)

Mead

Melaleuca

Mennen Co. (Colgate-Palmolive)

New Dana Perfumes

Noxell (Procter & Gamble)

Olay (Procter & Gamble)

Pantene (Procter & Gamble)

Physique (Procter & Gamble)

Platex Products

Ponds (Unilever)

Procter & Gamble

Reckitt Benckiser

Richardson-Vicks (Procter & Gamble)

S.C. Johnson

Schering-Plough

SoftSoap Enterprizes (Colgate-Palmolive)

Suave (Unilever)

Unilever

And for all you tax payers, did you know some of that tax money is generally used to help pay for research? Well, knock me down with a shoe, lookie here. You're paying for this cruelty without even knowing! Want to stop this? All you have to do is write to the U.S. National Institutes of Health and the Canadian Institutes of Health Research and tell them basically you think animal experimentation is bull and abuse and you don't want a penny of your tax money going to it. It would be an awesome idea to suggest that research should be transported to clinics only.

Let's save the world.