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!