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Writer's Block: Here's looking at you
Nov. 7th, 2009 | 07:20 pm
mood: 
bored
music: Supernatural, Season 1
I really like the end of "He's Just Not That Into You" when Alex goes to Gigi at the end at tells her she's "his exception" and it gets me every damn time.
Also, in "You've Got Mail" when they're standing in front of Kathleen Kelly's apartment and he asks her what they could be if he wasn't Fox Books, and then he's the one that comes to her in the park.
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fuck you, hum201
Oct. 5th, 2009 | 11:58 am
Then talk not of inconstancy,
False hearts, and broken vows:
If I by miracle can be
This live-long minute true to thee,
'Tis all that heaven allows.
False hearts, and broken vows:
If I by miracle can be
This live-long minute true to thee,
'Tis all that heaven allows.
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500 Days of Summer
Aug. 2nd, 2009 | 12:48 am
location: my bed
mood: 
touched
music: Princess diaries 2
This movie was amazing. I can't even describe it. It was just so unbearably real. And while I was sitting there watching him get his heart torn out, it took every ounce of me not to gasp aloud, because holy jesus, ever bit of his pain I felt and that emptiness in my chest came heaving back and this whole exchange with James today became so tangible and the fact that the boy that I loved and the boy that I refuse to admit I still do is so gone and far from me, that it is too painful to think about. The way that I've been blocking out feeling anything is so absurdly relevant, and so shockingly clear to me, that I'm so afraid that unless something profound happens I'm not going to be able to recapture that feeling, and to be able to move on. This hollow quality in my chest is overwhelming and I swear I have never used that word so much. I need someone to change my mind, and I need someone to prove me wrong about all this. I want to love someone again, and I want change. I feel so sad right now, and I don't want to write about sad things anymore, this journal shouldn't be filled with this crap, it should be filled with prolific happy and exciting details about my life. I want to be better than this, and I'm so trying to be.
At Alexa's house we made t-shirts and I can't get over how much I loved doing it, I made a Spock t-shirt and realized that being a nerd is the only thing that makes me the least bit happy anymore and I hate myself so much because of it... except not really.
I'm gonna go watch the princess diaries 2 again and pretend chris pine is my boyfriend.
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8109
Aug. 1st, 2009 | 11:41 pm
Have you ever felt overwhelmingly disappointed in someone? thats weird.
oh well, fuck you, and suck it, I'm absolutely finished waiting for people to grow up and I'm finished waiting.
oh well, fuck you, and suck it, I'm absolutely finished waiting for people to grow up and I'm finished waiting.
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oh hai, I wrote something else.
Jul. 24th, 2009 | 04:54 pm
location: Home
mood: 
accomplished
music: Deep Blue Something<3
Waiting
It’s hard to find the humanity in sitting in hospital waiting rooms. It’s hard to find much about sitting in hospital waiting rooms. It creates this incredible anomaly in character, that mostly eradicates any type of behavior that one should, in many other social norms, exhibit in public. There’s a bare emptiness about existing in hospital waiting rooms that has the intense potential to effectively kill someone that sits there. The irony in this is striking and not lost on this author. While the effervescent hospital staff is buzzing around you, carrying on life and carrying on with most tasks including breathing, laughing, moving, most of the air around the victim of these waiting rooms feels stale and barren, almost as if someone had filled their immediate personal bubble with wet cement, only no one can really see it, except that you know its there. There’s an unperceivable amount of oxygen around you, and the weight on your chest is captivating in ways. These rooms are decorated with things meant to distract you from this burgeoning pressure on your bodily systems, but much of the effort is lost on you, the bright colors distracting you from almost zero percent of what is actually happening. Also, another really quite strange facet of these death dens is that there is never a restroom near by. The architects of the building require one who is in need of the facilities to actually pursue a quest of sorts in order to find them at all, and when you do finally find them, you are exasperated enough with the entire situation that, out of spite, you’d rather just make your way back to the waiting room, which is still waiting there, just for you.
The busy atmosphere of the hospital is lost on you, and the trivial pattern of the wallpaper and glass blocks that surround your immediate person are a waste of space, as you can not clamor out of your seat fast enough when the doctor/nurse/spirit-guide approaches you to let you know that, no, the surgery is still going on, and things are looking up, but there is no way to confirm either way just yet. There will probably be another two hours of surgery at least, and the recovery time is unknown.
When you make your way to the cafeteria, which truly holds the strangest hours, the food looks nothing except repulsing and the only nourishment that your body can even pretend to handle is coffee, black, hot, and burning. At this point you may be reaching just to feel anything but hollow. The scorching steam from your cup placates the air around you, and you are able to breathe a little deeply through the thick air. Your eyes are itchy with sleep deprivation, and dry from staring, but sitting and staring are truly the only functions that are available to your motor skills, other than cradling this cup to your chest, in the very least.
After traipsing back to your hole in the sitting room, the families that are sitting around you slightly come into focus and the only thing that you can do to prevent yourself from dryly sobbing at the sight of a little girl’s tears is to smile softly at her and begin a light conversation with her mother, sharing condolences and delivering support for someone she couldn’t ever know. Her husband was in the operating rooms, as well. He needed a liver transplant. They were very hopeful.
When it’s your turn to open up to the mother in front of you, your mouth dries and you hands take on the slight tremble that you had possessed earlier, unable to actually form real words in your head. As though an out of body experience was taking place, you hear yourself sharing the story of what happened, but not thinking it, not feeling it, and you can’t exactly register the horror on the woman’s face in front of you. The words, I’m so sorry, and I’ll pray for you never have sounded so empty.
The doors in front of you open again, but this time an unfamiliar doctor comes out, and approaches your new friend and her daughter. He smiles and nods, and they run after him to go see her husband. They were very hopeful. You’re alone again, and this realization stings your eyes with tears already spilt and once more you’re reduced to a mute, alone in this waiting room, searching for some kind of humanity in the entire process.
It was raining when it happened, and you warned him not to go outside. There was no reason for him to, and there were plenty of games inside for him to participate in. There were movies that they could watch. There were Lego figures for them to construct. But, being eight years old has its disadvantages, one of them being an over all intolerance for being indoors for more than fifteen minutes during the month of July.
It wasn’t even night time, as you remember it, and it was stunning how careless people have become in this Generation Y, or whatever the fuck it is, and it is astoundingly absurd how dependant this nation has become on alcohol.
You were in the shower, and he promised to stay inside.
When you heard the sirens, you peeked your head out from the bathroom, just to make sure that tightening feeling in your gut was nothing but a parent’s false intuition, since you never believed in that crap anyway.
And then he didn’t answer.
And then you ran outside, to find paramedics and police and firemen approaching your home.
A boy has been struck by a drunk driver, he’s still alive, but barely, is this your son?
Running past them, you can only confirm the inevitable, and you find a soccer ball only fifty feet away from the scene. You had told him to practice, if he felt like it, a few days ago.
Being ushered into an ambulance when you are being restrained by officers is apparently not an easy thing. The monster that did this stood not thirty feet away from the ambulance, on both feet, without a scratch as far as you can see. The officers try to convey the importance of getting your son to the hospital in time, and you weakly agree and fall slump in their arms. Your eyes never leave the perpetrator and you wonder how much it will hurt when they pump its stomach free of alcohol, and whatever else the beast had in them.
As you answer the various questions in the ambulance, a sob escapes you as your son tremors through out his body and the EMT specialists rush to his aid. They explain that he will probably need a lot of surgeries and that you should wait in the lobby. They also explain that, things will be okay, and that everything will be alright. You are doubtful, but you thank them for their efforts.
You are escorted to the waiting room, sat in a chair, and you watch your son’s still body be pushed ahead of you. More forms are placed on your lap, and the on duty secretary tries to help you trudge through them. Your head is still with your son, and you might as well have been writing gibberish.
In this state of open-eyed comatose, the faint music does not soothe you, and the pictures of flowers on the wall do not distract you, they are sharp reminders of the fact that you are breathing, and your son may not be. This onslaught of reality brings your anger to a culminating point of, who in god’s name decided to decorate this bullshit room?
Your breath is sharp as it brings you back to the present, and you couldn’t count how many times you have relived those hours in time since he was rushed in. The silence from him was so overbearingly loud that you want to scream and find him, but you realize your own irrationality, and you regain your slight composure and resign yourself to this room once more.
The doctor, your surgeon emerges once more, with his fingers clenched together in front of him. His mouth is covered by a mask and his steps are immeasurable. You stand to meet him and he removes his mask. You hear anything but what he is saying and you just want to hear him.
It’s hard to find the humanity in waiting rooms. It’s even harder to find the humanity in leaving them.
It’s hard to find the humanity in sitting in hospital waiting rooms. It’s hard to find much about sitting in hospital waiting rooms. It creates this incredible anomaly in character, that mostly eradicates any type of behavior that one should, in many other social norms, exhibit in public. There’s a bare emptiness about existing in hospital waiting rooms that has the intense potential to effectively kill someone that sits there. The irony in this is striking and not lost on this author. While the effervescent hospital staff is buzzing around you, carrying on life and carrying on with most tasks including breathing, laughing, moving, most of the air around the victim of these waiting rooms feels stale and barren, almost as if someone had filled their immediate personal bubble with wet cement, only no one can really see it, except that you know its there. There’s an unperceivable amount of oxygen around you, and the weight on your chest is captivating in ways. These rooms are decorated with things meant to distract you from this burgeoning pressure on your bodily systems, but much of the effort is lost on you, the bright colors distracting you from almost zero percent of what is actually happening. Also, another really quite strange facet of these death dens is that there is never a restroom near by. The architects of the building require one who is in need of the facilities to actually pursue a quest of sorts in order to find them at all, and when you do finally find them, you are exasperated enough with the entire situation that, out of spite, you’d rather just make your way back to the waiting room, which is still waiting there, just for you.
The busy atmosphere of the hospital is lost on you, and the trivial pattern of the wallpaper and glass blocks that surround your immediate person are a waste of space, as you can not clamor out of your seat fast enough when the doctor/nurse/spirit-guide approaches you to let you know that, no, the surgery is still going on, and things are looking up, but there is no way to confirm either way just yet. There will probably be another two hours of surgery at least, and the recovery time is unknown.
When you make your way to the cafeteria, which truly holds the strangest hours, the food looks nothing except repulsing and the only nourishment that your body can even pretend to handle is coffee, black, hot, and burning. At this point you may be reaching just to feel anything but hollow. The scorching steam from your cup placates the air around you, and you are able to breathe a little deeply through the thick air. Your eyes are itchy with sleep deprivation, and dry from staring, but sitting and staring are truly the only functions that are available to your motor skills, other than cradling this cup to your chest, in the very least.
After traipsing back to your hole in the sitting room, the families that are sitting around you slightly come into focus and the only thing that you can do to prevent yourself from dryly sobbing at the sight of a little girl’s tears is to smile softly at her and begin a light conversation with her mother, sharing condolences and delivering support for someone she couldn’t ever know. Her husband was in the operating rooms, as well. He needed a liver transplant. They were very hopeful.
When it’s your turn to open up to the mother in front of you, your mouth dries and you hands take on the slight tremble that you had possessed earlier, unable to actually form real words in your head. As though an out of body experience was taking place, you hear yourself sharing the story of what happened, but not thinking it, not feeling it, and you can’t exactly register the horror on the woman’s face in front of you. The words, I’m so sorry, and I’ll pray for you never have sounded so empty.
The doors in front of you open again, but this time an unfamiliar doctor comes out, and approaches your new friend and her daughter. He smiles and nods, and they run after him to go see her husband. They were very hopeful. You’re alone again, and this realization stings your eyes with tears already spilt and once more you’re reduced to a mute, alone in this waiting room, searching for some kind of humanity in the entire process.
It was raining when it happened, and you warned him not to go outside. There was no reason for him to, and there were plenty of games inside for him to participate in. There were movies that they could watch. There were Lego figures for them to construct. But, being eight years old has its disadvantages, one of them being an over all intolerance for being indoors for more than fifteen minutes during the month of July.
It wasn’t even night time, as you remember it, and it was stunning how careless people have become in this Generation Y, or whatever the fuck it is, and it is astoundingly absurd how dependant this nation has become on alcohol.
You were in the shower, and he promised to stay inside.
When you heard the sirens, you peeked your head out from the bathroom, just to make sure that tightening feeling in your gut was nothing but a parent’s false intuition, since you never believed in that crap anyway.
And then he didn’t answer.
And then you ran outside, to find paramedics and police and firemen approaching your home.
A boy has been struck by a drunk driver, he’s still alive, but barely, is this your son?
Running past them, you can only confirm the inevitable, and you find a soccer ball only fifty feet away from the scene. You had told him to practice, if he felt like it, a few days ago.
Being ushered into an ambulance when you are being restrained by officers is apparently not an easy thing. The monster that did this stood not thirty feet away from the ambulance, on both feet, without a scratch as far as you can see. The officers try to convey the importance of getting your son to the hospital in time, and you weakly agree and fall slump in their arms. Your eyes never leave the perpetrator and you wonder how much it will hurt when they pump its stomach free of alcohol, and whatever else the beast had in them.
As you answer the various questions in the ambulance, a sob escapes you as your son tremors through out his body and the EMT specialists rush to his aid. They explain that he will probably need a lot of surgeries and that you should wait in the lobby. They also explain that, things will be okay, and that everything will be alright. You are doubtful, but you thank them for their efforts.
You are escorted to the waiting room, sat in a chair, and you watch your son’s still body be pushed ahead of you. More forms are placed on your lap, and the on duty secretary tries to help you trudge through them. Your head is still with your son, and you might as well have been writing gibberish.
In this state of open-eyed comatose, the faint music does not soothe you, and the pictures of flowers on the wall do not distract you, they are sharp reminders of the fact that you are breathing, and your son may not be. This onslaught of reality brings your anger to a culminating point of, who in god’s name decided to decorate this bullshit room?
Your breath is sharp as it brings you back to the present, and you couldn’t count how many times you have relived those hours in time since he was rushed in. The silence from him was so overbearingly loud that you want to scream and find him, but you realize your own irrationality, and you regain your slight composure and resign yourself to this room once more.
The doctor, your surgeon emerges once more, with his fingers clenched together in front of him. His mouth is covered by a mask and his steps are immeasurable. You stand to meet him and he removes his mask. You hear anything but what he is saying and you just want to hear him.
It’s hard to find the humanity in waiting rooms. It’s even harder to find the humanity in leaving them.
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Writer's Block: Dog Day Afternoon
Jul. 3rd, 2009 | 08:32 am
location: Work
mood: bored
Be in air conditioning and watch heroes :]
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this
Jul. 1st, 2009 | 02:52 pm
is an outlet of pathetic hurt, and dysfunction and terrible horrible things and it sucks. This sucks so hard. I don't want to write about this, I want to be happy and a freak about zq and anything but ridiculous like this. I feel so broken and hollow and I know I shouldn't because I have obviously been dragged along for long enough, but I just can't bring myself to not be hurt, and though I was truthful and honest, it doesn't take away from the fact that he couldn't waste more than four god damn syllables on me and it makes me think about what the fuck I've been doing for the last three years of my life. And why I continue to bury myself under this crushing rock of...empty. Its so stupid and dramatic and I'm so sick of this high school sadness because I'm a god damn adult and I'm done.
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Writer's Block: I Can Relate
Jun. 24th, 2009 | 03:07 pm
Can I just tell you I was about to Sylar, but then remembered that he's a sociopathic killer, and that would reflect really badly in every aspect of my life. In reality, I couldn't pinpoint anyone.
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(no subject)
Jun. 24th, 2009 | 03:28 am
So many things right now are hurting so bad and despite my surroundings I feel so isolated and its overwhelming and I know I'm writing to nothing and I know its useless and I know its 3:30 am and that these are probably wasted words on wasted space, but there's no one right now and I feel like I can't breathe. It's so exhausting and heavy but I don't know how else to deal with anything and I just feel like I'm underwater and there's no way to escape. I'm so tired of being sad and I'm so tired of feeling alone but I have no idea what to do. I was so happy and everything felt so right, but now its as if I'm drowning in this endless pool of nothing and there's absolutely nothing left to do but drown. I'm an 18 year old talking endlessly on an electronic journal and how much more cliche can I get? I don't want this life and I know its not me, but no one else is there. I am burying myself in trivial things with the mantra, that one day soon I can be in Irvington and away from all this but until that day, atleast one year from now, I am isolated. And this is all one continuous, meaningless sentence of incorrect grammar and wording and feelings and I just can't get away from any of it. These classes seem empty and I just want to change someone's life and make something better for someone to get away from the feeling that the only thing I cause in those around me are meaningless voids that eventually just makes me disappear. I don't know where this is coming from or who its directed towards, but I just need this heavy feeling to leave me, and all I can do to protect myself are sarcastic, biting words and fake happiness and Zachary Quinto, god bless that man. Why is this void weighing on me so heavily and why has everything I worked to in the past seem so meaningless? Why would someone as insecurely vulnerable as I place so much weight on the relationships surrounding them as me allow all the aforementioned relationships crumbed and waste her words and feelings onto a stupid screen that no one reads anyway. These rants don't end, and I will just bury myself again until these feelings, once again are just put to the side because I clearly do not manage emotions, I just build and build until one day I'm standing outside my house, watching the two people I love most growing further and further away from me and I just stand there on the sidewalk, watching one walk into my neighbor's house and the other hardly want to exist near me, let alone be my friend. I feel like a pathetic peice of garbage, and I feel strangely similar to those people that I have so often criticized for being so dependent. I just want to be myself again, and to stop these ridiculous emotion that just continues to rack my brain and rip it to shreds. I feel as though I'm always on my way to a funeral, and I have no idea why.
I'm sorry for this waste of space and I'm sorry for this waste of time.
I'm sorry for this waste of space and I'm sorry for this waste of time.
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Work
Jun. 2nd, 2009 | 02:51 pm
mood: bored
Is the most monotonous thing ever, albiet its very nice and quiet and just flexible, but its so dense with silence and adult things, and idk, its so different from what I'm used to. Whatever, I have an hour and seven minutes left and I'm just counting them down.
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jfc
Mar. 27th, 2009 | 05:39 pm
mood: 
aggravated
I'm so fucking mad right now. My sister thinks because she's been driving for like 15 minutes that she can fucking take the keys to the new car and not let me have them and I'm going to Danielle's tonight and I dnw to drive the truck because its really dangerous and not okay, and doesn't have break lights and its fucking ridiculous and I'm not gonna take that to fucking work tomorrow, and I just hate everything. Its really not okay. I'm really really upset. Also, she thinks she's getting a car in south carolina at school. what the fuck makes her think that when I go to sbu 5 minutes away, and I don't get one, that she's going to. She's never worked a day in her fucking life and I fucking hate her, and she gets everything she wants because she's a cunt. I hate her so fucking much.
D:
I just want my mom to come home because she wouldn't pull this bullshit if she was home.
D:
I just want my mom to come home because she wouldn't pull this bullshit if she was home.
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Fresh Start
Mar. 22nd, 2009 | 01:28 am
mood: 
nervous
Fresh Start
Author: therealmegryan
Pairing: Jack/Liz
Rating: PG-13 Fluff :]
Summary: After 'The Funcooker'. What should've happened.
Word Count: 733
Disclaimer: None of mine. Unfortunately. :[
( “Well, Lemon, this is wine, and these are Twinkies-” )
Author: therealmegryan
Pairing: Jack/Liz
Rating: PG-13 Fluff :]
Summary: After 'The Funcooker'. What should've happened.
Word Count: 733
Disclaimer: None of mine. Unfortunately. :[
( “Well, Lemon, this is wine, and these are Twinkies-” )
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Writer's Block: Chatty
Mar. 5th, 2009 | 12:40 am
depends on the person really, but kinda texting.
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Writer's Block: Desert Island Time
Mar. 3rd, 2009 | 12:54 am
1. Runaway Jury
2. The Prestige
3. 40 Year Old Virgin
4. The Human Stain
5. The Client
:3
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Writer's Block: Jackpot
Feb. 20th, 2009 | 08:01 pm
location: My living room
music: Flight of the Conchords
pay off my loans
bamboozle tickets
my own apartment
a new car D:<
coach rain boots
mets season tickets
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Writer's Block: Dream Job
Feb. 14th, 2009 | 12:05 am
I'd be an author. if I could do anything in the world I'd want to sit and write and write and inspire people like so many people have inspired me and change people's lives and it'd be wonderful.
butttttttt, I'm okay with being a nurse too.
lol not a nurse.
lol not a nurse.
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Writer's Block: Conchordance
Feb. 6th, 2009 | 05:34 pm
Jemaine's ridiculous, but I love Bret. Idk.
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Writer's Block: On the Bus
Jan. 10th, 2009 | 05:21 pm
I was with James and Fedora and this band of hisidic (sp?) jews tried to like shock Ryan and it was the funniest thing
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Writer's Block: Church and State
Jan. 5th, 2009 | 02:06 am
location: my rooooooom
music: iron man
No, because you can't define love, and who's to say its to two men, two women, a man and a woman, or a group? if you love someone, you love someone and if you believe that you can love more then one person what governing state has the right to declare amnesty towards a belief. I guess state and religion went out the window too long ago. that seems to be the reason why proposition 8 was passed, because people can't keep state and church apart, it should be about freedom and rights and not about a book that dictates what to believe. Love is love, and no government should declare the power to allow whether or not to allow loving persons can make themselves a marriage legally.
meh.
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Writer's Block: Starting Out Fresh
Jan. 2nd, 2009 | 01:01 pm
Well, I really really hope not