17.2

I gotta say, the internet makes me smile in various ways. But I got a kicker out of that funky "I write like" website.

According to the net, a few of my recent poems are reminiscent of Chuck Palahniuk.

I'm flattered :)

P.S. I also found out my style is very Canadian.... ?

Cory Doctrow, Margaret Atwood etc. have showed up quite a bit for my stories.

But for my blog posts I'm J.D. Salinger.

17.1

"So then, Satan practically blew up all the aliens--- I MEAN ANGELS!!!!"

17.0

Lately I've been feeling inadequate. It stinks. I feel like I can't think anymore, and therefore, like I can't write anymore.

I would blame it all on the internet, but that wouldn't be fair. The net already gets a lot of crap from the rest of the world, it doesn't need any more from a teenage girl who's just feeling inadequate.

But seriously, it stinks to be in this funk. Nothing seems to feel right. None of my interactions, none of my comments, none of the things I laugh at, everything has felt forced and awkward. And don't get me started on my writing. I haven't written a lick since last year, and now that I'm starting up again I'm insecure as a pre-pubescent boy in the gym locker room.

I've lost confidence in my characters, my plots, everything. While I'm writing something I'll write and write and write and think "oh yes, this is some nice imagery," or "Yeah, that's a good name for a character" but nothing else. Then when I look back on it I think "WHAT THE HELL? This is so slow! Nothing happens! No one will read this! WHAT A PIECE OF SHIT!!!" And these kinds of th0ughts are definitely not helpful when you're barely 500 words into your story that you need to turn in 2 days from now. And supposedly you were only HALF WAY DONE...

Yeah. My brain can be pretty brutal.

But I've lost it. The security of my thoughts. I don't know what to think anymore, I can't have opinions. I try and try but far to often have I found myself falling back into the sweet subjective blanket that we all fall into when we don't feel like growing a pair.

"No one will like it, no one will read it."

"They'll be disappointed."

"They're expecting action!"

"They'll say I'm stupid."

What am I 12? NO! I'm 15! In some ancient cultures I'd already be a grandma! And who the hell is this "they" I'm so scared of anyway?

Well whoever they are they're pretty damn intimidating that's for sure.

And it sucks.

I started to wonder, "Why do I bother? Everything feels shapeless. All these half-page word documents on my computer are a nuisance. Why am I doing this?" But then I looked through those word documents (some of them even 1 page long!) and was pleasantly reassured.

I laughed at my stuff. I thought about my stuff. I smiled at it too.

then I thought,

"Hey, this kid doesn't write half bad."

And then I remembered.

I write for me. I do things for me. Not for anyone else. (Well, at least I don't WRITE for anyone else).

Why would I write something that I would hate to read over again? What's the point? I don't care if everyone else in the world would read it, if I think it's bad, it's bad. I've lost that lately.

So when I clicked back to the 500 words in my short story I'm meant to turn in soon, I read it. It's a subtle story. That's how it came out, and that's how I've been writing it (despite my hesitations). And suddenly after all those "I'll bore them! They'll hate it!" thoughts, I laughed.

So what if they get bored?

They just can't appreciate my brain.

I am so finishing this sucker.

16.1

My face is a shell

and my brain is starting to swell

and the corners of my mouth are filling with

barnacles so I can't shout

"WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING?"

but I guess I had it coming.

I'm crying

aging

drying

dying

trying to scrape off this coat

of shit

lying here without a hope

of fitting in

there's no way I'll break free

so I guess I'll just let crustaceans eat me

attaching to my eyes and thighs and poking, bulging out my sides

I'll toughen up

I'll stay right here

You'll never lose me

have no fear

whenever you feel like a laugh

or if you just want to kick my ass again

just crack me open

no matter what I'm still your friend.

just crack me open.

so we can pretend this never happened.

16.0

I should be doing a school assignment right about now. But we all know how my prioritizing works, right? I do the things I really want to do last. I do.

It makes sense! It's how I do everything. How I pick what book to read first, how I choose my classes (sometimes) and even how I eat. I mean, hello? You don't eat spumoni before you eat your steamed vegetables because then you have to end the meal with steamed vegetables. Who wants to end a meal with steamed vegetables? I like vegetables as much as the next vegetarian, but I don't want green beans to be the taste to linger on my tongue as I finish my last meal of the day. So that is why I've postponed writing my "creative short story" until now. When in a little, the house will get quiet and my hair will be dry, and it'll just be my laptop me and Yann Tiersen. Click Clacking away into the next morning. Why do I do this?

I've already told you.

Spumoni tastes better than green beans.