daydream.angel
April 24th, 2007, 10:13 AM
Dear VirturalTeen Members,
Hi. I would introduce myself, but I'm not sure how to go about that online. You can't see my face, and I can't see yours.
Can I show you my heart? Through words? I guess we'll have to see hm?
What should I tell you that will give you a good picture as to who I am?
I'm different from just about everyone I know. Somehow, I see things differently. I don't know if it's good, or bad. I'm a WEIRD girl.
My best friend, Karen, well... she understands me, or maybe she just thinks she does. When all of my friends want to go out, I don't want to.
I just like spending time with one or two people, in a quiet place. Or alone. I don't mind being alone.
I hate loud parties where pieces of wood pretending to be guys with personalities gawk at us as if we were in a mall. And those pieces of wood hurt my friends with lies and all that shit that guys do when they get together in groups.
They don't realize it, but they leave splinters that are hard to get out. You know? I don't mind pulling out the ones that hurt my friends when they get stood up, or dumped.
But I guess it goes both ways? A guy could say the wrong thing and all of the sudden he's history. Rejected by us. How long will that splinter stay in him, and who will pull it out for him?
I look at my cat, my princess kitty, watching me type. She has a way of squeezing her eyes together, and it makes her look wise. Like she knows what's going on, but just doesn't let it bother her.
If I could be the person she thinks I am, well I could be a really nice girl.
Can I do that?
It seems like there's a little video tape in my head. It records when I talk and when I listen. And then it plays back in my head, rewinding and rewinding and rewinding. I keep playing the words that we say and I want to rewrite them. I want to change them. But I can't, because it's just a recording.
Sometimes I play back the way a cute guy looks at me--the rising bubbles in my tummy--the dreaming. The wishing. But I don't like getting splinters.
Or the way my grandpa smiles.
When he smiles, there's a flash of yellow-white. It's a quick smile, and you never know when it's going to come, or why. But for some reason, it makes me hungry for cornbread. I like watching him eat, because he eats very slowly. He chews every single bite forever.
What secrets does he know, that he won't tell me? Will I ever know?
When the rain comes down, cleaning the air, and there's that smell of wet cement--well I can taste it sometimes on my tongue. But my favorite is the fall, when the leaves start to rot. It's a heavy sweetness that slops into my nose and clogs it.
I feel thick with it--I love that.
My parents sit in front of the television--it's like a glass nipple that they suck on. They point the remote at it and try to agree on what to watch. My mom flips through her women's health and glamour magazines, and if there's a show on that my dad really likes, he gets mad at the noise she makes.
He doesn't say anything, but we know by the way his nostrils open and they way he holds his jaw tight--the short muscles bulging below his temples. He'll rub the back of his neck and look over at her. She can feel his eyes and looks up, then puts the magazine down in her lap.
On commercials she reads a paragraph or two. I don't understand them.
Some days I feel like a balloon just let go into the wind. Everything seems to have a soft glow about it--like maybe life is somehow out of focus. It's easy to laugh at anything on those days. But some people don't like it when you're happy and they aren't. That just plain sucks.
On the other days, it's like the balloon got stuck in a branch and can't get down. Suddenly it's not so good to be high up the air, with the pointy ends of branches waving around you.
Ready to pop you.
My balloon is white.
What color is your balloon?
your angel,
emily
Hi. I would introduce myself, but I'm not sure how to go about that online. You can't see my face, and I can't see yours.
Can I show you my heart? Through words? I guess we'll have to see hm?
What should I tell you that will give you a good picture as to who I am?
I'm different from just about everyone I know. Somehow, I see things differently. I don't know if it's good, or bad. I'm a WEIRD girl.
My best friend, Karen, well... she understands me, or maybe she just thinks she does. When all of my friends want to go out, I don't want to.
I just like spending time with one or two people, in a quiet place. Or alone. I don't mind being alone.
I hate loud parties where pieces of wood pretending to be guys with personalities gawk at us as if we were in a mall. And those pieces of wood hurt my friends with lies and all that shit that guys do when they get together in groups.
They don't realize it, but they leave splinters that are hard to get out. You know? I don't mind pulling out the ones that hurt my friends when they get stood up, or dumped.
But I guess it goes both ways? A guy could say the wrong thing and all of the sudden he's history. Rejected by us. How long will that splinter stay in him, and who will pull it out for him?
I look at my cat, my princess kitty, watching me type. She has a way of squeezing her eyes together, and it makes her look wise. Like she knows what's going on, but just doesn't let it bother her.
If I could be the person she thinks I am, well I could be a really nice girl.
Can I do that?
It seems like there's a little video tape in my head. It records when I talk and when I listen. And then it plays back in my head, rewinding and rewinding and rewinding. I keep playing the words that we say and I want to rewrite them. I want to change them. But I can't, because it's just a recording.
Sometimes I play back the way a cute guy looks at me--the rising bubbles in my tummy--the dreaming. The wishing. But I don't like getting splinters.
Or the way my grandpa smiles.
When he smiles, there's a flash of yellow-white. It's a quick smile, and you never know when it's going to come, or why. But for some reason, it makes me hungry for cornbread. I like watching him eat, because he eats very slowly. He chews every single bite forever.
What secrets does he know, that he won't tell me? Will I ever know?
When the rain comes down, cleaning the air, and there's that smell of wet cement--well I can taste it sometimes on my tongue. But my favorite is the fall, when the leaves start to rot. It's a heavy sweetness that slops into my nose and clogs it.
I feel thick with it--I love that.
My parents sit in front of the television--it's like a glass nipple that they suck on. They point the remote at it and try to agree on what to watch. My mom flips through her women's health and glamour magazines, and if there's a show on that my dad really likes, he gets mad at the noise she makes.
He doesn't say anything, but we know by the way his nostrils open and they way he holds his jaw tight--the short muscles bulging below his temples. He'll rub the back of his neck and look over at her. She can feel his eyes and looks up, then puts the magazine down in her lap.
On commercials she reads a paragraph or two. I don't understand them.
Some days I feel like a balloon just let go into the wind. Everything seems to have a soft glow about it--like maybe life is somehow out of focus. It's easy to laugh at anything on those days. But some people don't like it when you're happy and they aren't. That just plain sucks.
On the other days, it's like the balloon got stuck in a branch and can't get down. Suddenly it's not so good to be high up the air, with the pointy ends of branches waving around you.
Ready to pop you.
My balloon is white.
What color is your balloon?
your angel,
emily