Christmas, Enneagrams, and Someone's Rectum

How sad is it that it isn't even halfway through September and I'm already dreaming about Christmas stuff? I'm really just a firm believer in the discontinuation of this awful Oklahoma heat and the beginning of a beautiful relationship with the crisp, mesmerizing presence of fall. I need sweaters and jeans and boots and for the urge to drink large quantities of hot chocolate to be completely acceptable. Also, I already need a break from this school stuff. Can we say "September sucks!"?

But in all seriousness, I'll probably be complaining about the cold weather come late October and early November because that's pretty much how I run this shit. I complain about one thing and complain about the complete opposite later. I am never quite satisfied with anything unless you're talking about Sour Patch Kids. In that case, I am always satisfied as long as I have them. (BTW, it's been what? 2 weeks without SPK. Dying over here, people!)

So, in my Men and Masculinity class that I'm taking for my minor in Women/Gender Studies, we recently took Enneagram tests to find our Enneagram types. I originally got a 5 as my type, but my instructor told me I am definitely a 6 based on looked at my face. That probably makes a lot of sense because 6's are basically the poster children of anxiety. Both types fit me perfectly, so perhaps I am actually a 5.5 type. And I had Julia take it and hers fit her perfectly. So, I honestly think everyone should take the damn test. It's normally freaky accurate and you may realize some new things about yourself in the process. Just, trust me, okay? And if you're one of those shitty people that I love that I asked to take it, get on it, or I'll be forced to dominate you like a beast.

In other news, once again I am being forced to write a short story. I'm sure at least one of you remembers the last time I attempted writing a short story (BE REMINDED BY CLICKING HERE BITCHES!). And sure enough, I am yet again experiencing great turmoil over this piece of crap. And, mind you, my current assignment is due.... TOMORROW. So, yeah, while I'm writing this, I should actually be working on my story, which will probably turn out to be a mediocre, hard piece of shit that's stuck in someone's rectum. 

However, this time around, I'm using my own interests and making it a bit spicy, so maybe it won't come out soooo terrible. It'll just be terrible. Too bad no one will ever get to read this ever (unless you're my professor, of course). That's how raunchy it is. But I always keep it classy, guys. Don't worry.

(I'm really going to need a little something-something to drink after all this, though)

As for the next assignment, which is due somewhere in October, I should probably start working on
that immediately so I don't end up waiting until the very last minute to pop something out. After all, my grade depends on my ability to pop good shit out. Ain't nobody got time for hard, mediocre pieces of shit!

My only motivation is that I know I'll be able to watch Smallville all weekend after I finish this. Someone, bring me a beer! 

What's In A Rhyme?

I don't know if I've mentioned it on this blog yet, but I've written quite a bit of poetry in the last couple of years. Yes, lot's of it is about men *rolls eyes* and the morbidity of random allegory. What can I say? I write about what I don't understand. After all, confronting what you don't know is the best way to get a grip on what you need to understand. Yup, I have my moments, guys.

I was taking a detour through old text files I've got saved on my computer and, of course, I came across dozens of poems that really sucked. But, let me tell you, there is always a sliver of something good among the bad. I found this poem I wrote back in October of 2011 titled "Night Waltz."

Dawn's awakening leaves her stiff

And the weary winds whipser her departure

She drifted off when the skies were clear

Long ago, when He called her Dear

Canopy grains sheltered her dreams

And kept her sleeping beneath the arms of Michael 

Soft lullaby, sweet timbre of the chosen waves

The darling child, freedom she craves

Guardian keeper of the night dances swiftly

Sways and sighs as the earth envelopes her womb

Bearer of daybreak homily, fragmented nature

Carrying the needed, sunshine allure

And the moon depresses to the ocean floor

Lady of the day sighs a sweet hello

There is a hush, the serenity is taken

And the child stirs, she is awakened

Almost every piece I've ever written has a "thing." This "thing" is normally my muse or train of thought running throughout the piece. It varies almost every time I sit down to write. Sometimes it's a good book I just finished, personal experiences, a certain holder of my heart, or even the pure insanity that sometimes is my mind. Honestly, I don't remember half of what my poetry means to me because sometimes I can't even recall writing any of it. This one, for instance, probably has a great "thing," but, sadly, I have no earthly idea what that "thing" could be.

I remember that the only thing I truly enjoyed writing in my high school creative writing class was poetry. It didn't need structure or plot or characters or anything like that. It didn't need substance or defined meaning. It didn't even need to make sense. I could make everything up, and no one would ever know because they could just decide for themselves what each line meant.

The last poem I wrote was in late September of 2012. I stopped because I got really depressed. The kind of depressed that takes over every aspect of your being. My muse seems to have gone out to have its own epic tale with sexy sirens. And it just hasn't returned home to me yet.

Then again, writing poetry takes an immense amount of concentration for me, so I wasn't even writing THAT much poetry to begin with. It has to be just right. My inner perfectionist had a field day with every stanza. I miss it, though. Somedays I think about opening up to a blank canvas and just going at it like I used to, but it just doesn't happen anymore. I guess this is the erectile dysfunction for poets.

Poet #1: Oh, bro, I totally busted out the hottest haiku ever last night!
Poet #2: No way! Lucky! I have the hardest time keeping mine at the right number of syllables. It's pretty embarrassing.
Poet #1: Aw, man. That's gotta suck. But who says life is all about busting out hot haiku's?
Poet #2: Yeah, it's not like human existence relies on it or anything.

Something like that, maybe.

It's amazing, though. Every song or rap every performed began as poetry. There are entire novels written in verse. People have become famous for writing poetry. It's part of English curriculum in most elementary schools. I just love it.

Perhaps one day my muse will come home to me with open arms, and I'll be able to bust out some hot haiku's again. Until then, my love. Until then...

I Write The Things That No One Reads

I've been thinking lately about writing. I like to think that I'm a writer, I guess, so I should know a thing or two about writing. Maybe? 

I realized the other day that I began writing way back when strictly on paper with an extra sharp Dixon Ticonderoga #2 pencil (Let's face it, they take the cake with those super soft erasers that won't rip your paper when you're furiously erasing half a math test in the 5th grade when you realize you've been using the wrong formulas for circles) and only for school stuff. I want to say with confidence that I am pretty sure the first paper I ever wrote on a computer was a report on hurricanes for 5th grade English. Before that, every single thing I wrote was written by hand.

I can picture so clearly the time one of my teachers assigned my class to write 100-word essays on something probably really stupid and I had to count the words on this piece of college-ruled notebook paper as I went. It seemed like too many words at the time. 100 words was an infinity. It was the dictionary. It was a Charles Dicken's novel. Now, that's like two or three sentences if I'm trying to be really fancy and have a strange need to write everything in really drawn out language like most of the sentences in this blog. Maybe a small paragraph if I'm feeling super lazy and unmotivated. Today, I just have to look down at the bottom of Microsoft Word to see how many words I've written.

Sadly, I don't write on paper with an actual writing utensil as much anymore as I would like to say. There's still something awesome about hearing the grinding of pencil lead on a sheet of lined notebook paper as you suddenly get hit with inspiration or finally figure out the perfect way to state whatever kind of bullshit you've been unscrambling in your mind.  I do most of my writing on the computer now.  It's fast and it causes way fewer hand cramps at the end of an hour of writing, ya know?

At the beginning of 2013, I decided I wanted to keep a composition notebook style journal over the course of the year. So, that worked out just fine for January, but when February hit, I lost all ability to write anything with my hands. So, now I have a month of random journal entries about boobs and school and my inability to not be nervous about everything that happens in my life and a few half-finished entries that took me 2 weeks to write. But, for some reason, I've kept up with this blog for almost four months or so. I don't know what logic is anymore.

Writing, while something that not everyone seems to like or be good at even if they try and try and try and be okay at it, is something I'm kind of pretty sure doesn't have to be done in any certain way, but it's just strange to think about how my methods of writing have change over time as technology changed. Like, when was the last time I turned in a handwritten assignment that was actually graded? I don't know!

Like, are there writers who write by hand and think they are just better than all the writers who write on
computers and typewriters? Probably. Pretentious writers. 

And then there's me. I write on all the platforms, but no one ever reads it.