Un plus beau sourire

See, you're laughing
And I'm smiling
By a river, in Ohio
And you're...


Today was an okay day. It was a WWJRBD day. It was a moving day. It was a fast day. It was a startled success day. It is a finished day. It is a sleeping-with-an-ice-pack day. It was a preparation day. It was a Monday. It was my last sugary day until Spring Break. So the entire month of March will not be sugar-free...just the next 3 weeks. Maybe.

Stalling, waiting, watching, thinking, typing, icing, breaking, opening.

C'est ici que j'arrete

Pourquoi j'ecris?

Just like a Blue Rodeo song, I'm telling you.

Blue Rodeo is my favourite band. I'm really not ashamed to admit it. 

My favourite musical is about two gay boys in a Catholic boarding school. It's not by Jason Robert Brown.

I feel like an impostor when I'm reading English AP books.

I want to paint on a canvass bigger than me.

I want to dance again. 

I don't know why I thought anyone would be interested in reading this list.

PAS DE TITRE.

This isn't what I planned for, let's go back
back
back

back some more
just right
what a shame

and she fights for her life as she puts on her coat...

My plans never work. I can already feel this one failing. And I won't let myself become emotionally invested in this again.
What do I say?
What do I do?
What do I want?
Why can't this be over?
Why can't I read minds?

Verbs I am bad at:
Grasp. Hold. Tighten. Grab. Contain. Clutch. Possess. Keep. Bind. Adhere. Retain. Wield. Need.

Maman! Maman!

Way to go. I've just realised.
Real. Isation. Oh, what the fuck.

Purpose, purpose, purpose, purpose, porpoise.
Perhaps a stranger, she could love.

You always support my everchanging moods, minds, and eccentricities. Considering where we've been...I appreciate it more than you know. Judgments are never made. You just understand me. AC, I love you. And I'm not talking about air conditioning.

J'apprends de nouvelles choses

• This is a list. This is a list of things. Lots of things. Thingie things, nonthingie things. Things that don't make sense, things that won't make sense, things where it doesn't matter if they make sense or pertain to everyday regular life at all. Why would it? They?
• Like grammar. I am a grammar afficiando, generally. Except for my love of run-on sentences.
• I think I know why my favourite color is purple. That was strange to realise that, today. My favorite color used to change all the time. It's been purple for an eerily long time. 
• When I was little, my auntie bought her two cars according to what my favourite color was at the time.
• I am irresponsibly attached to songs about brown eyes.
• I am listening always for hidden meanings in songs about brown eyes, to see whether they were really written about me. I am self-absorbed. We're all self-absorbed though, so that's okay.
• I don't like poetry in English class.
• I don't like you at all.
• I feel lonely.
• I feel crowded.
• I feel hopeful.
• I feel realistic.
• I want to move to a warmer place, where I can pick flowers and wear sundresses and paint with only blues and purples.
• My favourite type of flower is a tigerlily. My favourite jewel is an amethyst. 
• It troubles me that I don't know whether I am a cat person or a dog person. It feels like this is a fatal character flaw.
• My Kiwanis classes are eerily close. I wish I was more anxious about them.
• There is no fence.
• So many things that people say remind me of musical theater songs. Every third sentence. It's a bit worrisome.
• I don't understand the world's obsession with owl jewellery, but I kind of like it. I like owls. Maybe I am an owl person. 
• That is a lie. 
• Birds are gross.

Les choses a faire:

1. Learn to drive. NO. Learn to park. I can drive. I can't park.
2. Take myself off this coupon-e-mail-list thing that my name somehow got on: they send me daily coupons that are like, 62% off speed-dating! Half off modern children's art! Buy one mop, get another four mops free! 
3. Stop drinking so much steamed milk. The lactase in my stomach is being overwhelmed and I fear I'm becoming lactose intolerant. Is that possible? To develop lactose intolerance? That information is not centralized in the hippocampus, so it's a little beyond my field of expertise.
4. Except apparently I should be a doctor. Maybe if that whole Broadway actress gig doesn't work out.
5. And they develop a new type of doctoring that doesn't require much blood-seeing.
6. Or develop a new type of Lyndsay that isn't so squeamish.
7. Prance around house in grad dress (again.)
8. Practice singing. I forget how again.
9. Stop. Stop stop stop.
10. Go!

Ou?

I feel sort of like I was at a restaurant, or a party, a nice calm fun time, when all of a sudden a huge pelican swooped in the window, starting asking around for me, and I then ducked into the closet, which turned out to be a long hallway that kept getting smaller as you walked through it, and the pictures of sea turtles on the wall were talking to me and easing me on, telling me to keep going, and then I got to the end of the hallway and there was this door that was small and spinning and I could just squeeze through, but first I had to answer a skill-testing question, but luckily it was about hippocampuses (hippocampi?) so I passed, and then I went through the door and found myself knee-deep in salt water, and Calypso the sea goddess told me to keep the Bear on my left-hand side if I was to reach home, so I set out, only to discover myself being led astray by dancing shrimp, who told me I was needed as an addition to their Broadway number, but they had no Jews so they couldn't make it on Broadway even after I rehearsed with them for a few hours, so they dropped me off at the bus station where I got on a bus that went straight into an sand dune, where I hiked up and down with some visiting elephants who were quite knowledgeable about the area, and then they told me to take a nap up on their backs because I was getting rather tired and the moonlight was oh so warm on the soles of my feet and I woke up in a small room that smelled of tigerlilies and was covered in lace, and all I had was a typewriter, and I entered a code and the whole room fell open like a box and I found myself sitting on a surfboard on an iceberg in a green velvet suit, and when I fell off I fell through the ice that was surprisingly warm and I landed on a ferry boat that was strung in fairy lights and people were waltzing in long purple dresses and I waltzed with a mysterious partner in sunglasses, and it felt so familiar but I couldn't place him without seeing his eyes, and then he disappeared into a swarming throng of hummingbirds that suddenly appeared and they pushed me overboard, where I landed on a mattress in a bedroom that was not my own, and when I left I realised it was a shoe, and the Old Lady in the Shoe ran screaming out telling me to get back to bed, and she clobbered me so hard with her rolling pin I fell unconscious and when I woke, I was floating on a large playing card (the Queen of Spades) in the middle of the ocean and I had no idea how I got there.

I have two beautiful new dresses, and I had just the de-stressing weekend full of shopping, puppies, and aunties that I needed. I miss puppies. Can someone lend me theirs?

I miss things I cannot understand, or begin to understand. Can someone lend me theirs?

Les mots ovaires

Hello again, followers of the blogosphere. I realize it's a bit obnoxious to be blogging twice in one day, but seems how my other was completely meaningless I figure it's excusable. It's also too late for me to be doing anything else....

Because. Fine. Ok. Whatever.

These are ovary words.
If you use them, you are classified as a woman. Especially when you use them in conjunction. As in, "How is your cat today? Why is he feeling that way?"

"Whatever. Okay. Fine. Because."

This is an example of when an ovaried person answers a non-ovary question. Ovaried wasn't actually a word until now, by the way. I do shit like that. Make up words. I'm outta control.

Also, that is just fucking beautiful. Really. Fucking defucking vanfucking beautiful. Not you. Not that. No, you don't know what I'm talking about. But you sure made it seem like you wanted to. Or something. Whatever. Okay. Fine. Because.

(I have ovaries and I'm not afraid to use them.)

Also, I love my best friend. She is special and she drinks tea and appreciates the foam on top of the tea and doesn't judge when I use my fingers to scoop the rest out of the bottom even though it is highly unhygienic and probably in proper society would be frowned upon. But who gives a shit, because we are fucking beautiful. Yeah. I did go there.
Boys? You are not fucking beautiful. Except the ones in Whistler? I think. Man-o-man, if whatsisface reads this blog, he is going to be singing in the fucking rain with happiness right now. And if not, well then, well, fine. Okay. Whatever. Because.

Also, you missed your fucking queue. And now I have to perform a monologue where they should have been dialogue. The lights broke and the fell on the chair that you were supposed to throw across the stage when you came in the door but you didn't come in the door, did you, no, you were off in the wings, waiting in the wings, always you are waiting in the fucking wings, and now the whole scene is ruined, in fact maybe the play is over, the audience has gone home, they didn't stand up, they didn't clap, they just went, and I'm stuck here with the single wilted rose that was thrown haphazardly by the screaming toddler in the second row and the lines I don't recall and the stage makeup melting off my face.
Get out of the wings, or go home.

That's quite enough of that.

Brought to you by (your friendly neighbourhood hippocampudoctorologist) and Allison Carter, who doesn't write blogs anymore and who therefore had a lot of repressed blogangst, which is also a word, and who is going to start up with that shit soon.

Du journal intime d'une hippocampudoctorologiste:

I didn't actually have anything to say, I just really wanted to post this as a title. Maybe I'll get some comments. Who knows. That might be crazy. 

"According to Greek mythology, humans were originally created with 4 arms, 4 legs and a head with 2 faces. Fearing their power, Zeus separated them into two parts, condemning them to spend their lives in search of their other halves."

- Plato

Erin, I'm sorry for stealing that. It was a direct steal. And I am not going to pretend it wasn't. But I think that it might have made my day, and I've had a pretty solid day. 

But there's nothing to report.

Not yet, at least.

This blog entry, is completely pointless (even moreso than usual)

Moreso is definitely not a word

Things I learned today:

.....

Sincerely,

Your friendly neighbourhood hippocampudoctorologist

Lamentation

"Give me a reason. I beg you."

I can't wait to be done.
I can't wait to be new.
I think I'm done.

I'm no pretender.

Ceci n'est pas une titre

And this is why, my eyes are closed
It's just as well for all I've seen

I'm no mind reader. I over-analyze body language, the exact frequency of a nervous giggle, redness of the cheeks, dampness of the palms, length (in cm) of the grin, and vocabulary used in a sentence, but I'm no mind reader. Usually, all the things I over-analyze mean next to nothing when placed beside the actual conscience thoughts zooming in and out of what's-your-face's head.

I'm bad with names, faces, places. I'm good with dates. I'm done if you're done, by the way. I'd rather get out alive now, while I have the chance. With all that dignity and shit.

I take pride in small accomplishments. Like getting my finger pricked and squeezed and not passing out.

I even take pride in being a rare blood type. I want to be set apart from the crowd. Oh, wait. Don't we all?

I listen to the same music as my father does.

I don't like that movie, A Walk To Remember. It's stupid. Don't talk to me about Mandy Moore. Don't talk to me about Nicholas Sparks. He's stupid too. I don't hate The Notebook as much as I hate A Walk To Remember, but seriously, "If you're a bird, I'm a bird?" How is that romantic? Birds are disgusting. Birds pass on disease. They poo on your head. They moult gross greasy feathers everywhere. They are huge and big enough to steal babies. I know what you're going to say. "That's not the point. The point is that Ryan Gosling (Gosling. That's ironic.) would choose to be whatever species Rachel McAdams is, because he just loves her so darn much. Except guess what, that's  stupid too. If someone said that to me, I would start caw-cawing angrily and muss up their hair with my sharp...talons...beak...thing.

I still see you. I do. And I know you see me. And I know what you're thinking. (I'm not a mind reader, though. I'm a mind knower.) But you don't realise that the chasm is filled with debris now, that is being sifted and organized and painted and cut and glued and doused in bneg blood and apple juice.

Holy moly, me oh my

Laissez vos murs tomber, s'il-vous-plait

I can't. I can't remember. It's too mushed up, mauled, grotesquely mutated. I can't help you anymore. I can't look. Plaited, plaits, plates. Plates to break. 
But we'll run out of time. So please. Please. I want to make you laugh again.
Or for the first time, if it didn't mean anything. 
Today's blog is brought to you in italics because it sounds more like whispering, in my head. Or like praying. But then again, I wouldn't know. I write down my prayers. It's called a journal.
Is it weird that I have a blog and a journal?
And still have thoughts running through my brain at 50 mph?

Things I remember:
This one time, Rachel described me as lion-hearted. 
It's one of those things that stay with me and every time I need it, it's there. Like a bobby pin.
Like Rachel.


If you're proud of something, put it in your backpack, show it off. Like sheep.

Les plans diaboliques

Get on it. Get off it. Get on it. Get off it.
Or just dance it off.
Yeah, I do that one best. Except now tomorrow, I may not be able to walk.
But I'm used to it by now. I guess. Getting there, at least.
Also, guess what, I feel like an idiot. Thanks.
No, not that. Don't make me Carly Simon your ass.
I don't hide. I won't hide. I refuse to hide. I have too much pride. To hide. I just like to rhyme. Thyme.
(+parsleysagerosemary, kthx)

Look, I'm sorry. It's not in the normal sense of the word, when I say I grew up with you, but I did. I did most of my growing alongside you. That is where I grew best, shaded and protected at times, but also absorbing enough energy and sunlight to properly photosynthesize or whatever. I avoided becoming what I didn't want to be. I am this person today because of all that growing that happened over cette periode de temps la.
It's like finding out that the forest was actually a cement block. That sort of cut off the air after you got too big. Or rather...yeah. Well. Metaphors never end up working so great for me.
Okay, the point is, I have to find a new energy source. Like switching from carbon to hyro...lic...ation...astor...propeller...power. Or like switching nail polish colors. Or like getting a new coat, or a new pair of socks. Actually, it's like none of those things.
It never, ever is.

It's not you, or what you did, or what you regret. It's the fact that you think it was the same. Listen to your friends.

Libraries...the buns of knowledge.
Or were buns the libraries of knowledge?
Can you have any other kind of library, other than one of knowledge?

Laissez moi sortir pendant que je suis jeune

You have no right.
You have no right.
You have no right.

I don't know what to think. I actually am so angry that I don't know what to write without making it personal.
I guess because I don't know. I shouldn't assume
But for God's sake, what else could it be?

b)
I had a wonderful time tonight with friends that were not my own. Maybe I didn't make a horrible impression though, and I'll be allowed to come hang out with Hannah and her friends again. Because I don't think there is anything better to cheer you than 4 20-something boys who you don't really know dancing to 'Toxic' simultaneously. If you find something that cheers you up more than this, do share. Please. I'd be quite interested to know.

c)
No right.

Je t'aime depuis longtemps

Wow, hi best friend. Imagine running into you again.

Tears are real. Tears hurt. Especially when your friends seemingly abandoned you on the path of least resistance. I am so sorry. So, so sorry. Everything's a mess. And we weren't there to clean you up. Or I wasn't, for sure. I'm going to bring a mop next time though. There will be a next time soon.

So soon. Hello, deceptacon...
Pieces fall together. Pieces fall apart. However, I want to glue our fucking pieces together because I am impatient, confused, beating around the bush, unhappy but happy, confident and not, and altogether a jumbly mess because the pieces keep falling apart. And they need to stick together. Together is a much happier state than apart. Lo and behold.
Can't we be the kittens holding daisies in a rainstorm?
I'm sorry, that's the image I get when people compare their lives to puzzles, because it's so overdone.
(Like kittens holding daisies in a rainstorm.)

Did I mention....

When people are upset with me, avoiding me, or have a problem with me, I like them to tell me.
And I know everyone says that. But legitimately, tell me.
TELL ME.
TELLMETELLMETELLME.
Or else those kittens will turn into angry alleycats, their daisies will droop, and the rain will turn acidic.

I am in a dangerous mood right now. I plan to go for a run in the dark to placate my whirring brain.

And then, we sever...

Et aujourd'hui

1) When I see your face, I can't see it.
2) Or that.
3) I want to belong so badly. Because I feel separated from everything. Not in an angsty, emotional way. In a glass pane way, that is just not allowing me to touch you. And my voice comes out warbled. Usually. But in a big way, I wish that I could remember how to be new and exciting. I wish I could just fall backwards. And take a large-ish step and wonder what it would've been like.
Except then, of course...
I wouldn't be the same. And I won't be the same.
Yeah, this came out all wrong. Bottom line is...
I wish I remembered how to start, how to be interesting, and how to speak Englash good.
English AP, I need eloquence.
Literature, grant me the eloquence to...somethingsomethinghebebla. Here is an indie house. Nobody lives there.

Okay, let me try again.
Sometimes, I wonder if I could go back in time and just change one little thing, one decision, one...hebebla, if it would really have made such a huge impact. And also, if I was not the same person, (except I hate it when people say that, not the same person, No, Fuck you, you will always be the same person, bla bla bla essence bla but also helloooo genotypes), but disregarding that, if I was a little bit different, in what ways would I be different, and would I be better equipped to deal with things I have to deal with. Like, if I was in a video game, and let's say I died, (oh, approximately a few months ago?) and then I was sent back to the first level, and came out with different amounts of those little gold floating coins, or a smaller or larger amount of lives left, or just different magical throwing sheep or what have you. And so now I am on the same level, facing the eminent attack of the glittering gorilla guerillas where I misstepped last time (on an explosive Dark Peacock pebble) , but I have different assets, different allies, different...me. Different me.
Would I like this different me?
Would I accept a do-over, or would I just go to bed after I died the first time?
All this talk of dying.
It's just a metaphor, so you know. It's getting rather dark, though. Figuratively...Literally...Shmiterally...

Yeah, I'm done here.
Back into my indie house?

Les mains delicats, fins

"We take our miracles where we find them.
We reach across the gap, and sometimes, against all odds; against all logic...
We touch."

Mind your own beeswax, dress yourself properly, and slap on that charming smile and wit. 
And grace.
God, don't forget the grace.


I think I need a cat.

Poussez-moi

I could be violet sky

Welcome back, English AP. I have missed you.

I have a good feeling about this semester. I have good feelings. I have wondering feelings, also, about things I'm not allowed to wonder about anymore. Or, I guess, that are not my business. My decision. Decisions, after all.
And I have a good feeling about this.
My knee doesn't.
But he's a complainer.

I spend too much time on the verge.
On the brink.
On the edge.
And doing crossword puzzles.

I made this for you.


(I like to laugh. I want to be funny.)
(Like before.)