formspring.me

i rather forgot i had this.,. http://formspring.me/misscassidyjane

can we try and take the high road? though we don't know where it ends...

we've refused eye contact for nearly a week, which might have something to do with all that ice coating the sidewalks. but the ice doesn't excuse how fast you can make it up the stairs when i'm 20 paces behind you, or your parking-lot-detours that divert you from my relative location. so, no, i cannot blame the weather, though i wish i could condemn it instead of you.

i don't know what i want from anybody, at all, ever.

i can tell you about my life using lots of k's, and maybe too many c's.

"you know that i could use somebody -- somebody like you, with all you know and how you speak."

well, for as much as i could've used somebody, i only ended up feeling quite used.

i think i've officially been "played" by somebody new and generally marvelous. and boy is it disappointing. i want so much to regain "faith in humanity." and in you, i saw so much potential... at last, i felt vaguely hopeful... and... well i was obviously wrong.

not only am i infuriated with the particular individual, i feel all the more jaded and lost. it's such a shitty and tired feeling.

bizarre.

so i'm going to throw myself into this blogging thing yet again, in the vague (yet definitely present) hope that something positive will come from it.

i'll most likely just rant, stupidly, and inform my absent readers of inconsequential things, but i need to start forming words again. my brain has grown sloppy.

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inconsequential business #1: m. butterfly

http://www.m-butterfly.co.uk/

Would seriously consider relocating, on an international scale, for the ability to shop here regularly. Their dresses are beautiful -- and they don't ship to the US. I miss Cambridge/I miss Cambridge/I miss Cambridge.

I love the typical British casual dress -- incredibly short, modest in the cleavage, generally floral, feminine, and ultimately classy (all whilst being unbearably adorable). It's a certain aesthetic Americans haven't quite grasped, and frankly, I hope they don't. It would sully it all somehow.

I've stored "Decidedly British Dresses" in the same parts of my mind as Strongbow cider and jacket potatoes. I don't wish to see them drug out into my everyday culture. They're part of a fantasy of sorts, my summer abroad, etc...

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inconsequential business #2: tanning

or, rather, toasting. burning. bronzing. whatever. i rely upon silly things to keep me distracted from reality. to the depressed over-thinkers out there, get yourself a really silly hobby. the more the merrier. when mindlessly shopping (but rarely buying) wasn't enough to keep me distracted from a rather bleak reality, i took up tanning. it's a good distraction hobby because it makes you prettier, at least for now. don't give me skin cancer and wrinkle lectures, because i'm well-educated and disinclined to give a shit. and yes, i encourage you to find activities full of meaning and purpose. those help you feel better too. but, damnit, sometimes you just need to be silly.

For All the Unheard

Bouncing Souls: "For All the Unheard."
A guitar collects dust like his heart,
Soundless and still
A girl collapses on her bed
Writing words never read,
Troubled youth spills over into
Troubled life, and at times
We walk alone with our troubled minds

A guitar strikes a chord hits a misery so hard so bold
Sounding through this world where it's so hard to feel that gold

It's running through us all
A beauty
Buried deep under a river of grief
Where the Muddy Waters flow and the stones don't roll

This is for all the unheard,
All the music left behind
All the songs
Left on the floors in the closets of our minds
Where's the passion gone in our hearts?
Lost somewhere in the grind
It's time to bring it back
It's time to unwind
Find what we lost
It's time
It's time to bring it back

A lost song lingers on
Bouncing off stars on and on
A moment gone or is it looking for you
To sing its tune

Troubled youth spills over into
Troubled life, and at times
We walk alone with our troubled minds

---

I wrote a letter to a friend once, never gave it to her. But here's a bit from it:

"Sometimes an intense sort of terror overcomes me over something completely stupid. I think about all the people I'll never meet. Ever. It's impossible to encounter them all. And that scares me somehow. What am I missing out on, exactly? Is there someone out there, in all those billions, who I might really enjoy befriending? Or otherwise benefit from knowing? And it's not just people. It's books I'll never read, songs I'll never hear... it's the overwhelming amount of details I'll never be able to absorb. Maybe it is all just details, though. I think everything happens for a reason, and you bump into the people you need to bump into in order to live the life that is yours (what an oddly phrased sentence). And through your own life, you acquire the knowledge you are meant to acquire. You shouldn't worry about not meeting those people and hearing those songs and reading
those books because you just don't need to. Whatever you do encounter shall suffice. Yet despite my firm grasp on that principle, it sometimes saddens me that there's so much out there, so much happening right now, that I can't even fathom. Then again, it amazes me, throws me into a state of absolute awe. It's all very befuddling."

This song evoked a bit of that sensation -- it's a meaningful shout out to all the wonders we're all missing out on. The Virginia Woolfes and Elvis Presleys and Abe Lincoln's we'll never meet. Yes, it's all depressing in a way. But it's also liberating.

A sacred shred of anonymity still exists, in "the floors in the closets of our minds." Does that not excite you straight from the cerebellum to the toes?

It's beautiful, but sad. This song attacks detachment; we just can't let "troubled youth spill over into trouble lives, we can't walk alone in our troubled minds." Bring back the passion to our hearts.

Nonetheless, the closets of our minds... Oh, the idea just thrills me.
The Gold Record has a lyrical masterpiece or two, I must say.

18:23 - YOUR ROCKSTAR LIFE AIN’T GOT SHIT ON MY LAME ONE.
Current mood: chipper

Metablogging, again.

I once befriended one of my teachers in high school, an old nicotine-addicted Catholic Democrat who did a kickass impersonation of a hooker leaning against a streetpost and flexing her hips back and forth. Okay, so he was a bit of a creeper. But I begged for any consistent force in my life at that particular time, and the guy didn't mind my ranting emails, sent at all hours in all states of consciousness.

He once told me I was "born to blog," to abandon MySpace and create some sort of online identity and just bitch all the fucking time for anybody to hear. While this idea might appeal to me when I've more firmly resigned myself to spinsterhood (dear Christ, my spell checker didn't slap a red dotted line under the word "spinsterhood"; that shit's a real word), I like to think currently lack that pressing need for anonymous cynicism.

I still have the self-esteem to take credit for my own thoughts, twisted and fuck-word-laden though they may be.

Yeah, I'm alone -- medicated -- a bleach-dependent brunette -- pody-mouthed -- awkward -- fucking damned to the state of North Carolina for like seven more years -- clumsy -- utterly confused -- and so on and so forth, use your flippin' imagination.

But I'm me, I'm Cassidy Jane, and goddamnit, I'm okay with that. I really am. For the first time in my life.

I'm not useless because I don't give head. I'm not a phony because I'm so addicted to dying my hair. My eyes are the color of honeyed shit. After a good meal, the backs of my thighs resemble cottage cheese. I always say the wrong thing. I leave dirty underwear on the floor. I'm too snobby to date a guy who wears flip-flops to the bank, especially Rainbows. I mean what the fuck? Rainbows? Ugh. Grow a cock, please.

Speaking of cock, when I'm home alone, I yell "COCK!" at the top of my bloody lungs in the parlor -- just because it makes me feel delightfully dirty. I might get too caught up in giving you a hickey and end up drawing blood. Can't handle it, well go find a girl who will stick your dingaling in her cakehole and pretend she likes it. I hate parties. The movies, well, I hate them, too, unless I'm sucking somebody's face. I really like kissing. I don't care if red meat kills me, I'm gonna eat it until the day I die. Cheese and beans, too.

I can make a dirty joke out of nothing. And I'm going to be the best mother fucking Kindergarten teacher in the whole bleeding universe. I go to UNC Asheville but guess what? I'll probably vote Republican for the rest of my life. That's right, I think Barack Obama can kiss my rotund and blindingly white Irish ass, and Hilary Clinton... okay the thing I had for her was just TOO obscene for this blog. Ask me in person. Oh, fuck. She can suck my bald pussy. Bah. That felt GREAT..

So anyway, this same fine educator once told me a horror story about his son. Be careful, or you'll be in the situation my son is in, he tells me. And what is that?, I ask, trying to dissolve panicky urgency in casual coolness, then failing utterly.

My son is a very intelligent person, like you are. Okay, I say, but I know this comment he's making, it's more sinister than a compliment.

And he's in his thirties, he lives at home with me, he's obese, depressed, he'll probably never get out. There's not much of a chance.

Great, because I'm sitting here rotting from the sinewy depths of my seventeen-year-old heart and this is just what I wanted to hear.

Cassidy, you've got to find yourself somebody who appreciates you for your mind, soon, or you're going to end up like him, he tells me.

Well you know what?

I like food, I like lounging around the house, depression stimulates oodles of creative juices, and yeah, it's not a fucking Castle in the Sky, but it's not the end of things. I'm not saying I want that life or ever intend to have it.

I'm saying fuck you, you fucking old fart, for ever fucking planting such an idea in a vulnerable kid's crushed heart. Just because you're bald and smoke cheap cigarettes doesn't mean you have to squash my big fat dreams with your son's big fat ass. Suck my big fat cock.

Just kidding. I'm not all that irritated anymore.

But a thought is a hard thing to control, ask Winona Ryder's character in Girl, Interrupted. She'll tell you all about it. And a tiny thought-thing, well, it breeds. Asexually. The little bugger undergoes mitotic division after mitotic devision, encountering radioactivity along the way, mutating into a cancerous and smothering growth.

Clinicians like to call this "depression," and that's an apt enough word for it. Where you once stood upright, you're now a depression in the fabric of everything. That solitary thought bogged you down, drug you underground. You're just a pothole in this otherwise smooth, solid, dependable blacktop. You're not in a rut, you are one.

So you can lie there, all concaved and weird, and listen to people cuss as they drive over you. Or you can string up that thought-tumor round the neck and let it know what a feisty mother fucker you are. Come back with a vengeance. Eat it for breakfast. Attack that shit. With a machete.