I'm Sorry my Loves! I've Been Neglecting You!

OH, uh, and by "my loves," I definitely do not mean all of you out there. Nope. I'm talking about my books. Or, not my books, but rather all of the books that's I've yet to buy/read.

You all know what it's like. You go to work/school/couch everyday, and by the time you get home, you're exhausted, and if somebody hands you a book, all you can say to them is, "Who the hell has time to READ?!" Or, "Just leave it there, and I'll read it later (which will end up in a pile of never to be touched paperback novels and school book reports)" or even "Book? Read? What's that?"

So, anyway, looking at all the books I've been missing out on, It made me realize that I can't wait to start writing again. Because reading isn't the only thing that I've been missing out on. I haven't written anything solid in weeks, even months. And it really makes me sad. Because that's what I do. I write. I write books and music and poetry and plays. And lately the only thing I've been writing are thoroughly charted, planned out, structured, analytical, in-historical-present-tense, English papers. Ugh. What a life.

And I can't even write decent blog entries anymore because A) I have no time, and B) the stupid, freaking, ZEMANTA ASSISTANT makes every thing slow, so that when ever I type a word it takes a full thirty seconds for it to appear on the screen!!!. (And don't even THINK about making a typing error, because that takes TEN TIMES LONGER to correct. Gah!)

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And do you know what else miffs me? The stupid Twilight movies! There's a commercial on for one of the movies right now, and it just makes me so ANGRY!!! Now, don't get me wrong. The books were good before they got all popular and obsessed over. But the movies are crappy. REallly REALLLY  crappy. And has anyone else noticed how, in the time it took to make one Harry Potter movie, ALL of the Twilight movies were filmed and three of them came out for general audiences to see.

Anyway. I'm done ranting. Typing is too slow too slow to rant anymore. Or to type at all . Anything else. Goodbye.

With hearts and confetti and cute little puppy dogs and twirly skirts and smutty romance novels,

Kacie Renn

P.S. the 7th Harry Potter movie (part 1) kicks serious, totally AWESOME, Voldemort-defeating, I-totally-went-to-the-midnight-premiere-and-had-a-terror-inducing-time, ASS.

Just in case you wanted to know.

I Want an Apology...

Hey guys, I know it's been a long time since my last post. It seems like forever to me, anyway. But I feel like I could use an outlet right about now.

Do you ever feel like you want an apology from the world? It's just been one of those weeks. You know the ones, where a simple "I'm sorry" from the offending party won't do, where you feel like the very cosmos should get down on their knees and beg for your forgiveness. The weeks where you just can't catch a break. Well, that week has perpetualized itself, that is to say, my life has become a never ending shitty cycle of tough luck.

So I want an apology.

However, the world, being an inanimate object in a sense, cannot speak, let alone offer it's regrets. In which case, a separate apology from each separate party will have to suffice.

So here is a typed list of all the things that really grind my grain:

1. My stupid eyelash is poking me in the eye. I would really like it to stop. That would be a suitable apology.
2. Our stupid car radio has been acting up lately, and because I'm the kind of person who has to have music while they drive, this fact has hit me the hardest. In the place of an oral apology, I would just really like the radio to start working again, or possibly for us to buy a new stereo system.
3. My pants are wet. Why you ask? Because they got washed for no apparent reason, and I came home and they were in the dryer, with forty minutes to go, and I had no pants, so I put them on anyway. For this heinous act, I would like an apology from my grandmother, who has been the laundry Nazi these past couple of weeks.
4. This is the worst occurrence, and the one that upsets me the most: My Something Corporate t-shirt got put in the dryer and it shrunk. I would really like an apology, again from my grandmother. I know she can't read the labels on the clothes to find the washing directions, buy if she's not willing to wear her glasses when she does laundry, then she should call someone to read them for her. This isn't the first time she's ruined a piece of clothing because she was too stubborn to ask for help.
5. My family ate without me. Now, I'm gone a lot during the week, and I usually don't get home until late. On nights like this, I obviously don't expect them to wait for me. But when I'm out on the weekend, and I call and say, I'm going to be home soon, and they say, "Oh, alright, that's fine," and don't say anything about starting without me, I assume, that they are going to wait for me so that we can eat together as a family. And when I come home, and the dirty dishes are in the sink, and a half empty tub of yellow, microwaveable mashed potatoes are on the counter, crusty form sitting out for a long time, and they say, "here you go, we ate without you, but there are mashed potatoes on the counter if you want some," of course I'm going to be a little mad and hurt. I would like my feelings to be considered before you decide to eat without me. I would like an apology for that.
6. I have too much homework. but no one will apologize for that.
7. Carry yelled at me this week. Carry is the choreographer for the musical out school is doing. And so far, she hasn't had any reason to be mean to me. But once you get on Carry"s bad side,she'll hate you forever. Now, I know I deserved some of what she gave me: I didn't have the dance number down really well. but she totally went over board in tearing all of us down about it, especially me. It was way over the top, specifically considering that we are so early in our rehearsals for her to be so critical. It just really made me mad, and it also scared the bejesus out of me. to say the least, it wasn't a good experience. and I would like her to apologise to me, and to everyone in the cast.
8. My neck hurts. I would really like that to stop.
9. I'm out of chap stick, and I really wish my lips weren't so chapped.
10. I'm broke, so I can't afford any chap stick.
11. I keep having these reoccurring nightmares where I lose all of my teeth, and it feels so real that every time I have them, I'm sure I'm going to wake up and not have any teeth. The thought horrifies me. I want this to stop.
12. Our show choir sucks. There's nothing I can do about that.
13. My hair is too long. It is always getting into the way, and it takes forever to wash. In addition, my bangs are growing out, and they look stupid. Also, my shampoo is crappy, and it dries out my hair to the point where it feels like plastic. Yuck. I would like Tressemme to mail me a personal apology for their insufficient product.
14. I'm too busy to do anything for myself anymore. I'm always doing homework or rehearsing for the musical or sleeping. I haven't had an opportunity to write or read or listen to my music since school started. I just want the world to stop for a minute, just so I can breath for a second.
15. Stupid blogger is being realllly slow, and it takes forever to type anything and to correct it. I want a last apology form blogger, for handicapping my venting abilities.

And my mom says she can't understand why I'm suddenly acting so hostile. Thanks for putting up with this angry entry.

With love.

So I've Been Thinking....

The Event? You know, that new show that has all of those commercials on TV? The one that harasses you to no end, trying to capture your interest... What is The Event? Why is it so important? Who knows what The Event is? How can I find out?.... And they tell you that you have to actually watch the show to figure it out.

Psh. Eff that.

You know what I think? I thing The Even is a load of crap. I don't CARE about The Stupid Event! It will probably end up being a surprise birthday party for the president or one of the Secretaries' kids little league game.

Below is a smooshed down account of the "mystical" Event:

Secretary of Defense: You guys, you guys! He's coming! The Event is almost upon us. Quick! Hide!

(All of the Secretaries, plus the first lady and children, turn off the lights. Everyone hides where ever they can. Well, everyone except the Designated Survivor, because, frankly, he never knows what the hell is going on.

Footsteps can be heard coming down the hall. They all hold their breath. The President of the United States, who is holding a newspaper, opens the door and flicks on the lights.)

EVERYONE: SURPRISE!!!!

THE PRESIDENT, looking surprised: Aw, shucks you guys! How did you remember it was my birthday?

The first lady: How could we not? We've been planning it for forever!

THE PRESIDENT: Really?

EVERYONE: OF COURSE!

The Vice-President: And we have something else to tell you...

THE PRESIDENT: What is it?

The Secretary of Defense: Welcome to The Event!

THE PRESIDENT: THIS IS THE EVENT?!

EVERYONE: YEP!

THE PRESIDENT: Why didn't you tell me?

The First lady: We wanted it to be a surprise!

THE PRESIDENT: Well, I'm surprised.

The Vice-President: Isn't that wonderful! Now, how wants cake?

THE PRESIDENT: Uh, you guys?

EVERYONE: WHAT?

THE PRESIDENT: As much as I appreciated all of this, I've got some really important business to take care of. In the, uh, oval office.

EVERYONE: OH. (They look again at the news paper in his hand.) Oh, we understand.

(righting them selves from crouching on the tiled floor, and disentangling limbs from the shower curtains, Everyone exits the bathroom.)

THE PRESIDENT, lifting the lid on the toilet, calls them back: Hey! You Guys! Take the Designated Survivor with you! (muttering to himself) Jeez, how did he get in there?

THE END

Image via Wikipedia

thanks for reading guys.

This is my story. I hope you all like it. I worked realllllly hard on it.

Hey Guys! Guess what! I wrote a story! "Why?" you ask! Because I wanted to! And because I did it for a writting contest! You should all read it! Because it's funny! Or, at least I think so! So, go on! Read it! Or I will forever torture you with my endless exclamation points!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!






The Mystery of Bad Writing

He brought in his shirt pocket the last photograph he'd taken of his son. Which was, admittedly, rather difficult to do considering it was a life-sized, full color portrait that one overly-fond parent would likely hang above the mantle in their home. As he trudged through the rain, cursing as he ruined yet another pair of Versace custom hand-stitched leather shoes, he vowed that he would track down his son, even if it meant using the never-to-be-mailed child support check to buy another pair of designer loafers.

Yes, his son would be found. And he himself would be the one to find him, by hiring the best Private Detective money could buy. And once all of his efforts, and income, had been spent, he would be a hero in his son's eyes. But more importantly, he would make some pretty lofty headlines. The whole world would adore him as the clever, stubborn, determined--not to mention handsome--father who endlessly pursued the kidnapper of his only offspring and heir.

If only the rain would cease so he could get to the P.I.'s office before he ruined his tailored Armani suit, too. And this was his favorite one, hand knitted by thousands of teeny little silk worms. He often wondered how the worms could knit such fine fabric when they didn't have knitting needles. Or, hands, for that matter... But the suit was Eco-friendly and highly compostable, so when he threw it away next week, it would decompose into the land-fill, no problem.

He held on to his hat as a wind smelling of Creepy-Screams Donuts gusted against him, and a crack of thunder resounded through the heavy air. Turning into a back alley, he jumped when a flash of lightning zapped through the sky, briefly illuminating a silver and blue "happy birthday" balloon with a chihuahua tied to it bobbing through the sky. Looking onto this forlorn, and slightly disturbing scene, he wondered if sometime, somewhere his son was also floating through the sky, secured to a helium balloon.

In the blackness, he could barely decipher the rusting fire escapes that decorated the brick walls of the apartments he passed. It was strange, he thought, that The Best Private Detective Money Could Buy was located in such a shady part of town. That was the first incling he had that something might, if most certainly wasn't already, wrong. The second foreboding feeling came from the cliche foreshadowing that followed his suspicious thoughts.

Finally, after cutting through numerous backstreets and poorly lit cusdesac (did you know that "culsdesac" is the plural of "culdesac"?), he found the dimly luminated facade of Ignatius Carberry Umbrucker, P.I.

Emblazoned on the little half-umbrella-nylon type thing that hangs over the door so you don't get wet from rain, but that nobody really knows the name of, was a giant eye emblem, staring out at the bleak streets, red from the pollution caused by the smoke-stack houses. As he stared at the eye, he wished someone would give it some eye drops, because the irritated pinkness was really a turn-off. Suddenly, he realized how stupid he must look, standing there, and not underneath the half-umbrella-nylon type thing, and decided to step under it so that its life purpose would be fulfilled.

Feeling generous, he took a deep breath and pushed open the door to the building.

The first thing he saw was the secretary sitting at the reception desk. She was young, maybe in her late twenties, and she had a blonde, curly bob. She sat by the phone, flipping through a magazine and obnoxiously chewing a piece of obnoxiously pink bubble gum. He stood there, horrified, watching her mouth open and close, unable to look away as the slippery hunk of gum slid around on her tongue like egg-whites in the cookie batter, like a snake on the slip-and-slide, like Drano poured into a clogged drain, like.... Well, like something really slimy. It was kind of a turn-on.

The next thing he noticed was that the rest of the room was empty. He looked around and spotted an office door, wooden with a frosted glass window occupying the top half. It was dusty. On it was the same eye, still pink, probably because the janitor of the building obviously never cleaned any windows around here. Glancing back once more at the secretary, he adjusted the lapels of his suit jacket and strode toward the door. He was just about to knock, when a voice came from behind him.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," she told him with a little gesture he had never seen before. It looked rather stupid, especially combined with the lip-smacking chewing and bubble blowing coming from the secretary's mouth.

Predictably, he answered, "Why not?"

"I read about it in the paper, in the subway, on my way to work," she said as she bounced up and down.

"What?" he asked, assuming that she was crazy. And foxy. They usually go hand in hand.

Suddenly, she stood up from her chair and sauntered over to him, swaying her hips in an exaggerated way, so that when she suddenly stopped in front of him, she stumbled a little into his arms. Still smacking her gum, she looked up at him from under her lashes, and leaned close to his ear. Once there, she licked his earlobe, and said in what he assumed was supposed to be a sultry voice, "For the longest time they said we didn't need one, but then something changed and they said that we did."

Figuring she was cracked, and that he better humor her in case she snapped, he leaned forward and kissed her passionately. Then he stopped, cradling her in his arms and asked, "You didn't need what?"

She suddenly straightened. "Well aren't you a card!" she squealed. "A Private Investigator, of course. What else would we be talking about?"

He just nodded and smiled. Pacify the crazy ones, and they usually didn't make any sudden moves.

Twirling around like a ballerina, she continued talking. "You know, a boy with a parrot on his shoulder was walking along the railroad tracks."

Edging slightly toward the door, he tried to wrap up the conversation. "Well, how fascinating. Really, we must talk again soon. It was nice meeting you, nice indeed. Now, if you'll excuse me..."

He turned and speed-walked to the door, thrusting it open and diving inside. Before he bolted the door, he swore he could hear the receptionist shouting at him, "Don't say I didn't warn you! He's going to take all of your money and leave you to die in a ditch!" But maybe it was his imagination.

He turned around, and straightened himself, smoothing his suit as he did so.

It was a normal, everyday kind of Private Investigator's office. There was a desk in the corner, with heaps upon heaps of papers covering the entire top of the desk. There was a small lamp, much too small to give of any real light, but enough to throw shadows around the room. There was a book shelf, with a book on it, and a garbage can full of empty gourmet coffee cups and Creepy-Screams Donut boxes. Behind the desk was a big, huge, giant window, with the shades pulled and set so that no light from outside could get in.

Oh, and everything was in black and white.

Behind the desk, in an equal lack of color, was Ignatius Carberry Umbrucker, P.I. He was a man in his late thirties, a camera strapped to his neck, and a magnifying glass gripped so tightly in one hand, death itself would have had a hard time prying it from his lifeless fingers. He wore a trench coat, the collar popped, and under it a white shirt without a tie. A fedora sat on his head, hiding his features and casting the good part of his upper body in shadow. The only visible thing under the hat, in fact was the glowing (in black and white) end of his hand rolled cigar.

He stared at Ignatius for a good three minutes, not saying anything until the silence that stretched became sufficiently awkward. Then, clearing his throat approximately 13 times, he said, "I've come because I need you to assist me with your services."

Ignatius ignored the question, and instead asked, "You been talkin' to Dolly?" He had a heavy Brooklyn accent, and it made it hard for him to concentrate on what the Private Detective was actually saying.

"I beg your pardon?" he said.

"Dolly? The secretary?"

"Oh," he stammered, blushing at the mention of the P.I.'s crazy receptionist. "Well, she might have said a few things to me, but I assure you, I didn't take any of it into advisement. And I certainly didn't talk to her. I don't find it amusing to humor crazy rantings."

Ignatius chuckled. "Oh, Dolly's alright. A little eccentric, always feeding you the Firstline that pops into her head. She's a local."

"Awwww. I see."

Pacified at this new information, he offered his hand and said, "My name is Fredrick Richard Blake Wellington The Third. I'm afraid I need you help."

At this, Ignatius Carberry Umbrucker, P.I., stood and shook hands with him, saying, "The name's Ignatius Carberry Umbrucker, P.I. Please, have a seat. How can I be of service?"

Taking a seat in the chair across from Ignatius's desk, Frederick Richard Blake Wellington The Third opened his mouth to start talking, when Ignatius got up from his seat, picked up a baseball bat, and began bashing at the wall. From the other side, a loud thump, and then a wail waifed into the room. Ignatius stopped banging, and then shouted, "Go back to ya desk, Dolly! This meetin' here is con-fee-den-chal." He waited for a few moments, ear to the wall, before adding, "Beat it, kid! Scram! Or you'll never work in this town again!"
Nodding his head in satisfaction, Ignatius went back to his desk and sat down. "Sorry 'bout that. that girls' a little too nosy for her own good. Now, tell me what you need me to do."
Swallowing once, Fred began to tell his grueling story of loss, hard-ship, stubborn will, and hopelessness.
When he had finished, Ignatius said, "Okay. Now tell me the real story."
Fred let out a breath of astonishment, and then said, "Alright. I was at the grocery store, picking up some laxative, and the little shit wandered off."
He didn't know how he knew, but when Ignatius leaned back in his chair, Fred knew he was smiling. "And then your son walked off somewhere."
Fred nodded his head. "Yes. And I couldn't find him, so I came here. You see, my wife and I are divorced, and so I get him every other weekend. Well, I can't lose him again when it's my turn to watch him, otherwise the judge will take away my custody rights."
Nodding slowly, the Detective said, "I think I understand you, Freddy. You can't lose your son again, otherwise all those big investors who come to your dinner parties won't pay as much because your kid isn't there to charm 'em."
"Yes!" Fred said. "Yes, that's exactly it. So, will you help me?"
Ignatius Carberry Umbrucker, P.I., studied him for a long time. Finally, he said, "Did you know that Private Investigators are falsely named?"
Fred, scrunching up his brow in a cutesy way he knew was guaranteed to get him his way, said, "I'm not quite sure I follow you."
Continuing as if he had never spoken, Ignatius rambled. "Yes, P.I.'s were falsely named. They should really be called 'Private Observers.' But that wouldn't work for obvious reasons, would it? Damn the United States Postal Service and their 'P.O.' boxes! (It also sounds kind of dirty) So, Mr. Wellington The Third, I've observed you as you've been talking to me, and I've come to a few conclusions."
Fred, still inwardly chortling at the dirty joke, asked amusedly, "And what are those?"
Looking up, but still concealed under his hat, Ignatius said, "I see that you are a selfish, rich, melodramatic, rich, stupid, rich, greedy, rich--and I must say--handsome man who only wants publicity and money, the more the better."
Fred studied the Private I. in front of him. "So you won't help me, then?"
Ignatius back peddled. "Oh, no, no, I never said that. I quite admire you, really. You are quite cunning."
Fred, no longer laughing, rose from his chair angrily. "Then what is the problem?"
Ignatius followed the movement with concealed eyes. "Well, the matter is, is that I can't find someone who isn't lost."
"What do you mean, 'not lost?' I don't understand these words that are coming out of your mouth. Why, you might as well be speaking Swahili for the good it's doing me!"
Ignatius shrugged. "kusema chochote."
Fred grabbed Ignatius's shoulders and started shaking him. "WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU SAYING, MAN!?"
Ignatius was being jostled too hard to say anything other than, "Stop! Dad!"
At the sound of his voice when he said "dad," Fred stopped. "What?"
Finally, for the first time since they had met, Ignatius removed his hat.
Fredrick Richard Blake The Third gasped. Ignatius Carberry Umbrucker gasped. Dolly stuck her head out of the vent in the ceiling and gasped.
Even the studio audience gasped.
***
He pressed the back-space. All of the words that he had just written disappeared into a place where they could never be retrieved. It was worse than outer-space. At least you could see there was someplace to go, unlike the computer screen of his laptop.
Sighing, he closed the top, letting the small computer hibernate for a while.
He never had been good at writing mysteries.

Damn it all.

WARNING: IF YOU ARE MALE, YOU MIGHT JUST WANT TO SKIP OVER THIS ENTRY. YOU KNOW...FOR YOUR OWN SAFETY.

Okay, so I was PMS-ing. Is that really a very good excuse? And, in all actuality, it isn't even a legit excuse, since I was technically past the all mighty tyranny of PMS. Yep, definitely crossed THAT bridge. I was full on MS-ing... Uh, not like the disease, but like the "PMS" without the "P." Okay, that sounds too gross. Let's just call it PPMS. NO, SKIP THAT. That doesn't even make any sense. But I think you catch the gist of what I'm trying to get across here, people.

It was fine. I was fine. I was actually having a pretty good day. We (Grammy and Myself, minus the Mother of Diplomacy, who is currently on vacation without me:(:(:( ) , went out to lunch at a little dinner. We were getting along considerably well, considering the Mother of Diplomacy (who is aptly named) was not present. There wasn't much talking, but it wasn't hostile of awkward of anything.

Now, let's get to the real reason we were there: the food.

And I could have been naughtier than I actually was. I could have ordered a "cheese Frenchie," which is basically nature's version of an atomic bomb, only instead of nuclear waste eating the environment, it's the fat count sticking to your arteries and slowly inclining your cholesterol that do the damage to the metaphorical Hiroshima.

Anyway, what I ordered instead--cheese nachos with sour cream, salsa, and jalapenos--didn't add up to nearly the amount of destruction it could have.

It wasn't until it came that I realized I had made a mistake. Because the plate was bigger than my head. And I generally try not to eat more food than the circumference of my noggin. It also looked really greasy.

And after the first bite, I lost my whole appetite. Because--at that exact moment, when I was about gorge myself on unhealthy food because I have my period and that's always a good excuse to eat crap--that's when my body decides that it wants to remind me of the burden of being a woman.

It figures that God would do something like this to teach me to make a better choice the next time I went out to eat.

I got these massive cramps. No, not just cramps, but the Holy-Mother-of-all-that-is-HOLY kind of cramps. And I sat there (what else could I do?) and made pained conversation, and ate my food like a good little girl (trust me, no little girl would be in that much pain for that particular reason, ever in a million years), smiling and not talking between bites. Mind you, I wasn't even hungry anymore at that point. I was on automatic, trying to act like a normal person instead of an enraged lunatic, screaming about the monster eating everybody once it ate through my pelvis. Which is what I really wanted to do.

NO, what I really wanted to do was go home, and put on my most comfortable sweats (even if they weren't exactly spring fresh) and go lie in a corner moaning until the cramps subsided a little.

But there was no way in hell THAT was going to happen.

It took forever to get home. Why did the city have to pick now--NOW, when I'm about dying from womanhood--to tear up all of the main roads, and instead replace them with crappy detours that put you at least twenty minutes out of your way, just in order to get home?

The mysteries of the world.

And all the way home, all I could think was, "I hate my life. I hate myself." Now, you've got to understand that I'm not normally like this. And this wasn't even really hormone related either. But I'll give you the reasons, in a nut-shell, to why my thoughts were hostilely turned inward:

1) The ride was taking forever
2) If I wasn't a woman, this wouldn't be happening in the first place
3) My mom should be hear, listening to me bitch about this situation, considering this was all HER FAULT! for having me in the first place
4) I couldn't exactly "bitch" with my grandmother in the car
5) I was writing this blog entry, in my head, while driving in a car going 20 miles an hour, clutching my stomach, and in the background of my thoughts, clearly audible through all of the writhing and pain and blogging and personality, a sickeningly happy song by Ingrid Michaelson had the nerve to be blasting in the virtual speakers of my brain. If there had to be waiting music, then I at least expected something that fit the situation, like death metal, or Johnny Cash.
6) OH, yeah, and did I mention MY UTERUS WAS FALLING OUT!!!!!!!!!!, or in the very least doing the jitter-bug inside of my body, making sure to kick all organs in its reach.

So, yeah, I think I maybe had a right to keep thinking my life sucked, and that I sucked as well.

And as alarming as this testament might be, I should just tell you, I wasn't actually dying. This is pretty normal for me, ever month or so.

But is sure as hell sucks squid.

Naturally, after writing all of this, I would happen to come to the conclusion that I needed to talk about a very important issue in our society today....

Implants.

Yeah, that really just happened.

No, I'm just changing the subject, because I still have cramps, and I need to try to distract myself, and talking about how painful they are isn't really helping. (And don't think that I'm a wimp, because I actually have a very high threshold for pain, but they are extremely torturous this time around.)

So, on that note, you know how some people get boob implants? Well, I was thinking, what about people who get butt implants? And don't try to pretend that I'm the only weirdo out there who has ever thought about this. Because I know you're out there!

Anyway, butt implants. I know people get them. But, even in comparison to boob implants, they seem a little.... Well, stupid.

What happens when you have to sit? And what if you accidentally sit on something sharp?

Ouch! Oh nooooo!!! There goes ten grand down the toilet.....

And speaking of toilets. Would butt implants make it super weird to go to the bathroom? It would be like sitting on a cushion all the time...

And you wouldn't really be able to live in a cold place, because what if you accidentally left the window open, and the implants froze. Burrr! That would be CHILLY.

Same goes for hot weather; they would start to boil.

I guess it just goes to show that, whether it's cheese nachos or butt implants, there are a lot of bad ideas out there.

Thanks for reading!

P.S. THIS is a video of the totally kick-ass Ingrid Michaelson concert I went to on Sunday. She was hilarious!!! There was this little girl in the audience, who kept saying, "I love you Angle Michaelson!" and she interacted with her the whole night. In this video (I was standing right behind the person who took it), you can kind of hear the little girl. Anyway, this is a cover of "Toxic." Yes, the one by Brittany Spears. It's reallly funny, but not until the end. Just watch it to see what I mean.

What it's all about.

Okay, I'm freaking out. Just a little, though.

And I'm not reallllly upset. Not to the point of staying in bed all day, or staring at the ceiling, or throwing stuff.

It's just at the "writing angry--not to mention obscure--blog entries that nobody cares about". That's all.

So, I'm going to change the subject, and just hope that you'll forgive me for my bipolar attitude today. (Oh, and I'm not really bipolar... Just so you know. I'm just acting that way. Which, if you think about it, might actually make me crazier than you thought, since I really don't have an excuse like people with Bipolar disorder do.... I'm going to shut my mouth before something realllllllllly ugly flies out.)

I love watching artists do their work. And by that, I of course mean I love watching people sing. I guess it's fun to make fun of the insincere artists, who only write their music to get on the top 40 singles list... Because when they sing, they are often cold and indifferent, and a million miles away...

Example:

Pop Sensation, while preforming at a prestigious music award ceremony, isn't thinking about all of her crazy, screaming fans, or what her song is actually about, but instead is wondering whether or not she closed the fridge door after taking out a wine cooler yesterday, or if it would be really obvious if she shimmied a little to try and get the wedgie she currently had out of her ass.

But I love those artists who don't care about fame. Well, all musicians care about fame to an extent... But the ones who write their music for a legitimate reason. And I love to watch them sing and preform. It's one of the best things there is to see, in my opinion.

And it's people like that who make me want to do something with myself. And by that, what I really mean to say is, I want to make a difference. Even if not a lot of people notice it, it will still be out there, and it will have an impact.

So, in the spirit of deep musicians, here is a video of an artist who sings like that.

And I'm not saying that being an artist is pretty. This song illustrates that pretty well. But it means something. So, here is Jack's Mannequin featuring Mick Fleetwook, "God."

What's the point?

Ahhhh!!! What's the point of this, anyway?

What's the point of creating anything new when there isn't really any originality in the world?

Can you tell me that?

Because, when you think about it, you'll see that everything comes from somewhere, and that somewhere rarely comes from an undiscovered place. We all have influences.

Sometimes I wonder if that's all we are. If we are the influences that are around us, and they are us. But that wouldn't make any sense then, would it, because then they would just be feeding off of them selves.

Everything is recycled.

Everything is reused.

Everything marinates in this big circle of stuff.

Sometimes I wish that there was something new.

What would you say?

If someone ever asked you to describe your life in one word, what would it be?

This concept is not new. Not by a long shot.

But even though certain ideas have been visited, is it such a bad them to revisit them, every now and then, so that you don't forget what you've already learned?

I've got this thing, about not looking back. At the end of a day, at the end of a year, at the end of a book (unless I'm going to go back and reread the entire thing), when I'm writing, singing, walking across a room.

Even my life. I don't really like to go back and look at stuff.

I've got this other thing, about looking ahead. About the future. A lot of others join me in this... We keep our eyes forward, chasing after something that we are certain is attainable, if only we never deviate our gaze from that one fixed point.

But worrying about the future, about our plans, and what we will do... Is it really that healthy? It seems to me that most of us, if not all of us, spend too much time in the past of future. And not nearly enough time in the present.

Yeah, yeah, I know you've heard it before. But just listen, okay?

Just because you plan something all out, doesn't mean it's going to happen.

And if you're too busy looking behind you, you'll run smack-first into a telephone pole, and you'll find yourself staring at that poster for a lost pet tiger, last seen in Dallas, but escaped from the home of it's disgustingly rich owner. And that's when the panic will set in.

Okay, this isn't very cohesive, I know. Because I started out asking about how you would describe your life so far, and then I turned around and said that it didn't really matter. And part of me wants to stick to that theory...

And part of me doesn't.

Sometimes, looking back is a good thing. For example, when changing lanes. Or when your screaming kids are in the back seat of your mini van screeching and pulling each other's hair. In those cases, looking back really pays off.

Uhhg.... I don't even know what I'm saying anymore, and I can't even remember what I was going to write about.

Sorry, guys. At least I attempted to write something.

Thanks for reading.

My thoughts on optometrists and reading a Really Good Book

Sometimes reading a book is like going to the eye doctor...

Ma'am, can you make out the bottom line of letters?
Well, I can't see them in detail, but I can sort of make out the general shape of them...
Could you please read them?


That's what reading a really good book is like. If you can't see all the details and put them together in your head, then you're not getting the full picture, and the optometrist is going to write you up a new prescription.

Well, not really. You're optometrist isn't really there when you read a good book...

... Or, at least mine isn't...........................

Anyway, for example, when you read something really philosophical, but it's so good you can't put it down long enough to process everything that's going on. You can kind of see the shape of the story, you can follow along with the upfront plot of the whole thing. But you miss out on the more subtle details, the metaphors, the themes. And isn't that the whole point.

I guess that's what rereading a book is for.

And also what glasses are for.

But either way, whenever I read a really good book (e.i., The Ask and The Answer, sequel to The Knife of Never Letting Go by Patrick Ness...), my brain just won't shut up. It just goes, and goes and goes until I have to actually flip the switch and turn myself off. (What? You can't do that? I thought everyone could...)

The point, my friends, is that a good book fuels the brain, to no end.

I've been thinking a lot about zombies lately.

Yes, I just finished the Maze Runner by James Dashner, and yes, that was amazing too. Not to mention, I've been reading andor watching a lot of apocalyptic crap....

And those two things are probably related. But anyhow....

I was thinking about zombies after I finished this book, and it had me wondering....

What if zombies are as scared shit less by themselves as we are of them???

Has anyone else ever considered this? I mean, all of the pop-culture stuff related to zombies has to do with how appalling they are, and how they have to be run from/killed/cured. I mean, you don't see any teen literature about how misunderstood zombies are.... Vampires get all the glory, and I'd say they are probably just as bad a zombies, just more romantic.

And what's so appalling about zombies? Their maggot infested, half-decayed flesh? Certainly. Their animated corpses. Yes, absolutely.

But it's their mindlessness that really gets me. How they don't seem to remember who they were, or what it was like to be human.

But what if that really isn't the case? What if, like vampires, they are merely construed as monsters, but really are just as humane as the rest of us, capable of living in society, with regular humans? What if they're sickened by what they've become, and their sudden craving for fresh human flesh? (Fresh Flesh, Fresh Flesh, Fresh Flesh!) What if, instead of having a completely empty head (literally... they're brains probably fell out long ago), they remember what it was like to be alive, and just want to get that back?

I'm just saying.... Why are zombies always the monster that never gets any sympathy?

So, I think I've made my point pretty clear.

OH, and I call dibs on the zombie sympathy, teen fiction novel, in which a zombie tries to integrate back into society without being detected for what it really is, and lives a normal life, going to school, falling in love, and eating terrible cafeteria food... In your FACE Stephenie Meyer!

And I'll wrap this entry up by saying that maybe it would actually be terrifying to have a mindful zombie. They would know exactly what they were doing, and they would know how to get to you better... Or at least that was what it was like in the dream I had the other night. But we'll save that story for another entry.

Thanks for reading!

P.S. What did the vegetarian zombies say?

Grains! GRAINSSS!

Hello, everybody. This me here. Just, you know.... Writing my blog.

So what's new?

Hm....

Well, yesterday I basically saw some body's leg snap in half.

Yep. That was exciting. And painful to see.

But not nearly as painful as she thought it was....

Hm... Ok.

I don't really know what to write today.

I wish I could just pick a random topic and inject some personality into it.

Like staplers... They're pretty bland, right?

So, what if I take a stapler, and then some paper, and right a romance novel about them? That would be interesting, right?

...


No, Can't do it.

Too dirty.

...

Ok, what if I write everything backwards?

?aedi doog a s'taht kniht uoy od

NO, it's too hard. It would take all freaking day to do something like that. And I'd probably be getting phone calls from my pastor asking if I wanted to schedule another appointment for an exorcism.

Like hell I do.

So, that leaves.... What?

It's raining today. Real hard.

Sigh. I guess some days you just don't have anything to talk about.

Thanks for reading guys. When did I become so boring?

Kleenex Hand Towels Parody

This pretty much says it all....

Every time I see this commercial, I cringe. What has America come to? Why is it so terrible to use plain-jane washable dish towels to dry your hands? They're just hands.... if they get wet, they'll dry, as will most other things. If you don't like using dishtowels, then just air dry... it won't kill you!

After seeing the real commercial (this one is fake, obviously... you probably guessed it since the word "parody" is in the title) I wonder if America really wants to change, or if it's doing stuff like this for attention.

We've become a two year old child, screaming and throwing things around when we don't get our way, just to get attention from all of the adults in the room. The only difference is that this two year old has money to throw around and the idea that all resources are infinite, and will magically appear once they've been depleted.

Hasn't the oil spill taught anyone anything? The earth has taken enough abuse, just at our hands specifically... why is it necessary torture it further?

Those people that are non-chalant and unconcerned.... I don't know how they haven't realized that this is a one shot deal. Once this is gone (and let me tell you, we've effed this one up pretty badly), that's it. Game over. No more.

It's either this place, mars, or the afterlife.

The sad part is that the world isn't full of those kinds of people. And by "those kinds" I mean the geniuses who thought up the disposable hand towel, or nuclear power-plants (basically anything whose con's far out way the pros). The problem is, they're running our government and innovation companies.

Can the rest of us fix what's been done?

Probably not. But we can sure as hell try.

Save the earth, don't buy Kleenex disposable hand towels.

Make the world a better place.

(P.S. The next time I go on an environmental preservation rant, I'll try to make it more comical for your amusement. This one was pretty hard core... as it should be for such a heavy issue. But when I approach this topic again, I'll bring my sense of humor with me.)

A Quote by Gertrude Stein:

"I am very busy finding out what people mean by what they say."

IT LIVES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Blogger! Where have you been? I've been worried sick!

What? You needed some space? Your server was getting overloaded?

But, I thought we had something special! A real connection....

Blogger, please don't do this. I'll be better! If you want space, I'll give you space. I'll make sure to double space all of my entries!

And if you're mad about my flippancy... Well don't be. I'll stop the coming and then leaving for long periods of time.

I'm just so glad you're back!

...

So, as you may have guessed (or not, because really that didn't make any sense if you didn't know the context of the situation), Blogger is back up and running.

Oh, you didn't know it was down to begin with?

Well, it was. And I'm not sure exactly how long it was down, but all I know is that I came running here in my time of need last night, wanting to fume about the general unfairness of the world and old people, and Blogger had abandoned me, left me on my own to actually deal with my issues like a regular person...

But that's all in the past now. And, unfortunately, so is that entry.

I know; you're heart broken.

But don't be too disappointed. Maybe someday I'll post the entry I pummeled out onto a word document (and trust me, I really had to convince it to come). And if not... Well, it will just be one of the world's unsolved mysteries. Like Atlantis. Or Donald Trump's Hair.

All thanks to Blogger.

You know, if I wasn't so ecstatic to have Blogger back, I would probably flip him (yes, Blogger is a him) the bird. And you know the one I mean.... *bloop-bloop-bloop* *FLASHFORWARD*

Me: (Scanning the tundra of Oz (and by Oz, I of course mean Australia, not the magical land where the munchkins dwell...) with a pair of super-blow-your-mind-high-tech-spy-gear binoculars) Look! There he is. Now stay quiet as we observe the majestically occurrence of the Erectified Somnitical Struthio camelus. In other words, an Ostrich standing while asleep.

Tourists: (Whoa. When did they show up?) Ooooo, Aaahh.

Me: (Tugging my cute, utilitarian safari hat over my be-goggled eyes) Now, keep your voices down; we don't want to wake it.

Tourists: (Staring in silence, intently, although they can't see as well as I can with my fancy-pants binoculars.... HA! Game, bitches!)

Me: It is a common practice here in The Outback for adolescents such as myself to go bird flipping... It is said to be the equivalent of cow tipping of our own Wisconsin.... Although, who really knew what the hell they were thinking when they came up with that tradition...

Tourists: (Silent, bland. Oh, except for the family from Wisconsin standing in the back, opening beer cans and glaring at me.... I guess you can please everybody.)

(P.S. I would make a TERRIBLE tour guide. In case you hadn't already deduced that)

Me: So.... (Pulling out a helmet and strapping it to my head) Who cares to have a go? But be careful, those buggers are almighty quick! (Chuckle, Chuckle)

*End of FLASHFORWARD or SCENE or WTHTHATWAS*

(He he... ba-ba-ba- bird BIRD ba-birds the word oh-well-a..... Now that song will be stuck in your head forever.)

Anyway, I guess, since I took all my angst out on my poor word pad last night, I'm really just checking in and warming up. I plan on taking a look at my half written book tonight... maybe I'll accomplish something, too!

Also, there's this really funny lady. And, I don't know if any of you (all of my numerous followers) have heard of her, but she's, uh, REALLY funny, and, uh, Well, she wrote a book recently, and you should check her blog out.... HERE! You may have to dig a little for the Really Funny Entries (and yes, they are so funny that I felt I had to capitalize "Really Funny Entries")

Also, someday in the near future, I'm going to change my template for this blog. I know I've mentioned it before, but I'm mentioning it again with the added on warning that I'm serious this time. So, be warned! Don't just skip over this part thinking, Oh, Pshhh, She'll never follow through, just to end up checking back in here a week later to find the site COMPLETELY different, and in turn triggering your epilepsy or panic attacks or Irritable Bowl Syndrome (Do you like how Irritable Bowl Syndrome is the only one capitalized?) or something equally as alarming. (And in case you're scoffing at the comparison of epilepsy and I.B.S (which stands for Irritable Bowl Syndrome, in case that escaped your notice), they are both equally upsetting.)

Oh, G! Would you look at the time! Considering I have a couple of chapters to write-slash-revise, and summer gym to top it all off in the morning, I've got to fly!

Thanks, as always, for reading! Sorry if my run-on sentences and confusing dialog triggered a seizure. Talk to my insurance company; they'll handle it.

Hello out there.....?

It's like I want to write, but I don't. You know?

So, I discovered something new today. I was flipping through the channels on TV, and I came to the end of the ones we normally get, so I kept flipping, waiting for the numbers to loop and go back to the beginning.

But that never happened.

I just kept flipping and flipping, and all of the sudden, BAM! There was music.

No, really. There was music. Did you know that there are actually channels that exclusively play music? Yeah, there are. And there are all genres imaginable. It kind of blew my mind.

Okay, so as you all know, I'm a vegetarian.

What? You DIDN'T know that? Oh, well now you do, I guess.

But anyway, I'm a vegetarian. I went to my Aunty's house over Memorial Day weekend (Why do they call it "Memorial Day Weekend?" Because, obviously the whole weekend isn't Memorial day...). Being a vegetarian is a wonderful, wonderful thing, and someday I'll write an elaborate blog entry about it. But right now, I'm going to explain the weirdness of barbecuing for a vegetarian on a meat holiday.

Maybe you can see the problem. So, being the considerate relative she is, my Aunty got these meatless chicken patties to grill up instead.

Yeah..... They tasted just like chicken. It was an odd experience. I felt like a cheater.

So....

Sorry guys. This entry isn't that great. I'm just writing for the sake of writing tonight; my heart isn't in it.

I'll try to post stuff more often. Tonight, though, it's getting late. I'm going to end this pathetic commentary and go to bed.

Thanks for reading.

Celebration!

To celebrate the reinstatement of my ipod, below are some songs for your enjoyment. I've talked about some of them before...

Mr. Blue by Catherine Feeny (P.S. I hope these work. If not, then... Sorry! Have a good day anyway!)
Put Your Records On by Corinne Bailey Rae

Miss Delaney by Jack's Mannequin

Foundations by Kate Nash

It's a Disaster by OK Go

Drunk Girl by Something Corporate

Untouched and Intact by The Honorary Title

I hope these all work! Thanks for reading. And listening.

Okay, smaill message...

Please disregard the link on my last post... the music video I wanted to post is below, plus there's another one that's really funny.

Thanks.

Men Without Hats - Safety Dance

Fast Food Folk Song (at the Taco Bell Drive-Thru)

Identity Crisis... How Sardonic.

One of the things I like best about writing is that you can be as loud as you want to be.

It occurred to me the other day that I created this blog because I wanted to be heard, and I wanted people to get to know me. And then, in short concurrence to that one, I had another realization that if that was what I truly wanted, I wouldn't have created this blog in a different name. That by using a fake name, it meant that I was scared for the world to really get to know ME.

And this all sounds reeeeallly familiar. Have we been here before?

Yeah. I'm pretty sure we have.

If you meet me, and you don't really know me (which would make sense, considering you are meeting me), then you might think that I'm a shy person. But this assumption wouldn't be true, as I've gone over before. There is a big difference between a person who is shy, and person.... Well, and a person like me. I don't even really know how to explain it anymore. And I know I've already written a whole entry about this, but I need to go over this again, for my personal sanity.

I'm not shy because I'm not afraid to say what I really mean. I'm not shy because I have very strong opinions, and I share them frequently. I'm not shy because I have friends, and I can socialize when I feel like it. I'm just not shy, and if I'm not talking, it's because I have nothing to say to you. Small talk is stupid, in my opinion. So I probably wouldn't talk to you first. You have to make the effort, as conceited as that sounds.

Uhg. I'm sorry that I'm writing this all over again. I'm just having an identity crisis right now, and it helps to remind myself of who I am. And writing it all out helps, because sometimes things can get lost in my head.

When I write, I have a voice, one that everyone can hear. And it's different from a physical voice. You don't need to actually have ears, and I don't need to project. And if I write something well enough, it doesn't matter that you're reading my voice. If it's well written, then you can hear me anyway.

Is it weird that every time I look into a mirror, I see somebody different? Do other people do that to?

I think that for so long, I've thought that I've accepted who I am, when all I've really been doing is accepting that I'm going to change. I haven't accepted a set person, just the idea of one.

And maybe that is all you can ever do. We change so often, are we really the same person from one minute to the next? Or are there little things about us that are altered, that nobody but ourselves (and sometimes not even us) perceive?

Oh my gosh! I can wiggle my nose!

All I'm doing is thinking out loud at this point. And no matter how much I don't like to be selfish, this blog is about me. Even if my name isn't attached to it. Because, really, what does a name matter if the essence is the same? Like Juliet said, "What's in a name?" or something along those lines...

Thanks for reading. I don't blame you if you skipped over this entry. Too much angst.


http://www.casttv.com/video/xa9bmc1/safety-dance-men-without-hats-official-video

Oh, yeah, and guys. Check out one of my all time favorite music videos at the link above. You won't regret it.

Slippery

It's slippery.

It's also so very dark.

You close your eyes, although you know it doesn't make a difference; no light could penetrate this darkness that hugs your every curve and angle. But it helps... it makes you feel more in control of something that is taking you in its grasp.

Usually, it's not a problem. You don't have to worry about it because you never fall victim. It couldn't happen to you; others, yes. But you? Not even if you wanted it. Not even if you prayed for it.

But tonight.... it's different. You can feel it in the air, the tangible, cloudy air. You can taste the blackness, something you never really appreciated until this very moment, when you're on the brink.

It could be pleasant. You will never know until you try. But what if trying turns out to be too much... What if it's the last time you ever try, for anything in your life? The risk seems silly and insubstantial, but is it? Is it really?

You make several futile attempts to pull yourself back. You conjure images, thoughts, emotions. You drag the secrets out of the dark corners of yourself. Did this confining darkness come from your head? If you open your eyes, will the whole picture change? Does it matter?

Soon, you've dragged out so many things, so many feelings, so many thoughts that you had already sent to bed. All of the events of your day, even your life. And just to be sure that you have stoked this misfitted mob into a frenzy of bees, stinging at your mind, you drag out your worries and fears and plans for the future. It's just the kind of thing to completely infuriate those mind wasps, enough to keep you alert, if it's the last thing you do.

But to your horror,--or could it be relief?--you find all of that slipping away. Like I said: it's slippery. The tighter you hold on, the more it alludes you, deliberately distorting itself just to scramble away from your greedy clutches. You may not have any guilt over using yourself in this way, but your self certainly objects.

You make one final attempt to catch it and hold on; something is running around loose in there, skipping past your mental fingers with such dexterity, you could only glimpse flashes of it dashing by. But, nevertheless, you dart for it.

And you catch it. You let out a huge sigh of relief, of triumph, because now you've won!

But then, the most peculiar thing starts to happen, something straight out of a Lewis Carroll novel...

It shrinks.

At first you think it's a trick of the light, or rather, a trick of the UN-light. But, no. It really is getting smaller, and smaller.

Smallersmallersmallersmallersmaller......

And then a tiny, slick sensation, something only a slippery thing can create, occurs between your mental fingers. You can feel it sliding along the vee in between your appendages, inching down around that place on your hands that never seems to get touched. And with such an intimate, foreign touch, you know that you're helpless to the tickle.

You're lost to it.

Yawn.

Hello my fellow insomniacs.

This is Kacie Renn Lynshah, coming to you live from my wired brain. I've been broadcasting live since before two in the morning (yes, I did say MORNING), and it only gets later and later in the day (because that is generally what the day does: get late...)

So, of course instead of laying in my bed, with my eyes closed, trying to get to sleep despite the futility of the effort, I decided to blog. It's been a while. And maybe you'll all (all five of you) enjoy my frantic musings.

I've been seriously thinking about redecorating this page. The template I have now is so generic... almost like a cereal box.

Why am I thinking seriously about this? Why not flippantly, or desperately, or angerly? (Is angerly a word? Anybody?)

I don't know why I'm taking it so seriously. I guess I just want my creative place to look nice, and to inspire me and others. And I also want it to be appealing, so that when all those people who surf blogs for fun come upon mine, they'll stop to look at it, and not just pass it by, possibly screaming from the atrocity of it.

I've been thinking about people again.

Uh oh. You know what that means.

But this time, I'm not going to do a thorough, generalized outlook on people as an entire race. No, we'll save another one of those for when I read Dante's Inferno, or until I'm taking allergy meds. Whichever comes first.

This time I just want to address one topic.

How people change.

Okay, so I'm generally a person who adores change. No, really. REALLY. I love change in scenery, I love change in the people around you, I love changing the person you are for the better. Basically, I love it when my life is unsettled.

But what about the kind of change that hurts you?

Or makes you different, in not necessarily a positive way?

Whoa. It's really weird hearing this come out of my own mouth. Just a year ago, I probably would have been totally for negative change.... Uh, as odd as that might sound to you.

(OH, and you might be wondering, Gee, how are you able to hear words coming from your mouth when, in reality, you're actually typing them? I'll give you this mental picture: I actually announce everything I'm going to type before I type it. So if you walk into the room while I'm blogging.... prepare yourself for a proclamation.)

Anyway, back to change. I know a lot of people who have been changed for the worse by certain events in their life. I'm one of them, but I've learned that change is really a good thing, and that it always happens, and will continue to happen, even after--the biggest change of all--we are dead.

But some people never figure that out.

Sometimes, the negative change isn't really that dire. It's something like giving up a hobby in order to focus on getting good grades. It can even have a positive effect as well. (Uh, if it wasn't clear, that positive effect would be getting good grades.) But what are you giving up, really? And at what cost?

Okay, so I have never claimed to believe in happiness, at least not as a lasting state. You all should know that by now. But if a person can gleam a bit of happiness, or more appropriately, JOY from something, then shouldn't they?

Now, moving on to the fear of change that comes from a bad experience. I've been there. I'm sure we all have at one point in our lives. But it is only just what it proclaims to be: an experience. It teaches you something. Probably something important. And that something might be that change is good for you. Or, you know... It could be something completely different. Whatever.

But the point, my dear friends, is that you should (and really it is your only option) take it. Because most likely, it will be your only chance to learn from something like this. And you shouldn't let it change you for the worse. Because plenty of people get bitter or mean or depressed or fake. They get SERIOUSLY MESSED UP just because of change.

And yes, change can be a sad thing. It can have negative effects, or positive one's. But it isn't really good or bad....although, like I've said previously, I think it leans more towards good. But it's inevitable. Forever.

So.... You all just read a life lesson (coming from a high school student) that you most likely already knew. Thanks for the patience.

The funny thing: I already knew all of that too. I have no idea why I suddenly felt the need to rant about it.

I think it was off set by the play I was just in, You Can't Take It With You. The whole time I was doing it, I never really realized how deep it was. But then yesterday, our last show, I finally got it. You can't take it with you when you die. So enjoy it now.

It's an important lesson to learn. And I guess knowing about change is connected to it in lots of ways.

Thanks for reading everybody. You'll hear from me later.

This is about Me.

My Life (mm-EYE l-EYE-f): def-
verb-
1. The daily existence of a person who goes by the alias of Kacie Renn Lynshah, and has many annoying, quirky, and otherwise character traits that she expresses freely.
2. A series of revelations set off by experiences taken from daily occurrences, the reading of Philosophy and Oprah magazine, interactions with others (whether they be the voices in her head, martians, or regular people), and brushing her teeth.
3. (My Life) can suck sometimes.

Synonyms: crazy, weird, odd, boring, geeky, spontaneous, freaky, idiosyncratic, dicey, wayward, amusing, stercoraceous, fanciful, mythical, lugubrious, blue, classic, wistful, pensive, colossal, unpredictable
Antonyms: bland, tame, sugar-coated, shallow, cursory, superficial, doltish, gullible, chipper

If I said I had (yet, ANOTHER) revelation today, would you be surprised? No? I didn't think so.

So what is it today? What life shifting, prodigious realization did you have now? You're on you toes, just waiting with baited breath for me to tell you, I know.

But what's funny is that I've had this one before. Repeatedly. And I don't know how many times I'll have to figure it out before it finally sinks in. Maybe it never will.

I want my life to mean something. I've written about it here before. But I never get past that. I never get past the conceiving stage. I never get to the action.

But I can't really live unless I have experiences, and in order to do that, I have to actually PUT MYSELF OUT THERE. And I don't know why, but it seems like my courage has suddenly left. The building where it used to reside is vacant. The question concerning that is whether it just decided it needed a change of scenery, or if it was evicted.

I can see all of these opportunities around me, and they are exactly what I asked for. But I can't seem to follow through on any of them. And I have no idea what's holding me back, because we all have only so much time to make something of ourselves. I should be over-joyed to take what is offered and use it to better myself, my life.

But my guts? They've also left me stranded.

I've heard of people before who think too much. Who analyze everything down to the tiniest detail.

I strongly dislike those people. They are the people who can't let go long enough to have fun.

But I think I'm one of those people. Or becoming one. And that scares me.

And the advice that is always given to those types of people is to just let their instincts take over. Be more like an animal, they (whoever the hell "they" are) say.

But how do you do that? Anybody know?

(chirp, chirp)

Guess not.

There's more to it then just that.... I just don't want to address it. And maybe that's another problem of mine. I just don't want to deal with my issues.

The perpetual procrastinator: I'll do it later.

Anyway, if you were curious as to what set me off this time, it was this article in close succession to this one. One of them, appropriately named What a Drag It is, just brought me down and weakened my defense system long enough for the next one, who was about somebody that I've met before, to really get to me.

And before I go, I'd like to just point out a general observation.

I've noticed that people, such as myself, who are involved in theatre generally keep to themselves. I don't want to say that they are shy, because obviously anyone who can't get up in front of people and make themselves look completely stupid (not all of the time, but a great majority of the time) are not shy. But they don't really share themselves with other people, not their whole selves. And that's why theatre is so good for them; they can put on any character they want to, make themselves anybody. It's a great evasion technique. And that makes me wonder something else: is theatre really a healthy activity then?

Of course, theatre people aren't all like that. There really are the genuine performers who like attention, people, getting to know people completely, and having others know who they are. But these people aren't specifically drawn to theatre. That would be a stereotype. Those type of people are evenly distributed throughout all of the world's hobbies.

So, with that brain food to chew on (has anyone ever thought about that besides me? What it would look like if a brain was actually chewing something?), I'll leave you. Have a good day, and thank you for reading.

Fact: Turtles live in Rivers, and if you dip you feet in those rivers, they will eat your feet! (I'm not talking from experience... I'm just assuming)

Today was an adventure.

Really... An ADVENTURE.

So, I learned something about people today.

Oh, you want to know what I learned?! Oh. Hm... I'm not sure I can do that.

Well, I suppose I can make an exception, just this once.

I learned that, sometimes, they are okay.

What, you ask. People?

Yes. People. People can be okay.

It's interesting, though, if you think about it. People have so many sides, so many sharp edges, and they are all different (but not in an extreme way, because then it would be bordering on a multiple personality disorder...). Today I was my quiet, content self.

And that was okay. And I wasn't sure if it would be. But it was. And I'm glad.

The thing is, your moods effect other people's moods. And sometimes that can be scary, because you're not sure if you're bringing them down, or boring them, or if they think you're ruining all of the fun.

And sometimes they do think those things. Or at least I do.

But other times, it's okay. It's okay to be quiet, to think about stuff, in that pensive silence. And it's okay to just chill out on a Saturday afternoon and not have any expectations--

No, I do NOT want to restart now!

Uh, sorry. My computer has updates it's trying to download. Where was I?

Oh yeah. It's okay to not have have anything expected of you, to just be there.

I don't know who will read this. I don't really care. But I'm glad that I have friends. And I think they might be real friends.

So, here's a recap of my day:

The first half I spent driving around town and hanging up posters advertising the play I'm in, You Can't Take It With You (April 29-May 1 at 7:30 pm, and May 2 matinee at North High School... Go there. Buy tickets. Watch the show. It's funny.). That was really funny. There are so many little stories that I have... Needless to say, I laughed a lot.

Then I hung out with Karyn, and we got completely lost on our way to Coldstone Creamery (but boy was it worth it). We drove all over town, to the very outskirts of town, until there wasn't even a road any more, and then back again. At Coldstone, we picked up Plant Toes-are-rude (Not a secret alias for Grant....It's not!), and then we ended up driving all over the town right next-door. We went to the new Trollwood (because I hadn't seen it yet), and then ended up back at the old one.

And I realized something else.

Traditions mean something, and so does home.

The new Trollwood? It's cold and empty and so, so lonely. It gives me goosebumps (not good ones) just thinking about it.

But the old Trollwood.... It just eminates positive energy. Every time I think about it (even though I was never really involved with much Trollwood stuff) I feel at home. It's a personal, happy place, where I met people I will always remember and learned things I can't forget. It's cozy because it isn't huge and spread out, and it's got famous land marks that have generations and generations of good memories attached to it, from all of the people who have been , used to, still do go there.

It's really, really good.

But we (Karyn and I, because by then Plant had to go home...) had more adventures there. We stuck our feet in the river and talked about not falling in and drowning, and we waited to see some fish jump out of the water. (There actually a couple that did, but although Karyn was the one who really wanted to see them, I was the one who caught sight of them, every time.)

I even drank some of the river water.

I know, I know. But before you go all, "Ohmygod!Isthatsanitary?Idon'tthinkitis....youshouldgotoadoctorbeforeyoudie!Ewwwwthat'ssogross!!!!," let me just say that our river has some of the cleanest water in the world. It wasn't like I was drinking out of the Hudson River. And it was only a really, really little bit.

Anyway. Adventures.

I don't really know what else to say. I could go on and on, but it would all come out as Philosophical crap, and I'm sure you don't want to sit there and read it. (I promised myself that last time would be the last time....)

Thank you for reading.

(Gah! Restart LATER!!!!)

Exhaustion and Stressful Circumstances: Two Factors Contributing to the Fall of Troy

Really, what other excuse do the Trojans have? Unless you're mentally and physically spent, there is no reason why you would let your enemy bring you a gargantuan wooden horse to put in town square. It's just ridiculous.

Stress is like being sick. For days you have a stomach ache, and finally when you puke, you feel much better. It's the same with stress. You feel awful, and then you relieve the stress, and Oh boy! Did you even know it was possible to feel this good?

I Took a Nap Today....

Okay. First of all, when you have an entry on your blog called, "I Took a Nap Today," you know your life is boring.

Speaking (or would it be typing???) of my boring life, why do I even write this blog? I mean, besides the fact that I would go crazy unless I had some sort of creative outlet to spew all of my, uh, creative juice onto. (Bad visual, I know. Sorry)

I mean, it's not like anything interesting ever happens to me. Well, sometimes it does. But if I waited for an interesting event every time I wrote here, then the entries would be scarce and far between. (Is that how the saying goes? Or is it "far and in between? I can't remember right now.)

Anyway, I'm writing tonight, not because I have anything interesting to report, but just because I took a nap today.

How does this connect, you ask?

I can't sleep, because I slept earlier. Ughngngng.

This morning I had show choir. I haven't talked about show choir on here before because I don't really think it's worth mentioning. (We aren't very good, but SHHHH! It's a secret!) So I had it this morning, and, you know, it's funny. But all of the songs we are singing are Jazz songs.

I love jazz. But I auditioned to be in show choir. Blahblahblah.

I actually don't even care that much. I'm just trying to find an interesting topic to rant about for a while. That one was a failure, though.

Oh! Here's one: Story Time!

This weekend I went to the library to check out some books on Mythology (Hello, My name is Kaci, and I am a bookaholic and I've been a nerd all of my life....) (P.S. My name isn't really Kaci. But I don't want to discriminate myself, so I use an alias. It makes it harder for the police to keep tabs on my crazy, idealistic protests and the general riling up of people if I have a number of different aliases.) (Hey! I have three side comments in parenthesis now! Cool!)

Anyway. Library. Mythology books. So I went there, and right away I got side tracked by the audio books, immediately skipping over to them to find something good. (I did find something good.... Brave New World. I almost checked it out, but then thought better of it; I don't need anymore fuel for my borderline communistic brain.)

So I'm (covertly) checking out this college guy a few shelves down (books aren't the only things you can check out in a library), when all of a sudden this middle aged guy obstructs my view (and it was a nice view) by stepping in front of me on the other side of the shelf. I'm annoyed, so I move down the shelf, pretending to look at audio books. But then I see Brave New World, and it catches my eye, and then I really am looking at audio books, and not college guys. Needless to say that by the time I looked up again, any cute guys had disappeared, and all that was left was a middle aged man, a few feet down from me.

Dejected (hardly.), I decide to browse through the nonfiction section of books, in hopes that I might come across the Mythology books without having to actually interact with the librarian. And as I'm walking down the isles, (ooooh. Are you ready? I'm going to do some foreshadowing) out of the corner of my eye, that middle aged man is looking at books, a shelf down from me. Hmm. Interesting.

At this point I think I'd like to put in a further description of this man. That way, if you happen to see him at the library, you can be aware of what kind of situation you're dealing with.

He was a white, Caucasian (oh wait, I already said that) male, middle aged as I previously said. He was short. 5' 7" maybe. He also had a beer gut, but not an overly large one like some people have, you know, the kind that jiggles when they walk? He was wearing track pants and a red t-shirt, and a baseball cap (probably to hid his heinous balding scalp. Or maybe he had horns or something. I don't really know.).

I don't really think much of it at this point. I'm just looking at books. It's not like I'm in the teen/children's section either. These are big-girl books. Adults are welcome here. But I keep moving through the nonfiction section, and just so you know, it's a big section. It takes up half of the floor. I end up near the back left corner, and the man is still just a few shelves down from me, or sometimes on the other side of the shelf I'm looking at, so that I'll be looking at a book, and I'll glance up and see his (Uh, I don't want to say ugly...) less-than-attractive (although I wouldn't really care if he was unattractive. I was just kind of creeped out.) face RIGHT there. I jumped a couple of times, and almost screamed once.

Okay, so I was trying not to panic. Panicking would be a very, VERY bad thing. It's like the animal kingdom. Never show fear.

Except I wasn't 100% sure if he was following me. It could be a coincidence.... It would be quite a stretch, considering I started at the audio books, which is in the center of the library, and then went meandering through the whole left side. I decided to head to the extreme opposite of the library, and if he followed me there, I decided, well, then that meant he was probably a stalker/pedophile/rapist. *shudder*

I shuffled to the right side of the building, to the fiction section. I figured if it was a coincidence up until this point, it would be kind of believable. But what kind of a person looks for an audio book, and then browses the whole nonfiction section (obviously for something specific), and then decides "Hey, I think I'll get a fiction book too,"? ( mean, besides me. But I wasn't even looking for a specific book. I was just messing around.) The genres were just too different to make sense.

Anyway, he followed me there too. Okay, so I was getting freaked out. And unfortunately, this side of the library was much more deserted than the other one. The only other person there was a homeless guy catching some zzz's under a huge pile of hoodies and paper grocery bags. (I have no idea why the grocery bags were there, seeing as how they were empty)

Then, like super hero--is it a bird, is it a plane....? No, it's a--text message. I got a text message from a friend who was meeting me there, saying something along the lines of "Where are you?" (I know. I am also astounded by the aptitude and depth this text contained.) I almost peed my pants I was so relieved. (well, not really. If at any time I would have peed my pants, it would have been when I finally knew that that weird man was following me.)

So I found my friend and explained to him that a creeper was hot on my tracks, and we boogied to the teen room, where it would have been too blatantly obvious for him to follow us.

The End.... Or is it?

The walls of the teen room are glass. And my stalker sat down at a table with a news paper, pretending to read, when what he was really doing was watching me from over the top of it. How insanely creepy is that?!

Okay. Now it's the end. (Oh, one more thing. So you know how I said he was wearing track pants? I bet he wasn't even in track! OUTRAGEOUS.)


Did you like my story? I know. It scared me too. Anyway. I think I'll go to bed now. Thanks for reading!

Funny thought....

What if there was a pet store called "The Three Blind Mice"? Or better yet, a bar. Am I the only one who thinks that would be funny?

Today I reconnected with my childhood and blew a whole lot of bubbles.

So I was thinking that I would write about one of my favorite topics today: Shallow People!

Actually, it's not my favorite topic. Just one of my favorites to write about.

Okay, I'll keep this brief; I don't want to bring anyone down with my toxic waste.

I really don't care for shallow people and/or behavior. In fact, it's a borderline hate relationship.

I added the behavior part because I know some people who aren't really shallow, but act like they are. Why they would want to is beyond me, but.... Sometimes that's what I witness in people I see at school. In my friends (Well, some of them).

When my friends are caught up in this shallow behavior, I try to be patient. I let them do what they want to; I don't rag on them because they are making themselves look stupid. They are my friends after all, and if I don't support their choices, then I should at least keep my mouth shut when they talk to me, so I don't say something that would hurt their feelings, and that I would really regret later.

But sometimes.... Ooooh. I just want to sock them.

There's only so much one person can take. And I guess that there are times when it doesn't seem so important, the way they are acting. Those are the times when you can see the light: when they say or do something that makes you think, "Gee, there's still hope for them!"

And then there are the times when the shallowness acts up, or the sun comes out and evaporates the pool of their souls, and a drought sets in. And they just get smaller and smalllllerrr.....

What really bothers me is when you have a friend who acts completely different when you're hanging out with them one on one. Someone who will be really thoughtful and considerate and insightful when you're alone together, and then who will be like, "Ohmygaaawwwwd!NOWAAAAY?Nawaw.ShedidNOTsaythat,WHATNo,hewouldn'tdosomething,like,sototally,like,um,bad!" when they are in public or a big group of people.

In fact, shallow behavior/people rank #2 on my Grates on my Nerves List. (#3 is country music, and #1 is when someone doesn't put the vacuum cleaner away correctly.)

Thank you for reading that. If you did. I guess I just needed to vent. If this entry connected to you in anyway, I hope it will help.

(Although I feel like I shouldn't really be talking, since this entry has been completely self-centered. Seriously... Count how many times I used the word "I." It's a darn lot. But there is a difference between being self-centered and being shallow. A BIG difference. It just so happens that, more times than not, the combination or no depth and self-centeredness equals a shallow person.)

I'm going to end this entry. It wasn't really worth it for you to read it, since it was mostly a tool for me to express my frustration in a healthy way. (The alternative was expressing it in an extremely UN-healthy way by screaming at someone (e.i. a shallow person) and throwing a pair of my dirty socks at them. Repeatedly.)

Before I sign off, I'd like to mention the Polish President, Mr. Lech Kaczynski, and the First Lady, Mrs. Maria Kaczynski, and all of the other polish officials. It is a very sad event that has happened. No one expected the plane to crash. Let all the souls who were on that plain find peace in heaven.

Thanks for reading.

YouTube - Belle and Sebastian - The Blues Are Still Blue

YouTube - Belle and Sebastian - The Blues Are Still Blue

Just like the Movies....

Hello Everybody, and welcome to tonight's showwwwww!

For your entertainment this fine evening..........(babadaBUM!) me!

The song of the night is "The Blues are Still Blue" by Belle and Sebastian.

The thing about this song is that, for me, it's borderline annoying. But it seems to fit the theme of today, and I'm waking up to it tomarrow, so what the hell.

I would like to address a serious issue with you today. My life.

Okay, okay. I know it doesn't sound that exciting, but I'll try to spice it up.

Keep in mind that when I planned out this entry, I was in a very serious mood, and now I'm not. I almost wish I was, so that I could write what I really mean, but.... Oh well.

Sometimes I feel like my life is a movie. Does that ever happen to you? For example, at my school they play music during the time we have inbetween bells. I'll be walking down the hallways, looking particularily snazzy one day, and a draft will come out of no where and blow my hair in a model-esque way, and I'll be stepping in perfect time to the beat of the song. The sound track of my life.

But it's not just that. As over used this idea is, I feel like my life isn't real sometimes. Silly, right?
Or, maybe it is real, but I'm stuck perminantly in the expostition, of that first scene where the characters are introduced and you get to know the main character and what her life is like. But nothing has happened yet... I know what you're thinking. Every teen feels like this blahblahblah. Well, you're probably right. But this is how I feel, right now, dammit. And I'm going to tell you all about it.

Anyway, I'm just waiting for the plot to unfold. And I know there is a plot, and a good one, too. this isn't that kind of movie where the characters run around doing drugs and having sex and escaping ax-weilding pysicopaths and having sex again (Although that would make my life very interesting if that was the case....). But in all of those movies, nobody does anything of importance, so what's the point? No. My life is a blockbuster waiting to happen. It will be bigger than Avatar.

Here's the part where I talk about my feelings, so if you're squeemish... Well, look out.

I feel like I need to do something really important with my life. Not like become the president or cure cancer important (although I wouldn't complain if I did do those things too... Naw. Too much effort.), but something substantial. Something recognizable. And something very far away from here.

Does everyone feel like that?

I'm guessing the answer is yes, and that's kind of depressing. If I can't even have unique feelings, how am I supposed to go and do something unique with my life?

Anyway, going back to the movie thing. I wish the director knew what they were doing. (Hey, since this is my life, does that make me the director? And if so, does that mean that I have complete control over my life? Hm. Deep things to ponder.) There are some times when I just want to say, "Cut! Cut! That was terrible! Do it all over again!" Or some times I want to cut scenes that shouldn't have ever been written. (Stupid writers...getting carried away with themselves...)

And quite often I find the actors are less that satifactory as well. But hey, that's life.

Have you ever seen a movie where you can hear the character's thoughts? Like a sort of voice over? I'm sure you have, because I've seen plenty of them. It's kind of tacky, right? When you can hear thoughts, because thoughts aren't meant to be heard. But sometimes it seems like I'm in one of those movies. It's hard to believe that no one but me can hear what I'm thinking. Especially on those days when my thoughts are actually coherent. And it's weird to think that I'm the only witness to the fragmented or fluent ponderings that are the fruit of my mind. (Geez. Do you see what I mean? Some of my thoughts are so pretentious they practically scream.)

Have you ever not realized that you weren't talking because you're thinking so loudly, your thoughts should be able to be heard all on their own? No? That just happens to me? Oh. Well.

But if you think about it, private thoughts are a blessing. I guess this seems kind of obvious. But it's a miracle. All of those mean things that you think and then instantly regret... No one has to know about them but you. In a world where everything and everyone is on display, the only thing that we do have that's private are our thoughts. (hehe. I just had a funny thought of something else that's mostly private, but I'm not going to type it here because I'll probably regret it later. Ohh. But I really really want to share.) Okay, okay. Vagina. I said it. Vagina's are mostly private. Well, some of them anyway.

And something else. It's interesting, how we share our thoughts, and who we share them with. For example, now that I know that my aunt and mother are reading this blog, I probably won't share all the thoughts that I used to.

Or maybe I will, depending on how far I want to test the bondaries.

So... Yeah.

Um......

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I feel like I should write something really philosophical down now. Something that Andrew McMahon would be proud of. But I can't make myself tonight. Because thinking, no matter how good it is for you, can really be a drag (queen). And I mean that literally. There are two sides to thinking. The good, productive, self-cleansing kind, and the dark, I'm-going-to-drag-you-into-the-darkest-corner-of-your-thoughts-and-leave-you-there-moo-ha-ha-HA! kind. Just like a drag queen. Uh, kind of.

Thank you so much to the person who just got me thinking about drag queens.

I don't know.... Do you ever just feel like a shallow, self-absorbed person?

Okay. Not going there tonight.

Uh.... Did you know that birth control works on female gorillas? I didn't. Not until my lunch table was created.

Here's a little something to put the icing on your cake of a night:
Check out this link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8UoG-xQ9Lqc

Thank you all for reading!

Left over.....

Ung.....

I took a personality test the other day in Health class.... It wasn't the first test like that I have taken, because being the highly inquisitive person I am, long before the other day did I question my personality disorders.... Uh, scratch the "disorder" part. I mean my personality.

(Although I did once sit on the computer --for about three hours, I think--just looking up random mental disorders and convincing myself that I had at least eight of them... Oh come on. Don't tell me you've never done that. Seriously. It's like googling your name. Everyone has done it at some time or another. I proudly admit that I am, in the renown words of Rick James, a "super-freak.") (And, yes. I DO have that song on my ipod. I am, in fact, playing it right now.)

(That funky beat...Aaaahhwww, Nawww.... (Translation: That was my very sad attempt to phonetically write out a funkified, "Oh, no." I guess I'm just too Norwegian to do it correctly.))

Um... What was I talking about? Oh, right. So in all of the personality tests that I've ever taken, my results have always come out to favor the introverted side. Except for the one that I took in class.... That one said.... It saidd..... It said that I was an Extrovert! (gasp!!!!). So I just figure that the test was rigged or inaccurate or some wacky conspiracy theory.... You know how I love conspiracy!

So I'm basically writing to tell you how hung-over I am. What they say about being drunk on life...well it's true. What they don't mention is that you can also get seriously wasted from life, if you're not used to it.

If I said I really hate people sometimes, would you think I was a horrible person? Because quite often I find myself thinking... Hmm. People.... I HATE people. Grumblegrumble...

Yesterday I saw, spoke to, listened to, generally interacted with, lots and LOTS of people.

Now, this isn't the first time it's happened, but I always forget about the after effects and end up getting screwed anyway. Um... What I mean to say is that I go and have a really great time with a lot of people, and then... Oh wait. Uh... No. What I really mean, is that...

Okay, so say I go to a party or a dance or something. And there's a ton of social interaction. The introvert sort of diminishes for a while and the extrovert is coaxed out of it's lovely shell (What color is YOUR introvert shell, huh? Mines purple with Anarchy symbols all over it...Aaaannnd That wasn't really relevant.). Well, the next day I'm kind of stuck half in, half out of that purple Anarchy shell, and I don't really know what to do with myself.

That's where the hang-over comes in.

And I can't take any aspirin for this kind of head ache.

Am I totally off my rocker? It's possible... What I'm saying is kind of bazaar.

This time I thought I would try to ween myself off of people slowly, gradually, so that I wouldn't kill my alertness all together to begin with. But that only aggravated the into/extrovert inside, and it ended in a screaming match between the two sides (inside my head of course. Lucky me.), and now I'm exhausted, and I'm probably going to be all sassy tomorrow because I won't be up to using my filter system for all of those sassy (and sometimes borderline mean) comments, and I definitely won't be up to sparing any one's feelings, soooooo....

Look out Tokyo! Here comes Bitch-zilla, and with her is her trusty sidekick Sir Casm.

Okay, okay. Bad joke.

And now I just wish that I really was an extrovert, because any self-respecting extrovert would just shake this off like a pair of static filled underwear clinging to the inside of their pants leg.

I'm going to bed. And I'm wearing sun glasses to school tomorrow, damn whatever anyone else says.

Oh, and thanks for reading, as always.