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My friends know that I'm the kind of person who hates the idea of people being similar to me. If somebody says, "Hey, I've got a friend who, I swear, is the exact double of you!", I immediately dislike their friend. I don't think anybody should have the same face as me. I like being good at art, and being good at writing, and being good at most things, because I'm insecure and I need those things to reassure myself that I'm spectacular -- and, of course, different from most people that I know. This includes my blog. Everybody's on Livejournal, and Facebook... and while I am on Facebook (for networking/communication purposes, mostly), I think I will rarely be using my LJ these days. I like the fact that no one I know has an Aeonity blog. Of course, I'll have to tell them I'm on Aeonity now so they can actually read my pointless drivel and be reaffirmed of my insecurity. As for what I'll be posting here, I will be posting lots of things. Observations, meaningless rabble, and stories and fics I'm working on. Some stories will be completed shorts or chapters, and sometimes just a few paragraphs as I'm trying to work out ideas and such. I'm excited now! ...It's too bad I don't really have anything worth reading at the moment, except for a short excerpt of the newest chapter of my KakaSaku story, which is still a WIP and has yet to pass through my beta, James. Here: --- Her carefully plucked and shaped eyebrows were raised inquisitively and she wore a devilish smirk, and if Sakura didn’t know better, she would have sworn it was Ino who harboured the Kyuubi, not Naruto. “So,” Ino continued. “Are you going to tell me why Kakashi is so different from Naruto or not?” Sakura drummed her fingers on the table. “Well… Kakashi has grey hair. That’s one way they’re different.” “Sakura… stop being so evasive. Would it kill you to tell your best friend what’s going on in your life?” Just then, the worst possible person entered the teahouse in all of his mad glory, and Sakura thought to herself, ‘Yes, Ino. It really would kill me -- or, at the very least, he would,’ as she watched the object of her misery and embarrassment practically saunter across the floor and over to the counter like some kind of stupid cat. --- I'm still working on it. -Yonemura. |
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Mood: Excited for Spiderman 3, even though I won't be seeing it just yet. Book I am currently reading: 'Speak for England', by James Hawes. |
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I'm actually very excited about this novel I'm trying to write (which is currently only eight pages long -- but it's size ten font, so that's got to account for something), and I've come to one conclusion: Writing a novel is hard work. Not just the writing part, trying to work out semantics and such, but the initial and continuing planning process. I've got several legal-sized sheets full of character and location notes and details, and I'm still working on them and tweaking the storyline (which, admittedly, isn't even complete yet! I'm sort of winging it for the most part). Of course, I never did expect it to be easy. I'm not foolish enough to assume that just because I'm a decent enough writer my words will spill onto the page like liquefied poetry. That's just silly. On another note, I was watching 101 Craziest TV Moments, and it made me laugh sadly because sometimes I still can't believe that some people can be that stupid. Case in point: Tara Reid. It's almost as if she had a reverse catheter strapped to the inside of her thigh, perpetually feeding her a vodka-methylphenidate cocktail with a little shot of Bailey's on the size fed to her through one of those beer-can hats. Can anyone be that stupid? It can't all be the alcohol, can it? I'm sure some of it's genetic. Stupid people tend to breed more stupid people, because they're not smart enough to don their rubbers so they won't do the world a sizeable injustice by breeding more stupid people. And so on and so forth. "A trojan? But I don't want splinters!" Dumbasses. I hope if I ever become that stupid, somebody puts me out of my misery. Preferably quickly, but if not quickly, then painlessly, like connecting a tube from the exhaust pipe of a Ford to the backseat, where I would be resting comfortably surrounded by pillows so I wouldn't accidentally hurt myself in my stupidity. Ech. I feel like eating some kind of pasta. Anon. And cheers! |
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So, the fourth chapter of The Paper Crane Confession has been sent off to my spectacular beta (whom I haven't chatted with on AIM for quite some time) for editing. After that is the revision part for me, because I'm sure there's probably something that could be fixed. But it may interest you to know that I'm already halfway through the fifth chapter (more or less) of Paper Crane. There will probably be more KakaSaku action there (although no lemon -- yet). So, because I am thoroughly enjoying the new blog, I bring you a preview of the fifth chapter, as is. -- Sakura didn’t want to be there. She looked down at what she was wearing and felt decidedly out of place in her nurse’s uniform. She just wanted to go home and change into some sweatpants and a t-shirt and go to bed in her actual bed, not on her couch, where she would mostly likely dream of being at the hospital, treating Ino for alcohol poisoning and scolding her for being so pushy and demanding. Sakura found that sleeping on her couch forced her into the strangest dreams, while her soft, cushy bed yielded near-dreamless sleep every time. -- Just a paragraph; I don't want to give too much away. Anyway. I hope Harrison Pecans gets back to me about the latest chapter so I can post it... See you later, I suppose. -Y. PS: I got into my university of choice, which was a bit of relief (but not really a surprise), so after having graduated from high school and taken two years off to work and save money (unsuccessfully), I finally get to go back to school for -- you guessed it, art and art history. |
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Mood: dandy Book I am currently reading: Still 'Speak for England'! Getting through it though. |
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Rest in Peace, Melvin C. Fowler. You've been in my life for nineteen fun years, and everytime I came to visit you, it was always a blast. When I was a kid, you always used to try to steal my nose, and when I couldn't steal it back, I tried to steal your nose instead. The thing I'll remember most about you, though, is bologna. Yes, bologna. Whether you were dumping heaps up ketchup on your own helping of bologna, or trying to steal my bologna sandwich, we always had a good laugh about it. (Come on, ketchup on bologna? That's just weird!) Somehow, I feel I should be sadder than I am, but the past couple of years, you haven't been in the greatest of health so it was sudden, but not unexpected when we got the phone call last night. Of course I cried, and I'm still upset about you being gone, because for the longest time I thought you were indestructible. Once you started getting sick, though, it sort of hit me that you might not be around much longer. It was weird, though, because every time I saw you or talked to you on the phone, you seemed to be getting better, and I figured that this was just something that you would pull through, like everything else. I was wrong, though. Just a month before your eightieth birthday, your strength ran out. You won't get to see me graduate from university, you won't get to see Brent get married, you won't be around when I start having a family of my own... but it's not necessarily a bad thing, I guess. Because wherever you are now, you're in perfect health, and you have all the time in the world to watch over us, and see our milestones, and yes -- even try and steal my bologna again. And this time, you'll have all the ketchup you want. R.I.P. Melvin Charles Fowler, 1927-2007. -- I hesitate to say that you were "taken from us", because deep down I wouldn't believe myself if I did say that. I believe that leaving us was a conscious decision of yours, and I would never blame you. It was your time to go, and you just couldn't wait around anymore, no matter how hard you tried. So I will miss you, Grandpa. I'm going to try my hardest in life to make you proud. -M.G.F. |
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You know what I hate? I hate it when I'm reading someone's profile, and it's very obvious they're trying to subtley glorify themself. I mean, I hope it didn't seem that way in my profile. I was trying to be honest and thruthful about myself -- although sometimes I wonder if my perceptions are a bit skewed. About myself anyway. But seriously -- I get so annoyed when someone is always like, "Yes, I'm weird (but I promise you it's a good kind of weird)!" You're probably not as weird as you think. If life has taught me anything, it's that we're all remarkably similar to one another. Physical appearances count for nothing, and just because someone is slightly different doesn't make them spectacular. I'm tired of people trying to build themselves up as extraordinary people, because really, no one is extraordinary. We're all just ordinary people. I mean, what's better, someone extraordinary doing very ordinary things, or someone ordinary doing extraordinary things? One (supposed) demographic sells themselves short, while the other exceeds everybody's expectations. ------- Meh. It's 12:17am... I have to get up in less than five hours. Why do I torture myself this way? Oh right, because I'm developing a masochistic streak in terms of sleep habits. Either that or I'm only vaguely aware (some of the time) of my sacrificing physical health in order to expand my creative wings. You know it's bad when I start trying to make things poetic. -Me. |