Friday, May 6
This is a music dryspell time for me. For some odd fucking reason I've been going for weeks without really caring to hear a single good song, some quality shit that is far, far, away from what stupid fucktards tend to blast in school or what the sibling blasts first thing in the fucking morning. It has all, good and bad, become obsolete to my senses. I really don't fucking get this. I've barely even mentioned any band or anything at all for such a long time. I've gone through a lot of obsessions throughout my life, and music has always been coming back for every so often. But this time it lasted for a few years. Is it really over? I think not. I just think that I'm going through some mental shit, maybe mental growth or maturity or something. And music surely does not help me grow boobs or accepting the fact that I have to grow old someday and they'll sag.

What's so ironic that I wore a band t-shirt to school today for the first time in ages, when it's all so pretty much mindless to me. No, it's because today is a little chilly for some unknown fucking reason and since I have no nice long sleeved shirts, I wear a big [hence longer sleeved] t-shirt. Lame, but that is indeed what I am. Nine Inch Nails, by the way.

But today I also suddenly got a newfound thirst for something to listen to. It almost felt like a rising from the dead sort of thing but I'm just fucking dumb. This morning I searched far and wide, all over my room, through every CD case and box, every drawer or some shit, and just could not find Side 1 of The Fragile, just so I could hear "No, You Don't." Just for that. And I couldn't fucking find the CD. I just can't stand not having a proper CD shelf or book. All I have is a glass shelf where I pile them all on top of each other, a black toolbox that I just line up some other shit, CDs that have no case piled up in a plastic tube thing, and one black case that only holds twenty. So much shit and about five shitty places to store them. Not to mention that I'm a lazy fuck who likes to jam discs in other disc's cases whenever I'm done with them because I can't find its own case. Just recently I've finally realized that I have too many to keep up with. More than half of them are all copied, so more half of them are grey and have marker written all over them. More than half of them don't come with their own cases. More than half of them are so fucking hard to keep up with, keep up with as in their current location.

Today was so exceptionally "blah" that I feel as though nothing has happened at all. I feel as though I've been sitting in this seat for twelve hours listening to Tears For Fears.

Upon coming home from school on AMC was this crazy ass Kathy Bates movie, called Dolores Claiborne. After watching it, it just gave me this horrible feeling of dirt and grime. Dirt and grime, like all the sins of the world have just suddenly crashed on me and started its own colony in my skin. And little evil (more like, more evil than already) Christopher Columbuses are stabbing little flags in the name of satan into my pores. That movie had so many fucking problems within its characters. Not to mention that Vera(?) looked fucking scary. At first I thought she was some creaky old man. But no, it's an old creaky pasty white woman who Dolores is trying to make use a bedpan. Overall it was a good quality movie that actually captivated me for once, because for just some fucking stupid reason I am just not a movie person, and actually made me sit down and watch it - I actually turned myself away from the computer for more than sixty seconds.

You know who I hate? Puritans. It is them that we highschoolers have to read stupid shit like The Scarlet Letter and "The Crucible." It is them that we have to read a play that took two months to finish about how people think green women who rub their vaginas away by flying on broomsticks really exist. Yes they do exist but I don't think they have the power to make me itchy by not lending a single hand onto my skin. It is those puritans that we have to read a book with a 45-page forewood, and once in the story it takes four pages to describe how great a woman could sew. Fuck you fucking puritans, you and your fucking Mayflowers and green wart-nosed twat rubbing women and over-exaggeration in writing abilities that sends me to fucking La La Land. Also known as sleep.

The Scarlet Letter was the first book in history to ever make me sleep purely due to its complete tediousness. Reading those four fucking pages on how Hester Prynne could sew like a fucking god honestly, honestly I fucking swear, made Christina, Christina who fucking despises naps, go take a nap. It was that horrible. It was that boring. It was that full of shit.

I took an hour and half long nap immediately after dragging myself from the living room to my bedroom, drew the covers over my corpse and snoozed. Deep and hard. I slept like a log. I slept like a log that's been shit on by a bear and it ain't moving anywhere at all for the next hundred years. I don't know how that makes sense but I slept so soundly that not even Gwar could drive me to insanity had it been blasted three inches away.


Christina N. @ 8:11 PM