this thingy

I found this!

--THEATER KID--
[ ] Ever been in a School play?
[ ] Have you ever seen a Broadway/West End show?
[ ] Seen more than 10 shows?
[ ] Have you ever been/Are you in school shows?
[ ] Does your current job involve theater in some way?
[ ] Want to end up working in/for theater?
[ ] Can you recite all of the lyrics to your favorite play/musical?
[x] Do you break out into random songs?
[ ] Do you like the Sound of Music?
[ ] Did you like the Broadway show?

--REDNECK--
[ ] Do you have a couch in your front yard or porch?
[ ] Do you drive a four-wheeler?
[ ] Do you ride four-wheelers?
[x] Do you like to get dirty? (Blood yay.)
[ ] Do you like country music?
[ ] Do you have a broken car in your back yard?
[x] Do you own a cowboy hat? (This means Kaoru is a redneck too.)
[ ] Do you live on more then 1 acres?
[ ] Do you have more then 4 different animals at your home? (I had 2 kangaroo rats...)
[ ] Do you watch Larry the Cable Guy movies? (???)

-GOTH--
[ ] Do you wear black eyeliner? (I used to.)
[x] Is most of your clothing dark?
[x] Do you think about death often?
[ ] Do you want to die?
[ ] Are you a social outcast?
[ ] Are you pale?
[x] Do you own something from Hot Topic?
[x] Do you enjoy Tim Burton movies?
[x] Are you mean?

--PUNK--
[ ] Can you skateboard?
[x] Do you wear Vans, dcs, converse, ect.? (What's wrong with converses.)
[x] Do you do stupid stuff with your friends? (Who doesn't?)
[ ] Have you gotten in trouble with the Cops?
[ ] Do you watch the x-games?
[x] Do you have any piercings?
[x] Do you like/wear a mohawk? (I had a crazy one kinda sorta four years ago.)
[x] Do you wear Band t-shirts?
[x] Are you a rebel without a cause? (Uhhh...?)
[ ] Have you called someone a poseur recently?
[ ] Does it piss you off when people say poser instead of poseur? (what the fuuuck)

--PREP--
[ ] Do you say the word "like" alot?
[ ] Do you shop at Hollister/Abercrombie&Fitch/AE/Aero?
[ ] Do the people in Hot Topic scare you?
[ ] Do you laugh a lot?
[ ] Have/do you watch LAGUNA BEACH?
[ ] Do you like pop music?
[ ] Do you want/have a little dog?
[ ] Do you smile a lot?
[x] Do you hang out with your friends a lot?
[ ] Do you always carry a purse/wallet?

--HIPPIE--
[ ] Is your hair long? (It's been long before, but.)
[ ] Do you own a tye-dye shirt?
[ ] Do you want to save the animals?
[ ] Do you think war is unnecessary?
[x] Do you like classic rock and trippy music?
[ ] Have you ever participated in a protest?
[ ] Have you ever been overcome with a desire to hug a tree?
[ ] Do you play a ukulele or os?
[ ] Do/have you ever smoked the peace pipe?
[ ] Do you wear a peace sign around your neck?
[ ] Do you just sit in the grass with your friends and play guitar? (Die and Totchi do.)

--GANGSTA--
[ ] Do you act ghetto?
[ ] Do you wear do-rags?
[x] Do you like hip-hop?
[ ] Was Tupac truly the greatest rapper in the world?
[ ] Do you believe he's alive?
[ ] Do you like afros?
[ ] Have you ever said "Fo Shizzle"?
[x] Do you like to dance?
[ ] Do you own any Baby Phat or G-Unit?

--EMO--
[ ] Do you cry often?
[ ] Do you wear hoodies?
[x] Do you like hard music?
[x] Do people not understand you? (AHAHAHAH.)
[x] Do you write your own poems?
[x] Ever dyed your hair red, black or dark?
[x] Have you ever cut yourself?
[ ] Are you LONELY?
[ ] Do you like ohio is for lovers by Hawthorne Heights?
[x] Do you think a lot?

--SURFER--
[ ] Do you surf?
[ ] Do you wear flip flops year-round? In -30 degree weather?
[x] Is your hair shaggy?
[ ] Do you wake up before 6 every morning?
[ ] Do you own any pairs of shorts?
[ ] Are you tan?
[ ] Do you want to be at the beach right now?
[ ] Do you hate tourists?

--GEEK--
[x] Do you wear glasses? (Rarely.)
[ ] Do you get good grades? (Hilarious.)
[ ] Do you use an inhaler?
[ ] Do you stick pens and calculators into your shirt pockets?
[ ] Does your mom pick out your clothes?
[ ] Are you on the computer often?
[ ] Do you ever get picked on?
[ ] Do you look forward to going to school?
[ ] Are you shy around the opposite sex? Depends on if it's a dude I like.
[x] You play video games?

...that was actually pointless.

1 comment

aspirin plz

I have an immense headache and I'm sick of sitting at this computer and staring at its horrid, bright screen.


...

I'm waiting for Toshiya to come and baby me.

...

I'm going to sleep you enormous faggot, god!

Post a comment

i feel the weaknessssss

Imogen Heap is my guilty pleasure.


I visited Die this morning because he never has anything better to do. Originally I was just tagging along with the boy because I have to interview Kaoru for some piece in Vogue or something irrelevant like that. But Die was just there smoking so I stayed with him for awhile. Eventually I stole his cigarette without realizing that it was really a joint and 

pot 

smells

like

shit

but I smoked the rest of it anyway before going into a coughing fit like I've never inhaled smoke in my life and then Toshiya brought me McDonalds and I wanted to say that I hated McDonald's but I ate it anyway because I was trying to hide the fact that I probably reeked or something, not that Toshiya would've noticed because he's oblivious to 50% of everything that doesn't matter and he was busy with that Shinya ho anyway.

Not that she's really a ho or anything, but I don't miss a beat in my run-on sentences. She wears a lot of black, I noticed, and doesn't ever really talk and tries to avoid meeting gazes. She also doesn't look at her face when she looks in mirrors. I think she has really shitty self esteem. Which is funny because usually models only bitch about how much they hate themselves but really don't. But...

Oh well, I don't care. She's only supposed to be a pretty face.
That was pretty mean of me to say, considering, but whatever.

I'm secretly a poetic intellectual.

...I just realized I forgot to be astonished that Die smokes pot. Then again...

4 comments

ah.

Toshiya fell asleep with his head in my lap, so I braided a white ribbon into a few locks of his hair.


He is so...

11 comments

sexytime.

Sex is quite a huge part of my life. Needless to say. Well, if you know Toshiya, it goes without saying, I have sex a lot. I don't, however, feel the need to delve into that publically. "Hey, no fair," you say; "Hey, fuck you," I say. I don't ask to hear about the gorey details of your sex life.


...It's very nice though. Toshiya's pretty much up for any kink. 

Not that we get EXTREME, or anything. Well one time it got out of hand. Only once though. He brought home the fletchettes and insisted that we try it. Not me. Luckily it left no extensive scaring, except for a pale crescent moon on his inner thigh.

Toshiya's problem is that he just can't say no when it comes to sex. So he gets hurt a lot...not just physically. Sometimes he gets bruised or cut. But emotionally, he will. Toshiya's a pretty self-confident person. If you put him down, he might whine or shed a few tears, but he only does it because he's just an impulsive bitch. He doesn't really care. But sexually, if he feels inadequate, his self-esteem dips like something fierce. So if you ever find yourself in bed with Toshiya (which you'd better not, but I'm telling you anyway) and you found it lacking, don't tell him. He'll overdose on Nyquil and lock himself in his room for days.

I guess most people wouldn't like to feel like they suck at having sex, or whatever. I mean, if someone told me I sucked at fucking them, I'd get pretty pissed. No one has yet, though, which is surprising, because I really can't be the best lay in the world. Sometimes I'm rough, and sometimes I'm gentle, I bite and scratch and kiss oh-so-sweetly and generally I'm...

Bittersweet.

Sometimes I cry during sex.

But only with Toshiya.

I've never cried fucking anyone else, due to the lack of romantic involvement.

I forget the point of this entry so I'm going to change the subject.

I went to lunch with Toshiya today, except he had some chick with him. His new model, her name was Shinya or something. She was actually very pretty, not like most of the coke skanks the fashion business is forced to deal with. She's pretty short for a model, probably about only 3 inches taller than me at best, but she has the perfect body for it. Skinny and no boobs. She has longish black hair with blonde highlights in the bangs and dark eyes with the potential to be expressive, except they weren't. They were guarded, almost cold, like she has something to hide.

(She went away though. So I got lunch with Toshiya alone.)

I just remembered, she's the sister of another model that works for AUX. Kei or whatever. Kei is simply pretty, Shinya was a classic beauty.

I also went to dinner with Toshiya tonight. It was kind of a fluffy outing. We were both disgustingly sappy towards each other. But at least I convinced him that the bed doesn't require a daily making.

4 comments

aux.

My life could, possibly, be quite content at this point. In fact, for the most part I am. I have a solid job as a freelance journalist for a handful of fashion magazines, and Toshiya -- my aforementioned lover -- makes a considerable sum from working and designing for a fashion company called AUX. (You may have heard of it.) We live together in a beautiful highrise, with a perfect view.


But there is one tiny thing that bothers me, just a little bit, and that's the fact that I am not the only one Toshiya is with.

Kaoru owns AUX, and him and Toshiya have gone back years. They've known each other for as long as each other can remember. And from the time they were in middle school, they planned to have a business together. And they got it.

Kaoru is an admirable person. He has a lot of drive and doesn't put up with shit. He's witty and humorous and generally fun to be around. He has quite the temper, but then, so do I.

I like him, I don't like that him and Toshiya are with each other as well.

It's no secret. It wasn't a scandalous affair that was hidden from me.

Toshiya could be considered "promiscuous", I guess, but he doesn't cheat. He told me flat out one day that he was in love with Kaoru, too, and would I mind if they could be with each other as well? Well of course I minded, but I hate seeing Toshiya hurt. And keeping him on a tight rein isn't my thing. So, I let them.

I wish that it could just be me and him, but it's not. Toshiya is full of love. He can't help that. He doesn't have problems with commitment -- or rather, he has problems with committing too much, I guess. I know that he doesn't love me any less than Kaoru, and splits his time fairly between us.

I love him, so I can't fault him. 

And no, we never do anything together, all three of us. Toshiya knows it would kill me.

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rhomyx.

I suppose I should speak somewhat of my lover. 

Toshiya.

Our tenth anniversary is coming up. We aren't married, of course. But we have been together since our freshman year of highschool.

He is beautiful, in every sense and aspect of the word - he's tall, a good 7 or 8 inches on me, with long, dark, disheveled hair, down to his shoulders, large, dark eyes and an absolutely beautiful smile. The kind that makes me feel -- god -- warm and fuzzy. Yes, that.

But those dark eyes hold something of an old pain. It's not so noticable - he's always so bright and happy. But it's still there, a point of dullness, a certain sadness. Like he's seen more, way more than anyone has, so much hurt.

It's a kind of look like, if you cut him, he wouldn't bleed the same as a normal person. Not fresh, red blood, but old, rust-colored, slowly leaking, in chunks.

...Not that he really does. Actually he cut himself opening a tuna can today. He cried like a bitch. It was pretty funny, he's such a sissy. I gave him a Barney-The-Dinosaur bandaid. He's so pathetic.

Really, he is a huge baby. Everything is liable to make him cry. Whether it's a simple "I love you" or some shit on Lifetime, or abused puppies, or whatever. He will sob. 

It's really pathetic. Considering what he's been through.

But that's not my story to tell, so I won't.


5 comments

hawkcry.

Scars are bittersweet - they are permanent reminders of less happier times. But when people see them, they respect you. Maybe even fear you, to an extent. I like it when people are scared of me. At 5'3" and less than 100 lbs, it's hard to find someone who is truly afraid of you. 


Aesthetically, anyway.

When I was younger and more foolish, I chose to hide my extensive scarring behind even more extensive tattooing. Only one person, aside from my real parents, has seen what lay under the colorful ink.

If you squint, you can still see them. But most people wouldn't squint, because, well, they don't know they're there.

I think now, if I could go back in time, I would not get the tattoos. Scars are a fear factor.

Not that people aren't scared of me now.

My father was an ex-Marine. A veteran. 

My father was.

Because he's dead now, actually. I was lucky enough to witness his untimely murder, but I'm not sure that made me who I am today. My father himself made me who I am -- and who am I? Me. Slightly deranged, neurotic, paranoid, violent, bittersweet.

My lover uses bittersweet to describe me a lot, actually.

My mother murdered my father in front of me when I was about ten. Give or take a year. It seemed after that moment, I was very old. Although, when the homocide occurred before my very eyes, it felt like my life truly begun, yet ended -- I don't make sense, no, but I don't care. 

The thing is, the years before that event are blurred. I don't remember them. So I guess the "old" me died, and this one was born. 

My mother, of course, was convicted easily -- and with an insanity plea landed in an asylum. And I had much of the same fate -- foster homes.

I suppose I was listless those first few years -- bewildered, confused, hurt, deeply emotionally scarred, as the psychologists would put it. Not true. Well maybe it was true. But I don't see it that way. Or maybe back then I was too young to understand and now I'm too old to see it that way. I'm used to the scars, however hidden they are. 

When I hit my teen years I began to fight a lot. Every day, after school, I would push, and someone would push back. I'm not sure if I enjoyed it, or did it for the hell of doing it. Puberty hadn't been kind to me, rending me the shortest guy amongst my peers, and I guess I had to unbridle the oh-so-intense masculinity that coiled within me.

Or something, maybe that was just an excuse.

My current foster family consisted of a control freak father, who hated me. With everything that man could muster, he hated me. Maybe because I had intruded, somehow. 

Although, for the most part, he ignored me. He had forewarned me to be good or there would be dire consequences, when I had first come. Otherwise, I did not exist. The black eyes, busted lips, bloody noses and bruised knuckles I brought home were not of his concern -- he asked no questions, I offered no explanations. 

When I look back, I was almost content to get the shit beaten out of me every day and come home to someone who didn't care. It became routine.

I was about 14 or 15 the day that all changed.

A senior, typically, who remarked on my remarkably short stature was the baddie this time. I spit in his face, he spit in mine, I lost my mind and we were on the ground. 

I don't know what sparked my violent rage this time, but it was violent. His face became nothing but bloody gouges from my nails, his jaw crumbled bone under my split knuckles -- in fact, by destroying half his face I destroyed my own hand in the process. His balls were nothing under my knee, his breath lost from my insistent elbow dug firmly into his stomach. 

Although he did muster enough strength to grab me -- then again, I weighed little over 90 pounds at the time -- actually, I still do -- and slam my face into the wall. 

Aesthetically I only scraped, luckily. He was trying to break my face in return, by slamming my cheek into the brick repeatedly.

The only real damage he did was to my ear. 

Anyway, we were broken up soon enough. I was to be expelled, although -- my highschool sweetheart, and their rally of friends, stuck up for me.

Amazing, really.

So I only got suspended for ten days and condemned to community service.

The real problem lay at home.

The school had, of course, contacted my foster dad to pick me up. He had heard the story from them, and saw my scraped cheek, and my badly malformed hand -- it was swollen, ripped and bleeding. I was half-deaf at this point (and remain so for the rest of my life), blood slowly leaking from my ear only to become hidden in the ruins of my cheek.

He whispered, "I'm taking you to the hospital, boy."

Except he didn't, actually. Not at first.

He took me to that barren place surrounded by barbed wire, cold, frozen ground, rusted pipes and old, broken things, things that were once new and came to be broken. 

A place that no one knows exists until they go to it, and after that it ceases to exist anyway, the place where no one goes, not even close enough to hear the vultures cry from overhead, a place that only exists when you're there.

I lost a lot of things that night.

And gained my scars.

And earned my right to hate.

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