vixenmage

Actually, according to John Adams, the Declaration was signed on July Second.

And it's about a guy, and a genie, and an island and a dice game. Whaddya think? Honestly.

( The Game )

So a girl I know from Drama Club last year, now a sophomore, took this quiz and I saw the results on facebook and they made me see black and red for a few seconds. So of course, out of morbid curiosity, I took the quiz (but refused to publish the response and spread the damned stupid thing.)

The quiz? "What Mental Illness Do You Have?" (or maybe it was "what mental illness 'are you'" or something. but I'm pretty sure it was "do you have'.)

Her result? Schizophrenia. (My result was the same.)

The description?
Schizophrenia is a serious illness marked by psychotic phases of hallucinations and gross disorganization of thoughts. You're not just a disorder - you're a DISEASE! Your peers fear and hate you, and they also think you're a freak. You're severely ill and should go check yourself into the nearest mental hospital as soon as possible.

Even reading it again is making my blood boil. These are the times when I wish I was more successful in my efforts to tone down my language, simply so that when I said Fuck this quiz, and whoever the fuck made it, it would carry more weight. Fuck this quiz. Fuck whoever made it. If I knew who they were, I would take a stout tree branch to their fucking face. Not just for me, either, because I'd bet quite a bit that any other result was just as offensive, wrong, and just fucked-up (and, incidentally, full of triggers).

My favorite part is how it characterizes your disease as YOUR FAULT. (you are a DISEASE, your peers [rightfully] fear and hate you because YOU are a freak.) Ironically, immediately after pointing out that schizophrenia is a serious illness. Whatever. Fuck this quiz, and whoever made it.

Oh, for sure. There's tons of things, left over from the culture shock: wearing pants, cutting my hair, wearing make-up, reading secular books, singing that dirty rock music, giving up meat, swearing, going to public school, the list goes on and on.

But the thing that I remember, deciding under my own power and in my own mind, never to do, is smoking. Cigarettes, I mean. I hated the smell of them, I knew they could kill you, I knew they turned your teeth and skin and fingers yellow, and I have heard the story countless times of how my grandfather came home and had to clean up his father's lung from being spread all over the kitchen table, when he died of tuberculosis. And I remember my grandmother's slow, painful death from emphysema. So I definitely didn't need help deciding not to smoke. It was also right around the time my aunt found out she had throat cancer, after a very, very short time in her life, long ago, smoking.

My younger brother's been smoking for years now; he'd left an almost-whole lit cigarette on the side door railing. Hanging outside with my two best friends, I grabbed it while he went inside, and smoked as much of it as I could before he came back, which was almost the whole thing. And you know what? I enjoyed it. It tasted good, I didn't choke on it, it didn't really burn my throat or lungs, and for some reason I really liked it. Then, of course, he came out and chased me down for it, until I gave it back, almost gone, laughing. The next three days, all I wanted to do was smoke another one. Three DAYS I craved that thing, and for one and a half my mouth tasted like ash no matter what I ate. I swore I wouldn't do it again.

The second, and last time, was months later. My friend and boss had taken a week off, and the manager and I were working alone, and everything went wrong. Like... everything. Everything went wrong. And, stressed to the max, hot, irritated, I bummed a cigarette off of her, telling her that 1) I was eighteen, legal, which was true (...I think.), and 2) I'll just buy my own later anyway. Which probably was not, because I do Not look eighteen. At all. So I bummed one off of her and sat on the loading dock behind the store, took a smoking break for a few minutes, felt marginally better for the break, but the cigarette was disgusting and burned my mouth, and I felt like a jerk for smoking it, and more of a jerk for promising not to tell my friend who was on vacation, who I knew would kill both of us.

And that's when I really decided not to smoke. It's expensive as hell-- I can't afford to go out and spend six bucks every three days! That's insane! And it only gets worse as the habit develops, and it will only get more expensive as the tax goes up. It makes your mouth taste like ash. It will eventually kill you, unless you are one of the lucky few, or unless you manage to kill yourself first. Your house, car, clothes, and everything you own will smell like smoke and turn yellow. And, and this is the biggest point for me, you become completely dependent on it. I Do Not Like being dependent. On anything. I'm still pissed about being addicted to coffee. Tobacco? Yeah, no.

Eight months or so later, I told my friend who'd been on vacation the whole story. And now, I know that if for whatever reason my resolve wavers over the course of my life-- if I join the Army, or whatever, I will most definitely not smoke again, anyway, because that memory of disappointment will stay with me. It was possibly the worst single guilt trip anyone's ever been able to pull on me, but hell, I don't care. Stupidest decision I've made my whole life long, and that's saying something. Anyone who tries to keep me from doing that again is a friend I can trust.

Today, in Euro, we started the Russian Revolution of 1917. But before that, because our History teacher is freaking awesome, we got a little background info on the death of Rasputin.

Apparently, this dude, the "mad monk" who had a crazy level of control over the tsar and tsarina, was pissing off some nobles in a major way. The tsar was so isolated that he pretty much was talking to no one, but Rasputin had a constant audience for whatever reason. He was also feared pretty much by everyone, and reported to have supernatural powers of some kind. So the nobles, sick and tired of shouting at the gates while Rasputin, this dude with no -real- reasons to have the tsar's ear at all, did whatever he wanted, hatched a plan!

The tsarina, purportedly quite beautiful, was out on some journey or other, but they told Rasputin that she was coming back briefly just to have dinner with him. Rasputin, blissfully unaware, agrees to meet her.

The nobles have dinner prepared, but lace the food, as well as Rasputin's two favorite drinks, apparently, heavily with potassium cyanide. Gleefully rubbing their hands together, they watch as the food is served, and Rasputin digs in.

Annnd eats, and eats, and drinks, and eats, and starts to wonder where the tsarina is. They tell him she'll be here pretty soon, and he calls for gypsy music. (Seriously! Freakin' gypsy music!)

The noble who was in charge of dinner freaks out. He excuses himself and goes upstairs to freak out with his comrades, who decide on a backup plan.

He returns with a revolver and shoots Rasputin. (Where is not specified.)

Rasputin lurches to his feet, makes it to the door, and falls out. Of the door. He flees, the would-be-assassins firing after him (and missing). Eventually, they catch up with him, and, after conferring briefly, tie his hands over his head and dump him into the river.

Autopsy reveals that it was, in fact, the river that finally killed him-- not the cyanide, or the gunshot wound.

Only in Russia, man.

( Cut for nudity )

It's not porn or anything. Just a sketch, Greek-style, in a way. I don't know. I just didn't have the heart to draw clothes on something like that. It wouldn't have been the same. The bit of print that was cut off at the bottom reads "Eagle, I am not." The first draft, months ago, said "I am no eagle" or something like that.

Recently I found out that chocolate companies, at least a lot of the major ones, use a lot of child slavery to stay in business. So this was rather depressing. Hershey, Mars, and Nestle are the biggest, but I guess a lot of them do it. Here are the sources thus far:
http://www.bukisa.com/articles/12355_bitter-sweetchocolate-by-slave-labour
http://www.ihscslnews.org/view_article.php?id=173
http://www.american.edu/ted/chocolate-slave.htm
http://www.thoughtleader.co.za/khadijasharife/2008/11/08/of-oompa-loompas-slavery-and-racial-supremacy/
http://www.coopamerica.org/programs/responsibleshopper/company.cfm?id=238
http://www.laborrights.org/end-violence-against-trade-unions/colombia/969
http://www.organicconsumers.org/fair_trade/slavechocolate060414.cfm
http://www.chocolatework.com/chocolate-slavery.htm

This is something that's pretty hard to just swallow. It's kind of sickening that chocolate companies are slipping this right by us, and most people don't even know. Long run, my idea is to take these sources, put them together, and write an article type thing, basically just something to get this information out there so people -know- what it is they're buying. I'll try and have this ready as soon as possible.

If anybody wants to help me edit this, once it's finished, let me know. I'd really appreciate a few betas.

Guys, this is the saddest thing I've ever seen. http://www.saveourcatsfromfishermen.com/

(note that i do not necessarily agree with him that it's because of global warming. that seems kind of stupid)

But. The thing is, apparently people have started using cats and kittens as live bait for kite fishing. This is so fucked up I don't think... there's nothing really to describe it besides just that. Fucked up. Definitely see if you can spread the word on this, it's something I think people should know about. The video made me sick.

Okay, maybe a little. But it also has a somewhat-finished-thing about a gardener named Jim! And a frog!

This started out with me writing that I wasn't going to write about the boring frog who sat in the garden pond and went "Ribbit" like a good frog, because that would be boring. But then I had to finish writing about the frog, and the gardener named Jim who talked to him. Neil Gaiman is too much of an influence on my style, but ah well, I will read some more Kurt Vonnegut and stuff and continue growing. I hope. Anyway, the frog.

( Cut for Length )

So the night before last, we went out and got a Christmas tree; it was Ruth, and Peter, and my dad and I, and we took Carly even though we went to Home Depot and not a tree-farm. It was pretty easy to find one, the second or third one we looked at was perfect. We always get a Balsam Fir, 'cos those smell the best and the strongest. We also got a wreath for the front door, brought the whole deal home, and then had hot cider and nachos. We brought it into the living room, and put it up in the corner, where the computer was.

Then, last night, we decorated it; Sheila came over, my dad made pea soup, and we had cookies and afterwards ice cream, and it was quite good. I think this is the best it's looked, really; usually it's... okay, but not perfect. This year, it really does look just about perfect, which is very cool. When the whole thing was done, we turned off all the lights and sat down with our ice cream with just the tree lights plugged in, and the effect was very nice. I'll put up a picture at some point, if I can.

Anyway, the thing about all this is that now the Living Room Computer has been dismantled and moved onto the desk in my room, but I haven't had the chance to clean up enough to get it into a position where anything can be done with it. (my room's been a mess since October. it's a little depressing.) And even once I plug it in, there's every chance that I won't be able to get an internet cable in there. So, right now I'm kind of not really plugged in, just jumping onto the computer in my dad's room (which is very nice, and very fast, and not stuffed with tons of junk) every once in a while to check my e-mail and such.

So hopefully I'll be back on in a week or so, but until then, keep warm and Merry Christmas! ^_^

[ETA: I tried to put this up several days ago, I think it was last Thursday or summat, but this computer wonked out on me, ironically enough.]

( 2009 )

I can't believe there's only seventeen days left. And I can't wait for this month to be over, so my life can become reasonable again.

From garbled memories of anger and pain, of love and wonder, from the sparks that fly between heartbeat and desire, from the songs of the Bard and the wonder of his long-entranced audience, I find a moment of beat.

Stop telling me that it's okay
'cause life will never go away
and if I must
I'll pay the painted piper--
it's unjust,
the things we're never meant to know.

the wine it sparkles like a gem
you'd have me cut to shreds
and really, in the very end
we're all better off dead.

You who have never slain a man
talk of vengeance in the dark,
and tell your sons to carry
out your burdens, wear your mark.

Men are fools, men are cowards
but who are we to judge, towards
our own ends and the love of pain
for even Abel, even Cain
though brothers, once had love
for the other, what it's worth
are we to call them brothers still?

Sir, like a madman I yet jest
and like a fool you still invest
a fortune's worth of trust in me
for fortune's fool we all must be
And is it not the storm that drives?
and are you not as mad as I?

Once upon a time, there was a tall castle built entirely of white brick. It had a flat roof, but in places, in some kind of pattern or other, there were peaked towers. On some of the towers, banners flew-- or tried to. They were fastened for their own good, really; they would only be carried so far on the wind before falling to the ground. In the sunrise, the peaks of the towers shone like copper, but the walls of white brick were blue-gray. At sunset, the towers grew dark first, and the walls glowed, orange like fire.

The prince used to wander the white halls, and wonder what it would be like the next day, and the next, and the next. Every morning, while it was still dark, he would get up and climb the top of each tower. And the banners, furled brightly like morning glories, petals twisted under dark leaves, would lay in rolls on the table. He carefully put each out, and they leapt into the wind as he let them out of the towers.

Sometimes, when the sky was dark and lightning shone in short bursts, he left the castle and wandered the gardens around it. There was no road, only the hedges, and the little flowering trees here and there-- some kind of pattern, around the borders of the beds and the shrubs with berries. You couldn't eat them, but they looked kind of pretty, the little spots of color on the shapes of the plants. From some of the towers, he could see the forest, dark with shadows of its own, in the distance.

Of course, this was before the Mayans discovered plastique, and injected special tablets of it into the Earth's core with carefully prepared casings, ensuring the end of the world by the year 2012. =D

In the halls of white brick he would walk, rather aimlessly, most of the time. He sometimes thought up a purpose in the empty rooms, for himself. Every now and then, he made his voice echo in the long halls, but sometimes, it would not. The floors, dark gray and shiny, made clicking noises when he ran on them. There were no windows in the castle, only in the towers-- the light, he supposed, came from the ceilings, but he seldom looked to see. Most days, he didn't mind climbing the towers to look out the windows; some days, he was lazy and stayed under the flat ceiling, which was faintly luminescent, in a way. It stopped glowing at night, after sunset, and he would sleep in his own room.

Day after day after day after night, in the lonely castle.

The north wind called, when he was in the towers, but he could not hear it unless the windows were open, and he was rarely awake enough early in the mornings to understand. In the gardens, the hedges sometimes made noise in the breeze, but it wasn't really the same. He wandered, in the sun he would play in the halls or sit with his back to the walls, watching the clouds float by. In the storms, he was safe in the gardens, watching the lightning and feeling the rain on his face, soaking him.

There was no road, and no map, but nevertheless, there were only so many times he could wander the halls before he began to wonder. And there were only so many nights, really... the wind began to get clearer. The hedges began to sound more and more like laughter. He would run, day after day, down the halls, hearing the click of the floors and wishing it would stop. The lightning, on the days he was outside, never struck the towers, but he stayed away on the ground anyway. The thunder meant he was safe. He began to think about flying, like a flag, from the highest tower.

One day, he walked farther and farther from the castle, wondering how big the garden was-- he'd explored almost all of the surrounding area, but how far did the hedge go? The sunset came, and rather than go back to the castle to sleep, he stopped and watched the sunset on the walls-- the orange flaring on the brick, the towers, cold as steel. The banners flew as wildly as ever; there was always wind up there, he realized, even when the windows weren't open. He reached out and touched the hedge, and pushed his hand through it, as far as he could reach into the prickling branches. Nothing.

There he stood, for a long moment, looking at the castle, leaning on the hedge. Never had it felt so solid, so like a wall. He nearly cried, but he had never cried and really, wouldn't have known how.

Who would do such a thing? Is there a time when Man could be too powerful? For our own good, for the good of all around us-- is a belief that there must, some day, be an End, too optimistic?

We found a monarch butterfly motionless in the path at Bushnell Park today-- I picked it up, it was so fragilely beautiful, and took it home with me, one of its wings was torn on the edge a little. Ruth saw it moving where I'd put it, on the entertainment center. I felt like shit for not having left it alone. I gave it sugar-water, but it only twitched a few more times, now it's laying on my hand and I can see it's bleeding from the antennae joint, too. I looked online and found this.

How do I help a butterfly that is hurt?
How do I help a butterfly with a damaged wing?

There are many types of injuries - and sometimes it is time for the butterfly to die. But in bad weather (cold or wet) you can best help a butterfly by putting it on flowers in a sheltered position, or by bringing it indoors.

Pick some flowers with nectar, and put your butterfly on that, and with warmth, shelter and nectar it may recover.

Remember that a Monarch lives only 6-8 weeks after it has done what it is here to do - continue the species. Every living thing must also die - but hopefully before it’s time is up, it will have either fathered a new generation of butterflies, or laid sufficient eggs to leave behind many descendants.

It is possible to replace a broken wing by gluing on a perfect wing from a dead butterfly. But this is labour-intensive, and requires practice. Full instructions can be found here: http://www.livemonarch.com/hospital.htm

If you don’t have the time or inclination to do the job well, our suggestion is to pop your injured Monarch into a container and put it in the deep-freeze. The Monarch will feel no
pain, just go to sleep as if winter was coming, and then be euthanised while it is ‘asleep’.

I don't want to, at all. But I don't want it to hurt anymore than it has already. I'm so sorry. ._.

Step 1. Put your playlist on random.
Step 2. Post one or two lines of lyrics from the first 20 songs that play, no matter how embarrassing.
Step 3. Strike out the songs when someone guesses correctly. NO GOOGLING.

1) Well I won't back down, no I won't back down. You can stand me up at the gates of Hell but I won't back down. No I stand my ground, won't be turned around.

2) So long ago, certain place, certain time; you touched my hand, all the way, all the way down to emmeline, but if our paths never cross-- well, you know I'm really sorry but...

3) Sleepless nights and endless days, and all I do is promise to change my ways; leave the lights on, you know I'll pretend you're on your way.

4) I've got you under my skin, I've got you deep in the heart of me, so deep in my heart, that you're really a part of me, I've got you under my skin.

5) There is a house in New Orleans, they call the Rising Sun, and it's been the ruin of many a poor boy, and God, I know I'm one. (WAY too easy.)

6) Don't think me unkind, words are hard to find, they're only checks I've left unsigned, from the banks of chaos in my mind; and when the eloquence escapes me, their logic ties me up and rapes me

7) Black flash over my own love tell me of my eyes, Black flash come through my own life, telling these things, and I believe them, and I believe in you

8) I've heard there was a secret chord that David played, and it pleased the Lord, but you don't really care for music, do you?

9) Callin' out your name-- Can you hear me calling, out your name? You know that I've fallen and I don't know what to say; I'll speak a little louder, I'll even shout--

10) [two three four!] I try to sing this song now, I try to stand up, but I can't find my feet; I try, I try to speak up, but only in you I'm complete.

[two instrumentals in a row!]

12) Doom is behind, the world ahead, and there are many paths to tread. Through shadow, to the edge of night, until the stars are all alight...

13) I want to break free, I want to break free! I want to break free from your lies, you're so self-satisfied I don't need you-- I've got to break free.

14) Some people call me the space cowboy, yeah, some call me the gangster of love; some people call me Maurrrrice, cause I speak of the ...pompitous? of love.

15) Anytime, anyday, you can hear the people say, That love is blind; well, I don't know, but I say love is kind. [do do do, do do doo do doo] Soldier boy, kissed his girl, leaves behind a tragic world,

16) I wanna trip inside your head, spend the day there-- to hear the things you haven't said, and see what you might see. I wanna hear you when you call, do you feel anything at all? I wanna see your thoughts take shape and walk right out--

17) Bones, sinkin' like stones, all that we've fought for; homes, places we've grown, all of us are done for.

18) Well, I'll be damned, here comes your ghost again, but that's not unusual, it's just that the moon is full, and you happened to call. And here I sit, hand on the telephone, hearing a voice I've known, a couple of lightyears ago, heading straight for a fall.

19) Heaven on Earth, we need it now. I'm sick of all of this hanging around, I'm sick of the sorrow, sick of the pain, sick of hearing, again and again, that there's gonna be peace on Earth.

20) Virgil Cain is my name, and I drove on the Danville train, til so much cavalry came, and tore up the tracks again; in the winter of '65, we were hungry, just barely alive.

But not with my vote.

( Cross-posted first from Myspace, and then Facebook: Exactly why. )

Since it was posted on myspace first, it's fairly rough. A bit of strong language in one or two places, and a bit rambling, and without much formatting, since Myspace often does rich text, but the content's there.

Beautiful song.
Possibly my favorite on the album.
So Joyful.
If you've got the time, I definitely recommend taking the four minutes to watch it. I love this album, and this song; I heard it for the first time when I bought the album. It's not their best seller, it's not their most praised, but. But. It is so beautiful, so joyful, so reverent, so.

( In alaphabetical order. )

Also, yours truly.


Why? Because I can.

So it turns out Rosie was most definitely right. My answers to the last few posts were as follows.

( Again, cut for length )
They just sent me this an hour ago or so.
---
I actually find you arrogant and I tried to answer you in a calm manner and all you have done is got back to me and have been quite insultive. You have put me down in every aspect. please dont reply back to me! Oh and how do I not know you might be the man Bono himself. You could easily be on here under a lot of disguise names. Well if you are bono I have not come on here to critisise you but you really need some help. I dont mean to say that in a way to offend you but your way too up there. Fames starting to go to your head since your knighthood. After seeing you yell at some brazillion fans outside hanover quay you yelled go home girl to Brazil that wasnt nice after she made a long journey to see you. Also What is the real need for this tower thats supposed to be going up in Dublin? I assume thats costing millions? When that money should go to Africa [emphasis mine]
---
I am very, very tempted to respond, but I think I'll just let it go. I could throw everything that's wrong with their argument in their face, but... eh. It's like arguing with a five-year-old, you get the feeling that they only are going to hear 15% of what you say, and they might understand 10%, and they're only going to respond to the 2% they have an answer for.

Besides, they now think I'm Bono, and that's as good a compliment as I've ever gotten on Youtube! I am satisfied!