WTF.

Why does everyone take me seriously? I happen to be a sarcastic person. Sarcasim becomes me. It wasn't meant to be serious.

Talk about epic fail.

So lately, I've been hearing a lot on Xanga about epics. There have been tons of epic fails, an epic post, and a post of epic proportions. My Creative Writing instructor even told me that one of my assignments had the potential of becoming an epic poem. Well, it's a different context, but all the same. It's not really about Xanga, but still, all the same.

The definition of EPIC is as follows: (according to Merriam-Webster)
1: of, relating to, or having the characteristics of an epic <an epic poem>
2 a: extending beyond the usual or ordinary especially in size or scope <his genius was epic — Times Literary Supplement> b: heroic

            When the lights turned down for the night and everything fell into quiet, the last person awake went about his nightly task of hunting his unsuspecting prey. The medieval gothic mansion fell into a state of restlessness until the deed was done. Cold stone slipped into shadow and he found what he was looking for in one of the rooms. The best ears couldn’t have heard the door open and shut again as he entered the bedroom. Plush red carpet hid the sound of his gliding step.

            Decorated in black and blood red, the room was one of his favorites. Black silk curtains looped around the four-poster bed; black silk drapes hung from the windows. He stared down at the sleeping beauty before him. He thought the red bedspread made her lips seem pale in comparison. If he closed his eyes, he could picture the color of hers: green, with little blue flecks in them. A single black candle lit up little space in the room, but it didn’t matter; he didn’t need it. His eyes could see just as easily in the dark as in the light.

            His trance of the hunt made him focus solely on the woman lying on the bed. Life ceased to exist in this room. Any other time, he conveniently forgot its existence. The image before him would last in his mind, as all the others had. Her blond hair fanned out around her, the black lingerie made her skin pale and almost luminescent. He took one last look before he gracefully sat beside her. His movements were elegant, full of ease and practice. He bent down, and whispered soothing words in her ear. He told her that everything would be okay and she would feel no pain. He kept his promise as he bit into her jugular, and he felt her pulse speed up, then slowly fade away as he drank her warm blood. Gently, he laid her limp body onto the bed, just as he had found her. As an accomplished hunter, he left no mess; no blood spilling from her wounds or his own lips. He tenderly kissed her forehead, and stood up. He blew out the black candle much as he blew out the candle of her life, and as quietly as he came, he left.

❦

            Vincent Del Francesi gripped the wrought iron railing so hard he almost broke it. His knuckles were white from the force. His mind was reeling and he could barely see through the red haze. He whirled around in a fury and went into the house to get his paints. It was the only thing that calmed him down. His hands were steady as his set up the easel and put a fresh canvas upon it. He painted the sea, as he did so many times. It was so angry tonight. Waves were crashing onto the rocks below with roaring ferocity.

            He always felt this way after he hunted. He hated what he did, what he was. He’d have to throw her body in the sea before morning, but he couldn’t bring himself to face what he’d done just yet. He had to paint it out first, with almost frenzied strokes on the canvas. When he finished, he stepped back to study at his work. What he saw unnerved him to the core of his very being. His eyes had moved to that spot in the sea before he’d taken the painting in as a whole. There, in the middle of the sea, was her face. It was the face of the woman he’d just murdered. Every time he stole someone’s life, he painted. And every time he painted, he unknowingly painted the face of the woman whose life he’d stolen.

            It had been so long ago that he’d been a young man, a boy really, in the streets of Rome, trying to earn food for pay by painting portraits. He had been skilled, but not many in those times could afford to spare anything for their portrait. Then one day came Francesca Frencisi. It had been dusk, the sun just setting. Vincent had been packing up his paints when she glided up to him like an angel from heaven. She was so beautiful; all he could do was stare. She asked him to paint her in her home. If only he’d known then what she was. He would have run in the opposite direction. But he was innocent to her plans, and agreed to go to her home.

            The word vampire tasted like acid on his tongue, an acrid burning that never went away. He gathered his paints and put them away. He glanced at the painting once more, with disgust and regret mixing in the fresh blood in his body. He took it away and put it in the room with all the others. He never looked in this room either. It was storage for his other life, the one he neglects to mention at dinner parties and social galas. It was this life that he kept a secret, a dark and dangerous secret that could never get out. He locked the door and didn’t look back.

Read this.

Is that not amazing? To the ancient Greeks, nature, the moon, the sun, the seasons, astrology... they were all so important to them they created this machine!! That's just awesome.

Do you ever drive with your knee? Or leg? I do it all the time, but I can't drive with my knee because I'm so short, it ends up being my leg. My dad does, I got it from him.

I was just wondering if this is common, or if we're weird  

GAAHHH. I'm not feeling so good. I think I might ask to go home sick. My stomach's all up in arms and my legs are jello. Plus, my face looks pale. Like paper white pale. Almost. I'm usually not this pale.

I'm sorry, I haven't taken any pics of my rabbit cuz my camera is almost dead. And I don't know where the charger is.

I have nothing interesting to say, as all I can think about is how sick I feel.

you know. drunk. or buzzed. i like it. vodka. is good. lol. i dyed my hair black.

The new addition to that household!!! The puppy, named Riley =]

This is a long post, but bear with it, please.

I wrote this because I was frustrated by what I've been experiencing recently.

I don't know why, but every time I say I don't believe in the Christian God, people start preaching to me, or shake their heads in disgust and disbelief. I'm not a Christian. I don't want to be a Christian. I don't want to read the Bible, and I don't want the Bible preached to me. I have my own beliefs, and I don't want someone else's pushed onto me.

If they didn't want to recruit me, they wouldn't keep preaching to me, throwing Biblical stories in my face. I believe that Christianity is a man-made religion. The Bible was written by man's hand, and it's full of stories. I believe that celebrating nature, something that was already here, is more truthful than preaching a religion created by men. I believe that trying to push your religion onto someone is wrong.

I don't see how anyone has the right to tell me that I don't deserve to live and that I have to thank God for being alive because I am not worthy. To me, that's extremely rude and assuming. I don't think it's right to have to pray for forgiveness because I'm a sinner. I make mistakes. So I'm a sinner? I'm not worthy unless I apologize? Supposedly, God made us how we are. He made us sinners. So I have to pray and apologize for what God supposedly made me? How is that even close to being right? Put that kind of situation in any other context and see how right it is. Maybe I'm missing something, but that's always how it's been put to me.

I've been to church, many many times in my life. I never ever felt at home there. I never felt peace, I never felt that connection. One time, I went to church with my best friend of the time. The pastor started talking about people who have had bad childhoods. He said "Where is the justice?" I started crying. Because, where is the justice? Why did I have such a rough time growing up? Why did the things that happen to me, happen? I didn't cry because I wanted God to ease my suffering, not because I never wanted to be thirsty. I cried because I was horribly sad. It made me think about the things that have happened to me, and how it affects my life. It made me think about bad and sad things.

I went to a church camp once, for 4 days. The first day I was there, I started bawling, This was the point that I knew. I knew I wasn't a Christian. I cried because I realized I didn't have anything to believe in. I had no higher power. I had no one. I had no religion. I cried because I knew in my heart, I did not believe in that God. I knew in my heart that that wasn't the road for me. I had come to a crossroads, and there was no God in front of me.

I believe in karma, and in reincarnation. I believe that there is some good in everybody. I am Wiccan/Pagan. I believe more in a spirituality than any religion. I feel more at home with nature than in a church. I belive in the cycles of the moon and seasons. They do not lie. I believe in ghosts and spirits. I believe in Summerland, and the spirit coming back in a different role. I believe in past lives. I believe in Mother Earth and Father Sky. I believe in energy.

I believe that there's many Gods and Goddesses. I believe that each God is a different aspect of one God. I believe that each Goddess is a different aspect of one Goddess. I believe that the God and Goddess come together to form The One. So I believe in God. It's just not the one everyone wants me to believe in.

This world is a world of many religions, spiritualities, and beliefs. So why are people so shocked that I'm not a Christian? Why does it matter? Does it make me a bad, horrible person? Why does everyone have to tell me I'm going to hell? I don't believe in hell, so I guess that's a good thing. But still, it's rude and degrading to tell someone they're going to hell. Or tell them they have a demon in them. Or that they're the devil. Or that they're being ruled by the devil. I don't believe in the devil. Why can't people be accepting of different beliefs? Even if I was a Christian, I would never participate in a conversation with a non-believer and proceed to tell them they're going to hell.

I'm a kind, compassionate person. I'm also a bit jaded and cynical, but that doesn't make me any less nice. I'm generally a good person. I have strong beliefs and morals. I have a strong sense of what's right and what's wrong. I'm pretty smart, but I don't know everything. I'm feeling a bit pushed around, but being attacked for your beliefs will do that to a person.

I don't believe that people should be persecuted for their beliefs, be told they are going to hell. I believe that everyone has a choice in what they believe in. These are my beliefs:

 

"Wicca is a joyous religion springing from our kinship with nature. It is a merging with the goddesses and gods, the universal energies that created in all in existence." - Wicca: A Guide For the Solitary Practitioner by Scott Cummingham

I do not not think that anyone has the right to tell anyone else what the right path of divinity is.

This is a personal choice and a right.

Also, I'm not trying to degrade anyone's beliefs. If you believe in God and Jesus, I really am happy for you.

 Well, I've had this account on Xanga for over 5 years. A lot has happened in my life in those 5 years. A lot of bad, some good. I've had 4 total accounts here, but this is my main one.

When I first arrived here, it was just for me. I had a couple classmates as friends, and made some new ones. Every single friend from back then except for one is no longer here. But that one friend I made saved my life more times that I can count. High school was literally a waking nightmare. I don't want to go into too much detail, but basically my mom was doing cocaine and screwing up my life with her antics, attitudes, and craziness. I moved 6 times that year, had severe insomnia, and all kinds of things. Not good things. I became depressed and suicidal because of what my mother was putting me through.

That one friend I made on Xanga saved my life. We started talking on AIM, and we'd talk for hours at a time. More often than not, he talked me out of doing something really stupid that couldn't be taken back. He was my strength, my crutch, my lifeline.

When I got out of high school, I stopped regularily updating my blog, and only wrote in it every once in a great while. Often, blogs half a year apart or more would be on the same page.

I think that I've finally reached a state of mental health that's a lot better than in those days. Of course, I still get down, but nothing compared to that year.

And I don't know if 5 years ago there was the sense of community and friendship that Xangans have these days with people they don't know in "real life". Either there wasn't, or there was and I wasn't paying attention. But nevertheless, I'm back to Xanga and love the sense of community and friendship here in Xangaland....even with the drama that occurs every day

 

Whoohoo, I have money coming my way soon. My dad finally got our deposit back from our former idiot landlord. If he decides to let me have half, it'll be more than one of my paychecks. Hooray. Should I save it or go Christmas shopping? Or save it to spend after Christmas to see what I didn't get? I don't know! I'm lost.

Yellow nailpolish so isn't my color. Gross.

No, I have nothing better to talk about right now other than the mundane :/