I need to make my brain digest the food I'm feeding it. Swallow, organ! Digest and absorp everything you ingest, organ! EAT EAT EAT!!!! But apparently my brain is bulimic. When i'm not looking, it throws up most of what it ate, by force. WTF??? Cmon lah, DO YOUR GODDAMNED JOB WILL YOU???

In the usual state of greediness, I want more than I can afford at the moment. I want to graduate by next year. I want money to fall from the sky. I want to travel the world, preferrably alone so I can indulge anywhere for as long as i want. I want to own mansions and castles. I want to travel to outer space. I want to play at a rock concert. I want to buy a planet. I want to figure out the way to travel at light speed. I want perfect vision. I want to be taller.

YADA-YADA-YADA..............

Oh, and I think I'm ditching the idea of becoming a front line soldier. My goodness, the crap they go through, and I'm not even halfway thru this book I'm reading that dishes the stories of soldiers in WW1. But i think i know why they dont want women in the company.

We bleed like fuck every month or so, cant afford to leave trails now can they. And because of that, we'd prolly get infected or diseased more easily. Besides that, if the males outnumber the females, u can be damned sure of some sick orgy going on, ones NOT willingly participated by the females.

Otherwise, intelligence and strength/stamina wise, the females can par that. Apparently we're not biologically inclined to serve as soldiers.

And I've run outta things to rant about again. Protein synthesis and metabolism calles for my attention. Laters.

She scribbles furiously onto the paper, word after word after word; she doesn’t even pause to think. Thought after thought, she pours everything onto the white sheet, drowning it mercilessly in black ink. Heat rises to her cheeks as she goes on, each alphabet more pronounced than the previous; she starts to scar the paper with each stroke.

“More, I need to write more!” she whispers. Let it out, let it out! I’m going insane. I’m going insane! Oh, the beauty of words. It screams at your eyes, deafening your ears, etching itself in the mess of your mind. The heat becomes unbearable, she starts to tear. They flow and flow, and wreck her body with violent sobs, but she doesn’t stop writing. It’s too warm. It’s to warm! The fire is burning too strongly! She screams onto the paper, hot tears rolling down her face, burning the paper as is splashes like hot oil.

She chokes, she gags, she screams, she cries; but it hurts more with each attempt. It hurts, it hurts so bad, even death will not do her justice. It’s biting, biting so hard, the teeth already digging deep into the flesh, and now it’s gnawing at the bone. The mind shattering pain, the heart wrenching agony; she wants to drop dead, she wants death. But she cannot. She cannot.

She pens her death onto paper a million times over. She plans her funeral a thousand times over. She pens her misery over and over again, she’s getting sick. She’s going crazy, she’s losing her mind, she knows it but no one can help her. Where is the cool breeze to calm her when she needs it? Where is the comforting warmth when she wants to be held? Where is the goddamned love when everything she sees is leading her to believe it doesn’t exist? Where are they? Where are they?

I’m burning in hell, I’m rotting in hell. The fire won’t stop swarming over me, the smoke won’t stop suffocating me. WHERE AM I? She is lost, so lost, she doesn’t even know what she’s doing anymore.

I don’t know what I’m saying. I don’t know what to think; I can’t think! I can’t feel anymore, I can’t even force myself to try. I am numb, I am numb. I am incapable of feeling for others, on the behalf of others. Nothing seems to matter, everything's so trivial. I can’t care, I can’t care.

What in fucking hell am I bloody saying?!?!?!?!?!?!?

Make haste! I command,

To the time where I am gone,

Fleeing to the other lands,

Fleeing from the bane,

Fleeing from the tyrants.

For when I take the first steps,

Ensnared by the wind,

Deserting all,

I take flight without looking back.

There will be nothing to come back for,

There will be nothing to regret about,

There will be nothing to hurt about,

I will only have the path before me to take.

For I do not forgive,

For I do not forget,

It is thus set,

That I shall always be,

Nomadic in body,

Nomadic at heart.

My place is forever with the realm of dreams,

The faeries on Avalon I long to meet,

The fields of Elysium I long to greet,

Alas!

All is but a wish,

Until the time arrives,

For me to conquer the world.

Henceforth,

I will create my world of Avalon,

I will bring to life the Elysian fields;

Thou will have regretted crossing me,

When thou watch all start to fall apart,

But see those that I hold dear, stand strong.

For I do not forgive,

For I do not forget,

It is thus set,

That I will be forever mighty,

That thou will be forgotten.

“Bang bang, that awful sound,
Bang bang, my baby shot me down”

Bang. Bang.

Then, she walked into the garden to lie under the stars.

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“Will you please stop talking on the phone at this time of the night? It will give the impression that you are a bad kid to the parents!”

Sure mother, just because I don’t sleep at 9pm like all the other good kids do means I’m a wild and slutty person right, she thought to herself. “Well babe, I got to go. The machine is cranking up again,” she said to her friend.

She existed within a dysfunctional family. Then again, which family on the face of this forsaken planet is not dysfunctional? Mother has issues, probably menopausal issues; father has temper issues, the usual with the male species; brother, well, he was the only one that was angelic in the family. Heaven forbid that he will succumb to the likes of everyone else on this planet!

As for her, she basically feels nothing. All the dramatic events played out by the actors around her have fed off all possible emotions from her. The world stinks, everyone knows that. But nevertheless, that did not give her a good enough reason to just commit suicide; not like she has not given that a thorough thought though.

Her friends are the rock gods she hangs out with, she being one of the rock gods. They cause all sorts of mayhem within their own world, ignoring all the rocks thrown at them during the day. The family you make for your own are your friends, they say; which she firmly agrees with. Never has she felt anything before she met her buddies, her extended family members. But once back home, to the rotting ground she is born into and is cursed for life to remain with, all that joy and love just flees out the front door. Bye bye baby, I’ll catch up with you some other time, she would always tell herself before stepping into the house.

Depressing isn’t it. The place she calls home is really just a brick and concrete, hollow piece of shit that does not count for anything. Then again, what is it that she is supposed to be depressed about when more than half of her friends have even shittier lives than she does? She really has no right to be angry or depressed about anything, because she is one lucky bitch.

Everything works out for her, everything falls into place in the end, and even on the way, everything is just fine and dandy. So what is she complaining about? Man, after she read Prozac Nation, well, she did not even finish it because it was just too whiny for her; she decided that she would be happier with the things she has. Well, perhaps she just needs that dose of drama that everyone seems to have. As always, the human species thrives on drama. Soap opera, wars, small little squabbles, you know, the likes.

She gives all the support that her friends need. She dishes out ‘advices’, so to say. But who is she to be the one to tell others what to do? Even if she was a qualified ruler of Heaven and Hell, she still has got no right to do that. Oh, the confusion. Perhaps she wants others to know that she can be counted on, despite her mother telling her that she is plain useless.

She would sit in her room, engulfed in a cloud of carbon monoxide, and stare at the wall. Hoping it would crumble and let her go free. Oh, freedom. How difficult it is to attain. All her friends tell her she has freedom. Oh yes, she does. So free, that she is trapped inside the illusion of being free. Did that make sense? Maybe not.

Love completely eludes her. Well, not really. She just pushes it away. There was no point in keeping it around, after all, it will just end up as some kind of hurt; not for her, but for the other party. She is cold. She is stone cold. There’s enough hurting going on in the world to bother creating more. Besides, her mother told her it’s not worth it. As always, the screeching got its way.

But the noise keeps getting to her. She wants so badly to rip off her eardrums, to put a drill into her head; sometimes the wall looks so inviting to bash her head upon it. The tiniest hint of a squabble at home would drive her up the wall and into it. It got so bad that she decided, finally, to put her plan into motion.

She fed her brother enough sleeping pills to put him to sleep forever, reading to him his favourite stories of the Fantastic 4, telling him he will be Johnny, flaming on and flying around as he pleases; telling him that he is Spiderman, out to save the world with his web and that he is all of the Power Rangers, stomping out evil monsters to save the earth. And then, he goes to sleep, with a smile on his face, dreaming about all the things he loves.

Without shedding a tear, she kisses him on the head and leaves the room, whispering good bye and I LOVE YOU. For once, she meant it. She meant it.

Her parents were asleep, in the master bedroom. Picking up her fathers shotgun, she loaded it, made sure that it did not jam and silently opened the door. Her father had taught her the mechanics of the gun, it was no stranger to her. They used to spend a lot of time at the shooting range, picking off targets and laughing as she missed most of them. This time, she was not going to miss.

One round for mother, another for father. Then it was over. She did not bother saying anything to them. It wasn’t like they heard her anyway when they were awake.

“Bang bang, that awful sound,
Bang bang, my baby shot me down”

Oh yes. Your baby just shot you down. Now, go on and continue arguing over who got shot first and why he taught her how to operate the gun and why she did not try to listen to her daughter in the first place. Hell will gladly take you in, they won’t tire of more strife and discord.

“Bang bang, that awful sound,
Bang bang, my baby shot me down”

Bang. Bang.

Then, she walked into the garden to lie under the stars.

Coolness.

I found my files of torture methods that I was researching at one point. Hahahaha.

Positively painful (or paining, as I prefer to say it) but yet, there's this nice shudder that you get from imagining the pain it causes.

Coolness.

I would say the medieval torture methods give the most kick. And anyhow, the modern ones are a rip off from the medieval methods.

The Iron Maiden, is pretty cool. Apparently the person you shove in side it is pierced and bled in such a way, they survive long enough to see their blood collect at the base of the device. Watch me bleed baybeh! Watch my life flow like glorious red wine. Hmmmm.....perhaps one could be sick enough to feed off the blood. I mean, you put lah, the device on a higher platform, let it drain into a nice bowl, then you take the blood like you would a fruit punch. Mmmmmm......

Oh, and the Brazen Bull. Now that is pretty fascinating. Apparently it originated from just putting a person into a pot and lighting fire around it. No water, just bake the person in it. And it seems the sound produced by the dying person sounds like that of a bull, from the outside of the pot. So what this nobleman did was, he created a larger holding chamber.

From the baking chamber (as I like to call it), a series of intricate piping is constructed; the exterior of the entire device is created to resemble a metal bull (hence the Brazen Bull).

So when a bunch of people are baked (the more baked, the more realistic and aggresive the sound produced. Hello, multiple screamings being built onto each other.... resonance people!), you get this huge sound which on the outside, it seems like the inanimate bull is coming to life. Pretty awesome thinking going on there eh.

Well, the nobles had nothing much to do besides fuck around and well, getting entertainment outta tortures. Cmon, we've all heard about Elizabeth Bathory, Ivanhoe, Vlad Tepes..... Well, maybe for Dracula's case, he kinda had to watch the torture while being held at the Turks place.

Nevertheless, this shows that humans do thrive on pain. If not watching physical pain, they thrive on emotional pain. The most effective form of torture, and most satisfying to watch, is that of a person so broken, emotionally and mentally, they basically can't do shit.

So you deal physical pain, yeah, they scream. After you take that away, they'd be scarred; sure. But think about this. You mind fuck a person like hell. You make them believe what you want them to. Then you take it all away. Oh, the pain.

You are the master puppeteer, they are your toys. You break their legs when you want to see them limp and crawl. You break their hearts when you want to see them pull out their hair in frustration, they hurt themselves, they rant, they rave, they go insane........all with just that slight mental push you give them.

*gleeful rubbing of hands and a diabolical laugh ensues*

Hmmm..... I wonder if the world I'm living in now isnt some drama set up by someone, where all the bad shit that happens is just the puppeteer removing something from the stage. And the good shit happens when the puppeteer places something there just to see you jump with joy and then, take it away to laugh at your misery.

I think I feel a scheme forming in my mind.......

Oh yes I am.

Whenever I listen to Celtic songs in which they sing in Gaelic or whichever language, IT'S SO FRUSTRATING COZ I DONT UNDERSTAND WHAT THE FUCK IT MEANS! But the music is damn soothing.

It can be upbeat, it can be mellow, it can be relaxing, it can make you smile, it can spew out the exact emotions you are feeling; long story short; It's plain AWESOME.

The haunting strings, the harp.......mostly the goddamned fucking strings are just so fucking awesome I can't describe it in words. If i was fucking talented, I'd be a bloody professional violinist, violist and celloist. GOSH, it fucking sucks when you're just average. ARGH.

So here I am, angsting over that and everything else, and swaying to the music of the celtic world. Beautiful music I tell you.

Clannad is good. Loreena McKennitt is good. Capercaillie is good. Basically, they are all good. Hahahahahahaha.

And also, you could try Metal and Celtic at one go. The feeling is not bad. Alternate the songs and you get this WHOOH! feeling. They make very good exam studying music; METAL + CELTIC.

My brain loves it.

Well, I can't think of another phrase as a title to this entry, so, the above will just have to do.

Basically, I'm here to rant about what I want out of my life. No, I am not 'lost' or 'have yet to figure out my purpose in life' or 'Maybe I should just drop dead because there's nothing much in the future for me' or 'I am afraid of what may come so let's just die to save ourselves the agony'.

Pffffffttttttttttttttttt!!!!!!!!!!!

Cmon man, the fact that nobody knows what the hell is coming makes it all the more worthwhile to stick around. What fun will there be if there was a stupid 'psychic' to tell "OMG, famine will occur for a month in Jan 2080" and then it does.

Fine, its fun coz the person will get to be all mighty and say "I told you so" but please. How many times would you wanna be proven right. You lose the kick of discovering and experiencing something different. SO BORING LAH!

Whoops, I see that I have swayed from the topic. Hahahaha.

Basically, I know what I want at this point.

MONEY.

Well you see, becoz I don't have sufficient funds, I can't hire a team of space geeks to take me to the moon and to circle the Earth from the outside. I can't own my private jet that can fly me to anywhere on Earth. I can't undergo eye surgery to repair my vision or break my legs so they can make me taller just so that I can be a jet pilot or astronaut w/o constipating over the physical limitations I currently have (well, intelligence-wise, I qualify for their requirements already. HAHAHAHAHAHA).

Uuuuhhh, ok, I shall stop with the I 'can't's.

Amazingly how one convo can spur a person into excessive and obsessive day dreaming. You know who you are if you're reading this.

And the point of the death themed title is that I think I know exactly when I will come to pass. Perhaps that one day when I realise I have done all the things I've wanted to, lived with and savoured the people I love.....I mean, life is short, so DOH! I won't be able to complete EVERY SINGLE THING on my list, but I will have accomplished enough to satisfy me for this lifetime.

On that day, I will go to sleep, feeling out-of-this-world happy and satisfied, that there will be no reason for me to wake up anymore.

By Everclear

I close my eyes when I get too sad
I think thoughts that I know are bad
I close my eyes and I count to ten
Hope its over when I open them

I want the things that I had before
Like a star wars poster on my bedroom door
I wish I could count to ten
Make everything be wonderful again

Hope my mom and I hope my dad
Will figure out why they get so mad
I hear them scream, I hear them fight
They say bad words that make me wanna cry

I close my eyes when I go to bed
And I dream of angels who make me smile
I feel better when I hear them say
Everything will be wonderful someday

Promises mean everything when you're little
And the world's so big
I just don't understand how
You can smile with all those tears in your eyes
And tell me everything is wonderful now

Please don't tell me everything is wonderful now

I go to school and I run and play
I tell the kids that it's all okay
I laugh aloud so my friends won't know
When the bell rings I just don't wanna go home

I go to my room and I close my eyes
I make believe that I have a new life
I don't believe you when you say
Everything will be wonderful someday

I dont wanna hear you tell me everything is wonderful now
I dont wanna hear you tell me everything is wonderful now

I don't wanna hear you say
That I will understand someday
No, no, no, no
I don't wanna hear you say
You both have grown in a different way
No, no, no, no
I don't wanna meet your friends
And I don't wanna start over again
I just want my life to be the same
Just like it used to be

Some days I hate everything
I hate everything
Everyone and everything
Please don't tell me everything is wonderful now

I don't wanna hear you tell me everything is wonderful now

For the first time in my life, I am 100% repulsed. Sin, i tell you! I have committed the ultimate sin!

Yes, I OD-ed.

It's so depressing I don't know where to start my story. Or if it has even ended at the moment.

Sob.

I gag at the very sight of that thing. That lovely, lovely thing. It makes me sick! I can't believe I overdosed on it!!!!

*Ahem* Or so I'd like to think I overdosed on it, yea.

CHOCOLATES!

I OD-ED ON EM!!!!!!

OMG. SIN! SIN! SIN!

Well, I blame it all on the ridiculously, weak stomach of mine. Can't eat everything and anything I want coz its a fecking weak stomach.

SCREW YOU STOMACH! I wanna stab you, deface you, burn you, let you rot, step on you, kill you a million times over, shoot you with a shotgun and throw a nuclear bomb at you.

Ok, I'm done ranting. Good day.

I have yet to start afresh in a new place, but you already tell me what to do and what not to do. For the simplest things possible, you hand me huge tomes of instructions but for those that matters, you are never there.

All of us at home are the way we are because you want us to be so. You want us to be useless, so you can be the one that solves all the problems. You want us to be tactless, so you can tell us how great you are when it comes to handling situations.

You want us to be foolish, so you can whine about how you are so smart and that we are only holding you back from potential greatness. You want us to be less independant, so that we can cling on to you, to make you feel important.

You want us to make mistakes, so that you can gloat about your perfection. You never see the good in us, you forever bring out the bad. You never give positive support, positive criticism, and yet, you have the nerve to tell us it's all for our good.

Tell me, mother, how is it a child is supposed to grow up well in an enviroment that only the negative thrives? How is it a child is supposed to learn respect if most of what the child watches daily is one putting the other down with tones of hatred and impatience, regardless of the bond shared by the two?

How is a child supposed to learn about love, when even the two closest to the child shows none? No nice words. No nice gestures. Even the air in the house is chock full of tension, anger and intolerance.

The child stuggles to find some breathing space among friends and in what the child enjoys doing. But unfortuntately, the child is hindered from doing so. Pent up frustration, anger, hopelessness; the child is slowly but unknowingly creating a personal Pandora Box.

Keep pushing, mother, and soon there will be nothing left to push about. The child is very close to jumping off the cliff, instead of fighting not to fall. If only you knew how close, mother. The child never did ask to be born. Mother, do not blame your child. Your child does not owe you a single thing. If the child is such trouble, then you have every right to put IT out of you life, for you were the one who brought IT to life.

You were the one who made IT the way IT is. IT became what IT is today because of your teachings. IT has tried to see things in a different perspective, as you taught. But everytime IT gets somewhere, you drag IT back down; scolding and taunting, sneering at all IT's efforts.

Why oh why, mother, IT is trying. Trying very hard. But you never see. You never care to take a peek. Why? How is IT not good enough for you? How does IT disappoint you?

So, IT fails. IT fails, oh IT fails, because all you've ever said is, "I knew you would fail". IT never wanted to fail. But you said IT would, so IT did. To please you, mother. To please you. So please, do not blame IT. Do not blame IT.

I did not ask for this life.

I did not ask to be born.