I really like that line; I've been trying to figure out how I can use that in a story. Don't you hate it when you have the perfect line or the perfect scene crafted in your head, but you have no idea when, where, or how you can use it? I have that line to tinker around with while A* has the image of me barfing in an ally while still holding my cigarette perfectly safe from the projectile. He told me it was almost poetic--dirty pretty kind of. I have nothing against him specifically, but he's proven to be the basis for a lot of my secondary characters as of late. I want to say that it's because he was an interesting encounter, but the less than flattering characterization of those characters imply that maybe I haven't purged all the bitterness out of me.

I am a little reluctant to let it all go, despite the benefits my sanity might enjoy if I do. I almost feel like I'm in the same place I was stuck in after G*. I won't say that I'm in the exact same place since I've managed to not walk around like a comatose Bella in and out of Tang Center.  However, because of what G* did to me, I was able to draw from that experience and write the one story that I'm somewhat proud of. He also inspired another story, but that shit is in need of intense revision. The stories I'm trying to write now are pretty much the same, but even if the start are similar, I want to the story to go in so many directions that I'm not quite sure where it'll end up. Does it reflect how I feel about what happened? With G*, there was a definite direction because he made sure to define what we had so clearly that I would never be allowed to entertain alternative interpretations. A* was far more lenient. Or should I say more cowardly? Unsure himself? I could always tweak the introductions to fully explore all the possibilities, but if my writings are ever published, I an sure to be type casted as a certain style of writer and am always going to have to fit that assumption about my writing. Currently, that assumption would be pretty accurate, but let's keep our fingers crossed for improvement in the future. I've broken assumptions about me in the past and I can always strive to do the same in the future.

There is something I do wish to accomplish in the future. It does get dragging for me to go on about my dream of being published and a bit of frustration when one realizes the amount of effort I put into making it in a reality. However, if there is something I don't mind sharing about my ambitions for the future, it is my creative prose nonfiction novel that I am always mentally working on. If I should find a home in a stable publishing house and I get to write as much I want for the rest of my life, I would love to finally put those words into print. I think the best way to describe this book would be to call it my blanket "Fuck You" book. A collection of rehashed musings that I frequently visit that have more or less powered what I've currently done in my life, I do believe they should have a voice of their own. It's mostly because I've lost means of contacting the people who should hear these words. Still, it would be nice for them to know that I do think of them from time to time. Bitter? Grudgeful? Maybe, but it's not like I ever made it out to be like I'm a bigger person than I really am. I'm quite aware of how small and mean-spirited I am.

I can't sleep, but if I don't sleep now, I'll fall asleep in AS 150 today, but I usually do, so what was the point of this run-on?

Another Depressing Fact: I have been "smoking" for quite some time now and I just realized tonight that I've been smoking the WRONG FUCKING WAY. Just typing out this confession makes me want to contort my body into the world's most exaggerated cringe, drag my twisted body under a rock and die. Or at least practice to correct way to smoke down there. I cannot believe that what I thought was "smoking" was just me sucking in the smoke and just holding it in my mouth like a pussy. I blame this on the fact that I had to start smoking in secret; my parents were vehemently against my brother and I smoking whatsoever. I didn't know anyone older who smoked and was okay with me starting, so I just went with it and it's just so typically me to pick the easiest way and stick with it, thinking I'm badass. Now, I have to get used to inhaling the smoke the right way, choking and coughing pathetically like a newbie. The worst thing? People who are bound to notice my slight frame convulsing madly will come up to me and scream "Why are you trying to be cool? That shit's going to give you cancer!"

I get that there are people who are vigorously against smoking, primarily because of health issues, and feel like it's a vice/evil/addiction that others should not delve in. I get that they want to inform people about the complications that come with smoking and I do think that everyone should make an informed decision about their stance on smoking. That said, I do know the smoking messes up your body a lot. I get that you can significantly harm your baby if you're pregnant, damage your face and organs, and set up your body to crash in old age. I still want to smoke. I've had people ask me about my smoking habits and I didn't mind telling them why I smoke, when I started, etc. but what I do mind is that after I tell them all that, they still feel like they have to add, "You're fucking up your body, you know that?" If I told you that I've been smoking for however goddamn long I just told you, don't you think that I've already been told off by other people about the health issues? Granted, I've been smoking wrong, but it's been a part of my life long enough for me to know. Also, why do people like waving the "don't try to fit in/be popular" banner so much? If smoking is just a fad for social acceptance, why the fuck hasn't it faded? Do you honestly think that smokers are that desperate of individuals to cling onto some image facade in hopes of being accepted (especially today)?

I hate using this excuse, but smoking isn't that bad. I guess it's better not to smoke if you want to live a "healthy" long life, but you can't assume that everyone wants that. It would be nice to be in shape and be able to do all these physical activities, but don't assume that everyone has that degree of vanity. Smoking causes wrinkles and keeps you from sculpting your body, but on the flip side I wasn't exactly blessed with that great of a base. It's not going to be a great tragedy I look older or I'm a little flabby because, frankly, people generally aren't interested in me because I'm pretty to look at. Maybe fun to laugh at, but whatever. Also, why assume I want to live to be ninety years old? I mean, I guess I could outlive my friends and family and feebly attempt to fit in a society with different values and morals that I have, but why? I'd rather live a few good smoke-filled years with people I love and events I can really appreciate than just accumulate dates.

Seriously, leave me alone with my "dependency on cigarettes" when I properly develop a nicotine addiction. I'll say this right now, I'm not the type of person who can deal with stress well. Smoking helped me calm my nerves when I wanted to scream at my roommates (Confession: it took a lot to kill the idea of setting my roommate's guinea pig free into the street). I was damn nearly suicidal after G. broke things off with me and I almost gave up on school. It shouldn't be that big of a deal that I rely on the (placebo) comfort of smoking. There are people who depend on other things to get through life. We have religious fanatics who devote everything to their religion and just rely on their religious leaders to tell them what to do. We have people who numb themselves with drugs and alcohol because they don't want to deal with their troubles. There's always individuals who are always chasing after the next fuck because they need any sense of validation. Physically or emotionally, they usurp any human connection to sate their gnawing insecurities. There are so many ways to voluntarily mutilate yourself, so why can't I sit out on my porch and have a smoke?

On a side note, I spent about forty-five minutes changing my "Xanga Theme" and I feel like a fool for being able to do only this much.

I just posted this Infiniti Weekend Getaways widget for 500 credits. You can earn free credits too!

I need to start racking up those xanga points so I can finally change my name; I will admit, I was an eccentric middle schooler when I chose this moniker and I kind of cringe every time I see it. Although, it's nice to see that I am the first result you see when you google me :)

It's been a while since I've posted anything (but given my track record, this is hardly anything worth noting) and even I'm metaphorically raising an eyebrow to the topic of this post: I'm going to write about my shoes. I'm not exactly up to the Carrie Bradshaw level of shoe fetish, mostly because I don't have forty thousand dollars to pull out of my ass to pay for her kind of investment, but yea, I'm writing about my shoes.

To be precise, I'm writing about my red Allstar Converse hightops. I was struck with this musing while I was making my way out of the library and promptly seated myself in front of one of the numerous computers here at Moffitt. Granted, to post on Xanga in the midst of other students diligently gathering data from bSpace for their lab report does make me feel a bit out of place, but then again, I am in the library without a midterm to study for. The paper doesn't count because I'm ignoring it until the Sunday before it's due. Besides, I also have some time to kill before my next class and I've already finished critiquing this week's peer essays. Could comment about it, especially on one of the writers, but I'm tired after reading each of them three times.

But back to the shoes! The reason why my hightops are on my mind is because I've discovered that they are most unforgiving on my feet for a pair of "comfortable" casual shoes. More than "discovered", I was reminded after a semester of having left them back home and being spoiled by my Vans. It bothers me that a pair that I so dote on could be so mean right back. These are the shoes that I've coveted for quite some time and was beyond joy when I finally got a pair my size. I received them as a Christmas present two years ago and I've been quite diligent about wearing them, excluding last semester. These were the shoes that my friends quickly came to associate with and set me apart from the other girls when I went abroad to Seoul. Okay, the fact that my shoes weren't heels is the obvious reason why they set me apart, but the fact they're red hightops also set me apart from the guys who favored canvas Oxfords.

It's easy for me to understand why I was so enamored with them when I first got them, but I'm a little lost as to why I still like them now. I won't say that my infatuation with objects fade quickly, but there is the issue of a potential unpleasant association with the shoes. Being the emotional underdeveloped train wreck that I am, I cut a lot of things out of my life because they're associated with a person I've had a falling out with. For example, I hate how people replace "peace" with "piece" when they write letters because a friend of mine liked to end her emails with that. Of course, I thought it was stupid how people thought they were oh so witty with this homophone play, but now I've associated that with people who only speak so derisively about English studies because they themselves can only grasp the crudest manipulations of the English language. So what of the shoes? I could attach to them resentment towards people who think they are so observant and caring because they managed to remember a trivial piece of information and therefore feel like they're entitled to upbraid others who aren't as "observant" or "concerned" as they are. I could view them as a tool of manipulation people can use to guilt those around them to supplement their sense of moral superiority. In that case, I should have dropped them off at Buffalo Exchange for some quick cash. But they're still here on the shoe rack and they're still the pair I reach for first before heading out for school.

There seems to be a lot of superstitions surrounding shoes. If one should wear good shoes, they will lead that individual well in life. One should invest in a sturdy pair since it is one's feet that supports one. It is bad luck to buy one's significant other shoes because it will cause them to run away. It makes me wonder then what will these shoes, a product from a failed friendship, do in my life? I don't believe in completely cutting people out of your life, mostly because it feels like a pathetic attempt to whitewash your personal history. You meet a lot of people in life and they are inevitably going to cover a gambit of influence. Even a brief encounter permeates into past, present, and future. It's ridiculous to think otherwise. However, I will concede that I am usually on the other side, so it's fairly see for me to see how certain people, as much as they wish that they never met me, still carry my influence--often in the form of a grudge--in their life. Seriously, if you're going around telling out mutual friends that they too should cut off relations with me because I am a socially awkward bitch with a poisonous effect, then you're not "totally over" me as you claim on facebook. Well, that and the fact that you didn't "unfriend" me until I called you out on those rather immature posts you've carelessly written on walls accessible to me.

One day, I will learn to stick with the introduced topic and not ramble off into some self-therapy rant.

Because I have to run to class now to make it in even Bear Time and still snag a favorable seat, I will conclude that I love my red Allstar Converse hightops because they're fucking Converse hightops. They are intrinsically loveable.