Decisions are Disastrous

As it turns out, my typing skills are beginning to become out of sync with what they once were. I would like to pretend the blame lies in the mess known as my keyboard, but that is unnecessarily unfair to an inanimate object. How is it going to defend itself anyway? By breaking apart even more? It's not the poor keys' fault that my decision making flies out the window with a shot or two or ten. That does, unfortunately, leave the problems to be my burden, my choice.

I could type better, faster, like I used to if only I understood motivation.

What I understand instead is falling victim to my own demented, rapidly crippling thoughts. Those demons we call inner ones that fail to look monstrous in comparison to so many others out there. Tomorrow will be better, I swear; leave me to wallow for tonight. Ease accompanies ideas that fail to require much effort, much thought, much of anything at all really if we're being truthful about the matter. 

I am to blame for myself, that is not something that I can place on someone else.

The thought behind the matter is that maybe, just maybe, if it was someone's idea beyond my own it would be acceptable. Surely a nameless person out there somewhere has a better picture of where this is all going, where it's all shambling towards. One grotesque, angled step in the wrong direction at a time; this is how we spell disaster without a d. It is not as if those that are affected by the picture couldn't see it coming. After all, bad judgment calls lined up back to back speak volumes.

I would scream, but then only the ghosts I haunt myself would hear me.

Being aware of the degree to which you should not feel haunted, horrible, or horrendous to is crushing. Emotions are a wave bent out of shape, waiting to drown as many victims as possible. Logic deems that this is all in our heads; worming around in our minds. It is, however, not real at all, just another faulty dream. People like to say that things like this get easier with time, the picture gets clearer, the edge of the world gets far enough way to not seem like you're on the brink. The problem with this is that when you're caught up in a storm, all that extra ground looks more like extra bumps to be hit by along the way back down.

I keep planning on running away from that edge, but all I do is find a new cliff.

 Not that I am particularly fond of what I find in the end, I've just grown accustomed to the inevitable. Being at the brink of a downfall is not, fortunately, the same as free falling down just to see what will happen. There is safety in the land; tangled up messily with the negativity hanging around. Safety is movable though, it can turn up in the strangest of locations regardless of what some may believe. Not every action results in a large scale change in the world, but miniscule levels of joy can still be spread due to the tiniest of actions.

I am not my biggest fan, that doesn't mean I dislike living.

Being surrounded by frustrating thoughts and feelings of inadequacy is problematic, troublesome even. It does not mean that I am prepared to cross over into the unknown, just that I am not secure in my own skin. Life is, over all, something worth living even on the darkest days. There seems to be some worry on occasion that my sinking levels of self worth, of joy, of everything are too bleak. Then there's the reverse where someone so chipper, so full of sunshine can have a down day, can want to crawl into a hole and never want to come back out.

I am what I am; a disaster, a monster, another every day girl.

Average is in the eye of the beholder, along with everything else along the personality and looks scale. What you see in yourself only impacts the view of others so much in the short run, in the long run; the latter is a bit shakier though, not everyone is strong enough to deal with constant hate. Points of views are here to shake feelings up, people up, the world up just for the sake of letting us be different. And today, well, today I am one more mistake figuring myself out. 

Some Days Are Easier Than Others

This isn't a promise or a guarantee of the truth, whatever it may actually be. It is merely a growing handful of key strokes and letters on a screen; not that they can have much meaning these days. We're all breaking down, cutting down our communication while claiming we've never talked so much before. We being all encompassing, not to be confused with you and I as specifics.

Words condemned to minimalistic standards for a conversation with such refined repetition it's nearly maddening. Hey. Hello. How are you? Fine, and you? It's an exchange of what is pleasant, what seems relevant so long as we want to play along the surface. In the end it makes it frustrating to pinpoint who do you call, message, whatever all the stupid thoughts you have during the day? Stupid being almost an irrelevant term, more who do you send random ideas to, little bits of thoughts that could be seen as eccentric to say the least.

Sure, sometimes it's as easy as knowing who knows you best for the occasional only so and so could appreciate why this is funny. Then there are those times where there's frantic energy running through your system; not quite panic, not quite depression, not quite anything. And thoughts keep being charged up, destroyed, and life seems like a mess. Logically speaking, it's not, not in the way it can be imagined to be one. Just, you want to tell people you're only friends because you provide them with something they want or because at the very least you beat the alternative of silence.


Maybe that is a fair way to stay friends. After all, we all have needs to be fulfilled, but eventually that has to seem so... Hollow? Empty? Which can make all sorts of thought bubbles erupt and you're stuck sort of hating yourself. Except, it's not really hate or anything so drastic. There's just some space that is devoid of what you're sure is proper, so you sort of teeter around obsessively searching for... Nothing. Not that these words normally get said since they have the problem of resembling some level of sadness, of desolation.


Where as I should say now, I'm not exactly a sad bee, but I am not exactly a whirlwind of happiness either. Which means, quite ultimately, that I am rather human. As a human, I find being human to be a failing way of saying how circular it feels to stay inside my head some days.

This Is What a Disaster Looks Like

         I should, perhaps, begin this whole ordeal with a proper introduction of myself and the contents to follow. Instead of the possibility of a full on ramble; a task that I'm seemingly well versed in. Though, the point of journal writing is to let your thoughts just fall out as they are, regardless of how scattered they may be. At least that's what a few years of writing instruction from various (potentially reliable) sources have taught me to believe. Yet, if I wanted to, for example, share this disaster with others, how would one tell the truth about my name on the cover and the lies between the pages? Is there an assumption at my lack of notable fame that makes it so no one would want to pretend to be me or something else? I suppose that ultimately the decision weighs and rests heavily upon my open noted riddled hands. With all of that said and done and rambled through, let me give telling a handful of lies a chance.

         Authoritative sources have a general belief that my name is legally James Elias Kingston. Yes, I'm fully aware that your name doesn't have the same level of sophistication and pizazz, but we can't all be winners. The beginning of this journal (or rather what is created after this terrible introduction) will serve as the necessary ground stones to transport any halfway intelligent creature to the start of my junior year of high school. There's a vain hope for updates beyond the ones required by my English teacher; the sole push behind this project. Even without those potential updates this journal will prove to be successful enough for my satisfaction, and that's the important part of the situation at hand. At least as far as far as I'm concerned that is and I'm conceited enough to say only my opinion matters. 

         In regards to that, specific updated schedule times shall hover around class dates and theoretical writing assignments that call upon my drab prose. Which, judging by this class scheduling, will be approximated on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays unless there's a mix up in the main office or a special event proclaiming too many places to meander to and not enough time to enjoy a prompt (however mundane it may end up). Well, that and my favoritism in regards to procrastination of school required endeavors. All of which, in the end, would seem to mean I will lack consistency, but try oh so hard to promise the world it. A theoretical problem, but one that will only taunt me from the sidelines currently before full on striking later on in life; if it does at all.

         Now, with that all written and out of the way, this first entry seems to be complete. Enough edges left shredded to leave room for a chance at being amusing and clever in words that will likely be kept in the dark. Unless, of course, the urge to throw it into the lime light of those likely to give it only a passing, surveying glance and a possible nod or shake of the head. Really, who cares about the musings, the memoir-esque writings of a nobody when there's apt to be a new starlet or star piece hitting the shelves soon? Yes, sure, their struggles are so close to home, so real; so shoved down my throat on so many programs it has begun to hurt. Really though, if it's not me down someone of the female persuasion's throat, then I cannot promise to show interest.

         With that push towards an inappropriate comment and what sounds like the beginning of the chicken egg buzzer going off, I best end this start of a rambling mess. Goodbye myself and my imaginary readers.

- With love from Kingston

Heartache is just Another Way of Saying...

Just a Quick Note ::

           This piece was originally written back in July of 2008. It's merely something that still mostly resonates true, that still gets to me almost all of the time. So, you get to deal with it being reposted... Like a boss.

 - - - - - - - - - -

          Over the imaginary pad of paper the pen twirls, twirls, stops. Then the action is repeated; two twirls and then a break. No ink flows from the pen to the paper, just misplaced thoughts seeking out the right words before falling apart again. How do you describe heartache when even the word itself seems like an understatement and then an overstatement? 
          That’s the question that gets scribbled towards the top of the page, arrows trailing towards it and away from it. Every solution has a problem, ever perfectly thought of answer crumbles to the sidelines underneath the scrutiny of those pointed lines.  There is no easy answer, no cover all reply to reach across the borders as the various interested parties scramble for ways to defend against imaginary strikes.
           Heartache is just another way of saying I love you. Every beat a slow, painful reminder of the way things used to be, could’ve been, were meant to be. Thump; won’t you come over tonight and we can fix this problem? Each letter carefully written; flowing elegantly from the pen to the paper, no added marks of black to ruin this to be masterpiece. Thump; why can’t you just say that you need me too? An added heart for decoration with an unmistakable lack of character; there is something wrong here, can’t you feel it too.
           Heartache is just another way of saying this was never supposed to happen. How many goodbyes does it take before you will just go away? That’s the unasked question, taking refugee on the tip of my tongue. Thump; will you leave me alone tonight so that I can drown in my own imagined misery? Maybe if I learned to say that I need you this would become easier, the picture clearer. Thump; is tonight the night that you finally figure out that I’m not what you need? 
          Heartache is just another way of saying I’m not sure of what just happened and I’m not sure if I ever will. From a flash flood of tears to pushing through the pain to show off, to pretend that I don’t hurt; not because of you, never because of you. Thump; I’m sorry that my need to lie beats out my need to confess how much I need you now more than ever. If it was that easy maybe we wouldn’t have found ourselves in this mess to begin with. Thump; would you believe me if I said that I never could get over you despite everything? 
          Heartache is just another way of saying maybe this was meant to happen. You and I are disasters, undiscovered arguments disguised as the best of intentions. Thump; could you help me rediscover who I am tonight? There will be no strings attached, I just miss having a friend that I can connect to. Thump; you probably saw this coming before I ever thought that something could mess things up between us. You were smart like that, always just ahead of the curve when it came to you and I. 
          Heartache is just another way of saying that I wish I could forget you. That’s the bench I laid on as we just made noises at each other over the phone; mall shoppers giving me funny looks. Then I fell off of it and found the pen that had exploded; making noises as I went. Thump; are you haunted by as many familiar places as I am? There are so many situations running through my head, some days I just can’t take facing so many places, so many songs. Thump; do you know when all of this will finally stop? When can I finally keep myself together when looking at everything you have tainted? 
          Heartache is just another way of saying that maybe we shouldn’t have done this. Why did you and I have to be so much alike? Thump; rediscovering yourself through someone else just opens up more holes. The problem is every hole has a seal and every seal has been shattered. Thump; the first cut was the deepest. After all it was the one that made me get rid of all of the old messages that said I love you. Thump; love is a lie we don’t want to admit to anymore. 
          This doesn’t cover all of it, not even most of it. These are just some of the words I keep wishing that I could write down and send your way. Read them, scream them, sing them; just remember it’s how I feel about you and I. You’re my personal heartache, always and forever. I sometimes wish that I was yours, but out of the two of us I think I always cared more; or at the very least I showed it more. I guess this is really my way of saying that I miss you, I wish you missed me back. That I still love you, but I don’t think you love me; I guess that’s okay.

Venice Manhattan Brighton

General Information

Full Name: Venice Manhattan Brighton

Nickname(s): Iceberg, Ice Queen

Gender: Female

Age: HS + College (18), Other (27)

Birthday: May 28th

Appearance

Eye Colour: Green with some gray specks on closer inspection

Eye Adornment:  None

Hair Colour: Platinum blonde with pink, purple and blue streaks; think cotton candy

Hair Length: Shoulder blade.

Hair Style: Normally pulled back into a ponytail with bangs pulled aside.

Height: Approximately 5'10"

Weight: Approximately 165 lbs

Body Shape: Rectangle. Excellent legs; years of running.

Tattoo(s): None

Piercing(s): None

 Quick Blurb/Story

           "Attention everyone," Mrs. Anderson yelled out over the steadily increasing murmur of her first period class. "It's time to be quiet now and ya'll know that," she added on as she looked over every student with her piercing dark brown eyes. "We have a new student to this fine, fine school of ours joining us in class today, so I want ya'll to make her feel welcomed," she finally announced almost everyone had settled down beyond the occasional fidget or squeak of a chair. "Everyone, meet Ms. Brighton," she said whilst gesture over to the tall, quiet girl next to her.

           "Uhm," the previously silent girl stammered out almost inaudibly as she looked over the mostly attentive group of students seated in front of her with mostly light green eyes. "Heya, I'm Venice. It's nice to sorta meet all of you, I guess," she rambled off as pleasantly as possible, the last couple of words mumbled to herself.

           "Is there anything else that you would like to share?" Mrs. Anderson asked eagerly out of genuine curiosity as she was the sort of person that always enjoyed learning more about someone; regardless of who they were. "Where you're from, why you moved, absolutely anything at all."

          "Err, sure, I guess," Venice replied with a forced smile in place. "I'm from Nowheresville, North Dakota, I don't find puppies offensive, and I would really, really like to sit down now."

          Looking almost ashamed of herself at first, Mrs. Anderson quickly offered up a smile to cover it up before addressing the spoken want. "Oh right, of course ya' do dear," she began before letting out a small chuckle at what could be attested to as forgetfulness. A chuckle that was soon accompanied by the sounds of a few students laughing as well. "There's an empty seat back there next to Miss Katie with your name on it darling," she said finally to resolve the issue, nodding her head back in the direction of the desk and chair combination seat.

          "Thanks," muttered Venice as a small, true smile crept it's way on to her face; relief washing over her face as she was grateful for the chance to sit down. Her worn, black backpack bounced up and down ever so slightly with each of her hurried steps towards the desk in the back. Upon arrival at the designated free seat, she quickly slid into it while slinging her backpack off of her right shoulder. Dropping it off of her left shoulder she allowed it to hit the carpeted ground with a light thud. Shifting in her seat to become more comfortable, Venice stretched out her long legs to rest her neon green Converse clad feet on the metal bookshelf on the bottom of the seat in front of her. Reaching down, she dragged a notebook from her bag and settled into the familiar routing of taking notes as a teacher droned on.

An Adventure

          "Are you sure about this?" Theresa asked of her partner in crime, voice barely raised about a whisper. Blue eyes, with a hint of green, flickering over to her partner's shadowed form.

          "About as sure as I am about everything else," Fitzgerald replied without pause, thin lips curving up into his trademarked mischievous smirk.

          "So, not that sure at all," she grumbled as she shook her head, multicoloured curls bouncing from the action.

          "Pretty much Rainbow Bright, but that's part of the adventure," he responded prior to letting out a low chuckle, eyes glimmering with a hint of amusement. Remark made, he straightened himself up on his knees to peer into the window that the two of them were crouched below. A quick scan of the dimly lit room was taken before he ducked back down. "Coast is clear unless they happen to have an invisible alarm system."
           With another shake of her head, Theresa began to crawl over the short distance between her and the cement steps that indicated the house's back door. Back pressed against the faded slate blue siding of the house, she slowly slid up into a standing position. Sneaking a quick peek into the back door she waved Fitzgerald over. "Go, go gadget lock pick," she muttered just loud enough for her friend to hear as she waited on the steps for him to join her once again.
          Meanwhile, Fitzgerald waited, poised to scamper over as soon as the signal came. Hand raised, he brushed a few strands of dark brown hair from his face, matching coloured eyes still locked on the mostly still form of Theresa the entire time. Catching sight of the agreed upon wave he set off, keeping low to the ground. Arriving at the door, he crouched down against his partner's legs, tilting his head up to flash her a grin. "Inspector Gadget at your service," he announced loud enough for her to hear as he slipped his trusty lock pick kit out from one of his many coat pockets.
          "Standard issue lock, deadbolt doesn't appear to be engaged," Theresa rambled off as Fitzgerald took a look through his kit. "You know the drill, more than two minutes means I take over."
           "Yea, yea, I know Rainbow Bright," he mumbled as he set to work, listening for the familiar click that meant he was successful at his designated task. "One potato... two potatoes... three potatoes," he began to count to himself in a sing song voice, working the small pin carefully around the inside of the keyhole.
           "You and your potatoes," Theresa teased, stealing a glance down at her watch. "One more minute and your lucky potato song will have failed Inspector," she noted with a gleeful little giggle.
          "It doesn't work until you insult it," he pointed out with a short laugh of his own. "Almost there now, and I'll even have time to spare Mrs. Potatohead," he added quietly, pressing his cheek up against the door. A small click sounding out as soon as his cheek made contact with the wood surface of the door. "And lucky eight potatoes has it again."
           "Oh, whatever, just open the door already," Theresa remarked with a roll of her eyes as Fitzgerald stood up; door knob turning with a flick of his wrist at the same time. "Congrats Mr. Potatohead, it took you nearly two minutes to break into our house. Sure glad this wasn't a life or death situation."
           "Can't always be quick about everything. Plus, some of us don't spend our free time practicing on familiar, easy locks," he retorted with a smirk, nudging the door the rest of the way open.
          Door now opened, Theresa stepped inside, giggling all the while. Fitzgerald followed close behind his partner in both life and crime, pulling the door shut behind them; engaging the lock once more.

Angry

          "Just fuck off," Madison snapped at James as she watched him step into the doorway of their bedroom. Normally bright, lively gray eyes dulled over with rage. "All you ever do is fuck up and make excuses for it. I'm fucking tired of it, of us," she continued as her small, childlike hands clenched into fists. The bitter tone to her voice escalating with every word she spoke.
          James stood there in stunned silence as her words washed over him. He had expected an adverse reaction to his latest blunder, certainly, but not one of this caliber. Especially not from sweet, sweet Madison who had managed, through one miracle or another, to be his steady rock for years. A position that she had held years before they had even begun to officially date a couple of years back.
          "Sweets, I'm not... Not this time... Please believe me... I'm not making up stories, not this time," he whispered; each word laced with a small plead. One miniscule, cautious step being taken with his left foot as he spoke. Sock clad foot making no audible sound as it connected with the honey maple hardwood flooring.
          Madison attempted to ignore the first step, writing it off as James merely needing to move. Then she notice his right foot begin to move him to bring him closer to her. Eyes narrowed as her nostrils flared, a small aggravated growl escaping from her lips. "Turn your ass around and get out, I'm not fucking joking. You and your smooth talking ways can sleep somewhere else tonight," she said in way of warning, voice cold and leveled. Eyes beginning to well up with tears formed from a mixture of frustration and sadness.
          Mid-step James turned around, taking a full minute to complete the turn in case she changed her mind. "I'm not leaving you completely... Not tonight, not forever. This is my house too Sweets. And you need me, " he muttered, the last line a weak whisper as he stepped out of the bedroom for the night.
          Madison slumped forward in exhaustion from the entire situation as he exited the room. Exhaling in way of a sigh she forced herself to stand up, shuffling over to slam the door shut for the evening; taking a second to lock it into place. Task complete she moved back to their king size bed, collapsing on top of it and finally giving into her tears for the night.