Things that never fail to make me laugh.

Posting for future reference. :P

'tis a matter of the heart.

"You don't contain even an ounce of romance in you."

Romance. An oft-used word.
What does it mean? How is one :romantic:?
Does getting flowers and going on dates mean being romantic?
Does one have to dress up and look all pretty in order to be loved?

Maybe that's the case. And I'm okay with it.
I don't mind flowers.
Or dressing up for dates.
Or kisses.
Or any other romantic cliche out there.

I do watch romantic movies.
I teared up a little when I finished reading 'Love Story'.
To call me unromantic is kind of harsh, non?

Don't get me wrong; I'm open to the idea of romance.
But the funny thing about all this is:

It just isn't me.

I don't really like flowers. They wilt and rot.
Kissing? Forget about it. I find the idea of holding hands in public too awkward.
And I cannot get myself all dolled up and pretty for a guy.
Makeup is sticky and weird, and threading one's eyebrows is some ancient Chinese method of torture. I'm certain of it.

I'm me.
Strange, unromantic me.
Armed with a sharp tongue and sarcasm.
Full of opinions that I will defend with my life.

But does that mean I've never thought about what it feels like to be loved?
Love. That which goes beyond romance, and everything else.
I have wondered what finding love would be like.
What it would mean to have someone to treasure. Someone who thought of me as...precious. Significant.
And if I could find such a person by being myself.

Myself?
My weird, childish, unromantic self.

I believe in a love that encompasses any kind of romance.

I believe in a love so strong, it sticks around long after the romance is dead.
If I ever do fall in love, it certainly won't be short term.

This is me.
Weird, unromantic, I'll agree.

But capable of that crazy feeling called love.

----------------

Note: The quote is something someone remarked about me, in the past week. I'm sure they didn't mean any harm, but that line really rustled my jimmies, man. So I got thinking, and stuff.

I never thought I was capable of writing such mushy stuff. Time to crawl under my rock and die of embarrassment.

I am not a radish.

A few days ago, while sitting in class and talking of inconsequential things between mouthfuls of someone's lunch, the subject of crying came up. One thing led to another, and everyone's most depressing experiences were being shared. I, not being one to contribute to such conversations with ease, just shut up and listened to everyone else.
"You know Snickerdoodle, I've never seen you cry before. I mean, everyone else here I've seen, but not you," says one girl.
An awkward silence ensues, followed by some awkward laughing.
What I find funny about this entire ordeal is that just the day before, I shut myself in my room, put on Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind [Which, according to a friend, is a movie people such as myself would particularly like. I don't know what he meant.], and had a good, long cry about everything in general.
A catharsis of sorts.

:Some: people seem to think that I'm some confident, feeling-less, chilled out sonofabitch.
I'm quite curious as to where they get this idea from.
Truth be told, I'm an emotionally volatile mess. I take the stupidest of things too seriously. Usually by the end of a week I'm ready to burst from all the repressed anger, tears and bile. And I'm especially secretive about these things.
But people need to stop assuming that just because I don't make a public display of my emotions, that I'm an emotionless, sarcastic piece of shit. Heck, for a while I had started to believe it too.

I may be sarcastic.
I may be a piece of shit.
I most likely will not tell you even if I feel like I've sunk to the lowest of the low.
But I am not emotionless. Just because I don't cry in public, does not make me a radish.

This blog lacks Christina Hendricks.

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So here's some.

My blog consists mostly, if not only of various rants, chronicles of dreams and Bukowski.

I only recently started reading Bukowski's poems, and I have enjoyed everything- well, most everything I've read so far. I love the gloomy, bitter, deadpan cynicism of it all.
Here's looking at you, you wonderful, cranky old drunk man. :hat-tip:

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Reading Murakami, Bukowski, Sylvia Plath, Vonnegut et al.
I can almost imagine an older version of myself, reading this blog after a long time and thinking to herself what a pretentious little asshat she used to be. -.-

More Bukowski?

Hello, minuscule portion of the world that chooses to read my blog.

I haven't blogged in a while. No significant thoughts to share, no bizarre dreams to document.

Now that I mention it, hardly anything that happens to me can be deemed blogworthy.
Earlier this week I dreamt about being trapped in a crashing plane filled with convicts, a la Con Air, but everyone had horse heads. So? Who gives a damn?
[I did have that dream. No joke.]

To quote Easy A, a movie I have watched at least 3 times during the course of today:  


"I don't know what your generation's fascination is with documenting your every thought...but I can assure you, they're not all diamonds. "Roman is having an OK day, and bought a Coke Zero at the gas station. Raise the roof." Who gives a rat's ass?"


Exactly. Not many people.
And to be honest, I'd have it no other way. When a significant portion of your family is out and about on facebook, you REALLY need to check and double check anything you do on there.Which means I can't have status updates like "Snickerdoodle has been wasting her life away by reading smutty fanfiction and drinking mango juice. Because YOLO"
You get the idea, no?

So, in a way, this blog is my solace, my treehouse. I'm not bound by certain :norms: that I need to keep in mind when I post things on here. I can vent and vent as much as I like and not have to be answerable to anybody. And Lord knows how much I can vent.

God, blogs. Without them I'd still probably be trying to maintain a diary, and we all know how excellent my track record is in that area. :shudder:

Kthxbai.