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I tend to see people in accordance to the size of their problems. Not in the importance of how they see the obstacles themselves but, in the cold and objective reality of them. Why? I have no idea. But in my eyes, you are what you can take, and should be acknowledged and treated as such. Not as an excuse but as the paved road behind the individual. So, I see small people with their small problems, magnified by their inability to manage, and I can't help but to become nauseous. Quite literally, tragically. I see people with the shit to their chest and respectfully observe, from a distance. If they make it, good for them. If not, well, we all lose some. And to all, our time shall come. In the simplest terms, "Oh, well."
  • Watching: Twister (1996)
I don't believe in luck. I don't believe in politics. I don't believe in karma. I don't believe in the supernatural. I don't believe aliens. I don't believe in most people's morals and ethics (the "good" in 'em.) I don't believe in love, and I sure as hell don't believe in God. Truth is, I don't believe in much, but I do tend to believe in myself, one way or another, and that's pretty much all I really f*ckin' need.
  • Listening to: "Mailman" by Soundgarden
  • Reading: The Child Thief (A Novel) by BROM
  • Drinking: Coke
While in my outings, yesterday, I came across two memorable* (lack of better, more appropriate wording) pocket change acquaintances. None of them seating next to me. I did not look to see faces or their respectable companionship. All I knew was their voices. The first of the two, a male, early twenties, I assumed, due to the substance of the subject being talked about; a layman, philosophical analysis on John Hughes' The Breakfast Club. Now, laugh not, god only knows how hard it was for me not to at the time, I understood the points being made by the fella. However, this being when I realize his plausible age, I assumed he was still in school, NOT taking philosophy (or sociology, for that matter) and still in the middle of the enlightening "self-discovery" splendor phase. In which, if I may explain, one is to pick one out of two sides. Either you become a cynical asshole, as I did at the time, or, an overly sensitive bullshit expert. This good fellow, falling under the latter category of the two. I can't blame him. I can only blame the age, and the schools.

When his stop arrived (or I imagined it did, due that after that point, I did not hear more of him) I only got to see the back of him. This, again, being another assumption of mine given that there was only one male rider getting off then. Some assumptions seemed correct. Yes, he was still in school (backpack), and yes, he was still at a young age-- seemingly of teen-age, probably in his early twenties, given my personal experience. Now, the second pocket change acquaintance, was also under the same circumstances as the first; no physical image, only a voice.

This second was also a male, somewhere around mid twenties and early thirties. Again, this merely a probable assumption of mine. This fella was not talking about a film, but rather, about his personal perspective of a share of 'the everyday people'. Under a much lesser philosophical light-- but, undeniably,  just as theoretical. Hearing him talk was like an unintentional Tyler Durden impersonation. Contained laughter, again. Not because I thought it absurd, like with the first, but because I knew this wasn't an attempt to sound like a fictitious character (again, not intentionally, to my perspective.) And on that note, I am not sure of under what category he would fall. Cynical a-hole or BS expert. If anything I was sure of was, he did not belong to the first pocket-change-acquaintance's club of breakfast, but rather, one of fight.

Some of my assumptions were met, other probabilities, which did not even occurred to me, were, too, met. Like the confessing of his once jail intake to his proper chat counterpart. I'd like to clarify that in the middle of all this, I was merely an observant. I did not part take in any of the word exchange nor was I noticed as being of such. And if I was anyone at all, fictitiously speaking, to fit appropriately, I was Edward Norton's insomniac self, not his alter-ego. Or Molly Ringwald, if you will, not Judd Nelson. Although Norton would have fitted me best, due that I almost* (to my belief, anyway, I do not remember) fell asleep somewhere in the middle of the trip. In fact, it was because of this tiring moment, which I still don't understand how I got there to begin with, that I saw the second pocket change acquaintance's face. A sudden involuntary movement of mine made my sunglasses fall off and woke me-- I think. To my surprise, Fight Club boy sounded appropriate to his physical form; an envious zen-like calmness mixed with apathy. Though that last bit, you can blame my perception alone, not the fella.

Yes, he did look about the assumed age. No, he did not get off the ride, unlike myself.

My stop came and that was it. I was me again. No clubs involved.
  • Listening to: "Here I Go Again" by Whitesnake
  • Watching: Evil Dead (reboot)
Friday, April 12, 2013 at 1:59pm

mor·bid  (môrbəd)

Characterized by or appealing to an abnormal and unhealthy interest in disturbing and unpleasant subjects, esp. death and disease.
Of the nature of or indicative of disease.
unhealthy - diseased - unsound - ill - sickly

It is interesting to learn others' perception of one's self. Specially when it comes to a surprise to one's self. For instance, as an artist, in the traditional sense, I consider my work to be a direct reflection of my self. Perhaps mangled with, perhaps polished, but a reflection nonetheless. I might be wrong about this, in comparison to other artists, but that's merely where I stand. (Again, one's reality lies within one's perception alone.)

In accordance to some very—blunt audience members, my work is Morbid. Now, this threw me off because I had never thought about adjectives when it came down to it. Nor myself. Of course, by extension, I suspect I am seen as Morbid myself too. Even if people do not say it. Now I know.

Other's perception of myself worries me little to nothing. Regardless, I'm still in suspended shock. Morbid. There's something about that word that haunts me… No. Let me try that again. It does not haunt me, it bothers me. Why? I'm not sure, but it might have something to do with my own perception of myself (and in connection, my work.) I have never seen myself as—abnormal. Even if my often-used screen name betrays me so.

If anything, that was a joke to myself…

Trust me, I have never seen myself as any kind of "special" (I have yet to understand the usage of that word), or unusual. I have always considered myself as one of the most boringly average sort of person. Like anyone else. An absolute, far-fetch from Morbid.

Call me delusionally oblivious, if you wish, but it's nothing but the truth. As I see it. I have always seen myself as normal. Average. Thus my interests, opinions, perceptions, work, et cetera, also become such. Chain reaction, "Morbid" is "Normal" to me.

Then again, I'm used to myself. So I can see how this can be confusing...

It rings antagonistic, maybe that's why it bothers me.

On that note, my self-perception as "boringly average" it's not meant to be taken as self deprecating. So, do keep your uplifting words and compliments to yourself. I'm not fond of them (I needn't them.) Unlike I am fond of normalcy. So, yes, this, again, self-perception is, if anything else, very much comforting to me. I've always enjoyed the thought of being average. There's a serenity, a calmness to it. I like that. Besides, we all know that with being "unique", about the most misused word in the world, comes attention, and I've always hated drawing attention to myself. Even if unintentionally.

I can handle it, sure. But the act of seeking it--well, in my humble opinion, it lacks taste.

Now, I might be many things, but stupid is not one of them. Even from a layman point of view. I am more than aware of myself. And I am also aware that my interests and, again, my perception of things (situations and people along), aren't the most popular when talking about those among the average folk. Which is fine by me. I have learned to live with that. However, there's a stretch from point A to being considered Morbid.

I believe the "shock" factor of it, to myself, may have something to do with my inability to remember and consider people's sensibilities. Not because I don't understand them, I do, even if merely intellectually speaking. But because I have a tendency to forget that most people experience said sensibilities quite differently from myself. Which's often my downfall.

Alas, lo que sera, sera.
  • Watching: Hannibal (TV show)
  • Drinking: Water
i always toyed with the idea that "love" was both innocent and devious. y'know, half kid-like puppy love and half "bam, slam, thank you ma'am"... but, y'know, that's just me and my crazy ideas on somethin' i'll never understand, luckily, hopefully and thankfully.
  • Listening to: Billy Idol
  • Reading: Books of Blood by Clive Barker
  • Watching: Drive (2011)
  • Playing: Dead.
  • Eating: Nothin'.
  • Drinking: Simply Limeade.
Inevitable. One word which sours a lifetime. Same as the fact that there are no impossibilities, only extreme improbabilities. Extreme, nevertheless, possible. And how probable could it really be to find a lost death? Someone must die, everybody dies. That's life. It's, inevitable.

The sudden knowledge you will die sooner than most, sooner than expected. This, does not necessarily break you. In fact, speaking from a walked road, it only manages to anger you. One becomes... detached. But only in the sense of an unwilling loss. "I will not give in" sort of speak, but of course, consciously unconscious that one has no other choice in the end.

Anger. Sweet, beautiful anger. It fuels you. Drives you. Changes you. Even if only on the surface. It's the holding onto life, onto feeling alive. The last solid attempt to grip it. Grab it by the teeth and not let go. Not by choice. Not unless it kills you. Dying from living. Who can turn that down?

Of course, that's not what will happen. It's all to depend on the choice between anger and melancholy, the second being a mass favorite. Unfortunately. Then again, this is coming from someone who has been called "insensitive", "tactless" and "apathetic" throughout the entirety of her lived years. Even since childhood. Even by parental figures.

I cannot truly blame anyone for such adjectives, though. For most people death is a fearsome subject. Mortality. An absolute limit. The mirror which shows all terrors. The end of one's self. Of everything one knows. The end. Or just the end of a cycle, to me. Nothing special. Nothing tragic. An organism's living cycle ends. Simple.

Inevitable. It will happen. It cannot be stopped. You are in a burning home, no fire department to call to and no way out. So, you go to bed and sleep through the storm. Not one attempt to refuse such fate. None. Simply, asleep. A dream escape. Acceptance.

Mood: Conflicted. There is no DA emoticon for it.
  • Listening to: Inquisition Symphony - Apocalyptica
  • Drinking: Simply Limeade
Why do I get the oddest compliments? I suppose it's fitting, since I'm not one to react with normalcy to the average type of —praise… however, the stranger they are, the harder it is to have a—proper reaction.

Today, a woman, who was too shy to tell me herself, complimented my skin tone. Needless to say, it took me a bit to find a suitable response to this. I don't think I even said "thanks" — I mean, was I supposed to?

I have no interest in skin pigmentation. Really. Mine is pale, and its tonality changes from pasty to worrisome sickly. If ill, taking shades of yellow and gray. Don't think I could find that any bit peculiar, nor a target for flattery. Specially if you count that I am impossible to tan, I simply burn (bright sore reds and pinks, then, it peels.) Plus those black circles around my eyes.

Now, don't get me wrong. I have no inhibitions when it comes to my physical appearance. Never have. But I don't quite understand what's the allure.

(I do admit to be a bit of a narcissist, but I find it to be more on the side of apathetic contentment and self-reliant confidence rather than mere vanity.)

Other received odd ones I can remember at the moment:

- My teeth are quite white.
- My age does not show accurately.
- My arms are rather "smooth" (according to a nurse.)
- My chest is comfortable to sleep on.
- My voice commands authority.
- My face is "terribly" expressive.
  • Listening to: Jay-Z / Linkin Park's COLLISION COURSE.
  • Watching: Death Note Live Action Films & The X-Files.
  • Eating: Doritos.
  • Drinking: Coke.
The Sociopath Next Door.

So far, this is such an antagonistic book. But I suppose, given the "type of people" the text is about, and obviously, who the author's attempted attacks are directed to, it's (and this without trying to be or sound condescending) humorous.

THUS, absolute irony.

Now, any specifics?
Well, the listed "tips" to "arm" oneself against the "evil" the subjects are could do. That is, disregarding the religious tones against Freud's theories on the superego, which has no room for emotions but functions purely on human reason. The author decides to disprove these theories with biblical examples as evidence... I mean, really. It's funny.
  • Reading: The Sociopath Next Door by Martha Stout
An overly emphasized subject nowadays. Or, to my zero-bullshit perception, merely Trendy: Bullying. Dramatized every fucking day to the verge of romanticism. With all of its uselessness portrayed as tragic martyrdom. Pointless. I have only one thing to say about it, and it must be said blatantly for it to be proper enough:

Sometimes I wonder if there really is a conscience rather than it being a taught behavior. A mimic. Like table manners while growing up. Our parents, the surrounding responsible adults, teach us to differ between Right and Wrong, in the same way they were taught by their own. So, it's Conscience real or, is it simply yet another trick we learn in our youth? Like an eager-to-please pup.

It's… a tough one. Reason why I won't give my opinion here. I'll leave it as an open-ended question. An intrigue. Up to you, the reader, to answer it. And even after answering the "complex" enigma, you won't really have an answer. No. Not really. It will just be your own opinion, and opinions aren't facts.

OK, I'll stop being a pain in the ass now… Ciao.
— de·con·struc·tion (d k n-str k sh n)

I believe—no! I know, I must add this noun to my resume. Since I do in fact tend/possess a knack to dissect and simplify everything. Specially when it comes to human relation[ship]s and interactions, and even specifically those which may seem oh-so-very complex to others. I see them as what they are, objectively.

What takes friends and family (for example) days, weeks, months, et ctera, to come up with a "tactful" solution, beneficial to all parties involved, I often do so in two or three minutes in a matter-of-fact manner. I know this might irritate them but, hell, if the problem gets solved, regardless of emotional obligations being present or not, and efficiently… how can there be a reason to be irritated? There isn't one.

Plus, it does sound better than the simple and insulting "Jaded". I mean, you'd at least see beyond the cliches of the word, which, in my case, are erroneously placed (eg. depression, laziness, etc.)

So, yes. It's been decided. It has a ring to it, though it probably shouldn't.

NOTE: I do not mean "Deconstructionist" in the proper, traditional way. Hopefully, that is obvious enough.
1.- Do I know the individual, personally?
(I.E. Face-to-face, any linked relationship or an average time spent in company of "X-subject".)

If so, I accept the friend request.
Do I like the person?
Am I in "good terms" with the person?
Do I care for the person?
It doesn't matter. That's not the point. It's irrelevant. It's Facebook.

2.- Well, what if the to-be "Friend" is a complete stranger to me?
Never met them, seen them, heard of them, et cetera.

Do I accept the request? Yes.
But only because ninety percent of Facebook profiles are set on private (as mine is) and it's difficult to tell if there really is any potential here.

Now, what exactly do I mean with "Potential"?
Oh, well, that's simple. Potential.
Not in "Friendship". Not in any type of a real 'human relation', really.

Potential as in, constant stimuli:
What does this stranger offer to lighten my moments of boredom?
Is it intellectual stimuli?
Is it creatively?
Is it comically?
Are they any entertaining?
If so, come on in.
If not, well, do they [AT LEAST] hold my intrigue?
My interest in any way?
If so, again, welcome.
If not, yet again… well, can I use them for anything else?
Can they, perhaps, be a source of new things/subjects to me?
News, even?
If so, hesitantly, maybe.
If not, buh-bye.

3.- Concerning number one.
Sounds like there's some sort of, forced commitment there.
Given that I know them personally. Is this so? Yes. Pretty much.
I mean, who wants to hear the nagging about not accepting the holy, motherfucking friend request during your next encounter, right? Nobody.

4.- It's censorship a consequence due to number three?
Nope. Too shameless for that.
Plus, they should know better. So, they, really, at the end of the day, asked for it.

You're very welcome.
You break laws (even big ones.)

You don't have a problem lying to get what you want.

When you say you're sorry, you usually don't mean it.

You have a love / hate relationship with your parents.

You don't like to joke about yourself - or when people joke about you.

You've lied to people just to see if you could get away with it.

You have a fairly high IQ.

You often act before you think about the consequences.

You got in trouble a lot when you were a kid.

You are secretive.

It's hard for you to be loyal.

You don't think in terms of "right" and "wrong."

You have been cruel to animals.

It's hard for you to empathize with people's problems.

You don't really have any plans or structure in your life.

You break people's trust.

You are a pyromaniac.

You have at least one strange, overwhelming phobia.

You are very good at manipulating people and situations.

You are almost always bored.

You have cheated a lot on past partners.

You see people as your pawns.

Your relationships tend to be short.

You have trouble holding down a steady job.

You have been addicted to drugs, alcohol, or sex.

NOTE: I have NOT marked on bold all of those I saw fitting for obvious reasons.
  • Listening to: Nonsensical babbling.
  • Drinking: Limeade.
While washing my hair last night, I had the strangest realization. I had just read an interview with Pearl Jam's Eddie Vedder on a magazine about songwriting and his fascination with stringed instruments, and made me think on the "whatever happened to 'the writer' me?" Not too long ago I was compulsively writing, journal after journal, to no end. Sure, I was going through some rough patch but, it was a good time for my writing — everyday entries, creative writing, lines, nonsense, "poems", etc. It didn't matter what it came out to be, or if it was good enough to share because it was just for me so, it didn't have to be.

I started to think about how long has it been since I last wrote anything like that… it's sad to admit that it has been just too fucking long to care anymore. Creativity is a muscle that one must have in constant development. If you don't, it becomes useless.

Then the obvious question came to mind, "Why did I stop writing in the first place, anyway?" Then, I remembered.

Not long after graduating high school —months, maybe a year or so— and later dropping out of college (no need for that long story), I had gotten into "new music" and new interests. All of them quite stimulating at that moment, to me. Given one of those new found sources of 'inspiration' was those overplayed 90s, Seattle, alternative, grunge bands, and music. At this point it had already become a knack to write, nonstop, day and night. Then, the Taj Mahal of "grunge" appeared to me. I had found, Nirvana.

Now, here's the explanation to my oblivion from "grunge" and everything relating it:

Although I am one of the billion offspring from THAT same generation, otherwise, infamously known as "Generation X", my parents weren't "the type". See, I come from a southern, religion-based, microscopic, nameless border-town with a mixed culture and anti-culture. I grew up with the loosely applied tradition of going to cemeteries in The Day of The Dead (Dia de Los Muertos), then going back home to Black Sabbath being played in the parked car outside.

At home, music, films, tv and readings were far too varied. My father was a DJ so music flowed like oxygen in and out of our house. The Police, Mana and Shania Twain to kick the morning off. Elthon John and Alejandra Guzman for breakfast. Mother has always had a thing for classical music (yes, I was one of those babies who listened to Mozart and Beethoven in the womb) as much as folklore-spiced groups. Her side of the family has a long line of musicians, all of them in a very traditional, Latin sound (in fact, one of my art teachers in middle school was one of her retired musician cousins.) I can't say much about my father's family history, since he wasn't much close to them nor is a "real", solid family tree even available for me to do research on—if I ever wanted to.

He was to fend for himself at a very young age and she was a wee-bit of a sheltered child. Both the youngest in their immediate relatives. She grew up in a Catholic home, he was an atheist—until I was born, so I'm told nowadays (which it's fair, I suppose), there's always charm in irony.

I came close to being named Scarlet and Juliet due to my mother's love for Gone With The Wind and Shakespeare's tragedy. My father, however, after the faith leap (on his defense, I wasn't supposed to make it pass the year due to my congenital heart condition, health problems and my first open-heart surgery when I was six months old), decided he wanted me to have a Biblical name. Mother picked "Isabel". I daresay they never did come across the name's Hebrew origins, Jezebel, which is quite different from what they might have had in mind. But it's fine, I take it as the name's charm.

Now, I'm not about to air their entire lives but, I guess you can see what I meant by them not being "the type" as far as the Generation X cliche goes. They were both too occupied with their own lives to care enough for pop-cultural bullshit, much less to make any of it an important, influential factor. The closest they were "IN", as far as I know, was when they were housemates with another young couple. The other pair had just have their first and I was still a kid in kindergarten age. The guy in the other couple liked Nirvana and so it was played in the house here and there. But along with it were Iron Maiden and Pink Floyd so, the band's noise was one of many.

Fast forward to my recently post-college days, I finally became an Internet user. Unlike most twenty-somethings today, I never did care much for computers and technology, etc. To this date, I don't even own a cellphone (though that's about to change due to upcoming responsibilities, sadly.) Partly curious, partly begging for a distraction, I started creating "fansites". One of them, given the then-recent rush, dedicated to Nirvana. In such online hobby I would post old videos of the band, interviews, readings, music, photographs and, in rare occasions, personal opinions and small entries. Those last ones, I never gave much attention to because it wasn't on-subject, not properly nor entirely.

It was all fun and games until one day I received an electronic message from one of the constant online visitors of my Nirvana-themed web place. This person sent me his theory on Cobain's "death/suicide" and how he just knew, just knew, that Cobain was somewhere, somehow still alive…

This was weird, to say the least. I never really gave into caring much about the musician's death, if I may be honest. And because of the lacking, such site of mine, didn't touch the subject. Never. I am aware of people's theories and rumors and whatnot but, really, it's been close to twenty years. And as "mean" as it may sound, it's none of the FANS' fucking business whatever happened. It's alright and understandable that they "cared" but, really, none of them really knew the fucking guy so, they should just get on over it (quite stupid if not, if you ask me.)

Anyway, after the aforementioned electronic message, I received another some time later, same author. This time being more direct and accusatory. Not only did this person shared theories of the subjects touched before but also a new one, involving me. His theory was that Kurt himself was running the website. MY website. This nameless fanatic said he'd studied Cobain's writings and past (and et cetera) enough to make the connection. That I didn't even had to reply with an answer because he knew "the truth". That my writings showed him the "truth"…

so, what do you do after you've been accused of being a Rock Star in hiding for more years than you have of conscience usage? After, apparently, faking a death? After fooling all of YOUR fans? Well, the answer is simple. You quit. That's the only way out I could see. Quit writing altogether. I mean, you're not even twenty and you have been called Kurt Cobain. What's left after that, right? Nothing. I mean, whether you are a Nirvana fan or not, and as far as lyricists go, I think we can all agree that Mr Cobain was one of the "Top 20" best ones in the last—-what? thirty years or so? So, what was I supposed to do?

Hell, I even stopped listening to music for a while because of this. Needless to say, I stopped updating the Nirvana fan-website. Of course, not after having told that guy that I was not Cobain and that I was just some kid right outta high school. Just another listener, like him.

Perhaps I should have made a bit less of a deal out of the thing. Maybe, I should have tried to take it as a compliment. But I didn't. It felt more like being placed in death row. So, I stopped cold-turkey and put my notebooks away. Those used-up ones are still locked up and hidden in a Picture of Dorian Gray-esque fashion (I committed an irreversible mistake when I wrote in them, I poured every inch of me in those pages, those words - my "soul" lives in them so, yes, Dorian Gray-esque.) Nobody has read them in years and, if lucky, nobody will in years to come still.

I don't write anymore. Not like that, anyway. I write now and then. Sometimes with poetry colors and somewhat sincere tones but, not like that. Never like then. Not anymore. If I am to write, for self-pleasure (as it should be), even if I try to imitate my old ways, I instinctively keep myself in line. Rigid in thought. It's a self-preservation thing, I'd like to think. I've never been too keen on exposing any sign of vulnerability. Not my forte. I'm the type of person who firmly believes that all you really have in life is yourself so, I'm not about to give out and away who that may be.

Sure, I am an artist but no art form is worth that much.

So, to close this entry up. I used to write. Now, I'm just literate.

Side-note: I later went back to traditional art, thanks to some books and graphic novels. After that, I wrote again, still contained, though. Later, I picked up the guitar again, Marilyn Manson's music makes you do that. And even later, I retook singing too. I blame Layne Staley for that last… if I was ever "good" as I was told then (various occasions, not all of them as weird as the one explained above, thankfully), it's fine with me to not "refine" my ways in such manner ever again. It was a moment, that's all.

Post Scriptum. No, this is not a self-righteous post. If that's what you got from reading it, you can't read. I DO NOT think I'm as "good" as Cobain, or was. I don't really think I'm good at all, in fact. Furthermore, English is not even my first language. I had to learn the whole goddamn tongue as I started high school. So, you see my reasons here. How can an eighteen, nineteen year old girl, who just got outta high school and learned to speak, read and write English, could possibly be good with poetry and songwriting? Specially when she can't even play a fucking instrument or have a conversation without an accent… see? You're reading it wrong.
  • Listening to: There Is A Light That Never Goes Out - The Smiths
  • Watching: My Own Private Idaho (1991)
  • Playing: You.
  • Drinking: Caffeine.
1: Do you sleep with your closet doors open or closed?
Closed. Though, I'm more of a drawers type of person.

2: Do you take the shampoos and conditioner bottles from hotel?
Nah... but I do, however, like the smell of their tiny [single-serving] soap bars.

3: Do you sleep with your sheets tucked in or out?
Um, I'm not quite sure. I pay little attention to that... but I have payed attention to the way/form I sleep; to the side and with one, or both, hand(s) tucked between my legs, where the knees and thighs meet.

4: Have you ever stolen a street sign before?
No. Street posters, yes.

5: Do you like to use post-it notes?
Sometimes. I like writing on things.

6: Do you cut out  but then never use them?
No. But I do cut out ridiculous 800 phone sex lines  from the papers. I find them amusing.

7: Would you rather be attacked by a big bear or a swarm of a bees?
Bear. Quick death.

8: Do you have freckles?
Nope. I have quite a few scars.

9: Do you always smile for pictures?
Nope. I rarely do. It feels disingenuous.

10 :What is your biggest pet peeve?
Hypocrisy and pseudo-intellectualism.

11: Do you ever count your steps when you walk?
No. I don't possess the attention span for OCD.

12: Have you ever peed in the woods?
Dunno. Hopefully.

13: What about pooped in the woods?
"[answer to # 12.]"

14: Do you ever dance even if theres no music playing?
In my head, there's always music playing when needed.

15: Do you chew your pens and pencils?

16: How many people have you slept with this week?
Ha ha ha! Do you really want to know? Because I don't remember myself.

17: What size is your bed?
I am a small being so, my twin-size bed suffices. Although I much prefer sleeping on the floor, dunno why.

18: What is your Song of the week?
It's a tie among ten tunes; "You" by Candlebox, "Twenty Years" by Placebo, "Roadhouse Blues" by the Doors, "Wash" by Pearl Jam, "Five Years" by David Bowie, "Mystify" by INXS, "Dirty Boots" by ", Handsome Devil" by the Smiths, "Never Let Me Down" by Depeche Mode and "No Love Lost" by Joy Division.

19: Is it okay for guys to wear pink?
I like guys in pink. I like guys in dresses and makeup too.

20: Do you still watch cartoons?
Yes. Mostly ancient Boomerang shit... or Phineas and Ferb.

21: What's your least favorite movie?
Ha ha ha... funny that I'm watching it right now, The Doors with Val Kilmer as Jim Morrison. It's an obnoxious film.

22: Where would you bury hidden treasure if you had some?
Next to my best friend.

23: What do you drink with ?
Coke. Always.

24: What do you dip a chicken nugget in?
Ketchup/tomato blood.

25: What is your favorite food?

26: What movies could you watch over and over and still love?
None. I HAVE to take breaks from anything I love.

27: Last person you kissed/kissed you?
Depends... what kind of kiss?

28: Were you ever a boy/girl scout?

29: Would you ever strip or pose nude in a magazine?
I have no problems with nudity. But I don't like being part of an "art piece", I rather make it or part-take on the making... I'm an "artist" not a model/muse/inspiration source.

30: When was the last time you wrote a letter to someone on paper?
A few months back.

31: Can you change the oil on a car?
No but I can learn.

32: Ever gotten a speeding ticket?
That's my fear and reason why I've avoided driving for so long.

33: Ever ran out of gas?
Attention to 31 & 32.

34: Favorite kind of sandwich?

35: Best thing to eat for breakfast?
Cereal... or a granola bar? Not big on food, sorry.

36: What is your usual bedtime?
Lately? Around 11. Normal schedule, about 2/3 am.

37: Are you lazy?

38: When you were a kid, what did you dress up as for Halloween?
Many things. I've always been a big fan of Halloween... Sailor Moon, Peter Pan, a vampire, etc.

39: What is your Chinese astrological sign?
Dragon. ;)

40: How many languages can you speak?
Speech fluent in two, both written and speech, five in writing; Braille, Music and HTML, because I'm somewhat of a nerd... no Leet on my resume though. How-ever, I am currently attempting to learn Latin, Italian, French and Binary Code (again, nerd), the first two I can understand/manage my way through, both in speech and writing.

41: Do you have any magazine subscriptions?
No. I do read a LOT of music magazines, however, I don't wish to have magazines that have artists/bands that I am not very fond of and, magazines are merely a method of exposure/media/informative (eh) source so, they must play Switzerland with what their readers want to see, which is understandable.

42: Which are better legos or lincoln logs?
Legos. I do remember playing with Lincoln Logs as a kid though, not as often as legos but, entertaining enough.

43: Are you stubborn?

44: Who is better…Leno or Letterman?
Eh, they're both OK.

45: Ever watch soap operas?
I'm an X-Files/Twilight Zone/Tales from The Crypt fan. No, I don't watch soap operas.

46: Are you afraid of heights?
Nope. As a kid I had a tendency to climb on top of my dad's car in the early morning to see the sunrise, and when I wanted to be alone, I would climb on top of our house's roof, taking a drink (coke) and a boombox along with me. I like heights.

47: Do you sing in the car?
No. I'd feel exposed and distracted.

48: Do you sing in the shower?
No. I'd feel self-conscious and distracted.

49: Do you dance in the car?
I can't dance, period.

50: Ever used a gun?
Yes... oh, childhood. ^_^

51: Last time you got a portrait taken by a photographer?
Last month. Hated it as always.

52: Do you think musicals are cheesy?
Maybe. I still like 'em though... SOME, not all.

53: Is Christmas stressful?
Nah, just pointless hypocrisy.

54: Ever eat a pierogi?
I don't even know what the fuck that is. So, maybe.

55: Favorite type of fruit pie?
Pineapple... though I like cheese cake better.

56: Occupations you wanted to be when you were a kid?
I always wanted to be Peter Pan.

57: Do you believe in ghosts?
No. But it's fun to pretend.

58: Ever have a Deja-vu feeling?
Yes. Then I look around, hyperventilating, in search for agent Smith and that fucking cat.

59: Take a vitamin daily?
Ha ha ha ha!! no.

60: Wear slippers?
No. Not delicate enough... I do like Mandals though, with socks. ;P

61: Wear a bath robe?
Nope. Too much for me, just grab a fucking towel.

62: What do you wear to bed?
Sometimes loose boxers, superhero pj pants, loose t-shirts, muscle shirts (sorry, tank tops*... I forget I'm a chick sometimes)... OR, just a large loose shirt, and that's that. It varies.

63: First concert?
Can't recall... first gig I give a shit about now,  music festival.

64: Wal-Mart, Target or Kmart?
Record stores, book stores, thrift stores and HEB (unless you're in Texas, you wouldn't know what the fuck I'm talking about.)

65: Nike or Adidas?
As a kid, both.

66: Cheetos Or Fritos?
Ah... but the real question here is, Doritos or Ruffles?

67: Peanuts or Sunflower seeds?
Almonds in cereal and Pistachio ice cream.

68: Ever hear of the group Tres Bien?
No... muy bueno?

69: Ever take dance lessons?
I probably should have but didn't. Then again, I never had art lessons either so... dunno. Some are born with it, I guess.

70: Is there a profession you picture your future spouse doing?
Not really. Whatever makes 'em happy, I hope.

71: Can you curl your tongue?
Oh, yes. Yes I can... I can roll it too.

72: Ever won a spelling bee?
Never entered one but, I'm pretty sure I could have.

73: Have you ever cried because you were so happy?
No... but a tear or two have squeezed out due to uncontrollable laughter.

74: Own any record albums?
Yeah... Pearl Jam's TEN. That's it. Not a big fan of vinyl.

75: Own a record player?
Siblings do. Grandparents and parents did, and I grew up with them around... that's that. As said, not a big fan.

76: Regularly burn incense?
Nope. Candles, yearly amusement. Cigarettes, daily.

77: Ever been in love?
Sure hope not.

78: Who would you like to see in concert?
Placebo, the Smiths (impossible), Joy Division (IMPOSSIBLE), Soundgarden, Alice In Chains... the list, it's there.

79: What was the last concert you saw?
That I "saw"? Or that I *attended*? 'Cause the last I SAW was lollapalooza (Cage The Elephant) via YouTube... so, specific wording next time.

80: Hot tea or cold tea?
I don't like tea, but I prefer Hot tea (according to Layne Staley, it's "good for the seasoning of the vocal"... no, wait, that was beer.) 'Cause cold tea just tastes like a bad imitation of lemonade.

81: Tea or coffee?
None. GIVE ME MY COKE!! @_@

82: Sugar or snickerdoodles?
Sugar poodles.

83: Can you swim well?
I can swell... no, I can't swim. But I do LOVE water/pools/sea.

84: Can you hold your breath without holding your nose?

85: Are you patient?
I am a good patient, the best of my kind. I have little patience, however.

86: DJ or band, at a wedding?
My father was a DJ. Parties usually have DJs. But I like bands/live music.

87: Ever won a contest?
Never entered one I gave a fuck about.

88: Ever have plastic surgery?
Edit: "Ever had*..." and no. I've had PLENTY of surgeries, it's my thing, but not due to vanity/reconstructive. All internal and NECESSARY.

89: Which are better black or green olives?
None. They're gross. Fun to throw at people though.

90: Can you knit or crochet?
Nope. Too "MANLY" for that shit... got "brute" hands, so I'm told anyway. Maybe that's why I suck at guitar (yet, I draw... huh.)

91: Best room for a fireplace?
Living/sitting room.

92: Do you want to get married?
Not really. I've never seen myself as the wife/mother type... seems like a HUGE white flag, "I-give-up" sort of thing. Not my thing to commit.

93: If married, how long have you been married?
NO. Never. Fuck off.

94: Who was your HS crush?
An Irish boy.

95: Do you cry and throw a fit until you get your own way?
Nope. I manipulate and work my ass off to get my way.

96: Do you have kids?

97: Do you want kids?
No. Parenting is disgusting.

98: What's your favorite color?
I have many, blues, greens, browns, black, red-ish, all faded colors.

99: Do you miss anyone right now?
Yes and no... I could use this unmentioned person's company but, I don't NEED it, however.
  • Listening to: Shadowplay by Joy Division.
  • Reading: What Is Art? by Leo Tolstoy.
  • Watching: Foxfire (1996)
  • Playing: You.
  • Eating: Cigarettes.
  • Drinking: Caffeine.
Solitude is easier when you're by yourself…

I'd like to think I'm not the only one who feels this way.

I am a very lonely person by nature.
I like being alone.
I've always been the introvert.
I keep my distance.
It's pleasant.
It's safe.
It's home.
It's what I know.
But at times, it could difficult to find your place in the world…
To be comfortable with your place in the world…
Because every time you look around…
You see that the world has no place for you.

Just a thought.
Nothing else.
A thought.
Nothing important.
Just a thought.

(Take a deep breath tonight. Wake up feeling like the same, normal, tough, cynical, arrogant asshole that I am, tomorrow.)
  • Listening to: Special Needs by Placebo.
  • Reading: What Is Art? by Leo Tolstoy.
  • Watching: Glen or Glenda? - Ed Wood.
  • Playing: Dead.
  • Eating: Nothing.
  • Drinking: Caffeine.
The Subject:
Young, sleep deprived, apathetic, private, detached, creative, restless, self aware, cynical, extro-introvert, tired, contumacious, tactless, art inclined, underpaid and sober. What you see is what you get. Now, whatever else you want to know, it's none of your fucking business.

Modus Operandi:
Usually the Lone Wolf and winging it... I'm creative and impulsive enough for such path. Unless, I come up with a really good idea/plan that requires careful craft. Then, I shall focus for the sake of personal entertainment remaining emotionally detached. Except when it comes to an expressive outlet. I have a great deal of respect and appreciation for the arts. A bit of a hermit due that I am easily annoyed (have little patience) by people; can fake to be social but prefer being the silent observant, or not there at all. Very particular about personal space; touch comes with trust.

I possess a strong, tactless, unapologetic personality. Big mouth and a sharp tongue. A brute when it comes to words; ask me to be honest and you shall receive. Opinionated, very. I regret nothing; do not know what the word "sorry" means and I don't fancy using it. Bitterly jaded. Hardheaded, stubborn, 'difficult' and strongly willed. Never forgive, never forget. Shit talker, not giver. I have distrust to spare, and don't [you] attempt to read into that because there's no point. Cynical, sarcastic and with a dry Gallows Humor. Enjoy.

Psychological Deprogramer. Reading People; behavior, speech perception, textual, etc. Emotionally Detached, nevertheless understanding and empathizing. Extremely analytical and with Sporadic eidetic memory. Persuasive, charming, driven, witty, quick problem-solving skills. Basically well read and good with words, if written. Possess the ability to shut down during situations to have no reaction. Socially inept. Physically resistant to pain and substances/chemicals. Dabbling in art; drawing, sketching, illustration, the basic stuff nobody cares about.

Said About Me:
"You're just an extremist waiting to happen, aren't you?" -Sibling.
"You... Grungy Mut!" -Sibling.
"You Look Twelve." -Sibling.
"Eso es lo que me asusta, tu apatia." -Parent.
"El cinismo!" -Parent.
"You look like Jack White!" -Stranger.
"An Old Soul? Sounds like poetic bullshit to me." -Myself.

Rad Junk:

PS. Furthermore, I needlessly compensate my lack of religion/deity belief with fantasy books and horror films.
  • Listening to: Sober - Tool
  • Reading: The White Parade - saturnangel @ DA.
  • Watching: Constantine (2005)
  • Playing: Stupid.
  • Eating: Nothing.
  • Drinking: Caffeine.
April 11, 2011

I could write you a book about finding god. About spiritual enlightenment.
I could write you a book about enjoying life.
About finding that thirst, drive, will, passion one urges for while deciding what to do with one's self.
Self motivation.
I could write you a book about falling in love... or out of love.
I could write you a book about seeing and understanding truths. The meaning of life.
About false comforts.
About one's social ineptitude and managing to pretend lacking of it.
About human psyche.
About emotional digestion, personal demons and defying your fears.
About early maturity and premature childhood abandonment.
About dealing with someone's death.
About anger.
About the perfect recipe to dwell and leave depression.
About self forgiveness over wrongs others did to you.
About personal health; emotional, mental and physical, the last being of lesser importance.
About successfully battling addictions and bearing the aftermaths.
I could write a book about believing in yourself.
Self acceptance, self discovery, self trust, self awareness, self respect, self worth, self love...
but I am only twenty three years old and even though I have seen a lifetime, it's not my lifetime.
Nobody learns through someone else.
Nobody feels through someone else.
Nobody lives through someone else... and that's just how it goes.

  • Watching: SCREAM (1996)
  • Drinking: Coke/Coca-Cola
Okay. I know I can't really blame it on anyone other than myself (this time), but I am NOT saying 'I'm sorry' because I'm not nor I have to. The truth is, yes, I AM cynical AND sarcastic; it's easy, I'm a natural, I enjoy it. And no, I'm not gonna change that BUT! Would it be too much to ask for from you to at least differ and get it when I'm complimenting you?

Yes, I do in fact compliment people now and then. And you must REALLY deserve it if I do so 'cause I don't waste breath with douchebags.

Really, it's not THAT hard to tell apart my insults from my compliments... unless we've barely met, in which case I'd go easy on you and won't hold it against ya, for now. It gets easier with time, trust me. Maybe two or three weeks, give-take. If you can keep up, of course.

Hint: I have a very "gallows humor" meets 'cheese'... it's, odd.

Face to face. If I sound like I'm giving you a compliment but I have a bit of malice in my tone or I'm repressing a grin... odds are, I'm not. If being honest, I'm probably enjoying a little evil private joke. You. As for them compliments, I'm mostly sound "weirded out" (it's a front-ish thing) or finding it hard to put words together because I'm being sincere/open. You get one of those outta me, you're getting a golden ticket; if you share it, you must die.

No face occasions. You'll have to rely on my voice tone and the way I say things... sort of like reading, JUST LIKE, a person's body language. If you are clueless on the matter, well, you'll find yourself in total oblivion from Izzy's world.

Finally, with written shit. You must, yes MUST, have a sense of humor (whatever flavor) and a bit of a thick skin... Beware that as time goes by I'll get meaner, but you'll grow into it. 'Cause you'll have to. ;)
  • Listening to: The Mad Gear and Missile Kid
  • Drinking: Coke/Coca-Cola
"Destruction is a form of creation".

Destruction is the purest form of creation. Destruction is an art form. Destruction, if done correctly, can become something beautiful. Destruction, for many people, makes them feel better. Destruction is release. Destruction is inspiring and provoking. Destruction paves the way for something new to form out of the ensuing chaos. Destruction is a way to bring an end to stagnation or an imperfect system so something with potential for beneficial growth can take its place. The new state that inevitably forms out of the turmoil is frequently better than the original. So, try to blow up the world. Right on the pyro cue, make it all go in flames. Tear the fucking world apart, why not. Go out and destroy something that is controlling you; TV, cellphone, whatever, and make some art out of it. Take it from me, from Donnie Darko, from Tyler Durden, from Pablo Picasso (see the pattern yet?

"Every act of creation, is first an act of Destruction."

...except self-destruction, which is irreversible, pointless and stupid.
  • Listening to: The Mad Gear and Missile Kid
  • Drinking: Coke/Coca-Cola