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Jun. 26th, 2010

The Laws of Anime Version 6.0

Originally compiled and edited by Darrin Bright and Ryan Shellito
1. Law of Metaphysical Irregularity
The normal laws of physics do not apply.

2. Law of Differentiated Gravitation
Whenever someone or something jumps, is thrown, or otherwise is rendered airborn, gravity is reduced by a factor of 4.

3. Law of Sonic Amplification, First Law of Anime Acoustics
In space, loud sounds, like explosions, are even louder because there is no air to get in the way.

4. Law of Constant Thrust, First Law of Anime Motion
In space, constant thrust equals constant velocity.

5. Law of Mechanical Mobility, Second Law of Anime Motion
The larger a mechanical device is, the faster it moves. Armored Mecha are the fastest objects known to human science.

6. Law of Temporal Variability
Time is not a constant. Time stops for the hero whenever he does something 'cool' or 'impressive'. Time slows down when friends and lovers are being killed and speeds up whenever there is a fight.

7. First Law of Temporal Mortality
'Good Guys' and 'Bad Guys' both die in one of two ways. Either so quick they don't even see it coming, OR it's a long drawn out affair where the character gains much insight to the workings of society, human existence or why the toast always lands butter side down.

8. Second Law of Temporal Mortality
It takes some time for bad guys to die... regardless of physical damage. Even when the 'Bad Guys' are killed so quickly they didn't even see it coming, it takes them a while to realize they are dead. This is attributed to the belief that being evil damages the Reality Lobe of the brain.

9. Law of Dramatic Emphasis
Scenes involving extreme amounts of action are depicted with either still-frames or black screens with a slash of bright color (usually red or white).

10, Law of Dramatic Multiplicity
Scenes that only happen once, for instance, a 'Good Guy' kicks the 'Bad Guy' in the face, are seen at least 3 times from 3 different angles.

11. Law of Inherent Combustability
Everything explodes. Everything.
First Corollary - Anything that explodes bulges first.
Second Corollary - Large cities are the most explosive substances known to human science. Tokyo in particular seems to be the most unstable of these cities, sometimes referred to as "The Matchstick City".

12. Law of Phlogistatic Emission
Nearly all things emit light from fatal wounds.

13. Law of Energetic Emission
There is alway an energy build up (commonly referred to as an energy 'bulge') before Mecha or space craft weapons fire. Because of the explosive qualities of weapons, it is believed that this is related to the Law of Inherent Combustability.

14. Law of Inverse Lethal Magnitude
The destructive potential of a weapon is inversly proportional to its size.
First Corollary - Small and cute will always overcome big and ugly. Also know as the A-Ko phenomenon.

15. Law of Inexhaustability
No one EVER runs out of ammunition. That is of course unless they are cornered, out-numbered, out-classed, and unconscious.

16. Law of Inverse Accuracy
The accuracy of a 'Good Guy' when operating any form of fire-arm increases as the difficulty of the shot increases. The accuracy of the 'Bad Guys' when operating fire-arms decreases when the difficulty of the shot decreases. (Also known as the Stormtrooper Effect)
Example: A 'Good Guy' in a drunken stupor being held upside down from a moving vehicle will always hit, and several battalions of 'Bad Guys' firing on a 'Good Guy' standing alone in the middle of an open field will always miss.
First Corollary - The more 'Bad Guys' there are, the less likely they will hit anyone or do any real damage.
Second Corollary - Whenever a 'Good Guy' is faced with insurmountable odds, the 'Bad Guys' line up in neat rows, allowing the hero to take them all out with a single burst of automatic fire and then escape.
Third Corollary - Whenever a 'Good Guy' is actually hit by enemy fire, it is in a designated 'Good Guy Area', usually a flesh wound in the shoulder or arm, which restricts the 'Good Guy' from doing anything more strenuous than driving, firing weaponry, using melee weapons, operating heavy machinery, or doing complex martial arts maneuvres.

17. Law of Transient Romantic Unreliability
Minmei is a bimbo.

18. Law of Hemoglobin Capacity
The human body contains over 12 gallons of blood, sometimes more, under high pressure.

19. Law of Demonic Consistency
Demons and other supernatural creatures have at least three eyes, loads of fangs, tend to be yellow-green or brown (but black is not unknown), and can only be hurt by bladed weapons.

20. Law of Militaristic Unreliability
Huge galaxy-wide armadas, entire armies, and large war-machines full of cruel, heartless, bloodthirsty warriors can be stopped and defeated with a single insignificant example of a caring/loving emotion or a song.

21. Law of Tactical Unreliability
Tactical geniuses aren't...

22. Law of Inconsequential Undetectability
People never notice the little things... Like missing body parts, or wounds the size of Seattle.

23. Law of Juvenile Intellectuality
Children are smarter than adults. And almost always twice as annoying.

24. Law of Americanthropomorphism
Americans in Anime appear in one of two roles, either as a really nasty skinny 'Bad Guy' or a big stupid 'Good Guy'.
First Corollary - The only people who are more stupid than the big dumb Americans are the American translators. (Sometimes referred to as the Green Line Effect.)
Second Corollary - The only people who are more stupid than the American translators are the American editors and censors.

25. Law of Mandibular Proportionality
The size of a person's mouth is directly proportional to the volume at which they are speaking or eating.

26. Law of Feline Mutation
Any half-cat/half-human mutation will invariably:
a) be female
b) will possess ears and sometimes a tail as a genetic mutation
c)and wear as little clothing as possible, if any.

27. Law of Conservation of Firepower
Any powerful weapon capable of destroying/defeating an opponent in a single shot will invariably be reserved and used only as a last resort.

28. Law of Technological User-Benevolence
The formal training required to operate a spaceship or mecha is inversely proportional to its complexity.

29. Law of Melee Luminescence
Any being displaying extremely high levels of martial arts prowess and/or violent emotions emits light in the form of a glowing aura. This aura is usually blue for 'good guys' and red for 'bad guys'. This is attributed to Good being higher in the electromagnetic spectrum than Evil.

30. Law of Non-anthropomorphic Antagonism
All ugly, non-humanoid alien races are hostile, and usually hell-bent on destroying humanity for some obscure reason.

31. Law of Follicular Chroma Variability
Any color in the visible spectrum is considered a natural hair color. This color can change without warning or explanation.

32. Law of Follicular Permanence
Hair in anime is pretty much indestructable, and can resist any amount of meteorological conditions, energy emissions, physical abuse, or explosive effects and still look perfect. The only way to hurt someone's hair is the same way you deal with demons... with bladed weapons!

33. Law of Topological Aerodynamics, First Law of Anime Aero-Dynamics
ANY shape, no matter how convoluted or odd-looking, is automatically aerodynamic.

34. Law of Probable Attire
Clothing in anime follows certain predictable guidelines.
--Female characters wear as little clothing as possible, regardless of whether it is socially or meteorologically appropriate. Any female with an excessive amount of clothing will invariably have her clothes ripped to shreds or torn off somehow. If there is no opportunity to tear off the afore-mentioned female's clothes, then she will inexplicably take a shower for no apparent reason (also known as the Gratuitous Shower Scene).
--Whenever there is a headwind, a Male characters will invariably wear a long cloak which doesn't hamper movement and billows out dramatically behind him.
First Corollary (Cryo-Adaptability) - All anime characters are resistant to extremely cold temperatures, and do not need to wear heavy or warm clothing in snow.
Second Corollary (Indecent Invulnerability) - Bikinis render the wearer invulnerable to any form of damage.

35. Law of Musical Omnipotence
Any character capable of musical talent (singing, playing an instrument, etc.) is automatically capable of doing much more "simple" things like piloting mecha, fighting crime, stopping an intergalactic war, and so on... especially if they have never attempted these things before.

36. Law of Quitupular Aggultination
Also called "The Five-man Rule," when "Good Guys" group together, it tends to be in groups of five. There are five basic positions, which are:
a) The Hero/Leader
b) His girlfriend
c) His Best Friend/Rival
d) A Hulking Brute
e) A Dwarf/Kid
Between these basic positions are distributed several attributes, which include:
----Extreme Coolness
----Amazing intelligence
----Incredible Irritation

37. Law of Extradimensional Capacitance
All anime females have an extradimensional storage space of variable volume somewhere on their person from which they can instantly retrieve any object at a moment's notice.
First Corollary (The Hammer Rule) - The most common item stored is a heavy mallet, which can be used with unerring accuracy on any male who deserves it. Other common items include costumes/uniforms, power suits/armor, and large bazookas.

38. Law of Hydrostatic Emission
Eyes tend to be rather large in Anime. This is because they contain several gallons of water, which may be instantaneously released at high pressure through large tear ducts. The actual volume of water contained in the eyes is unknown, as there is no evidence to suggest that these reservoirs are actually capable of running out. The reason water tends to collect in the eyes is because Anime characters only have one large sweat gland, which is located at the back of the head. When extremely stressed, embarrassed, or worried, this sweat gland exudes a single but very large drop of sebaceous fluid.

39. Law of Inverse Attraction
Success at finding suitable mates is inversely proportionate to how desperately you want to be successful. The more you want, the less you get.
First Corollary Unfortunately, this law seems to apply to Otaku in the real world...

40. Law of Nasal Sanguination
When sexually aroused, males in Anime don't get erections, they get nosebleeds. No one's sure why this is, though... the current theory suggests that larger eyes means smaller sinuses and thinner sinus tissue (see Law #38 above). Females don't get nosebleeds, but invariably get one heck of a blush along the cheeks and across the nose, suggesting a lot of bloodflow to that region.

41. Law of Xylolaceration
Wooden or bamboo swords are just as sharp as metal swords, if not sharper.

42. Law of Juvenile Omnipotence
Always send a boy to do a man's job. He'll get it done in half the time and twice the angst.

43. Law of Quadrotriscadecophobia
There is no Law #43.

44. Law of Nominative Clamovocation
The likelihood of success and damage done by a martial arts attack is directly proportional to the volume at which the full name of the attack is announced.

45. Law of Uninteruptable Metamorphosis
Regardless of how long or involved the transformation sequence or how many times they've seen it before, any 'Bad Guys' witnessing a mecha/hero/heroine transforming are too stunned to do anything to interrupt it.

46. Law of Flimsy Incognition
Simply changing into a costume or wearing a teensy mask can make you utterly unrecognizable to even your closest friends and relatives.


The whole concept of drinking just confuses the hell out of me. Okay, it may be a cultural thing for some people to partake of alcohol, a glass of wine here or there, but the society I live in, or at least the society that I've come to observe, the consumption of alcohol doesn't have some sort of heavy tradition or meaning behind it; it's mostly consumed for fun.

And that's what confuses me. You'd consume alcohol for fun?

The particular situation that I speak of is a party scene. You go to a party, hang out with friends, talk, and sooner or later, someone brings a keg and then all hell breaks loose as you see people getting more and more hammered as the night goes on. Drinking contests, beer pong, etc....all in the name of fun. Well sure, I admit that it's extremely amusing to see some drunk singing the Greek alphabet backwards to the tune of Yankee Doodle, but how would it be fun for the person consuming the alcohol?

I mean, 1) alcohol doesn't even taste that good. Okay, some people say it's an acquired taste or something, but seriously, I've had a few sips here and there, most of which I immediately retched back up into the nearest sink. Drinking steady sips of liqueur or beer all night long would mean sheer and utter death for my taste buds. Unless, of course, it's completely hidden by all the sticky sweetness of a martini or some sort of fruit juice...and those are usually pretty expensive. 2) Alcohol's a poison. It messes with your senses, makes you disoriented, screws with your vision, ability to reason, and spatial orientation. Not to mention the vomiting. Sure, some people may enjoy the glow you get when you're tipsy, but really now, is the hangover worth it in the morning? Is the dry throat, the headache, and the nausea really worth it? Is the liver cirrhosis really worth it, now? Of course, these are all extreme cases, but I can't help but think of those consequences whenever I eye something alcoholic. And 3) do you REALLY need alcohol to have fun? I'm perfectly fine with having fun with a sane, sober mind. If you can't have fun with a sane, sober mind, then boy, you need to get some counseling. Seriously.

I've been put in situations before where people have offered me drinks, and I have to decline. Most of the time, I use the "I can't, I have to drive home" excuse, and usually it's actually true, but there's always that initial confusion I get, the look on the person's face, like "Oh....wait a second, did she ACTUALLY turn down a drink?!!? Who in their right mind turns down drinks?!?". I don't give a shit, usually. It's my mind, and I'll decide whether or not I want to mess with it. But it's always a little disconcerting to see that look on their faces, like as if they're completely convinced that I'll accept the drink and it's something shocking and amazing when I turn it down.

Anyway. I haven't voluntarily touched a drop of alcohol before in my lifetime, and I don't think I ever will to the point where I'll get drunk. Sure, I might have a few sips, but not so much to where I get tipsy. Odd, a little unorthodox in terms of societal norms, but whatever, I've always had a few screws loose to begin with.

Normal People

Sometimes, when I'm going through facebook and such and I see all of the activities that people have done, the places they've been with their friends and family, I kind of wonder what it would be like to do some of those things myself.

I've seen pictures of my friends having sleepovers with their friends....pictures of people hanging out at bars, doing karaoke, shopping, going to Disneyland/Knotts/Insert-name-of-amusement-park-here, at barbeques, dinners, birthday parties, all accomplished during the course of break, with a few happenstances during holidays or on weekends/Friday nights when college is in session, and then I think about what I'VE done, where I'VE gone with my friends, and it's kind of...well....it doesn't really compare.

Not to say that I'm a total recluse. I've gone places with my friends, hung out with a fair amount of people, but the places we go (aside from restaurants) are usually pretty unorthodox.

Let me put it this way:

Things That Normal People Do That I Haven't Done:

1. Clubbing
2. Attending some sort of rock concert
3. Hanging out at an amusement park (I've been to them, but only once or twice for purely recreational purposes, and that was when I was five...all of the other trips have been for Orchestra XD)
4. Having a sleepover of some sort
5. Having a pool party
6. Going to the beach
7. Going to a bar (alright, I'm not old enough yet, but when I will be, I'll bet you anything I still won't accomplish this)
8. Going to downtown L.A.
9. Partying
10. Consuming alcohol, ranging from a small amount to six or seven decanters
11. Gamble (or more specifically, taking a trip to Vegas. I've never been there.)
12. Make one close, best best best friend in the whole wide world, introduced to in kindergarten or something and stuck with forever and ever and ever.

So yeah. I mean, a lunch date with one or two people would be considered pretty eventful for me. I've only been to downtown L.A. for purely recreational purposes twice (Getty museum trip, and even that was for an art project I had to do, and a concert at the Walt Disney Concert Hall), and all of my other out-of-the-house activities that involve friends would probably consist of rehearsals, which may or may not include an impromptu lunch/dinner thing just because we were all hungry. I spend most of my time in the house, either practicing (mostly practicing, actually), working another artsy-fartsy project (my current one is embroidering my evening gown), going online, spamming Emmanuel, Lambert, Sarah, or Steven on my cell phone, cooking, and/or reading, and when I'm out of the house, I'm usually going to a student's house for a lesson, going to CSUF for my own lesson or rehearsals with one or more of my chamber partners (whom I adore, by the way. I love you, Ben and Lambert!), or running errands for Mum. No, I do not watch TV, nor do I listen to any radio station other than 91.5.

Not much of a social life, is it? To the normal person, I'm a downright stick in the mud. Nerd, goody-goody, four-eyed freak, bookworm.

But you know what? I like it this way. It keeps me busy, and I get to practice a lot. I amuse myself by creating things, doing things all on my own, and it gives me a warm sense of accomplishment, that I did this ALL BY MYSELF, without relying on anyone else to help me. I taught myself chess (after many ego-crushing defeats from a very crafty Windows Vista Chess application). I taught myself how to embroider, sew, and tailor (figuring out how to thread the needles, wind the bobbins, loop the thread through a series of hooks and catches, and sew in a straight line left me wanting to strangle the sewing machine). I taught myself and will continually teach myself how to recognize and execute the subtle nuances and phrasing and beauty in the music that I create (although Mrs. Zukerman and Alison have helped TREMENDOUSLY. I owe everything to them). I taught myself how to write with eloquence, after devouring about three-quarters of the Yorba Linda Public Library. I didn't need to rely on anyone else, a friend or a manual, and I still don't. Sure, there's the whole issue of "teamwork", but it's not like I'm entirely incapable of working with others. My work with others turns out quite well (our chamber group pwned @$$ with the entire Mendelssohn Trio last semester), unless it involves non-musical, academic group work, but that's a whole other issue that I'm long done with, having already graduated from high school.

So my point is, I'm perfectly fine with not having that developed of a social life. Sure, it makes me a couple centuries off in terms of pop culture, and I'll probably be one of those people that's plastered to the farthest corner of the room during a party and who will most likely leave within forty-five minutes, but hey, I go to a party like, once every decade, and when I do, I usually provide the background music.

It's fine. I'll use the time not spent with friends to develop myself, to practice my music, to improve my talents. I'll use that time to be closer to my family, to further my education, my knowledge, my thinking. Sure, I'll hang out if you want me to...why not? Like I said, I'm not entirely a recluse, I'm just relatively underdeveloped compared to normal people.

Have I ever wished that I had more friends, or closer friends, or have been friends with someone for a longer period of time? Yes. Occasionally. I mean, I will never mean enough to someone to be their bridesmaid at their wedding. I will never be the person someone will call when their pet has died or their significant other has broken up with them, or their biggest secret has been revealed and they need a shoulder to cry on. But that's okay. Because at least I'm recognized by some people, and at least they greet me warmly when I call them to talk, or when I say hi in the hallway or something. At least I can laugh with a certain crazy-ass brunette about the hotness of Pogorelic and his playing, asparagus earrings, Amadeus, raunchy innuendo, and how much we both miss each other even though we're a million miles apart. At least I can fling musician puns at a sheep, a concubine, and a FOB and laugh hysterically when a Vegas-native suffers multiple strokes from the sheer lameness. At least I can listen to endless hours of talking from a violinist who warms my heart even as he fires fond insults at me and I respond with a volley of sarcasm. At least I have a fellow bookworm of a cellist girl with a pixie-cut with whom I can trade ideas for my book, or books in general. And at least I have one bio-freak of a friend who never fails to call me up on the weekends to walk his adorable dog, no matter HOW busy he may be.

I like my unorthodox life. I take pride in my unorthodox life, and so help me God if I ever become ashamed of it.

DISCLAIMER: I am not, in any way, flaming "normal people" with perfectly developed social lives. They're nice people, and a lot of them are my friends. This is just how I compare, and how I spend my time in relation to the rest of the world. ^_^
I went out to dinner with a good friend of mine the other night.

Now, my friend is drop-dead make-your-jaw-drop gorgeous. Intense electric-green eyes, smile that would make your stomach drop ten stories...I mean, DAMN.

But we're just friends. Really. We play in a trio together, we've known each other for a while, but there aren't any sparks. We're friends.


So we went to this cozy little Italian restaurant just a ways down from the city. There's a girl at the reception desk when we walk in, and right when she looks up and catches sight of my friend, I see her do a double-take, reel a little, and immediately there's this glint in her eye as she not-so-subtlety glances at him like as if she's a depraved chocoholic and he's a mountain of triple-fudge ice cream.

She greets us with a "Good evening, and welcome! I'll seat you as soon as possible" so we sit down and wait. I'm grinning like a lunatic and waiting for it to happen, juussssttt waiting for it to happen, when sure enough, the girl sticks out her hand and "accidentally" knocks over a pile of brochures that were on the counter, sending them scattering across the floor. My friend, ever the concerned, helpful soul, immediately bends down to help the girl pick up the brochures as she spews effusive apologies in his direction. Not surprisingly, she's wearing a blouse, the first two buttons of which are open to expose her ample endowments.

I'm trying my best to keep a straight face throughout all of this. They finally clean up the mess, he smiles and hands her the brochures, she melts a little and blushes, and then a table is ready and she stands up to usher us in with a "Right this way, sir." I giggle some more at the lack of "sir and ma'am", considering that I'm technically his dinner date, but it's more amusing than annoying, so I keep my mouth shut and follow him to the table.

His food comes a good twenty minutes before mine does. At this point, my ribs are hurting with all of the painfully restrained laughter I'm trying to hold in. He cocks his head, looks at me bemusedly, and asks me what's so funny, which sends me into more paroxysms of laughter. Somehow, we get through our meal (the process of eating kind of helped me calm down), and then at the very end, when we are leaving for the night, the girl calls out to my friend and hands him the receipt for the dinner. Scrawled at the bottom is a very large, pink heart.

I crack up again.

He's even more confused this time, but wisely says nothing until we get about five miles away from the restaurant. And then all of a sudden, he turns to me and remarks "You know, you've been laughing the whole entire time, practically. What's so funny?"

So I tell him what was happening, and when I'm through, he has this shell-shocked flabbergasted look on his face, and the next thing that comes out of his mouth is "....Really?!?! I never noticed!!"

I couldn't breathe the whole way home.

Oh, goodness gracious. I thank God for His humor when He created oblivious guys.









SasuNaru ficcy

Simple Listenings

Shoulders slumped; he knelt on the floor, his mind clogged with thoughts that flowed like a viscous sludge through his brain. Flickers of memories flowed across the darkness that threatened to envelop his consciousness and he found himself thinking, ironically, of his mother. There was a fine line between dreams and reality, she always used to whisper to him as he lay snuggled up in bed, on the verge of drifting off to sleep. The land between sweet slumber and bright wakefulness never spanned much territory.

Not so, Sasuke thought now, as his back bowed in a broken arch, skin streaked with stale sweat. There was a vast pasture of land between dreams and reality, and those who had the ability to exploit it did so with an inhuman mercilessness that whispered intimate promises of a cold, cruel future.

This was the first questioning of the evening; they started promptly at six o’clock, with the sealing of his chakra to prevent any sudden attempts at making an escape, then the locking of his limbs to a set of steel restraints for added means of torture. He had long gotten used to the probing and prodding, the techniques that they used to violate his mind. It had become almost a sort of routine, this form of interrogation; they had been tearing apart his psyche ever since Naruto had succeeded in bringing him back to the village.

Good, the numbness was beginning to settle into his brain. On some days it came effortlessly, and he was content with only breathing in and out like an automaton, one breath after another, counting the inhales and the exhales in an endless loop, over and over until they finished raping his mind. Other times he would resist, the resulting pain a brilliant reminder that he was, after all, only mortal, and that mortals had blood that could bleed in places he never knew could bleed at all. But it never mattered in the end, because in the end, the numbness was a welcome respite, and he gave himself over to it like a lover to his woman, content to bathe in its retardation, its reprieve.

A stone face carved of both flint and spark hovered over his watery vision; Ibiki captured his eyes with his own onyx counterparts and his mind was instantly swimming, vomiting surges of neon information that dripped down the side of his face and puddled into a mess of black and white kanji at his feet. A sliver of drool slipped down the side of his mouth and created a perfect, silvery sphere in the middle of the mess; Ibiki, nodding to himself, silently gathered up the withering conglomeration and stretched it into a string which promptly disappeared into his skin.

His spine gave out; Sasuke turned his head and barely managed to avoid the jagged edge of a crack in the floor before his temple collided with the cold concrete, sending little black lights across his vision. He felt nothing; the numbness was a soothing drug of which he gratefully partook, a substance that glossed his eyes with a glassy, porcelain sheen, slackened his limbs in a pose devoid of hope or life…

A hoarse scream cut through to his mind. It was a faint cry, distant and muffled, but his ears knew that voice, knew that grating, groaning tenor and the words that it shrieked.

“Let me in! You can’t do this—I want to see—“

Sounds of a brief struggle ensued, and the voice was immediately silenced.

He sent just enough energy into his limbs to lift his head from the ground.


Fingers plunged into his mind, a shinobi’s iron gaze glaring cold inhumanity into his soul, and he collapsed.


Something cool slid over his forehead. He leaned into the touch, the warm, welcoming vibrancy of intention that saturated the rough texture of the washcloth even as it was saturated with water. The fabric moved gently across the planes of his face and torso, dabbing here, stroking there, all with the same gentle, almost timid touch. It disappeared and Sasuke felt a pang of childlike want constrict his chest at the absence of contact, but the sensation was back, swiping over his eyelids with a tender reassurance, and he felt his eyes flutter open of their own accord.

A swath of moonlight reflected off twin irises of a deep cerulean hue. Naruto’s countenance bore a haggard sort of hopeless concern that left deep grooves of worry under his eyes, grooves that only seemed to grow starker as the blonde swept a listless gaze over the Uchiha before him. Thin-fingered hands turned a pale, wraithlike complexion by the moonglow wrung out the washcloth with a silent, almost dutiful efficiency and laid the limp rag on the ground.

Sasuke raised his head, lips parting in a silent inquiry, but Naruto stilled the words before they formed on his mouth with a ghost of a touch on the Uchiha’s lips.

“I’m not supposed to be here,” The whispered words evaporated from his mouth like smoke. “They’re on break right now, but they’ll be coming back to interrogate you soon.”

He tried once, twice, his voice cracked from abuse, seeming more like spurts of primal sound than anything coherent. “Why….why did you…”

A corner of the blonde’s mouth lifted in a half-hearted smile. “What? Didn’t want to see me again after all this time?” And for a moment, the old Naruto was back, he of the cheeky smiles and the edgy, backhanded jauntiness that both annoyed and endeared countless Konoha citizens with his addicting influence.
Something lurched in his heart and tied all of his veins in a knot so that, curiously, he found it almost hard to breathe. And so he did the only thing he could do to quell the foreign rush of sensation: he raised his head and fixed Naruto with a stare so dispassionate, he himself couldn’t even tell if he was human or machine by his reflection in the glistening pupils of Naruto’s eyes.

“You delude yourself by thinking that I care.”

Naruto didn’t recoil in any way, but something shattered deep inside of his eyes, and Sasuke, sensing the sudden vacuum of emotions, suddenly felt like he had, in some way, ripped the life from the blonde before him and shredded it to tatters, just like how Ibiki had shredded his own thoughts and memories into meaningless pieces of matter and dust.

“I know you do, Uchiha, don’t try to hide it.” A flippant façade was fully written across the canvas of Naruto’s face, and Sasuke felt the sudden urge to sink his fingernails into the blonde’s eyes and gouge out the false joy that Naruto tried so valiantly to maintain for his sake. “Come on. I know you’ve missed me.”

It was a light joke, typical Naruto, but oh god, he felt his soul churn with a sudden sense of breaking down, of giving in and spewing years and years and years of guilt and anguish and despair that he had boxed up and supposedly suppressed since the minute he saw his parents’ inert bodies slide off Itachi’s blood-soaked sword.


Naruto’s sham smile of casual nonchalance began to take on the signature spark of life and sincerity that only Naruto could manage to inject into something so strained. The blonde slanted a wistful glance out of the single window of the room as the rigid tenseness of his figure ebbed slowly into relaxation. A smile curled across the edges of his mouth, genuine even if it was merely a pale imitation of his normally brilliant grin.

“Hey, it’s okay.” Naruto said softly. “You only have to go through two more of these sessions, and then you’ll be done.”

Sasuke wanted to strangle the blonde for his sheer idiocy; “two more sessions” meant that many chances to finally break his mind, that many opportunities to reduce him into a wet mess of mindless flesh without a purpose, intelligence. He strained suddenly against the locks that circled his wrists, eyes blazing with a controlled fury as he reared back to spit a derogatory comment in the blonde’s oblivious face—

Naruto deftly cupped his chin and silenced the invectives that rose in Sasuke’s throat. Hope (what a ridiculous emotion) glittered in his eyes, framed by all the answers to the universe as he peered deep into Sasuke’s own obsidian counterparts and singlehandedly destroyed with one fell gaze all the walls of bloodlust, anger, and cold-blooded hatred hatred hatred that the Uchiha had carefully cultivated all these long, lonely years. A finger twitched and began to trace a pattern on the alabaster skin of Sasuke’s cheek.

“After these two sessions are done,” Naruto murmured absently, almost languidly as his finger continued its journey. “You’re going to come home, and I’m going to treat you to a special new type of ramen that Ichiraku Ramen recently added to their menu. It’s absolutely splendid, and I’m sure you’ll be awfully hungry.”

He finished tracing the heart on Sasuke’s cheek, gave the Uchiha a swift, fleeting kiss on the corner of his mouth that was more like a brush of lips than anything else, and melted into the shadows just as Ibiki entered the room with Despair by his side and dispassion in his eyes.

The heart that Naruto had traced into his skin lingered in his mind as he gave himself to blissful oblivion.


He found himself standing in front of a simple, mahogany door a week later, knuckles poised over the barrier that separated him from the being inside. For a moment, he hesitated, and then his hand moved of its own volition and connected solidly with the door in a series of hard, practical raps.

He heard rustling inside, and a minute later, Naruto opened the door and greeted him with a simple, noncommittal gaze that somehow spoke more volume than any saucy greeting could ever accomplish.

Sasuke simply stood there, his gaze betraying nothing.

And then Naruto shrugged, a whimsical smirk blooming at the edges of his mouth as he shifted his weight from side to side.

“Alright,” he quipped lightly, laughter bubbling like a brook underneath the vibrations of the word.

“You’re probably hungry.”


Because I have been informed by a few very reliable sources that some creepy stalker person whom I may or may not know has been perusing my livejournal, I shall henceforth make this a friends-only thing, so if you like me, add me as a friend, and I'll be happy to talk to you.

To said creepy stalker person:










.....so yeah. This restaurant.

It's practically invisible. It's probably as wide as my garage, if a little bit longer, and it's scrunched in between this fancy-schmancy Fitness Pizza place that has a bajillion flashing lights, neon signs, a huge outdoor-cafe-esque plaza, and Pavarotti blaring out of some hidden speakers that are probably located behind the set of triple-fountains at the front, and Vogue Nails, a beauty parlor with wall-to-ceiling posters of hot babes with silky hair. It's a marvel how Maguroya stays in business, but it does, anyway, and it's THRIVING, which is, I must say, pure genius.

It doesn't advertise, for one. It's very small, it's rather expensive, and I've only seen like three employees besides the three chefs that work behind the bar. But that's the charm, I think.....it's cozy and small and quiet and out of the way, not like all of those loud, mainstream restaurants, and best of all,





I swear, if I ever get up the nerve to actually TALK to Tono-san (who's like...super attractive and the spitting image of Yamada from Asian Kung-fu Generation <3<3<3<3 and is the driving source behind the sushi's amazing taste), he'll probably have to stuff a frying pan in my mouth to get me to shut up about just how fantastically GOOD his sushi is. If I had the money to donate, I'd probably give a good chunk of it to Maguroya so they could expand, buy more fish, ANYTHING, but I swear on my life that as long as I'm alive, that restaurant is NEVER going to go out of business no matter HOW bad the economy is. Hell, I'd probably eat there every day of my life just to keep it in business.

Anyway.....I suppose I do owe a superduperooper huge THANK YOU to Aniki for introducing me to this precious little gem in the first place.....









I've always thought it would be fun to look at things from a psychologist's patient's point of view. Yeah, this is a little depressing, but I was a little depressed when I wrote it, so bear with me, yea? <3

She sits in front of me.

Her wire-rimmed glasses slide a little down the bridge of her nose; ice-blue eyes pierce through my own with their torrid gaze. Her hands, the nails short and blunt, the pinky one a little ragged from excess chewing, hold captive a sleek, navy ballpoint pen over a brand-new notepad.

Everything's so perfect, I swear I could hear it squeak.

"So," she says in a smooth, quiet voice. "How are you?"

I allow the briefest pause before I let a perfunctory "fine" slip past my lips. She considers this and nods, but does not touch her pen to the paper on her lap.

A spark of tension spurts into the air, hangs, dissipates. I revel in its fleeting presence.

She tries again. "I hear classes have been going well. Your professors tell me that your grades are exceptional. I'm proud of you." A fragment of relief snakes into her voice, and maybe a little bit of hope as she attempts to soften the stark sharpness of the air between us with the compliment.

I keep my eyes on that one oriental vase that sits on a small coffee table near her left elbow. It's got a pretty design. I figure that if I squint a little, I could succeed in giving myself a headache, it's so goddamn pretty.

"Your colleagues have been telling me some things, you know." Her voice rudely interrupts my reverie. "Things that concern me. Greatly."

I look up and cast my eyes on her face. Her face, not her eyes. Mine are still unfocused; her face is only a blur of creamy complexion framed by a smudge of brunette. Details evade me.

"Tell me, Sarah," she continues, and I can hear the rustle of her clothing moving against that cushy chintz armchair that she's in as she shifts forwards. To be closer to the subject. Yes, that's it. I'm a subject. To be studied and picked apart in the most sophisticated of psychological methods. I remain where I sit; if she thinks she's getting closer to me, well, okay. That's fine.

"Tell me why you seem so lonely."

Yeah, lady. You tell me why you got this job, hey? Why did they hire you? Was it because of your pretty face? Did they think your pretty face would calm people down so they'd spill their guts to you, tell you the pathetic story of their lives? Sure, lady. Just keep thinking like that. Just keep following all the rules of our goddamn society.

I draw my knees to my chest and stretch my t-shirt over the both of them, locking my hands over the whole mess.

The scratching of her pen annoys me, the rasping scritch, scritch that resonates through the room as she jots down notes. I haven't moved, haven't said anything; maybe she's making comments on my face. Her tongue slips, unnoticed, out of the edge of her mouth; it licks at her deep red lipstick as she scrawls.

"Sarah," she speaks again. "Sarah, please tell me what's wrong."

Maybe they hired her for her voice. It's a liquidy sort of voice, I think. Warm, like the sea-water that flows around you before an undercurrent snags you by the leg and drags you under and drowns you. I sort of like her voice, I think.

"Sarah...." my name floats from her mouth, soft and inviting.

I dig my nails into my arm, imagining the white starkness of my skin at the sudden pressure. She looks up, suddenly, her face registering alarm. I draw my knees further into my chest, clutching myself tighter as my fingers leave blunt, alabaster indentations in my arm that quickly turn to a bruised, angry red.

"Sarah, please don't do that," she says tremulously. "Please, Sarah, don't hurt yourself like this." The last few words crescendo into a plea.

I dig.

Warmth flows over my fingers, my hands, drips down my palms and onto my cold feet. I can't see it from where I'm sitting, but I know it's a welcoming color, just like the welcoming pain that blossoms in my arm. It's a stinging, silky kind of pain that wraps me up and cradles me like as if I'm twelve again.

"Sarah!" her voice rises nearly an octave, registering shock and fright.

That's right, lady. They didn't warn you about this, did they, the bastards?

My feet are still cold. I draw my nails across my arm, relishing in the sibilant parting of my skin as the lips of my wounds grow larger. More warmth flows out, lots of it now; it pools over my hands like a sacred waterfall, warming my feet with its touch. Its purity nearly makes me cry.

She gets up, the pen and paper falling to the ground, and stumbles to me, perhaps to stop me from doing anything else. I stay complacent as she grabs my arm, but then she tries to pull it away from my other arm, so I dig again.

She still pulls.

A long, thin, perfect strip of my skin tears off of my arm, the end of it caught in my nail, and I can't resist a brief smile. She's gasping now, at the wrongness of it all, at the blood that's flowing freely down my arm. What's wrong, lady, it's just blood. It's fine when it's in your body. Why should it be any different out of it?

"Sarah!" A shriek now.

I've had enough.

My t-shirt snaps back into place as my legs explode from under me. I bound to her chair, scoop up her pen and pad, clutch them in my hands, my red-streaked hands; the pen is my spoil, the pad my victory.

She doesn't move towards me; instead, she stretches out her hands in one last, desperate plea, a tear spilling down the side of her face.

"Don't do this," she says, a sob marring her words. "Come back, Sarah."

I take a step, skip, and jump. My shoulder hits the large, glass window behind me; it shatters, large chunks of debris coming down on my body like some sort of maladjusted rainfall, and I feel another blossom of sensation as one, sharp stalactite slides cleanly into my waist. And then I am out, and then I am falling, and with a thud, my body hits the roof of the veranda, and I'm rolling, rolling, sliding. I dimly hear her cry of panic behind me as she stretches out a hands towards my body, but it's too late, too late; I've fallen off of the awning, collided painfully with the ground, and then I'm off, running through the streets, my hair flying behind me as I'm free, free, free.....

It's only later that I realize that I still have the pen and pad in my hands. I look down on the smudged, torn piece of paper and read the simple words.

"I am not an angel, but I love you, my daughter."

I was still up come midnight of last night, I believe...and I was about ready to turn in for the night....but I just couldn't go to sleep, for some reason.

Somehow, my gaze ended up on the kitchen floor. And the first thing that came to mind was "hell, that's filthy."

Quickly followed up by "What the hell....a couple more minutes won't hurt, I'm restless anyway, so let's see if I can't help out mum a bit by cleaning this up."

So it's about one o clock in the morning and I'm slaving away at the floor with a mop. And a broom. Which quickly evolved to doing the dishes, waxing and varnishing the wood parts of the floor, dusting every available piece of furniture I could find, etc...

by the time I was done, it was 2 in the morning.

I went to bed with a considerably lighter heart. <3


Oh, my poor, poor livejournal....*cries and sobs* I'm so, so sorry to have fallen whim to the predatory state of popular culture....*weeps*

Anyway. Thank god for Livejournal. At least I have a place where I can write down all of my thoughts, where they shall be completely and totally MINE, where I can flaunt my psychological nudity and there will be open-minded people who will NOT judge me by what I write and who I write about.

I nearly abandoned this dear little site. *strokes it* All because of Facebook. Ah, the evils of Facebook....for a while, I thought it was alright...you know, it doesn't hurt to catch up on old friends....and for a while, I began to log my journal entries in the form of Notes (that's such a handy little application).

But then I realized that when I actually posted those notes, they were on a public domain for all to see. And some people don't take too well to psychological nudity, so to speak.

Perhaps it's the fact that I am a writer of some sort....we're never too right in the head, you know....and people, used to the ways and the whims of modern society, simply find any sort of strange or novel idea to be disgusting or unacceptable. I have been severely chastised, both via the internet and by a lashing tongue, because of the content of some of my notes. Well, shit. They're MY notes, bitches. I do what I want with them, and you can find your own fucking psychologist if you don't like what I fucking write. Deal with it, but don't publicly humiliate me in front of my friends and peers just because you have a problem with what I've written.

How sad. The myriad of closed minds that exist to this day, this age that is supposed to be one of great sophistication and learning.

I've closed my Facebook account. That's quite enough of that, thank you. I'll stick to my good old livejournal friends any day.

Oh, and speaking of said livejournal friends....I'm sorry I haven't been active and crap. I know, I know, it seems like I'm neglecting you, and for that I deeply apologise...but I promise I'll never fall prey to social domains like Facebook ever again. Cross my heart.

Since the deactivation of my account, I've been shaping up immensely, I think. I've started writing again....I got past the opening of my new SasuNaru fic, which is a HUGE step considering that the opening is always the hardest for me (once I get past that roadblock, it's a breeze until the ending, which I still manage to suck at T_T)...so I'll expect to post up a chapter or two once I get well into the body of the fic.

And for all of you that still remember me, that still believe in me....well, I thank you immensely from the bottom of my heart. I could've never asked for better friends. And believe me, internet friends are SO MUCH BETTER than all of the bitches and bastards I encounter at school, work, or just around town. It must've been a twist of fate for me to end up living where I do, where people are arrogant and critical and narrow-minded. I think people you make friends with over the internet are that much more kind and less judgmental than the people I deal with in real life.

And for that I am thankful.

Wishing myself an official back-from-the-dead celebration!

I'm back,
Silver-eyed Hyuuga <3

The Art of BSing

I figure everyone does it anyway....so here's my take on how to do it properly


- Every bsed paper generally follows the Golden Rule of Proportional Bullshit: 2% content, 80% bs, 18% good spacing.

To get the boring crap over with first, I'll start with the first topic:

2% Content

- If your paper is completely and totally bsed, chances are your professor will figure it out (they're not professors for nothing). However, if you feed them just the slightest bit of information, believable or not (preferably at a strategically placed location; I recommend the first body paragraph, as that's the one they'll read first), they'll most likely assume that the rest of your paper has an equal amount of "valid" information. Your credibility status rises, you only have to do a minimal amount of research, and voila, the painful part is over and done with.

Now we get to the good part:

80% BS

- Because this is such an essential part of any essay, I'll break this down into categories so it will be easier to understand.


- Use a lot of dates. Not only do they take up room on the page, but they also give the reader the impression that you know what you're talking about. 1975 is a good one to use; a lot of things happened during that time period, including the Vietnam mess and Watergate and whatnot. The 19 bit shows that you've got the right century, and the 75 bit is a good, familiar number (being a multiple of 25, which is very commonly used and therefore familiar to both you and your targeted professor). However, if you happen to use dates, always include the words "around", "approximately", "during the time/time period of" somewhere in the general vicinity of the date.

- The Catch and the Solution:

You never know the true extent of some professors; if he/she happens to be an expert on the year of 1975, and you have the misfortune to use that exact date in your essay, you can allow yourself a small margin of error by sticking the above modifiers before or after the mentioned date. After all, one year is a very short time in a historical context; it would be quite sensible to assume that stuff happened over long periods of time and therefore cannot be affixed with one set date.


- If you're going to elaborate on "research" done by a "seemingly important figure", always try to utilize a name that sounds European. Europe has a far larger compendium of history from which to extract random facts than the United States; consequently, it will be that much harder for your professor to track your supposed sources if you incorporate European names into your essay than if you make use of American names. Take "Michael Smith" vs. "Piotr Draskewiszk". The former could sound like some ten-year-old's name, while the latter, aside from being virtually unpronounceable, must surely belong to some famed historian over the seas and far away. European names imply a sense of sophistication and suaveness, especially Russian names, which are actually my personal favorite. Russian names are, in my opinion, the best to use; not only do they sound cool and convincing, but if your professor every types said name into Google (just to be sure, you know, some professors can be extremely paranoid), he/she will likely turn up with a list of random sites that are all in Russian and cannot be verified for validity.

The Catch and the Solution:

- If your teacher is Russian and can actually read the aforementioned Russian websites, good luck trying to explain why one of your sources links to a randy monkey-porn website (shame on you). If this is the case, you can avoid this situation altogether by turning to European names of other ethnic origins. French names are a close second to Russian names; after all, the Enlightenment did originate from France, and its names do sound so elegantly decadent. I don't recommend using the general "Jacques" name, though; try for something more original, such as "Rameau D'Allourettent" or a name that's equally as sinful. Do try not to get carried away, though; your professor might take strangely to a name such as "Xavierre de Lamoreaux au Panache ou L'iverdemme MLVXIII". But I'm sure that's just common sense.


- I think this is, by far, the easiest way to BS. Not only do you not have to do a lot of research, but if you have a semi-decent grasp of the English language, you can pull this off with as little effort as possible while still managing to maintain a facade of high intelligence.

For example, take the following random sentence: The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dogs.

With a high level of eloquence, you can easily extend the above sentence into something that will take up a lot of space and, at the same time, sound highly intelligent, such as the following modification:

As observed in the study conducted around the time of 1975 by the notable philosopher Fryderyk Wisneczawski, it has been effectively concluded that the quick, mahogany-hued land mammal was indeed a fox, and that it did actually jump over the litter of sedentary Welsh Corgi puppies.

Voila. What was once nine words became forty-six. I've also incorporated some of the points that I mentioned before into that drawn-out sentence:

As observed in the study conducted around the time of (the margin of error) 1975 (the fudged date) by the notable philosopher (fancy-sounding job description) Fryderyk Wisneczawski (European name), it has been effectively (adverb to fill space) concluded that the quick, mahogany-hued (long word to fill up space) land mammal was indeed a fox, and that it did actually jump over the litter of sedentary (professional-sounding adjective) Welsh Corgi (fancy-sounding breed, plus it fills up space) puppies.

The Catch and the Solution

- Don't get too carried away. There's a fine line between sounding intelligent and sounding flowery. Professors are very good at dinging you when you sound flowery, so make sure it's the former, not the latter. After you've poured out the contents of your silver tongue onto your paper, read it over again (with a professional air, if you like, it matters not to me) and try to make a distinction between flowery and intellectual. People can usually tell the difference.


- Write your paper like as if you're explaining the contents of your essay to a group of ten-year-olds. This way, you'll sound like you have more clarity and conciseness in your essay while at the same time providing a blanket explanation to anything your professor doesn't already know. Plus it fills up space. Filling up space is a good thing.

For example, take this simple sentence: Jane rode her bike to the market on Wednesday to buy a carton of milk.

After the surgery: Jane Massenet, the ever-zealous environmentalist who once headed the Lycee d'Environs in Lyons, France, was seen riding her tandem to the grocery store on Wednesday, March 24, 2009 to purchase a specific carton of milk that was appraised by the FDA to be 100% organic and non-perishable.

15 words to 50. Not bad.

This example was rather frivolous, though. Let me give you a better one:

The sentence: Every speech should have an introduction, body, and conclusion.

After the surgery: To maximize the effectiveness and impact of your speech, you need to have a clear-cut framework that your audience can easily follow, which may be organized in the following manner: an introduction, to give your audience a general overview of what topics you shall be elaborating on, a body, in which you will present facts and evidence to back up your main points and make your speech more credible, and a conclusion, to leave your audience with any last words and preferably something to think about.

Nuff zed.



- believe it or not, Microsoft Word can actually do a 12.5 font size. This might not seem like much, but when you need to write a 10 page paper, this can actually come in handy. The nice thing about this is that it's right smack in the middle of 12 and 13. It's a little bigger than 12, which makes your words take up more space, but not as big as 13. Most professors and their TAs have eyes like hawks: they can easily identify the difference between a size 12 and 13, but with a 12.5 font, they're more likely to pass it off as weird printing or something of the sort, and anyway, it's not like they'll care, since they'll have to grade a million other essays as well.


- Don't underestimate the power of periods. Periods, if used effectively, can actually take up a lot of space, especially if you make them size 15 or upwards regardless of what your font size is. This can go hand in hand with the next topic:


- These can be used very effectively, as capital letters tend to take up a lot of space as well. For the riskier folks out there, you can try changing all of your capital letters to font size 13, so long as you keep the rest of your letters in 12 or 12.5


- If you look on the Page Setup spot of MW, you'll see that the top and bottom margins are set as 1" and the right and left ones are set as 1.25" . Well, why not make it even? Set the top and bottom margins to 1.25", and I doubt your professor will notice. Don't go over that, though, because there is a notable difference between 1.25 and 1.50.


- This one's just common sense. Put a big ol' space between your first paragraph and your second one. It makes the paper look neater too.


- If you're double-spacing your essay, why not do the same to your name, date, and class as well? The title of your essay can also be in a larger font size (the one place where a font size larger than 13 will be accepted by your professor)


So there you have it. I could go on forever about all the little details, what to do, what not to do, according to the kind of class you have (Seminar vs. Discussion) and what your professor is like (Evil and Anal vs. Don't Give a Shit), but you can tweak things however you want to, so the discretion is up to you.

Good luck to all of you.

I'm off,
Silver-eyed Hyuuga

Disclaimer: This note was written by someone who is supposed to be in the Honors program. Ouch, the irony. XD

Mar. 18th, 2009


I was feeling pretty normal yesterday, which was Wednesday, I believe. Wednesdays are usually pretty relaxed for me....Music History from 9 - 10, a LONG break, and then HONR101B from 2:30 - 3:45...oh, and then Marcus and Pauline from 4:15 - 5:15....

History went well (it always goes well, Dr. Istad is an amazing teacher)....so I was feeling okay by the time I got to HONR101B.....

.......and then the first thing my teacher said when I got to class was "okay, class, please turn in your midterm."






So I dove through the abyssal contents of my backpack, and after a few moments of panicked searching, found the assignment sheet for the take-home midterm that I apparently completely forgot about.

"Write a four to six page paper detailing how to structure, organize, plan, and deliver a speech. Due March 11."



Oh. Shit.

"Excuse me, Dr. Stein? Can I email my paper to you? My computer is still undergoing maintenance."

Utter lie through the teeth.

Cue the hopeful smile and the shaking hands.

But she smiled and said yes, so long as I got it in by WEDNESDAY, a.k.a. before 12 midnight.

Class got out early (thank god) because Dr. Stein had laryngitis and thus couldn't lecture, so, counting my unexpected blessings, I hauled ass over to the library and scribbled out about a page's worth of essay before I had to go and teach Marcus and Pauline. After a brief episode of driving Inukiel home, I must've broken every single speeding law in existence to get home to my laptop and the rest of my paper....

The next two hours consisted of highly sophisticated BSing. I scribbled out and fancified common knowledge dealing with speech writing (i.e. "Every speech should have an introduction, body, and conclusion" became something like "To maximize the effectiveness and impact of your speech, you need to have a clear-cut framework that your audience can easily follow, which may be organized in the following manner: an introduction, to give your audience a general overview of what topics you shall be elaborating on, a body, in which you will present facts and evidence to back up your main points and make your speech more credible, and a conclusion, to leave your audience with any last words and preferably something to think about."), lengthened it to fit four to six pages, and sent it off to my teacher at 7 in the evening.

She emailed me back this morning and told me that she had received it.

Oh man....if I get an A on this....


Is Lucifer really evil?

I really don’t think Lucifer is evil at all. Mayhap it’s because I like to see the good side in people, I don’t know. But here’s what I figure:

The story of Lucifer’s fall, if I remember correctly, sort of goes like this: Lucifer was originally named Lucifel, “el” being the ending in all of the names of God’s angels. He was one of God’s three most trusted angels alongside Michael and Gabriel, but one day he got too arrogant and proposed that he would be higher, greater, mightier than God (I remember some vague Bible verse saying something about sitting on top of a mountain). Consequently, God rose up against Lucifel with His army of angels, defeated him, and cast him down to Hell, where he was doomed to spend eternity as Lucifer.

Now, I’ve spoken to many Christians, and they say that Lucifer doesn’t create sin. He only presents the possibility of sin, and it’s up to man and his free will to decide whether or not he’s going to indulge in the sin or not (the concept of temptation).

This leads to my argument, which I shall valiantly try to put in as non-confusing terms as possible:

There’s a saying that goes something like this: Without obstacles, one cannot grow. Which is true, in a sense: if you haven’t encountered any difficulties at all, you won’t grow as a person, a human; you won’t mature and gain experience in overcoming difficulties. That’s why such obstacles exist: to balance out the good in the world, so that mankind can have a sense of both good and bad, so that hopefully mankind can persevere over the bad and enjoy the good.

Now, if Lucifer didn’t exist, there wouldn’t BE any “bad” in the world: the temptation to sin wouldn’t exist and everyone would be literally perfect. Now, where’s the fun in that? If everyone were perfect, there would be no progress, and the world would just stay the same for eternity: perfect, happy, and completely and utterly BORING. Stagnant. Stationary. There would be nowhere to go. People would have no purpose. But Lucifer DOES exist, DOES present mankind with temptation, obstacles, difficulties, and as man faces the perils that Lucifer presents, he learns from his mistakes, he perseveres over the difficulties presented to him, and he grows in mind and body and maturity. And for those who cave and succumb to the challenges, well, the pain and suffering caused by them will be experienced by others, who will learn to be stronger in mind as well.

So doesn’t that mean that what Lucifer is doing is actually used for something good? That in a way, his actions indirectly influence progress and maturity in mankind? Sure, people might think he’s evil because the obstacles he presents to mankind are never fun, but just because the obstacles themselves are malicious doesn’t mean that the person delivering them is necessarily malicious as well. Remember, he used to be an angel once. Angels are created by God (at least, that’s what I think, correct me if I’m wrong), and God is perfect. I don’t think He messed up with Lucifer.

So what are my personal views on the notorious Prince of Hell?

I hold a great deal of sympathy for Lucifer. He’s literally the world’s scapegoat: that infamous phrase, “The Devil made me do it” puts all the blame on him. He’s all alone down in Hell with nothing but the lesser demons and accursed souls to keep him company, and a duty that he is bound to for all of eternity.

I think what really transpired between God and Lucifer was something of a pact: God needed something to balance out the “good” in people. Lucifer, one of God’s most trusted angels, volunteered to be the counteractive force. It’s the ultimate sacrifice: because Lucifer loved God and His creations so much, he was willing to become the “evil one” in the eyes of the people so they would have a scapegoat to blame their actions on.

And so he’s down there in Hell, where he manages all of the souls that have succumbed to his challenges. The poor thing. So lonely and desolate and still so very loyal. But what he does is absolutely necessary, so he does it and will keep on doing it until the end of time.

…..I wonder if anyone else has ever thought of it like this before.
a bit of it is personal experience....a bit of it is wishful thinking.

Alone in a Crowd

They’re all there, or most of them at least, finding seats, trading jests and jibes and jokes. The first meeting: very important, mind, so show up to class or you won’t get credit. But none of them mind, not very much, because school has started again, which, in some ways, is a good thing. So there they are, and at this crinkle in time, they’re piling into the hall, waiting to be taught, and, in some cases, waiting to teach.

She clutches her sweater closer to her chest as she’s jostled by a navy Jansport backpack. Oh hello, a Louis Vuitton bag swings into her line of vision; looks authentic enough, as it’s being carried by THAT girl, so she step-shuffles backwards and the expensive accessory narrowly misses her right ear, the slipstream of air sending her hair flying backwards. Something gives under her heel; a muffled “ow” catches her attention and she jumps back again, apologizing, sorry, Ricky, didn’t see your foot there.

Innocuous, inconspicuous, ah, there we go, that one seat that’s sort of in the middle, sort of in the back where she won’t be considered a slacker or a goody-goody or much of anything at all, at least to the lecturing professor. More people are crowding in behind her; she cranes her head around, catches sight of him, waves, hi James, used to be best friends, couldn’t ever separate them, but he passes her row and slides in next to Gavin. A wash of silk-dark hair flickers in the corner of her vision; Shelly, bubbly as ever, chirrups an absent hello to her as well and joins James on the other side, mouth going a mile a minute about the latest goings-on with Aaron, off-again-on-again boyfriend, extra hot, won’t work out but damn, is he gorgeous.

She can’t help but feel just a little bit wistful. No, not sad, “sad” is such a strong word in her vocabulary. There’s still a lot of distance to cover from wistful to sad, at least in her mind.

A shadow crosses over her; a minute later, Nick slides into the seat in front of her and she straightens a little. Nick, with his quirky sarcasm and tastefully foul mouth: hard to explain, long story, don’t ask—she leans forwards and jokes a bit with him; he drawls a response and they both laugh a little, and she feels the tension ease as the sweet cloud of camaraderie engulfs them both….

He turns, catches sight of Lynda; his eyes light up and he snatches up his backpack, easing like molasses into the empty seat next to her, and then they’re chattering away, all that happened in the last five minutes quickly forgotten. And she can’t help the slight droop in her shoulders; no, she never thought of him in THAT way, but knowing that he’s not in front of her any more, as petty a thought as it is, slightly aches.

More girls pile in; there’s Anne, and Mara, friends forever, joined that the hip, or, at least right now, at the arms. They move in tandem to the row in front of her and giggle simultaneously as Nick waves a hello. Mara gestures in vain to get Danny’s attention; Nick, seeing this, elbows Danny and points; Danny yells a greeting across the aisle and sends Mara into giggles again, Anne quickly following as he winks at her.

She watches this exchange like as if she was watching a tennis match; her head turns to Mara as she inquires about winter break; rotates to Danny as he answers with a quick quip, and then back again to Mara as she replies, a grin in her voice. Fast friends, light talk, be there for you forever, babe, you know it, it’s true. The deep bond of friendship—what a pitiful thing. So pathetic, she thinks. But perhaps she covets it—perhaps—which is why she thinks the way she does.

She decides to give up a little. She leans back and just observes the cliques. There, across from her: the elite group of veteran students. Elite not because of their money, or their makeup; no, it’s an aura, sort of, not really, that she senses, a sort of mature elegance that can only be found with age or wisdom or some other philosophical state of mind that only they possess, hence they’re elite, untouched. Beautiful. Whatever. Her mouth twists; she looks away (looking too much is rude, you know) and flicks a quick glance towards James again. Shelly’s still talking, oh, and Gavin is too, and James is all smiles and laughter, talking alternatively to the both of them, their own little group, all comfy-cosy.

“Don’t worry. You’ll make friends here soon.”

A voice cuts through her reverie; she starts, and turns towards Daniel, two seats next to her. His smile isn’t really a smile, just a twist of his lips, but it unnerves her a little to see it all the same.

“What are you talking about?” The words sound disbelieving: haha, laugh it off, because everything’s just a big, fucking joke, psh, when have I ever listened to you?

He leans back and turns his gaze away from her, and it scares the hell out of her, he was bang on the nail about what she was

(wishing for)

thinking, but no way in hell she’ll let that show, because that’s weakness, vulnerability, and she’s a badass chick, she is

(yeah right)


Daniel’s still smiling his faint sort of smile. But she passes it off as Daniel just being Daniel, because that’s just how Daniel IS, sometimes.

The bitterness comes, then, welling up inside of her like some sort of maladjusted tidal wave. “Make friends here soon”, yeah right, she should’ve made a shitload of friends already, hell, hanging around all day, pretending to be overly cheery because people like cheery stuff, don’t they, happy happy joy joy, puh-leeze, it makes her teeth hurt. But she does it anyway because it’s high time she made friends, gone 18 years with barely any, so she deludes herself, acts happy, hey, how are you, how’s life? Take care, maybe you’ll remember one day when you’re old and senile that I was nice to you once and actually look at me, look at me for a change, ask how I am, because you care, not because you're being polite.

She’s tired of being polite. Well, “being polite” in that sense. It leaves a sour taste in the back of her throat.

All that hypocrisy.

(notice me)

And it all came to nothing.

(make friends with me)

And it all came to nothing.

(not some shallow thing)

And it all came to nothing.

(show me you care)

And it all came to nothing.

(talk to me first, for once)

And it all came to nothing.

(not because it’s polite)

And it all came to nothing.

(but because you acknowledge my existence)

Class has ended, the quiet has been broken; it startles her out of her thoughts. She stands up and hurries towards the exit, is the first one to slip out the door (not because she’s in a hurry or anything. Just to see if anyone notices her exit). But no one follows her (it’s alright, she didn’t expect them to), so she skirts around an empty corridor and slows to a walk, head down a little for some strange reason, my, those sure are interesting cracks in the tiles there.

It’s an odd time for class to get out, so the hallways are deserted. She meanders like a wraith down a random corridor, half reveling in, half resenting the silence, save for the tic-tac-tic-tac of her own footsteps. On a whim, she veers off to the left and goes outside; nature always made her feel more at ease for some odd reason.

She leans on the door and it gives to her weight, allowing a fresh breeze of warm spring air to flow into the building. She wanders outside, slants a glance at the sky, and ambles over to a deserted bench in the niche of the building, only it’s not deserted anymore; there’s someone sitting on it, someone she recognizes.

She walks up to the bench and takes a seat next to him. A black feather wafts across her field of vision and she plucks it out of the air, brings it to her lap and strokes it, the soft sable strands, the smooth, obsidian shaft. The wind picks up again; it ruffles her hair and sends a whish-squish of noiseless sound over the surface of her ears. She reaches up and tucks her long hair behind an ear, using that as an excuse to look at him again; her eyes travel over his long, blonde hair, his saturnine profile.

“Hello,” she ventures almost cautiously, though her intentions are anything but. He turns a little to look at her, his sapphire eyes almost transparent in the light of the sun. He does not speak, but this strangely doesn’t make her uncomfortable; instead, she smiles a little, if albeit rather hesitantly, her fingers absently playing with the feather.

“What are you doing here?” She says, and then chides herself for being too soft.

He turns his gaze away, his eyes lost, absent, seeing things in another dimension. “I have no current business…” he murmurs, his liquid baritone unfocused, elusive.

She understands, hears the meaning in his silence. She sets the feather down and scoots closer to him, and for a brief moment, allows herself to reach him in his other dimension, just by being there, sitting there, neither acknowledging or ignoring his presence. They sit there for a long time, just being, just existing. Another black feather floats across her vision, but she ignores it. She knows what he’s feeling because she’s felt it before, has felt it for most of her life, and probably will feel it forever and ever, but it’s the sort of thing that can’t be put into words, because words would lend it a shallowness that it needs nothing of.

Lucifer turns to her then, his ebony wings spreading just a little as he adjusts his seat on the bench.

“You don’t try to resist it then,” he speaks finally, his ancient voice laced with a simple curiosity. “The loneliness, I mean.”

She shakes her head a little. “No…” she begins, pauses, and then continues. “I resent it, sometimes, more often than not, but I live with it.” She arches a shoulder. “Well, if you count making an absolute fool out of myself in front of people, I suppose you could call that resistance. All the hypocrisy and the plastic smiles and such, you know.”

His elegant mouth lifts upwards in the faintest ghost of a smile. “Not far from what I did then,” he says, a tinge of light irony in his voice.

She risks a quick grin. “Hey, it’s only phony smiles and cheeriness for me. You sacrificed your entire reputation, all for the name of mankind.”

He considers being affronted—she can see it flit across his face—but then amusement bleeds through the azure filigree of his eyes. “It is a fate I’ve lived with since the beginning of time. I do not regret it.”

“As well you shouldn’t,” she answers gently. “Being the prince of Hell isn’t an easy task. Why make it even harder for yourself?”

His black robes slide like liquid over the metal slats of the bench as he shifts his body sideways. More black feathers molt from his wings; she turns away from the sunlight that reflects off of his ivory horns, two long, curving bones that crown his white-blonde hair like an unholy crest.

(a crest he never deserved, Lucifer, the most loyal of all the angels, the one who sacrificed everything)

He senses what she’s thinking, her troubled mood because of her thoughts. “Everyone needs a scapegoat,” he says softly, gently, his voice flowing like molten silver. “I just happened to volunteer to be the world’s.”

She’s anguished now. “You never deserved it,” she whispers harshly. “You sacrificed yourself and now the world hates you.”

She starts a little as the sensation of cool, smooth skin slides under her chin. They press upwards; she tilts her head accordingly so that she’s looking directly into his eyes, his crystalline, ocean-blue eyes, and suddenly all the suffering is there, aeons and aeons of suffering, of enduring the trials of being the Sentinel of Hell, of the loneliness and the bleak solitude and the emptiness…and the hatred, the undeserved hatred of all the people who never understood the truth, the transpiration of the pact with Heaven.

He’s sad now. Yes, sad. This beautiful angel of Hell. An angel, still, not a demon. Still an angel. Because he had made a deal with God.

“Not all of the world hates me,” he murmurs softly.

It’s impulse, then. She leans up and lays her lips across his, and they’re cold and smooth, his lips, and she can feel his cool breath on her mouth as he moves it against hers. His scent fills her nose, the sweet scent of death and endings and silence, the accursed aura that he must endure until the end of eternity, and she feels like crying.

Tears sting her vision; they’re gone the next moment. A gentle thumb wipes them away, banishes them to the cement, then slides down the line of her cheekbone and across the edge of her jaw. Lucifer hovers in front of her, his mouth millimeters from her own, and he just looks at her, his eyes twin pools of nostalgia and something bittersweet, ethereal in its beauty, in his own transcendental beauty. And there’s a moment when they both understand each other, understand the solitude and the anguish and the own personal demons that both have to face.

She closes her eyes and lets him go.

And when she opens them again, all she sees is a small, metal bench, with a single, black feather on top of her books.


whoa, back from the dead

I haven't touched this page in a long time, which makes me feel extremely guilty considering I love, love, love my livejournal.....I want to keep writing, and I want to keep posting whatever's here in my cluttered mind, but there is no TIME....

I suppose it's part of being a music major at my college. Your life is spent in the practice rooms. Which, sometimes, can be a good thing....and I suppose I could post from my laptop if ever I do find the gumption to drag it all the way to school in my backpack, plug it in to the socket next to the piano, and vegetate for a while....

Anyway. Just a few quick updates to write, I suppose.....

I've been sewing myself a chun li outfit for Anime Expo '09. It's coming along pretty well....the blue satin was extremely easy to work with....but all the gold fabric needed for the lining really irritates me. IT FRAYS TOO DAMN EASILY!!!! *CRIES* I always have to zig-zag stitch it to make it stop fraying, and even then it's a helluva pain to deal with...*sighs* Oh well. I'm about done with that, so hopefully once I get the whole thing complete, I'll post a few pictures here.....

All I need to do now is to find some way to make those ridiculous bracelets that she has. Oh joy. And no, I am NOT going to buy them online....$65, and I'm POOR, DAGNAMMIT!!! *sobs*

The SasuNaru fanfic is coming along slowly but steadily. I'm always writing a few paragraphs here or there, so it's not too much progress, but I always have the idea fresh in my mind, and more sheets of paper than one have been used to jot down ideas....hopefully I'll post that up soon (aaaaah, forgive me, I know I've said that before!!! *bows*), so watch for that....

I'm also thinking of writing a Zuko/Aang pairing for Avatar....they're just so cute together, aang with his immaturity and Zuko with his dark honor-lust....XD plus, Zuko's kind of hawwttt....<3

Oh, and I just finished Twilight Princess yesterday. D: Now I kind of miss Link...*cries* he deserves some fangirldom as well....<3 I'll play it again, don't worry.

More on my life later....I have a lesson to get to. :3

Happy birthday to me.....
I'm finally 18....
Oh dear, I'm now legal....



Nov. 23rd, 2008

I need to write again....I need to write more....I have a fantastic idea for a really good fic and I'm working on it, and working on it, but I have no bloody TIME anymore...

College, as much as I love it, keeps me on a noose that keeps getting tighter and tighter. All these concerts I must perform, all of these commitments I have to do, working three jobs because I need to support my family (Dad's income isn't enough to support all five of us)....*sighs*

I know. I'm going to sit down tomorrow at my computer and I'm going go let it all out. Let my fingers do the walking, proverbially. *grins* I'm going to WRITE my heart out because I medically need to do so. Because it's in me, waiting to come out, wanting to be let out, and I think I'm just going to let myself indulge in this wonderful, cathartic experience. <3

I don't know how much I'll get done. But I know it'll be something substantial. <3


I shall wish my dear Sampsa Petteri Alanen a very happy birthday!!!! <3 Speaking of which, mine's coming up really soon too....30 November....O_O

Cheers to the both of us!
So I wrote something the other day that was completely on a whim. This is a little short story that popped into my head just out of the blue....so forgive the fact that it's completely random and makes absolutely no sense whatsoever.


One of the first things he noticed when he woke up that gorgeous morning were the cellos that were growing in his backyard.

Fingers callused with years of dutiful toil scrabbled across the mahogany wood of his nightstand; he plucked his spectacles from where they lay, donned a rich, woolen housecoat, and ambled out to the yard to observe the phenomenon, squinting a little as the first rays of the sun peered inquisitively into his eyes. Oh, they were cellos all right, a bit green around the edges and rather peaky-looking, what with the fresh, spring dew that collected like golden filigree on their small, silver strings, but they looked relatively healthy with promises of a great harvest to come. They were just beginning to bloom: the ripest instrument was still deciding whether to become the light, orangey hue of elm and lacquered rowan or to darken to the rich tint of earthen brown that was the signature cherry-wood of most fine cellos.

An unexpected quirk sketched a line across his mouth. Chortling to himself, he tottered back into the enveloping warmth of his house and radiator, and, grabbing a thick, iron ring lined with keys, unlocked the door that gave entrance to his shop. He paused for a brief moment to inhale the musty, dusty smell of resin and wood and just the slightest tang of rose that wafted through the doorway, then snagged the sign by his door that read “Foster’s Violins” in bright, bold, calligraphy.

He retrieved his materials at once, dipping a fat, horse-hair brush into a small can of beige paint. Meticulously, he smoothed a taupe coat over the “Violins”, careful not to smudge out any portion of the elegantly embellished “Foster’s”, and when that was done, he set aside the utensil and picked up his pen, his gnarled hand poised like a dancer’s over the fine grain of the wood. His glasses slipped just a little; with a sound of mild annoyance, he pushed the wire frame higher over his aquiline nose and set to work on creating a new word, one he hoped wouldn’t alarm too many of his regular customers.

He had just completed the second “l” when the soft pealing of bells heralded the entrance of a customer. A woman swept in through the door, wrapped in a voluptuous, double-breasted tweed overcoat. Her glittering wheat-blonde hair streamed like a golden river behind her as she sauntered up to the counter, and, catching sight of him, she smiled, her full, rouged lips parting to reveal a straight, pearly row of teeth.

“Todd Foster,” she chirruped gleefully. “Repainting your sign again? Honestly, this is the fifth time in as many years.” The twisty syllables of her edged Cockney accent reverberated off the walls of the little shop like a light, chiming melody.

He doffed an invisible hat to her, a lock of his iron-white hair snagging in a rough, jagged fingernail. “’Tis a pleasure to see you too, Joanne. It’s been a while.”

She tossed her head and made a moue of dismissal. “Oh, you know. I’m so busy these days. But enough with the boring preliminaries.” She leaned forwards and planted an arm on the polished surface of his counter, craning her head to look into his garden through the small window at the back. “I see you’re growing…cellos, are they?”

He sighed in affirmation. “It’s a gift and a curse…I can never grow the same instrument for two years in a row.”

“Oh, do elaborate,” she commented with delicate irony. “I can’t seem to grow anything but flutes. Flutes, flutes, flutes, day in and day out, little metal poles sticking up all over my garden, and Margie next door always mistaking them for bean sprouts. That one year when I had clarinets was by far my most successful, but they’ve never grown since.” A dramatic shadow of exasperation flitted over her angled countenance as she irritably drummed gloved fingers on the edge of the reception desk.

He didn’t look up from his work. “You should be thankful you have such a consistent crop, Joanne.” He chided patiently.

The woman’s mouth briefly curved in a scowl. “There you go again, sounding like Grandfather in his old age. Honestly, Todd, you frustrate me to no end.” But the slight was soon forgotten, and she was all smiles again as she slanted a glance at his elaborate handiwork.

“Are you sure you want to put yourself through all that trouble?” She asked lightly, crooking a finger down at the letters.

“Of course I do,” he replied indignantly. “My family has made it a tradition of hand-carving and embellishing the Foster signs that hang from our shops.”
“No-no, I didn’t mean it that way,” she replied, and was that a sparkle of mischief he heard in her voice? “It’s just that…I wouldn’t be too hasty about decorating the ‘cellos’ bit.”

“Why not?” He asked, finally looking up, and in response, she pointed towards the back window, her mouth quivering strangely, as if it was a dam to a rising stream of laughter.
The pen slid out of his fingers and dropped to the counter with a cacophonous clatter. He whipped off his spectacles, polished them briefly against the fabric of his sleeve, and slid them back over his eyes again, but to no avail. Blossoming brilliantly not three feet from the steps of his veranda, fronds swaying innocently in a playful, passing breeze, was none other than a gorgeously carved, impeccably varnished, curvaceous double-bass.

The Twilight series

Being one with a penchant for the rather reclusive side of the social spectrum, I've always had an abundance of free time on my hands, assuming I've allowed myself the ritual once-every-triennium day off from this never-ending cycle that which all musicians refer to as "practice" (we're all massive masochists, I suppose, spending obscene amounts of blood, sweat, and tears all in the name of perfection, perfection, perfection). Said free time is most often spent on reading, a favorite pastime of mine, and it's probably due to the fact that I read way too much and too often that my prescription is now hovering dangerously below the threshold of "legally blind", a fact which alarms me, given that Lasik surgery cannot be performed on those who have reached or crossed the aforementioned mark.

Those who know me well should already be familiar with my rather sadistic side. Granted, it's rather subtle, and rightly so; seeing as if it weren't, I'd probably be locked up in jail for god knows how long under god knows how many counts of felony (I jest, I jest, I'm not THAT psychotic....*hides chainsaw*), but sometimes it likes to bleed a little into my main personality, especially when I'm doing something personal such as reading. I have a healthy, blooming love for horror, mystery, or murder novels (any combination of the aforementioned three is always welcome) that which is being fed and watered by the books that I read, mainly works of Stephen King, Dean Koontz, Anne Rice, Jennifer Roberson and Thomas Harris. Their prose and plots are unrivaled by all, and they spin their stories so artfully, with such finesse, as well as just the right dash of blood to season off the story.

I also love a good spin of the unorthodox. Ruthless and, depending on the situation, merciless women who can think on their feet and kick ass in a heartbeat without fainting at the mere sight of blood or a hot guy. Saucy, silver-tongued characters who are intelligent enough to keep a level head on the debate field and in the most perilous of situations. Powerful characters, with great responsibility on their shoulders, whose every decision might tip the fragile balance that could possibly trigger a small apocalypse. And let's not forget the villains...cold, calculating, sinister, deliciously intelligent, and beautiful, even up to the point where they're bathing in your blood.

Oh, forgive me. This was supposed to be about the Twilight series.

I'm a die-hard fan of anything and everything supernatural. Werewolves are always welcome in my repertoire, but I'm a devoted follower of vampires as well, to which no author does them quite the amount of justice they deserve save for Anne Rice. If I were to worship an author, I'd probably have about ten or so shrines to Anne Rice, for her amazing accomplishments involving the detailed portrayal of vampires. The woman deserves to be given an everlasting supply of fine Belgian chocolate for her works....but sadly enough, not many people have heard of her, though her praises deserve to be sung from the very depths of Hell up to the glorious plains of Paradise.

And then is spawned a series known as the Twilight series, written by an author called Stephenie Meyer. And it's Harry Potter all over again, the fame, the popularity, fangirls squealing and swooning and soaking their panties over some vampire known as Edward Cullen.

I had heard of the series, but never harbored an interest until my sister brought home Twilight, the very first book. I didn't care to take a look at first, but then came a day when I was utterly bored, and lo and behold, it was on the bookshelf, directly in my line of vision, so, having nothing else to do that day, I picked it up and skimmed the book from beginning to end, and when I finished, I must say I began to detest the series. Now, I am not condemning Meyer's prose. Certainly she is a splendid author; her nuances and transitions are flowing and smooth, and her descriptions are fine; vivid and and filled with imagery. Why then, do I despise Twilight and all of its following novels?

Perhaps it has something to do with my individual tastes; that could play a large role. But I believe it is more of a feeling of disappointment: I feel that Stephenie Meyer caters too much to her audience instead of writing for herself; granted, the heightened popularity shall sell more books, but it shall be soured by the vein of hypocrisy; she's getting undeserved fame, to put it in layman's terms.

Twilight, I believe, was written for those people (mainly girls; not to say that guys can't enjoy the series, but Edward gets a lot more beauty-words than Bella does, vampire or no vampire) with a more immature, for lack of a better word, view of life. High school new-girl meets strip-and-hand-me-your-lingerie-on-a-silver-platter-gorgeous vampire. High school girl falls in love with said vampire. Said vampire reciprocates said high school girl's feelings but cannot bring himself to cultivate the love due to the fact that, being a vampire, he's, oh, by the way, dating his food (high school girl being a scrumptious human who happens to smell extremely irresistible). Cue the drama and the tears and the stony resolve and the weeping girls and the covetous guys who are, by the way, head over heels in love with the high school new-girl who JUST SO happens to be supermodel beautiful.

It makes a mockery of deep and rational thinking (yes, irrational thinking can be exciting, but too much too often gets rather redundant and, ultimately, distasteful). Edward's a piece of eye candy; Bella's a girl whose common sense and self-preservation goes swirling down the drain once she falls in love with him. And he's not even that worthy of loving; he's a prickly emo-bitch with a perpetual sense of Doom and Gloom about him that just makes him depressing. Bella falls in love with him because a) he's hot b) he's hot c)-z) he's hot, and z + 1) his vampiric nature is the reason WHY he's so hot. Not because he's got charisma or an attractive personality, because I'll say it straight: he not even that gorgeous (well, compared to Lestat or Louis) and has the thorniest bipolar personality in the history of people with thorny bipolar personalities.

Oh, that and the fact that she's forsaking her father and her mother and has turned into a whiny little brat: "Oh, Edward, I can't live without you, please turn me into a vampire" when she has the rest of her life to spend with him. And the fact that Meyer constantly portrays her as swooning and sighing and being a crazed fangirl just because Edward "sparkles". And the fact that she has to have such a name as "Isabella Swan" which is by far the cheesiest name I've ever heard in a long, long time; it reminds me of Kiera Knightley (Elizabeth Swann), which just gives me a sour, sour, SOUR taste in my mouth.

Maybe I dislike her because she's basically your stereotypical female; her life is a constant orgasm the very minute she meets a hot guy; she'll sink into a huge pit of depression if he so much as threatens to leave her, and she'll forsake her family, friends, and all rational thinking in general to throw her life away for the betterment of his, even though the act of throwing her life away for him will probably be as helpful as shoving a pole up someone's ass. She's weak; at least that's what I think. And if there's one thing I can't stand, it's the situation where a weak person is in a relationship with a supernatural being. If you want to date a vampire, you've got to have a backbone, or at least be able to kick some sort of ass; Bella needs constant rescuing. That just strikes a wrong chord with me.

That and the fact that Edward's attempting to be somewhat human, what with prom, and school and everything like that. Vampires and humans are two different species. You don't see snakes eating Kibbles and going on walks, do you? Then for heaven's sake, why would you expect a vampire to go to school and date what could be a particularly scrumptious evening snack? It doesn't make sense.

And let's not even get to all of the twists and tangles with other boys; relationships are complicated enough with one person, let alone that person being a vampire; throw in another person, make him a werewolf, and all you've got yourself now is one massive drama-filled migraine. Joy to the world.

And now I see it everywhere. It mostly annoys me on facebook: I see people who've sent me pieces of flair saying "I HEART EDWARD CULLEN" or something to that matter, I hear people rant and rave about how it's "sooooo AMAZING!!!" at school, I see comments like "OMG WET PANTIES" whenever someone so much as hints at Edward Cullen....

It depresses me, really. But I stand by what I say: Twilight is a chick flick series with way too much drama.

I'm going to go and lose myself in the gore-filled pages of Stephen King's "Rose Madder" now. My brain needs a breath of fresh air.


I'm starting a new fic! Oh, the happiness...I have a few good ideas in mind, but three stand out so far, and I want to elaborate on all of them, but I'm not sure if I'll have the time...

I'm thinking of doing a sequel to Unholy Graveyard...mayhap I shall elaborate on Tobi's plot and conflict with Naruto, since he was practically the only akatsuki member to survive the apocalyptic war at the end of Unholy Graveyard.

And I want to revive Isen again. Hard as it is to believe, I think I might have actually fallen in love with my own character, isn't that weird? I've found myself thinking about him for the past few days...just flitting thoughts, really, but it's strange, I've found myself missing his presence in my life. I created him, breathed life into him, and now that UG is done, it's like he's....well, dead, almost. I miss him a lot...I think I need to write more of him, or at least do a portrait of him and post it on my bedroom wall....*sighs* I know, it's rather weird, but that's just how my awkward mind functions....

So what is Isen to me? A brother, a friend, a soulmate, a lover, just some character that I wrote to fulfill UG's purpose? He's a part of me, I think. A part of my personality that just somehow manifested into this fictional person. I love him for that, and also for the little uniqueness that he sort of developed even as I spun out his story on paper. It's almost like he's my child, I suppose, in a weird sort of way, but my feelings for him are far from maternal. Sometimes I find myself wanting to be with him, hold him, like as if he's far more than just a friend. But life can be a bitch sometimes, and so he is forever immortalized on paper...I know he is safe, forever kept in my mind, but sometimes the urge to experience him again gets a bit strong...and disconcerting....

Yes, I know, this is vaguely disturbing in a way. I'm an author, and I doubt that what I'm feeling can be characterized as mentally stable. Perhaps it's just the way I think. I don't know. I'll get over it soon...but not quite completely, I don't think. A part of me will always be curious to know what Isen would be like as a real person. A part of me will always feel this sort of unrequited love towards this character that I wrote. A part of me will always feel some sort of unrequited love for the kind young noble I created...

But thus is life.

He remains, still, in my heart.
Uni parking is possibly the single most abysmal thing that I've ever had to experience. It's stressful. It's nervewracking. It drives me neurotic. Going around and around in circles, looking at cars and cars and more cars and praying desperately for someone, anyone to pull out....


It's been bad, but never as bad as Wednesday's fiasco. I was circling around uni for two hours....TWO HOURS looking for parking....I got lost, ended up in a completely random side of the campus, probably broke every single traffic law in existence....*sighs* I must have pissed a lot of people off....

Anyhow, around half an hour before class started, I finally gave up. I went to my music teacher's house, which was about three miles from campus, parked in front of her house, rang her doorbell, and practically collapsed at her feet when she answered. I was a wreck...I told her that I really needed someplace to park, that I'd been going around for two hours trying to find a spot, so if she wouldn't mind, could I park in front of her house?

She looked at me for a long time. And then asked "If your class starts in half an hour, how are you going to get there on time? It's a three mile walk."

Which promptly shattered my already frayed nerves.

She laughed and cocked her head, told me to get in her car, she'd drive me to school. I spent the brief trip belting out effusive thanks and apologies in tandem, to which she responded only with a "now, what can I get out of you for doing this, eh?"

I love her. I'm so, so grateful to her, it's unbelievable.

That was only wednesday though....the parking fiasco continues....

It's going to be hell for the next two weeks. And after that....god, I hope I'll find somewhere I can park consistently...

good night, and good luck
I'm in love.

I'm completely and totally in love. This is bliss. Pure heaven. Bliss, joy, wonder and ecstasy, all rolled into one.

I'm in love.

With a song.

Can I help it? I'm a musician; I create music from what would otherwise be just a complicated assembly of metal, varnish, and wood. I refine sound, shape it, mold it from noise into beauty (hopefully) and warmth. I give it life. Playing God, more or less.

And I could never think of doing anything else with myself.
...maybe I should start documenting my uberlong vacation in vietnam.

Prologue (Saturday)

When mom told me there was going to be an 18 hour flight to Vietnam, the first thing that ran through my mind was “I’m going to need a LOT of music.” I’m sure it was the same for the others on the flight as well, so I took a lot of stuff along, but then I found out that I had to carry it a zillion miles through customs and security, so I suppose it wasn’t too great of an idea after all…

Oh right. This is supposed to be objective.

Anyhow, we waited and waited and waited to get to one of the checkout stands so we could get rid of our luggage. A few of the kids fell asleep standing up, which was quite funny, but sooner or later, we did manage to get there, which was quite a relief, seeing as Mom, Dad, and Nana looked like their legs wouldn’t hold out a moment longer. So we collapsed in a row of chairs and waited…and waited…and waited…

I don’t know how long we waited, exactly, because I fell asleep a couple of times during the waiting, but finally the call came for us to board. Oh joy…you sit for a zillion hours, only to stand up, walk for a couple of minutes down the ramp, and sit down again for another zillion hours. Needless to say I wasn’t looking forward to the flight, but then again, it was the only way we could get to Vietnam….kind of makes me wonder when they’ll invent teleportation so flights would take about a split second…

I had hoped to catch some sleep on the plane to pass the time. I don’t know about everyone else, but that plane had the most uncomfortable seats in the whole history of uncomfortable seats (no, the spiky chair medieval torture device whoozamawhatsit doesn’t count). I slept in fits and starts, sometimes lying on Ashley’s lap until she kicked me off, sometimes with my knees curled under me, which resulted in massive knee cramps (note to self: take up flexibility classes), sometimes with my blanket stuffed behind my back for support rather than on top of me for warmth.

And at last we arrived in Taiwan….which only resulted in more waiting. Joy. But the flight came soon, and thankfully, it was only four hours this time (ONLY??!?), so I stayed awake, and soon we landed in Vietnam, the beautiful green country of my ethnicity.

The first thing that ran through my mind when we landed was “OH MY GOODNESS, THEY HAVE TEAL BLUE AIRPLANES!!!” It was quite a sight. Vietnam’s airplanes are this gorgeous shade of blue. I was in heaven. And then we disembarked from the cool air-conditioned aircraft…and promptly stepped into a cloying heat so fierce, I nearly choked on my breath. I suppose it was no surprise, considering Vietnam’s a rainforest, but I was still unprepared…

Con Te Partiro

It's almost time to go home from vietnam, which makes me rather sad....*sighs* I wish I could stay here for a while longer...my life back at home will be so busy! Scheduling lessons, getting my wisdom teeth pulled....*sighs* it's all too....tooo....I dunno. It's too something.


I'll have to readjust to the timezones again....but at least I'll be able to eat food that I'm familiar with, thank god. *grins*

Maybe I'll come back again someday. I do want to. *sighs* It's such a beautiful place, if you know the right locations....<3

For now, though....

I will be thinking of you whenever I look at the sky.
Wow. Just wow. I'm honestly and truly amazed.

Alright. I have a godmother who's roughly 79, though she looks somewhere around the neighborhood of 50, since she's always alight with life and vigor and brimming happiness. Now, she's a bit delicate, because she's getting on in her years, which is why the family is always rather careful with her.

Now, today I was trying my darndest to saw through a huge hunk of wood so I could have a sturdy base for my Rip Van Winkle gun I'm supposed to take to Anime Expo. I was grunting and sweating and my arms were killing me, and then this frail old lady comes out and says "let me do it".

I'm protesting mightily, since this is a heavy bit of labor, but she snatches the saw out of my hands and starts sawing away at the wood, and by God's sweet mercy, she saws the whole damn thing in half in about a quarter of the time it would take me to do it myself.

Then she straightens up, pats her hands clean, and says with a perfectly straight face: "You can take the girl out of the farm, but you can't take the farm out of the girl."

I love her.

She's frigging amazing.

The gas station people charged me 3.45 a gallon when it was supposed to be 4.45 a gallon!! I'm soooooooooo happie! Glitch in the machine, hawtt DAMN! <3 Let's hope it happens again....XD

Anyhow, today I went shopping for a dress for my senior concert. Dude, gyms are SO overrated....if you want to get some serious arm strength, go to a dress shop and start bench-pressing the hangers. It's a lot more productive, AND it gives you great arms. Needless to say, mine are ACHING. XD But at least I found the right dress...after trying on a zillion and a half....XD All of the other ones were either too bare, too glittery, or not the right color...*sighs* eh, oh well. I'm happie I found one that suits me. ^_^ <3

....I'm kind of worried as to where Ivan is. He hasn't been online for the LONGEST time, and he doesn't pick up when I call.....T_T
I have a dream.

I shan’t tell you what it is. Because that’s not really important.

What’s important is that this dream sort of depends on others as well. Or, more specifically, the success of others. Others whom I don’t even know. Opportunities, missed, taken, failed, received. Call it what you will; I don’t really care.

This dream is rather unstable, I might say. Sometimes I’m floating in it. Sometimes I’m so caught up in my own little world that it starts to bleed into reality. Romeo and Juliet. Reality and dreams. Two lovers, forbidden to be together. And yet the are.

Which is why my dream is unstable.

It does have its steady points. When I’ve completed something large. When I’ve won something worth noting.

But sometimes it cracks.

Sometimes my dream cracks. Just a little, but it does.

It’s these cracks that send me spiraling down into an abyss of what? I don’t really know. I can’t really tell. And then all the imperfections start to show. I said before that dreams can bleed into my reality sometimes.

Well, sometimes reality likes to bleed into my dreams. And when it does, my heart bleeds as well.

My dream. It’s unstable for a reason, you know. Shallow. Shallowness. That’s why. For my dream to succeed, it must depend on the opinions of others. Show business, if you will; again, I don’t care what you call it. That doesn’t matter.

But when I look at those who’ve made it in their dreams, who’ve successfully captured that elusive muse called “victory”, chained Her to their sides and carried Her wherever they may go, it sparks cracks in my dream.

Because for every achievement they’ve obtained, that’s one more knife to the rope from which I’m dangling.

Dangling. That’s the word. I’m dangling. I’m hanging on to the gem called Dream and I’m dangling by this rope called Success. If I climb this rope with Dream in hand, I’ll be free. I’ll be safe. I’ll be back on the bridge, which will take me to places of joy and countless wonders. But how to get up the rope when it’s breaking?

How to climb up the rope when it’s fraying?

Victory. The victory of others. Knives to my rope. Sometimes I’m aware of it. Sometimes I’m not. I’m not aware of it more often than I am.

But when I am, it starts to hurt. I can start to feel it. The cracking of my dream. I look at it, and I see it crack, and then I start to wonder why, why was I born into this body? Why was I born at all? I mean, if I’m inhabiting this body, then I must be someone special, right? Isn’t that what they teach you in grade school? That everyone is special in some way, unique? That everyone deserves to be equally treated, attended to?

If that’s true, then why do I feel like I’m being constantly ignored? Invisible (the filthy, hypocritical liars), destined to be just a part of “them”. That all-encompassing word: “them”. Or “crowd”, if you like. That’s it. I’m just part of the crowd. I’m a part of the crowd…I AM the crowd, and some deity up there had to be so kind as to grace me with the worst curse anyone inhabiting my “throne” could ever have.

My curse. A hungering thirst for attention. For recognition. To prove to myself, and the world around me, that I’m different. That I’m unique. That those goddamn schoolteachers (reach out to your neighbor, young one. Share your love and attention. Everyone is special. Everyone is unique. Everyone has a spark of personality that’s one of a kind.) were actually right.

Prove it. Prove to the world that you’re special, Michelle. Not just to those around you, for they shall be naturally biased. Everyone. Prove it to them. Ram it into their minds that you can actually excel at this charade we call “Life”.

But I can’t. My position in this world has already been ordained. I am the crowd. I am the indiscriminate “they”, “them”, hello, random person on the street, let me pass you by and pretend you’re just another moving sack of flesh with no significance whatsoever so I can get back to my perfect life with my perfect friends.

That’s why I believe in reincarnation.

Mom. Mom always told me that Michelle, if you are a good girl in this life, your next life will be even better. You’ll end up with the ones you love again, Michelle, and you’ll end up with an even better life than you had before. A life that’s, I suspect, going to be filled with music. Music. Music. It has to be, Michelle, since this one’s already overflowing with it.

Yes, Mom. I know. That’s why I believe in reincarnation.

Because it is in my next life that I can climb up that rope. That I can reach the bridge to Paradise without having to see (feel) the cracks in my dream. To experience every heartache, every crushing pressure on my mind that comes with the cracking.

Those prodigies. Those who are four or five, or ten or twelve, thirteen, fourteen, sixteen, seventeen. Those prodigies. Who have made it in the world. Who are featured in every fucking newspapermagazinetabloidarticlewhateverthefuckyouwanttocallitIdon’tknowsomesortofmediacoverage. Those prodigies with the smiling faces, looking so happy with their million-dollar grants, agents drooling all over their Italian shoes or Louis-Vuitton dresses. Prodigies who you love to hate. Excuse me, severely dislike. No, scratch that, envy to the point where you know it’s wrong and you know with whom you shouldn’t compare yourself because that’s bad (because you know you’ll lose) and that’ll only inspire negative emotions in yourself, which is also bad, since what was it those yogi masters always said? Bad emotions can lead to an unhappy life? And you’re well aware of that, but you do it anyway, because at least you’re feeling something other than the saccharine oh my god I’m so happy for them and their success because face it, you’re not a fucking saint, for god’s sake, you’re a human, and humans have emotions too.

At least you can feel something.

At least, with these emotions boiling like a cesspool in the depths of your heart, you know you’re not all wooden.

Not everything has died yet.

But it hurts.

The cracking.

God, it hurts. And I want to tell someone. But I can’t. Since they’d go schoolteacher/yogi master on me.

So I keep it to myself. Myself. I let my dream crack. I let the emotions wash over me, and I know it hurts, but I can’t tell anyone, I can’t tell anyone, so it keeps hurting and hurting and I start to feel



For feeling these nasty, horrible emotions.

But I still have my next life.

My next life. Where everything will be happy again. Happy. Bridge to Paradise.

Next stop: Invisible Abyss.
Fei came back.

Fei. The most unexpected person I'd ever see on my LJ. Fei.

We literally haven't talked in years. And I'm so damn happy she's back. *cries*

Ah, Fei, I've been trying to talk to you for years and years and years....I send you little emails all the time, saying "Feiiiiii-chaaannnn, where are you...." and you never reply until now, when you find me on LJ...fate, mayhap? *cries*

My friend. Fei has come back to me!!! Joy is in the world....*cries into soggy pillow* I knew your necklace would never fail me. <3