Melted Plastic

My blog is almost 2 years old.

Holy camole.

I have 710 posts, and I wish I had the time/motivation/attention-span to go through and delete everything that isn’t writing related, but I don’t. I want to refine my content so that I can share this on college applications this summer. Maybe there’s an easy way to mass delete that I don’t know about? If you have suggestions, please let me know.

UPDATE: So I started deleting stuff and freaked out. And then I started manually going post by post and marking things as ‘private’. I used to be such a cute little blogger (what happened?!). Because there’s a lot of stuff on here that I actually like and has sentimental value but I don’t necessarily want the colleges to see I’m stuck as to what to do. Transfer all my legit material over to a new blog? Find another way to share it with them? Take the time to mark everything as private? Leave it all up there for them to see regardless of what it is? Or just go ahead and go through and delete everything irrelevant to my talents? S.O.S.

Dear World,

Here in the US

We’ve got it pretty good

Finally treated as equals

As we rightfully should

But from our perch at the top

It’s hard not to see

Our sisters around the world

Still struggling to be

Pink Floyd got it wrong

We do need education

For its the only way

To create fairer nations

The abuse and violence

Needs to stop

In order for our sisters

To join us at the top

We know a brighter future

Is about to unfurl

It’s time to take action

Sincerely, The Girls

By myself and friend, Natanya Trazenfeld, as part of our Girl Scout Gold Award Project

“All in all it’s just another brick in the wall.”

The trek to the bus stop was never fun. Today, the persistent bitter cold was heightened by a violent wind, and the treacherous duo knicked away at her already dull spirits. She wrinkled her nose with a sharp sniff and wiped away the remaining drips on her jacket sleeve. Eventually she made it to the bus bench, and patiently awaited the arrival of her dingy metal escort. The numbing weather froze her face into a grimace. Before sending her off this morning with a warm peck on the forehead, her mother had complained about the girl’s disposition, “Now hold on before you run out the door! Yea’ I know you got your sweater and scarf but you’re still missin’ somethin’. Don’t you know you ain’t neva’ fully dressed without a smile?”. Would her mother ever realize her feeble attempts to instill hope in her daughter were wasted efforts? How could anyone expect happiness when the prospects of their day, of their life, were as dim as gran’mama’s dusty linen closet? A painful screech interrupted her thoughts as the bus lurched to the curb. She waited for the foggy glass doors to fold open, climbed aboard stiffly, and dropped the fare into the collection box, listening to the coins clink and clatter as they fell. Leaning against a hard metal rail, she began to replay the previous day’s events in her head, knowing they wouldn’t be too different from what awaited her today. A slow sad bus ride to school, six hours of shuffling from one gum-littered, stuffy, run down classroom to the next, separated by a lunch break that could turn into a code red lock down if Mikey decided whipping out his switch blade could get him a few more bucks today than his typical threats. Six hours of sitting at a crumbling desk, trying to learn from a teacher who was more interested in her new acrylic nails, or the cover story of InStyle magazine, than teaching the class that day, or sitting hopelessly in front of a teacher who had given up on a class full of rambunctious teenagers that had decided, ”we ain’t gon’ lis’n to nuthin’ you have ta’ say”. Her mother had always told her that besides family, “An education is all you’ve got. At the end of the day, it’s what’s gonna’ get you outta’ this house, it’s what’s gonna’ get you your own house, your own family, your own life. I won’t let you give it up.” After eleven years of mediocre instruction, graduation was only a year and a half away, but as the finish line grew nearer she realized that the light at the end of the tunnel, the likelihood of a brighter future after high school, was more like a faint yellow glow than a blazing beacon of hope.

I thought writing a speech was hard, writing a eulogy is even harder. Especially when it’s your assignment for English class and no one has actually died.

Achilles Heel

I can write stories. And poems. And cute little rhyming clues for Secret Santa.

But I can’t write speeches. And I have to have one written by mid afternoon today that’ll be said in front of up to 139 people, awesome.

Teenage Dream

It was almost humorous how easy it was to sneak out of her house. Why would she crawl through a window when she could just go through the front door? She pitied her parents, sleeping soundly in their bed, not knowing an inkling of what their daughter would be up to this evening. At 2:15 am the grass was already dewy, and it tickled her feet as she hurried over her lawn towards the black car gleaming in the moonlight at the end of the driveway. The air was still except for the sounds of crickets, the purring engine, and her sandals clapping against the ground. She whipped open the car door and slid with grace into shotgun, but was sure to be gentle with closing the door beside her once she was inside. She turned to her driver and the two greeted with a kiss on the cheek before hitting the road. The pair talked about what had gone on in the hours before, but their talk had little to do with the thoughts swirling in their heads; the hormones sizzling in their nerves. When the conversation hit a lull, she reached for a black dial and turned up the stereo, sinking into her seat with a little relief. It was incredible to think about this moment in context. Two years ago the seemingly hopeless seed of interest in this guy was planted in her heart, and now here she was, two years later, finally getting her shot at him. At 2:20 in the morning. Headed to his house. With a bottle of something nice hiding in his closet for them to share. A few minutes passed before they got to his place. His parents were snoozing on the other side of the house, just like hers had been, unaware of the guest their son had just brought home. The pair headed for his bedroom: she fell onto the bed and turned on the television while he played bartender. He joined her on the bed, both sitting harmlessly on the comforter. The small talk turned into giggles and smirks and touches. He flicked off the lights. Their clothes formed a little mountain of darkness beside his bed. The bedroom became a concert hall of a bizarre symphony orchestra. The sheets rustled harmoniously to a choir of passionate breathing, accompanied by the barely audible movie playing on the flat-screen mounted in the corner of the room. (Unfinished)

Untitled

Unfinished collaboration with fellow blogger/writer 

The air was motionless, the dunes calm, her hair still, but yet the clouds still moved swiftly across the blue canvas- a concept Cecilia couldn’t grasp. The breaking waves didn’t crash; they merely laid themselves gently onto the shore, a scene that made the young girl happy. Intermittently, chills stumbled down her body for no other reason than the sheer divinity of the landscape. For the first time in what seemed like forever, Cecilia felt content, with everything. She was finally home, but more than that, her Mother and Father were here with her. Intertwined with the scent of sea salt was the tantalizing aroma of Dutch apple pie, her mother’s speciality. The thought of the freshly baked decadence caused Cecilia to, almost instinctively, slip her fuchsia rubber sandals daintily onto her feet, stand up from the shore, and brush the sandy grit off her skin. Everyday since Cecilia had come home, a smile had found its way onto her face, just like the ocean waves behind her continually found the beach. How nice it felt to be able to smile again, she marveled. As she made her way back to her seaside home, her icy blue eyes couldn’t help but acknowledge all the details of the house: the fading navy blue paint which had begun to peel off the wood panels in a couple places, the way the large glass windows reflected the picturesque landscape, as if the rolling dunes and bubbling tide was what lie inside the home, the unique shade of purple of the flowers lining the porch. Had she ever seen that color before? Certainly not within the monotonous walls of the asylum. 

Hi Tumblr.

I’m gonna try this again.

I need to write more because not only is it good to pursue hobbies, but this blog might help me get into college, and because it keeps me sane. 

Applause goes to Tucker Max for inspiring me to get a move on with my writing. I’m going to the library to check out his book, I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell, tomorrow. It’s the first book I’ve checked out from a library in years. And the first book I’ve read for pleasure in months. Maybe a year. 

I just posted a story that I meant to finish in August, but never got around to it. Folks, it’s not going to get finished. And neither is the post previously titled, ‘Unfinished’, which is now titled ‘Mother’s Day’. I’ve decided if I don’t finish something the first time around, it won’t get finished. And that’s a-okay. I’m not perfect/plastic. One more unfinished post coming your way. 

Addition: THANK YOU TO THE 110 FOLLOWERS THAT I HAVE SOMEHOW RETAINED DESPITE MY HIATUS. 

I just wrote about 200 words of a story to be posted,

and Internet Explorer froze. And I lost it all. Will start again, but won’t post until later in the week. My efforts to write regularly once more appear futile. Hopefully this Calvin Harris playlist will push me through to at least rewrite those 200 words tonight. 

I’ve watched slowly as tumblr, once a website unknown to most others my age, no longer became a place where I could spend quiet hours trolling with great pleasure, enjoying talent and creativity and interests of all kinds. Instead, it’s become a popularity contest, main stream, and boring. When 99% of the stuff you reblog are pictures, and all the pictures you reblog have more than like 15 notes, I can’t imagine how you could honestly feel that having the picture on your page makes your blog any better than the rest of them. Seeing as everyone else has the same collection of photos as you just in a different order. At least make them interesting for gods sake, and not of a bunch of headless girls in outfits you’ll never wear, food you and the rest of society eats regularly, pretty landscapes you’ll never go to, and cute boys you’ll never meet.

I’ll stop myself from going further because the point of this post isn’t to bash anyone/everyone. I haven’t written and/or posted in quite awhile, partially because I haven’t made an effort to dedicate time to writing, but mostly because I feel like tumblr is no longer somewhere worth posting my writing to. So it looks like with the start of the new school year I’ll be doing one (or both) of two things. Those two things being: deleting every post on my tumblr that ISN’T writing related, and finding a new website to post to that is more dedicated to writers and writing.

If anyone has anything to say to me about this, I’d be glad to hear it, but I’m sure you’re too busy asking your classmates to follow you so you can feel like more people out there give a rats ass about what you find interesting.