Mental Health now means Writing

I can not help it. I am secretly trying my best to squirm my way out of school.

By squirm I mean coming down in the morning with a pitiful look on my face complaining that my stummy hurts. Okay, not really. I only did that once and I did feel sick. But, still. I managed to avoid school for two days.

And I got to write.

Yeah, I know, this is all boring. Why would anyone care? Actually, that applies to everything I write. Especially my stories.

But I don't care.

I would go insane without them.

I am unsure how exactly this is insane, but, okay. I'll listen to Google.

Not that I am not insane with them, just it would be a whole lot worse.

If I am not writing, those little creeps will begin to nudge my mind. By nudging I mean I might randomly begin flirting with the guy ringing up my crackers or trying my best to act "normal" and smart whilst descending some stairs with my friend. In other words, my characters let me know they need to be written about.

And yes, I realize I am already psychotic and should go see a psychiatrist. I don't think so.

Why? Because I am perfectly fine if I write.

So, I have squirmed my way out of a week of school for Mental Health issues. I am going to write. and Write. and Write. But, I will be making myself more mentally stable.

Which, by the way, is really hard to explain to teachers.

"Are you distressed?"

Uh... how exactly do you tell your teacher that it is the characters in your head that are distressed and you really don't want to be crying over your cup being dirty because it reminds Luna of Obadiah?

"No. I just, um, yeah. I'm also going on vacation!" *runs away*

Yup.

PSAT. Write an essay about how a book that truthfully sucks rocks. Then... lalala la! Writing!!!

And mentally stabilizing myself. Ah...

Notebooks, Grapes, and Faces

The man who adopted my mother and the woman he has been married to since before my birth, made their way down from Buffalo to visit their lowly "granddaughter" (I use those marks due to the status of adopted and step.) and then took her out for dinner. Whilst there, happily enjoying my fancy Chinese - Ahem. Sorry. Asian - food, the one I call Grandma bent down and came up holding a little bag.
"This is for you." she said.
Well, obviously. I figured it was not for the waiter who was standing there, a twinkle in his eye. (I'd just like to say that surprising people with the staff singing you a song as you make yourself a fat little piggy and gorge yourself will not make them like you very much. In fact, it just might have the opposite effect. Anypoodle, back to the "story") So, being a normal teenager, I took the little bag and opened it.
I got a notebook! It's really pretty and it's blue and green and purple and I LOVE that combination.

that set up, just prettier. and not... that.

There was also this amazing pen that writes on all the paper I tried it on and looks really pretty and I had so much fun with it.

Oh. And I got fifty dollars and a little purse thing that cost a ton of money. But, who cares? I got a notebook!!!!!!!
This is why we don't keep the reason for our insanity wholly a secret.

Until your mother begins making fun of you because you excited about a bunch of paper gathered together. Whatever. She just doesn't understand.

Which is why instead of saying I wanted little bottles of cinnamon and calamuse at the party I was forced into, I went with grapes. Aren't they delicious, though? I could eat them all day.

yummmmm....

And, they are perfect for throwing at people. If they are nearby and someone bothers you (as in his nose looks really obnoxious now that all the hair is chopped off from the head attached to the nose), all one must do is take a grape, grin maliciously (maybe this is just me though) and chuck it at their face.

Sekhmet. (and other goddesses of the Ancients)

One of my all time favorite parts of writing is the messing with history part.

Still wondering about why Hitler did what he did to the Hebrews? Psha. I have the answer (but that takes a while to explain, so I will not record it.).

Not entirely sure what story to believe about Anastasia, the Russian Czar's daughter?

Look! It's her! So... Innocent.



Well, she's dead by the way. She did not try to escape. She was forced to escape. By a Spake. (If you do not know what that is, just sit there and mope or head on over to the blog belonging to Naomi, the big enchilada in our creation of them). The Spake killed her. In private. Thus her bones being so far away from that of her family.

Currently though, I am working on figuring out which gods and goddesses my lovely little Spake personali - uh, characters - have influenced. It is rather amusing. I am learning a lot about them, too, which really helps seeing as how I am hoping to get into their heads (yeah, that's it. Because I will be the one taking over minds. Not the other way around.).

So... here are a few that reminded me of the Ancient Spakes.

Sekhmet.

It's scary. She looks like Zippy!


War, hunting, mummification, and vengeance are what this Egyptian goddess are in charge of. Guess what. Lovely Zipporah just so happens to be a good representative of them.

The best part is that Sekhmet became calmed by ale. Yup. That's what my little creep does. Freaky.

Isis.


Responsible For : Motherhood Marriage Love Sexuality Health & Healing Immortality Magic

Beastly Crepes. Could she be more like the Egyptian Zipporah?

Taweret

Hehe. Heehee. Okay, ahem. Taweret takes on the form of a hippo.

Needless to say, that alone is enough to incite giggles.

But then Solomon (who techinically is not mine) LOVES LOVES LOVES hippos. So, I just had to add this.

Amun

So, I can't find much on him momentarily, but he gets the head of a ram. He is here because on Saturday, my darling friend and I were saying that Jedediah was a goat. Amun has the head of a ram!

Or apparently, according to Google, the body of a Penguin.

Hermes


This would be Jedediah. This Greek god liked to travel, like Jedediah who bothered almost all of the Middle East and Europe with his pretty constant moping. Also, he liked sheep. And Jedediah apparently likes sheep. (Why, though? Sheep are so stupid!)

Whoa. Look at those horns. Dangerous.

So, yup. Hey, you learned something about the Ancient gods. Whether or not it's useful... Well, you decide.

Untitled (Due to a blocking of wrods to the brain)

I am in school. Obviously, the people in charge do not realize how hard it is to focus on what a+b squared equals when, just moments before, I was happily attacking someone with a sharp knife. So, pretty much, when the teacher asked me what the answer to problem eleven was, and I miraculously answered correctly with "3", I was not talking about what "a" stood for. I meant how many people my wonderful antagonist had killed "today".

Whenever I can, due to this, I am actually writing - not just living in my head.

It's entertaining. The reactions I get, I mean. I guess the writing is, too, but that's another story. A few minutes left in class - left to boredom - and I whip out my handy-dandy notebook and begin writing away. The girl in front of me turns around.

"Whatcha writing?"

"Nothing."

"Oh. So schoolwork?"

"Nope." Really? Why would I be passionately bent over my schoolwork, making faces at the non-dialogue happening? "I just like to write.

Then comes a whole conversation about me writing, how someone else loved my poem's I was forced into reading out loud to the class last year, and how I plan on finding someway to write for a living.

The best part? I have two people who claim they will read a book I write. And I know for sure BSmith will.

Which is good. Except my ego needed to be deflated.

So I tried to get my father to read something I wrote.

It worked.

Now, back to writing something that does not happen in this reality.

Strange Things I Tell You...

My brother celebrated his birthday over the weekend. Now he is a teenager. Guess who is having this drilled into her head. Yup. Me. Guess who is having it drilled into his head she ain't driving him anywhere. Ever. Unless a Zombie eats his brains and thus steals his ability to talk. NO. Not him. Sadly. The correct answer is Dave. Who some claim is non-existent and I should stop talking to. Whatever.

But, that is beside the point (whatever that means. Honestly, I think that is so far away from the point that you would think they hate each other. Can points hate each other?).

The point is, I got dragged around everywhere on Saturday and learned and few things.

Such as...

Constitution Island is a whole lot of fun. Especially when I am sitting on a rock dangling precariously over the Hudson River while writing a story I abandoned due to an over-whiny, pain in the rear, super romantic character. Oh, and getting lost while climbing humongous rocks that dwarf an average sized person is enough to make me smile at the creepy random people I see.

There was this really weird trail there that began in the middle of the woods, so I decided to follow it, seeing as I had managed to get lost. Out of nowhere, in the middle of the flippin island, it disappeared. It was sooo weird. I was tempted to begin talking to the trees, asking for directions. Then I realized this is Reality. Reality sucks. (In other, more "normal" words, trees here, do not, of course, talk. And, if they do, it certainly is not the English language.)

Never jet-ski with loose pants on. You crash, they fall off and you are stranded in the middle of the Hudson with your bare-naked rear. (Then little people on passing ferries get really excited and bite their older sister who is not letting them see the naked man in the river. She begins screaming about creeps and someone named Zipporah and how naked men are a curse upon the world and in the end screams "Mydearfuzzywuzzybunnyslippers, you're a creep!")

Apparently, if you hint to a slightly awkward guy that you are writing a story in hopes of it becoming a book, he becomes really interested in you. And then, if you tell him that it's about somewhat vampire-like creatures that you created and then your amazing friend (*cough* Naomi *cough*) made it something new and then it just became this big thing that haunts your dreams and invades your mind and thoughts and lurks around every corner he then decides to stick himself at your trying-to-write feet and question you and question you. And then you feel all weird because, once again, there is a guy who seems to like you and you want to throw something at his face and scream "I'm a major psychopath! Leave me alone!" Except, you are wayyy too nice and are enjoying explaining this world and leaving Luna in thee dust.

But, see, that's the problem. The wayyy too nice part. I am not way too nice. I beat this kid up a million times in the past, slapped his face in the morning, and told him I would rather eat fish scales than look at his face.

Oh, and, get this, as I explain the whole thing to him (while trying not to randomly get up, kick him in the side and begin screaming at him in "nonexistent" languages) another guy comes over. And then two more. And I am sitting there wondering how Miss. Anti-social-I-Hate-The-World-Can't-All-The-Idiots-Die! end up with a host (to her messed up mind) of guys literally at her feet, listening intently to her ramblings.

They were all a few years younger than me (this person I keep changing the perspective on). And it was CREEPY!

Why doesn't insanity scare people away? Why does it attract them?? AAH! *runs, jumps down a hole, looks for a white rabbit, can't find it, gives up, and curls up in a ball with notebook cradled in arms, writing furiously*

(I now wonder if this made any sense. Well, whatever.)

Heehee. I Play with t.v. shows

Somehow my brother and I have decided that Veggie Tales should totally do a NCIS episode. We would pee our pants in laughter and cry a million amused tears.

Here's the cast:

Larry - Dinozzo

Bob - Mcgee

The Cucumber who played Nebuchadnezzar - Gibbs

Madame Blueberry - Kate

The Carrot girl - Abbey

Junior Asparagus - Palmer

ah! who did we have as Duckie?

oh, yes.

Junior's Father who played the Professor on the Gilligan's Island episode - Duckie.

My brother's only objection to this odd idea:

How do they hold their guns and handcuff the bad guys?

What about the DNA?

Or, if they found a piece of a body?

A Writer - what?!

You know what I've been hearing? Apparently, being a Writer, I am supposed both be a people person and understand people.

Woo! Is that off! Me? Understand people? Hahaha! I don't even know why I do things, forget anyone else!

Well, as a Writer, one knows their characters, gets in their heads. To do that, one must know people well.

Yeah. Okay. I wish. I can't get my characters to shut up and I have no clue why certain ones (Luna!) are so whiny and romantic. Yeah. I know my characters.

And, out of order of course, I am supposed to be a people person.

Ha. Haha. When it comes to guys, half the time I want to throw them down a well and then ask a bird to attack their head (have you ever had that happen to you? It is a weird experience...). Forget the rest of the female population. Outside of most of my friends, I want to lock them up and teach them how to... well, uh... just lock them up. I don't care how nice your butt is. Cover it! Grr...

Oh, yes, total people person. That's me all right.

Which brings me back to knowing people. If I "knew people", would I be as confused by them as I am half the time?

(I prefer being able to at least punish my uncontrollable, un-understandable characters.)

So, I'd just like to say...

Writers have no special powers! Well, besides going to alternate realities without other people. Which, is amazing!!