I leave for Australia tomorrow. See ya in eighteen days, jerkoffs!

...I have the feeling lately of being stuck in purgatory... Just a sort of dullness that seems to know no passing of time...

I leave for Australia next week. I'm all packed and everything. The clothes I had to buy for this trip are sooooo not things I normally wear... Like khakis, and shorts, and--dear god--a skirt. I honestly don't think I've ever owned a skirt before. I've had a couple dresses, never a skirt...

Anyway, even though I leave in a week and it's the first time I'll be going out of country--hell, out of state, for that matter--I'm not really excited. That makes me feel like a horrible person... Then I have to fake enthusiasm whenever my mom asks, "So, honey, are you excited for your trip? Because I'm excited for you!"

What do you say to something like that? "No, Mom, because I'm completely dead on the inside except for bitterness and rage."

...That's not really the case--I'm not completely dead on the inside. At least, I didn't think so until I had an eighteen day trip to what I hear is a beautiful country, and I'm completely apathetic about it... I'm sure that it won't really hit me until I'm there, bare knuckle boxing a kangaroo.

I do intend to box a kangaroo. Kangaroo have had it much too easy. They need to be put in their place...

My dad keeps making jokes about a dingo eating me, or that they got me a one-way ticket there. I'm so sick of those jokes. There's something wrong with my family members--as well as with most people I've observed. For some reason, they think it's funny to use the same joke a THOUSAND FUCKING TIMES. Some times it's not even their joke they're killing. Some jokes are good, some are bad. Some are only slightly funny, and if you use them more than five times, I will want to murder you in your sleep. If you use them more than fifty times, then screw the sleep part. I will tear your eyes out with a plastic spoon.

I have a tendency to, when I speak, say things that are funny. Some time ago, when I was in middle school, my group of friends would try to get me to repeat these things. Like a trained parrot. It annoyed me greatly, and the end result was usually me yelling very loudly at my friend Trinity. At some point I believe she got the message, and stopped trying to get me to repeat things I said that were humour-full.

Another thing that used to piss me off was when my friends would laugh at things I said. I was being serious, god damn it. Those times also ended with me yelling. I don't know if I just say less, or less of it's funny, or if they've learned that laughing all the time royally pisses me off, but it doesn't happen so much...

...most of that was Trinity, though, I guess. She's going to a different school next year--one that turns kids gay. And just when I had her trained, too... *shakes head sadly*

...while I'm on the subject of things that piss me off, I hate it when people refer to my hair as 'dishwater blonde'. Scroll down to see the colour of my hair if you haven't seen it. Dish water is clear-grey. I've done enough dishes to know this. How the hell could some one call the colour of my hair 'dish water'? What the hell, man?! My hair passes for brown. I had platinum blonde hair when I was a little girl, and it got darker and settled into this colour when I was about ten. Just because it's not yellow-blonde, why the hell is it alright to call it 'dish water'? I don't call people with light brown hair 'toilet water brunett'. It's gross. Why is it fine to liken my hair to a disgusting brine of grease and food particles? More appropriate ways to call my hair colour would be as follows:

Brownish-blonde

Oak tree-blonde

Dark blonde

Off-blonde

Sinister-blonde (That one's my favorite.)

Double Plus Unblonde

Aged-blonde

Dishwater is not a good way to call my hair colour. Oh, by all means, use the phrase if you see some one with grey-brown hair. That's the colour of dishwater. The colour of my hair is not, however...

...moving on...

Has any one ever heard the song War Pigs by Black Sabbath? It's a good song, but it opens up: "Generals gathered in their masses/Just like witches at black masses."

This annoys me to no end. You can't rhyme 'masses' with 'masses', and I don't care who you are. I argued with my brother about it. His whole argument consisted of, "Well, they're different words because they've got different meanings!"

That's not true. That's not true at all! A mass of soldiers is the same as a black mass. It's the same mass!

Then there's another part near the end where it says: "Begging mercy for their sins/Satan laughing spreads his wings."

That's another one that gets me. Sins doesn't rhyme with wings. If Ozzy wasn't so high, he'd realize that. Dio would never have made that mistake... (Dio was better.)

Moving on, I went to the dentist today. They picked at my teeth with sharp objects. Question--why do the most un-coordinated people get to be hygenists? Are they really that shakey, or do they just hate my mouth? On top of that, the lady doing the cleaning kept mumbling and looking at me weird...

I hate getting my teeth x-rayed. But only when they take the picture of the top-front teeth. Something about having that x-ray gun pointed at my nose unsettles me. I don't know why that bothers me so much--probably some deep fear the dentist will use it to smash my face...

Anyway, I also went to the mall to get some gifts for the family I'll spend a couple days with in Australia. I saw some jerk-off with a giant mohawk and checker patterns shaved into the sides of his head. Then I saw another idiot with a mohawk-mullet crossbred. I'm kind of loosing steam, so I'll let you draw your own conclusions about how I feel about it...

Even though we have our colours in common with England AND France, coming from us, they just mean a little more...

Alright, but I'm really not quite thrilled at the moment. I just spent all morning moving picnic tables for my Grandparents' 4th of July party later, and I got a whole handful of splinters. Like, the whole half of the back of my hand is all scraped up and filled with little bits of wood. I'm trying to get them out now... It hurts man. That's my drawing hand. They took my drawing hand! Why my drawing hand?! Gaaaaaaaaah!!!

*sets tweezers down and takes a swig of Sobe* ...on a lighter note, I just burned a CD with the ten greatest songs ever. They are as follows:

1. Space Oddity--David Bowie
2. 99 Luftballons--Nena
3. 21st Century--Red Hot Chili Peppers
4. Rocket--Plastic Tree
5. Slow Cheetah--Red Hot Chili Peppers
6. Wet Sand--Red Hot Chili Peppers
7. Ashes to Ashes--David Bowie
8. We Will Become Sillhouettes--The Postal Service
9. Are You Feeling Fine--L'Arc En Ciel
10. Death of a Martian--Red Hot Chili Peppers

Actually, Otherside and Parallel Universe by the Red Hot Chili Peppers and Counting Blue Cars by Dishwalla should be on that list, but I misplaced my Californiacation CD and also can't seem to find the file for Counting Blue Cars.

If you have 10 better songs, I'd love to hear them. Or, rather, hear about them... Anyway, my hand hurts, so I should go back to picking the wood bits out of it...

Happy Independance Day, America! *hugs the Nation--or, rather, the continental, non-crazy-liberal parts of the Nation*

*sigh* ...I always feel like the world's biggest cry-baby writting this stuff here. Buuuuuut, the fact of the matter is that if I don't put it any where, then I'll just have these words stuck in my head, bouncing around. I don't like having words stuck in my head...

I was so very listless that yesterday found me sitting in my room without the light on at about 6 o'clock, turning a rapier over in my hand. My sister walked in and gave me a weird look. With good reason, too--I think sitting in a dim room examining a weapon idlely is characteristic of villains. Especially those in Bond movies.

I've been feeling... cut off from the world, I suppose. Like, the only thing I know exists anymore is myself. The only other people I see on a daily basis is my family, and that's not even often. And even then, they're not a lot of fun to be around. My big sister's inconsiderate and self-centred, my brother's pissy and he always calls me a douche bag, my father's the biggest asshole in asshole land, and my mother's always barking orders at me.

I live out in the country, surrounded on one side by trees and the other side by a busy highway. It's kind of like being in solitary, or purgatory, or a house in the country surrounded on one side by trees and the other side by a busy highway. I feel so isolated... I mean, I'm not a social person--never have been--but I just feel like I might go insane from lack of human contact...

I spend a lot of the day asleep, and most of the night awake... When I'm up during the day, I get on the computer and check stuff... I wish I had more to check. No messages here, a couple posts on my friend's forum, nothing new on Subeta, only spam in my e-mail... and then I'm out of things to check. So I go into my room, turn on David Bowie's "Ashes to Ashes" on a loop and just sit there listening to it. I don't know why I keep listening to that song. It just gets me more down. Especially one line--"I've never done good things/I've never done bad things/I never did anything out of the blue" ....stupid David Bowie and his stupid song...

I'm having trouble drawing lately... It's like all my internal vision has just... left me. I'll start to draw something, and then just half way through give up and set it aside--even when I didn't mess up and it looked good. I've started a new digital drawing. It's taken me three days simply to get down the basic figure of it... The same thing happens when I try to type. It's like my creativity spilled out of me...

I've found myself having dreams about going back to school. They're weird dreams, but they're kind of nice 'cause my friends are in them... I can't really recally these dreams at the moment, though...

...*sigh* I'm going to Australia in... what is it? Eighteen days? ...I really feel I ought to be excited about that, but I'm just feeling sort of apathetic...

...I'm feeling apathetic towards everything..

...I think I might be going crazy... Every now and then my brain breaks up my thoughts with weird interjections... Like things my characters would say. Or--my personal favorite--bits of Shakespeare monologues. "And if it were so it was a grevious fault, and greviously hast Caesar answered it," is my brain's favorite one to throw in, it seems...

I've been doing a lot of thinking lately...

...because I've little else to do, really...

Mostly I was thinking about why I draw. I can't remember a time when I didn't draw. I suppose everyone grows up drawing, and then at some point they just sort of stop, except those with more of a reason to do it than because their parents wanted to keep them quiet for a bit. I know that for part, I draw out of boredom. This was obvious to me.

How ever, it was also obvious that that could not be the only reason. If it were, then why would I care if a picture didn't turn out exactly right? Why would there even be an 'exactly right' if it were just something to waste time on?

I think the only reason any artist draws is for it to be seen. Why create art if no one ever looks at it? That's the same for pictures, stories, poems, or whatever else you want to label as art. If no one ever sees it, then--no matter how good--it wasn't worth the time you spend on it.

But from there reasons stem off. *Why* the artist wants it to be seen is different from artist to artist. And so, I've been wondering to myself for the last few hours -why- it is it matters to me that my art should be seen.

I came up with only one answer. I want to inspire. I want my images and words to stick in the minds of others, that they might draw upon it from time to time.

Really, though, I don't seem like the 'inspiring' type. I don't know any one who would label me as such. I certainly wouldn't. So I thought deeper on this concept of wanting to inspire people...

...my favorite novel is George Orwell's 1984. He says in it that the past exists only in memory and on paper. Once the paper is gone or changed, and one is dead, all that exists of them is in memory. And that's it.

If some one should see my art and be inspired, then it exists in their memory. Since it was a part of my mind that was put into the picture--or writting--then it is a piece of me that sticks to their memory. If it inspires them to draw a picture, or write a story, or play a song then a piece of me would live forever in who ever is inspired by that.

As such, art is vain and self motivated. Or at least, mine is--as is that of any one who creates for the same reasons as I.

But it's a harmless sort of vice, I guess. Maybe it's helpful. There have been many things that have inspired me. I can't help but think at least one of them was created for the same reason...