Weaver: Have you ever wondered why I created this blog?
Voice: To be heard.
Weaver: Yes, of course you know that. But do you know why I created you, specifically you, from this blog originally just being a person ranting about life on their own?
Voice: To have somebody to talk to?
Weaver: Yes and no. It was to have somebody to talk to, but mainly to have somebody to listen. I mean, with my journal and the original blog (which was just an online journal), I knew that it would probably be read. But you, Voice, are the ultimate listener. Before you gained a life of your own (which was scary, incidentally), you were there from an idea I got from a site I used to visit all the time. You were there to listen and ask the right questions for me to give the answers.
But then I needed more than that. I needed somebody to talk to, and somebody to talk back. And that's when you gained a life of your own. But lately I've been needing just... somebody to listen. Somebody you can rant to. But ranting in a journal is better for the insane, uncontrollable feelings that take you over. They don't have to make sense. They can be petty or small. That's what the Jordan-party-rant was a few weeks ago. Really, if I could take it back I would, because those things aren't meant to be seen by everybody in the world. Why? Because they seem stupid afterwards, or at the time to other people. They are simple and petty.
But the little, subtle things? Those are the biggest problems. Those are the things that niggle in the back of one's mind. Those are what you, Voice, were created for, at the foundation of things. Because you bring out those little things, which is essential to be healthy. And I could never do that before. I held it all inside, all the time. I only let out those bursts of emotion, those journal-rants. But you developed a mind of your own, and found that true purpose that you were created for. To lance those festering, hidden, wounds.
You're what, I realize now, I crave on a basic level. So basic that it's more than a want; it's almost a need. To know that somebody is listening. To be able to rant without interruption, but with the knowledge that somebody is listening. That somebody places enough importance on your niggling problem, or even on you yourself, to listen with 100% of their attention. Not that they/we always do. But you care enough to pretend, at least.
You, Voice...You're the Voice in that grey misty place of doubt in my mind. You're all the nameless people who read my blog. You're my best friend, in a way, and you're my worst enemy because you're not always on my side and you know too much about me to be trusted.
Lately, you haven't said much. That's because I don't need your conversation right now. I just need to know that you're there. I need to know that you're listening, and you are. Because that's what you do.
Voice: And I am a voice and not a being because no being can be all that.
Weaver: It's not the fact that no person can be all this that drives me nuts. I don't expect that in anyone. But close friends (at least in girls. usually) tend to acknowledge the unspoken Rant Rules. And those are often what separate a friend from a close friend. A friend can talk about problems with you. A close friend will let you rant about a problem that affects you deeply (or anything, really, that affects you deeply) for as long as you need (within reason) before talking about said problem and discussing it. They will listen, or at least give you the illusion that they're listening. They will (if needed) nod and agree. But they won't add anything to the conversation, they won't argue, they won't do any of these things. That comes later. Because you can get the perspectives and arguing from anyone. But not everyone will let you tell the entire story--and not just tell it but rant about it--beforehand.
This is a very private thing because it can lay bare deep emotions, so you cannot rant to just anybody, either. But most importantly, by allowing yourself to rant freely and fully about a topic, you can be granted catharsis.
Warning. English nerd rant ahead.
Catharsis, for those of you not English Nerds, is a deep emotional cleansing, usually in a tragedy. See, in a tragedy the hero is brought down to the lowest of low, but once he has been stripped of everything, he is free to 'rise again from the ashes' so to speak. Start anew, and live again. And the audience too, feels catharsis. In a good tragedy, the hero isn't pitied by the end of the story, necause even though he's had all this horrible shit happen to him (and he brought it on himself, usually) he gains something purer from the whole situation. And because in this way, he has effectively won, he is usually granted death, or rather release from the hell that this level of consciousness has become for him. You know, historians argue over the definition of catharsis because Aristotle never defined it. But really, both sects are right. Catharsis is both the cleansing of the tragic hero, and the cleansing of the audience. Jeez. I'm in English 30 pure, and it took me all of four seconds to figure that out. These people have been at it for hundreds of years. How sad is that?
And catharsis, of all the tragedy characteristics, is really what separates the good tragedies from the bad tragedies. Hamlet, for example (and indeed, all of the Shakespeare tragedies I've read) is an excellent, excellent one. Probably because of Hamlet himself, because that's a whole other rant altogether. Did I mention that rants aren't always bad? But the ones about bad things are the ones that cause the most problems, generally speaking.
Oedipus Rex, which I just finished, is also an excellent play. But I don't think that it's the greatest tragedy. I believe that in its time, it definitely would have been a great, but as it stands in the modern age, the are so many little things that' dont make up, that it doesnt' quite have the proper effect.
Anyways. Enough of the English Nerd ranting.
So yes. You can be granted catharsis. You can be purged of the negative feelings somewhat, like lancing a festering wound. I mean, all that icky sick pus coming out isn't all that pretty, but would you really like to keep all that icky pus inside of you? Creating more pus and growing beneath the skin?
I think not. And if you disagree and think that gross pus is a good thing to have inside of you... get mental help. Please.
These hidden wounds need to be hit even if the rest of you feels fine and dandy. I mean, I had a great week. No, I had an absolutely amazing week. Not because the events in it were so much better than other weeks (because although they were better, they were only better after my week was already considered amazing) but because I wasm and still am, at peace with myself and the universe. And I'm as serious as it gets about this. Wholly and completely flowing with the universe. I know the true meaning to life and can see the beauty in the madness.
By changing yourself, you can change the world. Once you understand the world, you become one with the world. And once you're one with the world, you are the world. And once you change yourself as the world, you change the literal world. Your world.
Voice: That was not the point you were trying to make, however.
Weaver: Indeed. The point I was trying to make is that even when you're at peace, as I am, and had an amazing week, there are always things that irritate you or drive you insane or depress you. And while these don't disturb the peaceful foundation, they're still there, ready to start festering away. If you let them fester enough, they will destroy that peace. Or at least distort it in some way.
They can affect you so badly because they do affect you so badly. To begin with, that is. But you shove them to the back of your mind, where they linger. And in order to acheive the catharsis that will allow you to not only enjoy the positivity, but possibly to seperate yourself enough to solve the problem to a degree, these nagging little things need to be presented in freedom and completeness, if that's a word.
Voice: And what's the cause behind this particular rant?
Weaver: When I attempted to rant to Will earlier this eve/morn, he kept interrupting me and arguing with me about things. And then he'd interrupt when I tried to explain why I didn't want him to 'try to relate' as he calls it events from his life to those of mine. Or randomly asking an unrelated question. And although I listened and understood when he told me that he had indeed listened to eveything I said, despite his tendencies to mention everything that came to mind on MSN, he could not understand the concept of the Ranting Rules. This was probably because he would interrupt me every single time before I was done--including the final time, where he tried to start a my-life-sucks-more-than-yours test and fnished by telling me that my life is great compared to his, and I have no reason to complain about it. Thus missing the point of everything I attempted to tell him, and everything I just attempted to tell you.
But just his sheer obstinancy and idiocy was not enough for me to spend hours putting these concepts into the internet.
Voice: Then what was?
Weaver: It was the same thing that prodded me to create you, and come to think of it, the same thing that made the little girl from The Ring kill all those people.
It was the desire to be heard.
Saturday, March 04, 2006
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Good Day, by the Dresden Dolls
so you dont want to hear about my good song?
and you dont want to hear about how i am getting on
with all the things that i can get done
the sun is in the sky & i am by my lonesome
so you don't want to hear about my good day?
you have better things to do than to hear me say
gawd its been a lovely day! everything is going my way
i took out the trash today and i'm on fire...
so you don't want to hear about my good friends?
you dont have the guts to take the truth or consequence
success is in the eye of the beholder
and its looking even better over your cold shoulder
i'm not suggesting you up and line me up for questioning
but jesus think about the bridges you are burning
and i'm betting
that even though you knew it from the start
you'd rather be a bitch than be an ordinary broken heart
so go ahead and talk about your bad day...
i want all the details of the pain and misery
that you are inflicting on the others
i consider them my sisters and i'd like their numbers
gawd its been a lovely day! everything is going my way
i took up croquet today and i'm on fire
i picked up the pieces of my broken ego
i have finally made my peace as far as you and me go
but i'd love to have you up to see the place
& i'd like to do more than survive i'd like to RUB IT IN YOUR FACE! AH!
hey! its been a lovely day! everything is going my way
i had so much fun today and i'm on fire
GAWD ITS BEEN A LOVELY DAY!!! everything's been going my way
ever since you went away hey i'm on fire.....
i'm on fire...
i'm on fire...
so you dont want to hear about my good day?
Beauty in the Madness
MistWeaver: Okay. So let's forget about everything I've ever written for a moment and focus on one single question. Life. Why is it? Now let's look back on everything that's happened in the past few years to me, and voila. There is an answer. And it is: "Who cares?"
Voice: Very insightful.
Weaver: Thank you. I thought so. It's so true though. Really, who cares? Now, if you were to ask what life is, that would be a different matter. The answer to that one is even simpler, really.
Voice: Oh? And what's the answer to that question?
Weaver: Life is beauty. Life is pain. Life is sadness and mist and black pens and long nails and drugs and mosh and babies and sunshine and homework and love and hate and above all, life is beautiful. Even in the horrible scenes, the starving kids with the distended bellies, the beaten woman's hunched shoulders... it's all beautiful. Am I a freak for thinking that even the most horrible things are beautiful?
Voice: You need to see the horrible things in order to appreciate the wonderful ones.
Weaver: No, that's not what I mean. It's true, of course. But I mean literal beauty. Like, you look at it and think 'oh, that's beautiful' kind of beauty. It's sick, but there's beauty in the sickness too. Starting to understand me? Beauty. And one of the reason's it's so beautiful, I think, is that it's all madness. All of humanity is madness. That's our contribution to the Earth. Choas. But there is, above all, beauty in the madness. And that's why there's beauty in all of humanity's antics, good and bad, because it's all madness.
Voice: What brought up this subject, anyway?
Weaver: I don't know. It's just the kind of mood I'm in. I'm embroiled in the Email Wars again with my father, and the cynical amusement he always fills me with filtered into a kind of happy contemplation of life.
Voice: So how are things with your father, speaking of that topic.
Weaver: I don't really care how he is. Over the past few weeks, it's really occured to me just how little he matters to me. I don't hate him. I don't wish that I had a good father figure instead of a lying asshole with antisocial personality disorder (Sociopath, for those not not up to date with psych terms). And I'm not saying that with bitterness, truly. It's a fact. I went through the symptoms with the therapist the court is making me see. He's just... a source of amusement. One day I'll tell you about the sex letters we found on his blackberry around Valentine's. They made my day. No. They made my week. They were just so stupid and ridiculous. And really, if I were to look at the soap opera my life has become, or even if I cared at all about my father, I'd probably have to cry. As it is, it's all just a bit amusing. He's not a part of my life, and whenever he tries to intersect it again, how can I possibly take him seriously?
Voice: It didn't occur to you that he's possibly sincere? Just a suggestion.
Weaver: Yeah, for about four seconds. You'd really have to have lived with him (or be intimitely acquainted with the traits of sociopaths) to understand. He tells himself that he really cares and I'm being a silly teenager and lashing out and such because that's what society tells him is happening. To him, it doesn't matter how mature or intelligent I am, because I'm still a child in his eyes, simply by still being in high school. In reality, he cares pretty much nothing about me, except as what a father is supposed to as is regulated by (of course) society. And I accept that. When I first realized that I really didn't care one way or another about him, not even what society regulates to be the necessary amount, I felt guilty. But I don't. I've made my peace with what he is, and choose not to dwell on it. And that's another reason I'm so happy. And I suppose I do dwell still, because I can't believe how little I feel. And how free that makes me feel. And I can't stop talking about it, because it's so amazing.
Voice: Isn't that ironic? To not dwell gives you something else that you dwell on.
Weaver: But that's the madness again. The insanity of humanity and the flow of peace. That's what I'm feeling. Peace. And I'm seeing the beauty.
Voice: Very insightful.
Weaver: Thank you. I thought so. It's so true though. Really, who cares? Now, if you were to ask what life is, that would be a different matter. The answer to that one is even simpler, really.
Voice: Oh? And what's the answer to that question?
Weaver: Life is beauty. Life is pain. Life is sadness and mist and black pens and long nails and drugs and mosh and babies and sunshine and homework and love and hate and above all, life is beautiful. Even in the horrible scenes, the starving kids with the distended bellies, the beaten woman's hunched shoulders... it's all beautiful. Am I a freak for thinking that even the most horrible things are beautiful?
Voice: You need to see the horrible things in order to appreciate the wonderful ones.
Weaver: No, that's not what I mean. It's true, of course. But I mean literal beauty. Like, you look at it and think 'oh, that's beautiful' kind of beauty. It's sick, but there's beauty in the sickness too. Starting to understand me? Beauty. And one of the reason's it's so beautiful, I think, is that it's all madness. All of humanity is madness. That's our contribution to the Earth. Choas. But there is, above all, beauty in the madness. And that's why there's beauty in all of humanity's antics, good and bad, because it's all madness.
Voice: What brought up this subject, anyway?
Weaver: I don't know. It's just the kind of mood I'm in. I'm embroiled in the Email Wars again with my father, and the cynical amusement he always fills me with filtered into a kind of happy contemplation of life.
Voice: So how are things with your father, speaking of that topic.
Weaver: I don't really care how he is. Over the past few weeks, it's really occured to me just how little he matters to me. I don't hate him. I don't wish that I had a good father figure instead of a lying asshole with antisocial personality disorder (Sociopath, for those not not up to date with psych terms). And I'm not saying that with bitterness, truly. It's a fact. I went through the symptoms with the therapist the court is making me see. He's just... a source of amusement. One day I'll tell you about the sex letters we found on his blackberry around Valentine's. They made my day. No. They made my week. They were just so stupid and ridiculous. And really, if I were to look at the soap opera my life has become, or even if I cared at all about my father, I'd probably have to cry. As it is, it's all just a bit amusing. He's not a part of my life, and whenever he tries to intersect it again, how can I possibly take him seriously?
Voice: It didn't occur to you that he's possibly sincere? Just a suggestion.
Weaver: Yeah, for about four seconds. You'd really have to have lived with him (or be intimitely acquainted with the traits of sociopaths) to understand. He tells himself that he really cares and I'm being a silly teenager and lashing out and such because that's what society tells him is happening. To him, it doesn't matter how mature or intelligent I am, because I'm still a child in his eyes, simply by still being in high school. In reality, he cares pretty much nothing about me, except as what a father is supposed to as is regulated by (of course) society. And I accept that. When I first realized that I really didn't care one way or another about him, not even what society regulates to be the necessary amount, I felt guilty. But I don't. I've made my peace with what he is, and choose not to dwell on it. And that's another reason I'm so happy. And I suppose I do dwell still, because I can't believe how little I feel. And how free that makes me feel. And I can't stop talking about it, because it's so amazing.
Voice: Isn't that ironic? To not dwell gives you something else that you dwell on.
Weaver: But that's the madness again. The insanity of humanity and the flow of peace. That's what I'm feeling. Peace. And I'm seeing the beauty.
Saturday, February 11, 2006
Stupidity.
MistWeaver: Stupidity. That's what my life is. That's what I am. Here's what happened since before. In a nutshell, we ended up being scheduled to go out on Wednesday. He canceled on Monday, since he supposedly had too much work to do. I asked if he was still coming to my party on Saturday, and he said yes, and that he wouldn't miss it for the world. Today is Saturday, and after all the freaking out about work, and the anticipation and the cleaning and the worrying and everything, he's not here. Apparently, he's had a bad week and wants to be alone. That's a reasonable excuse. That's fair. It would have been nicer if he'd called or something, rather than leaving it to us to call him four times before he's even home, and then find out that way. The whole thing is pointless. Stupid even. I can understand wanting to be alone. I've had a less than ideal week myself. I like Tasha, and I like Blair. But it's like the entire week was for nothing. I planned this party after asking and re-asking if he could come. I planned it to see him. I used this day as something to look forward to for weeks. I worried and stressed and freaked out over what I would do about work for the past week, finally planning extensively and calling in sick. Why? Because I'm stupid. Because I'm incredibly, horribly, fucking stupid. I should just shoot myself now and save the world a favour. What's up with letting my feelings be so hurt over a guy? Why do I care so much? I know it's partly because of the way what's-his-face did a number on me, and just ignored me until I got the message. But I can understand not wanting to call for bad news. It's always so tempting to just not show up to work and let the phone ring when they call without answering. Don't want to be scummed out, don't want to disappoint. Especially since he KNEW I planned the party with him in mind. When we called to find out where he was, everyone was around. I was so expecting him to have an excuse. But then he wouldn't even repeat what he told Kai on speakerphone. And everyone expected me to be mad and order him to come and stuff but I couldn't speak because I was trying not to cry. Sure, everything happens for a reason but just ONCE I wanted it to work out and I felt even worse because even then I liked hearing his voice on the phone when I should really just get the hint and leave him alone. I mean, why the hell would he ever want to get with a chick that's three grades older than him? And his friend's sister? And then there's the fact that my father is doing the DD, who just happens to be his mother. And still through it all I just want to curl up in a corner and cry and cry and cry, even though I hate crying and to cry over a guy is stupid, especially
Oh God what's the point? I'm stupid. And I'm stupid to cry and stupid to care. He just signed in, and I don't know what to do. I don't want to yell or get mad at him. Blair and Kai already told him that he was making me cry, in a hope that it would make him want to come over. But why would I want him to come if he doesn't want to? That would just make things even worse and besides like I said, I know what it feels like to want to be alone.
Hurt and lies and loneliness and sex and sex and sex.
Oh God what's the point? I'm stupid. And I'm stupid to cry and stupid to care. He just signed in, and I don't know what to do. I don't want to yell or get mad at him. Blair and Kai already told him that he was making me cry, in a hope that it would make him want to come over. But why would I want him to come if he doesn't want to? That would just make things even worse and besides like I said, I know what it feels like to want to be alone.
Hurt and lies and loneliness and sex and sex and sex.
Sunday, February 05, 2006
Back To Reality
Weaver: Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, STUPID.
Voice: What is it now?
Weaver: Why oh why was I stupid enough to call him?
Voice: Ah. I see now. So the phone call didn't go as expected?
Weaver: I can't even say that it didn't go as expected. I suck at calling people, and I suck even more at talking to them on the phone. It was like
Weaver: That's about when I started whacking myself. It's just that I'm horrible at phones, impressions, and just plain interacting with people. I have no idea whether he thinks I'm an alcoholic freak sex fiend or whether I should call him again or just pray that he comes online so I don't have to make a fool of myself on the phone again. Or maybe he'll call me. That would be nice. I like getting phone calls, just not sending them. I feel bad because I want to talk to him, but... Arg. I don't know.
Voice: It's amazing how the most put-together, self-assured people can be reduced to such a mass of conflicting emotion, is it not?
Weaver: I know. I hate my life. I like other people's lives. If only because they're not happening to me. I can help others, talk to others, watch others... But when it comes to my own life I'm a mess. Especially where the other gender is concerned. I've had a shower now, and I feel slightly better about it... I figure I'll get dressed reaaally slowly and then figure out what to do next. Capische? Capische.
Voice: You know--
But MistWeaver had already disappeared in a flurry of agitation.
Voice: What is it now?
Weaver: Why oh why was I stupid enough to call him?
Voice: Ah. I see now. So the phone call didn't go as expected?
Weaver: I can't even say that it didn't go as expected. I suck at calling people, and I suck even more at talking to them on the phone. It was like
Weaver: Hey, is Jordan there?Or something like that.
Mr. Reurink: Yeah, hold on.
Jordan: Hello?
Weaver: Hey... it's *Weaver*.
Jordan: Hey.
Weaver: So... I was just wondering if you still wanted to go to a movie on Wednesday...?
Jordan: Um... I won't know whether I can go until my mother gets here.
Weaver: *starts talking at same time as Jordan*
Weaver: Sorry. What time should she be there?
Jordan: *almost at same time again* She should be here soon though.
Weaver: Oh... Okay.
Jordan: *something Weaver doesn't hear*
Weaver: Sorry, pardon me? I have bad hearing... *grins ruefully at herself* And a headache.
Jordan: I said, I guess I'll talk to you later then.
Weaver: Bye...
Weaver: That's about when I started whacking myself. It's just that I'm horrible at phones, impressions, and just plain interacting with people. I have no idea whether he thinks I'm an alcoholic freak sex fiend or whether I should call him again or just pray that he comes online so I don't have to make a fool of myself on the phone again. Or maybe he'll call me. That would be nice. I like getting phone calls, just not sending them. I feel bad because I want to talk to him, but... Arg. I don't know.
Voice: It's amazing how the most put-together, self-assured people can be reduced to such a mass of conflicting emotion, is it not?
Weaver: I know. I hate my life. I like other people's lives. If only because they're not happening to me. I can help others, talk to others, watch others... But when it comes to my own life I'm a mess. Especially where the other gender is concerned. I've had a shower now, and I feel slightly better about it... I figure I'll get dressed reaaally slowly and then figure out what to do next. Capische? Capische.
Voice: You know--
But MistWeaver had already disappeared in a flurry of agitation.
Never Gonna Drink Again, Never Gonna...
Voice: Had a good time last night, I gather?
Weaver: If my hands were shaking any harder, I'd be a living vibrator.
Voice: I'll take that as a yes.
Weaver: Luckily, that's the extent of my hangover. Probably the fact that ever since the first time I got drunk, I've been somewhat careful about drinking tons of water with my alcohol to avoid said hangovers helped.
Voice: So what was the occasion for such indulgence?
Weaver: Well, no occasion really. Kurt and his friend Sandy came to visit from Vancouver, and a certain somebody's goal in life is to initiate me into the dregs of drunkhood and highhood. Obviously, he doesn't realize that I was initiated into said ranks several years ago. Not that I'm complaining. In any case, I have quite a few shots of tequila and 40-proof wine. Feeling no pain, indeed.
Voice: It was probably the tequila that did you in. You know what they say... One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor.
Weaver: I wouldn't say I was on the floor. I did, however, have four tequilas. I think. Then I talked to Blair on the phone for a long time.
Voice: Oh? What about?
Weaver: v.v See, I'm a talkative drunk. At the risk of sounding cliche'd, I can control it though. Most people never know that I'm drunk. Years of wall-building and barriers have ensured that. But the desire is always there, and the ability. You see, the wall-building and such not only made it capable for me to keep things inside, it made me incapable of letting some things out. Alcohol helps to remove that particular barrier.
Oh, and on a completely different note, I'm proud of our generation. Kurt doesn't drink, because he doesn't like what it does to him. Rebecca doesn't either, for similar reasons. Although there are of course a lot of people who drink because their friends do it and such, I also know many people of this age like Kurt and Becca who choose not to no matter how many of their friends are doing it. And I respect that. They make me proud.
I don't imbibe or inhale because of anything friends do or say. Let's make that clear right now. I do it because I enjoy it occasionally (not all the time) and because I think it's both good for me (again, occasionally) and it's a learning thing, weird as that sounds.
This particular time, however, I happened to get online and speak to Jordan. Jordan, for those of you who haven't been involved intrinsically in my life, is a guy. More specifically, my brother's friend's brother, if that makes sense. Around my age (a bit younger, actually), and long story made short, the object of my affections. Recently, I found out that the sentiment was returned. Of course, only time will tell what becomes of this, since I suck, period, at relationships and my first and last one previous to this was with a guy who wanted to keep our relationship quiet because he thought his friends would make fun of him for hanging out around me. Me, the stupid idiot that I am, agreed. Even keeping it quiet soon wasn't enough for him, I guess, because he soon started avoiding me and ignoring me until I got the picture.
But he's dead now.
Voice: Sounds like a jerk. There are so many things wrong with that, I'm not even going to start on them.
Weaver: I know, I know. Or rather, I know that now. But my point is, it's even worse now because Jordan is technically my brother's friend, and I'm afraid his brother and my brother are going to mock him. Not only do I not want that, but I wouldn't blame him if he wanted to keep it quiet because of that or even break it off altogether.
Voice: Sounds a lot like the last guy. Are you willing to face that again?
Weaver: Ignoring the fact that Jordan is absolutely nothing like him, it's also a different situation. I knew most of the last dude's friends, believe it or not. And they all (well, most of them) liked me. His embarassment stemmed, I think, from his own problems with me, and had nothing to do with his friends.
But barring the circumstances, much as I like Jordan, I'm not sure I could handle that again. I won't blame him at all (or at least, not much) if he decides he doesn't want anyone to know, but I don't think I could continue with it. I think my brother (who told me directly that if I was going to keep bugging his friend Xtian to come over--Xtian owns one of my favorite movies of all time and I always want him to bring it--then I should just go and ask the guy out because his parents think I'm nuts) will accept it with only minor ribbing, but I have no idea about Aaron, Jordan's bro.
Voice: Sounds like you're thinking too much to me. You should probably just relax, let it flow, and accept that whatever will come, will come. Now what does Jordan have to do with your alcohol last night?
Weaver: Man, I don't want to just let it come, though. I want to see him, experience everything, know for sure. If something happens with this guy, I think it will hurt a hell of a lot more than the last dude. Wait. Alcohol. Right. That's what I was talking about. Yeah, so I did the honorable thing and warned him straight up of my condition. Then told him to take advantage and ask me anything, since I would probably answer honestly and completely (and not remember much of it later). He told me he couldnt' do it unless I did the same for him. Or at least, I think that's what happened, because I remember taking turns. And I also remember being damn proud of that boy. For once he shed his utter niceness and asked real questions, the kind you think about but never actually come close to voicing for fear of getting slapped.
And before you ask, Voice, no I don't care to share. In fact, I think it's time I go downstairs and splash water on my face before finding my glasses (I appear to have lost both pairs last night) and then call him because I remember asking something about a movie on Wednesday. Then, off to bug Kurt and Sandy (or rather, wake them up), and get ready for work.
Weaver fades as she speaks, already losing herself back into the mundane world.
Voice: Hasta luego.
Weaver: If my hands were shaking any harder, I'd be a living vibrator.
Voice: I'll take that as a yes.
Weaver: Luckily, that's the extent of my hangover. Probably the fact that ever since the first time I got drunk, I've been somewhat careful about drinking tons of water with my alcohol to avoid said hangovers helped.
Voice: So what was the occasion for such indulgence?
Weaver: Well, no occasion really. Kurt and his friend Sandy came to visit from Vancouver, and a certain somebody's goal in life is to initiate me into the dregs of drunkhood and highhood. Obviously, he doesn't realize that I was initiated into said ranks several years ago. Not that I'm complaining. In any case, I have quite a few shots of tequila and 40-proof wine. Feeling no pain, indeed.
Voice: It was probably the tequila that did you in. You know what they say... One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor.
Weaver: I wouldn't say I was on the floor. I did, however, have four tequilas. I think. Then I talked to Blair on the phone for a long time.
Voice: Oh? What about?
Weaver: v.v See, I'm a talkative drunk. At the risk of sounding cliche'd, I can control it though. Most people never know that I'm drunk. Years of wall-building and barriers have ensured that. But the desire is always there, and the ability. You see, the wall-building and such not only made it capable for me to keep things inside, it made me incapable of letting some things out. Alcohol helps to remove that particular barrier.
Oh, and on a completely different note, I'm proud of our generation. Kurt doesn't drink, because he doesn't like what it does to him. Rebecca doesn't either, for similar reasons. Although there are of course a lot of people who drink because their friends do it and such, I also know many people of this age like Kurt and Becca who choose not to no matter how many of their friends are doing it. And I respect that. They make me proud.
I don't imbibe or inhale because of anything friends do or say. Let's make that clear right now. I do it because I enjoy it occasionally (not all the time) and because I think it's both good for me (again, occasionally) and it's a learning thing, weird as that sounds.
This particular time, however, I happened to get online and speak to Jordan. Jordan, for those of you who haven't been involved intrinsically in my life, is a guy. More specifically, my brother's friend's brother, if that makes sense. Around my age (a bit younger, actually), and long story made short, the object of my affections. Recently, I found out that the sentiment was returned. Of course, only time will tell what becomes of this, since I suck, period, at relationships and my first and last one previous to this was with a guy who wanted to keep our relationship quiet because he thought his friends would make fun of him for hanging out around me. Me, the stupid idiot that I am, agreed. Even keeping it quiet soon wasn't enough for him, I guess, because he soon started avoiding me and ignoring me until I got the picture.
But he's dead now.
Voice: Sounds like a jerk. There are so many things wrong with that, I'm not even going to start on them.
Weaver: I know, I know. Or rather, I know that now. But my point is, it's even worse now because Jordan is technically my brother's friend, and I'm afraid his brother and my brother are going to mock him. Not only do I not want that, but I wouldn't blame him if he wanted to keep it quiet because of that or even break it off altogether.
Voice: Sounds a lot like the last guy. Are you willing to face that again?
Weaver: Ignoring the fact that Jordan is absolutely nothing like him, it's also a different situation. I knew most of the last dude's friends, believe it or not. And they all (well, most of them) liked me. His embarassment stemmed, I think, from his own problems with me, and had nothing to do with his friends.
But barring the circumstances, much as I like Jordan, I'm not sure I could handle that again. I won't blame him at all (or at least, not much) if he decides he doesn't want anyone to know, but I don't think I could continue with it. I think my brother (who told me directly that if I was going to keep bugging his friend Xtian to come over--Xtian owns one of my favorite movies of all time and I always want him to bring it--then I should just go and ask the guy out because his parents think I'm nuts) will accept it with only minor ribbing, but I have no idea about Aaron, Jordan's bro.
Voice: Sounds like you're thinking too much to me. You should probably just relax, let it flow, and accept that whatever will come, will come. Now what does Jordan have to do with your alcohol last night?
Weaver: Man, I don't want to just let it come, though. I want to see him, experience everything, know for sure. If something happens with this guy, I think it will hurt a hell of a lot more than the last dude. Wait. Alcohol. Right. That's what I was talking about. Yeah, so I did the honorable thing and warned him straight up of my condition. Then told him to take advantage and ask me anything, since I would probably answer honestly and completely (and not remember much of it later). He told me he couldnt' do it unless I did the same for him. Or at least, I think that's what happened, because I remember taking turns. And I also remember being damn proud of that boy. For once he shed his utter niceness and asked real questions, the kind you think about but never actually come close to voicing for fear of getting slapped.
And before you ask, Voice, no I don't care to share. In fact, I think it's time I go downstairs and splash water on my face before finding my glasses (I appear to have lost both pairs last night) and then call him because I remember asking something about a movie on Wednesday. Then, off to bug Kurt and Sandy (or rather, wake them up), and get ready for work.
Weaver fades as she speaks, already losing herself back into the mundane world.
Voice: Hasta luego.
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Monday, December 12, 2005
Let Me Tell You The Story Of Jienix and Jex...
Out of the silent, swirling, mist comes a voice. In a childish, singsong voice, it begins to recite:
...Let me tell you the story of Jienix and Jex
It has drama and laughter and sorrow and sex
Let us begin with the story of Jienix
A person as lovely and strong as the phoenix
Jienix was laughter, Jienix was light
Her voice was a song and her laughter was bright.
She was well loved and popular and pure
Her present was great, her future assured.
Yet like young women, she had a secret
And she needed only her sister to keep it.
They were as close as close could be
Jienix was the bark, Jex was the tree.
Jex was everything Jienix was not
Rude and uncouth (and taunted a lot).
She was rebellious and malicious and mean
In contempt for authority, she was the Queen
Jex was sorrow, Jex was sass
If you didn't like it, you could kiss her ass
Worst of it all, she could still grin
Not even caring she didn’t fit in
Yet she was the truth behind the facade
That Jex had created and Jienix displayed
Alone they were nothing, together were one
Listen more closely, it’s only begun.
One day Jex was sick, Jienix at school
When a girl made a comment that Jex was a fool
Jienix moved quickly, and when the smoke cleared
That girl had learned why the sisters were feared.
She may have been sweet, she may have been fun
But insults, Jienix tolerated not a single one
And on other occasions, though rarely I admit
She yelled at her friends, and just wouldn’t quit
These were the times her mind would be mixed
Though a glance at her sister and all would be fixed.
Jex would only laugh, and flick her cigarette
She knew that for Jienix, they'd forgive and forget.
The opinion on Jex was near-universal
She was a bad egg, her ideas distasteful
Yet nobody's perfect, not even when they're bad
Once there was someone she didn't make mad
They could even be called friends, some would say
Until one fateful evening with a roll in the hay
Marc was intoxicated, Jex was sober
A good clean break, and it would be over
The experience was better than reported by some
It was pleasure and pain combined into one
She knew that his guilt would cause him to flee
Their relationship damaged irreparably
Jienix had the lecture already prepared
Jex simply retorted "He should never have cared!"
Sometimes they wished they could be less extreme
Jex to be nice, Jienix be mean
But the images they’d created had grown out of hand
And if they got rid of them they’d lose the plan
Because while Jienix was out charming the crowds
Jex would be unnoticed while sneaking around
Trying to find the answer they’d been looking for, for years
Try to sever their roots and erase all the tears
Together the ruse was played out again and again
While together they got closer and closer to the end
For eventually the town would figure it out
What Jienix and Jex were really about...
...Let me tell you the story of Jienix and Jex
It has drama and laughter and sorrow and sex
Let us begin with the story of Jienix
A person as lovely and strong as the phoenix
Jienix was laughter, Jienix was light
Her voice was a song and her laughter was bright.
She was well loved and popular and pure
Her present was great, her future assured.
Yet like young women, she had a secret
And she needed only her sister to keep it.
They were as close as close could be
Jienix was the bark, Jex was the tree.
Jex was everything Jienix was not
Rude and uncouth (and taunted a lot).
She was rebellious and malicious and mean
In contempt for authority, she was the Queen
Jex was sorrow, Jex was sass
If you didn't like it, you could kiss her ass
Worst of it all, she could still grin
Not even caring she didn’t fit in
Yet she was the truth behind the facade
That Jex had created and Jienix displayed
Alone they were nothing, together were one
Listen more closely, it’s only begun.
One day Jex was sick, Jienix at school
When a girl made a comment that Jex was a fool
Jienix moved quickly, and when the smoke cleared
That girl had learned why the sisters were feared.
She may have been sweet, she may have been fun
But insults, Jienix tolerated not a single one
And on other occasions, though rarely I admit
She yelled at her friends, and just wouldn’t quit
These were the times her mind would be mixed
Though a glance at her sister and all would be fixed.
Jex would only laugh, and flick her cigarette
She knew that for Jienix, they'd forgive and forget.
The opinion on Jex was near-universal
She was a bad egg, her ideas distasteful
Yet nobody's perfect, not even when they're bad
Once there was someone she didn't make mad
They could even be called friends, some would say
Until one fateful evening with a roll in the hay
Marc was intoxicated, Jex was sober
A good clean break, and it would be over
The experience was better than reported by some
It was pleasure and pain combined into one
She knew that his guilt would cause him to flee
Their relationship damaged irreparably
Jienix had the lecture already prepared
Jex simply retorted "He should never have cared!"
Sometimes they wished they could be less extreme
Jex to be nice, Jienix be mean
But the images they’d created had grown out of hand
And if they got rid of them they’d lose the plan
Because while Jienix was out charming the crowds
Jex would be unnoticed while sneaking around
Trying to find the answer they’d been looking for, for years
Try to sever their roots and erase all the tears
Together the ruse was played out again and again
While together they got closer and closer to the end
For eventually the town would figure it out
What Jienix and Jex were really about...
Monday, December 05, 2005
Those Damned Tears
MistWeaver: Who's your favorite pothead?
Voice: Tsk, tsk. Been bad, have we?
Weaver: No, actually. Just sad. Of course, when I cry I have the handy talent of making my eyes go completely bloodshot. Not even bloodshot. Pink. Fully and completely. And the rest of my face looks like crap, too. I'm not one of those attractive cryers who look all dramatic and beautiful. I just look like a drowned duck.
Voice: While I find all of this absolutely fascinating, it does bring to mind a more pressing question. Why have you been crying?
Weaver: And that, fair lady (or man, or whatever you are), is the heart of the matter. Crying. I've been doing way too much of it over the past few days. And try as I might, I can't stop.
Voice: You still haven't answered the question. Why have you been crying?
Weaver: A variety of reasons. The most pressing being that I've been so tired, every little thing makes me cry. Even when I don't want to. On Saturday, it was the fight I got into with Mama and Brian. On Sunday, it was the stupid email Mama sent me regarding the fight I got into with her and Brian. Today, it was Deb in the cafeteria lecturing us on how we need to be a team and how we don't pull our weight, and how... Ugh. Just... everything. And the entire time, I was thinking about how I really wanted to quit and that I'd been considering it for a while, but that I couldn't because throughout it all Deb made it clear that they needed me.
Voice: Why did you fight with Thelia and Brian?
Weaver: The same as always. About how we need to be a team, and how I don't pull my weight... Not to mention how I force them to drop everything and drive me everywhere (namely work), and how I work too much and it's costing Mama money and ... oh look. There I go again, almost. No respite from the stupid tears, not even in the middle of the school library. I guess it's a good thing that I didn't go to math.
Voice: Is that where you're supposed to be right now? Math?
Weaver: Yup. I've been stopping myself all month from skipping, telling myself that I need math, that missing it is a bad idea. I gave up today. Screw Math. Screw stupid pipsqueak Carder and his stupid discrimination. The best thing to do is study it myself and show up for test days. I almost wish that I would get caught skipping, for once. I can identify with certain characters from certain books... That reckless feeling where you want to get caught so you can yell to the world how you really feel.
Voice: And this is your way of yelling at the world. All those who care to read, step right up! Take a computer and boot 'er up.
Weaver: When you put it that way... I guess this is my way of yelling at the world. Teen Angst R Us. Although I feel closer to 70 than to a teen, at the moment.
Weaver: Do you know who happened to come in while I was trying to clean myself up in the bathroom before coming here?
Voice: If I knew, you wouldn't be asking.
Weaver: It was KD. Yes, KD. The one that I never particularly liked, and thought to be shallow and inconsiderate. I've never hidden my opinion of her, either. But when she walked in, inconspicuous cryer that I am, she took one look and asked me what was wrong. Gave me a hug, too.
Voice: Has your opinion changed of her?
Weaver: To be honest, not really. She's still pretty shallow and mean. But at the same time, even the shallowest person has a heart. I don't know where I'm going with this.
Voice: Maybe towards the idea that she's a tolerable person?
Weaver: Yeah, I guess. And I'm probably going to go watch her Drama class second period since I think that I've changed my mind about going to math at all. And I should probably reread my reply to my mother's email. I was so tired, and crying so hard, that I have barely any recollection of what I wrote. I have a vague memory of thinking it was really bitter-sounding. Am I right? I can't remember. Maybe I am just a selfish bitch. Bleah.
Oh, and a note: I'm still trying to figure out whether I miss Ryan. I haven't really talked to him in like two weeks. More if you count talking to him sober. I don't go to Youth anymore. I think our last meaningful conversation was when I told him that. I'm trying to figure out whether to invite him to the Dance next week. We had agreed that if we had one with guests, he'd come and we'd have a blast. Then again, I'm not even sure I can go. But it's formal! And I've wanted to go to a formal dance forever...
--
Voice: Tsk, tsk. Been bad, have we?
Weaver: No, actually. Just sad. Of course, when I cry I have the handy talent of making my eyes go completely bloodshot. Not even bloodshot. Pink. Fully and completely. And the rest of my face looks like crap, too. I'm not one of those attractive cryers who look all dramatic and beautiful. I just look like a drowned duck.
Voice: While I find all of this absolutely fascinating, it does bring to mind a more pressing question. Why have you been crying?
Weaver: And that, fair lady (or man, or whatever you are), is the heart of the matter. Crying. I've been doing way too much of it over the past few days. And try as I might, I can't stop.
Voice: You still haven't answered the question. Why have you been crying?
Weaver: A variety of reasons. The most pressing being that I've been so tired, every little thing makes me cry. Even when I don't want to. On Saturday, it was the fight I got into with Mama and Brian. On Sunday, it was the stupid email Mama sent me regarding the fight I got into with her and Brian. Today, it was Deb in the cafeteria lecturing us on how we need to be a team and how we don't pull our weight, and how... Ugh. Just... everything. And the entire time, I was thinking about how I really wanted to quit and that I'd been considering it for a while, but that I couldn't because throughout it all Deb made it clear that they needed me.
Voice: Why did you fight with Thelia and Brian?
Weaver: The same as always. About how we need to be a team, and how I don't pull my weight... Not to mention how I force them to drop everything and drive me everywhere (namely work), and how I work too much and it's costing Mama money and ... oh look. There I go again, almost. No respite from the stupid tears, not even in the middle of the school library. I guess it's a good thing that I didn't go to math.
Voice: Is that where you're supposed to be right now? Math?
Weaver: Yup. I've been stopping myself all month from skipping, telling myself that I need math, that missing it is a bad idea. I gave up today. Screw Math. Screw stupid pipsqueak Carder and his stupid discrimination. The best thing to do is study it myself and show up for test days. I almost wish that I would get caught skipping, for once. I can identify with certain characters from certain books... That reckless feeling where you want to get caught so you can yell to the world how you really feel.
Voice: And this is your way of yelling at the world. All those who care to read, step right up! Take a computer and boot 'er up.
Weaver: When you put it that way... I guess this is my way of yelling at the world. Teen Angst R Us. Although I feel closer to 70 than to a teen, at the moment.
Weaver: Do you know who happened to come in while I was trying to clean myself up in the bathroom before coming here?
Voice: If I knew, you wouldn't be asking.
Weaver: It was KD. Yes, KD. The one that I never particularly liked, and thought to be shallow and inconsiderate. I've never hidden my opinion of her, either. But when she walked in, inconspicuous cryer that I am, she took one look and asked me what was wrong. Gave me a hug, too.
Voice: Has your opinion changed of her?
Weaver: To be honest, not really. She's still pretty shallow and mean. But at the same time, even the shallowest person has a heart. I don't know where I'm going with this.
Voice: Maybe towards the idea that she's a tolerable person?
Weaver: Yeah, I guess. And I'm probably going to go watch her Drama class second period since I think that I've changed my mind about going to math at all. And I should probably reread my reply to my mother's email. I was so tired, and crying so hard, that I have barely any recollection of what I wrote. I have a vague memory of thinking it was really bitter-sounding. Am I right? I can't remember. Maybe I am just a selfish bitch. Bleah.
Oh, and a note: I'm still trying to figure out whether I miss Ryan. I haven't really talked to him in like two weeks. More if you count talking to him sober. I don't go to Youth anymore. I think our last meaningful conversation was when I told him that. I'm trying to figure out whether to invite him to the Dance next week. We had agreed that if we had one with guests, he'd come and we'd have a blast. Then again, I'm not even sure I can go. But it's formal! And I've wanted to go to a formal dance forever...
--
Monday, November 07, 2005
Rise and Fall and Rise Again
Voice: You look worn out. Have y ou come for some peace and rest?
Weaver: I don't have time for peace and rest. I know I look worn out, but it's everything that's been crushing down on me that causes it.
Voice: Interesting choice of words. Crushed? What exactly is going on in your life?
Weaver: Part of it is good: I have a job.
Voice: I know that you've wanted one for a while now; that's good, then. Where are you working?
Weaver: Superstore. Cashier. 8.25$/hour.
Voice: Sounds reasonable. Better than minimum wage at a fast food place, no?
Weaver: Oh, it's not the job that's getting me down. I love the work. It's memory, repetition, greetings... all stuff that I get off on.
Voice: There's a 'but' in that statement, isn't there?
Weaver: Indeed, there is. I have to tell Brian that I start work fifteen to thirty minutes early in order to get there on time, and I usually have to wait a good half hour to fortyfive minutes after I'm finished to get picked up, regardless of what time I tell him I'm finished. He drives like a maniac, and I feel anything but safe in the car. But it's my only recourse barring my father, and that's an option I won't take no matter what.
Voice: Do you really hate your father that much?
Weaver: Yes.
Voice: That's direct.
Weaver: Would you have me dance around the subject the way that he does? He's fucked with my life, my brother's life, and my mother's life most of all. He can rot.
Voice: You know, in a few years you'll--
MistWeaver: Stop right there. I've heard that I'll eventually be great friends with him from everybody on the face of the earth, along with "you know, Weaver... your parents' divorce doesn't have anything to do with you..." FUCK! I don't think I'm to blame for my parents' divorce. I don't give a shit if I'll love my father in the future: I despise the ground he walks on right now. It shows something about my mother's character if she's one of those people telling me to be nice to my father.
Voice: I believe you've mentioned that already. Care to elaborate?
Weaver: No. Screw off.
Voice: If that's what you want, I'll leave you to the mist.
Weaver: No! I'm sorry. I'm alienating everybody. I guess it's a sign of how bad I'm doing if I'm snapping at a voice in my own head. Here, let me give you an example of what my life is like.
The mist thickens, closes in around her, completely opaque.
An image appears in the mist. Weaver, her hair glowing white in the semi-darkness of a bedroom, sleeping. All is silent. All of a sudden, music starts blaring from a stereo and she jumps up, eyes wide, hops over the back of the couch she's sleeping on, and turns down the volume. She blindly stumbles into the shower, looking too exhausted to be alive.
The scene cuts to her in an empty kitchen. She is frantically searching thorugh an agenda, realizing that she has a test that day, and that she has to memorize quite a bit of text from Shakespeare. Wearily, she flips through the book page by page, looking for suitable passages to memorize.
The scene cuts again to her on the bus, staring at the book MacBeth, writing out feverishly lines over and over again. As the bus pulls into the school, she looks up in surprise. As she moves to shove her stuff in her bag, she catches a glimpse of a paper: one of the study guides, the one that dictates the parameters for the lines she has to find and memorize. It's thick, but she takes a moment to flip through it, remembering that she's not allowed to pick any of the lines that are demonstrated in it. Of course, that's easier said than done, since there are at least twenty different passages quoted in the study guide. Her eyes catch on one, a longer one that shows the motif of ill-fitting clothes. Her eyes move frantically in disbelief as she realizes that this is the same quote that she chose to memorize after combing the book with a fine-toothed comb for one that wasn't in the guide. Her shoulders slump dejectedly, and she shoves the rest of her books in the bag.
A bell tolls, like that of the school bell, and the scene fades, returns to the mist. It clears, and there is a brief glimpse of the true MistWeaver, before she shakes her head sadly and begins to fade from the misty place.
MistWeaver: Back to the real world again.
Weaver: I don't have time for peace and rest. I know I look worn out, but it's everything that's been crushing down on me that causes it.
Voice: Interesting choice of words. Crushed? What exactly is going on in your life?
Weaver: Part of it is good: I have a job.
Voice: I know that you've wanted one for a while now; that's good, then. Where are you working?
Weaver: Superstore. Cashier. 8.25$/hour.
Voice: Sounds reasonable. Better than minimum wage at a fast food place, no?
Weaver: Oh, it's not the job that's getting me down. I love the work. It's memory, repetition, greetings... all stuff that I get off on.
Voice: There's a 'but' in that statement, isn't there?
Weaver: Indeed, there is. I have to tell Brian that I start work fifteen to thirty minutes early in order to get there on time, and I usually have to wait a good half hour to fortyfive minutes after I'm finished to get picked up, regardless of what time I tell him I'm finished. He drives like a maniac, and I feel anything but safe in the car. But it's my only recourse barring my father, and that's an option I won't take no matter what.
Voice: Do you really hate your father that much?
Weaver: Yes.
Voice: That's direct.
Weaver: Would you have me dance around the subject the way that he does? He's fucked with my life, my brother's life, and my mother's life most of all. He can rot.
Voice: You know, in a few years you'll--
MistWeaver: Stop right there. I've heard that I'll eventually be great friends with him from everybody on the face of the earth, along with "you know, Weaver... your parents' divorce doesn't have anything to do with you..." FUCK! I don't think I'm to blame for my parents' divorce. I don't give a shit if I'll love my father in the future: I despise the ground he walks on right now. It shows something about my mother's character if she's one of those people telling me to be nice to my father.
Voice: I believe you've mentioned that already. Care to elaborate?
Weaver: No. Screw off.
Voice: If that's what you want, I'll leave you to the mist.
Weaver: No! I'm sorry. I'm alienating everybody. I guess it's a sign of how bad I'm doing if I'm snapping at a voice in my own head. Here, let me give you an example of what my life is like.
The mist thickens, closes in around her, completely opaque.
An image appears in the mist. Weaver, her hair glowing white in the semi-darkness of a bedroom, sleeping. All is silent. All of a sudden, music starts blaring from a stereo and she jumps up, eyes wide, hops over the back of the couch she's sleeping on, and turns down the volume. She blindly stumbles into the shower, looking too exhausted to be alive.
The scene cuts to her in an empty kitchen. She is frantically searching thorugh an agenda, realizing that she has a test that day, and that she has to memorize quite a bit of text from Shakespeare. Wearily, she flips through the book page by page, looking for suitable passages to memorize.
The scene cuts again to her on the bus, staring at the book MacBeth, writing out feverishly lines over and over again. As the bus pulls into the school, she looks up in surprise. As she moves to shove her stuff in her bag, she catches a glimpse of a paper: one of the study guides, the one that dictates the parameters for the lines she has to find and memorize. It's thick, but she takes a moment to flip through it, remembering that she's not allowed to pick any of the lines that are demonstrated in it. Of course, that's easier said than done, since there are at least twenty different passages quoted in the study guide. Her eyes catch on one, a longer one that shows the motif of ill-fitting clothes. Her eyes move frantically in disbelief as she realizes that this is the same quote that she chose to memorize after combing the book with a fine-toothed comb for one that wasn't in the guide. Her shoulders slump dejectedly, and she shoves the rest of her books in the bag.
A bell tolls, like that of the school bell, and the scene fades, returns to the mist. It clears, and there is a brief glimpse of the true MistWeaver, before she shakes her head sadly and begins to fade from the misty place.
MistWeaver: Back to the real world again.
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