Guys! Alice sent me this amazing blog, called "I wrote this for you." Check it out. They're short stories, written specifically for you to interpret. They're great. Here's some snippets:
You wake up with a list of all the people you'd rather be. But you're already on everyone else's list.
You close your eyes when you cry. That's ok. Just don't keep them closed too long. Things have become beautiful since you last looked. There's nothing more to cry about.
"This is the one." The universe assures me from behind the counter. "But I thought you said the last one was the one." I reply. "No." Says the universe. "I sold you that one so you would know that this, this is the one." "Is there another one?" I ask the universe. "I can't tell you." They reply. "It'd ruin the surprise."
Freak, guys. This song is amazing, and will definitely be my jam for the next two weeks.
& would you look at that, all my posts ever since October are on ONE PAGE! Now you can see my first post, ever! Hahahaha. I thought it was pretty cool.
School tomorrow. Yuck. I feel like I'm running a marathon, with no pretty scenery on the side to look at.
well if you only knew the pain that i've been through since when did it become all about you as you can see from the start i've said the truth but if the truth means nothing to you then what am i supposed to do?
and i'll still love you beyond what words can say i'll take your every suffering moment and bring a better day i'll still love you more than what i hope to be let me wrap my arms around you let me take your breath away
and every time i ask you assure you're doing fine but your heart looks good by smiling you couldnt fool mine by the end of the night your pillow sits to dry in a crowded room you're singing on the inside you sigh
My glares burn through her. And I’m sure that such actions aren’t foreign to her because the essence of her beauty is, well, the essence of beauty.
And in the presence of this higher being, the weakness of my masculinity kicks in, causing me to personify my wannabe big-baller, shot-caller, God’s gift to the female species with shiny suit wrapping rapping like, “Yo, what’s crackin shorty how you livin’ what’s your sign what’s your size I dig your style, yo.”
Now, this girl was no fool. She gives me a dirty look with the quickness like, “Boy, you must be stupid.” so I’m looking at myself, “Boy, you must be stupid.” But looking upon her I am kinda feelin’ her style.
So I try again. But, instead of addressing her properly, I blurt out one of my fake-ass playalistic lines like, “Gurl, you must be a traffic ticket cuz you got fine written all over you.” Now, she’s trying to leave and I’m trying to keep her here. So at a final attempt, I utter,“Gurl, what is your ethnic makeup?”
At this point, her glare was scorching through me, and somehow she manages to make her brown eyes resemble some kinda brown fire or something, but there’s no snap or head movement, no palm to face, click of tongue, middle finger, roll of eyes, twist of lips, or girl power chant. She just glares through me with these burning eyes and her gaze grabs you by the throat.
She says, “Ethnic makeup?” She says, “First of all, makeup’s just an anglicized, colonized, commodified utility that my sisters have been programmed to consume, forcing them to cover up their natural state in order to imitate what another sister looks like in her natural state because people keep telling herthat the other sister’s natural state is more beautiful than the first sister’s natural state. At the same time, the other sister isn’t even in her natural state, because she’s trying to imitate yet another sister, so in actuality, the natural state that the first sister’s trying to imitate wasn’t even natural in the first place.”
Now I’m thinking, “Damn, this girl’s kicking knowledge!” But, meanwhile, she keeps spitting on it like “Fine. I’ll tell you bout my ‘ethnic makeup." I wear foundation, not that powdery shit, I wear the foundation laid by my indigenous people. It’s that foundation that makes it so that past being globalized, I can still vocalize with confidence that i know where my roots are. I wear this foundation not upon my face, but within my soul, and I take this from my ancestors because I’ll be damned if I’d ever let an American or European corporation tell me what my foundation should look like.”
I wear lipstick, for my lips stick to the ears of men, so they can experience in surround sound my screams of agony with each lash of rulers, measuring tape, and scales, as if my waistline and weight are inversely propotional to my value as a human being. See my lips, they stick, but not together. Rather, they flail open with flames to burn down this culture that once kept them shut.
Now, I mess with eye shadow, but my eyes shadow over this time where you’ve gone at ends to keep me blind. But you can’t cover my eyes, look into them. My eyes foreshadow change. My eyes foreshadow light.
And I’m not into hair dying. But I’m here, dying, because this oppression just won’t get out of my hair. They form these highlights of my past atrocities, They tangle around my mind, This oppression that manifests, it’s stressing me so that even though I don’t color my hair, in a couple of years it’ll look like I dyed it gray.
So what’s my ethnic makeup? I don’t have any. Because your ethnicity isn’t something you can just make up. And as for that shit my sisters paint on their faces, that’s not makeup, it’s make-believe.”
I can’t seem to look up at her. And I’m sure that such actions aren’t foreign to her because the expression on her face shows that she knows that my mind is in a trance. As her footsteps fade, my ego is left in crutches. And rejection never sounded so sweet.
