there. i've finally edited the stolen layout to my pubescent liking. i basically just puked a bunch of random colors and am now trying to pass it off as a decent layout. whatever. it's kinda strange that my blog has a layout that screams teen-whore when i'm turning 23 this year. i really should try to design a layout fit for an 80 year-old next time and stop listening to Demi Lovato's album while at it.
yes, i downloaded her album and it played non-stop while i designed this psycho layout.
please don't judge me.
and since i have nothing else to blog about, let me just bore everyone by posting this:
Painting Murals: an excerpt from the middle of chapter 3
(yes i've actually finished 3 chapters now. i could have finished more but i re-wrote my first 2 chapters so now i'm kind of behind. ah wells.)
Jeremy didn't understand.
He didn't get how sometimes, the lure of wreckage is just too much to just pass over; because beneath our i'm-so-in-control-of-my-life-that-nothing-will-go-wrong facade, we are all wrecks just waiting for our own little typhoon to sweep us off our rusty, crumbling, dilapidated bodies, and hoist us up into the air where water, from oceans far beyond our reach, wash us clean before we find ourselves spinning out of control, only to land at a place we never ever thought of finding ourselves in – rendering us even more of a wreck than we previously were.
We are all little wreckages pretending to be colorful useful toys that children the world over beg for for Christmas. We are the pretty presents topped with a pink happy bow, under the green tree glowing in a myriad of colors, feeling so damn proud of ourselves with how much care and effort it took some underpaid mall staff to wrap us up – to keep us nice and warm and kid-friendly – as we jeer at the other items left atop dusty mall shelves, never to experience the joy of being wrapped pretty in designer gift-wrapping.
We are the same presents whose wrappings and carefully pinned bows gets torn apart on Christmas day. Our once immaculate cloak of mistletoe and candy-cane lined paper now left scrunched up in a bin awaiting for the arrival of the garbage man who'll drag it to the recycling plant to be made into toilet-paper for the rest of humanity to wipe their bums with.
The same presents that eventually lie forgotten in someone's basement, coughing from the dust bunnies under our armpits and weeping for our missing parts – knobs on our knees kicked beneath bed-frames and chairs, fingers bitten off and digested by the neighbor's dog, arms and legs lost beneath piles of lego – that renders us useless.
And the same presents that line every garbage dump in the entire world.
my internal clock is seriously fucked up. i now sleep at 9am and wakeup at 6pm. i'm a sexy owl.
i stay up all night with the stars and sleep with sunlit clouds cascading down my back.
♥ 
