Don't resent me

hicsiguy @ 2009-07-23T18:44:00

2009-07-24T01:44:59Z

Anyone know a place I can roleplay as Weird Al?

Please help me

2009-06-30T05:16:57Z

I need 100 dollars total to finish paying my cell phone bill. Please. All I ask is that you consider ordering a custom barette, headband, bracelet, necklace, or other accessory from mine and my friend's accessory store, Sordid Scandal. go to www.stickam.com/sordidscandal to view products, and please email sordidscandal@yahoo.com with order information. Please. Please find it in your heart to try to help.

hicsiguy @ 2009-06-09T16:25:00

2009-06-09T23:26:41Z

Yah so I'm in California now. Um, srsly.

Short, depressing Grissdeath!fic

2009-03-03T04:22:36Z

A man lay, bleeding, in an alley in Las Vegas, his blood diluting and disappearing in the torrential downpour of a late winter rain. People pass, many glance down the alley, not seeing the poor man, not hearing his near-silent cries for help as he struggles to stay conscious.
“Help... please...”

It wasn't my intention to walk home that night. The weather channel had been forecasting rain that night for the entire week, and Vegas was under a flash-flood warning. I had every intention of driving.
When I'd woken up that morning, however, it was a bright, breezy, sunny day, with a high temperature of 75. My better judgment was sent packing as I put on my light winter jacket and started out on my bike. After all, it was only a few miles to the crime lab, and I was sure that my co-workers would get a kick out of me riding a bike to work.
I arrived early for my weekly day shift, when my team and the day team switched shifts so we could make better use of the resources either team had to work our cases. My team enjoyed these days, but I didn't. It meant I had to interrupt my routine. And the routine is the only thing that kept me reasonably sane.
I got off my bike at the front door and took my helmet off, rubbing a hand carelessly through the mass of gray hair that covered my scalp. As I was wheeling my bike into the building, I heard a familiar set of footsteps coming up behind me. “Hey Cath,” I said, not bothering to turn around.
“Gil, are you actually riding a bike?” I heard the shock and mild amusement in her voice. I scratched my head and shrugged. “I didn't know you knew how.”
“Of course I do, who doesn't?”
She chuckled and walked past me, calling back, “I'll be in the ballistics lab if you need me!”
“Mr. Grissom, good morning!” the receptionist called as I approached the desk, “you have a message from Sara and a message from Warrick.”
“Thanks,” I replied as she handed me the notes. I read them as I walked my bike back to my office; notes in one hand, middle of the bike's handlebars in the other. I heard a few idle conversations stop as I passed people in the hall, hushed whispers falling on deaf ears. People think I don't understand the basics of human interaction.
I do, all too well.

Griss,
I can't do this anymore. I'm so sorry.
There's just no way I can keep on keeping
this secret. I love you, I always will.
Goodbye.
-Sara

My car broke down, I won't
be in until, at earliest, four
thirty. -Warrick
I tossed the notes on my desk and let my bike fall to the floor, which it hit with a clattering bang. I heaved a sigh and looked at the note from Warrick, avoiding Sara's note. Warrick was going to be late, and I was working the case with him. Nick and Cath were working their case together, and now Greg had his own case.
“Sara...” I breathed, a sigh escaping my lips and forming her name.
“Hey, Grissom,” a voice, Greg's, called from my doorway, “everything okay? We heard a crash.”
I could feel my shoulders tense up. I couldn't let them know what was going on. “Oh, I knocked my bike over. No big deal.”

The shift went off like normal. Warrick showed up only a few hours late, and everyone avoided the subject of Sara like the plague. We pushed off an interrogation until the early half of the next week, and, although I was invited by Nick and Cath to come to dinner, I politely declined and mounted my bike.
It had just started raining as I pulled out of the Crime Lab's parking lot. I almost wished I'd stayed late to work, but that note from Sara still lay there on my desk. I couldn't bear to throw it out.
I decided to take a shortcut through the alley behind the diner that my friends were to be gathering that evening for coffee and 'the best breakfast in town!,' hoping that maybe they'd still be there (they had, after all, left the lab half an hour before I had), and that maybe they wouldn't mind me joining them after all. The rain was cold and sharp against my back.
As I readied myself to turn around the front of the building, a crack of thunder boomed through the alley and I found myself falling forward. My bike crashed to the ground, its sound muffled by the rain and my own body hitting the pavement. Dazed, I felt a sharp pain surge through my body, localizing somewhere near my stomach.
I looked up and saw a kid who couldn't be much older than fifteen, take my bike and wordlessly ride off. I choked out, “help me.”

It was hours before anyone noticed the man laying in the alley. By then, it was too late. He'd all but succumbed to the wound to his abdomen.
His friends were walking to their cars when they noticed the ambulance. Sara recognized his loafers sticking out from the bottom of the stretcher.
They'd been trying to throw him a surprise party for the promotion he didn't know he was getting.

I heard there was a secret chord that david played and it pleased the lord

2009-02-27T04:18:56Z

So yeah I'm back, sorta. :/ I'm sorry I neglect this journal so much. I'm sorry I neglect you all so much. I really love having you all as friends, you know? I feel like I could tell you anything.

Anyway, I've got a couple of CSI ficlets coming out here soon, (and one majorly epic fic I've been neglecting, and a few other projects I gotta work on... but yeah.

Life's been pretty boring, other than work every day and my epic ceiling hole being fixed! so I have a ceiling again! FUCK YEAH!

I got a wii, it's beautiful.

Um... other than that.. not much.

I'll have to go through and start commenting on people's journals I s'pose.

LOTS OF LOVE!

ok fer srs i love u guys

2009-02-26T01:48:50Z

ok first off id anyone wantd to donateto my car fund paypal is emmaline.westlund@gmail.com and all donations are graciously accepted and used toward my dream car, a wonderful beautiful chrysler town and country 2008 minivan they are gorg, simply gorg.

also srsly whether you know it or not love you guys so fucking much and i've been such a suck for not updating/commenting but i PROMISE I WILL COMMENT AND UPDATE THIS EVENING AFTER WORK.

MUCHO AMOR, TODOS!!

as my childhood slowly dies of cancer and old age...

2009-02-18T21:44:23Z

i have to go to a funeral in the morning my dads aunt, daisy, died last night. she'd been suffering from bone cancer for years.

i'll post more later. i feel like puking ugh

When my time comes, forget the wrongs that I've done

2009-01-16T05:05:09Z

So I guess I owe this journal, and probably most of its readers (I kid, I kid, ALL OF MY FRIENDS AND READERS) a real entry. So I guess this will be it.

I updated that I had a girlfriend. Yes. I did. And then I didn't. And then I did. And now I don't. I'm lonely, but you know it's the kind of lonely that can't be filled with anything tangible. It's more of the kind that needs me to come to terms with things and release my past to the universe.
I don't know, I guess first of all I do want to say that I'm sorry. I'm sorry to all of you for bringing you down to my level or lower with my depressed rants and my OMFG stupidity, ya know? I'm sorry. I hope you can all forgive me.
My mental health has been deteriorating rather quickly this winter. I've gone through stages where I'm practically comatose, and ones where I want nothing more than death.

Right now I just need my me time. My IRL friends (the ones I see constantly here in MN) don't quite get that. My GIRLFRIEND didn't get that. I'm sorry, but I would have thought if I could have trusted ANYONE, it would've been her.
She didn't understand that I just CAN'T do an overnight at JUST ANYWHERE anymore. She didn't understand that that's how the rapes happened (most of them, anyway), that that's how I was abused. Or how I was saved.

I really want a Bella to my Edward. I want someone I can smother (for lack of a better word) with the excess love I have to give. I really am a very loving person, I'm a very intense person, and a passionate one, but my previous relationships were all so.... painful, it's hard for me to get close enough to wonder how it might be were I to get close enough to kill... so to speak.

I can't latch myself onto someone strong again. I've been the trusting Bella far too many times, and it's never worked, other than to turn me into an UGLY version of Edward, a fat, slovenly slug that really shouldn't date to begin with. But I still try.

I wish I could find someone who can just understand that, that I need someone I can just care for and be loving to-- but still be able to keep my distance. I need that person who's like a drug to me, which can and will make me both cling to them and keep my distance.

I've become quite the Twilight freak, forgive me. It's an interesting series but I slap myself pretty hard if I start fangirling, so I do try to keep it in check.

I am still working seven days a week, so that is keeping me busy most of the time, but it doesn't help ALWAYS.

I'm PRAYING that I will be able to move out here in the next six months. I need an escape.

I've dove headfirst back down the bottomless pit of ED-NOS, but that's not gonna be a problem until I've lost about 120 pounds, so don't worry.

OK!

2009-01-10T23:35:41Z

Come see my new layout! It's purdyful. :D Isn't it?

SPARKLY FUCKIN VAMPIRE!

Part two of Grissom's Demise and some rant

2009-01-07T00:41:35Z

The next morning, Gil and Sara did not speak to each other. Sara helped the kids get dressed while Gil made them breakfast. And while they ate, Gil wordlessly slipped away to call Nick Stokes.
As soon as he'd dialed Stokes' number, however, he noticed his fax machine whir to life, spinning off page after page of something he couldn't quite make out from where he stood. What he could tell was that, whatever it was, and whoever had sent it, was wasting a good color ink cartridge. He walked closer, looking down at the paper suspiciously as his phone rang for Stokes.
“Hey Griss, almost didn't recognize your number,” Nick said, his familiar Texas accent suddenly filling the speakers of Gil's phone, but Gil didn't notice. There he stood, inches from his fax, staring down, in horror, at the pages that had just come through. “Boss? Hey, Grissom! What's going on?” Nick called, wondering why he hadn't gotten a response when he answered the phone.
Gil shook his head, picking up the stack of papers from his fax machine and held his cell phone between his ear and his shoulder. “Nick, hey, when do you guys want me to come down to the lab?” There was a note of confusion and worry to his voice. “You don't happen to have Jim's new number by chance?”

Gil made sure to take the faxes with him when he left for the lab. He tried to hug Sara, just to reassure her that everything would be okay; to reassure himself that everything would be okay, but she just shrugged him away. “I'll be home in a few hours,” he sighed, just trying to make eye contact, to get any sort of assurance from his wife that he wasn't banished permanently to the doghouse. He got none.
“Just don't do anything stupid, Gil. Not that this isn't already proof that you really are an idiot,” Sara sneered, flipping the television channels, “Luna's in the SUV waiting for you to take her to school, by the way. I figured you could this morning since it's on your way.”
Luna! His thoughts turned back to the faxes, tucked under his arm- his briefcase having long-since been turned into a tarantula habitat. As he walked out the door, one of the sheets of paper slipped from his grip, fluttered in the temporary breeze created by the hot desert air colliding with their air conditioned home, and landing neatly at Sara's feet.
For a few seconds, while Gil was still visible through the front window, Sara debated notifying him that he'd dropped a paper, but the thought crossed and left her mind quickly. Curious, she kicked it to a point where she could reach it without causing discomfort to her pregnant belly. The side that had been visible when it landed was blank.
“I shouldn't get involved,” she reasoned with herself, “I'll be a hypocrite.” But, even as she spoke, she found herself turning the paper over and examining it. On it she found what appeared to be a photocopy of a crudely-drawn picture; it took her a few minutes to figure out that it was a map of their neighborhood. Each house had a small amount of handwriting on it; most was very crude, but on theirs someone had taken the time to write nearly the equivalent of a novel. There were stats for each room, both yards, and all four family members.
“What the-?” she muttered, looking more closely at it, analyzing the handwriting. She didn't recognize it as belonging to anyone in the family. Even their young son, Warrick, had better handwriting than the crude scribblings she was staring at. She pushed that thought out of her mind, however, since ruling out Warrick as the potential author meant that someone had intimate details on her and her children.
She heard soft footsteps behind her and turned, expecting to see her son, and shrieked.

My most vivid memories are when I'm being dumped. I really could probably not tell you that much about my previous relationships other than the very beginning and the ass end of them. That is, except the one with Jonathan. I've spoken of him previously in here too. The rapist, abuser, and gentle lover all built into one. He was the first serious relationship I was ever in.
I wish I could get rid of that fact.

a happy new year indeed

2009-01-01T06:08:52Z

happy new year i now have a girlfriend and a new phone

Happy christmas, y'all (a day late)

2008-12-27T01:03:17Z

I just got my christmas present today: a BRAND FUCKING NEW HDTV, 19" AND WIDESCREEN. WIDESCREEN, PPL. Now I just need my next paycheck and HELLLLLLOOOOOO WII!

iconographer For once, when I say your commission is almost done, I really and fully mean it. I actually have one last page to draw and color and I'll send you parts 2 and 3 via teh emails.

Ummm, CSI fans:

“Gilbert, you're not actually thinking about going with them,” Sara said sternly, a certain tone of you're-too-old-to-be-chasing-criminals dripping from her voice. She was there, leaning against the door frame, arms folded across her chest and an eyebrow raised as watched her husband. Gil was on the bed, laying on his stomach, reading a printed out e-mail he'd received from Nick Stokes.
He took off his reading glasses and looked inquisitively up at Sara. “The only evidence they have is entomological. They need me.”
“Gil, the kids need you.” Sara gestured behind herself to the two small bedrooms down the hall, then placed a hand on her stomach, which had been growing for the past five months. “I need you.”
“Sara-”
“Re-read that first paragraph,” she demanded, then, in her best impression of her husband, “A serial killer whose methods of operating are identical to the miniature killer's. A detailed scale model of each crime scene found at the scene or delivered to a neighbor of the victim.”
“Sara, just because it's all similar to that case, it doesn't mean it is the exact same.”
“Uh, hello? Gil? Identical means the exact same! Or has your age rattled your vocabulary loose of your brain?” Sara asked, teasing him softly. He sat up.
“If you're worried about the kids, we could move into a hotel-” he began, but Sara shook her head.
“I'm worried about my husband who believes he's still a young man who can still chase criminals.”
“What if I stay in the lab? They can bring all the evidence to me, I'll just test it and let them know my findings.”
“You're forgetting that the original miniature killer worked at the lab, Gil.” Sara strode slowly across the room and sat on the edge of the bed, turning to face him. The willingness to help their former co-workers and the eagerness to perform forensic tests on an actual crime again shone through in his eyes. Sara sighed and looked at the bed spread. “Gil, we've been living here, happily, for two years. We're retired.”
“What are we talking about?” a tired voice came from the doorway. Gil smiled a small smile.
“Shouldn't you be sleeping, Luna? That big science test is tomorrow, after all,” he asked. Luna Moth, their twelve year old daughter, shook her head.
“Couldn't sleep. You guys are fighting, I know you are,” she pouted.
“What? We're not fighting,” Sara protested with a forced smile, “Your dad and I were just... discussing something.”
“The lab wants me back to help with a case.”
“Ooooh oooh oooh! Daddy! Does it have to do with bugs?” Luna squealed, hopping up on the bed, “Can I help? I wanna help with the case!”
“Daddy's not going to do it, sweetie,” Sara interjected before Gilbert could say anything, “Daddy's too old to be playing with lab equipment anymore.” Gil shot her a look and turned back to Luna.
“Actually, daddy is going to be helping with the case, because daddy doesn't need permission to do something for a friend,” he interjected. Sara snarled. Luna shrieked with glee and hopped up onto the bed, hugging her father as Sara threw her hands up in frustration and left the room. Gil sighed but hugged his daughter. “You should get back to bed, sweetheart. Tell you what, tomorrow, after school, if you do good on your test, I'll take you on the New York, New York coaster. How's that sound?”
“THE NEW YORK, NEW YORK? I LOVE THAT ONE!” she shrieked, her voice shooting up an octave. Gil kissed her forehead and shooed her off down the hall. Once he could be certain that she was in her bed, he walked quietly down the hall and into the kitchen, where he found Sara slumped over on the counter, shoulders shaking, the arm of her robe stifling the sobs that escaped her throat.
He crossed over to the chair next to her and placed a hand on her shoulder, which was quickly shrugged away as Sara cringed away. “Honey?” he whispered.
“Leave me alone,” Sara muttered incoherently through her sobs. Gil's face was a mix of shock and sadness.
“Sara, I- I know you're worried about me, but really, I won't be involved in the interrogat-”
“It's not just you I'm worried about!” she hissed, “Think about the kids!” She bit her lip and looked away. “How am I supposed to sit by here and watch Luna get all excited about how her daddy's out fighting crime again? What am I supposed to do when that bitch decides to come and finish what she started back there in the desert?”

Even if you aren't a CSI fan, couldja take two minutes, read that through, and see if it makes any sense whatsoever?

.....aaaaaaaaaaaaand I'm back!

2008-12-16T00:33:00Z

I think.

:)

sorry I'm so inactive, I miss y'all terribly. I've been working EVERY. FUCKING. DAY. And shall continue to for as long as he keeps giving me tons of fucking money. So yeah. :)

What's been going on with you fun people?

That was the fastest I've ever devoured a book series

2008-11-22T11:17:55Z

And I mean EVER. I finished reading breaking dawn</b>, the final book in the Twilight Saga by Stephenie Meyer today. About five minutes ago. I will now proceed to grade this series as I see fit.

All in all, it was an interesting story, however, a rather predictable one. Here is my grading scale:

5 = amazing, nothing could top this shit!
4 = good, I've read or seen better
3 = it had its moments, somewhat decent
2 = eh
1 = wtf, this shit sucks, seriously, my two year old niece writes better crap
0 = you totally lost me, could you repeat kindergarten and learn how to spell/read/grammar?

Titles (twilight, new moon, eclipse, breaking dawn): 3

Main Characters:
-Bella: 1
-Edward: 2
-Emmett: 5 (seriously, he has the most personality of the group)
-Carlisle: 2
-Esme: 2
-Alice: 3
-Rosalie: 1
-Jasper: 0
-Jacob: 2
++Overall: 2

Grammar/spelling: 3

General readability: 1

Chance that the books were printed on paper made from crack cocaine, methamphetamines, and/or heroin?: 5

Wordiness: 3

Stephenie Meyers' futile attempts to bring up reading level by inserting random "big" words?: 5 (for effort, purely.)

Minor/Supporting characters: 0

Probability that I will never read the books again: 4

Final analysis: Books were definitely intended for teenagers, based on storyline, however would be better suited for the beginning reader, based on reading skill necessary to power through them. A person of college-level reading skill could very well power through them in 20 hours, if they gave up sleep and bathroom breaks. Grammar was not always correct, and the characters pandered far too much. Bella Swan is the biggest Mary Sue in the history of books that I have read, closely followed by Harry Potter.

And if you love the books, don't flame me. I couldn't fucking care less, mmkay?

Please clicky?

2008-11-19T12:04:08Z

||||

Stolen from leaveyoufordead

2008-11-18T20:23:29Z

Step One
- Make a post (public, friendslocked, filtered...whatever you're comfortable with) to your journal. The post should contain your list of 10 holiday wishes. The wishes can be anything at all, from simple and fandom-related ("I'd love a Snape/Hermione icon that's just for me") to medium ("I wish for _____ on DVD") to really big ("All I want for Christmas is a new car/computer/house/TV.") The important thing is, make sure these wishes are things you really, truly want.

- If you wish for real life things (not fics or icons), make sure you include some sort of contact info in your post, whether it's your address or just your email address where Santa (or one of his elves) could get in touch with you.

- Also, make sure you post some version of these guidelines in your LJ, so that the holiday joy will spread.

Step Two
- Surf around your friendslist (or friendsfriends, or just random journals) to see who has posted their list. And now here's the important part:

- If you see a wish you can grant, and it's in your heart to do so, make someone's wish come true. Sometimes someone's trash is another's treasure, and if you have a leather jacket you don't want or a gift certificate you won't use--or even know where you could get someone's dream purebred Basset Hound for free--do it.

You needn't spend money on these wishes unless you want to. The point isn't to put people out, it's to provide everyone a chance to be someone else's holiday elf--to spread the joy. Gifts can be made anonymously or not--it's your call.

There are no rules with this project, no guarantees, and no strings attached. Just...wish, and it might come true. Give, and you might receive. And you'll have the joy of knowing you made someone's holiday special.

++Photoshop CS2 or CS3. I really hate peddling my wares of commissions and having to draw them up in paint. However, this shit's expensive, and therefore I will only be able to afford on my own when hell freezes over.

++More commissions to do. I'll do just about anything for money, and most commissions for $5 USD.

++A hug.

++A good amount of money I can donate to the Humane Society in honor of all my friends for the Holidays.

++A downpayment on a smaller-size truck or a minivan.

++A Mac.

++Health Insurance.

++A new television.

++A handmade/handdrawn/handwritten card/note/letter from a friend.

++My mom to be able to get bariatric(sp?) weightloss surgery. (money problem)

All comments are screened

Novel journal!

2008-11-12T01:27:23Z

vampirelike is my novel journal. I'll be updating it shortly with the first bit of this novel I'm working on.

Anyone who is friends with me on this journal is entirely welcome to add me there. :D

Poll tiem!

2008-11-11T03:06:49Z

View Poll: Novel journal?

Na No Wri Mo

2008-11-10T14:59:13Z

It has taken my soul hostage. DX My novel is going surprisingly well, however, as I have written more than 5000 words in the past 24 hours, and I just restarted my novel 24 hours ago. Hee. :)

It's about vampires. It's kind of a twilight parody. Kind of. But not really.

How's everyone else doing on theirs?

Link me if you've got them uploaded! I wanna read!

PLEASE DON'T THINK THAT THIS QUESTION HAS ANYTHING TO DO WITH THE MOOD I'VE BEEN IN

2008-11-08T06:04:39Z

It's really just a hypothetical question. Like one of those "If you saw an ant crawling across the sidewalk, would you step on it or not?" think of it like that only less wtf? or maybe more wtf? Because my mind's all like death oriented (but not as badly like OMG GONNA KILL SELF BRB as before). So, again, PLEASE don't take it the wrong way. It's not meant to be nearly as morbid as it could potentially seem if you compare it to my previous entries.

Okay, so, assume that you're here (or I'm there) and I/we/a group of people with us has gotten in a fight with some other group/person/stranger/ant/whatever, and I am BADLY injured (like, possibly never going to walk again, or, never going to be able to breathe without a respirator again, or have to eat through a tube the rest of my days, whatever you deem to be like severely injured). We both notice a gun on the floor/ground/floating in space/in some random dead guy's hand, and I ask/gurgle/plead with my eyes/telepathically beg you to put me out of my misery, just shoot me somewhere where it's gonna kill me. Do you do it, or would you call an ambulance and hope for the best?

AGAIN, NOT MEANT TO BE HALF AS MORBID AS IT COULD COME ACROSS!

hicsiguy @ 2008-11-05T03:27:00

2008-11-05T09:28:59Z

I wanted to share with you all the first part of my NaNoWriMo Novel. So here it is. Part one. Enjoy!

Part One: You're mad, mad, mad

Two men in white lab coats led the young woman down a long corridor, passing many locked and barred doors, some with tiny rectangular windows above the doorknobs, most without. She stared at the floor the entire time, counting the tiles as she walked. Every few tiles, she noticed, there was a small, perfectly circular, droplet of red liquid, possibly blood.
Looking up, she noticed that she had, in fact, managed to injure one of the men who had taken her from the car. In her stupor, she hadn't realized in the car where she was being taken. She'd barely been able to tell that the car was moving, even, but now that the drugs were wearing off, she knew all too well what was going on. She'd lunged at the men as they tried to help her, clawing and biting at anything that she could.
They stopped at the far end of the corridor, and the men stepped aside, motioning her into the dark, tiny room just ahead. She had half a mind to turn around and run, but knew it would be a futile attempt. As soon as she'd gotten past the threshold, the door slammed shut behind her, and locks clicked into place to seal her in.

10/1
Dear Diary,
I can't believe I have to keep a diary. This sucks, you know? I have nothing to write out here, really. There's no stupid feelings clogging my brain. I have no emotions, good or bad, toward any hot-button issue. In fact, I really could care less about everything in this world. Apparently, that's a problem.
Until they can figure out why I'm so apathetic, as they call it, I can't go home. Instead, I'm confined to this tiny white prison cell, on the 19th floor of the mental institution. I have no books, no television, nothing but this typewriter and a ream of paper. Like it's going to do me any good.
Okay, I guess maybe I have a little bit of resentment. That's an emotion, right? I'm resentful of this whole process. I'm 17 years old, for crying out loud, I should be able to be apathetic! But no. Morton and Julia decided that their perfect daughter was the only child they needed. So the second they saw something in me that they didn't like, I find myself in the backseat of the old station wagon, strapped in tight and pumped full of sedatives.
I'm already sick of writing this, so I think I will stop after I answer the questions they have set out for me today.
Name? Delia Rebecca Jacobson
Age? 17
Height? 5'2”
Weight? A woman never tells
Ambition in life? To get out of this room
Favorite animal? Don't have one

Delia sighed and stared at the paper. She felt tired, so she dimmed the light in the room and curled up on her bed and closed her eyes. Through the tiny window opposite her small hospital bed she could see a church steeple. She wondered what if there was a service going on, even pondered the existance of God for a moment, before drifting off into a dreamless sleep.

10/2
Dear Diary,
I've been being lectured all day. I don't speak with enough emotion, therefore they won't give me what I ask for. At dinner, I asked for salt because the fish they placed before me was very bland, no flavor to it at all. I was rejected, and made to either eat the bland fish, or sit in this cell until I could muster up the ability to change the tone and pitch to my voice. I met another person being held captive here, a boy.
I didn't catch his name. He's being held for Anorexia Nervosa and Bipolar Disorder. He wouldn't eat. He told me that I sound like a female Ben Stein. I asked him who Ben Stein was.
Apparently, they check these journal entries to make sure that I do them every day. I don't really understand how I could not do them daily, since all I have been allowed to do since I arrived has been sleep, type this out, and eat bland food.
Karly, the Aide who's been assigned to me four days a week, said that she wanted to read more about Morton and Julia. So I guess I shall oblige.
Morton is not my birth father. In fact, I have no real relation to him at all. He never married Julia, who, by the way, isn't my mother, but actually my oldest sister, but got her pregnant with my younger “sister” when I was five. Mom croaked, dad had long since gone missing and has been presumed dead, and I got stuck with my sisters and Morton.
He's a computer software designer, I guess. Julia is a walking uterus. There are an extra 10 children in the foster and adoption system because she can't keep her legs shut. Oh, there's that hint of resentment again. Look out, world, I have an emotion!
Julia has never kept a stable job. In nearly 30 years of existence, she's had, probably, five hundred jobs, and kept maybe seven of those for more than two weeks. Instead, she periodically makes- er, made- myself and my sisters give her all of our money for months on end, no matter what job we are doing, no matter how low the pay, no matter what we might be trying to save for.

“Lights out!” a familiar voice called from the hallway. Delia looked up, and for a second almost felt sad that she couldn't finish typing her entry. She'd sat down, intending to write a very long entry, but when faced with the keyboard, couldn't bring herself to unleash all the strange little thoughts that had plagued her the whole day.

10/3
Dear Diary,
I wonder why they make me keep using the pleasantries of “dear diary” when I write in this stupid thing. I mean, seriously, you aren't a living being, you aren't a friend of mine, you aren't my dear. So why do I have to do it?
I'm tired. They wouldn't let me sleep last night, I guess they were trying to get me frustrated. It didn't work, and now I think they are frustrated. Understandably, really, I mean, I've just gone so far into my “shell” that I just don't care anymore, but even that isn't right. I don't care, but I don't not care. I don't have any “caring” emotion whatsoever. I don't even know why, and I'm not so sure it's such a bad thing as everyone says it is. I'm better this way, I think. I don't have to act on emotional impulse. I can dawdle as long as I want, or I can go quickly into whatever action I feel is best to do. But wait, I don't feel.
Well, maybe I should elaborate on that. I do feel, like pain and the softness of a silken cloth, but I don't feel the emotions that go with either sensation. I don't cry when I get hurt, I proved that when I fell down the stairs this morning, and the smell of bacon doesn't make me miss my mother. They're senses. Without them I'd be a little lost. The emotions aren't necessary. Yes, Karly, I am writing that directly at you.

“Hey, Delia, do you have a minute?” one of the nurses for the 19th floor, Lana, asked, poking her head into the room. Delia shrugged and pushed back the typewriter. “I've been writing out your report for the end of the day, and I was wondering if your therapy has been having any negative effects that you've noticed since your Aides have gone home?”
Delia thought for a moment, then responded, “They're making me think. And I'm not much into thinking.”
Lana smiled softly, “But sometimes thinking is the one thing that we must do, whether we want to or not. Sleep well.”
Before Delia could ask what she meant by that, the nurse was gone.

10/4
Formalities and pleasantries are being pushed aside from now on. I guess you could say I don't feel like using them. Thank you, I'll be here all week.
I have good news, I guess. Julia has signed my care over completely to this institution. So this room is mine until I'm 21. It'd be 18, but since I am not allowed to procure a job on my own while I am staying here, I have to wait until I'm 21 to receive the money that my father “left” for me when he decided to high-tail it out of the country. Or, you know, where ever he went.
Because I will be living here until I turn 21, they are shipping my personal items to me; my clothes, my books, my television and movie collection. At least I won't be bored. Or, whatever this emotionless equivalent is.
They did get some sort of response from me today, I guess. I was doing my schoolwork, Calculus, to be exact (I have always been at the top of my class. I'm just gifted like that), and a ladybug flew in through the window in the community room. It landed on the book I was using. I guess I smiled at it before I flicked it away. Mikaela and Jonathan, my Aides for two and five days a week, respectively, both commented when I turned my work in. I shrugged.
I don't count a smile as an emotional response. I count it as, well, I don't quite know what I count it as. I don't know if it even counts as a response.

10/5
I met my doctor today, finally. From what I've been able to gather for information, this place is at full capacity right now, which apparently means that the doctors and therapists are barely able to keep up, and five days of waiting is probably the shortest amount of time passing between admission and evaluation.
I've been throwing up ever since leaving his office, though. I think I may be having an allergic reaction to his bullshit, to be honest. Oh no, there's that “resentment” again.

10/6
I've been in this room all day. Seriously. I have not been allowed out except to go pee. And they rushed me through peeing. So I barely could pee. But whatever, it's pee, I guess. If my bladder explodes, it was meant to be.
Mikaela is out sick, so Jonathan had to come in on his day off. He “had to.” I don't think I understand why I have to have three different Aides that overlap their time in such a backward way. I think I wrote about this a few days ago. They come in, Mikaela for two days, Karly for four days, and Jonathan for five days, all in a row. And they each have two days off between these streaks of working.
Mikaela also works with a mentally disabled child for three days each week, she does so for the three days prior to the days she works with me. Karly works with that boy I mentioned earlier, the Bipolar Anorexic? I found out his name is David. And apparently he talks about me. A lot.
Jonathan is sitting next to me right now watching everything I type. He laughed at that last sentence. And that one. I guess he finds it amusing that I can write about someone as though they aren't even really there, but they really are looking over my shoulder.
Seriously, Jonathan, you'll be reading this thing soon enough. Stop it. No, this is not anger I am displaying. I am merely questioning why exactly you feel the need to look over my shoulder as I type this out!

Jonathan laughed and took Delia by the arm. “I want to show you something. You can finish your diary later.” Delia looked up at him, then obliged and walked with him. He led her down two flights of stairs and into a small room that was decorated with brightly colored stars and planets. “I read in your profile that, when you were younger, you loved going to the planetarium. Well, this might not be accurate, but it can be quite pretty,” he explained, closing the door and dimming the lights.
At the very center of the room there was a large sphere on a thick post. There seemed to be tiny holes in the sphere. Delia was just about to touch it when a light came on inside it and the sphere began to rotate, sending sparkling dots of light across the ceiling, floor, and walls.
A very tiny smile began to form on her lips before disappearing behind the indifferent expression she'd had for so long.

10/6
Patient D. Jacobson shows signs of awareness, however seems to lack ability to respond properly to stimuli. Jacobson begins to acknowledge things, and promptly masks said response, either willfully or not. It has yet to be determined how extensive her problem is, however, it is my theory as her Aide, that we should allow her to be a teenager. Let her put posters up in her room, sit on the internet for hours on end, and relax. I am certain that if we give her some freedom to do things that she wants to, she will begin to respond more naturally.

~J. Arnold

10/7
My stuff started arriving today, my old familiar pieces (bed, clothing, doll collection) along with a few things I didn't recognize as mine (a computer. A COMPUTER!) Needless to say, I am a little bit taken aback. Yes, an emotion. I was not expecting to receive such an interesting addition to my collection of blandness in this tiny room. Karly says that Jonathan wrote to my treatment advisor and asked that I be allowed to “just be a kid” for once, I guess.
I have begun to set up the computer. Well, the computers. I don't know why, but they gave me a desktop and a laptop, both loaded with software packages that had to have cost many thousands of dollars. It's a nice sentiment, I guess. I also received a cordless mouse and keyboard for the desktop computer, and two tablets, one for each computer. Everything is already installed, which means that there is, most likely, a bunch of spyware and firewalls on the internet connection.
But I definitely will not look this gift horse in the mouth. This is a huge step forward in their feelings toward me, not to mention probably a ploy to get me to drop my guard.
I also received a schedule of things I will get to do and see beyond the walls of this institution. Mondays I get to visit the mall with Jonathan or Karly. Thursdays I can choose to attend a theater class at the local community center. Fridays and Saturdays are open to field trips and visits to off-site therapists. Sundays I may attend any religious ceremonies I would like (Saturdays are also open to this).
But I may only keep this schedule if my schoolwork does not suffer. Oh no, I have a stipulation to follow! They say that this sarcasm I am beginning to develop may be a good thing. After all, it is better than when I arrived and they had to poke me and prod me to get me to write or talk.
They also will be allowing me to create things for money. Well, not exactly. I will be creating art pieces and/or crafts (depending on what I feel like doing) to sell in a local bazaar during the weekly farmers' market. I can have half of the money my items sell for, and I think I would like that.
Before Julia decided that Morton was the best thing since sliced bread, I used to draw and paint and knit. I had a whole storage room in the basement absolutely full of stacks of papers and canvases, blankets, shirts, hooded sweatshirts and socks that I had made. But when Morton moved in, he made a point of dragging all of it out into the yard and burning it while I watched.
I had begged Julia to make him stop, let me keep just one of my artistic wares. I swore to her that they could be worth money, that if she would just tell him that they could be sold, they could make plenty of cash. But she didn't do anything.
The flames burned through the night, smoldering into the morning. The fire spread to what I hoped to be, destroying every dream and every chance to escape. When finally the smoke cleared, I was left a shell of what I once was, broken and beaten.

10/8
Mikaela helped me stretch a canvas today. It was huge, barely small enough to fit through the doorways here. Karly is going to take me to buy paint tomorrow. I can't wait to paint!

10/8
D. Jacobson is beginning to act more like a teenager and less like a mass of flesh. She actually cracked a smile for a moment this afternoon- a smile that lasted a full three minutes, I might add. I believe that the stimuli that we provide for her is working, even if only a little bit. Tomorrow I am asking K. Tally to have Jacobson paint without any reference. Darken the room, if we must. I am on to something, I know it.
~M. Daan

Delia stared blankly out the window, almost as though she was trying to figure out what the exact temperature of the autumn air was at that moment. As another young woman entered the room, however, she turned and made eye contact.
“Ready to hit the mall?” Karly, the other young woman, asked. Delia nodded slowly, then noticed a small boy by Karly's side. Karly smiled softly. “I hope you don't mind, but I figured that my son, Ashton, would enjoy the walk.”
“Hi!” the small boy said, as if on cue. Delia stood up and walked over to the little boy. She knelt down without hesitation and scooped him up in her arms, hugging him tightly. Karly, acting on instinct, went to pull the child away, but seeing the tears that were welling up in Delia's eyes, she stopped.
“Mommy?” Ashton asked, looking up at his mother as Delia held onto him.
“It's okay, sweetheart, she won't hurt you.”
After a few moments, Delia let go of the young boy, and, without wiping her eyes, stood up, took Karly's hand, and took Ashton's hand, and they walked down the long corridor and boarded the elevator.

10/9
Karly says that I reacted rather strangely to her son. I don't even remember meeting her son, to tell the truth. There was a little boy with us, I guess, today. She stuck me in the main room when we got back from picking out paint and paint brushes. Kept it dark in there except for a small lamp that attached to the top of the canvas. Told me to paint whatever I felt like, not what I saw.
She was rather disappointed, I think, when all I painted was a small black spider, hanging off of a leaf. I think she wanted me to paint the reason I am so quiet and so emotionless. But that wasn't what she told me to paint. She said “whatever I feel like painting,” so I did.

10/10
I was visited by a very unusual man today. He was a few inches taller than me, blond hair, blue eyes, thick-rimmed glasses, wearing a suit. He asked me questions about my sisters. Apparently Melissa and Joanie, my other two older sisters, have gone missing. He never showed me a badge or anything, so I doubt he was a cop. Even so, I didn't tell him much. Just that Joanie and Melissa didn't much like me when they still lived at home, and after mother died, they both took to drugs.
He also asked about mother and father. How mom died, when dad disappeared, the usual. I told him I didn't know anything. I was really young at the time, anyway. He commented that I sound like a female Ben Stein, who, by the way, I finally did look up via that search engine “goggle” or whatever, and I DO NOT SOUND LIKE HIM. At least I don't think so.
I watched a movie today. It was about a cannibal. A rather eloquent one, in fact. Made me laugh when we were served fava beans at dinner. David, the Bipolar Anorexic, has taken a turn for the worse, I guess. He wasn't at dinner. I saw him walking the halls, hooked up to some weird IV thing. I guess he decided he'd rather go the hard way than just eat.
I don't understand that disease, Anorexia. I searched that on the internet today, too. Apparently it usually afflicts the teenage girls about my age and younger. I don't understand how anyone could starve themselves like that. I eat like a hog, and I enjoy eating like a hog. I don't gain much weight, and I don't care about what weight I do gain. Before my incarceration here, I was a very active girl.
But I was weighed today, and since he resides on the 19th floor with me, he was weighed in the same group as me. He's only a few inches taller than me, his shoulders are the same width as mine, but I weighed in at least 60 pounds heavier than him. He smirked when he stood on the scale. The nurses chided him. He was down 10 pounds from when he came to stay here.
I almost felt self-conscious when I stepped on after him. He raised an eyebrow, noticing my weight. I looked at him, and he looked at the floor. I am to be put on a diet, since I have only been here ten days and I have already gained nearly seven pounds. Oh, the horror. I don't get what there is to be upset about, really. So I have a bit of extra fat hanging off of my hips. It isn't the end of the world, is it?

Delia fell asleep with her head resting against the keyboard of her desktop computer, a steady beeping noise emitting from the central processing unit. The night nurse gently moved the keyboard and replaced it with a pillow, at the same time covering Delia's shoulders with a quilt that had arrived with her things.
When she moved to turn the lights off, she noticed Delia stirring. Instead of the usual blank stare that met with anyone who encountered the teen, the nurse found herself looking at a smiling child. Returning the smile, she slowly pulled the door shut.

10/14
Sorry I haven't written for a while. I have been busy “being a kid,” so to speak. Really, I've just been setting my room up to look more like home. I actually do have much more room than I thought I did; one of my walls folds into another one, opening up a whole extra space that matches the space I had to begin with. I've been storing my non-art related supplies in that area.
I received a very high-quality color laser-jet printer last night, and have been printing off many of my doodles and the strange facts I have been finding on the internet pertaining to people who have been stricken with similar symptoms to what I have. It seems to be quite common, actually, for people to disconnect with their feelings and therefore be “emotionless,” only to observe incredibly short periods of any visible emotion.
I'm not sure if I really believe this stuff, or not. But in any case, I am making far better money doing the art thing than I ever did living with Julia and Mort. There was an envelope sticking under my door this morning, and inside it there was a note stating what items I had made had sold, and how much for, along with a wad of cash. It was kind of neat, knowing that people are actually finding things I made to be, well, good.
I stashed my money under my mattress. I shall have to invest in a safe next time I go to the mall. I am going to go to bed now, because I can feel my eyelids drooping as I type this.

10/16
I've been painting for nearly 36 hours straight. Three canvases and a mural on my wall with the window. Flowers and thorns and spikes and black figures; a little boy, a little girl with flowers in her hair. Myself, as a little girl.
I cut myself with a painting blade this morning. Barely even felt it until my blood started staining where I'd already painted. Blood on the field of daisies I'd worked on for seven hours. It almost looked perfect, the blood neatly contoured to the petals, looking as though it was dripping off of them. Of course, Jonathan was worried, and immediately dragged me over to the first-aid kit. I protested, telling him again and again that I was perfectly capable of judging when I was all right and when I wasn't.
He looked surprised and told me that my response was far more impassioned than he'd expected from someone with my unique, er, condition. Not only that, but apparently my voice is beginning to sound less Ben Stein-ish. Which, I suppose, is a good thing.
Tomorrow I have to go to an off-site clinic to have blood tests done, to make sure that it isn't some sort of virus that is causing me to act as I do. I wonder, though, why they didn't take me to get this stuff done when I was still a new arrival? I've been here half a month, already, anyway.
After my blood tests, I am supposed to walk two blocks south of the clinic to a coffeehouse where Julia wants to meet me for lunch, I guess. She probably has heard that I am actually making money off of my art, and wants to bug me for cash.
This is why I am bringing exactly $30, five of that in singles for bus fare from the coffeehouse back here. I am rather amazed (AN EMOTION OMG) that they are allowing me to ride the bus, on my own, from a location on the other side of town all the way back here, especially since they've made very little headway in their attempts to “cure” me, and I have not shown any outright signs of trusting them.
In reality, I am not even slightly tempted to run. There isn't really anywhere for me to go, after all. I guess finding Joanie and Missy would be a priority for me, but I don't know what these people would do to my stuff if I took off. For all I know, they could have a major bonfire using my stuff as kindling. And I rather like my possessions at this time.

10/17
Julia didn't try to get money from me, but attempted to get me to go home with her. I don't quite understand her motive, there. She's the one who sent me off to live at a MENTAL INSTITUTION. ALONE. Because her and her perfect boyfriend and her perfect daughter and my younger siblings were getting too cramped in the tiny shack we all were crammed into for years after mom died.
She brought a picture that rather confused me. It was a girl, me possibly, ages ago, with a newborn boy. The girl was looking, lovingly, at the baby, gently caressing his face with an index finger. It almost looked like it was taken in my old bedroom; the room that Mort and Julia had stolen from me when Mort moved in.
I caught a very brief glimpse of the back of the picture. All I saw were initials: 'DJ' and 'AJ.' But as far as I remember, none of the children she's plopped out had a first name that began with an A.

Delia stared at the last paragraph she had typed, silently, for a long time. A single tear traced a path down her slender cheek, hanging from her chin for a moment before falling to the floor with an inaudible splash.

The night nurse walked slowly through the hallway, tapping each door as she walked, warning that it was nearly lights out. She paused, noticing that Delia's door was cracked, a sliver of light seeping out into the hallway; a perfectly white line along the tile of the hallway.
Since the end of the first week she'd been there, Delia had always kept her door completely closed, locked, even. So the nurse was compelled to see what was going on.
She rapped her knuckles against the door four times, the sound ringing sharply through the air. “Delia?” she asked, as she slowly opened the door. “Deli-Oh, my God.” There, sprawled, between the bed and the desk, was Delia, face down in a pool of semi-dried blood.

We did it!

2008-11-05T05:42:25Z

A message to my fellow Americans:
I am very proud of this country right now, proud for the first time in my life. Congratulations, we will finally have a chance at achieving a decent government and the world's respect again.

To the World:
I do hope you're as proud of my country as I am. :)

Reminder! I have a friends cut post! scroll back, find it, comment it! You have until Thursday morning!

Warning, friends cut picture is rather disturbing to CSI fans! I apologize in advance!

Wouldja lookie thar, It's time for a good, old fashioned, FRIENDS CUT

2008-11-04T02:10:38Z

Comment to remain on my list.

hicsiguy @ 2008-11-03T18:01:00

2008-11-04T00:07:04Z

Work is honestly starting to be the end of me. It's making me depressed and bitchy, just like Target did. Even though I actually do LOVE this job, I mean, it's just PERFECT, I don't have to be around so many people every day, and it's usually a guaranteed 8 hours/day.

*sigh*

At least I've got my novel?

So.

2008-11-02T06:46:17Z

NaNoWriMo has officially eaten my soul. I've been writing and writing and writing and OMFG writing since early yesterday morning. So yeah.

Hint: hmmm.. lets say gatitas gorditas y pequenas (imagine a tilde above the n in pequenas.. I'm too lazy to character map)

I am NEVER EVER EVER EVER EVER trick or treating with small children who aren't my own/my friends' own AGAIN. EVER. EVER. Stupid fucking children nearly broke my goddamn arm. I'm not even fucking shitting you.

I was a cop. A sexy cop. Well that's what sexual assault boy said. I maced him with police grade mace. I am pretty sure he's still at home trying to wash that shit out of his eyes.

I had to wait for hours (literal hours) for my friends to actually get to my house to pick me up to go to trick or treating, and then I barely got a half pound of candy. What kind of shit is that? What ever happened to going around 1 fucking block and getting so much candy your arms fall off carrying your pillowcase? Seriously, I know for a fucking fact that (in MN at least) candy is not that fucking expensive. Two childs play bags (about 6 pounds of candy each) is like 10 bucks. That ain't that bad, even if it's offbrand candy.

I have NO pictures of my costume. Might put it back on sometime just to snap a picture, but seriously, I was too fucking cold and too fucking pissed at my "friends" to stay in it. In fact, I turned down getting drunk and partying the shit out of last night in order to just get the fuck away from them.

I'm bored as shit, lonely as hell, and probably about to go to bed (after writing a few more pages of my novel).

Hope y'all are well.