Burning Leash
As dictated by Faranza Syns
I do believe... I am commitment-phobic.
But that's a discussion for when I "private-ise" my blog once again, to paraphrase a certain someone.
Haha.
And yes, I am glad that I Unprivate-ised my blog. At least now Laine can come without going through so much trouble. Many apologies, dear. I was having my monthly private session. It comes and goes. But I'm glad to have you back.
Somehow I doubt people will come clamouring back to read my blog, since they do seem to think I have made my blog private for good. But have I not told you lot? I am as fickle as a flame. Read: Shakespeare.
Nothing much happened today. Except that I spent a good deal of my time (half the day for goodness sake) clearing up the... horror... underneath my bed. Who would like to venture a guess as to what made up the horror 'neath the bed?
Junk from four years-- four teenage years of rebellion and romantic drivel.
I have not cleared up the junk since I was in form 1. Yes, do hazard another guess as to how much trash has accumulated within those four idly idyllic years?
Two huge plastic bags of papers.
I even wonder how it could all have fit under my bed in the first place.
I did not take a picture, no. It's... *shudder* ... too much.
I had my old stories there as well.
I cringed, and I laughed. They were rather silly. So silly in fact, that I didn't even hesitate to toss them into the bin. They had to go. If anyone uncovered them, I might have to twist, turn and basically burn in shame within my grave.
Some of them were rather impressive. Some were rather self-centered. Some ... barely had a plot at all. It was the sort of mindless crap spouted by a love-lorn teenager of thirteen.
One of them was too real, I had to read it from start to end. And out of pride, I praised myself at the end. But I suppose the reason is because the girl was losing her father, and I imagined me losing my father. Insufferable though he is at times, I can't think of losing him without feeling shattered. I just transferred it to the girl.
Sometimes it takes more than imagination.
Being in someone else's shoes is fun, amusing, and entertaining. But rather draining. People, don't listen to me. I'm writing gibberish. This is me on my blather-on-you're-an-author mode.
I wonder how other people do it? Write, I mean.
How far I've gone with TRYING to ... colour my picture. Without the necessary equipments.
Ah, there. I yawned.
I am tired. And my brother is singing at an annoyingly off-pitch -- and agonisingly high -- voice. I need to retire. Afzan, you can have my brother if you want. He is all yours.
Just a picture to torture Tarrant. And to amuse Amanda:
Nora Roberts.
These are just 1/4 of the whole thing, you know.
I'm just too lazy to take out the others from my chests.
You might not like her, Tarr. But I do. BluekS.
The leash you wanted to put around me?
I'll bite your hand off.
But that's a discussion for when I "private-ise" my blog once again, to paraphrase a certain someone.
Haha.
And yes, I am glad that I Unprivate-ised my blog. At least now Laine can come without going through so much trouble. Many apologies, dear. I was having my monthly private session. It comes and goes. But I'm glad to have you back.
Somehow I doubt people will come clamouring back to read my blog, since they do seem to think I have made my blog private for good. But have I not told you lot? I am as fickle as a flame. Read: Shakespeare.
Nothing much happened today. Except that I spent a good deal of my time (half the day for goodness sake) clearing up the... horror... underneath my bed. Who would like to venture a guess as to what made up the horror 'neath the bed?
Junk from four years-- four teenage years of rebellion and romantic drivel.
I have not cleared up the junk since I was in form 1. Yes, do hazard another guess as to how much trash has accumulated within those four idly idyllic years?
Two huge plastic bags of papers.
I even wonder how it could all have fit under my bed in the first place.
I did not take a picture, no. It's... *shudder* ... too much.
I had my old stories there as well.
I cringed, and I laughed. They were rather silly. So silly in fact, that I didn't even hesitate to toss them into the bin. They had to go. If anyone uncovered them, I might have to twist, turn and basically burn in shame within my grave.
Some of them were rather impressive. Some were rather self-centered. Some ... barely had a plot at all. It was the sort of mindless crap spouted by a love-lorn teenager of thirteen.
One of them was too real, I had to read it from start to end. And out of pride, I praised myself at the end. But I suppose the reason is because the girl was losing her father, and I imagined me losing my father. Insufferable though he is at times, I can't think of losing him without feeling shattered. I just transferred it to the girl.
Sometimes it takes more than imagination.
Being in someone else's shoes is fun, amusing, and entertaining. But rather draining. People, don't listen to me. I'm writing gibberish. This is me on my blather-on-you're-an-author mode.
I wonder how other people do it? Write, I mean.
______________________
How far I've gone with TRYING to ... colour my picture. Without the necessary equipments.
It was t.o.u.g.h. I'm still suffering the headache.
And just to put colour on the clothes, no less.
_____________________
Random: I wonder if I'm gonna yawn after this?And just to put colour on the clothes, no less.
_____________________
Ah, there. I yawned.
I am tired. And my brother is singing at an annoyingly off-pitch -- and agonisingly high -- voice. I need to retire. Afzan, you can have my brother if you want. He is all yours.
Just a picture to torture Tarrant. And to amuse Amanda:
Nora Roberts.
These are just 1/4 of the whole thing, you know.
I'm just too lazy to take out the others from my chests.
You might not like her, Tarr. But I do. BluekS.
The leash you wanted to put around me?
I'll bite your hand off.
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