You know, janet jackson used to be a good artist then her music got all shitty and mainstream.
I'm listening to Rhythym Nation right now and it makes me feel so g-g-g-ood.
Bowchica wow bow WOW wow...
I have been dubbed an official pirate wench by Dan Kress.
Ferro taught me how to draw flying chinese food boxes.
I love Sage and Melissa. No matter what happens they will always be true friends to me, and if they aren't always true friends to eachother I will beat them up. Respectively. You all heard me. I don't think I'll have to worry though.
After the storm theres always a rainboowww..
I wouldn't be this peppy if i wasn't typing with old skool Janet Jackson in the backround.
Without the music i'm an emotional train wreck. But when i see the world around me, my emotional state barely seems to matter anymore. I need to accept that and sit in it.
That last blog is a very true portrait of me. Not a piece of writing meant to be my award to hang on the wall, but my soul vomited out onto a keyboard. Soulful Hemophilia. My new phrase.
"Full is not heavy as empty not nearly my love.."
Fiona apple has had some good phrases herself.
No other quote seems appropriate.

my soul has been long overdue
for a decent freewrite.
I feel i should delve into
my blog description
that
i
have
been
so craftfully
avoiding.

****

In the early years i noticed i was different. The six year old who pulled her hair out and banged her head against the wall because she was late or stressed out. The one who had a dark imagination, dreamed of death, burdened with knowlege of disease and wrongdoings at an early age. Flames from my womanhood had already erupted and covered me with black soot. I was crazy, intelligent, artistic and violent. All at a young age. Once I moved into society, a public non-montessorri school, i knew i was different. I knew that if i kept my darkeness, somehow i'd never see a friend.
I began to sew my blanket.
The first patch sewn was humor. I took some black thread from my chest and sewed some of the intelligence, craziness, and belligerence and added a fabric of instances, color, happiness, and light. I lived a perceptive existence, so it wasn't hard. Where the pieces wouldn't fit, i filled in with lies. I had humor, and with humor i made friends.
I needed to live life easier. I found a pale beige fabric, sewed it into my blanket. I made the fabric from my intelligence and attatched it to humor with the black thread that came from one of my more obsessive spools. This was my love for school and books.
My blanket was colorful and subtle, but still had many holes. My blackness still showed through. A violent opposition for copying my blanket's patterns. Jealousy. Violence. I beat those who opposed me. I tattled like no tommorow. I cried. People, bullies ripping my blanket to shreds.
I had to make it stronger. I needed to survive. I wrapped my blanket tighter around myself and filled in the cracks with more lies.
Time passed. Crazed clothing, desire to have friends, after school activities, art, books, culture, theater, shopping. I took my blanket everywhere. I would take it off only when i was alone. At recess, the swing was my throne. Staring silently at my blanket on the ground, wondering at the patterns of lies and personality, and how that was all people saw. Some pieces of blanket stayed stuck to my skin, fused to my brain, became part of me.
Fast forward. Junior high. Suddenly, i needed to belong. The blanket i wrapped around my head, stuffed in my brain so i could let it out when i chose. I covered myself with conforming clothes. I found that this wasn't what people wanted in a year, that they only treated me as though i was being even more fake by not wearing my exterior. I felt cold without my blanket.
8th grade. Relentless stare. Mother's love deranged into hospital rooms, i wrap my blanket tight around myself and sit staring into infinity. Be nice. Thats how i survive. Patch it with lies.
9th grade. Found my friends. Blanket began to sink into personality. Just when i thought i had buried my darkness forever in the blessed eden of color, light, and artistic depth, someone found me and recognized my blanket. They ripped it, and my darkness bled leaving stains. I tried to heal it, but the lies kept darkness flowing, a soulful hemophilia. It left me, left holes in me, a shell with some dark left inside.
A truth.
The blanket healed, the darkness stayed out.
New darkness entered.
10th grade
My blanket is beautiful, vibrant and light, perfect in form and composition.
Should you rip it, it can be fixed. Should you peer at the back you'll see colors and a self below, darkness within as in any hollow object. But should you open my mind or peer at the tar streaming down my legs and puddling at my feet in bursts of flame, you'll know i feel like any person.
I feel cold.
I found myself wrapped in a colorful blanket. I've been that way ever since.

Bbbbbnnn
bbbbbnnn
bbbbbnnn
bbbbbnnn
pop
six
squish
a-a
sizzero
lipschitz
Did some interesting conceptual-type art photography with Ryan and Kristen today. Interesting combonation of people i must say. Kristen and i painted our faces odd colors. Ryan was painted green. Except for shorts. The rest was green. We did many pictures of attacking, after attacking, poised to attack, so on, so forth. Many interesting things involving the fake blood, which i cannot actually wash out of my hands. I look somewhat sunburned.
"hey hannah, are you sunburned?"
"no, i couldn't get the blood off my hands"
Yikes ^_^
Ryan was attacked by a speedy grasshopper.
JB's mom was our most cooperative subject.
Yesterday i hung with Emily, Danielle Heinz, and Marla. We had a mario party, ate a dinner, and discussed the hilarity of dead baby jokes. Danielle had never heard a dead baby joke :-O!!!! That woman must have been living in a boot.
Heh, theres a word.
Boot. BOOT!!
*snicker*
BWARG!
ano...My feet are thickly callused.
I did some Tibbetan/ Indian clotheshopping avec Mamoose in New Hope yesterday. I enjoy tibbetean clothing. That and thrift store clothing are my main attires.
I wish i lived in Tibet.
No i don't.
W/e

"Shrimp are the dead babies of the sea."-Emily Quinn