Omg I'm so happy that we have people that don't normally go on Blogger =D
Lol Preston you might not want to post one of those huge stories again, it kinda doesn't let us see what other people have written xD
Ummm I have nothing else to say. If you want to hear all of the normal crap I talk about/random quizzes I take, go to my regular Blogger blog at enternuzai.blogspot.com
Oh and I don't really like the title of this blog. x.O
But I guess I didn't make it, so whatever.
I'll post on here whenever I need to mass-publish something. Lol.
This be the end. =3
Monday, June 30, 2008
No, I don't expect you to read the whole thing. SUMMER s2, y'all!
[Sorry for taking up so much space!]
[Katie! I will...um...might, finish your story later!]
This is one [censored] of a long post! It's actually a story! It's actually...um...*checks*
SIX [censored] pages on Word!
...
[censored]!
[football camp getting to me, maybe]
EDITS! Which is like, critiques.
I wrote a love story! So I'm posting it here. Might repost it long later, like, post summer, on one of my blogs, but...*shrugs*
I read a good book. So, cuz it’s a love story, I’m taking two, three story elements from it, mixing it up, adding some philosophy I read in a book, + some of those sweet ‘google’ daily quotations and viola! And week of typing, on off, and here’s a story! About love!
About me and DAVID!
P.L. + D.O.
4EVER
Just a note: No, I’m not gay…x] Kindaaaa….
[I’m as straight as a rainbow…*coughcough*]
Ps… I’ve put different elements from different ppl in, so, well, yeah.
Just warning you… ^^”
And, well, let’s see.
I get real… iono. Apathetic, uncaring, and hey, even a touch… depressed? Sometimes over the summer. It’s lonelier, without the constant stream of friends, faces like in school weekdays.
So writing stories is how I keep myself busy. That, and painting. And excruciating football camp. Yup. So here’s one such story!
Summer s2
“‘Later!”
“Later! Was such a pushy, gruff form of ‘Goodbyes’ and even, ‘I’ll see you later.’
Its curtness, interruption, brings meaning to the phrase ‘parting shot’…’later’ was spoken from the lips of those who were turning their head away from you just as they spoke it, were throwing a halfhearted wave behind them before they left indefinitely, not caring to see or hear from you again.
It’s his ‘later’, his staccato goodbyes that punctuated his leave… they’re the first thing I remember when I shut my eyes, trying to think back, and remember.
Suddenly, I’m back to the overpoweringly bright days of summer, the time where you have to put one hand up not just to shield your eyes against the glaring, hot gaze of the sun, but also saturated hues of dry, sand brown, deep dark blue, and searing, baby blue sky.
He’s stepping out of a taxi, then handing me his backpack and grunting with the effort of lifting his luggage from the trunk. Blurring past me, I catch a glimpse of dark rooted hair, a vast, canvas like sweatshirt that seems to wear him more than he wore it, faded yellow swimming trunks, lots of clearly pale, barely tanned skin, and sandaled feet, crunching down the gravel drive, already asking which way to the beach?
It was then that still with his back turned, he offered up the back of his free hand and near barked an impersonal ‘Later!’ to the taxi driver, already driving away, whom he had probably engaged in depthless chatter on the long road here. No name, no joke or ruffled sentimentality to make up for the sudden departure. Just a single word send off, succinct, impolite, blunt, take-your-pick-because-I’m-not-going-to-see-you-again-anyways. I could just tell this summer was going to again be a long one, and this vacation-home-guest yet another bore?
Well, I thought, that’s how he’s going to leave us. With a careless, thrown ‘Later!’ over his shoulder. Meanwhile, we’d have to put up with him for three weeks.
I was intimidated. The silent, unapproachable sort.
I could grow to like him. Then, within days, also pin his faults and learn to hate him.
Rawr. Adolescents. But what right did I have to sigh? That made me smile, vaguely.
Over the summer, my family took on boarders in our shared vacation home, sifting through applications forms for those who wanted a break from life, academic retreats, sabbaticals, or just those who plain wanted to soak up the sun somewhere ‘idyllic’—plenty of sun down on the Newcastle boardwalk.
Maybe it started soon after his arrival while we sat together for yet another ‘grinding’ lunch, down under a young and skinny tree from which grew, well, we didn’t know. With these thin-trunked saplings stuck everywhere on the grassy plateau above the beachhead sand, there was hardly any shade. Stifling. Heat.
But I couldn’t help notice that without his sweatshirt, his arms, his neck, the back of his legs… despite the barest hint of a tan from the onset of summer, all his unexposed skin was a pale, whitish shade. Like someone stricken by terror all of a sudden, a bloodless face, but also unflushed and without a blush… like someone utterly serene and imperturbable. “As unassailable as a snowy mountain peak.’ It told me things about him I’d never thought to ask.
It may have started during those endless hours where everyone was lounging around on the grass, just waiting for something to happen to fill an otherwise apathetic and lazily drifting day. Bodies sprawled all across the grass, everyone sleeping, murmuring, or just tanning with the heat making everything, even our conversations, drowsy.
Or maybe it started at the beach. Or at the tennis courts. Or even during our walk along the ‘hidden’ shore, away from the normal crowd that milled around, made sandcastles, and did whatever summer-going beach tourists do. You had to go off to the side and watch your footing through some particularly thick ivy, sprawled across the path, to get there.
I led him though, and we walked down the shore side by side—I waded through water, him, soft sand that left footprints slow to be eroded by a gentle lapping of the tide. I started wading deeper into this ‘cove’ that branched off from lake washington, sometimes you could see fish, little silver slivers, darting things that caught the sun. Hey, that might have been one, did he want to see? ‘No… I’d prefer not to get wet. Later, maybe.’ Polite indifference, as if he’d caught my misplaced enthusiasm misreading it as me playing up to him and pushing me away. Misread…?
Still, it stung.
I retreated to the shore, and there, we mutually sat on a log just staring out into the clear water. The surface rippled with as much tension as was building between us. He broke the silence.
What did one do around here?
Wait for winter to come around.
What did one do during the winter, then?
The corner of my mouth twitched upwards at the answer I was about to give.
He stopped me, shaking his head with a half grin of his own. “Don’t tell me. Wait for summer to start?”
I said nothing, and we just laughed. I liked having my mind read.
So I guess all you ppl ever do is sprawl outside and tan all the while you’re here?
He was teasing. I offered the same smile as before, and we laughed.
He asked me what I do.
Iono… work out? Walk. Read. Play piano.
He said he liked to walk, too. Where did one walk through, around here? There was another path, on the other side of the beach—it was actually a trail, and it wound along the coast of lake washington, did he want to walk it now?
It hit me in the face just as I was beginning to like him again. “Later, maybe.”
It had struck me, his curt, withdrawn attitude he’d displayed so far, made it painfully obvious to me that it seemed—with all my suggestions, grins, and questions—that I had all along, without meaning to, without seeming to, without admitting, had already been trying—and failing—to win him over.
When I did offer, because usually all our boarders seemed to appreciate it, to take him up the hill with a steep climb, to a vantage point where you could see lake Washington stretching out before you in both directions like one thick snake, he declined. He had his bearings about this place to catch, he needed to get settled first. Later!
‘But it might have started way later than I think without my noticing anything at all. Like how you see someone, but you don’t really see him, like, in your peripheral vision. Or you notice him, but you don’t really focus in…nothing ‘clicks’, nothing ‘catches’, and he becomes just another face you pass during the day, a body… until three weeks suddenly blur by, and you’re scrambling then to come to terms with something you’re forced to call I want, or I need. How couldn’t I have known, you ask. I know desire when I see it. And yet, this time, these three weeks—they slip by completely with the finality of regret, missed opportunity. I was going for the devious, half smile that’d suddenly curl his mouth, light his face each time he’d read my mind when all I really wanted was skin, just skin.
At breakfast the third day, I sensed him staring at me while I was attempting to explain exactly what the benefits of football were in contrast to the downsides—concussions, broken bones, bruises, injuries in general—my mom’s stark take to contact sports.After I gave up arguing, I became aware of an intense glance coming from my right. Thrilled and flattered, he seemed interested. He did like me after all?
But after a carefully measured time, as I turned to face him and take in his glance, I met a cold and icy glare—something at once angry and hostile that bordered on cruelty, as if he was seeking out of my depths something worth punishment.
It undid me completely. What had I done to deserve such a pointed, penetrating glare? I wanted him to be kind to me again, to laugh with me as he’d done a day ago at our walk down the beach. Or when I’d been talking with him that same afternoon, discussing who we were, and I’d explained how I’m not actually me, but my character. He immediately laughed and recognized the veiled allusion to the famous Alin commentary on a Norwegian philosophy story. I liked how our minds seemed to travel in parallel, how we instantly inferred what words the other was toying with but at the last moment, held back.
He was going to be difficult to live with. Better to keep my distance, distance myself, I thought, turning away. To think I had almost fallen for the skin of his hands, neck, feet that had never touched a rough surface in their existence—and of course his eyes, which, when their other, kinder gaze fell on you, came like saving grace, rain on a sweltering day where the sun’s heat pounded in your ears and you were muttering to yourself how much you’d trade for an ice cream cone just right then.
You could never stare long enough but needed to keep staring just to figure out why you couldn’t. I must have shot him an equally hostile glare.
For two long days, our conversations came to a halt.
It was ‘all and well’ when we met, making with a makeshift hello, how were you doing, fine, how was the weather, looks like a nice day today, shallow words just to fill an awkward silence.
Then, without explanation, things resumed.
Did I want to go for a walk this morning? No, not particularly. Well, let’s swim, then.
Today, the pain, the stoking up fire until my heart races forward it seems, leading my arms in strokes, moving my feet ever faster behind me…in his wake, to catch up with him. The thrill of someone new, the promise of so much bliss hovering a fingertip away, the fumbling around people I might have misread, and don’t want to lose and must second guess at every turn, the desperate cunning I bring to everyone I want and crave to be wanted by, the layers I put between myself and the world, ‘cept there isn’t just one but many, the urge to scramble and unscramble what was never really coded in the first place—all these started the day David set foot on our beach with us. They still ring with each new strain of the summer hits that drifted through the house from our radio, every novel I read during and after his stay, or anything from the smell of steaks on the grill to the crisp, light tumbling of little waves breaking over the shore—smells and sounds I’d grown up with and known every year of my life but that had suddenly turned on me and acquired an inflection forever changed by the events of that summer.
Or perhaps it started after his first week, when I was thrilled to see he still remembered who I was, that he didn’t ignore me, and that, therefore, I could pass him along my way to the beach and not having to pretend I didn’t know him, never met him before. Early the first morning, we played tennis—all day ‘till we were dripping sweat, staggering after serves, and ran out of water bottles. Early the next morning, we swam. Then, the morning after that, we played tennis again. Did he always play tennis and jog, like, as routine? I asked after a particularly hard serve. The answer I had promised myself never to incite in him came at me like an alligator, jumping, and then with a baleful face, snapping at his prey.
Maybe he was just out of breath, or pressed to get on with the game, and didn’t want to talk too much, or just wanted to concentrate on the game. Or maybe it was his way of nudging me to do the same—totally harmless.
But there was something at once tensioning and chilling about the sudden distance that crept between us in the most unexpected moments. It was almost as though he was doing it on purpose; feeding me slack, and more slack, and then suddenly yanking away anything resembling warmth and friendship.
The steely gaze always returned. One day, while I was humming/singing a particular favourite song of mine back in the grassy expanse of our yard, propped on my elbows, I recognized the gaze right away. He had been staring at me while I was running through the bridge, chorus with my eyes unfocused at the scenery around me, and when I did look up to see I he liked the song, my singing, there it was. Cutting, cold, a glistening blade instantly retracted the moment it’s victim caught sight of it. He gave me a bland smile, almost apologetic, as if he were saying, I’m sorry you had to see that.
Stay away from him.
He must have noticed I was shaken, and in an effort to make it up to me, began asking me questions about the song, the band. I was too much on guard to answer him causally. Meanwhile, catching me mumble and barely meeting his eyes made him suspect maybe something more ‘was up’ than I was showing. “Don’t bother explaining. Just sing it again.” But I thought you hated it? Hated it? Where’d you get that idea? We argued back and forth. “Just sing it, will you?” “The same one?”
“Just sing it again please!”
I liked the way he feigned exasperation. So I started humming the tune, then singing again.
He hummed along.
I knew exactly which part of the song, the bridge, must have stirred him the first time, and each time I sung it, my heart jumped. It was something done easily, inconsequentially, but I was urged to sing in an extra bar at the end—the bridge again.
Just for him.
We were,—and he must have recognized the signs long before I did—flirting.
Alone in my room, I thought aloud. So this is also who he is… not just sunshine, but ice. I paused.
I had been perfectly willing to brand him as ‘trouble’, so willing to step away, ignore him, cut myself off. Nothing more to do with him. Two words from him, and I’d seen my apathy, the list of all his wrongs… into I’ll sing anything for you till you ask me to stop, sing till it’s time for lunch, till my voice cracks into hoarseness and my throat gets sore, because I like doing things for you, will do anything for you, just say the word, I liked you from day one, and even when you’ll return ice for my renewed attempts at friendship I’ll remember this conversation and remember the good times we’ve shared and remember that there are easy ways to bring back sunnyness to midnight, warmth in a blizzard.
What I forgot to note was how ice and apathy have ways of instantly dissolving any resolutions and promises made in sunnier moments.
Then came that languid Saturday afternoon when the beach house suddenly emptied and we were the only ones there, us two in adjacent rooms, and fire tore through my guts—because “fire” was the first and easiest word to describe the burning feeling I had at the pit of my stomach, like terror and anticipation, and want all in one. Not passion, but almost paralyzing…fear, panic, like fire, spreading, racing, the racing of a heart but your heart is clogged. Like one more minute of this and I’ll die if he doesn’t knock on my door, but I’d sooner he never knock than he knock now Fire like a pleading that says please, please tell me I’m wrong, tell me I’ve imagined all of this, because it can’t possibly be true for you as well, and if it’s true for you, you must be the hardest soul alive. This, the afternoon he did finally walk into my room without knocking as if summoned by the bass beating of my heart, the loud, shouting thoughts arguing back and forth in my mind, and asked why wasn’t I at the beach with everyone else? And all I could think of saying, though I couldn’t bring myself to say it, was, To be with you. To be with you, David. Do with me what you want. Just ask if I want to and see the answer you’ll get, just don’t let me say no.
The next day we were jogging when, for the sake of spontaneity? he asked me if I was ticklish. Well, huh, I pretended to look off in great thought, using my free hand, not the one with the waterbottle, to stroke an invisible beard. He caught the oriental inflection and suddenly pointed. “Look! The dao!”
I made a great show of looking. And suddenly, I felt his hands grab my sides and squeeze bordering roughly. Earlier, what I didn’t tell him was that yes, I was ticklish. And seeing as we were jogging down a dune at that very moment… I stumbled, then tumbled the rest of the way down landing flat on my back, sand spraying on fellow beachgoers in every direction. They all were pretty dirty in the first place, but that didn’t stop David from apologizing profusely to everyone around—even the mud caked children that continued to run around, screaming and taking no notice of him—and then me, reaching out a hand to heft me up. Something down in my stomach fluttered. But that wasn’t nearly the worst of it.
David, one hand with the waterbottle like me, put his free arm around me and gently squeezed his thumb and forefingers into my shoulder in imitation of a friendly hug-massage—the whole thing retaining an apologetic, reassuring air. But I was so… spellbound, I guess, that I wrenched myself free from his touch, tensing up, because a moment longer and I would have slackened into his grasp, like a faint from
Taken aback, he looked at me concernedly like one looks at a small child who has just received their first shot from the doctor…did he press a bruise or something? He hadn’t meant to hurt me.
He must have felt thoroughly mortified if he had suspected he had either hurt me or touched me in the wrong way. The last thing I wanted was to discourage him. Still, I blurted something out like “It didn’t hurt!”and would have dropped it there, pretended that it never happened. But I sense that if it wasn’t pain, what other excuse did I have for shrugging him off so violently in front of everyone, him, namely?So I attempted to look as if I was trying very hard, but failing, to smother a grimace of pain. He still seemed surprised by my reaction but showed every sign of believing—like I showed every sign in concealing—that it was the pain in my shoulder that caused me to jump. I had no doubt he was already suspecting something. “Here, let me make it better.” He was testing me and proceeded to massage my shoulder. “Relax,” he said for everyone. I threw in a wince for good measure.
Perhaps, in this, as with everything else, because I didn’t know how to speak in code, I didn’t know how to speak at all. I felt as if I’d just been dropped into a different country, with a different language, different customs, and all of a sudden, different rules. I stammered all manner of things just so I wouldn’t have to speak my mind—wouldn’t or couldn’t? That was the extent of my code. Otherwise, the silence between us would probably give me away—which was why anything, from pokes to rndmness, was preferable to silence. Silence would expose me. Was awkwardness. But what was certain to expose me was my attempts to break the silence, break my inhibitions, in front of others.
The despair aimed at myself must have given my face something bordering between impatience and unspoken frustration. That he might have mistaken these as aimed at him never crossed my mind.
What I hoped he hadn’t noticed in my overreaction to his grip was something else. Before hastily shrugging off his arm, I knew I’d yielded to his hand , almost leant into it—as if to say, like the phrase adults would use in a casual massage to sore muscles, aching bones—don’t stop. That was the feeling I took to bed that night, staying up, just thinking. It could happen so easily—just let him touch me somewhere and I’d go tense yet will-less.Was this what people meant by ‘butter melting’? And why wouldn’t I show him how like butter I was?Because I was afraid of what might happen then? Would he laugh at me, tell everyone? Or maybe he would ignored the whole thing because I was ‘too young to know what I was doing.’ Or was it because if he so much suspected—and anyone who suspected would agree—he might be tempted into acting on it? Did I want him to act? Or would I prefer a lifetime of longing assuming we kept up this game of ping-pong going;not knowing, not-not knowing, not-not-not-knowing? Just be quiet, say nothing, and if you can’t ‘yes’ don’t say ‘no, say ‘later.’ Is this why people say ‘maybe’ when they mean ‘yes’ but hope you’ll think it’s ‘no’ when all they mean is Please, just ask me once more, and once more after that?
And then, one evening, we had another ‘tenant’ move in. Her name was Pei…xD
[TO BE CONTINUED]
[MAYBE]
[Hey, have you ever heard a really good song on the radio but they didn’t announce the title and you couldn’t remember the lyrics for later?]
[If you seriously read the entire story, you have WAAAIIIII too much time on your hands]
~Briseis
[Katie! I will...um...might, finish your story later!]
This is one [censored] of a long post! It's actually a story! It's actually...um...*checks*
SIX [censored] pages on Word!
...
[censored]!
[football camp getting to me, maybe]
EDITS! Which is like, critiques.
I wrote a love story! So I'm posting it here. Might repost it long later, like, post summer, on one of my blogs, but...*shrugs*
I read a good book. So, cuz it’s a love story, I’m taking two, three story elements from it, mixing it up, adding some philosophy I read in a book, + some of those sweet ‘google’ daily quotations and viola! And week of typing, on off, and here’s a story! About love!
About me and DAVID!
P.L. + D.O.
4EVER
Just a note: No, I’m not gay…x] Kindaaaa….
[I’m as straight as a rainbow…*coughcough*]
Ps… I’ve put different elements from different ppl in, so, well, yeah.
Just warning you… ^^”
And, well, let’s see.
I get real… iono. Apathetic, uncaring, and hey, even a touch… depressed? Sometimes over the summer. It’s lonelier, without the constant stream of friends, faces like in school weekdays.
So writing stories is how I keep myself busy. That, and painting. And excruciating football camp. Yup. So here’s one such story!
Summer s2
“‘Later!”
“Later! Was such a pushy, gruff form of ‘Goodbyes’ and even, ‘I’ll see you later.’
Its curtness, interruption, brings meaning to the phrase ‘parting shot’…’later’ was spoken from the lips of those who were turning their head away from you just as they spoke it, were throwing a halfhearted wave behind them before they left indefinitely, not caring to see or hear from you again.
It’s his ‘later’, his staccato goodbyes that punctuated his leave… they’re the first thing I remember when I shut my eyes, trying to think back, and remember.
Suddenly, I’m back to the overpoweringly bright days of summer, the time where you have to put one hand up not just to shield your eyes against the glaring, hot gaze of the sun, but also saturated hues of dry, sand brown, deep dark blue, and searing, baby blue sky.
He’s stepping out of a taxi, then handing me his backpack and grunting with the effort of lifting his luggage from the trunk. Blurring past me, I catch a glimpse of dark rooted hair, a vast, canvas like sweatshirt that seems to wear him more than he wore it, faded yellow swimming trunks, lots of clearly pale, barely tanned skin, and sandaled feet, crunching down the gravel drive, already asking which way to the beach?
It was then that still with his back turned, he offered up the back of his free hand and near barked an impersonal ‘Later!’ to the taxi driver, already driving away, whom he had probably engaged in depthless chatter on the long road here. No name, no joke or ruffled sentimentality to make up for the sudden departure. Just a single word send off, succinct, impolite, blunt, take-your-pick-because-I’m-not-going-to-see-you-again-anyways. I could just tell this summer was going to again be a long one, and this vacation-home-guest yet another bore?
Well, I thought, that’s how he’s going to leave us. With a careless, thrown ‘Later!’ over his shoulder. Meanwhile, we’d have to put up with him for three weeks.
I was intimidated. The silent, unapproachable sort.
I could grow to like him. Then, within days, also pin his faults and learn to hate him.
Rawr. Adolescents. But what right did I have to sigh? That made me smile, vaguely.
Over the summer, my family took on boarders in our shared vacation home, sifting through applications forms for those who wanted a break from life, academic retreats, sabbaticals, or just those who plain wanted to soak up the sun somewhere ‘idyllic’—plenty of sun down on the Newcastle boardwalk.
Maybe it started soon after his arrival while we sat together for yet another ‘grinding’ lunch, down under a young and skinny tree from which grew, well, we didn’t know. With these thin-trunked saplings stuck everywhere on the grassy plateau above the beachhead sand, there was hardly any shade. Stifling. Heat.
But I couldn’t help notice that without his sweatshirt, his arms, his neck, the back of his legs… despite the barest hint of a tan from the onset of summer, all his unexposed skin was a pale, whitish shade. Like someone stricken by terror all of a sudden, a bloodless face, but also unflushed and without a blush… like someone utterly serene and imperturbable. “As unassailable as a snowy mountain peak.’ It told me things about him I’d never thought to ask.
It may have started during those endless hours where everyone was lounging around on the grass, just waiting for something to happen to fill an otherwise apathetic and lazily drifting day. Bodies sprawled all across the grass, everyone sleeping, murmuring, or just tanning with the heat making everything, even our conversations, drowsy.
Or maybe it started at the beach. Or at the tennis courts. Or even during our walk along the ‘hidden’ shore, away from the normal crowd that milled around, made sandcastles, and did whatever summer-going beach tourists do. You had to go off to the side and watch your footing through some particularly thick ivy, sprawled across the path, to get there.
I led him though, and we walked down the shore side by side—I waded through water, him, soft sand that left footprints slow to be eroded by a gentle lapping of the tide. I started wading deeper into this ‘cove’ that branched off from lake washington, sometimes you could see fish, little silver slivers, darting things that caught the sun. Hey, that might have been one, did he want to see? ‘No… I’d prefer not to get wet. Later, maybe.’ Polite indifference, as if he’d caught my misplaced enthusiasm misreading it as me playing up to him and pushing me away. Misread…?
Still, it stung.
I retreated to the shore, and there, we mutually sat on a log just staring out into the clear water. The surface rippled with as much tension as was building between us. He broke the silence.
What did one do around here?
Wait for winter to come around.
What did one do during the winter, then?
The corner of my mouth twitched upwards at the answer I was about to give.
He stopped me, shaking his head with a half grin of his own. “Don’t tell me. Wait for summer to start?”
I said nothing, and we just laughed. I liked having my mind read.
So I guess all you ppl ever do is sprawl outside and tan all the while you’re here?
He was teasing. I offered the same smile as before, and we laughed.
He asked me what I do.
Iono… work out? Walk. Read. Play piano.
He said he liked to walk, too. Where did one walk through, around here? There was another path, on the other side of the beach—it was actually a trail, and it wound along the coast of lake washington, did he want to walk it now?
It hit me in the face just as I was beginning to like him again. “Later, maybe.”
It had struck me, his curt, withdrawn attitude he’d displayed so far, made it painfully obvious to me that it seemed—with all my suggestions, grins, and questions—that I had all along, without meaning to, without seeming to, without admitting, had already been trying—and failing—to win him over.
When I did offer, because usually all our boarders seemed to appreciate it, to take him up the hill with a steep climb, to a vantage point where you could see lake Washington stretching out before you in both directions like one thick snake, he declined. He had his bearings about this place to catch, he needed to get settled first. Later!
‘But it might have started way later than I think without my noticing anything at all. Like how you see someone, but you don’t really see him, like, in your peripheral vision. Or you notice him, but you don’t really focus in…nothing ‘clicks’, nothing ‘catches’, and he becomes just another face you pass during the day, a body… until three weeks suddenly blur by, and you’re scrambling then to come to terms with something you’re forced to call I want, or I need. How couldn’t I have known, you ask. I know desire when I see it. And yet, this time, these three weeks—they slip by completely with the finality of regret, missed opportunity. I was going for the devious, half smile that’d suddenly curl his mouth, light his face each time he’d read my mind when all I really wanted was skin, just skin.
At breakfast the third day, I sensed him staring at me while I was attempting to explain exactly what the benefits of football were in contrast to the downsides—concussions, broken bones, bruises, injuries in general—my mom’s stark take to contact sports.After I gave up arguing, I became aware of an intense glance coming from my right. Thrilled and flattered, he seemed interested. He did like me after all?
But after a carefully measured time, as I turned to face him and take in his glance, I met a cold and icy glare—something at once angry and hostile that bordered on cruelty, as if he was seeking out of my depths something worth punishment.
It undid me completely. What had I done to deserve such a pointed, penetrating glare? I wanted him to be kind to me again, to laugh with me as he’d done a day ago at our walk down the beach. Or when I’d been talking with him that same afternoon, discussing who we were, and I’d explained how I’m not actually me, but my character. He immediately laughed and recognized the veiled allusion to the famous Alin commentary on a Norwegian philosophy story. I liked how our minds seemed to travel in parallel, how we instantly inferred what words the other was toying with but at the last moment, held back.
He was going to be difficult to live with. Better to keep my distance, distance myself, I thought, turning away. To think I had almost fallen for the skin of his hands, neck, feet that had never touched a rough surface in their existence—and of course his eyes, which, when their other, kinder gaze fell on you, came like saving grace, rain on a sweltering day where the sun’s heat pounded in your ears and you were muttering to yourself how much you’d trade for an ice cream cone just right then.
You could never stare long enough but needed to keep staring just to figure out why you couldn’t. I must have shot him an equally hostile glare.
For two long days, our conversations came to a halt.
It was ‘all and well’ when we met, making with a makeshift hello, how were you doing, fine, how was the weather, looks like a nice day today, shallow words just to fill an awkward silence.
Then, without explanation, things resumed.
Did I want to go for a walk this morning? No, not particularly. Well, let’s swim, then.
Today, the pain, the stoking up fire until my heart races forward it seems, leading my arms in strokes, moving my feet ever faster behind me…in his wake, to catch up with him. The thrill of someone new, the promise of so much bliss hovering a fingertip away, the fumbling around people I might have misread, and don’t want to lose and must second guess at every turn, the desperate cunning I bring to everyone I want and crave to be wanted by, the layers I put between myself and the world, ‘cept there isn’t just one but many, the urge to scramble and unscramble what was never really coded in the first place—all these started the day David set foot on our beach with us. They still ring with each new strain of the summer hits that drifted through the house from our radio, every novel I read during and after his stay, or anything from the smell of steaks on the grill to the crisp, light tumbling of little waves breaking over the shore—smells and sounds I’d grown up with and known every year of my life but that had suddenly turned on me and acquired an inflection forever changed by the events of that summer.
Or perhaps it started after his first week, when I was thrilled to see he still remembered who I was, that he didn’t ignore me, and that, therefore, I could pass him along my way to the beach and not having to pretend I didn’t know him, never met him before. Early the first morning, we played tennis—all day ‘till we were dripping sweat, staggering after serves, and ran out of water bottles. Early the next morning, we swam. Then, the morning after that, we played tennis again. Did he always play tennis and jog, like, as routine? I asked after a particularly hard serve. The answer I had promised myself never to incite in him came at me like an alligator, jumping, and then with a baleful face, snapping at his prey.
Maybe he was just out of breath, or pressed to get on with the game, and didn’t want to talk too much, or just wanted to concentrate on the game. Or maybe it was his way of nudging me to do the same—totally harmless.
But there was something at once tensioning and chilling about the sudden distance that crept between us in the most unexpected moments. It was almost as though he was doing it on purpose; feeding me slack, and more slack, and then suddenly yanking away anything resembling warmth and friendship.
The steely gaze always returned. One day, while I was humming/singing a particular favourite song of mine back in the grassy expanse of our yard, propped on my elbows, I recognized the gaze right away. He had been staring at me while I was running through the bridge, chorus with my eyes unfocused at the scenery around me, and when I did look up to see I he liked the song, my singing, there it was. Cutting, cold, a glistening blade instantly retracted the moment it’s victim caught sight of it. He gave me a bland smile, almost apologetic, as if he were saying, I’m sorry you had to see that.
Stay away from him.
He must have noticed I was shaken, and in an effort to make it up to me, began asking me questions about the song, the band. I was too much on guard to answer him causally. Meanwhile, catching me mumble and barely meeting his eyes made him suspect maybe something more ‘was up’ than I was showing. “Don’t bother explaining. Just sing it again.” But I thought you hated it? Hated it? Where’d you get that idea? We argued back and forth. “Just sing it, will you?” “The same one?”
“Just sing it again please!”
I liked the way he feigned exasperation. So I started humming the tune, then singing again.
He hummed along.
I knew exactly which part of the song, the bridge, must have stirred him the first time, and each time I sung it, my heart jumped. It was something done easily, inconsequentially, but I was urged to sing in an extra bar at the end—the bridge again.
Just for him.
We were,—and he must have recognized the signs long before I did—flirting.
Alone in my room, I thought aloud. So this is also who he is… not just sunshine, but ice. I paused.
I had been perfectly willing to brand him as ‘trouble’, so willing to step away, ignore him, cut myself off. Nothing more to do with him. Two words from him, and I’d seen my apathy, the list of all his wrongs… into I’ll sing anything for you till you ask me to stop, sing till it’s time for lunch, till my voice cracks into hoarseness and my throat gets sore, because I like doing things for you, will do anything for you, just say the word, I liked you from day one, and even when you’ll return ice for my renewed attempts at friendship I’ll remember this conversation and remember the good times we’ve shared and remember that there are easy ways to bring back sunnyness to midnight, warmth in a blizzard.
What I forgot to note was how ice and apathy have ways of instantly dissolving any resolutions and promises made in sunnier moments.
Then came that languid Saturday afternoon when the beach house suddenly emptied and we were the only ones there, us two in adjacent rooms, and fire tore through my guts—because “fire” was the first and easiest word to describe the burning feeling I had at the pit of my stomach, like terror and anticipation, and want all in one. Not passion, but almost paralyzing…fear, panic, like fire, spreading, racing, the racing of a heart but your heart is clogged. Like one more minute of this and I’ll die if he doesn’t knock on my door, but I’d sooner he never knock than he knock now Fire like a pleading that says please, please tell me I’m wrong, tell me I’ve imagined all of this, because it can’t possibly be true for you as well, and if it’s true for you, you must be the hardest soul alive. This, the afternoon he did finally walk into my room without knocking as if summoned by the bass beating of my heart, the loud, shouting thoughts arguing back and forth in my mind, and asked why wasn’t I at the beach with everyone else? And all I could think of saying, though I couldn’t bring myself to say it, was, To be with you. To be with you, David. Do with me what you want. Just ask if I want to and see the answer you’ll get, just don’t let me say no.
The next day we were jogging when, for the sake of spontaneity? he asked me if I was ticklish. Well, huh, I pretended to look off in great thought, using my free hand, not the one with the waterbottle, to stroke an invisible beard. He caught the oriental inflection and suddenly pointed. “Look! The dao!”
I made a great show of looking. And suddenly, I felt his hands grab my sides and squeeze bordering roughly. Earlier, what I didn’t tell him was that yes, I was ticklish. And seeing as we were jogging down a dune at that very moment… I stumbled, then tumbled the rest of the way down landing flat on my back, sand spraying on fellow beachgoers in every direction. They all were pretty dirty in the first place, but that didn’t stop David from apologizing profusely to everyone around—even the mud caked children that continued to run around, screaming and taking no notice of him—and then me, reaching out a hand to heft me up. Something down in my stomach fluttered. But that wasn’t nearly the worst of it.
David, one hand with the waterbottle like me, put his free arm around me and gently squeezed his thumb and forefingers into my shoulder in imitation of a friendly hug-massage—the whole thing retaining an apologetic, reassuring air. But I was so… spellbound, I guess, that I wrenched myself free from his touch, tensing up, because a moment longer and I would have slackened into his grasp, like a faint from
Taken aback, he looked at me concernedly like one looks at a small child who has just received their first shot from the doctor…did he press a bruise or something? He hadn’t meant to hurt me.
He must have felt thoroughly mortified if he had suspected he had either hurt me or touched me in the wrong way. The last thing I wanted was to discourage him. Still, I blurted something out like “It didn’t hurt!”and would have dropped it there, pretended that it never happened. But I sense that if it wasn’t pain, what other excuse did I have for shrugging him off so violently in front of everyone, him, namely?So I attempted to look as if I was trying very hard, but failing, to smother a grimace of pain. He still seemed surprised by my reaction but showed every sign of believing—like I showed every sign in concealing—that it was the pain in my shoulder that caused me to jump. I had no doubt he was already suspecting something. “Here, let me make it better.” He was testing me and proceeded to massage my shoulder. “Relax,” he said for everyone. I threw in a wince for good measure.
Perhaps, in this, as with everything else, because I didn’t know how to speak in code, I didn’t know how to speak at all. I felt as if I’d just been dropped into a different country, with a different language, different customs, and all of a sudden, different rules. I stammered all manner of things just so I wouldn’t have to speak my mind—wouldn’t or couldn’t? That was the extent of my code. Otherwise, the silence between us would probably give me away—which was why anything, from pokes to rndmness, was preferable to silence. Silence would expose me. Was awkwardness. But what was certain to expose me was my attempts to break the silence, break my inhibitions, in front of others.
The despair aimed at myself must have given my face something bordering between impatience and unspoken frustration. That he might have mistaken these as aimed at him never crossed my mind.
What I hoped he hadn’t noticed in my overreaction to his grip was something else. Before hastily shrugging off his arm, I knew I’d yielded to his hand , almost leant into it—as if to say, like the phrase adults would use in a casual massage to sore muscles, aching bones—don’t stop. That was the feeling I took to bed that night, staying up, just thinking. It could happen so easily—just let him touch me somewhere and I’d go tense yet will-less.Was this what people meant by ‘butter melting’? And why wouldn’t I show him how like butter I was?Because I was afraid of what might happen then? Would he laugh at me, tell everyone? Or maybe he would ignored the whole thing because I was ‘too young to know what I was doing.’ Or was it because if he so much suspected—and anyone who suspected would agree—he might be tempted into acting on it? Did I want him to act? Or would I prefer a lifetime of longing assuming we kept up this game of ping-pong going;not knowing, not-not knowing, not-not-not-knowing? Just be quiet, say nothing, and if you can’t ‘yes’ don’t say ‘no, say ‘later.’ Is this why people say ‘maybe’ when they mean ‘yes’ but hope you’ll think it’s ‘no’ when all they mean is Please, just ask me once more, and once more after that?
And then, one evening, we had another ‘tenant’ move in. Her name was Pei…xD
[TO BE CONTINUED]
[MAYBE]
[Hey, have you ever heard a really good song on the radio but they didn’t announce the title and you couldn’t remember the lyrics for later?]
[If you seriously read the entire story, you have WAAAIIIII too much time on your hands]
~Briseis
Mitch's Intense Post
Haha, unless you guys are really unobservant, you'll notice that my blog's gone. Yea thats right I quit =D. Lol, so I'mma try and post crap here to fill in for your need of Mitch aight? So I had the debate thing at UW today, and it was alright. It was kinda boring, but nothing compared to how boring Chinese School is x.x
And we got homework. Can you believe that? 5 paragraphs on what we want to learn from debate. AGHHHH. Yeah, but its pretty fun I guess. So yeah. What's up with you guys?
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Michael's First Post
I'll bet the title of this post got you guys pretty excited about reading it huh? (look at the tags)
I probably should've waited until tomorrow to make this post so I could get it done for July... hehe. But anyways, I thought it might be the right thing to do to make my first post special.
The kids right now are... good. I know that sounds -ambiguous- (try to picture me saying that with exaggerated facial expressions), but I think it fits here because everything is just well rounded right now. There isn't much to be stressed about and everything's running smoothly, so things are... good. I've been going to Boys and Girls Club with my neighbor Jonathan. You guys remember Dahee Lee from sixth grade? He's her little brother. I told Bonnie that I was going Boys and Girls Club and we had an argument about whether it's a daycare or not. IT'S NOT A DAYCARE, I'M A BIG BOY! I GO THERE FOR THE FREE FOOD, NOT BECAUSE I'M SCARED TO BE HOME ALONE! Other than that, piano's been going well for me and I'm not worried at all about taking that UW writing class (NOT summer stretch!). I'm already getting excited about high school next year. I know from reading that some people are thinking, "Wait, Michael? Excited about school?!" Yes, I am. I think high school will be an exhilarating, fun-filled, learning experience.
Gotcha, didn't I?
But seriously, I actually think high school's gonna be pretty fun, especially if I get to learn guitar. By the way, did anyone get their schedule yet? My friend told me his neighbor--who's going to Interlake--already got hers, so did I miss the handout date?
Other than that, my only other worry is my phone. I SERIOUSLY need a new phone! Half of my keys: 0, 3, 5, 6, and 9 are broken. I have to literally beat up my phone just to get them to work for a few seconds. And each time, they work for a shorter period, so I have to beat my phone even harder. I want the new iPhone coming out in July, that thing looks pretty sweet. Some of you are probably going, "There's no way Michael's mom is gonna get him an iPhone," and I thought about that too. But, I actually have enough to buy it myself; all she has to do is pay for the service, which she already does. Thing is, we'll have to switch from T-Mobile (cheap service) to AT&T (expensive service) and knowing she's Asian... (I don't make the stereotypes, but I definitely see this one a lot) that's probably knot going to happen. BUT, I have this problem covered too. You see, she also wants the new iPhone. So she'll buy it and switch, which means I'll most likely be switching with her. New service means new phone, and while we're picking it out, I'll just say "Oh, look, I happen to have enough to buy the iPhone 3G!" If that doesn't work, I have Ajay's phone as my second choice. He says if his phone was a girl, he'd do it.
So yeah, that pretty much covers my phone problem.
As for my kids, they're good. Joe's good (Joe mama!), Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr is good (watch "Dane Cook My Son Optimus Prime" on YouTube), the others are good too (kinda makes them seem unimportant).
Life is... good.
Friday, June 27, 2008
Invitations
OKAY
So I sent out the invitations.
SO.
If you don't want to join (which would mean you'd hafta dedicate at least 5 minutes of every month to post) IT'S OKAY! We're not going to hunt you down and eat your souls (lol Rohan =P)
But we'd REALLY LOVE IT if you joined and posted. We don't wanna lose our 8th grade buds now do we?
Mkay so PUSH THE ACCEPT BUTTON NOW! Or else...
Just kidding =]
Now if I didn't get you, gimme your e-mail somehow. Still working out the kinks and bolts of this blog =/
So I sent out the invitations.
SO.
If you don't want to join (which would mean you'd hafta dedicate at least 5 minutes of every month to post) IT'S OKAY! We're not going to hunt you down and eat your souls (lol Rohan =P)
But we'd REALLY LOVE IT if you joined and posted. We don't wanna lose our 8th grade buds now do we?
Mkay so PUSH THE ACCEPT BUTTON NOW! Or else...
Just kidding =]
Now if I didn't get you, gimme your e-mail somehow. Still working out the kinks and bolts of this blog =/
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Can you feel the LURVEEEE
YESYES FIRST POST FOR KATIZZLE =DDD
Disclaimer: Please don't take any of this seriously.
Mkay, I will start out by introducing the dramatic and tragic love stories of Odle Middle School x]
Excus-ay moi if I get them wrong...
Pairings so far:
Hiroka-Eileen
Venecia-Teresa
Rohan-Alin
Alin-Aaron
Rohan-Aaron
Matthew-Alin
Eric-Katie
Eric-Ajay
Eric-Larry
Larry-Amanders
Anita-Venecia
Anita-Bonnie
Anita-Preston
Preston-Alin
Justin-Ivy
Justin-Luke
Curren-Carew
Curren-Chirag
And Eric is a Prince, not a Princess in this story. This one is mainly about the Eric-Katie-Larry-Ajay love square, but there's many other relationships to write about. And the sudden changes in style are on purpose x]
Listen, for I tell the story of great and noble loves...
Once upon a time, there were two kingdoms-
Hirokaland, ruled by King Hiroka and Queen Eileen.
Mousieland, ruled by King Venecia and Queen Teresa.
Beautiful princesses and handsome princes came from the noble prosperous lands.
Who came from Hirokaland?
Ah, the lovely *skinny beautiful topless model* Prince Eric, brilliant and admired by many, especially the [BEAUTI-FOH] Princess Katie from Mousieland. They were arranged to marry, but alas, the Duke Larry and the Baron Ajay also fell under the spell of his dark eyes.
Eaten up, torn by jealousy, the nobles Larry and Ajay conspired against Princess Katie.
They planned to banish her, out of their love for Eric.
And so, Duke Larry and Baron Ajay falsely accused Princess Katie of stealing doughnuts from the royal refrigerator.
Venecia and Teresa decided that Katie was guilty of the crime.
So, poor Princess Katie was forced to move elsewhere as punishment-away to the dreaded Currenland-where she was locked in a room and forced to listen to bad poetry everyday. Many a noble king or queen had been driven mad in those feared dungeons...
Meanwhile, back in Hirokaland...
Prince Eric was ready for his wedding day...but where was his princess?
He sat by the window and sighed, looking out onto the sunny day.
The door of his bedroom flew open, as the Duke Larry and Baron Ajay burst into the room.
"Your Princess is no more! Please accept our hand in marriage." They said at the same time.
Suddenly, Larry and Ajay realized what they had just said. "OUR hand in marriage??"
"He's mine!"
"He's mine!"
Larry fell into a ninja posture, and Ajay ran towards him with his hands outstretched.
"YOU'RE GOING DOWNNNN!"
A catfight ensued, with Larry and Ajay bravely slapping the other.
Prince Eric, eyes wide, jumped out the window. Duke Larry and Baron Ajay, in the struggle, did not notice.
He landed softly in the flowerbed, and, brushing off his red tunic, set off to search for the Princess Katie. Who knows what wonders he would encounter, and who knows what drama would happen along the way...?
[To Be Continued-Someone else continue the story please]
...
Pure poetry, no?
x]
Disclaimer: Please don't take any of this seriously.
Mkay, I will start out by introducing the dramatic and tragic love stories of Odle Middle School x]
Excus-ay moi if I get them wrong...
Pairings so far:
Hiroka-Eileen
Venecia-Teresa
Rohan-Alin
Alin-Aaron
Rohan-Aaron
Matthew-Alin
Eric-Katie
Eric-Ajay
Eric-Larry
Larry-Amanders
Anita-Venecia
Anita-Bonnie
Anita-Preston
Preston-Alin
Justin-Ivy
Justin-Luke
Curren-Carew
Curren-Chirag
And Eric is a Prince, not a Princess in this story. This one is mainly about the Eric-Katie-Larry-Ajay love square, but there's many other relationships to write about. And the sudden changes in style are on purpose x]
Listen, for I tell the story of great and noble loves...
Once upon a time, there were two kingdoms-
Hirokaland, ruled by King Hiroka and Queen Eileen.
Mousieland, ruled by King Venecia and Queen Teresa.
Beautiful princesses and handsome princes came from the noble prosperous lands.
Who came from Hirokaland?
Ah, the lovely *skinny beautiful topless model* Prince Eric, brilliant and admired by many, especially the [BEAUTI-FOH] Princess Katie from Mousieland. They were arranged to marry, but alas, the Duke Larry and the Baron Ajay also fell under the spell of his dark eyes.
Eaten up, torn by jealousy, the nobles Larry and Ajay conspired against Princess Katie.
They planned to banish her, out of their love for Eric.
And so, Duke Larry and Baron Ajay falsely accused Princess Katie of stealing doughnuts from the royal refrigerator.
Venecia and Teresa decided that Katie was guilty of the crime.
So, poor Princess Katie was forced to move elsewhere as punishment-away to the dreaded Currenland-where she was locked in a room and forced to listen to bad poetry everyday. Many a noble king or queen had been driven mad in those feared dungeons...
Meanwhile, back in Hirokaland...
Prince Eric was ready for his wedding day...but where was his princess?
He sat by the window and sighed, looking out onto the sunny day.
The door of his bedroom flew open, as the Duke Larry and Baron Ajay burst into the room.
"Your Princess is no more! Please accept our hand in marriage." They said at the same time.
Suddenly, Larry and Ajay realized what they had just said. "OUR hand in marriage??"
"He's mine!"
"He's mine!"
Larry fell into a ninja posture, and Ajay ran towards him with his hands outstretched.
"YOU'RE GOING DOWNNNN!"
A catfight ensued, with Larry and Ajay bravely slapping the other.
Prince Eric, eyes wide, jumped out the window. Duke Larry and Baron Ajay, in the struggle, did not notice.
He landed softly in the flowerbed, and, brushing off his red tunic, set off to search for the Princess Katie. Who knows what wonders he would encounter, and who knows what drama would happen along the way...?
[To Be Continued-Someone else continue the story please]
...
Pure poetry, no?
x]
Sunday, June 8, 2008
TWAH-DAH. [Edited by Bonnie]
IT IS THE LONG AWAITED...
[kindasortanotreally]
HS-let's-keep-in-touch-or-else-we-will-die-and-be-unhappy-so-we-need-a-way-to-talk-to-each-other-and-complain-sing-celebrate-laugh-rant-about-life-away-from-everyone
BLOG!
Beautiful, no?
This blog is called, "So, How Are The Kids?"
And that's precisely what we're gonna talk about =]
It's basically another way of saying, "How's life?"
ATTENDANCE
At the beginning? end? of every month, we'sa have a SOUNDOFF. aka roll-call!
which will be initiated by Bonnie? Or Anita. We'll see. Either one of us =]
Just so we can check in. It'll look something like dis:
So that's how it'll look. And people on this blog shall respond [in a post] to the soundoff post, with their Name, Location [where they're sitting. not the address], Answer to Random Question, and How the Kids Are.
The All-encompassing question: How are the kids?
That means, how's life? What's up? Anything funny happen?
Any DRAMA? This is for you to make light of your high-school soap opera, relax!
Vent. Rant. We're here for you =3
Have fun with it! make a big joke. "How are the kids?" "I ate them." or "I'm making them." or "I ordered more from the toymaker." or, "The oldest is hiding under the bed."
It's just a fun way of saying, how's life? Don't take life too seriously. Smile =]
Posting
Please post as much as possible, and DO inform us of the little gossipy tidbits at school. Or ANY funny happening. It helps to keep us updated =]
In general, if you have no idea about what to post, answer the question 'how are the kids?' or write a general romance story! <333
Everyone should (notice how I'm avoiding the word "required") post to the big question in the month that it is posted. That means you should post at least once a month to answer the questions that we ask. If you post less than once a month--ONE STRIKE! If it happens again...DEATH AND ETERNAL SHAME.
...
...
...
...
Nahhhh xP
But please...post at least once a month? Or it'll ruin the whole purpose of this bloggeh =[ So keep in touch, don't forget your 8th grade buds, and remember to post!
COMMENTS
Pleaseplease tell us who you are in your comments. We'll allow anonymous comments, but we do want to know who you are!
Anyway, comment as much as possible too =]
People only post so that everyone's updated. We know that you're updated if you read it. And we know that you read it if you comment! So do comment.
LUFFS <333
This is a loving bloggy.
Don't be hatin' >=[
'else we will eat your face, and if you do it too often, we'll BANISH YOU!
though we will accept you back =] (if you GROVEL for our mercy >=])
[kindasortanotreally]
HS-let's-keep-in-touch-or-else-we-will-die-and-be-unhappy-so-we-need-a-way-to-talk-to-each-other-and-complain-sing-celebrate-laugh-rant-about-life-away-from-everyone
BLOG!
Beautiful, no?
This blog is called, "So, How Are The Kids?"
And that's precisely what we're gonna talk about =]
It's basically another way of saying, "How's life?"
ATTENDANCE
At the beginning? end? of every month, we'sa have a SOUNDOFF. aka roll-call!
which will be initiated by Bonnie? Or Anita. We'll see. Either one of us =]
Just so we can check in. It'll look something like dis:
Title [of post]: SOUNDOFF!
HOI!
ATTENNNNN'SHUN.
Let's hear it!
Name
Location
What's the most interesting thing that's happened to you
this week? [or some random question like that]
And most importantly, how are the
kids?
So that's how it'll look. And people on this blog shall respond [in a post] to the soundoff post, with their Name, Location [where they're sitting. not the address], Answer to Random Question, and How the Kids Are.
The All-encompassing question: How are the kids?
That means, how's life? What's up? Anything funny happen?
Any DRAMA? This is for you to make light of your high-school soap opera, relax!
Vent. Rant. We're here for you =3
Have fun with it! make a big joke. "How are the kids?" "I ate them." or "I'm making them." or "I ordered more from the toymaker." or, "The oldest is hiding under the bed."
It's just a fun way of saying, how's life? Don't take life too seriously. Smile =]
Posting
Please post as much as possible, and DO inform us of the little gossipy tidbits at school. Or ANY funny happening. It helps to keep us updated =]
In general, if you have no idea about what to post, answer the question 'how are the kids?' or write a general romance story! <333
Everyone should (notice how I'm avoiding the word "required") post to the big question in the month that it is posted. That means you should post at least once a month to answer the questions that we ask. If you post less than once a month--ONE STRIKE! If it happens again...DEATH AND ETERNAL SHAME.
...
...
...
...
Nahhhh xP
But please...post at least once a month? Or it'll ruin the whole purpose of this bloggeh =[ So keep in touch, don't forget your 8th grade buds, and remember to post!
COMMENTS
Pleaseplease tell us who you are in your comments. We'll allow anonymous comments, but we do want to know who you are!
Anyway, comment as much as possible too =]
People only post so that everyone's updated. We know that you're updated if you read it. And we know that you read it if you comment! So do comment.
LUFFS <333
This is a loving bloggy.
Don't be hatin' >=[
'else we will eat your face, and if you do it too often, we'll BANISH YOU!
though we will accept you back =] (if you GROVEL for our mercy >=])
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