You Know What? Fuck You, 2008. Fuck You In The Ear

So yeah, I'm not going back to the hospital this year. I refuse. If I get hit by a bus, bring the doctor to the street and have them operate there. Horrible disease? Too bad. And no matter how much I love someone, if they get hurt/sick, I simply will not go to the hospital to see them. Wheel them out to the front yard. Because I am seriously sick of hospitals and doctors and injury and drama. My brother was torturing the living fuck out of our dog, and our dog bit him [it was my brother's fault - you do not JUMP on a dog, or step on its tail, particularly when the dog is fairly nervous].

Also, I went to the library and got a card, because I can't afford to buy any more books until I get a job, and nobody is getting back to me because the universe is a sick, twisted bitch-monster. And my library sucks. So. Much. It was painful, and I left feeling angry and frustrated and vaguely unclean.

What else is making me angry? Um... I'm sick of lawyers. No more doctors or lawyers. No more professionals in my life. And no more family drama. Stop foreclosures, stop abuse, stop DYING, stop restraining orders, stop nervous breakdowns and everyone leave me the fuck alone. I'm not kidding. This is my summer. The phone rings at eight or nine, the drama begins, and the phone keeps ringing until around ten at night, at which point I am begging my parents to unplug the phone. It's ridiculous. It's like Jerry Springer gone suburban.

I hate that my friends are all far away, and I'm stuck here in Jersey with nothing to do but apply for jobs and deal with the never-ending onslaught on near-comical drama. I mean, seriously. If I pitched this story to someone, they'd say it was too unrealistic. That's not FAIR, man.

In other news, I really want to see TROPIC THUNDER, Pie is the greatest thing since sliced bread [which she invented], and I've written 409 pages. It's awful and incoherent, and I suspect the whole story kind of blows chunks, but it's MY awful, incoherent story, and like the mother of a hideous child, I love it anyway.

Seriously. Fuck you, 2008. You smug, controlling bastard.
- LV

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Is Lightning Erotic?

[Written on TextEdit, due to technical difficulties]

It's raining. No, really raining. Like, Four Horsemen Of The Apocalypse raining, complete with Earth-shaking thunder and sky-scorching lightning.

367 pages.

Get my phone back tomorrow. Imagine I'll spend some time making apology calls/texts.

There was a tick on me earlier. With its head in me, drinking my sweet, sweet blood. My aunt pulled it off with tweezers, and I did not vomit, faint, or run screaming up the street. I am a hero, of sorts.

Huge family screaming crisis. Everyone yelling, my cousin crying in her room, and me trying unsuccessfully to play mediator. My method of negotiation is this: I'm right, you're wrong, accept my glory, and apologize for all your many, many failures. Needless to say, it didn't go over well. Even with me on my best behavior.

I just think it sucks majorly that a fourteen year old girl was made to cry on her birthday. Especially when the girl in question is not a bitch, slut, or any of the other words I tend to associate with young woman that age.

So that made me sad, and angry, and filled me with a feeling of abject helplessness. Because in this case, I really am right. And if everyone would just listen to me, things would actually make sense for a change. Once in a while, I do know what I'm talking about.

The internet is out. I thought I was just going to pass out in bed, despite the early hour [it's 10:17 PM], but my stomach hurts from way too much rich food, and my mind is in shambles. It's a stupid fight, and in the big scheme of things probably not a big deal. But the thing parents, and adults, and even people my age often forget, is that when you're fourteen, these things are life and death. You can't put them into perspective because you have no real perspective. This is it.

It's probably a good idea to remember that. These things matter. Stupid things can hurt. We are the ones who break our families to pieces.

Anyway. I kind of want to write, but I don't want to turn on the light. And I'm worried my middle cousin, Cee, caught me smoking, and I'll have to lie about it.

I'm a terrible liar.

I wish I could record the sound of the rain. Like an onslaught of bullets. But it really doesn't sound like anything but really heavy rain.
- LV

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Blackberries Singing In The Dead Of Night...

Blackberries are indeed delicious.

Bought books at BookHampton today, my favorite bookstore in the area.

352 pages, and going strong. I know the writing is going well when I dream about my characters. Also had a deeply disturbing dream involving an old lady and a bookshop that might evolve into a short story. I woke up feeling utterly furious with that prissy old bitch.

Everyone is at the beach but me. I'm upstairs in a warm, sunlit room with a magnificent view of the ocean and dunes. It's utterly quiet. I'm going to put away my laptop, pick up a pen, and get lost in the words.
- LV

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A Post A Day Makes... Good Stuff Happen

338 pages, but I plan on writing more later. It's weird, I feel like I'm writing an awful lot, but page-wise it doesn't add up to much. Weird bit at the moment; Anna's having two concurrent conversations - one with her 'partner', and one with her dead boyfriend who can't talk. It makes sense if you've read the book, which of course no one has.

It was raining torrents this morning, so I tried to rally a group to see DARK KNIGHT. No dice. My friend Aye went to see WALL-E, but it wasn't playing, and my youngest cousin went to see the vile new MUMMY disaster. I stayed at home with the rest of the clan, writing and sulking over various injustices being forced upon Jay, my favorite (and eldest) cousin.

I will say it again: parents suck. And they inflict such pain on their children, such damage, without ever realizing what they've done, or what STUPID SHIT they're getting worked up over. Of course, I can't say anything. I'm supposed to be ignorant of the whole situation. But when the the shit hits, if I'm here, some of it is going to get on me, I can tell you that.

That was a disgusting metaphor. Apologies all around.

I need to stop biting my nails.

CTRL+ALT+DEL has long been my favorite webcomic. Besides being absolutely hilarious, it frequently commented on movies and TV shows I like, and let's me pretend I know anything about gaming. But lately, it's been off a little. The new arc involved a character having a miscarriage. I supported the storyline, mainly because I genuinely believed that the writer, Tim Buckley, could pull it off as a serious story while not completely losing the funny aspects of the comic. And I still do. But it just hasn't been that funny lately, which is disappointing. Oddly enough, or maybe not given their name, the new Sillies section of the website is as funny as any of the original material. I appreciate Tim's attempt to cover serious ground. I really do. He's written some lovely pieces, and is being emotionally honest. I don't even mind the change from his usual pop culture references. But I feel like I've been reading a different comic the past few weeks, and to be honest I don't love it. Tim claims he has an elaborate story arc planned, and I really am trying to have faith in him. He hasn't let me down yet. But damn it, I miss the funny.

That was much longer than I intended.

OK, enough procrastinating. Time to make the words.
- LV

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Writing Notes, & Not Much Else

331 pages. I'm sure it will be much less when I finally type this monster up, as I have huge handwriting and also put a space between each paragraph, since my handwriting is so supremely demented. But I have to go back and rewrite a lot. The second draft is going to be a monster. I need to:

* expand on the character of Robert, who becomes vital in the last third of the book, but seems like kind of a whiny wanker throughout the first two thirds.
* add the supernatural bit much earlier. Looking back, it makes so much sense - of COURSE Jack's still around, in some form, and of COURSE he's going to drive Anna nuts. But when I started it out, as much as I wanted to add that in, I felt like it would be too much. Then I thought, fuck it. I'm writing a book that probably won't be read by anyone but me, and whoever rejects books at a few publishers. And it makes sense. And I like writing it. So there.
* expand a few other scenes, because I didn't realize aspects of them until later.
* do some research on the execution scene, because it's pivotal even if it's very early in the book, and I feel like it would be disrespectful in some way if it wasn't totally accurate.

I didn't get as much writing done as I wanted today, what with relatives all over the place, and shopping, and being force-fed enormous plates of food from well-meaning relatives (there wasn't that much force, at least in the beginning, because the freshly caught crab was delicious, but a human stomach can only hold so much before it begins to rupture).

Thursday is my cousin Jay's birthday, so I expect that I'll be busy with relative activities the whole day. I adore Jay. She's like the little sister I always wanted. She's probably the kindest person I've ever met - genuine, authentic, and sweet.

Here are some pictures of my dog, Hunter, named after the late great Doctor Hunter Stockton Thompson. Knowing his personality as I now do, he may have been misnamed.


A blurry Hunter, wandering around the deck the day we bought him.


My favorite picture. He's put on some weight, and is developing some dark brown spots on his back. He's no longer a shy, scared creature, but a psychotic love-dog who wants only to lick you until there is nothing left to lick. Then he wants a belly-rub.


Those are my feet in the corner.

I'm really annoyed I only saw HELLBOY 2 once. It kicked all the asses in the world. And screw you all, I love Ron Perlman. He PWNS everyone. Ever. All the time.
- LV

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Sombrero!

My phone is once again going through growing pains. Or having an emotional crisis that I, as a human being, cannot possibly comprehend. The issue is this: I am receiving texts, phone calls, and E-Mails, but am unable to send them. Isn't that weird? I've never even HEARD of anyone else having this problem. It's not a huge deal, as since I'm still at the beach I'm virtually unreachable anyway, and I'm getting it fixed tomorrow, but still. It's bothersome.

My friend Kaje sent me the Best. Picture. Ever. Just wanted to state that for the general public.

There are several bathing suit-clad children running around screaming and shooting each other with loud fake guns at the moment. My brother is actually the least violent among them.

I went on my Facebook for the first time in months yesterday. Still don't miss it.

325 pages now. The problem with this book is that it's a lot of things: there's crime, and some mystery, and a good deal of psychological fuckery, and ghosts and romance and lies and death. When people ask me to tell them what I'm writing, I either give them a woefully inaccurate one-sentence answer, or launch into a scene-by-scene retelling, complete with sound effects and hand gestures. The latter tends to leave my audience glazed over and confused. Must work on this.

When you're out playing mini-golf with your mother, brother (10), and three cousins (14, 11, and 10), and the most attractive guy you've ever met starts talking to you and flirting with you, and things are going really well for once, it is a law of nature and physics and probability that your brother will wail a ball that ricochets before finally smashing the attractive guy in the upper thigh. I wish I was kidding. I really, really do. There was a goddamn WELT where the ball hit him. His friend dragged him off to get ice. I fled the scene. My mother won't stop laughing about this.

Otherwise, it's been quiet. I'm enjoying the relative peace. I'm trying to get everyone to go see DARK KNIGHT (again - actually, it would be my third time), and getting mixed results.

Back to writing. And glaring hatefully at my computer. And trying to keep my cousins from eating all the sugar in the kitchen. Damn them.
- LV

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Where's Elle?

When I don't blog for a while, it generally means one of the following:

A) Something really bad has happened, and I lack the inner strength to make light of it in blog form, and would much prefer to sulk in a dark cave while building voodoo dolls of the evil perpetrators, or drinking myself into a small coma.

B) My life has become even more boring than usual, and writing about it would be a cruel, evil punishment for the poor fools who try to enjoy my humble babblings. In fact, it would be an exercise in sadism. So I stay away from the keyboards and interwebs of the world, for your safety and well being. Cuz I'm just that kind of gal, damn it.

C) The zombies have finally risen up, and all is chaos. In which case I would be writing blog entries to a dead world, and then only if the internet still worked by some miracle. On the upside, my website would be the most-viewed in the WORLD because it would be the ONLY blog in the world. See, I'm positive! Zombie apocalypse has its bright side!

D) I've been writing a lot (as in my own work, not just the mental spew I spray across the screen here).

In this case, options A, B, and D apply (COME ON, C! I am totally prepared!). The short version that won't send me on a bile-filled rage-fest is that another close relative died, and there was serious family drama and legal nightmares, and then nothing happened for a while, and continued to happen, and I wrote a lot because it was the only thing that kept me from exploding with boredom.

On that note, I'm nearing 300 hand-written pages, a fact that would be more exciting if I could decipher my own script (the only way I can write fiction by hand, which is weird because otherwise I never write cursive). (Do you think that Ernest Hemingway had to ask his mom to help him read his own handwriting? Maybe, but only if he was drunk, and then punched her out following her answer. I cannot do these things, as my mother would kick my ass.)

I'm in the Hamptons (ooooh, ritzy joy), mooching off my aunt and her family, and essentially lazing around because I have a slight bug and it's kicking my ass enough that moving has become unpleasant and cruel. The beach is lovely, and I even wore a bathing suit yesterday. I've lost over fifty pounds, and can now be called 'average' to 'thin.' Which is very, very weird, and something I still haven't wrapped my smallish brain around just yet.

It's hard to smoke around here. My younger cousins don't know, and I really don't want them to find out, because it would result in screaming, crying, lecturing, and lots of frantic apologies and guilt that frankly I don't need in my life at this juncture, damn it. So I have to sneak out at odd times, speed-smoke, all the while looking around like a paranoid rabbit, expecting to be caught at any second by my adorable but troublesome relatives. I'm lucky if I get three a day. I haven't had one yet today. That was almost like an angsty poem!

See, this is what happens when I have nothing to say, but post a blog entry. You asked for it. And if you didn't, I'm sure you deserved it anyway.

Just a quick hello to my friends, be they traveling our fair country with their mother, or sailing the seven seas doing things I don't really understand but find immensely impressive nonetheless.

It's a beautiful day, and I'm going to make 300 pages today if I have to kill. Sacrifices must be made for my work.
- LV

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