Foxy Grandpa

This is the typical appearance of the Chinese Fleeceflower.

Genitals and everything.

Does this mean there’s a God? I mean, look at those buttcheeks. This is just outlandish. 

My mind is blown.

enkana.deviantart.com. So cute.

I just watched A Beautiful Mind for the first time. Movies about mental illness make me so upset. Poor John Nash.. I can’t imagine being told that experiences and people I’ve met never existed, I can’t imagine seeing things and having to accept that they aren’t real. I cried when he was walking through Princeton and all those kids laughed at him. I know it’s just a movie, but people don’t understand that mental illness isn’t something you can help. It’s like when we watched He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not in French and everyone in class was like, “What a crazy bitch.” In the movie, a woman has delusions where she believes she’s having an affair with her neighbor. It nearly ruins his life, but she believes it’s truly happening. I can’t sit idly by while my classmates display such potentially harmful ignorance. Why does no one have any fucking compassion?

I admire John’s wife so much for staying with him. Imagine getting knocked up, then finding out your new husband is a paranoid schizophrenic. This situation probably would have played out a lot differently today, but in the 50’s that shit was intense. Alicia Lopez-Harrison de Lardé. She’s from El Salvador- ooh la la. Jennifer Connelly was absolutely beautiful in the movie. I’ve seen her in Requiem for a Dream, Creation, and Labyrinth, and I wondered why the hell she never got her eyebrows waxed. In A Beautiful Mind, she seems to have taken my query into consideration. :)

Damn it, I’m trying to find Alicia’s email address so I can email her. She’s around 90 years old now, no wonder I can’t find one. What am I thinking?

Enjoy these beautiful pictures of Jennifer Connelly with nice, tidy eyebrows.

http://www.nikedunkheels.com/nike-dunk-low-heels-red-pink-p-183.html

Guess who it is.

Yep. :)

“The alchemist picked up a book that someone in the caravan had brought. Leafing through the pages, he found a story about Narcissus.

The alchemist knew the legend of Narcissus, a youth who knelt daily beside a lake to contemplate his own beauty. He was so fascinated by himself that, one morning, he fell into the lake and drowned. At the spot where he fell, a flower was born, which was called the narcissus.

But this was not how the author of the book ended the story.

He said that when Narcissus died, the goddesses of the forest appeared and found the lake, which had been fresh water, transformed into a lake of salty tears.

‘Why do you weep?’ the goddesses asked.

‘I weep for Narcissus,’ the lake replied.

‘Ah, it is no surprise that you weep for Narcissus,’ they said, ‘for though we always pursued him in the forest, you alone could contemplate his beauty close at hand.’

‘But… was Narcissus beautiful?’ the lake asked.

‘Who better than you to know that?’ the goddesses said in wonder. ‘After all, it was by your banks that he knelt each day to contemplate himself!’

The lake was silent for some time. Finally, it said:

‘I weep for Narcissus, but I never noticed that Narcissus was beautiful. I weep because, each time he knelt beside my banks, I could see, in the depths of his eyes, my own beauty reflected.’

‘What a lovely story,’ the alchemist thought.”

-The Alchemist, Paulo Coelho

I honestly don’t know why I do the things I do.

I’m in deep shit this time.

I identify so much with Adam West. Spending our lives in solitude, amusing ourselves. 

Yodeling with puppets as your talent in the Miss America Pageant takes some serious balls.

Mad props to Miss Arkansas, Alyse Eady.

I think deer- particularly doe(s?) and fawns- are the most exquisite, elegant creatures. 

And they’re pretty delicious when fried.

I’m going to reinforce she-teen stereotypes and complain about being alone.

I am alone.

I talked to Allee yesterday about this horrible sadness I’ve been experiencing for the past few weeks. I don’t know where it’s come from or what to make of it. And all of my disgusting self-pity makes me feel so guilty, I know so many people who are in truly compromising situations— who am I to complain?

Brooke, if you’re reading this, I know you’re thinking “Shut up, you narcissistic twit. Think about someone beside yourself.”

Amen, Brooke. 

At least I haven’t been kidnapped as a toddler and forced to scavenge for food and take care of random people’s babies. At least I’m not molested on a regular basis. At least I have a guardian, a birth certificate, and a Social Security card, so if I ever tear my face off in a motorcycle accident, a hospital will be able to help me. At least I’ve never been denied medical care and thrown into the street, holding my concrete-torn face together with my hands. I live comfortably and have nothing to ask for. 

What’s especially ridiculous is that I don’t have to be alone. This is my choice. I could talk to my mom, but I don’t. I could call my dad or Brooke, but I don’t because I’m convinced they have no interest in talking to me. I could text people, but I don’t. I could text back the people who text me, but I don’t.

I don’t talk to my mom because she thinks I’m an irresponsible, stupid, immature narcissist. I am definitely an irresponsible, stupid, immature narcissist.

I hate it. But one good thing about being narcissistic and childish is that I don’t judge others too harshly. I mostly worry about them judging me. Better to be judged than to judge, I suppose.

I’ll cut to the chase: I have very little experience with making and developing close friendships. The only close friends I’ve made on my own are Destiny Roth and Richy, and neither of those camaraderies played out well. In Destiny’s case, I give her no blame. The fact that she stuck with me for so long when I had no idea how to act and was universally hated is remarkable. 

I don’t miss Richy, but I miss having company. I miss having people around to laugh with and love on. I don’t even know how to go about recreating that kind of relationship today. 

It’s silly, but sometimes I feel like my heart has been shredded and raped and left to die slowly. 

My problem is that I’m afraid of living. I can get excited about little things and ride on that excitement for 20 minutes or so, but then I’m alone. 

This is the stupidest blog ever. 

“Once, when [Matt Morgan and I] discussed negativity towards others, he said that we ought imagine that we each have an individual connection with a God or higher power through ‘a Doc Brown from Back to the Future-style metal helmet’ (bear with me) that has an electric tendril that reaches up through the sky, puncturing the ozone layer, into the heavens, past the Milky Way, right into the mind of God. Like them hairdrying plastic mushroom contraptions beneath which elderly ladies sit in hairdressers, but instead of being attached to a plug socket, they are attached to God.

When someone, a critic, a teacher or an enemy attacks you, it’s as if they are petulantly disgruntled and dissatisfied with their own connection to the universe and like snitchy little berks, reach over and yank your tendril. We are all connected to an objective higher mind and through that to each other, so why bother jerking around with other people’s connection? It’s a senseless interference. We all do it, but really what’s the point of sniping at our fellows? You may as well go into your garden and holler abuse at a nasturtium. In the end it’s between you and God.”

Russell, you are my hero.

Quote from “Booky Wook 2” by Russell Brand.

So I’ve been lying in bed for hours, all depressed and whatever. I decide to get on the Internet, where I discover that Mila Kunis and Macaulay Culkin- Macaulay Culkin, of all people- recently broke up after dating for eight years.

Holy shit.

I don’t know if anyone else can grasp just how hilarious this is, but my day has been made. I’m actually so pumped up right now that I think I’ll run a few miles. Thank you, Internet. :D

If this isn’t a perfect illustration of what I was getting at the other day with my “Beauty and the Beast” blog, I don’t know what is. It could only be funnier if the couple consisted of Macaulay and my second favorite Latino, Wilmer Valderrama.

Yesterday I was lucky enough to see ten minutes of Beauty and the Beast at Disney’s Hollywood Studios. 

I’ve never been big into romance. I’ve been through enough to know that the “love” conceptualized in these stories made into Disney movies (and marketed to children far too young to understand or handle the ideas showcased among the talking bunnies and dwarves and teacups) is horrifically and heartbreakingly unrealistic. A person can love money the way Cinderella loves Prince Charming. A person can love food the way Snow White loves her Prince Charming. No person with any dignity can love another person the way Sleeping Beauty loves Prince Charming #3.

(I believe a person with no value for herself [and I believe it’s usually a “her”] can love another person to extraordinary limits. Lady Marquis de Sade, for example. Her husband went to orgys and effed prostitutes left and right, not to mention killed and ate human beings, and poor, plain Lady de Sade stuck by him through it all. I read all of this in some book about cannibalism I skimmed through at the Hannibal library, and now that I’m looking online to check these facts, there doesn’t seem to be any evidence that de Sade was a cannibal. He was a philosopher and may have written about sexual cannibalism, and apparently miss Lady de Sade took part in these aforementioned orgies. This is all beside the point, I’m not going to study the history and works of Marquis de Sade right now. Back to Beauty and the Beast.)

What sets Beauty and the Beast apart from other ridiculous Disney love stories is this: Beast is a beast. Not only is the romance between Beauty and Beast a social taboo, it’s also incredibly revolting. Imagine kissing a huge furry creature with a severe underbite. The romance between Aladdin and Jasmine is similar, but honestly, if a guy is attractive and charismatic, most girls will overlook his lack of wealth and her parents’ disapproval. (GIRLS, that is. A man’s salary or trust fund becomes important once the girl hits 25 or so. None of these princesses are that old.) 

Beauty sees past the Beast’s ugly, monstrous exterior to the heart of a lover. Despite the ignorance of the townspeople, despite her own revulsion, Beauty falls in love with the Beast. It’s a romance equal to a romance between an Israeli man and a Palestinian woman (e.g. “Don’t Mess with the Zohan”), a man and a man (if you live in an ignorant area), Gerard Butler and a female Sumo wrestler, a senior girl and a freshman boy. It’s a romance based on an appreciation of your lover as a person, and a willingness to make sacrifices in order to be with your lover. It’s a romance that implies openmindedness and self confidence. 

Not all of us can be blessed with beauty and charisma, and those of us who aren’t can feel an almost crippling sense of hopelessness and despair. We all crave love and acceptance. The message of Beauty and the Beast is wonderful: We do have hope.