Sunday, August 14, 2016

X's trashy ass...

"I don't create problems, I solve them."

yes, you, the thirty year old pedophile basement dweller who still lives with mommy and daddy and hasn't advanced beyond such a lowly position, who nobody likes at all and everyone barely tolerates, are not the "problem", you apparently "solve" them?

call me when you stop lying, hideous fraud.

see kids, this is why i started carrying pepper spray. he still thinks he can talk to me outside of work setting, he must be delusional.

Tuesday, August 2, 2016

additional update on X

it's amazing how nulled my tastebuds are when i'm sick, it's almost like one minute they've had a reawakening, but the next, they can hardly detect sugar or saltiness, let alone flavor. Either way, I just chowed down an icepop and....

oh wait, you wanted to hear more about the creep, right?

well, okay... in other work related news that should surprise no one, X is shockingly, proving to have creepier vibes about him, and my fellow coworker who is also getting weirded on by him 'subtly', K, came out with more disturbing news.

apparently K, who unlike me, does not just look underage, but is actually underage, has had X reportedly follow her out to her vehicle. She didn't really give mass detail beyond that, but I believe her, because once again, we seem to have a similar type of appearance, pale with long, dark hair, brown eyes, and fairly small frames.

So now that this guy has an established ''type" of young looking jailbait, reverse jailbait, girls that'll land him in jail- besides looking like he just stepped out of a To Catch a Predator pictorial as part of Your Momma's Basement magazine to stand outside high schools and take upskirt shots- I can say, wholeheartedly, that I am going to mace him if he approaches me again.

Besides repeatedly staring at me with a lolling, weird expression from wherever he seems to stand on the shifts I do work with him (let's see, I've caught him doing it outside of the store, inside the store, and when passing me, and every time, I just want to take one of the customer's objects and thrust it at his ugly face), he seems to have gotten the message to avoid me, but he won't stop avoiding K because K doesn't want to trouble anyone and won't tell him boldly, at least, in the manner that I did, to fuck offffff.

Oh, also, he never asked any coworkers but teenage girls thus far to go out to 'dinner' with him, even if it's just to linger around and get takeout, and that in itself made me want to vomit. So yeah, roundabout back to feeling used by some weirdo who gets off on going on fakedates or something with teenage girls because he's too creepy to get an actual women his own fucking age.

At least Nasujima was hot, for crying out loud. Fictitious psychos ofc are fucking fictional, but foreal, encountering creeps irl makes me want to smash some walls.

Just sack this guy already. Like, he lives with mommy and daddy in a big ass house, he can mooch off them for the rest of his life, as he's clearly doing now, he can afford not to be there, the rest of us don't really find him to be anything but a pathetic worm.

disordered venting #125016





 "Each and every person is full of misunderstandings."

 

today I stared at a bottle of codine cough medicine from two years ago, that'd been unopened for at least one year, the last instance I had the flu. It's expired by over a year at this point. I played with a lot of knives, I had to dislodge them from my chest and my back, from my eyes and my ears. One segment of my life in its entirety felt like I was sinking in tightening mud, as wounds bled out, and even though I don't wish to reminisce, sometimes I have to, the good and the bad, from who I was in the past. And I stare at the syrup, inhale its smell as I take the last bits to ail my current condition of combined conjunctivitis & respiratory inflammation, gulp it down, savor its bitterness, hoping to one day stomach much worse emotional bitterness with some level of fucking decency. Maybe I sit here with a dry cough insomniac, wondering why I'm waiting for my life to proceed in the same way, as my father gripes at me for tortoise speed advancement. Not my fault I'm in a lull, i'm just crazy. Today was Murphy's Law Day, in accordance with the fabled concept that everything that could've gone wrong, it did. Nigh everything was of course, somehow not an improvement. He blew a tire, had to walk to the house, when the spare was revealed to be flat, later the axel broken, he walked to the house and I sat trembling the air conditioning, wishing to just escape elsewhere, instantly, or surrender to the sleeplessness that'd been gnawing at me since 9am when I was dragged to the doctor's and given two shots to my lower hips. Maybe the expired cough syrup is symbolically representative of my life, bitterly empty, once useful, but currently not very much so, as I lie about in a state of illness waiting for something to just come down and free me from the constant coughing that becomes emptier by the day, devoid of purpose other than to symbolize the weakness of my lungs. Maybe karma, after two years, has decided I'm not forgivable enough, and also christened me with the pleasant gift of pinkeye to emphasize. It's not fair that after all I've done I can just go back to being sick, bitchy Audrey that wants to choke everything, it's not right, and I don't know. I thought I was too good for this. Ha ha, I'm rambling again. I monologue like a freak. Fucking shitstain. I'm a fucking stain.

Friday, July 29, 2016

when no one listens anymore

there's no use talking at all.

--
i've spent twenty years on my wasted life. i swear to god. like here i am with phlegm trickling down my throat, waiting to be regurgitated as yellowish goop. i swear, if i get pneumonia again, i may actually die. the whole bronchial pain of having chest congestion that feels like it's dribbling into your chest and gurgling in your esophagus. fuck me, my father won't take me to the doctor, and when i think it's improving, i wake the next day and it's strengthened to near vomiting levels.

well, most of it feels like it's contained to my chest. my voice sounds strained, harsh, deepened and scratchy. my palate has been relinquished to the disgust of blandness and spit. I can't taste anything. My birthday was two days ago, I worked 8 hours the next day, roughly. My manager grunted incoherently at me when I begged him to shorten me thirty minutes. It kinda hurts that this happened now, and I don't know why.

Monday, July 4, 2016

by the grace of booze, I hate this holiday

There is a guy at my work who I am absolutely ready to sock in his punchable face. Let's call him Coworker X to avoid any confrontational admittance that could lead to my canning. Confidentiality is a bitch, but hey, that's life. I guess if I get sacked from my $7.65 an hour because I confront the nerves I have about a guy who could potentially harass me in the future, so be it.

Coworker X is truly the coworker in my new work environment who has admittedly unsettled me the most. And I am not a person who is so easily unsettled, as someone who listens to stories of horror in the latter hours of the night, as someone who is fascinated by psychological imbalance in fiction, as someone who is admittedly off kilter myself, I do not find myself so easily freaked.

But boooy, coworker X. This is the exception through & through.

X is of indeterminate age, but older than me at the current time by around 5-10 years if I were to estimate by physicality alone, still living with mommy and daddy and unable to drive due to supposed epilepsey diagnosis. X's social life is about as nonexistent as my own, but considerably such a factoid is creepier given what I allege his age to be. I'm in my late teens, for reference.

Now, that's not necessarily the main component of my suspicion towards the type of person X is, because what unsettles me the most about X isn't environment or what I know of his history, it is his mannerisms.

Although I am certainly far from attracted to that old, gross, short man's appearance. If he eeeever thinks he has a chance with me, he's sorely mistaken. And if he ever tries anything on me, he's getting fended off in the most agonizingly painful way possible for him, whether it be verbal or physical.

X's voice is almost always devoid of any emotional investment whatsoever, yet beneath the dryness, there is always this slight glint of malice that creeps its way through his dialogue that I feel as if can be heard more clearly every time he speaks, and it sends chills up my spine. When I first met X about a month ago, this was not such an issue, but overtime definitely became the defining weirdness to him, and is now about as grating as sandpaper on my eardrums. Secondarily, X's comments. Now, I am a female, and I work at a place where there are other females, but alas, I am a decent enough looking female that I have gotten some complimentary notes from male coworkers, it's not so much of a big deal, and then there's X.

Now I don't know if this is X's own level of social retardation casting through his densely weird as fuck exterior, if I'm overreacting, or if this is actually concerning to anyone else, but X is prone to rather.... ambiguously weird comments.

It's not such an issue seemingly if someone else brings it up, for example, the other day, my flexibiliity, but X's comments somehow manage to make me shudder internally for some apparant reason. What kind of guy in all seriousness would tell you that you have a 'pretty steady or sturdy' or some word of the like figure, without it seeming weird. Yeah. That. Also, he does other seriously weird things like compliment my niceness towards children, even after admitting that I do have disdain for them, and never want to have any. Whether or not his commentary that I find to be weird could be interpreted as flirtation or not, it's still obviously discomforting to me, as I do not like being even slightly advanced on by a guy who I've clearly specified I don't have any interest in.

Hell, the few times I did eat somewhere with him, it was purely out of boredom, and offered to drive his ass home, it was purely because at the time, I was a noobie and the only person to talk to was that phaggot. Now, all I can think is "ew, I'm not touching you, no, I don't want that, get away."

Something about him somehow just screams "ulterior intent". It's mostly contained in the way he speaks and acts, perhaps, as well as the ambigiuty of his commentary, the fact that it seems almost creepily attempted flirting, but isn't precisely, and that's where I begun to draw the line. Unfortunately, like almost every person I too quickly talked to in my lifetime, I told the piece of shit too much personally about my life, and unfortunately, this has resulted in what seems to be my current situation. All I want to do is throw one of my cans at him that comes down my belt and conk him in the fucking temple hard enough to induce an amnesia that spans longer than me. Every other one of my coworkers has flaws I can overlook, because I personally see them as being fairly innocuous in their interaction with me, but with him, I always feel like part of me is being somehow felt up by his eyes or something. It's fucking horrible as hell, I don't know why.

I think either I'm slowly deteriorating to crazy, because nobody else seems to feel this towards him, and nobody else is exactly around that I can confide in, but ten again, I wonder if anyone even has been subject to the same thing, like, has anyone else even eaten or talked to the dude outside work or something? even my father I'm scared to tell, and nothing is overtly being done that I can report. However, personally, you cannot exactly say "fuck off, you fucking cunt, fuck off, do not be my bagger, do not talk to me, do not speak to me, just have a few utterances of what you need done, and if I catch you staring at any of my body parts, I am going to gouge your corneas out of your skull with a melon baller." without being subject to reprimand. Worse come to worse, he was talking to another female coworker of mine, around my age, recently, and she's also very cute, younger than me presumably, possibly underage. With things like that, I do wonder if she'll be okay or start to feel a tad.... uncomfortable.

Either way, X is the brand of man, in all honesty, that I can see slicing up people's throats in their sleep for fun based on what I have seen from him, and acting very, very erratically when rejected. That's why i'm trying to feign ignorance right now. If I do maybe the weirdness will stop. I don't want to feel like I'm crazy for having this discomfort, I don't want to feel like a femnazi again because I'll be accused of overreacting if I tell anyone like my father, I don't want to tell my boss or anyone else, and if there's no escalation and it just continues painfully, what can I do? I drank like a fish for a bit tonight, I didn't want to confront it, I cried in the work bathroom for five minutes before forcing myself to regain composure, I didn't want him to have to be near me again, I was honestly freaked that anything at any moment could escalate to sexual harassment. All I was ever taught in my adolescence by my straw feminist mother is that men were either out to ogle, rape, or maim me somehow, or that they were somehow the most important thing in the world. These days with guys like these, I lean more towards the former. Stalked on MAL and borderline doxxed by some creep from Germany, who purely did it out of lust for nothing but my fucking selfies, and then constantly having him harass me thereafter with attempted justification for his actions, and now the coworker who I can't shake and just want to leave me alone because NO, I AM NOT INTO YOU, I DO NOT LIKE YOU THAT WAY, AND BY GOD DUDE, YOU FUCKING REPULSE ME. Coworker X, kindly fuck off. By the graces of god, I got off a fucking hour early so I didn't have to potentially have another hour of wanting to anvil soda boxes atop his bloody head pretending to be nicer to customers, who I actually do want to give decent service, but not with the distraction of the creepass dwarf standing all but five feet away from me possibly eyeing my tits or ass. Fuck. Can't exactly get him fired now, can I? Can't exactly say "I don't want to talk to you, but you make me feel like you're going to mince me to salami in my sleep if I don't talk to you,, so I keep forcing myself to talk to you, but if I talk to you in the most coarsely rude way possible, perhaps you will fuck offffff".

I'm so sick of internally screaming at myself. If he ever sexually harasses me overtly I'm gonna assure he's fired so promptly that he won't even see another scheduled work day before it happens. Fuck off, X. I've decided you're a nuisance. Leeeeave. Me.... and my underage looking ass, aloooone.

Tuesday, June 28, 2016

Unpopular Durarara!! Opinions - Volume 2: Izaya Orihara sucks

There is a statement I will stand by for the remainder of my life and always stash to keep as a reference for later: popularity does not amount to quality, which is why subjectivity exists. just because the majority seem to be in unanimous agreement that something is good, does not mean it actually is good to all. For there will always be at least one disdained with that particular thing who believes it doesn't deserve the popularity it gets or the right to exist whatsoever.

And nowhere is this theory more painfully highlighted than in the case of Durarara!! and one of its most famed characters, Izaya Orihara. I hate Izaya Orihara with almost every fiber in my being, nowhere in any other series have I ever examined a supposed antagonist and been so underwhelmingly saddened by what could have been or what could have replaced him. In a series of ensemble, the only thing that keeps Izaya afloat at all is the supporting cast, and Shizuo, perhaps, who is another one of those characters I would categorize as 'overrated', but at least he has some sort of crisis...

Unimpressive, with an irksome personality that makes me want to break my drywall, a droll backstory, and a design that resembles a weasel on the prowl for small mammalia to pin, Izaya Orihara from the beginning was never someone who truly caught me in any sort of captivation, only a character that existed as safe villainous fodder while the real deviants worked their magic in the darkness of each arc. In a series that was supposed to be dark, he was not light, but he was hardly pitched black. He was at best, dimly lit at all times. Generic.

Morally corrupt in many ways he may be, but in his execution of character, every action of his that's supposed to be nefarious only comes across as irritatingly bland. Izaya simply is not tragic enough in a story that embodies so much of it, mentally ill seemingly without purpose and eternally cheery without even the slightest bit of disruption or event horizon, this consistency and staleness throughout completely soils any potential his character did have, and makes him seem incredibly hateful and disinteresting to boot. None of his arcs were any of my favored, and despite him having some pivitol role, I always thought him to be replaceable.  Nasujima, perhaps, would've been a grittier choice, but too offensive for the youngsters to digest.

A textbook example of a safe villain with no exciting past or tragedy, Izaya's supposed 'coolness' may capture the attention of some, but to my sense of taste, is nothing but pretentiousness wrapped up in what happens to be an equally pretentious design that still is somehow astonishingly meh. He never has any climaxes or arcs where he learns anything, he tends to escape unscathed or with minor beatings, until the final act where he's finally dealt some form of karmatic justice, even if it unfortunately does not end his life and existence in its entirety. I for one am not a fan of subtlety, but Izaya's brand of what was supposed to be 'subtlety' to me is projected in such a way that I simply cannot find in my heart the sympathy or the care to want him to win, live, or contribute. The story would be on perhaps better footing with less dragging out of arcs if a more tragic villain swept in to replace the bore, and thirteen volumes wouldn't be as excessive and towards the end, lousily paced as they were, if not for a little diddy with the initials IO.

Simply put, there are much, much better examples of villainy in fiction than Izaya, which is why it's so shocking that he is highly ranked as he is. In almost all senses I undeniably am repulsed or bored by him. He's a dumb broad with some level of luck whose supposed mental illness was improbably brought on by boredom in a nonsensically booooring backstory that explains nothing of value and wastes pages. A yawnfest. Total yawnfest. Nasujima deserved to overtake him, man. He really did.

me & netizenbuzz: censorship extravaganza

the neverending retardation that is netizenbuzz is what used to keep me slightly entertained when i first discovered its cesspool of a comment section that even satan would be calling 'excessive', but that slowly dissipated with time.

contrarily to my past bans from sites for being too much of a politically correct ninny, seventhstyle being the primary example (even if most of its views were garbage from my subjective standpoint, not for the same reasons that i previously stated during my phase of idiocy, but rather because their taste was utter shit and their articles often focused on worthless ecchi series while trashing decent shows).... netizenbuzz, whether it be run by a sole mod or a group of idiots, banned me for being too 'incorrect' for the site's taste.

Of course, when I read the site's "FAQ" section that I had never viewed prior, things became appallingly clear, with the usage of typical tumblr buzzwords like 'ableist' that the mod(s) swung towards the radicalist left, that of which I happen to absolutely despise.

The main argument that got me banned was a little diddy about how people are oversensitive and conditioned little pussies who shit their pants at the slightest usage of a word they consider to be offensive, the word in question being 'dyke'. Now, I'm not exactly going to defend usage of it, but on the web, and in real life, like all offensive terms, it'll eventually  be heard and the usage of it is beyond a person's control unless they wish to language police the world surrounding them by yelling abruptly and rudely at anyone who uses it in their presence, which would ultimately make them look like loons who need to be strapped to a padded wall. I myself am not a user of the word, the worst I've gone as far as what whiners will arguably call 'homophobic slurs' is using faggot in the internet context, or using fag at the end of a word to symbolize a particular infatuation with something (I'm a Nasujimafag, for example). Thus, I am not guilty of it, all i've done is say that people's free speech is technically theirs, and that censorship does not solve squat.

The initial argument that had absolutely nothing to do with the article itself was from a user titled 'bo han', who'd proceeded to lapse into a 'your fave is problematic' styled listing of the wrongdoings of jennifer lawrence, when a fan proceeded to say that she like jlaw. I can't really remember what the article was about precisely, nor is that the issue. The issue is, I per se, called out (man, how I hate using that term, because most callouts, see "your fave is problematic" styled arguments for primary callout bait) said user for resorting to such petty tactics in attempt to defame her, and to bring it up when it had absolutely nothing to do with the fan's commentary was quite inappropriate, even if perhaps in a ruder and more coarsely worded way than I would've preferred, and continuing this string of comments eventually got me banned after I called said user something along the lines of a spineless pussy who couldn't handle the web fully, living in her pathetically censored bubble. And honestly, to this day, I do not take that statement back.

Sheesh, the amount of teenagers and regressive adults trapped in childhood believing that their haughtiness and absorption into a cute little circle of safe, squishy, clouded space that doesn't represent the real world at all is pretty fucking heinous. The fact that into their twenties, students are still believers in safe spaces, naptime, harsh punishment for speech they're slightly offended by, or people refuting their left equivalent of the radicalist bullshit from the right is pretty infuriating. My generation is a set of oversensitive pussies who can't accept reality for what it is, so they must confine themselves to one online that's blandly conditioning them to paranoia that everything and everyone is an enemy or oppressor that's out to get them and that they are something that they're not. And it's all one harmful, enormous circlejerk that never advances them to higher stages of maturity, or considerable growth.

This is all honestly coming from someone who leans more leftly, that far left radicals are just as toxic as their right counterparts, no matter how the two refuse to acknowledge their connections, their centralized goals are structured the same; just squander anyone who disagrees with you, because you're always goddamn right, and everyone else is crazy. and if you really want to, censor them. it's their right as human beings to be offended by even satirically caustic statements from the viewpoint they disagree with, so thus, it must be their right to censor it.

Well, just further proof we're going to hell in a handbasket. I can't even try and say that people shouldn't be offended by one usage of one word that's considered to be 'incorrect', even in a nonoffensive or even an ignorant way, perhaps a way where it was taken out of context- let alone on the fucking internet, where everyone is purposely offensive for the sake of being offensive, without being socially scolded for it. Kalukafuckinglayyyy.

Well, I'd expect nothing less from those who identify with a nonexisting gender in a nonexisting fantasy world with their nonexisting sexuality on the tumblr spectrum being trapped somewhere between 'confused' and 'completely and utterly braindead'.

Saturday, June 25, 2016

got shitfaced again, if it wasn't obvious

it's now 12:55 on saturday and my head buzzes achingly with the memory of myself pissily writing some sad attempt to try and release my bottled anger, which i'm not even going to bother deleting because this shitty blog's purpose seems to be solely dedicated to released despondency, so why should i hide it?

yes, i am still salty, clinging to the notion that a shitton of people have seen me as nothing more than disposable on account of the fact that my issues sometimes obstruct what'd otherwise be a very successful relationship of any sort. apparently they are so bad that nobody can see past them. and when i have nights like the aforementioned, it just reinforces that, as i sit down watching Nolan films in utter inebriation pouring myself another by the minuto.

my headache is hardly right now the most painful part of the postdrunk experience, what's always pestered me about the morning after a night of consuming toxins is the hardness that settles at the pit of my stomach, the abdominal discomfort of having godknowshow many ounces of liquor fermenting there and heavily weighing. it's not so much a feeling of incontinence as it is the psychological reminder of the night before and how i could be continually so asinine as to imbibe like this whenever an onslaught of furious emotional turmoil ravages me. you think after all this time i would be over it, that i would be happily  living my ilfe as someone who has an actual job and some form of a lousy degree that counts for something, yet i'm still plagued by what'd otherwise be banished to the annals of my mind if it weren't for the pain that resonated over it.

you wish you could just move on, but there's someone always scratching at the door begging for regression. you wish you could just stop being issued altogether to avoid evver being treated like someone's waste again, you wish you could stop downing medication prescribed by doctors who just keep finding more deficiency arise, but you never do, and it's always there.

part of me is still weakened, and it's not ideal. i'm not ideal by any stretch. i can pride myself in some of my accomplishment, but at the end of the day, a part of me is always going to linger in a stance that says "you can't, you're incapable, you're unforgivable, audrey". you'll never amount to anything. after all, that's what they've eventually said. even my father furiously resorted to such pettiness in my NEET stint. and it's proof that humanity is shit. everyone leaves. there is nothing ideal, there is no one perfect who'll unconditionally adore you for who you are, and people are gonna be more prone to leave if you're the farthest from perfection, even if they themselves refuse to acknowledge their own flaws in the hypocrisy of leaving you for your own.

you've been down before, you've been hurt before, you got up before, and it's an endless cycle.
maybe you aren't long for this world, honey, says something in the back of my mind. and i don't know. in an unknowing, tricky life with an undefined start, an undefined trek, and an undefined end, what's the point in living truly to a fullest point? just let it breeze by as undefined as its unknown span.

never befriend anyone outside yourself, never fully trust anyone wholeheartedly, never give yourself to anyone or anything else. simply live in an eternal caution where nothing and no one can hurt you, and you'll never have the shards of the past occasionally streak across the bare skin of your back. then you're fuckin' invincible. living in the least humanly way possible.

Thursday, May 26, 2016

Unpopular Durarara Opinions, Vol. 1: Durarara SH (デュラララ!!SH) is Bad, and You Should Feel Bad.

One night, whilst lounging carelessly dazed in a boiling cauldron of my own filth combined with artificially natural colors and glitter shit, I sighed and realized that I'd hardly come to terms with how Durarara had ended, nor the fact that the continuation was completely and utterly pathetic, so much so that I wanted to slam my head against my computer after I read it. What a crap novel

In the first place, let me just say that aside from being bored by it I'm not reading SH anymore due to personal reasons. Unless Nasujima reappears, that'll be the only exception to the rule of quitting while i'm ahead or have barely even started.

 Things I don't have time for 101....

I find myself detesting Durarara SH for numerous reasons, mainly because, evidently, it's not Durarara, nor does it venture close to the original Durarara, that meant it would actually capture a speck of my interest. Durarara SH is about as existent as the individuality of its characters, and it shows in comparison to its predecessor. It really fucking shows.

The premise of SH involves the introduction of two fuccbois, and one fuckgrl, i suppose, you could call her, all of which are at least partial replications of their previous incarnations; Anri, Kida, and Mikado. Call Kuon the "Mikado", Himeka the "Anri", and Yahiro the "Kida". Only one of them is even the slightest bit interesting, yet he's still boring enough to bring the novel to its knees begging to be taken seriously. The others are bores that evoke the emotional reaction of the crowd during a dry, dated "comedic" film.

In contrast to the original series, SH severely lacks an ensemble of interesting characters and all the characters are conversely in a similar age range, the only recurring cast being the relatively unfocused characters; twins, Aoba, etc. And of course, one of the most yawn inducing offerings of the series that I never could understand the appeal of in the first place; Shizuo.

Call me an elitist, but I was never particularly enthralled by Shizuo. For he was just there. While my hatred for Izaya's uninteresting villainy and trash backstory (not in an entertaining manner of trash, literal stinking garbage is an accurate descriptor, he's a poorly executed and written excuse for a 'villain', call me someone more rooted in antaognist tradition, but by goood, what a boooring execution, not even one tragedy? and this is seriously the guy Narita chose to write a novel about. Choke me with a fucking fork, gouge my throat with it, until my vocal cords are gushing and I'm no longer capable of screaming) burns with the intensity of many hot suns, my attitude towards Shizuo is "meh", he's just there, but he's even more of a disinteresting character than Izaya, and considering they're often complementary in fandom pairing and canon itself, it makes sense that those would be the two characters I either despise or hardly understand the appeal of in the first place. That being said, of course, clearly Narita's pandering ways would allow Shizuo to return unscathed despite almost dying by hand of Ewwzaya in the last novel, because it's catering to fan favoritsim at its finest, despite the fact that Shizuo is hardly always instrumental to the plot. though his involvement certainly was in a lot of arcs, the story would've been as if not more beneficial with the removal of, or maybe, just maybe, less fixation on him and Izaya.

So therein lies the first problem. Much of the main cast has wandered astray and those who're left lack the charm and diversity of the originals, though the originals that remain are disinteresting on their own accord without backing from the original cast in its entirety. This is an unfortunate problem with the skimming I did of SH 1 throughout. Yashiro's one "interesting" factoid seems to be that he's able to beat Shizuo, yawn, next. Kuon is the post-crazy Mikado clone. Yawn, next. Himeka's searching for Onii-chan. Yawn, next. It's even more of a bore than some slice of life show, at least that can evoke the feels factor. Narita's writing style has seemingly also become more stale, but that's mainly reflected by the fact that he's writing such an uneventful story that'd make K-ON! look masterful in comparison. It's an unfortuante little diddy that feels forced upon us all, or rather, forced upon Narita by his publisher that desperately pleaded for him to churn another series from his bowels that'd merit an equally large following.

Well, the anime could hardly do such things. as far as adaptations go, it was one of the worst I'd seen in awhile, right next to Bokumachi from the same season. For those who stuck it out through the five years late, disappointingly executed continuation that was Durarara x2, Ketsu namely, I am with you always in agreement that it was complete and utter manure. So Narita probably saw his work butchered by Shuka and thought "well, why even continually try to sell to cognitively trained, smart, clever people? Every other show that has two guys and a girl is hot, and if I can recycle the premise from the first novel, add that garbage bartender that everyone seems to like in spite of him not being anything but canned blandness, and imply that Ewwzaya is still alive, BAM, PROFIT!"

Perhaps I am just a nostalgic, a dreamer awaiting the revival of a character that'll likely never appear again or in recent time on account of purposely unexplicit, pathetic, lowbrow pandering that appeals to the lowest common denominator fujos, nostalgics, and shounenfags who think that this can somehow outmatch its predecessor. Durarara the original series is by no means perfect, there are numerous undeveloped characters and plotholes that have yet to be filled, poor explanation and sloppy writing towards the end, not to mention the fact that the conclusion to the series itself is safely picked to avoid offenses or shock, traditionally the bad guys must lose, good guys must victor route, despite there being so many shifts and so many conflicts, the victors all seem to be Face characters while the Heels unfortunately are dealt the cruelest of fates. Predictability aside, it's a boring ending with no ambigousness. Shouldering complaint about the original series definitely being flawed, it's still an amazing concept that has characters of potential interest who were subject to great misfortune far too early on, never given their designated spotlight time when overshadowed by everyone's favorite, and not mine, EwwIzaya and EughShizuo. The execution was imperfect, however, as is with ensemble casts in fiction, DRRR suffers a syndrome that led to pilings of shounen leftovers and disatisfactory explanations. Nonetheless, it's still a sturdy series that shines in its concept, and that unfortunately warranted an underwhelming sequel series that the author likely wanted not to write in the first place.

In finality, Durarara SH is a solid 5 at best and a 3 at worst. The only accolades I can give to such a safely written, boorishly planned, yawnfest of a "novel", is that it is technically a novel that probably took some time to write, containing words that were drafted to paper and revised, so at least it is a novel. Good for you, Narita, gold star.

On second thought, let my favored critic, Doug Walker / The Nostalgic Critic really summarize the extent of my frustration with this excuse for a "continuity"

Deep Inside, She Still Pinpricks

They're small fires to my skin
Sharply slight,
warmly cold
hurtfully relieving
That girl, who claims no longer to be
who she was once
still gnaws at me
with her past fragments
that burst forth so occasionally in my mind
telling me i'm borderline insane
telling me i'm nothingness
that life maybe doesn't exist
I hate her, she left me,
I hate her refusal to stay
there is not just one her, there are many hers
familiarly blending into one mass of regretted feeling

why did i care about you, why did i fucking care about you
And why does it still hurt to think about you
a changing name, a changing face, a changing voice and a changing heart
and you always thought i stayed the same
and maybe to you always i'll be a juvenile seventeen

what you can't see, the improvements beyond our former boundary
will never be known to you
but tears swell in my eyes pettily
as i cried on a shower floor, as i've choked on my own excess, and bashed skull against a wall

why did you leave me so inoppertunely?
did you think it wouldn't affect me?
any feeling besides your own,
and do you still occasionally think of me?

Wednesday, March 30, 2016

other eh

- i am now mostly active on MAL
- MAL is good because i am surrounded by people who give no fucks
- there are basically no PC people
- i mean there's obviously trump supporting idiocy but that's dealable. although i have seen a few sicko neonzis who i have reported and told to fuck off with their disguising bullshit. like, git off my site.
- i have actually met people who find me interesting without objecting who i am and even finding my quirkiness a little interesting, which at least gives me the illusion of having something to do outside of idling about and pretending that any job offers are actually going to get responded to
- in the least at least they're not saying "i'm not your diiiiiareh audrey"

- easter was shit
- consumerist and religious bullshit
- two of my least favorite things
- the only merit was the fact that i have a series of bath bombs and candy from it, bless my dad's splurging
- my mother spent easter predictably sitting on her skinny flab ass doing nothing of worth and i eventually ended up leaving the house in a sensory tizzy after essentially forcing myself to be unmoving like a fucking lug for hours awaiting her to do something of worth, a shaking nervous wreck who felt somehow only invigorated as far as anxieties went by doing, saying, and feeling nothing outstandingly magical, proving once again that my mother's house is just a memorial for everything i hate about my past self and old life
- even my sister didnt want to be there. she spends her life in that hovel she calls her room, she has the accommodations in there to nourish her for at least a few days i'd reckon.

- i watched hanamonogatari and found that takashi nasujima appears to have another daughter, her name being rouka numachi. that fucking unruly hair, shifty eyed, wholesomely sinister yet innocuous projection. yep, she's his alright. to the nasutrain with her. mugino, that yuu kid from hq!!, oikawa, and yuasa are already there, it's really stacking up....

- i want to write again but am at a loss for inspo, I mean I wrote THIS as part of my "CLASSLESS" fic, but it's nothing astounding:



In contemplation, in one section of the city, there was a pitiful soul who held her head lowly, dangling it over the breezy balcony of an apartment building’s unsteady railing. Her eyes vacantly roll upwards at nothing, at the blueness of the sky and the one contrail that forms for miles. One hand extended to the edges, splintering wood kneading into the pleats of her fingers, she aimlessly ponders the meaning of life wholly, the other shielding a small stomach protrusion unseen through the thickened layering of garments.

I don’t want to live callously in this world; I don’t want to be subject to cruelty for one more duration, no matter how long, no matter how short.

There was another pathetically parasitic thing inside her, scrabbling for the freedom to inflict its vengeance upon the world, just as sickeningly unwanted as she herself was sixteen years prior. It scratched at the walls of her swelling body, nursing dedicatedly on the succulence of her blood, connected to her in a way that could only be resolved through prodding ache or some other brutality.
This is not her’s, this life, is not her’s. This life only bears the label of her name, and none else, years prior the life began to belong to another, stolen, warped, and drenched in the particles of syrupy substance. Would it be so wrongfully unjust to scrap her fragments to cut the life from its bound tie to the individual it only gives power?

As she casts her saddened glance to the ground below, two hands emerge from a foreground,  latching onto a waist that hoists itself to the railing’s peak. A scream escapes from her throat before a muffling by another. It was the same sinister grip always used, it was the same invasively abrasive touch, sending her to petrified state.

“If you wished to die,” The blackness of a gooey voice slipped through the warmth of her ears, invading the plug of her senses tastelessly fondling the canal. “Today, you require my permission. Looking forward to plunging yourself from the planks of the building, praying they will break beneath… if that is what you crave, so badly, death…” The snaking tongue crept between her stale lips. “Then you have my authorization to do so, young lady.”
What’d lovingly cradled her, what’d groped and pressed her, what somehow strummed the chords of an instrument yet remained smoothly soft against the rawness of her skin, the hands of so many functions memorable and vying to be forgotten, pressed the indentation of a spine, with unknown strength, and tossed her entirely overboard.

What took the form of an accident, a faint howl tasting the bitter air, the red streaming between her legs, an abdominal cavity shrinking momentarily, the remains of two splayed on a sidewalk while the neighbor who’d only witnessed her drop and not heard an escaped cry from earlier, aided futilely. Above, the other feigned somber, lightly tapping the flimsy door, beckoning to the ghostly apparition of the departing. One, two, five, twenty, sixty. Seconds passed steadily as the elder woman came to his door panicked, the redness of the young girl’s fluids tipping her fingers.
#119, #119 was unable to salvage the young woman’s consciousness, the teenager’s vitals were lost in the crowded back of an ambulance. The medical tech declaring her deceased, the straddling elder tried hardest not to crack grins through the agonizing act.

Pretty girl, pretty girl, pretty little girl. Petite body, with skin as milky as a porcelain mannequin, facially dainty, dark featured, wide smiled with hinting sharpness. Oh, so, fine.

At 16:05 on Friday, an adolescent student, known as Girl X leapt from an apartment building’s balcony in attempt to end her life. She sustained consciousness for around half an hour, driven to Ikebukuro’s general hospital, however, her vitals flatlined prior to arrival after losing excessive amounts of blood. The sixteen year old reportedly was a subject of severe bullying. She was surrounded by her family when she died. Girl X was allegedly raped, and four months pregnant as confirmed in autopsy. Miscarriage of the child was the likely cause of the bleeding.



that's so fucked up lmao

Rosay

so after god knows how long, since relaying a lovely second message to popsiclete dearest in apology form.... well, the last one was... let me open my gmail again?
okay. nine days ago.... and receving no response, i have officially declared forfeit on ever receiving closure nor any sort of response or understanding, and that's okay, because i am currently salting over much worse.

sometimes i sit about pondering the validity of life as i blankly lose myself in the textured blandness of an eggshell wall with overlapping pleats of light, and wonder why i continually try. as i find myself dissociating from pure fantasy or reality, stranded between two planes of thought and general cognisance, i cannot help but wander with lacking directionality towards a light that i know will only scorch me, a sound that'll deafen me, and a series of words, a captured thought that'll only swell tears in eyes, i cannot help but somehow continually pummel myself in a mental sense over things that i cannot directly control.

today i submitted two applications for employment for another cashier job that i hopefully will be able to obtain, despite the extensive questioning the online application thrust at me in some attempt at thoroughness, on the other hand, what would probably be classed as a personality test masquerading as a series of run of the mill questions covering workplace etiquette and mannerisms, and a comparative selection of choice words to describe how i would act at such a job. it appears that the inescapable slew of tests is inevitably attached to every online job application, before security that you'll obtain the job is even assured, you must put forth such efforts. to think that i foolishly believed that this would be easy. to think that my SSN was the only information they'd needed. with no resume to attach, work archival, or outstanding traits, presumably i doubt my validity as a wanted candidate, but i cling to hope that i answered the questions in both a promisingly exaggerated fashion accompanied by my own flair, the true bane of the job application world, the embellishment and the personal trimming. to an extent i said what was wanted to be heard, answered what was wanted to be answered, and tried to the best of my ability to at least have some inkling of truth ingrained about my admitted slacking, but alas, truth is no competitor for that kind of sly trickery. my efforts certainly have been minimal, applying to maybe one to three places prior, all without response, and now, onto another that'll undeniably be tossed without care into the pits of reject obscurity alongside all the other undereducated NEETs whose ability is gauged by the relative "value" of their obtained high school equivalency being automatically deemed laziness, more than anything. What truly takes me aback the most is that perhaps in a sickeningly sweet satisfactory victor for my mother, who I'm sure would just be elated to hear about her failure daughter's bitterness whilst her prized one is invited to Brown fucking University on academic and extracurricular merit as she strides confidently on trek to a better future, traipsing gleefully down stairs that trap the elder in her purgatory...

DRRR Ketsu's ending as expected was remarkably unsatisfying and simultaneously brought me to such emotional brink that I felt inauspicious anticipation dreadfully settling within the first few minutes of the last episode as chaos ensued rapidly in a poorly paced rate that'd make even an unseasoned novel naysayer gawk, shoddily animated in an alternating of Shizuo's body stretching and constricting. Of course, nothing could prepare me, lo and behold, for the worst section of the episode that I was actually terrified of, and that was the scene where Takashi gets what so many fans like to call a "just desserts", and what some may even declare to be the rightful ending. Despicably, I guess I'm disallowed my opinion or even to raise my fist, slam it hard on a surface, and try and acquit myself somehow of the fish eyes people will continually dart at me from the sidelines. As if he was undeserving? That is not what I am saying, as everyone prone to misinterpretation claims, when on MAL I found myself embroiled in my own chaotically unintended feud where another fan had the audacity to firstly demean my entire mental capacity and capability based on some disagreements I had made with the ending overall, or the fact that I had drooped my score for Ketsu overall by at least two points since I watched the show in the earlier stages, and thought that it still showed promise. Wishing that I could say it was the first time someone spat the words "insane", "crazy", "psycho", in my face, but I have undoubtedly been subjected to such refined insults in times past. It was exhilarating, I felt like I was dealing with tumblr, attitudes of the misunderstood. How sick and tired I was of hearing it. I put the naysayer in her place, and she apologized.  And everything was okay. So reminiscent of times past, ain't it? Not the exact kind of shit I want reminder of. I am grateful that such preemptive judgement was at least, reconsidered. Sometimes I ponder over the validity of my sanity, of course, as people who I do talk to tell me I'm "okay" in my sparse interaction, trying to shoulder criticisms of those who I interacted with in the past, to release the weight that hangs so heavily from me in unimaginably large quantity, an unseen emotional burden that clings to the notion that faith in those who have wronged me can somehow be restored even as they continually prove themselves to be uninterested or outright refusing even the kind of person I am now. Protecting themselves with an impenetrable barrier of utter indifference. This I guess is the closest thing I have to a diary to rant about such aggressions that stem and flourish within me, that I too shove aside in favor of pretending not to be pestered. Maybe the guilt manifests in how droopy my features unexpectedly become, an observation my dad cites, the fact that when lost in thought my face sourly contorts. Maybe I'm awaiting some kind of abduction or unexpected spasm, for something in me to finally rupture, to cease my pathetic and unproductive existence on this earth, simultaneously doing everything, in reality somehow never amounting to enough. what is the essence of life when you're seemingly having fun at first and then it's overshadowed by bittersweet realism and the thought that's plagued since you were a child? Like, is Audrey Taylor gonna amount to anything, or should I just have reliance on my fucking laxatives to trigger an ulcer that'll be my demise eventually? Not even suicidal, not even elated, simply, purely, and definitively exhausted at funcitionality. Is that a way to live life? How alive am i really, amid all my shitposting fun? what impact am I having by serving no one's purpose, having no shoulder to lean on or reliance on someone to feed my famished little consciousness that craves attention that'll never be fulfilled? Is this really how life should be lived. Yeah,, I didn't think so. Fuck this shit.

If I were feeling up to it, I'd start penning my post on how much Ketsu sucked ass, but that'd require something called time, effort, and some level of resilience to be able to look at the visuals of episode 12's torturous scenes without repressing my urge to cry while my body somehow reacts grossly to seeing Nasujima's nearly naked body, despite it being in the awful position its in. I am seriously on the cusp of writing a drabble where he guts that ugly little yandere stereotype and hangs her disfigured remains by the fucking entrails. No, I'm adding all his little family gang in there as well. Hell, before he kills her, I'll probably write him raping her again, that'd get me off the thought of that disgustingly unrealistic role reversal that'll nightmarishly exist as a begrudging thing i want to leave my fucking head. Ugh. Fucking nasty that it even exists.

And that was when I began to abhor whatever would follow DRRR's original series without question. coincidentally did I happen to find SH an unimpressive borefest that evoked only a few yawns from me, invoked no emotional response, and simply made me state "why the dry cookie cutter reprise, Narita. the only difference being the fact that the Kida clone can beat Shizuo up. Good fucking job, you pandering idiot. the shounenfags must be drooling.". The praise for Durarara SH is laughable hilarity and goes to show that anyone will read anything if it hearkens back to the old era, when I find such content that steadfastly refuses to deviate from the yawn inducing norm to be complete and utter trite and a waste of what frankly is Narita's writing flair. Nasujima novel, did you ever consider it? A novel not surrounding the static setting of three kids in the city of shit? Or were you too busy subjecting him to Haruna instead, you motherfucking clod? Yeah, fuck this. Fuck all of it.

Saturday, March 5, 2016

My (un)sympathy towards the N0NBIAREH (aka why your nonbinary genders are bullshit from the perspective of a former tumblrina)


When I was still entirely young and stupid (see: a couple years), and relying on Tumblr to somehow fuel me sanely, I truly believed that people who aligned with specialized gender labels that are entirely disproved in the most part by general social and biological constructs as well as the obviousness of the fact that they're subtle as a truck in their presentation of attention seeking, were somehow worthy of that entitled attitude they carried.

well, I now, years later, am coming forth to say that I retract from that attitude years thereafter, after dealing with excess flack from a series of children who defecate  at being called by the wrong referrers, the slightest offense, really-- and coming to the conclusion that such a thing is, firstly, a rarity if it does occur, and secondarily, possibly dysphoria based if it is real, but otherwise is easily just an attention seeking maneuver performed by the confused teenage and entitled collegiate population to somehow appease themselves of the fact that they cannot come to terms pertaining to identity, are teeming with hormonal imbalance , both, or are simply cases wrought with such insecurity that they feel they have to conform to needless and pathetic labels that they think are somehow inventive.

http://37.media.tumblr.com/c016dd554dea27697d9d564658f27e77/tumblr_n57wwkDTF81rg7ylio4_r1_250.gif


Saturday, February 20, 2016

...

attempted apology to popsci in a doc, which was sent over skype. if i'm still blocked, that is going to take an eternity. i had to fucking end it. i have no more energy left in me for this. if i get accused of something in return, or my doc ends up being altered to make me seem nasty or abrasive and then is posted to the web to slaughter me socially, i can at least confirm that my career is dead in that regard, and retreat to the confines of a nice corner. i'm doubting it will happen but i am sincerely scared.
please don't make my attempt to try and say i'm sorry a public event....
i risked this because i am tired of feeling this way and i'm sure you are too
i'm sorry alright

speaking of drama...
mother and i got into a feud over trivial garage cleaning shit. so much for civility between us, civility be damned when there's a thousand different reasons for us to begin fighting over nothing aside from a few differences as to what needs to be kept and what not? she also repeatedly called me 'uncaring of the past' because i told her to stop constantly being distracted by the lure of the albums she kept eyeing that she's actually suppose to be sending to my grandmother, but that's besides the point. eventually, we lapsed into a screaming interruption fit that lasted until we were hoarse, and even when we tried to speak rationally, there was no agreement or understanding. i was left simply with nothing gained, but all my will to argue lost. i am hurting already and my mother's contribution when we were seemingly starting to have some better relationship, has hindered that even worsely.

i can't hate her, anyway, hell, a bit ago, she was nearly hospitalized under the premise that something was possibly wrong with her brain. i don't know what hurts more, the sudden lurching of your mother's mortality onto you, and the fear that something is sincerely wrong, the responsibility thrust onto the shoulders by doctors who are forcing you to sign for you when you barely feel like an adult yourself, the excess of legally binding papers with terms and conditions applied in print so small even a person without visual aid would damn near need a magnifier, and all the other added pilings of what happens if something is wrong.. her CAT/CT scans took an hour to two to complete, that which felt like the longest of my life. I had not honestly been in the ER since my admission to the mental hospital, and the regular ER for a few hours back in 2014, where i was almost immediately stuck with an IV by doctors who'd trouble finding my vein properly due to dehydration, when they eventually settled for a protruding one in my hand that hurt like hell to prick. I had not been in that sterile, bleached whiteness of constant movement, even late in the night, since then. To say that the personal and exterior connotations stressed me would be an understatement, while I forced myself to retain a strength to juxtapose my mother's obvious physical weakness and inability at the time. Her results came back right, and she was then released, after they finally gave her meds to aid her pain.

the last time she'd whacked her head on a blunt surface was from a seizure, this time it was from likely drunkenness, though she swore she fainted. that combined with the fact that she'd stopped taking her medications to prevent seizure or stroke from occurring again, had me greatly concerned that she'd some damage. The only wound present now with her is a black eye.

I may hold a lot of fury towards my mother, but I cannot hate her in her entirety for what she has done to me. Don't think even I understand that myself sometimes when feeling esp vindictive. It's not anything but hurtful to have seen her looking so weak and blathering on in a slurred incomprehensible speech whilst I just had to hold her frail hand. My mother when I was younger went through a time where she was so sick after the initial seziure that she was literally fucking wilting, and to see that again, at another age, would break me, I think. the concern I have for her is great, despite some of my apparent indifference that a lot of people think I have. she's not well, and I don't know how to better her, but if she drinks herself to great inebriation and eventual addiction that may shorten her life indefinitely, dies because of foolishness, even if I am not around to see it, that hurt will seep into my veins and probably never leave. I know not how to help my mother, as I know not how to help anyone who doesn't want to be helped.... I don't know how i'm exactly properly dealing with this combined with the rage, and as shown during the hospital visit, I'm still incredibly brittle, spiting my status as a legal adult. Sometimes I feel like the child in me who was stripped barren of her childhood is calling out and knows not what to do, and that was certainly one of those times. to feign being strong is hard, but to suppress the urge to just wail into nothingness while nobody watches and nobody comes emerging from shadows to help you, is all the worse.

I'm sorry, friends. It's hard. And even after tonight, I'll admit, I'm still not out of words I want to write. I think i'm going to go another round with the journal, start one again, finish my ever ongoing fiction that's lingering in development hell if it means I can exhaust an endlessly flowing stream of what seems to be my emotional reconsideration.

If I can't right things in regard to my own relationships, the least I can do is work on fictionalized ones. I dunno.

My mother prior to our screaming found a journal written by my father during his latter teen and early twentysome years, in a similar instance where he too was friendless. Accounting how he watched others antics from afar in what he called "unintelligible gibberish", written backwards on the cover in his ironically sarcastic fashion. I'd not read much of it and now that it's in his possession he probably will not allow me, but what I did read does remind me of how alike we are, in a sense. I don't think we willingly remove ourselves from social interaction out of preference, I think that withdrawal has always been on the basis of fear. I think those brief tidbits somehow only give me a greater appreciation that I have someone like my dad as an influence in my life somehow, because if he could overcome his social anxiety, maybe I can too. Maybe all the mistrust I have is just preparation for another reawakening. I could always start my own diary, instead. certainly beats never shutting the fuck up here, even if this blog is purposely not listed on any of my sites for the sake of privacy, I have yet to actually restrict it from public search or privatize it entirely, I just don't see a point.