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


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.