STILLSUSPICIONHOLDSYOUTIGHTbyBRMC
You're everything you need and so you fight
You take them on your own until you die
The wisdom in your breath comes much too late
And everyone you see just gets a face
In time the words will come they say with faith
But everything you see just turns you grey
For art, I drew a picture of a tea kettle sitting on my kitchen table. It makes me happy. I named the tea kettle Miranda. It might be lame looking, but I'm only in Art I, and it took me a long time, so don't be mean.
Do you remember high school? For some of you, it might not be that far in the back of your mind. Do you remember homecoming? And all the hype and the dresses and the hair appointments and the tanning appointments and the shopping sprees and the contests and the winnings and the losings of games and attempts to show superiority? It's that time of the year at my high school. Our senior class voted earlier in the week for homecoming queen. The top ten girls were announced at the end of the day, and somehow, my name appeared in the list. Ha. I am excited to walk down the designated path in the sufficiently-decorated gymnasium on Wednesday morning with a random football player escorting my way, dressed-up like a lovely day, with an opportunity to make an impression. I bought my dress at Hot Topic for $20. It is green and red and gray and "different." It has that Susie Homemaker appeal to it. If you know what I mean. I will take a picture so you can see. The fact that I, the least-spirited and least-receptive young woman in the senior class (never goes to football/basketball games, never was asked to dances, has a geeky group of friends, does her work, keeps to herself), even made it that far is a fluke. If, by some chance, I make it to the top five, the homecoming COURT, I will be truly shocked. And you will know when that moment has come. By the way, I am indeed going to homecoming with my friends Jessica and possibly Cati. I am going to make my own fun of it.
I am buying my first pair of pointy-toed high-heeled shoes today.
People, are, by nature, flawed. I don't have to tell you that. I don't have to tell you that I have my flaws, too. And I don't have to constantly be defending my flaws for you to establish a sense of justice. There doesn't have to be any justice, sweetheart. There can be apologies. There can be realizations. And there can be an acceptance that doesn't come with bitterness and rage and hate. I want to accept that I hurt your feelings, and you can accept that you hurt mine, and we won't continue on this road of departure. It doesn't have to be that way. I am willing if you are willing. But until you are, I'll just sit here. Sit here and wait for the phone to ring.
Here's my designated pet-peeve for this journal entry: Customers. Just customers in general. But in particular, customers at Baker's Pizza Sports Shack located in Bucyrus Bumfuck, Ohio. That's where you can find Kelland. Five or six or sometimes seven hours a night, at least four or five nights a week. Customers on the phone are especially dreadful. They always ask, upon me answering the phone, if we have any specials. We don't. We have been open since last October, and we don't ever have specials. We never have. We probably never will. This is not my fault. We don't advertise to indicate said "specials" in the newspaper or outside the restaurant or on our pizza boxes or ANYTHING. We. Don't. Have. Any. Specials. Deal with it and move the fuck on. Don't yell at me, the poor, defenseless phone girl. Don't ask me when we're going to start having specials. Most people just hang up on me immediately after I inform them of the absence of specialness. It's like they won't buy anything unless it's on special. Regardless of price or value or quantity or any substantial factor. Like, I could say, "Yes. We have a pile of dirt from outside the restaurant on special for $12.95." And they would buy it simply because it's on special. Even though that's ridiculous and dirt is dirt and it certainly doesn't require such a hefty price tag. They would buy it anyway. I seriously am convinced. STOP ASKING FOR SPECIALS. BUY A FUCKING REGULARLY PRICED PIZZA AND SIT AND EAT IT AND SHUT THE FUCK UP ABOUT YOUR DAMN SPECIALS.
Also. Stop asking for plastic forks and salt packets to be delivered to you. We don't carry such items, and the nature of the restaurant doesn't really require that we begin any time soon. If you called for a salad at work, and you work in a factory, and you are driving home attempting to eat your salad after work, and you call and bitch about not getting a plastic fork with your salad, you A.) could've grabbed one from the break room before you headed out, B.) could wait until you get home and get a fucking fork from your silverware drawer, C.) could stop trying to eat a salad while you're attempting to operate a motor vehicle, you fucking dumbass.
And with that, she exited the room.
You're everything you need and so you fight
You take them on your own until you die
The wisdom in your breath comes much too late
And everyone you see just gets a face
In time the words will come they say with faith
But everything you see just turns you grey
For art, I drew a picture of a tea kettle sitting on my kitchen table. It makes me happy. I named the tea kettle Miranda. It might be lame looking, but I'm only in Art I, and it took me a long time, so don't be mean.
Do you remember high school? For some of you, it might not be that far in the back of your mind. Do you remember homecoming? And all the hype and the dresses and the hair appointments and the tanning appointments and the shopping sprees and the contests and the winnings and the losings of games and attempts to show superiority? It's that time of the year at my high school. Our senior class voted earlier in the week for homecoming queen. The top ten girls were announced at the end of the day, and somehow, my name appeared in the list. Ha. I am excited to walk down the designated path in the sufficiently-decorated gymnasium on Wednesday morning with a random football player escorting my way, dressed-up like a lovely day, with an opportunity to make an impression. I bought my dress at Hot Topic for $20. It is green and red and gray and "different." It has that Susie Homemaker appeal to it. If you know what I mean. I will take a picture so you can see. The fact that I, the least-spirited and least-receptive young woman in the senior class (never goes to football/basketball games, never was asked to dances, has a geeky group of friends, does her work, keeps to herself), even made it that far is a fluke. If, by some chance, I make it to the top five, the homecoming COURT, I will be truly shocked. And you will know when that moment has come. By the way, I am indeed going to homecoming with my friends Jessica and possibly Cati. I am going to make my own fun of it.
I am buying my first pair of pointy-toed high-heeled shoes today.
People, are, by nature, flawed. I don't have to tell you that. I don't have to tell you that I have my flaws, too. And I don't have to constantly be defending my flaws for you to establish a sense of justice. There doesn't have to be any justice, sweetheart. There can be apologies. There can be realizations. And there can be an acceptance that doesn't come with bitterness and rage and hate. I want to accept that I hurt your feelings, and you can accept that you hurt mine, and we won't continue on this road of departure. It doesn't have to be that way. I am willing if you are willing. But until you are, I'll just sit here. Sit here and wait for the phone to ring.
Here's my designated pet-peeve for this journal entry: Customers. Just customers in general. But in particular, customers at Baker's Pizza Sports Shack located in Bucyrus Bumfuck, Ohio. That's where you can find Kelland. Five or six or sometimes seven hours a night, at least four or five nights a week. Customers on the phone are especially dreadful. They always ask, upon me answering the phone, if we have any specials. We don't. We have been open since last October, and we don't ever have specials. We never have. We probably never will. This is not my fault. We don't advertise to indicate said "specials" in the newspaper or outside the restaurant or on our pizza boxes or ANYTHING. We. Don't. Have. Any. Specials. Deal with it and move the fuck on. Don't yell at me, the poor, defenseless phone girl. Don't ask me when we're going to start having specials. Most people just hang up on me immediately after I inform them of the absence of specialness. It's like they won't buy anything unless it's on special. Regardless of price or value or quantity or any substantial factor. Like, I could say, "Yes. We have a pile of dirt from outside the restaurant on special for $12.95." And they would buy it simply because it's on special. Even though that's ridiculous and dirt is dirt and it certainly doesn't require such a hefty price tag. They would buy it anyway. I seriously am convinced. STOP ASKING FOR SPECIALS. BUY A FUCKING REGULARLY PRICED PIZZA AND SIT AND EAT IT AND SHUT THE FUCK UP ABOUT YOUR DAMN SPECIALS.
Also. Stop asking for plastic forks and salt packets to be delivered to you. We don't carry such items, and the nature of the restaurant doesn't really require that we begin any time soon. If you called for a salad at work, and you work in a factory, and you are driving home attempting to eat your salad after work, and you call and bitch about not getting a plastic fork with your salad, you A.) could've grabbed one from the break room before you headed out, B.) could wait until you get home and get a fucking fork from your silverware drawer, C.) could stop trying to eat a salad while you're attempting to operate a motor vehicle, you fucking dumbass.
And with that, she exited the room.
VIEW 25 of 29 COMMENTS
buchanan:
You are a very good artist!
kstar:
'Howl' is well good....it's always good when a band makes an album so different from their other stuff that you can now play them through more than one 'mood' during the evening....