Next year, I'm going to be realistic. Instead of trying the "365 Days" photo project and failing THRICE, I'm gonna do the "50 Books in a Year" in pictures. How creative of me, eh? Hahah. Anyway. I'm almost done with this one, and it's pretty fucking fantastic.
* * *
Apparently, my dad called me Thursday evening, but I didn't hear my phone. When I called back on Friday, he said he'd just called to "hear my voice," which instantly means CODE RED because he's never done that before-- not within the almost-26 years I was on this planet, anyway. So I had dinner with him and his girlfriend tonight. There's nothing wrong, after all. he's probably getting all mushy as he gets older.
* * *
The big boss's mother has been in a coma for about 2 weeks now. I got an e-mail from my boss this afternoon saying I shouldn't go in tomorrow because her mother-in-law passed away, and that the funeral was happening tomorrow. I can't even remember what I wrote back; probably something like "no worries; we'll get it done." It wasn't until I told my mother about it, and she reminded me to call her that I've realized I should find out where and what time the funeral is so we can go tomorrow.

I'm not the most social person in the world, but I'm not a sociopath either. I know how the system works, I know the rules, and I know how to play along. Yet, when it comes to death, I'm useless. Probably because I've seen way too much of it considering my age. When you get news about a baby being born, all you can do is go, "aww!" and congratulate to new parents because none of us can relate to what it feels like to be born-- we just don't fucking remember. But when it comes to death, your mind floats back to the other ones you've lived through, and the memories start sticking to your skin like acupuncture needles, the difference being how much they hurt when they shouldn't.

I just hope I don't break down crying tomorrow. When it was the funerals of people who were--and still are-- a part of my heart and soul, I couldn't shed a tear. I didn't even know this woman, so I'm afraid all that I've bottled up inside might come pouring out. We'll see, I guess.
* * *
I've been having very weird, fucked up dreams lately. I remember bits and pieces of most of them, but there's one that I remember every second of. I've started writing it. It starts with me inside the movie Bande a part, running through the Louvre Museum, and keeps getting weirder after that. It did get me to start writing again, but I'm not sure if I'll be able to finish it.
* * *
This entry ended up being way too long, and I have a feeling nobody has the patience to read more than 140 characters at a time; therefore, THE END.

I was listening to Tori Amos, and then a light bulb just popped in my head. In relation to this:

In Finnish mythology, a merman (vetehinen) is often portrayed as a magical, powerful, handsome, bearded man with the tail of a fish. He can cure illnesses, lift curses and brew potions, but he can also cause unintended harm by becoming too curious about human life.

Yeah. This is what I do when I can't sleep.

I don't even know how to phrase this question, but I'll try...

If you were to look at photos and listen to stories of a city you've never been to before, what kinda stuff would you wanna see/hear? I used to write a column called Istanbul Tales for our college zine, and I'm collaborating with my sister on a similar idea: she's going to take the photos, I'll write the stories, both fiction and creative non-fiction...

Any ideas are appreciated.





P.S. My mom playing Guitar Hero was awesome. Especially the part where she was head-banging to Metallica's "One."

I'm so excited about this, you don't even know. I've started my Avatar marathon, and even though I've watched most of the episodes more than once, I don't get bored. And, seriously... SOKKA = <333333 He and the "fluffy snot monster" are my favorites.

I really don't have anything else to update about. You know what makes me really sad? Chuck Palahniuk is already picking out finalists to include in his anthology, and I have yet to write anything. Pffft.

Off to bed.

I've figured out why this place doesn't inspire me at all: everything is so fucking familiar that I can't find anything interesting to say-- I'd gotten bored with it years ago, and going back to the same thing was very, very unexpected.

I have, however, started writing again last night. My mother reminded me that I should just stop thinking about crap that aren't my problem and focus on myself. She also reminded me that this little autobiography-like text came out of what I've gone through here.

It was a good wake up call. Now let's see if I can pull it off, even though I've always felt very awkward letting my mother read my stuff.

I was cleaning my room (again) and again I found old stuff. Below is my 12-year-old self who wrote and submitted a little something to the student publication. And those dumbasses published it, hahah. I cannot believe they wouldn't even FIX it before printing it. Anyway... I've looked at the date, and this was written 6 months from the day I started learning English, which explains how much it sucks. And I don't have anything to say about the subject matter-- I guess I was born fucked up.



* * * * *

I've been reading Neil Gaiman's The Graveyard Book and loving it. And then, earlier this evening, I was checking his journal and found this: he himself is reading the chapters, which is pure magic. I've been reading AND listening for a while now, and I'm in heaven.

I've also noticed that I have the UK version of the book, and he's reading the US version because chapel became church and trainers became sneakers to name a few.

* * * * *

Lastly, I just got an e-mail from Amazon about my pre-ordering the Twilight DVD months ago. I really am not that desperate since I already have it on my computer and all, but it was a good laugh.

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And now I'm going back to my book.

Actually, this morning. I wrote it down before I left for work.

- - - - - - - - - - -

When he swung the door open, she was sitting on the bed with her legs crossed, holding a gun in her mouth, her finger resting on the trigger. Staring off into empty space and deep in thought, she didn't hear him come in. He walked over to the other side of the bed in a few quick steps, turned the night light off and spread the curtains wide open. "You're wearing my favorite shirt," he said as he admired her collar bones showing through the neck, her skin sparkling under the ray of sunlight.

"Don't get blood on it now," he said, raising his voice this time. She put the gun down on the silk sheets and turned to him: "I was just doing research."

"And what exactly are you researching?" he asked.

"What it would be like to die while giving a blowjob," she answered, and they both started laughing.

- - - - - - - - - - -

I know. I probably DO need therapy.

Taken from Willa Cather's My Antonia, this is one of the best descriptions I've ever read. I love love love this kind of writing where the author doesn't just say, "the sun was setting so we decided we should head home."

This is what my author page looks like now =D

I collected ALL the winners badges in addition to the *pdf format certificate. Screw picking only one.



And here's the first thing that comes up once you win:

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I will admit I did cheat by putting in full song lyrics and poems. But desperate times call for desperate measures. Plus, the authors at the website had suggested in an e-mail themselves that if you do get desperate, your characters can always burst into song.

I'll take some time off now from writing, until after the holidays. After that I'll put my manuscripts in order, take out the junk and make it read-worthy.

In the meantime, I already made plans with my best friend for tomorrow night, where I'll actually go out and see a movie --Burn After Reading, hopefully-- and have coffee like a normal person.


ETA: The motivational e-mail that the NaNoWriMo website sent today was pretty cool. In case you want to check out the beginning of it, which very much amused me...

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