Oh Mariah Carey....

Alright...just a quick rant about Mariah Carey. I have to say, honestly...either go away forever or please for God's sake! join us in 2005! I am not at all debating the fact that she's talented, but her little formula of putting on next to nothing and frolicking in water and then straddling a microphone stand is just old. It's not 1990 anymore, I think she has enough people working for her to come up with something a little more original.
Secondly, the jig is up Mariah! there's no need to stand on bleachers with fifteen year olds pretending to be in highschool while we all know you're...well not fifteen. Or even 20. Your target demographic is grown up. Join us in adulthood wont you?

The conversation that never happened....

"well...."
"....well."
"here we are again."
"yes."
"there's nothing left you know."
"I know. I can't help it."
"you'll have to stop calling me. I can't handle it anymore."
"why not?"
"I'm afraid of what I might say."
"what do you mean?"
"you don't want to know."
"yes I do."
"no...you don't."
"you're smiling aren't you? ...don't lie"
"maybe. that's not the point."
"maybe it is."
"you can't do that anymore."
"what's that?"
"you can't get me caught up in this with you."
"i'm not trying to."
"what's her name?"
"who's name?"
"you know."
"don't be like that. you know I miss you."
"that has nothing to do with anything anymore."
"then....you're not smiling?"
"no...i'm not."
"I don't know what you want me to say."
"no, you never did, and now it's too late isn't it?"
"what do you want me to say?"
"nothing. just...nothing."
"you're smiling now aren't you?"
"....yes..." through her tears.

An evening spent in the middle.

"I'm freezing; who left the door open?" she asks the charming (read:possible asshole but she's giving him the benifit of the doubt) son of the groom.

"Well you could go get your jacket from the closet," he retorts with a patronizing smile.

First of all, she's pretty sure that he did see her walk in, and therefore knew that her COAT (not jacket) was in fact a Ben Sherman trench. Belted. Pink. And while it gave her a very modern Audrey Hepburn look with her sunglasses while walking through the rain to the wedding. In short, she was not about to go put it on and continue to mingle with people she didn't know.

"I could go get it, but...I don't know where it is," scrambling for ground under his horrible annoying smile, his eyes sparkling from the champagne. (By annoying she means he is actually extremely cute and it's such a waste that he must be such a jerk.)

"Hall closet...I'm going to get a some water. Want some?" meaning he'll come back to my table.

"Thank you, but I'm fine. Excuse me for a moment," she gets up and adjusts the top of her black dress for what seems the millionth time that night. How is it possible that she is falling out of her dress? It's a size two (TWO...she's pretty sure she's not a a size too but it fit) and yet constantly falling down. The paradox astounds her. But everyone does like the dress so she guesses it was worth it.

"That's a sweet dress," a random man in his 50's leers at her as she makes her way down the stairs to the smoking area, trying to be graceful in her heels.

"Thank you," because slapping him seems innapropriate.

An evening spent in the middle. Because she was too old to be swilling wine from the bottle with the thirteen year olds, and is too young to be talking about ...whatever it is the rest of the people are talking about. Though she did meet some great people, and also spent time with a friend whom she hasn't seen in ages. She did feel terrible because his girlfriend seemed to really dislike her but there wasn't a lot she could do about it.

Standing in a crowd of girls, pushing each other slightly. Everyone teetering in their heels, the bouquet is thrown. She was positive that she wasn't going to catch it so she wasn't even looking. She felt something heavy brush the side of her face before falling on the floor. *gasp!* ooos and aaaahs the bouquet had plunked itself right in front of her feet. Well....

well...

well....

She's 19 so she tried not to beam too much. Needless to say she failed. Grinning around the room, everyone hugged her.

Honestly. She's the worst feminist in the world because she's still sitting with the bouquet in her room and there's no way in hell she's ever getting rid of it.

The evening progressed with hiding out in the basement with two others. Playing charades in the dark and eating a lot of the leftover appetizers.

"You're going to end up marrying trew you know," a woman in red says, "He caught the garter. trew is eleven years old.

Laughter ensues at this, and she tries to save face, "Well I certainly feel like Michael Jackson suddenly," more laughter and everyone hugs her because of the wit. (Not even original wit...doesn't everyone make fun of Michael Jackson?)

The rest of the night progresses in a similar fashion. Meeting people, chatting, shaking hands. Hugging people goodnight.

Walking through the hallway of the hotel carrying her coat, heels clicking as she makes her way to her room.

Inside she changes and washes her face, placing the bouqet on the table, she flips on the TV and watches Stacy and Clinton save another fashion victim. She looks at the clock by her bed. 2:55. Her heart skips a beat and she almost calls him. Because, yes...she still does get scared by movies. Instead, she does the really dumb thing and takes out the bible she knows will be in the bed side table, and flips to the scariest part. She reads, and scares herself even more before putting it away and trying her hardest to go to sleep. For someone who is not at all religious she certainly has managed to scare herself to death.....before huddling down under the covers and falling asleep.

All in all though, it was a great night.

To quote anything here would be mundane, so we shall just say that this is Revived Blog, Entry #2

Alright, she cannot sleep again and has an 8 o'clock class. It's optional but she doesn't want to get into any more bad habbits this year. So she'll get to the point...
The problem with text messages are that one gets used to getting them frequently. For instance, the fact that one was sent to her the other night now seems to have set a precident mostly because she needs to be reassured that someone is still interested.
Secondly...there is no secondly actually. However; she has suspicions that she might be turning into something similar to Christain Bale's character in the Machinest. Minus the drastic weight loss, but there has to be something wrong with lying in bed for an hour thinking about the most pointless things. Perhaps she accidentally hit Hot Dad's monster child with her car and the insomnia is her way of dealing with it? Just kidding to the general public.
Thinking about what will happen tomorow when in reality if she falls asleep tomorow will come much faster. Too fast probably because we can't outsmart time. Maybe that's why she stays awake. If she doesn't sleep, then technically it is still today and tomorow isn't an issue.
She also can't really remember why she's started blogging again. Because it just gets her riled up. (and apparently riled is not a word that should be spoken after 8 pm because clearly she finds it hilarious to picture herself riled up by herself in front of a screen...be that as it may...) She knows that she's going to wear her hair in a pony-tail tomorow and worries about how it's going to effect her mood, because pony-tails tend to do that for some reason.
She's pretty sure (she should stop saying "pretty sure" but can't) that if she were on a TV show right now she would probably look like the cool alternative girl in her old high-school gym shirt and cropped white sweats; straggly hair and todays mascara slightly smudged under one eye. As it is she feels like the loser who is wearing her old high school gym shirt and the lazy girl who doesn't take off her make-up before bed. Funny how one person's alternative is another person's lazy.
She has a cut on her pinkie finger that she didn't notice until it was pointed out to her. It didn't hurt until she knew it was there.

Sound filters through the darkness and she wonders if she is the only one listening to this song. She's written over forty pages of poems and songs this summer, and she doesn't know what to do with the rest of the notebook or the words she's already put to paper.

She feels grown up, and scared. Sometimes thinking that this year counts for everthing and nothing all at once. Part of her wants to stay in Calgary and succeed at this life she's making for herself here. Yet there is that constant, overlapping voice that pushes Toronto to the front of her mind, making her desperate for her family and friends. Being bicoastal is an oxymoron because neither Calgary nor Toronto are on coasts, so she is simply caught in the middle. She knows she's changed over the summer. She's more and less secure about herself all at once and isn't exactly sure what to do.

Is she even a writer? Has she picked the wrong path to go down? Is it time to forget what might have been and concentrate on making the here and now the best it can be? ...probably but there's thinking rationally and being rational. She has found the two to be extremely different from each other and while she has mastered the thinking...the being continues to allude her.

The screaming of her music distracts her from the reality of these thoughts. It's really too late to be thinking them. Over forty pages and 21 new cd's later, her mind is so crowded with her words and others, she's not sure where hers end and theirs begin.