Do Not Push

George Carwinkle spent his days at work in a glass box, pressing buttons all day long. The voluptuous red one was for the crane, the blue one was for the stirrer. As he pushed these buttons, his spidery fingers callused with boredom, scents of cocoa and its various complements wafted through the air, flirting with his overlarge nostrils. He would snort and cough, his eyes watering from the putridness of the smell. Oh, how he hated chocolate. He wanted to destroy the cavernous vats of cocoa, take apart the machines, and leave them to rot in their sickening squalor.

He couldn’t understand how he had gotten stuck here, producing this nightmarish dessert. George was consumed by rage at his situation, but what could he really do? His father ran the company for over 30 years, and now he was “obligated to continue in the tradition”. A slow and steady knock had resounded throughout the walls of George’s cheap apartment a few weeks earlier, almost displacing the furniture, as a man’s deep tremolo vibrated further, threatening eviction and eventual death. His chocolate mogul thug of a father had his little mob, and it was an offer he really couldn’t refuse.
He had a brief mental image of himself trapped on the main chocolate floor, writhing in sensual agony as deadly scents ensnared his innocent, uncorrupted nostrils, and throwing himself into a huge, glistening vat to drown peacefully, finally escaping that horrid smell.

Oh, god.

He awoke yet another day, squeezing along the freeways in his cramped SUV, and found himself in his glass coffin yet again. He alternately pushed red and blue buttons, developing a monotonous rhythm. After pressing each a series of 1001 times (he always counted down from 2000), George begin to feel a strange lightness in his forehead. He stopped pushing for a moment and felt the lightness course throughout his body.

Is my mascara running?

Man, yesterday I was lifeguarding at Denise's house for a little girl scout troop (fourth graders), and this gorgeous tiny black girl comes up to me and asks me that question. I just stared at her. What the fuckkk? Mascara? You're in fourth grade, honey.

How can such small children even think about makeup? Why would they honestly even care? I think it's unhealthy to be worried about your appearance so early in life. And to cover up your blemishes, to wear eyelash accentuators (mascara), to be "sexy"...
Who gives their child mascara, of all things, in the freaking fourth grade? It just feels wrong.

I don't think I even knew of makeup's existence until middle school, when girls began to transform from just girls to objects of attraction. Then people started misusing it or using it to their advantage, some with orange pancaked all over their face, others with eyeliner smudged all over their eyes like wild raccoons, and good looking girls using just a little more than neccessary to distinguish their popularity, lip gloss popping out from uniformly clean, slightly orange faces.

I had noticed, however, that unlike these clean faced pretty little girls, I was plagued with spots.. coverup became my go-to girl, always accessible in an obscure pocket in my backpack or purse. I was rarely without it. And this holds true today, actually. It's kind of sad. I feel like I have to put foundation on my face to even out the lessening spots and create an even skin tone.. I hate looking like a tomato with bright white skin around my eyes like I did before (a product of swimming, genetics, sun, caustic face lotions, goggles, and lack of sunscreen use). It's just not a good look for a girl. But I wish it was. I really wish I didn't have to wear makeup normally, but I know in reality I'm not going to stop anytime soon.

"I'm Sppecial"

Man, I'm such a stupid little girl around Cliff. I say the most obvious and inane statements possible. We count how many verbal blunders/inanities I make each time I see him... It's been like.. 20.. in the last two times! I'm just moved by hormones, jeez.
I SWEAR I AM NOT RETARDED! Just.. made stupid by sex hormones?
however...
PROM. WAS. BEST. THING. EVER.
Yes. It was.
So was the dancing! And the food! And the boat! And the friends! And the view! And the fabulously wonderful date!
To take a line from A Clockwork Orange ((weirdest, most disturbing, yet intriguing movie ever))
It was real horrowshow, my friends.

That One Day

God, I could feel the depression creeping in just an hour ago. It started after school, a faint hint of exhaustation and boredom and rejection, and steadily grew in my mind for a couple of hours, nutured by unchained anxiety. I really need to do something about these days. I know them all too well. And things can even be going mostly right, it'll just be... something that gets me off the handle eventually. My mind tends to escalate situations and overreact to them fully. I create entire scenarios in my brain... I don't think this is good for me.
Prom is tomorrow... and I'm so fucked for getting my shit together.

All Flesh Is Sass

Muchhhh stress. I have an AP Stats Final tomorrow morning (partt two of two) and I'm NERVOUS! I studied a bit, but nothing much. I neeed to, though. I got distracted by other homework and A Clockwork Orange...
Ahhhh! So much anxiety!! I want it to be over. NOW!
I want it to be Saturday so I can go to prom with Cliff. Sattturday neeeds to hurry up. And my final needs to explode and cease existing. I wish a supreme higher being could actually hear that and do something about it. Alas, all flesh is grass.
x Melissa