You make choices on how to present yourself to this world. In the title. In the space. In the rhythm. In the definitions. In the feel. In the voice. It is always about your voice. You question every move that brings it into fruition. A place where it can be touched and seen and experienced. Because it is just too damn hard.
You have been writing a story. Writing is the wrong term. You have been compiling a story in your head for years. Transcribing a piece from mind to page here and there. Never consistent. Never organized. Never motivated with that necessary fire under your ass that needs to be. In order to move forward. You worry over every syllable as if it would change something. Frightening is the wrong term. Paranoid seems better.
Confusion sets in. Your words get lost and jumbled in the time it takes to express them. You miss the point and lose your place. You are lost and are trying to enjoy it. Trying to find something bright in the mess of your voice.

Best SONG! :]

Meat: Global Hunger

There is more than enough food in the world to feed the entire human population. So why are more than 840 million people still going hungry?

It takes up to 16 pounds of grain to produce just 1 pound of edible animal flesh. According to the USDA and the United Nations, using an acre of land to raise cattle for slaughter yields 20 pounds of usable protein. That same acre would yield 356 pounds of protein if soybeans were grown instead"”more than 17 times as much!
Producing the grain that is used to feed farmed animals requires vast amounts of water. It takes about 300 gallons of water per day to produce food for a vegan, and more than 4,000 gallons of water per day to produce food for a meat-eater. You save more water by not eating a pound of beef than you do by not showering for an entire year.

Much of the world’s food is fed to animals, so that more affluent people can eat meat. Worldwide, in 2004, about 50 billion land animals were eaten by humans.

About 10 kg of food is fed to cows to produce 1 kg of beef. (The ratio of food to meat for other types of meat is less, but still represents major inefficiency.)

The world’s cattle alone consume a quantity of food more than enough to feed the Earth’s entire human population.

For example, more than 50% of the corn and oats grown in the US is fed to livestock, not to people.

Much plant food grown in third world countries is sold to developed countries to produce cheaper meats.

http://www.earthoria.com/global-hunger-the-more-meat-we-eat-the-fewer-people-we-can-feed.html
http://www.meat.org/
http://www.vegetarian-society.org/WorldHunger

It is easy in the world to live after the world's opinion; it is easy in solitude after our own; but the great man is he who in the midst of the crowd keeps with perfect sweetness the independence of solitude

                                                                        ----Emerson

I Didn't Want To Break It (hahah)

.........

It’s funny how over time you take down old pictures, put away tokens from the past, and shelve journals with worn pages. You store them away and put up new memories, promising never to forget. But somewhere along the way, you lose them. Those memories become another life, the actions and thoughts of another person, and suddenly one day it seems as if those instances never happened at all.

Thoughts Of The Day

I had fun this weekend. There was a span between points in my life, between them I’d become too worried, concerned and over analyzed things. Some things dont need to be analyzed. I’ve begun to believe in simplicity. Fun is simple, but simple things aren’t always fun. I’ve begun to share my thoughts with others for a change. My brain has always been an unsettling and constant, cascade of ideas, sums, analysis, estimation, possibilities, uncertainties, etc. The cascade hasn’t changed, my perception of it has. I’m comfortable with it. It keeps me on the razor edge of sanity, my footing is new and steady.

Dear Diary...Mood: Apathetic

I realized today that I am a very cynical and sacastic little girl. I wish I could be happy and sweet like boys want girls to be. But instead I am someone who overanalyzes situations until they are “blue in the face” so to speak, and with a sharp wit to match. I wish I could be the cute nice girl that everyone loves. But I can’t. No matter how hard I force myself to be sugary sweet it just seems so fake and horrible. I can’t stop my tongue from making snide remarks and I’m always perfecting ways to be even more devious than the last time. Maybe it’s in my nature- I mean, maybe I was just born overanalytical. Or perhaps I developed it because of my environment. It was a defense mechanism made up for those harsh days. And now it doesn’t exactly fit in or coincide with the personalities of the ineffectual people mulling about in the vast spoils of suburbia. I don’t know, but this kind of speak is an example of me overanalyzing nothing at all.
I haven’t been bothered by my atmosphere in a long while. I haven’t been having those concurring thoughts of “Oh GOD I need to fucking get OUT of here.” I’ve just sort of been living my quaint and charming life, taking things day by day. That’s probably the way to do it, but I enjoy overdramatizing things and fucking them up, so usually I don’t have that kind pleasent mindset.

Bullied

She looks so insecure, looking at the ground, hiding her face behind her hair, wearing oversized clothes so her figure won’t show. Why is she so insecure? Maybe she gets bullied. I think so. I wonder what kind of awful things they say to her. They probably call her fat, ugly, worthless, useless, stupid, dumb, weird, disgusting. The interesting thing is, that she is none of those things. I hope you will realize that soon, stranger.

Way Things Are

I don’t like being depressed. Me and my horrid, uncaring, pathetic self have locked the bedroom door and began blasting my old Nirvana CD. Poor ol’ Kurt Cobain - so tragic, so REAL. I like reality. Like in Almost Famous. I can relate to him. He was real. William was so fucking real. Am I?
I think I’m too real. Too intense. I wish desperately sometimes to be carefree and do what my blonde hair is screaming at me to do - HAVE FUN! But for some reason I’m under these unbreakable pseudochains where I’m forbidden to be happy. I want to be fake. And cheery. I don’t want to be told a thousand times a day “CHEER UP EMO KID!!!” Fuck! I want to slap on a blue cheeraleading uniform, the one that reflects my pooly blue eyes, shake a few pompoms, and shout some RAH RAH RAH’s… and be happy with that. I want, no, I WISH to be SATISFIED with being superficial and eternally joyous. But I’m not. And I don’t know why. Why I don’t want to date the star football player? It frustrates and saddens me that I can’t just be okay with being mediocre.
Instead I have to ponder things wayyyyyy too much. thinking sucks, and dammit it’s all I ever do.

Someone, hand me the patron...

HMMM

I like to think I’m more guy than girl underneath the exterior. Hoodies and t-shirts with silly prints are my preferred choice of fashion, and I’ve been wearing the same sneakers for years. I think altogether I have 3 pairs of shoes that I wear regularly. I don’t mind getting my hair wet in the rain, and I don’t use my PMS as an excuse for being a moody bitch. Because it never really is the reason, is it, ladies? I snort when I laugh and I make sexual innuendo jokes more often than I should. And dead baby jokes. I like those a lot. Too much, perhaps. I play computer games. My best friend and I have lengthy discussions about our kill streaks. It’s not something we generally share with others, but there you go, now you know.

But.
And there’s a but.

Every now and then, I am overwhelmed with this fluttery feeling inside my gut, and it’s all your fault. The feeling that makes me reach into the back of my closet, pull out my prettiest blue dress… That which makes me sneak into my mother’s drawer and find her pearl necklace. To curl my hair. To put on a girly song, and then… To dance. I’ll twirl and sing and fantasize about being your perfect lady. Mmm, you taking my hand and saying something in French, perhaps? And myself, as a perfect specimen of female grace, laying my head against your chest as we slow dance. Anywhere. At a ball or in the parking lot, I don’t care.

Sometimes I snap out of it. But sometimes I walk around for days with my mind in a haze and my outfits perfectly accessorized. My mother is particularly fond of these periods in time. She’s always wanted her own little princess. My father, however can sense the gazes of men upon me from miles away, and rejects this state. And what about me? I love it.

I love it.
I love it.
I love it.

I love the way you make me feel.
I like the transformation.
A miniature revolution in its own right.