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Pokemon Rant on PaulWhy I Hate Paul
The Paul I am referring to is a character in the pokemon anime, who is currently Ash's primary rival while the group is in the Sinnoh region. Paul is really a varied character: on the Serebii.net forums, the Paul character discussion thread has, at the time of writing, nearly spans twenty pages, though most of it is saying how "awesome" he is. However, I do not think he is awesome. I hate him more than I hate Harley from the same show. I want to strangle Paul and break one of his limbs. Most probably won't know why I feel this way, so I will explain.
First, Pokemon are sentient beings in this setting. As Linkara pointed out in his review of "Captain Planet and the Planeteers #3," if animals were truly intelligent enough to make their own decisions and follow orders, animals would easily be given rights. Considering that many pokemon in this setting are shown to be smart enough to qualify, pokemon should have a bill of rights. In the real world, Paul's trea
Pick Me Aparti. I want to take a hammer and chisel to my chest and crack open my sternum. Hopefully my ribs will splinter and my lungs will cave in.
ii. I'm going to take scissors to my veins and snip at them so I can rewire my body how I see fit. Maybe I just want to feel in control for once.
iii. I think I might want to become a doctor so I can learn what it's like to operate on someone besides myself and see how somebody is really supposed to look like on the inside. I pick at my insides every once in a while and although I'm not sure, I have a feeling I'm missing something.
iv. More than anything I want to become a chemist so I can create a drug more powerful than heroin because it just doesn't cut it anymore. The needle marks aren't too comforting and bring up questions I would rather not answer. I used to hate the way I feel but now I just want to be comatose and I love the way I numb.
v. I wish I knew how my brain worked so then maybe I could reprogram it like the time I rebooted my lapto
Sleepless NightsMy bloodshot eyes are stained with black, circled by dark rings of sleepless nights and smudged ink. I have a permanent headache, my mind singing bloody hymns with battered rhythm and broken voice; my failing vision clouded by smoke and cracked glass.
Words leak out of my skull, seeping like black tar; they burn my skin like the sting of elusive flames. I have broken promises tattooed on my chest.
And this is how it feels to have your imagination chained to your heart.
I lower my ink-stained hand to ravaged paper, and words trickle out of my veins.
The man looks up through shadow-filled lashes. His desperation drifts like smoke through the air with the heavy sound of his quiet voice:
What must I do to be happy?
I drink poison; ink washes over my tongue with the bittersweet taste of inspiration. These words are my prison: whispers of loss drift across my heart.
But this is the life I created; I write down my dreams and they become n
DarknessTell me a story of darkness," the sun asked the moon, but the moon just smiled and shook his head.
There is no real darkness," the moon replied. It's really just the absence of light."
The sun was confused. Isn't that what darkness is all about?" she asked with a puzzled look on her face.
Again the moon smiled. Indeed it is. But darkness is an illusion. It doesn't exist."
I'm quite sure it does," the sun said and she seemed very certain. "Everybody is always talking about darkness."
The moon nodded understandingly. Oh, but they talk about a lot of things, don't they? Let me ask you this: Have you ever actually seen darkness?"
The sun went quiet for a moment. She looked down upon the earth in deep contemplation, thinking about what the moon had said, and eventually she had to admit: No, I haven't."
The moon nodded. See. That's what I'm talking about. It doesn't actually exist. Darkness may seem big and scary at times, but it's really
We share the blueberries Mama left for us, the juice staining our fingers and our lips. We eat them with the solidarity that figure skating partners would give their perfect souls for, and in the ecstasy of our union stained with blues and purples like the hues of the skies just before sunset, we are content. It is 1984 and we are barely able to comprehend anything but each other.
"You need friends," Mama whispers with her venom-like breath and her love belied by her lack of understanding. She does not understand. We have friends. We are friends. The simple harmony and the symmetry that breaks only with the soft marring of birthmarks on my inner thighs is more than enough for us. We do not need "others".
The first "other" Jezzie and I turn away is a cousin, a frail, blonde little thing with eyes as dark as a the juice on our hands. With her dark little eyes she watches us as we sit alone on the window bench, wrapped up in the tissue paper world of the peach blossoms outside the
Reverse Culture ShockFlying home was not flying home. Flying home meant grabbing the homing pigeon inside of me and twisting its imaginary magnet one hundred and eighty degrees to the north instead of southwards to Australia. The magnet still twitched stubbornly north even as the plane droned over Darwin, five hours before I finally reached home. Except it wasn't home. Sydney now looked as foreign as the glossy travel leaflets I grabbed from Singapore, its shine not quite matching the missing substance of my once childhood home.
"Thank you for choosing Singapore Airlines I hope you will enjoy your stay in Sydney, or a warm welcome home."
Winter air slapped me like a bucket of ice water as I emerged, searching for my parents and my sister. For eight years, their voices were tinny and masked by static on the occasional phone calls home. Today, they sounded as brittle as ever, Australian accents barely sheathing the chill emanating from them.
"Welcome home, sis," said my sister with an unusually bright v
To Wallow..I have given up.
Then why am I still breathing?
It is so unfair to think that I have had enough,
then why can't I just cease to exist?
Time can be a saviour and also an enemy.
Flashbacks of moments spent in happiness, clouded
by loneliness and shadows of discontentment.
Why do we always want more than we have?
Can we not learn to be content with the given moment?
Our greed for emotional fulfillment is a blight on our existence.
We find it, we lose it, we yearn it, we shun it.
Are we so confused with what we need that we turn away
every morsel that can be our sanity and salvation?
My tears have gone dry.
My thoughts are of yesterday.
All todays and tomorrows just seem too hard.
I walk within this body of mine and I can find no answer.
Miles and miles of memories are upturned and sifted through,
seeking but never finding what made me whole.
Was I ever content?
Have I just gone through the motions of believing this was how
it is meant to be?
I laugh at how selfish I am.
A trait that infes
requiem to remember the roses.there are these roses and they grow outside my window in the spring;
in the summer the sun burns their petals and they die.
i curl into a ball on my bed on the hottest summer days and sing to them -
its like my requiem for the roses.
you're a gin soaked barroom queen, spilling your thoughts to a stranger. you've abandoned reason and hope and you've forgotten love and dreaming.
all thats left in your alcoholic little mind are tales of better years and ability to hum yourself to sleep - even on the loneliest of nights.
you're close to a tragedy, but you're breathing and you've still got a few smiles left behind that sore face of yours.
it's the 5am cold sweats and cigarettes, and the attempts to find a teenage jesus that make me think i'm lost. its the screaming in my sleep and the inability to walk that make me believe i'm not going anywhere.
its the wanting to wake up staring at the sky that keeps me alive.
because there's something about the sky that reminds me of a self portrai