"I don't care -"

" - what you think, as long as it's about me. The best of us can find happiness in Misery."

-Fall Out Boy. 'I don't care'

"There ain't no rest for the wicked. Money don't grow on trees. I got bills to pay, I got mouths to feed, there ain't nothing in this world for free. Oh no I can't slow down, I can't look back, although you know, I wish I could. Oh there ain't no rest for the wicked, until we close our eyes for good."

-Cage the Elephant. 'No rest for the wicked'

"Hey there girl, tell me whadda you do, she said 'nothin but I'm damn sure it's more then you.' That girl's a genius, oh oh oh oh oh oh OH. I think she's serious, oh oh oh oh oh oh oh OH."

-Jet. 'That girl's a genius.'

"This foolishness can leave the heart black and blue. Only love; Only love can leave such a mark. Only love; Only love can leave such a scar."

-U2. 'Magnificent'

"There is nothin you can do that I have not already done to myself, There is nothin you can do that I have not already done to myself, There is nothin you can do that I have not already done to myself: no there is nothing you can do that I HAVE NOT ALREADY DONE TO MYSELF! I never wanted to dance with nobody but you. I never wanted to dance with nobody but you. I never wanted to dance with nobody but you: and I wouldn't take no for an answer you fuckin' bitch. Be nice! Be nice to me, don't let me be! Be nice! Be nice to me, don't let me go!"

-MSI. 'Never wanted to Dance'

"Out on the doorstep with my key turned in the door. Look in the livingroom and your stuff on the floor. My heart is aching and I've never felt this bad, I pinch myself to check that all of this is real. Keep thinking I'm not letting on I feel this sad and then you've got the cheek to ask me how I feel. And I say: Absolutely nothing, absolutely fine. Abtolsutely nothing you could say to change my mind. Absolutely nothing. Absulutely fine. Absolutely nothing you could say to change my mind."

-Lili Allen. 'Absolutely nothing'

"Oh Kiss me. Flick your cigarette and kiss me. Kiss me where your eye won't meet me. Meet me where your mind won't kiss me. Fick your eyes at mine and then hit me. Hit me with your eyes so sweetly. Oh you know, you know, you know that yes I love - I mean I'd love to get to know you. ...Do you ever wonder? No. No no NO you girls never know, oh no you girls will never know. No you girls never know: how you make a boy feel! You girls never know. Oh no you girls will never know. No you girls never know how you make a boy feel. How you make a boy --"

-Franz Ferdinand. 'No you girls'

"We must stop meeting this way, we'll both be living ok. Cuz we fell so far from this tree again."

-Splender. 'Supernatural'

Dangerous Threshold

"And here we are. On the ragged Edge. Don't push me." - Captain Malcolm Reynolds

Every once and a while, I can feel the updraft from the chazm stretching before me. It breathes on my face like the amorous winds from a lecherous drunk. It wants me to jump into it's arms, rocky teeth in a jagged smile as it measures me up.

Will I survive the fall?

The open air, cooled by the breath of the chazm, becons me, tendrils outwards to cool my heated cheeks, dab at the dampness beneath my eyes, smooth away the creases of worry on my face. They even reach out to uncurl my fingers from the fists they had formed during my journey to the edge. Something about me balks them though - perhaps the grim determination in my eyes, not to budge. The conflicting forces ripping at my insides telling me to both fight and flee. The battle is visible on my face. Perhaps they like to watch my confusion, want to see what I'll do - who knows, maybe I would run screaming.

I've lifted my foot and dangle it over thin air, an act of Indiana Jones Faith, eyes open and glaring across to the other side, willing myself to grow a set of wings and get ON with it.

...And thats how I stand, frozen, suddenly aware of how terrified this chill air made me.

Of course, thats just one dark corner of my mind. The rest of me: keeping busy and staying out of most trouble - except the fun kind of course. Distracting myself from the numb pains and the dull aches, you know the usual.

I think I shall go bowling soon.

Oru!

Residence

So I am looking for a place to live.

I need someone to move in with me.

I realize this is the wrong place to post anything where the appropriate people will find it - but I'm rehearsing.

I need someone clean and responsible, however more then willing to have a party night every once and a while. I need someone who is not adverse to the idea of a dog. I need someone who will be able to pay their half of the rent. I need someone who is both clean in habitat and in themselves. I need someone with a fun-loving decorating style, who likes movies, and the occasional video game, and doesn't mind the idea of entertaining my family on occasion.

I need to know this person. Personally.

And they need to not be my parents, although they have been wonderful room mates.

Oru

Know Me?

What is my favorite color?

Seeing people yesterday that I haven't seen in months really puts certain things in perspective for me. They were friends of a certain former significant other, and the location was at the mall.

Why do I always see these people at the mall, exactly? Is there some sort of commercial magnetism that draws people together? People I haven't seen in months, or on the rare occasion, YEARS? And I wasn't even there for more then an hour.

I was actually very glad to see them both, all sarcastic smiles and asinine jokes aimed at my current companion in crime. The same old guys, meandering about and doing ... what they've done for the past years and years and years I guess. I wish it was that simple, I really do, sometimes.

Now, upon meeting up with them, we all go out for a smoke, lighting up and puffing like movie stars, letting the smoke curl up our cheeks with narrow-eyed pretensions. They pull my comrade to the side (He's been friends with them for much longer then I have) and I get the distinct impression that I am one of the topics discussed, and for some reason it doesn't bother me. In a sick way I wanted to pull my friend aside afterwards and drill him for the juicy details, but I refrained. Instead, we talked about my Former Significant Other as an outsider, the boys telling me that they were shunned for behavior that they frowned upon.

I found myself pleased.

Then one of them looks at me and grins, saying, "man, you weren't like this before. You're like, all high strung and happy now."

"I was happy then, you know." I retort, cigarette dangling from my lips.

"Right. But now you're high strung. More out there. It's cool."

I don't really know what to say to that. I merely smile and nod, grinning with a shit-eating smile, and then we all swap numbers. I let them convince each other that they're actually going to call me to hang out this weekend. Then, we part ways.

Now my concern here:

How well did they know me that they could make that observation about me now? Have I changed that much? I have to say yes, because even I, in my delusional denial, can't avoid the obvious changes in me. But these boys that barely knew me saw it? I find myself slightly unnerved, but... strangely glad for it.

Which brings me to the real meat here. How well do you know your Oru? I don't want pretenders who feel me after never having met me. I don't want the kinds of people in my life that think they know everything about me after one encounter. I have had enough of people looking into my eyes and telling me what I'm thinking - and being right. I don't want to be an open book, and I most certainly don't want to be predictable.

So I won't be.

Oru

Time Share

My mind is divided into sections. Like a cubby system. Or, if you want a better image, like those mazes that lab-rats are let loose in. On occasion, items in certain cubbies will ... create a kind of spill over. And in that case, I have to re-allot my thoughts, and assign more groundspace for these unfinished projects.

Of course, - those are for the nice, smaller issues. Like my cubby for 'writing.' Within that cubby are hundreds of ideas, just bursting out of the tiny space like fireworks. So on occasion, I have to regroup. Try and switch cubbies with another train of thought. (Like 'school', which is retiring anyway, and thus needs far less space to live.)

Now all this shuffling around leads to inter-office dating. Which leads to other things, which leads to a marriage of thoughts in a sense, which can on occasion lead to a duality of subjects in the cubbies. I could write about school, for example, or go back to school for writing. This creates unavoidable parallells between cubbies, and thus moving them far from their homes can be dangeroius to my very psyche. so instead, I rent the space out to my thoughts, and They share the space.

Time Share.

And amid all those cubbies -are my memories, providing the framework of the thousands of little thought processes eternally being bartered for, traded, shuffled about and thrown around in the post office of my mind.

...And amid those shuffles, i completely forgot what it was I was going to SAY about all this. Ah well, better luck next time?

Oru

Pet Cemetary. Except NOT.

Another day at the Hotel: my new job. Front desk clerk and proud to be a part of the HGI TEAM. I wear my nametage with self-importance, and wield my all-access key card like a champ. Normally, I am in control of my actions. I take my orders, complete them, and stand waiting in the wings for a phone call, a reservation to make, or a complaint to smooth over.

Except there's something very strange today. Today - I wasn't supposed to be in today until noon, well afetr any morning checkout drama were to occur. I was supposed to be a mid-shift cover, a helping hand, not in charge of all of it. And of course - the schedule changed.

As it so often does.

And here I was, 7 am, standing behind the front desk. And a woman comes up to me and says:

"Did you know that there's a dead cat in your parking lot?"

With horror in her eyes.

I blink, confused and say, "What? No, I had no idea! I am so sorry, I'll call animal control -"

"NO." She insists, leaning against the countertop, a slightly frantic gleam to her wide eyes. "it's a kitten. It's EYES were gouged OUT."

I blink again. I almost don't understand what she wants me to do about it. "Oh no, thats horrible!" I manage, honest disgust on my face for the atrocity at hand.

"I know. You should call someone. Thats animal abuse." She nodds, affirming her own belief.
I nodd too. because I know she wants me to. Then she goes off.

Things progress. I ask if the maintenance guy could check it out, see if it looks like it was actually GOUGED or if it was picked at by birds - knowing full well that the eyes are the first thing to go when you're talking roadkill. The maintenance man assures me - some sicko probably did it. Group of jerk kids maybe. Sure. But of course. It would never JUST be roadkill.

My life isn't that simple. So I report it to the police. they say they will send over an officer to check it out.

Then we hear, (the front desk clerk covering breakfast hosting this weekend,) from the phone line. A bizarre, rappid beeping noise. As I check the digital screen, I see "911 call" pop into view and blink. And of course, while this is going on, a man who barely speaks English is trying to convince me that their breakfasts should be complementary. He and his 'coh-leez'. Or then 'coo-leegz'. Which I translate to Colleagues. Because I am apparently a genius.

I discover, after dishing out coupons for no good reason, that it was room 315 that had called 911. The lady who told us to call the police. Which, being the obedient little front desk clerk, I had already reported. And as the 911 dispatched officer strolls into the place, he gives me a sympathetic smile and goes on up to soothe the nerves of the animal rights activist.

Not to say I had no pity for the creature. It was a kitten, after all. Tiny, and skinny, and without eyes. But there's only so much I can do. And I saw nothing happening out there, so I could provide no insight to the events leading up to the feline's demise. There was no unmarked van squealing from the parking lot, masked villains chucking the battered kitten-corpse out of the sliding door. Trust me. I would have noticed.

It's my job.

So after some more phonecalls, (manager, police, manager, front office manager, manager, police (to cancel police), biohazard removal, front office manager and then manager,) I take a breather. The maintenance man and one of the busboys from breakfast go to clean up the deceased in question, and make use of the biohazard baggies supplied to us through whichever hotel supplier we got them from. Then they put the baggie in a box, and the box next to the dumpster. And there it sits.

And when I think it's all over, 315 calls down.

"Hi... is this the girl that came to talk to me before?"

I think a moment, remembering vaguely that the hostess/front desk clerk had gone up to make sure she was all right and try to reason a testimony out of 315. "No, she's actually back in the breakfast lounge, would you like me to get her?"

"No. Are you the manager? Who is the manager?"

In my mind, something twitches. "I'm afraid our General Manager is off the grounds today, is there something I can help you with, Miss.?"

She sighs. elaborately. Everyone who complains at a hotel sighs elaborately. They can't seem to help themselves. It's disgusting. Then she says, "Listen, I just want you to know... it ... well, I know it's someone in your hotel thats doing this."

As if this happened more then once. I reply with a pointed, "I'm sorry, excuse me?"

"...I mean, it had to be someone that KNEW that there were kittens in the dumpster. Right? I mean, you know what I'm saying?" She persisted.

Another something in my mind twitched. Huh. Sounds like SHE knew there were kittens in the dumpster. Isn't that strange? "...I understand miss. Would you like me to forward you to the General Manager's voicemail?"

"No, no. I'lll call ... um, after I leave."

I wait. I feel like she wants to accuse ME outright, simply because I was there. I felt as if she wanted to accuse ALL of us of participating in some horrific pagan ritual when no one was looking. Where we strapped the kitten to an iron cross, put on white hoods, chanted in latin, and ceremoniously removed the eyes. Of course, just before we put on ski masks, hi-jacked an unmarked van, and tore through the HGI parking lot.

After a moment of silence I allowed her to suffer alone, she threw something else in. Just because she felt she had to, "And don't give that guy my room number."

"...Excuse me? who?" I can't stop myself. Who is this woman talking about? The maintenance man who cleaned up the cat? The kitchen busboy that held the bag? The policeman SHE had called?

"...Just... don't give my room number to anyone else." Then she goes silent again. waiting. As if for a confession.

"...Of COURSE not." The tone is decidedly harsher then it should have been, I admit. It was... rougher. Perhaps the insult leaked in and I couldn't bat it away fast enough. Either way it was out. And then she merely told me to have a good one and got off the line.

And that was that.

Dead cats. Always causing trouble.

Oru

Beautiful Days

Days like today make me want to be a painter.

I would want to go outside with my easel, paints and brushes, and capture the essence of the skies. I would want to be able to characterize the wispy tendrils of cloud that linger in our atmosphere. I want to be able to move my brushes to the rhythms that the trees sway in the breeze. I want to be able to depict the dance moves that birds in flight perform in their ariel ballet.

I want to be able to pour out all the happiness that I've ever had onto a canvas, smear it around to mirror the beauty I see around me, and show it to others as proof that there is good in this world. I want to feel the smooth, slick silk of the pains beneath my fingertips as I blur the lines between dreams and real life. I want to accidentally get bright colors on my face and clothes so that everyone knows that I've been up to something fun. I want evidence to surround me of this world, and how we humans have not yet succeeded in destroying it. Then I want to bask in it myself.

I want everyone to know the explosive happiness that I feel just by looking outside at the sun filtering through the lace of canopy, creating Piccaso Portraits on the pavement.

I want you to be happy with me!

Oru

Memories Drift

Standing perched on one foot behind the front desk for hours on end often gets my mind turning. I need something to distract me from the way my feet are pulsating from the constant pressure my body pushes down on them. On occasion I will be gifted with a task that involves more movement then mindlessly shifting my weight - but unfortunately those times are few and far between.

So, I think.

I think about things that have held me together. Then I think about how those things inevitably tear me apart. To avoid an onrush of unecessary angst, I will change gears, and dwell on any good spots of light in my darkened little heart. Dispite the row of pristine flourescents being sumarily blown to pieces by an M16, (whose name I try my utmost never to utter again, though fail on occasion,) there are still little runners glowing down the hall, and every hundred feet or so someone will have lit a fire in a barrell, or mounted a wall-sconce to light their way.

I am somewhat of a maze to begin with. And the fact that the lights are out isn't making it easier for anyone else to get to know me. Get close to me, become my friend... And I feel that this is driving a rift between my memories, myself, and the real world surrounding me.

Time for a deep moment. Cover your ears and hum please?

I find myself, every once and a while, craving his voice. I wonder how he's doing and part of me hopes his family is well, and wishes to see them again. I know he doesn't deserve the dirt on my shoes, or the spit in his face, but for being in the light for so long, basking in it, enjoying the warmth... how could I not want it back? After being thrown headfirst into the darkness following the burst of rapid-fire, the shimmer of sparks, and then the inevitable silence?

Think what you want. It happens to everyone. I wish I could taint every memory of him with a doubt, but there were none. I wish I could look back and say, "I should have known. I should have been ready for this. I set myself too high." But everytime I try, I can only think good things, I only hear his laugh.

I wish I could hate him as easily as I have been able to hate other deserving parties in the past. But I am dismayed to see that it isn't as easy as I hoped.

So now my mission is to make new memories. Better ones, ones that outshine the sterile brilliance of an old love. I will break down the walls of this hall and let in the blinding sunlight of a new life, filled with genuine smiles, affection, and ties only to those who won't do me harm.

I've taken the apropriate steps. And now to have it completed.

I have chosen to accept this mission. The only thing - no self destructing message please.

I'm not that kinda gal.

Oru

Self Defense

For a brief period of time, I took martial arts and self defense. I took one sample of Tai Kwon Do and hated the uniformity of every gesture. I let my brother try and teach me fencing, but found that I didn't posess the inherant grace needed to perform quite as well as I wanted to. Then I took a few months of Jeet Kune Do and found that I didn't necessarily need grace to defend myself. At least physically.

When it comes down to defending myself mentally, however, I'm convinced I am very well equipt to avoid any serious damage. Or perhaps - I am just very efficient. Efficient enough to get damaged and then work around the depleted part of me. It's just like Rome - when it was firts built, it was pristine, marble lined and grand. Then of course, as it happens, time eroded pieces. Society crumbled. It was raided and destroyed. And then, as civilizations often do, they built their great city over the ruins, making it whole again. Not necessarily better, but different. Incorporating the old with the new.

So, my fortifications aren't particularly as durable as I would like, crumbling to dust like disentigrating mosquito netting; however once past that screen, it's like assaulting an amorphous blob of water. Ever shifting and moving to accomodate around the newly severed piece. But never really falling.

Meh, at least thats what I'd like to think.

Oru

Infallible Wisdom

"What have you got to lose?"

Said with hands raised and shoulders shrugged, a quisical expression creasing your forehead.

Sounds frighteningly like a dare.

And though in itself, the phrase doesn't really reflect 'wisdom', especially of the infallible variety, it's potency in many situations is hard to ignore. In its own way, it's making you stop and think about the question. What HAVE you got to lose? If its something dear to you, then you think better of it and continue without tempting fate. However, if when you really search for that one thing you will lose and come up empty, it makes you wonder whats holding you back.

And the action of thinking before reacting is a time-honored tradition of those with infallible wisdom. Of course.

But what have I got to lose? ...Not pride, I don't think losing some pride would really hinder my lifestyle. I have a bit to spare, anyway. I highly doubt that any decisions I may even CONSIDER making would force me to lose friends. I also doubt that I would lose my mind, since I like to keep a few servings of crazy on hand in case of emergencies.

So... what IS holding me back?

Food for thought. Hm.

Oru

Character Building

First - you are born into your family. Regardless of their quirks or flaws you love them, learn from them and adapt certain aspects of your personality to be acceptable by them. (Don't deny it - even you rebels out there do SOMETHING to be either accepted or noticed by SOME part of your family if not the whole.) This provides you with your character base, the pieces of you that are, for the most part, stationary. They may shift or sink, but inevitably lift the rest of your pieces out of the mud.

Secondly - you go to school or out in the world and make friends. And even if you don't make friends, you interact with people in some way. They tease you or praise you. These things pile ontop of your basework. Now we all have something resembling a really messed up game of Jenga.

Thirdly - you find yourself emotionally attached to someone. Requited or not, you will strive to impress this peron, make them like you, see them smile or laugh. You will do anything to gain their approval and devotion in return - and often enough it is silly things. But of course - we do them anyway, don't we? This is the pretty stuff. The gingerbreading under every lopsided eave of our Jenga house. The welcome mat out front, and the chiming doorbell. You will convince yourself that you are settled.

For some of you thats how it ends. Despite the lesser rejections, you may feel that this jenga home is complete and live out your days. For those of you who are past this homey happy feeling, feel free to continue.

Fourthly - That someone rolls up the welcome mat and leaves. Things fall into a bit of disaray. As if to forcably shake things up and hide the lacing and the window boxes, you send an earthquake through the Jenga tower, and pieces shatter, break and fall to pieces at your touch. Pieces you thought were stationary now only have hollow cored and crumble to pieces. Even those with the iron centers shift and sink, puncturing your foundation and making it difficult to rebuild.

Fifthly - you have a revelation. Not the quick kind - more of an ever-building kind that blossoms slowly in your head until you realize, with sleepy, blinking eyes, that you HAVE build upwards. You have discovered the strengths of your foundation and enforced them, replacing the weaker hollow pillars for other ones. The jenga house looks more like a house.

And of course for those that can't do this - they join cupid.com.

...

Oru