...or something else responsible, like reading my Bible or flossing my teeth.
But I'm blogging instead. =D
It's been a little while since my last blog. School has started. I've already found the one class I can't stand (it seems like EVERY YEAR, there's one), Writing Club is kicking ass and taking names, and I'm procrastinating.
What is the subject of this procrastination, you ask?
Well, dear curious reader, I will tell you.
Lately, I've realized an abundance of adorable animal commercials. You know. The kinds that make you stop whatever you're doing, sigh, and go, "Awww."
You know what I'm talking about. The Geico gecko. The Cottonelle puppy. ELI FRICKIN' ROTH (Why, yes. He is a cute animal.) I tend to find that the ability to be able to pull off a face-full of blood is incredibly sexy in a man.
ANYWAY.
I want to take the time to post some of my favorite cute animal advertisements. Do you have a favorite? Anything that makes your icy void of a soul melt for the 60 seconds that the commercial is playing, giving you just long enough to begin to contemplate not throwing your TI-84 at that idiot teacher of yours?
...Maybe that's just me.
Anyway. =D Here be some cute critters for ya.
Now, I'm not the biggest PETA fan in the world--even as a vegetarian, I think they're a bit whacked--but the combination of adorable puppet snake and adorable Eli Roth is just too much. Seriously. I'm leaking gray matter from my nose.
(In case you're like me, AKA, obsessed with this man.)
Aaand for another ad:
My inspiration to go vegetarian initially was an adorable picture of two pink piggies (yes, on PETA). I still want a pet pig. (If you make a crack about eating pork in the comments like my dad does every time I say I love pigs--he does this weird lip smacking thing and looks at me like I'm an idiot--I will delete your comment. =D)
And of course, the Gecko.
Alright. I need to get into my homework. But please.:)Do you have a favorite? Anything that warms the cockles of your heart? (Yes. I really just said "cockles.") Comment. =D
I saw Eclipse yesterday. Spent $10.50 on the ticket alone, and bought a gargantuan Cherry Coke for $4 (it was supposed to be a "small," but I could barely wrap my hand around it).
First of all, I want to ask this: Why is it that nancy boy Edward, with his I-just-swam-five-hundred-laps-through-an-Olympic-sized-swimming-pool-of-glitter skin and wiry chest hair poking through his shirt in a way akin to Simon Cowell, is seen as the ideal boyfriend?
"Oh, he's gentlemanly. He's hot. He loves Bella so, so much."
Before I go into a rant about how stupid I think Twilight is (and yet, yes, I paid to watch the movie; it's like cotton candy, tasty for a little while and then it makes your jaw ache, it's so sweet), I shall post this, for the Almighty Oatmeal sums up my feelings.
http://theoatmeal.com/story/twilight
Okay. So. My own main problem with Twilight is this:
TEAM JACOB VS. TEAM EDWARD
And the little empty shell caught in between.
What is my problem with this? One, I just can't find it within my Anne Rice- and Joss Whedon- loving soul to give a damn for Meyer's damned. I had better daydreams when I was 8 than what this woman has penned.
My other main problem is that Edward is a controlling, potentially abusive prick, and he's what is setting the standard for tween love. And Jacob isn't much better.
I think I just choked on my own vomit.
Anyway. I digress.
If you're going to love a vampire, first you should know some things about who they really are. Because Stephanie Meyer's demon spawn splattered on wood pulp is not Nosferatu of the Night. No. They are Glitter Monsters. They puke glitter. Crap glitter. Eat glitter shakes in the morning. Wear glitter mascara on their fake glitter eyelashes, which are, in fact, attached with glitter glue.
So here are the guidelines for real vampires until they were bastardized, ripped up and left in the sun with Holy Water as sun block by Stephanie Meyer and all of her horrible "AMAGAD VAMPIIIIIIRE!!!" followers that now clutter the YA section of Borders.
For this following example, I will use Joss Whedon's Spike and Stephanie Meyer's Edward to epitomize my point.
1.) Vampires do not glitter in the sun.
In fact, they set on fire. This is the way it has always been. Creature of the night and all of that.
Take Spike. He has to run around Sunnydale with a blanket over his lovely bleached head in order to travel in the day. Why? Because he's bad ass enough to pull off a blanket.
Lestat was the same. How was he almost killed? Fire. Fire = sun = day.
This sparkle crap is a campaign to sell books similar to when Barbie wants to sell a faerie doll.
2.) Vampires do not like Italian food.
Duh. This is as old as the Transylvanian version of the myth itself. Vampire + garlic = This does not even merit a Spike vs. Edward comparison, except to say that when Edward took Bella to an Italian restaurant in Twilight, he either a.) has bigger vampire kahones than Dracula, or b.) he's vampire castrated.
3.) Vampires don't dig on the religious. Spike hugged a cross and his skin burned. Buffy killed a psycho vampire by tricking him into drinking holy water. Angel burns his hand when he touches Buffy's crucifix. God and vamps don't mix.
This was semi-addressed in Twilight; Carlisle's (I don't care enough to check how to spell that) dad was a priest or something, but Carlisle left the church when he was changed. However, he has a nancy boy obsession with souls and such which is very reminiscent of the religious (and a little too reflective of Meyer's own beliefs). Meyer leads us to believe that vampires have souls in the fact that they care about souls, which leads me to this point:
4.) VAMPIRES HAVE NO FREAKING SOULS. Unless you're Angel. And Angel is the prime example of the suckage that is born from vampires having souls. He whines. He cries. He can't get it on with the Buffster.
Spike again. William the Bloody. When he is changed, he tortures people with railroad spikes. Kills slayers. Generally tears across continents, wreaking havoc, all while having beautiful hair and perfectly chipped black nail polish.
When he gets a soul--something he fights to earn--he is miserable. He goes insane. He tries to claw the soul out with his fingernails.
It's not natural. At least not in vampy land. Maybe it is in soccer-mom-sexy-fantasy land.
Vampires are demons. That doesn't really vary from mythology to mythology. Demons are opposed to good. That means they have no soul. Gold star on the Sunday school chart for you if you figured that one out.
And my fifth and final point,
5.) Vampires have to be invited before they can come into a home. Angel. Dracula. Lestat. Spike. Come on, guys. You're not going to have a creepy, amber-eyed glitteratti staring at you from the base of your bed, unless you want him to be there.
(Aren't there laws against that sort of thing? Laws that involve chains, moldy bread, and a large woman with a mustache named Bertha? No? There should be.)
This is all without me addressing stakes, diet, sexual habits, changing, and so on and so forth.
Point is this. Vampires aren't these fluffy little glitter bunnies that hop around giving awkward teenage girls self-esteem boosts.
They are the bad asses that take your local virgins, seduce them, and rip their throats out so that they can make Bella Blood Martini.
Case closed.
Liberal use of phrase "nancy boy" brought to you by my insane love for William the Bloody that surpasses the normal and borders on the Freudian.
Here's a video num num for you.
(PS: Werewolves change during a full moon and use Bella bones for toothpicks. They don't turn into cute little puppy dogs that hate vampires. Dracula actually sometimes turned into a wolf. But I digress. I super digress. Before I start ranting again.)
Nanowrimo, for those of you that don't know, is a month-long frenzy during November in which you write a 50,000 word-long piece of work, which you claim is a novel, but is actually a novella if you want to get technical.
www.nanowrimo.org
ANYWAY.
In my pre-Nano life, I had already written two novels. Two crappy novels--both handwritten--in spiral notebooks. One was 250 pages long, and the other was 374 pages.
I thought that I knew the meaning of having my soul stolen by a work.
My third novel was a Nano work. It was more of a personal thing that I needed to get out--I swear to God, I might cry if anybody ever reads it. And not pretty crying. More like angsty-teen-had-a-baby-with-Keith-Moon crying. You know. The kind where your eyes are puffy, you're making those death-scrape sobbing noises, and oops, you've just thrown the TV out the window.
My fourth novel? Oh, I committed a cardinal sin.
I told my muse that he was my muse. And my muse is my boyfriend.
(Yes, we're still dating.)
He got so excited. He couldn't believe that he--HE--had inspired a character in one of my novels. Well, I got excited, too. So excited, in fact, that I told him that the novel would be his Christmas present. I met my 50,000 word goal by the skin of my teeth, but I was nowhere close to finishing the novel.
I'm still not. After last years Nano, I felt completely drained.
I jumped into poetry. My writing style completely did a 180 from what it used to be (even my mom doesn't like it now). And I have no idea how to finish my boyfriend's novel.
It almost feels unfair. I promised him something. I didn't deliver. I feel stupid for telling him that I'd do this. But, psh, I thought. I've written three before. Whatevs. You want a novel? Here, lemme crank one out for you.
Okay. So I've been (in)Fertile (in)Myrtle for ages.
And then I had an idea for another novel. And it's been eating me up from the inside.
I was planning on using it for Nano. I was so excited. I've been planning out characters, outlining the story, everything--this is a big step for an impulsive writer like me (probably 80% of my prose is stream of consciousness, and I still don't know if that's good or bad).
But I feel like I'm cheating on last year's Nano. The file that squats on my jump drive, staring at me.
The thing is, I still love that idea that I had for that last novel that I never finished. But...I don't know. It ran out of steam. Kaplooey.
I've really, really missed blogging. I'll look around me and say, "Hm. I could blog about that. BUT NO. DON'T. BAAAAH IT DOESN'T FIT THE ANNOYING, PINK GET-UP OF YOUR STALKER BLOG!!! BAAAAAH!"
(For those of you that blessedly do not know of the Internet's tumor that I'm speaking of but are absolutely dying to find out, go here: www.greysqueenfest.blogspot.com )
Blogspot is very different now. Kind of...shiny. I like it.
So. Like I said. Starting afresh.
Because I got through puberty years ago, and hopefully my blogging style has as well.
Is there a theme to blog? Of course not. I'm too selfish for that.
Will I say things on here that will embarrass me very much? Possibly. Possibly.
Okay. In case you were wondering how I've changed--or you didn't know in the first place and you don't really care enough to go look at my profile--I am Grey. Is that really my name? Well, no. I'm actually Eli Roth in a female body. And twenty years younger. But with the same dashing good looks and twisted brain.
Yes. That is really my name. Or at least the one I want you to call me.
(At least I didn't make up some weird, pseudo-Japanese name. Yes. It COULD be that bad.)
I'm a vegetarian. A rising senior. A novelist. A poet. The girlfriend--for three years this October--to a beautiful, beautiful young Briton. A frequent dyer. A nerd. A Joss Whedon fanatic. A zombie freak. A Twilight-hater (I'm aware that this is a trend now, but I just can't help myself, dearies). A Grammar Nazi. A gay man trapped in a female body (No, Eli Roth isn't gay. If Eli Roth was gay, I'd cry. The gay man is Eli Roth's neighbor in my brain. They have tea together and watch gory films.). A Tarantino worshiper. A Pastafarian. Monty Python devotee, music junkie, blah blah blah...
Ha. Ha. You have to buy a new keyboard now. I caught you drooling while you were sleeping while you were reading this blog while I was eating ramen while I was laughing at you.
So. Long story short. This is me. This is new blog. That is you.
