You make me so Mad

The worst kind of mad
The suffocating mad
Mad that you can't do anything with
To yell or to cry?
To break something maybe?

This mad, won't be expressed
This mad, just swells inside
Pushing at the edges
So that it makes you twitch
Tears well but never fall
Words form but go no where
Arms swing but never hit

You make me so mad.
You suffocate me
You attack my character
and call me a fool for thinking so
It's always my fault
You can do no wrong

No I will not carve pumpkins with you
No it was not selfish of me to put off my homework
No I don't tell you, and you want to know why?
BECAUSE the last time, I didn't stop hearing about it for
m o n t h s.

And I will lie if I have to
I will tell you I'm done
I will tell you I have no homework
and guess what?
I will finnish it anyways.
I don't want to fail.
I'm not stupid.

How dare I push you over the edge eh?!
How dare you try to push me around.
Fuck off.
I can hear you bitching to your precious girlfriend
who you hold in a golden light of parenting
I will never parent like her
I will never parent like you
I am not you
I will not make your mistakes
I am me
I will make my own mistakes
And I will live with them
If you're going to set me free,
You have to let me go.

Clue in.
I will do want I want
When I want.
Not because I am selfish.
Because I am a person
and I deserve to

I am not selfish.
I am no more selfish then you.
And it was you, yourself who said
"we're all a little selfish, we have to be"
because otherwise, we can't take care of ourselves?
Right?
Well you're doing a shit job
Practice what you fucking preach.

Sh*t My Dad Says

#2: "Men are stupid. Men are really really stupid. Keep that in mind, Holly. And remember, lesbianism is always an option."

Sh*t My Dad Says #1

This is a take off a Cosmo artical, `Sh*t my Boyfriend says`, which is a take off of a book/new tv show called...you guessed it, "Sh*t my Dad says"!
Some of them are wise. Some of them are weird. (paraphrased).

#1: "Guilt is dog crap. When you see dog crap on the sidewalk, do you stop and think Should I step in or over that dog crap? No! Of course you don't, you just step over it and don't look back. Stepping in that dog crap would just make things worse. And so will feeling guilty. It should not be guilt that brings us to do good things, and therefore guilt has no purpose and should not be stepped in."

"I is a Holly"

First, I am Holly,

and then I am a woman.

Then a daughter,

Then a student,

Then a friend.

I am, a Holly.

I am a feeler

and a talker.

A weeper

and a laugher.

I am a Holly.

I am a lover,

I am a hater.

I am confident,

I am scared.

I am honest,

I am a lier.

I am strong,

I am weak.

First, I am Holly,

and then I am a woman.

Then a daughter,

Then a student,

Then a friend.

Sometimes I forget.

Sometimes I am a friend,

before I am Holly.

Sometimes I am a daughter,

before I am a woman.

Sometimes,

I pretend not to hate,

I pretend I am always brave.

Sometimes,

I bite my tongure,

and quiet my laugh.

Sometimes,

I deny my emotions,

and my gut reactions.

But that is not who I am.

Unwritten

When she sits down to write, she pauses, taking a breath and trying to focus. Ideas start to form, creating images on the blank page in front of her. Depictions of storylines and charaters dance before her, but it's a game. As she reaches out to to grab one of the visions, it disappears. She watches in desperation as the others also start to slip and fade away. She grows frantic, stretcing out both hands, closing them around nothing but empty air. The ideas run away, like playful children, and her heart creeps into her throat as those fabulous images retract and return to their original state: straight blue lines that cross the blank piece of paper.

Her vision starts to blur as she stares at the same piece of paper, so she crumples it up and tosses it aside, only to find another blank sheet laying under it. She starts to feel as though she has hit the bottom of the sea and she is not strong enough to resurface. She battles with the urge to blame herself for the loss of those ideas, for the lack of inspiration. She puts her pen down and folds her arms across her chest, leaning back in her chair. The cold skin on her hands shocks her and reaches for her hot tea to warm them. Her fingers flush red as the blood returns to them and she pulls a pack of cigarettes out of her purse. Making a mental note to pick up more, she puts the last one to her lips, sparking a match with her free hands. She inhales, a comfortable feeling creeping over her. The smoke reaches out and relaxes her shoulders and posture, casting aside the tense atmosphere that ruled the room moments before. Her cell phone rings in the distance but she cannot be bothered to pay it any attention.

When the cigarette is reduced to nothing but ashes, she finds herself back where she started, staring at a blank piece of paper. The smoke is replaced by guilt as she closes the notebook, shutting out the possibility of ever seeing those dancing ideas again. She takes a sip of her tea but it has grown cold. She spits it out and pours the rest down the sink, watching it spiral down the drain until it is completely gone.

Silly Holly

Silly, silly Holly forgot to blog this week.
In my defense, it was a busy week.
I hope you haven't checked my blog yet >:P

FACEBOOK.

Maybe it was because I was brought up in the 90's, but as a young girl I dreamed of being a teen and spending night after night on the telephone with friends and boyfriends. All the movies and TV shows depicted teenagers bogging down the phone line, and parents stomping around loudly, complaining that the phone was never free.

What did my actual teen years bring me? Facebook. A website originally designed as a college dating service that quickly grew into a "social networking website". Facebook is so well known, you can find it in online dictionarys and my guess is that it will be making an appearance in Websters before the end of my life time. I finally "logged on" after a lot of nagging from a friend and I was thoroughly confused. I could not find my way around Facebook to save my life, so I dubbed it "stupid" and walked away. But, like an addiction, Facebook was calling me back within weeks. I have heard many a smoker say that they didn't like cigarettes the first time they inhaled but that their longing to like them kept smoking until it became something they enjoyed, something they needed. I feel the same way about Facebook.

Friend Request, confirm.

Status Update, like.

Picture Posted, comment.

Honesty Box, delete.

Inbox Message, reply.

Relationship Request, accept.

To be continued...

The Living Room of Many Arguments

Through the door, there is a large room with one dark red wall and three pale walls. The floor is covered in cat hair and the piano is out of tune. In contrast, there are three well cared for and loved guitars hanging on in front of the creamy fireplace. Above the mantle is a large mirror that reflects the view of the window across from it. There are two other mirrors in the room: one by the door, on your way out of the house and one as you leave the room and enter the hallway. In the corner there is an untouched cello that is precariously placed, as if hovering above the dark coffee table beneath it. On the wall adjacent to the cello, hangs a mandolin and a box full of percussion instruments sits below it. The room has been arranged around two large, new couches with large suffocating pillows and no love. They are new to the room and have yet to be accepted. A bamboo blind sits, rolled up, above the window but the curtain rod remains bare. There are many dusty picture frames around the room; on the mantle, the piano and hanging on the walls. They all hold smiling faces of the people who live there and their family members. A wide, unsuitable TV faces the couch demanding attention to anyone who enters the room. The cove ceilings create a warm feeling in the room, as does the colours of the walls and the dark wood of the furniture. But it's not the room it once was. Many of the same objects still reside there but not in the same way that they used to. It is no longer a room I am familiar with, no longer one I connect with.

I find this song inspiring.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0npq1MKg-MA

Seriously Mrs. Rioux,

I can't be sure if you saw the last post I left for you.
I'd love comments :)

Make Time.

Over and over again
I hear you say
"When oh when
Will I see you?"

Over and over again
You complain

You whine all the time
about missing him
yet I never see you try
to be with him

You refuse to go with him
You insist on going out
When he's home

So Make Time
Try a little harder
To share the weight
Of your relationship.

I`m sick of hearing about it.

It's not about the couches...

It's about you, making decsions without me.

It's not about the couches.

It's about thinking this isn't my home too.

It's not about the couches.

It's about change. You used to think this was my home too.

It's not about the couches.

It's about finally tearing apart the last thing that we all built together, as a family.

It's not about the couches.

It's about her liking them.

It's about losing my home to a woman I don't know. Losing my dad to a woman I don't know.

It's about throwing away what we built together, just us.

It's not about the couches.

Sometimes you just have to listen to your heart.

It's my birthday, so we wander down to the corner store, hand in hand, and buy yummy, pre-made sandwiches and chips before heading over to the park. Most of the grass is brown and crunchy so we snuggle up under a tree where the grass in greener and we can look out at the water. Unfortunately the grass is also damp, because though it is nearly the end of June it was not yet summer. We take off our jackets and lay them on the grass next to each other and then settle down on them. The wind is sharp and sends shivers down both of are backs. We're so cold, but trying so hard to have a good time.

After stuffing myself silly with a sandwich full of crunchy chips, I turn and look into those I that care so much about me. The eyes I care so much about.

And every time I look back, I wonder why I didn't just lay you down on the grass and kiss you until my lips went numb. Why I didn't just give in to my fear of being seen, being judged and let you know how I felt in that moment.

But I didn't. We walked home, hand in hand, and warmed our numb fingers.

And I don't even remember how we spent the rest of the day.