-blows kisses- I'm BACK, darlings, from Germany!

GUESS WHAT THIS IS?? ^^ :) Yep, my aunt has photo cred. And yes, Schloss Clarlottenburg!!!

This picture (see above) was taken by my aunt. Here's the history she gave me: Library of Duchess Anna-Amalia (Weimar, Germany); more famous as Goethe's library, blah blah. Oh well. I have the original! And the full history. Sucks to be you, I suppose.

Me, on the trip of a lifetime! Actually, an accident...playing with the camera and snapped an okay picture!

Hallo!

I bring greetings from my aunt Carrissa in Germany. Lemme tell you about that. :) 'Cause it was pretty kick-awesome.

Okay, so, a nice, wonderful day...but I'm sick in bed. A day before I anticipated traveling. A quick cancellation, but Carrissa, being the good aunt she is, says I can come when I'm better. Yay! Well, I'm stuck in bed with an awful flu-type thing. High fever (103 or higher, most of the time) and a lot of icky feeling. It goes for two weeks. Joy.

So I finally come around and make my little flight (I don't even know how long: I slept most of the way.) I arrived, mid-day, to a smiling aunt...who was sick. WHY???!!! So...I was stuck with a little bit of money and a sick aunt. So much for hitting landmarks and having a great time. She lives outside of Berlin, in I suppose what you'd call the countryside-type area. Very pretty. It was cool, and a sundress didn't seem like a bad thing to pack. So, I had beautiful scenery, a cute outfit, and time on my own. I felt like I could sing. But I'm an awful singer. Bad idea.

There's a little place by Carrissa's house...owned by an older couple. A little family business. A restaurant. Very nice. So, I had to beg Carrissa to tell me how to order a salad. But, thanks to my German teacher, I did know how to order a glass of tea with lemon!

My tiny first-day meal was over. Yay. Time to walk around.

Okay, so country-side is an overstatement. She just lives on the outskirts of town. So it's like a...20 minute walk (quick pace, which is nothing to me) to a small shop. Souvenirs of all shapes and sizes. I had just enough money to buy this cute decorative plate. It has Schloss Neuschwanstein on it, in brilliant colours. Amazing. It was kind of pricey, but another customer said I wasn't going to find much else like it for that small of a price. I bought it.

It was amazing. I never expected these little walks to be so amazing. Of course, I didn't wander farther than I could read my way back on a little map my aunt had given me. With little money, I walked around, windowshopping, and such. Not amazing fun, but enough.

I know what you're thinking. "Oh, Brittany, no pictures? I wanted to see!" Never fear: I have some. Yay for you guys, right?

So, in case you're completely oblivious, look at the top of this post. Amazing pictures. Just for you. Yaaaaay.

Back from Berlin and Other Tragic Tales of Teenage Life!

Well, my (lack) of dedicated readers, I'm home! Berlin was amazing--I think. I had an awful cold/flu type illness which left me bedridden for the three days I was there...
I was with my aunt, and we stayed in a tiny hotel on the outskirts of the city. I didn't seem sick until the evening we arrived. It. Was. Terrible. I don't have much to say on the weather or whatnot, as everything seems too bright or too dark or too cheery or too dreary when one is sick. The staff enjoyed the thought, apparently, of having a "stupid American girl" staying in the hotel, and when they would go to my room or I would stroll to the lobby, I was met with German greetings. The only things I could get in my dreary head were the echoing "survival phrases" we learned in German, including:

• How much does that cost?
• Where can I find ______?
• Where is the bathroom?
• My very basic vocabulary scrambled together to form rough sentences.
• My knowledge of counting in German (including the "hand counting")

My German teacher would be so proud! :) I did send my aunt out with my camera to snap some pictures and some "memories," but she didn't capture that many. (She's most likely been to Berlin more times that she can count, and didn't see anything "extraordinary" in her mind.)

I came back home (tired, but recovered for the most part!) to find my boyfriend (he lives in Florida) sitting on my couch with a suitcase by his feet. He was in a three-piece suit, and looked grief-stricken. I opened the door a tad wider, and heard my grandmother say, "There she is!"

William (boyfriend in question) turned around and his face lit up like a Christmas tree. He dashed over and picked me up, spinning me around, not really caring that my dress was soaked. (It was to be warm on my day of return, and a summer dress didn't seem like a bad choice in clothing...at the time.) Worst of all--it was a silvery gray, and very nearly see-through by that point. I was ashamed to stand before him, with him standing in such a stately manner in his Sunday best while I was barely standing and wearing a drenched summer dress with my hair stuck in long strands to the side of my face. I began to notice that I had gotten his suit wet. Then I noticed the silence.

An eerie silence. An awkward silence. No one cut through it. My grandparents were smiling and William was beaming at his "Kitty" (his petname for me), but no one said a word. My brother, wiping the sleep from his eyes, came wandering into the bedroom in the camo pajamas I had made him last Christmas. Upon seeing me, he ran forward, arms spread wide, and leaped into my unsuspecting arms. William picked us both up, kissed my forehead, and led me further inside, shutting the door behind me.

Okay, that last bit wasn't a tragic tale. I suppose I should write something tearjearking here, to live up to the title, but I'm afraid I can't. With my family here (which I count William as being among us), how could I?

Thoughts From The Looking Glass and Other Whispers in the Dark...

Okay, guys...get ready for a vent like you've RARELY seen.

I was on YouTube today (like 48% of the world...) and clicked on one of my favorite videos (the official music video to "Pain" by Three Days Grace). Well, I looked down at the comments (not unusual for me) and got really pissed at what I saw. So, people have decided to tackle the "emo problem" again? I thought this ended years ago...Time to give the same talk I did then.



Problem with the stereotypes: Just not true.



Okay, in some situations, they might be true. Hell, they might be true for most. But hear me out. Not all emos cut. That is absolute bullshit. People had started doing it last year to get attention. Wow. Not a good idea. They made it public and would do it in the courtyard at school to get as many spectators as possible. That pissed me off. I was a "cutter" then, and knew what it would mean for me. Teachers may not be paid enough to deal with the kid at the back of the classroom who looks like they haven't eaten in ten years, or the kid who looks like he's been hit by a truck, but they aren't BLIND. AND they are required by law to keep us "safe" (as much as possible), and this brought the heat down on everyone. So little guys like me got the bad end. Strip searches went on daily, in massive amounts. Scars were your mortal enemy. Even if they came from a cat or a biking accident, you were TOAST. No excuses--you were called to the office, they'd do the search, and then your parents were called and told they had found cuts on your person, without any further discussion. Well, you can guess how well that went over with mom and pop.



You were stuck up a shit creek without a paddle, and no hope, quite honestly. Your parents would receive a recommendation from the school that you be "sent away" for "treatment." In simpler terms, your ass was about to wind up in a "loony bin" and having "happy pills" shoved down your throat for the rest of your life. Well, emo kids didn't like this. As a protest, we decided to all wear solid black for a straight week. One teacher commented to the class, "Look at these black-clothed posers. They're all followers, and will get nowhere in life with their depressed demeanor." This got an outcry in our class, and an officer was pulled in.



Surprisingly, we snatched up the "preps" (the "mean girls" and "jocks") to join us. They had parents in all the right places, and some nasty letters and petitions started circulating. Excellent! Or so we thought. Teachers would demand on random occassions that people "flash their wrists," being ignorant to the thought that many would cut on their upper legs and chests and stomachs. Eventually, we all gathered under the "emo pavillion" (just a pavillion that the "emo kids" gathered under) and started singing "Peace Is Free" by Black Stone Cherry (an amazing song, really--you should check it out!) Most of us got sent to the office with officers behind us. The rest of us, myself included, just volunteered to go with them, ready to strike at any moment. No one was sent to jail that day, but we had a riot planned for the following week.



The school snitch spilled to his "master" (one of the teachers who idolized him) and we were busted. We knew it, too. The school officers were wearing bulletproof vests under their clothes that day. It was easy to see, too, as both officers were quite then, and were suddenly bulky. We ended with a treaty with the principal. We would stop the "antics" and tell the inquiring "public" (parents) that no, nothing was happening at school, and the teachers would be called back on defensive. The torrent ended, but not without some blood, sweat, and a whole Hell of a lot of tears.



The moral of the story? Don't trust teachers--they've got their "sticky spots where they are required to turn you in." Not all emos cut, and even those that didn't got shit for a few months while this went on. To the school, if you wore black, you were a target.



And they held the gun.



People persecute us too damn much. If you don't like us, don't pay attention. Another thing--Parents are bitches. The whole lot of them (except maybe my mom and those like her--she's one of us) are in it for nothing but ensuring that you look so prim and proper and they're gonna SHRED your dreams of shredding the neck of a guitar. If you're a non-conformist, you're shit out of luck until you're eighteen, kill yourself, or run away. Whichever comes first. Please note that killing yourself may not come into play at all. Okay, done with disclaimers. But I don't see what the point of being against us is. Its like that with sexual orientation. America is the land of the free, right? Yeah; if you're white, Christian/Catholic, and a straight adult who didn't have sex before marriage, and if you DID mess up that last one, no one found out. If you fit that description, you're probably living the American dream. But you're also a hollow-hearted bastard who needs to blow their fucking brains out. Sorry, I've got a temper today. :/

Not all emos want to be a rockstar, although I would kill to be. For me, nothing completes a (relatively) quiet evening better than shredding on a Gibson ES335 Standard double-neck with antique finish! (Ha, I'm calling for an AMEN on that one!) So if I want to be a rocker, does that mean I listen to death metal (I do, by the way) and exclusively sing about death? Hell no! While, yes, I do listen to death metal, its not all I listen to. I don't mind sitting down and listening to some Hendrix and Eagles and Beatles and Pink Floyd and CCR and Van Morrison! In fact, my mp3 has at least 4 songs from every year from 1954-2009. So if you can say I have to listen to death metal to be emo, then 1) You're wrong, and 2) shove the Hell off and quit making an ass of yourself.

Also, depression seems to fill the dreams of every emo, according to stereotype. That. Is. BULLSHIT! And it just plain pisses me off. There are those, (okay, I can occassionally include myself in here) that get a little curious and play with the idea of death. But "To the well-organized mind, Death is but the next great adventure." Okay, guys, yeah; I write about death, suicide, homicide, and general depressed shit. But that isn't what makes me emo. Emo is a fucking stereotype. Its not a style, its not a phase, its not a fad, and it sure as Hell isn't a way of life. So cut that shit. Right the fuck now. I don't do shit to get attention. In the words of Avenged Sevenfold (a wonderful punk-rock band,) "Can't you help me as I'm starting to burn (all alone), too many doses and I'm starting to get an attraction. My confidence is leaving me on my own (all alone), no one can save me and you know I DON'T WANT THE ATTENTION." That's exactly fitting with the "emo" state of mind.

One comment that pissed me off: "All emos are rich pussy bastards that use 'depression' to make their parents worry and are all fags and deserve to go to Hell." I punched a hole in my desk (literally) after reading that. I am a dirt-poor son-of-a-bitch and I'm fucking "emo". I don't use depression for SHIT. I have been diagnosed with manic depression (bipolar disorder) and some other shit, and I don't try to make my parentals worry. I try to make them proud whenever I can (even when it makes me look like a dumbass or a bastard.) I am bisexual. I find the term 'fag' degrading and stupid. Any person who can sit there and hate someone simply because of their sexual preference is a horrible person and is only searching for some sadistic pleasure in tormenting others and hoping it will fill some awful hole in their lives. Go to Hell? Seriously? Wow, I'm saved and I've been a follower of Christ since I was 11 years old, but you are going to sit back and tell me I'm the one going to Hell? Who are you to damn me? God is the only one damning my soul, if anyone does. And I apologize, my language is not usually this foul, but when I get set off, I go off with supernova force, and leave a huge mark when I'm through.

And, by the way, for all of you who use G.D. as a swear, God's last name isn't Damn. Thank you very much. :)

Let me review. If you can sit back and tell someone they're a "poser", "fake", or "attention-seeker" without an inch of guilt in your heart; without knowing the situation they have with their family, their friends, or with themselves, and not know the silent Hell they might be living, then you've just become a reason that every 18 minutes, someone commits suicide, and every 19 minutes, someone is left to sit and wonder why.

People, stop being the reasons...Stop making people feel worse than they may already, whether you mean to or not. Posers, stop pretending, because we all see you for what you are.

Looking Down at Myself, Counting Up The Years

Oh, dear; we are in a bind, now aren't we?

I've decided to write a little story...this is for one of my close friends and his girlfriend...so if you're reading be nice, please! :D

Pain radiated through me.

I just repeated my basic vital information in my head. Name; David Wynn. Marital status; single. Pets; none. Children; none. Age; 22. Cause of death; suicide.

I repeated the same basic phrases endlessly in my head, walking up the hospital stairs to the roof. I looked sad enough to be visiting a dead relative, and I had the same loathing of life as if I were, and most nurses sent sweet smiles in my direction, all forced and painted on. I didn't smile back or even give recognition. I just stared at the floor.

A gentle touch on my shoulder almost made me jump out of my skin. I whirled, ready to give whoever it was a good piece of my mind. But I was shocked by the angel standing before me. She was in plain nurse garb, with her hair tied back. She had laughing eyes and a sweet, tender smile. I glanced at the name tag. Anderson. I would have to remember that. She bent slightly, giving me a worried look.

"Do you need some help? Through those stairs," she said, gesturing down my former path, "is the roof. I don't advise you go up there. It's awfully windy; and if you should fall over the edge, I could never forgive myself, being the last person to really see you."

I couldn't breathe. Here stood a woman of the most beautiful variety, throwing me a lifeline. The lifeline. I finally caught my breath and flushed in embarassment. Her eyes sparkled and she flashed her crooked, kind smile, and I knew, all at once, that I couldn't do it. I couldn't jump.

--End of Prologue--

Come one, Come all, to this tragic affair...<3

What is my life but a heart full of lies

And what are my allies but those breaking the ties

And Angels and Demons surround me in the hall

When the lights go down I am nothing at all

I pull off my masks and start a new show

And reveal to the world all the pain that I know

The bones start grinding and crunching in time

And the blood falls and sings to me a new rhyme

Suicidal pains and the hope for one of many dead ends

The grave is sitting empty from living best friends

These smiles are forced, painted on, and slipping

And my mind won't stop tripping and falling and skipping

But these lies keep coming out of your mouth and cry out

That can't see past my false alibi and into self doubt

This tragic self loathing and pain is coming out of my heart

And I'm drowning myself to the song of the lark

A sad little mourning bird with a cry to match my own

And it reminds me of every little seed of pain you've sown

Isn't it obvious? They're all blooming now

And one day, I promise, you will know how

A word turns into a promise, and a promise into a lie

And each lie is another strain on an already broken tie

If we keep pushing and pulling and pushing away

How can we expect to find ourselves one day

They say it's okay, that it's only a phase

But they can't see the scars that bleed on for days

They don't know the words that stab deeper than knives

They don't have the words that could stand and save lives

You pour another drink and sit down by the fire

And let it all go to Hell to the tune of the lyre

The gods are all breathing pain and despair

In such great amounts that it's filling the air

Taking what's mine and throwing it to the side

Feel that life is nothing more than thorns in a broken pride

Tonight is the night where I pick up the knife

And, much to your amusement, take my own life

Don't say it will be okay one day

Don't tell me it wasn't meant to end this way

This is the way that I can see what I could be

On the inside, blood running for all to see

So call me a poser and call me a fake

Know that one day neither you nor I shall wake

When we drift about in whatever may lie beyond

Know that of your lies I never was fond

Things have taken a turn for the worst. Where light used to radiate from every otherwise darkened corner, I now see only these terrible shadows. I'm chained to a wall of despair. Sometimes I just want to break free. But the only way out is to take out my oppressors. If I can defeat them, I can unchain myself. Stick a gun to their filthy heads and pull that trigger. Scratch the itch. They never cared about me, so why should I have some sort of mercy? If I'm just trash, then I'll act like it. Teachers aren't very observant, obviously. I've cried in class and had a total mental breakdown. I couldn't breathe for a while, and what breath I did manage to suck in was hot and heavy, like I was breathing in an oven. My eyes were red and swollen shut, tears stained my cheeks. My teacher looked at me for two seconds and told me to go outside. I stepped out quickly, grateful to be away from the prying eyes and the hurtful remarks. She came outside, grasped me firmly by the shoulders, and told me to stop causing drama. I opened my eyes into slits, as that was as far as they'd open, and glared at her. Then she fussed at me for that. We stood in the hallway, me trying to breathe and stammer out responses while she went off with the all-out force of a hurricane. So if you guys "care" just that much, then screw the hell off. I don't need you. And I promise that every fucking one of you will wind up with a bullet lodged in your head for the rest of your short lives. I will come back one day and I'm gonna kill you all. I don't care how, I don't care when. But one day, you won't be ready. It'll be easy. A knife; a gun, preferrably...its all so easy these days. What is the point of telling teens 'no' now? Quite honestly, the options for discipline aren't very useful.

Hit a teen. Its the mistake my grandparents made. You hit a teen, and it just makes them bounce back with twice their rebellious glory. Hit me, and I leave home for a week. The whole damn family thinks I'm dead. Before you know it, my own damn grandmother posts my death on Facebook. Well, that went over OH-SO 'well' when I came back. No one would listen to me, and no one would trust me. So I knew something was wrong with me. If people hated me so much, I must be wrong. So then I came to the realization "Oh, my God, I'm bisexual...I...I'm in love with a girl!" and before you know it, I'm begging her to love me in return. So I decided to let them in on my life. It was worse. The alienation hurt, but the downright, deliberate disrespect from my own FAMILY hurt like hell. My wrists cried crimson tears for a while after that. I was caught at school with scars. To them, that was as bad as waving a gun around. Before I knew it, I had councilors and police on my ass 24/7, and was standing up for myself. I was rebelling against the school with my friends. Bad move. Ask anyone who went to Carl Stuart. You want to know the outcome? Look at me now.

If life would hurry up and get simple, then friends wouldn't be so hard...

^^Me and Frankie^^^^Me and Frankie -Again-^^

(Replay of "The Night" in Question)

I have a few friends (we all do) that are so close that I'd die for them any day.
But what happens when that grade school friend has a brother who is a year older than yourself, is in German AND Band, and just happens to be one of the cutest men you've ever met? You have a Frankie...And you have an interesting story; a story that must one day be told.

Meeting a girl that had just moved in from California is always a treat. Anyone who has ever lived in another state is fun to talk to--they have tons of different experiences. The girl in question speaks little English. You two communicate with a made up sign language, thought up as you two go along. The sweet little Mexican girl you're talking to is Jocelyn. She'll point at something, say it in Spanish, and makes it clear that she wants you to give her the English name. You teach her a wide vocabulary in a very short time span.

The year flies by in the wild excitement of elementary-age childhood, and it comes to the last day of third grade. You sit on a median between the two sides of the playground. The fourth graders are on one side, the other side intended for third graders, and you and Jocelyn sit on the median. A short boy approaches from the fourth grade side and says something rather quickly in Spanish, so soft that you can barely hear the words being uttered. Josie answers with a hushed reply. You recognize your own name, and no more. He looks out of the corner of his eye at you, blushing furiously, and says something in a nervous tone, once again in Spanish. Josie playfully punches him in the shoulder and opens her mouth. He quickly covers her mouth and yells, "Don't tell her!" in heavily accented English. Josie nods, and turns to you, pointing to him.
"This," she says, "is my brother, Francisco. He's awesome." Somehow, looking into his honest, dark-brown eyes, you simply know she is right.

But back to the present.

You and Jocelyn are still the best of friends. But you and Francisco are closer. Since the day on the playground, you've built a great friendship. But both of you want more; much more. You two have shared a two month relationship that, thanks to harassing siblings and peer pressure, was shattered, erupting in blinding anger and sorrow between you. You two became thicker than thieves again, and he is still attracted to you. So, what is a girl to do? You are in my position: a cadet in the JROTC program, a German I student, and a flute player that has many other side instruments. Music is what united Frankie and yourself in the first place. He has aspirations to be a neurosurgeon, and wishes only the best for you. He is in German II, and a tenor saxophone. He plays guitar, same as you, but you often envy his talent. You are best friends with his sister, but you can't tell her one secret.

You are madly in love with Francisco.

You stay the night with Jocelyn on a cool, wet March evening. You look as you always do; a non-conformist--a punk. A rocker. An emo.

A freak.

You and Jocelyn stay up for hours browsing the net, looking at the latest hairstyles from Germany and Japan, and checking out clothes popular in each region. She quickly goes to sleep, and you know from experience that her sleep is a deep one. You move carefully off the air matress and carefully open the door. Sneaking to the edge of the hall, you creep into Francisco's room. And he's been waiting for you.

~Warning: following may not be suitable for minors...or teachers who know me~

It doesn't take long for him to strip you down to almost nothing. A rough "game", and some serious actions go on. You entered the room at 02:15, and you leave at 07:45.
Contrary to what you may think happened, you in Frankie did not "do it"; you did not have sex. You're still a virgin. Kinda. By my definition, I still am. Just because I was raped, I still consider my self a virgin. For me, losing virginity is defined as "the loss of innocence and purity by willingly taking part in sexual intercourse." Your's may be different.

Anyway, as I was saying before...

You leave his room, knowing what you two did could be described many ways (I won't bother to list them all here) and recognizing that if Jocelyn found out, your relationship with her wpuld be terminated. And you couldn't live through that. You never want to live through that. If it ever happens, you once swore to yourself in fifth grade, you would committ suicide.

How do you deal with a choice such as this one? Deny your feelings for the one guy whom you've liked (loved?) since around 6th or 7th grade, or deny your friend to maintain your feelings? The last time you surrendered Frankie, you almost ended your own life. What will you do this time? Sacrifice something real, and you both were cautious, each respecting each other when you said "yes" or "no," and never pushing the other to do something they didn't want to? Or give up the one person who was there for you, even when your own family denied you because you were (and are) a bisexual? Frankie accepted you, too, and still does, but he can't replace my first real friend. So far my mind is set on keeping Francisco my "Dirty Little Secret" and keeping Josie's nose out of it. Francisco agreed with this alternative to breaking a tie, and sealed it with a kiss only moments before your grandfather called, saying he had arrived and was waiting for you outside.

So, dedicated readers that have read the over 256 entries on another account, and new fans or just those who were curious, I bid you all a fond farewell. Auf Weidersehen!

In Blood,
~~Vampie Efimovitch~~