May 25, 2010
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Making Peace With My Inner Emo Teenager
A few years ago, I did something that would seem very odd to most people, but completely normal to me. I started a secret blog where I posted my love woes where only I could see, and instead of making it the quirky, colorful, overly-analyzing me, I made a persona that was kind of, well, emo. She was a girl who was a few years younger than me, named Roxxanna, but she had a link to me, and she kept “stealing” my bad poetry and posting it, and giving me “credit”. I’m pretty sure it was my inner teenager trying to make peace with herself. When I was really a teenager, back in the late 90′s, I didn’t have access to internet at home. I had a journal and a set of pretty pens and heart stickers and I would cry and cry into pages of bad poetry about how boys didn’t look at me because I wasn’t pretty, I wasn’t outgoing, and I didn’t dress like a whore (you think I’m kidding, I burned those pages of poetry a couple of years ago out of shame). But now, I’m pretty sure I have a handle on things. So, I say goodbye to the old blog, and remember fondly the way it used to be…
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About Me
More About Me
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Nicknames: Roxxy
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Nationality: Russian
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Interests: Dissecting the mystery of love
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Expertise: Making grown men cry.
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Occupation: Student
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Industry: Art
Thursday, July 27, 2006
I made this site to get some perspectives on love. If you would, please comment or sign my guestbook with your own thoughts. In return, I will post pictures, poems, and stories centering around that elusive thing called romance. Thank you all!
Monday, July 31, 2006
You are chopped liver…
*Fine, I got caught indirectly plagarising. This monologue was written by Rachel McKay. Her site is right here. I didn’t steal this, really, just put it up without her name. She’s one of my “older sisters” and realyy cool.
“So, for the longest time I’ve been that girl, you know, the girl that sits behind you in class that you never notice until she says something brilliant and then you know she’s uber-cool and you start to become friends. Friends. You have no idea what that word does to her. I mean me. I mean…
What you fail to realize about this brilliant, uber-cool girl who sits behind you in class is that for the past six months she’s been too shy to talk to you so she’s been waiting for this moment to say something brilliant so you’ll notice her. And, well, you noticed her. But what you don’t notice is behind closed doors she writes angry love poetry until 2am and tries to keep herself from writing your name over and over in her notebook even though she knows and you know that she’s far too sophisticated for this. Or is she? You notice her because she’s something special, but because you are like the other fifteen thousand guys who’ve noticed her for who she is but refuses to see anything beyond the brilliant, uber cool human being she is you have just proven that you are not special. You, my darling object of affection, are chopped liver. But I, I mean she, does not see this yet. For the next two days she will ride high on the smile you gave her in the hall, for the next three and a half weeks she will tell her best friend every detail of your life until this aforesaid friend gives up and tells me, I mean her, to just ask you out. It will take another month and a major social event to do so. At which time a sexy, albeit never sophisticated or brilliant or uber-cool, girl will take interest in you. Whether you realize it or not, this shy, sophisticated, brilliant, uber-cool girl will understand that she is threatened by the wiles of this sexy girl. And because she is shy, sophisticated, brilliant, and uber cool, and because she does not realize yet that you are chopped liver, she will wait in the wings for you to play prince charming and break the spell of the witch. Because you are chopped liver you do not do this. So she waits, days weeks, major social events pass and she realizes that you are not prince charming. She approaches you. You say, oh, I just thought we were good friends. The word ‘friends’ cuts deep into the heart of this shy, sophisticated, brilliant, uber-cool girl. For six and a half days she will cry in her room and refuse to even look at you. She will fade into obscurity and/or focus on a new target until years later when she’s in her early twenties and in the arms of another man and understands finally that she is sophisticated, brilliant, and uber-cool. And you are chopped liver.”
Sunday, August 06, 2006
Here is another monologue by Rachel, called “Saturday, February 11, 2006″:
“I’m sure it will precipitate on Tuesday. It always does. Water will wash the stains of this dreary holiday. I’m also sure couples will fight and lonely people will weep in their frappaccinos. It’s still three days and red hearts already clutter my existence. I push the thoughts away yet I can feel cupids, arrows drawn, dance around me. I am a tease, a false seductress. Yet there is a glint of something more. I fall too easy. My heart shatters and revives and I love it all the way. I open drawers in my chamber to find volumes of poetry swimming in red and… hearts. I never know why. I just smell cologne and cheap hair gel and I am intoxicated. I live for the fall, the sentiment. I am forever fourteen writing my latest fling’s name in the notebook paper of my mind. And when it’s over… nothing. Am I normal? Twenty-one and the ability to promise forever seems so far out of my grasp. But come Tuesday I probably won’t be alone, and it will be pouring rain outside. Fate hasn’t let me down yet.”
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
*This is me. The me no one sees. The girl who can’t get a date to her own party.*
Sometimes I would like to believe that I would make an ok lover. But for me even being a lover is like the impossible dream. I can’t even get the attention of the guy in my ceramics class. I’m shy but I’m a hopeless romantic. Does this make me a setup for disaster? Does this mean I will be writing romance novels in my small apartment with my cats and never getting out until I die alone? I hate this. Everything else is going great. I am a photographer. I have great friends. I have finally made peace with my parents. I am making good grades in college. But it still feels like there is something missing and that something missing is a pair of arms to hold me. And why can’t this brown-haired girl with soulful eyes get someone, anyone to hold her? because she chokes. She chokes hardcore. I am at parties, classes, cruising downtown and it never fails that everytime a guy even looks my way I look in the other direction. All these emotions are so strong in me that I guess I’m afraid that if I let them out the world will spin out of orbit. Or at least mine will. I can’t make the first move. I can’t make any moves. I’m stuck in neutral. And believe me it’s not a matter of confidence.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
I have been obsessed with photographing roses lately. All kinds. And for some reason I like dead ones the best. I will keep you posted.
Friday, March 02, 2007
I want you, but I can’t have you… why?
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
This has no title, but I completely agree with it….
Rachel, my sister, showed me another poem she was working on that I should put up on my site. Actually, she nonchalantly tackled me to the ground and screamed “Read this! NOW!”. So I did. She’s frustrated in romance just like I am, but because she’s older and wiser she actually goes out and chases after love. Why can’t I be like this? Okay, enough rambling. Here’s the poem
Renaissance Feminist?
Brainy lady lurking libraries?
Sexless form of intelligence and skill?
This isn’t me, damn it!
Dark jeans, glasses, paint spatters
RaeRae the efficient
Speaks in Vulcan
Plays loudly with power tools
Would never think to touch you
In that way that curls tendons.
I say again, that isn’t me
Push me closer to hardwood stages
Surround me in my elements:
Leather-bound spines and hot espresso
I am a vamp, an insatiable poetess
Knee-length black lace sex dress
Two bongos and a microphone
And suddenly I steal your forethoughts
In every slow syncopation
Of my breathy recital voice
RaeRae the efficient
Sheds denim feminism on tile floors
And plays swift rhythms to your fantasies.Saturday, March 31, 2007
I’m ranting. I’m pissed off and drunk and ranting and it’s all your fault. Yes you. You’ll never fuking see this but I don’t care. Do you rememnber three hours ago when you made that obscure joke and everyone else looked at you like you were a lunatic but I laughed? Yeah. I saved your ass. And then for the next twenty glorious mihnutes we talked and connected and you couldn’t see it, but I was about to ask for your nujmber. Well, forget that, butdddy. You looked at me a grand total of twice after that and I gave you my best shy-girl smile and then you proceeded to make out with the sluttiest girl in the room. Now you can blame it on the booze, but I trieed to get some liquid courage of my own, and yoiu know what happened? I ended up sneaking back into my apartment at 1245 in the morning and writing this pissed off note becuse I don’t want to fucking care but I do. I do anyway and I fucking hate it. And right now I kind of hate you. You’ll never make that mistake of looking at me again, now will you?
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