It's beginning to be too early for christmas!

Unless of course, you're Michael Buble, in which case every day can be Christmas if you're singing to me <3

I'm a freaky fan girl. Get over it.

 

Oh yeahh...

But the point I'm trying to make is this:

It's halfway through November and already the Christmas Carols are out, the trees are being sold, the decorations are tackier than usual and goddamnit I can't think when he's singing this song...*turns off Buble*

SACRILEGE 

Warning: this might turn into a Buble-loving rant.

Anyways. So. Christmas. 

Or should I say: Commercial-mas

*obnoxious Daily Grace Laughter* (If you've never been forced to watch an episode of Daily Grace on youtube, count yourself lucky. She's really irritating)

Where was I?

Ah yes, Commercial-mas. Now, Christmas used to be about family spirit and giving little homemade knickknacks to your loved ones because there weren't any Wal-Marts back in the 1800s.

Alright, I'm not going to go on and on about how Christmas is now all about buying gifts that are going to break in about 2 months so you can say "hey, I'll buy you another one at christmas next year LOL"

Sorry for being such a cynic. I'm Jewish. People don't celebrate Hanukkah on tv (unless you're on the O.C in which case you celebrate Chrismakkah!)

the point I'm REALLY trying to make is this:

What. the. fuck.is.this???
Oooh damn, I told myself I wouldn't use profanity to such an extent on my blog.
Justin Bieber, you have caused me to break my anti-fuck streak!!!
POINT IS: I thought the Drummer boy song couldn't be any less massacred. it's a bad song, everyone knows it. the whole parapapumpum thing doesn't help. It's cute to see little eight year olds get excited at every Parapapumpum but...c'mon, seriously? This song goes beyond massacre: it's been maimed, raped, shot, drawn and quartered, hanged, dropped into boiling oil and every other medieval torture and/or death known to man.
Bottom line:

*dies a horrible and painful death. something about bleeding out from my EARS. and it's not that bieber can't sing, because he can. he can sing. this song is just ridiculously horrible*

It's too early for christmas carols >.<

P.S: Sorry, Michael Buble, for putting you in the same post as Justin Bieber. It won't happen again.

P.P.S: this is the real reason for my untimely death (see below)

B.I.E.B.E.R = Believe in Everything because everythings reachable :D♥
...
A good friend of mine called this girl a "Belieber"

I'm sorry, Justin. I just don't "Beliebe"

November, Movember, Rovember, Nanowrimo!

It’s been a busy November so far this year; Movember, International Day of Tolerance, and dipping into serious mode for Remembrance Day. But something you might be less familiar with is an event that could explain the mysterious disappearances of aspiring writers across North America: 

NaNoWriMo, short for National Novel Writing Month, is an annual, month long creative writing project started by Chris Baty on the internet back in July 1999 where aspiring novelists and angsty writers alike disappear from society until December 1^st where they finally turn off their computers and let out a collective sigh of relief. In 1999, Baty offered San Francisco a challenge: Can you write a 50 000 word novel in 30 days? And while this may seem extreme, NaNoWriMo has expanded from its original 21 writers recruited by Baty, to include more than 200 000 aspiring novelists from all over the United States and Canada with more than 37 000 winners each year. The collective word count of 2007 was a mere 6 million and it has grown to more than 1 billion this year.

1,856,502,337 to be exact...and November’s not even over.

So don’t forget, Nanowrimo’s not over yet. There’s still time to jump on the novel wagon, sharpen your pencils and brains and just write whatever it is you want to write about. And after four weeks of stressing out about midterms and finals because you’re just a thousand words shy of being on target, or your friends are wondering why you’ve disappeared off the face of the earth and you come to class every morning with a permanent glazed expression because you’ve been staring at a computer screen for too long watching small lines of script cross the screen since you’ve been writing all night trying to stay on the 1,666 words per day goal...crossing that golden finishing line will feel better than winning an Olympic medal. Or at least it should. 

But what do I get for finishing NaNoWriMo? Unfortunately, you don’t win money. Nanowrimo is a non-profit organization dedicated to bringing their love for writing to classrooms across the continent through their Young Writer’s Program and the Office of Letters and Light (HQ to NaNoWriMo). So far, they’ve raised $493,822.54, but they’re hoping to raise at least 1 million by the end of the month. So, what do you get for all the stressing and caffeine induced jitters? Prestige (you just wrote 50000 words in a month. You rock), a crazy cool certificate that is awarded exclusively to NaNoWinners and various widgets, bookmarks and printable items featuring cartoon monkeys and palm trees. And there’s an added bonus to people willing to pay a mere 15 dollars to support the YWP: you can get a printed copy of your novel with the cover art of your choice from the Office of Letters and Light so you can show it off to your friends and say “that’s right. I’m a published author”.

 

 Note: this is not me! This is someone awesome who has actually managed to finish NaNoWriMo whereas I have not to this date!


NaNoWriMo: Thirty Days and Nights of Literary Abandon!

Bonny Wood Green- In Honor of Rememberance Day

Despite the fact that it's only sunday and remembrance day is on the 11th, let's just roll with it.

This is a piece I wrote based on this song:

(Bonny Wood Green)

...to commemorate all those lives lost, all the men who served and never made it home, and all the women who waited for their loved ones to return.

   The meadow is green, the fresh green of a new spring. The birds sing above in the canopy of trees. I watch, hidden in the foliage as a girl and her friend dance around the clearing. Carefree. Not thinking of me. She was never thinking of me.

   I watch for a while, hidden above, the branches threatening to break at any minute. Once or twice I think her eyes flick in my direction. But all too soon she is gone, leaving nothing behind her save the memory of a girl dancing in an ivory tunic, auburn curls flying everywhere, chicken legs awkward and graceful. And beautiful.

   I walk about the village at night, the stars twinkling gaily above me, their spirits alive with the thought of such innocent, young love. I see her at her window, staring into the night. Her eyes are glazed over and she doesn’t move. Thinking, just thinking. She was never lovelier than when she just pondered the most insignificant details of life. The leaves falling from the trees in October; the smallest snowflake stuck to a woolen mitten; a petal in the mud, unsullied by the heels of boots stomping through the village.     

   When a door opens, I nearly jump out of my skin. She creeps into the growing darkness, a candle in one hand. Her nightgown billows about her unshod feet, exposing three inches of bare ankle. The wind sweeps her time darkened hair away from her neck, gleaming pale and milky white in the moonlight. Her lips part in a perfect O when she sees me, a silhouette in the dark. She follows the shadow to the clearing where the stars peek through the canopy of leafy, green trees. I am the boy she once made fun of in school; now a young man. But she is still the girl I was always in love with. She takes my hand in hers; they are so very small and pale in my own roughened, weather beaten hands. I bring it gently to my lips, a silent promise. I caress the soft skin of her neck, her cheeks, her arms; one shoulder escapes from the loose gown she wears and I trail down soft kisses, swift and light as the flapping wings of the butterflies in the summer; she sighs, one hand knotting tightly in my hair, the other strokes across my jaw, roughened by two days’ worth of unshaven skin. I press my lips against hers, my breath ragged with longing and desire…

But, too soon, the night is over and day begins again. We seem to have all the time in the world together; every day is spent wandering the lush green hills. I kiss you every moment I can and when I ask you to marry me, you say yes. That was the happiest day of my life, the day we said “till death do us part”.  But when the British army comes recruiting, I find myself leaving; walking away from my home, my family and my one true love to join the forces at war. It is agony, agony in its purest form. I walk on, not knowing what lies ahead. But I don’t want to know what is going to happen to me. All that matters is that nothing ever happens to her. But I cannot leave without kissing her sweetly, one last time…

 When I reach my post, the men are weak and tired from hunger and disease. Their loved ones are all they talk about when they receive the news that they can go home: their service is finished. Mine is about to begin.

I have never felt so alone; never have I missed her more than I do now.

The trenches teem with a number of horrifying things, but we have no choice but to bunker down deep into the filth to avoid the bullets flying overhead and the shells exploding around us. The ground shakes as another artillery shell lands close by. The sudden cease in gunfire tells me that men are either dead or dying. The sun creeps over the horizon, but it is not the warm carefree sun that we spent so many days lying under; it is laughing at me, mocking how few hours are left before the nightmare begins again. As we retrieve the wounded from the fields, I feel a pang for every soldier I see that I had met and befriended.

There are so very few of us left now. When night falls, the horror starts anew. I can’t hear my unit commander over the steady firing of a machine gun. I only see his lips move as the ground beneath me erupts. All I can do is shout your name until everything turns black…

Miles away, you wait for me in a white apron. Every knock at the door, every footstep outside makes you run to the window, hoping for me to return. But the days turn into weeks, the weeks into months and you give up all hope for my safe return. And so you sit at the window, your dress faded in patches where the rays of sunlight seeped in. Your auburn hair is coming loose and there are such lines of sadness on your young and beautiful face. But I will return, my love. And when I do, I will kiss you sweetly, as if I had never been gone at all.