Blah. Christmas.

I am not excited for Christmas.

When did Christmas morph into such a corporate event? At one point, it was about spending time with your loved ones, passing on joy and prosperity, and miracles.

But now.......... It's just a chore.

This is sinking into you.

Lolz at me thinking I can write poetry.

Withered and resigned, you retire for the day.
Burrowing into the safeness of your home.

Time for reflection is not required,
for apprehension keeps near.

You sink into sleep, your mind far too troubled to keep abuzz.

Though your body has been keen on repose,
you find yourself just as tiresome as before.
The weight of guiltiness has yet to cease.

Frustration a constant burden at your side,
you make your way through the day,
simply shoving away any matter that requires your attention.

You continue to harm,
doing so knowingly, never afraid of repercussions.

For what can they take from you that you are unable to replace with ease?

Heat.

This is short, and very abstract. Whole bunch of random words.
I just got out of the shower, sat down, and typed this up. Enjoy.


Slip into the water, my love.
And feel what I want you to feel.

Imagine as you:
Bask in the glorious heat spilling forth the head,
warmth trickling down the delicate curve of your body and soul,
bathing you in light.

Imagine:
The moment of silence as you are possessed- claimed by this rush of heat,
sending waves of desire coursing through your core.

Imagine:
The warmth running dry,
as you stand in the cold remnants of me.

Imagine being me.

TEMPORARY POST

Posted this for a friend... I don't know how to delete it! Sorry.
Just skip it. It's a little excerpt of my unfinished Ron/Theo fan fiction.
YES. Slash. The best kind of stuff I write, lol.

In the chill of pre-dawn stupor, the young man opened his opalescent eyes. He glanced hesitantly around the bed-chamber, wary of the position of his fellow Gryffindors.

Beside him, he felt warmth. His nimble fingertips brushed across his companion's cheek, his eyes adjusting slowly to the darkness of the room.

He felt the form stir beneath his movements, and he carefully leaned forward to brush his lips off the boy's earlobe.

"Theodore," he whispered. "Its time for you to return to your quarters. The others will wake soon, and I'm not certain that they'd take too kindly to the sight of a Slytherin in our bed-chamber."

A rare grin illuminated the boy's features as he imagined the sight of the Gryffindors awakening to the sight of him curled up next to -Weasley-. The fits they'd throw!- especially Potter.

"Mmmm.. Alright, Ronald. I'll see you at breakfast." He nuzzled gently into his neck before rising without a sound, and slipping out the door.

Ensuring that Theodore was out of sight, Ron let out a loud, exasperated sigh. What a night! He thought to himself, his mind reeling over the events of the previous evening..

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Theodore paced through the aisles of the Restricted Section, his mind on idle as he scanned the pages of a history book. Ah, the library. He adored everything about it.

The rich, decadent scent of the well-aged novels registered in his nostrils as he inhaled deeply, a little smile pulling up the corners of his lips.

In truth, this was the only place at Hogwarts where Theodore found himself relaxed. This meant that he was usually alone (his classmates only came to the library when it was absolutely necessary) but he didn't mind. In fact, it was quite the contrary. He enjoyed solitude. It allowed him to think freely without being interrupted.

A bustling noise caught his attention as he turned a corner into the next aisle, and as he raised his head, his eyes came in contact with the flustered form of Ronald Weasley.

Theodore smirked as he watched Weasley fumble with the voracious amount of books he was handling, stumbling around for an empty seat. Feeling a tad sorry for the bloke, Theodore approached him, his eyes light; his tone taunting.

"Need a hand there, Weasley? Or twenty?"

Ron raised his head warily, expecting Malfoy to be there with his cronies. Instead, he found the lanky form of Theodore Nott.

It had been a while since Ron had taken notice of the lad- he was often reserved and nearly always sat in the back of class. He rarely spoke to anyone, and when the occasion presented itself, he was always indifferent.

He had blossomed over the years. An elegant curve shaped his lips as he smirked, and Ron couldn't help but notice the rosy color of them. There was a faint trace of muscles beneath his loosely flowing robes, and his height outgrew Ron's by a few inches.

"Weasley? What the bloody hell are you staring at? Would you like help with those books or not?" Theodore muttered, annoyance colouring his voice.

"Um- yes. Sure. Thanks." Ron said, tripping over his words. What was wrong with him today?

Theodore stepped forward, placing his own book on the table beside them, and relieved Ron of a couple books. He nodded to Ron, his eyes cold, and said a quiet, "follow me."

Two things caught the attention of dumbfounded Ron as Theodore closed more of the distance between them.

His senses caught Theodore's enticing aroma; the scent of cigarettes and a faint trace of the outdoors. It was intoxicating. As Theodore marched off, commanding for him to follow, Ron's eyes unwillingly became fixated on the perfectly taut muscles of his arse.

Ron felt mildly alarmed as he realized that he was checking out another bloke. But, he couldn't help himself. He always liked and desired for things he could never possess. The problem was that those things usually included galleons and brooksticks- not men.

Theodore led Ron to a desterted corner of the Library. This section included books on dark magic, so it was often avoided by students. You'd be questioned if a teacher caught you browsing through these novels.

"Lay them here, Weasley." He snorted, as Ron hastily laid them on the oak table.

"Erm.. Thanks for that, Nott." Ron muttered, his eyes falling to the floor in embarrassment.

"Whatever... So, what are you researching, Weasley? Surely you aren't here -just- to read. That would involve you being able to comprehend a novel." Theodore quirked a brow, genuinely interested.

"Well.. Professor Binns has insisted that I write up a paper on Goblin Wars- to get my grades up to a passing level. McGonagall is forcing me to find twelve new spells of transfiguration that we haven't already learned in class. And, Snape has got me writing up THREE essays on the Wolfsbane Potion. He said that perhaps if I write three, he may be able to find something he can actually grade in one of them." Ron heaved a sigh, pulling a notebook from his knapsack.

Theodore felt a small tinge of pity for the boy. He was obviously very poor- everything he owned looked second-hand. He clearly lacked knowledge in three of the most important subjects- if not all. Everyone spoke about the Weasleys behind their backs, too. Blood Traitors. Poor. Gingers. The list went on.

He furrowed his brow in concentration as he tried to figure out the complexities of the book before him. Gazing at the title of the book, he automatically recognized as something he'd read two year priors. Feeling generous, Theodore took a seat next to Ron, their bodies nearly touching from the proximity.

"What you've got to remember about the Wolfsbane Potion is that it is very potent. Too little or too much can destroy the balance of the immune system of one's body. It is vital that the drinker consumes the potion at exactly the right hour, and that it is brewed exactly to the specifications of the written instructions."

Ron glanced up from his novel, his eyes wide. "How do you know so much about that, Theo- Nott? I mean, we've only just started learning about the Wolfsbane Potion."

Theodore chuckled. "Well, some of us -actually- pay attention in class. And, there are the scattered few, including myself, that like to read ahead."

"Read ahead? Merlin, it's bad enough having to read everything once... What's your favourite subject?" Ron glanced up, his blue eyes radiating kindness.

As Theodore gazed into Ron's sea-blue eyes, he felt his cheeks warm with colour. He wasn't used to someone casting him a smile. "Um, I'd have to say my favourite is probably Defense. It's really interesting." Theodore returned the smile subtly, but it didn't reach his eyes. He wasn't used to smiling, especially at other people. "Yourself?"

Ron grinned. "Definitely History of Magic. It's the easiest class to nap in."

Then they were both laughing, the mellow sound filling the library. Theodore was rather surprised with himself. He was actually enjoying Weasley's company.

"Now. How am I supposed to finish four essays over the next three days? Not to mention find twelve brand new transfiguration spells, and their effects." Ron's moment of happiness dissipated.

"You're going to have a little help, Weasley. From me."

Facebook isn't private enough for this..

Just a little excerpt of my feelings.
No names will be mentioned.


Wow.
I can't even fucking believe you'd say that to me. I know that we haven't been as close anymore, and it saddens me.
You have your life, I have mine. It's as simple as that.

With nothing in common, a completely different set of morals, and the fact that we rarely see each other was obviously set to take its toll.
That doesn't mean I dislike you. It doesn't mean I don't want to be your friend. It just means that we're not that close.

That happens frequently with friends. Our lives head in different directions, and we change.

And I. I have changed a lot since you first met me.

I am different now. I can't be someone else for you. I can't pretend I don't hate mainstream. I can't pretend to be ordinary. And I certainly cannot pretend that I agree with what you say.
I'm sorry.

I always predicted this would happen.
With two souls, so completely different, how could we stay on the same page?
It just couldn't work.

And your mind is under the influence of another. You have YOUR OWN brain. Why don't you try using it for once?
I bet you were perfectly fine before ideas were planted into your head. That's always the way it is.

I've tried so hard to keep silent. Bite my tongue. Chant to myself, "keep it in your head..."

But I can't do it. I can't..

You thought I did something wrong. I apologized.
You chose not to accept it, so I can't be held accountable for that.

I trusted you.

I cared about you.

I wanted us to be friends.... forever.

But, forever is just a myth, isn't it?

Or, it's really like a sunset. Painters try to capture its magnificence everyday.... But it is gone far before they have the chance to complete it.

I've extended the invitation. If you choose to decline, that's your choice. But I know that at the end of the day, I didn't turn you away. So you've nothing to hold against me.

Life is hard enough without losing a friend.
I really didn't want it to end this way.
I don't hate you. I never have.

I hate a lot of shit.

I'm so fucking sick of some shit, so I'm going to bitch about it on here.
Warning for bad language. (Which I'm sure is definitely coming.)

I'm so fucking sick of French Immersion.
I've been in French Immersion since the seventh grade. I understand French. I can write French. I can speak French. I can conjugate French verbs.
So, why is it necessary to continue it any longer? There's not much time left, I know, but still. I just wish I was over and done with it.

I'm so fucking sick of acting happy.
Fact is; I'm really not happy lately. Call it whatever you like: bitchiness, indifference, rudeness. I don't give a shit. But I'm tired of pretending to be happy just to appease certain people. Why can't I just be myself? That alone would improve my general mood.

I'm so fucking sick of this house.
I HATE this house. There is a constant vibe of tension. It's like walking on egg shells. One minute, the house could be completely quiet. Then, with only minimal words exchanged, all hell breaks loose.

I'm so fucking sick of my iPod Touch.
YES. I find it completely necessary to add this in there. I HATE how I have barely any space left, and how everyone else on the fucking planet has one. I cannot WAIT for Christmas. 160 Gig Classic coming my way, baby.

I'm so fucking sick of feeling ugly.
I wish I had some confidence. Every single day, as I walk through the halls of my High School, I feel like a complete reject. Like people stare at the way clothes fit me. I feel different. My hair never stays the way I want it to, never shines the way I envision it, and my make-up never looks just right. Why can't I just be PRETTY? Is that too much to ask, God?

I'm so fucking sick of waking up early.
I HATE GETTING UP IN THE MORNINGS. That is all.

I'm so fucking sick of NEWFOUNDLAND.
I'm getting angrier as I continue writing. >_> I haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaate this Goddamned island with a passion. There's nothing to do, it's cold, and there's not opportunities here.

I'm so fucking sick of trying to act like I'm over someone.
Yeah, I try my best every fucking day of the week to act indifferent towards said person. I don't want to feel anything for them. I don't want to wish we were more than friends (if we are that right now?) But it doesn't help when I have to see their face every Goddamned day. They're not even nice to me. So why can't I get the fuck over it?

Sorry for venting like that. But I fucking hate a lot of shit.

Fall

A poem about leaves... COOL.

The ominous oak tree in your neighbor's backyard is in the process of change.

The fresh, naive leaves sway quietly in the frigid breeze, appearing chilled.
The shake with each burst of wind,
that brushes through the limb's of their home.

With each day passing in autumn, they darken.
Deep, muddy shades of earth; rustic forms of orange; russet obscurities; sunset-colored yellows.

They slowly drift, one by one, to the frost-bitten ground.
The brave cling desperately to their branches,
unwilling to relinquish their hold.

The toughest make it to the edge of winter,
quivering with each breath of wind that flows past and through them.

They watch as their siblings are raked, thrown unceremoniously into bags,
and carted off to desolation.

The strongest fall, eventually.
Swaying to and fro in the air before a graceful landing.

In the dead of winter, the arms stand bare.
Awaiting the return of spring, of glory.

Corroded Morals

I don't even know why I bother posting poetry. I'm really quite shitty.

Lips like ashes,
they crumble, corroded.
They are the remnants of your addiction.

The unwanted part of your necessity.
Strewn away with brisk flicks of your lithe fingertips.

You watch as they tumble to the earth,
falling from the edge of your cigarette, forgotten.
And probably stepped upon as you marched away.

But when you're feeling.. 'moral',
you instead have the decency to toss the remains into an ashtray.

They're grouped together, the useless. Piled with more.
But, their standard of living is so impeccably higher,
for your thoughts may stray to them occasionally, when you use that ashtray.

But that doesn't change the fact that they are trash.
Unhesitatingly thrown aside to make room for new debris.

I watch as you slip another cigarette from the confinements of the package,
propping it between your swollen lips.
Each one awaiting eagerly to be used, destroyed.

Inhaling as you watch the toxins float towards the sky.
Towards the unknown.

I love to hate you.

It's pretty obvious who this one's about.
I wrote this right after school ended. When the pain was still fresh.

Have you no heart?
At one point, we became inseparable.
Never-swaying, solid, avid friends.

My adoration quickly heightened for you.
Rapidly, I fell for your gentle words; altruistic gestures.

Your charming facade dragged me in relentlessly.
My desperate attempts to feign nonchalance plummeted past the boundaries of sanity.

As each day passed, and those words were spoken,
I knew I could deny my true sentiments no longer.

But, as I came to terms with these inexplicable desires,
you changed.

Your complete personality altered.
And, there I stood, confusion and heartbreak manifesting it’s way into my soul.

Now, here I rest, angst clouding my thoughts.

Sincere longing still exists, yes, but your indifference continues to tarnish my happiness.

Is this where you stay, forevermore?
Entrenched in your world of solemnity?

Who the fuck is my inspiration?

Here's another love poem.
If you're wondering about the title, it should be quite clear.
I've written hundreds of love poems (most of which are too shitty to share) but I don't think I've ever been in love.
I've -loved- someone. But I'm pretty sure there's a difference!
ANYWAY. Here is it. Expect lack of original ways to describe love/desire/whatever the fuck you want to call it.

I need you.
All I desire is to envelop you in my arms, and protect you from what lies ahead.
The past, present, futures is ours.
But, all we really need to linger on is the past, apparently.

Your resistance is so infuriating.
Why can't you just realize that we're destined for one another?
That I am yours, and you are mine.

Your hands. Those warm, gentle, loving hands cup my heart oh so delicately.
But, I know you feign gentleness.
Because with quick, rhythmic movements, you could crush it. Mangle it. Obliterate it.

I am aware that you know you hold all the power.
Does this please you? Satisfy you? Placate you?

At what point will you realize that your destiny is already written, already decreed?

See what I mean?
I SUCK AT LOVE POEMS. *Shoots self*

Well beyond my years.

I find it a little annoying, actually.

It is SO hard to relate to kids these days. I mean, sure, I'm still only a teenager. But I feel like I completely skipped that chapter in life. It's almost as if I morphed from a child, straight into a young adult, because I can't remember anything in between.

In High School, they say you discover finally who you are.
But, I already know who I am. And I clearly don't fit in with anyone.

Fact is: I'm not a people person.
There are very few people I genuinely like. Hell, I can even count them on my fingers.
I've always thought life was one big play that God set out of us. Our journey is to discover ourselves, and play the perfect part. Find a place where you belong.
That is where the 'acting' part comes in. I pretend to like a lot of people, when really, I can't stand them.
I don't say I don't like them. I show no animosity. But on the inside, I secretly have no interest in them.
I threw away my script years ago.

That's not to say I'm a mean person. Really, I'm not. I just find that many people aren't really themselves. And I hate that.

Conformity is disaster.
Why bother being someone you aren't? Why waste your time? You only live once, and if we are in fact incarnations, we wouldn't know anyway.
Life is so short. I know that's a clichéd saying, but it is so true.
I look at other kids, trying so hard to be like one another. No wonder life is so dull these days.

I'm not backing down.
I'm opinionated. So be it. I always fight for what I believe in: whether it be music, beliefs, or something that needs defending. My resistance against conformity never sways. You can count on that.

Every single day, I work on myself.
I know I can be too loud or over-bearing at times, so I try to tone myself down. Not for other people. For me. I don't want to be regarded as a loud mouth bitch, but I'm sure many people think I am.

I hate close-minded people.
Whenever somebody is rude about religious beliefs, homosexuality, or a certain ethnicity, I always call them out on it.
Seriously. Ask my friends. Whether it be a stranger, or my BFF, I always yell at them "DON'T USE GAY AS A SYNONYM FOR STUPID." A very cool dude told me that once, and it always stuck.

Ignorance is bliss.
One of my favorite sayings. I'd rather be completely in the dark about something hurtful, even if it's just pushing the pain off to a later date. My life is painful enough as it is..

"A soul of music"
That's actually the title of my blog.
I know many people say that 'music is their life,' but I am one of the few who mean it.
I can't even imagine my life without it. I don't want to. It's the first thing I think about when I wake up, and my very last thought before I sleep.
I never take my headphones out. It could be regarded as antisocial behavior, but I really couldn't care less.
I play guitar. I'm not very good, but I'm in lessons, and I practice a lot. I want to learn for myself; not for anyone else.
Music makes the pain go away, even if the relief is only temporary. I'd be lost without it.

Well, I guess that was just a bigger look at who I am. But, really, you'd have to get to know me before you judged.

Things about Lauren.

Things about me.
My goal is 25 facts.
Will I fall beneath, or exceed my desired amount?
Let's see!

1.I am terrified of the future.
2.I've wanted to be an Archeologist since I can remember, but I can't follow my dreams. Geology it is!
3.The thought of rejection makes me sick.
4.I always fall for people that will never want me back. It's a curse.
5.I'm listening to the Clash right now.
6.The Beatles changed my life.
7.I only see my dad once a year. It sucks.
8.I love makeup that costs more than my clothes.
9.I'm not afraid to be myself, in any situation.
10.I love Dexter Morgan.
11.Jimmy Page is my idol.
12.I want to live somewhere- anywhere besides Newfoundland.
13.I hate people who lack originality.
14.I despise someone I should adore.
15.I hate the sound of my own voice.
16.I sometimes wish I was someone else.
17.I love Harry Potter more than you'll ever be able to comprehend.
18.I blame myself for everything.
19.I am hated by someone for my sister's actions. It hurts.
20.I feel brave writing that previous fact.
21.I can't sleep. I fear I have insomnia, or something similar.
22.I'm pretty sure no one has read my blog, besides a few people who have told me they have.
22.I am inching my way towards insanity. I'm on the boat that takes me there, but I still have to cross to the other side.
23.I love the Red Hot Chili Peppers.
24.I want to be Oscar Wilde's best friend.
25.I want to be forever young.
26.Guitar is soothing. It makes me forget who I am.
27.I love to dance. I'm not too great, but it still makes me happy.
28.I hate people who don't try.
29.I wish I was good at math.
30.I love to write.
31.Alan Rickman's voice makes me want to rape something. Lol.
32.My Mom is crazy.
33.I will never get married. I'm making that decision right now.
34.I'm not having kids either.
35.I hate long car rides.
36.I still sleep with bunnies. Fanny and Freddie. Yes, I'm in High School and I love my bunnies. Sue me.
37.Speaking of 'Sue'..... I love Glee.
38.I love listening to Soundgarden while I'm in the shower.
39.The Verve makes me happy.
40.I went to the Exorcism tonight. It was creepy.
41.I have a cherry red Ibanez. I never put it down.

..I talk a lot.

Dreams.

I wrote this last night when I got home from Orlando.
It's a little depressing, and I don't know what to classify it as.
Poem? Narrative? Random bit of nonsense? You decide.

My feet drag me through the chill airport. I clutch my purse as if it's a safety harness, and pray a miracle will happen.

There he will stand, in his usual attire of cargo shorts and running shoes.
His warm embrace will entrap me, and the pain will ebb away.
My father will take me to safety.
Take me from the insanity that has nothing- but ultimately- everything to do with my life.

No longer will I be stranded on the tip of an eggshell, that's just waiting to crack.
No longer will I have to force myself to remember that in the real world, something called 'consistency' really does exist.

I imagine a place of stability, love, and comfort.
Not my hollow life of petty joys and unrelenting downfalls, disappointments.

But, she will be happy. Euphoric, even.
No longer will I have to witness her life crumble to bits every five minutes.
She will find what she is looking for. Something only she can see.

My Mother.

I will wait patiently for the day where my childhood will really start.
Of course I was a child. At some point or another, we all were.
But, I can't recall a single time where I felt pure elation.
No dreading the future, no worrying about situations that are out of my control.
No fearing the inevitable.

But, all of that is too much to ask.
What have I done to deserve the gift of happiness?
Nothing, really.

Now, here I sit in the stuffy car.
Waiting for them to return.
Waiting for chaos to make his reappearance.

Right now, the other side is so far away.
And, honestly, I'm too fatigued to make the effort.

My Mother's happiness is like a whisk of smoke.
Barely substantial.
But always visible, attainable.
And, just as it's in your grasp, it fades into nothing.

So, there you are. Left to start from scratch.
Finding the perfect candle, relighting it, and praying that your efforts will prevail.
They never do.

Why is it that I can never be happy, knowing she is not?
Her fury becomes my fury.
Her distrust becomes my own.
I hate it.

Yet, I persevere. Begging for this inexplicable connection to break.

Am I asking too much? To live my own life?
The cost seems to increase with each day that passes.

Another Love Poem- Compliments of a Broken Heart

Time means nothing when I'm with you.
Hours feel like moments,
and minutes feel as if seconds have transpired.

You make my world invincible.
Never-ending, never-altering, never-faltering.

Pain cannot exist if you are near.
You shield me from the bittersweet ignorance
of what life has in store.

I am only as strong as your weakest moment.
Only as blissful as your most disastrous day.

I can only breathe knowing your protection is my solace, my vice.

As vulnerable as you are, you reach beyond your boundaries
to provide me with what I need.

So, what we have is not ever-lasting,
nor is it concrete.
How can it be? When its foundation is so frayed and cracked?

Love cannot associate with us.
It is too dangerous.

For, what if we were to fall?
Well, dear, we go down together.

Your adoration is the platform in which I build myself.


(Yeah, I know. I'm not very good at poetry.. I wrote this a couple months ago.. It was worth a shot, wasn't it?)

Every You Every Me

Let's take a shot at poetry, shall we?

I would often like to compare our love to a song.

There's that little rise of hope in your chest when you hear the beginning riff,
knowing that melodic tune is about to start.

The simple riff drifts into that powerful, soul-bearing verse.

An original, non-repeating, beautiful verse.
Those words dig into your heart,
comprehension dawning through your veins.

This is your song.
These lyrics belong to your soul,
and only they understand the complexities of your inner, hidden emotions.

The song phases into the chorus,
in which you know every line, every beat, every word.
The rhythm flows through you, reminding you that this isn't over.
You will relive this again.

A second verse begins, bringing with it a new round of sensations.
And, those words, they seep their way into your brain,
forcing you to reflect on those repressed memories.
Memories of his lips, his eyes, and his skin against yours.
Memories of no heartache.

But then that chorus rolls in, reminding you of a better time.
A time where life was ever so predictable, and when you knew where you stood.
When your feet were positioned upon the ground, not falling into a wasteland of toxic thoughts.

That final riff pours out of you, and you are one with the song.
A song of love, hatred, and tedious passion.
The song of your soul.

Every You Every Me - Placebo

(Pretty lame, I know. Oh well. I tried.)

The Perfect Man

I daresay we've all contemplated this.
Dreamed of it, longed for it, fantasized about it.
But, what exactly is the Perfect Man?
Let's take a look.

Every woman, adolescent girl, and heck, maybe even a Grandma or two has their ideal man laid out.
Charming smile. Dazzling features. Eyes brighter than sunsets. Tall. Intelligent. Hard working. Loyal. Trust-worthy. Honest. Dependable.
All of these traits fit into most women's definition of a Perfect Man. Their fantasy is based practically, or solely on looks, wealth, and their ability to be well-liked by society.
Why must these be the only contributing factors? Whatever happened to things like a man's soul, heart, or insight on life? Aren't these aspects valuable too?

Well, if my Perfect Man did in fact exist, trivial things like looks and style are really of little importance to me.
What counts in a Man's personality!
Intelligence is the key. To be brutally honest, I find intelligence extremely sexy, and, if a man lacks it, I am completely turned off.
Because, at the end of the day, what is there if you can't actually have a conversation with the lad?

Having things in common is pretty important, too. If two people have common interests such as music, literature, or movies, it adds many assets to the relationship. Conversation will rarely become dull, which definitely helps to keep things steady.

Being open is another trait I find necessary at times. I don't think I'd be able to stomach a man who had a poor outlook on things that were different.
I would never date someone who was homophobic, racist, or who had a closed mind in general.
Trying new things is what makes life exciting!

But, enough about me. Let's get back to the facts.

Why is the prospect of the Perfect Man so enticing? Is it because he is almost unattainable, which allows your mind to venture off into the unknown?
Do some women enjoy hunting for him? Dating, sleeping, and flirting with many possibilities?
But, at what point does the search become tiresome?
When do you find yourself longing for him to just APPEAR, so the hunt is no longer necessary?
When does it become a struggle?

Soulmates, Perfection, and Forever are all things that are overrated, difficult to achieve, and impossibly hard to find.
Why must one spend their entire life searching for something that may very well be in their backyard?
So, instead of trying to find something new, take a leap!
Say yes to the geeky boy who asks you out, flirt back with the mediocre boy-next-door! And never be afraid to try it out someone new, someone old, or someone you'd never think something could happen with.

I suppose I'll welcome myself to Blogspot.

Hello, fellow bloggers.
My name is Lauren. I live in Newfoundland, Canada, and I adore music and literature.
I suppose it's about time that I FINALLY got a Blog. I mean, I love to talk, so why not type out what's always on my mind?

I guess I'll start with telling you all a little about myself..

I'm in High School, which is the epitome of boringness, and lack of originality.
Most students are just an army of mindless, self-conceited clones, who have never even heard of the name 'Oscar Wilde,' and who think the Twilight Saga is sophisticated writing.
I am not one of those people.
I've always found myself a little.. Off beat? Different? Unconventional?
I have never quite been alike to those of my own age.
I like to think of myself as my own person... But, in the end, am I regarded as a freak? A weirdo?
I would not find this surprising.
I've just never felt the abundant need to conform, and be like all the others.
At one point in time, I would like to imagine that it was actually a GOOD thing to be yourself. Be who you wanted to be, like what you wanted to like, and not have to worry about the dire consequences of being DIFFERENT.
In modern times, it is frowned upon to be your own true self.
Well, if I may quote Wilde, 'Society is corrupt.'
I've learned to cast these things away. If I want to like Led Zeppelin, I'll like Led Zeppelin! And if I want to belt out random songs from Moulin Rogue, so be it! Why is that such a bad thing?

So, I guess that's one thing about myself. I don't stand down to complete bullshit.

The most important thing in my life currently is music.
Words cannot express how much it means to me..
I find that I have a very ecliptic taste.
One moment, I could be listening to The Beatles. The next, I'll find myself blasting the White Stripes, or Death Cab for Cutie.
I hate mainstream. It is pure DEATH.
Why would I waste my time listening to pitiful songs about 'Being in da club," or how beautiful a stripper is, when I can listen to melodic tunes about relationships, heartbreak, or nature?
Life is much too short to waste your hearing on such atrocities. Instead of listening to what is popular, why don't kids listen to something they've never heard before? That is how I've found some of my own favorite bands.
I critique my friend's taste in music constantly. I've tried to teach many of them what good, real music is, but they really couldn't care less. This saddens me.

Another great factor of my life is probably literature.
Books.. Ah, where to start.
One word: Classics.
I simply adore all of the classics, from Shakespeare to Frost. From Bronte to Chaucer. The list goes on and on!
My favorite author of all time would probably have to be Oscar Wilde, though.
His words stir something in me... It is indescribable.
It's almost as if he knows exactly how to take my most complex thoughts, and turn them into something beautiful.
His outlook on life, and his time, can range from hilarious to simply depressing.
I've read all of his work, and my favorite is still 'The Picture of Dorian Gray."
How many times I've read that book! It's just delightful, horrific, and mind-boggling.
The things he can do with words...

I suppose that is really all one needs to know about me... Want to know more? Just ask.