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Dear John

*dusts off the cobwebs*

Wow, it's been a while, hasn't it?

I haven't written in this journal in about a year. This is for a number of reasons, the primary one being that life just got in the way.

I know there aren't very many left of you, if any, who still follow this journal; if you do, thanks for sticking around this long.

I don't want to take up too much of your time, but I'm just here to say goodbye to all of you and to thank you for all your kind words and for opening my eyes to so many of the things I've grown to love and appreciate the most in my life. What started off as me just being really into bandom, ended up with me discovering such beautiful people who helped me discover so many fantastic new worlds, and introduced me to some of my favorite things and people.

Whether it's comments on my entries, or fics you've written or just posts about your lives, the fact of the matter is you all are the reason I found what I care most about. Looking through my f-list I see some names that make me so happy, just knowing that I had a chance to interact with you, because you all are some of the most beautiful people I have ever met. It was through all of you that I discovered my love for literature, the reason I'm going to be majoring in English Lit when I start college in September. You all made me discover my passions for so many things and again, there are no words to express my gratitude for that.

But the fact of the matter is, the things that made this LJ so important to me, bandom in particular, aren't quite as big a part of my life as they used to be. In fact, a lot of the things I discussed here aren't really a part of me anymore. Which is why, given these and the new beginnings I'll be embarking on very soon, I think it's only appropriate that I start fresh.

I wish I could take you all with me, but that wouldn't be a fresh start, would it? And I'm afraid that the new interests I've taken on wouldn't interest you all very much. So instead I'm going to make a clean break.

If you'd really like to keep in contact with me, please comment on this entry and I'll be sure to contact you once I've established my new account and gotten things in order. I don't see this happening too much, considering that I haven't even visited this journal in so long and I think you all have already forgotten about me.

So this is my Dear John letter; it wouldn't seem right to just shove off without letting you all know of the profound influence you've all had on my life, how much I love you all for it, and how I'll be forever in your debt, because you gave me some of the greatest things in my life.

Thank you all again,



“No one wants to think anymore, they just want to feel,”

but oh, I want it all,

Why can’t I have it all?

When did the heart and the mind become so mutually exclusive? My heart feels a message and my mind puts it into words so that your heart can feel it too, isn’t that how it’s supposed to be?

Or is there something wrong with me? Are my wires all tangled up, sending signals to all these parts where they’re not supposed to be?

What ever happened to all the poets, the dreamers, the lovers, the thinkers? What happened to the people who were just like me? Oh, sometimes I fear I was created much too late, and all the poets/dreamers/lovers/thinkers are buried in this state

of mind of mine.

Because Shakespeare is long gone, I fear, my questions left to squander, and Aquinas would turn in his grave if he knew how far from God I’ve wandered.

Wilde lives on in my heart, thought he could barely save himself, and Nabokov had a thousand Lolitas sitting high upon his shelf.

But you know Freud can’t save me, I must be a defective human being! Call Descartes, tell him I think too much to exist amid this scene.

And the times, they are a-changin’ right before my very eyes, I have to sing myself to sleep at night with Nietzsche’s lullabies.

Oh, someone get me out of here, I’ve got too much to give; pack me in a box and send me back in time, for now is not my place or time to live.

9 (That Girl's Got Woe)

Sometimes I wish

I was easier to divide

Like a perfect square by its own root

I wish I could compartmentalize myself

And pick myself apart

Like a remote control or a blender

And put myself back together

Once I’ve solved the mysteries

Of my existence.

I wish I could peel back my skin

Like an apple or an orange

And find my core,

The seeds of who I am.

Because even though I am the product,

The subject of my own study,

Even though I’m conducting my own dissection,

My own autopsy,

I’m nothing but an innocent bystander

Looking for answers in a stranger’s body.

I wish I could deconstruct myself

Like an alarm clock

And see just what makes me tick.

But I’m not meant to be taken apart, am I?

Not meant to be looked at piece by piece

Because I am a whole, aren’t I?

My parts depend upon each other.

One is nothing without the other.

I am not me if my parts do not run together.

Like y=x,

They depend directly upon each other.

But without separating them I can learn nothing.

Without separating them I can not discover their functions

And why they do the things they do.

How can I identify the whole,

If I can’t even identify the parts?

Perhaps I’m not meant to be figured out

Perhaps there are no answers to my infinite equation

Because like water, I am a whole

Though with no answers, I am

A Hole.

Maggie Monster



Prayer of the Refugee [working title]

I am a refugee.

Six years ago the darkness found me, and in my desperation to feel something, I embraced it. But when the time came to move on, it gripped me with all its might, and as hard as I pulled and as much as I struggled, it would not let me go. I remained in its grip for over three years, until eventually I lost all that was good in me and I couldn't tell who I was anymore.

I am a refugee.

Three years ago a disembodied lights reached into the darkness that had become my home. It grabbed me and it shook me but I was too submerged in my own sorrow to feel a thing. Finally it held onto my collar and pulled me, trying so hard to pull me out. But I fought back and I struggled, I tried so hard to stay where I was; the darkness was all I knew; in it, I knew myself. In the end the light won and pulled me out of the darkness, and for the first time in three years I saw lights and beautiful colors and I was happy.

I am a refugee.

For the past three years I have lived in hiding, in fear of the darkness and its imminent return. I can go nowhere without looking over my shoulder, wondering if it is following me. I must avoid all dark corners where I think it might be lurking. I can never and I will never escape the darkness; I can only avoid it. The darkness is not something I can leave behind; it lives in my heart. It is a part of me that will always be there.

I am a refugee.

I have seen changes in unexpected places and unexpected faces. What I see in the mirror today is not what I saw only seven months ago. I am ill; the packaging is different, but the symptoms are all the same. Something has stolen my will and my motivation to live the life I want to live and be the person I want to be. My reasons for waking up are less compelling with each passing night, and only in my dreams am I truly alive anymore. The darkness is a shape shifter and it has consumed me, I hold it in my heart and I have been submerged in it again, after successfully avoiding it for so long, I was so happy, so, so happy, but now I've lost my identity and I don't know how long it will be before I can be pulled out again.

I am a failed refugee.

I am a prisoner and this darkness is my captor.

I don't have the strength in me to run anymore.

I don't have the strength to fight.

Of Nostalgia and Blue Skies

Sometimes I see a brightly shining sun; a mannequin in a store window; an apple; a flash of pale skin underneath a strip of delicate lace; and I remember.

y memory of that day is sensory. Sometimes I'll remember the brilliant shine of a smile, the sweet scent of shampoo, a musical laugh, the feeling of soft skin wrapped around gentle curves beneath my fingertips, and the flavor of that same skin, which I had previously only tasted in my dreams. Most days all I can remember is a silver chain draped around a delicate wrist, from it hanging an apple and a metaphor.

From time to time I wonder if you still wear that kiss upon your wrist. I wonder if you still carry it, carry me, everywhere you go, the same way I carry the heavy albatross of your memory. That silver chain would be a symbol for me, you said; it would serve as a welcomed shackle that would bind you to me, to remind you that someone out there loves loved you. I remember how you said you'd show the world, and that swell of pride I felt, because for that beautiful, fleeting, horrible moment, you were mine.

It's been about 90 days, and these thoughts and memories and questions still plague me. There are still so many things I wish I knew, like what ruined you, if you're happy without me, if your memories of me are fond or painful, or bittersweet like mine. I wonder if you still wear that bracelet I gave you so long ago, but mostly I wonder if you still think of me from time to time.

In a way, I'm a lot like the apple that may or may not still hang from your wrist; a forbidden fruit that you insisted on tasting. To this day I still lose sleep, wondering if you ever really loved me, wondering if I was just an option for you, ever after I made you my top priority.

When I woke up this morning, the sun was shining and the air smelled like summer. It's when that warm breeze hits my skin that I'm forced to remember that summer so long ago, when I must put on a brave face and pretend that some part of me doesn't miss you, pretend that I don't wish I could pick up the phone and not have to wonder if you'd answer.

It was roughly 90 days ago that I made one of the hardest decisions I've ever made; when I grew tired of picking up pieces and doubting myself; when I realized that enough was enough and that no matter how desperately I wished you were real, if I ever wanted to stop blaming myself, I had to let you go.

With each summer that descends upon me, I am forced to remember a time when I loved you more than anything or anyone in the world. I only hope that silver chain on your wrist reminds you of everything you once had, everything you gave up.

I miss you.

But until I can learn to love myself again, I don't  know how I can be expected to love anybody else, let alone you.

My first vlog!

So I finally made my first vlog last night. It took me almost 4 hours to do everything and I'm quite pleased with myself. Now all I have to do is get people to watch it. I'm proud to say I've already got 19 views, none of which are me!
And yeah, that's kinda pathetic, but it's more than I thought it would be!

Here it is! Please watch and maybe comment? Por favor?

Maggie Monster


Quick question to everyone on my f-list?

So I really want to start a vlog, but I'm not sure anyone would view it. I don't think I want anyone at my school to see it (mostly because I really don't like people at my school), so I was wondering if all of you on my f-list would be willing to see it, at least until I get on my feet with it with some more viewers?

Let me know!

Maggie Monster ™

The 'Be Your Own Pete Wentz' meme

Stolen from heartsdesire456

This is pretty awesome :)
Put your iPod on shuffle and write down the first line of the first twenty songs. Post the resulting poem. The title is the first line of the twenty-first song.

Oh Baby, Here Comes the Sound

You left me hanging from the thread we once swung from together
My life is yellow lines, concrete, and Parliament butts

Everybody look at me, me
And if your heart stops beating, I'll be here wondering

If I don't say this now, I will surely break
Well if you wanted honesty, that's all you had to say

Keep you in the dark
I've made a few mistakes

Isabella, stand a little bit taller
Did I drive you away?

Every time they turn the lights down
I want you, I want you so bad

I think I'm drowning, asphyxiated
You only hold me up like this because you don't know who I really am

Now I'm of consenting age to be forgetting you in a cabaret
She says she's no good with words but I'm worse

You could have knocked me out with a feather
Dirty little secret, dirty little lies

Hello there, the angel from my nightmare
You can look but you can't touch

So, this wasn't a total fail, eh?

Maggie Monster ™
Y'know, sometimes I get so caught up in posting things that mean something, I forget what a journal is, I forget that's I can post whatever the hell I want, even if it's about something stupid like me fixing the goddamn leaky faucet. I forget about all the mundane stuff, I really do.

Thing is, no one ever really gets remembered for saying stuff like "I fixed the goddamn leaky faucet today". No one really gives about that kind of stuff. It's like you need to be a poet for anyone to care about what you're saying. People forget, though, that we've all got leaky faucets, and no one ever bothers to fix them, partly because they don't know how. But there's always that one guy, that one person who stops being lazy and fixes the goddamn faucet, and no one cares about him, because all he did was fix a goddamn faucet. But take all the people ignoring him, and you'll see that they've all got leaky faucets, and so does that stupid poet they're all listening to. Those jerks will always have a leaky faucet, wasting all the goddamn water.

This morning I found out J.D. Salinger died. Everyone's pretending to be all sad about it it, saying stuff like, "Aw, that's sad," but none of them really mean it. None of them could care less, because most of them didn't know the guy's name until this morning, and those who do only remember because they were forced to read his goddamn book in high school. Not me, though. I read The Catcher in the Rye all by myself, read it 6 times, actually, I really did. It's my favorite book, and that's saying a lot, because I'm a pretty big fan of Oscar Wilde, so you'd think something like The Picture of Dorian Gray would be my favorite book. But it's not, my favorite is still the goddamn Catcher in the Rye. I know a lot of people who hate every goddamn word of it, but I don't think they get it, I really don't. They think it's all about some kid who swears too goddamn much and thinks about stupid stuff that doesn't really matter, end of story. They don't get it.

I know what it's really about, though. What it's really about, is a kid who sees everyone for who they really are, y'know? And he doesn't really know what the hell he wants, but he knows he's not getting it, with all of those phony jerks going around all over the place like they know what really matters. They don't really know what the hell they want either, but they're gonna keep acting like they already have it, just so they can make themselves seem superior and all that jazz. This kid, though, he sees right through them, and he doesn't like any of them. He doesn't like much of anything, really but that's because everyone around him is a goddamn phony jerk, that's why. No one's genuine and he sees that. Tell you what, though, I know what he does like, what he really wants. He likes innocence, he likes genuine people who aren't phony and who won't act like jerks just to make everyone like them, that's what he likes, that's what he wants, and that's what he's looking for but just can't seem to find.
His little sister, though, she gets it. She's just like him, in a lot of ways. She wants something more. That's why she's always got a new middle name every goddamn time he sees her. And she, she's got everything this kid is looking for. She's genuine, for one, she really is. And she'll call this kid out when he's being a jerk, too. Most of all, though, she's innocent. She likes to act like she's all grown up and all, but she's still a child, she's still got those innocent qualities. She still likes riding the goddamn carousel and all that. And that whole fantasy he has about being the catcher in the rye, about saving all those goddamn kids before they fall off the cliff, what he's really thinking about is preserving innocence, saving those kids while they're still good, before they go all rotten and phony like everyone else does when they get older. Anyway, this kid just can't seem to find a genuine, innocent person, but he finds it in his little sister, and that's why he likes her so much more than everyone else. I don't think he gets it, though, because he still doesn't know what the hell he wants, so he doesn't know when he's found it. At the end, though, he still isn't happy, he really isn't.

So I found out this morning that the guy who wrote this goddamn book, J.D. Salinger, just died. And everyone else is pretending to be sad about it and just go about their day, but not me. I'm sitting here practically bawling like a goddamn leaky faucet, I mean, guy wrote my favorite goddamn book. But it's not just that, though, it's not just that he wrote my favorite book, what it is, though, is I get it. Or maybe it's not even that I get it, maybe it's that he gets it. Or got it. I mean, you read this book and it actually sounds like a goddamn potty-mouthed 17-year-old kid, not the 32-year-old man who actually wrote it. And since it's actually written from the point of view of some confused kid, he manages to get his point across, that he gets it, he understands what it's like being some confused kid, not knowing what the hell you want but knowing that you want something a hell of a lot more than what's around you. He gets it. That's why it's my favorite goddamn book, because I'm a confused kid, I don't know what the hell I want, but I do know that I want something more, because what I do want, I'm sure as hell not getting where I am now. I'm really not. And I'm a lot like this kid in the book, because looking back on all I've had, I see that sometimes, I've had exactly what I want, exactly what I'm looking for. I'm still not goddamn happy, though, I'm really not.

So that's why I'm here, bawling my goddamn eyes out. Not because the guy who wrote my goddamn favorite book died, but because this world just lost one of the few guys who gets it, who gets me. I feel like I lost my goddamn best friend. It's not right, it really isn't.

Don't ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody.

J.D. Salinger

Maggie Monster ™

The Alter Ego Project (Alter #1: Cobra)

So my Cobra necklace came in yesterday, and of course I was wearing it with pride and gladly showed it off to anyone who had a moment to spare. Not everyone got the reference, but, oh well. I was also wearing my Hot Mess t-shirt that I got at the Boys Like Girls show back in November (which, whoa, coincidence?? I think not!). I fell asleep wearing the shirt because I was too tired to change. So I was wearing it for the better part of today.

While wearing said shirt, I decided I wanted to do a small photo shoot (AKA, me taking up to 50 photos of myself, and deleting up to 49 of them) to introduce my new Cobra necklace, because seriously, that thing makes me feel seriously hardcore.

Then I thought, why not go all out? I'm wearing a Hot Mess t-shirt and I've got the necklace the girl was wearing on the cover of Hot Mess. I obviously can't go get the tattoo that the girl had on the inside of her lower lip (although I just might at some point), but I can make myself look like a hot mess.

So I started experimenting with my makeup, and adding random elements as I went along that I thought of when imagining a girl one would describe as a hot mess. I put on lots of black eyeshadow and smudged it to make it look like I fell asleep in it, but you know that wasn't enough. So I put on my bright red lipstick and fucked. that. shit. up. I also put random steaks of black eyeshadow on my cheeks to look just...grimy, I guess you could say? That's when finally, I got the inspiration for the focus of the look: a black eye. I only have lavender eyeshadow, but I put enough on the Q-tip to make it look like a darker purple, concentrated it around the eye itself, and added random blots of purple and black around the edges. You could totally tell it was just makeup, but really, who gives a fuck, it's just a look. I only saved 4 of the photos I took, but I gave them their own album on Facebook and titled it Hot Mess.

I got really attached to these photos, though, and the girl in them. Somehow I looked at her and I saw someone who just wasn't really me, y'know? So I made her my alter ego.

I know, that just sounds weird, but come on! Think of how fun that could be, telling people all about my alter ego based entirely on a Cobra Starship CD. I was trying to come up with a name for her, and my mum and I actually had a whole discussion about what her name should be, based on the photos I took and the motto I made for her ("I'm nothing but a hot mess in a cold world.") After a while though, my mum suggested a name that should have been obvious from the very beginning, and I became really attached to it. Thus my alter ego was born.

But then I started thinking again. I mean, I have so many different looks and styles with just the little bit of cheap makeup that I have, so I thought: Who says I can only have one alter ego? Who's to say I can't have multiple, based on the way I wear the makeup and how I feel when I wear it in that way?

This is how my Alter Ego Project was born. Basically, I'm going to expand my makeup collection (so that, y'know, it's an actual makeup collection), experiment with different methods, styles, and looks, and when I find one I like, she shall become another one of my alter egos complete with the following:
Name, Look(photo), Motto, Trademark item, Song, and Story/Personality. Each alter ego will have their own background/primer post on LJ and Facebook, as well as her own photo album on FB. Whenever I wear that look, I'll try to take more photos and put them in that album.

Thus, I introduce my very first alter ego, who will always have a special place in my heart!

Meet CobraCollapse )

Maggie Massacre ™

Latest Month

July 2011