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10 September 2011 @ 08:55 pm
I don't really post things on my personal blog other than fanfic, and I haven't done that in a while. 

HOWEVER I AS A USER AM ACTIVE! I use this journal mainly to comment on communities, mainly ONTD hahahaha. 

ANYWAYS I just wanted to make sure people know that this journal ain't dead or nothing. 
30 January 2011 @ 06:16 pm

Why am I so lazy? CORNY ALERT: 

I need to take some chances
17 June 2010 @ 08:38 pm
 So I just requested to join ontd_twatlight ...

About 30 seconds after I requested, I started panicking and freaking out because for some reason I thought it was for people who actually ENJOYED Twilight. Thankfully, I remembered the community description saying they were making fun of Twilight, not supporting it.


lol i'm so stupid
Rated T, for angst and profanity. Catching Fire spoilers. Any feedback is greatly appreciated. 


Bonds are made to be broken.

The phrase scampers around his mind as Maysilee Donner saves his life and says “We’d live longer with the two of us.”

“Guess you just proved that.”

And, before he can sever their ties –


They’ve already been knotted together.


Maysilee had never considered herself a fool.

She’s done some foolish things, yes, but she wasn’t a fool herself.

Then she’s lodging a poison dart into the Career’s throat and stepping out of the woods. Talking, and agreeing to be his ally. Agreeing to ally with Haymitch Abernathy, who was all curly haired arrogance, snarky comments, steel eyed danger.

And, for the first time in her life, Maysilee considers herself as a fool.


Haymitch isn’t often surprised.

He’s smart and analytical. His brain is filled with snap judgments, with most (if not all) more accurate than a bull’s eye.

Maysilee doesn’t take much studying. Blonde hair, blue eyes. Slim, in the healthy, not hungry sort of way. She was the screaming, stark opposite of Seam. He classifies her as the delicate, expensive porcelain type of girl, shattering at first harsh touch. He had been sure she would die within the first day, if not minute.

Even after she saves him from a slit throat, he thinks it’s all a fluke. There was really no other option. How else could have this sweet, fragile little girl survived the hell dubbed as Hunger Games?

He regrets asking to join forces before her hair shakes from the nod of her head. Haymitch’s blood was yet cold enough to kill an innocent girl, but he still considers the idea. He wasn’t about to be slowed down by something pure.

Moments fly by, and so does his first impression. Inexplicably, trusting her is no harder than instinct. She hunts fairly well, and is useful in a fight. From early on, they form a tight-knit team.

He forgets Maysilee: potential downfall. Instead, he discovers Maysilee: potential friend.


Some Careers try to attack them, dead at night, during her shift as guard.

Before she even raises her gun, Haymitch springs awake, knife in hand, silver slashing through scarlet air. After thirty seconds the invaders are dead, and Haymitch is the only one with blood on his hands. He also has blood on his face, and cuts, which Maysilee attempts to treat.

Haymitch is solid and still as her fingers brush healing leaf dew over his cheeks. His skin is cool to her warm touch. Despite the recent tussle, a relaxing silence lingers between them.

“Thank you,” she whispers, hoping her words were soft enough to keep the peace. She concentrates on her hands, steady against his face, keeping her eyes trained on his injuries.

He sounds mildly taken aback as he grunts, in a gruff voice, “What?”

She flickers her gaze to his eyes, deep and serious, then turns back to his cuts.

“Thanks. You fought for me.” Then, unable to contain herself, she adds “Even though you really didn’t have to.”

The silence returns, less relaxed than before. This time, Haymitch breaks it.

“Aren’t I your ally?”

Maysilee pauses, fingertips frozen a breath’s distance from his wound.

“Well, yes, but –’’

“Because I thought allies helped each other. As in, if you’re in trouble, I help. And vice-versa. Or would you not fight for me in a battle?” He raises his eyebrows, and looks at her, mockingly indignant. She can’t help but scowl in return.

“No! Haymitch – no! Of course I’d fight for you! But I was the one on guard, you were supposed to be sleeping, and – ’’

She feels as if Haymitch has stolen her words and composure. Since day one, he’s unwittingly forced her into more and more of a fool.

“And, well, I could have taken them. You didn’t have to fight them all for me. Now you’re hurt, and that could end up hurting us, and if you had at least just let me fight with you instead of taking them all on your own you probably wouldn’t have ended up hurt at all.”

To her annoyance, his eyes are closed. And there’s no reply.

“Haymitch? Hello? Anyone home?”

His eyes suddenly snap open, piercing hers. Instantaneously, Maysilee gives an involuntary strangled yelp in surprise. Haymitch (That brat, she thinks, Most of Panem’s probably laughing at me now) coos, not without sarcasm, “Aw, were you that worried about me? You’re upset that I’m hurt?”

His hands close around her own, rough and so much larger. He moves her hand to touch his face, applying the healing dew.

Sighing, she pries his hand from hers, unknowingly gentle.

“Fine. I get your point. Just - next time, we fight together, okay?” She empathizes “fight together” by using more force than necessary while rubbing the dew.

Haymitch glares at her and snaps “Hey, try being more careful with that, idiot!” Maysilee rolls her eyes and he imitates her.

After, when he thinks she’s not looking, a smile blossoms on his face; widening lips and lighting eyes.


From the very beginning, he thought of survival strategies.

Out of those, an idea was produced. A hunch, a theory, a hypothesis. He becomes obsessed with this idea, with testing it out, with confirmation, until it burns in his mind and races a fiery path around his veins. If he was right, if it worked, he knew it could potentially help him survive.

If it didn’t help – well, he likes to think of using it as a last Fuck you! to the Capitol.

And even though they, him and Maysilee, are surviving just fine without it, he still hunts the idea. She keeps asking him why, and he doesn’t answer, simply because he doesn’t know want to say. That’s as far as the simplicity goes. He just doesn’t know why he can’t and absolutely won’t tell her his idea. Maybe because he wasn’t sure whether he was right. Maybe he didn’t want to give her false hope. Maybe he didn’t want to give himself false hope. Maybe he wanted to keep this one idea, this one edge, to himself. Just for himself. Nobody else.

Not even Maysilee.

Maybe because, no matter how much he wants to pretend not, only one of them can make it out alive.


Sometime, somewhere, somehow, she beings to feel uneasy.

She had almost forgotten the truth. That she and Haymitch could be killed any second. That she and Haymitch could be killing each other any second.

Haymitch becomes obsessed. He always was, always has been, but the obsession gets worse, and he pushes them to go on and on and on.

She keeps asking, Why? Each time, there’s no answer.

They both know what Why means. Why are you doing this? Why are you so obsessed? Why won’t you tell me? 

She keeps asking, until she can’t go any further. Sometime, somewhere, somehow, she had grown uneasy. And, despite the fact that sometime, somewhere, somehow, she had grown to love him, she couldn’t quite yet lose herself to help find him. When she refuses to move, he finally gives her exploding question an empty answer.

“Because it has to end somewhere, right?”

Maysilee feels like choking. “Because it has to end somewhere, right?” They both know the second part of his answer, “The arena can’t go on forever”, means so much less than the first.

“Because it has to end somewhere, right?”

“What do you expect to find?”

“I don’t know. But maybe there’s something we can use.”

There you go, Haymitch, she thinks, with a bitter tinge. You and your empty answers.

They go on. She goes on.

They reach the end.

Earth, flat and dry, reaching to cliffs, with only jagged rocks below.

This is it. 

“That’s all there is, Haymitch. Let’s go back.”

She adds Please, loud and desperate in the silence.

She sees the fight, the conflict in his eyes, something raging and impossible and tragic. She knows his answer before he speaks.

“No, I’m staying here.”

“All right.”

Her breath catches, and she realizes the finality of what she’s said. He does, too, and he tears his gaze away from hers, staring off into something unseen.

“There’s only five of us left. May as well say goodbye now, anyway.”

And, even though she’s scared he’s already gone, she says, as clear and honest as possible, “I don’t want it to come down to you and me.”


He’s gone, and she’s about to disappear.


He’s the mad scientist who just discovered the nuclear bomb.

Except he’s not a scientist and he hasn’t discovered a bomb. He thinks he could be mad, but he’s still ecstatic, because his idea was right and he was right and this could mean survival. He’s found the forcefield, the Capitol trick. More importantly, he’s found a way to blow the trick up in Capitol’s face. He’s laughing when he hears Maysilee scream.

He can’t think. He can’t breathe. But he forces himself to move, running, sprinting, pumping his legs and arms as fast as he can towards the screams, blocking out the possibility that he’ll be too late. Blocking out the fact that, if he wants to live, she’ll have to die somehow. He only knows the feeling of adrenalin and panic.

He’s too late.

Those birds, those damn birds, those fucking birds fly away in swirls of pink feathers and red blood. He arrives to see them pierce Maysilee’s throat. She can’t talk.

He grips her hand, so hard her it turns white. Slowly, he releases pressure, until he’s holding her as softly as he can.

Her eyes are pure blue. He’s known that for a while. He starts to believe that crappy cliché, the one about eyes leading to the soul.

Maysilee’s eyes are blue and clear and pure and honest and so filled with things, filled until forever with things that Haymitch will never be.

Haymitch tells her he’s sorry, scant seconds before her eyes fade to nothing.


He’s dying.

He’s dying, but the girl from District 1 is already dead. Somewhere in the distance, sounding from the edges of hazy conscience, cannons fire and trumpets serenade.

There are two Haymitch Abernathys.

One lies convulsing on a cliff, body thrashing wildly, nothing but the feeling of rocky surface beneath him.

The other drifts in circles, knowing a part of him is dying yet unable to care. He lives and yearns in memory. Smidgeons of candy-pink, flickers of endless blue, laced with warm gold, everything drenched crimson red.

Haymitch Abernathy, dying with moments of the past, thinks of blonde hair. Blonde hair and full eyes, pale skin and cold hands, compassion, saving grace, and what could have been.
Current Location: party hardy
Current Mood: contemplativecontemplative
Current Music: Time To Dance - Panic! At The Disco
03 June 2010 @ 10:28 pm
Someone asked me, do you have any big secrets?

Well then. Hmm. I could think of a few right off the bat. Then I thought some more, and I came up with a pretty big one. The stupid thing is it shouldn't have to be a big one.

I pride myself on being open and accepting. The fact that my secret is a secret - the fact, not the secret itself - makes me check myself and the people around me. And you know what? I shouldn't have to.

I really, really shouldn't have to. 
Current Location: in my head
Current Music: some mainstream radio
26 May 2010 @ 05:01 pm

I wish I could say the same. 

Lately I've just been craving ... so much. So much. I want something more with my life. I want to shine, I want to get somewhere, I want to be the girl who's plastered on tiny-bopper's walls. I want to be a star. 

It's such a desperate feeling. That struggling in your chest, writhing, wanting to get out, stepping on black pavement and running as fast as you can to see where you'll end up. That feeling. I know there are millions of other girls like me out there, wanting to be someone with all their hearts and just ... never fulfilling that outcome. 

I can't say I'll end up shining. I don't know that. I can't guarantee that, no matter how bad I want it. 

But I can say I'll try. 

(In another world of feel-good movies and after-school specials, that would be enough.)
Tags: ,
Current Mood: aggravatedaggravated
29 April 2010 @ 08:23 pm
A / N :

WARNINGS! Cursing. AND ANGST. REALLY, TOTALLY, ANGSTY - ANGST. Originally, this piece started out as a kind of five senses vignette series thing but that just ... failed, LOL. I was cleaning out my laptop, found this, and was fairly surprised to find it decent-ish as it was. A few fixes here and there but otherwise okay.

If any errors are found/constructive criticism is offered, I will gladly accept it!

This is your utopia.

The world spins until you can't tell between sky and earth and up and down and hell and heaven and oh hey, were the clouds always stained with red?

This is your utopia.

(He wonders, from a scientific point of view, how it was possible to have those eyes. He swears that they're different for every angle, every mood, every time he's with her. They turn harsh violet in anger. Periwinkle in happiness, and light. Pale lavender when calm, wisteria in emotion, indigo with strength. The list goes on and on, until he realizes he needs some more words for purple.

It's gotten to the point where, when observing her, the first thing he sees is her eyes. He feels like that way, he could always see her true feelings, instead of deciphering through misleading facial expressions.)

This is your utopia.

Some days, you remember lying awake at night, staring at the ceiling until your eyes start to blur. 

You wonder an amount between everything and nothing.

This is your utopia.

(When he wasn't looking at her eyes, his gaze often drifted down to the mouth. Petite and delicate. A feminine mixture of pink and red. Then she'd open the mouth, and strings of very un-lady like vocabulary would shoot towards him.)

This is your utopia.

"What is a hollow?"

Blink. And blink. And blink.

The slight curl of lips – not a frown. Too slight, too real to be a frown.

"Blood. And souls."



Silence, and you forget who had released the final word, slipping through the mouth and lingering.


This is your utopia.

There are so many ways, you think. Ways the exact same thing can be said, and with such different meaning.

Take his name – Ichigo.

When Goatface says it, it's accompanied by excitement and shiny indignant words. Goatface's Ichigo is heard to annoyance, and an automatic reaction of dodging to the right (since he learned long ago his father aimed for that side of his face).

His sisters call out Ichi-nii, Ichi-nii, in various ways. Sometimes with mild annoyance, sometimes with happiness, sometimes with sadness and anger, but always wrapped in love.

Chad's is simple and quiet. Straight to the point. Quick, and always deliberate. The only things heard with Chad's Ichigo is the absolute bare necessity; or whatever Chad deems that as.

The list of Ichigo's seem never-ending – Ishida's, Inoue's, Tatsuki's, Keigo's, Mizuiro's, Renji's, and all the rest. But he knows one thing they all have in common: The way his name is said reflects on the person who says it.

It is with this theory, and knowledge, that you listens to Rukia's Ichigo the most.

This is your utopia.

You watch the light flicker, falter and fall.

Time stretches raw, winding into eternity. All you can see is the light flickering, faltering, falling, over and over and over again.

For some reason, you can't seem to hear your screams, or feel your pain, or taste your blood, or smell your despair.

All you can do is see.

This is your utopia.

They weave and thread together, hammering with brutality into your mind until they become nothing but a mantra. Words that have lost their meaning because they've been So. Fucked. Up. and repeated –

this is your utopia this is your utopia this is your utopia this is your utopia

this is your utopia

You seep through the floor, falling into tunnels and pits of places where you can't be.

This is your utopia.

At first, you think you've gone blind. Then, you realize, No, it's just that damn dark here.

You think you've gone deaf, but you can't tell if it's because there were too many cries or none at all.

You think the scent of blood is gone. Or, perhaps, it has become such a fixture that you can't tell if it's there or not.

You try to touch comfort, but your fingers stretch to meet nothing. You swallow, and gag on the emptiness.

You have a nagging feeling you've been here before. But there had been a piercing light, warmth and love and sanity to guide you

(fuck please no not her don't go don't stop don't slow don't move don't die don't die don't die

don't leave me)

And now it seems to have left, leaving behind black.

This is your utopia.

You wonder what is worse: Living alone –

Or dying alone.

You suppose you're going to find out, as you're going to experience both. After all, you've already lived through one. You plan to die through the other soon.

This is your utopia.

You laugh.

You laugh, and it is hollow.

- - - 

AUTHOR'S NOTE ( AGAIN ) : I hope that wasn't too confusing. I wish I could have been more clear in my writing but ... alas, NOT TO BE. The 'This is your utopia' line, I pictured as Ichigo's hollow saying it while Ichigo was going through all of those moments. That dark and, just, never-leaving voice in the back of his head, the constant reminder of Ichigo's hollow nature. Basically, this whole piece was Ichigo's "death" (for lack of better term). Some moments are his memories, memories that just lasted and he flashed back on as he "died". I imagined him in a fight - at least, losing a physical fight, but really a fight within himself, with his hollow. The very last line can be interpreted as the outcome of the battle.
Current Mood: accomplished
Current Music: Dark Blue - Jack's Mannequin