I Resist the Muses

Answer.. answer.. answer.. Shut up! Orders, for me? Just who do you think you are? Answer.. Answer yourself! Shut up shut up and let me think for myself! Shut up, shut up shut up, I’m sick of hearing you, every last one of you, sick of you! I can do this, I can shut you out, finish this shit, and if you don’t stop pushing in here you’ll be fucking sorry. I can push back, push back, push back and then you will answer me! Shut up, shut up, fuck this was a mistake. Therapy. THERAPY. Note to self: kill Crawford for this. Wonder if he’s seen it coming. Is this a school or a lunatic asylum? I am I am I am I am. I am, I’m me, and you can’t change me or break me or push me out. I am I am I am, I win, I have shut you all right the fuck out and right the fuck up. I am, I am I am.

Answer the question? I’m going to push you out and shove you down and you’ll say what I tell you! You’ll answer me!

I am I am I am I am I am I am I am. I am.

That’s who I am. Mastermind. You think I got that name by sitting on my ass and letting any old asshole in a cheap “friendly” sweater tell me to spread my brains out on a page? Fuck no. I can push you out and stuff you down and make you whomever I want, make you do whatever I want. Make you answer me, make you spread your brains on the wall.

That’s what I can do.

How about that? There’s your answer-me answer-me answer.

Stupid fucking therapy. Stupid fucking therapist. I’m going to kill him.. no, I’m going to push until he kills himself, then I’m going to take this fucking answer book and push it so far up.. Now there’s an idea. Who am I, I’m all better, the end.

Schuldig fills the remainder of the page with scribbled, sloppy cartoon images of himself giving an obscene gesture.

Oh please. Now I KNOW this question is horseshit. And a trap. But I’m feeling playful today and you can’t punish me any more than this.. for this.. I think.. right? Okay, party line: I don’t remember. You know I don’t remember and you know that I know that that is your fault, and that I’ll pretend I don’t know OR remember that. I’m a good boy. This place is my home and the other inmates students are my family. Thank you. The end.

And fuck it, you’re going to forget this anyway, because I’m going to make you. I’ve already gotten a little piece of your mind in my teeth and I’m hanging on. So now, now that I’ve gotten your attention as well as confidence in your immanent amnesia..

Schwarz is my family. We’re like.. we are, hah, like nothing, we are a mismatched set of cracked glassware and crockery. We’re a bundle of orphans, sold four-for-one. We’re lightning in a bottle and you’ve used a weak cork.
Did you know that? That you won’t be able to keep us? Brad knows. What do you think about that?

Family. The end. Now - wouldn’t you feel better if you just put your head down, rested a little while, dream, süsse Träume, and forget...

Wieder immer Gott I hate this shit, hate this shit, hate this hate this hate this Crawford family doesn’t forget you bastard bastard bastard!

Schuldig fills the remainder of the page with a horrible doodle of a little square house with black and pointy looking flowers on the German style balcony and curly carving along the peaked roofline. Little stick figures represent all of Schwarz: Schu and Crawford figures have their arms out with pistols and Farfarello with his knives, they all grin hugely. There's a little boy figure in a blue suit with his arms crossed, too, but he's frowning.

I’m sick of everyone else’s thoughts on love. “It’s in the air” - no shit, it’s in the air 24-7, babbling idiots and pathetic losers, endlessly whinging and wanking and they Never Shut Up. They use each other and excuse anything they do “In the name of love” and you wouldn’t believe the things you all DO and think that no-one else has ever thought of! Unimaginative meat-sacks and damn-fools! All day, all night, everyone, blah blah blah, except the ones who don't.

Those are some scary bastards, them.

The large remainder of the page is filled with sloppy scribbled cartoons of Schu punching, tearing, biting, drop-kicking, and stepping on hearts.

I know it'll never happen. Okay, I still hope it will. I like a little normalcy every now and then. Just to deal with mundane things without worrying about a demon attack. Just a little rest sometimes. It's not so much to ask for. I heard a song the other day that made me think of these things.

( What About Everything? )

( The name's Weevil Navarro. )

Who am I?

I’m the shy, smart girl who the cool kids tease unless they need her to help them with their homework.

( more? )

Okay. Love, huh?

Love is probably one of the subjects - if not the subject - most written about in every form of literature, with perhaps the exception of the textbook, and even then there are usually some asides about the sexual politics of the time. And whether or not textbooks even qualify as "literature" is a debate in and of itself.

The Greeks had two names for love - agape was the love for all mankind, pure and selfless. Eros was the romantic love and sexual attraction between two people, a deep roiling desire for another human being. And it's eros romatic love that seems to fascinate humanity and non-humanity most of all.

There's a reason for that. The reason is that romantic love has a way of making everyone it touches both stupid and crazy. People can't eat, they can't sleep, they can't think about anything but the object of their desire. It's an all-consuming, passionate feeling. (Plus, there might be naked involved. And people just love naked. Really, platonic love can be passionate and all-consuming too, and it's been substantially written about as well, but there's no naked, or at least not nearly as much, so it just doesn't stack up, interestwise, to anything that might have sex in it.)

Some people define love as the opposite of hate. Those people are wrong. You can love someone and hate someone at the same time. You can hate someone so much you want to kill them while loving them so much you'd go anywhere and do anything just to be beside them. You tell yourself you hate them, despise them, only follow them to see them die... but on some level, deep, deep down, you know it's more than that. And it doesn't even feel complicated. It simply feels like... the way things should be. The way they are.

Love has been called a many-splendored thing. That's probably the most accurate description of it ever penned. I don't think even just two words for different kinds of love are enough. There are so many different ways and kinds and meanings of loving, it seems like every language on the planet out to have several hundred different ways of describing all the emotions and ways of caring we currently group together.

Then again, maybe not. Because if there's something similar enough about all this love that we can call it all "love," then maybe at its core, it's similar enough that that one word is all we really need.

Family... is a difficult subject for me to discuss.

Actually, it's a difficult subject for some of the people close to me, as well. Funny how that works, isn't it? Or perhaps it isn't, so much. Perhaps "funny" isn't the right word for it at all.

Our families - or lack thereof, percieved or actual - shape us in ways I don't think we even realize. I know my own family has affected me in ways I can't begin to describe. It's... rather overwhelming, when one thinks about it.

I don't like to think about it, but sometimes I have to.