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A blog centered around what is going on within my life. |
| My name is Stormy Christyna Cannon. I phased into adulthood just this past May and I have no utter clue on earth itself of what I am meant to do with myself. My blog will be written over the days I am coming into contact with continually and will take setting in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, where I have rested all of my life. I do not know where I am going with this. I can only hope that it is some place worth going. |
| three names you go by: - Stormy. - Storm. - Cherry. three physical things you like about yourself: - Hair, depending on the moment of day and how it is styled. - Skin, when it is not breaking out into acne. - Eyes, when they are not gray. three physical things you don’t like about yourself: - My overweight thighs. - My overweight stomach. - My overweight everything else. three parts of your heritage: - Irish. - Greek. - three things that scare you: - Sharks, or other strange, yet fascinating sea creatures. - Forgetting, allowing K to fade from my subconscious perception. - Basically, the unknown. three of your everyday essentials: - My cell phone. - Newport cigarettes. - A lighter. three of your favorite bands or musical artist: - GATH. - Brand New. - Augustana. three of your favorite songs (right now): - I Party (feat. Iz and DB Tonic) Far East Movement - Pop Song Starf***er - Girlfriend Phoenix three places you want to go on vacation: - Greece. - Ireland. - Australia. three ways you are stereotypically your sex: - I squeal and giggle like a young school girl. - I keep a journal/ diary. - My soprano. |
| I say it out loud, but you just do not care. C settles into the driver's seat with much ease, right arm and palm hovering until grasping the steering wheel of his forest green Ford, Taurus. My right ankle rests against the dashboard as I suddenly allow every sour thought to kiss the highness to my cheek bones, I feel it, I let it envelope me and I whimper only beneath my breath. It is time for your depression medication, my soprano coos beyond my temples, hushing each demon feeding with on my heart's core. Three tiny, light green capsules scurry around and around like small army ants inside my hand, screeching with their silent mouths of how greatly needed they are to me. I take them, sigh deeply, feeling safer. But I hate the reliance of it all. |
| He is cleaning my dirty wounds, so I can come back clean for you. Little C (my kid brother) will become one of those impertinent, small nine year old boys next month and he is rising against the short seconds with a beguiled, beau-child upon his thin, dark arm. The two crazed cherubs telephone one another with the means of play dates and the acts of reciting their "I love yous,'" which seems like great normalcy to both. His mannerisms curve from closed-mouthed answers into the receiver to falling fooled over a man's youngest daughter. He knows no right nor wrong and is quite nonchalant over the matter. "He reminds me of myself," is what I whispered into my mother's ear lobe, once Little C turned directions, his laugh lines growing tense as he narrowed his eyes towards my dainty voice. I chuckle, "Did it make you sick - my acting as he does now?" I inquire of her mind. With her attention remaining else where, she simply says, "No comment." His non de plume was indeed Kristopher Alan Arnold and we were rather barely sucklings than ripe and of age. Albeit, we knew no better than Little C does now and thought our thoughts to be wiser than all folk round. Dark rooted filaments ran through his eye's frame, purposely tripping his own sense of perception, but nevertheless - he ever resembled beauty as it did so. A smile like the sun shown from his face, carrying millions of light rays to force a shock and awe with inside your heart's stomach. He wrote poetry, was an actor, and the single way his soprano left his throat to tickle and peck my ear drums was like breathing velvet. And I am simply sick to my loins with jealousy. |
| It rains when you're here and it rains when you're gone. Dormancy stared at myself hard, with eyes filling of refusal. The amount of moments I employed the heels of my feet in kissing the living room floor aimlessly, was indeed what of superfluous manner and reasoned for no point. Clocks strike six and the morning sunlight rises from its own rest, in order to dutifully distract me from my own attempts. Not even a mere blink of an eye lid forces me light headed, the wake of my soul widening. As if needed to lift my heavy being upward and shove it into its right positioning, I write ten sentences that one woman titles "fantastic." But, I do not understand. C's palms are so rough against my satin waist line, but I wish so passionately that he would remove them. Often, the thousands of veins just beneath my skin's exterior cringe astray from another's even light touch. It is what I cannot stand for - the connection of what all I am with someone else entirely. I feel as though I do not deserve such a beautiful thing, perhaps. As if such an alluring state is beyond my very mentioning. My placing shifts quietly from his and I escape downward the steep staircase just outside the attic in hastened tones. Into the lack of lit housed rooms, I do disappear and a while has passed so slowly before I am replaced once again. The emotion I possess when I find that I have anonymously received a three month long upgraded membership on Writing.com is indescribable. I laugh and clap my hands together, like I have won the local lottery. My joy heightened onto peaks that no one besides myself could climb onto, others staring like I was a mythical creature gone mad with excitement. They do not understand the knowledge as to which I believe that this is the only place that could ever return to my grasp, what I have lost so carelessly: my gift: writing. |
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