Sinister: buffy's on the telly, everybody's happy, she's just another catty

[Histrianic at xxx.com]

Hello, all you lovely people, hope your summers have fared well thus far.  This is yet another post from yours truly.

On the subject of the Mountain Goats:
I have only heard two mountain goats albums in their full, asides from the various MP3 files I have downloaded.  I paid a couple of visits to Mr Darnielle's e-zine and send him a request for a different version of an article he had written on the gorguts (I think that was their name) at his offer to the audience.  He emailed me back a few times and our exchanges were only too enthused on my part.  However, after a certain April date he seems to have apparated into nothingness and the promised article was never sent.  So that's my MG story.

On the subject of Belle and Sebastian:
I once claimed that I disliked Storytelling, and I still stand by that statement.  But I am glad that Isobel is leaving the band and look forward to more Tigermilk-like recordings in the future, if not in sound, then at least in its likability and heart-shattering ideas.  (That album was revolutionary, you know.  At least in my life.)

Let me digress now for a moment to warn you of the following contents.  The words are typed on a whim and perhaps fifteen hundred people would not like to spend time reading about sadness and depression.  If you are a busy lawyer like the ones I work for, or just busy in general, please skip ahead to the very last part.

On the subject of being sixteen:
I.
Being sixteen and miserable seems such an intricately developed pop theme.  It has rendered itself, time after time, to be the essential step in the process of becoming a fully-fledged indie fan, much like baptism in a christian's life, or a bar mitzvah in a thirteeen year old jewish boy's life.  Idleberry's post: menacingly sweet and nostalgic in a the same way your parents will always be the most comfortable ones to be around, the ones who will love you the most (although I like to think otherwise and will never admit this in public), and also proof of sixteen being the mecca in the process of becoming a faltering shy indie fan.  
Being sixteen right now, at the present moment, as current events fill the world around me, I think/realize that it's not being sixteen and miserable that is so sweet, but the reminescence thereof.  
Sometimes, my heart cringes for no reason.  It's as if being sixteen comes with a curse that I must be miserable for this whole year, until my birthday strikes again, even when things are going extremely well.  Before dates, during dates, after dates, snogging or not-snogging, A's on exams or F's, it doesn't make a difference, I am miserable for the duration of the year and the only salvation will be the fragmented glimpses of happiness and cheery air that comes back.  The return of contentness and complacency for a brief few moments, the forgetting of graver (such self-flattery!) matters to give time to shallower tasks at hand like homework and boys with perfect noses, the time spent reading fantastical novels that do a fine job of whisking an unhappy teenager into a world better than the ones reality strikes.
II.
This post is long and rambling.  It is also self-pitying, self-elevating and probably incredibly boring.  There is a dog whose coat has been shaved off due to the owner's allergic reactions, napping right next to my chair on which I am sitting as I type this.  I just don't want to stop typing because I haven't spoken to anyone since June 7th, not at length and not with the kind of understanding one wants in a satisfying conversation.  I speak Korean at the same level as a regular 7th grader.  I work with thirty year old secretaries who look upon me with jealousy, pity, and indifference.  (They think they're still in their teens, or at least, in their early twenties.)  
III.
I would edit this, but I do not for the same reason that I didn't edit my reflective prose assignment for english class.  I find myself tired of this same old charade that I've been keeping up for the past two years (I turned sixteen early, and will probably turn seventeen later than the scheduled date in november).  The same reason I look in the mirror half as often when I've packed on ten pounds from vacation or have just got off the phone with the boy femme fatale who dismissed me with absolute nonchalance: I don't like myself at those moments.
IV.
Is it too much to ask to be loved?

The Very Last Part:
much love,
h xoxo
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