What is this feeling

This feeling is rejection.

Some people from some website spammed all my YouTube videos with hate comments.

I felt angry when I got the first one.
Then, I got over 150 more hate comments.
Then, I just felt like crying.

I got this letter from an anonymous user:
Ignore the comments that were plastered all over your video.

It's just a bunch of trolls from a certain website, who have nothing better to do than to boost their own self esteem by feeding on people's tears.

I hate when they do that crap. It's something I'd expect from my kid cousins.

For the record, I don't think your singing is bad.

I just thought that what THEY were doing was bad.

Good luck.
And keep making videos.


I thought it was super nice of this person to do this.


I had to take down all my videos just so I wouldn't get bothered by this.

I have problems.

I can't even explain my own feelings.
-
Why do I always do this?
I always put a song on repeat and I can't take it off until I go to sleep.

I have no idea what's wrong with me.
I seriously have no idea what is wrong with me.
10 minutes ago, I was fine and having hilarious conversations on the WAYT and now?
Now what?

God, what is my problem?
-
I need to care less about what people think of me.

Have you ever

Have you ever had that feeling of pure.... happiness?
Like, when everything seems right in the world?

When you forget about everything- world hunger, civil wars, leaving your family for days and spending it with another, freaking out that the guy you're in love with is coming to your front door, flipping out about grades, etc?
all the little things
all the big things

Have you ever had that one moment where it all leaves you and all you're left with is pure ecstasy? Pure.. I don't even know how to explain my own feelings.


The feeling that all your problems and your city's problems and all your country's problems and all the world's problems and all the spacial problems are just gone?


I feel only like this when hearing those familiar lyrics, reading those familiar words over and over again, feeling that soft, worn fabric of your favorite hoodie, going to a show and screaming your lungs out, meeting people who live no where near you and having everything in common...
Having so much fun it hurts to think about anything else?

It's simply amazing.

If you've ever experienced this, you know what I mean.
You know how this feels.

You know that everything is fine. Nothing is wrong.
People aren't getting murdered, slaughtered, starved, annoyed, mad, heartbroken, all the negative feelings.

All you feel is your own joy? happiness? ecstasy? love? amazing?

I don't know.

I know you probably are so confused and like "what is she talking about", etc.
But you have no idea until you know what I mean.

My life sucks today.

Ugh, my friends from school are a bunch of posers and fakes. And they care all too much about having a bf/gf that they don't actually like them.

Take my friend. She's been going out with this guy since October. They've known each other since forever, so that's not the point. He doesn't talk to her and flirts with other girls very obviously. All of us, her so called friends tell her to break up with him and she's like "I don't want to hurt his feelings!" and we're like "What fucking feelings? He clearly likes you enough to go talk to other girls more than you." So anyway, this girl that clearly likes him hatches evil plans to split them up. She's an underclassman. -dies of laughter- so anyway, like my friend was like I HAVE TO TALK TO YOU ALONE. And she took all of my friends but me so I was just like "whatever, I'm leaving." I left.

My other friend has a boyfriend and the only reason she hasn't broken up with him is because she "hates being single". I'm like WTF. I'VE NEVER HAD A REAL BF. YOU'RE OBSESSING BECAUSE THIS GUY YOU SO CALLED "LIKE" DOESN'T FUCKING CALL YOU. You know why I haven't had a bf yet? It's because all the guys in my grade are assholes or try too hard to be cool.

I freaking hate my dad. So like today, I have half my grade due TOMORROW and it needed to be printed. So I go downstairs an hour before the Staples closes to make sure I get there before the store closes. So, I'm down there and my dad's been sitting around down there drinking. Not drinking heavily, but enough so a few of his words were slurred. So I said, "Hey dad, could you help me print this project really fast?" and he said "okay". So we sit down there for fucking 45 minutes waiting for him to quit blathering on about whatever the hell he was blathering on about. UGH.
We leave our home just in time to see the store is closed.

At this point in time, I'm about to shoot him. And then, when we're driving home from the store, he's swerving all over the road and he thinks this is natural, then spills my thing that needs to be bound all over the dirty muddy floor of the car.

fml. fmfl.

The Angryful Blender Article

Mikey asked. Whatever's in [] is what I added.

"Fall Out boy are in Philadelphia (Pennsylvania), the second stop on a back-to-basics club tour to promote their new album. They drove down from Boston this morning in a rented Dodge minivan and are currently lounging in the makeshift dressing room of a North Philly dive bar, across the street from Floyd & Diann's Tire Service. A camera crew from Fuse is here, and a gaggle of pubescent girls await a meet-and-greet just outside the door. And over in the corner, Pete Wentz is unzipping his pants.
Armed with an empty 16-ounce Poland Spring bottle, Wentz- Fall Out Boy's 29 year old bassist and mouthpiece- turns to face the wall. While the rest of the room averts their eyes, he hunches he back and takes what is, by all appearances, a brief yet wholly satisfying piss.
'All right,' he says, zipping back up. 'We ready?'
Pete Wentz has built his life around making the private public. In an age when all reality is televised and the most intimate of details are broadcast via Facebook Alert, Wentz is the king of the overshare- penning songs that flaunt their autobiographical provenance and blogging obsessively about everything from his 2005 suicide attmept to his favorite skate shoes. Unguarded and unashamed, he's the quintessential 21st century rock star- a penis-flashing Twitter stream come to life.
Wentz has been mocked mercilessly for his atention-mongering. He's been branded an asshole, a sellout, a fucktard, a fame whore, a twat, a dick and a closeted gay douchebag-- and those are just the comments on one Perez Hilton post. But as Wentz puts it in the Fall Out Boy will encore tonight: I don't care what you think as long as it's about me.
'Being famous is like being in the WWF (World Wrestling Federation),' Wentz says. 'When we first came out, I was Hulk Hogan. Kids loved me. Now I'm more like the Undertaker. The thing people don't understnad is, the boos are the same as the cheers to me. I just love to wrestle.'

Two days later- sunny Los Angeles. FOB are shooting a video for their new single "America's Suitehearts" at a hangar-sized soundstage. The set resembles a ghoulish Hollywood carnival, complete with zombie starlets, a moat of toxic sludge, and a giant red merry-go-round where the band will perform before a pack of bloodthirsty paparazzi.
The cameras roll, and the carousel begins to spin. As teh fake photographers swarm, the members of FOB circle one by one into view. First comes guitarist Joe Trohman- Crazy-haired and slightly dazed-looking, in red suede boots and a matching fez. Next, Andy Hurley, the bearded, tattooed drummer, in a leprechaun-green tuxedo and no shirt. Singer Patrick Stump, wearing a canary-yellow tailcoat and a feathered top hat, looking like a debonair chicken. And finally- in kneehigh leather boots, gold lame hot pants and a black lace headpiece so ghastly Cher would have worn it to the Oscars and once did- comes Wentz, looking like some kind of gay glam gladiator, an evil skelton smile plastered on his face in black and white greasepaint.
It's not hard to find reasons to make fun of Wentz, His swooping bangs and disproportionately large head make him look disturbingly like a grown-up version of a Garbage Pail Kid. He wears girls' jeans and toils in a genre known more for its interest in cosmetics than for its contributions to the pop music canon. His lyrics are more self-indulgent than a luxury-spa retreat. Pictures of his penis have wound up on the internet. He plays the bass- and not very well.
Yet this self-described 'dirty, shitty boy' is also, improbably, the world's biggest rock star under teha ge of 30. (Try naming one bigger.[cough cough Rita here, RYAN.]) He has his hand in a clothing line, an MTV show, a chain of bars and his own record label. Riding the cresting twin waves of emo and MySpace, FOB transformed themselves from four midwestern kids with funny names and bad haircuts to one of rock's last reliable record-movers, selling a combined 4 million copies of their last 2 albums. And today, over in the band's dressing room, curled up on a checkered sofa, sits another keystone of Wentz's growing celebrity: a very pregnant Ashlee Simpson-Wentz. She and Wentz were married last may; they're expecting their first child, a boy, literally any minute. 'Hey babe,' Wentz says during a break in shooting, He bends down and kisses her cheek. 'Feeling okay?'
Simpson wipes a smudge of his makeup of her face. 'I hope he comes out soon,' she says, lifting her shirt to expose her colossal belly. 'He's killing my bladder.'
America's Funniest Home Videos is on, and Wentz plops down on the floor to watch. He scoots backward between her legs, resting his chin on her thigh and his head gently against her stomach. She strokes his hair, brushing the bangs from his eyes. On the TV, a fat lady tumbles off a trampoline and into a fence. They both laugh.
Wentz allows that the pregnancy sped things up, but he always knew they'd be married someday. He courted her publicly and relentlessly, babbling about his crush in magazines (both were dating other people) and e-mailing her often. 'I hunted her down and shot the dart in her,' he says. 'I just had to wait for her to collapse.' Now they live in Beverly Hills mansion just up the road from Posh and Becks, whith his-and-hers bulldogs and a son on the say. 'Basically, I'm married to the person I'd be jerking off to.'
The band's new album is called Folie A Deux, French for a shared madness of two-a psychological condition in which two people suffer from similar delusions, each feeding off the other's psychosis. (Wentz read about it in Newsweek.) The textbook example is Romeo and Juliet [or Mikey and Marlee], but Wentz swears the title isn't about him and Simpson. Instead, it's about fame- the toxic symbosis between stars and their public.
Wentz has always lived his life in the spotlight, mostly by design, But since he married pop's most notorious little sis, he's become a red-hot tabloid magnet, hounded by paparazzi outside Starb ucks like any Hollywood celebutard. 'Pete would never be on the cover of people if it weren't for Ashlee,' says Perez Hilton. 'Before her, he was just that guy in the band who wore eyeliner and spent a lot of time on his hair.' As Ashlee's due date nears, the paps have staked out the couple's home 24/7, hoping to score some pictures of the mommy-to-be en route to the hospital. The morning after the video shoot, I meet Wentz and STump for breakfast at the Beverly Hills Hotel. Wentz arrives a half-hour late: The paps pounced before he'd pulled out of the driveway, and he spent the next 30 minutes zigzagging around the Hollywood Hills trying to lose them. 'It's weird,' he says sliding into the booth. 'Spending your life being followed by people who want a picture of the person sitting next to you.'
'Welcome to my world,' Stump snorts.
Wentz [sucks to this- he's gonna be W from now on.] likes eating here because the paps can't get in. Still, he sits with his back to the wall, his eyes darting nervously toward any peripheral movement. 'I'm paranoid pretty much all the time,' he says. A few nights ago, he was in the kitchen when he saw someone on the security monitor: a man, scaling the fence. He ran outside; the intruder hoppeed in his car and sped off, smashing the Range Rover on the way.
W sets his sunglasses on the table and picks up the menu. Truth ber told, he doesn't look great. Dark bags ring his eyes, and his skin has a waxy, jaundiced pallor. He says he sleeps three hours a night- sometimes less- and pops Ambien like Tropical Skittles. 'I can take three Xanax bars and not feel a thing,' he says. 'It's kinda scary.'
We haven't been seated long when who should walk in the restaurant but W's buddy John Mayer. 'Oh, shit!' W says, jumping up to give him a hug. 'What's up, dude?'
Mayer answers with a hearty clap on the back. 'I just sent you an email! How's the 32-month pregnancy?' He turns to Stump. 'I swear to god, they're making a superhero over there.'
Close friends who- had things turned out differently with Jessica- might have been brothers-in-law, W and m set online tounges wagging last spring when they engaged in a breathless bromance on their respective blogs. (W praised M in a post called YES, IT'S A CRUSH and two days later, M responded with a gushing note titled CRUSH REQUEST ACCEPTED.) 'Pete has this fabulous meta-awareness,' M says. 'Some people mistake it for narcissism, but it's really just his ways of playing with the idea of PW. His genius is that he's always one step ahead.' M also admires the way W has navigated the perils of tabloid romance: 'To have this beautiful relationship with someone who gets attacked so often, and to handle it with such grace and respect- I just find that really impressive.'
While the two pals catch up, Stump sits in silence, awkwardly picking at his huevos rancheros. Though he obsitantly FOB's frontman, S takes a backseat to W both onstage and IRL. Partly it's good for business; their well-known division of labor-W writes the lyrics, S the melodies- keeps W's antics front and center, while S is largely a blank slate- a golden throated delivery system for someone else's emotions., the plain white cracker to W's cheese. But it's also a function of personality. A self-described nerd, S says he has 'terribly low self-esteem' and shuns the spotlight whenever possible. And though he's a gifted producer who's been invited to make beats for superstars like Lil Wayne and Jay-Z, he always finds a way to say no. 'I'm just a fat white dude from Glenview, Illinois, [ILLINOIS FTW.]' he says. 'As a hip-hop fan, I don't want me doing hip-hop.'
According to W, S 'has this amazing ability to hide in plain sight.' Sometimes, though, it's unclear as to whearther he's hiding or just not being seen, Take the night of the presidential election, when they were both in New York. W attended a b-day party for Diddy, where he cheered teh returns alongside Jay-Z, Ben Stiller, and Kenneth from 30 Rock. S, meanwhile, watched CNN from his hotel room alone. 'Dude, you should have called me!' says W when he hears this news. But it's clear from S's face taht it wouldnt've mattered.
Still, the two are about as close as friends can be. S was the best man at W's wedding, as well as the one who 'talked him off the cliff' when the penis photos hit the web. 'Things literally could not have gotten worse,' W says now. 'I was just a wingman for my cock.'
Often however, the pair's folie a deux doesn't leave much room for numbers trois et quatre.The first time I meet Andy, in his dressing room at the video shoot, he's feeling suicidal. 'If the Packers [Green Bay Packers, football team] don't get this first down, I'm gonna kill myself,' says the drummer, watching his beloved Packers struggle against the Vikings [Minnesota Vikings]. When Green Bay's kicker misses the game-winning field goal, H smals his iPhone onto the table, gets up, and starts punching the metal door frame, and doesn't stop for 45 seconds.
Let's face it: the dude's a little weird. [WTF. HOW DOES HE GET TO SAY THIS.] A self-described 'anarcho-savagist,' H believes that civilization is on it's way out, and the sooner, the better- he opposes conservation, supports ecoterrorism, and plans to use his FOB money to buy land in northern Wisconsin and ride out the apocalypse. He shares a house in Milwaukee [Wisconsin] with four vegan straght-edge buddies, where they play kickball on Thursdays and practice jujitsu every morning. They call it Fuck City. 'I don't really get into that red-carpet stuff,' H says, somewhat unecessarily. 'I like to keep things pretty simple.'
Talking with H, you get the impression that he's completly content to play the drums and go home to his Boca Burgers and Alan Moore comics. Joe Trohman, on the other hand, wants to do more. 'I do feel left out a lot,' the guitarist says. At 24, he's teh youngest of the Fall Out boys, and he plays the role of kid brother well- splurging on old Nintendo games and $500 Storm Trooper figurines, finding funny YouTube videos for the guys to watch (the latest favorite: Chimpanzee Riding a Segway [FTW]). If FOB were the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, W would be Leonardo, S would be Donatello, H would be Raphael, and T, all agree, would be Michelangelo- the 'party dude'. 'Joe is a free spirit,' S says. 'He's just off in Joe Land, which is an awesome place to be.'
To hear T tell it though, Joe Land isn't always so awesome. 'It does get frustrating, not being able to contribute,' T says. 'I mean, it's hard to be labeled a background guy, someone who's just along for the ride- it's hard. I started FOB, you know?' He wrote a few songs for the new albume, but they were all cut, last minute, 'It's kind of a bummer, to work so hard and have it all come to nothing. I don't want to sound like I'm bashing anyone, or I'm ungrateful,' he stresses. 'Because I'm very happy to be part of all this. I'm afraid the guys are gonna read this and wish I'd talked to tehm first- which maybe I should have. But sometimes, it doesn't feel like I'm even in the band."

God, that's all I can bear to write. There's one more section, but my wrist hurts and if you really want it, I'll send it to you.
The rest of it is about Pete. .__.
You can see why we're so pissed about it.

Philosophical questions

Why is there no beauty?
-To confuse us into thinking there is.

Do or do people not wear facades?
-Most do, just to hide who they really are.

Why does no one like who they are?
-Because they like the idea of someone else.

Why do we complain?
-To get angry at someone for something they didn't do.

Why do we complain?
-It gives us something to get angry at others for.

Why are our lives jacked?
-Because of the people whose lives were jacked.

Why is it that all the really attractive guys the ones we'll never have?
-It's just spite kicking you in the ass.

Why

can't he just take it as a nice gesture and live with it?

So, one of our neighbors has a snow blower, and he went over the sidewalk in front of our house.
My dad starts bitching about how "Oh, it's on the curb" and "it was fine before"

Why can't he just DROP IT, take it as something he did out of the kindness of his heart, AND LEAVE.
GAH.

My favorite albums

Music has always been a part of my life, and I think I should explicitly tell you what my faves are.
(In No Particular Order Because There Is None, Only The Listing on my iTunes)
1. Fast Times at Barrington High- The Academy Is...
2. Move Along- The All-American Rejects
3. The All-American Rejects (self-titled)
4. Boys Like Girls (self-titled)
5. Whisper War- The Cab
6. Everytime We Touch- CASCADA
7. Perfect Day- CASCADA
8. Fancy Footwork-Chromeo
9. While The City Sleeps, We Rule the Streets- Cobra Starship
10. Viva la Cobra!- Cobra Starship
11. EP- Debello
12. Howl- Empires
13. You Have No Idea What You're Getting Yourself Into- Does It Offend You, Yeah?
14. Folie a Deux- Fall Out Boy
15. From Under the Cork Tree- Fall Out Boy
16. Infinity on High- Fall Out Boy
17. Citizens for Our Betterment Mixtape- Whoever is on DecayDance/FBR
18. The Reminder- Feist
19. St. Elsewhere- Gnarls Barkley
20. American Idiot- Green Day
21. Goodbye Blues- The Hush Sound
22. Like Vines- The Hush Sound
23. So Sudden- The Hush Sound
24. Metro Station (self-titled)
25. A Fever You Can't Sweat Out- Panic! at the Disco
26. Pretty. Odd.- Panic at the Disco
27. Riot!- Paramore
28. Any Queen compilations
29. We Started Nothing- The Ting Tings
30. The Nightmare Before Christmas Soundtrack- music by Danny Elfman
31. Pirates of the Caribbean Soundtrack- Hans Zimmer, Klaus Badelt (main composers)
32. Cross- Justice
33. Franz Ferdinand (self-titled)
34. You Could Have It So Much Better- Franz Ferdinand
35. White Album- The Beatles
36. Actually, any Beatles album. :]

No particular order, although if I had to pick my top five-
1. Folie a Deux
2. Goodbye Blues
3. The Nightmare Before Christmas Soundtrack
4. A Fever You Can't Sweat Out
5. Pirates of the Caribbean Soundtrack

:]
No surprise there....

Hey you

If you care, and if I don't know you, go to my deviantart
it will show you bad microsoft paint and really good pictures. if the link doesn't work, it's this: piraterita.deviantart.com

I apologize

for all the whining.

I'm not trying to be such a whiner. I'm not trying to make you have sympathy for me. I just need something to let my feelings out on to without getting bashed.

I'm going to whine some more. If you want to read, go ahead but no one's forcing you.

"I constantly feel alone lately. Maybe it's just my stir-craziness, my wanting to see my friends again, my not going anywhere for the holidays. I feel like I belong in my family sometimes, even though I couldn't imagine myself anywhere else. There's a lot of secreting going on, and I'm not a big fan of secrets.

All the people I know seem to be drifting away from me. People seem to magnify their own feelings and problems to make yours less significant.

I don't want to seem like a poser, being all whiny and whatnot. If you think that, then stop reading my blog after this post. It's not my problem. I hope you guys think I have real feelings." - 12/2/2009

So far, 2009 sucks.

My family constantly makes me feel like crap and I'm so sick of it. I mean, it's just that I always feel sad lately. Sad or angry. The only time I'm ever happy is when I'm blog-stalking or when I talk to my internet bffls.
Maybe it's just that winter break has me stir-crazy and I want to see my friends.

Or maybe this is really happening. Even before break, the only things that made me happy were things I did outside of my home or inside my room. Anywhere other than those, I just die. As long as I'm anywhere but where I am is fine. Doing well in school, talking to people who were cool, and reading were my only escapes before. Now it seems like I'm locked in a box with no where to go but around the box day in and day out.

I feel like I'm in the middle of two extremes- 1. The kids I go to school with, who are rich kids. They think that because they didn't get what they wanted means it's the end of the world. Then, there are 2. The kids I met on the internet. They have real problems (none of which I will name here.) and they don't whine because they don't get what they wanted. I feel in between a lot of the time.