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Tuesday, 24 November 2009

Mystery Google

Let me just get one thing out before I start: ohmygodI'msoaddictedIcoulddie. Kay, we're set now. :D

Last night, I finally decided to find out what all the rave was about Mystery Google. I mean, who would want their result to be the search results of the last person who just searched something? I typed in a word and got search results for the word mission.

Sad panda, right? Well. I decided I'd give it another try, I mean, only food is amazing on the first try, right? Got a search result for fruit flies. Super sad panda. I didn't see how this was fun, AT ALL.

Then, I received my FIRST MISSION.

I shall take a few moments to explain missions. See, I learned quickly that the search results are not just limited to things that would actually have results. ANYTHING you search for turns up for the next person. "text 555-555-5555 'cause she's feeling really down" "call -this number- and sing your favorite song" "-insert awesome song lyric here-" "MISSION: watch -random youtube video-" "text me with a song you think I wouldn't know xxx-xxx-xxxx".

My first mission appeased my nerdiness and in one moment of bliss as I answered the call, I knew I HAD to find more missions. My mission was, "Expelliarmus! You've been attacked. Fight back if you dare! xxx-xxx-xxxx"

Oh. I fought back. With sectumsempra. Which they finite incantatem'd. I followed with a confundus which they retaliated with impedimenta. Then, I dealt which would ultimately be my last blow, rictumsempra, a harmless tickling spell. They langlock'd me and got my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth! I'm no master at wandless, wordless magic so I definitely couldn't fight back anymore. They won. We said our vague goodbyes and good wishes before the conversation was officially over.

The thrill of a wizard's duel through texting...! Wizards are jealous.

Anyway, out of my Harry Potter fantasy. So I texted a few numbers for the missions I got, but never called. My phone speaker is dead and I'm too chicken anyway.

Yeah, it's dangerous to post your phone number on the internet, but not if you're smart about it. I mean, there's not creepers lurking around EVERY corner and if they were, I doubt they'd be using Mystery Google to prey on little internet users.

My friend was posting missions for people to text my phone number, too. It's an awesome way to squeeze in little jokes and have other people relay them for us. Lazy, I know, but it's more fun. There was one person who abused the phone number thing, but that's why I came up with this:

The Proper Etiquette of Mystery Google Missions

1. We get it that you're scared. Don't want to text scary mystery person that they should stop kissing Nick Diel? No worries. Chances are they'll post that mission again and again until someone does. Saved; you're off the hook. But if it's a mission that's too good to pass up, it's okay to take it and IM it to someone who will do it. As long as the mission is completed, all is right in the world.

2. Don't HOARD the numbers you find. Text your mission and BE DONE WITH IT. If they don't respond, don't keep texting back, or WORSE, keep calling. I don't know about anyone else, but I only have an unlimited TEXTING plan. If it says text, TEXT.

3. Follow the parameters of the mission. If I post a mission saying, "text xxx-xxx-xxxx with a random song you love", I don't expect her to be telling me over AIM that someone just left her a nasty voicemail saying that she's a bitch and you've got her phone number. (Keep safe dialing, you coward. One of these days, you'll leave a number, and then YOU'LL be ruined. Don't be the one jerk that ruins Mystery Google for everyone.)

4. Random search words are fine, but fruit flies? Really? Why would that be in Mystery Google? Google google it if you're so interested in etymology. At least put one of those copy/paste messages if you're searching for missions or something funny, like... ... I dunno. Alien armpit.

5. Also, I get it. You're guy, you have a libido, it's the internet and some random person is going to see what you searched for. But I don't care how big your penis is and if you actually succeed in getting a boob pic text, I'll be really surprised. I mean, someone get that girl some Jerry Beads.

6. Please, please, PLEASE specify exactly what you want someone to text. I don't want to have to send a question text before saying, "wait, a song I know or song title for a song you wrote?" for something that could have just been worded correctly in the first place.

All I'm saying is, you don't have to be nice, but you don't have to be a royal dick about anything, either. Have some respect for your fellow man out there. I mean, these people are trusting you with their phone numbers.

Which, by the way, I'd suggest making sure there is NO WAY the phone number can be traced back to the real you or your real location by way of reverse look-up. My phone's 'location' is a few cities away in the store where I got it from, so I'm safe, especially since the only 'personal' info I give out is my gender, age, and middle name in place of my first. Can't really do jack squat with female, seventeen, and Marie, can you?

Plus, if you have the unlimited texting plan, look up the area code if you're unsure the number is state-side. I made the mistake of texting someone in Canada, so that's a couple of 99 cent charges I'll have to explain. My texting plan only works in the States and Puerto Rico. It's never a bad idea to double check. (Unless you're well-off financially and don't care about a few measly dollars.)

Finally, this post is done and I can go back to Mystery Googling my life away. What about you? If you Mystery Google, what's been you favorite happening on it? Your favorite mission you've accepted/dished out?

(P.S. Whoever kept Mystery Googling 'Gary Oak', I love you.)

Saturday, 19 September 2009

No More Victims

I'm a girl with a Mommy Complex and that doesn't have some sort of twisted oedipal meaning. It means that if you're the type person who mistreats a mother, then I'm the Batman to your Joker.

I wasn't always an uber protective beast. From birth 'til about age eleven, I was actually quite quiet and reserved. The intellectual child that didn't really have many friends and didn't like to socialize. The earliest father figure I can remember was Codename: Jackass. He was a drunk. I can't recall clearly if he ever hit my mother, which I'm sure he didn't because we wouldn't have stayed with him as long as we did, but he was emotionally and verbally abusive. He manhandled me enough to be afraid and develop what is now known as Disassociative Identity Disorder, which is why I can't clearly recall any memory of my childhood. We were with him from... when I was three, to when I was five, I think. I remember being thrown sometimes, grabbed hard enough to bruise. Never full-on hit in the face or anything, but he was definitely too rough with me and definitely a drunk of the angry sort.

I was never worried about myself, though. My brother, ten years older than myself, never worried about himself, either. We both just kind of... knew, without talking about it, that we were going to do whatever it took to make sure our mother would turn out alright. I know, from dropped hints and stories, that she definitely got the worst end of the stick in her childhood; Grandma never seemed to pick the right sort of men, either.

I remember being constantly cautious and constantly on my toes around Jackass. I normally just stayed in my room unless I had to go to the bathroom or wanted something, and I always made sure I asked very politely about anything after trying to see if there were any warning signs about his mood. If it was a good day, I'd be outside with his rottweiler, Sheba. She became my sort-of Mom, too. If Jackass tried to come near me when I was playing with Sheba, she'd growl and snap at him. But if I was away, Sheba'd love Jackass just as much as she loved me.

We finally left him, and then met my current step-dad, Codename: Alright Guy. The beginning to our relationship was rocky; I didn't trust him at all. Jackass had ruined that for me. Alright Guy had to work very hard to prove himself, and I still don't think he's gotten one hundred percent in that area. But he's good to my mom, and I appreciate that. I don't know if I'll ever tell him that, but maybe one day I'll thank him for everything. He has his scary moments, and I think my distrust of him in the beginning put and kept our relationship on the rocks. I can say for certain that he has emotionally and verbally abused me, but I'm over it now. I've come to understand the way he works and it's just different from most fathers, is all.

But, it's not just the men, either. My mom's friends, random people, whoever, they've hurt her before and everytime it happens, it just kills me.

The anger flares; who dare thinks they can do that to my mother? My cousin, Meysen. He's the biggest brat you'll ever meet, never listens. My mother bruises easily, so when day, when he full on punched her, I snapped in milliseconds. I grabbed him, crouched down and brought myself to his level and growled to him that if he ever laid another harmful hand on my mother, I wouldn't hold back on expressing my feelings about that.

Beginning of Middle School, I took on a lifestyle change that had me open and more friends than ever. So I was over at their houses, often, and usually I found the same signs from my childhood; about how unhappy it may have been there. My friend's mothers were suffering, too. I found out that whenever I heard of spousal abuse, the idea was already burned into my head that it's not okay. It's not okay to abuse anyone you love. It's not okay for anyone you love to be abused.

If I hear about it, if I witness it, my temper rears its ugly head. The Beast, she claws her way to the surface and lets what she thinks about everything out. She lets it out for all to see. The Beast stands up, defiant and through me channels her message; "I'm the lioness to people I view as my cubs. If you mess with them, you're messing me with me, and I'm the wrong person to make angry."

Tonight, I heard my friend's mother being yelled at, I heard thumps and stuff being slammed, I heard the anger when he told all of us to leave and stand at the end of the road for an hour until our parents could pick us up. Tonight, I realized just how pissed off I can become. Practically murderous.

Through a series of unfortunate events, I have blossomed to be a teenager with a vow to protect everyone she holds dear. That's my friends, my family, and hell, sometimes it even includes people I don't even like. I'm disgusted with the fearful, stupid girl I used to be and that has fueled me to become the fearless, strong-headed, annoyingly protective girl I am now.

Throwing paranoia in the wind, I'm going to send out a warning. You may never know who I am or what I look like, which makes this especially problematic for abusers. I am not the type of person who will stand idly by, twiddling thumbs whilst someone is getting hurt. Even if I can't do anything about it, even if you're stronger than me, smarter than me, faster than me, more deadly than me, I will barge in and do whatever the hell I can towards stopping you. Even if I know that I'll die trying, I'll protect until the very end. It's an oath I've taken and the mantra that chants through my head.

No more victims.
Rants

Today, I killed a man. Actually, I killed men. Many men; practically an entire platoon. My weapons were whatever happened to be strewn around my person. A gun here, a chainsaw there, a retarded plasma gun to resort to whenever I had wasted too much precious ammunition by being trigger happy (whilst searching for the damned rocket launcher). While killing, I'm proud to say I had some horrible death metal screeching in my ears. (Bring Me The Horizon, if you must know. Can't understand a word without looking them up, but it keeps me jazzed for death.) Getting bored with that, I switched over to killing Nazi zombies with a flame thrower. Challenging, especially when by yourself, but hey. It's zombies.

After I was done killing everything I could see, I turned off my desktop and switched my iTunes on my laptop to, and you'll never guess in a million years, the Jonas Brothers.

Oh yes. Bring Me The Horizon to Jonas Brothers; in my world, the switch can be made.

That's because video games and music and the media don't make me a violent person. I don't sit down after I'm done dishing out copious amounts of Whoop Ass and think to myself, "wow, I'd really like to just sneak a shotgun into school and see what killing really feels like."

I don't jam to Marilyn Manson and then write down in my calendar, 'Sept. 21st: stab Principal, the little wanker.'

I don't see horror/gore films and think, "golly gee, I'd really like to kill a bunch of people right now! I'll get the guns later. It looks so cool!"

Because I'm old enough to know better. In fact, if I didn't have games or music or movies as an outlet to express my violent self, I'd probably be busting someone's face in right about now. So I guess my point is, as a teenager, I'm sick of the 'angry' stereotype and I'm sick of the excuse being, 'well, she likes horror movies. Of course she's violent. Did you hear the screemo music she was listening to earlier? Maybe she needs to see somebody.'

Kids who are pushed to their limits and end up acting out in a violent manner never get the short end of the stick in the end. Sure, they may have gotten the short stick their entire life, but after they've done what they've done, there's always a handy scapegoat. 'Well, it was the music, obviously. And the violent video games. They're teaching our children it's okay to kill.'

Yeah, right. Blame the movies, blame the music, blame the video games, blame the parents, blame the surrounding society. Maybe we should stop and think, 'hey, there are three digits pointing back at me whenever I point a finger.'

I've been watching R rated movies since before I could talk, playing video games ever since I developed enough dexterity to hold a controller and have definitely jammed to some of the heaviest, probably most satanic music you've ever heard since I was five and up. Am I a violent person? Maybe if you piss me off, but that's just the beast that resides in every human as, you know, part of animal instinct.

There really is no blame, no excuse for the horrible atrocities people have done. And to commit something and then take your life with it, that's the coward's way out. Maybe people should pay better attention to realize when someone's in need. Maybe someone in need should ask for help. Maybe stereotypes and cliques and status quo's should be disbanded. Maybe a bunch of shit should happen that never does. We're in a society that points fingers, but rarely ever reflects. When Marilyn Manson was bagged on for the Columbine killings, he was asked what he would say to the kids if he had a chance to meet them. His genius response was something akin to, 'I would say nothing, because they'd need a listener.'

We're so deaf and we don't even realize it. When someone cries for help, we don't answer because we think, 'their problems aren't nearly as bad as mine.' Or, 'they don't really need help, they're just trying to swindle me.' Or, 'I don't want to be the next victim.'

I'm not saying there's anything wrong with wanting to cover your own ass, in fact, I'm all for it. If you can take care of yourself and that's all you need, that's the epitome of personal power, my friend, and I applaud it. You want to make something better of yourself, and you go for it without holding back, that's excellent, because nice guys finish last. But I don't ever, ever want to hear any capable human being say to another, 'something should have been done. It's a crime what happened to her last night,' when last night, you heard the screams and cries and anger and you sat on your hands and whistled an innocent tune.

Maybe my real point was: stop the hypocritical bullshit and pull yourself together.

[/rant]

Thursday, 17 September 2009

Tomboys

I can't remember a time when I played with Barbies or wanted to be a ballerina. I can, however, remember watching Sailor Moon and Dragon Ball Z. Dragon Ball Z was better, in my opinion, because everyone got the snot beat out of them, and Sailor Moon just appealed to my quiet, practically non-existent girl side.

I can remember wanting to be an assassin when I was little, knowing full well what it is that assassins do. I didn't care; it seemed cool to me. Killing people for money? I have a dead conscience so it was an ideal choice, in my mind.

I didn't take interest in little baby dolls or fake make-up, but rather HotWheels and Legos, as well as video games. I could count the number of girlfriends I had on one finger while I would have probably needed nine sets of limbs to count how many guyfriends I had.

Even now, twelve years later and seventeen, I only have... three or four girlfriends and that's only because I got over my... fear? and decided to see if they'd be worth befriending.

Maybe it's because I've always been a bit on the chubby side and my first impression of girls was, 'they're mean.' And you wanna know why? Because girls ARE mean. They're vindictive, back-stabbing fiends. They're nice to your face and mean behind your back. Why would I want to put up with that?

Boys are much cooler and nicer than girls. If they're mean, at least they say it to your face and are honest about if they like you or not. With girls, it's a guessing game. 'Does she really like me?' 'Is this all an act?' 'Becky said Katie was talking about me behind my back; whaaaa?!'

Never, in my entire seventeen years, have I ever wondered the same things about my guy friends. Normally, when I think about my male friends, it's more like, 'that party was fun, maybe next time we can play football longer.' 'Dude, I'm so pissed he schooled me in Halo. I hate that game.' 'Ben's such an idiot, everyone knows Doritos toasted over a fire taste way better than a regular Dorito.'

But... I'm seventeen years old now. I know, I have a whole life ahead of me and I'm not even old, but I can't help but reflect and wonder if maybe I should have been interested in playing house and giggling in groups. Maybe I should have embraced my 'inner girly-girl' rather than rejecting it. Because now, it's changed, and now I want the guy friend. I want a boyfriend.

Everyone can say what they want about boys would like a tomboy more because they share the same interests, or that of course some guy has to like me because we can 'work on cars together', but that's not the case. If it was, I wouldn't be blogging.

Of course, I've learned to sacrifice for this. I can't change now, I'm tomboy through and through. So yeah, even if all the comments did hurt at first, they don't now because it's been too long. All of the conversations held about my love life (because guys talk about their love lives, too).

'Did you know Marie doesn't have a boyfriend?'
'Of course she wouldn't have one, she's like a dude.'

'I'd date you, but it would be like dating a guy. Sorry.'

'You're pretty cool, ya know? You should have been born a guy.'

Well, I wasn't. And I'm sorry. In this day and age, I bet if I was born a guy, I would have had a boyfriend already. So, instead of fighting it or doing anything about it, I've chosen what I've always chosen; the easy way out. I'm just going to stay the way I am, and sacrifice some normal things for it. If being a tomboy means being too much like a man to date one, then fine. If being a tomboy means girls hate me for being able to hang out with their boyfriends more than they get to, well, I never wanted to be a part of girl-world anyway. If being able to spit, play rough sports and not be afraid of ruining my hair, jump in a dirty lake without a second thought, take dares as they come and actually do them, prefer horror and gore movies over tear-jerkers and romantic comedies condemns me to a life of, 'are you a lesbian?' and being alone?

Then it's a sacrifice I'm reluctantly willing to make. Because I still have girl qualities, and I'm still able to compartmentalize. And I know, even though my hormones are raging and I'm feeling the dreaded 'lonely' feeling, that I'd rather have what I got then pine and change for something that's not as important as what I have now.

Bros before hos, dude.

Tuesday, 15 September 2009

Best Five Days EVER

Actually, I lied. These past five days have been filled with 'let's hate Marie for a while' incidences and accidents. Also, I fear they may keep happening. I'll explain why in a bit.

Friday night started as normal as any other. Grab my pit bull puppy, Sylar (specifically named after Gabriel from Heroes, so don't worry if you're nerdy enough to make the connection, because I'm nerdy enough to name him that for that reason...), help him on to my bed, throw the covers over myself and go to sleep, excited for my friend's party the next day.

The next morning, I wake up with three [spider, we're guessing,] bites and swollen ring and pinky fingers. Glorious. Pop a benadryl, put my dog out with our other three dogs for the day and feed our sixteen indoor cats. (Don't ask. My dad rescues kittens from the farms he works at.) Spend the rest of the morning thinking bad, bad, murderous thoughts about my ten-years-my-senior brother and his five year old son.

My brother sees my agony (because really, my nephew has it out for me; I'm not kidding) and offers to watch a movie with me under the guise of letting me choose. I'm about to pop in Disturbia for my millionth viewing, but he knowingly dangles Angels and Demons in my face. I'm a sucker for religious conspiracies. Sorry, Shia Labeouf. Tom Hanks and his crappy hair cut are being watched today.

(Am I the only seventeen year old who saw anti-matter in the beginning and just went, 'oh shit?' My twenty-seven year old genius brother didn't even realize anti-matter is a bad, bad thing. Don't mess with anti-matter, god damn it!)

In the first twenty minutes, I guess the villain. By the end of the movie, my guess was completely accurate. Wow, maybe I need to stop watching so much CSI. It's messing with the shock factor of movies I watch. Now it's 1530 and I tell my mom we gotta go for my friend's party at four.

That's right, swollen hand, headache and all, I'm still going to a party. Masochistic? Subconsciously, I'm guessing.

It's not so bad, actually. I find I'm good at playing the drums for Rock Band and went swimming in a sixty-nine degree pool. There was lots of pizza and ice cream cake, so I was already happy despite. Night falls and we decide we're going to play our favorite game, Man Hunt.

I'm sure it's called something else, though, like, Tag: Nightfall Edition. The trampoline is safe, and since it's so dark, I hide underneath it every time and never get caught.

Eventually, we get bored with that, (I mean, there's only six of us,) and we end up all lumped in the middle of the trampoline together, being dorks. "That anti-cloud spot looks like a duck!" "You look like a duck!" "Bite me, Squee!" "Ew. No thanks."

Then, like the 21st century teens we are, we all text each other while we're sitting right next to one another. It's more fun than it sounds.

Party's over at ten for me and two of my friends, so before I go to sleep, I take another Benadryl for my swollen hand. Sunday morning rolls around and it seems the Benadryl is not helping at all seeing as how the whole back of my hand is puffed up. Yay?

Commence wasting time in the ER... now! They can't tell me what bit me and they can't really do anything about it except drug me up with steroids (prednisone) and broad-spectrum antibiotics (keflex). Yay.

Monday, I have to skip school so I can help my mom take our two youngest dogs, Sylar and Jorja, to the vets. Jorja's our one-hundred and four pound Rottweiler/Bull Mastiff, and boy is she a hand ful. Sylar's only thirty-three pounds, if he gets too antsy, I just carry the little fella. My hand looks crap loads better thanks to the steroids but it still itches like there's are millions of tiny little microscopic creatures crawling all over it.

Mind over matter, though, I can over come that.

After dropping the dogs off, we go to pick up my prescriptions for more prednisone and keflex. We get back home, eventually, and I get to take them. Yay! Prednisone, however, you have to take with food (and it makes you EXTREMELY hungry; jeeze) so I pop some ramen in the microwave and set to slicing a bagel. Needless to say, it's not the bagel that ends up being sliced.

Of course, it's my left hand. The opposite of my swollen hand. Mom's in the dining room reading an e-mail, so I just kind of rinse off all of the blood and walk calmly to the bathroom to grab some stuff out of our first aid kits.

Problem? I can't put the bandages on by myself. "Mom? Can you help me?"

Silence, as she continues to read her e-mail. I don't take it personally, she doesn't know I've injured myself. So, to be evil, "hmm, I wonder if I'll need stitches?"

"WHAT?!"

Yep. That's how I get her attention. I'm the best child on the planet, honestly. Turns out if I went to the hospital immediately, they might have stitched it or durmabonded it, but I heal pretty quickly so the bleeding has already stopped and the skin is already healing back together. Point one for me?

I so wish that was the last of my woes, but as I sit here now with the sniffles, cough and slight fever I've had since yesterday afternoon, I fear that during my trip to the ER I may have picked up the flu.

OH HAPPY DAAAAAAAYS! OH HAPPY DAAAAAYS!

The only silver lining I find in these dark days is that I get to "skip" school. Which isn't really school since I'm in a programme allowing me to get my GED. So, that excusal I have for gym? Worth. Nothing.

I'll just fill up all of my free time re-watching Nabari No Ou on Funimation and Legend of the Seeker on Hulu.