My Head is Blank.

I'm starting to really feel awful. I need Christmas break to come. I want to go somewhere with Katrina Castro, maybe not come back. If you need to know anything it's that, in the grand scheme of things, you will never compare to Katrina Castro.

Never.

I've been feeling my heartbeat in my stomach. It's loud, it hasn't gone away. It almost hurts a little bit. This isn't a metaphor for anything, it's a genuine, physical feeling I've been experiencing. Actually, it hurts a lot. Ouch. Who knew a heartbeat could twist and knot a gut so badly? The heart is my least favourite organ. It's so omnipresent. You always feel it at the worst of times, and it makes bad times even more so by picking those times when you want to pull a blank face and act alright, to lodge itself in your throat so every time you speak nothing comes out but wavering whispers that make people think you're about to cry. I don't cry.

So I ate a piece of bread, mainly because Starshine was worried because I confessed to him the last time I had eaten something. He gave me an ultimatum, eat right then or he wasn't speaking to me.

Starshine is a great friend, I love him to death. Hear that Star? I love you. Sincerely, your Sunshine.

The bread is burning in my throat, and my stomach feels rawer than before. It's hollow like a cave, and in the corner, is that little beating heart on the cold wet floor, like I mentioned earlier, beating in my stomach and causing all sorts of upsets.

I'm not trying to whine, I feel as if I am. I'm just explaining exactly how I feel at this precise and exact moment, without filtering any thoughts. Still, it sounds like whining. I whine a lot, I'm doomed to whine forever. No one wants to be around someone who whines.

My deep and utter hatred for Jeep Liberties has been increasing rather quickly. Every time I see one I feel my tonsils fall like heavy little balls of lead to the pit of my stomach. Then I curse. I curse them into oblivion. Awful vehicles.

My art class isn't an art class. Mr.Valadez said I couldn't paint my jellyfish hot pink and orange, and I couldn't put it in outer space because it isn't realistic. I asked him who on Earth said art was supposed to be realistic. He told me to paint it underwater or I'd get points dropped. Well I'll paint it underwater, and he may think the jellyfish is underwater, but it's really underwater on a distant planet where jellyfish are kings and can bend minds.

Take that, reality.


I don't feel like writing anymore, I don't feel like anything anymore.
I'm sorry to announce I've become a wall, like the ones I've been speaking to lately.

Bis später,
Summer

Echo me, Astronaut.

There's a hole in my wall. Strange, it looks as if the doorknob made it, but there's a door-stopper on the baseboard. Perhaps it was put there after the hole was made, but what good would it do if there was already a hole in the first place? It bothers me. Through my peripheral vision it looks like a fat black spider, with its legs all curled under it, waiting for someone (probably myself) to let their hand linger a little too close, let their fingers get dangerously near to eight, shiny black eyes, and two, bloated pincers. Then of course, it'd bite and I'd be more scared than hurt. I'd jerk back, natural instinct of course. And the spider would fall, and crawl into a dark corner, and it'd hide there till the night, when it'd creep out for its delightful revenge.

Then I remember it's just a hole in the wall.

This room has no furniture, it looks too small for it anyway. Currently, it's a room with one actual bed, one camp-bed, and vinyl, wood patterned floors. She said it was real hardwood before we moved in, but she confessed later it was just vinyl. Vinyl wood floors feel like a lie. It looks like hardwood, but it was really just a roll of plastic material that a sweaty, smelly man rolled onto the floor. I guess what I'm trying to say is that vinyl floors have no integrity.

in·teg·ri·ty   
[in-teg-ri-tee]
–noun
1. Adherence to moral and ethical principles; soundness of moral character; honesty.

I feel like these vinyl floors.


Semi colons are my favourite form of punctuation, but I'll admit, I have never used one correctly, unless Microsoft Word corrects my imperfect grammar and suggests I use one. If I was a word, would I be incorrect? Would I have a red squiggle underneath me, and if you right-clicked, what would be a better alternative to have instead of me? I wish I could right-click and fix a lot of things. Or ctrl-x all my problems away.

I should end this ramble with something that actually matters, or even makes a little bit of sense. But instead I'll end this on my current thought of this exact moment:

Mark Linkous, the world misses you, or at least I do.
YOU are worth hundreds of sparrows.

The Hawks Alight Till Morning

I buried a sparrow today.
Even though she wasn't breathing and her little neck would flop at the slightest movement, I was still deathly scared that she might still be alive. I swear I heard her chirp. I lifted her little body and wrapped it carefully in a paper towel, for want of a better burial shroud. With a rusty trowel I dug a small hole outside, under my window, with marbled orange river rocks for a headstone.

In my mind I call her Maybe.

"Maybe sparrow, it's too late." -Neko Case

Being buried alive must be the most awful way to die. You're trapped and there really is no way out. The walls close in and you're suffocating as you use up your last breaths of air. Sometimes being in this city is like being buried alive.

Notice: Sometimes being in this city is like being buried alive. More often than not, I love EL Paso.

I once said I didn't believe in coincidence, but they've been happening so frequently lately that I have to refute that statement. Maybe it's a sign from the universe, but it's disproved the last shred of faith I had in fate. I don't like the idea of fate. In my heart, I feel like the universe is telling my that my reality is malleable. Someone told me that, but I can't remember who.

Sorry, someone.

My fingers have frozen to the alphabet keys and it's occurred to me I am no longer making any sense or being the slightest bit entertaining.

Adieu.

P.S. I stopped biting my nails, just thought you should know.

Eyes on a Crack in the Door

I'm really going to miss polar bears.

http://www.projectthinice.org/

Let's save the polar bear.
I think we should try and figure out something to do about it El Paso kids.

That's it.
I have nothing else to say.

Oh wait, maybe, FREE TIBET.


P.S. I'm aware I'm going to be called a hipster for this. Don't care, just wanna save the polar bear.

P.P.S. Also, the 'o' key on my laptop is sticking slightly. It's incredibly frustrating.

And Heaven Will Smell Like The Airport.

I wish everything was spelled out easily, everything was exactly what it seemed, nothing more. I wish I could close my eyes, and dull sound as well as sight. (Just now, when I thought the words, "I wish I could close my eyes-" the lyrics, "close your eyes-" were sung in this song I have never heard before, scout's honour. I don't believe in coincidence, but apparently I run into them.) I wish I could read minds. I wish for world peace.

A wish is a prayer you have no faith in.


I have nothing even remotely interesting to say anymore. My brain has been obliterated. God damn you Facebook.

By

using

spaces

I

can

make

it

seem

like

I'm

writing

much

more

than

I

really

am.



I'm going to watch South Park.

Post-script: This is Barack Obama when he was in college.


Post-post-script:
I'll never be that cool.

^I was typing this, then.^

I suggest documenting it, because someday it could be a DOUBLE JEOPARDY question. That is, if Trebek is still alive by the time my internet fame skyrockets. I would sue the shit out of Channel 4 television if they even thought about replacing Alex with anybody else. I'm not even sure why the thought makes me so defensive, I have no thoughts on that whitetoothed reality show host. He certainly never changed my life. Maybe I'm just feeling defensive for those thirteen Alex Trebek fans who would become frantic.

I think that's called empathy.

This girl tried to steal my bracelet. Actually, she did. She has had it for a week and I didn't even notice 'til another friend decided to point it out. I guess I don't really find wrist ornaments all that important. Earrings either. Damn these sensitive lobes. I do enjoy necklaces. I think it's because they're the only piece of jewelry that doesn't feel it must constantly you remind yourself of it's presence. Damn dangling earrings swing around, flicking at my neck all day. And those bracelets, tinkling ostentatiously every time you set your hand on the table. Palm down, palm up, in a fist, you always hear those clicking charms or clashing loops.

Don't even get me started on rings.

I'm only writing another paragraph because jewelry is such an unappealing topic to end on. This might very well be equally as unappealing, but at least I can say I tried. My brain's interesting topic file is mysteriously missing at the moment. Oh, today I discovered with a friend, that the glass doors of our favourite sandwich shop are not in fact, one way. And now I'm recalling all the people we've gawked at and all the funny faces and gestures we've performed, and how many window shoppers we inadvertently entertained.

I guess these are the three most interesting things about my day.

Sentence from my day: "I love the word sprinkle."

I stole this day, which is why it's mine. I will sell you 06/02/2010 for a small fee and some Yoplait yogurt.

To Be Erased, At Once, Removed.

Things I can't stand:
-Small LED lights in the dark when I'm trying to sleep.
-People who drink water and other cold beverages out of mugs, not glasses.
-When people say, "I'm done" instead of, "I'm finished."
-Seeing dead things in the middle of the road.
-Guitars without strings.
-The feeling of chalk dust on my hands.
-Middle age being almost inevitable.
-Bruised fruits.
-Shower drains.
-Being ignored.


Things I love:
-The feeling of cracking my elbow knuckles.
-Desert rain and gasoline.
-The smell of a car air conditioner in summer when you first turn it on.
-The cool side of the pillow.
-Cereal milk.
-Bookshelf ladders with wheels.
-Shadows that exaggerate the sizes of things.
-The refreshing after shower feeling.


I dislike more than I like. I don't care, I bet you do too.

My love, I am the speed of sound.

I love El Paso. I don't think I need a reason, but I have so many.

When I was five, my parents, siblings and I all boarded a plane to the United States of America. I remember the flight! I remember almost peeing with excitement after I saw my favourite song (Sweet Like Chocolate by Shank and Bigfoot) being played on the little television screens on the backs of every seat. I yelled out to my parents across the aisle to tell them.

I made quite the scene.

We moved to this west Texas town and for the longest time I wanted to get out, to go somewhere big and bright and British . I don't remember when England lost it's allure, but I know why I love this border town.

El Paso, Texas has mountains.

Purple mountains, like the Crayola crayon. A couple of weeks ago, it was terribly windy and awful dusty, it covered up the mountains 'til they looked like they didn't even exist. It was positively awful. I will never live in a flat state. It must be hell.

El Paso, Texas has an amazing music scene.

At The Drive In, Sparta, The Mars Volta. Plus all those up and coming bands, not yet famous, but soon to be phenomenons. There's always a show playing somewhere, at some mood lit coffee shop or underground venue. I get so happy thinking about it. This desert town has soul.


El Paso Texas, home to ASARCO towers.

I do not care, I know that the towers are a cesspool of bacteria and cancers and ungodly forms of radiation, infecting our water and causing birth defects by the thousands. But I love the aesthetic effect they give off. They're so big and imposing. They are my favourite thing about El Paso. I love nothing more than driving down Paisano and sticking my head out the window as we drive right by the tower. I will scale it one day, I will indeed.

El Paso, Texas has the sweetest smelling rain in the universe.

That could be an exaggeration, Mars could very well have some delightfully scented weather patterns, but this is my blog, so get over the inaccuracy. When, and if it ever rains in El Paso, the air is filled with the lovely, flowery smell of the Creosote bush. It's a positively lovely weed, and it grows all over this city. They're of medium size, with millions upon millions of tiny round leaves on their scraggly branches. If you see some, just take a sprig, crush it in between your fingertips and take a deep whiff of my favourite smell. It's smells like love, it does.

I could write more, I really could, but I'm getting a feeling people don't want to read rantings and ravings about a city in the corner of Texas.


El Paso, you have my heart. El Paso, I love you.

I'm An Animal.

Love is born in smoke. Love is born in coffee shops.

I realized I find it many times more rewarding to have a deep conversation with a stranger, than it is to have one with a close friend.
Soon I'll figure out why, and I'll post it here. I want to have a 'turning point' in my life, some event of such importance that it completely throws off the intergalactic balance, shakes the Earth's core, and makes it snow in the middle of June. Everything I want to do with my life, involves affecting other people's lives.

I don't think I'd do very well on a deserted island.

In fourth grade, I think it was, our class read The Cay. I want to read it again. it was about a desert island, and a boy who goes blind. Though, surprisingly, only for the duration of his time on the island. How incredibly inconvenient.

I smoked a cigarette today.

I like the way the paper always burns a little faster than the tobacco. I realized I don't really like smoking during the day as much as I like smoking at night. I don't like smoking with people I know as much as I like smoking by myself in a crowded place. I don't like people who smell like cigarettes as much as I like the smell of cigarettes being smoked.

Ending statement:
I kind of wish I still believed that teachers just crawled under their desks at night and slept there. I kind of wish I still believed a lot of things.

Post-script;
Skepticism sucks.

Post-post-script;
But I don't really believe that statement to be true.

Riceboy Sleeps

I could not sleep last night. My mind was all flustered.

"It is a slightly arresting notion that if you were to pick yourself apart with tweezers, one atom at a time, you would produce a mound of fine atomic dust, none of which had ever been alive but all of which had once been you." -Bill Bryson A Short History of Nearly Everything

That up there is why I couldn't sleep. It's a hard thing to wrap your head around, but then again, wrapping your head around anything is probably extremely difficult in itself. My fingers have been lingering over the keys on the keyboard for several minutes just trying to put my ideas into words. I can only catch little fragments of an ultimately deep thought, the rest of it's just muddled up in my cranium. What really makes a human, human? What on Earth does it mean to be human? If you have an answer, a really good one, I'd like to know. Because right now I see myself as little more than a collection of atoms, hopefully some of Shakespeare's recycled ones!

Someday soon I want to go gallivanting around El Paso taking photos of everything I see. Whithered trees, whithered faces, whithered buildings. A good photo involves wrinkled, cracked, aging things, I've learned that from a year of a highschool photography class (shout out to Mrs. Haephner!)
True hipsters say they hate hipsters.



That's the closing statement for this one. I didn't really have much to say, but hey, it's a blog! I am almost 94% sure that the blog stands for Boring Log. Notice, I'm almost 94% sure. Really it's 93.873% sure. Thank you Mr. Paton for making me use significant digits all the time, even when it's really insignificant.

Post-script;
I forgot Iowa was a state today.
Post-post-script;
Sorry Iowa.

Holy Moly, me oh my.

This is the first posting on this blogging site. It's not going to be terribly interesting, because I've made this so if in the future, if I have something terribly interesting to say I will have a place to quickly type it out. So it's like a safeguard. A writer's safeguard against diminishing thoughts. Of course, it would be easier to walk around with a journal or a black and white, speckled composition book and write things as soon as I think of them. But then, my handwriting often makes me lose interest in what I was jotting down, so it'd be half finished thoughts and ideas. Also, I'm conceited, and am under the awful delusion that people might find what I think even the slightest bit entertaining, so I'm leaving it on the world wide web for your viewing ease. So you're welcome.

I had just paused now in an internal dilemma over whether or not to introduce myself, because really, I think the people who would take the time out of their surfing schedule to read my blither would be people that I know personally. But just in case, here are some few key points to Summer Nesreen Masoud;

-I am an Arab-American living in the West Texas town of El Paso.

-I like to take pictures (such as the one that is the header of this blog.)

-I like to draw (graphite is my favourite medium.)

-I like to play the guitar (and I'd love to be taught more.)

-I like to write (songs, short stories, poems.)

-I like to act.

-I like to listen to good music, and speak to good people.

-I am fifteen years old, born July 28th, 1994, in the United Arab Emirates

-I love my father and my mother and all my siblings very much.

-I can't stand kids who say they 'hate' their parents.

-I will write and act for Saturday Night Live.

-I have a photographic memory.

-I have anxiety.

-I have an anxiety induced stutter.

-I am usually not shy, I've only been shy in one case, goddamn you Javi Sandoval.

-I love to talk, and am very loud and exuberant.

-I really am a sweetheart, even if I don't always seem it.

-I am thankful if you've read this.