____running on empty____
So here's what goes on in my life:
Hooray for Hollywood. I recently found out that Peter Llewellyn-Davies committed suicide in 1960. Finding Neverland (and cutie Freddie!) does a good job showing signs of future depression (destroys his own stage). Oh well, I'm rambling about plays and stuff.
Last night was very arty for me. I drew the eyes on Sam, although he still looks a little stoned, like "Hey maybe Joon spiked that disgusting drink she makes in the blender". Emmm humm hemmm.
I burned three sticks of Tinkerbell incense and my room, as well as my clothes, hair, et cetera, smell like smoke. I now resemble a stoner because I'm crashing on caffeine and smell smoky and bad. I have sworn I'm never going to smoke grass though. Ever.
I did a three-hour watercolor painting. My dad has the digital camera with him in Florida so I won't be able to post pics of my painting for a few days. It's still a nice painting because I did half of it in drybrush (a big thing since I was using oil brushes with watercolor paint, a difficult technique) and it has a sort of grungy, Mediterranean feel. It reminds me of tomatoes. I don't know why.
And I wrote four pages of my play, which, provided we have the one-act festival AND I manage to finish the play, get a cast, set and props, etc etc etc, will most certainly be banned. In the first scene I've mentioned self-mutilation and schizophrenia, and if you were wondering about the ending, the title is the ending: THE SUICIDE GARDEN. So it's wonderful, the first play I've ever written and I'll likely be censored. I could be the next Michael Moore, making controversy but really not getting anywhere.
Oh well, c'est la vie. Back to Slopkinton High tomorrow. Whee hee hee. Rousseau first, so it's chillout with the unsanest person in the universe. Block Aw. oh fun.
G'day mateys.
Hooray for Hollywood. I recently found out that Peter Llewellyn-Davies committed suicide in 1960. Finding Neverland (and cutie Freddie!) does a good job showing signs of future depression (destroys his own stage). Oh well, I'm rambling about plays and stuff.
Last night was very arty for me. I drew the eyes on Sam, although he still looks a little stoned, like "Hey maybe Joon spiked that disgusting drink she makes in the blender". Emmm humm hemmm.
I burned three sticks of Tinkerbell incense and my room, as well as my clothes, hair, et cetera, smell like smoke. I now resemble a stoner because I'm crashing on caffeine and smell smoky and bad. I have sworn I'm never going to smoke grass though. Ever.
I did a three-hour watercolor painting. My dad has the digital camera with him in Florida so I won't be able to post pics of my painting for a few days. It's still a nice painting because I did half of it in drybrush (a big thing since I was using oil brushes with watercolor paint, a difficult technique) and it has a sort of grungy, Mediterranean feel. It reminds me of tomatoes. I don't know why.
And I wrote four pages of my play, which, provided we have the one-act festival AND I manage to finish the play, get a cast, set and props, etc etc etc, will most certainly be banned. In the first scene I've mentioned self-mutilation and schizophrenia, and if you were wondering about the ending, the title is the ending: THE SUICIDE GARDEN. So it's wonderful, the first play I've ever written and I'll likely be censored. I could be the next Michael Moore, making controversy but really not getting anywhere.
Oh well, c'est la vie. Back to Slopkinton High tomorrow. Whee hee hee. Rousseau first, so it's chillout with the unsanest person in the universe. Block Aw. oh fun.
G'day mateys.