(no subject)
Which Hellsing character are you?
Hellsing absolutley rocks my world. Especially when Im drunk watching it. WOOP! So I broke my rib skiing which was totally not cool but its the first bone Ive ever broken which I guess is semi cool. FINALS ARE OVER. Thank the lord. Not that I actually tried any ways. Still haven't gotten my Germany letter :( I really want to know. Oh wells. Time to take some codiene!!!! TEACHER, MOTHER, SECRET LOVER. As homer would say. I want to send my jigga what love out to Madz, Ben, Aj and Puffy tonight for all the kinky sex (wink wink) Actually for all the fun drunken times. Word. I need to be put down. I decided this in English today. Hey I might as well post my crazy ass satire paper that actually isnt satire but really depressing... so here ya go......
Hannah the artist. Hannah the writer. Hannah the musician. Anything artistic, Hannah could do. She expressed emotion through everything she did. Yet no one seemed to notice her in the world of creativity and art. Everyone saw her work as too giddy. Too ignorant to issues around her. Hannah wanted to succeed. She wanted to make a living doing what she loved to do. Expressing her feelings through art.
Hannah had a choice. Starve to death or start delivering what people wanted. She forced herself into unhappiness. She gave herself depression so her art would be accepted. Soon people started buying her art. She was publishing books. Recording music. She started wearing dark clothes, becoming a masochist just to fit the image of society. She was selling herself into unhappiness. She was buying drugs and more unhappiness with what she sold. Vicodin for the “pain”. Zoloft for the “depression”.
Her art became less pure. She started whining about the relationships and problems she didn’t actually have. She started lying to herself, lying to the world. A visit to a psychiatrist proved she was a well-balanced young woman; she paid him off to say she was bi-polar and borderline. This kept the CD’s selling, the books on the bestseller list, and the art in the museums. Everyone knows that a tortured artist is a good one. Hannah didn’t care that she was denying her true self. She was rich, and that’s all that matters.
She was living where so many had been before. Van Goth, Ernest Hemingway, Elliot Smith, Kurt Cobain, Virginia Wolfe. She was Nirvana, The Smashing Pumpkins. This was her world. It was real to her. But then it wasn’t. Even with all she tried to do to keep herself down, to keep herself in a constant state of apathy and depression, she still was sublimely happy. She couldn’t suppress laughter. Or joy. Sitting at home alone, no one watching her she would draw pictures of children on their birthday. She sung songs about falling in love with the perfect guy. She wrote about the happiest day of her life. And to her, every day was the happiest. This would not do.
She wouldn’t let the happiness overtake her. The optimism, she thought while trying to pump out her next sap-ridden book, must be destroyed. Her ecstatic nature was
a disease to her. But her true emotions started to leak through. She tried to stop it but nothing can prevent the inevitable. Happiness crept into her art. Sales dropped. Books and CDs formed dust on their shelves. Her name was mentioned less and less in daily conversation. She had joined the crowd of one hit wonders. She was now Mr. T, Marky Mark, Furbies, and N’ Sync. This was the worst place she could ever be.
She had lost everything. Her fame, her fortune, her respect. Everyone saw her for what she really was, happy. Hannah was frustrated. All she could remember was the good times in her life, her first kiss, when she went to summer camp, her last day of art school. But when she talked to people they would remind her about how bad their day/week/month/life had been. She was far too optimistic for this world and it was killing her inside. The idea of the holocaust made her twitch uncomfortably. She became nervous and irate when people brought up the horrible state of the economy. Her lips would purse and she would squirm uncomfortably in her seat. She didn’t belong with these people but she wanted to belong. She wanted to be remembered for what she had done.
The only real option to boost her image, suicide. She had learned in art school that artists are famous in death. This was her last shot at immortality, to prove she too was mortal. To prove she was suffering inside. This would change people’s opinion, she convinced herself, she is depressed and she will prove it. And off to the medicine cabinet she marched. So many to choose from. The white pills will make her fall asleep and never wake up if 5 or more are taken. The blue, if overdosed on, will make her body convulse and eventually have a fatal heart attack. The razor blade will cause fatal bleeding if applied vertically to ones wrist. The Drano under the sink looks the most appetizing. Drano, a caustic substance, causes you to burn from the inside out, the warning label concludes. “The more painful the death is, the more believable my depression, the more famous I will be,” she said as she took a large swig of the liquid lye and took her last painful breath. Hannah is dead. Another soul tortured by happiness.