Autobiography @ MindSay 
novel
So I'm reading Scar Tissue- Anthony Kiedis Autobiography right, and here I am thinking that he had the perfect Hollywood lifestyle and everything, and I am totally... like... wowed by the truth in this book. I was like OMG at every page. It really made me sad. I mean, I was feeling sorry for him on the first couple of pages. I love Anthony, and if I ever see him EVER in my lifetime, I'm gonna go up to him and hug him. :)
I love this book. And I haven't even finished it yet. But I don't think my Pre Literature teacher would approve of me reading this. Ah well. She'll get over it. I LOVE THE BOOOOK. And no, Miss S, I am not reading Hardy and Dickens and other fancy authors. I'm reading SCAR TISSUE.
Love to all Red Hot Chili Peppers fans out there.
Lucky you guys to have lived through their era.
Some of us picked them up from 1996... :)
And I'm glad I did.
-loyalCONNIE
from: whitedevil
AUTOBIOGRAPHY Fill this out IN YOUR OWN WORDS and repost as, my autobiography.
-Prologue-
1. Who took your profile picture?
it wont load..but once i get it to..itll be one i took
2. Exactly what are you wearing right now?
socks, black arizona tee (wishing for warm weather), jeans, bra, sweater
3. What is your current problem?
ITS FUCKING FREEZING UP HERE!! i cant feel my hands!
4. What makes you most happy?
being around friends
5. What's the name of the song that you're listening to?
dear mr president by p!nk...check it out..its AWESOME
________________________________________________________
Chapter 1:
1. Nickname?
mish, shelly, shell
2. Eye color?
blue..but they change colors depending on my mood and what im wearing cuz im awesome like that.
3. Hair color?
at the moment..red and really dark auburn brown/black
4.Height?
5'6".
________________________________________________________
Chapter 2:
1. Do you live with your parent(s)?
at the moment im at my moms, but i dont technically live here
2. Do you get along with your parent(s)?
pretty much
3. Are your parents chill?
my mom is
4. Do you have any Siblings?
5 (3 brothers, 1 step brother, 1 half sister)
_______________________________________________________
Chapter 3: FAVORITE:
1. Ice Cream?
mayan chocolate
2. Season?
fall, spring
3. Book?
cut
4. A few bands?
FOB, SOAD, OAR, p!nk, emmy rossum, fiona apple, paramore, evanescence, disturbed, korn, trust co., bloodhound gang, richard cheese
5. Food?
yes plz!
6. Drink(s) (non alcoholic)?
water, monster java
7. Drink(s) (alcoholic)?
jager, vodka, everclear
9. Pen color?
black, blue, pink
10. Store?
spencers, torrid, hot topic (the very few that ARENT scene..fucking scene kids..) gordmans, marshalls
11. Person(s)?
adam, christine, samm, matty, rew, joe, spence
___________________________________________________________
Chapter 4: DO YOU:
1.Write on your hand:
all the damn time
2. Call people back?
i always try..but sometimes i forget...cuz i get busy with ppl..but i call back as soon as i remember..
3. Believe in love?
im starting to again
4. Sleep on a certain side of the bed?
not really..it kinda depends on the position of the bed in the room
___________________________________________________________
Chapter 5: HAVE Y0U?
1. Kissed Someone in the past 24 hours?
yuppers
2. If so...where?
First on the lips, then not on the lips, then on the lips again
3. Had PHYSICAL therapy?
yeah..on my back..god its bad
4. Gotten stitches?
not that i recall
5. Taken painkillers.\
HAHAHA!! you should see my top drawer of my dresser!
6. Overdosed on pain killers?
tylenol...took 38, i believe,..for your future reference..stomach pumps..not fun..ESPECIALLY AT BURLINGTON ER!!
7. Been stung by a bee?
yuppers...just in the last month in fact
8. Threw up in a doctors office:
numerous times..i only go to the dr if im really really sick..or when i was in high school in order to get out of going to school
9. broken a bone?
foot, ankle, cracked 2 molars...fucking metal tongue ring..yay plastic!
___________________________________________________________
Chapter 6: Who/what was the last:
*whats with the fucked up numbers in this category???
2. Person to text you?
dr naked..god that was sooo long ago..miss that bastard
3. Thing you touched?
the mouse
5. Thing you said?
"tell me where our time went..and if it was time well spent"
~pressure by paramore..
im singin bitches!!!
7. Person you hugged?
my mom and little sis..it was a group hug
8. Person you talked to on the phone?
my mom
11. Last book you read?
this post on adam's page
I am eighteen years old and about to die. Oh, not in the sense that you're thinking. I don't have a knife to my throat; I'm not being held at gunpoint; I don't have three bottles of aspirin in my stomach. But as I'm about to die, I figure this is as good a time as any to start documenting my life, before it ends.
I'm not someone special. I haven't accomplished great feats in my life. I haven't saved children and I haven't created a new program of charity nor have I discovered the cure to anything. Reading this is pointless, because you won't discover anything. I'm as unincredible and as unremarkable as they come. They won't talk about me in the media, and if you google my name, I'm not any of the people that show up. This autobiography is not meant to be something special. It's not meant to have theories written after it and it's not meant to be studied nor discussed in book clubs. In fact, I hope this never gets published, if only for the fact that there are enough worthless books on the shelves and I'd hate to add my own to it. This autobiography is worthless.
My life, however, is not.
There will be no chronological order to this. There will be no... sense to be had, no index to reference. There will be no timeline; no people that you recognize; no explanation and no apologies throughout this. Just me. Just me, and the clicking of the keys on the laptop before my life ends.
I woke up this morning with a terrible hangover from this weekend, sore in the face and sick to my head. I spent the weekend with Westi and Josh, getting blitzed beyond belief, to the point of not being able to remember much of it. I'm not even sure how I got home last night, but my car is here and in one piece so I guess I drove. Liquor is something that's still relatively new to me, so I while it doesn't take much to get me wasted, I still like to think that I can hold my own. My roommates are watching something in the other room, some sort of... angry thrashing and yelling is going on the television. It always makes me wonder: with all of the anger on television these days, what would happen if I heard a struggle going on in one of the nearby apartments? How easy would it be for me to write it off as a television show turned up too loud? And what's more, if I came back to find a police line and people being questioned and a distressed college girl with her blonde hair draping her face in her hands sobbing, would I feel guilty?
How desensitized am I?
I took a punch to the face yesterday. There was a guy in a button-up shirt a size too small and pants that looked like they'd fit his girlfriend saying something terrible about Shae. Doesn't matter if what he was saying was true or not, all that mattered was that he was saying it. I decked him and as he was going down he decked me. Nick had to pull me off and throw me in the car and tell me, "Drive." I might be violent with a little alcohol in me. Or at least, my violent tendancies are on the surface far more than when I'm sober. Something to consider in the short time I have left.
Ah. Dinner.
There are things so beautiful in this world it is painful. I apologize for my absence. Despite the impending axe over my neck, food doesn't turn to ash in my mouth yet. I'll enjoy it while it lasts.
I have this terrible habit of watching powerful and emotional movies and then letting that emotion transfer over to myself in such a strong sense that I find myself close to tears over the simplest things. I find myself cold and feeling powerful afterwards. I'm not sure if this is a psychological problem that I'm just simply not aware of. Music effects me in the same way.
I remember... the first time I started playing bass. I was trying to convince myself I was straight and was kind of dating a boy named Peter, my previous prom date. I was often at his house where his friend George lived as well. We were more of friends than significant others; playful bantering and no sexual stimulus whatsoever, and no desire to make any. Peter and George were musicians. I remember going to their house, their broken concrete stoop cracked and the metal banister looking twisted and slightly dangerous to say the least. There were always cats on the stoop, and their huge lab of a dog Max excited to see me running in circles in the overly long grass, and the gravel crunching underfoot. I remember the garage door looked stained despite it's water resistant coat of paint. The thing is, Peter's house wasn't in the middle of a city, where these things could be kind of accounted for by others, nor surrounded by other homes like it, making it normal in a city atmosphere. No, Peter's house was down south, right before the Hari Krishna temple on the way to Salem south of Spanish Fork Main Street. Acres of beautiful nothing surrounded his home. Barley, I believe, is what they grew and harvested and at the time that I'm recalling, it was fall so they were as tall and as golden as ever. I grew up in Utah Valley, with most of it spent in Spanish Fork. Utah Valley was just that: a valley. Nestled between mountains that I've never bothered to learn the names of, the barley seemed to stretch all the way to the base of the monoliths rising out of the earth and crash against them in the wind. I remember often finding myself standing at the edge of their driveway just watching the sunset or smelling the moonlight or tasting the stars. It was beautiful there, and there was enough space for me to be myself, in the sense that I take up a lot of space. I'm not overweight, I do have some husk, but I'm speaking more from the idea that I have a lot to give, and I can fill up a room with my essence of who I am. Rooms are always too small for me and if it's not a theatre or a gymnasium then it has to be the outdoors in order for me to feel comfortable in my own skin.
Peter's house was... home for me that summer. I spent most of my days down in his basement while the boys, my boys, Peter and George, played video games or acoustic guitar or just listened to music while I made anime murals on their cracked and orange-peeled walls. More often than not though, we were in the garage. The boys were preparing for a Halloween concert and I yearned so badly to be incorporated. I've always adored music, enjoyed it to the point of obsession, but mum could never afford music lessons or I never had the thought to ask that of her, I can never tell which it was. I had played trumpet for a couple of years in the school band in the 6th grade, Mr. Seely. Even was fairly good. But I lost the passion for it. It wasn't my style.
What my boys were doing though; writing their own music, or even if it wasn't their music, they were making music with someone else's words or someone else's riffs. All that mattered was the home was constantly filled with music and my head constantly filled with thoughts. I've always been a very withdrawn person. I think I'm self-centered, but Kele always said I was just more self-aware than most. They made music and I listened, wishing I could participate. Tylor was their bassist, Brad was their drummer. George was being difficult during practice and Peter threw a fit and barricaded himself in his room. I was sent as the emissary to try and make things right, and by the time we'd talked things through and made things a little more bearable Tylor had left.
Peter is a huge guy. Sanguine-faced and made like a barrel, he made an intimidating figure. But he was also slow, a little. He was just a teddy bear to me, full of hugs and gentleness. He played guitar beautifully.
But Tylor had left and now they were out of a bassist and seeing my chance, I picked up the cream colored instrument and holding it firmly struck a note and said, "Teach me what to play."
We spent that day teaching me the notes and I played well, considering my fingers were blistering and my hands felt horribly cramped up. I was getting the hang of it really well until Tylor came back and gave me this look like, "Aw, that's cute. Now run along so the big boys can play." I turned the bass over and relinquished my hopes of playing.
Until Mary, Peter's mother and George's guardian and the mother of 4 other children besides, pulled me aside and said, "Alisa, you play that bass with a passion like I've never seen anyone else play. Tylor will never be able to have that." From there, I realized nothing would make me give that up again. Music is life, and true to my word, I got a bass for Christmas and played on their's until I got mine. To this day I play bass guitar, and have picked up acoustic guitar along the way, with a little bit of singing inbetween.
My passion? I don't know where it stems from. But it's all I have left. It's all I've ever had.
I need a smoke. I'll probably continue this tomorrow before or after work.
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