Grrrrr

Kay, well for some reason blogspot seems in a need to gang up on me, and therefore my links don't show up. I left the spot where it's like "Amount of links you want shown" blank, so that all links show, but that doesn't seem to work. If ANYONE knows why this is happening, pleeeeeeease let me know. It's driving me nuts.

Oh, and as for the surprise. Right now I'm temporarily more obsessed with Maximum Ride than Harry Potter. Temporarily though. But the obsession is big. Very big.

New Template

As you can see, there is a very new template on my blog, along with very little of my old stuff. Pissed that that has to be the catch, but oh well. I'll get everything back up.

I've also got something very important to tell everyone. Buuuut, I guess that will just have to wait....

FFPS part 2

Life was especially simple for orphaned kids, known most commonly as ‘smudge children’. Life consisted of three main parts for us: Education, chores, and survival (eating, drinking, sleeping etc.). Fun came only if there was time. All orphans grew up like that, and they expected nothing more.

Reading this, what do you expect me to be? Some kind of oddball, always fantasizing and getting in trouble for that? Or maybe some moody rebel, always going against what authorities say and wanting to somehow burst free from my shell and run away? If you think that, then you’ve read too many cliché books. I was about as simple as a blank sheet of parchment, occasionally dreaming, yes, but never straying too far as to ‘think about what is important’.

Now you’re most likely thinking along the lines of who I really was. I used to be the classic quiet girl, very few (to be more exact, no) friends, but considered ‘pretty’ and with a ‘lovely personality that will get you far in life, miss’. I never spoke out of turn, never said anything too bad or rash, always very respectful and polite. Looking back now, I was a down-right nobody. People then would look at me, this small, wide-eyed red-head girl and think, “Wow, she’s got such a charming personality! Who raised you, miss?” when all they saw was a youth who never spoke, never showed expression or opinion. A lifeless child.

Well, this wasn’t completely true. I did have a natural talent and attraction for climbing trees, along with reading and watching plays. I’d save up all the cores I’d get for doing extra chores and go to see to see them, watch all the brilliant actors and actresses act through scenes, all the way to the very end when the whole cast would get on the stage and bow. “How was the play?” someone would ask as I, along with dozens of other people, swarm out of the stage. “Fine,” I’d reply. But it was so much more than ‘fine’, and I was aware of that, even then. But I also knew that a person in the town that I grew up in would never stop to hear the full story.

My reputation in school was void; I didn’t have one. Every day when I went to the school house I’d seat myself at the back of the classroom, listening silently to the teacher, never talking to anybody, occasionally writing notes down or creating cartoons on extra sheets of paper when I was done with my work. I was like an oxygen waster; people knew who I was, but they listened to my words, not the person speaking them. People paid little attention to me, nor did they beat me up or tease me. They left me alone, and I thought I was fine with that.

But I was lonely back then. I didn’t know it, but I was. And it was hurting me inside. I remember I used to go to the library every day after I was done with my chores and just grab as many books as I could. Books were my friends. No, correction; the characters in the books were my friends. I could connect to them. Sometimes, when I’d be sitting on some grass in a park, I’d imagine myself talking to one of them, pretending they were real. That was the only real thing to suggest I had any imagination in me at all back then.

In total, I was a seriously broken child. I had no thoughts, no deep feelings or wise opinions. But the worst part was, I had no imagination. No time to be a real kid, have real friends, or do real things.

Until just a short while after my thirteenth birthday.

First Few Paragraphs of Story

First few paragraphs of a story I'm writing, again. Feel free to post comments, complaints, compliments, questions, arguments, etc.

Have you ever wondered what the purpose in your life was? Why you were born, why some high being decided that you were fit to make it to an old age, why you deserve to be alive and healthy? Trust me, this has gone through my head plenty of times. I’ve often pondered what fate had in store for me. What great new experiences, or even possibly adventures, awaited me in this great bumpy road called life. The sad thing is, you only know for sure when it actually happens, and then it might be too late to say to your former self, There you go Rilie. This is what you get.

This is exactly what happened to me. Except way back when I was still a lowly orphan, I had no idea something so huge as what would eventually happen would come, because I was raised to believe that lives are too simple and quiet to have adventure in them.

Why? Well, maybe part of the reason was because I grew up in an orphanage, where you can basically guarantee that the most exciting thing that would happen to you is saving enough money to buy an ice cream cone or a fizzy drink. Then there was the fact that I grew up in a very small, secure town where probably the most ‘naughty’ thing someone had ever done was steal a coid or two off a wealthy folk’s coin purse. Everybody knew everyone. Hell, even the town’s orphanage kept its front door unlocked, even at night. I was a child with ignorance as high as the tallest mountain. Robbing a house? What kind of foolish talk was that! Murdering someone? Oh yeah, I’ve heard of that. In a book.

None of this ever crossed the small minds of townsfolk. Yes, there was always the possibility. But did we ever sit down and really think about that small possibility? Of course not. We’ve always been humble, always simple-minded, worrying only about the present, never pondering over the what-if’s, or the why’s. Women nursed their children, cooking and cleaning and standing at attention by their husband’s side, dressed with care and usually holding a baby or two in their fragile arms. Men strolled about the town, making themselves look important, their tailcoats gliding behind them, hats leaving their heads every few seconds to greet passersby. The blood that ran through the family’s veins. Nothing less.

Across the Universe

So last Sunday me, my brother and my dad went to see Across the Universe. It's a story about these group of friends during the Vietnam war, and it's sort of like a musical, but they do covers of Beatles songs. Don't worry--they're good covers. Not like the crap other musicians try to produce. It's sort of grown-up material (>.> swearing, nudity (well, not much) etc.) but it's good. BUT I REALLY WANT TO SEE HAIRSPRAY AGAIN.