New Format and Feelin' Squishy

I decided it was time for a change.
So "yay", new format.

It's going to take some getting used to, but I like it.

There's a new bar at the top of the page....it says "Home" and "Meet the Ranting Fool" and "About".
"Meet the Ranting Fool" will bring you to a little schpeel about me.

"About" will bring you to something that isn't in English. I have no idea what the hell it is, but I can't get rid of it. I have no idea how. I think its somehow a permanent link in the template, so I'm just going to have to deal with it. Don't click on it. Really. It's just weird. I'm going to try and make it go away....but we'll see.

*Edit: The bar is gone now! I just really wanted to get rid of that weird foreign website. So yeah, no more "Meet the Ranting Fool", but oh well.*

But that isn't the main purpose of this post.

The main focus is on a rather new blog.

If you've been following me for a while, you know that I post my poetry. My shitty, shitty poetry.
I tend to write really short, angry little poems, or just really vague stuff. And hey, if you like it, great.

But seriously? If you want to read some awesome poetry, I bid you to check out this blog.

http://oldthoughtsbyayoungman.blogspot.com/

Old Thoughts By a Young Man is a blog written by a friend of mine. His poetry is AMAZING. And he just started his blog! Huzzah! So read it.

Here's some symptoms you shall have from reading his poetry:

feeling squishy inside

swooning
deep contemplation
acute awareness of your limited vocabulary
acute awareness that your own poetry is shitty
giddiness
generally awesome feeling

So go read it. I wouldn't be sending over my own readers to another blog if I didn't think it was some of the most fantastic, pretty shiny things I have read in a while.

This ends now.

I'm tired of feeling small and insecure.
I'm tired of feeling like I can't live up to anyone's expectations (including my own).
I'm tired of running to the bathroom between classes to cry.
I'm tired of being frustrated, that turns into anger, that turns into hot tears.
I'm tired of being told that I am not strong enough, fast enough, smart enough, skinny enough, witty enough, work hard enough, or courageous enough.
I'm tired of being less than what I could be.
This ends now.
This ends today.

I used to dream.

I used to dream that my teeth wiggled around in my mouth. They'd get loose, and then I'd spit them out, or swallow them.

I used to dream that I was drowning, and I smiled as I saw the sun through the water.

I used to dream that I was driving a car, but I couldn't control it. I'd crash, over and over.

I used to dream that I was going to be murdered by a life-sized doll.

I used to ask what they meant.

Now I just let them pass.

Ring Ring Ring

you remind me of dresses and puppies and pretentious dinner parties as you tear your hair out and stomp out the door.

you tell me goodbye, burning eyes streaming acid, and find me 20 minutes later, cowering from your fury (that you swear is simply concerned love, but you can apologize to my door - it doesn't appreciate the dent)

you apologize, a single sorry, and list all the ways in which I am wrong and you are right, and your single sorry spontaneously combusts.

ring, ring, ring

you call to tell me of your conviction, of all my wrongs and all your rights, but all I can think of are dresses and puppies and pretentious dinner parties and the dented door, not to mention all the scars you've dealt to my brain, my confidence, my life that you will never see, never hear, never understand.

ring, ring

I suggest you stop calling, because all I want is a sorry that won't spontaneously combust.

ring,

And you can apologize to my door, too.