what a feelin'

I have three days of midterm from COB. I should be using this time to research my upcoming English essay, and catch up on other missed homework. Instead, I've made several posts on a comm dedicated to wank, none of which were actually wanky. Last night, I also got myself banned from Metaquotes for posting a locked post without permission. I'd like to think that I should've gotten a warning, and then had the post deleted, but it was stupid of me to make the mistake in the first place.

I'm an Internet addict. Right now, I'm in a pair of shorts sitting in front of a computer at one PM in the afternoon. I got up at 10:45, and have eaten nothing. We currently only have dialup. I have come to realizze that, maybye, just maybe, I should take a break from all but the sparest use of the web for a while. And, oddly enough, this has provoked a small feeling in the pit of my stomach, not unlike the one I get when I'm angry. Except this one is composed of raw sadness. I know I need to interact with Reality, but my emotions aren't listening.

My amount of art production has gone way down, from the alltime spike it hit before I set up our old dialup. With this has come the startling revelation that the Internet itself, the thing that inspired me to pick up my pencil again a few years back, after a half-decade's truancy , is actually the biggest impediment to my creativity. I keep trying to force work out for the sake of my dA account. "I can't disappoint the people devwatching me!" I think. I know that forcing art only leads to creative drought-much akin to overworking the soil on one's farm-, but I try it anyway.

This above all: to thine own self be true.

I have the Internet above my art, and my art above my schoolwork and future. My schoolwork is important in the shortrun, and my art more important in the longrun. And the Net? I hate to admit it, but it's just a distraction. I'm cutting back to a few webcomics, comms, and blogs per week. I must focus on my schoolwork, getting a job, and my Driver's Licence. I'm in my second year of eligibility; there ar epeople who graduated after I did who have theirs. Heck, my little sister turns 17 this December, and aside from the rather terrifying prospect of having to kill some poor guy in the near future, this means that my sister will have her permit at the same time as me.Earlier today, I passed up a perfectly good oppurtunity to go driving with my dad to make this post. Clearly, I need help, probably professional.

I need to find my reset button, and hit it, hard. Jonathan is broken. Time to take the machine into the shop for repairs, possibly an upgrade.
//tied up in ancient history

i wish could tie you up in my shoes

It is about seven o'clock on a cool early October afternoon. The nights are still late in coming, due to the Bahamas' extended summer. You are wrapping up a long day of surfing the web and making pretty pictures. It has been a fun day, despite the fact that you are forced to use dial-up, as the technicians from your ISP have yet to fix the DSL knocked out in a storm several weeks earlier. Even compared to the slow cable connection available at your school, it's roughly equivalent to Jeff Gordon stepping out of his car at work, stepping straight into a Kia, and driving home. Your sister has told you that she needs to use the phone at eight o'clock, and you are inclined to acquiesce to her request. After all, you've been online all day, and are tying up your loose ends when your mother calls you.

You enter the room that she shares with your father. He is lying on the bed in his standard issue wifebeater, and your mother is dressed for church on her side of the king-sized bed. She informs you that you need to get offline, as there could be calls coming through to your father. Fair enough. You turn to go back to the laptop and disconnect the line, when your mother calls your back. She goes on about how selfish you are, blah, blah, blah, while you get increasingly frustrated. You point out that she's being hypocritical. You try to leave, saying something along the lines of you hope she's listening to herself. Miiistake.

Your father calls you back, and theyboth launch into their standard spiel about how you will find yourself alone in life-not projecting at all-including your mother's usual vaguely threatening "you'll find out, someday", delivered after glaring at you in silence for several seconds after you've just pointed out another flaw in another generic arguement. You perform argueably, finding more holes in their claims than a swiss cheese target at an NRA convention, but they refue to budge, and so do you. At one point, shortly before your mother leaves the room, you grow tired of this rigamarole and advance on your father, keeping your face nutral, saying nothing, and cutting him off in mid sentence.

After a few seconds of silence, he wants to know why you have that look on your face. You stare out the window at the darkening twilight, trying to keep your smile off of your lips. He's afraid of you. Your psychological ploy to put him on the defensive worked. It probaly doesn't help him that his head is just below the level of your penis. You point out the irony in the fact that you were called in to get off the line, and they're preventing you from getting off the line. He claims that it's "irrelevant", and the dance goes on.

Your mother comes in, which is strange, as you don't remember when she left. She has just received a call on her outdated cellphone (why, oh, why, do your parents seem adverse to the idea of flip-phones?) from the person she was supposed to pick up, and said person couldn't get trhough. She blames you for tying up the line. At this point, you realize that that has just tipped you over into borderline psychotic. You announce that you need to leave before you hit one of them.

She immediately shuts off her phone and blocks you from leaving the room. He get off the bed, walks over, and now they have you cornered against their dresser, and the slatted door to their closet, the latter of which you could probably, at this point, Hulk straight through. Your hindbrain does not like this. Hackles, blood pressure, adrenaline, up! They begin double-team berating you, calling what you have just said a threat. Nevermind that a threat is annunciation of the intent to cause harm, rather than the annunciation of the desire to cause harm as a reason for removing oneself from another's presence. (In fact, that should be considered psychologically responsible behavior.) She indicates that—no, they don't want to hear your objections—you should probably go off and pray, just pray, and ask the Lord to give you guidance. She also reminds you that you are 18, and therefore can legally be cut loose. He claims that it's literally "their way or the driveway", and graciously offers to set you up in his old car. She points out that they could give you plastic bags with your clothes. He points out that the clothes are legally theirs, but that they'd let you have them anyway. Sometime later, your forebrain will retrospectively analyse this as an appeal to fear logical fallacy. But at the time, it is rather occupied with closing your eyes, crossing your hands, and exerting reserves of self-control you did not know you posessed in order to drown out your own parents and prevent what would most likely be a double homicide.

After they're finished, you go to the laptop and put it on standby, disconnecting the phone line. You close the screen down, and go to your room in order to lie angrily, in the dark, with the fan on. Your mother has already left, after banning you and your sister from going on the computer or turning on the television, and you imagine what you woould say if your father decided to impart one last word of advice before heading off to—ha, ha—church. Daddy, you would say in tones of ice, "I am angry to the point of being borderline psychotic. For the sake of the mental and physical health of both of us, turn around and walk away without saying another word." And then he would protest your rudeness, and then you'd stand up, and then you'd go to jail. Thankfully, he leaves without saying anything further to you. You lay in bed for some time more. Then you get up, walk to the laptop, and open the lid. You bring it out of standby, open Notepad, and begin to type.
//make you feel unpretty too