Mindless, and somehow what I need

This is one of those "using only song titles from ONE ARTIST, cleverly answer these questions" things. But I love music, and my soul is just tired today.

My Artist: Pink Floyd

Are you a male or female:
Mother

Describe yourself:
In The Flesh?

How do you feel?:
Wish You Were Here

Describe where you currently live:
Outside The Wall

If you could go anywhere, where would you go:
The Great Gig In The Sky

Your favorite form of transportation:
Pigs On Wing

Your best friend is:
Hey You

You and your best friends are:
Another Brick In The Wall

What's the weather like:
Goodbye Blue Sky

If your life was a TV show, what would it be called:
Shine On You Crazy Diamond

What is life to you:
Empty Spaces

Your fear:
Is There Anybody Out There?

What is the best advice you have to give:
Have A Cigar

Thought for the Day:
Lost For Words

How I would like to die:
Coming Back To Life

My soul's present condition:
Flaming

My Motto:
Take Up Thy Stethoscope And Walk

H e r N a m e I s F i o n a

And she is amazing. I honestly don't think I've ever been more inspired in my life! Just take a look at that! Anyways, it's not mine. Title is the link to her deviantart where you will find much more inspirational beauty!

Okay world; are you ready for this? I have new fetishes. For one, I'm really digging this different-coloured-eyes thing! I inked my "Nia" sketch today and just couldn't resist; he now has mismatched eyes. A blue and a green one! Kaykaykay next: sadistic boys who murder their fathers girfriends and look cute behind their long curly curls! Yuh, you guessed it. Another link*. This one is just as beautiful, and much more red. Mmmm, so back to me! Butterflies. The colours blue and green. Tattoos. This last one I have always told myself I would never get. Well, well. See, I've made a deal with myself; if I am still single by the time I am thirty, I'm getter a huge butterfly tattoo on my butt. When I walk, it will fly. I'm sure I could dig and find some symbolic beauty there, but I shall not as I feel lazy today. Humph. Well, I then plan to make it to a public bath in Japan. Co-ed or not, I hardly mind. (Maybe gender-specific, the first time..) There, I will show off my butterfly butt. The world will Le-Gasp, but I will have no significant other and therefore my butt. butt will be forever in hiding.

But before all this, I'm going to get buns of steel. Cause sure, the tattoo would hurt, but wouldn't it be deadly embarrassing to have a naked jiggly butt in front of some random tattooist (sp?)???

(lol what if you farted while they were tattooing??? .... LOL)

*http://yumiko-kato.deviantart.com/art/Sorry-Mommy-But-Daddy-109846600

I ( s e r i o u s l y ) w i s h,

that I could Alt+Ctrl+Del my life.

No, no; I'm not being an 'emotional hardcore', as you hipsters say. I wouldn't click 'end task' - not for everything. See, I'd simply clean things up a little;

Vital Organs - Running

Daily Habits - Running
Education - Not Responding

Romance - Not Responding

Fitness - Not Responding

'Some programs are not responding. Would you like to send an error report?'

No, no. Not necessary. Just put me out of my misery, please and thank you. Was it the great Kevin Barnes that sang, "Want to fire all my friends and just start over again"? I know where you're coming from, Mr. Barnes. Starting over is simply the most attractive idea to a chemically flattened mind.

'I want to be a Claymore,' insists the half-crazed, self-proclaimed otaku. Those squinty little eyes, indecisive as ever à propos their own colour ('Green, brown, green? Brown?'), O! would they not see the world much differently? Round and silver (though characteristics be not important), they still needn't and couldn't defy the principles of physics. Retina remains; rays, reflection, inversion, refraction - the biology and the laws still apply, I assure you. Be my explanative capability brief, as be the words of the explained, I have not much to say. So I'll put it bluntly.

They fuck with your brain.

I've not a delicate clue what is done - do they take away, increase, or train? Your beloved organization has your entire being and potential in the cracks of their deceptive palms. You must admit to this. Perhaps they've the technology to manipulate your very electrons - in which case they take. Question being, what is done next? Do they put this invisible (yet stolen, no matter the size) part of your essense in a jar, where it is kept neutral for further studies? Or perhaps this valuble piece of thyself is implanted in another - in which case they increase. Of course, have they the technology with which they can keep tabs on such procedures? Unheard of in this day and age, it should be thought not. The next most predictable complication, of course, is the new project's rejection of said electron - in which case thy dear organization doth train. All steps - the taking, increasing, and the (unavoidable) instructing - are performed in that delicate and easily overlooked time period which starts when you close those indecisive eyes, and open the blank, robotic silver ones. This does not even begin to touch on the implications that follow the bodily changes - art thou a monster, fair lady with the amazon-tall, figure-perfect body? Underneath thy clothes, what hide you? Or have you even the modesty, at this point, to hide a thing? Even your own hair colour has left you, unless you had a sickly white-blonde head of tress to begin with? Let us make this easier for you, now that the past be foggy, grotesque as Kevin Barnes dost state (and an animal, at that).

You didn't.

Back in the day (fifty minutes ago) - before the taking, replacing, decieving - did you not love? Did you not insist upon this dream because it was a cared-for, carefully crafted idea in your own mind? You did. All this fell into thy generously armored lap due to your love for an idea - a simple abstract noun! You had love, in all shapes and forms. Inter-species, inter-gender, heteroflexible, parental; to name a few. Remember that boy you grew fond of, and un-fond of, and fond of yet again? The one you wrote the hate mail to, the letter which you never did send. It can be assumed that you do not remember the warmth of his hands on yours. His mouth? His body? Of course you don't, you brain-dead bitch. Your thoughts are programmed; altered. Your thoughts fall into few simple categories; self-preservation, duty to thy organization, practice of thy art. And that's all you have. That electron from your own brain, an electron from somebody else's, the manipulation and probable hypnotism - you had zero control. But why now, when these words face you, do you not take your fellow victims by the hands and demand advantage of such knowledge? They can take everything you have and they can change it, but by god, you had better be your own woman. The organization has not a name - what shall they stamp their property with? And can they do so, if said piece of matter is already claimed? (Did they do so with the moon? It should be thought not.) All that can be hoped and strived for is that when your precious electron, or save molecule be taken from thy posession, that it is still be under your control.

"Get an electron microscope and take a look at his atoms and I bet you every last one of them has Property of Allan Snyder stamped on it." - The Prince and the Snowgirl

Advice from a classic, baby.

E x a m s, B u r n i n H e l l .

I'M DONE!!!

That's right, that's right, that's right. Finals are officially finished (for me) and I now look forward to four days of lazy bliss. I in fact plan to fill this time doing all the things a healthy teenage girl enjoys most;

HOUSEWORK!

READING!

SPENDING HOURS ON THE INTERNET!

WATCHING JAPANESE DRAMAS!

WATCHING GOSSIP GIRL AND LIE TO ME!

BUYING MANGA AND TAKING THINGS BACK TO WALMART!

EATING!

Life is so so so sweet.

s u n l a n d i c t w i n

w h e n -i -g r o w- u p,

I want to be Kevin Barnes.

-

Except, I mean, I'd be a woman about it. I'm not personally into the whole transgender thing; painful and useless as it would be. But what a party, you know? I could perform naked (not that I would) or make out with random gay guys ('cause I would) and it would be seen as usual behavior! Plus, Of Montreal is already so undeniably talented and loved, that an imposer - myself - could come along and fake it. No problem. If the imposer - again, that's me - were to SUCK musically, the fans would appreciate it as:

a) an experimental sound;

b) emotion-expressive vocal art;

or c) drugs.

-

And everybody would forgive Kevin Barnes for being a total junkie because he's fucking Kevin Barnes.

Très vraiment oui bonjour. Right?