another short story

the last time she was in this position, the plannet almost blew up. sure, that had nothing to do with why she was so compromised the first time 'round, but the repeating events nauseated her nonetheless.

drawing a deep breath before doing what she knew she needed to, something caught the corner of her eye. a whip of hair and strain of neck revealed a small creature, mostly green, except for the cold black of its eyes. it was so young.

she released her instinctual grasp on her dagger, replacing the clasp, and got to her knees. she attempted some reassuring sounds, speaking in a soft voice (it really didn't matter what; poor thing didn't understand language, yet). she failed miserably. space commanders, while very good at the controls of a laser cannon, were not known for their maternal instincts.

however, the amphibious child didn't seem to mind the harshness. well, she thought, he is a cold-blooded life-form. maybe they're incapable of warm hearts...? he immediately crawled into the commander's arms and started gnawing on her dog tags, the words "commander rusty starr" soon became drenched in the young zzhart's purple-pink oral slime. any other woman would've grimaced at this, but, forturnately for rusty, the instinct to carry out such an act was filed with the same instinct to be comforting to children -- which she didn't posess.

rusty got to her feet, and considered her next move. blowing the door open with an instant explosive, with a baby in her hands clearly wasn't an option. nor was army-crawling through the air ducts (why didn't they ever secure those things, anyway? movies have been made since the twentieth century, discrediting their security. central air conditioning wasn't worth escaped prisioners -- an old-fashioned box-fan should do the job for their ilk.)

no descisions could be made as to the course of action, before the doors blew open, revealing a dozen eishth soldiers (the mortal enimies of the zzhart), waving gama pistols around their charge. one placid-faced soldier of authority stepped forward from the line, yellow pupils glaring lazily into the green ones of overthrown-commander starr. "you will follow," he stated simply, as though he were delivering a pizza and still had seven to go. business as usual.

"no, i don't think so," rusty returned his casual drawl, then immediately regreated it. she could stromp into all the dangerous, suicidal situations she wanted, just so long as it harmed no one else. she had momentarily forgotten the miniature zzhart in her arms.

which, when she looked down, was no longer in her arms. the signs that it once had been gooed her jacket and matted the tips of her hair. but the baby had disappeared.

"you will follow," the delivery-eishth stated, more forcefully.

rusty was too distracted to answer. she didn't know why there was a baby zzhart in her cell, and was even more clueless as to what it meant now that he had disappeared. she just knew, somehow, she had to find him, take the ship, destroy the eishth fleet, and leave zzhart territory before they became too thankful to her.

the delivery-eishth produced a titanium-tinsel whip, and took a fair gash from commander starr's bicep. after a supressed grunt of pain, she was brought back to the here and now. "you will follow!"

she gave her escourts a hostile grin. the sting of exposed blood and muscle had brought her an idea. "lead the way."

to be conitnued....

fatal flaws

my family and friends sometimes tell me that i need therapy. frankly, i disagree.

what do therapists do? they help you isolate your problems, your fatal flaws, and, if they're pro-active types, they give tips on how to fix it all.

but i know my flaws. i can therapize myself, thankyouverymuch.

for one, i have a very adictive personality. really. i once spent an entire weekend not sleeping, eating, and very rare trips to the bathroom, beating "super mario bros." the original, cheesy version with too many contradictions, and too few pixels. i saved princess peach, and, after a big ole' sandwich, slept for almost an entire day. haven't played video game since then. especially not the good ones. one that i've really been dying to play, but dare not until i have an entire summer to myself (and enough money to buy an x-box, or whichever console it uses), is "fallout." i'm a tad obsessed with the post-apocolyptic themes.

obsessions. that's another one. i'm obsessed with so many different things, that i often don't know which one to be obsessed with first. sounds odd, i know, but i'm just one big paradox.

speaking of paradoxies, the one flaw that cancels out the previous two is my huge fear of commitment. to a subject or situation, anyway.

when it comes to relationships (rather, friendships, as my romantic relationships are nill), it's not so much a fear of commitment, as a lack of confidence and resolve when they first pull away. i suppose, when they start showing any signs of independance from me and my partnership, i cease any and all fight to make them stay. i've had it in my head since i was a tiny kid that, as soon as i became a grown-up, i wouldn't keep relatons with any of my childhood friends, because, after a bunch of interviews with the grown-ups i knew, i found that none of them ever did. so if i lost a friendship as a kid, it wouldn't matter as much as an adult. i've fixed that a little on my own, thought the situation and timing suck. i had to wait until the year i left childhood behind forever to finally find a friend i want to keep, despite any pulling back he might exhibit. anyway, i digress. that's a rant in itself, and i prefer not to get into it.

i also have multipul neuroses.

one concerns my stuff and who has the ability to touch it. i was raised an only child, so this is not an inferiority or a superiority complex (though, i'm sure i have both of those in their turn). this is more a control deal. if someone else controls my stuff, then i lose control myself, not to mention the ammount of time i get to spend with it all -- not that i do, individually. too much of a pack-rat for that. also a bit of a dragon, which aids in the "neurosis" part -- a dragon has a load of stuff in his den, none of which he gives a second look, but should anyone come in and steal so much as a ruby, not only does he immediately know, but he's out for blood. yes. i have a "dragon complex". there you go.

another concerns money. when i was born, and growing up, it was inadvertantly pounded into my brain that money was to be saved, not spent. i was the child of a single parent, living in the projects that felt like the taj majal compared to the homeless shelter i was born in. now, having maried up in society (very middle-middle class, baby), i'm capable of having money and spending it, too. but, after that ideal embedded itself on my brain, it took a lot of programing to find the right balance between spending just to spend, and skimping on myself (again, a rant for another time).

another, slightly more obvious to thoes who know me best, concerns jellousey. i'm not a very jellous person by nature, but under certian circumstances, like having to share people i like, or when someone surpasses my talents (perfectionist, as well). i'm still not sure how to deal with this, as i wasn't really aware of it until a couple months ago, and it still floors me.

the last one, probably least obvious, is my mental refusal to show weaknesses. i'm already fat with athesma, and glasses, and an uber-klutz, i don't need people taking pity on me for anything else. not even when i get sick, like a little flu bug. no one knew about it until it had already passed, and by then i'd already gone out in public to continue my life. only my parents found out. everyone else just thought i was having a pissy week. (i must be a better actress than the drama club director thought, if i can puke twice in three hours, if i can still stomach the school lunch and hold my head up to learn about logorithms.)

and, i guess, my biggest fatal flaw is that i'm so flipperin' self-obsorbed (as any loyal reader has, no doubt, already learned). after all, what have i ever written about, but the wonderful subject of "me"? i try to think of other stuff to write about, to talk about, but none of it seems interesting enough (so modest, too!). even the stories i write are narrorated in first person! my lead characters are all just as self-obsorbed as i am, if not more!

stories. i'm not sure that counts as a "fatal flaw," but i know i can't resist them. i've noticed in any and all stories, no matter how many flaws a character has, if they are gifted with the right plot by the writer, they can still find love and admiration. consider Captain Jack Sparrow from Pirates of the Carribbean. and Max, the head bird-kid from the maximum ride series makes my level of jellousy and failure to show weakness look tame. and if you look at Erik from The Phantom of the Opera, he has his own "Phan-club"! (of which i am a member. what can i say? i related to his character...)

i suppose, i will never have to go to therapy, just as long as i can get the right story plot formed around me, and get it all recorded for the world to enjoy. hopefully, it'll eventually include a post-apocolyptic wasteland... those are my favorite story themes...

anyway, i hope you enjoyed my flaws. hopefully, my knowing what they are will rescue me from falling into a deep state of throrough madness.

if my life had a sound track...

i have an extensive music collection. cd's, tapes, 8-tracks (i can only listen to these in my dad's broke-down hippie van-come-mega-tackle-box), records (can't really play these anywhere, as i don't have a player, nor trust anyone else to not scratch them as i use theirs -- i guess i just have them to look at...). some are well-known albums by various bands or solo artists, though most of them bear the phrase "on tour" or "best of". everything from the classics (motzart, bach, etc.) to classic rock (stones, zeppelin, beatles, monkeys) to subsect cult favorites (velvit underground, meat-loaf, etc).

but, as my best friend, and fellow blogger, says, the best kind of music is usually the kind with no words. and the best, and easiest, place to find these are movie sound tracks. most of my albums are movie soundtracks. as you know, sound tracks can have all instrumental, all artist hits, or a mixture of the two. i like the third choice.

has anyone asked you, "if your life was a movie, who would you want to play you?" well, the right actors are all well and good, major faces are important. but even moreso are the ones behind the scenes. writers, directors, and producers, for example (for me: the writers from "pirates of the carribbean," tim burtion/jim henson jointed for director and producer). but, perhaps the most taken-for-granted job is the one who writes the score, and choses the songs. the wrong notes, an improperly-placed/edited song, could completely destroy a scene, or sometimes, an entire film! the real question shouldn't be "who would play you?", but "who would organize your sound track?"

personally, i would chose danny elfman, but should he ever become unavailable to assist in scoring the life of a small-town bumpkin, i could get a start on my list of songs.

first, i've always liked, and identified, with the song livin' la vida loca. it's all about how a guy can't resist the crazy, odd quirks of this chick, most of which activities i quite enjoy -- especially the part about having a new addiction for every day and night (i have an incredibly addictive personality, though my interests vary too much to stay addicted for long. i'm sure i give all my friends and family whiplash sometimes). should there ever be a romance scene in my life-film, i want this playing in the background. or perhaps i could be seranaded in a karaoke bar... anyway, i'm not here to write the film, just roughly set up the score...

i've also got this great image in my head going, should the world ever fall to a post-apocolyptic industrial wasteland, and a resistance army is set up to fight against an unjust unified-world-order. as i fight for freedom in the great field battle, cannons, guns, and bombs uprooting trees, scattering mud clots onto the heads of the opressed, genetically-altered soldiors of the opposing side, all of us dirty and defeated in the end. now, take out the sounds of explosions, cries of agony, and, in its place, let the ABBA song fernando play. a great song, of the sour effects war has on the body and soul, set to such a very jaunty little tune, as sung by the true disco queens. think about it: death, distruction, and carnage assaulting the viewer's eyes, as hurdy-gurdy-hippie-disco-dance music plays with their ears. the juxtaposition is beautiful.

other than the music, the film may need capes, mad scientists, dashing and/or disgusting pirates, and definately werewolves. and a magical sock monkey.

but that's a rant for another time. 'till then, i'm livin' la vida loca, whether the song is playing or not... come on post-apocolyptic industrial wasteland....

wardrobe rules: why does it even matter?

if you, the reader, has ever wondered, what does this franki17kaye91 look like? well, i guess i look a bit like i sound in my writing. i've been told that i have only three emotions: surly, stoic, and the recently-added hystarical with giggles and snorts (more on that bit in future rants...). i hit my growing peak in fifth grade, plateauing at a solid 5' .5''. i'm a tad pale, with curly, pouffy brown hair, green eyes, and a smatter of freckles. i'm just a tad overweight (which, in this conformity-obsessed world of conventional beauty, what girl isn't, except the anorexics and bullimics?) with a bum that's not so much like a "back porch swing" and more like a "mad wrecking ball with a vendetta against the whole of humanity, no reguard for any and all who get in the way."

i'm pretty plain, if you wanna know the truth.

but my natural looks aren't the important part here. it's my wardrobe.

everyone i know is well-aquainted with my obsession with bandanas, black lipstick, and bright-flipperin'-green combat boots. everything else in between is too odd and extensive to fit into any category. it's sort of punk-goth-hippie-checkerhead-countrygirl-urbanchick-coorperatfiend-comfortslob-bikerdenim-trekkiegeek with a splash of human thrown in there.

they come mostly from second-hand stores, and passed down from older family memebers, or discovered in the bottom of some box in the basement, and, maybe once or twice a year, i actually get the money to shop at a first-hand store (too poor for even wal-mart... that's kinda sad...). i make do with what i got, i mix, match, alter, and, sometimes, completely distory, which actually fixes them half the time. some of the outfits i got going could even rival those of Lady Ga-Ga.

but, getting to the point of my document, while most people don't know what they're gonna be getting from me, i have my own goon squad to take me down and shove a ticket down my throat for allowing myself to walk the high school halls in my outlandish garb.

why should it matter what i wear? black lipstick is no different from red or pink lipstick. black is just a color. fishnets don't make me a hooker, nor do they make me a lesbien-pirate, or whatever else. bandanas are not hats. hats can be easily taken off, and offered to others, for which lice-alert the reason they're not allowed in schools. no one actually takes off a bandana -- they use them to cover things up -- like my pouffy curls that do nothing but fuzz if i so much as say the word "moisture." and, really, a few spikes never hurt anybody. well... okay, i'm sure a few have, but that's beside the point.

my family is afraid -- have always been afraid, since i started dressing this way at seven -- that my outfits will get me teased and put down. well, they do. but, as a non-conformist, that's a high compliment. an even higher compliment when i take a risk, and the human gentry offer actual compliments.

no one seems to understand my risk-taking, so they try to limit it, thereby stiffling my creative genius (yes. genius.), which turns me into a ceesy action-movie supervillian, spurned by the world, and bent on distruction of all who doubted me! mwahahahahahahahahaha! snort.

it should'nt matter. and, quite frankly, it doesn't. no matter the limits put on my creativity, i always find a loophole, and i grow, despite the pressure to stay under certain thumbs. i'm going to surpass my original programing, and they will all remain the pathetic little conformists they've taught themselves to be.

i win.

give the bus driver a break

a senior in high school without a job, and a gas tank that all too often has to go unfed, i have been riding the bus for thriteen years (kindergarten included). i am known on my bus as the "bus ghost" because, for all they know, i just live there and haunt it (not hard to imagine, i suppose, given my severe paleness, surly attitude, and the rarity that i ever speak...).

the only one who has stayed on nearly as long as i have is our driver. poor woman, she started her chauffer carreer with such eagerness. After six years, though, of being spat on (literally), having things thrown at her, such as pencils, rocks, and insults (bitch, whore, kunt, and dildo, among the least explicit), and angry parents threatening to take her down when she tries to fight back, well, obviously takes some of the fun out of the job.

i tell you, the kids she has to deal with are pure evil. everyone stands, then has the gall to be pissed off when a sudden stop makes them flip a seat or fall on their face in the isles. eight year olds issue language that would make a sailer blush. i've seen more fights at 60mph than i've seen small-town hicks with farmer tans.

they don't dare mess with me, of course (who would wanna call the wrath of the ghoul next door?), but i hate that they don't give our bus driver the same respect. it makes me mad. i mean, i get to leave at the end of the month, and never have to come back. she, however, has got to come back year after year after year after year, until she either retires (horror!), or she quits/gets fired (equal prospects, given the idiocy of her cargo).

so, i guess what i'm going to leave you with is this: if you take public transportation, give the driver a break. after all, it's not like you have to be around them all the time, like they need to be around people like you all day, every day. that's how they make their living. and it's a good thing they're so patient -- what if every driver gets the one jerk-wad that can't get off their back, then how would you get from class to soccer practice to wherever the heck else without them? you'd have to rely on your own self, dang it!

give the bus driver a break, people. they're a better brand of human than you jerk-wads out there.

odd lyrics that have vexed me for ages

when i was young, as children are, i heard lyrics that rarely made sense.

for instance, you know the movie "the lion king"? the song "hakkunah matata" has a lyric that says, "it's our problem-free philosophy," but when i was convinced they were singing, "it's a trouble-free colostomy". i never knew what all the adults were giggling at when i sung this song.

also, "pochahontis"(which is a terrible historical recollection -- leave it to disney... but that's another rant altogether... stay tuned!), where she sings, "paint with all the colors of the wind," i used to sing "paint with all the colors of the wig." i thought they were singing about clowns.

then, a tad older, my mother showed me "the sound of music" for the first time. the dad person sings a song called "eidelwise," which is a flower. but i didn't know that as a child. he was singing, "small and white," and "every morning you greet me." i thought an "eidelwise" was a brand of asprin. think about it.

also, from the same movie, the scene where the teenage girl was singing in the gazeebo with her boyfriend made me laugh like a madman. the lyric she sings to him, in all honesty, was, "i need someone older and wiser telling me what to do." that just struck me as the stoopidest sentance ever uttered by someone on television (telling you exactly how stoopid i thought it sounded). even at eight or ten years old, i was self-dependant enough to think needing, actually wanting someone to tell her what to do was crazy! i mean, i know now that it was a different time, where nazis ruled the eastern free world, and women were given little thought until it was necissary, and media and propriety had actually dictated that they did, indeed, need someone telling them what to do, as if their minds were too insufficient to think on thier own. but, at the time, i thought she must've been the biggest ditz airhead of all time, to think it was a romantic concept that someone, let alone an adolescent boy , order her around! what a moron!

but then, the guy sang back to her, "you need someone older and wiser telling you what to do." then i got mad. the jerk-wad! he's actually feeding her deluded, masogonistic fantasy of subordination and stoopidity! the hole-of-arse he was! it was then that i realized just how independant i saw myself, and that i, maybe, was a beginner feminist, which i am mostly proud of (despite the "woman jokes" that float around)

randomness. babble and the like.

i have recently learned that the longest word in the english language (barring that of "marry poppins") is "antidisestablismentarianism."

i quite enjoy black lipstick.

i wrote a song when i was little: "my friends are all invisible and no one knows they're here but me i know it sounds strange and it is but you really need to broaden your mind"

i am currently watching my friend create his blog, "the realm of nerdum" as we giggle incessantly. and snort, in my case.

huzzah.