Forgetting what we knew.

Apparently, I'm an asshole. I met a guy this year whose in my class that I assumed I'd just never met when I lived in Covina before. He knows a really good friend of mine, and that's how we met this year. Apparently, I had full on conversations with him four years ago, both in person and otherwise. What it was we talked about, I have no fucking clue. But I distinctly remember he had the Myspace name "tarzac." I assume this is a combination of his name and Tarzan.

Well today, I asked my friend for the number of our friend, Zac, to send him a funny text. Five minutes or so after I sent it, I get a reply from him. It said something along the lines of "haha," and was signed with the name "tarzac." Shocked frozen, I looked over to my friend and asked, "Zac calls himself tarzac?" He said that he does, and my eyes bulge and my mouth drops. I never knew that my new friend Zac was the tarzac I had conversed with four years ago. Apparently, I'm an asshole.

How am I going to die?

I like to ask myself hypothetical questions that will help me in no way in the course of my life. They are just fun and/or interesting to think about . Get them brain juices a-flowin'!

Today I ask; How do I think I am going to depart from this forsaken world?

In truth, I think about this a lot. I think of all of the crazy scenarios I could put myself in that could get me killed. I think of all of the freak accidents that could take place while I am taking a test at school. I think of paranormal phenomena that has yet to be proven false that could overtake this world and destroy all but a select few (normally I am not part of those few).

ANYWAY, I have derived the conclusion that I am going to die through brutal stabbing efforts, or I am going to be shot in the back of the head. Either way: Murder. Now I have no logical reason to believe this, but I am near certain that I am going to die this way. My tummy tells me so. I can vividly picture my death. I think I know what my death looks like better than my autopsy report. To make things clear, this is not how I WANT to die, it's just how I THINK I am going to die. I would never wish this fate upon myself. But my tummy is no liar. So this will probably happen.

So my friends, How are you going to die?

Trolls

Today I found myself thinking about troll dolls. Does anyone else remember these? Those creepy naked dolls with some sort of neon colored hair that stuck straight up into the air? I never liked them when I was a kid, but now they are somewhat of an idol to me. Let's see now: Number 1. Troll dolls are always naked (awesome!); Number 2. Their hairstyle is considered normal amongst the troll kind, but if a human had that hair they would be considered a freak, an outsider, a weirdo; And number 3. Trolls never seemed to be heterosexual to me, they are most definitely bisexual. All in all, troll dolls are the most accepting and loving creatures on this planet. I only wish I could have realized this as a child and embraced the troll race. Instead, I just feared the one troll doll that I owned because apparently I was a judgemental little bastard.

I could save the world if I remembered how to do it.

I went out with my mom today to do some shopping for my Christmas presents since she won't be here for Christmas. It was great. I got all the socks and vitamins I could have ever wanted! At one point I was sitting on one of those fancy-shmancy couches they put in the lounge-y area of Nordstrom bathrooms while waiting for my mom to finish peeing. I found myself thinking about something very existential and philosophical, but since then have completely forgotten what exactly that was. All I know is that I did think about something deep and incredible that could have possibly changed the lives of millions had I only remembered it. I could have made the world a better place. I could have received the Nobel peace prize over Obama. I could have...I could have...Fail.

Cereal

I was abnormally focused on my granola just now. The Adventures of Pete and Pete are on and I couldn't even concentrate on it because I was so fixated on my cereal. I stared at every spoonfull, analyzing it for a half second before eating it. I stirred it around my bowl with my spoon, watching the clusters spin around. What does all this mean. Nothing. I'm just fucking crazy. :D

1 to 76 chance to fuck myself over.

I am listening to the song The First Days Of Spring, and one of the lyric says: "I do believe that everyone has one chance to fuck up their life." That is complete and utter bullshit. I know I have been given at least seventy-six chances to fuck up my life, and most of those chances successfully did just that. So Noah and the Whale telling me that I have one chance to do it is downright confusing. Besides, having only one shot at anything isn't fair. Why should we only be given the opportunity to completely screw ourselves over and force out fates of doom only one mere time in our lives? As much as people say there are no second chances at life, it's bullshit. There are at least seventy-six to my knowledge. This band shouldn't be supporting all those assholes who bring us down. Dare I say...W-T-F? We all deserve as many chances as we can scrounge up to fuck up our lives. Don't take let us think otherwise Noah and the Whale. Don't let us...

P.S. Noah and the Whale is the fucking shit.

Inspiration

"Never hit your grandma with a shovel. It makes a bad impression on her mind." The greatest spoken words by Tiny Tim. Nothing has ever inspired me more to not hit my grandmother in the face with a hard gardening tool. I used to think about it all the time, but thanks to his genius I will never strike her over the head. Thank you for your wisdom Tiny Tim. You may have kept me out of jail...and kept my grandmother alive. I'm sure grandma thanks you too.

Cherry Mistmas Eve w/ Chinese

This is from way back to Christmas time. A little look at how I felt about my Holiday season.

Does anybody remember that feeling you got as a kid early early Christmas morning at like 5 am because you were too fucking excited to sleep any more? Well when I was a kid I had that feeling all day long on this day of today until midnight. I miss it. I am completely unenthused by today, and am pretty much just looking forward to food. I love my family of course, and they are always fun to be around. Tradition. Tradition. Tradition. I have a friend who is eating Chinese tonight (not tradition). Poor sucker. I'm sure I'll be having some nontraditional Christmas food too tonight though at my family's traditional celebration. You know, I think I am actually craving Chinese today. And kombuchas. Maybe I'm just on my period. No wait, that's impossible. I have the horse tranq running through my blood. I see karaoke in my all too not so distant near future...searching for my lost shaker of salt.

A creature with legs and a tail.

She lays on my computer and always turns on caps lock and filter keys. She sits on my homework and smears the pen ink all over the pages. She sounds like a quacking duck (okay that I kind of like). But anyway, she is always right under my feet, so then I step on her and feel like a bad person. She steals pillows and leg room. She's a slut (she was pregnant). Right now her ear is tickling my hand. Her babies scratched a lot. She's ugly. J'adore ma chatte.

Shaved legs and toasters

My love is upstairs shaving her legs. I am just down here waiting so that I can do her make up and share some more beautiful laughter. Today has been one of the prettiest days I have ever seen. Somehow it was also both relaxing and overtly exiting. I know tonight will be good. Oh love just walked in, and now all I can think of is the image of a toaster exploding. Now that would make the night great.

I'd like to try out solitary confinement.

It's quite possible that I have an addiction to people. I love loving them. I love laughing at them. I love talking to them. I love crying with them. I just love them. And quite frankly I'm tired of it. If I didn't think I would commit suicide by secluding myself into solitude I would do it in a heartbeat. I just like living way to much to kill myself. Therefore I cannot be alone, even when I want to be................Could someone shut the fucking lights off?

Thousands of people will commit suicide.

I wrote this a while back about Valentine's Day. I stand by it.

I am one of the most loving fuckers I know. All I do is think about the things I love. I look at flowers and feel loved. I look at my dirty jeans and I love them and hug my legs because I love that I'm wearing them. I love foreign Asian women for no apparent reason. I love that I am rambling about shit that I love that none of you people care about. But everyone right now seems to think I am the anti-love because I fucking hate Valentine's Day. I refuse reds and pinks on February 14th. I refuse everything stereotypical about the Hallmark holiday. The way I see it, we all are just the puppetry of the marketing business on Valentine's Day. And I wouldn't complain so much if their success didn't involve the accomplishment of making people without lovers kill themselves in masses on the 14th of February.

Before writing this, I had every intention of writing about erect nipples.

I finally watched the movie Zombieland, and all I can think is how fucking disappointed I am that I don't know how to shoot a gun. I would die if there was a mass zombie overlord. What really sucks about dying in that manner however, is that it wouldn't be epic or even memorable. You see, everyone would succumb to death by zombie. Despite how grotesque of a way that is to go, it just doesn't matter at that point. No one alive will mention that Amanda Lomeli was eaten to death, bones licked clean, by flesh hunting monsters because John Smith, Bryan Jones, and Katie Hall will all have died in the same way. So here is what I would do if zombies really did take over the world: Since I am going to die anyway due to my lack of gun skills, I will eat my own arms and legs off while my mind is still semi-sane in hopes that other humans or human-ishes will cross my path to see it and say, "The bitch is onto something here." And when they get to where ever the fuck the little safe zone is that is supposedly "zombie free" that they have in all zombie movies (except Zombieland) they will all remember and tell tales of seeing a human bitch eating the shit out of herself just to spite the goddamn zombies that didn't get to do it.

Balls to Twitter

Twitter. Twitter. Twitter fucking Twitter. I still don't know what the fuck it is. Apparently you just post status updates all day long? I feel like there has to be more to it, but I don't dare try to find out because I had a hell of a time trying to fucking figure out Facebook. I still don't know how to use half the shit on Facebook and I've had it for like two years! So fuck you Twitter! If I did "tweet" or "twit" or whatever the fuck its called when you do that shit... I would just tell people when I was taking a shit and what it looked like. Maybe get some of those "tweeting" bastards off the goddamn site.

The new Angels and Airwaves...

Sounds no fucking different than the last one. I'm sick of the bullshit hype about how fucking godly Angels and Airwaves is. Granted their songs are quite catchy and pretty sounding, every fucking song sounds the same and are about the same shit. David verified this for me even, but he still can't stop listening to it. Anyway, this band is just hype. They are not that great. The songs are the still the same. The vibe is still the same. Tom is still gay. And it will never change. Fuck........I wish I didn't like them now.

All whiteys should read this book.

I have been reading the book Stuff White People Like by Christian Lander. I've gone through it before, but never as thoroughly as I am now. For those of you who aren't familiar with the book (about 85% or more of my Facebook friends), it is a compilation of various things that members of White society typically like and/or love. At the end there is even a checklist to help you determine just how "white" you are. The only thing I critique Lander on is that he is missing a few vital points, such as:

Jigsaw Puzzles- Now this might just be me, but I am a whitey and I LOVE jigsaw puzzles. Why? I don't fucking know, but it's a fact.

King of the Hill- The epitome of the perfect white family. Every white person wishes to settle down somewhere family friendly once in their 40s, and raise their children (that are somehow more unique than everyone else's children). Mom cooks and cleans. Dad works and drinks "his" beer.

Midnight Movie Showings- Every midnight showing I have been to has been swarmed with youngish to oldish hipster white people. Something about being dog tired forcing yourself to stay up until two in the morning is as fascinating to white people as porno is to lonely fat guys. There is a literal connection with midnight showings to white people. Somehow you can't be cool unless you have seen at least 5 movies out on DVD on the big screen for 7 to 10 dollars.

Record Stores- So we all know Amoeba, yes? Granted all races shop there, you will predominately find it strewn with whiteys. White people find it a requirement to forever be up to date with everything that has anything remotely to do with pop-culture.

Purchasing Vinyl- It's not so much for the fact that they enjoy the sound of a record over a CD. What the white person loves is for other people to see them buying records and for their friends to see a mass record collection at their house. By simply owning vinyl, you are cool.

The Book Stuff White People Like- They can't get enough of saying it's so true, it's so true to all one hundred-fifty items on the list.

Writing/Reading in Public: White people don't write and read for pleasure, this is why you never see them do it in their homes. What they really love is for other people to think they write and read for pleasure, so that they can tell themselves how much more intellectual they are than the people who rush out of the coffee shop to their high paying jobs.

There are a few more, but may perhaps be too offensive, and granted all white people say they don't get easily offended they fucking do. And they hold grudges like a motha-fucka!

No one knows anything about insanity until they have experienced what myself and Christoper Allen Zuhlke went through tonight. Ten straight hours of jigsaw puzzle mastery. We half danced to techno music, yelled at David, screamed "woo" every ten seconds, laughed at rapists, laughed at bitches who lie about being raped by non-rapists, unspokenly got married, got divorced, became old, became young, yelled at David again, and then finally rejoiced in hugs at the completion of the puzzle: an infinite sea of cut up blue and tigers disappearing and running in air. I never want anyone to speak to me about how ridiculous their uncle "blank" is. Or what their grandmother said at Thanksgiving until someone has gone through this exact cycle plus the extras that I didn't include, and end it with the success of a complete jigsaw puzzle threatening to shit on it. If this wouldn't drive you to the break of insanity, you are already insane.

Getting rid of our friend's voice.

This is something I wrote a while ago one night when I couldn't sleep.

Tonight I was going through my phone deleting old text messages. This is just another one of those typical, brainless things I do. But tonight something clicked in my mind: how pathetically sad the modern era is. We now have the capability to delete memories within a few clicks. Videos, photos, people's very words can be ridden from sight in an instant. We may as well grab them by the tongue as they speak. In the end we will erase their words, voices, and faces from our tiny digital devices anyway. Now, back to deleting all these texts.

Sex offenders and the tallest tree in the world.

I am sitting up in bed watching Visiting with Huell Howser. For those of you who don't know, (85-90% of my Facebook friends), Huell is the spokesperson for KCET's California's Gold. He does variations of the show such as CA's Golden Coast and Visiting. It's a great show for the lovely aged generation, and also for "hip-young old folk" (props to people who know what that is a reference from) like myself and a few of my friends (David Padilla and Jeremy Allison).

On today's show, Huell is showing us the world's tallest tree. As Howser would say: "Wow!" He is on this mini-journey with a group of middle schoolers. And there is something strikingly remarkable about this fact.

To my present knowledge, and to the knowledge of anyone who has read about Huell, the spokesman used to partake in mission trips to underdeveloped nations and help aid some of their needs. On those trips he would pay the local little boys to view and/or touch his penis. Now I don't know if this particular episode was filmed before or after these disturbing acts took place, but if it was after I have one question: What the fuck is wrong with Californians? Why are we letting this man go on a hike with children? (I realize I said I had one question, but the second was rhetorical so it doesn't count.) Maybe as Americans we have become so egocentric and careless to the well-being of others that molestation offenses only count if the minor is American as well.

Nonetheless, I find Howser to be a laugh-out-loud riot. Now to be fair that might be because every time I watch his program I am watching it knowing he is a sex-offender, which means he has actually taken on the role of the creepy old man you would think he is just by his appearance and voice. Sweet, sweet irony.

Klosterman to toilet paper.

I was reading about Val Kilmer in Chuck Klosterman's IV. That's not the point of what I'm writing.

While reading I really really had to pee, but I really really wanted to finish the two pages left of the chapter I was on. So of course I finish reading first. Right as I closed my book and hopped to the ground off of my unreasonably huge bed, my cat's newborn six kittens all started squeaking.

It's as if they somehow knew that my glorious bathroom moment that I so well deserved was now upon me. These tiny creatures for that instant were all swimming within my mind, and agreed with everything they found.

All of this raced about so rapidly that I could not decide if I would rather pee, as I so desired moments ago, or write about my squealing infant felines. I hopped from foot to foot, doing the pee-pee dance. Suddenly I lunged over the massive creature I call bed reaching for my notebook. I snatched it up and race-walked to my bathroom.

Now you might be thinking: "Why didn't she just wait til she was done peeing to write this pointless shit down?" For reasons unknown to me, I was afraid. I truly believed that if I had peed before writing my brief yet existential experience it would all be erased. I would forget even the most obvious details of what just happened five minutes prior to the bathroom trip. It was terrifying to even imagine not having documentation of my miraculous moment with my cats. My chest pounded.

As a resolution to this dilemma, I now sit on my toilet with my notebook at hand. I have long finished peeing, but was still too afraid to leave before I finished writing. So humbly I sit, pants half down and yet to wipe, telling you about all of what you probably consider bullshit.

This may be the most significant writing moments (and moment in general) I have had to date. Or the most pointless. I've yet to decide.

..............Thank god I refilled the toilet paper earlier.

Last night I had a dream, that I didn't know was a dream, about my school. It wasn't boring; it was exciting and, at the time, terrifying. The school was under quarantine, sort of. The only difference being that people could enter, but then they couldn't leave. I walked into the school pretty clueless as some guys in white jumpsuits directed myself and those with me where to go.

The school looked like some one's house, and this person must have had fourteen kids or more because there were twin beds everywhere. I found myself cramped into one of these rooms with two beds crying because I got separated from my brother (in real life he lives in England). He found me in this room, and had a dozen or so people with him. Apparently they had a plan: Go to the side entrance of the school and run.

We did just that, causing trucks and jeeps chases after us as we hopped fences like a bunch of border Mexicans. We jumped a bad fence that trapped us into this enormous cage of chain link. It was up on this hill that the trucks and jeeps couldn't make it up, so we were safe from them...temporarily. Foot patrol was after us now.

There was a manhole type thing within this cage that the patrol officers were traveling through and up. They had a snake like tube being sent through the sewer system, and up into our cage. We pulled it through so that they couldn't find their way to us (I think). We cheered as if we just won the Superbowl once we'd attained the entire tube.

This actually caused the entire patrol system to retreat to the school grounds. We climbed out of our cage and spent the rest of our lives outrunning the government. My brother and I landed in a mobile home (literally: a house on wheels). The old cartoon The Rugrats somehow became involved in our elaborate schemes, and lots of sweeping took place. We stole cars and hid in shopping malls. And that (I presume) was either a.) how we spent the rest of our lives or b.) how we died.

An aged brain in a barely aged head.

Just read the word "cash." It wasn't written in the context which would regard money. Clearly it's being used as slang now (however, I suppose cash money derived as slang as well). Problem: I am 18 and couldn't even figure out whether or not it had positive or negative inflection. Am I really this young with a brain that old? Lobotomy?

Amanda Nichole Lomeli has been...

Doing nothing particularly interesting other then some food experiments. I took some days a little while ago and let myself eat whatever candy, chips, and cookies that were set in front of me. And more recently ate minimal junk food, and mostly stuck to eating at meal times. (This is not about weight gain.) Basically I just wanted to see what would happen.

ON JUNK FOOD: My appearance changed in no way other than very oily skin. But I felt like shit. I was bloated and lethargic. Also, I noticed that after I ate two or so bites of any junk food, all I wanted was more of that same junk food. It was full on instant addiction.

OFF JUNK FOOD: My skin's oily factor went away, and I got my energy back (for the most part). I think I haven't had enough sugar lately because I started getting dizzy after the lack of sweets. Other than that no real downfalls. I don't crave food so badly, and don't need to eat more of whatever it is that I just ate.

I say junk food and sweets aren't going to hurt anyone if they have a fast enough metabolism and some self control. I only have part one of those two key factors, so unfortunately for me junk food can't be in my cabinets every day. Balls. No wonder America is fat.

I'm overly tempted to write about something very touchy-feely-mushy-gushy right now. (Pardon my vocabulary.) All I can think about right now is that love thing and your love thing and my love thing. I really wish I could think about something else because I feel like the absence of love would be much easier to live with. And it would completely erase my writer's block...or maybe make it worse? Balls to this love thing. I love you all.

The enlargement of breasts.

I know this is highly unlikely, and mostly completely false, but my breasts have been feeling larger lately. I fear it has to do with the excessive amounts of soy I eat. But then I thought about male vegetarians: wouldn't they all end up with tittle-biggies? At least small ones right? Anyway, if they are indeed larger I'm disappointed because I do not want big boobs. I'm too short and lack too much of a butt to pull them off.

A peak inside a normal crazy person

What the fuck is normal? Apparently I am what defines normal because I am normal. But that's crazy. I'm actually crazy because I think I'm normal. And it's crazy that I think I'm normal and don't like it. AND I'm crazy because I think I know what normal is. Only normal people know what normal is, and I'm not actually normal. Therefore I'm crazy. All crazy people define what normal is when we are not normal ourselves, and that's what makes us crazy.

!emocleW

Words from the Sky is my secondary blog as a beginning blogger. I have two passions: fashion and writing. I am equally intrigued by both, but the latter I spend far more time on. And hell, if people are interested in what clothing I wear, then perhaps they are interested in the mind behind that face.

In a nut shell, Words from the Sky will be a bit chaotic topic wise (and chaotic sometimes in the posts individually). I never write about anything in particular and never know when or how much I will write. Also my writing tends to be very sarcastic and dead point: that meaning I say things using the opposite words to tell everyone the dead ass truth.

Much of what is posted here will probably be blips from my day and some very harsh opinions. I'm strong in how I feel and what I believe, and have no fear in stating so. Words from the Sky may be controversial or even offensive, but always 100% honest.

That being said, please enjoy. And if anything on here is offensive, confusing, or downright insane, let me know. I assure you I'll have something interesting to say about it the next day. But be forewarned, my honesty may be scary. ;)


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