What is must be like to be Chloë Grace Moretz

ChloMo is a kickass in herself. There are a handful of sweet-ass blonde teens in the industry today, but she stands out to me.

I rarely get envious of peoples lives, because, I sort of a assume everyone has skeletons stacked up in their closet. But. Frankly. I kind of want to be her. 

All American Christian Georgian Chlo totally would have guys giving her jewelry before she slept with them. She would totally order fresh star-fruit in her trailer everyday and get it. She would totally drop acid at Bonaroo and get to go on stage and dance with the Lumineers. She’s an angel-princess hybrid.

Reasons I want to be ChloMo:

•      She started in the realm of drama and horror. Two of my guilty pleasure genres catapulted her to fame. Not Disney, but guts. (Did I mention she’s going to be Carrie, as in they’re re-making CARRIE!?)

•      She’s worked with Johnny Depp (Dark Shadows), Nicholas Cage (forget all y’all whom hate on NCage, you’re just looking for someone to hate), and as a brat in that JGL tearjerker (500) Dayz.

•      Oh yeah she guest appeared in that thing Drew B and Best Coast directed together.

•       And that’s just the beginning.

Chloe if you love me they way I’m infatuated with you pucker your baby porcelain doll lips and neva stop shaking ya teen babe bonez.

Save Me Some Hot Water Pt. 2

Recently, a few things have been bothering me. Like how I overuse the word "cinematic" because I genuinely think everything is cinematic and can't properly describe anything I witness without viewing myself as Meg Ryan in a movie starring Meg Ryan. I think it's a coping mechanism to handle all the ways I've failed at handling real things that have been happening.

Another is an adult thing. I don't really focus on adult things so that fact that the idea of "future plans" has been a monkey on my back.

I often stray from reality to comatose myself with my alter-universe of Daydreamatropolis, where the guys like me, the homework doesn't matter, and food is always fried. Is it viable to be mad that my realm of fantasy lacks any system of work and ethic because I've been so spoiled? To not be able to create feasible dreams because of my relatively "silver-platter" lifestyle?

How many hours, days, years have I wasted sifting through the internet? Re-folding laundry? Biting my nails? Even as I sit in detention with a full agenda I opt for blogging route instead of productivity. My grades attest to my failure of responsibility. I want to attend University of Housewife or College of Little Strife.

Tears, man, tears.

On Birthdays

I turn 18 on Saturday.

This doesn't mean a lot except

• I'm officially an idiot for not having any ability/jurisdiction to operate an automobile
• I can tote around my passport in case I want to buy cigarettes or lottery tickets
• I can vote if I pull my shit together and read some Huffington Post
• Juvenile Detention is no longer an option
• I'm still 5'1"

I like birthdays. I like to make a week of them. They are special and important and should be commemorated with indulgences of every variety. I'm saddened that not every single one of my peers shares this (Sopranos voice) "kiss the ring" attitude about my forthcoming adulthood.

My last birthday sucked. But I think most of my birthday sucked. This one won't suck because I'm getting balloons and a shrimp platter. Because like most girls, food excites me similarly boys; yet these pleasures should be measured on different axis.

My lovelife is funny because I stopped taking things seriously. My seriousness is very flimsy already, and I should have taken care of it instead of tossing it out with 2012. All I know is that the last 5 boys I have "gotten with" (ugliest term for sharing saliva EVER) have told me "You're, like, the best kisser ever". Cha-ching. For my birthday I want the worst kisser in the world to bless me with their inability, in order to show me what naivete and innocence is like again.

First Five Times

1. My first kiss happened in the local dug-out. I kept my eyes and mouth completely open, all the while thinking "Something isn't right." And it might have also been the fact that I was sitting on an empty SKOAL tin, lying about my age (I'm not fourteen!!!!), and just have a general state of social disability where my intrinsic awkwardness cannot be squelched by any amount of eye-liner.

2. My second kiss was at a friend of a friend's house, in her younger brothers race-car bed. I had had a crush on my family friend. We had attended preschool together. The tufts of peachy fur in his armpits were the first I saw in fifth grade, and I think it blew some sort of estrogen dam welled up inside my heart. My mutual friend promised to finally wrestle the object of my affection into dating me, but she did it by bellowing "If you two don't make out right now, I'm going to throw up." Romance.

3. At a party, his party. Distinct memory of being hell-bent on wearing a deep olive wifebeater because I thought I would look like a cool hippy. Another distinct memory of vigorously googling the discography of Jimi Hendrix prior to the party, to aid the cool factor. This is the first time I'm making out in a bed, I thought, like, seven times over. I kept an eye on his alarm clock as he tried unweave my bra off me. Eventually I had to contort myself out of my tank top to readjust myself. I went home and watched Disney channel after.

4. The basement of a church during an indie-concert. The lightness of being inebriated was so novel to me I guess the first idea that comes to mind is drag a boy who fancies you to the back of the venue and stick your tongue in his mouth. "If we're gonna do this, we're gonna do this now," I triumphed, before grabbing his jaw. Smoke and beer and youthful disillusionment. "Ok, it's 11, let's go home."

5. Flipping through a National Geographic after a DIY wine-tasting at my friend's place, I was super smitten by her ex, he leaned in to kiss me after I told him my aspirations to be a blogger (ineffable). We had spent the day wandering around a park we frequented in the summer talking concerts and mutual acquaintances, lending good background knowledge to the character. But I sort of already knew him. We tasted like wine and sleepiness.

On Writing

I am a horrible writer. I didn't realize this until about an hour ago, so I'm feeling particularly dismal.

My precious "personal edification" of writing skills that I teethed on throughout sophomore year must have leaked on to the linoleum hallways one day while I was wrapped up in high-school emotions and a janitor must have mopped it up while my back was turned.

My grand ineptitude is officially not limited to the subjects of history or french, making it actually a GRAND INEPTITUDE. I ought to tattoo the phrase "disadvantage: unable to funcation" on my forearm just to alert whoever is within a yard of me.

**Sigh**
Being an International Baccalaureate student means that not only do you have to metaphorically kiss-ass by not sleeping in class and wearing cardigans everyday, it also means you have to do real work. Essays nd shit. There probably hasn't been a succinct definition of the word "wastiod" since 90's MTV, but I fit the link.
~

My life hasn't been manic-depression sucking lately. I haven't been sleeping more than eight hours a day, and I saw three people who make me uncomfortable and my stomach did only a half-flip.