Tag: thinking


BeFunky Collage.jpg

This was written for Writing 101

I’m not a coffee person, but hot cocoa and a bowl of popcorn? Yes, please!

Anyway, I think today’s prompt is horribly accurate, because I need desperately to update all of my readers, considering how long it’s been since I last posted.

So, time for a hot cocoa date, one-on-one with your presently present (haha) blogger.

First of all, let me officially apologize for not posting in so damn long. I haven’t really been up to writing as much as usual since State One Act; I think losing upset me more than I expected it to. (Notice that in the above pictures, I wear my One Act shirt. I am that person. Sorry not sorry.) Of course, I can’t really make excuses, but I’m a teenager so I’m gonna do whatever the hell I want to.

Second, some updates…

1.) I’ve started drawing more than I have recently, perhaps because I haven’t been overly interested in writing.

BeFunky Collage2

2.) I started a Little Mermaid fanfiction (more or less), but just like everything else I’ve done, I doubt I’ll finish it. I really like it, though. It’s a modern AU (Alternate Universe, for you not-geeks).

little violinist cover.jpg

I designed the cover myself. It’s not GREAT, but as of yet it’s the best I’ve done with stuff like that.

(If you can’t already tell, I’m in an Ariel mood. I’m not sure why…)

3.) School has been rough lately. I’m drowning in AP US History, and for once in my life, Lit is harsh. Mostly because I neglected (*coughcough* all of) my work during One Act season.

4.) The musical my school is putting on is going to be the Addams Family; I really wanted it to be Les Mis and I’m a teensy bit really disappointed.

5.) Show Choir has already started running through Christmas carols and my friend and I may possibly be doing a duet (Little Drummer Boy), but the harmonies we want to use are extremely difficult and I just wanna blech. Also, we’re performing at SixFlags (over GA) on December 6, so if you happen to be at SixFlags on Sunday, December 6, go over to the stage by Dare Devil Dive at 6 & 7 pm. We’re going to kick ass.

6.) Harry Potter coloring book. I need it in my life. I just need a whole bunch of adult coloring books, honestly.

7.) I lost my bright yellow colored pencil today. *cries*

Well, that’s pretty much all I’ve been doing since my last post. That and practicing my eyeliner.

Eyeliner=the bane of my existence.


9.) I may have been drawing on my white(ish) Converse. The picture is outdated, but I don’t have shots of the current doodles yet.


Sorry not sorry.)


Settle Down

My parents, younger siblings and I went apple picking today, something we haven’t done in a while. Certainly not in three years; we haven’t gone and picked apples since we moved.

I’m typically a fairly predictable person: I don’t want to go outside, I don’t want to associate with anybody, I just want to stay in my bedroom and read/write/be generally antisocial. I enjoy my life as a hermit, thank you very much.

Apple picking, though, brings out a different Carissa. There are quite a few things that make me react as drastically as the pristine perfection of a nice, gritty apple plucked from a bowing tree, but few have the same nostalgic affect (effect? I don’t know…); I have more than a handful of bubbly, happy memories of reaching ever higher for that absolutely gorgeous red apple, biting into the crisp white flesh of an unwashed fruit, surrounded by towering trees that dwarf my small frame……

I must admit, though, that this time was a slight disappointment to those memories.

That’s not to say that the apples weren’t delicious, that I didn’t thoroughly enjoy myself. I did. However, the apple farm (is that what they’re called?) has become industrialized, marketed, whatever you want to call it, since the last time we visited. They rely on dumb tourists now, who want to watch pig races and milk cows and taste-test cider and ride ziplines and maybe pick a couple apples for the hell of it.

We went to pick apples because it’s fun to feel self-sufficient, to wash and polish those imperfect perfections rather than buying some waxed mess from the supermarket. I mean, it’s not as though we aren’t going to actually USE the apples; my mom plans on making apple cider, apple crisps, apple fritters, apple pies, apple juice… But this particular apple place (B.J. Reece Orchards, in Elijay) had only one tiny little portion of their orchard open, and the apples there were either too small to bother with, too high to pick, or splattered on the ground. Luckily, we managed to get a peck of half-decent apples, but the rest we just bought pre-packaged in their apple house.

Downsides to this trip: we drove a few hours to pick apples for about thirty minutes, they did not even have Granny Smith apples (at ALL!), and it was warm for October. And my siblings were extremely obnoxious in the car, which caused a headache and a bruise on my ribs.

Upsides to this trip: there were multiple, but most importantly: APPLE DONUTS. On top of that, we bought delicious apples, cold apple cider, raw peanuts (we make our own boiled peanuts now- yum!), an enormous cabbage, a trip into memory lane, and the realization that not every good experience ought to remain untainted by reality, because sometimes disappointment is liberating.

If the good is not quite as wonderful as we remember, is not everything better than it feels?


As anyone who knows me personally (or even vaguely, to be completely honest with you) can attest, I am not a people person. I’m actually really, really bad with human beings. I’m constantly irritated by the shit people think they can do and say, and I think that’s why I prefer blogging, texting, or writing to actually talking to people. Honestly, there are only a few people I know who I haven’t completely alienated in the past three years, and some of those are slipping away from me as we speak. Er, as I type.

But anyway, I didn’t decided to post today to flounder under the weight of my own pathetic people skills. Nope, today I want to blather on about rain.

You heard me right.

It’s been raining pretty constantly the past couple weeks here, and I always get into a contemplative mood when the weather is like this. Last night I was curled up in a blanket, reading Beautiful Chaos, and the only noise in my room was the rustling of pages and the steady tap-tap-tap of the rain on my roof. I was feeling extremely Zen.

When I read, I get into this… mood. I’m either oblivious to the world or completely focused on every little detail around me, and yesterday was a strange mix of the two. I had to keep pausing as I read because the rain lulled me into a daze and I would just stare at the same sentence for a couple seconds before realizing what I was doing.

I get like that a lot when it’s raining. I also sleep better, because the pitter-patter beats out a tune and I just crash. On top of that, my dreams are more intense and more realistic.

I really like the rain. I like how it feels on my head when I run into the high school from the parking lot. I like how it sounds when it’s coming at the house sideways and beats against the windows in the keeping room. I like how it looks as it splatters on the lake at the Dagley’s house.

I just really love rain.

Our Thunderous Silences

This was written for Writing 201: Poetry

High school:

A cacophony of deafening personalities,

Everyone racing,


Fighting for individuality

In the midst of a war

That cannot end.

If we had nothing to battle,

What would we do

With our emerging identities?

In a symphony of adolescent instrumentals,

I am the piano,

Dancing quietly below the louder instruments,

Just soft enough to remain underneath their notes

But important enough that without me

The entire piece would fall flat

And be reduced to nothing

But useless noise.

I must pay close attention

To every note I play;

One misstep and the piece comes crashing

Down around our sunburned ears.

No matter how cautious I am,

There will always be the one line

That my fingers stumble over:

I’ve learned to keep moving,

Keep playing,

And smile like I haven’t royally fucked up.

Red Hands

((NOTE: To skip all of the introductory whatever in the video, skip to 2:03.))

I think I ought to admit, right off the bat, that I write all of my blog posts, poems, short stories, novellas, books, etc while listening to music. Or, at least, I try to do so; music always helps my thoughts flow much easier between my brain and my fingers. On top of that, a lot of my poems and all of my posts have titles that are either song lyrics or titles (usually the latter; it’s just so much easier).

I got chewed out for that today, and I’m still reeling.

I was singing Troye Sivan’s The Fault In Our Stars (the song above) under my breath and one of my on-again-off-again friends, Bryn, happened to overhear me.  When I told her the title of the song I was singing, Bryn flipped shit. She went off about people not being creative enough to come up with their own damn work for God’s sake, and I’ll admit I was a little affronted. First of all, I think TFIOS is a really good song, though honestly nothing about it is particularly amazing. Second, I think Troye Sivan is alright naming his song after the book he literally wrote it about. And finally, like I said, I do almost the exact same thing all the time.

I tried to explain all of this to her (calmly, if I do say so myself), but she just shut me down and it actually really ticked me off. I view reusing titles the same way I do fanfiction: it’s extremely easy to mess up, but it’s also flattering. I mean, I wouldn’t suggest naming your book The Fault In Our Stars or anything (that might not go over well), but a song? No big deal. Besides, Troye Sivan isn’t some huge popstar with a million zillion fangirls; he’s just a Youtuber who happens to have a decent sized fan base.

I don’t know, maybe I was overreacting. At least I didn’t yell at her like I absolutely wanted to.


I’m unusually captivated

By the way the world looks

In the shimmering glare bouncing

Between the passing lights

And my filthy window.

I suppose I could wash it,

Wipe the smeared fingerprints away,

But I can’t bring myself to:

The swirling marks tell stories

That sing to me during long rides

When the car grows so loud

I have to push in earbuds

And hide from their voices.

The smallish hands,

With the long pinkies;

My fingers, my smudges.

And around those,

His hands,

Slender fingers

Wrapped around my own,

Marking the places

Our two persons conjoin.

Mess Is Mine

It feels like all of my posts (what few there have been, and including poems) have revolved around my own frustration, and I hate to devote any more time to the same subject. I don’t like doing that; I’d told myself that this would be less of a hey-look-I’m-a-good-complainer and more of a this-is-me-take-it-or-leave-it-but-I’m-gonna-keep-being-funny-as-hell. Which so far I think I’ve miserably failed at.

So this post is going to involve me complaining about me complaining. Creative, right?

Seriously: it’s so easy to complain and lament how stupid everybody around us has become and just generally be a stick in the mud (stick-in-the-mud?). I don’t know if this is just my generation, or if adults much older than me struggle with the inability to phrase a sentence without it devolving into petulant whining. (Well, okay, the petulant part is probably fairly unique to me, but I’m okay with being childish. It helps me get my way- and who doesn’t like that?)

I’ve noticed this especially in my conversations with my boyfriend the past couple days. Of course, it’s not just him, but I find it easiest to carry on around him, since he happens to be one of the few people I trust not to just ignore me.

Plus his responses are hilarious.

Besides that, though, I’ve also been going back and reading some of my journal entries (I’m a fairly consistent journal-er), and the amount of whining I do is ridiculous. To be fair to myself, I actually don’t complain as much as I could, but it’s still pretty ridiculous. And if I’m not wailing about life, the universe, and everything, then I’m freaking out because such-and-such happened and I think it meant this but whatifI’mjustreadingtoofarintothis?!

This is, honestly, one of the reasons I can’t put up with most of the girls in my school. They do nothing but complain or create drama and I like to think that I’m a pretty relaxed person. Sure, I’m hyper during second block, I fidget constantly, I gossip like an old woman (though only really with my best friends, which just happen to be male), I drop out of conversations for no apparent reason, I obsess over British television, I make the dirtiest jokes during Choir, and if you can’t handle sarcasm and/or random insults (that I swear I say out of genuine fondness) then you’ll absolutely hate me… but despite all that, I really don’t get into much drama- unless yanked in by some idiot. I can complain with the best of them, but I really hate it when girls go on and on about random little things that I fail to give a shit about (does that make me a hypocrite? whoops).

Or maybe I’m just reading too far into this. I wouldn’t be able to tell: I’m just some dumb kid who complains more than a sleepy toddler.

In This Hole

I can’t think.

Can’t get my thoughts

To stop their frenzied waltz

And line up once again

In a straight pattern,

One after the other,

The way they used to

When everything was still

So goddamned simple.

I can’t fucking think.

If my shattered heart

Beats any faster,

I fear it will escape

The familiar prison of my ribcage,

Take off into oblivion

As I wish I could

Every time I meet

My own pleading eyes

In the reflection cast

By broken mirrors.

Thinking used to hurt

So much less than it does now.

Even my own damn voice

Makes my skin erupt

In waves of gooseflesh;

A rain dance illuminating

How dark and how cold

Self-hatred can become.

The blindingly bright fires

That once warmed my despair

Are hardly pinpricks of light,

Dwindling away the more I drown:

The more my hair swirls

Around my tear-stained face,

The more my hands

Fail to grasp for the rope

That might have saved my life

If it had been thrown

Just a bit sooner.