The name is Rachel. I'm sixteen years too old and from that wonderful filthy state of New York. I'm a scorpio, a vegetarian, and an animal rights activist. I love animals. I'm a stubborn female of mostly Irish and German descent. People make me physically ill. Trying to get me to change my mind is a pointless effort. I will debate you until your too tired to debate. Unless your a complete moron. In which case, I won't waste my time talking to you. I don't say anything unless I have something to say. Think about it.

July 2007
August 2007
September 2007
October 2007
November 2007
December 2007

AIM: GetHisScentOffMe
Myspace:Click Here

I had to do this for my writers workshop. I had to write a narrative of a dream I had so I decided I might as well put it on my blog, here it is:

The swing isn’t small anymore. It’s still a bright red and the ropes that hold
it up are smooth and tied together still. The back is not broken. I feel
nauseous from repeating the same swinging motions with my my legs. I push
against the tree with my feet. My eyes are focused on its knots.
One particularly large knot sticks out to me.
It looks like a nose. The curvature is perfect. It almost looks like a cartoon
nose of Jimmy Durante. Although the nose looks like a cartoon nose, I find it
more solemn than laughable.
I’ve found an eye.
The eye just happens to be above the nose. A side profile of some sort. I can’t
seem to find a mouth. The tree is so tall and old. It seems that it has a
furrowed brow. He’s looking angrily at me. I assume it’s a him. Actually I know
and that’s okay.
“What gives you the right to push your
legs against me?” he says. Mouth gaping open as I skid to a stop, possibly
killing innocent insects and kicking dirt into dust that tastes awful in my dry
mouth. The tree seems extremely angry and annoyed with me. “Well I didn’t know
you were alive.” I say. “Maybe you should have asked. Parts of me are dead
just like you.” He replies. Confused, I say “What do you mean? I’m only a little
girl!” This seems to anger him even more than my pushing feet against him
earlier. “I’ve been here for 322 years. I’ve had parts of me die and fall off. I
grow new parts, sometimes they’re stronger…bigger. Sometimes small and weak.
Children have played in my branches, ripping my bark off. I have supported that
noose that lynched black men and women.”
The sky had
seemed to turn the gloomiest of grays and the trees solemn stern face turned to
rage. It was as if the gloom was a full moon effect on a werewolf. The ground
seemed to shake and the tree began to lift its roots out of the ground like a
person struggling to lift their feet out of the mud. He came towards me with the
choppy steps of a toddler. I’m now running for my house. I manage to open the
screen door. I watch the tree through the screen door running for my
house.
I’m in a cold sweat, thrashing, unable to free
myself from the confines of my tangled blankets. I’ve woken up; I turn to see
her next to me. She sleeps with no guilt. I’m not sure which situation is the
nightmare.

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