Wow look at this big empty white space I can fill!

and if I manage to fill it to meet my own expectations, I just may show it to you.
Preview:

Does your family have a lot of pianos?

Billions.

How many you got?

We have piano keyboards falling out

 the windows, playing of their own accord.

The day they became sentient, Cole 

was lost and hasn't been seen since.

 We're unsure if this was the pianos fault.

Jesus Christ have they learned to reproduce?

For the past couple weeks I have been all different kinds of sick. The normal cold and fever, of course, but that's long gone, leaving me with a clogged ear that only hurts when the fancy strikes it. This morning I had the pleasure of waking up to my eyes glued shut by eye goop, which I remember happening when I had pink eye when I was little. When I walked into the bathroom, my eyes were a frightening shade of pink. Scariness level was right up there with the one time I tried to wear eyeliner. My eyes don't hurt, despite that. And it couldn't be pink eye, since I've had it before.

Conferences happened. I have As and B+s. Dad told my English teacher about this blog. I glared at him, but stopped before his head was burnt to a crisp. "Extraordinary writing," he said, "pretty clever,". I don't know where he got either of those adjectives. I don't put writing on here. I don't write. (Well, technically I do, as I'm typing this right now. But its not the story kind of writing. Or the poem kind of writing. {ok fine- there is at least one poem and at least one story on here, but I refuse to read either of them.})
My style of writing is pretty similar to how I play sports. I try. Sometimes not very hard. I fall all over myself and forget the rules and miss all the passes and fumble fumble fumble, leaving people to cover their eyes and shake their heads. I apologize for any writing that has happened on this blog. (no i don't want your words of encouragement. I'm being a pessimistic little poop right not and quite enjoying myself.)
ANYHOW. Dad doesn't even read my blog, as far as I know, except for the one post with Schmidt and Dumb Brain. And I wouldn't want my English teacher reading this, what with all the spelling and grammatical errors. I don't even know the difference between its and it's!
Could I fix that?
Yes.
Do I intend to fix that?
Unlikely.

This is an excerpt from a post I never published, in which I took pictures of everyone in all the sweaters I own in attempt to pull my posting self together. You can see how well that went.

Rylan has the sweater form the AG soft as snow outfit. This sweater is really weird. It can't seem to decide if it wants to be a turtleneck or not. I would be pleased if it was a little longer so you could war normal pants with it. But the fluffy skirt-y thing is by far the weirdest thing in the outfit. Rylan will explain that in a moment.  This outfit was bought in a Jills Steals & Deals thing and it came with #61. In hindsight, it was a regrettable impulse buy, because that doll really isn't that important to me or this little story thing we have going on. Really I'm just realizing that I don't want another white, classic mold doll.

"So this thing is supposed to be a skirt, you say? It looks like a snowball. Maybe shedded cat fur or an unborn showman or whipped cream shaped into a garment for an eccentric dessert lover."

"Yeah. I'm not convinced. Wouldn't you want the fuzzy stuff on the inside? It'd be like wearing a blanket all day... except it only covers your bum and upper thighs. And your bum is covered my undies anyway, I hope. And if you were cold enough to wear a puffy skirt, wouldn't you want to wear leggings? No. This is just a bad plan."

"Heeeeyyyyy! What if it's really supposed to be a hat? It's not often that you come across a hat that will fit over my floofy hair. Yeah. I'm totally using this skirt as an ear warmer now. But now that I think about it, what does this say to you about just how disproportioned we are, that our waists are as big as our heads. Being a doll is weeeeiiiird, man."

Wondering: what is the circle of 5ths and why does one need it?
That wondering made me contemplate my experience in music. Which isn't good. I was in band for 2 years- with clarinet one year and saxophone the next. I took piano lessons for two years also. Both of those things wanted practice charts, which I consistently lied on. No. I am certainly not going to practice 20 minutes every night. As if i have time for that.
I wrote those last few sentences with my nose wrinkled in disgust. I don't know what I'm hating. It could be any number of things, including myself, my take on music education, the fact that there is no sarcasisithes- special parentheses for being sarcastic. (I would also use them for being facetious, sardonic, and other things that you shouldn't take me seriously about.)
So I haven't been in band or played piano for quite some time now.
The piano is being used as a shelf for dolls and cameras.
I did, however, attempt to play the beginning part of Future Days (Pearl Jam) last week and that went ok.

I feel mentally constipated. Do not be disappointed in this post, which is the proverbial...Never mind.
But I do really need to do something, so maybe I'll just copy and paste some funny texts I've sent  lately.
Here is one to my cousin.
Jack:
Hey Gwen

Me:

Yes?

Does your family have a lot of pianos?

Billions.

How many you got?

We have piano keyboards falling out

 the windows, playing of their own accord.

The day they became sentient, Cole 

was lost and hasn't been seen since.

 We're unsure if this was the pianos fault.

Jesus Christ have they learned to reproduce?

Nah. We've got one. It's being 

used as a shelf cause I'm a 

lackadaisical pianist.

Piano reproduction is asexual.

Budding. Little pianos are growing

 on the big ones and falling off. 

We have Lego sized pianos attacking our feet.

I thought you had 2- an older one and a newer one?

Have you tried pianocide?

Older one was given to Barrett,

 who got a nice one soon after.

 That old one is long gone.

Calling an exterminator right now.

Oh gotcha.

What is your plan with this piano?

I just really wanna play piano.

Do you know how?

Just know what keys and push them, right?

It also requires blood sacrifice.

My teacher never mentioned that part.

It is a carefully guarded secret. 

I may have just sealed my fate. 

I bet none of you knew that about pianos! And about the sacrifice and secrets, I'm just living life on the edge. The City Council may take me for re education. Uh oh.
A L L  H A I L  T H E  G L O W  C L O U D

Dude its like I don't even know how to post anymore. I just talk about my life. Which might be ok if you are interested in taking a break from your own life. But you know, you're expecting quality doll stuff. Which isn't happening. School and homework are really getting in the way of me making said quality doll stuff. Every time I go into the back room, Its either too dark or I start to feel guilty about all the things I have to do. The doll stuff will be back, I expect, just not as soon as you'd like. School is super fun.

SO I REMEMBERED SOMETHING GREAT ABOUT FALL

ITS COLD

WHICH MEANS

IT'S DOC MARTENS TIME!!!

Months ago, there was a trip to Oregon in which I acquired some doc martens. They're tall and dark red and badass like nobody's business. I wore them trick or treating because I was feeling the need for cozy badassery or whatever that feeling is when you wear doc martens with big, fluffy, wool socks. That and Mom & Dad said they didn't pay $95 for boots when I spend all my time in converse.

I'm experimenting with different combinations of insoles to see if I can make them more comfortable. Just the insoles from my favorite running shoes aren't good enough- I need more arch support.

Screenshotted tumblr things

(sorry for the swear, Non-Swear People.)

Flesh prison

It is so weird when this happens.

Don't freak out and worry that you have anxiety just because this has happened. Don't the internet convince you that you have a problem when you don't. It will make you sad. It's just an interesting thing to think about. Why are you not a squirrel named Marvin? Did your soul just happen to get smushed into a human body or is all of you and your decisions and personality the product of millions of years of evolution and the chemicals in your brain up to different stuff and everything you feel is all new reactions to new stimuli and once you die, are you gone for good?   Does everyone even feel the same thing? How can you be sure that everyone around you aren't robots, just saying things. 

Someone write me some science fiction, please.

Below are some pictures of Andie and Rylan that I may or may not have showed you before, when they went to a secret garden at my grandma's house during the summer.

My pictures always seem so grainy. I believe I have asked you about photo quality before, and most said it was just fine, so it's probably my monitor that sucks. (the chromebook was cheap and the mac is old, so the displays are pixelated so I really cant tell if I'm taking good pictures or not. It's very discouraging, because nothing feels worthy.) Thankfully, we will be getting a new computer soon. With a ~retina display~ or whatever fancy thing they call the crisp shinynesss.

I've started listening to Welcome To Night Vale. It is just as impossible to describe as they say.

But I'll try. There is a thin semantic line between weird and beautiful. That line is covered in jellyfish. Night Vale is also covered in jellyfish. Or it would be if the water front actually existed and wasn't a shared dream and imaginary waste of money. Or if it wasn't in the middle of the desert.

And it's full of thing like this: