We are earthquakes, we are tidal waves.

We're destruction at its finest, yeah.

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Myself TheWorld
So my name is Ryan, I'm female, and I have given the better part of five years to the Internet. Somewhere on the interweb lies my trials and tribulations from the summer of my freshman year of high school to where I am now-a college student. I can drink half of the guys I know under the table, but afterwards I'll be wrapping you in a blanket and telling you to get some rest. I truly rock out to anything from Bob Dylan, Nirvana, Scissor Sister, and some Snoop Dogg and when I do it, I do it with style. I'm too eclectic to be defined as anything and too hypocritical to stay true to one thing. I find myself being too trustworthy and naive. I sadly never finish anything I start and have a closet full of unfinished craft projects to prove it. So far in my life I've taken up many hobbies (from soap making to graphic design), but the only ones that have really stuck with me throughout the years have been the Spanish Language and writing fanfiction. I'm a Sagittarius meaning I'm blunt, restless, and tend to resent authority, but I can make a mean batch of brownies which truly makes up for it all.

I'd love to be your friend.

Rebellion these days comes from a can, opened with knives and a sharp tongue. Nothing truly is ours, or truly genuine or truly real and alive. This teenage youth reeks of prescriptions, drugs, and that stale taste of alcohol at three in the morning. One day we'll regret it all with blank smiles and a broken spirit (and possibly a criminal record), but sometimes it's all you have when the spark inside dies and all that's left are artificial, over processed souls. Revolution, cataclysm-change-takes ability and strength and in a world pollute of indolence and impassivity, transformation doesn't happen often. Our desensitized, calloused, and deadened youth is not just a phase of numbing plaque that plagues our very being; this apathy implants itself into the very marrow of the bones, growing and rooting its core until someone figures out how to repair the damaged cells and scrape off the smoke and soot that clung and adhered itself to their making. But this is all just sleepless nights wrapped in telephone wires and speed, burning our flesh from the outside in until there is nothing left but piles of dust and radioactive sand. This is just the future, wrapped in candy coating and cellophane wishes. This is it.