Life Proceeds as Normal

I am writing, I suppose, because I am lonesome. Last night, I had people all around me for hours, at a dance no less. I don't do dances, or I didn't used to.
I've become very attached to my friends, I noticed. I don't really care to be without them much, I'd rather sit with them than alone, even on a bad day. I still treasure my alone time, but to wake up and spend the day alone, like I do on the weekends... It gets long. I miss my friends. But at least I don't feel lonely. There is a difference; I believe there are people I can connect with. They're just not here right now.

Yesterday was awesome. Equality Day: all gay, all day.  There were a bunch of tables set up, for Stonewall Democrats, women's rights, and PFLAG, among others. (There was one advocating sexual health, and they were giving out female condoms. One of my friends got a couple, and we opened one in the elevator back home. It was wet, which grossed me out; I wasn't expecting that.) I picked up a couple business cards from PFLAG (Parents and Friends of Lesbians and Gays) for my dad. Because when he called to give me permission to go to Equality Day, he said to call him if there was anything he could do to help. Usually he seems to develop selective hearing when I talk about girls, but maybe he's doing better with it than I think he is. Maybe it's because I had the balls to ask him straight up if I could go to a gay pride shindig. I don't know. But I think he can handle a PFLAG pamphlet now.

There was also a seminar, hosted by the gay and lesbian history professor at UA, about reaching out to youth. He talked about how to start a Gay/ Straight Alliance, and how to keep it going. And I sat there thinking "Brooke and I could do this."
Now, my school has a GSA, however flimsy. But my old school... Oy. Brooke, my best friend, is still there. She's an ally, and she loves every second of it. She actually has my rainbow wristband, and she wears it at school. The whole place thinks she's gay herself, but she doesn't care. I asked her this morning if she would be willing to try starting something out there; haven't heard back yet. But I really want this. I can't just leave that hell hole the same as when I left it. They can't get me, they can't rob me of my beautiful life, and I'm not trying to impress them anymore, so why should I care anymore if they know I'm a lesbian? Besides, the school knows already; Brooke told them.
My old school has about 1000 students, I think. So, based on accepted averages, that's 100 LGBT, right? I knew about six while I was there. (Those kids all hung out together, outcasts, freakazoids, and passed around the drama and loneliness. I got sucked into that group, because I hurt too much to be anything else. Maybe a GSA would help those kids, maybe not.) But where are the 94 other students, who are so deep in the closet that no one will ever find them? What are they going to do? I mean, looking at the freaky gays, they must be terrified. I was. They need a place to come out to, a place with normal people like Brooke.

The problems: Permission, obviously- why would a wildly conservative administration allow this to happen? But maybe they're not so conservative. Maybe they'd give us a crumb or two, of only to shut us up. (Because I have no intention of shutting up.)
Parents- How can kids make it to a GSA without their parents finding out? We'd have to give it a hush-hush title so they could hide under it. But then it'd be hard to get kids to come, because if we're too secretive, no one will know who we are.
The community- I know there are the out kids, and nothing ever happened to them. But I still worry that, if we put all of the school's gay kids in one room, some wacko is going to come in and shoot them all to fuck. I mean, there's a lot of risk in coming out at this school, especially if you're a person of high standing. Even if there are no literal shoot-'em-ups, there will be ridicule and rejection. How do we deal with that?

I wonder if there's a step under GSA, some sort of finding-yourself, coming out club. But really, I think the GSA can be that. I mean, all the kids I can think of who would help with this are straight allies, so there's a haven in that, and I'm hoping we can do some community service, so maybe it's just straight liberals looking for some service hours (even if it really is a gay kid looking for support). And it could start as just a support group, until we get established. Until we change the school policy to protect LGBT students.

I want this to happen. I think about it and say that it can't, but I refuse to listen to myself. It's got to happen. How else can we do it? The town is expanding, and the social climate is beginning, slowly, to change. Why can't it happen, just because we're in a rabidly Christian Southern town? What makes it so impossible, really?

 Last updated five weeks ago. Been a while, huh?

I got my wisdom teeth pulled. I've spent the last couple days like I was thrown from a horse; it hurts to sit and it hurts to stand, and it pretty much just damn well hurts, so I've slept a lot. 

But I can't sleep now. I'm thinking about something that shouldn't keep me awake. The bad sleep well, which is some comfort... some. 
Blame. Does blame mean anything to anyone? I mean, I try to talk my way out of things that would show a weakness in me, but when I'm strong, I'm strong enough to take the blame, even if no one's at fault. I don't think anyone is. I'd love to believe every waking moment that everyone is innocent. At this particular waking moment, I do. And I love them all, in my way. 

Geez, I'm tired. The light from the computer screen is blinding.  I'm looking at my fingers while I type, not because I still need to, but just to give my eyes a break. 

I don't feel anything. It's... nice, now that I think about it. Just a minute of mindless typing while my system shuts down. Lonesome. 
There's a feeling in my legs, like someone unwrapping bandages, and the whole thing just falls apart, cell by cell, devoid of whatever it was the kept them together all day. Man, I can't believe I've been awake all day. 

I'm sitting at the computer, falling asleep and inflicting my muddled rubbish on you. Forgive me? 

... I wonder if it'd feel better to sleep in the freezer.

Okay, I owe you guys about a month's worth of back-log, but this first.

My dad wanted to take me to an airshow in Huntsville yesterday, Blue Angels. It sounded cool to me. On Saturday a friend of mine came over, and my dad said the show was running then, too, and we could both go with him if we wanted. I thought my friend was going to be a lot more interesting to talk to than he was, so I opted out. I should have gone. Because that show won't be coming back to town any time soon. 
Aaron Miller died yesterday; he got hit with a generator at the airfield. A microbust whipped into the area, and a bunch of stuff got hit by lightning and slung everywhere. Twelve people are in the hospital, though they say none of them are in any danger of dying. Aaron, age five, did. 
Going with the original plan, my dad and I would have been there. And because I love the rain so much, there's no way I would have run. That little kid, or any of the other twelve people, could have been me. 
And I wouldn't swap with the boy, not my life for his.

Okay, profound revelation. You know that song from "Grease," the one Rizzo sings called "Look at Me, I'm Sandra Dee"? I just realized that it is entirely about sex. Some parts are pretty obvious (I mean, what else is Elvis going to do with his pelvis?), but I hadn't thought the entire thing... Dudes, I've been listening to this song since before I was born, and I have only now reached this height of understanding. 

 

Okay, so as to the continuous comments about my frustration with my life and the feeling that I complain too much: My roommate told me that if I’m tired of complaining, I should probably stop. Well, duh, honey! The suggestion to just cut it out is so obvious that I… I have no idea. I’m sure there’s a suitable phrase for that sort of behavior in the Alcoholics Anonymous Big Book somewhere, but I can’t pull it up right now. Anyway, I love how people can say things like that to me, things that I know I should know, probably do know in some ways, but I just can’t get my mind around it until someone else tells me. Like the fact that relationships are supposed to be fun, and the logical conclusion that those things that she’s telling me that don’t quite make sense probably aren’t true, and that if I want to be a writer I actually have to write something substantial every once in a while.

So, I will try this novel idea of taking care of my complaining problem by not complaining. Besides, going through the motions, following the rules as I so resent doing gives me time to think about what I actually do want from my life once it’s mine.

 

One thing’s for sure, I want it to involve hot air balloons.

My hometown has a balloon festival every Memorial Day weekend, and I’ve been crewing for the pilots for… six years now, I think. Originally I was just kind of wandering around the field watching the other people work, and this lanky old man with a plastic alligator sewn onto his hat saw me staring at his balloon and asked if I wanted to help. When I stepped forward, he just laughed at me, and I stared to walk away. He almost ran after me. He stood my little eleven-year-old skinniness up holding the skirt of the balloon open for him while he cranked up his huge wire fan and filled the envelope with air. The morning was cold, and I resented the breeze until he cut the fan and started hitting the burner to heat the air in the envelope. I asked my pilot this year how hot that burner was, and he said probably around two thousand degrees, maybe a little more.

Ruth and Dan have been my pilots for the past five years. They adopted me so thoroughly the first year I crewed for them that they asked me to come with them to a balloon rally in Helen, Georgia, right after the local gig ended. So I did, and it was brilliant. And I’ve come back to Ruth and Dan every year since then.

Those two are crazy. Their house, first of all, is a geometric dome, remarkably eco-friendly and more than a little odd-looking. Inside, it is three stories high and littered with more stuff than you could possibly imagine, everything from stuffed animals to tiny china figurines to loose change of every denomination to Native American crafts to dirty dishes to tools for tending their garden. The garden is excellent, an organic hodge-podge of lettuce, cabbage, spinach, broccoli, corn, radishes and a few other things, plus weeds. Across the driveway from the garden is a large trailer filled with Christmas decorations and bicycles of various unusual designs. In the driveway sits the rickety blue and white balloon van, the old red van, and a couple of once very nice cars which Dan has converted to run on the used vegetable oil that a local Japanese restaurant gives them. Out back there is a small pen for the chickens and peafowl (there’s an incubator inside for the peafowl eggs) and a large enclosure for the horses and goats. There are also two dogs who pretty much have the run of the yard.

So, Saturday morning I got up at about five thirty and hit the balloon field. We (Ruth, Dan, and Susan and Larry, an older married couple who have been working at this for nine years) heaved the basket off the Tommie lift on the back of the van, unrolled the envelope, ran the fan and blew the burner, then Susan threw me in the basket with Dan and Larry, and she and Ruth pushed us up into the air before jumping in the van to chase us to our landing place.

The first event of the festival is a hare and hound race: one balloon takes off before all the rest, flies out somewhere, then puts out a giant X wherever it lands. The rest of the balloons start their fans once the hare balloon is off the ground, then follow it, hopefully to the X, and they all drop beanbags at the X, and whoever gets closest to the centre wins. This was a miracle year, both because someone hit dead centre, and because Dan actually got to see the X for the first time in years. Not only that, the target was laid near a newly-constructed house, where the yard was torn up from installation of a swimming pool and septic tank. There was still a large mound of dirt from the septic hole, and Dan landed right on it. Once we touched down, the van pulled over, and Ruth and Susan came running, followed by a new and rather gorgeous girl who was tickled dead scarlet when the three of us climbed out of the basket and they all got in and took off again.

The wind was too high that evening to fly, but several balloons put up to glow (stay held to the ground and just hit the burner so the envelope looks all pretty). One of those was the Energizer bunny, which is so huge it’s almost impossible to actually fly because the wind currents at its feet are different than the drifts battering its ears. So I spent a few hours entertaining a small child, then Dan taught me how to ride the segway.

Sunday was the same drill, but the event was called the key grab. All the balloonists put up three miles off and flew into the field, aiming to pull a key off the end of a pole in the middle of everything in order to win five grand in cash. No one got it this year. Someone did last year, though, and I was in the balloon with Ruth when he got it. We didn’t change out that morning because it took forever for Ruth to find a safe place to land. Larry and I were waiting for the three of them (Ruth, Dan, and Susan) in a field on one side of a drainage ditch, but Ruth couldn’t make that, and she landed on the far side. We had to run across the ditch to grab the envelope and keep it out of the water.

That evening the wind was a bit testy, with a strong current following the course of the river, but the balloonmeister gave the okay for “pilot’s discretion,” which basically means that it’s your own funeral. Dan was all for flying, so we put up, and Larry and I hopped in with him. At about three thousand feet, I suddenly remembered that I am terrified of heights, and I clung to the side of the basket while a long string of obscenities paraded through my head and spots danced in front of my wide eyes. At five thousand feet, Dan called the airport with a walkie-talkie and cleared us for that altitude so we wouldn’t get whacked by a rouge airplane. Then he turned to us and announced that this was a personal altitude record, and he was not ashamed to have his arm wrapped tightly around one of the uprights. I heard this distantly, then swallowed hard. My ears popped, and suddenly I wasn’t afraid any more.

It took forever to get across the river, and there weren’t many good places to land by then. We finally got a good wind to blow us into an empty field, but the difference between forward motion and descent is illusive while in the air. Dan had told us to bend our knees, but I don’t think he would have ever expected us to hit as hard as we did. We slammed into the ground, and the vent rope Dan had been pulling on to let air out whipped up. I had dropped into the bottom of the basket, and our pilot went sailing over my head. Larry pulled him back in by his belt just before the second bounce. We dragged for a few yards before coming to a complete stop in a cloud of dust. Dan crawled out, asking if everyone was okay, then Larry asked if I could go ahead and get out.

“No sir, you’re on my arm.”

He had pinned me to the air tank I’d been clutching, and he couldn’t feel me under him at all. He couldn’t move much, either, without rolling down on top of me, but eventually I got myself loose and followed the skid marks to recover a hat, a water bottle, two walkie-talkies, and the altimeter, which had been flung out on the first bounce.

Ruth and Susan finally managed to cross the narrow bridge into the field, and we packed up no problem. We stopped to get propane for the balloon and tacos for ourselves before getting back to the field at about a quarter to nine. Then there were fireworks. Then I went back to my grandmother’s and slept for about eleven hours. Might have been more if my grandmother hadn’t heaved the door open and asked if I was still alive.

 

So, Monday I was dragged around the mall to shop for decent clothes to take to Italy. I actually enjoyed it in a way, though I wouldn’t admit how much to my grandmother. I also would not admit that I’d probably enjoy it a lot more if she wasn’t rabbit racing hither and thither instead of actually paying attention to everything around her. She was on a mission to find a nice sun dress for me, while I was drowsy enough to just want to shop. Ultimately, I ended up with two dresses; I hate dresses, but these are black and therefore tolerable. I also got some shirts that I really like, and the possibility of receiving a clothing allowance so that once school starts up I can snag a van run to the mall and get some comfortable stuff from Delia’s.

And dudes, the mall in my silly town has a book store in it. I couldn’t believe it, and even my grandmother slowed her roll long enough to take a look at it. There was only one Terry Pratchett novel and no Neil Gaiman, and they had about seven shelves of romance novels, but hey, it’s a book store, isn’t it?

Also, my grandmother bought a suitcase. Not any old suitcase, mind you, a bright red one that’s big enough for me to fit in; I know because I tried it. I tried to talk her out of getting it on the basis of you could pack a pachyderm in the darn thing, and by the time she reached her fifty-pound weight limit, it’d only be half full, but to no avail. So I named it Clifford, and we treated it like a dog for the rest of the afternoon.

 

I got to go to the library today, but the only Neil Gaiman they had in was a short story collection (I’d just finished one of those) and a graphic novel, and there was only one Terry Pratchett available, even though the computer catalogue told me there should have been more. I got the one TP and the graphic novel, and I’m on a waiting list for the rest of the Gaiman when it comes in. They also have no Augusten Burroughs out there; I checked for that, too. I forgot to look for Christopher Moore, but I’ll probably have to go back pretty soon anyway; I’m already halfway through the graphic novel.  

Also today, someone came out to inspect my grandmother’s house. She’d signed a contract to sell it, but the inspection is a necessary ritual, so my grandmother had something to be notably antsy about all morning. At eight o’clock on the nose, a tall, mostly bald gentleman with pants that clung to his rear when he bent over came in and checked over everything, even climbing onto the roof in the pouring rain. He was around for about two and a half hours, then he left without saying good-bye. I was told not to bother him, which meant I couldn’t hang around and ask questions like I do with most strangers who do odd things on other people’s turf, like open cabinets and enter unknown data into a bright orange palm pilot. I was also forbidden to go out in the rain on the basis of the man might think I was crazy.

 

I have an orthodontist appointment in the morning, and I haven’t worn my retainers for several nights. Whups.

First of all, I should be studying. Although I have been studying; I still have all the papers in my lap, and I was looking over them for a couple hours before dinner, too. But I'm not really taking anything in, and honestly, I don't think I can at this point. So I'm taking a break from studies; two and a half hours till bed, anyway. 

This is a horrible position to be sitting in, with my legs draped over one arm of the chair, twisted sideways to type. And all my papers have fallen out of my lap now. Great.

God, I complain so much! It's like that color quiz is coming true, and I'm little miss victim all of a sudden. 
My roommate says one of the things that annoys her about me (along with my laugh and my music) is that I think philosophically about things that aren't philosophical. I bet this journal drives her nuts. 
And I don't know why I'm bitching so much.

This morning when I woke up I randomly realized that tomorrow's going to be my last time to wake up in that bed. I like that bed, nuzzled up in the corner, with my nightstand pressed against the other side of the headboard. 
And this afternoon I packed up most of my books. I say most because I ran out of boxes before I got all of them in. There aren't many left, but still... I have a couple of glass bottles, and I wrapped those in my scarves, and I made sure I had all of my foodstuffs stuffed in my chow box. I planned out how to arrange the last of the stuff, too, so I'll be prepared for my dad and grandmother's arrival. They're coming at one on the nose, not one thirty or two as I had hoped and asked for. Somehow I get the feeling my grandmother thought I was asking for extra time because I wanted to go canoodling with my girlfriend or something (which isn't possible because she has to leave at one).  I might get in trouble tomorrow afternoon because my grandmother told me to be in my room at one so they wouldn't have to look for me when they get here, but I refuse to abandon my friends. Maybe I can get them to clan up in the cafeteria at twelve forty-five so my parental units will see me when they come in. Although that will end with them standing there while I say good-bye to my darling friends. And my girl. Any way I play it, it's just not going to be cinematic, which annoys my obsessive aesthetic idealism. So, because I was sad about packing and frustrated because things weren't going my way, I got a little angry while I was boxing my books. I feel so mean sometimes. 
I still have half a dozen books to distribute and a balloon to pop, but everything else is taken care of, which is nice.
Clutter is alright when it's under control, but I enjoy starting the occasional inqusition and weeding out the junk. The're always a little bit of junk. 
I'm going to have a fair amount of things that have to be carried seperately, by hand. There's a tomato plant (my roommate and I are both impressed that I haven't killed that sucker yet), my beloved betta fish Enki, a large dried rose that my girlfriend gave me, and my Grimmerie (the offical "Wicked" musical handbook, very fancy with a puffed-out faux-leather cover). Oh, and the suncatcher, which I'm going to wrap in a blanket and will ultimately be too large for any box. 
Man, my bookshelf looks wierd when it's empty. I'm glad that some of my books are still around; it's hard for me to sleep in a room without books.

Why am I so upset about leaving this place? I mean, I know I'm coming back, and my summer (although I've bitched about that, too) is going to be both awesome and short. It's not the end of the world, so why to hell can't I just get over it? And isn't that why I'm so afraid of heaven, because it's an eternity of everything the same? Yes, but... I guess I'm just mortal. I know that yet another something has ended, and I'm not going to get that back, just like everything else that's long gone. It's so easy to say that summer will be wonderful, and next year will be a fresh start, but still, I don't want to let go of what I've got. What have I got, anyway? About a dozen boxes full of stuff and an extra armload and a computer. I just need to suck it up and get over it. For chirst's sake, I'm going to Italy! 
Why do I feel like I regret something? 

"Forget regret, or life is yours to miss.
No other road, no other way,
no day but today."
        - RENT

Hooray for relevant song lyrics. And hooray for Alvin and the Chipmunks singing "The Witch Doctor." What is it about music that makes me feel so much better? 

I wonder how many boxes my grandmother will bring? I'm pretty sure I can get it all with two, but she might bring a lot more than that...

Oh, dudes, my grandmother's moving! I get to shift stuff into a brand-new place! I get something new! 
And next year when I come back I'll get a new room, which means a new perspective, and, and...
God, I feel better! I don't make any sense to myself. It must just be the tiredness of the past couple days and the fact that I allowed myself to listen to Evanescence so much. I love that music, but it's depressing. I need some chipmunks to brighten my day! 

My roommate sounds like she needs hugs right now, but I don't dare for fear that she'd want to hit me. That, and it'd probably creep her out more than it would make her feel better. 

So... Uh... 
Ha! I just remembered that my friend in the little Christian town I'm from still has my rainbow wristband! I wonder how that went over? I can't wait to hear about it; can't wait to get the thing back, either. 

It rained this afternoon. Not a lot, not really impressive rain, but I went out in it to calm down after packing, and it helped. And I sang some showtunes that I hadn't even thought about in a while. God, do I ever need to do some warm-ups; my voice is as out-of-shape as the guy who goes to McDonald's every day for lunch and dinner. It's bad, I can't hold a steady range and I can't reach my higher notes at all, and the vibrato is out of control. Horrible, horrible, I should be beaten for letting my voice go like that. I used to sing opera, but if I tried that now, I'd probably hurt myself. So that's my project for the summer (along with finishing a couple short stories and all my other plans): I must repair the damage of my neglect. And I must not let it get so out of whack ever again. Man, I used to sing some killer opera, and I miss that. 

Here we go, now I'm into it. Once I get my mind set on a change, I anticipate it. I'll be alright, I guess, I just needed to whinge a while. And now I only have about an hour to kill. I must study for at least half an hour more, but that's not bad. I'll be fine, I think. 
I'm sorry for subjecting you people to this; sometimes I have to think through things before I get over them, and here is where it happened to happen. At least it's a good exercise in stream of consciousness writing. And Beauty Chaotic says she enjoys my epic posts, so have fun with this one, honey. 

G'night, all. I am back to my studies.

It's almost sad, actually. I do have things to do, like study for my exams, or read, or vacuum the floor (which will probably be the next thing I do, after I'm done here), or reply to e-mails, or call my sister. Hell, I could even be putting books in boxes for when I leave the dorm on Friday! No, that I will definately postpone until tomorrow. 

Today is Wednesday. Why does that seem so strange to me? I've been up here for hours, reading Neil Gaiman on and off, thinking about small children and why I don't want them (this sparked by a small portion of "The L Word" that my girlfriend had me watch), and just sort of lying on my bed doing nothing. And it's still only three thirty. I keep anticipating dinner; I always think about food when I'm bored, although (thankfully) I usually don't eat. 

I have a minor wound on the inside of my lip from where I've been gnawing again. Dunno why, it probably just split and I started trying to smooth it off. That's usually what happens. Although my throat's starting to scratch up now, and this morning I drew a little bit of blood. God, I hate when this happens. I've done this since I was a little kid, and I've never figured out a good way to make myself stop. It's probably gross, and I look weird pulling my lip in and chewing on it, but it's just something that I've always done, and I don't know how to quit. Maybe I should get a box of toothpicks and chomp on them every time my lip tears (I clench my teeth in my sleep, so that happens occasionally). I'd be like those people who've just quit smoking and still have that hand-to-mouth fixation. 

Oh look, random college postcard on my desk...

Okay, list of things to get rid of:
fruit-flavored cheerios paper crane
twisted glass pieces from chem
school notes (after exam is complete)
the lid to the plastic container that I lost
"Always Proud" 10% off coupon
all of the books I've borrowed (three total)
months-old copy of "The Advocate" (Hey, Beauty Chaotic, do you want that back?) 
small pink Volkswagon toy
golf ball
random spoon that I snitched from the girls' lounge because all mine had disappeared
plate from the cafeteria that I found outside, washed, and haven't returned yet
the last of those amazing peanuts
copy of The Amber Spyglass (You want me to go ahead and give that to you, honey?)
padlock I got for my locker at the first of the year and never used
sign that my roommate and I made at the start of the year and never put up (Do you want that?) 
metal Christmas ornament from chem
crappy cheap fish food
a couple quarters
some not-quite-clean lace that I found on a trash-picking expedition
a frozen water bottle
a box of tissues
a plastic bag full of plastic bags
couple of college brochures that I probably won't need because I've had them for months and haven't looked at
three 3 Musketeers mini-bars
far too many stray papers 
the head to the disposable duster that I used far beyond its prime
the layer of dust that has settled since the death of the duster

Speaking of dust and gathering it, what am I supposed to do with my bible now? And the study book that someone gave me... less than a year ago? Man, less than a year ago I was in tears, scrambling for the love and salvation of Jesus Christ. Even less time than that has passed since I went to my pastor, asking what kind of classes I would need to take to have his job. Why? Funny, I just don't know. Those explosions of joy and passion seem so dumb now. Not because of the joy and passion, just because of the way I pushed it off of myself and the glories square in front of my face, praising instead something so distant that when I was sad I felt forsaken. It's absurd now, just another world that I buried myself in because I wasn't ready to deal with this one. Now I don't see the point of a Christ figure; I am perfectly willing to be held accountable for my own actions. And then there are the stories, the endless stories both after and before Christ, that contain Christ imagery. And the stories and people around me relying on something entirely different. And the people, like my beloved Walt Whitman, who are able to rely fully upon themselves. Between my English class, Philip Pullman, my friends, and my depression meds, Christianity just didn't stand a chance. 
I don't feel gyped, though. And I don't really miss god. I did at first, but not anymore. There are too many solid things to miss, and too many to soak up before I have to start missing them as well. 

I refuse to clear out my cubicle in the writing wing before Tuesday. 

And I refuse to give up on my exercise, even though I've been far from faithful. See, it got hard to run because Scholar's Bowl met in the academic hall, and my thumping (my left foot strikes the ground really hard) disturbed them. I couldn't use the treadmills, which was my preference, because the dancers use the west studio. And I can't run outside because 1) there are people out there, and I'm still too self-conscious to do something like that where anyone can see me, and 2) as I've said before, the sun gives me headaches. The logical solution might appear to be "run later," but exercise less than three bours before going to bed can affect sleeping patterns, and I don't need any sleep interference. 

I hate summer. I really do. It gets so dang hot, and the sun takes forever to set. I much prefer to be outside at dusk and in the evenings, but during the summer, dusk doesn't come until nearly eight. Therefore, I don't care to go outside on summer nights like this one, which gives me one less thing to do right now. God, I complain a lot, don't I?

I attempted badminton with a friend last night. I wasn't very good (for one thing, my arms were too short for me to serve properly underhanded), but I improved considerably from the time we started to forty minutes later when I knocked the birdie up on top of the air vent. The friend who was teaching me is incredibly patient with me, just waiting while I miss things and giggle nervously at myself and acciedentally toss the birdie over my head when I'm trying to serve or trip over my own feet or something like that. 

I had two hours with my girl. And I loved it. One of the things I was brooding over on my over-night excursion was that I wish I had time to spend with her, not having to do anything but able to do whatever. We sat there and talked. A hawk flew into the courtyard, chasing a mockingbird (who got away), and we watched the quarrel between the angry songbird in a tree and the bewildered raptor on the ground. I asked what her favorite flower was, but she didn't have one. She likes trees. I talked about mimosas and crape mytles and wysteria, none of which she had heard of, so I got to describe them. And we talked about dark things, too, things that are hard to talk about. Just because we finally had the time and freedom. I got to spend two hours lying in the courtyard with her, just talking. 
(And to stardustonsable, refer to the chunks of cuteness comment. Because I still don't care.) 
Then I had an hour with a whole pack of my friends. One of them decided that we needed to use my best friend's camera and try to get a picture of all of us jumping off the low wall in the courtyard. It took forever to get the timing right , but when we did it was pretty snazzy. I think I got stress fractures in my ankles from jumping so much, though. 
We tried to get a good picture of my girlfriend and me because my roommate offered me some really nice glossy paper if I got a nice shot and wanted to print one for each of us. (See, one cannot judge a person by their music! My chem teacher listens to Evanescence. And my roommate is awesome, most of the time, even though I don't care for most of her music.) Not sure if we ever got a good picture though, because I'm not very photogenic. For some reason, I do better from the side than dead on. Something about my nose, I think.

Apparently my next year English teacher, my girlfriend's current instructor, is looking forward to having me in her class. According to my girl, she said that I "seem like a character." She almost told the teacher that I was looking forward to her class, too, because I think that lady is remarkably hot.

Twenty minutes to dinner. And I rarely eat right at five. Anyway...
I don't really have anything else to say. For now, anyway. Ciao!

Spanish test: three points higher, which isn't significant, but it's something. And my over all average for the nine weeks is an 87, so I'm pretty pleased. 

I'm still tired though. And bored. I just tried to take three on-line quiz things, only one of which wasn't a lame gimick that I gave up on. Dudes, do people really get suckered into stuff like that?

My grandmother said she would, so she's gonna have to bring me out to school next Tuesday, just because I want to be here. We can go out to lunch after or something, make it a little more worth it. Maybe we could go to the botanical gardens. Maybe we could take my girlfriend... Yeah, right. But we might be able to see the Dardens, a dear old couple that I've known all my life, who recently moved into a nursing home around here. That could be my excuse for her driving an hour and a half one way for five hours of school in which there will be absolutely no academic work done. 

And now I shall make a valiant (-ent?) effort to study for my English exam tomorrow. Then I shall eat dinner and sleep like a happy old dog in the sun. Except not in the sun; I'm sort of anti-direct sunlight. It gives me a headache, and besides, it's hot. And I can't stand the heat. I prefer rain, and those cloudy winter days when everything is outlined in gray. I am born for the cold.

 

Your Existing Situation

Acts calmly, with the minimum of upset, in order to handle existing relationships. Likes to feel relaxed and at ease with her associates and those close to him.

Your Stress Sources

Eager to make a good impression, but worried and doubtful about the likelihood of succeeding. Feels that she has a right to anything she might hope for, and becomes helpless and distressed when circumstances go against her. Finds the mere possibility of failure most upsetting and this can even lead to nervous prostration. Sees herself as a 'victim' who has been misled and abused, mistakes this dramatization for reality and tries to convince herself that her failure to achieve standing and recognition is the fault of others.

Your Restrained Characteristics

Feels that she is receiving less than her share and that there is no one on who she can rely for sympathy and understanding. Pent-up emotions make her quick to take offense, but she realizes that she has to make the best of things as they are. Able to achieve satisfaction through sexual activity.

Your Desired Objective Feels the situation is hopeless. Strongly resists things which she finds disagreeable. Tries to shield herself from anything which might irritate her or make her feel more depressed.

Your Actual Problem

Disappointment and the fear that there is no point in formulating fresh goals have led to anxiety, emptiness, and an unadmitted self-contempt. Her refusal to admit this leads to her adopting a headstrong and defiant attitude.

Your Actual Problem #2

Depleted vitality has created an intolerance for any further stimulation, or demands on her resources. This feeling of powerlessness subjects her to agitation and acute distress. She reacts by considering that she has been victimized, and insists--with indignation, resentment, and defiance--on being given her own way.

 

Eh, sort of. And then some things could be true if I'd let them. Works alright, I guess.
I love how the sexual satisfaction thing is in a different font.

I  spent the night with a friend last night, trying to study for chem and math. I wrote a post on this yesterday before I left, but my computer froze before I posted. Bah. Anyway, yeah, we failed to do any studying of any kind; he needed to talk about his boy troubles for a while, and I let him. I spent most of the time lying on the floor scrathing the dog's belly while he sang revenge songs in drag. And I wrote, of course, on the back of my chem study guide, because I couldn't stop thinking. If he just hadn't played that damn song...
See, I have this thing for "My Heart Will Go On," from "Titanic." My mother loved that song. I never cry over movies, even when I know they're sad, but one time while I was watching "Titanic," on the floor of the living room, with my mother playing with my hair, I just bust into tears when that song came on; I didn't know why. Turns out that was that last time my mother and I would watch that movie together. And that song has broken my heart ever since. And my friend was playing it... No, he was playing a bad parody of it, and I just sat there, trying not to get mad. I didn't want to spoil his fun, and I felt stupid that something so little (and so funny) could hurt my feelings, so I just sat there and took it while he played the thing over three times. And I couldn't quite cheer up after that. 
And I was so damn tired. The only reason I survived the night was that my roommate was playing RENT before I left, and that music is magic. 

This morning I re-took a Spainsh test, and I think it went okay. 

Bell. Ciao.

Nothing to say, really. I mean, nothing important. It's Monday, last Monday of the school year, last week of the school year, and that sucks in a lot of ways.
Another thing that sucks: summer. The logical question here is "Why are you complaining?" Because I'm going to Italy for three weeks; I'm going all over the country, and I'm seeing Alice (my darling exchange student friend), and I get to go to her eighteenth birthday party, and I get to meet her boyfriend (who has a marvelous smile; even I can tell he's pretty).  Then I have a couple weeks, in which I might get to see my girlfriend (although I'm not betting a single buck on it). Then I'm going to Maryland, to my great grandmother's funeral. That doesn't sound so great, but I love Maryland, and I get to see a lot of family, and I might even get to meet Kim and Marylou, my grandmother's lesbian cousin and her partner. Which is really cool, although I can't really explain why. 
Then, straight from Maryland, I'm probably going to Brown University in New York for a summer program. Although I don't really know about that yet. See, that's set up through this scholarship I have from the Jack Kent Cooke Foundation. It's an amazing program where the kids who are accepted get an educational advisor who sets the kid up with all these programs that cater to their interests, and then they pay for it. JKC bought me my computer and my calculator (they do that for kids who don't have one already), they pay for one summer program a year, they sent me to a writing conference, and they're paying for my room and board at school. When I started out in this program, I had an absolutely wonderful advisor, Dr. Christine Borgelt. She really cared about me, she was very personal, and she always kept track of what was going on. She was tolerant of my absent-mindedness, but she also tried to help me through it, and she never let things fall through the cracks; I wouldn't let things fall through the cracks because I couldn't bear to let her down. Last summer, however, I found out that Christine was getting a promotion. That's wonderful, and I'm really proud of her, but she had to give up her scholars in order to take the job, which means I had to get a new advisor. Her name is Patricia, and she's really nice. She's an interesting person to talk to, she's very bright and very enthusiastic. Thing is, she's just not Christine, and we never really bonded to the point that I feel responsible for her. She's not around much, I never remember to keep in touch, and she doesn't check in on me, either. I tend to forget she exists, while Christine was one of my reasons not to run away from home. When I first heard that I was losing Christine, I wondered whether or not the next person could handle things the way she had; could this new woman handle a dead cat on the couch of my dad's filthy apartment, my dad crying and petting the damn thing, and just sweep me out of the house to breakfast exactly as planned and know somehow that I didn't want to talk about it? Would she ever write me poetry? How many personal stories would she tell me, just because she wanted to talk? Is it possible for her to ever mean as much to me as Christine did? No. And thus, it's harder. I had some trouble with the application to the Brown program, and while I asked for help, the help didn't make much sense, either, and so I abandoned it for a while. Then I tried to figure out if I could scan the stuff to Patricia, but I couldn't remember how the scanner worked, and I didn't know how to send mail out from the school. So it wallowed for a while, and, since it wasn't happening in the "right this second," I forgot about it. Now, Chirstine wouldn't have let that happen. Christine gave me a picture of herself to tape to my computer so I would remember to keep in touch, and while I didn't always, I usually got my papers in on time. And Christine knew how to fix it when I didn't. And she never got angry with me, even when my dad and grandmother did. Even when I did. Patricia just disappeared under the waves of what was in front of my face: trouble with Spanish, the reality of actually having friends, dealing (fairly well) with depression, fighting with the girl I truly love... So now I don't know what's happening. I haven't heard from her in a while. She doesn't e-mail (although neither do I), nor does she call. She tried to call once, but I missed her; she'd sent an e-mail out saying that she was going to call, but I was skimming, and I thought I was supposed to call her. I called her back and left a message, but when she returned the call, she missed me again. She was out of the office recently, which I didn't know about, but she replied to an e-mail my grandmother sent her as soon as she got back. But she hasn't written to me, not even in a mass e-mail to all of her scholars, letting them know that she's home. Christine would have done that. 
A lot of this is partly my fault, and I can see that. If I was doing what I was supposed to do, things wouldn't have gotten out of line in the first place. If I would remember to write, she would probably reply. Probably. Although I wrote her a reply to a little e-mail advice thing she sent me, and I don't remember her responding to that. I... I just don't care. And I don't think that's entirely my fault. Sure, it's partly my fault for not putting on my big girl panties and dealing with it, but she doesn't help. All I need is a little help. It's all business between us, and I don't give a rat's ass about business. I want a relationship, a mentorship, and that's not what I'm getting from Patricia; I'm getting a very sweet and cheerful piggy bank. Christine says that's the worst way for the program to work, that she does everything she can to prevent that from happening to her scholars. I am and will always be her scholar; I resent being such for anyone else. If Patricia is my piggy bank, I'm her prize-winning pig: "Look what my scholar has done! Look at what this foundation has done for my smart little scholar!" With Christine, there was no foundation; there was just me and her, working on something together. WIth Christine, I felt like we could figure out where I was going. Now I just feel like the whole thing's going to hell in a handbasket. And part of me wants it to. 

At some point over the summer, I'm supposed to go to Florida for a week. My mother's mother lives in Florida, and the week I spend with her is the one week in the year that I get to see my sister. I called my grandmother yesterday, and she asked what the drill was with my summer, and I rattled off the list above. She's not sure when we're going to be able to make it down there, between my sister's plans, mine, and my aunt's and uncle's. If my Brown prograam turns out to be three weeks instead of two, we might not be able to have a full week, and I'm not going to be able to be a peer helper, and it'll land me back from Florida just a couple days before school cranks up again, which means I have to pack up and move as soon as I get my clothes in the washing machine. On top of all the chaos this might cause both me and both of my grandmothers, it's robbing me of time with my sister. I love my sister, and I want that time. 
This is bologna. Next summer, I'll jump through the JKC hoops (we're required to attend a summer program) and go to Florida, and absolutely nothing else. 

And this is what I mean when I say people expect things of me. I feel like such a brat, complaining about having opportunities out my ears. Opportunity is not a lengthy visitor, and I should be grateful, but opportunity has overstayed his welcome at this point. I want him to leave me alone for a while, give me a chance to just exist for a little while.

I can't go. I thought maybe I'd have permission to ride with a dorm student, but I don't. And I thought I could get a group and go on foot, but I didn't realize exactly how formal this occasion is, and for some reason, people have an aversion to walking in dress clothes. I could get permission to ride if I called my dad, but my dad would probably remind me of how I agreed to the rule that a responsible adult has to call at least three days in advance in order for me to go anywhere. And of course I have no idea who I planned to ride with in the first place (probably just the first person who walked by) and it would be a dorm student, not an adult. And Jesus knows that if I make anything up at the last minute, I'm plotting something sinister. God, I can't wait until I can do stuff on my own, because my mind can handle last-minute plans and hair-brained ideas on how to make those plans work. And if I ever get stuck somewhere, all I will do is laugh about it. I just don't understand why others can't handle "I want to do this, I'm not 100% sure what's up, but I'll figure it out when I get there" type operations. Just do it, for heaven's sake, it doesn't have to be complicated!
But apparently because I'm smart, I must have complex plans running through my head at all times, and because I am a teenager, I can't possibly mean what I say! ... I'm being dramatic and bitchy again, not standing in my father's shoes. But there again, my father's shoes don't fit me. I can't wrap my mind around what the adults are trying to say to me, and it's not because I'm a teenager, it's because I think along different lines than almost everyone. I'm sick of it. I'm sick of having to submit to things that I don't understand, and I'm sick of people refusing to accept the fact that I don't understand or dismissing it as something that it's not. 
I told my aunt about this, the one who can to dinner with my girlfriend and me, and she said that sometimes you just have to play the game. I'm good at the game, I just hate it, because I realize now how much of myself I gave up to keep myself in the good graces of others and, hopefully, get part of what I want. Though the things that I truly want are the things I am denied, and all I end up with are the two-dollar consolation prizes.  For once, just once in my life, I want to be on a level playing field with everyone else, recieving the respect that I try to give, not giving respect where it isn't truly due. I want to say something; I want to slouch down in my chair and comment mildly on exactly how I see things, the straight-up truth with no padding. That, however, would probably land me on a couch with plenty of padding, talking with a shrink who tries to discuss my defiance, militant actions, and my pent-up anger, and how exactly does that make me feel? I wonder if I'd feel like flicking them off. 
...I've always been afraid of insane asylums. I read One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest recently, and I related to the characters, the patients. For as long as I can remember (which, I'll grant you, isn't as far as most) I've wondered how other people think because so many things didn't make sense to me. And I could understand the things that didn't make sense to other people. I can empathize to a frightening degree. And I've always hidden my thoughts and feelings because I just know that if someone found out what really went on in my head, the men in white coats would come and offer me candy if I'd climb calmy into the back of the shiny white van. That, and I just hate hospitals, mostly because everything is in order and sanitized, and the smells are ruthless. I've never been hospitalized, but I can conjure up the smell of hospital food. It smells the same wherever you go: Alabama or Arkansas, nursing homes, ER, regular chronic patients, adult and children's wings, independent and the alzhiemers ward. All of it smells the same. And it gives me the heebie-jeebies every time. 
I relate to Opal Whitely's train of thought. She has a marvelous journal, written when she was... nine, I think, and living with an adopted mother in a lumber camp. She became a writer later in life, and went somewhere to get published. She was chatting with the editor, and she ended up telling him about this childhood journal, written in crayon on scraps of paper, and destroyed by a jealous sibling. She had kept the shredded pieces, and the editor said he'd like to see them. She brought him a shoebox of scraps, and they pieced the pages back together and published the thing. Opal was institutionalized while she was still very young.  
I am terrified. But that's not the point.
The point is I can't go to graduation, and that sucks. 
And, and... Agh! I'm still inhibited! Bad girl, bad, don't think those thoughts. I hate that, I hate hate hate it. 
...I love how I'm ranting, but most of my sentences still end in periods. That's the way I think, saying angry things, sarcastic things, loud things, calmly and softly.

And with that, I turn the music on and up. At first it drove me nuts that my dad insisted on me having these huge speakers for my computer, but now I'm grateful because I love propping my feet on the woofer.
"Swing Life Away," then "Drops of Jupiter," and now the glorious sexiness of Amy Lee in "Call Me When You're Sober." I'll add "Savin' Me" to this playlist, too, because I am pissed. 
Peanuts for dinner again.
And I can't sit still anymore; I'm typing this standing up.
Hooray for the Petshop Boys! Hooray for dystopia! 

"Sometime the solution
is worse than the problem.
Let's stay together...
Stay with me
this century;
together we're better..."
     -"Twentieth Century," Petshop Boys

Now what am I gonna say?

"Blank stares at blank pages.
No easy way to say this:
You mean well,
but you make this hard on me..."
     -"Love Song," Sara Bareilles

I really have nothing else to say. I've made much ado about nothing, and nothing is about all I've got at the moment.

Sitting in a library swivel chair, at a rather odd angle that puts all my weight on my left shoulder. I am getting bored. 
But of course I have all that Spanish work to do, e-mails I need to write, books I could be reading...
I just found a typo in my girlfriend's poem, so she has to reprint it. She's scowling at me now. 

I looked over my old posts, and now I have "Aux Champs Elysees" stuck in my head. 

And now she's sending me something to read.

I kind of want to pick up where I left off this morning, but what else is there to say? I just want to whine about how time is all screwed up and I wish I could hold onto it,  but I know that would be hell, but so is losing everything all the time, and it's just a paradox and there's no solution and... and... I miss som many things.

I have mail. I must go read now. Probably I'll end up coming back and ranting about what exactly I miss, especially if I don't get to go to graduation. 

I can't believe it. I finally finished my fantasy jury. It's sixty-six pages long, only the fourth fiction piece I've ever finished. 
I spent almost six hours in the writing wing last night. The department head, Flynn, came by and showed me how to lock the doors when I left and asked me to turn off the light, but he said I could stay as long as I wanted to. I got up to get dinner, sticking my shoe in the door so I wouldn't get locked out, and I fidgeted a lot, but I was able to stay pretty focused. And I could sit still for almost half an hour without getting distracted. It didn't seem to take any time at all.
After I'd locked up at about ten after nine, I left the writing wing and headed for the door to the lobby; they were locked. I had to go outside and around to the cafeteria entrance to get out of there and up to my dorm room. 

Graduation is today. Yesterday they had this awards ceremony, and it was so weird, because I sat there, high up in the audience, and I watched the seniors acting so close and so supportive, and I knew that after tomorrow some of them (most of them?) wouldn't see each other again for a long time, if ever. Then I started thinking about my senior class, praying that our graduation day would never come. It's the mortality effect again, the knowing that you're never going to have enough time, and opportunities only come around once because we aren't around long enough for them to come back again. Everything ends, and when it's done, it's done. 
My girlfriend can't wait to graduate. For her, graduation means escape from her horrible Alabama life, and I understand that. I hate my Alabama life, too, and I can't wait till I'm old enough to move to Canada. But I wish I could pick up my friends and put them in that Canada life, so I'd never have to let them go. 
And then of course I ran into my only senior friend. I asked her how she was, and she said she was sad. With that smile on her face. I told her she looked nice, because what else can you say? I always feel helpless in that position; too much empathy. 

Damn the bell.

I'm distracted! I've made a lot of headway on my fantasy jury (maybe two fifths of the way done), but I have get within two pages of finished tomorrow or I'm doomed. Hell, I'm doomed now. But I'm also distracted.
I was distracted fifth and sixth, too, so I looked up Audre Lorde literature because my girlfriend was sitting next to me in the library trying to finish a research paper about her. And I found an essay entitled “Erotic as Power.” I have my ideas about sex, and they're fairly conventional Christian standards, though not for religious reasons. I'm not big on sex before marriage, and I'm certainly not comfortable with having sex with more than one person. Sex is just so... intimate, I couldn't imagine giving something like that over and over again to girl after girl after girl... Honestly, I try to prevent myself from imagining sex at all, and I feel ashamed when I don't suceed. Yet I read this essay intently. And I found myself agreeing. 
The basic thesis was that, while Western culture suppresses eroticism (except in its most base forms, like porn), it is by tapping into our true erotic energies that we can find the highest threshold of our happiness and discover our full potential in all that we do. It makes so much sense, because what is eroticism (pure, emotional eroticism) if not the most powerful emotional sensation known to humans? There is no greater connection between humans, and it is our connection to life that creates emotion. If we suppress eroticism, are we not then suppressing the pinnacle of our feelings? And if we do not feel to our greatest ability, how can we live, work, perform to our greatest ability? Furthermore, eroticism is an instinct, an emotion that is at the very root of all that is living. How, then, can we be our full selves when we turn away from that which is at the root of all of us? It isn’t possible, not really.
Does this mean I intend to go out and have sex now? No; I need to become more in-touch with myself before I’m stable enough to share that kind of connection with someone else. Honestly, I still agree with the popular idea that people under twenty probably can't handle sex, no matter who they are or what they've been through. I know I'm not ready yet. It's raw energy, and I can't take that in without something shattering.
Do I intend to have sex in the future? Yes, as a full-being experience shared with another fully engaged woman. 
Do the proposals of Audre Lorde’s essay change my feelings on having sex with more than one person or doing so outside of a marriage or permanent commitment? Uh… 
But I’m thinking, and in ways that I haven’t before. Perhaps the greatest thing I’ve done for myself on this topic is to confirm that I am not ready and why, thus freeing myself to contemplate it without fear. And that is the greatest crime against our erotic emotions: we fear them. There are things we don’t understand, but that’s why we should allow ourselves to think about them, read about them, talk about them, and try to reach an understanding. Understanding is a threshold, a wisdom that should underlie everything we do. Lorde proposes that eroticism is the purest form of understanding, and that, I suppose, is rational because it involves the intimate understanding of two people. It’s all rational, and I think I understand. 
Here’s the rub, then, the thing that still binds me to my one-and-only-one standard: to be with more than one makes each loss hurt more. But that in itself is the essence of mortality, for to be mortal is to suffer. Thus eroticism is the gateway to the height of mortality, because it is the strongest connection possible to something that one will inevitably lose, whether it be the one-and-only or one of many. That pain of loss, that futility of loving, is the one true reason why one should not feel at all. But which is worse? 
The pain never ends, never. I will choose and accept it, because it is the only way to reach the ultimate beauty of things. I will not relinquish the erotic energies endowed to me by my life, for my life.  

Hello. Friday, the day I've been looking forward to for days, happened yesterday. And it was all kattiwumpus. First of all, I was in a skirt, and on top of the fact that skirts are uncomfortable and I hate them, I looked a little weird because the best shoes I had to wear with it were my Converses. Because I looked so... off, I was accused of "making a statement" again. Why does everybody think I dress with a purpose? Why does everyone try so hard to put meaning into everything I do? It's like because I'm supposed to be this smart kid, I must think everything through. I wear clothes to cover myself and because it looks/ feels good to me. My grandmother says it sends messages, but I'm sorry, I don't recieve them, so I don't really understand. Nor do I much care. Anyway, skirts, I hate them because skin of mylegs touches, and it builds up heat, and I hate being hot. Second, my girlfriend was in a dress. While this was absolutely adorable, and she looked fantastic, it was also a little strange because she was so profoundly uncomfortable. 
She was also uncomfortable because we could hear the janitor's keys jingling from our place in the stairwell, and she kept thinking that someone was coming. I knew exactly what the sound was, but I kept tensing with her, anyway. And of course, someone had to come along and confirm her fears that someone was coming into the stairwell; several someones, actually, including Mr. McCurdy, the disiplinarian and bane of my existence as far as keeping my girl comfortable goes. He came by twice, which drove me nuts because he made me out of a liar both times (I'd sworn he wouldn't come through there because of several reasons, all of which proved to be wrong). Even when we were leaving, headed down the academic hallway, he came by yet again and told us to "relax," like somehow we were going crazy. Maybe it was weird, but I couldn't help it; the second he was out of earshot, I snarled at him. My girl thought it was funny, anyway. 
But it wasn't funny. It wasn't fair. She was so scared of anyone seeing us even touching that we could barely function. By the time the third person came though, she was shaking, and I was so angry I almost cried. She kept apologizing, but it's not her fault, it's theirs. Why should we have to worry so much about people seeing us being in love? I thought love was a good thing, but apparently mine isn't. You can't pick and choose, people, that's not the way it works. Love is love, and you deal with it or you don't. Holding that girl in my arms and knowing just that could get us in trouble, that we were subject to more trouble than anyone else. Ugh, I'm not articulating this well. Forget it, just forget it.
We went to dinner with my dad, my aunt, and my grandmother. We'd eaten with my grandmother before and survived, so we figured my dad would be okay, too. My aunt was amazing; she actually decided it'd be better for her to ask permission for me to bring my girlfriend with us to dinner than for me to do it. She's been subject to... to...

God damn it! Why can't I write? My mind, just, won't, focus. The words won't form, not even to think about... about... I don't even know what I'm thinking about. Something's wrong. It feels like, like... nothing. My brain is suddenly a big, heavy nothing. 

*Several hours later*
I ate something and stuck my head under a cold shower, and I managed that way to write a poem and the one page necessary for my chemistry project. I can think now, sort of, but wording this is an effort. Great time to have writer's block, with my juries due next week.  
As long as I don't have to take a cold shower every time I need to get words out. I stood there for a while after I did that, just letting the water from my hair run down my back; I'd never done that before.

I am eroding.
Water rolls down the skin of my back,
carrying molecules of me away
in droplets.
Beads form on the strands of hair 
that hang in front of my face,
and each one that falls brings me particles closer
to bald.
It's like suicide in slow motion,
letting each cell leap, in a water drop, to its death
on the floor.
The invisible bodies, in transparent caskets,
slide under my feet, a funeral procession
toward the drain.
I stand, patient and unmoving,
and dissolve.

Okay, today I recite the Gettysburg address, and then I can finally banish the thng from my head. It's gotten to be one of those things that I've gone over consciously so much that I'n sick of it, like the time I had to sing a song that I loved at a funeral, and I worked on it so hard that I can't stand to hear it anymore, and I haven't sung it since. When I had my first reading, I took pains to make sure I didn't make myself hate the stuff I was working with. Although I did end up quitting the habit of reading my own stuff.
*sigh* My grandmother and Co. are coming to pick me up on Friday. For some reason they want to come to the assembly that we're having, and they want to go to dinner before that, so they're coming to get me at 4:45. That means I only get about an hour and a half with my girlfriend instead of the three hours I was anticipating. Anything's better than nothing, of course, but still... I"m not going to have time with her like this for about three months, and I might not see her at all for two (if I do get to see her over the summer, it'll only be one day). So I take what I can get, but I'll always wish there was a little bit more. 
Of course there would be more if I were a guy. But do I want to go on a LGBT rant right now? Uh... Well... 
I thought, too, about asking if my girl could come to dinner, but that might make my dad and grandmother angry, especially since the last time my sexuality came up we spent about an hour arguing about how I'm so "militant" about it. Apparently the Day of Silence is an "I'm here, I'm queer" statement that is offensive and socially unacceptable. Based on the ideals and many historical documents of this nation, it should be socially unacceptable that I have to give up my right to date openly and without worry just because I like girls. 
I hate America. I really do. Not Americans, per say, because all people are different, but America as a whole, as a foundation, is so hypocritical! Some of the things that go on here are just absurd! For example, yesterday my non-fiction class watched a documentary called "Sicko," which studied the American health care system. Did you know that there are actually people who get paid to review insurance claims to make sure that there aren't any loopholes in the world that would allow the company to retract the payment that they've already made for a person's treatment? And you know about all the protests against socialized medicine, that people wait forever for treatment, that equipment isn't readily available, that doctors don't make any money, and, heaven forbid, you actually have to pay taxes to take care of other people? Yeah, well, the guy who made the film went to Canada and Great Britain; he asked people how long they had to wait for treatment (between ten and forty-five minutes, depending on how crowded; dude, I've sat in waiting rooms for upwards of an hour); he asked how much doctors get paid and how they live (the doc lives in a million-dollar home, and his pay increases if he treats more people; Doesn't that make sense? But American doctors get on the fast track to money by allowing their patients to smoke and denying insurance claims). Then of course he talked to a Canadian man who had been treated for free, and asked why his fellow citizens would tolerate paying for his medical expences with money that they had earned. His answer: "I'd do the same for them." That sounds so... American Dream-ish. Yeah, I'm definately moving to Canada, along with half of my class. Because, dude, they have universal healthcare, I can legally marry, and Canada's never in the news for doing stupid stuff like this country is. 
Yay, no LGBT rants! Just a really long one about American health care (or non-care). 

Now I'm helping a friend take a "Hand-writing personality test." And the bell's about to ring.

So I'm on here with you guys! Anyway... 
Yeah, I'm tired right now. I hate having insomnia; it has no respect for the fact that I actually have to do something with my life during the day. 
Like writing an essay about Mrs. Tew, an absolutely amazing English teacher that I've spent first period with for the last two months. The paper's due Friday, and I sort of know what I want to do, but, I dunno, it just won't come. That happens to me a lot, and it scares me because I wonder if maybe I'll never be able to get anything out and I'll just be one of those writer want-to-be's who talks about writing and how much it means to them but never actually writes anything. I don't think I could handle that; I'd probably pull a Sylvia Plath and stick my head in an oven, except without the classic novel left behind for future generations as a landmark of my existence. 
So, Mrs. Tew...
Ugh. I'd rather talk about Cadence. If I cut a deal and let myself do that really quickly, maybe it'll get me going so hard I won't be able to stop, then I can plow into that essay. Yeah right. But I don't have any other ideas.

Cadence: literary journal published by my school, containing selected works from all of the creative writing students. We got ours today, and it's my first one. I mean, they gave us a complimentary copy of a back issue at the auditions last year, but this one actually has me in it. I have solid, in-print proof that I'm one of these mega-cool people who attends this school. It's a sensation that I can't describe, being part of a group like the one here. And on top of that, I'm in a book. And of course, this was a creative writing function, and creative writing function = food. Good food, mind you, like chocolate poptarts and my best friend's home-made chocolate bonbons. (Yes, the girl makes bonbons. She also makes cookies, quilts, and her own clothes.) Cadence is treated sort of like a year book, so we passed them around and signed, which was fun. The other new girl to the grade declared that we were the Woder Twins, my best friend has dubbed us pill bottle buddies (because we're both on meds for depression), I'm stardustonsable's favorite, and yet another friend called me the perfect straight man. Actually, in the book she protested that, "You know that's not what I meant!" but it struck me as so funny that I used it as my bio (that and the fact that I don't generate many inside jokes or wittisisms). 
The story behind this is that, while my tablemates at lunch love cracking perverted jokes, I almost never get them (Okay, actually here's a confession: I usually do get them, I just block it out because I don't want the understanding to penetrate my true consciousness. And that, my lunch friends, is why you have failed to corrupt me.). Anyway, because I'm so oblivious, I end up spawning a lot of these jokes because I don't understand the implication of what I say. So one time I asked, "Now why is it that I always end up bearing the brunt of these jokes that nobody will ever explain to me?"
And my friend replied, "You're just the perfect straight man!"
Everyone paused for a second, wondering what the fact that I'm a lesbian has to do with anything, then we all exploded in laughter while the girl who said it was hollering, "That's not what I meant! That's not what I meant!"
Anyway...
The sad thing about the party was that today was the last day of classes for seniors, so it was a combination hello to Cadence and good-bye to the upper-classmen. I was startled at one point because a senior called me by name and asked me to sign her book; I'd never had a class with her, I don't know how she knew me. And of course she asked me when I had another book in my lap, so by the time I was able to reach for hers, it had escaped. I saw her in the hall afterward, and, miracle of miracles, I actually mustered the courage to talk to her, if just to say, "Hi, um, I didn't get to..." She finished my sentence and handed me the book. I am redeemed for a small portion of my cowardice by this; the girl actually meant something to me because I absolutely loved her work, but I'd never had the chance to tell her so. I ended up writing, " I can't tell you how much I loved hearing you read. (I could try, but I don't have enough room on the page.)" I felt sheepish, especially since she was standing there waiting for me to finish so she could leave, and I have to write slowly to keep my handwriting under control. But hey, I did it. 
I did not, however, approach the one senior whom I actually know. She must have known I was struggling, that I just didn't have the guts, because she finally put me out of my misery and came to me. I was ashamed, but at least I got it done; if I'd let her get away from me, I never would have forgiven myself. She put in my favorite poem of hers from last semster, called "Why you, the Tin Man, were better off without Dorothy." I apologized for being a cowardly lion. I did okay communicating with her on the page.
Couldn't do it for my girlfriend, though. There just aren't words, are there, I mean what can I say? That I'm thrilled to death that tomorrow is our two-month anniversary, which means that she has out-lasted my pycho ex? That I wish it would hurry up and be Friday already so we could hang out and kiss in the stairwell for hours? That I wish we could do that more than just the sporadic Friday, off in some place where no one can find us? That I... I... I don't even know. I love her. I wrote that. I don't know how to handle the rest of it, everything that that implies. Not in words. It's a scene, one of those cinematic sensations that needs a camera crew and a soundtrack. 
No, stardustonsable, I don't care that this paragraph probably makes you vomit chunks of cuteness all over your keyboard. 

Damn, it's six forty-five. I haven't eaten, nor have I made any headway on my essay.
She's awesome. I asked her why she teaches, and she said it was the awe factor, that occasional moment when the students hit this higher plane of thought and just explode in wonder. I caught glimpses of that, particularly when the three representatives (Odysseus, Phoenix, and Ajax) come to Achilles and try to convince him to return to battle. Mrs. Tew discussed how this was so amazing because none of it appeals to Achilles; he refuses to be part of the Greek system, the lifestyle that demands you do something great or simply disappear as if you never existed at all. He denies every part of his culture, the one thing that was drilled into him since he was a child, choosing a long life of being nobody over a chance at eternal glory earned through nearly instantaneous death. The three representatives sent by Agamemnon are the greatest available, Odysseus the mighty orator and trickster, Phoenix the ancient dude who's important in everything, and Ajax the teammate, but he still ignores them. 
"The thing is, " Mrs. Tew said after proclaiming Achilles's incredible rejection, "What are these three men offering him?"
Blank looks, then she began to check them off on her fingers: "Money and kingship, wisdom and glory, and pretty girls! Now where have we heard that before?"
A small amount of mumbling ensued, then died. Mrs. Tew continued, "Those are the three things that the goddesses offered Paris! Without those three things, there would be no war to begin with!"
And there it was. A dozen ninth-grade minds exploded, and understanding dripped off their chins like the juice of the fruit of knowledge. They got it. 
My brain burst, too, partly because I'd never known that about the Iliad, but mostly just from the sheer wonder that this woman had created. It was palpable, I could taste it. That's not just a reason to teach; that's a reason to live. 
Then of course she would go off on these tangents, like the time she told us all about what goes on during teacher workdays. Meetings, mostly, but the thing is you can tell how bad a meeting is going to be by how good the food is. Granola bars, apples, it's going to be a good day. If there are donuts, you're doomed. 
"It's really a bad sign when they close the doors. Close them and lock them. That, that's just bad."
Or her kids, who are apparently wildly creative. Her son, the eldest, is infatuated with fatasy, and when they go on walks he imagines that there are dragons/ demons/ more book-specific creatures attacking them. He launches into action, conviniently armed with a sword on one side, a light saber on the other, a bow and quiver on his back, and a wand in his back pocket. On one occasion, as they were walking along the public track, the boy on the ground and his younger sister in her mother's arms, the boy shouted, "Look! Dementors!" He pulled out his wand and started dueling, but he got so into it that his sister began to panic. She tried to crawl onto Mrs. Tew's shoulder, screaming, "Save me! Saaaave me!" until a couple of college guys jogged over and asked if they could help with something. 
"I've got it," the son replied darkly, nocking an arrow to his invisible longbow. 
And she never remembered to take attendence. Never. 
It's almost like a hero's cycle, really. She's got the call, the helpers, the trials, the salvation of the world (or at least serious awesomeness that could be equated to such), and the boon. And she was talking about heros the whole time, identifying parts of the hero cycle, traits of the human condition, and everything else Joseph Campbell-ish that was available to her. It's a hero's bi-cycle!
She scared the heck out of me, too. She said I'd be a good teacher. That's on the list of things that I've sworn up and down that I don't want to be. 
I want to do something with my hands, like landscaping. Or something that contiuously engages my consciousness, like... I dunno. I want to be immersed in what I'm doing. But if I do something simple, like running a book store or working for a landscaping company or waiting tables, everyone would be disappointed in me. Everyone thinks I'm so damn special, so smart and amazing, and they expect so much of me... I'm sick of that. If I was stupid, I'd go on strike. 
Anyway... I'd call what I just did making headway. In my head, that stuff I just wrote out equals structure, so I'll get it typed up over the next couple days, then check it over Friday morning or something. Something. I'm so lazy. And so tired.

And so long-winded! My posts are all these epic things that go on and on and on and on...

Now I shall inform you that as compensation for not eating dinner, I have eaten a vast amount of peanuts. I have had this jar of peanuts since August, and for once the ads are honest: the lid says "Famously Fresh," and you wouldn't believe how fresh these nine-month-old peanuts are. 

Tomorrow is the seventh, which means that it is my girl friend's and my two-month anniversary! Technically we've been together four months with a three-week intermission, but let's not go into that. The thing is, it's our anniversary! And I have a present for her, but I can't say what it is yet because she got an account on here yesterday, so I'd give it away if I told now. And I have an impressive record of never telling her what her presents are going to be, even under threat of death, or worse, tickling. I remain victorious. 

Hmm... I think I'm going to poke around here for a while, then go read Terry Pratchett. Ciao!

 Fourscore and seven years ago, our fathers brougth forth on this continent a new nation, concieved in liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.
Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so concieved and so dedicated can long endure. We are met on a great battlefield of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.
But, in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate, cannot consecrate, cannot hallow this ground. Those brave men, living and dead who struggled here have consecrated it far beyond our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note nor long remember what we say here, but it cannot forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated to the unfinished work which...
That's all I got. One and a half sentences left, but the last sentence is a monster. Anyway...

It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated to the unfinished work which those who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated to the unfinished work which those who fought here has thus far so nobly advanced.
It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us-- It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us-- It is rather for us to be dedicated to the great task remaining before us-- 

That from these honored dead we take a greater devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion--? No, that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion.  It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remainiing before us-- that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion-- It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us-- that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion.

It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which those who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us-- that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that couse for which they gave the last full measure of devotion--
 It is for us the living, rather, to be here dedicated to the unfinished work which those who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us-- that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion--

That we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain -- that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain-- that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain--

That from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause to whiche they gave the last full measure of devotion-- that we here highly relove that these dead shall not have died in vain--
that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain--

That this nation, under god, shall have a new birth of freedom-- That this nation, under god, shall have a new birht of freedom

that fromthese honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion-- that we here higly resolve  that these dead shall not have died in vain-- that this nation, under god, shall have a new birth of freedom--

That government of the people, for the people, by the people, shall not perish from the earth?
Of the people, by the people, for the people
of, by, for 
of by for

That we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain-- that this nation, under god, shall have a new birth of freedom-- that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth. 

It is for us the living, rather, to be here dedicated to the unfinished work which those who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is for us rather to be her dedicated to the great task remaining before us-- that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion-- that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain-- that this nation, under god, shall have a new birth of freedom-- that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

It is for us the living, rather, to be here dedicated to the unfinished work which those who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced, It is for us rather to be here dedicated to that great task remaining bfore us-- that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that task for which they gave the last full measure of devotion-- that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain-- that this nation, under god, shall have a new birth of freedom-- that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth. 

Four score and seven years ago, our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, concieved in liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.
Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so concieved and so dedicated can long endure. We are met on a great battlefield of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. 
But, in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow this ground. Those brave men, living and dead, who struggled here have consecrated it far beyond our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note nor long remember what we say here, but it cannot forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be here dedicated to the unfinished work which those who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced, It is for us rather to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us-- that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to the task for which they gave the last full measure of devotion-- that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain-- that this nation, under god, shall have a new birth of freedom-- that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the from the earth.

That's it. And yes, that's kinda how my brain works.

 Hey.
I'm tired; got insomnia last night, couldn't sleep till midnight. However, my girlfriend was up until the same hour and had to get up at four. I shouldn't be complaining. Really, I'm not all that much; I functioned pretty well today, only spacing out once in chemistry. And the actual insomnia was mild as far as my anger about it went. So...

Now I should probably be working on my essay, but I'm thinking that I might cut a deal with myself and say that if I can memorize the Gettysburg address well enough to recite it tomorrow, then I'll let me off for the night. That's all the homework I've got, which is nice. 

I think my roommate went on the van run, which is nice because I don't have to wear headphones anymore. Her music is one thing that can frustrate me sometimes because all it ever talks about is alcohol, sex (in only the most carnal, animalistic, and disrespectful ways), and how the singer's life simply can't go on without the mysterious "you" or "her." Because, yes, all of the singers are male, usually bases, which is another strike against the lot because I prefer women and tenors. Except for the occasional My Chemical Romance song ("Cemetary Drive," "Sleep," "Disenchanted"), there's not a single song I care for, and she's taken to skipping the MCR every time it starts to play and I start to relax. Unfortunately, my music can't really compete with hers when I don the headset because 1. she palys it loud, and 2. I don't like headphones (because of the negative affects on hearing that I have ranted about before), and I refuse to turn my music up any more than necessary for me to make out the lyrics (to the extent that the lyrics can be made out; MCR can be a bit tricky on that score). 

I think I said I wasn't going to complain. Sorry.
Who am I apologizing to? I love how I write this as though someone's really listening. It's as if I've latched onto this system because I feel like I'm genuinely connecting with someone, even though I'm probably not. With all of the subscribers and all of their hundreds of entries, how likely is it that someone will happen to stumble upon mine and actually care? But it still makes me feel like I matter a little bit more. Despite all my non-conformity, I sometimes think I still managed to develop the "Reviving Ophelia" complex. We got an excerpt from that book today in English, and I devoured it. I wish we could read the whole book, because I hate to think that I'm going to go off and read it by myself, then have no one to talk through it with. That's what I love about the guided response assignments in fantasy: I'm saying something that I've really thought through and worded correctly, and someone's going to have that in their hands and be paying attention while they read it. 

I want to write plays more than anything, I think, because my mind functions in such a cinematic way. I conjure up images that can't be properly concocted through the clutter of words, and then there are scenes with distinct images and simultaneous voice-overs, and I'm good at putting scenes to soundtracks. 
Could people think cinematicly before the cinema came about? 

A girl in the dorm just commented as I walked down the hall that it was the first time she'd ever seen me in anything other than long sleves (I'm wearing a camisole because it's hot in here). She's probably never seen my hair pulled up before, either. 
I stepped on one of my roommate's earrings on my way out of the room, and it hurt like heck. Which is a bit of a comfort, actually, because I usually don't feel pain properly. 

Does anyone happen to know the translation of the French song "Aux Champs-Elysees" by Joe Dassin?

Homework. Right.