February 17th, 2008
in media resDecember 18th, 2007
August 18th, 2007
Okay, so I'm incredibly delayed in updating this journal. It's been weeks since my fingers lit up this screen. I hate that. I'm going to check out my friends' journals and see what I've missed, but for right now, let's just note this one steady and strange fact:
I just turned seventeen.
Tara called me at midnight, New York time, and Jess called me at midnight, California time. I grew up in three varied hours across the country and did not break in two. There's a lot to be said for that.
So before I write out an endless summary of my life these days, I'll stop here. I look forward to a real entry later today.
I just turned seventeen.
Tara called me at midnight, New York time, and Jess called me at midnight, California time. I grew up in three varied hours across the country and did not break in two. There's a lot to be said for that.
So before I write out an endless summary of my life these days, I'll stop here. I look forward to a real entry later today.
April 10th, 2007
I spent the day with Liz. I have to say, she's adjusting to the time change well. But I've never before seen her function before eight in the morning, so that was strange to hear. We had lunch in town and just discussed all the weird happenings in and out of the country, town, school, etc. Nine days is a very long time. Or so it would seem.
I'm doing a similar catch-up with Kat tonight. Starbucks and all. Then maybe we'll go to Tara's house. That is, if the idea of a bunch of girls hanging out tonight doesn't make me want to die; just not in the slightest.
It's true. I use a lot of pretty language to dress up the fact that I am sometimes more bemused than happy. Why does that idea flatter and sadden me at once? Probably for the same reason that I'm currently considering myself as being clearly single when I'm really just unsure of my literal status. It's like my knowledge is outweighed by why I know what I know. As if life experience could ever be measured with tape instead of time. I just want this week to get more obvious before it ends.
I stole this, along with numerous realizations, from![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif)
burnlikestars:
Comment and I'll:
1 - Tell you why I friended you.
2 - Associate you with something. A fandom (if applicable), a song, a color, a piece of fruit, etc.
3 - Tell you something I like about you.
4 - Tell you a memory I have of you.
5 - Associate you with a food.
6 - Ask something I've always wanted to know about you. (Or else I'll just ask a random question.)
7 - Tell you my favorite user pic of yours.
8 - In return, you must spread this disease in your LJ. (Optional.)
I'm doing a similar catch-up with Kat tonight. Starbucks and all. Then maybe we'll go to Tara's house. That is, if the idea of a bunch of girls hanging out tonight doesn't make me want to die; just not in the slightest.
It's true. I use a lot of pretty language to dress up the fact that I am sometimes more bemused than happy. Why does that idea flatter and sadden me at once? Probably for the same reason that I'm currently considering myself as being clearly single when I'm really just unsure of my literal status. It's like my knowledge is outweighed by why I know what I know. As if life experience could ever be measured with tape instead of time. I just want this week to get more obvious before it ends.
I stole this, along with numerous realizations, from
burnlikestars:Comment and I'll:
1 - Tell you why I friended you.
2 - Associate you with something. A fandom (if applicable), a song, a color, a piece of fruit, etc.
3 - Tell you something I like about you.
4 - Tell you a memory I have of you.
5 - Associate you with a food.
6 - Ask something I've always wanted to know about you. (Or else I'll just ask a random question.)
7 - Tell you my favorite user pic of yours.
8 - In return, you must spread this disease in your LJ. (Optional.)
tweakedApril 9th, 2007
My white toenails are bright against my sheer skin. It's almost shocking. This week, I'm looking forward to dying my hair a shade darker. Yes?
Everyone should be home from Greece soon. I think I have some explaining to do.
I had breakfast in town with Becca this morning. It's always nice to sit down with her, try to pick apart our lives and note how they intersect when we're so separate. She remains, despite our varying social patterns, one of my favorite friends. But that one commonality, months and ways apart but still similar, makes me uneasy. The past should stay put, you know? And now, armed with new facts, I can't decide if I really buy into this whole theory of guys and girls being just friends. I'd have to agree with Harry. He did always have a thing for Sally. But it's not like she didn't, too. You know she did.
I found the perfect evening bag, hair clips, and ring for my prom ensemble. All but the latter can be found at Blossom, so hopefully Liz can buy them for me with her discount. I have friends in strangely high places.
I ended up talking to my mother about this impending depression. She was bothered by my saying, "I think I just want someone to call me crazy so that I can get some sleep." As I went on to explain, I only mean that labels are much easier to contend with. If someone calls you fat, you can eat less; pale, you can tan; insane, you can medicate; angry, you can mediate; but the unknown is impossibly dark because it bleeds into obscurity. There's no way to call me by my name if I haven't got one. But maybe I'm just having a series of bad days, bending into bad feelings. The day I decided I was depressed was also the day I decided I felt good about myself. That only makes sense if you've ever found yourself down about every little thing before. And more often than not.
She let me in on the sad things, the things she used to only tell me when she couldn't go on without spilling over. At the end, she said, "That's what goes on inside when I let it." And she smiled at me, kind of like she has a million times before. It was the same as it ever was, only better. Reality is not always worse.
Really, I just want that phone call from somewhere else. Especially when it's been promised. And to stop feeling awful about my family and my rank in someone else's life.
I might apply at Ben & Jerry's in town. That is, if they're still hiring for normal hours. Though I wouldn't mind escaping high school days in favor of scooping ice cream.
okayApril 2nd, 2007
I didn't find a dress for prom yesterday. I looked for a while, but then lost the will. I like wearing dresses, buying dresses, and looking at dresses, but I hate trying them on. I just don't have the patience. I'll try again this week, I guess.
I went to the movie theater in town yesterday morning with my mother to see "Reign Over Me" but the times had changed since Saturday, so we just went to Starbucks and talked about moving. Or rather, we talked about her moving. It's become apparent that I can't really consider switching schools for my senior year of high school. So if she were to find a better job elsewhere, I'd have to move around from friend to friend. I wonder if that would work. I know it makes her sad to think about, but it almost seems fitting for me at this point. Not the being alone, but the being on my own. Do they have to mean the same thing?
Last night was tame. I missed my usual witty banter with Kat, the kind we inadvertently save for an audience, all while I was listening - or really, watching - two boys talk on my couch. Something about it was familiar, but kind of scary. Like something was expected of me. And I'm used to being on the receiving end of things, even when they're crap things. Maybe it was the seemingly comfortable scenario. Being comfortable really disturbs me. I would be ashamed to admit that, you know, if I wasn't so used to being strange already.
I don't know why I'm writing this before noon on a Monday. I need to eat something. I've been in such a hurry to waste time lately.
This guy I was mistakenly friendly with, for a good month or so, called me last night and left a subtle, bitter message. It's no surprise that I'm not picking up? Then don't bother. I'm not going to explain myself to someone who only ever wanted what couldn't be explained away. Why attempt to figure me out? I'm not a puzzle, I'm private. And that certainly doesn't mean that I've got space in my head or heart to understand another person's baggage. I choose the people I choose because I'm curious enough to care. I just hold on for as long as I can. I guess that's the best I can do.
I feel like I've been intentionally infected, as if poisoned by opportunity. Can you ever apologize for the future? Rooney made a song for that. I can't plan for that.
This is the first time I've ever wished for a label, a way to throw away any chance of a stray mishap. Thankfully, Leslie's coming home in a couple of days. Is there a difference between missing and loving? Don't look at me like that.
On an unrelated note, Nils and Ryan? A picture worth a thousand words, I suspect.
March 28th, 2007
I don't think you have much faith in me. Yes, this is specific. But the target is not likely to ask, so it's rather irrelevant. I think you're quick to assume that I'll be there for you and that maybe I'll never need you quite like you need me. You're ready to accept my sometimes-sadness, my dark transitions into humor, and my constant swings from hope to apathy and back again, but you seem uneasy about my new circumstances; the way in which I'm dealing with everything. And when you ask how things are, I think you're really only asking about my feelings. But there are times when emotion doesn't even factor into this scenario. These, the days when things are what they appear to be. Isn't that what we're usually striving for? So why are we so careless when we're granted that wish? I can't keep drowning in my own puddle. It's just too pathetic. And unnecessary. I think you've got your hands wrapped around my throat and I'm not stopping you. I don't know why it's not important enough to me. I don't know why it's so important to you. Maybe there is no middle, no medium.
I registered for the May SAT at my high school. I still have to register for the subject tests, though. I can't decide on which ones. I was thinking of history, maybe. I guess I'll take the English one. I don't know that it matters much. These exams are way too expensive, emotionally and otherwise.
Speaking of finances, my prom situation is looking okay. We're taking this giant, allegedly luxurious party bus to and from the place, then we're either going into Manhattan to a comedy club or doing something else entirely. All things considered, it will be a very interesting event. I think I want a dark blue dress, if possible, but I don't know what to do with my hair. God, I hate thinking about these things when there's that one key thing stressing me out about the whole looming night. It just sucks the life out of everything it infects. But I'm probably just being obsessive about something that's resolved enough. That's a lame expression, though. Nothing is ever resolved enough. Not for me, at least. But that's because I'm normally ridiculous.
I have to buy my mother's birthday present tomorrow after school because she has had no ideas and I have had no time. But tomorrow's her birthday. Thinking about it makes me anxious, like I could to eat ice cream and ignore the stomach pains. Or go swimming, even if in the cool air. I don't know how to make our time pass in a regular fashion, as if her almost-unemployment could be minimal. I mean, yes, she'll be fine, we'll be fine. I know she's hoping to keep us here. Part of me is torn, taking hold of my old feelings of desiring desertion. The other part of me is creating that tear, as if judging how far I can go before I come crawling back to myself. There's a war raging inside of me.
I downloaded the new Bright Eyes album, "Four Winds." It's good. Conor is as experimental as ever.
Many of my friends are leaving for Greece next week (a trip offered through our school) and I'm staying here. This town is a strange place. It really is. I wonder when it will truly be rid of me. Which will have outgrown the other?
My nail polish is chipped. I guess I finally look the way I feel.
I registered for the May SAT at my high school. I still have to register for the subject tests, though. I can't decide on which ones. I was thinking of history, maybe. I guess I'll take the English one. I don't know that it matters much. These exams are way too expensive, emotionally and otherwise.
Speaking of finances, my prom situation is looking okay. We're taking this giant, allegedly luxurious party bus to and from the place, then we're either going into Manhattan to a comedy club or doing something else entirely. All things considered, it will be a very interesting event. I think I want a dark blue dress, if possible, but I don't know what to do with my hair. God, I hate thinking about these things when there's that one key thing stressing me out about the whole looming night. It just sucks the life out of everything it infects. But I'm probably just being obsessive about something that's resolved enough. That's a lame expression, though. Nothing is ever resolved enough. Not for me, at least. But that's because I'm normally ridiculous.
I have to buy my mother's birthday present tomorrow after school because she has had no ideas and I have had no time. But tomorrow's her birthday. Thinking about it makes me anxious, like I could to eat ice cream and ignore the stomach pains. Or go swimming, even if in the cool air. I don't know how to make our time pass in a regular fashion, as if her almost-unemployment could be minimal. I mean, yes, she'll be fine, we'll be fine. I know she's hoping to keep us here. Part of me is torn, taking hold of my old feelings of desiring desertion. The other part of me is creating that tear, as if judging how far I can go before I come crawling back to myself. There's a war raging inside of me.
I downloaded the new Bright Eyes album, "Four Winds." It's good. Conor is as experimental as ever.
Many of my friends are leaving for Greece next week (a trip offered through our school) and I'm staying here. This town is a strange place. It really is. I wonder when it will truly be rid of me. Which will have outgrown the other?
My nail polish is chipped. I guess I finally look the way I feel.
wastingMarch 25th, 2007
It's been one of the strangest weekends of my entire life. And that is saying quite a lot, especially for me. I just don't understand the opposite sex. Or drugs. Or this life based on technology and how it can let me down. As if it's never your fault. Like this silver bullet of a communication device could silence itself instead. Yes, of course.
Friday night was mainly a bust. It was spent driving around with Jess, visiting Joe at work, and analyzing the weirdest call I've gotten all month. How is it possible for anyone to get so - excuse the pathetic expression - fucked up that they can't even remember whole parts of an important, legitimate conversation? And how can they play it so straight? I can't even say I feel betrayed, if not solely by my own senses. It's more than I feel sorry for myself, my gender, and all the weed in this planet that's only used to get us up and away from things. I mean, I'm pretty sure that's how I'm feeling about the whole thing.
And then I played this incredibly unhealthy song over and over and over on Saturday, even in the car on our way to see "Gypsy" at the high school. But still, I never expressed any visible emotion because "it would be incredibly queer of me to do so." Actually, it's just occurred to me that I haven't cried at all this weekend. Am I no longer a girl? Jesus, I've totally morphed into Cameron Diaz in that movie. What a nightmare. I must be some frigid, defensive little monster for this lack of sanity. Though, I must say, I'd much rather be angry and frustrated than sad and lost. And even if I am somehow the latter, in some way past my own control, it has yet to sink in. And that's okay for this lingering afternoon.
After the play, I went to the cast party at Allie's house, which was much easier than I'd expected it to be. That sounds a bit bizarre, but it's really because I expected to just drink and dance and keep feeling sad, just fuller. Strangely enough, I talked to a bunch of people I used to live nearer to, and they all remembered my old house and how I'd moved; things I'd forgotten could matter to anyone but me. It was small, but it made me feel more like myself than anyone else.
And then Scott lost my phone outside because he was a drunken fool, so I spent the next hour and a half searching for a now-silent phone. Seriously, who turns off someone's phone and leaves it outside? I bet it was Alex. That bastard. Just kidding. But anyway, Scott found it later and I was saved. I'm pretty sure that was the only time I almost teared up. But not quite. I'm my own worst drought; a dry well. A stupid metaphor for nothing useful. My words are running on empty lately.
Poor David. I think I told him my life story last night, and all because he once told someone I looked like Rory from "Gilmore Girls." And then I think I asked him if he owned David's Bridal. I guess it seemed pretty funny at the time. No, I guess it seemed hysterical at the time. Scott abandoned us, so I slept at Liz's house after Nick dropped us off. I think I told him that my last name was a result of the Holocaust or something. Poor Nick.
This is my new favorite picture. It might explain a few things about me. Nothing good, you know.
I went to the Museum of Modern Art in NYC with my mother today. It was really excellent. I don't quite no why, but this was one of my favorite things there. Maybe it was the description, the clear passion. "The return to origins - before purities were befouled by words. Before the ingrate word makers turned the artists own symbols against him with a what does it mean." Beautiful.
Friday night was mainly a bust. It was spent driving around with Jess, visiting Joe at work, and analyzing the weirdest call I've gotten all month. How is it possible for anyone to get so - excuse the pathetic expression - fucked up that they can't even remember whole parts of an important, legitimate conversation? And how can they play it so straight? I can't even say I feel betrayed, if not solely by my own senses. It's more than I feel sorry for myself, my gender, and all the weed in this planet that's only used to get us up and away from things. I mean, I'm pretty sure that's how I'm feeling about the whole thing.
And then I played this incredibly unhealthy song over and over and over on Saturday, even in the car on our way to see "Gypsy" at the high school. But still, I never expressed any visible emotion because "it would be incredibly queer of me to do so." Actually, it's just occurred to me that I haven't cried at all this weekend. Am I no longer a girl? Jesus, I've totally morphed into Cameron Diaz in that movie. What a nightmare. I must be some frigid, defensive little monster for this lack of sanity. Though, I must say, I'd much rather be angry and frustrated than sad and lost. And even if I am somehow the latter, in some way past my own control, it has yet to sink in. And that's okay for this lingering afternoon.
After the play, I went to the cast party at Allie's house, which was much easier than I'd expected it to be. That sounds a bit bizarre, but it's really because I expected to just drink and dance and keep feeling sad, just fuller. Strangely enough, I talked to a bunch of people I used to live nearer to, and they all remembered my old house and how I'd moved; things I'd forgotten could matter to anyone but me. It was small, but it made me feel more like myself than anyone else.
And then Scott lost my phone outside because he was a drunken fool, so I spent the next hour and a half searching for a now-silent phone. Seriously, who turns off someone's phone and leaves it outside? I bet it was Alex. That bastard. Just kidding. But anyway, Scott found it later and I was saved. I'm pretty sure that was the only time I almost teared up. But not quite. I'm my own worst drought; a dry well. A stupid metaphor for nothing useful. My words are running on empty lately.
Poor David. I think I told him my life story last night, and all because he once told someone I looked like Rory from "Gilmore Girls." And then I think I asked him if he owned David's Bridal. I guess it seemed pretty funny at the time. No, I guess it seemed hysterical at the time. Scott abandoned us, so I slept at Liz's house after Nick dropped us off. I think I told him that my last name was a result of the Holocaust or something. Poor Nick.
This is my new favorite picture. It might explain a few things about me. Nothing good, you know.
I went to the Museum of Modern Art in NYC with my mother today. It was really excellent. I don't quite no why, but this was one of my favorite things there. Maybe it was the description, the clear passion. "The return to origins - before purities were befouled by words. Before the ingrate word makers turned the artists own symbols against him with a what does it mean." Beautiful.
March 20th, 2007
There's a decent chance that I'll be suspended for a day next week. That is, if I don't clear up the fifteen lingering cuts I've been marked for. And they're not all for Math. Actually, about half of them are from those lost two months when I didn't go to Project Adventure. See, it's hatred that makes me miss class, not laziness. I'll probably ask my English teacher to sign off on them, just saying we've been working together during those periods. I can't afford to get suspended. "I'm small and white" was probably not the best thing to tell the attendance women, but it was all I could come up with at the time.
I had my appointment with the college advisor at school and my mother yesterday. It went really well, to my surprise and delight. The advisor's pulling for me to get into Hunter's Honors program in Manhattan. Tuition and housing is free, as is the laptop they'd supply me with. They've got a good writing program. And I wouldn't need to worry about selling my body for food during the week. I think that made my mother happy, too.
Everyone's been talking about prom lately. Understandably so, since it's only two months away. Part of me is excited, while part of me would love nothing more than to freeze time and slice it in half. I don't know where that would leave me, but sometimes it feels better than feeling bad. I do love shopping for dresses, though. I've been thinking about asking my father for a few hundred dollars for the limo and ticket, etc. He never gave me any alleged Christmas cash, so I suppose I'm not terribly far from parental consideration in the daddy department. The other thing I'm wondering about is the other thing I can't keep myself from unleashing in due time. But when is time up? Does it run out, overflow, or stall itself? If so, time sounds a hell of a lot like me.
Target had this three-pack of Hello Kitty candy bracelets that my mother's friend found for me, so I wore one to school today. After watching me bite off a piece of my jewelry, some boy asked if it was candy. I said no and turned away. Sometimes I love this place.
I just typed two more articles for Driver Ed. It's going fairly well, other than the occasional almost-fatal incidents here and there. I don't worry; this old psychic in Mystic once told me that I'd live into my eighties. Good to know, right? I just need to put myself out there that much more. Someone do me a favor and tattoo that last sentence to my forearm. I'll need a heavy reminder for the next few... well, forever, I guess. Shouldn't we always be moving forward?
I've been reading "When I Was Older" a lot lately. I always read it when big things are taking place, or when I feel like I need to know what I'd do, if only I knew myself a tiny bit better. If you've ever wondered how and why I am the way I tend to be, read me as Sophie. And you've pretty much gotten it.
I'm still really scared about my dentist appointment on Thursday afternoon. This thing in the back of my mouth isn't even a cavity. It's more like a chip, or even a hole. It's like trying to define an unknown variable. But I don't have any context clues to go by. Not this time. It doesn't hurt, but it doesn't help. That sounds like an accurate depiction.
You just can't say "love" like it's a slogan, as if it's really going to get you from one place to another. Words are nothing without meaning. And meaning isn't much without the right words. I'm more than a hopeful hypocrite. Am I any worse than what's been done to me? It's disturbing to dream.
I had my appointment with the college advisor at school and my mother yesterday. It went really well, to my surprise and delight. The advisor's pulling for me to get into Hunter's Honors program in Manhattan. Tuition and housing is free, as is the laptop they'd supply me with. They've got a good writing program. And I wouldn't need to worry about selling my body for food during the week. I think that made my mother happy, too.
Everyone's been talking about prom lately. Understandably so, since it's only two months away. Part of me is excited, while part of me would love nothing more than to freeze time and slice it in half. I don't know where that would leave me, but sometimes it feels better than feeling bad. I do love shopping for dresses, though. I've been thinking about asking my father for a few hundred dollars for the limo and ticket, etc. He never gave me any alleged Christmas cash, so I suppose I'm not terribly far from parental consideration in the daddy department. The other thing I'm wondering about is the other thing I can't keep myself from unleashing in due time. But when is time up? Does it run out, overflow, or stall itself? If so, time sounds a hell of a lot like me.
Target had this three-pack of Hello Kitty candy bracelets that my mother's friend found for me, so I wore one to school today. After watching me bite off a piece of my jewelry, some boy asked if it was candy. I said no and turned away. Sometimes I love this place.
I just typed two more articles for Driver Ed. It's going fairly well, other than the occasional almost-fatal incidents here and there. I don't worry; this old psychic in Mystic once told me that I'd live into my eighties. Good to know, right? I just need to put myself out there that much more. Someone do me a favor and tattoo that last sentence to my forearm. I'll need a heavy reminder for the next few... well, forever, I guess. Shouldn't we always be moving forward?
I've been reading "When I Was Older" a lot lately. I always read it when big things are taking place, or when I feel like I need to know what I'd do, if only I knew myself a tiny bit better. If you've ever wondered how and why I am the way I tend to be, read me as Sophie. And you've pretty much gotten it.
I'm still really scared about my dentist appointment on Thursday afternoon. This thing in the back of my mouth isn't even a cavity. It's more like a chip, or even a hole. It's like trying to define an unknown variable. But I don't have any context clues to go by. Not this time. It doesn't hurt, but it doesn't help. That sounds like an accurate depiction.
You just can't say "love" like it's a slogan, as if it's really going to get you from one place to another. Words are nothing without meaning. And meaning isn't much without the right words. I'm more than a hopeful hypocrite. Am I any worse than what's been done to me? It's disturbing to dream.
March 18th, 2007
I slept for a few hours at Liz's house last night. We just kind of crashed while watching MTV about geniuses or something. I think I'd be terribly pleased if my biggest problem was being rejected by Stanford University, don't you think? Some people should be buried alive. And without any kind of underground oxygen. But anyway, I came home and slept until about ten this morning. I was still exhausted for some reason. I haven't been sleeping that well, I guess. I've been shaken by own cynical remorse. Even when nothing's changed, my mind messes with my resolve.
My mother had to give my sister a ride to work this morning, and then lend her the car, because she was caught in the snow by her apartment late last night. I sometimes forget how easy it is to stay silent, like I am when we're in the same space. When I'm not speaking, I'm completely wrapped in quiet. There are times when all I can do is shut my mouth. I guess I knew it was going to be one of those days. And it would have been, had it not been for certain small saving graces.
It must have been one-thirty by the time I realized I hadn't eaten anything. But then I continued to not eat. The idea made me sick. I made these separate but related calls, the second lasting for around thirty-seven minutes. Everything I do is connected to that number, especially lately. I don't know if we create signs or if we just acknowledge their existence. Either way, I can read them even as I'm making them.
Kat came over a few hours ago. She gave me a "Teck Know" mix and we ate pizza while she listened to me lose my mind, and helped me gradually recover and recreate it. Sometimes I feel like I'm dissolving. Like it's happening in bits and pieces, and soon there will be nothing left but this haze of something that used to be tangible. Like I'm surrounded by glass, like I'm being watched by something unreal. As if my opening up is only the result of my breaking down. Have I said this before?
My fingers won't be repeating those digits tonight. I think my brain needs a break from my body. There was a time when I only wanted these parts together. Not so much anymore. I'd just like some unbroken sleep and maybe a little compassion coming from the dial tone. I don't need security half as much as I need a basic concept I can follow. I don't want to get caught in another angry playlist. Is the past only dark because the lights have been turned off? Enough people consider the future "bright." How do you know until you get there? How can you clock a tentative distance? I've been bloodied by life. I'm so young. Why do people kill birds with stones? We're always clipping wings and stamping out life. Why is that?
I wrote a song today. It doesn't have a title, but it's got a bitter end. I suppose we can meet there. But only if there's nowhere else to go.
Maybe I'll go back to sleep now, just like this. Maybe I'll wake up and the night will have escaped and erased me.
My mother had to give my sister a ride to work this morning, and then lend her the car, because she was caught in the snow by her apartment late last night. I sometimes forget how easy it is to stay silent, like I am when we're in the same space. When I'm not speaking, I'm completely wrapped in quiet. There are times when all I can do is shut my mouth. I guess I knew it was going to be one of those days. And it would have been, had it not been for certain small saving graces.
It must have been one-thirty by the time I realized I hadn't eaten anything. But then I continued to not eat. The idea made me sick. I made these separate but related calls, the second lasting for around thirty-seven minutes. Everything I do is connected to that number, especially lately. I don't know if we create signs or if we just acknowledge their existence. Either way, I can read them even as I'm making them.
Kat came over a few hours ago. She gave me a "Teck Know" mix and we ate pizza while she listened to me lose my mind, and helped me gradually recover and recreate it. Sometimes I feel like I'm dissolving. Like it's happening in bits and pieces, and soon there will be nothing left but this haze of something that used to be tangible. Like I'm surrounded by glass, like I'm being watched by something unreal. As if my opening up is only the result of my breaking down. Have I said this before?
My fingers won't be repeating those digits tonight. I think my brain needs a break from my body. There was a time when I only wanted these parts together. Not so much anymore. I'd just like some unbroken sleep and maybe a little compassion coming from the dial tone. I don't need security half as much as I need a basic concept I can follow. I don't want to get caught in another angry playlist. Is the past only dark because the lights have been turned off? Enough people consider the future "bright." How do you know until you get there? How can you clock a tentative distance? I've been bloodied by life. I'm so young. Why do people kill birds with stones? We're always clipping wings and stamping out life. Why is that?
I wrote a song today. It doesn't have a title, but it's got a bitter end. I suppose we can meet there. But only if there's nowhere else to go.
Maybe I'll go back to sleep now, just like this. Maybe I'll wake up and the night will have escaped and erased me.
March 14th, 2007
This song is beautiful. Davey and Jade can still deliver. "Bitter For Sweet" is perfect.
I had my first driving session in two weeks (since I was sick last week) and it went terribly. I felt completely separate from the car. And there was an extra passenger; not that it mattered much. I just couldn't feel the wheel as it worked, and I didn't look in the mirrors or out of the windows or anything at all helpful. And then I almost rammed a car in the road. If it hadn't been for the emergency brake under Rick's foot, I'd probably be dead right now. It was that bad. I'm considerably shaken.
He just looked at me for a few seconds, then said, "Go home, get some sleep. Stressed? Is it a boy? Let me tell you something..." It's nice to know some things never change.
I can't think clearly. It's been a strange couple of days, following a strange couple of months. Things aren't bad, and that's probably the hardest part of this mess. I'm in a place between alert and dismissive. I know that sounds really vague, maybe even stupid, but it fits in my head. Maybe this headache is only the result of an expanding mind. I still don't know about the parade in Manhattan on Saturday. I just don't know if I can afford the trip right now. It's only about twenty dollars, but I don't have a job and I'm still holding my breath for my mother's company; which means our finances as a whole. It sounds like they'll pull through. I just hope the worst doesn't involve an end. In any way, I'm guessing we'll be fine. We've been okay before.
Liz is having her birthday party on Friday. The theme is clear; I have to dress like a guido. I'm considering spandex and a lot of gold. I might do some self-tanner with the others. You know, if the mood strikes.
Is a mistake only a mistake once it's been made? I wonder if doing the right thing will always mean doing the hard thing. Are people consistent?
I want to see "300." I haven't been to a movie in a while. I've always been captivated by the lights, the big screen, and the stadium seating. I also enjoy having good holders for cups. People forget how important those are.
I feel like I'm keeping you in the dark. Yes, I suppose I am. I have been. It's easier to stay evasive and keep looking ahead. I feel like I'm disassociating from the world that I create. I've lied to you, I've lied to myself. And now, caught between the two evils, I'm not sure which is more criminal. You've been in shoes like these before. And when you finally told me a certain reality, I didn't reject it. But I have to doubt that you'd accept these decisions. I value your voice above all others when it comes to this, but I'm worried it won't sound like it does in my own mind. Leave a message I can retrieve without pressing a button. Leave an imprint, not a scar.
I had my first driving session in two weeks (since I was sick last week) and it went terribly. I felt completely separate from the car. And there was an extra passenger; not that it mattered much. I just couldn't feel the wheel as it worked, and I didn't look in the mirrors or out of the windows or anything at all helpful. And then I almost rammed a car in the road. If it hadn't been for the emergency brake under Rick's foot, I'd probably be dead right now. It was that bad. I'm considerably shaken.
He just looked at me for a few seconds, then said, "Go home, get some sleep. Stressed? Is it a boy? Let me tell you something..." It's nice to know some things never change.
I can't think clearly. It's been a strange couple of days, following a strange couple of months. Things aren't bad, and that's probably the hardest part of this mess. I'm in a place between alert and dismissive. I know that sounds really vague, maybe even stupid, but it fits in my head. Maybe this headache is only the result of an expanding mind. I still don't know about the parade in Manhattan on Saturday. I just don't know if I can afford the trip right now. It's only about twenty dollars, but I don't have a job and I'm still holding my breath for my mother's company; which means our finances as a whole. It sounds like they'll pull through. I just hope the worst doesn't involve an end. In any way, I'm guessing we'll be fine. We've been okay before.
Liz is having her birthday party on Friday. The theme is clear; I have to dress like a guido. I'm considering spandex and a lot of gold. I might do some self-tanner with the others. You know, if the mood strikes.
Is a mistake only a mistake once it's been made? I wonder if doing the right thing will always mean doing the hard thing. Are people consistent?
I want to see "300." I haven't been to a movie in a while. I've always been captivated by the lights, the big screen, and the stadium seating. I also enjoy having good holders for cups. People forget how important those are.
I feel like I'm keeping you in the dark. Yes, I suppose I am. I have been. It's easier to stay evasive and keep looking ahead. I feel like I'm disassociating from the world that I create. I've lied to you, I've lied to myself. And now, caught between the two evils, I'm not sure which is more criminal. You've been in shoes like these before. And when you finally told me a certain reality, I didn't reject it. But I have to doubt that you'd accept these decisions. I value your voice above all others when it comes to this, but I'm worried it won't sound like it does in my own mind. Leave a message I can retrieve without pressing a button. Leave an imprint, not a scar.
March 11th, 2007
We set the clocks forward an hour and I still feel behind in the present. My mother just finished reading this novel, "Back When We Were Grownups," and she suggested, like Rebecca had considered, that perhaps this was not my "true life." I could only agree, certainly thinking I'd stumbled upon this ship of fools by mistake. She wanted me to go to our town's St. Patrick's Day parade with her, so I did. I forgot to wear green and all I talked about was scoring a beer. I think I may have actually used that phrase. I used to have this spirit, I think. I used to really want to be a part of these silly, area-specific traditions, thinking it would fill a void I'd accumulated over time. But now, I guess I'm just waiting to leave. It makes me feel pretentious and weighty, and more than a little misplaced. Everything feels accidental. I have this sneaking suspicion that I was never meant to be here. Maybe I was meant for something else entirely.
Leslie went back to Binghamton. I almost wish I'd gone with her.
So I stood in the sun for a few surprisingly cold hours, and then we ran into Liz's mother. Liz was working (and I bought a green headband from the store so as to avoid protective locals), so the three of us went to Finley's for a few drinks. We sat in the bar, listened to the bagpipes and the drunken crowds, and I had a beer that didn't make me feel much better about anything but my empty stomach. But it was nice to see the town come alive for this rather vulgar holiday. I just didn't feel connected. And it's not the age. And it's not the drinking and the Irish and the colors and the saving daylight. It's me. I guess it's as simple as that, and equally as complicated.
Liz gave our numbers to some guys. Or at least an attempt was made. She kind of shoved the napkins into their pockets and said it had been nice to meet them. It was really pretty funny. But I saw this pierced one on the way out. He waved. It was nice. And nicer than it might have been, had I been aware of my newly standardized emotions. Is that the right word? I don't care.
I think I'm going to tell Jess not to drive me to school anymore. She was working at Rockfish (the restaurant part of Finley's) and she talked to me like I was anyone else with a pulse. I have no good reason for keeping her close, other than for the convenience. And possibly the familiarity. But when have I ever voluntarily clung to anything familiar? And for comfort, no less. It makes little sense to me. It's time to cut the rope. It reminds me that I have to return her birthday gift. She already has a version of the necklace I bought her. I should have figured. That's certainly some kind of sign.
I want to write this story called "Palm Sundae." It's about this ice cream parlor in Florida that everyone mistakes for having something to do with religion. There's a girl working there that wants to enjoy other people, but doesn't. Somehow the store changes lives. I don't know why. I mean, I don't really think any dairy product has ever made my life any better or worse. Anyway, I thought of it while I was driving past some school's tennis courts today. I think I was thinking about some kind of higher being. I don't think I believe like I could. I don't know if I want to believe like I've learned to.
I don't like Davey Havok being this friendly with Jeffree Star. They're supposed to be different. The word "commercialized" comes to mind, but quickly erases itself. Maybe it's the hoodies. Or, you know, everything else.
I'm disappointed. I thought I'd struck a balance, but I'd only struck a chord. Or perhaps a nerve.
I want to go home. Invite me back to your place. I don't care if you've only got a suitcase.
Leslie went back to Binghamton. I almost wish I'd gone with her.
So I stood in the sun for a few surprisingly cold hours, and then we ran into Liz's mother. Liz was working (and I bought a green headband from the store so as to avoid protective locals), so the three of us went to Finley's for a few drinks. We sat in the bar, listened to the bagpipes and the drunken crowds, and I had a beer that didn't make me feel much better about anything but my empty stomach. But it was nice to see the town come alive for this rather vulgar holiday. I just didn't feel connected. And it's not the age. And it's not the drinking and the Irish and the colors and the saving daylight. It's me. I guess it's as simple as that, and equally as complicated.
Liz gave our numbers to some guys. Or at least an attempt was made. She kind of shoved the napkins into their pockets and said it had been nice to meet them. It was really pretty funny. But I saw this pierced one on the way out. He waved. It was nice. And nicer than it might have been, had I been aware of my newly standardized emotions. Is that the right word? I don't care.
I think I'm going to tell Jess not to drive me to school anymore. She was working at Rockfish (the restaurant part of Finley's) and she talked to me like I was anyone else with a pulse. I have no good reason for keeping her close, other than for the convenience. And possibly the familiarity. But when have I ever voluntarily clung to anything familiar? And for comfort, no less. It makes little sense to me. It's time to cut the rope. It reminds me that I have to return her birthday gift. She already has a version of the necklace I bought her. I should have figured. That's certainly some kind of sign.
I want to write this story called "Palm Sundae." It's about this ice cream parlor in Florida that everyone mistakes for having something to do with religion. There's a girl working there that wants to enjoy other people, but doesn't. Somehow the store changes lives. I don't know why. I mean, I don't really think any dairy product has ever made my life any better or worse. Anyway, I thought of it while I was driving past some school's tennis courts today. I think I was thinking about some kind of higher being. I don't think I believe like I could. I don't know if I want to believe like I've learned to.
I don't like Davey Havok being this friendly with Jeffree Star. They're supposed to be different. The word "commercialized" comes to mind, but quickly erases itself. Maybe it's the hoodies. Or, you know, everything else.
I'm disappointed. I thought I'd struck a balance, but I'd only struck a chord. Or perhaps a nerve.
I want to go home. Invite me back to your place. I don't care if you've only got a suitcase.
( The lion in me. )
March 9th, 2007
You know when people say, "It's been a summer," and you can only ever vomit or empathize? There's not much room for a neutral response, not like that. Not when you know there's something epic looming behind the exasperation. But even so, I want to say that it's been a week. Only, when I say it here and now, I want it to sound as dramatic as it feels. Like you've just watched Mandy Moore die in a movie and you're feeling sorry for her adolescent husband. Like you've spent an evening alone by the telephone. Like you've raided the refrigerator and still don't feel any lighter. As if shopping for the right shoes equated to getting a perfect score on a placement exam.
My nails have been bare all week. It's only adding to this tentative depression. I'll color them white tomorrow. Is that the absence of all color or the presence of all color? I can never remember. Mr. Potter restored my faith in art today. It's too bad that I'll never have him in high school because he's the Ceramics teacher. It's such a waste of his capacity, in my opinion. He showed us his portfolio, and things that his grandmother had done in art school, things like textile designs and thumbnails of ornate boxes. They were beautiful and kind of reminded of my great-grandmother's paintings. She was very French. I think that came across heavily in her work. She's where I get my middle name. And obviously some ethnic havoc. (I almost spelled that last word wrong. Don't ask about that one.)
I haven't really written much lately. Not anything real or important to me. I'm flattered when I'm called a writer, or when I'm asked to edit or improvise or something for someone else. But part of me feels like I'm wearing a mask that was designed for me, and perhaps by me. It's made to fit and be, but isn't quite right. At least not all of the time. I wish I could have a year with a pen, just to sit and stare at nothing until I could only think in phrases fit for a page. You could hang out with me and we could play music and eat peanut butter and jelly every morning. That's a nice notion. Until then, I'll settle for this space.
My research paper for my English class is on tattoo culture. My teacher laughed when I suggested the subject, and it was clearly because of my delicate appearance. His somewhat close-minded reaction is almost too relevant, especially since part of the reason I chose this topic was to bring this taboo practice to an average light. Bands, whores, and bikers do it, so why not the rest of us? I don't see what's so wrong about someone like me choosing their own skin. And other than that, I suppose I'll address treatment, the actual tattooing process, and the origin of the art. I've already learned more than I ever wanted to about permanent makeup. Don't even get me started.
In other news, my mother bought me a Hello Kitty humidifier today. It's adorable and will keep my nose from betraying the rest of me. Erin received my present and Kristen made use of my absurd language skills. Those two make me feel better about a whole hell of a lot. I'd say it's about time for some more moving and shaking. I need a catalyst.
My nails have been bare all week. It's only adding to this tentative depression. I'll color them white tomorrow. Is that the absence of all color or the presence of all color? I can never remember. Mr. Potter restored my faith in art today. It's too bad that I'll never have him in high school because he's the Ceramics teacher. It's such a waste of his capacity, in my opinion. He showed us his portfolio, and things that his grandmother had done in art school, things like textile designs and thumbnails of ornate boxes. They were beautiful and kind of reminded of my great-grandmother's paintings. She was very French. I think that came across heavily in her work. She's where I get my middle name. And obviously some ethnic havoc. (I almost spelled that last word wrong. Don't ask about that one.)
I haven't really written much lately. Not anything real or important to me. I'm flattered when I'm called a writer, or when I'm asked to edit or improvise or something for someone else. But part of me feels like I'm wearing a mask that was designed for me, and perhaps by me. It's made to fit and be, but isn't quite right. At least not all of the time. I wish I could have a year with a pen, just to sit and stare at nothing until I could only think in phrases fit for a page. You could hang out with me and we could play music and eat peanut butter and jelly every morning. That's a nice notion. Until then, I'll settle for this space.
My research paper for my English class is on tattoo culture. My teacher laughed when I suggested the subject, and it was clearly because of my delicate appearance. His somewhat close-minded reaction is almost too relevant, especially since part of the reason I chose this topic was to bring this taboo practice to an average light. Bands, whores, and bikers do it, so why not the rest of us? I don't see what's so wrong about someone like me choosing their own skin. And other than that, I suppose I'll address treatment, the actual tattooing process, and the origin of the art. I've already learned more than I ever wanted to about permanent makeup. Don't even get me started.
In other news, my mother bought me a Hello Kitty humidifier today. It's adorable and will keep my nose from betraying the rest of me. Erin received my present and Kristen made use of my absurd language skills. Those two make me feel better about a whole hell of a lot. I'd say it's about time for some more moving and shaking. I need a catalyst.
February 26th, 2007
Today was exceptionally strange. In fact, it was that brand of bizarre that movies are made of. Oddly enough, it snowed through last night. I awoke to two, maybe four, inches of snow (I'd know, had I been awkwardly carrying a ruler) and a two-hour delayed start at school. Yeah, leave it to my high school to keep the doors open at any and all costs. So I stayed home. I just couldn't go back, not yet.
I actually watched an hour of Dane Cook's HBO special. I never wanted to like him, largely because he always appeared to be simply physical comedy, and I don't really go for that kind of limit. I'm more for a mental humor, if I had to choose, I guess. But I digress; it was really funny. It was okay, looking like a mess and watching a stranger tell me how to make the best of a bad lie. I'm not sure if I grew or regressed in that hour. "Both, always both." Why not?
Other than that, I really just wrote some articles about more local car crashes for Driver Ed. My personal favorite is about this guy who used an inflatable dummy as a passenger so he could ride in the HOV lane. Evidently, he was caught. Go figure.
I downloaded AFI's cover of "Ziggy Stardust" and listened to it more times than is healthy. I also listened to the fantastic tracks I got from Courtney (burnlikestars) and more of Life Less Lived: The Gothic Box. I think it was a comfortably dark day. That's a strange thought, isn't it?
Concerts I'm currently looking forward to (you know, as if I have a way to pay for tickets): The Killers (April), Guster (April), Voxtrot (June), Thursday (March), and Anti-Flag with The Explosion and Alexisonfire (March). I'm kind of bummed that I can't see John Mayer, Xiu Xiu, or The Police. And more, and more. Music never seems to burn itself out. I'm burned out. My back is killing me since shoveling the driveway this afternoon. It's times like these that I almost wished I lived with a man. I mean, very nearly.
I finally need a job. Babysitting gigs have been less and less frequent. I'm too young for the right jobs, and too picky for the wrong jobs. It's all conditional, I guess. Someday, I will fit. Those words sound vacant when said aloud.
I came up with the best concept for a story (a novel, if I'm being arrogant) today. Don't even ask how. I couldn't tell you any more than I could tell myself. It's called "There May Be Cake."
I don't understand how sometimes, and only sometimes, the good can be so awful, and the terrible can be so great. On another note, personality is hard to come by, so why copy someone else? Why is it so hard to be as loved as you are lovely? Please tell me if you've got answers to these weighty questions. I'd write them down and keep them close. I've got drops in my ears right now so I can't hear my phone ringing or the voice mail I'll be stuck with when I next wake up.
Let the mourners through. "We'll carry on." If it continues to snow, I'll be here. California dreaming never made me so sad.
I actually watched an hour of Dane Cook's HBO special. I never wanted to like him, largely because he always appeared to be simply physical comedy, and I don't really go for that kind of limit. I'm more for a mental humor, if I had to choose, I guess. But I digress; it was really funny. It was okay, looking like a mess and watching a stranger tell me how to make the best of a bad lie. I'm not sure if I grew or regressed in that hour. "Both, always both." Why not?
Other than that, I really just wrote some articles about more local car crashes for Driver Ed. My personal favorite is about this guy who used an inflatable dummy as a passenger so he could ride in the HOV lane. Evidently, he was caught. Go figure.
I downloaded AFI's cover of "Ziggy Stardust" and listened to it more times than is healthy. I also listened to the fantastic tracks I got from Courtney (
burnlikestars) and more of Life Less Lived: The Gothic Box. I think it was a comfortably dark day. That's a strange thought, isn't it? Concerts I'm currently looking forward to (you know, as if I have a way to pay for tickets): The Killers (April), Guster (April), Voxtrot (June), Thursday (March), and Anti-Flag with The Explosion and Alexisonfire (March). I'm kind of bummed that I can't see John Mayer, Xiu Xiu, or The Police. And more, and more. Music never seems to burn itself out. I'm burned out. My back is killing me since shoveling the driveway this afternoon. It's times like these that I almost wished I lived with a man. I mean, very nearly.
I finally need a job. Babysitting gigs have been less and less frequent. I'm too young for the right jobs, and too picky for the wrong jobs. It's all conditional, I guess. Someday, I will fit. Those words sound vacant when said aloud.
I came up with the best concept for a story (a novel, if I'm being arrogant) today. Don't even ask how. I couldn't tell you any more than I could tell myself. It's called "There May Be Cake."
I don't understand how sometimes, and only sometimes, the good can be so awful, and the terrible can be so great. On another note, personality is hard to come by, so why copy someone else? Why is it so hard to be as loved as you are lovely? Please tell me if you've got answers to these weighty questions. I'd write them down and keep them close. I've got drops in my ears right now so I can't hear my phone ringing or the voice mail I'll be stuck with when I next wake up.
Let the mourners through. "We'll carry on." If it continues to snow, I'll be here. California dreaming never made me so sad.
dryFebruary 24th, 2007
Blaqk Audio's profile got swamped overnight. I mean, it's only been around for two days. Mayhem, right? And there's a fan profile on top of that. That's what I call dedication. Or insanity. Or, okay, dedicated insanity.
I haven't done any of the work I've been assigned for over the vacation, even though this week is nearing the end. I guess I'll do it all tomorrow, as usual. I've been busy not being busy. I want to say it's been an enlightening time in my life. But seven days is hardly enough time to keep me from losing my mind, let alone gaining control of it. I've talked to my mother about a lot. She's been good at helping me through the hard, tangible things. Though she can't fight the raging battles in my head, she can help me to quiet the basic storm. It's pretty loud in there, especially when I've got my iTunes on shuffle.
I'm going to listen to everyone better this time around. I can't keep things going the way they've been going, since I can't juggle and I can't pack enough people in boxes to merit leaving. Kaycee, you told me that I should turn my journal entries into a novel. I don't know if you remember that, but I do. And it's been floating around in my mind for a while now. So, why not? I don't have anything more to lose than what's already been lost. Pride means nothing. And even when I don't totally believe that, I know it's got to be true. I've got an absent father and an estranged sister and two hands that type more often than they grip textbooks. I think I could do something with that.
I have to ship my gift to Erin. It's been sitting in my room for a while now. We'll call it a belated holiday-birthday-life present, okay? I think there should be a national gift-giving holiday. You know, as if Jehovah's Witnesses don't already have reason enough to complain.
There was this incredibly bald man in town today. Something about the way his head shined (as if on purpose) was so funny. I was having a really intense laugh when he turned around to stare at me. I didn't even try to stop laughing. I've been having that kind of desperate series of laughter a lot lately. I think it's because I've been so bummed that, when dealt anything even the tiniest bit funny, I tend to have these spasmodic reactions. People tell me it's quite a comedic experience to just watch me have at this.
I think I might request an affiliation with Hot Topic soon. If and when I do, you can help me out by buying from them through a link I'd post in my user info. I hope that sounds good.
I tried on Andrea's prom dress from senior year. It fit me perfectly. I'm pretty sure it's a sign that I, too, am the damned. Queen of the Damned, perhaps? It's something like being Queen of the Internet, just with less spam involved.
Dictionary.com's word of the day is "hardscrabble." It means "yielding a bare or meager living with great labor or difficulty." Thank you, America.
EDIT: I really want a Gloomy Bear like this.
I haven't done any of the work I've been assigned for over the vacation, even though this week is nearing the end. I guess I'll do it all tomorrow, as usual. I've been busy not being busy. I want to say it's been an enlightening time in my life. But seven days is hardly enough time to keep me from losing my mind, let alone gaining control of it. I've talked to my mother about a lot. She's been good at helping me through the hard, tangible things. Though she can't fight the raging battles in my head, she can help me to quiet the basic storm. It's pretty loud in there, especially when I've got my iTunes on shuffle.
I'm going to listen to everyone better this time around. I can't keep things going the way they've been going, since I can't juggle and I can't pack enough people in boxes to merit leaving. Kaycee, you told me that I should turn my journal entries into a novel. I don't know if you remember that, but I do. And it's been floating around in my mind for a while now. So, why not? I don't have anything more to lose than what's already been lost. Pride means nothing. And even when I don't totally believe that, I know it's got to be true. I've got an absent father and an estranged sister and two hands that type more often than they grip textbooks. I think I could do something with that.
I have to ship my gift to Erin. It's been sitting in my room for a while now. We'll call it a belated holiday-birthday-life present, okay? I think there should be a national gift-giving holiday. You know, as if Jehovah's Witnesses don't already have reason enough to complain.
There was this incredibly bald man in town today. Something about the way his head shined (as if on purpose) was so funny. I was having a really intense laugh when he turned around to stare at me. I didn't even try to stop laughing. I've been having that kind of desperate series of laughter a lot lately. I think it's because I've been so bummed that, when dealt anything even the tiniest bit funny, I tend to have these spasmodic reactions. People tell me it's quite a comedic experience to just watch me have at this.
I think I might request an affiliation with Hot Topic soon. If and when I do, you can help me out by buying from them through a link I'd post in my user info. I hope that sounds good.
I tried on Andrea's prom dress from senior year. It fit me perfectly. I'm pretty sure it's a sign that I, too, am the damned. Queen of the Damned, perhaps? It's something like being Queen of the Internet, just with less spam involved.
Dictionary.com's word of the day is "hardscrabble." It means "yielding a bare or meager living with great labor or difficulty." Thank you, America.
EDIT: I really want a Gloomy Bear like this.
February 22nd, 2007
This week is really very vacant. I'd almost rather be in school. Don't worry, I'm not that insane. At least not yet. It's just that everyone in town is away, and I can only watch Jared Leto on Fuse so many times in a row. That, and actually walk around in the snow. I miss the idea of being elsewhere. I miss the idea of wanting to be here.
Is it possible for two people to need the same thing?
I haven't written in a few days. I've been singing, though. I don't know if one is more powerful as far as determination goes. Maybe there's a tie in my heart of hearts. I'd say it's too early to tell, but I've been unsure of my passions for years. The pleasure is not the same without the pain. I'm like dark chocolate - bittersweet. I think I've said that before.
I have a dentist appointment in about an hour. I have this chipped-cavity thing in the back of my mouth that doesn't really seem to bother me, but isn't really helping me either. I'm afraid. I can't stop the feeling from shaking me. I'm told that, without treatment, this space in my tooth will eat away at its own remains, so I'm having it fixed. Isn't that disturbing? Do we always harm what sustains us? I always select a certain song to repeat for the drilling process, but I can't decide. I'm sad. Is there a song that's been invented for this moment?
I don't know what I want from anything anymore. And on top of everything, I have no money. I've been dodging calls from the wrong boy all week. I don't know what I'm supposed to say to keep myself safe and sound, both things that I value because they're not mine. I know I want to yell and throw things, break them into tiny pieces. I want to hear the sounds of glass breaking, the earth shaking, and movements slowing down around me - because of me. I'd like that much control back.
Is it possible for two people to need the same thing?
I haven't written in a few days. I've been singing, though. I don't know if one is more powerful as far as determination goes. Maybe there's a tie in my heart of hearts. I'd say it's too early to tell, but I've been unsure of my passions for years. The pleasure is not the same without the pain. I'm like dark chocolate - bittersweet. I think I've said that before.
I have a dentist appointment in about an hour. I have this chipped-cavity thing in the back of my mouth that doesn't really seem to bother me, but isn't really helping me either. I'm afraid. I can't stop the feeling from shaking me. I'm told that, without treatment, this space in my tooth will eat away at its own remains, so I'm having it fixed. Isn't that disturbing? Do we always harm what sustains us? I always select a certain song to repeat for the drilling process, but I can't decide. I'm sad. Is there a song that's been invented for this moment?
I don't know what I want from anything anymore. And on top of everything, I have no money. I've been dodging calls from the wrong boy all week. I don't know what I'm supposed to say to keep myself safe and sound, both things that I value because they're not mine. I know I want to yell and throw things, break them into tiny pieces. I want to hear the sounds of glass breaking, the earth shaking, and movements slowing down around me - because of me. I'd like that much control back.
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February 19th, 2007
It looks like AFI-related things are heating back up. I do love this time of year. I'm glad to have some escape, even if it's only three hours in a darkened room with hundreds of strangers crowding around one group of four. Because, you know, that's never all it is. I hope they announce New York venues soon. It's been less than a year since this change began - for me, at least. I've gained more people than I've lost in that time. I suppose you could call that progress.
On Friday Night, I celebrated Anna Nicole Smith with some of my friends. Well, not really, considering we couldn't find the right movie and none of us have synthetic breasts. But close enough. It was good to get away from the situations I've manifested with the wrongs boys and the right opportunities. Sometimes I can only feel better by wearing my Hello Kitty necklace, dancing, and pretending that every song is "my song." And they all are, aren't they? I can't write songs. I'm blocked by something I can't define.
I've been writing "Stars in Hell" consistently enough. I'll be adding more soon. I really like something about it.
I'm feeling vindictive enough to - metaphorically - sneak into that dreadful boy's bedroom, cut off bits of his hair, and put them in his mailbox with an anonymous note. It would be really funny if it wasn't so disturbing. I need some kind of vindication, though. And you know I can get ruthless. Especially before breakfast. Speaking of which, I'd really like my French toast right about now. I tried the new Tazo Chai Latte Bar at Starbucks yesterday morning and fell in love all over again. They've finally invented a pastry to mesh with my Soy Chai Latte. I don't care if I'm not feeling very "fuck the establishment." It's just too good to pass up. My mother calls it "Fourbucks," and for good reason. She should know; she periodically spends my potential college tuition there.
If Kat's family will allow - since they'll already be in Manhattan for visiting colleges, etc. - we'll go see The Matches (with I Am Ghost, Escape the Fate, and The Higher, I think) tomorrow night. They're playing at the Bowery Ballroom.
Erin, you've got to listen to "Eryn Smith" by The Matches. It's my new song for you. My town, your name; good times.
I felt like I needed a very distinct, yet seemingly subtle change. (That sounds wildly contradicting, but it's not really.) So of course, I went out and bought new nail polish. I usually stick to my red-black-Wicked rotation, and it works pretty well. But it's a hot pink kind of week. And there you have it. This is something akin to a breakdown.
I think I'm better without the thinking about every little detail. If possible, I'd like to divide my thoughts into three categories: past, present, and future. It will never keep me from mixing entirely, but it's a start. I am not myself without my actions. Thoughts come second; it's about the effect. There can be no aftermath without a subtraction or two, right?
Anyway, I have to go feed Peanut before she actually whines her face off. I'm sure it's plausible.
On Friday Night, I celebrated Anna Nicole Smith with some of my friends. Well, not really, considering we couldn't find the right movie and none of us have synthetic breasts. But close enough. It was good to get away from the situations I've manifested with the wrongs boys and the right opportunities. Sometimes I can only feel better by wearing my Hello Kitty necklace, dancing, and pretending that every song is "my song." And they all are, aren't they? I can't write songs. I'm blocked by something I can't define.
I've been writing "Stars in Hell" consistently enough. I'll be adding more soon. I really like something about it.
I'm feeling vindictive enough to - metaphorically - sneak into that dreadful boy's bedroom, cut off bits of his hair, and put them in his mailbox with an anonymous note. It would be really funny if it wasn't so disturbing. I need some kind of vindication, though. And you know I can get ruthless. Especially before breakfast. Speaking of which, I'd really like my French toast right about now. I tried the new Tazo Chai Latte Bar at Starbucks yesterday morning and fell in love all over again. They've finally invented a pastry to mesh with my Soy Chai Latte. I don't care if I'm not feeling very "fuck the establishment." It's just too good to pass up. My mother calls it "Fourbucks," and for good reason. She should know; she periodically spends my potential college tuition there.
If Kat's family will allow - since they'll already be in Manhattan for visiting colleges, etc. - we'll go see The Matches (with I Am Ghost, Escape the Fate, and The Higher, I think) tomorrow night. They're playing at the Bowery Ballroom.
Erin, you've got to listen to "Eryn Smith" by The Matches. It's my new song for you. My town, your name; good times.
I felt like I needed a very distinct, yet seemingly subtle change. (That sounds wildly contradicting, but it's not really.) So of course, I went out and bought new nail polish. I usually stick to my red-black-Wicked rotation, and it works pretty well. But it's a hot pink kind of week. And there you have it. This is something akin to a breakdown.
I think I'm better without the thinking about every little detail. If possible, I'd like to divide my thoughts into three categories: past, present, and future. It will never keep me from mixing entirely, but it's a start. I am not myself without my actions. Thoughts come second; it's about the effect. There can be no aftermath without a subtraction or two, right?
Anyway, I have to go feed Peanut before she actually whines her face off. I'm sure it's plausible.
February 17th, 2007
A certain bastard that I used to be quite friendly with was recently unfriendly enough to spread some ghastly rumor about me. Let's get something straight: I have never ever even feigned interest in this specific boy that I'd recently befriended. He has a bad reputation that I was willing to overlook for some time. Unfortunately, he lived up to his unspoken word. That's not my fault. For the first time in a long time, my letting someone in was a pure attempt. And it bit me - violently, no less - in the ass. I don't understand some of these people. Let's get together and beat Jiordan so far into the ground that she'll never recover. Thanks for the effort, guys. Yes, that sounds rather fantastic. I can't wait for the years that will follow the next year and a half. I'm going to dye my hair pink, get inked, and move around. If you don't like it, you can ignore the transition. It won't make any of it any less obvious.
I don't know if I know you, but you know me. That is a sentence that I will never confirm nor deny, if and when I am asked to define my past realizations. What is it that you even like about me? I'm having a small crisis in one side of my brain, just in thinking that the end is wrapping itself around the beginning of my life. Has it always been this way? When was this plan imagined? I'm no one from nowhere and nothing at all. Does that ever sound familiar? Can you identify?
I'm sick of being in Huntington. There, I've said it. The throngs of girls in spandex and the groups of boys in baggy pants can hate me for betraying my history, but I refuse to be a part of their future. I'm not like them. I'm not even like myself. I swear I've become so inside-of-myself that I'm only ever real in my own mind; a legend in her own mind.
The ice is starting to break apart and melt underneath a still-chilled sun. And just as I'm beginning to warm up to this bitter state of mind, my consistency with nature is undoing itself. I feel like I can't count on anything anymore. Can I count on you? I can number my stars on two hands. It could be worse, I suppose. I just don't know how, exactly.
My nail polish is looking pretty awful right about now, so I guess it's time for a change. I would go for black, but I'm tired of feeding the beast inside. I'd rather starve my cold, my frozen disposition, than settle for comfort in an uncomfortable position. What's so great about being alone? I can't even remember.
I wish I had the money to find my way to you. Would you be willing to let me stay? This might be your last chance to just go.
I don't know if I know you, but you know me. That is a sentence that I will never confirm nor deny, if and when I am asked to define my past realizations. What is it that you even like about me? I'm having a small crisis in one side of my brain, just in thinking that the end is wrapping itself around the beginning of my life. Has it always been this way? When was this plan imagined? I'm no one from nowhere and nothing at all. Does that ever sound familiar? Can you identify?
I'm sick of being in Huntington. There, I've said it. The throngs of girls in spandex and the groups of boys in baggy pants can hate me for betraying my history, but I refuse to be a part of their future. I'm not like them. I'm not even like myself. I swear I've become so inside-of-myself that I'm only ever real in my own mind; a legend in her own mind.
The ice is starting to break apart and melt underneath a still-chilled sun. And just as I'm beginning to warm up to this bitter state of mind, my consistency with nature is undoing itself. I feel like I can't count on anything anymore. Can I count on you? I can number my stars on two hands. It could be worse, I suppose. I just don't know how, exactly.
My nail polish is looking pretty awful right about now, so I guess it's time for a change. I would go for black, but I'm tired of feeding the beast inside. I'd rather starve my cold, my frozen disposition, than settle for comfort in an uncomfortable position. What's so great about being alone? I can't even remember.
I wish I had the money to find my way to you. Would you be willing to let me stay? This might be your last chance to just go.
February 3rd, 2007
It would be easy to say that I am angry because I did not get what I wanted. Or that I will not get what I want. Or that I decided that what I wanted wasn't really what I wanted after everything was said and done. But all of that is no good, as it's largely irrelevant and it's time to be brutally honest. I want to tell all of my friends the same thing: I love you for what you are, and not what you do. The problem is that I don't know if that's always right. Even when I lose my head or my way, I still hold you high in my mind. I think it's time we talked it over and decided to come together or break apart. What is it that you wanted from me? Am I the cost or the price? Am I the penalty or the allowance?
I had my first driving session of Driver Ed. on Wednesday and it went pretty well. I drove around a residential area and then back to the school. I've been paired with a boy I vaguely remember from an old gym class. He doesn't say much, but I like what he does say. My instructor is an ancient chimney who talks about his NASCAR days and taps the emergency brake a lot when I turn too sharply. It's more comforting than I'd imagined, this learning how to steer an extension of myself. Who would have thought?
Have you ever been enlightened in the dark? It's like opening your eyes under the ocean, or like telling a story without speaking. He told me that I was worth it, and that I was pretty and funny and more secretive than is healthy. He was right about everything. If I could tell him one thing, it would be that I am sorry that this is a hard time to be alive. And that maybe being unloved isn't always worse than being loved. Maybe it's just different. And as hard as it is to watch the current rise against you, or hear an incoherent saga unfold, it happens. Shit happens. It hits the fan and breaks your heart and rips you into pieces. So what happens when what's left of you is stronger than the original? It's got to be possible to live again, to do better than you'd thought you could. The upside of anger is the person you become. That much is true. Tell me something that makes you feel better about the silence.
I'm sorry if I ever made you feel second-best, and maybe talked over you when you had to get something off your chest. I only wanted to be important. That doesn't have to translate into bigness. I never realized how very special I am to more than a few people. That's nice and rare and everything else that's worth anything to feel and be. Any one person, at any given time, is special to someone, somewhere. That's just the way it goes. I won't pretend otherwise and I wouldn't want to. Would you?
I've got to order tickets to the Bright Eyes concert in March. It's my birthday gift to Kat. I also want to see Guster (and The Format) in April, and Voxtrot in June. I love spring tours. They make everything that much brighter. It makes me feel that much more alive. Jesus, I should probably get a job. Coinstar just made me $6.54 the other day. That's my salary for the week. "Pitiful" would be an understatement.
Anyway, it would seem that I am coming full-circle. Things have to get worse before they can get better. If I were a plot summary, I would be falling into action as we speak.
I had my first driving session of Driver Ed. on Wednesday and it went pretty well. I drove around a residential area and then back to the school. I've been paired with a boy I vaguely remember from an old gym class. He doesn't say much, but I like what he does say. My instructor is an ancient chimney who talks about his NASCAR days and taps the emergency brake a lot when I turn too sharply. It's more comforting than I'd imagined, this learning how to steer an extension of myself. Who would have thought?
Have you ever been enlightened in the dark? It's like opening your eyes under the ocean, or like telling a story without speaking. He told me that I was worth it, and that I was pretty and funny and more secretive than is healthy. He was right about everything. If I could tell him one thing, it would be that I am sorry that this is a hard time to be alive. And that maybe being unloved isn't always worse than being loved. Maybe it's just different. And as hard as it is to watch the current rise against you, or hear an incoherent saga unfold, it happens. Shit happens. It hits the fan and breaks your heart and rips you into pieces. So what happens when what's left of you is stronger than the original? It's got to be possible to live again, to do better than you'd thought you could. The upside of anger is the person you become. That much is true. Tell me something that makes you feel better about the silence.
I'm sorry if I ever made you feel second-best, and maybe talked over you when you had to get something off your chest. I only wanted to be important. That doesn't have to translate into bigness. I never realized how very special I am to more than a few people. That's nice and rare and everything else that's worth anything to feel and be. Any one person, at any given time, is special to someone, somewhere. That's just the way it goes. I won't pretend otherwise and I wouldn't want to. Would you?
I've got to order tickets to the Bright Eyes concert in March. It's my birthday gift to Kat. I also want to see Guster (and The Format) in April, and Voxtrot in June. I love spring tours. They make everything that much brighter. It makes me feel that much more alive. Jesus, I should probably get a job. Coinstar just made me $6.54 the other day. That's my salary for the week. "Pitiful" would be an understatement.
Anyway, it would seem that I am coming full-circle. Things have to get worse before they can get better. If I were a plot summary, I would be falling into action as we speak.
January 30th, 2007
Yesterday was the first day of Driver Ed. It was an hour-length session of Lecture. It wasn't unbearable, although I get the feeling it will be. Mr. McQuade (a disturbingly expressionless man) talked for an hour about the importance of driving, mentioning how great it was that we all wanted to be there. You know, not like it was required by law or anything. I love spending my evenings in a classroom of kids I hate while we're lectured on how to steer a wheel without killing anyone. And for no less than five hundred obligatory dollars.
Yesterday was also the day I learned a few of my grades, for both the second quarter and certain state-mandated exams. I scored a 91 on my history midterm. I didn't do nearly as well on my chemistry midterm. When I took it, I finished early. It was mainly because I didn't know anything from anything else. As it turns out, I got a 56. I think my teacher was offended by my responding, "Come on now, I don't know anything about science." So it's no surprise that I got a 76 for the quarter.
The big shock came today, when I received the grade on my English Regents. I put all of my faith into that one test, simply because I don't care about anything else in school. I don't know what I expected. I wanted some sign that these readers had seen something special in me. I didn't point out literary elements or write six superfluous pages of words. When he let me see that 89, I was immediately saddened. I guess, if we're considering this test in its entirety, I should have followed a format and built myself a legacy of lengthy prose. But I didn't. And for that, I have to weigh my options. I had this moment of supposed clarity, as if a not-high-enough number could change my emotional future. How could I have let myself consider not being a writer? Even if they were right. Even if I was not what I claimed to be. I don't do this for fun, but because I have to. I want to say that writing is like oxygen, but it's not. It's worse. It's something akin to heroin. I could convulse beneath this small exterior if words were not enough for me. I don't know if you can appreciate that, but I know you can identify. If not in writing, in something else then.
I sat through a presentation on establishing a gallery in an available room in our school cafeteria. It was kind of limiting, you know, with the kind of people who think art is something to be swallowed and regurgitated. Or worse, viewed as if from an entirely different atmosphere. As if being "outside of the box" really means to be boxed-in. I didn't get much out of those two periods, but I do like the idea of a gallery intended for students. That's pretty cool, and it's accessible. I think I'd like it better elsewhere. But that's really only because I resent this school. I hate the expensive mornings, the alcoholic evenings, and the accusatory afternoons. It's like I'm wearing a watch that only ever tells me a certain time. It's both insignificant and tedious, even when it's meant to be something more.
I'm rambling, I guess. I've got two hours of Driver Ed. tonight, first of Lecture and then of Simulator. The latter, I'm told, is little more than a bunch of boxes with pedals that don't work and a video from the eighties. Naturally, I'm looking forward to it.
On Saturday night, Jess stole the doors of Alex's Jeep as a joke. Then she had Josh tell all of us that someone had taken them. She drove up with the doors when Alex was on the verge of tears. To get her back, the boys stuck roughly 2,400 Post-Its on her car (color-coded, of course). The best part is that it rained, so the paper stuck perfectly. I haven't seen the pictures yet, but it sounds like beautiful coverage.
There's always an obstacle, isn't there? It doesn't matter if it's a person, a thing, or even a fear. It doesn't have to be rational or plausible. It can gnaw at your insides when you're trying to decide, and it can pull the sheets over your head when you're trying to realize. Sometimes there's more than one. I don't know if I'm working against time, against myself, or against another version of the truth. Is there victory in defeat? Is there life after death? When did winning get to be everything?
Yesterday was also the day I learned a few of my grades, for both the second quarter and certain state-mandated exams. I scored a 91 on my history midterm. I didn't do nearly as well on my chemistry midterm. When I took it, I finished early. It was mainly because I didn't know anything from anything else. As it turns out, I got a 56. I think my teacher was offended by my responding, "Come on now, I don't know anything about science." So it's no surprise that I got a 76 for the quarter.
The big shock came today, when I received the grade on my English Regents. I put all of my faith into that one test, simply because I don't care about anything else in school. I don't know what I expected. I wanted some sign that these readers had seen something special in me. I didn't point out literary elements or write six superfluous pages of words. When he let me see that 89, I was immediately saddened. I guess, if we're considering this test in its entirety, I should have followed a format and built myself a legacy of lengthy prose. But I didn't. And for that, I have to weigh my options. I had this moment of supposed clarity, as if a not-high-enough number could change my emotional future. How could I have let myself consider not being a writer? Even if they were right. Even if I was not what I claimed to be. I don't do this for fun, but because I have to. I want to say that writing is like oxygen, but it's not. It's worse. It's something akin to heroin. I could convulse beneath this small exterior if words were not enough for me. I don't know if you can appreciate that, but I know you can identify. If not in writing, in something else then.
I sat through a presentation on establishing a gallery in an available room in our school cafeteria. It was kind of limiting, you know, with the kind of people who think art is something to be swallowed and regurgitated. Or worse, viewed as if from an entirely different atmosphere. As if being "outside of the box" really means to be boxed-in. I didn't get much out of those two periods, but I do like the idea of a gallery intended for students. That's pretty cool, and it's accessible. I think I'd like it better elsewhere. But that's really only because I resent this school. I hate the expensive mornings, the alcoholic evenings, and the accusatory afternoons. It's like I'm wearing a watch that only ever tells me a certain time. It's both insignificant and tedious, even when it's meant to be something more.
I'm rambling, I guess. I've got two hours of Driver Ed. tonight, first of Lecture and then of Simulator. The latter, I'm told, is little more than a bunch of boxes with pedals that don't work and a video from the eighties. Naturally, I'm looking forward to it.
On Saturday night, Jess stole the doors of Alex's Jeep as a joke. Then she had Josh tell all of us that someone had taken them. She drove up with the doors when Alex was on the verge of tears. To get her back, the boys stuck roughly 2,400 Post-Its on her car (color-coded, of course). The best part is that it rained, so the paper stuck perfectly. I haven't seen the pictures yet, but it sounds like beautiful coverage.
There's always an obstacle, isn't there? It doesn't matter if it's a person, a thing, or even a fear. It doesn't have to be rational or plausible. It can gnaw at your insides when you're trying to decide, and it can pull the sheets over your head when you're trying to realize. Sometimes there's more than one. I don't know if I'm working against time, against myself, or against another version of the truth. Is there victory in defeat? Is there life after death? When did winning get to be everything?