They say if you want something, go and get it. They say if you want to live, you have to just do it, and enjoy every second.

So if I want a hug, I should go get one. If I want someone, just to have there and talk to and, God forbid, touch, I should find one. Shouldn’t I?

I see patterns, in everything. In the type of girls the boys I usually cast my eye on prefer. In the boy himself.

I especially see one now, when, wowwhatasurprise, the one boy I did have my eye mostly focused toward decides that he does indeed like the stick-thin and easy.

Not that I mind. I don’t mind in the least. I won’t shed a tear, it’s not that important. What’s important is that I learn from that rapid hot punch of shock. Eli’s seeing Cayla? (Or will be seeing her in no time, there’s no doubt, ha ha ha.)

What happened to me? Am I too fat again? Fuck that, I’ve lost weight. I might be too busy. Or too ugly. Or whatever, because it doesn’t matter. I’m leaving at the end of this year and it doesn’t mean a thing. I have to leave now, actually, since I’m going to Buffalo for a lesson.

They say that practice makes perfect, and as soon as I get over being pissed off because I’m (yet again) not good enough, I’ll remain busy and cold and aloof.

It doesn’t matter.

http://www.esm.rochester.edu/apply/documents/VocalAccompanistRequestForm2010.pdf

http://www.esm.rochester.edu/apply/documents/CreditCardAuthorizationForm2010_002.pdf

http://www.cim.edu/assets/downloads/college/auditions.pdf

That’s what number photo I just uploaded. I will hit number four-twenty-two next, once two batches of twenty are done.

In ten minutes, I will leave the empty band room and the decent mac computer and meet up with Marya in the lunch room. We’ll take five minutes to eat, then use the pass Mr. Bett wrote for us to raid the costume room for entertaining and appropriate props.

Speaking of Propps, I cannot believe she submitted a page Friday.

Okay, I guess it’s on me, again. I didn’t go into school. Sorry for taking one day off. Doesn’t matter that it was the day of the play’s premiere, or that I had an audition Saturday. I even received a text at nine AM, “Are you coming in to school to work on yearbook?”

No. No, I’m freaking not. I’m going to sit on the couch and eat junk food and finish reading my book. After that, I’m going to practice German until my tongue falls off from rolling all of those Heidenroslein r’s.

And so I did. And guess what happened? A page was mysteriously submitted at 2:04 PM Friday, January 29th.

It was a punch in the gut, knocked the breath right out of me, when I realized page 16 was forever out of my editing hands.

We never, never submit without at least three different people proofing. There are, minimum, three separate sets of eyes (not including mine) scrutinizing each double page spread.

So, was it some kind of a joke? Who could have– would have– done such a thing? It’s a senior portrait page, for God’s sake, really? I’m the only one who really ever touches them until it’s time for proofing. After that, let’s give it to Katie, Marya, even Judd. Maybe Post or David, they’ve proofed pages in a crisis. See any flaws, errors? Spelling mistakes, misalignments?

I just cannot believe it. I don’t think I’m being overdramatic, either. I’m not as worked up as I could be, that’s for sure.

Besides, I’ve decided that, to combat the senioritis I feel lurking at the edge of my subconscious, I need to just relax. Be chill about everything. It’s crucial to me that I don’t ruin these last few months at Gowanda by being a colossal bitch.

For example, I got to band today after announcements. Hailey is apparently our new percussionist. No one told me about it. But I’m expected to figure out parts for her and (I’m assuming) assimilate her into our little family group. Our tightly-knit percussion Vortex.

I didn’t get worked up about it, I didn’t complain. I smiled and handed her “Danny Boy” and a pair of soft mallets. I got yelled at for talking, but hey, she’s our new kid. Make her feel welcome.

Another side of me was telling me, “Be a bitch, be a Bitch!” But I didn’t. I wasn’t.

I won’t be for this yearbook crap, either. I’m going to be responsible and polite, and check up on a page that was submitted without proofing and without my approval. It might sound haughty, but we’ve gone through this before, when Propp and Theresa submitted freshman candids. There were errors on the page that the two of them– and only two– hadn’t caught, that Marya and I saw immediately. There are just issues that everyone specializes in catching. It’s a damn shame that this page wasn’t given the chance to be critiqued– I sure hope there’s nothing wrong with it.

… And another thing. I haven’t worked myself almost into the ground on this damn book to have it all submitted half-assed. I might be tiptoeing into control freak territory, but I really, truly hate to see anything I’ve helped create not glow its brightest.

It’s been nagging me for a week now. That little crooked itch that beckons me, invites me, whispers, Write me, write me.

But it sucks, because right now that tickle is being erased (even though I want it to stay) by the infuriating noise of the television. The thump of my sister’s feet as she’s wii boxing, the rampant on-off of my dad at the light switch– even the music I’d turned on that was supposed to be pleasant is making the latent scream I’ve suppressed for months upon months rise higher in my throat.

God, just silence. Or even just music. Just leave me alone, I want words and words and creativity. Vivid, troubled characters and a setting of vibrant, morphable world at my fingertips.

Come back. Tempt my mind. Little tickle, nudge me to think!

How to Control Myself so I Don’t Respond to Infuriating Situations Like a Complete Teenager A Guide to Stupid Thoughts, by Kim

Mr. J’s disagreement lessons don’t really come into consideration when it’s an argument in Real Life. Obviously.

It’s hard enough to keep the bile from my throat, let alone really ponder the reasoning behind the raucous shouting.

Strangely enough, my head is clearing as the headache gathers. The sour ache at my temples and in my chest congeals as rational thought stomps through and fury pumps as if from a bellows through my veins.

Really, I’m ungrateful? I suppose I am. Sincerely and honestly, I take for granted everything I possess and the love I receive. I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t trample over the world as if I owned it.

And so she asks, “What do you take the world for? What do you take me for?”

I take the world for a heartless and cruel universe in which life could end at the drop of a hat. I take her for an angry woman whose temper makes me want to vomit. I still might.

But what is life if I don’t live it like it’s mine? I take my existence for a precious thing, and shit, I wouldn’t work so hard all the time if it meant nothing to me. It means so much that I can’t help but try to live.

So, you know. Naturally I didn’t argue back. I did ask, politely, I thought, if she would like me to. If she’d agreed I might have obliged, I don’t know. I’m not some child she can push around anymore.

Not that she was ever physically violent. But if there are any speculations about my own temper, and why I never really lose it, that’s why. I know it’s kin to hers, and it’s oh so very ugly.

I’m sorry for being ungrateful. I’m sorry for asking for more than she was willing to pay. It’s about a new phone, by the way. Mine won’t charge. At two years old (never having been replaced) I’m genuinely surprised it’s still alive. The Droid Eris seemed perfect, and we almost upgraded, until the “Internet and Data Use” option appeared. Thirty extra dollars (per month… expensive, I understand), and there goes the lid. Flipped.

Oops. I realize I don’t get annuity, thanks. Why didn’t you just say you were broke? I wasn’t aware that I was sharing such a dirty look, sorry. And hell, I’ll keep my eyes down and veiled now and refuse to open my mouth, I suppose.

I did tell her that I wouldn’t work so hard and give so much if I didn’t want to match all that she gives me. It’s so stupid, and I guess I’m not strong enough, because yeah. My voice was thick and pathetic with emotion and I wished I didn’t care so much. I hate conflict. It makes me sick.

Grendel, the pitied, the disliked, the language-wielder. Teeth like a shark and blood-matted fur.

My best friend, probably. The concepts and ideas he presents, ponders, disregards and concretes are out of this world.

Thank you, John Champlin Gardner, Jr.

If only I knew when the book was banned, because I’ve been Givoogling all freaking day and nothing will tell me.

It’s ever-so-frustrating because this pathetic computer can’t load nearly as fast as I can think when I’m on a mental essay-writing tangent.

Say no to censorship. Say yes to embracing our inner Grendel, who craves hard, cold truth.

Say yes to high speed, because I really wish I had it so I could get this over with!

I’m about to go Grendel on this computer and start streaming acerbic vulgar expletives. It doesn’t help that my father has the television (right next to me blaring football when all I want to do is let the Avett Brothers and Gardner drown me in philosophy, drive, and dreams. Viktoria Dolhoevsky, singing now, quite agrees with the Harvest of Sorrow flying into the troposphere. Emily, if you’re reading, I haven’t forgotten that your poor little Greek iPod doesn’t have any opera. :)

Anyway. Grendel’s frustration with humanity is surely present with me today and trying to help me get this paper finished. If only the Cowboys would lose already and this computer was faster.

If only, if only.

(2:13 PM. The bus.)

For some reason, people are making me happy today. The little ones; and they normally really piss me off. It must be the false spring– ha. I saw green grass today. GREEN GRASS. And it’s almost not cold outside.

The roads are bare. Maybe I’ll be able to drive down to practice tonight.
The little boys are cracking me up. The typical make gene is very evident… it’s so pronounced and today I find it endearing. Beats me why.

There’s chitchat over football: apparently the Cowboys are going to destroy. Or the Vikings will. And the Jets really suck.
“Then, there was this fight today! Did you see the fight? There was a fight, dude! Two nerds! They didn’t even fight they were like slapping each other like this–”
And so on.

I am just so amused right now.
Then I see older boys whipping snowballs from my seat by the bus window and I think, this is life. Boys talking about sports, throwing things. Growing up.
Then it struck me that I’m a grown up, to them.

They don’t really talk to me anymore, and they used to, even if it was just to harrass me (I’d pick on them in return something fierce).

Okay, so I guess I’m a grown-up today then. But I’m still happy.

I don’t know what I’m going to write about. I have to leave soon, anyway. Like, within five minutes.

I don’t have a caffeinated beverage prepared to-go, and I don’t have my coat/scarf/hat/gloves on. Or boots.

But I’m writing anyway. I couldn’t really tell you why. Although if I were to hazard a guess, I’d suggest impulse.

I keep thinking about last night. The only other time Heather has really been very serious with me. Serious enough for me to know that if something doesn’t change, I won’t.

And I need to. For the sake of my future, for the sake of potential careers and happiness, I need to make a change. I have to put what I need and want most before anything else.

As dumb as it seems, that’s really hard for me. It’s easier to fall back on the efforts of a group (even if I am kind-of the one spearheading it) and say that that’s my work. That’s my responsibility.

But this, this singing. That’s mine, too. Except that’s all mine, and no one can do it for me (although I can receive help). No one can audition, rehearse, or memorize. Or musicalize.

But me.

So I guess that’s what I wanted to say, this early.

I just finished a letter to Michael. Finally. My first one completed since mid-July.

I know I’m pathetic.

But at least I really do try to be a friend, you know? I’ve realized lately that the more I try to be genuinely friendly and caring toward other people who I might not normally make the effort toward, the better I feel.

For example, talking to Taylor Nielson seriously, instead of brushing off his crazy remarks. Really trying to listen to him and attempting to have him listen to himself, haha.

Or, I don’t know. Just, interacting with people so far this week has made me happy. Even little comments that might make someone feel a smidgeon better about themselves seem to pop out of my mouth more than normal. Encouraging things, or teasing things. Just small notions that, if reciprocated, would make me feel loved.

I don’t care if they are reciprocated. Just the thought that I might be improving someone else’s day has brightened mine lately.

I hope this stays. I know it probably reads mad corny, but I like to make other people feel good. It’s been a while since I’ve felt like I could be a positive person. I want it to stick.

It’s almost time for school again. This week has flown by in a haze of grey and brown and puce. Just dark and unpleasant, filled with combinations of resentment, frustration, fury.

I rarely really get angry. But this week, I’ve come close. And at school, no less. I normally try to refrain from losing my temper and my composure in public places.

I’m not saying that me, being pissed off, is some big scene. But no one is really accustomed to me having a full-blown mad on, so I’m sure I’d turn a few heads (and not in a good way).

It’s just, I’m so frustrated. I’m working so hard, why can’t everyone else? That’s not supposed to sound egocentric or braggy, it’s the truth! If the team put in seventy-five percent of what I did on a daily basis, we’d have a finished book by now.

Not to be an asshole. That’s just the way it is. And I’m not dissing our previous efforts, either. I’m just saying, we need to work harder, and I’m beating myself up over it. No one else seems to give a damn.

Well, I committed to this responsibility. I guess, if no one else wants to, then I’ll find a new staff. Since apparently it’s my fault I trained them all. And they’re not bright enough to understand it, am observing that statement correctly? It’s not like they’re stupid. It’s just a complaint. “Wah, wah, I can’t do it, you told me this, you’d said that before.” Well I’m telling you differently now, dammit, there’s not really enough available time to sit here coddling you. Just get your page done, how about that.

I’m sure that reads really coldly. And bitchily. But that’s how I feel right now. Cold and bitchy. I don’t want to hate doing something that I once really enjoyed. It might be the depression of this crappy season, it might be the weight of my commitments catching up with me. Or, it could be the long-lost strictness and taskmaster vein finally strengthening and imposed itself on those I’m supposed to act as taskmaster to.

Hmm. Either way, I feel bad, but the objective is to finish things, and have the end result phenomenal.

It’s not my book. If it was, I wouldn’t care so damn much.

So I feel like crap.

It’s not so much my body that hurts, although I do have cramps and I’m sore from weight room and I’m cold and my feet hurt and I’m getting a headache and my neck throbs all the time. And I’m hungry and dehydrated.

I guess the only way to describe it is, my heart hurts.

Winter makes me sad as it is, but now I find myself wanting to go back to being four years old, grasping the low windowsill of my grandma’s front window for balance. I remember being tiny and white-blonde, with bright eyes. Staring out the window at the summer air, gentle knolls, and the tulip tree. I asked my grandpa, who sat in his chair next to me, “When’s school?”

Well, my grandpa’s dead and school’s almost done with. Thirteen years evaporated in a heartbeat.

I just want to be happy. Whatever I’m doing now, this constant work, this being stern so we meet our deadline, this having friends be pissy because I’m doing my job, I’m sick of. This forgetting to eat, this watching others have fun, this incessant struggle to do everything but what I really love to is killing me.

My heart just hurts. I don’t know what it is I need. Not a break; I just got done with break. Not a friend; I have plenty of those, and they’re either all busy (quite understandable) or cranky with me (I’m through trying to reason with them).

I’m not trying to feel sorry for myself, I’m just trying to work out what’s so wrong here.

I don’t know. I really don’t know anything.

I just want to be happy.

I’m feeling so downright melancholy, I am now pretty positive that I suffer from seasonal depression. I just want the sun, is that too much to ask?

I’m looking back on 2009, and all of these memories float clearly into my mind. All the little details from last year. Just crystal clear.

Fragile, precious as glass. Glittering in reminiscence, like the snow.

My heart squeezes, just a little, because I’ll miss those memories. They won’t stay forever. I’d be crazy if I thought I could record them all somehow.

That’s one thing I’m so scared of. Losing touch with my past. I find it hard some days to recollect childhood, to feel as I did as a little kid. I remember telling myself at eight or nine years old, when I am grown up, I will keep with me what it feels like to be my age. I want to treat kids like I’d like to be treated as a kid.

I remember thinking that, it’s so clear. Glistening crystal.

And then I try to feel like that child again and I can’t. I can’t, and I get the feeling I’m betraying some part of myself.

So I can’t lose them. Those breakable drops of glass that hold bits and pieces of who I am. Even now, this moment right here, I have to hold close and tight, warm and safe, because I’ll never get it back.

It’s interesting, my mother and Karen were talking this morning about how they weren’t the same women at twenty-nine as they were at nineteen. My mother commented, “At nineteen, you’re just, not adult enough.” Karen added, “You just don’t know what it’s about.”

I think I do. Or at least part of it. If knowing what “it” is about, what life is about, is having this weight in your heart that reminds you, every second, that life is precious and limited and fleeting, then I know.
If it’s realizing that loving with everything that you have, every day, is what’s important, then I know.
If it’s the awareness that God is real and God loves me and wants me to do everything in my power to love Him and love others, then I know.

I look back on myself, last year. Crushing something fierce on a boy I’d liked for five years, desperate for his attention. Longing to do something worthwhile but possessing no idea what that was. Completely, ignorantly but blissfully idling away my time.

Last year was by far one of the most wonderful years of my life, in many ways. But knowing what I know now, I know that I have to fight off this pressure in my heart, and value every second I have on this earth.

Seasonal depression or no, I have to be my own sunshine.

Here’s to life.

Here’s to a year of magic, a year of change. A year of growth, of growing pains, of pain in general and pain felt for others.

Here’s to half a junior year that was wild and crazy and fun. To resolutions, to prom, and to new, existence-altering thoughts. Here’s to alcohol and the lessons that inevitably accompany.

Here’s to friends who care and friends who enjoy the moment. Here’s to company that will never be forgotten, even if we do lose touch. To people and faces and the spark of youth that sets everything it touches to fire.

Here’s to summer. Here’s to driving, to breathing and to hillbillies who wash their hands in puddles. Here’s to light hearts.

Here’s to Gowanda. Here’s to a community that can draw together and generate strength for one another, unselfishly, in the most unexpected and trying of circumstances. To the power and the passion of people who want to make a difference.

Here’s to music. Here’s to the Avett Brothers, for supplying my heart with affection, amusement, and love. Here’s to Conference All State. To musicians of all ages, ethnicities, orientation, and talent levels that just want to breathe their passion into the world.

Here’s to graduation. Here’s to an uncertain future but a solid start. To senior year and the stress and ambition that bullet toward achievement.

Here’s to life.

Here’s to you, 2009.

I’ll drink to that.

Writing, writing, writing. And reading. That’s all I’ve wanted to do for the past week.

Honestly, I’ve never considered (seriously) being anything other than an artist. A musician. And it wasn’t until this week that I have sat and pondered the possibility of becoming published one day.

It’s somewhere in a hazy future, but I want to do it. With every particle of my being I want a book.

Some people want the fame, the fortune, and the acclaim that tag along with a bestseller. Some enjoy the idea that their message will be publicized and acknowledged.

I want to write for the sake of the pleasure it brings me. It’s the same with singing: it’s a longing to express, and a deeply-seated satisfaction in the delivery.

I’m not saying the fame and fortune would be looked down upon. And doubtless the exposure of my thoughts and feelings in story form would be freakin’ cool.

But I love to write. And why shouldn’t I? With college will come new and intriguing opportunities. Maybe I’ll do it then.

Or maybe, if I kick my own ass enough, I could do it this year.

Stranger things have happened.

It seems to me that I want too many things.

I was just wishing I was four feet tall, brunette, with big tits and a tiny, compact body. Oh, and don’t forget the expensive, perfect clothing that all comes from brand name stores.

I thought about it some more and decided that it was a silly impulse, but it bears more weight than that. It leaves it’s consequence in my idle musings, because it is that sort of thought that makes me question who I am.

Would more boys like me, if I looked like that?

Would I still be me, in another’s form?

Would I still be as capable, as intimidating and efficient, as expressive?

Or would I be confined to the limits of that (I’m assuming) shallow and superficial girl?

I could be stereotyping, but a girl who cares more about getting her nails done than she does her future, or her family, or her own private and personal ambitions might be considered shallow.

It just produces thinking. Sure, my head hurts now, but it forces me to explore the depths of my own superficiality.

My story holds some of that flashy, appearance-driven appeal. I’ve been working and thinking about that quite a bit lately, so naturally my thoughts now are twining around it.

My story involves some beautiful, unique creatures. Their very existence is jaded and corrupt, though, even if their outward glamor is flawless.

Maybe that’s the irony of it, I’m discovering. Okay, so humanity is flawed physically, mentally, emotionally and essentially. And these creatures only have a type of eating disorder (yes, fine, they suck blood for a living, don’t judge me) and some deep moral decision-making to do. But perhaps that’s the intriguing part of it: with so much going for them, what’s to lose?

That’s right, their souls. They’re assumed to be already lost.

So what’s more valuable? A life of love and value, flawed and mortal and unattractive, but well-lived? Or one without finality, an endless stretch, where the appearance is gilded and gorgeous but the inner sanctums of which are dripping with secrets, lies, and desperation?

You tell me.

So, I had quite a few nice discussions with Kevin today. We talked about some subjects that would have made most people uncomfortable, but we plowed on through ‘em, ha ha.

It helped me sort a lot out, though. Like, fun does not equal sex. As if I hadn’t known that.

But it did force me to clarify my thoughts about this boy I keep focusing on (for God knows why, too).

I don’t want him for sex.

I think I want him for company, and for comfort. And of course, for me to selfishly reassure my female pride, since it will have proven I don’t suck at talking to guys.

So, as long as that’s cleared up.

And alright, this blog pretty much just bottomed out. I’m done writing, for now. Probably when I think of something else I’ll type it half-assed and post it. Like I did here.

Urghh. I really just want to sleep. I blame the insane amounts of sugar in school today.

Brendan got me the Avett Brothers’ CD for Christmas. The one I’ve been longing for since it came out on September 29th.

I’m listening to it now in Mrs. Propp’s room, and I probably won’t stop listening to it until I know every beat, word, and tune to every song. This is my December and January music. A little melancholy and a little rockin’, a little vivid and a little sad. These boys really know how to sing to my heart, even if they don’t know me.

I know I’ve been really stressed and working (all the time) as of late. I remember when a melodic line of Avett would send that stress flying back where it came from.

I’m sitting here tense and headachy and sore and listening to the Avett Brothers. My heart’s still crying because I miss summer (still), but I understand now that it’s gone. And it will be back soon enough, and bring a new fresh vital wave of change. I should be enjoying the time here, the time now. Shouldn’t I?

I hope the Avetts will help me change. Help me to accept that it’s never going to be June, July, August 2009, ever again. Those are days I can’t get back, and I don’t want these to be bland and fraught with sadness: I can’t get back this December, either.

It’s so hard to live.

Thank God for my persistent mother who’s making me leave school now.

Thank God for my good friend David who stayed with me in Propp’s room.

Thank God for my hero K.T. who insists that boys should like me.

Thank God for my new buddy Colton who keeps cracking me up even though I feel so, so stupid.

Thank God for silly rubber chickens for being so hysterical when all I want to do is drop my head down on this desk.

Thanks for keeping my head from drifting off into romanticism. Thanks for the headache that says, get Christmas presents finished. Thanks for the weight in my heart that makes me reevaluate why I want a boy so badly.

It’s so dumb. But it’s so justifiable.

I want to live. I look at a photo with a red bandana, and I think live. I think, be. I think, hold close and tight everything that has value, and never stop searching for more.

So thank God.

Thank God for my cousin Daniel, because if he’d never impacted my life, I’d be living and it wouldn’t even count.

It’s so early, but it’s the same time I’m normally awake.

I’m staying at school again until eight. When is this going to end? What am I going to do when it does?

Go crazy, probably.

I’m sore from yesterday. Hours and hours of walking in the mall; arriving home just in time to clean stalls. My shoulder ache.

I went skating on the pond afterward, though. That’s the best kind of sore.

Flying over ice (no matter how ungracefully) is one of my favorite things to do. I only wiped out twice, I think. Ha.

And now I need to get moving and try to stuff all my materials in a bag and leap out the door in time.

Here goes yet another Monday, rushing by in a dizzy haze. Yet another Monday I’ll struggle to live in the moment because I’m constantly focused on the future.

Yet another Monday I’ll hope with all my might isn’t a waste.

I got in trouble for my last post. My dad walked behind the computer, and, instead of being a parent, he asked my mother to address it with me.

I explained my situation and we’re all good. My mom did say my language makes me sound like a cheap ho, however, and I would concur. Except today kind of called for it.

Since the minute I got online this morning (before eight), I knew it would be a long day. I could say I’m not so angry now, but that would be a lie. I’m still really, really furious.

But in all honesty, it’s not worth my time. It’s not worth my energy to be angry.

And besides, I have discovered that I’m not a complete mess when it comes to finding a cute boy. The one I wanted, I got. It turns out he just needed a little more time to think than most people.

Yellow and purple do go together, after all.

* I’ll say right now I’m not in the mood to use language fit for polite company. See post title.

That said:

What the fuck. That wasn’t the way I wanted to wake up this morning. Let’s just get online for a few moments’ distraction, I told myself, and maybe there will be something interesting to read. Or whatever.

Well, there sure was.

And now I’m pissed. Livid. Counting my words so I don’t spew half-churned rage onto the webpage.

Breath knocked from my lungs in one swift kick. It’s like being thrown into a tree, all over again.

Except I’m only sitting here, not lying on dusty ground. And instead of pain, there’s fury.

How dare. Stay the fuck away from me.

The end.

I’m going to write without barriers. These are my thoughts right now, and it might be a little risque, but either suck it up and deal with it or don’t read.

I’m desperate. Desperate for someone to hold, someone to touch. Someone to whisper to, someone to kiss.

I’m pathetic, too. Pathetic for craving someone else. Almost anyone else.

Stupid silly shoelaces.

This seems to be the writing time
Not too late, but past the prime
The perfect moment in which to rhyme
This tiny window of my time.

A flow of ink against blank white
A red line dribbled, a proofing sight
A blue quick loop and then it’s night
Away from here into snow bright white.

So, I got on the bus today. Right at two oh eight. And upon sitting down in a seat, I realized that there was absolutely nothing I could get done at home. I’d be lazing around the house for four hours, accomplishing nothing. And eating.

So, I stood back up and walked off the bus. And back into school.

So, here I am, seated at Mrs. Propp’s computer, blogging and yearbooking and thinking about food.

I really want an Olympia salad. That would be fantastic.

Anyway. There’s a basketball game tonight, at home. I really want to go, but I have play rehearsal.

Come on, it’s not like I do anything at play, anyway. Until I know all of my (twelve) lines, there’s not really much I can do but observe where I move. And how to jump when my leg gets shot. Ha.

I’d need blue clothes, anyway. Maybe my mother will come to the game and bring me some. And some of Olympia’s salad.

On another note, I got a hug today. I passed this kid that I think I like walking in the hallway during twelfth. He said, “Hey, you,” and I honestly almost turned around to see who he was talking to. But it was me, ha ha. So I gave him a hug and he mumbled at me politely and then we went our separate ways.

I think I make him nervous. I know I make him awkward.

Whatever, though. I’d like a guy I can talk to about anything, who argues with me, and who knows when and what I’m feeling. I’d like a guy who doesn’t expect me to be experienced in everything sexual. I’d like a guy who can text me and have more to talk to me about than sex.

But for now, well. I guess I’ll settle with the one I have in mind now. The one with silly shoelaces and flippy hair who I never see to talk to. The one everyone says is so sweet. The one that doesn’t make any sense for me to be crushing on.

Yep, I think I’ll stick with him, regardless of the senselessness. As Katie is fond of quoting, “It’s not the years in your life, but the life in your years.” And my years have been pathetically lacking in life lately.

I know, I know. I’ve been blogging up a storm lately. It’s just because there’s a lot on my mind that I can’t preoccupy myself thinking about, so I have to schedule a time to get it all out of there.

I want to go to school tomorrow and have something cute happen to me.

And from that one statement, I just realized that I’m being completely superficial and retarded and I feel like I’m not thinking about anyone else at all, except in regard to how they relate to me.

This needs to stop. Right now.

I know I haven’t liked a boy in a long time so it’s weird for me to think about someone so much. But I’m not thinking about how I can be wonderful to him, I’m thinking about how much fun I could derive from hanging out with him.

So I’m being selfish.

And like I said, this needs to stop.

Okay, so I made Robby a hat. Big deal. I felt bad for his cold bald head. But that was one kind act in a cesspool of self-absorbed ones. I need to get a grip and get it together.

And this was so not where I planned on having this blog go, hah. I wanted to rant and rave about my problems and think about that boy some more. (Not Robby, the other one. Although Robby is damn cute and so so funny! :])

I’m waiting on his answer and I don’t really have anything else to do but sit here and think about myself, so what do you expect?

I need to stop being such a– I don’t know, such a self-obsessed idiot. I need to tug my head back from the clouds of dreamy dazed romanticism and try to be nicer. And less egocentric.

Okay, so. The boy troubles?

I guess they’re gone, although if anything else happens I’m sure I’ll be motivated to write about it. But, hey, if he can barely look at me, I think I can figure it out.

Maybe I’m being neurotic and fatalistic and dramatic. I probably am, in fact. I am just uncomfortable, since, after I explained myself, he said he needed time to think.

Okay, I’m cool with that. After all, I’d need to think about it, too. Even though
a.) I’m not too ugly
b.) I’m not too fat
c.) I’m decent to talk to if you get me going, and
d.) I really didn’t think I suck that much,
I’ll give him thinking time. I’m the kind of person, who, when faced with the possibility of change, likes to sit and weigh the posiitives and negatives of the situation. So I get it. I really get it.

But, seriously. If his first response is “just let me think about it,” maybe… maybe there’s something else. Someone else. Granted I pretty much sprang it on him. Christ, I’m dumb.

And then Sarah tells me there are other girls he’s been talking to. And not like just-talking girls, either. I’m talking about the kind of girls that do the talk that I’d been doing. Which is to say the “I like you” kind.

So, what is he, some kind of playa? How funny. But how annoying.

And crap! It’s not as if I don’t have a life, I do. I’m crazy-busy allllll the time. And I’m willing to sacrifice a slice of that crammed time for a boy I barely know who’s caught my attention. Do I want to date him? Nooo. Do I want to have my way with him?

That’s so outrageous, and probably the answer to that is no, too. But I should be able to add some frivolity to my life, shouldn’t I? A little fun.

And damn it, I just have to say that if– yet again– I am the second option, or third, or fourth, I am quitting. I’m not a quitter, and I never really have been. I’ll say it, spur-of-the-moment, and not be serious about it at all.

But here, I am. I’m thinking clearly and perfectly serious. If this doesn’t work out, and I’ve done everything wrong again, I’m just going to live out the rest of high school as a monk. Danse, mon moine, danse, because there’s nothing else to do but dance around in circles and circles like the spinning top that “moine” is also slang for. I’m always circling around, never stopping, never settling anywhere that wants me.

I just won’t involve myself with boys after this. They don’t like me anyway, I don’t know why I bother. And I’m not just beating myself up, here, because do you see any boys lining up for me? No, sir. You don’t.

So whatever. I have enough to do. If straightforwardness isn’t enough to accomplish what I want it to, then I’m finished here. And that’s how it’s gona go down.

I’m so dumb.

Okay, and yes, I bring it upon myself.

I hate it when I start to like people. I hate to admit it, too, but I’m a smidgeon of a hopeless romantic. And my imagination is way too out of proportion.

Therefore, if I tend to feel the least bit like swooning over someone, it avalanches until I’m sitting here in a cloud of daydreams.

Do you understand how much time this wastes?!

So, to crystallize my mind once more and focus it on the numerous tasks at hand, I feel like I have to take action in order for me to stop thinking sillly thoughts.

And, I tried to. But it’s not working yet and I don’t know if phone-checking just wasn’t his priority today, or what. Who knows? I don’t know!

Another note on the way I seem to function: I may or may not freak out if I go out on a limb and there’s no response. Just a flatline there? Well, there I go, freaking out.

Not that I’m freaking out. Because I’m not.

It’s just, this is a weird situation. Like, really weird. And I never, never imagined it would be my scenario.

All the things I told KT last year (warning her against younger boys, be careful when you talk to them, they might get ideas) are coming back to haunt me. The advice I tried to provide, cautioning against getting involved with a boy two years younger? Ha.

I want this one to get the idea, and I don’t know if he has or not. And I’m trying to take my own advice and ignore the fact that I never freak out about boys unless I like them. And with my current schedule and relentless desire to daydream, it is not the best idea to get involved with anyone. Let alone to like them! How dumb of me!

So I keep telling myself, “Don’t do it.”

But I’m not listening. And I think I’ve already gone ahead anyway.

It’s like Irony’s slithered right back around and given me a bite in the ass.

So. This is just freakin’ awesome.

And in case you couldn’t tell that that was loaded with sarcasm, I’ll be honest here and say, I like lying to myself.

One of these days,
I’ll act on impulse.
One of these days,
I’ll say what I think
The most honest version possible
They wouldn’t know it was possible
And either no one will care
Or, they’ll hate me.

One of these days,
I’ll glide along on impulse.
One of these days,
I’ll walk up and kiss him
He wouldn’t be expecting it
No one would be expecting it
And he’d like it
Or, he’ll hate me.

One of these days,
I’ll walk alone with impulse.
One of these days,
I’ll cry, it doesn’t matter
The full room of people, staring
Guess if I was them I’d be staring
And I’d be better
Or I’d hate me.

One of these days,
I’ll write away with impulse.
One of these days,
I’ll test out some poetry
And if it’s pointless then, it’s pointless
I’m not surprised if it is pointless
But if not, then
Here’s to impulse.

This weekend was a blast. I can’t believe it’s over; I can’t believe three days and two nights are just, done. In a heartbeat.

No. In a downbeat.

It’s made me sure of one thing, if anything.

I want to be a musician. I already am, really. But I want it to be my life. Not just a hobby, not just a thing to practice, to get better at.

No, the drive that’s gotten me this far is going to have to propel me into the future.

This weekend was a great teaser for college. Being in a grand scale setting with hundreds of people my own age, that I don’t really know, who all love to make music, was phenomenal.

Some people are dumb, obviously. But others are great. Others are so splendid and fabulous that you never want to leave. You want to stay and talk and hang out and sing or play or whatever, forever.

It was nice to be away from home, too, I decided. To have the freedom to do what I want was (hello) liberating. I could breathe. It was exhilarating.

I met a twelve-year-old boy who was there for a young artists’ convention. He was a pianist. He was a composer. He was a master of improv and I might even go so far to say that he was equal to (dare I hazard a “better than”?) Emma.

To be honest, this kid was insane. His name is Scott and he goes to piano school, takes lessons three times a week. He lives on Long Island (no surprise there, so do half the kids who were at Conference), but what really impressed me was the complete and total whole of himself, poured into his playing. He was very aware of the crowd of girls from our choir gathered around the grand, but just by looking at him you could tell that he was simply drowned in it. He looked up every so often as he played, and a few times he met my eyes: it was bizarre, it was intriguing. It was like he was hardly there, and it was all music, all his heart, just dripping like rain onto piano keys and into our ears.

Simply beautiful.

He inspired me, and so now I’m going to work harder. It wasn’t just him, either. It was the energy, the ambition, the talent that was jam-packed into the Radisson this weekend. It was the vivacity and passion of our conductor, Dr. Levine. (She was fab, as she would say, by the way.) It was the combination of independent, individual, brilliant, able, and strong women that made up my choir.

And it was the actual music-making: the long hours of rehearsing, the sweat, blood and tears drenching the memorization of “O Yo-yo” and the focus and energy throughout our program. It was the music that reminded me where I want to go, and where I want to be.

The truth is, I want to be at Eastman.

If I can’t, then I can’t. I’m square with that now. And Syracuse would be an alright alternative, sure.

But if Eastman likes my prescreening, then by God I am going to work my ass off and really soar with my audition rep.

I’m going to make some music for them.

So my roundtable essay’s done, and awaiting critique by Mrs. Propp. This essay also counts as my position paper for english, and will be the foundation for my persuasive speech in speech.

I’m happy it’s done. I’m so relieved I don’t have to work on it.

Now my mom and sister are discussing differences between Lerew and Stoffel. Hoo, boy.

I still have a lot to do. I completely, accidentally blew off Theory II twelfth period with Fried. I feel bad. I didn’t even tell her; I’d completely forgotten. Uhggg. So tomorrow first thing I have to find her and apologize and obtain a long black skirt.

Then it’s yearbook time afterschool. Ick, ick, ick. I have to yell at everyone (or explain things nicely that they should have known since September). I will probably end up being a colossal bitch. It makes me sick to my stomach.

But I’m done with my paper and I don’t have any other homework and I just need to pack for Conference and pick out some dress clothes.

I can go to bed early tonight, or write, or watch TV or practice if I want to. I’ve accomplished something.

I’m done.

I’m through.

It’s over.

I’m finished trying to run, finished trying to control, and finished trying to be independent. Trying to be a grown-up. Let fate fall where it may, and I guess I’m leaning against the old fallback of “if God wills it.”

But seriously. At this point, if God wills it, I’ll be one intensely blessed grateful dumb shit.

I’m done.

I’m done with pretending that I’m an adult. I’m not, okay? So get over it and leave me alone. I’m struggling to get into a college that I know I’m not prepared for in a competitive world that’s waiting with eager, dripping jaws to eat me alive. I’m not ready.

I’m through.

I’m through sitting back and letting my hundreds of responsibilities run amok over me. It’s partially my fault through disorganization, partially my fault through neglect. I’m doing so much I can’t focus on the important things. If something doesn’t go, I will. I’ll go insane. So I’m through being trampled by my own many loves and passions, and I’m through being choked and hung by the dramas of my friends and school life. I’ve got to distance myself from it, before it gets me. If I don’t focus, and work my ass off on the thing that is most important, I won’t get anywhere. Ever.

It’s over.

So it’s over, kids, and here I am typing as a shakily resolute and keenly terrified individual who’s not grown up and who’s ready to practice and who really just wants to stay home and love her life and her family in peace.

But Time and Nature won’t allow it. So ready or not, I’m out in less than a year. If I go to a shitty school, well hey, that’s my own fault. Goodbye, Eastman. Nice looking at your name on the website, C.I.M. I wish I would have been good enough. I’m sorry for wasting your time, Heather. I’m deeply sorry, Mrs. Ripley.

What happens, happens. If I can’t contact anyone and have them be my savior with my transcript and SAT score report today, then I am fucked. And who can or will help me, the irresponsible procrastinator who is falsely deluding herself that she can make it in the vicious world of music?

I just want to sing. And that will probably never happen now, because I’m a fucking retard.

So guess what.

I’m done.

So my roundtable project for Government used to be on human trafficking. Then, since I realized you can’t really pick sides (unless you want to be the insensitive and heartless dick who says that human trafficking should be legal), I edited the topic a little. I’m onto talking about prostitution.

It’s called the “victimless crime”– a business that’s been operating for thousands of years is a punishable offense. Although research has shown that prostitutes are raped 8-10 times annually and that 86% of sex workers have been attacked with a weapon, it’s dismissed as NHI: no humans involved.

But, of course, women who work as prostitutes must have chosen their profession because they like sex, right? They like it kinky or violent or just anywhere, anytime. And they get paid. So it’s a pretty good deal. They must enjoy what they do, despite the abuse, the violence, the subsequent drug dependencies pushed onto them by their pimps, are all consequences sex workers decided were worth it. Oh, and the jail time for being caught and convicted of selling oneself? Just a little extra added bonus.

The sex trade in the United States is thriving. So should we legalize it? Nevada did. In Nevada, sex workers are required to have health checkups and johns must use protection. The brothels are deemed to be “safe.”

Does that make it right? Do all prostitutes choose to peddle their bodies and their lives for the perverted satisfaction of horny men? No, and that’s why there needs to be more done, by the government, to help them escape, and leave that life if they choose to. Prostitution cannot be legalized. If we define human rights violations as sexual harassment, physical assault, rape, captivity, economic coercion, or emotionally damaging verbal abuse, then we cannot in good conscience legalize prostitution anywhere, because that’s what prostitution involves.

America is supposed to be the land of opportunities, so why are we letting women who were forced into the dark and dangerous world of prostitution suffer? Most prostitutes enter the profession at the age of thirteen– and please don’t dare insinuate that a thirteen-year-old girl decided she wanted a load of creep-asses to fuck her on a daily basis. Don’t you dare.

There are also the women who believe they don’t have any alternatives. That there’s no other way to make quick, easy money that they need to support themselves, or their child(ren). They sell themselves a few times, and are quickly swept into a deadly cycle of abuse, rape, and trauma.

Nearly all prostitutes suffer from symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder.

I guess prostitution isn’t as fun as it seems, is it? Can you see victims yet?

Seriously, college is all I think about now. College and life and death and dying and Goddamn I’m sick of it. I’m ready to be done with college and I haven’t even started it yet. I’m hoping that’s a good omen in the long run, though, because that’s the way I felt about prom exactly and I ended up having a blast.

But there’s just so much stress involved. If KT tells me one more time “you need to relax” I’m going to punch Colton in the face, because if it weren’t for him she’d be the same as before.

But life is life and it changes and so do people so I’d better suck it up and move on. God.

At least I’m talking to boys, though. That might help me relax (Jesus Christ).

Relaxing isn’t what I’m supposed to be doing, though. I’m supposed to be working, supposed to be doing everything I can to beat my way into a great school.

My mom told me today that I’m going to end up pumping gas. She told me to go to JCC for free. And meant it.

I’m just not even going to think about that. There’s no way. Just no fucking way I could go there. After all of my dreaming, all of my hard work, to throw it away, for that place?! I know I probably don’t know what I’m saying when I say this, but I’d rather be in debt for the rest of my life and do what I love than go somewhere to learn how to do a nine to five job and get plastered every weekend for free.

God. And there’s just no way I could throw away everything I’ve hoped for and thought of and wished for with all of my heart. Just because of money.

I know money’s important, and my mom would say I’m stupid and have no concept of it because I’ve never had to get a job, never had to make the money to support myself.

Well I guess I’ll figure that all out next year, won’t I? I haven’t gotten any experience with it so far, huh?

The way I figure it, I’ll either sink or float next year. I’ll either succeed or suck and come back home to pump gas.

But I’ll be damned if I don’t try to be all that I can. It’ll be like the dream where I died and watched everyone standing around, shaking their heads and mourning, “What a waste of potential.”

Well, here’s news. I’m not dead.

And I have all the potential in the world. I plan to put it to use.

Suck onnnnn that.

THE WIZ: EPISODE ONE

I emailed Mrs. Ripley each night of my senior show, because she was in China. I’m posting the three emails here because I feel like I should have documented my last musical at Gowanda somehow. So here they are.

We had fun tonight. Well, this afternoon. We did the energy circle thing (Taylor and I didn’t really explain it that well, though– we will tomorrow, since we instigated it). Bobby and Kris didn’t participate, but they’re losers. (Not really, but they’re lame boys and I’m sure that with the proper friendly persuasion they’ll do it tomorrow…ha).

The whole thing went pretty smoothly: there were a few instances where mics cut out; Glenn wasn’t there, either. I don’t know why.

I, um, may have gotten my only laughs from the crowd as soon as I walked on. Phoebe didn’t walk in a straight line and I had to try to scoot her out on stage twice-ish before she actually went, and even then it was kind of in a circle. So I picked her up and bopped across the stage, scrambling for the appropriate lines (obviously I couldn’t say “Come back here, Toto” if I was holding her) and I may have rammed into the house on accident with my shoulder.

Yes, I have a bruise.

Yes, the house off-kiltered a foot or so.

But it was funny, and even though I cracked up when I got off stage it ran nicely.

The makeup all looked really good; Zach and Kruszka and Taylor all got a lot of laughs; Chelsea and Dakota did too. Obviously my character isn’t funny, so they didn’t cheer so much for me, but that’s ok. I got home to Kansas and remembered to click my heels and it was all good.

I saw Kiener and Emma and Hannah, and that was pretty weird considering that in a year it’ll be me coming back to watch my friends. I don’t know if I’m okay with that yet. Stephen told me, “Well, this is it, this is your last show.”

And I could only smirk at him and reply that no, I had two more.

I just can’t think about this being “My Last.” It doesn’t sit well with me at all, so I think if I just don’t spend any time dwelling on it, it won’t affect me as much. I don’t want to get all watery and miserable on Tuesday.

But! All in all it was a good show and so far that’s what I’ve been hearing in reviews. “Great job,” “Good show,” “GREAT show,” keep being repeated. Some kids came back to us after and we (leads) talked to them and even got a picture or two with them (at parents’ insistence). The Lion, mostly, and (surprisingly) me were approached individually and greeted by toddlers and their parents, so that was cute. Mrs. Propp’s nine-year-old daughter Morgan had us all sign her program.

I think that tomorrow and Tuesday I’ll have more energy. I was thinking, by “Y’all Got It,” that I just wanted it to be done with so I could go home. I know that’s awful, but I was so so tired. The “easing on down the road” part of my job is straight up exhausting. I can’t dance anyway, so put singing and dancing together and I’m almost out by the time the Kalidahs get us.

Oh! And “Be a Lion” was good. Pretty darn good (the best time we’ve done it). I talked to Ms. Fried at intermission and she was really happy with it. Ms. Stoffel and her mom were really excited at the end, and so was Mrs. Hales. I think Mr. Wesley disappeared– we didn’t have notes and I didn’t see him at all after the production.

…and that’s all I know. It went really well. Tomorrow and Tuesday will be good also, I hope.

THE WIZ: PART TWO !

The show tonight was fabulous. Standing ovation (again), whoo hoooo! I left my makeup and contact case at school though, and that’s not so cool. Oh well. It’ll still be there in the morning (I hope).

 

Soo: there were so many outtakes tonight it was ridiculous. Hilarious.

 

And Aaron and Gabby were sick: Mr. Bett filled in for Aaron with a massively stuffed stomach and these outrageous overalls.

 

Then Chelsea starts it all off with: “Now I’m all axe… I mean, tin. I’m all… tin.” I just about died.

 

Then, during the funky monkey scene, Bethany played Aaron’s monkey so it was all a little off. It didn’t really help that the Friends had been sitting backstage making dirty jokes before we went on. (Haha.) So we were a little giggly. And whilst Bobby was chasing me, I screamed, aaaand– my shoe flew off.

 

I grabbed it and raced back to Zach/My Lion and quivered with laughter there while clutching my shoe. Then I had to hobble off one-footed and rush backstage to reshoe myself before entering on again.

 

Oh! And “Be a Lion” simply soared. It took off and zoomed around the aud amazingly and for the first time I really, really felt like I nailed it. I got offstage and started jumping around with glee because hey, my senior show won’t completely fall flat on its face there! I’ll get it tomorrow, too, I hope.

 

Also, Zachary gave Bobby a bloody nose during the Kalidahs (on accident). But I gave him drugs (Tylonol) so it was all good.

 

What else happened? Hmm. Well, there was a schizofrenic curtain at the end; it closed halfway, the light turned blue and then it opened partly– and then closed again. By then we were all cracking up and feeling really good. I hope it seriously rocks tomorrow. I’m looking forward to it soooo so much. Mr. Wesley talked to us last night about a “second show slump”– after Be a Lion, Chelsea, Dakota and I were walking to the side door and Chelsea goes, “Second show slump? What is that?” and from there it simply lifted and showered the audience with clarity and a good story. Zig/Christian kicked butt, too. And Kruszka really took charge with guiding the monkeys about Aaron’s absence. He came back and was talking to us too about the timing of the monkey scene and how we could fix it so it wasn’t awkward. That was cool.

 

Oh, and during “Y’all Got It” my skirt flew up. Like, way up. Soooo, the audience pretty much knows that I had the little polka-dotted bloomers on. Hahahah.

 

So, it was great. We really missed you, and were thinking of you the whole time. It was a great show, though.

 

I’ll send you another email tomorrow! After the last finale!

“AND JUST MAYBE I CAN CONVINCE TIME TO SLOW UP” — FINALE.

 

The Wiz has spoken, and it’s over.

 

Man oh man. An evening of emotional upheaval, that’s for sure. I was told that I gave my best performance of the three nights (by none other than our own Kevin Brown) but I’m not so sure. The audience was all small children, running inandout inandout the whole time; but by the second act they had settled down and we were rolling again.

 

The outtakes were slightly more hysterical tonight. Chelsea said, “An old witch put a spell on my axe!”

 

Me: “Your AXE?!”

 

Chels: “Nooo, a SPELL?”

 

Me: “A SPELL!”    

 

And then she “chopped” her other leg off and in the excitement Dakota’s hat flew off.

 

Later: the Lion and I greeted each other at Evillene’s. Zachary reached out to pat my back. His glove, ah, got stuck on the back of my dress. So we adlibbed for a while until he managed to get his glove off. Apparently it sounded like I asked him, “So what’s that old b*tch got you doin’?” instead of witch because Zach and I were a smidgeon preoccupied.

 

And then while Taylor was yelling her spiel at us I managed to reach behind me and rip the glove off of my dress. But when I tried to throw the water the glitter didn’t quite shake out right. So I chucked the bucket at her. In retaliation, my best friend Taylor whips the chair in my direction. Fun times all around!

 

Hmm, what else?

 

The ending song was almost unbearable. On the last note (“home”) I could feel the mixed emotions of the cast just whipping and swirling around me: especially Taylor’s, Chelsea’s and Tara’s. We’ve been singing and performing together since we were little kids– what will we do now? I guess we still have the play, but it’s not the same.

 

It’s over. I’m just about to head over to Taylor’s right now for a cast slumber party with pizza– I just can’t wrap my head around the idea that it’s finished. There are so many more things to look forward to, especially musically, for me– but nothing will ever replace the endless hours and effort poured into that group: you know the one I’m talking about. It’s molded and mingled through the years but essentially, like you’ve said all along, it’s made us all conjoined at the hip. Now that the conjoination (is that a word?) is splitting, it feels like we’re all splitting too, inside. I imagine tonight at Taylor’s it will be an emotional wreck. A fun emotional wreck, but a wreck nonetheless.

 

Oh well. We’ll all just have to come to terms with it. And I suppose we will get over it and remember the fun we’ve all had. We missed you tonight, that’s for sure. We were all thinking about you and wishing you were there, but in the same breath glad that you were having fun, too. It’s been an awesome time.

My room’s a mess. An utter disaster. As I was attempting to clean it just now, an Avett’s song came upon my iTunes: “Living of Love.” I remember months and months ago when that song was my code to life. Is it now? I don’t know. I wish I had endless summer’s peace of mind to decide on it.

But I don’t, and that’s the point. As I was listening to Seth and Scott croon about living for love, and how it’s the only thing worth fighting or living for, I broke a clock. I broke my little electric purple alarm clock that glows different colors. I’ve had it for so long, I don’t even remember receiving it. I dropped it and it fell and the little plastic top piece came off. Popped right off in my hands.

Since it’s in my nature to try to fix things, that’s what I set about doing. But the neat impenetrable marvel that had been my clock was shattered. I knew what the inside looked like now. It might be childish, but ignorance of what lay inside and how it worked had kept me fascinated with this tiny clock for many a sleepless night.
And now it was spoiled. And all the while I held it I was suffocated with thoughts about college– as I have been all day– and what it’s going to be like. Am I going to have friends, will they make fun of me? Will they hate me, will I fail?

Will I succeed?

As if a sign, Anna Netrebko’s “Sempre Libera” just began playing. So who knows what it means, but there you go, another occurrence that just makes me think of the future.

Anyway. I fixed the clock’s top, but it looks a little worse for wear. I feel a little miserable about it. Okay, it’s an inanimate object. But it’s an inanimate object from my past that had value to me at one point in time and now it’s not the same. Nothing will ever be the same. Each day, something changes irrevocably that can never be undone. We’re always all propelled, moving forward without a backward gaze.

So when my neck turns of its own accord and I find myself straining back, heart reaching toward the past, it hurts all the more.

The happy kick in my heart’s dimmed a little today. I don’t know if it’s because I’m not in good health right now, or if it’s because I’ve been dealing with college papers for a fair chunk of the day, but I’m sad. And I’ve realized that time passes and things change.

And they break. Shatter. They can be fixed again, if they’re judged to be worth the effort, but they’ll be different.

Sometimes I like the different. I have to remind myself that sometimes the different is for the better.

How do I know what’s better or not?

Uhg. Damn this dark sky at seven for making me think of dreary things.