The First One

We are playing badly. The piece is not particularly challenging for any of us, but still we sound lost. The chair I am sitting in is not made for cello playing, by any stretch. I hear a rhythm spiral off into disarray, and make a mental note. And then, suddenly, he is laughing. We put our instruments down for the fourth time.

"Get a hold of yourself"

"I'm so close to telling Ms. P"

"For god's sake. It's just a number"

The scolding does not affect him. Never did. None of us are really mad anyway.

"We got lost 48"

***

Her red hair covers her eyes for a minute. It's windy.
"C'mon. You do. Don't you?"
"You're freaky, Emma"

"I knew it."

"That's really strange. Can't be that obvious"
"No, it isn't. I just know you, Pip. God, can't believe I guessed"
"Shut up"
"How long?"
"Uh. About a week?"
"I can't believe I guessed him"

***

My shirt sticks to the back of my neck. The sun is unbearable. I hate hot weather. Hate it. Sean has been asking me what I am doing constructively. Can't really answer him truthfully:

I've been waiting for him to show up all summer.
Formulating what to wear on the first day of school.
Thinking about that time his Mum offered me a mint. Worrying.
Waiting.

***

I can't really decide if I look nice or not. My hair is frizzy. Bad. But the shirt looks nice. Crisp. Cool and collected. I look passable. I head back out into the pavilion and see him talking to my friend, who looks beautiful, whose makeup is perfectly applied. I walk towards them.
"I'm not going to tell you"
"Please. Pleasepleaseplease"

I interject "Please what?"
He turns to me. "She wants me to fess up."
She pouts "He won't tell me who he likes. I've guessed and guessed"
He speaks to me, watching my eyes " I think you know, though"
I look from him to her. Then her to him. My stomach clenches slightly. I do know. I can't believe I didn't see it.

I nod at him.

"Yeah, I think I do"

***

My friends are wondering why I have left the fair early. I know that, as I run to the car. The part of my brain that is still calculating knows I only have a few more moments. Sean is driving. I lean into the car. I'm still okay. I climb into the passenger seat. Put my purse in between the seats. He asks me how it went. My throat is clenching now. I tell him "okay"
I let my hair cover my face, and I press my forehead to the glove compartment. My shoulders shake silently and I am sobbing like a fool. I try to suck in air. Sean asks me:
"What happened, babe."
"He likes her. He likes her."

***

I am in science. Things have blown over. We are closer now, because I stayed by him while she rejected him. Over and over. The resentment I at first felt has faded to a bruise. Science is quiet. I can think. For the first time in months, I feel like maybe there is hope. I glance at the clock. Two minutes until class starts. A slight, athletic girl skips in. She is older than I am. I think that she is pretty. She asks the teacher a question and I hear her say his name. I look up. She is whispering something to the teacher. She looks up, realizes the time and walks toward the door, laughing. The teachers yells at her "Congratulations"
I think briefly, Please, no. Not again

***

He leans over to me. Ms. P is talking. My beautiful black-haired friend is between us. No longer an obstacle.
"So yeah, it was pretty awesome" he says, belatedly.
"I can't believe she let you do that on the desks. I've always wanted to fence"
He laughs "Yeah me too."
"I think there's a club in Tacoma"
"Really?"
"Yeah. And I think they're cheap too"
He's starting to get excited. Genuinely. I can tell. I'm excited too. I've made him happy. My friend rolls her eyes.
"My god. Get married all ready." We smile

***

It's raining out. He speeds up to be with me. The athletic, pretty girl watches us together. I can tell that he is upset. She has hurt him. Again.
"What's going on?"

"We broke up."
"Again?"
"Yeah."
"I'm gonna kill her."
"I know you are"
My real questions remain unasked between us: Why are you still into her? What did you say to make her upset? Why don't you see me?

***

It's 10:00 at night. My pajama bottoms have flowers on them. I am climbing onto my bunk when the phone rings. I get under my blanket. Grab my book. Sean walks in. Hands me the phone. I expect Emma.

“Hello?”

“Hey, its me” His voice on the other line. In this moment 82 daydreams are becoming reality

"Oh. Hi. Its kind of late, you know. Normal people are going to bed right about now."
"Yeah well, normal people didn't just become the owners of an electric instrument, just now, did they?"

I squeal.

"You got one!"

"Yep."

"Is it awesome?"

"Very."

I have run out of things to exclaim.

"Piper?"

“Uh huh"

"I want you to be the first person to play it tomorrow, okay?"

Of course okay.

***

I arrive in the room. A crowd has gathered around him. I dart into storage to get my cello. I set up my chair and go to see him. Another girl is playing. The distortion of the notes echoes about the room.

***

We are setting up for the concert. I am folding programs. He is watching me.
"You look like Hermione Granger."
"Hmm?"
"Hermione Granger."
"Like in the movie? She's kind of-"
"No, not the movie one. She's hot. No, like in the book"
"Oh. Are you calling me ugly?"
"No."

***

"Do we turn here"
"Yes" The ice cream cup has condensation on it.
"I can't believe you know where he lives."
"Of course I know where he lives."
We turn up a road. Expensive, modern houses are passed. I remember the doorway correctly.
"Okay, here" I jump out of the car, walk to the door and ring the bell. A man, his Dad, opens the door.
"Hi, my name is Piper. Your son wanted ice cream after the concert. So, I- brought him some"
His father thanks me. Closes the door. I run back to the car.
She never brings him ice cream.

***

He is typing on the teachers computer. I note his fingers. They are long and skinny. The joints and tendons stand out. They are beautiful. Beautiful, beautiful.
"You have nice hands"
He is distracted. "What?"
"You have nice hands"
"Oh, thanks."
He doesn't know, but hands are the first thing I notice about boys.

***

It's dark out still. It is peaceful and warm inside my bed. My mother rubs my head. I do not want to wake up. I was having a good dream.
"Wake up, Pip. He'll be there today."
All of a sudden, my eyes can open.

***

I look up from playing. He avoids my glance. Strange. He's been acting weird all period long. I ask him what's wrong.
"I know who you like"
I hate the term "like". It sounds juvenile. I don't like "crush". Neither of the words are appropriate and yet they are used always.
"Oh really? And who told you?"
"A little birdie"
"Well, unless it's Demi or Emma-"
"No, it isn't"
"Well, then whoever told you is guessing. They're the only ones who know"
"My girlfriend thinks you like me" My pulse accelerates, but only slightly. As the weeks have gone on, similar comments have arisen.
"Your girlfriend is paranoid."
We don't discuss it after that. I hear him and my friend talking.
"For God's sake just admit it."
"There's nothing to admit"
"You're hopeless"
I don't like him taking this seriously. I am not ready to have him know. I need to alleviate some of this tension. I walk up to them. I pat him on the shoulder.
"Don't worry. You're one of many" I can tell my sarcasm sounds strange. My friend laughs though. I am grateful to hear her. He crosses his arms over his chest.
"Piper, I don't find you physically attractive, at all"
I know he doesn't mean it. I know that I am not repugnant. But it hurts just the same. For awhile there, everything was alright.

***

Summer. Again. Waiting. Again.
I sit at my post in the stand and watch as the people go by. People visit me and I am glad to see them. But I will not deny that I am a little disappointed when I hear my name called and realize that he has not come yet. The long-talked-about quartet, the one I organized so carefully, has been all but forgotten. He still talks about coming round to practice. But it's just an illusion really. He always has things that come up.

***

I haven't really seen him in months. He keeps standing us up for quartet practice. His blatant disregard for my time is getting to me. The fact that he is still with that cruel girl, is getting to me.

***

I expected him to be a frightening driver. But he is actually quite cautious. Uncharacteristically careful. I suppose it's because he really, really, doesn't want the car to get wrecked. He loves that car.

He is smiling at my choice of music. Not something I would normally choose. But something I knew he would like. We go past the graveyard and I direct him to my house. I can tell he likes it. But he wishes it were more modern. We never did have the same aesthetic. I think he appreciates the yard, as boys are bound to do. He talks about his girlfriend. I watch incredulously. We laugh at videos online.

It's a nice couple of hours.

But I know for certain, as he pulls out of the driveway, blasting rock music, that things will never be the same.

***

No one has caught my eye, yet. I have no one to think about. No one to scrutinize. It's liberating in a way. I still see him from time to time. There is none of the old anticipation.

In losing my love for someone, I have gained a friend. I have gained insight. I have gained confidence.


But I will never forget that first one.

March Hare

I like March. I hesitate to suggest that it may be one of my favorite months. It's usually respectably rainy, and some of the foliage starts to sprout new green. To use a cliche, it feels like the earth is finally waking up.
The last few weeks have been really busy. I had a youth symphony chair test to practice for and Solo Ensemble contest to preform in. And then I also had projects due as well. The spring always seems to bring many obligations.
Have you guys seen Coraline? It was directed by the same guy who did The Nightmare Before Christmas, Henry Selick. It was the perfect combination of horror, fantasy and art. I loved it. It has been a long time since I loved a movie that much, actually. The soundtrack is superb. I've been listening to it a lot lately; it makes me feel special, like something important and exotic and exciting is about to happen. The music was composed by Bruno Coulais and featured the slightly eerie sounding Children's Choir of Nice. The choir was also included in the soundtrack to Grandpa (A tiny little animated film about a grandfather and his granddaughter and the adventures they have together. When I was little, I watched it constantly, and I still cry at the end, to this day)
Tomorrow I am going to the city with Demi, Emma, and Tyler. It is going to be amazingly fun. I can't wait. Demi's turning fifteen. Happy Birthday, Dem.

Stained Glass Valentines

I'm going to teach you how to make these lovely little things: Stained Glass Valentines!

The materials you are going to need are:

• Crayons in Shades of Pink, Red, Purple, Orange, and Browns
• One Garbage Bag
• Iron
• Ironing Board (Sorry, Not pictured)
• Scissors
• Ribbon
• Wax paper
• Hole punch
• Sharpener
• Sharpies
• Two Dish Towels (Sorry, Not Pictured)
  

The first step is to set up your space, so, lay the garbage bag over you work area.
Then, to cut out two 12x12 pieces of wax paper. They don't have to be exact. Put one piece of wax paper aside and start to peel some of the label off each of the crayons. Over a one of the pieces of wax paper, sharpen the crayons. Spread the shavings out on the wax paper.

Try not to get the shavings too close to the edges; They'll bleed out when they melt.

Next you're going to put a dishtowel down on you ironing board ( you might want to use some scrubbier towels for this project, just in case) and place the crayon shaving covered waxpaper on it, without disturbing the shavings. Good luck. Also, start heating up your iron.
Remember the other, thus-so-far neglected, piece of waxpaper? Use it to cover the shaving covered wax paper. That didn't make much sense. Oh well. Be intuitive. I bet you can figure it out
Now, Cover up the waxpaper and crayon shavings sandwich with a dish towel and start ironing over it. Make sure none of the waxpaper is touched by the iron. Bad things will happen.
This is what the wax paper will look like once you have run the iron over the wax paper for awhile:
After the waxpaper has cooled, bring it over to your workspace again. Draw the outlines of your valentines with a sharpie. Then cut out your valentine.
Once you have it cut out, take the hole punch and cut two holes near the top. Try to get them as close together as possible. Then you're are going to cut some ribbon and poke each end through the holes.
Push the two ends of the ribbon through the loop that is formed. Pull the ends, forming a slip knot. Be careful, the paper is fragile.
Finally, using a sharpie, add your Valentines message.

Enjoy your Valentines. Hope this works for you. Be sure ask any questions you have, via the comments.

Internet Ads

I just came across the following Internet oo-shiny-please-touch-me- ad:

"His IQ is 80
R U smarter than Obama?"

Underneath was some person's sad attempt at a portrait of the president elect. His head was wobbling back and forth in a bobblehead-esque fashion.

It wasn't really the words or the-ahem- art that caught my eye (Obama, Angelina Jolie, Britney Spears, the Clintons, and Paris Hilton, all allegedly have an IQ of 80.) It was more the fact that I realized that I didn't believe the ad for even a millisecond. Brushed it off. Which was strange. I was used to seeing Bush's phony grin plastered all over those very same IQ test ads, and pausing for a bit wondering if it was at all possible.
I think America is going to have to get used to having a smart president. That's exciting.

Oh, by the way, It's december now.

Hey people, remember me?
A myriad of exciting things have all happened within about a month and the subsequent chaos has been unmeasurable. It's been fun, but I'm glad that everything is cooling down. What has been going on you ask? Well...

• I moved: The new house is wonderful. Very old and quiet feeling. I kind of feel like Darcy or Rochester is going show up at any moment. And the yard is so lovely. There is a little creek out back and all these trees and an orchard and blackberries surrounding the whole place. Oh, and we live next to the cemetary.

• I turned fifteen: You would not believe how affected I am by this. Usually I don't notice the change in how I feel when I am officially a year older. But at fifteen I definately recognize it. When I was 6 and 7, fifteen was the year. That was grown-up/teenager/young adult business. All the books I read at that time involved characters at fifteen. I was excited for fifteen. It's weird to arrived at that age, after waiting for it.

• Christmas was celebrated: We didn't have much time to shop because we were still moving in, but buying Christmas gifts this year was really fun none-the-less. The snow made it all seems so-forgive the cliche- magical. Christmas itself was amazing. I got a lot of books that I had been waiting for and some I didn't even know I wanted. And I got my new coat. I love that thing. So much.

• Had a chamber concert: Not much to say about that except much practicing was done and that I have not been much more stressed out than that. Still, that doesn't mean I'm not dreaming of going back to symphony. I mean that literally. I had a dream involving the symphony two nights in a row.

And that's about it. Goodness. Looks like a lot less on paper.

Moving

Every time, we drove up the hill, Mum made a point of driving past this one house. It looked like something out of pride and prejudice, with a gliding yard that curled into a orchard at the edge of a cemetery. It is quiet there. The house up the hill is one of the only houses we would ever consider as an alternative to the house we live in now. Which is why it is really weird that it went up for sale, last month. Even more strange, was my parent's reaction to this oddly palpable possibility. They both knew, what with the approaching holiday season and our seemingly endless obligations, that this was going to be a busy few months. And yet, despite the logic of staying in our already comfortable home, they started making preparations, meeting with real estate agents. My siblings and I would have two acres to run and laugh and pretend on. There was a barn in the back. And trees. A whole forest of trees. And maybe the house would smell of the smoke the previous owners left behind, and maybe there would be more painting to be done. Maybe there is anger in that house, and carpet again. But you don't dream about something for nothing, do you?
After all of my parents hard work, I'm happy to announce that we will be moving into our new home on December 8th 2008.
I'm so excited.

The girl who listens

The room is green. And she has headphones on. When she listens, she thinks to herself, someday, I'm going to write a song like this. And it will be beautiful and I won't have to carry around the meaning of it anymore. She listens.

"Be my friend. Hold me."

She knows she is tired. That it's probably the lack of sleep that is making her sad. But this acknowledgement of reality, however acurate, doesn't do much to remedy the situation. The song comes to an end and she puts it on repeat. She feels her eyes filling up, again. She sucks in breath and says to herself, No, you are not going to cry. You are going to get up and go be happy. You are not going to think about a boy walking down the street in the rain. You are not going to think about the things that you would say, the words that line up in your head, impatient. You are not going to think about what you are missing. About what you failed to do.

"I have done it again. I have been here many times before."

Even though she is only thinking to herself, she still feels embarrassed for being so dramatic. But then again, she reasons, love is supposed to be embarassing. Especially when it sneaks up on you and you remember again. Because now, she remembers what it is like to love his hands and to laugh without obligation. I sound silly, she thinks. But that's alright.

"Lost myself again. And I feel unsafe"

She goes back to listening. She sees that face in her head, the one she thought she couldn't remember and this time she lets herself cry.

Someday she will write a song about it, and everything will be okay.

September? Where did you go?

Okay. So I haven't posted for a month. But I have a wonderful excuse.

I got into the fall play this year. It was so exciting. And the rest of the cast and crew were so lovely and supportive. It's really desolate that it's over now. I'll miss the adrenaline of being able to become my character, figure 15, whom I love. I'll miss the excitement of trying something new with a certain scene. I'll miss getting notes from our great director and assistant directors so that I can improve my acting. I'll miss going to practice after school. I'll miss anticipating performances. I'll miss being with Emma and Demi and Tyler, my closest friends, because during the school day I don't get to see them much. I'll miss the comrarderie. But at least my eyes have been opened to how wonderful being in a play is. It was sure beautiful while it lasted. Maybe I'll get to experience it again some time.

WiPod

I do believe my Sansa is toying with me.
I love my mp3 player. It was my biggest birthday present last year and it was my father who doctored it up and added a plethora of songs that he knew (Or thought he knew) I loved. He added clips of my favorite movies and a picture each of my Mother, Basil, my Brother and my Sister. Mum beamed when I opened the present.
When I am upset, I curl up in a fetal position in my bed and I listen to Breathe Me by Sia. When I am energized, I spin around the house listening to Frou Frou or (recently) Madonna. When I am sick I listen to anything and I begin to feel better. When I am thinking about the boy that I am still holding onto I listen to Rootless Tree by Damien Rice.
I do not own a fancy-pants iPod. And though I guiltily covet them, I could never quite replace the little sansa that has been with me through every hill and every valley of these days.
And now, strangely enough, my mp3 player is turning against me.
The headphone jack is acting up. I can only hear in both ears if I hold the cord of my headphones in a very exact position.
Also, more vexingly, the little meter that shows me how much battery I have left is completely wonky. Sometimes after twenty-four hours of anticipating and agonizing charging, it will inform me that it is still a little tired and that it would like to be charged again thankyouverymuch. Sometimes, the meter will flicker between charged and ready to die. It seems that every time I glance down at the screen of my sansa, it has changed from green to red. I break out in a sweat, until the little red bar sneakily fills up to green again. I breathe easy for awhile until I happen to look down, and see that once again, the battery is red.
It is a tension-filled existence.
I keep expecting to completely lose it and start screaming manically at it, and it's fickle little meter.
Really.


This is Rootless Tree by Damien Rice. It's the perfect combination of exasperation, love and desperation.
I think, anyway.

Two weeks in.

School has started. As you guys know, I was reluctant to go back. This upcoming school year, perhaps more than any other, did not have a very appealing future. But I have been pleasantly surprised. It has been easier than I ever would have imagined to get back into the routine. And being at the top of the school certainly does have it's own subtle perks.
He is not around, yes, but life goes on. Chances aren't taken. Feelings go unnoticed. We keep moving.
My classes are mostly enjoyable. My social studies class is a extraordinary improvement on last year, obviously, and orchestra is, as usual, my most comfortable class. The english curriculum this year seems to have been thought up with exactly me in mind. It's as though all the english teachers in the district got together and asked themselves what exactly Miss Pip would like to write about this year. It is early days yet, but so far I am pleased.
This year in the youth symphony I am in the third group. I am also second chair cello, which was a complete surprise. My audition, apparently, went better than I thought. We are playing some very emotional pieces, which, I think, will turn out nicely
I went to the fair with my friends on Wednesday. We went on a lot of rides and did a lot of random and impulsive things. I got to spend some quality time with my best friends. People in my life that I love and trust. It was a good day.
Homework is not excessive, though, of course, it is still too early in the year to tell. I have to lug my geometry book back and forth which is really annoying. I enjoy doing the english homework.
All in all, the first two weeks of the school year , excepting a few events and conversations, have been the same as past years. Simply put: normal.
But, then again, not. Not normal at all.
With him gone, it feels as though I have lost my center. Like a clean cut has sliced something out of my being. I am not lost, per say. In fact, I am more sure of myself now, than I have been in months. No, it is more a sense that there is less to aspire to. Nothing to grasp. And yet, ironically, I'm still holding on. Stupid me. Stubborn me.

Destined to fail, I relish my tiny, inconsistent triumphs.

End

I should just start out all my posts with an apology. I am far too lenient with the regularity of my posts. So, Sorry.

Also, for those friends of mine who are wondering when reclusive became my middle name, I direct you to a pain-in-the-arse teacher who, during the school year, never allowed me a moment to do art or read. Thus, summer leaves me with a lot of creative ideas and plans and probably annoyed friends.

The last few weeks have been rather eventful. Music Camp was a lot of work but worth it. I totally improved and met new interesting people. My audition was last Monday. I freaked out, but was okay, once I started playing.

My siblings and I went to our friends farm to Par-tay, with our friends and we had a really lovely time. We all ate fudge and swam and tried to write music and it was a lot of fun.

My sims had twins. Which leaves me with a dilemma. I've also started playing Dracula: Origins. (It's a good game, if you like adventure, puzzles, romance, vague instructions, and vampires)

So.

The fall is coming. I got my big white envelope in the mail, announcing that prep day was coming up. I really wish I didn't have to go. Can't we all just show up on the first day of school and sort things out then? Or better yet, don't show up at all? I kind of understand the neccesity for seventh graders but, by the time your in ninth grade (Like me) you know the drill. Get to class on time, never wear hats (By the way, what's up with that? We are in the 21st century. I love hats, and unless one is wearing flamingo on the crown of their head I honestly don't see the "Distraction", but whatever), and make sure you turn in your homework. On. Time. I don't want to go back yet. It makes me really sad.

I went and saw the Dark Knight. The Joker, was obviously amazing and kind of reminded me of V, which is a very good thing in my books. I thought it was fast-paced and interesting and powerful. All the makings of a very good movie. It did seem to have a bit of the middle movie/video game effect (Two towers, Prince of Persia:Warrior Within) but all in all, a pretty good movie.

Part of the reason I haven't written in so long was because of the following story. I've wanted to post it forever and haven't really gotten down to editing it (I still really haven't). But, now. Finally here it is. Be wary. See you guys.

Miss Pip



The Adventures of Sleek Hansen





“My name is Sleek Hansen, and I am.. Violent.”
The men and women around me looked confused. One person murmured “Okaaay.” Several others looked strangely sympathetic. The leader of the circle looked at me intently as he had with everyone. I could almost see weariness there. He spoke calmly and efficiently.
“Violent in what way, Miss Hansen? Physically or in a looser sense?” A woman to his right nodded emphatically, inviting me to go on, wiping her already flowing mascara with her hand and sniffing in a dramatic sigh. Ready to pounce on my story, to involve herself in it. She had been crying off and on throughout the hour now. She had volunteered her story first, basked in the glory of it, and then spent the rest of the time interrupting the other speakers with cries of
“Oh I know exactly how you feel” or “My husband would have beat me for a trick like that” or “You are so lucky to have a supportive family!” Her story was the most tragic of all. But, of course, that was all it was. A story.
“Physically.” I said, very nearly wincing at the way the words sounded. Admittance is the first step towards recovery.
“So you hurt people physically. What people, Miss Hansen?”
“Just-Anyone. Male, female. Younger, Older. Strangers mostly, but there has been no real pattern.”
“I see” I heard the evident doubt in his voice. He was humoring me. I am skinny thing, tall, but seemingly weak. Not someone who could kill full grown men. Someone who could abuse children, perhaps. From the beginning he did not believe me. Silly man.
“How many times have these incidents happened, Miss Hansen?”
I hadn’t really counted. But I knew the “incidents” were many. I shaved down the number.
“Only a few times. Three or four.”
“Do these people ever provoke you, Miss Hansen?”
“No. It is a random impulse.” I said and he sighed. He had heard this before, maybe. It was a rare occurrence in a woman, but I was merely a curiosity to him. To him there was nothing truly unique about my story.
“Such things sometimes happen when one is under the influence, Miss Hansen. Alcohol, when taken in large doses, clouds one’s judgment, as I’m sure you know. But in this program, we take precautions so that you no longer have to reach such levels of intoxication.” He sounded dismissive.
I frowned. This is where it got things got tricky, awkward.
“Well, actually, I don’t hurt people when I’m under the influence.”
“Oh.” He hesitates for a moment “Well, then is it before or after you drink, that you become violent, Miss Hansen?”
“I actually- I actually don’t drink..” I admitted. There was another pause from the man, then:
“You don’t need to be afraid of telling us about your addiction, Miss Hansen. You are safe here. No one is going to get you in trouble.”
“Addiction isn’t my trouble..I’m just violent. And I know that’s not what you really treat here, but I’m kind of at the end of my rope and you guys were open and close by. Surely you know someone who could help me?”
“When you say addiction is not your trouble, does that mean that you think you can control your drinking problem?”
“I said, I don’t drink. But I hurt people. Please. You’ve got to know someone who can help me.”
“You don’t drink at all, or you don’t have a drinking problem?” He was still hung up on his job. His little mind was trying to find if I was lying, and he was confused. He watched me, infuriating. I could see his mind working: This is not what she is supposed to be saying.. He made me suddenly angry. He wasn’t going to help me. He was caught up in himself, and his precious protocol.
“Please. I need help. You must know someone”
“We have many people who are willing to help you shake your addiction, Miss Hansen. The first step is admittance.”
I felt fury prickle underneath my skin, covering me in gooseflesh.
I stood, envisioning crossing the room to his chair, launching my fist into his throat and feeling the warm blood spurting into my face. I could almost feel my fingers finding his severed windpipe and crawling up, up, splitting the fragile tubing of his trachea as I went. My fingers, tunneling through the gore and coming out though his mouth. The stunned face of the weeping lady and her companions. I was comforted by the thought. But standing there, again in reality, I resisted.
“I don’t think this is a good fit for me.” I picked up my coat from behind me and walked to the door, apprehensive as I passed the leader. It would be so easy. He stirred, wanting to stop me.
“If you ever want any help, Miss Hansen-“
The door closed before he finished his sentence.

I was walking home, hands deep in my pockets, my mouth spinning off curses, when I heard it. I will never forget that scream for the rest of my life. It was a little girl scream. But I could tell it was a man. Admittedly, a very desperate man, but a man none-the-less. I was in the bad part of town. There were few people about, and those who were out were either too scared to intervene or found the screaming commonplace and not worth their time. I turned at the end of the seven eleven and bent forward, looking for the struggle of the screamer. There were some dumpsters, some overflowing and others ominously empty. The commotion was coming from behind the farthest one from me. Something was being banged repeatedly into the dumpster’s side and I ran to it, feeling ridiculously like a vigilante. The attacker was not particularly big. But he was fit.
I could not say the same for his victim.
He was a sorry little thing. Black hair. Maybe brown, but it looked black from all the dirt and grease. His skinny little frame was masked with layers of sweat pants and smelly sweaters. Neither seemed to notice me. Then the larger man hefted the obvious hobo onto his shoulders and dropped him onto the ground. The slight man’s back fell onto the concrete and his head banged against the pavement.
And then Felix Loper’s eyes opened, and my already screwed up life broke a little more.
I looked up from the injured man and my eyes met his attackers. There was no fear there. Of course not. Best fix that.
In a few quick steps my hands were around his waist. I was aware of his muscle. His fragile bones. I squeezed and heard agony echo from his lips. I twisted and felt his spine break. His thick, strong arms flailed crazily. He was screaming and his arms were confusing me. So I ripped them off. He was dead a few moments later, but I held onto his still, even as he slumped onto my shoulders. I was scared by the homeless man’s eyes, and the feeling they sent shivering through my being. I didn’t want to see those eyes again. But then again, I did.
With every molecule of my body, I did. I was confused, battling with myself. Wondering if I should kill the whelp, this man who was making me wonder. Making me doubt. The seconds ticked by. I let the corpse fall to the ground. And then I turned around to see what the man with the eyes made of me, and I of him.
But Felix Loper, to my acute distress, was gone.

Before I go to Music Camp

I wanted to share this very special video with you.







http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7XKwX194gYI



Observe the comments. I am not actually sure what is more pathetic, the video or those who comment on the video, berating it's "Fak", the average Internet muskrat's word for "Fake", nature.

And, please feel free to enlighten me of your feelings on this controversial matter. Is it bad that Ginny looks about 5 years younger than Harry? Do you think Ron was hurt by the cat Hermione was holding?

Now that I think about it, I'm kind of the pathetic one. I just wrote an entire fucking post about the thing.

Summer

OK. I'd like to sum up the school year, a bit. Because I haven't really done so myself and I like to share such expieriences with you.
See how generous I am?

This year in school I:

• Had some really amazing teachers. My math teacher was infinitely gentle and had a wonderful sense of humor. My orchestra teacher put up with me, considering the nervous basketcase I become in her class. (Thank you) And my science teacher was pretty awesome. My english teacher had nice taste in music, and a strangely fitting attitude. My gym teacher somehow managed to remain in my good books despite the class she taught. And that is hard.


• Had some other teachers, who shall remain nameless, but who tend to teach about government and history, who are ignorant turds.


• Learned that one A squared plus B squared equals C squared stuff, and was finally able to understand what Dad was talking about in math.


• Participated in that musical I talked about. And didn't end up vomiting in the middle of the performance. (Bonus!)


• Got straight A's ( I know. I think some of the teachers had a bit too much drinkee-drink too.)


• Fell in love with a boy, who, unknowingly, broke my heart, sometimes on a daily basis. I forgive him though, because he is so damn wonderful.


• Performed many spleen operations on my ever eager and willing patient, Logan, with my assisting doctor, Demi.


• Was reunited with said perpetual friend Demi, who never failed to make me laugh, even on the verge of tears. I do not know what I have done without her.


• Managed, though shakily, to maintain my friendship with my dear Emma, despite our separation throughout the entire year. She is so creative and wonderful and I am so glad this year worked out, despite the less gossamer beginnings.


• Tried to subtly change the school gym uniform several times. Only one of them worked.

Yep. Pretty good year.

Looking backward

I'm a bit of a journal/diary/lifestory fiend.

I've aways kept journals. Locked journals, opened journals. Handmade Journals, storebought journals. Writing Journals, Personal Journals. Journals in English, Journals in languages that I barely understand, even though I made them up. I've had a lot of journals.

Unfortunately, none of them have been very long lasting. At the beginning of the year, I brought a journal to school with me. Everything that happened to me was written. If you wanted to blackmail me, that's probably the journal you would want to get a hold of. Everything written there was written quite rashly. Nothing was very well thought out. It stopped being written in at about January. By that time, I didn't need it so much anymore. And that's the way it usually goes with my journals.

I have kept one journal longer than any other (Except for this this blog) . It's by far my most personal journal. I'm always a little melodramatic when I write in it. Mostly because I'm usually compelled to write in it because I'm upset. The thing about this journal is that it makes me sad. I sound so childish when I write in it. I'm a little too raw. And the problems that I read that occured months ago don't feel nearly so painful. Truthfully, I'm rather amused that I was in such upheaval about them. Which makes me sad. I look back to seventh grade, and I read about that boy who I liked for 5 months. I can remember why I liked him so much. And why his abundant girlfriends and his sometimes ridiculous attire annoyed me. Even now, when I pass him in the halls I think, as everyone around him erupts into laughter, "See, he was a good boy to choose. He wasn't that bad. He didn't mean to hurt you. Of course not."

But this is the biggest problem of all.

I worry that when I sit in bed, with puffy, red eyes and true pain heavy in my mind, and write in my journal about you, and how mean you can be sometimes, and how amazing and wonderful you are, that someday, maybe soon or later, I will be amused.

Surely you are not a blip on the screen. Surely.

The Bass Line in this song is awesome.

Do you have have those days, when you feel that anything and everything in the world is going to make you cry. Not because you're particularly sad or anything, more because your eyes haven't filled with moisture for awhile, and you throat hasn't felt as though filled with cotton. It's more physical than emotional.
I have had three days of that, for some weird reason. It makes me feel sleepy too.
I blabbered on to Demi just now. My poor girl. Sorry. It's the bizzarro lack of weepage.

Y'know one of the things I worry about the most, is that my children will look pictures of me from Jr. High and will go red with shame at the outdatedness of me. That's partly why I try to avoid trends. I am so grateful that I can look at pictures of my parents and say "Yep, those are my parents. How hip are they?" because they were so them.

I haven't read a book in ages. I realized that yesterday. I know exactly what I'm going to start reading when I stop getting given these dumbasamuskrat projects from school. And when the musical is over. Oh, did I mention I got into the school musical? Yeah. Yay me! It's actually a collection of a lot of songs from a lot of musicals. It's pretty fun, and my thespians (That has nothing to do with homosexuals) are very awesome. The proceeds are all going to a fund to help a kid who my school has adopted, because he has a terrible disease that needs fighting. So we're raising money for a good cause too. I feel very much apart of something. It's almost fellowship-of-the-ringy-like. But the difficult, and enjoyable practice comes at a price. My feet are so blistered and sore at the end of the day. I mean they are painful; Purple-heart-deserving painful.
Anyway, I will go sleep now. Sleep is good.

I have to say some stuff... A lot of it won't make sense.

1. Monday was an incredibly great day. I still haven't burned it though. I hope you won't forget. I act like I have, like it isn't a big deal for me. But it is. I could hardly sleep on Monday night.

2. I did what was right. It was a weird kind of right. The kinda of right that is like killing a dying animal. I never would have gone out with him. And the idea that he could get me to change my mind and make me cast away a year's worth of affection for someone else, in 25 days, is insulting. It was better for me to talk to him, before he talked to me. Putting yourself out there is hard, and being rejected is very painful; I wasn't going to impose that feeling on someone, just because I was too lazy or embarrassed to do something about the whole thing.

3. I was scared at first, and I still am in some ways, but not nearly as scared. Camaraderie is powerful.

4. I will never ever promise to write a post again. I will promise to write half-posts. I'm sorry guys. My memories of Easter are not as sharp anymore, and I would not do it justice. Keep wondering.

5. I like the smell of summer. But I prefer the cold.

6.Why does anime have to be so fun to draw? I'm rubbish at it and I hate the faces, but it is so easy-peasy-lemon-pie!

7. I am scared about my cello recital. Wish me luck. I'm playing a Sonata by Franck. Very pretty. Very emotional. I wish you could hear it. My fingers hurt.

8. Fable 2 is coming out. Look it up. I mean it. Now. It's going to be the best video game ever. Seriously. And Twilight! It's coming out! on December 12th! Oh. My. Goodness.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xBvOhfL4mYw

9. You have the most beautiful hands. I love them.

city escape

Sorry that my promised Easter Post hasn't come yet. I haven't forgotten, I'm just having some problems getting a hold of the pictures that I want to include.

If you play a video game, you should play Myst. It is so fulfilling and beautiful. I'm playing Revelations (The fourth) right now and I'm delirious, it's so pretty and mind boggling. And gamespot rated it 8.5 so.. Ha.

Today I went into the City. It was cold, but the sun made everything fresh. I watched pigeons waddle daringly close to humans, only to claw into the air as chubby hands reached too close. I discussed suicide, on the side of a bridge with my brother. We both agreed that if we ever became sad enough to even contemplate suicide, we would definitely not jump off a bridge which gave way to a highway. I ate mango licorice, and dried fruit rolled in coconut. I went shopping in a funky thrift store and beheld just about the most beautiful dress I have ever seen. I left it behind. Where would I wear it ever? I watched a young father push his twin infant children on swings. I read some of The Pilot's Wife by Anita Shreve. I rummaged in my mother's bag for her sunglasses so she could see in the Bug. I walked through the market and watched the performers, wondering if maybe my brother and I would be in their place this summer.

It was a wonderful, amazing day.

But throughout the fantasy that was today, I could not help but be interupted by that strange little longing for you to show up, for some reason, in the same city.

The post would be on the bottom row of class pictures. This title, not so much.

"Will you still call for me,
When she falls asleep?
Or do we soon forget,
The things we cannot see?" Tori Amos, Happy Phantom

Easter is coming. And I am enormously excited. I love Easter. But in a way, I am also terrified of it.. (That's all I'm going to explain at the moment. See Post-Easter Post-age)

I have kind of run out of books. All the series I have been anticipating *Cough*Twilight*Cough* are finished and reread. And then there's the other series' where the plot is fine until the eighty-billionth book is published and the plot has been sucked dry of any interest anymore. There is no conflict or sorrow anymore. Don't get me wrong. I love happy endings. I almost require them. But I love happy endings not happy beginningsmiddlesandends. Y'know what I mean? Does anyone know any good books?

Happy St. Patricks Day

Is it really that day already? This year is going by too fast. I caught myself equating the phrase "A few months ago" with the beginning of the school year. I want the year to stay for all the wrong reasons. Reasons that don't have anything to do with schoolwork or extracurricular activities.
Isn't it weird how we equate certain gestures, such as steepling one's fingers, as contemptious or superior, but we equate other gestures, which essentially mean the same thing, such as lacing one's fingers, as meek and polite? Is it because we subconciously choose to do one or the other, because we are feeling that way? It's interesting to think about. It makes you suddenly monitor your gestures more closely. To make sure that your not coming off as a arrogant jerk.
Everything in the garden (Which resemble a giant mudball at the moment, due to the trenches being dug right now.) is getting ready to burst into bloom. I can't wait. I want the little bluebells to spring up everywhere and the cherry tree to bring in a storm of fingernail pink petals. I want perpetual springtime and falltime weather!

God.. Where is she?

Where am I? I am under a towel, burning my eyes out by trying to crack through my clogged sinus'. I am trying to keep warm in my freezing bed (Freezing to me. Probably would be fine for normal human beings. The flu will do that to you.) I am stumbling around, getting seriously dizzy whenever I stand up. I am watching many, many episodes of Project Runway (I love that damn show. And it's very ironic, seeing it's about, well, fashion. Jillian is my favorite, just so you know.)

So that's where I am. Or was. When I was being all sickly and pasty-like. And now.. I'm trying to catch up on my school work. Which is really hard because I was sick for the standardized testing days, so I have to make it up-whenever I have a free moment.

Does anyone else just vomit when those eHarmony commercials of the happy couples dancing to that that Everlasting Love song with these ridiculously plastic grins on their movie star faces. They assure us that they are 100% Real and I laugh at them. Not that I have a vendetta against happy, romantic people. No, no. But I've seen the ads for online dating sites. It's basically variations of the same voluptuous woman in black lingerie. Suddenly, everyone is dating and chatting and getting married. Without actually, well, knowing each other. But they can never say that on air!
"I saw her on my sidebar, and the magic of love just enthralled me!"
"Marie and Jessica caught my eye immediately. I broke both their hearts and turned them against each other! They don't even see each other at Thanksgiving!"
"Desirey said that her avatar was an anime drawing of herself. It turned out that it was a still from a Sailor Moon episode.. We're-Eh.. Not together anymore."

It also kinda makes me sad in a way. Especially now that I've just made fun of those head-over-heels lovebirds.

I'm not very nice today.

Lapse

I'm sorry for the long stretches between posts lately. And the large spaces in between paragraphs. I don't know what's going on with the computer, but it makes me look like I've written a novel instead of a post and I'm most apologetic.
I'm writing a speech for my english class at present. And I'm watching Pride and Prejudice on and off throughout the day (They condensed 6 hours of one of the most amazing romances into two and still managed to get Darcy right, even though he's not Colin Firth and Lizzie is -Eww- Keira Knightly. I would tip my hat off to the director if I had one on.) Seeing as my speech is on Euthanasia, it's rather depressing stuff. I'm talking about dying people a lot, and then looking up dying people, and seeing what hell their life is, and then writing about dying people. And I'm watching that rain scene over and over again and wishing that for one moment, I had some of the romantic felicity too. Just on a small scale.
And I'm watching you letting her turn you into.. Something. And I'm hoping that you won't disappear like others I've watched, just so that you can become something that everyone else will approve of. And I'm loving the fact that we can be friends and that, I think, you trust me, and that I can trust you, and that you are kind. But I'm hating the fact that I may just be the "friend" forever, and that all the effort and struggle and time I've put into this relationship is just going to leave me feeling used. I love being your friend. It's one of things I am most proud of. And one of the things that brings me the most happiness. But I can't help being dissatisfied by the whole thing, and being angry and jealous and thinking that everything is unfair. I don't want to come home and be sad for the rest of the week anymore, just because of some small conversation which probably meant nothing to you. And in your defense, I've been too aloof for your transitional teenage-boy mind to wrap around it all. That it hurt to give you dating advice and for you to make fun of me for not having any boyfriends. That it hurt when you fell for my friend, who didn't care. That I was trying to tell you something the whole time. And I'm just tired of it all. Just tired. But I don't want to let go yet, because I don't know what I'll do when I finally get to it.
And you tell me that you think I'm sad.

Me and My Cello

"Who would be interested in the cello?" The teacher, with her great spiky grey hair, looked around at us.

So many of us were crowded into that room. I was wearing a yellow dress, with flowers near the hem. My sister wears it now, in the summer.

Four of us raised our hands . I was the only girl. All my friends had chosen the smaller instruments. Violin and Viola. But I knew I wanted the cello. The teacher played the cello, and it was elegant. Beautiful. True.

The teacher measured the other potential cellist's hands. When she came to mine she remarked that I was going to need a very small cello. My fourth grader hands, next to her wonderfully spindly and knowledgeable hands made me feel insignificant. Those were musician hands. Those hands were magic...

"Hey girli." She snapped her gum and smiled. I closed the door behind her. She took off her shoes and I marveled how any one's toes could fit into those pointy things. My teacher sat down in the green chair in our living room. I sat down next to her and put Suzuki book two on the wire stand. She tucked a strand of her long blond behind her ear and wrote the date down in my notebook.
"OK. Play me allegretto."
I loved Allegretto. This song was my song. My cello, whom I'd named Peasblossom, was an old beater cello from the school district. I loved that cello. The song sounded good. My teacher put a star next to it...


I held my cello next to me and glanced at Mum. She smiled and my new private teacher's previous student walked out of the music room and untightened her bow. My new teacher followed. We were are introduced. My mum thanked her and I followed my teacher into the music room. I set up and she asked me about myself and then explained the curriculum. I played with nervous fingers, not wanting to disappoint her or myself. We tried out new music and she found a book at my level. As I played I decided I liked it there. It was organized and calm. And she wore slippers. I loved her slippers. And the fact that she wore them.
The songs were friendly and the cover of the book was that wonderful combination of blue and brown. Its weird how things like that stick in your mind. She played perfectly, without making me feel horrible about myself.
She's my hero.



I glanced back at DemiDawn (http://www.minavstand.blogspot.com/) and she smiled and gave me a thumbs up. I looked at my brother, who was, quite literally turning blue from holding back laughter because Dad was doing something funny with his hands and he couldn't make a sound, due the cellist performing in front of us. My hands were shaking, and I'm not even near the stage yet. My Mum took one of the books my sister was reading and opened to one of the blank pages near the back. She wrote in black pen, which has faded now, to brown. Her handwriting was unsteady suggesting that she was as nervous, if not more so, than I was. I read the inscription, and my pride hummed. I took her hand and squeezed. I waited.
Then, in what felt like mere seconds, I was up. Ready to meet my impending doom. Suddenly my cello was anchoured on the rockstop, my book in it's place and I was ready. So exciting. So fufilling. My fingers were shaking, and my tone was scared, but I did it. I beamed as I finished. I did it.


The curtains went up via a holister jacket-clad stagehand. Someone might have vomited on my cumerbund because there was a nasty tan stain on it. My orchestra teacher raised her baton and the whole Orchestra knew what was coming. This was what we had been waiting for. This made listening to the whole concert behind sweltering velvet fabric worthwhile. I felt my body moving with my instrument even before the intro was over. I laughed inside. Comrarderie swelled in us all, and for now no one could complain.


Different stage. Tuxedo shirt. New cello. A book of music now. Adrenaline thrums through my body. The conductor of the youth symphony raises her baton and the violins start. She cues us in. I've been waiting for this. We strike a high note. Our first in the song. My cello sings. And it is beautiful. It is shameless. My face is warm with the light that shines down. It is like a floodgate being opened. Beautiful. Free.

Notes from 11:56 AM Wednesday

I think, optimism is both good and bad. If an optimist goes for a picnic and gets lost on their way to the park and then realizes they packed a can of beets instead of some nice fresh scones with jam, and then it starts raining......an optimist can drop everything and go dance in the rain.



And then you can say you had a wonderful day playing in the rain, instead of saying you had a horrible day during which your picnic was ruined completely.



It's nice to be around an optimistic person. Though they might not be particularly down-to- earth, they have a bounciness that emanates from them like the sun. No one wants to be the only mourner at the party, so optimism is contagious.

Optimists have a nice balance with pessimists. Together they find what is really true. That half the water has been drunk, but you still have the water to enjoy.



The bad thing about optimism?



The occasional vast ocean of false, unreal hope.



Optimists set themselves up for it. Hoping. Feeling that they know that something good is going to happen is almost like a trusting the enemy. If everything is going to work out in the end, what happens when the end is devastating? Then what do they do? What if the events the optimists are given to work with are so sad that they can't find anything good? They give themselves more false hope, and while a lot of the time it makes them better to be around, sometimes, all it does is delay the realization that they were mistaken.

Tales from the Kitty-Catkin Tent

The transparent flap that was the door let the light filter through. I wished for snow. Read some book that my sister had left in her little world. As I turned to the back page, I read a inscription from my mother, encouraging me before a performance. I remembered a solo cello recital. My first....
I heard my North calling me. I ignored my brother, asking me to watch him play the xbox. I ignored him. But I needed that moment. Waiting for the normal week's ritual to set in. For the breath-stealing speed of busied life, the anticipation of seeing, and the heavy that I knew would soon take my mind. No more clay under my fingernails for awhile. No more raiding thrift stores until it all calms down. More meanlingless tasks that mean nothing to their master's.
Good-bye Winter. Please snow..
I crawled out of the tent. Moment shattered.

Year in review

Yes, I know New Years was awhile ago, but that doesn't mean that I can't post resolutions still right? This year privately, I came up with this.

• I will try finally, to stop biting my nails.
• I will practice cello more religiously.
• I will get Lorielye to level 30!
• I will start putting out material creativity, instead of just keeping it bottled up inside my head, waiting to have something done about it.

If I need to add on later I will. I'm dreading the interview and related paper I have to do. Why would you ever give students homework over winter break. Doesn't that send you straight to hell? I mean that is a wonderful example of bad karma right there.

My sister got a video camera for her birthday, (The third birthday in December in my household, which makes for makes for a stressful holiday season..) While trying to set it up, my Mum found movie maker and proceeded to make a movie. Here it is, it's basically our year in review. I'm really quite proud of her.

On the ___ day of Christmas

Three more days until Christmas. I think I'm going shopping this morning. Starting to get a little flustered. I can't believe teachers gave us homework over break. They don't have to grade it until break is over, so they don't have to worry about it. It makes me angry. Then again, if I hadn't been sick Tuesday and Wednesday, I might have been able to work on the stuff. It's raining just the right way outside. Hard and cold and brisk drops of rain. Not rain to be messed with.
Oh. I found this on youtube. In order to fully understand the concept, you must have the volume up fairly loudly. It's a beautiful thing.

My dog, Basil.

The pain that rocks my head suggests that I have a hippo holding a ton of bricks balancing precariously on my head. My legs are all weak and I'm suddenly shivering. I blow my nose and swallow experimentally.
I come out of the kitchen and observe my slumbering dog, curled into a tiny mass of brown and orange fur (he actually quite resembles a reese's peanut butter cup), in the middle of his bed. I lean down and turn him on to his back. He yawns and licks his lips. I cup my hands around his soft, soft ears and lean my head (Along with a curtain of thick brown hair) towards his. He puts up his minute paws in defence, and they barely brush against my cracked lips. I turn my ear to his chest and listen to his heart. He nibbles on my ear. I scold him.
"Stop that, Bazzy"
I feel another sneeze coming on. I pat his head and return him to his "c" like shape.
"Good Dog.."

As of December 7th 2007

Random facts about me as of my fourteenth year.

1. I have been playing cello now, for four years.
2. I've read three graphic novels.
3. I invented a board game called "Poor Dog/ Star Dog" when I was 3. Ask me how to play and I can still tell you. Go on. Ask me.
4. My hair is about 22 inches long.
5. I have a level 27 mage human on Steamwheedle cartel (Don't ask..)
6. I have liked the same guy for four consecutive years. (But that was in elementary school)
7. I have had crushes on six boys, in my lifetime
8. I have a dog named Basil and two homosexual rabbits and countless starlings in my attic.
9. I have written three songs.
10. I have been to Mexico, England, and Canada (Where I was born).
11. I have two scars on my face, both from falling down a cliff, at entirely different times in my life.
12. I have completed 12 of the 26 Gashleycrumb Tinies rendered in polymer clay. In 3D. I am awesome.
13. I have had 22 teachers.
14. I have bitten my nails without even trying to stop myself, for 12 years.
15. I have played an elaborate make-believe game called "The Town" since I was 6. It started out just my brother and I and has grown to eight people. We meet four times a year. It used to be called "Paradise"
16. The movie "Spirited Away" scares the bejesus out of me.
17. I have read a huge number of books.
18. I am becoming some of the person I want to be.

Video

Leap of Faith..

In fairytales, the hero takes a reckless and risky leap into the unknown. They decide to light the dynamite even though the cave is filled with gunpowder. They propose to the beautiful maiden, even though she's already engaged. And they always land on the other side, whole and complete, flashing their white, white teeth.
Just goes to show you how decieving some fiction is.
Because sometimes, when you take a risk in real life, you fail miserably. You end up, just barely, on the other side, crumpled, with broken bones. Or you don't land at all. And it's numbing. You feel stupid for ever thinking it would work out. Idiotic plan.

On a lighter note, the weather was much nicer today, all warm and rainy and lovely. Big, fat full drops, that fall on your head and dampen your hair comfortably. I love the fall..

Sunday..

Sunday
I think it should be called it'spissingdownrainandI'mfreezingandwhyisitnotsnowingday. Or OhmygodIhaven'tdonemyhomeworkandI'vegotareallynastyassignmentinmathday.
I hate Sundays. Even more than Mondays. Because sunday is so panic and dread-filled. You always have something you haven't done and everyone gets really grouchy because they're sad that the weekend is over and they have so much to do still.
Sorry about not posting for so long, but I've been pretty busy (not to mention boring) This week will be more blogfilled though. Because.. *Drumroll please*

I'm turning fourteen on Friday! I'm so excited! I love my birthday and hopefully I'll be going to the city with my family and we'll hang out and do Christmas shopping. (Oh yes, all of us will be skipping school and/or work, it's tradition) and I'll get to eat as much junk food as I want!

It's Thanksgiving!

So apart from it being Thanksgiving, I got to wake up late, (Yes, 8:44 is pretty late for me) and I get to enjoy all this sunshine! And I don't have to go to school for three more days. Tonight I'll sit down with my family and eat that traditional thanksgiving day dinner.
It's makes me wonder what time Martha Stewart was up. And what she did last night, did she have people staying over?That must be kinda stressful. I wonder how many people she's entertaining at her house? And then Bush. What do you think he's doing this morning? Does he have to make a speech on Thanksgiving day? Will he have to invite stuffy officials who make lame jokes and cough all the time into their monogrammed hankies? Or how about Bill Gates? He probably has it easier than both of them, although he'll have to invite computer people. And I doubt it would be fun to talk about electronics over an hour of dinner party. Or Angelina Jolie, she'll have to have perfect makeup and an extremely stylish dress on. And she'll have to be affectionate to Brad, gotta recover her composure after all those magazine covers blaring "Angie Breaks Down! Exclusive interview inside!"

It makes me feel lucky to be me in a way, even though they're famous and beautiful, and successful, and really good cooks, but they'll be having a crazy day, and probably won't be able to enjoy much of it. And I'm able to get up at 8:44 and write this to you guys instead.
I love my life.
Happy Thanksgiving. Hope it's everything you want it to be.

Procrastinating..

I've got to be doing my notes and my math. So only a short post today.
When you're feeling happy, you should have happy games, correct? Here's one of my favorite sites ever. Really addicting and not a laser machine gun to be seen!
www.orisinal.com
I love this weather. It cool and blustery and crisp. And the leaves are all swirly. Doesn't make me miss summer. Not one bit.

Boredom... Dom.. Dom.. Dom.. Dom..

I'm extremely bored.
And I'm trying to pretend that I'm doing something constructive so that I don't have to do my homework. Does that ever happen to you? You convince yourself that you'll do your homework, very very soon, and then, suddenly it's Sunday night and you still have homework to do? Happens to me all the time.
I'm craving the city too. The grundgy, wet city. Cafes and markets and apartments, and trash and public art that isn't made out of tractor parts, and big old intricate buildings, and quiet bookstores, and that kind of slate color that appears when it rains on the sidewalk and the sleek, purposeful people. I'm craving the city as one might crave chocolate (Which don't get me wrong, I crave too. ) I just love being there. It makes you feel important.

A quote and a poem. Not a quote from a poem.

Quote o' the day: May those who love us, love us, those who do not love us, may God turn their hearts. And if he does not turn their hearts then may he turn their ankles so that we may know them by their limping..

Ode to the paternal study
Phone rests silently in a moon-color cradle,
Red box of dice,
Three gargoyles, still with ennui,
Silence, all but thrumming technology,
Coatrack, overused,
Pencils in a glass container,
Ice cream maker in the cuboard,
Mama printer and Baby Printer,
Click tapping of the keyboard,
Spoon glinting in the lamp-light,
Creaking, spinning chair,
Eye are heavy-lidded tulips.
Dust on the monitor,
Blue light on the USB connector,
Fish handle, whirli handle,
Contacts drying up like scales,
Answering machine displaying two messages,
Yellow plastic cup,
Papers everwhere,
Scanner down beneath my feet,
paper shredder lies defeated,
Tired now, more than ever
Office.

Smilies and Superficial

Ok. So I'm playing Guild Wars. Yes, Guild Wars.


Insert laughter at my nerd-like habits here


Done? Excellent. So, I'm playing Guild Wars, and I'm trying to get some nice new armor for my mesmer*. I notice another mesmer* in my area and run over to her to inspect her armor. I must be pretty obvious, because two minutes later, she waves at me, in a "What the heck are you doing, you strange and perverted grandpa?" sort of way. So I explain my staring.


"Just admiring your armor*"


And then. She starts.. Slowly at first, and then snow balling into a obsessive stream.

^.^ It's ok..

XD

(At this point, I'm not freaked out yet. Just curious. So I post again)

It goes great with you hair color..

Thanks. I love your face

._.

Oh.. Thanks.

Should have made a factions* mesmer*.

:/

XD

(Silence on my part. I'm trying to count smileys. Note that each new line is another post.)

Well, cya! I'm off to explore!

^.^

Oh. Good Luck.

Thank you

XD

Best of luck to you too

Thanks.

X3

8 smileys. In one conversation. I shudder to think about the amount of paper she uses when she writes letters. This is over usage of the beloved smiley, right? Or am I just too submerged in the stone age?



About once every week, I get someone asking why I wear what I do. (I wear lots of flowy long dresses and several combinations of leggings and skirts.) I look over myself carefully, making sure that I'm not wearing a clown suit, because by the look their giving me, I might be. No, same old, same old..
"Ummm. It's comfortable?"
Why though? I mean, it truly baffles me. I mean, I dress differently, but not that differently. I don't ask people why they wear holister t-shirts and short plaid skirts, so why do people ask me? And the truth is, I don't wear my clothes to be different, I wear them to be myself. I'm not sure if I'm offended or just confused. Should I be? Or am I entirely overreacting?
Gives me a lot to think about.

On the Outside

Have you ever been in one of those situations where everyone around is having "inside" conversations" and are talking about things you have no idea about. (ie: Magazines, clothing stores, disliked teachers, methods of washing one's poodle, the real estate of boxes, various cute guys, favorite whiny soap opera plots, adorable pet tricks and high jinxes, favorite flavored water contests, bands that only they have heard of, etc etc.) It's really awkward, but seems to be a survival instinct in teen environments. It happens all the time and I think it actually becomes a subconscious reaction to feeling out of your depth. Being on the outside is extremely difficult and embarrassing, because no matter how much research you do, you will never know exactly what they're talking about, because truthfully neither do they. They just want to look as though they belong, because that's intimidating and safe at the same time. It's fascinating. But it sucks..

P.S. I wrote this for my health class and thought I might share it with you. Happy Belated Halloween!
Just a Taste

The appearance of the flickering fluorescent light threw the morgue into an eerie half light and for a moment, I pause in the doorway. I consider the slim white drawers to my right and left, labeled so carefully with their occupant’s names, date of death, and medical condition. I breathe in heavily, allowing that pervasive stench of morbidity and embalming fluid to soak my senses. But one must not linger on doorsteps. I glide down the stairs, tucking the brass key into my coat pocket. Mother and Father are far too careless with their things these days. I spin around gracefully in the quiet, and my fingers alight on a cabinet. I peer at the label. Poor Sarah Atwood, died of pneumonia, the dear.
I pull open the cabinet with a flourish and regard the lovely youth that lies before me. Her auburn hair is slightly fanned around her face and her complexion is as pale as ivory.
“Aren’t we pretty?” I whisper, and my fingers creep onto her face. I carefully peel off her left eyelid. “Maybe just a taste..”
As I chew on the succulent flesh, I think about my predicament, and about how it all began.
I had always been a rather impressionable person, easily swayed and not particularly confident. On the night when it all started, I was at a party. I was pretty tipsy, so it was no surprise that at about 8:00 I found myself telling Shirley that my parents worked at the morgue. I must’ve have said this rather loudly, however, because at the very moment the words left my lips, three heads turned directly to me. The one closest to me, a cold, pretty, black haired girl, raised an exaggerated eyebrow. She turned to the others who seemed suddenly so fascinated with me, and gave them a brief grimace. At this point, I demanded more punch and made my way, stumbling to the kitchen. As I wound my way back to the living room however, I was confronted by the raven girl.
“You’re parents work at the morgue, Hmm? Ever been in there?”
“Yeah once or twice. What’s it to you?”
“My friends and I would love a tour, dear. Could you perhaps….?” She trailed off, and her face became achingly hard to refuse. Her friends came up behind her and I briefly noticed that they were twins and that they too, were distantly and icily elegant. I wouldn’t- couldn’t- disappoint them.
“Okay.. sure. Let me get my coat.”
* * *
I drove them to my house, and fumbling with trembling hands I unlocked the door. The house was silent, my parents were evidently asleep. I stubbed my toe on the doorstep. Biting my lip to keep from swearing, I slipped the familiar brass keys, the keys to the morgue, off the hook in the mudroom. Then I was out again and sweeping into the car, starting up the ignition and speeding away into the night.
When we arrived at the morgue, the three girls acted as though I had just fulfilled all of their heart’s darkest desires. They slid open the cabinets in obvious and frightening delight. The raven girl, who introduced herself as Maeve, turned to me.
“Have you ever wondered what blood tastes like?” She asked innocently. I shook my head.
“Really? People have said that it tastes like chocolate. Hey- Why don’t we just try, one, tiny, single, drop?” She paused, and my mind deliberately processed what she had said. Curiosity thrummed in my heart. The alcohol made everything slow.. What would it taste like? Surely, a minuscule spatter wouldn’t hurt anyone. And I wanted to show them that I wasn’t repulsed by such an idea. Maeve opened up a drawer and slid one perfectly manicured nail along the cadaver’s neck. Blood, like a liquid garnet dribbled out. I reached out my finger, and touched it to the wound. I raised my finger to my lips and licked the blood . My brain sped up, and suddenly I was ecstatic. I had never felt this way before. I concluded that the blood made me feel this way. Maeve, reached down and took some too. She smiled and giggled. “Mmmm, delicious……”
* * *
Three days later I found my self creeping into the morgue again, my new friends tailing me. Once we were all safely in, we fell upon the bodies. The twins, named Kei and Reine, who rarely spoke, shared the blood of a rakishly scarred teenager about my age. Maeve sucked on the blood of an old man and grinned at me, and I noticed that her two eye teeth were subtly fanged. I smiled back as I squeezed the precious red fluid out of a middle aged woman into my palm and lapped it up. Ah! That glorious feeling! Seeking it was so natural now. I felt so confident and beautiful when I drank the blood. I was no longer disgusted by my new own habit, either. No one could stop me from doing what I what I wanted. Not my friends, not my parents. No one.
I vividly remember when I first blacked out. I had been drinking blood for two months and my mind was fixed on when I would next be able to be invincibly confident. Blood and cadavers entered my thoughts often now, and I was okay with that. But the blackout was a result of something that would change my feeding experience forever. On October 31st of 2007, I peeled a fingernail off of Emily Jenson. Some skin came off with it and curled lusciously and appetizingly. I thought for a moment and then I popped it into my mouth, chewing. Maeve was aghast. We argued that night, she saying that eating flesh was going too far. I screamed back, desperately, that I had not gone too far, and that if they didn’t want to join me, then they could go home. Minutes later I collapsed, the need for more flesh claiming my mind completely.
And they did go home.. They never came back to the morgue again. And so I was alone.
* * *
I continue to chew the eyelid, and but the feeling I’ve come to expect is rather distant. I only feel a vague shiver at the back of my skull now. This is shame really, but my habit is no longer bloodlust, but instinct, for I cannot survive without flesh and blood. I no longer enjoy the company of the living. They do not need me, nor I them. When it comes down it, actually, I never really needed them in the first place. I feed whenever I can. People find me distant and rather intimidating. I hear them speak about me in muted voices, but I gave up caring when I first drank blood. I close up the cabinet and leave Sarah Atwood to her endless slumber. And then I whisper into the sleeping white room.
“Just a taste….”

Formulas, Christmas, , and 13

How do you make a blog known? How do you become recognized? Do you hang out with the right people? Do you post all the time? I wish I had a formula. But alas, I don't. So I can only continue to rant and rave about my life as a seventh grader. Oi Vey.

I turned 13 this month. Yes, now I am a full fledged teen. Despite my impressive new age though, I don't feel any different. I will keep you, O Imaginary Reader, posted. Christmas is in 2 days. I could pretend to be utterly calm and all teenager-like, but instead I prefer to run around the house, flapping my hands in excitement. I can only imagine what tomorrow will be.

Please post. I am in need of a good post.

Summer has arrived..

Alright, the time has come and I have a confession to make.

I am a Carnie.. A full-fledged Carnie. A behind the boother. A "Enjoy your donuts and have a nice day"-er. But, hell, I love it. People telling you how good they are. People watching the machine making the little mini donuts. Being out there in the hot sun. Knowing that, at the end of the day, there will always be that satisfied feeling like, "I did it."

ok, I'm done.

P.S. Here is a mystery for you to solve (Written by yours truly) Send in your answers soon!
The case of the
Suicidal Sunbather
Bella Nalvitch got the call at 10:00AM on June 26, 2006. It was Paul Sernarn, a manservant in her friend Miranda’s house. He sounded frantic:

“Oh Bella, Miranda’s dead. I need you to come over right away!”
Bella quickly hung up the phone and picked up her car keys from a tray by the door..

When she arrived at the mansion, Sernarn greeted her.
“She’s up in the sunbathing room, come quickly.” She followed him as he went up the stairs huffing and puffing. They found the sunbathing room fairly quickly. There was Miranda, her wet hair fanned out on the lawn chair. A knife was in her hand that was sticking out of her chest. Bella looked to Sernarn.

“Tell me everything you know”

Soon they were situated in one of the various tearooms and Sernarn was ready to talk.

“Miranda woke up at 8:00 this morning. I know because I heard the shower water running. A few minutes after she retired to the sunbathing room, just as she’s done for the last 2 weeks. But, usually she only stays there for half an hour and today she stayed there for nearly two. I worried and ran upstairs and found her there. Dead. It was only me and Miranda in the house so no one else could have done it. And I was downstairs the whole time.”
“Do you have any idea why she would have committed suicide.”
“Well, her boyfriend broke up with a her about 4 days ago and she’s pretty upset. Maybe that’s why” Suddenly he felt handcuffs clap over his arms..

“May I escort to the police station, Murderer?” Said Bella in a mockingly formal voice.

How did she know?