Experiences with the male gender.

There are a handful of relevant things I could write about at the moment. This Christmas day, for instance, was one of the more traumatizing events of my young life. I could write about it, but in discussing it at any length I feel obligated to justify myself. I am conflicted, but I am not wrong.

Instead I'm going to write about boys, because I am a teenage girl and this is what teenage girls write about.

A boy named Kelvin decided to visit with me during lunch one day in eighth grade. He was in my seventh grade English class, styled his dark hair with gel and had a particular fondness for cats. My recollection of our conversation is blurry, but time has left me with the impression that he a) told me I needed more friends and b) needed to be romantically involved to be whole. I also recall him patting himself on the stomach and noting the fact that I could afford to "lose a few pounds." My response concerned my "imaginary friends" and how awesome they were.

I have always been clever.

A few days later Kelvin found me at my locker (which, for those interested, featured posters of Hilary Duff) between classes. "Hey," he said, "I thought we'd gone over this. Black makes you look fat."

For the next few days he followed me from class to class, insults at the ready, and I would shout at him to leave me alone as I stalked off.

Then, as I tucked into my spaghetti at lunch later that week, he appeared again. This time he had backup; a few friends stood in his wake. I turned in my seat to face him.

"Would you go out with me?" he said, sitting down next to me.

Half a beat was skipped. "No."

He appeared not to hear me, smiling creepily. "Hey," he said, rubbing his leg against mine. "You know, I'm a professional slut."

"Wait," a girl in his entourage said finally, "you said no?!"

"Yes," I said carefully, "I said no."

Kelvin was up in a flash. He rubbed his face with one hand, mumbling something like "Oh, I was kidding anyway."

I never heard from him again.

I have had only two long-term crushes in my lifetime. The first was named Cameron, two years previously. I fully embarrassed myself with that one, even going on to sneak pictures of him with my micro-digital camera and nickname him "Camcorder." It lasted all through sixth grade. He was a jerk.

I guess I have kind of a thing for jerks.

The second boy to win my attentions was named Zephaniah, one year and one move following my encounter with Kelvin. He and another boy, Sidney, befriended me in my ninth grade American History class. We sat together and, after months of prodding, they convinced me to join their church youth group.

I am both embarrassed and pleased to say that I have footage of this boy for you. I also have blog posts regarding him hidden away in my very first blog, but there is no way I'm going off to find those.

Just no.

Zephaniah was roguishly attractive. I still get a little flustered thinking about him. However, as was intended to be my point, he was a male chauvinist. He was also self-centered and considered himself to be the source of biblical knowledge.

He also looked like Jesus.

Jesus.

He flirted with me at length during American History, though it was obvious nothing would come of it, and eventually went on to date another girl in the youth group. At that point he joked that he should "probably stop flirting" with me.

He didn't stop. Not that I minded.

As I often say: I have the best taste in men.

Dream state.

Cute Guy asks me to meet him outside. I am sitting across from him on a patch of grass outside of school; he leans closer, kisses me quickly. I close my eyes and I am back in school, rushing from gray hallway to gray hallway.

Nothing is the same. The lockers have been moved around and I can't find mine; I desperately search for it as the bell rings, finally bursting into tears. I can't, can't, can't be late and everything has changed.

As I find it I work the lock in frustration, wanting only to knock my head against it.

Later, as I leave school, Voldemort tails me.

Part of me is amused. The other part is frustrated with myself.

Giving thanks.

My excuses are the same, varying in their frequency. I'm tired. I'm overwhelmed by the slightest of changes and expectations, and the fact that there is so much ground I could cover in this blog leaves me wanting to curl up into a ball and nap forever.

So I won't. I won't try to explain it all.

I haven't seen or heard from my father in six months; word on the street (I amuse myself) is that he will be at my grandparents' on Christmas day, which is where my brethren and I will be on Christmas day, which positively thrills me to bits. (And I may use "six months" as a great divider of time and responsibility, but this visit in and of itself was coincidental. Fun story.)

My first instinct here is to go into defensive mode and attempt to justify every action or decision I've ever made regarding my father. I realize that this is impossible, however, and will leave you with this instead:

I am, understandably, bitter. He left. I have never been treated as I deserve to be, and it still hurts me. I am in counseling, and that has helped. I am facing my problems. I am beginning to believe in myself. But this isn't a "Get Rich Quick!" scheme. This is my life, and the process is slow going. In the mean time, I have a mother who loves me. I have friends who care for me, as I do them. I have a house to live in and a best friend I'm grateful for.

I have a "promising future." I have a job working in my school's library until the end of the school year; I have grown to love it, and each day is an opportunity to prove to myself that I am a useful human being. I am continually amazed by the fact that I have this job and my bosses are awesome and I am useful. I may gripe about it occasionally (generally when I'm tired), but I'm truly grateful for my job and what it has brought me.

I had considered scrapping this post, having no grand moral to impart to you, but a few moments ago I ventured out of my housecavelandofcomputer to check for today's mail, and my first college acceptance letter has arrived. I know it is expected. I know that I am an intelligent young woman with excellent grades, and there is no reason I shouldn't be accepted to any college I apply to. Knowing this is different than feeling it, however, and to have tangible confirmation of this is relieving.

And for this moment, there are good things.

I have difficulty giving thanks. I am a generally overwhelmed human being, and holidays make me mopey. But I am, in a roundabout and work-in-progress way, thankful.

Thank you, all of you. You have become my friends, and for that I am always grateful. Thank you for you.