Great Art Of Being Thrown Statistics, The

The guy who invited me to sit here is enigmatic mixture of slime and well-meaning. His skin is the color of cocoa but I feel like he must be Mexican for the simple reason that, let’s face it, statistics make it likely. His voice is laid back, promising, and I do not trust it.

"Are you just going to sit there and do work or what?" he asks, a few chairs away from me in the vast land of the school cafeteria. My notebook is open. I scribble.

"If they let me."

"If they ask you if you have your papers, just tell them you turned them in, that Mr. L has them,” he says. Then: “I got your back."

I didn't turn in the permission forms needed to see this presentation. I was handed forms and expected to sign them. These forms were not explained to me and made it clear as mud that the material could be a) scarring or b) kill me.

Well, thanks.

The presentation has started. We are being given the beauty of AWARENESS regarding teenage drunk driving. AWARENESS is important, and I tell you: we are positively riveted. The group beside me passes around a pack of gum and, if I'm honest with you, the only perk in this situation remains that a really cute guy from my advisory class is within eyeshot.

"The worst thing that can happen," says a trauma nurse on-screen, "is that he could go brain dead and die from this injury."

Blood is gushing from a hole in a boy's head as another nurse talks him through how many drinks he usually has.

He only had three drinks, he swears!

I really shouldn't be allowed to make commentary on this. I mean, I don't have forms or anything.

Every few minutes, though, I feel like crying. I am not completely immune to this HBO special on AWARENESS. I am not immune to that which is being pressed against me, not completely, though I do appreciate the fact that a neurologist has referred to a head injury causing the brain to "pooch out."

I love learning new things.

Cute guy has donned a jacket now. I do not know his name. Have you ever tried to find someone one Facebook when you don't know their name?

Ahem. Me neither. I did not spend thirty minutes of my life searching through The Boy With The Underpants' six hundred friends for his existence.

But just that idea--well, I thought it might amuse you. You're welcome.

I feel like I am over this bout of AWARENESS. There is blood and sadness and ruined lives—and oh, it's over.

Okay. Thank you, HBO special.

A few scatter as we are given a bathroom break. The Boy With The Underpants walks past on his way to be facilities, boxers (purple plaid) peeking slightly out of his Bermuda shorts.

I am not making this up.

The announcer pronounces documentary as "dock-you-meant-airy" and sprinkles us with Consequences, all the while mispronouncing our town's name. I am amused.

LOOK AT ALL THE AWESOME DEATH JUST LIKE ME!

"We don't have to show movies like this to my kids," she says, "because they have experienced it firsthand."

They probably mean well.

A retired police officer gives a presentation on nefarious groups. He's "tatted out" and seems okay enough, only now he is telling us about how gangs might kill us and I really don't want to be killed by gangs please thank you--how will I sleep at night?

He educates us on various tattoos now and I quietly fear for my life. This is why I do not watch the news. Duty shirker I may be, but I feel that if I did this I would never leave the house again. Priorities.

The other grades are taking ever-important benchmarks this week. They have to keep us seniors around or else Break The Law And Lose Money, so now we are being educated in various ways. I am disgruntled.

"The crime stats in this area are great," the officer says. "This is why it is up to you guys to be safe. It's up to you."

The presenters trying to decipher YouTube and give up, making d0.

"They're not just going to kill you, they're going to kill your family." A dead woman and baby flash onscreen.

I didn't sign my forms! Why do they have me in here?

Like, dude.

That felt appropriate.

Sexting is brought up by Announcer Lady. She waves her purple Blackberry around to prove her points. With a winning “Nothing is ever deleted!” my peers begin buzzing as if this had never before occurred to them—QUICK, WE NEED TO DELETE STUFF FROM OUR PHONES.

Maybe it’s the fact that I don't get the concept of secrets. Maybe it's that I am a horrible person who judges her peers harshly. But really?

I wouldn't be thrilled if my peers read this blog, I'll give you that much. But am I lying? My conceptions are just that, mine, and I am painfully aware how fractured some of them have been in the past. I hope to be right, but I am stumbling. I will stumble. This is all I can do.

The presentation ends without a bang and students begin to disperse. My advisory teacher stops for a moment as he passes by.

"What are you doing, writing a book?" he asks. He wears suspenders and a smile framing sincere eyes. He has an accent I can’t place.

"Sort of."

The Boy With The Underpants, a tale

We've spoken on the topic of my English teacher before now. While somewhere in the depths of middle age, he gives off the air of a crusty old man and is somewhat of a fixture at my school. He is addressed by his first and last initials, which I find endlessly entertaining, and he has a smirk.

Surely you know what I mean by this. When certain humans purposely make scenes for his amusement he smirks, sticks a hand in his pocket and makes some suitable statement that both tells them off and contributes to the general hilarity of the situation. Hawaiian shirts are his stock and trade, despite the fact that he is not really a Hawaii kind of person. Or maybe he is. I am just making grand and beautiful assumptions here.

All of these things manage to contribute to a slightly creepy feeling about him. Last week, for instance, we were taking notes on The Inferno and, as he read aloud, he stopped-- "...they descended upon the Mount of Joy. Doesn't that sound like a great name for a porno, 'The Mount of Joy'?"

He's either really cool or really creepy. I've been a student of his since last year and the only thing I'm pretty sure of is the fact that I (and, indeed, the world) will probably never know.

Last year I took "Team Sports" for a semester. The class fluctuated from three to ten people and, due to size and the beautiful soul of our instructor, our only requirement was to keep moving. I fully admit, with great spasms of pride, that I took this opportunity to navigate laps around the gym while reading a book. The instructor was a burly guy with a partial beard and I liked him because I generally like teachers and also because I was allowed to read books during gym class.

I tell you, I have had best high school gym experience ever. I took my first semester of gym freshmen year (which now feels like a billion years ago), when I briefly lived in the magical land of Florida. Here we had the opposite problem; the space was so crowded with people that they simply did not want to wrangle us all into submission. Instead they gave us the option of shooting hoops or sitting on the floor of the gym and using the period as a study hall. I spent many an hour masterfully dodging basketballs launched at my face. Worth it.

The gods of gym class have smiled upon me.

My burly bearded gym teacher went AWOL around December and we were given Ye Old Initials' son, at that point a long-term substitute, as our replacement. I'm pretty sure people have decided to call him by his initials, too, which I'm sure thrills him to bits. My sources cite him as a colorless, gangly creature who gives the impression that he might be toppled over by the slightest breeze. On the converse, however, I know of at least one girl who daily giggled over his existence ("he's so hot!!!"). In any event, he would ask after my books and I would give vague answers from my spot on the bleachers, hoping against hope that he would not make me perform physical activities.

Remember VoldeTread? I haven't visited with him since I completed the journey that is Supersize Me and fell into a slight state of panic that I might die of deathness. This was about a month ago. School is a valid excuse, OKAY?

I managed to skate by over midterm exams by throwing a frisbee to myself. I haven't really seen him since then.

In my AP English class, turf of Ye Old Initials himself, we have managed to partition ourselves into three groups. The boys find themselves on one side of the class and the girls on the other, with a few girls breaking ranks and scattering out towards the middle. The boys, of which there are approximately five, feel it necessary to pull glorious pranks on Ye Old Initials. Yesterday, for instance, one particular boy left a pair of his boxers in Ye Old Initials' desk chair before class. Ye Old Initials was unfazed upon discovering them. He picked them up and tossed them onto the corner of his desk-- "These belong to anybody?"

The boys cracked up and the owner got up to collect his underpants (sky blue with steam engines, for those wondering).

I could make jokes here, but I definitely may have had a discussion on breast reductions and a Venezuelan woman who chopped her abusive husband's genitalia off with my groupmates a few minutes later. This may have happened.

But I would like to take this opportunity to go further into my long and illustrious relationship with the boy with the underpants.

The Boy With The Underpants is a wide-eyed, excitable human with whom I occasionally exchange words. In addition to making himself present in my English class, he sits next to me in math class.

It occurs to me now, in the frantic editing stage of this post, that this sounds exactly like the beginnings of The Dobbin Situation. Not happening.

In math class, home of catlovingmathteacher, he sits next to me and alternates between words of confusion and the phrase "this is cake" accompanied by a chuffed sigh and rolling of shoulders.

I made the mistake of calling him out on a personal tirade/guilt trip last week by noting that some people (namely me) do not actually have friends. He immediately contradicted his assurances of friendlessness by informing me that I was his friend.

"You're not my friend," I said.

"Come on," he said, "we talked on the first day of school, we're friends."

"I think we have contradicting views of friendship."

He handed me his phone as catlovingmathteacher explained a graphing problem, grinning at his own brilliance. With the skill of an everlasting ninja, I hid the phone behind my binder and noted that he had brought up the dictionary's definition of "friend."

Apparently we're friends now. Like I have any choice in the matter. Now he attempts to get me to shake his hand every time we meet and dramatically shouts "friend!" in my direction at strategic intervals.

I'm going to go with the idea that my denial is a character building activity for his benefit.

The guy has over six hundred friends on Facebook. Yes, I am a stalker.

When he isn't declaring Precalculus to be cake (duh!), The Boy With The Underpants spends his time in math class calling the girl who sits in front of him "baby girl" and trying to braid her hair. I was asked to teach him the great art of hair braiding at one juncture. He's improving, I'll give him that much. His greatest accomplishment in life (or at least the summer) was reenacting a horror film at midnight with his friends for the benefit of a group of girls who, after finishing with their shock, joined forces with them and helped them repeat the ordeal for another batch of humans. Judgment. He appears completely earnest, yet acts in a way that suggests he is a slimeball. Or maybe he's a teenage boy. Who knows?

Last week he and his fellow male humans hijacked tennis shirts from Ye Old Initials' back room and decided to model them. Grand ideas were painted for us--they would join Ye Old Initials' tennis team and take over the world. Ye Old Initials wasn't convinced, noting he had two freshmen who could easily take them on. Soon they were planning a take-down.

"If I win state," said The Boy With The Underpants, miming a tennis racket in his hand and readying for victory, "you have to persuade Sarah Johnson, with your mad serenading skills, to marry me."

"I thought you were going with Brady's sister."

"Her too!" he said, eyes bright and words tripping up on the way. "I'm marrying Sarah and taking Leeann to prom."

This was all fine and well and amusing to me until a few days ago, in math class, when he beckoned to the boy who sits behind me (a slimeball, I feel, but here I am Judging The World). "Oh my God," he said, "Sarah Johnson likes my status! She touched my status. I tell you, we're getting married, dude."

The beginnings of a love story if I ever heard one.

"I feel ready to stay up for, like, two days straight, man," he says, in English class this time, rubbing his face. "Like, Jesus, man."

Now the class is discussing Halloween and attempting to coax one of my groupmates into saying vulgar things in Spanish for them.

Now he says: "Ye Old Initials you should, you know, shave the sides of your head."

"Earl is naturally white, dude, I mean." The boys lift up the sleeve of a Mexican boy's t-shirt to reveal a farmer's tan.

"It'll get better in the winter," he says.

One can only hope.

With The Force Of A Raging Ninja

I haven't Updated You in several many days, my friends, and for this I apologize. The problem is, I don't exactly know where to start.

So let's talk about penguins.

Actually, probably not. I do not have any penguin related news at the moment. However, in the event that you were wondering, I own a total of two stuffed penguins. One is named Herbert. The other is nameless and sports a Christmas-variety hat.

Since we last spoke I have become much more at peace with The Grand Dobbin Situation. Granted, I have not reached perfection. I don't expect to reach perfection in this, actually. I couldn't exactly tell you how I came to this point, this vague acceptance. Maybe it's a culmination of many things. Of saying my words to him and letting them sink in within my own self, of coming to the conclusion that he probably isn't going to say words to me (I've for so long wished for words to make sense of all this), of reading this book and working to accept good advice from friends. Of remembering to breathe. I still have to remind myself of this, breathing. I will tumult into the great mass of humans after a class and my mind will race and suddenly I'm walking, pressure rising in my throat, and I have to remind myself to exhale.

At times like these I wonder if I will ever be able to breathe again without thinking about it, thinking inhale-hold-exhale inhale-hold-exhale inhale-exhale. It will worry me for a few minutes and, eventually, the thoughts can be brushed aside.

I suppose the main change is that his existence upsets me less. It still upsets me. I still have to think my way through every encounter ("okay, Katherine, step this way. Don't give him the finger. Move away, look away, he isn't going to eat you. He isn't going to follow you to your locker. He's going to ignore you. Keep walking, breathe"). Maybe I will have to think myself through these things; maybe this is something that I have to let happen. The magnitude of the grief I have been experiencing for the past month is changing, lessening. Still an elastic ready to snap, still an elastic that may snap on occasion... But it hurts a little less, and I am able to function without every other thought dancing around his existence.

Please, let us speak in hushed tones. I think I'm making friends.

Did I just say those words? Slowly I am ingratiating myself with a vaguely nerdy crowd of a handful of humans. They aren't nerds, proper. But the idea is there. It leaves me, tentatively, hopeful.

Some people don't seem to think I suck. Maybe we're not meant to be BFFs, but they know my name and I know theirs. Which is kind of a big deal to me, actually, considering one of my failings has to do with names. I am really, really bad at names. If I know a person well enough to call them by their name without a shadow of a doubt that I am not slipping up, it is a big deal to me. Call it weird. That's just how it is. Sort of mostly.

I guess what I'm getting at is the idea that things are becoming... sort of... okay. This is another thing I fear, this great Land Of Okay. Okay, in my mind, equals the idea that I will soon be tripped up again.

I was paid for the first time last week. I do not know what to do with money. But... money?! I've been trolling Etsy for beautiful things. While instinct tells me not to spend money on things for myself and save it or donate it to humanity, I have been advised to have this Grand Idea that is called--you may have heard of it--fun. We shall see.

Last Saturday my brethren and I ventured out into the Great Land That Is Austin, Texas and visited a museum and the campus of the University of Texas. Both of my parents went there. It is an Option. My mother has a law degree but had to leave her job and move out of state when my dad decided it would be cool to join the Public Health Service when she was pregnant with me. My father was a dentist before he decided it would be a good idea not to be a dentist and leave, but I have no clue what kind of degree you need to be a dentist.

The thing with having a dentist as a father, I've found, is that all the Cool Kids then shun you or refuse to visit your house for fear that your father will Judge Their Teeth. It was particularly scarring when I was younger. I don't care if they were kidding. And, despite what you may think, I have not been blessed with beautiful Dental Care Skills. Ye Old Dentist Human (am I getting carried away with these titles? They're such fun!) always seemed ashamed of my teeth, despite the fact that I have never had a cavity and have missed only a handful of days wearing my retainer in the three years since my braces were removed. Have I told you my harrowing orthodontia tale? That's a fun story. Maybe someday I will grace you with it.

I was talking about the University of Texas at Austin. I don't believe my parents actually got their fancy advanced degrees there. It isn't really even magical of me to tell you about them, considering the job market is scary, thus my mother not yet being employed, and my father decided it'd be cool not to be a dentist anymore (and leave, not that it's particularly relevant to this either).

I'm really liking that string of words for the moment. "My father decided it'd be cool not to be a dentist anymore," that is. I find myself to be brilliant sometimes. Not now, but on occasion and possibly more than I actually am. Can you tell I didn't have a plan here?

But. The college campus thing. It was scary. And big. And all the people seemed cooler than me even though way too many of them were wearing burnt orange. Which, as my mother puts it, "doesn't flatter anyone." We're also visiting a campus in San Antonio somewhere this weekend. I may or may not be frustrating my mother with the fact that I'm refusing to be of much help in these matters. I struggle to take things one at a time, and if I attempt to make sense of one thing it's apt to get out of hand in my head.

Maybe some of that made sense.

Other bits: I dislike Tuesdays and Thursdays. Tuesdays and Thursdays equal twelve full hours in school/work. Tomorrow is Thursday. I hope I survive tomorrow. It isn't so bad when I have set tasks to do at work. I enjoy work when I have tasks, truly. When I do not have tasks I'm left to make work for myself (which makes sense, as they are paying me) and I end up straightening shelves, dusting, etc. Straightening shelves requires a lot of rapid stand, squat, stand, which makes me lightheaded. And frankly, I'm running out of shelves to straighten. There is only so much straightening that a shelf can handle before it's A-OK for a while.

I feel like I shouldn't be telling you this. Anyway, I really do like my job. It's more that I dislike Tuesdays and Thursdays for their length and general cruelty.

Part of me wonders if the Grand Discourse Of Boss Humans might search my personage on the Great Land Of The Internet. I really do try to conduct my internet affairs in a way that I wouldn't mind if I were (figuratively) frisked. I feel like I can back myself up. I am capable of being wrong. I am capable of being judgmental. But, soapbox moment: having judgment is important, friends. Were it not for judgment, you might very well be dead. Don't take candy from strangers!!

That is all.

My Peers, And The Wisdom They Share With The World

I do not understand my peers.

Really. I am confused by them half of the time, and the other half is spent annoyed at them. And okay, there is another piece of this pie that involves the times I find them hilarious.

You can't make this stuff up. Well, maybe you could. You probably possess these skills, but all I seem to come up with has to do with ninjas and glitter.

Which probably explains the fact that when I added a girl from school on Facebook last night she commented on a status regarding my creepiness with words of agreement, to think of it. I am going to go ahead and believe she was going along with my hilarity rather than commenting on my character and move on with my life.

I know I've mentioned this before, but I am taken aback by the number of teenage mothers at my school. And the thing is, I fully had a conversation regarding a peer's son and lackluster father yesterday. It was par for the course, or something. I'm just confused.

The bit of the conversation revolving around me lasted about thirty seconds and went somewhat like this.

"Are you dating anyone?"

"No."

"You don't text, do you?"

"haha, no."

"Are you talking to anyone?"

"No."

Are you talking to anyone? What does this even mean, friends? I can only draw lewd conclusions from this. Following this, the two girls I was sharing a group with began bemoaning the fact that they had been single for such vast amounts of time. Girl B dithered for a moment, saying "I've been single for four months! Oh wait, no... two... no, a month! Was it three weeks? No, a month, four weeks!"

This being said, they both seemed nice enough. I don't want to come off as if I hate them, because somehow I don't. This is merely an attempt to demonstrate my confusion and slight hilarity at the situations I find myself in.

(How am I doing?)

In fact, while I did some moaning of my own at having to do group work, the fact that they asked me to join their group at all was pretty nice of them. And, unlike a billion percent of my other encounters with the Great God Of Group Work, they did contribute to the assignment. Shock, I know.

I am somewhat of an oddity at my school, and not even for the Obvious Reasons (I'm creepy, remember? Represent!). The fact of the matter is that I was a sophomore last year and now I am magically a senior and quite several a few people have expressed confusion of their own. "Wait, weren't you a sophomore last year?"

It amuses me that anyone would notice me at all, but I digress.

I just wanted to say "but I digress" because this is a cool thing to do when you're a writer. Fact.

I am mystery woman (girl, person, human, ninja and glitter appreciator--pick your poison wisely, friends). Unfortunately, this also means I am vastly alone the majority of the time. Not that I'm complaining.

I am, actually. I hope you don't mind.

My math teacher has been mentioned here before. He likes to talk about his elderly-cat-named-Stubby, which I find endlessly amazing. For instance, upon explaining to us the fact that he would be collecting papers day by day rather than all on Friday, he graced us with the following words: "It's not like I have any plans over the weekend," he said, gesturing to the world with his wet erase pen, "I mean, I might wrestle with my cat or something, get the laser pin after her. She hates that thing, I think it hurts her eyes."

I wrote it down in my journal. (I'm not creepy I'm not creepy I swear it was the nearest thing to me at the time don't judge me!!!!!)

You really can judge me, actually. I will cry, but I figure I'll probably survive your Hatred And Roguish Attractive Quotient.

I don't even know.

But I have more wisdom! Here, have at it. Upon being accused of cruelty, my Cat Loving Math Teacher defended himself thusly: "I like everybody, I like the whole world. The only thing I don't like, the only thing I can't stand, is broccoli."

Our week one test involved a problem finding the circumference of a tin of asparagus. The same sentiment was duly expressed, right there on the test. I like this guy. It almost makes math class enjoyable.

Only not really. Math and I have never been on the best of terms.

My English teacher, ye old school fixture addressed by his initials, instructed us to outline our beliefs for him this week. Last year, upon learning he was teaching the granddaughter of one of his students, he immediately pulled out his phone to call his wife for lols.

I don't know why I'm using "lols" so much. I find it amusing. Pardon me.

On that note, I am somewhat under the impression that all of my teachers are divorced. It's like a puzzle. First period, divorced. Second period, has kids but no wedding ring. Third, divorced with cat. Fourth, probably not divorced. Fifth, Ye Old Initials, divorced and remarried. Sixth, divorced and remarried. Seventh and eighth I spend in the library, which adds at least two more divorces to my list.

I told you I'm a creeper.

I digress. But really, this blog is one huge digression or something. I'm pretty sure. I just say things, and sometimes they sound cool. Other times I press "PUBLISH POST" and ask myself what have I done.

You win some, you lose some.

As we conversed on the topic of belief (which somehow relates to Catch-22), we came to an argument over whether the earth is 9,000 years old or not.

"But there are 60,000 year old fossils or something, aren't there?" a peer questioned.

"Well," said Ye Old Initials, "the idea there is that 9,000 years ago fossils were created to look millions of years old."

"Who," said the peer, his tone a verbal rolling of eyes, "was bored 9,000 years ago, creating all these fossils?"

Lols.

Several minutes following this beautiful conversation we, AP English students that we are, attempted to wheedle Ye Old Initials into more points on our Frankenstein tests. One question involved the author, Mary Shelley, and whether her maiden name was Godwin or Wollstonecraft. Ye Old Initials would have none of the idea that Godwin was her maiden name. Her maiden name was Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin in the book's introduction, and we were all fighting tooth and nail for the right to have answered Godwin rather than Wollstonecraft.

"The girl takes the guy's last name, Ye Old Initials!" insisted the same peer, leaping up and gesturing to his book. "It's simple math!"

He gave us the points. I give you this verbose mess of a post. Mutualistic relationship, this.

Another exciting DOBBIN installment.

I hate pep rallies.

Or, to be precise, I strongly dislike pep rallies at my particular school. Football players and girls in ridiculous outfits paraded around as heroes, information irrelevant to me boomed over loudspeakers, the bleachers vibrating as my peers scream and bounce themselves up and down, "popular" music played loud enough to leave me nostalgic and teary before the whole thing even starts.

Really. I almost started crying.

I could continue on about how I feel like periphery, but that isn't what I set out to talk about here. I know, you're shocked. Katherine, with a purpose? What is this MADNESS?

Don't get excited. You're about to groan and smack yourself in the head as I again bring up your absolute most favorite topic.

Dobbin. Oh God. I know, I know. Please try to mask your excitement. This is why you love me; I regale you with tales of my heartbreak and you derive much pleasure from it. Or something. Where I was going with that is beyond me.

I talked myself into talking to him (let's take a break here to wince in unison). Or I talked myself into the idea that I could say something, that this would not cause my world to crumble and tear at the edges. And then, you know, I did it.

I feel like a stalker talking about this so much. As with anything, I guess this is a process. I was dealing with this ordeal much better before I was forced to see him several times a day. It's somewhat like starting all over on the "dealing with it" scale. Every time I see him I am catapulted into a state of semi-panic and have to work hard not to hyperventilate. I would also like to note that the dude is particularly conspicuous. He's really tall and ambles along in a goofy, charming manner and often wears striped shirts.

Yes. It is probably weird that I know this. It's kind of like I spot my target for the day and note the color of his shirt so I can divert my attention elsewhere when he comes into view. Somehow I am coming up with analogies to antelope right now. Okay.

Yesterday in our shared class (of love and sparkles and hate) I was sitting with my group as we discussed the proper way to convey psychological principles in a skit (we are so going to fail we are so going to fail I hope not oh why oh why panic time), and he randomly came over to us and I'm pretty sure I started having heart palpitations.

To put it fancily, I had had enough. There you go. Justification. You're welcome.

As class ended I stood at the back of the class thinking to myself I need to do this if I don't I never will just get it over with you bastard idiot. So, against all the beautiful judgement I have been granted in this life (otherwise known as chronic restraint), I walked over to him as he stood over a laptop.

"Hi," I said abruptly.

"Hi," he said. He didn't look up, continued to study the Important Messages the laptop was apparently broadcasting for his viewing pleasure.

I would just like to interrupt this message to say that I find it particularly hilarious that he's ignoring me. Okay dude, stare at me and then look away when I look up. I'll pretend not to notice and I will continue to snub you because I continue to have at least two and a half ounces of self respect.

He wanted to "still be friends," remember? Had I reacted differently, this would be a whole different ball game.

"I'm going to walk away in a minute," I said, "but I just wanted to say that I'm not happy about being in a class with you. It's very upsetting for me." At one point he looked up as words spilled from my lips, as every muscle screamed at me "NO NO NO NO I can't believe I'm doing this." And then I turned and I was gone and I had to remind myself to breathe as I stumbled towards my next class.

The part of me that didn't spend the following eight hours I had left of my day inwardly screaming to myself the fact that I am an idiot finds a vague amount of poetic justice in this. He walked away from the situation in breaking up with me in a text message and what-have-you, and I fully admit to the fact that before he "asked me out" I was planning to accost him in much the same way. Only, you know, with better news that time.

Now I ask myself, did this help? Will having said this, simple and not EVEN YELLING AND CALLING HIM NAMES as it is, help me move on?

Move on. Actual lols.

I'm working on it, comprendo? I assure you that this annoys me more than it annoys you. Other happy bits: as I walked into class today, Dobbin began babbling on about something one of his ex-girlfriends did that really angered him to the teacher at the doorway. Was this about me? Who knows. Who knows, but really? Just as I walk into the room? Good job, Dobbin. Good job. He also made a point of staring at me until I looked up from my Engrossing Paper That Was Interesting.

Conspicuous Dobbin is conspicuous. I'd say pep rallies are ruined for me, but that would be a lie. Considering I hate them already. Or, you know, strongly dislike pep rallies at my particular school. Whether he was flipping me off or merely the world in my direction at this pep rally I am unaware. I don't necessarily care, either. He flips everyone off.

I have such great taste in men.

Storytelling.

I love that as soon as I consider writing a blog all my positive topics desert me and I'm left thinking... well. You may have some idea, knowing me. Depressing blog posts are easy, so easy, and plenty of depressing thoughts have befriended me lately. "Oh HELLO THERE," one will say as it pulls up a chair, "how are you doing today? I like you. Remember [awesomely depressing thing]? Yeah. That's just effing great, isn't it? Remember that time. . ?" Or I'll be accosted in the hallway by one, caught by the throat so that I have to remind myself to breathe.

I swear.

I don't even know what I'm swearing, but I guess I swear it. It seemed like a good idea at the time. It also seems like a good idea to tell you that I'm going to be okay and that I am dealing with these thoughts or trying to or something. They leave me feeling like a loser. I guess I'm not a loser.

This is what happens when I try to write cheerful blog posts. Geeze.

At the library I have been charged with the task of alphabetizing forms. My stack is going on five inches tall at the moment. As forms come in they are put in another stack, which I alphabetize by its lonesome and then check off names on a master list. Then it is time to merge the two piles, which I do one letter at a time and check against the list.

I am getting so good at alphabetizing, I swear. I swear. Apparently I'm swearing a lot today. I suppose it is to be expected, considering this is all I've been doing for the past week. I separated and alphabetized fifty sets of business cards for teachers early last week, then began the form debacle. What's more, the form has a formatting error on it that makes it impossible to tell students first names from their middle names, which gets interesting when you're dealing with fifty or so Garcias/Rodriguezes/Hinojosas.

The funny thing is that I really don't mind doing it. Now that I'm getting better at alphabetizing and am in possession of a master list of names it isn't as difficult, just time consuming. Which I'm all for, actually. I love having things to do. The not knowing what I have to do is what stresses me out.

Of course, it is still turning my head to mush somewhat, but I suspect I will survive.

Career Prep today was hilarious. We have a whopping five students in this particular class, two of whom were absent today, and the air conditioner was out in our room. I popped in for approximately two seconds, after which I joined my fellow classmates in the hallway. It felt like walking through soup. Being such a small class, we camped out in an empty-ish room across the hallway with the teacher and swapped sob stories about the male gender and life.

It was pretty awesome.

I really don't hide my story anymore, when it's relevant. Sure, I hide myself from the world most of the time, but I am largely transparent about my story. My story.

That was... was that dramatic? A pat on the back to me, why don't you, universe. Or not.

My story is a condensed handful of sentences I pull out at strategic moments. Okay, I'm going to take back my previous statement in favor of some magical clarification because I have been blessed with both skill and laziness. While I am much freer with my story than in the past, I am still somewhat loathe to share it.

This being because people don't care. Okay, lies. Probably lies, probably untrue in many cases, but my point is that often the reply is "oh, that sucks never mind let me walk away/talk about my cat/ignore you now."

I am definitely in favor of discussing one's cat. My supremely goofy math teacher talks about his cat constantly, and it is one of the better parts of my day. His cat is very elderly, named Stubby and holds claim to being a whole lot less bossy than his ex-wife. His cat is one of my favorite things. True facts.

However, my point (which may have existed once but grows fuzzy by each clacking of keys): once you tell your story, it's gone. Even if you have been prodded to tell it, expressly asked to hand it over, you have no control over the reaction of the party you've allowed to hold it.

One could argue that this holds true in every situation. Other Parties make their own decisions, in theory, and their reactions are not in your control no matter how well you remake your words to sound whole and strong and... certain.

This is something that I struggle with. That I have control over only myself. I can buff and polish and fill my every breath with despicable amounts of plastic surety, press my words so that they please me even in their imperfections--but no matter what I do, I cannot control the outcome or people involved or any small change in the wind.

My story is not who I am, though, and I struggle to balance fakery with transparency. I'm so often told to "fake it til [I] make it," and entertaining this idea is at any length mind boggling. If I've hidden myself for so long and found it so hurtful, how can I force myself back into this completely?

The answer is that I can't. I am imperfect. I am a work in progress. I will try my best, and that will have to be good enough. These simple phrases are so, so difficult to form and believe. They tangle in my thoughts, become indistinguishable, become lies to me.

I'm working on it.

As I have successfully confused myself with Deep Magical Thoughts sufficient to last me a few minutes, I leave you with a conversation between two male peers of mine I overheard earlier today.

"I just drank twelve pints of vodka, it just hasn't hit me yet."

"If you can do that, you're Irish.

"Or amazing."

"Or Russian, actually."

Oh, knowledge.

I am a public service.

The thing about my honorary godfather, RhodesTer, is that he terrifies me. That sounded really wrong. He's a cool guy. I do not lie terror-stricken in my bed at night fearing his imminent death killing. However, he has this way of telling me I'm really cool and giving potentially awesome advice that I then stare at thinking HOW CAN I EVEN DO THIS DAVE I'M NOT EVEN FUNNY GO AWAY.

Which is useful.

I almost feel it is my Great And Wonderful Duty to be blogging for you now, my great interland friends. The question being, of course, how do I even do it? I'm not actually asking you. That was rhetorical. Sort of. Unless you actually have a practical answer for me, in which case that would be cool.

I do not know how to blog. I've always hated it. Which is just peachy for you, I know. You appreciate this. You know my agony.

Here I am attempting humor for you. You're welcome.

I can honestly say that this is one of the worst weekends I have ever had. I'm not even kidding here, mostly, which is why I find it hilarious that I am now in a vaguely good mood and not posting the depressing blog I wrote for you earlier. There were Dobbin quotes. It was pretty beautiful.

I still want to post that a little bit.

When I think of truly horrific times in my life, a few specific strings of days come forth for viewing. I have long considered our transition from Florida to Texas to be the worst week of my life. Following this in horror was Valentine's Day weekend this year for reasons entirely unrelated to Valentine's Day. Next in line, the week Dobbin revealed himself to be an asshat. Then this weekend, for reasons that aren't well defined but mostly relate to my being very depressed.

Maybe I need to be busy in order to stay sane. But I hate being busy. Awesome.

As for something completely relevant to my life right now, I hate Facebook. Why do I even bother? I mean, I know why I bother. I like looking at pictures of myself. I enjoy confusing people by proclaiming myself to be a sparkly ninja. However, this is not enough for me. About half of my scant 100 friends can be described as "IRL."

And I hate all of them.

This is not a scientific calculation. I promise. And now I have absolutely no clue how to continue on with this clawing of my acquaintances in a dignified and mannered fashion.

Also I just realized I have a test over Frankenstein tomorrow. Oh.

I don't know how to be a writer. I also don't know how to do math or what I'm going to DO WITH MY LIFE (answer: glitter) or if any college will accept me.

It's really fun times 'round here.

My head is a tangled mess. A lot of the time I feel broken.

I couldn’t tell you exactly why. It is a long and harrowing story I am uncertain of myself. But, growing up, I formed quiet conceptions I am just now attempting to unearth. To deal with.

My head is a tangled mess.

I search frantically for logic in any and everything. I never stop, cannot stop, do not know how to stop. The thoughts buzz and hum, leaving me shaking and lost and wishing. If I am imperfect, my world will stop. I bottle my thoughts up so well that they are obscured even to me. I hide behind my silence, I suffer from an economy of words.

In some ways knowing these parts of me exist makes them hurt more.

Why shouldn’t I matter? I have gotten into myself the idea that I don’t, that what I am now discovering shouldn’t hurt. That I must continue to build up walls, lock myself within my conceptions. I have to pretend. I have to be perfect, whole. What might be a decision has for so long been a reflex, an impulse, a

These things overlap. I cannot be perfect. My imitation is passable, is carefully cultivated, is

Sometimes it will all just hurt and my desperate hope will grasp for that which I have come to fear. Okay. I want to be okay, but okay is that place I reach at the very precipice of shattering once again. I am not allowed to be okay.

But I have to be perfect.

And I have to be okay with living with all these tangled thoughts and small hopes and

Before I knew
that something was wrong I still thought I had to be perfect and
it still hurt. I spoke to a counselor who charted my happiness and told me, once, “we’ve charted this for months. You should be happier now.”

You should be happier now. You should be perfect. You should you should you should.

I do not fit into your mold, world. I have tried, with everything I have, my whole life. To please you. To find answers, to pull myself apart so I fit to your specifications. My identity is largely a result of the elastic I have made myself.

For you.

And I hope you’re happy.

FDSLFJGLADFGJDFG304-1243-24-432-40DFASL YES

Blogging: I can't quit you.

Today was Friday. afsdlkfjasldgfdslgladfgasldgjasldjfladfsjgo3wa4tr 2034ruef

That felt appropriate for some reason. There was a pep rally in the afternoon, meaning that our schedule at school was morphed into different proportional sparkles and everything was a bit off. Seniors sit on the away side/bleachers of the stadium, everyone else on the home side, which has always been construed to me as a Big Deal.

For me it meant screwing up the courage to sit (well, stand) with one of the few friendly people I know and inwardly seething over the fact that stupid, conspicuous Dobbin was in clear view on the other side of the stadium thing and bumbling around in his Dobbinesque manner. I have many, many thoughts. I'm trying to deal with them and they're messy and tangled and urk.

I wore a cute outfit today.

Also, I am cute. Just so ya know.

Work: alphabetizing millions of zillions of forms at the moment. As the nerd that I am, I'm kind of finding it fun. I worked 18.5 hours this week! SCORE FOR ME.

This tab has been open for several a few hours. I am so good at this. There are things I want to say, maybe, but I don't know how and I feel weird about saying them and... I'm not even entirely sure what they are.

Blurgh.

Three day weekend! What do I do with it? I mean, I'm so great at having fun and everything. It is a legitimate problem, really. The concept of having fun is foreign to me. I'm sure if I did have fun I'd feel guilty about it. I'm a mess. A charming mess, but a mess all the same.

I guess we all are.

Katherine Dislikes Titling Things

Oh, hello. Remember me? My name is Katherine, and I have graced you with my words each day for the past month. And while the month is now over and I am no longer obligated under Magic Code to scrounge for interesting pieces of information to put forth each day, many of my thoughts today have been blog related. I've grown to enjoy blogging quite a lot, even to the point where I feel somewhat comfortable with it... which is quite nice considering I have always strongly disliked it before this experience.

This is the point where I run out of things to say. Obviously.

I just have to laugh at myself sometimes. Let's take a look at today's pages of silly awesome poetry and doodles for guidance. Because this is what I continue to find myself doing as we continue "social contracts" in all of my classes.

Poetry and I are becoming bffs. Even if it's terrible.

There is a hope that

hangs in the air

coating every surface

in fine powder

we inhale

honey sweet

bitter aftertaste

hope

hanging

in the air

ignore it and it leans

over your shoulder,

breathes sugar lies

in your ear.

Then:

Answers

maybe

they

do

not

al wa ys

exist.

maybe they slink into corners and watch you, laughing as you stumble and beg. Shadows. Blur past you, disconcert, trip. Lost in the throbbing want for them.

Shining cloak promising answered prayers and serene dreams, that elusive fulfillment - however spelled - glittered, glittering, glossed with hope.

Lies.

Trembling bold unkempt for always never to deteriorate never never cowardly defiance slime hurtful wince wincing.

Finally:

They are talking about rules and

I am remembering

minute bells

and hand holding

and waiting in the empty hall

for him

Remembering hurts.

Lost in the hallways of memory

drifting

bumping against dusty

memories, coughing as it

rises, plopping down

on the floor

criss cross apple sauce

Breathing in dust

unpacking boxes shoddily

assembled to reveal

what was

or felt like it might be

something

Fog memories,

wondering if what was

ever existed

Because it is now all

so over

and the lines are so blurred,

chalk smudged over time

frame and breath

crumbling, confused, broken.

Without answers or solutions

aching, choking against the dust

over.

I am not particularly depressed, but these are the sorts of things that appear when I doodle. It's interesting considering various forms of writing. Journal writing, blog writing, doodle induced writing. They all draw different things from me. I write a lot more here than in my journal, though my journal has generally been for very emotional immediate thought and brief attempted updates (and other stuff, too, yes). While I try not to withhold or over-think things in that venue when I write, as over-thinking and withholding true feeling are things I struggle with, in some ways doodling is even freer. Lots of things have merit, I guess.

I am a teenager. This amuses me sometimes.

Today I took a scary test in English. It was less scary than anticipated, but it's being graded on the bell curve... so who knows how I'll do?! I wore a dark blue skirt with an orange top and kept thinking "surely this doesn't match. Surely." Orange and blue go together, right? RIGHT? Yes. Work was only two hours! Tomorrow I work six hours again! Sparkles all around!

Lots of rules have been switched around at school. They are confusing and stuff. Oh, and as for another topic of which I am not at all knowledgeable, let's talk about teenage pregnancy. For kicks. I am surprised by the number of students who have children or, in the case of this year, are now pregnant. The majority of students at my school are Hispanic, so while most of those I know to be pregnant are Hispanic, I suppose this could be mere statistics or some such. I'm trying not to stereotype. Maybe I am. I apologize in advance if this is the case. I will tell you that the most confusing case I've seen is that of a pregnant (Caucasian) peer of mine who I always see with her boyfriend. Why this confuses me I don't know; maybe because the other five or so pregnant teens I see around are never with such counterparts.

Here I am attempting a case study. Why.

First poetry, then teenage pregnancy. Whatever could be next?