Ivy and the Wall

A flood of somethings.

2012-01-11T18:50:00.012-06:00

Sometimes I am selfish. I don't always want to share this journey with others, particularly of late. Part selfishness - mostly reservedness - and maybe not only this, but also: if I fail to filter feelings into words, I can pretend that tribulations aren't.

When I do begin to scrape words together, I feel petty in my insecurities. I received a 4.0 for my first semester in college, and my English professor means to use my final project as a resource in her classes, and I have been accepted into the Honors program at Universityland, and... I am still a mess. My feelings may misconstrue the never-ending quandary, but I have always been good at school. As such, these good things surprise no one but yours truly - so I don't perpetuate this work ethic for perpetual pats on the back. Or maybe I do. Maybe this is the issue, for as lovely as accolades are, they do not fulfill me as I wish they would. It would be easier if it were enough, wouldn't it?

The shining academic record and glittering tales of success are an easy way to disguise my worries. Look, I can say, I have saved myself. I am fine; I don't need help. Pretend perfection is my game of choice. Silence is a simple tool. I don't lie - I merely fail to tell, alter feeling until it takes on an acceptable shape.

This is not to say that I hide within my silence well. It isn't even that I am greatly unhappy. Yet there is a disconnect somewhere, a niggling voice inside keeping me from any sort of comfort in asserting myself. I don't want you to know the rough number of times I have overdosed on Cheez Its and British comedy in a fit of wallowing, yet eventually the fact that I have hidden makes me angry, as if you should somehow innately have the power of mind-reading. As if you have no sadnesses of your own.

And my sadnesses feel petty, too. Soon I will be returning to Universityland; my roommate and dear friend will not, as she is taking an internship. I will be okay - it will be okay - everything will be okay. (Mantra.) Because there are always good things. Because I will find things to do, because I will find ways to occupy my mind (see: mountains of homework), because it will be okay. But still I am frantic, ready to return to Universityland but uncertain of how ready I am to be there. Tiny Town Texas is comfortable only in that its incessant sluggishness and unhappiness is unsurprising - but my mother is here, hugs ready at any hour, and my soon-to-be departure is not something I want to think about at any sort of length.

(Silence.)

Breaks from the norm are difficult in and of themselves, for the new and empty space breeds unending worry. I will be okay. It will be okay. Everything will be okay.

Miscellany: a) I no longer eat meat. Adjust your judgements accordingly, as - as you well know- vegetarianism is definitely an evil and conniving cult.

b) The Fault in Our Stars by John Green is positively glorious, and I would recommend your reading it.

c) I send my love.

(Flux, n.) Some days the cracks are less apparent.

2011-10-21T22:17:00.012-05:00

I seem to have run out of words. The few phrasings I manage to pull together over and over again are far too familiar. I feel lost, I inevitably write. I've lost something. Maybe this 'writing' has never been easy, precisely, but here I flounder in a manner I cannot pinpoint. It used to be easier, right? I have nothing new to say; I lack color. I don't want to whine. Rather, I want to fix myself before any difference is noticed. I lack the muster to create something solid enough to say aloud. I feel disjointed, ungrounded, and unendingly transient.

I manage to (sometimes) fool myself with the idea that lies count only in what is said. Yet I am oh so practiced in the art of silence, which can be something very like lying.

The line that separates acceptance from detachment is blurred. Sometimes, in unexpected quiet or crushing noise, the things I have cast aside come back and lock the breath inside my chest. To pause against the rush is to urgently attempt to recollect and restore all things. I ate lunch an hour late today. I need to send an email. There is homework to tackle, more homework than I can accomplish in twelve lifetimes. He... no. No, I can't. Not now. It hurts.

I like to forget the cracks.

There are a lot of things I like to forget about myself, and often do by either design or total accident. I like to forget great swathes of time, and often do. I like to forget, especially, that I spent six years of my childhood overseas. My memories lack distinction, skewed just so to promote the most graceful of stomach flips. I remember then in a tangle of bleached picture memories and bitter whisperings; I like to pretend that then wasn't. I like to pretend that then is completely removed from now.

I like to forget that my father is problematic and that the years I have spent painfully toeing the line (et freaking cetera) are a nearly direct result of this, erm, "difficulty." I draw a blank for a moment when questioned about him; he tends to surface just long enough to wreak total havoc while playing the part of the victim, yet even this streamlined approximation doesn't feel fit for sharing with most. I don't hate my father for a heaping conglomeration of reasons, but the fact that so many (acquaintances, often) choose to defend him is head on desk amusing to me and enough to keep me quiet.

For whatever it's worth, writing does feel more difficult now. I have had this post in development for a week and have yet to decide what I mean by it. I switch sentences around at a frantic snail's pace, unable to make head nor tail of what I am saying. The words are all the same.

I want to tell you about college, but I feel as though I have lost the drawstrings with which to pull ends together into something sensical. I want to tell you about the guy who jaunted down the main pathway near the library on a fine Friday morning, hair a flop of wet curls framing sunglasses. He carried a vintage briefcase somehow transformed into a boombox, which sputtered a hip hop beat as he passed.

From my perch on a hanging bench, I watched people for an hour before the fountain behind me was shut off for maintenance. The white noise that had before masked the sound of footsteps and laughter suddenly gone, the already off kilter feeling of familiarity in the air dissipated.

There is an amount of comfort in knowing something well enough to make movements without worrying deeply. The harsh angles of the new are easier to navigate once you have gotten to know them. Yet the longer I consider perspective, the less I am sure of it. The stasis is intermittent. People change, the weather changes, and we move through the shifting chaos.

The all encompassing dilemma.

From the throes of a (not) existential crisis.

2011-09-28T10:52:00.008-05:00

I am in the throes of an existential crisis.

This is a complete lie, but it feels more concise (and, frankly, fun) than "I have my first college exams this week and my body has decided to attempt illness in protest (thanks, yo)." I am convinced that I am doomed to crushing and total failure, but this is hardly breaking news and more of an occupational hazard than anything else. A preliminary count totals six humans who have assured me that I will not fail these exams, college, or life in general. It is also apparent that all I do is a) study, b) put stuffed animals on my head, c) consume caffeine and/or dairy products, and d) view the internet with longing.

Granted, I am a citizen of the Internet, future crazy cat lady and douse myself in glitter with increasing regularity, but it occurs to me to wonder what exactly I would be doing were I entrenched in a thrilling and active social scene. From what I observe through thorough and exact research, "fun" in college quite often includes alcohol and illicit activity, neither of which I am interested in partaking. While I am fairly certain intellectually stimulating conversation occurs somewhere on campus, I am currently too terrified and immersed in study (i.e. panic) to seek it out.

I may be slightly biased at the present time, as I have been studying the ins and outs of genitalia* for the past two days in preparation for an exam in Human Sexuality. Unfortunately it is not a practical exam, as we all know I am the loosest of women, constantly whipping men and ladies into a froth of raging hormones, and would thus be prepared to bring such an examination to a satisfactory finish.

Such is life.

* I have also been making all of the terrible innuendos. All of them.

A brief note on my lack of sudden and complete happiness.

2011-09-15T01:06:00.008-05:00

I often (almost always, of late) avoid writing because I feel that I am required to maintain a certain image. I feel that I am meant to be in a certain place and am expected fit into a guideline; the few words that occur to me are distinct only in their disjointedness and lack of zest.

I didn't expect to find happiness here immediately and I haven't. Do I expect to get there eventually? Yes and... yes? I hate complaining, for it feels unnecessarily whiny and disrespectful of the trials of others. Look at me! College is so hard! I miss my mom and I want to cry all the time but can't let myself!

But it's true. I'm not happy. I do miss my mom. I've set the most potent of my emotions on the back burner, which plays a big part in the fact that I don't know what to say when asked how I am. A great deal of the time I don't feel anything.

I say these things without wishing to be overdramatic. I want to press that I will be okay. I mean, probably. As terrifying as stasis is to me (it demands disaster), I always find it again.

As for happiness? I'm starting to lose the idea that happiness is something one finds. A dear friend told me many months ago: "[Happiness] is not a location, not a prize. It's inside of you, already." This remains one of the best things anyone has ever told me.

I'm not giving up. I'm just... very much overwhelmed. Sad. Shaken. Tired. And entitled to these feelings, as lacking in poetry as they are.

Blog Every Day August: 8/31

2011-08-31T22:23:00.002-05:00

Fifty four pages of Government reading still call my name, yet I have spent my evening writing letters and sneering at it and my other homework.

In my last English class the girl I was seated next to informed me she had not done the reading and instead guessed at the quiz questions, which apparently worked out well for her. In Government, again, several humans behind me discussed at length their tactics for doing as little as possible. Call me insane or naive (both?), but I really like schoolwork. Which is not to say that I do not expect to freak out in the near future over the state of my academics. I have no idea what I am doing.

This August has been tumultuous, to say the least. I almost want to apologize, as it has not been what I might have wished in terms of writing. Several of my buddies in this venture are facing the same problem; words are not easily found these days and oftentimes a painful ordeal. In some ways, I worry, I have failed you or wasted your time. But for what it is, this affair has helped me. Words have shed some of their fright.

Sticking it out counts for something.

My fondest regards to all of you. I will be back.

Blog Every Day August: 8/30

2011-08-31T00:08:00.002-05:00

I am currently putting off doing sixty pages of Government reading. It is not technically due until Friday, but I am crazy and take skeins of notes, necessitating a ridiculous amount of time. Have I mentioned that I am crazy? I suppose this somewhat of a regular occurence.

News flash: the off brand Cheez Its I am currently consuming are CHOLESTEROL FREE. Oh so reassuring, that. Government, while occasionally intriguing, is making me want to stab things. Eeyore has been brought in for moral support.

College.

Days until college: -9

Blog Every Day August: 8/29

2011-08-29T22:27:00.003-05:00

I am exhausted. Is this a theme? Maybe it is implied at this point. Part of me wonders why in heaven's name you lot stick around day after day like this; this month has been, in my lowly opinion, a disaster. The only conclusion I am able to draw is that you a) love me and b) are at least slightly crazy... for which I thank you. Crazy is preferable, in my opinion, and the love here definitely goes both ways despite my currently lacking relationship with communication.

I would like to thank Manar ever so for filling in for me yesterday. Her words are a shining beacon to me always. Have I mentioned I am a sap? That. But really, Manar is brilliant. As are all of you. Dave, I am bewildered as to why you've put up for my ramblings (or lack thereof) for a month, but your readership and comments have been appreciated. And Lydia! You're amazing. I mention hardcore commenters here, but my appreciation extends to all of you.

My humans shall be visiting me this weekend; that my immediate family is willing to drive seven hours at (almost) the drop of a hat is itself enough to make me weepy. Needless to say, I am excited.

Partner In Crazy Laurel forced (see: nudged) me to visit the cafeteria and acquire caffeine, as I was nearly falling asleep in my chair. It is apparent that the cafeteria is the place to be at ten on a Monday night. The more you know, eh? My head is now in a special, special caffeine + tired place.

Loveyoubye.

Days until college: -8

Blog Every Day August: 8/28

2011-08-28T23:35:00.001-05:00

Hello Readers of Katherine’s Blog! This is Manar. Unfortunately, “the homework has eaten [Katherine’s] brain," and so she is unavailable for blogging at the moment. However, I feel partially responsible for this occurrence, as she was kept from doing said homework earlier in the weekend due to my presence in her dormitory.*

If you are reading this blog, I must assume that you are a quality person, so I am honored to grace your eyes with my words. I apologize for how lackluster they must seem in comparison to the words that you normally consume on this page.

I would like to take this opportunity to assure you that Katherine is doing just fine. I realize that having one’s brain eaten does not seem like the kind of thing that leaves one “just fine,” but Katherine has brains to spare, so she can handle it. True, college is frightening and intimidating and new—and she may be having issues adjusting to the drastic change—but she has a pretty boss roommate (that would be Laurel, the #PartnerInCrazy) to guide her through the twists, and I was able to personally verify this weekend that she is just as wonderful and sane as ever. (Of course, “sane as ever” for Katherine is still markedly insane, but in the best of ways.) Besides, we all know that our beloved Katherine is capable of handling anything. She’s pretty awesome that way.

Now that your fears are allayed (because I am obviously a trustworthy source and am totally not actually blogging in her place because I kidnapped her and constructed a robot to take her place), we can move on to other more important matters. Such as ice cream. Ice cream is of the utmost importance, and should be a staple in the lives of all. Katherine and I both had ice cream for brunch today (well, I mean, we ate not-dessert too), and I think everyone can agree that we are better for it. I would like to encourage all of you to partake in the consumption of ice cream yourselves, for the good of all humanity.

Well, though I am but a lowly high school student (an entire year younger than the Mighty Katherine), I also have homework to feed my brains to tonight. I hope that I was an acceptable stand-in! Enjoy tomorrow’s return to your regularly scheduled programming. ☺

*Um. This may or may not have also resulted in yesterday’s post being late, and I may or may not fear the wrath of vengeful blog readers if I cause the delay of yet another blog. True, I am no Katherine, but I’m better than nothing, right? Right?

Blog Every Day August: 8/27

2011-08-28T01:52:00.002-05:00

Let it be noted in history that I am currently distracted by the gorgeous Laurel and Manar, my alphabuddies in crime, and thus blatantly forgot to update this until this late hour. Manar is sleeping over. We watched Winnie the Pooh with our stuffed animal friends (Pooh, Eeyore and Tigger). Our girl talk has reached new and impressive heights this evening; I adore them.

Days until college: -6

Blog Every Day August: 8/26

2011-08-26T23:59:00.013-05:00

There are fifteen minutes left in the day and I am only now attempting a post. I wish I could be/feel quality. I feel that I've let you down. To recap my day for you accurately would necessitate a lot of unnecessary whinging and it is, as ever, difficult for me to rationalize a blow-by-blow depiction when I am lost to put it in any sort of entertaining fashion.

I don't feel well. Stress sets off stomach pains. As silly as it may seem, I hate taking my medicine. More often than not I convince myself of the idea that I am just hungry and ignore it. The issue seems trivial, really, but it is a slight extra annoyance. The moral of this story is that no, it doesn't just go away, and medicine is useful or some expletive.

Nothing devoured me whole today, which I find to be preferable to the alternative. My powers of concentration have been sapped for so long that I worry as to whether I will be able to accomplish things ever again. Prediction: I will. (Maybe.) My fondness for academia really ought to kick back in at any moment and fix everything, right? Right?

The wall directly in front of me features pictures of and drawings by my humans. It makes me happy.

Photographs picture (left to right) my maternal
grandmother as a college student, my mother
as a young woman, and my mother, sister and
I on my seventh birthday.

Days until college: -5

Blog Every Day August: 8/25

2011-08-25T22:36:00.002-05:00

It's after nine on a Thursday night and I sit on a bench outside the library. It's still warm, still somewhere in the 90s Fahrenheit, but night brings a soft comfort to the heat. Across an expanse of sidewalk a fountain sprays water up, up, up. People are still out and about; a bicyclist passes by, then another. Some twenty yards away a boy pushes his comrade on a hanging bench.

Shadows are cast in all the right places as people walk, occasional voices muffled against the blanket of dark. The fountain is a rush on which I can focus, almost worth the sweat.

I like these benign trappings of night, this handful of minutes in which I can quietly watch and breathe.

I never imagined this far. College was the final point on the map, the destination as far as I could reasonably see. Now that I am here I find myself floundering, overwhelmed and broken all at the same time. Emotions sing as they rocket up and plummet at an unpredictable, incomprehensible pace.

I have yet to grasp this new reality.

Days until college: -4

Blog Every Day August: 8/24

2011-08-24T23:59:00.005-05:00

Today is officially my nerd Christmas; Pottermore sorted me into Ravenclaw and my wand core is Unicorn. I reunited with a friend from student orientation (following a near panic attack during an intense social function, we happened across one another as we both hid in the bathroom) this evening and ate pizza. Partner In Crazy continues to be ridiculously cute. I miss my humans. Classes start tomorrow.

Here is a kitten.

Source.

Days until college: -3

Blog Every Day August: 8/23

2011-08-23T20:51:00.000-05:00

The fact that classes don't start until Thursday is starting (continuing) to throw me for a loop. You're all going to laugh at me, but I have never felt adequate academically. I may know in some dreary corner of my soul that I am the stuff of legends (ever so likely), but I don't feel that I am intelligent. In both social (understandable) and scholastic (I am ridiculous) realms I constantly feel that I am hanging on by only the loosest of threads.

The moral of this story being that, as terrified as I am, I would like classes to start so I can begin to do things rather than stew over how horrific I am at life and its many apricots*.

Today I wore the fabled Pizza John t-shirt out and about (for the first time ever, goodness me) and happened across two Nerdfighters. The odds of this astound me; it was quite exciting. "I know this is creepy, but I like your shirt" is somewhat of a hilarious statement when one is wearing such classy apparel, but I shall hold these words dear to me always.

Days until college: -2

* Yes. Apricots.

Blog Every Day August: 8/22

2011-08-22T21:33:00.003-05:00

Maybe this is all a dream. That's how it works, right? Nightmare, pleasant dream, what-have-you - an abrupt finish line must await me at the most inopportune of moments. I am halfway in denial and split as to whether I really want to be here; I am as terrified as I am thrilled.

Classes start on Thursday. My residence hall box receptacle is adorable and comforting. Partner In Crazy and I attended the first meeting of our university's Harry Potter Alliance this afternoon, which went better than expected. Harry Potter folk or no, I was all sorts of nervous. Afterwards we ventured to obtain food in the land of the mighty cafeteria only to find that the door was missing and the cafeteria is under construction.

Thus we made our way instead to a magic cafeteria, which has recently converted all vegan. It was yummy and exciting (food! I was ecstatic. I should probably eat food more often...); there I happenstanced upon the sole human I know from the general vicinity of tiny town Texas. Fancy that! She is quite lovely.

I have acquired a P.O. Box in college land, if any of you peeps* require the address. I have been searching desperately (not desperately) for postcards and have yet to find them. Soon! I wish to send postcards to all of you.

Days until college: -1

* You're welcome. I am the most eloquent of beings.

Blog Every Day August: 8/21

2011-08-21T22:22:00.000-05:00

I'm exhausted. I had Easy Mac, an apple and M&Ms for dinner. Our microwave and mini fridge was finally delivered from the rental humans; quite exciting. My mom left. I have no words to talk about that.

But I'm here.

Days until college: 0

Blog Every Day August: 8/20

2011-08-20T22:07:00.003-05:00

While move in day is officially tomorrow, with the proper coaxing my residence hall allowed yours truly to move into the proper box receptacle a day early. This will allow my humans to leave the vicinity of college town with enough time to return to tiny town Texas and not have to rush the already inevitable seven hour drive.

I'm emotionally spent and dreading their departure, but also deeply excited to be rooming with (soon to be current!) roommate and partner in crazy Laurel. She is delightful. We had dinner with our respective humans this evening and spent the entirety of the meal making funny faces at one another and giggling incoherent phrasings ("You have all the cute." "YOU have all the boys!").

Maybe I haven't bemoaned it enough, but I detest having to take things a day at a time (granted, who exactly enjoys this?). I have a broad mindset yet manage to do nothing but worry with it.

Life is tough. And good. Mostly good.

Days until college: 1

Blog Every Day August: 8/19

2011-08-19T23:03:00.003-05:00

I blog to you this evening from an ever extravagant (eh) hotel near my college. Move in is on Sunday, which is tricky as my humans must be back home on Monday morning for school and work. Fun times!

This day has been a long one. My dashing knight, John, proved himself to be a miracle car packing ninja this morning as he saw me off. He is one of the sweetest people I have ever known. Granted, he is also one of the most wry; it works. I already miss him very much.

Our journey had a later than expected start (who's surprised?) and ended only a few moments ago despite the fact that I was awakened at the devastatingly early hour of 7 am. My brethren and I were able to have a lovely dinner with my glorious aunt and uncle on the way here, however, which was delightful.

Enjoy this kitten.

Days until college: 2

Blog Every Day August: 8/18

2011-08-18T20:38:00.004-05:00

Today I saw my therapist for the last time before college. I'll be checking back in when I visit home, so my therapy isn't over per se, but this is definitely an ending of sorts. I've been dreading it all summer.

The subject of therapists and mental health is almost taboo in many circles. I've come to mostly ignore this. Why? I'm not ashamed. I'm not crazy, either. Therapy is one of the best things that has ever happened to me. To compare myself pre-counseling and today is a difficult proposition in that the change is staggering. I've grown into my skin in ways I would never have fathomed previously.

Despite their good intentions, my first few counselors managed to make me feel inadequate ("It's been six weeks - you should be happier by now") and worse about myself ("You're quite like your father, aren't you?"). I'm verklempt just trying to find words for how grateful I am for the lovely woman I have been seeing for the past year and a half. There is absolutely no doubt in my mind that she cares for and about me deeply. I've never felt judged, unsafe or rushed*.

I have, to be cliche, blossomed.

Days until college: 3

* She also makes Harry Potter references. Just saying.

Blog Every Day August: 8/17

2011-08-17T20:34:00.001-05:00

If there was ever any question as to whether I was a great big sap, call off the search, as today's events are a vaguely good example of my tendencies.

This afternoon I had the great privilege of lunching with my good friend John. We drove around our metropolis of a town in search of a classy food source; when I refused to choose point blank, John skillfully guided the vehicle in which we were traveling to an Asian buffet (mmm, Asians). It really is the most stylish place around. How it exists is beyond me.

There we (unpredictably) ate food.

Following our foray into fine dining, we removed ourselves from the premises (John kindly allowing me to open the door for myself, a great leap for womankind as a whole) and went to a land in which we consumed ice cream. It was delicious. I was a most elegant creature and spilled mine only twenty times or so.

Our banter throughout the outing was, on the whole, fairly incoherent. He is a quality being.

Tiny town Texas being the unsavory place that it is, I didn't expect to have friends I would miss upon my departure. I will miss John very much, but our adventures need not end here - for which I am grateful. Friendship is nifty.

We're kind of extremely adorable.

Days until college: 4

Blog Every Day August: 8/16

2011-08-16T23:26:00.002-05:00

My brethren and I shall be leaving for college land on Friday morning. Here I present you the state of my belongings. I have decided that packing is the most exciting thing to exist.

Days until college: 5

Blog Every Day August: 8/15

2011-08-15T23:29:00.004-05:00

In some ways packing for college feels easier than packing for a short trip. The planning has been in stages of completion for months, yet when the rubber hits the road the process isn't as difficult as it was cracked up to be. But I still reserve judgement, as there are still days left in this. I suspect many a breakdown is to follow.

My anxiety levels have reached new lows in the past few days, nudged along by lengthy viewings of The Supersizers (care of the charming, witty and fantastic Lydia) and unknown forces. There's still much to do, but the unknown feels more manageable now that its qualities range on tangible. I suspect tomorrow's ride on the coaster will be different, but for the moment I have stopped shaking and no longer feel close to vomiting... so that's chipper.

On that note, please watch this. It's excellent; I'm obsessed.

Days until college: 6

Blog Every Day August: 8/14

2011-08-14T22:32:00.006-05:00

I know, I know. Ever so many of my blogs are cop-outs. I was going to wax poetic on the idea of romantic love today, but seriously: just look at this journal entry I came across a few moments ago. What can I say? I've always been eloquent.

Transcript.

While I most certainly find great enjoyment in poking fun at the journals of younger me, I really am quite proud of this. The bulk of my childhood diaries give no real insight into my feelings, yet this entry scratches the surface of my whole existence (drama!).

I would still quite like to punch people most days. Some things don't change.

Days until college: 7

Blog Every Day August: 8/13

2011-08-13T22:39:00.013-05:00

I hate shopping. My mother has had to forcibly drag me into stores since I was but a wee lass. Unless books or stuffed animals are involved I flee, and even then I find peace only in small doses. Florescent lighting makes me feel slightly sick; I am easily overwhelmed; life is ever so difficult.

But today my brethren and I ventured to The Container Store, which is a magical land quite worth the spike in adrenaline and subsequent exhaustion. Organization is one of my very favorite things and my mother happens to be a bit of an organizing guru.

This happened. It was intense.

I am an adult.

Can you tell how amused I am by adding
photos to these posts? It's so much fun!
It's almost as if I'm interesting.

I don't know how I can thank you all for your consistently fantastic and caring comments through this rather violently emotional month. Today has been slightly better. You truly do have my love, glitter and heartfelt appreciation. I will bake each and every one of you cookies, providing you visit me directly and ply me with affection. If only all tokens of love came this cheaply, no?

Do not question the coffee.

I've made plans to see John for lunch next week before I'm off to college land; we continue to plot the destruction of the earth via llamas and remain the classiest of individuals. Partners in crazy Laurel and Manar have been texting me details of their adventures with interfriends all day.

This is what my evening currently looks like. I haven't spoken directly to my interwife's face in quite some time and have missed her ever so. Currently she is teaching me camp songs.

Life is good.

My living area has looked like this for weeks.
Packing schmacking.

Days until college: 8

Blog Every Day August: 8/12

2011-08-12T22:53:00.004-05:00

In nine days I will be living with one of my closest friends. Her name is Laurel.

I gave her this pen. She hasn't realized I had it
enchanted to make her like me yet. Shh!

We crossed paths in interland last November; soon our common interest in libraries and librarianship was realized and she convinced me to visit her college. She's a writer, musician, YouTuber, and super cool human being. I visited her in December, then in February and June. I decided her college was right; she asked me to be her roommate. Somewhere in the mix we became close.

She was the first interperson I met in person in the big, wide world. And she got (gets) me. We're both complete and utter saps with crazy tendencies, so it works out pretty well. We worry and obsess over similar things. Our words to one another might as well be encrypted for all the sense they make to those surrounding us.

Laurel is all around delightful. I think I will keep her.

Laurel makes the best faces.

Yours truly: "WHAT SHOULD I BLOG ABOUT?"
Laurel: "How hot I am."

I concur.

Days until college: 9

Blog Every Day August: 8/11

2011-08-11T23:13:00.001-05:00

I wrote you a letter.

Transcript.

Blog Every Day August: 8/10

2011-08-10T20:58:00.007-05:00

When I'm particularly stressed my stomach goes on strike more than usual (we really aren't often pals). Needless to say, I don't feel well. I'm slightly shaky and teared up without any prior notice a few moments ago. Most of my time lately is spent in a haze that roller-coasters from numbness to hot flashes of emotion in as much time as it takes to write one's name.

My mother is busy. I lack the wherewithal to say the simplest of things to those I care about. My lists only extend so far. I need to make phone calls; I am terrified of phone calls. I should pack, but I lack the heart. I don't want to leave, I don't want to leave, I don't want to leave.

I know that it is going to be okay, but the mere knowledge that I will get through this does little for me. I have always worked on this knowledge in some form; one should note that this knowledge is not to be construed as true feeling. In the grand scheme, things have worked out for me - and better than expected - but this doesn't detract from the pain of transition. This hardly sanctions that change is in any way easy.

Achieving higher education has always been the goal, which may be why this change turns me inside out so. It's ominous, an end and a beginning I brought about largely for myself, one thing I had some small control over. Now that it's here, I don't know what to do with myself.

The change is good. The transition is crushingly difficult.

Days until college: 11

Blog Every Day August: 8/9

2011-08-09T23:59:00.018-05:00

My childhood was that of a military brat*. Following several moves in early childhood, my father joined the Navy and was soon stationed in Italy; I was eight years old. In our first three years we lived in Gaeta, a tiny and picturesque town lying somewhere between Naples and Rome.

In my picture memory, everything is lush. Distant mountains are painted upon the sky. The rush of traffic is a cacophonous yet comforting murmur and ivy clings to iron gates set into the sidewalk. Waves glisten beside great slabs of pavement which touch the ocean downtown. There is a bakery on every corner and an ice cream shop always within walking distance.

The military base was set into a hill. It was called "The Hill" by military folk and the base itself was tiny, allowing room only for a small grocery store, mail room and restaurant. From the entrance of the base one could also hike to the very top of the hill, which was seemingly more than a hill but much less than a mountain, to view a sort of tomb and assorted statuary of a biblical nature. I was once forced to make this hike, so I'm slightly bitter.

We lived atop our own hill, up a shockingly steep grade our car could not surmount when it rained. A family of stray cats lounged about the streets below. Orange and lime trees were scattered about; the driveway was roofed in a net of grapevines; olive trees lined up on a shelf of land directly behind our home.

Our landlady lived somewhere to the left our our home and could often be heard yelling to her daughter-in-law in the apartment below us. The scenery viewed from our sprawling terrace was a watercolor. If one looked carefully enough there was a small patch of ocean caught between swathes of greenery; many a morning was spent with neck craned in an attempt to view my father's ship as it left its port. He was gone most of the time, at sea, which I think made us all happiest.

In three years we would be transferred to a military base an hour's drive away, a change which was more than palpable. The level of pollution in our new area made it difficult to leave the house without suffering a headache, adolescence hit me hard and my family unit soon entered into the latter stages of crumbling. My memories of that time are tinged with gray and I like to forget them.

The station in Gaeta shifted its command shortly after we left and has since shrunk into almost nonexistence.

My mental picture of this town and these times dims as I attempt any consolidation of memory; it is as if it never existed or existed in a dream. But that's okay - I like this dream memory. It's happy there.

Days until college: 12

* Terrible phrase, world, but the only one that fit. I'm appalled, really.

Blog Every Day August: 8/8

2011-08-08T20:09:00.010-05:00

My brethren and I are sprawled in various states of what-have-you as we stare into our steel bits of technology after dinner. The silence is companionable.

That I have so little to say makes me angry. I feel devoid of words. I don't want them anymore, I think, a lie. I desire words more than anything. They're here somewhere - they have to be. Somewhere in this empty space, this reluctance to move, this sheer fright. Somewhere. Choosing words is nearing impossible, each strand of thought obscured in a bulky netting from which I cannot find an escape.

Time.

Waiting is exhausting. Excitement is eclipsed by panic.

I will get through this. I will find words again.

I will.

Days until college: 13

Blog Every Day August: 8/7

2011-08-07T23:59:00.002-05:00

In two weeks I will be a college student and a six hour drive from my current home. In two weeks I will leave my mom, the one person who has never forsaken me. I feel as though this movement will displace me somehow; I shan't exist any longer. In two weeks all of this will be gone.

This waiting game is one I have known all too well, yet its compass now dips into uncharted territory. This waiting game has never ended before. Now the countdown once set at a trickle pace hurtles toward an end I cannot imagine fully.

New belongings have slowly overtaken a corner of my room as the summer has progressed. I haven't yet had the heart to disassemble that which I already own and use regularly. Instead I create list upon list of to-dos with the frustrated knowledge that for all my planning there will be something I forget or cannot obtain until I am immersed in a new location.

I sit quietly, suspended and numb in the knowledge that I will soon be gone.

I haven't cried enough. I haven't written enough. I haven't... enough.

I will never be ready. Maybe this is what burns the most.

Blog Every Day August: 8/6

2011-08-06T23:57:00.004-05:00

Currently I am conversing with my good friend John on the telephone. He is the one human I have truly befriended here in the realm of tiny town Texas and I shall miss him immensely when I depart. Our friendship is an odd but quality one. He is also participating in Blog Every Day August, which certainly adds to his class levels (visit him!).

Last month we went on a glorious faux date and saw Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part II together. I wore my Ravenclaw tie and he paid for my ticket and refused to let me open doors for myself; it was delightfully cheesy.

"Why are you leaving?" he demands.

"I'm a cruel, cruel person."

"I'm glad you realize that."

Blog Every Day August: 8/5

2011-08-05T23:22:00.008-05:00

I feel that if ever there were an appropriate moment to pledge my love to an inanimate object, it would be now. Ralph was installed in my home today and I believe we will be very happy together. I am fully committed to making this long distance relationship work. Nothing will stop our love.

Our old friend Dobbin contacted me via everyone's favorite (cough) social networking website a week ago, in desperate need to atone for his sins. Or, rather, inform me of his sins. You know, over a year following his unceremonious dumping of yours truly via text message. Luckily I knew them, or else I might very well have died in utter shock. I said just enough to convey I was willing to listen. Our largely one-sided "conversation" was about him, not me; it was, I figured, his party.

And you know what I did, my friends? I forgave him.

I'd like to clear up a common misconception here. Forgiveness does not equal reconciliation, nor does it have to in order to be meaningful. Forgiveness allows for all parties in an unfortunate situation to move on. Forgiveness allows closure. This is what I did for Dobbin. He needed to be forgiven.

This does not mean that I plan to associate with him again. This does not mean that I will accept the friend request he inevitably sent me a day later. And this certainly does not mean that he isn't a scumbag.

I could have said a lot of things to Dobbin.

Instead I let go. It feels good.

Blog Every Day August: 8/4

2011-08-04T22:09:00.007-05:00

Today temperatures in tiny town Texas reached a walloping 109 degrees Fahrenheit; my brethren and I have been forced to have our canine friend boarded with the vet and find refuge in a hotel room following Bertha's untimely demise. I spent the afternoon in my mother's current place of business keeping cool and watching children's movies. Toy Story 3 had me positively in knots. I don't know that I will ever forgive Andy for giving his friends away, honestly.

The things I cannot say tug at my tender edges until I feel torn in half.

More often than not I have neither words nor a desire for them. There is a blankness inside me that wasn't there before. Part of me (most of me) thinks this: It was in times of greatest turmoil that I found words. In learning to cope I have lost them. In straightening out my thoughts I have misplaced the skewed, topsy turvy sort of logic that lent some skewed, topsy turvy sort of sense to my world then.

I have sea legs; this stillness boggles and nauseates me.

Blog Every Day August: 8/3

2011-08-03T16:22:00.009-05:00

I dearly wish to entertain you, my friends. Truly I do. However, lacking a working air conditioner in August (in Texas!) is less than a happy event and has seriously negated my work ethic. I may or may not be slowly turning into an unrecognizable blob of sweat. Don't worry! I'll reconstitute eventually. Until then, I'm the one raving madly about llamas and trickery in the glitter distribution industry to anyone who wished listen (and a few who don't). It's difficult to miss me.

For now I find myself sitting as still as possible in front of my computer (it's hot, but it's also necessary for survival) with the lights off. My portable fan is working its heart out. I've opened the window behind me for the first time in my memory and am even wearing capris. To those unaware of the enormity of this wardrobe change, I have lived in extremely warm climates for years and still refuse to wear anything but long pants. I will make brief forays into skirt wearing for the amusement and fun of it, but long pants are where my fashion deprived soul finds true nourishment.

I find great delight in my crazy; you needn't worry.

Bertha's replacement is to be installed on Friday. I hear he is a dapper and up-and-coming gentleman who shall make my brethren and I exceedingly joyous; I believe I will call him Ralph.

Until then, let us take this time to ruminate on the admirable service our Bertha provided. May her spirit rest peacefully in GACPA forevermore.

Blog Every Day August: 8/2

2011-08-02T22:11:00.009-05:00

Today's edition of Blog Every Day August is brought to you by Bertha, the air conditioner who semi-faithfully served my current place of inhabitance for seventeen years.

Following an extended period of illness, this evening Bertha's spirit departed planet earth* in favor of the Great Air Conditioning Palace Above (GACPA). Bertha lived to a ripe old age in her home, where she enjoyed whispering sweet lullabies to fellow inhabitants and serving her life's purpose adequately in the blistering heat of tiny town Texas. She is survived by three humans, two felines and one canine. A memorial service will follow; well wishers are advised to dress casually.

* There were fumes and many loud noises. It was quite dramatic and heart wrenching, I assure you; Miss Bertha certainly had panache.

Blog Every Day August: 8/1

2011-08-01T20:05:00.006-05:00

The days collapse into one another painstakingly and as quietly as if they never existed. I am surrounded by the unwritten; all things notable seem somehow too secret, scary and sensitive to voice. I tread around them carefully, afraid my very touch will make them immediately real. Words are difficult: each one stings a little as I pry it from the recesses of my consciousness. I almost want to stop fighting for them.

Yet it is now more than ever that I require the anchoring power I once found in words.

Welcome to Blog Every Day August, friends.

Ills of the apologetic.

2011-07-24T21:43:00.005-05:00

Most days I don't attempt words. I almost don't desire them, I'm so tired; blurred emotions, like static, rub me raw as the inevitable draws closer. In less than a month I move some three hundred miles away. Should I be excited? I am, maybe, but I also feel guilty. For leaving. It doesn't feel fair that I am allowed the freedom to chase happiness when my brethren are stuck here. It could be much worse, but it also isn't to be forgotten that my familial situation has long been a special sort of hell.

More than anything, I feel sorry. I feel sorry for leaving. I feel sorry that I can't be the answer to anyone's problems.

This is the best thing for me, the leaving. I'm not happy here. I can't be happy here, no matter how I might try. It's right that I'm leaving.

I still can't make myself believe these words.

I feel sorry for that, too.

An open, ill-formed letter to those I push away.

2011-06-26T00:46:00.008-05:00

I sit in an armchair facing sliding glass windows as late afternoon slides into evening. As darkness becomes more prevalent my view of the backyard shrinks until everything is suddenly black and I am left staring at my own reflection, the book I have been reading for the past two hours now abandoned at my side. The romantic sense that I have words to say rushes back, back, back. I grasp them, knowing they may very well be fleeting. I want, especially now, to find the right ones. In the reflection of the glass I can now see my mother sitting on the couch, the lamp beside her glowing a pleasant orange as she reads. My limbs are tucked close together, something in me working on the logic that condensing myself into a smaller space might make life easier to handle. It almost does.

I am a quiet person. Last winter I lost my voice for almost a month; few noticed. The simple fact that I am quiet does not bother me, for I like a fair helping of silence. Beyond the noise level, a legitimate problem lies in the fact that I am apt to take the adage "if you can't say anything nice, don’t say anything at all" to a dangerous extreme. I am so used to measuring words, a master at wringing them until they have lost any possible controversy.

I lied to myself for years, placing a filter on emotion as to cut out access to my own thoughts on difficult matters.

Still now, when I am upset with someone or feel especially useless, I keep quiet. The unsavory thoughts pile up, a wish-wash of what’s true and what may not be, with no outlet. I will be angry with someone and have no palpable reason why, nor the rationale to tell them. I stew.

Those I allow close to me occasionally take a sideways glance and shake me for words, looking to help or state their frustration at my lackluster skills in the field of in-the-moment communication, yet still all I know to do is pull away. I worry so deeply that others have made me periphery in their lives while at the same time I push them back to the fringes of my existence out of fear.

Surely it isn't fair of me to be angry with people, especially for reasons I could never find logic for or fully express to those involved. Maybe I want to find a way to say:

“It feels safest to keep my silence today; my heart hurts and I lack the means to express it with any accuracy. Maybe you said something or didn't say something, nothing blatant enough to warrant a legitimate complaint but a matter enough to pluck a nerve somewhere, and I have no way to tell you.

“I say nothing and hope you will somehow pick up on the fact that this particular distance, this once in a while blankness is inherently different from the tens of other silences we have shared.

“I want to make it your fault. It isn't. But because I cannot make it your fault, I must make it mine, and to amend this requires neutrality I cannot manufacture without making myself blank. I would cry, if I could. I would yell, if I could. I can’t.

“It isn't that you bother me terribly. You don’t. You never do. It has more to do, I think, with my envy of your words. Sometimes you will say simplest of things and I sit here wanting dearly to tell you, without logic or niceties, to please shut up and understand that I am aching with the fact that I cannot find words or, when I do, allow myself the luxury of letting them free.

“I cannot rationalize outwardly expressed anger for myself; somehow silence crept in as the acceptable, only, choice of action available to me.

“The fact of my silence becomes a problem in and of itself, draws questions I am helpless to answer. I don’t know how to say things, period, without risking tremendous guilt. I hold a double standard for myself—maybe I welcome others' complaints and stories so wholeheartedly because I feel so completely useless at putting forward my own.

“I am silent for reasons I am still struggling to bring to the surface. I hope against hope that, in some small way, you will understand.”

The words, stacked as they are now, slightly sicken me; I blot them until the built up anger loses its greasy sheen. They make some sense here, tucked neatly within paragraphs and freed of rough edges.

I don’t know what to make of them.

Final goodbyes.

2011-06-04T16:29:00.011-05:00

Friday, June 3rd, 2011

The goodbyes I face on my last day of work are some of the most difficult things I have ever encountered. My first, deaf boss says goodbye with a "be careful" and "come back and see me"; the sweet English teacher I've grown to know offers her phone number; Ye Old Initials, my English teacher, says "good luck, kid" and we hug. The teacher who coordinates the work program stops by the library to say goodbye; I want to cry. The minutes march past as I shred papers and count change. Another boss, another hug, another promise to keep in touch.

Soon it's time to leave. Goodbye to my last boss, then the head librarian as words I will not remember later jumble together.

I leave the library in tears.

I may repeat and repeat these words until they lose meaning, but working in my school's library for the past nine months has been one of the best things to ever happen to me.

There aren't words enough to express my gratitude.

In which Katherine graduates.

2011-05-29T21:42:00.011-05:00

Saturday, May 28th, 2011

Home, 12 am.
I wake up at midnight. Then two, four, five, six. I stare at the clock and fitfully doze until my mother comes in to get me up.

Graduation practice, 9 am.
As I enter the football stadium it is quickly apparent that I am the only one in at all formal attire. Most are in shorts or pajamas, while I show up in my favorite skirt--a good choice, in the end, as the heat will be a major talking point throughout the day. A friend, Courtney, is standing at the back entrance of the stadium. "Oh hello, Katherine!" she says, pointing a camera my way. "Smile!"

I stick my tongue out.

My name is called ominously out over the loud, loud, loud speaker along with several others. When I make my way up to the stage, however, the fuss is merely that there is a copy of my last paycheck from the school district for me.

I find John/cohorts and stand with them. We wait. When the production finally gets started, we sit in the assembled chairs before the stage as the principal gives instruction. Soon we're in small groups sorted by alphabet and congregating in the street outside the stadium in two separate aisles. The boys directly in front and back of me appear to be good friends and jabber incessantly through the charade. The girl who leads our group is nice; we lament the logic of the proceedings as the day grows warmer, the practice begins and we are forced to start from scratch as three graduates arrive late.

When our procession around the track is finally deemed up to snuff we sit alphabetically by last name in the perfectly placed plastic chairs as the principal lectures us on our behavior for the night. The people directly surrounding me decide that breaking the rules will be okay so long as we all do it; they can't arrest us all.

"Do you think I could come to graduation high?" someone asks seriously.

"If they can't tell."

"It's okay, man, I have eyedrops."

Graduation Lunch, 1 pm.
My father, paternal aunt and uncle, and paternal grandparents meet us in the lobby of an attraction that sits 750 feet in the air in a nearby city and hosts (among other things) a revolving restaurant. They have all traveled hours to get here. For me. The elevator doesn't arrive for something like fifteen minutes; as we finally take our seats and peruse the menu, my father jokes that he'll just have me choose a meal for him. "I mean, you're so good at deciding."

"I've already chosen what I'm getting."

"You're joking."

"No."

"I bet you've been agonizing over the menu online for days, right?"

"No, I haven't."

I don't know what he thinks he knows about me, but I have long been known for making very slow and careful decisions. This may be a joke on the outside, but it goes much deeper than that. I have not seen this man in five months, since Christmas, but he makes comments like this without fail every time we meet. My rebuttal may be simple, but it represents an astounding amount of progress on my part. I am not paralyzed.

This is his first and last snide comment. He tells me he's proud of me. I chose a lunch and he's unbearably, gushingly proud. I feel sick.

I am not accustomed to (or comfortable with) being the center of attention. Luckily, however, the lunch is not a disaster by any means. Not much is required of me, honestly. Towards the end of the meal I move to the other side of the table, where my aunt and uncle sit. They are hilarious and charming; my spirits are quickly lifted and I ride back to tinytowntexas in their vehicle to "help" navigate.

I get us almost-lost. My uncle corrects this. He's only been to tinytowntexas once.

Transition, 5:45 pm.
My aunt and uncle, mother, sister and I stand over the kitchen counter in order to consume cake and ice-cream. I have to report at the school for graduation prep soon. My grandparents and father arrive at my house just as I'm leaving, hideous cap and gown in hand.

I enter the high school through the back door.

"Do you have any contraband?"

"No."

"A phone?"

"No."

"Okay, you can go."

I do have my phone hidden on my person, but then so does everyone else.

Again we are separated by alphabet, one group of about twenty to each empty classroom where we don our glorious robes and bemoan the heat as we wait to take our senior panoramic cap and gown photo. When we do, the photographer has to rearrange us twice to fit everyone in the rickety, too-narrow frame. A boy behind me complains loudly and freely, catcalling the aged photographer as he gives instruction. I wish dearly to slap him, but we are positioned perilously like dominoes and I can't picture it going well under the circumstances. Breathing is risky as it is.

Again we wait in our assigned classrooms. I know none of the girls I chat with, but there is a sense of solidarity in the fact that we are all certain that we will faint, vomit and trip across the stage in the course of the evening. My chest seizes as we line up and wait to be called to the stadium.

Graduation, 7:30 pm.
Green polyester catches the light as we parade out into the parking lot and wait to be called again, this time all two hundred of us in our respective lines. One line will walk in on the visitors' side of the track, while the other (and my) line will walk in on the home side.

Despite the many warnings we have been given, our spacing is still slightly off as we walk onto the track and make our way to our seats. The bleachers on either side are packed. I scan the home side for my mother and in my frenzy state forget what color she was wearing earlier. The first face I find, almost immediately, is that of my ex-boyfriend.

He is either completely and utterly conspicuous (possible) or I have magic powers (possible). We find our seats; I find myself incredibly pissed off.

Heat and anxiety mix freely. We are all miserable until the sun finally sets completely and a breeze catches us. While it is still warm, the waiting is less agony. From our spot in the middle of the football stadium, a stage erected directly in front of us, we cannot really hear what the speakers are saying. If we're lucky we can catch every other word or so, and none of us are particularly interested. Instead we make snide comments and complain about our uncomfortable headwear.

Between speeches and scholarship listings it is a good two hours before they begin divvying diplomas, at which point absolutely everyone is completely over this idiocy and ready to graduate already.

I am oddly calm when it is, after all this time, my "moment." A science teacher rehearses the handshake with me one last time; the school counselor smiles and congratulates me; I step up onto the stage. I take my diploma holder, shake a hand, smile as a camera flashes, shake more hands, smile as I come off the stage and another camera flashes. I am handed a bouquet of flowers my mother ordered for me and make my way back through the middle aisle to my seat. I spend the rest of the ceremony numb.

When it's over the field quickly floods with people, immediate bedlam. Dobbin passes by several times and stares at me awkwardly. I cannot find anyone I know. Eventually I manage to extricate my phone from my person as it buzzes and locate my mother, who arrives with my father and sister close behind. Pictures are taken with each parent. I am too out of it to feel much of anything.

Home, 10 pm.
I don't like this part.

Project Graduation, 11 pm.
It's casino night (shock!) at the school sponsored grad party. The cafeteria is decorated with fairy lights; country music blares. I find Courtney, who welcomes me to follow her around and generally makes life better. I am consistently socially awkward, yet she has always seemed to get it.

Someone informs me that Dobbin was "looking for" me after graduation earlier. I almost die laughing, choking on curse words. Just get out of my head, man. Just get out.

I play blackjack with John and a group of others I don't know for while, which is as close to comfort as I'm likely to get in this moneymaking scenario. John tells me he loves me and makes a grotesque face. "What is that even, man," I say. "You love me, but I'm gross?"

Don't Stop Believing comes on over the speakers and the room proceeds to explode with voices, oddly connecting me to a group of people I will likely never see again and did not like for the majority of my time here. Auction items fill the cafeteria's stage as the night goes on; I win a door prize, fancy shampoo I stare at cluelessly.

"Want to go outside?" John asks. There is a bouncy castle slide erected in the parking lot, along with a climbing wall, jousting area and a few other entertainments. I agree to the bouncy castle and refuse the rest despite his pleas for me to pursue acts of daring.

As we return indoors it is something like three in the morning; people wait in line to receive a full cash value for their play money. John and I sit on the sidelines as a teacher and his partner dance wildly and with mad skill across a makeshift dance floor denoted by columns wrapped in fairy lights and faux ivy.

"Come on," John says, "you can't have an ass like that and not expect little gay boys not to fantasize about you."

I can't help but agree with him.

Soon John joins in on one last contest: karaoke. My phone battery is finally dwindling as I watch the contestants converse near the stage; the line for cash redemption thins out and it becomes apparent that we are vastly short on seating.

John isn't well received. We slip out the back door again to sit against a wall and watch as the bouncy castle and entertainments are disassembled. Only the dim light from the cafeteria remains. He looks as if he might cry, though he doesn't, and rejects my offer of a hug.

"I think I'll tweet about it," he says, retrieving his phone from a pocket. He types something and puts it back. I pull out my own phone to read what he's said.

I can't say I honestly understand what John goes through. I may accept him, but I cannot fully imagine what it's like to live in this tiny, conservative town where his very makeup is oft correlated with the pronouncement that he is destined to go to hell.

We return to the cafeteria and find a table near some friends. Courtney arrives soon after, saying she had been for looking for me. I apologize. Though she managed to make nearly double what the rest of us have, it is quite apparent as the auction begins that none of us are destined for glory. The big items quickly go to those with much, much more "crazy cash" at hand and those surrounding me are awash in frustration.

I am long past hilarity and well into delirium as I make my way through my twenty-third hour of being awake. Noises swish and crunch as they pass through me; I blink frequently in confusion and decide to be as quiet as possible as to not make too much of a fool of myself. The end of the event is completely anticlimactic. My thoughts are a haze as Courtney hugs me goodbye, then George, my NIT (Nerdfighter-In-Training).

John and I walk outside together. He looks unbelievably down as I make my way to my mother's car and shifts things in his arms so we can hug goodbye.

"I'm holding you to that movie date," I say.

"Harry Potter 7 Part II?"

"Yes."

"Okay."

Sunday, May 29th, 2011
Home, 5:30 am.
My mom tucks me into bed. My poor phone communes with the wall charger just in time for me to say a few more sleeplessly crazed things to the internet and good morning to future roommate and partner in crazy Laurel, who is up obscenely early to drive some humans to the airport.

I hope in vain that sleep will bring consistency to these moments.

In conclusion.

2011-05-25T19:14:00.018-05:00

I was, as you may recall, romantically entangled something like a year ago. It was all very dramatic and ended terribly, with my (loser, ahem) boyfriend dumping me in a text message and refusing to tell me why our supposedly flawless relationship had suddenly gone to hell in a handbasket. This, in the long run, is what broke me. I had to live with the fact that I did not (and in all likelihood would never) know what went wrong.

I have had months to get through this. I have gotten through this, just, and arrived at a much better place than I started from.

Thousands upon thousands of words and countless pep talks following the ordeal, I have learned why my (one and only, slime ball, etc.) boyfriend took it upon himself to break up with me in such an erroneous and disgusting matter. One reason is that he is an idiot.

The other reason is that he is gay.

My first reaction to this news, of course, was something along the lines of "Are you kidding?" Someone should really write a guide to dealing with freaking weird news, as the last few days have been a whirlwind of emotions that have made little to no sense to me. Following the initial shock I deluded myself, briefly, into the idea that I was totally fine with this new information.

I have many friends-who-are-not-straight. It is apparent, in fact, that they somewhat outnumber me. This is hardly a problem, with the exception of the few (quite amusing) moments where I feel alone in my undying heterosexuality. I am highly in favor of queer people existing and leading happy lives.

But I am not okay with this. My ex-boyfriend is homosexual. Why the (excuse my language) fuck was he dating me? That is not okay. While this knowledge has its good points (at least it didn't go on for longer, I clearly have magic gay-making powers, now I know), at this moment I am caught between cursing everything ever and finding the news hilarious yet tragic.

I am positive that I will be fine. I really will. Upon worrying the issue for nearly a year, I feel entitled to this temporary state of unrest.

If I can draw one positive from this experience, it is that I have written some hilarious poetry to go with the situation. For instance: "Life is quite odd / when your ex-boyfriend likes boys / you're such a clod, Dobbin / catapult, ahoy!"

That is, I will admit, one of the less graphic ones. Healing can be fun, no?

Moving forward.

2011-05-22T22:33:00.006-05:00

FutureMe is a website that allows you to compose emails and have them sent to you at a predetermined point in the future. I can't recall how exactly I discovered it (such is the rabbit hole that is the internet), but I got on a slight kick last year in the midst of chaos and as host of worries morphed into a funhouse mirror reality.

I received this letter in my inbox today and felt compelled to share. It is, oddly, these words more than most that warm the cockles of my weatherworn heart as I stagnate in the space of time before I graduate* and separate myself from this (irony of ironies) godforsaken tiny Texas town. I may be broken. I may always be broken, but I am truly, truly at the best place emotionally and as a person that I have ever been in my life right now.

I made it.

Saturday, May 22, 2010

This evening I'm meant to go to a high school graduation, and it gets me thinking about what could happen in the next year. It gets me thinking that... so much happens, so quickly, and that in a year I will be graduating, hopefully, and things like that. It gets me thinking that so much is going to happen so fast and stress takes over so easily.

So I hope that this next year is wonderful. I hope that things get BETTER and that you have more hope and things don't fall apart so easily. Crazy may be defined in one case as "full of cracks and flaws," but being a little crazy means you're at least THINKING, right? Normalcy is stupid. You--I, whatever--aren't normal. You--I, whatever--are wonderful.

I hope to work on living that way.

Congratulations on graduating. If you could send me lovely assuring psychic waves from the future it would be helpful.

Yours,
Me, you, I, whatever.

*I will be graduating from tinytowntexas high school on the 28th of this month. Newfound wisdom and funny hat pictures will follow.

Cataloging moments.

2011-05-13T22:44:00.020-05:00

Monday.
A senior class meeting takes place in what is deemed the Old Gym—a newer version sits across the street, but this one is still in use. The room radiates decades of sweat; we collect paper after paper from an assembly line of people and fit ourselves into one half of a bleacher. An almost-friend rushes over to sit with me; we puzzle over the forms with slight disdain.

Photo order forms, immunization record information, graduation ceremony code of conduct, senior quotes... all I can think, as our principal booms that this will be one of the "last times we will be together as a class," is that I dearly wish I could skip the rigmarole.

Too bad.

Memory.
The cowboy hat clad boy to my right counts out change for gas money on his shrunken desk. His voice is thick and defiant: "It's either gas or beer, and there's not enough for beer."

Thursday.
I present a PowerPoint on holograms. I’m too annoyed by this class to care that my demeanor is completely unenthusiastic. The end result is adequate, a state I have never really allowed myself before this moment.

I am numb.

Wednesday.
The moments turn to fuzz. I don’t want it to end. I do want it to end. I don’t want it to end…

Thursday.
I am deemed our school's "Outstanding Senior" for English. My mother kvells; John breaks away from his table in the cafeteria to escape parents and sit with me. He tells snide stories on the elite who collect award after award.

Soon after this the moments will collide until all I can think to do is sleep. The morning, when it comes, is only part-comfort.

Memory.
The thin-faced boy in cowboy boots leans back in his desk, pushing away pages of math to say: "Yeah, I'll definitely need this to become a porn star."

Thursday.
I don’t deserve this award. I don’t deserve this award. I don’t deserve this award.

Memory.
I don’t know what you see in me, John texts me, but thank you.

The feeling is mutual.

Thursday.
The school shelters in place due to severe weather. My Physics class disregards this, teacher and students alike popping out the side door to watch the sky spin as water threatens to break loose from the darkness.

“Oh my god, I’ve never seen rain in south Texas before! It’s new!”

Memory.
"Where are you going for the break?"

"Cancun. You can come with us, but we won't talk to you."

Monday.
Students funnel into the cafeteria to collect numbers. Numbers are divided off into tables where we will sit. The girl across from me is, as the alphabet and irony would have it, an enemy. I am hyperbolizing, but she and I have never quite seen eye to eye, and I steer clear of her as a matter of principle. We avert our gazes.

Fifteen minutes into the test a delinquent at the other end of our table feigns crying. The tension is cut; my table-mates and I giggle through layered anxiety. I, for one, am not at all prepared for the standardized test we are meant to complete. Curses run through my head as I think, uncharacteristically, “Well. Four is a good number. Let’s choose that one.”

Wednesday.
“Tell me—” says my boss as I give her my final evaluation sheet, “and you can be honest—have you enjoyed working here this year?”

“I’ve loved working here,” I say, and I mean it. I haven’t the words to express my gratitude.

Memory.

My father laughs. "She can't choose a sandwich, how can she choose a college?"

Friday.
For several weeks the library has attempted to get seniors to fill in cards briefly describing what they plan to do after graduation. Entries have been sparse until now, but today there is a rush.

And all I can think, pinning my peers’ hopes and dreams to a bulletin board outside the library, is that we are all falling apart.

Memory.
"Are you singing Rebecca Black? Don't ever talk again. You've lost that privilege."

Silence.

Friday.
“Thank you for thinking of me, BR,” I tell Ye Old Initials as I pass him in the hallway. “I appreciate it.”

This is not a man to give superfluous compliments.

He nods. “You’re welcome. You deserved it.”

Wednesday.
The principal walks in on my advisory class. Keys jingle too late for us to shuffle, but he simply ignores the number of us clearly finding companionship in our phones.

Rules slip as the end draws near.

Friday.
I’m sorry.

Thursday.
The moments collide, a train wreck I muffle inappropriately.

I have never met my best friend in person. Circumstances make it impossible to meet without conniving. I want, I want, I want… but I can’t.

Thursday.
“Why,” says the boy who talks too fast, “are the people on the news right now not hot? It doesn’t make sense.” He continues for several minutes as I beat questions back at him.

“Stop while you’re ahead,” says the teacher.

“Stop while you’re still alive,” I say.

Friday.
This is the last normally scheduled school day of the year. It will never be the same again.

It will never be the same again.

Friday.
I find John in a hallway to return something to him. Caught in the moving tide of people, I drift as away as words stream from my lips. He follows me. “May I escort you?” he asks.

We link arms and move forward.

A day in the life.

2011-05-02T19:21:00.017-05:00

The substitute in my first period class reads aloud a Bible verse in an attempt to make sense of recent news. She apologizes afterward. The bell that marks the passing of class periods has been turned off for the sake of AP testing and the weather dips into the fifties, which would leave the student population off-kilter on any normal day. This isn't any normal day. Talk crawls up the walls only to drop into our laps, sink its teeth into our delicate flesh and turn us in circles until we are dizzy with constantly regurgitating what we have been told to believe.

"I don't want to glorify death..." "I'm glad he's gone..." "I hear there was..." "Yeah..."

I walk to the next class with an almost-friend. "How are you?" She isn't fine. Family issues, worries. Senior year is more slip n' slide than anything, leaving bruises that will outlast any thrill involved. I wish for words.

In advisory there is a fire drill; I stand shivering at the fringes of John's group until they pity me and I join their penguin-like huddle against the wind.

"What, a gay guy singing you straight love songs? That's normal."

"Yeah," I say, "but you aren't there when I cry afterward because no straight guy would ever do that."

"I'll be straight for two minutes, I swear." He launches into recalling a movie he swears turned him straight for two hours.

Here are some tired words: I want to believe in people. I want to believe that the jokes pertaining to recent news don't exist. Because there are good things, too: as the fire drill ends and I double back to my locker for a sweater, John touches my arm and says "I love you."

"I love you, too."

In Physics we are assigned a research project. I couldn't tell you one thing I've learned in the class this year. With fourteen school days until we are out of this place (I know, I put together the library display), it is difficult for me to muster any enthusiasm for this brand of learning.

"Sir," asks one of my classmates, "when your kids go to college, will you cry?"

"Yes, tears of joy." His voice tells me the departure will be the happy part.

catlovingmathteacher's cat has cancer, which shakes me more than I would wish to admit in mixed company. I give him my condolences as class ends and he tells me more; the cat is fifteen years old and he bought her for seventy-five dollars, which works out to something like one cent per day for as long as he's had her.

"So, worth it?"

"Oh, I don't know." He grins and we part ways.

When I finish my lunch (peanut butter and jelly, an orange) in the covered area attached to the cafeteria I usually occupy, I move away from the unusual (though not shocking) chill to find a space in the uncrowded cafeteria. My sister comes with me in an unnecessary act of chivalry and we sit at an empty table in the back corner of the room, which in years past was the auditorium and lays claim to almost slanted linoleum as a happy result of the change.

My sister laughs as she sketches something. "I'm drawing something really funny, and I find it amusing," she offers as explanation.

"Okay."

The substitute in Sociology laments our education system before playing the documentary on the subject. I bite my lip because, I apologize, but this isn't really my fault. I try, I try, I try and it all seems for nothing. I say something. My palms sweat; he half-agrees with me, but it isn't much consolation.

"The solution to the education problem: guess on whose shoulders it will fall?" cheers the substitute.

"Us?"

"Ya'll!"

I do what is asked of me, and in tinytowntexas this is more than enough, but I am not engaged. There is such a pull for excellence in education, yet I'm clueless. To try my best is to hit a brick wall over and over again as my peers stand back to watch with bemused expressions. And I keep doing it because you're supposed to, but my enthusiasm wanes until -

My skin crawls as the documentary plays, because what can I do besides sit here and press these uncertainties against paper?

As the class ends and I slip out the door, the substitute tells me to have a good day. I fork over my "you too, sir" with as little tension as I can muster.

"Katherine's a sophomore, she's just really smart. We all cheat off of her."

I flash my senior-level ID at eye level for the English substitute to see. "They try."

"You know," says the substitute to the ruffians, "when you come back here, the only ones who will remember you are the ones you tormented."

Ye Old Initials returns from proctoring an AP test and tells us of days of old, of when the school's (then) three wings were separated, there was no air conditioning and racial tension ran rampant. He's been in this classroom for decades.

"Did you ever date one of your students?"

"No comment." Years and years ago he was married to one of them.

"Are we going to talk about Osama?" asks someone in my Government class as attendance is taken.

"Yeah, for a little bit."

"He can kiss my ass, 'cause I aint doing shit," mumbles the girl who sits behind me.

The inevitable interjection: "THEY KILLED OBAMA?"

I didn't sleep well last night; the day hangs on me. I'm tired of hearing what my generation is expected to accomplish. I pick at my hangnails. I have never set my head down in a class, yet now it is more tempting than ever.

"There's a difference between crazy and stupid, never forget that."

All I know is to keep going.

Blog Every Day April: 4/30

2011-04-30T21:43:00.008-05:00

"And when you're stuck in your head / and when the world is spinning / I'll be here."

In Spite of Everything

Hannah Winkler

I am currently curled on the love-seat in the living room, a quilt covering my lower half as the battery of my phone dwindles and I continue to pretend to myself that I am not sick. Can we talk about the fact that my hair looks not terrible today, yet I am couchridden and incapable of using it to full advantage? (I have so many problems. You have no idea.) (I have no idea what "using it to full advantage" would even entail. My brain sometimes.)

My internetwife called me several times today, which was a bright spot, and there may be exciting news concerning her and I in future! Future roommate and partner in crazy Luar--sneeze--el didn't get the job she interviewed for yesterday, which is dumb because she's awesome (logical conclusion), but she texted me from a nifty jazz concert near her land of living and it sounded like cool times. She's also reading Tina Fey's biography. I'm jealous.

Lastly, on the OHMYGODIHAVEFRIENDS front, I texted my good friend John this evening claiming my present "relationship" status to be Forever Alone. His response? "One day you'll meet an awesome guy who's just as awkward as you are!" I laughed for about five minutes afterward.

Semi-related, I highly recommend that you find this book and (drumroll, please) read it. It's composed of short stories, one of which ends with a character claiming to be singular rather than single. This really struck a chord with me at the time; I like the idea of being singular. There's a wholeness, rather than a void, in that. (Since we're doing book recommendations, I also request that you read this, for slightly different but entirely relevant-to-your-life reasons.)

My phone is dead. (Sneeze.) How rude of it. My laptop is on the way there, as well, and I'm almost out of tissues. Why doesn't the world understand that I clearly shouldn't be required to move?

Life is so hard.

This has been my third run-around (and success) with BEDA, which has much to do with the fantastic people I am honored to call friends. Camaraderie is where it's at, yo! (Really. Why don't you disown me? I love you people.)

April's end is bittersweet. Less than a month from now I will have graduated from high school; in autumn I will further my education six hours north of the tinytowntexas I currently (if begrudgingly) call home. The prospect of this makes me both terribly excited and nauseous.

It's as if suddenly my life is, in some tangible way, my own. I'm not sure how I feel about that.

Blog Every Day April: 4/29

2011-04-29T22:09:00.000-05:00

"Whiskey's a slap on the back, Champagne's... heavy mist before my eyes."
The Philadelphia Story
Macaulay Connor

Today I have been at least somewhat distracted by the fact that I am suffering from allergies, a cold and/or imminent death. While it is probably the former, I am by no means happy about the situation, and spent a large part of the day wondering why my brain wasn't quite working up to par.

(Yes, my brain does have a par. A low one, granted, but a par.)

I am currently consuming hot tea. The tea is almost gone now and there is a dog sleeping on my foot.

I hope you're all spiffing. I would love for you to leave me stories/rants about your day in comments. Pretty please?

Blog Every Day April: 4/28

2011-04-28T20:28:00.016-05:00

"Well sure, who doesn't need a boyfriend? But realistically, those exotic creatures are hard to come by."

Dash & Lily's Book of Dares

Rachel Cohn and David Levithan

I feel I should admit something to you, friends: sometimes I watch reality shows in which brides choose their wedding dresses at fancy salons. Please know that I am thoroughly embarrassed by this, though it's morbid curiosity and the need to allow my brain a rest as much as anything.

It occurs to me that I am eighteen years old and have little true insight on matters of lifelong commitment*, but it breaks my heart that people spend so much money on weddings. The more I watch women (and their families) spend thousands upon thousands of dollars on the dress of their dreams the more I dearly wish to hit my head against a wall.

Granted, I have never dreamed of my wedding day, so I can't say I understand the mindset. I will go shopping only under threat of injury (Laurel is planning this) and would rather be trampled by a llama than spend months upon months of my life planning a party. I hate parties. I'm all for celebrating lasting love, but I cannot personally see myself doing it through the acquisition of massive debt**.

I realize that I'm playing the extremes here, for which I apologize, and I wish not to offend those who do want an extravagant wedding or even merely like them. The last time I went on about this a few of you took the time to explain why weddings don't necessarily suck to me, which I found to be quite enjoyable and useful information. Still, I am of the personal opinion that changing one's surname for the sake of coupledom is unnecessary to my happiness in life and plan not to do so if and when I tie the knot with the tall, dark and handsome young man I clearly have hidden in my closet.

Boys are so confusing. All of them. That is all.

I do, on the other hand, feel I am the ideal candidate be someone's fake girlfriend. Despite my crippling social ineptitude, I am an intelligent young woman not unskilled at banter. I accept payment in chocolate turtles, spicy dialogue and ink pens.

*I realize now that this curiously coincides with a certain REGAL event. I assure you that this was not my original intent.

**I feel this should serve as an interesting read for my future self as she plans her multi-million dollar wedding to a renowned metrosexual marine biologist called Siegfried the Slippery, if nothing else.

Blog Every Day April: 4/27

2011-04-27T22:17:00.007-05:00

"Your head, unlike the earth that sculpts mountains

to the sun, deepens dark grooves within

the brain's hemisphere to hold skeins

of butterflies inside, to show you oceans

and peninsulas without your even opening

your eyes. . ."

First Lesson: The Anatomist Explains the Primacy of Imagination

Katrina Vandenberg

I am currently distracted by Laurel, who is talking in my ears and telling me important things via the beauty of the telephone. As such, my thoughts are not quite focused upon stellar blog writing. I also find myself entangled in a maginificant email exchange with both Laurel (future roommate and partner in crazy) herself and the glorious Manar (adorable and awesome friend of glitter), who prove that while life may suck sometimes, one doesn't have to let it suck alone, which in turn makes it suck less so. And, of course, that yelling is A LOT OF FUN.

If you understood any of that, I commend you.

This is one of my favorite things. Enjoy!

Blog Every Day April: 4/26

2011-04-26T20:56:00.014-05:00

"True friends,
like ivy and the wall,
both stand together
and together fall."

Thomas Carlyle

I'm really good at keeping quiet. Silently fuming or no, my most often used survival tactic is silence. Bad things tend to happen when I say things. If I truly have to say something I will work the words until their controversy splits off in submission.

I start to hate people when they start trying to change me. For the most part, I think, this isn't truly their intent. It's easy for one to assert one's own opinion as the clear only option. It's easy for me to say, for instance, that books are the best ever and everyone should read them. Not everyone will agree, which is fine (though I can't say I fathom you, potential sirs and madams). As such, I feel I am to assume that when genuinely nice people assert to me that making friends and dealing with people is easy they are not doing this with malicious intent. I tell myself that said persons are merely trying to be helpful. It never quite works, but this is what I tell myself.

My blog title, Ivy and the Wall, takes after a quote I love. I've always wanted a friendship that doesn't break. I've moved more times than I can recall without resorting to finger-counting and careful recollection. Setting down roots has never been an option. Even in situations where everyone was supposedly like me I found myself perpetually outcast. People leave me, so I feel my only power is to shy away from them. Is this right? Maybe not. But it is what it is, and I reckon with it on a daily basis.

It isn't easy. It isn't easy. It isn't easy.

I may be slow-moving, but I am not at a standstill. I am not a project to be bent into shape for your amusement.

The change I make is my own.

Blog Every Day April: 4/25

2011-04-25T21:55:00.004-05:00

"If you go, I go too. I don't leave unless with you."

Tell Me

Meghan Tonjes

You know what sucks? Hormones. LET ME DIE NOW PLEASE. I may be an intelligent young woman with a bright future, but goshdarnit if I clearly need to be romantically entangled to feel whole.

Actually no. But. You get my drift.

I have remedied this situation by putting bubble wrap on my head. What do you expect from me, friends? What is this so-called quality of which you speak? Why are you all so gorgeous and eloquent?

I have so many questions.

My boy problems of present are non-problems. He's cute? Too bad, Katherine. You are both a) terrified of people as a general idea and b) he has a girlfriend, anyway, so whatever. Of all the problems I have, this is obviously the most important one. What is my life?

As my glorious internet wife aptly (if jokingly) put it earlier this evening: "You're kind of socially inept, but you're really nice about it."

Standardized tests reign supreme this week at ye old tinytowntexas high school, meaning the lofty seniors are kindly requested to arrive at said institution of learning at the decadent hour of 12:30 each day for the rest of the week. Some might celebrate this. Instead I find myself in a slight panic because this is not routine and things could, potentially, implode.

I am nothing if not logical.

Blog Every Day April: 4/24

2011-04-24T20:51:00.008-05:00

"I'm not sure of much of anything these days. Maybe that's why I talk so much."

Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

Robert M. Pirsig

Considering junk food (often) makes me feel sick, one would think I would steer clear from it. This is not always the case.

Also known as Katherine should stop eating gummy bears at this moment.

Unrelated: maintaining one's weight is vastly underrated. I weighed myself recently and was pleased to leave the situation thinking "what's up, expletives?! I own this place."

I hate shopping. It makes me feel sick. So do ocean documentaries. (I feel like I'm giving a lot of potential torture ideas to any nefarious folk lurking here today. Force feed me junk food and run me around a department store in a shopping cart as the televisions play an ocean documentary in the electronics section? Eh?) Clothes shopping is a particular, evil pain I elude wherever possible. This is partly because I hate it. It is also because there is always something I buy that I will dislike later and never wear.

I dress professionally every day for my job. You can see where this situation could get interesting.

Goodnight.

Blog Every Day April: 4/23

2011-04-23T12:33:00.015-05:00

"Darkness is a harsh term, don't you think? And yet it dominates the things I see."

Roll Away Your Stone

Mumford & Sons

I know this is bound to shock you, but I am not always good with words.

I wrote a lot yesterday. None of it was good, and none of it was (really) meant for this blog. The words I sloppily stitched together were mainly in the form of emails to Laurel, my future roommate and partner in crazy. And despite the fact that she was clearly having a worse day than I, when she she called me at 9:30 last night I proceeded to moan about my own problems for an exorbitant amount of time.

Which she took very graciously.

Upon stalking her photos on Facebook (creeper 4 lyf), also, I learned that we attended the same event on the Tour de Nerdfighting in 2008. Consider my mind blown. I found myself in the background of one of her pictures.

Friendship is kind of cool.

I can't discern exactly what got to me last night. Sometimes, I've come to realize, I need to separate myself from people for a while when I'm upset. The internet, though I love it so, is a constant experience. The phone in my pocket will continue to buzz even as I lurk off to hide under my covers. And I appreciate this, I do, but on occasion it becomes cloistering. I can't get away.

Which is how it felt last night as I vainly attempted to slog through a fit of angst. Nothing I want to say right now is socially acceptable, I thought. Nothing I want to say right now will be understood.

"I keep thinking of these things I would do if they were socially acceptable," I wrote Laurel. "I would change my last name. I would write a truth-drenched letter and send it and never see [him] again. I would say what I felt. I wouldn't be so closed with the fact that my heart is is cracked and in pieces.

"I wish people could know that this chaos is all I've ever known, that normalcy hurts. I wish people could know that I don't know what I believe. I don't feel like I can admit that to people. And I wouldn't know how to go about these things as it is.

"I'm not always sure I want to get out of the labyrinth."

I walked three laps around my deserted neighborhood in the space of an hour as afternoon turned to evening. The phone buzzed and, against reason but right on time, the concern paralyzed me. I don't always have the words. I don't always want the words, and it isn't often that I have the emotional energy or wherewithal to deal with situations in a poised-like manner. (But who does?)

Midnight rolls around and the words I set here fail to find conclusion. The sadness does not wrap around me completely, yet I am struck by how little I know with certainty.

My wishes are not answers.

Blog Every Day April: 4/22

2011-04-22T22:20:00.010-05:00

"Last night, while I lay thinking here,
Some Whatifs crawled inside my ear
And pranced and partied all night long
And sang their same old Whatif song:
Whatif I'm dumb in school?
Whatif they've closed the swimming pool?
Whatif I get beat up?
Whatif there's poison in my cup?
Whatif I start to cry?
Whatif I get sick and die?
Whatif I flunk that test?
Whatif green hair grows on my chest?
Whatif nobody likes me?
Whatif a bolt of lightning strikes me?
Whatif I don't grow taller?
Whatif my head starts getting smaller?
Whatif the fish won't bite?
Whatif the wind tears up my kite?
Whatif they start a war?
Whatif my parents get divorced?
Whatif the bus is late?
Whatif my teeth don't grow in straight?
Whatif I tear my pants?
Whatif I never learn to dance?
Everything seems swell, and then
The nighttime Whatifs strike again!"
Whatif
Shel Silverstein

Source.

Days until mommy comes home: 1

Blog Every Day April: 4/21

2011-04-21T17:36:00.012-05:00

"It is always raining in my head. The closest thing I have to order is the way the lines are set on pages."
The Realm of Possibility

David Levithan

The date doesn't creep so much as clunk its way to me, trashcan stuck to one foot and loose change jingling in its pockets. It looms for an entire month; as it grows closer I can see that it wears the slow, syrupy grin of anticipation. When it finally, finally arrives at my doorstep my breath catches and my chest caves in and, inexplicably, I spend part of the day in a haze of anxiety.

I don't initiate physical contact often. I feel most comfortable in the bubble I've constructed for myself. But it is 9:23 am when I text John, the only person outside my internet nest who could understand or consent to my crazy orders. "For future reference, I need a hug today."

9:52 am. "I will keep that in mind."

It was a year ago today that Dobbin asked me to be his girlfriend. I was an emotionally drained, overworked me at the time. Following a bout of homeschooling gone wrong, last year I undertook the task of completing two years' worth of schoolwork in one. I did it, too, and still rock a 3.9 GPA.

What Dobbin gave me was a reason to hope amidst that chaos, and it positively inflated me. He made me smile. He was tall and charming and, though his actions were oft erratic, showed promise. I had taken him on as my NIT (nerdfighter-in-training) earlier in the year with great success.

Despite my own qualms, with time I convinced myself that it could be okay. He gave me every reason to. He told me over and over again that we were fine, that we could go at my pace, that I was Right for him and he for me. He buffered my every doubt with reassurances.

We visit my grandparents for the weekend in June.

"I don't feel safe," I text Dobbin. I lie on a cot in the darkness of my grandparents' living room, uncomfortably tossing and turning as the metal grate prods me in the back. My father is set to arrive tomorrow.

"You're safe with me," he replies.

Two days later he breaks up with me.

When it does happen, it happens via text message. He tells me he loves me and we discuss corny nicknames for one another. Two hours later he throws me ellipses by the handful. I catch them awkwardly; he stutters that he doesn't know how to say something. I tell him he can call me if it would be easier and proceed to sit for thirty minutes, heart in my throat and phone in my lap, waiting for a reply.

And then there are words. We're too different and maybe we're just meant to be friends and I have been thinking about this for a long time and I am so sorry, Katherine... Can we still be friends?

Weeks later, as I muster the calm enough to send him a parting message, he pokes me via Facebook and I proceed to cut all possible ties. (Really, sir? Really?) He was "going through something personal" and obviously couldn't do me the courtesy of telling me why he broke up with me.

In the fall we, in a fit of irony, have a class together. The day-to-day dealing is agony. I keep calm. I do what is right. I never once slap or call him names, and very few know of his existence once crossing paths with mine. On a few occasions the words press against my throat and I let them free. Months later, when he tries to hold a door open for me in the exact location of our first romantic encounter, I reach around him to pop open the other door and stalk off.

He transfers to another school sometime in February; I breathe easier without him around. The problem of it is not so much that I let a boy into my life but that my trust is so very, very tattered. I may wish for words on occasion, but my heart does not ache as it once did.

He doesn't deserve these words, but I do.

Days until mommy comes home: 2

Blog Every Day April: 4/20

2011-04-20T20:31:00.011-05:00

"So we move down the empty road. I don't want to own these prairies, or photograph them, or change them, or stop or even keep going. We are just moving down the empty road."

Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

Robert M. Pirsig

I am currently sitting on my bedroom floor. I decided to reorganize/dispose of some jewelry and miscellany, and this space was most logical for the task. Said items are nicely put away now (why do I own so much stuff even I am terrible), yet I remain on the floor.

As one does.

I'm preoccupied with a thing. A thing, yes, and I find it to be distracting me from composing these words. Also, the screen is blurry. Or else I'm blurry. I do not know why this is. (This is the quality you've come to expect from me. You're welcome.)

(I've been debating whether to discuss this thing with you for several days now, which is somewhat hindering my creative flow here. Creative flow. I am amused by this phrasing. Clearly I am an evil genius writer with a pet rabbit called Leroy and a threadbare magenta beret, sitting at the crossroads with a beer in one hand and a stolen hotel pen in the other, inking words onto the back of my hand, plotting.)

(I do not claim to make sense. Usually.)

In the minutes following the commencement of this blur festival of sorts I have decided that leftover smoke (fire alarms are useful?) may be travelling through the air vents and attempting to blind me. So there's that.

A blood drive was hosted at my school today. As such, my day went mostly like this: "Did you give blood, Katherine?"

"No, they won't let me."

"Why?"

"I lived overseas for too long and apparently must have mad cow disease."

"Wha...?"

Forgive me if I am wholly uninformed, but I would assume that people donate blood in foreign countries, and I am almost entirely certain I do not suffer from Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease.

Just a thought.

My glorious best friend and internet wife sent me (IN THE MAIL) paper cranes she made to cheer me up this week. The envelope was also filled with glitter, which is now everywhere. I love it. I love her. I am the biggest sap, which I don't find to be a problem.

Three cheers for my good friend and fellow glitter enthusiast, John. He placed first in our school's talent show tonight. I'm sure it was glorious. (Also, he's guilting me into mentioning him. Not cool, John. Not cool. Even though you may be.)

And, finally, my future roommate and partner in crazy, Laurel, is having a terrible week. Can we please all agree to lavish her in comforting messages?

Days until mommy comes home: 3

Blog Every Day April: 4/19

2011-04-19T19:36:00.008-05:00

"Should they kill me, your love will fill me as warm as the bullets."

Alive With the Glory of Love

Say Anything

I am still obsessed with this. For the record.

My grandmother answers the phone. It's my father, for her. He would never call this house if my mother were here. He doesn't call me. He doesn't email me.

This is the part where I refrain from cursing. I am a static mess of angst sometimes.

My boss gave me 101 Things You Should Do Before You Graduate in anticipation of my graduation (excuse me while I dance around the room because I love my job). Currently I have it open to #32 or Shun Procrastination, which is actually somewhat useful ("Give yourself the luxury of being human") despite the fact that I am currently using our time here to... um... assess my options in time management.

#27 however, Go on a Blind Date with No Expectations, is less helpful. You expect so much from me, book. a) I might die. b) how does one even get one of those? There are about five boys at my school I find mighty fine. I wrote a list once, as I am clearly insane.

And you see, I'm the kind of person who says things like "mighty fine" on a regular basis without a twee sort of mocking. I am not quite one with the young folk, and fear I would punch a blind date in spite of myself.

In fact, I would probably punch whoever set it up as well. I cannot see a world in which I would accept such an event. (I have never punched anyone. I could, in theory, do many things. "It is our choices, Harry, that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities" and all that. Still, though.)

"You've got style. It's part of who you are, woven right into your soul" hails from #97, Wear What Feels Good.

I once owned a purple velour tracksuit.

That is all.

Days until mommy comes home: 4

Blog Every Day April: 4/18

2011-04-18T20:14:00.006-05:00

" 'But you see, that's the luxury of being a lout--you get to be selective about when you care and when you don't. The rest of us get stuck when your care goes shallow.' "

Dash & Lily's Book of Dares

Rachel Cohn and David Levithan

My eyes burn as I blink. I should have eaten more at dinner. I don't feel well in that life, rather than illness, is attempting to beat me down. I miss my mom. I am in a constant state of measuring movements, and I almost don't have the energy to hate it.

Life makes a lot more sense when I make use my eyedrops, I have found. But I'm stubborn. So.

Interesting Katherine fact: I have Duane's syndrome, which is a muscle imbalance that makes life super interesting*. When I attempt to look left, my left eye doesn't quite understand. As such, my right eye goes into panic mode and rushes to the rescue. Don't worry, it screams, fire extinguisher under one arm as it approaches the wreckage. I can fix this! It's in my training manual! And so the right eye turns to the left, as well, and the world sort of mirrors itself until I can't see anything properly.

My ophthalmologist counsels that there isn't much to be done and that I must only turn my head when I attempt to look left. Then people won't notice.

People who notice and care enough to comment can go snog a llama, for all I care. Why yes, I do move my eye this way in conversation for the sole purpose of annoying you. Thank you for asking.**

In the past few days I have briefed you on my acne medication (deadly), vitamins (I take them), popcorn consumption (nomnomnom) and eye charades (overzealous right eyes unite!). Really. You must love me to read this mess. Or else you're crazy. Probably both.

I love you for it.

Days until mommy comes home: 5

*It isn't a big deal. I am dramatic.

**ANGST.

Blog Every Day April: 4/17

2011-04-17T20:18:00.019-05:00

"Tonight I steam pasta until my wallpaper curls

from the walls, slice heavy globes of tomatoes

that separate in sighs of juice and seed,

then toss them with hot spaghetti and the green

my garden has produced with sun, wind, earth,

moon, rain. . ."

Pesto in August

Katrina Vandenberg

When in doubt, drown your sorrows in cheez its.

Or popcorn. Popcorn is my poison of choice at the moment, as I promised myself I could have it when I finished Ye Old Initials' essay. Which I did. After two hours.

It was a (handwritten) two page essay. I am crazy.

Also: a scant 1/4 cup popcorn kernels, salt and olive oil to taste, a brown paper lunch sack folded over and two minutes in the microwave = majesty. Cheap, yummy and the perfect serving. If you were wondering. Even if you weren't, really. I force it upon you with love.

As I clearly a) am lazy and b) find way too much amusement in taking pictures of myself and surrounding areas, I will now take you on a photographic tour of my day.

You're welcome.

This is a chair my mom often sits in. I was feeling sad because she wasn't sitting in it.

We drove an hour in an attempt to find food. We stopped in a shoe store and I amused myself as best I could considering shopping makes me nauseous. Mirror photos make me giggle, so I've taken to taking (ha!) them. I know, I know. Judge me, I can take it.

It took a long time to find the food, but I got a nutella crepe out the venture, so that was good despite the sugar rush (and subsequent crash) that followed. Health!

Later I painted my toenails (second from the right, for those positively bursting to know).

In mid-essay mode. I have an argh face. It is attractive. I am also now obsessed with Say Anything, thanks to Lydia, which proved a useful (if distracting) writing background.

Popcorn!

I lead an exciting life.

Blog Every Day April: 4/16

2011-04-16T21:00:00.003-05:00

"I am the one who knows who you are.

I want you to be happy.

and you could be

with me."

The Realm of Possibility

David Levithan

My mom is gone. I am heartbroken and unashamed.

My mom is the only constant I've ever truly had and is possibly the most awesome person on the planet. I am going to be such a mess when I go off to college. I'm wracked with guilt a lot of the time because I'll be leaving her, though I know I don't have to be. She wants me to be happy. We both know I need to leave.

She's only been gone for fourteen hours. She'll be back a week from now. Still, I'm a mess. She just responded to my text of 12 minutes ago ("ARE YOU OKAY?") with affirmative, so there's that, and I am currently vainly attempting not to fall apart.

In other news, I have a new email from Neopets. Memories!

I have an essay to write for Monday, as well as a book to read. As required reading goes the book doesn't look too bad, but I tried to absorb myself in it several times today and found myself easily distracted by goings on and other productive things I could be doing. Thus, only twenty plages have been conquered. It's funny how I can be doing something I'm supposed to do and still feel guilty about it. It's for school, okay? That place I go to. That place!

I take this as evidence that I am not, in fact, plagued by senioritis. If anything the little schoolwork I am assigned serves as a distraction from the Bad Things that might otherwise nag at me. I am terrible at weekends; free time and I have a tense relationship.

This is the part of the evening where I listen to sad songs and cry.

See you tomorrow.

Blog Every Day April: 4/15

2011-04-15T22:45:00.001-05:00

". . .family, like arsenic, works best in small doses... unless you prefer to die."
Dash & Lily's Book of Dares
Rachel Cohn and David Levithan

My mom is leaving on a week-long trip tomorrow. This, compounded with the fact that I have taken an intense dislike to people as a general entity in the past days and been run through various emotional and routine ringers as a matter of course, has made this particular week less than stellar.

I will buy each and every one of you your very own personal pony if next week is any better.

(I shan't be ALONE, Internet. An elder family human shall be staying with us, which I choose not to comment on at this particular moment because I am a controlled individual. Also, I really want my mom to have a good trip. Any whining will be purely/probably selfish.)

I key words into my phone as a purple toothbrush juts put of my mouth and the Fresh Mint! flavoring of my tooth paste begins to wear off. This is less exciting, in fact, than it sounds. While the picture of someone blogging while upkeeping their oral hygiene may sound romantic, I can now confirm that it is mostly inconvenient and not as much of a time saver as I'd hoped.

The more you learn.

Another fun fact: at least one of my acne medications is toxic if ingested. In case you were, you know, planning on licking my face anytime soon. (This is one of the handy things about having legit acne from the tender age of eight. Genetics, ahoy!)

Upon partaking of my many vitamins (my general practitioner is enthusiastic concerning their existence), I venture over the baby gate that fails to keep the dog out of mischief (wishful thinking?) and promptly stub my toe. The things I do for you, Internet! A hazard, you are. If it weren't for your good looks and quick wit I might have to disown you for safety reasons alone.

I am clearly a normal individual.

(Normal? Yuck.)

Blog Every Day April: 4/14

2011-04-14T21:02:00.006-05:00

" 'Why, it's a model of the True Love. . . we sailed her down the coast of Maine and back the summer we were married. My, she was yar.'

'Yar? What's that mean?'

'It means, uh... oh, what does it mean? Easy to handle, quick to the helm, fast, bright... everything a boat should be, until she develops dry rot.' "

The Philadelphia Story

Tracy Lord

I forgot I had to write this.

This has been a really bad week. Next week will be worse.

So many things are going bad or badly. There is nothing I can do about it but sit, and deal, and sit. There is nothing I can control. There is nothing I can do. My family unit is on the cusp of being thrown into a turmoil I can see no end to. There is nothing I can do. It is not my fault, but there is nothing I can do.

It would be different if my father hadn't done this to us. To me. If he could see what he has done to us. To me. If he weren't doing this to us. To me.

He didn't fight for us. For me.

He isn't fighting for us. For me.

He will never fight for us. For me.

Instead he will work to our detriment. Instead we will continue to bleed for something we didn't do.

I could polish my words in careful handfuls until the bright light of them blinded and it would not, could not, change anything. My words are useless here. My Rightness is useless here.

I may be gone from this place soon, but I am not the only one living this.

A journal entry dated a year ago to the day splays words across an entire page: "IT WILL BE OKAY."

I will continue to believe it. I don't always know why, but I will.

Blog Every Day April: 4/13

2011-04-13T18:52:00.007-05:00

"We are so used to releasing words. We don't know what to do with them if they stay."

The Realm of Possibility

David Levithan

It isn't so much that I have a bad case of senioritis as I am completely and utterly tired of everyone and everything. Maybe they're the same thing. I don't know.

In government class I fashion cootie catchers from purple post it notes and stack them one on top of the other as the class discussion goes on around me. Whenever I speak the girl behind me sighs deeply as if to say omfg why is she even talking. No one cares. So I stop. The teacher notices and I say, quietly, that I don't want to say things anymore because people might hate me. I tell myself it doesn't matter if they do, but they stare at me enough to set me on edge, and it is obvious that I am the sole person in this room to give a flying llama about anything he's been saying.

This week the indifference of my peers wears at me like iron wool against skin. I'm tired of people. I can't stand them. I have always been the only one caring.

And I can't win, because I hate it when they care. I don't tell people about my life because they're always so sorry for me. People want to fix my life for me, and their useless suggestions do nothing but break my heart.

I can almost convince myself that I'm okay. I freeze my feelings into numbness because I can deal with not feeling. Feelings are inconvenient. These feelings represent memories I cannot pull apart to find reason. When I feel this deeply I step away from those who might care about me. I want nothing but to keep away because they don't deserve my incoherence, they don't deserve my brokenness, and they don't deserve this utter fucking mess of a thought process I've landed myself with.

I don't want you to understand. You can't. I push you away because people leave me when I'm vulnerable. I push you away because it's all I know how to do.

"Hey Katherine," the teacher says as I double back from my locker after class. He nods. "Thank you for all your hard work in class today."

I nod, mumble a you're welcome.

I wish this were enough.

Blog Every Day April: 4/12

2011-04-12T20:59:00.002-05:00

"I don't want to be worshiped, I... want to be loved."
The Philadelphia Story
Tracy Lord

I've cried a ridiculous amount today. Which is to say, of course, that I cried at all. I thought I was fine. I thought I was handling it.

But the longer the day went on, the more I dearly wished to slap each and every person I met. Giant squid of anger: I am one on occasion.

I really cannot rationalize actually slapping people, however, and speaking my mind is something I dislike doing in mixed or any company, yet the act has become increasingly necessary in recent days. I threaten to boil over at every turn. Yet--surely the ice queen could never boil. She's too cool, too composed to have feelings or show dislike.

People get to me. People who don't care get to me, especially. I'm so sorry you haven't been paying attention in class for seven months. I am not your miracle cure or your mother, so shape up or go home.

I don't understand, understand, understand them. I have worked hard for what I have and where I am. You can't take it from me anymore.

Family things, work things, people things. I haven't the heart or right to recount them all. I don't want to put them to words.

I want to be wrong; I live in fear of being wrong.

I feel like everything is my fault. I want to fix it all. I've felt this way for as long as I can remember.

I can't fix everything.

Blog Every Day April: 4/11

2011-04-11T18:49:00.019-05:00

"the more you love me, the more I will ruin you.

I will take my darkness and I will push it inside you."

The Realm of Possibility

David Levithan

I don't want to write today. Okay: maybe I like the idea of having written today, but I don't like the fact that I am putting words to potential ink at this moment, and I don't have a particular reason why. I love writing more than most things in life (including but not limited to: mac n' cheese, balancing forks on my head and taking long walks on the beach with the god Edward Cullen), but today the words are stubborn as I search for sense in them. (Wait, that's every day. Darn.)

There has been a slight drenching of prom news (the music was iffy, people danced occasionally between hissy fits) and senior antics (senior skip day! Things I had no clue existed until now!) in the past day or so; with each new detail I am increasingly glad I have had nothing to do with either.

I wore a skirt today and was complimented several times, which is nice in theory, but my thoughts are ever in a distracting sort of why are people looking at me even mode. Otherwise known as Yes, Katherine has legs. Okay now. I would much rather be heralded for my (definitely existent) smooth wit and practiced charm, but then one can't have everything.

More so, however, I must admit that I find some comfort in being invisible. The sidelines aren't all bad.

In other news pertaining to things that don't matter, I have discovered that the hair product I've been using for months might may be useless, as I haven't applied it in three days and my glorious tresses are more cooperative than usual. The things that are relevant to your interests, friends. Oh, the things.

The cat is curled in a chair to my left, one eye on me as I type. He stretches and resumes routine maintenance to his hindquarters for a moment before shifting back to his previous position. It's odd to have a cat that can stand me. Our other cat couldn't care less.

Since beginning this post I have reorganized the tags on my blog, sorted through a few desk items and eaten dinner. I'm bad at this. Hi. You didn't notice I was gone, but I did. Full disclosure!

I curl up on the love seat as I type this, half watching inane television. A middle school dance scene is playing out, and it amuses me. It also makes my stomach hurt. WHY MUST YOU DO THIS TO ME, INANE TELEVISION SHOW. YOU ARE A LIAR.

The things I do with my time.

My mother purchased a roll of stamps today. I plan to soon besiege Lydia with my various ramblings via the wonder of the mail waves, as she is cool and I love her. Do you want letters from me, internet? I love the idea of letters, despite the fact that I haven't much practice in writing them. Give me tasks! (I have nice handwriting, if nothing else.)

I will leave you with one last important message, passed on through the ages: Don't take candy from strangers. (Except on Halloween.) (Or from people campaigning for your heart and loyalty.) (Or at events in which fancy people sit at tables and give you information regarding their noble sponsor. What are those, again?) (There really are a lot of candy receiving situations in life, aren't there?)

It occurred to me recently how ridiculous the phrasing "God made dirt so dirt don't hurt" is. What next, "God made judgement but I find it to be vastly overrated"? "Life is fairies and rainbows, why don't we all stand in the middle of the road with our eyes closed"?

I've since come to the conclusion that unless rattlesnake venom or, say, humanity were created by God's kooky, slightly maniacal brother Garth, our friends at the Adorable Idiom department are somewhat deluded.

Use good judgement, friends. Don't take candy from Garth.

Blog Every Day April: 4/10

2011-04-10T19:40:00.006-05:00

I can't quite place how our friendship begins. He isn't the status quo, and I like that. We plan glitter parties, find ourselves on the phone at eleven on a school night trying to make sense of our failed relationships and heavy hearts. I send him pictures of cereal and he is, bless him, not uninterested in my Raisin Bran.

John asks to write a guest post, and I'm tentative. "What to you want to write about?" I ask, teetering between enthusiasm and the urge to protect my space.

"People keep asking me what's wrong," he says.

He needs a home for his words. He deserves this much. He deserves more.

"There's something you have to know about him. Where most people have a heart, he has a dark, bottomless hole. Be careful around him, it's easy to get sucked in, and lose your way."
Mysterious Skin

Michelle Trachtenberg

What holds us to this world? Gravity? Our bodies? Or is it the relationships we form? I find myself asking such questions on a daily basis. Many people ask me what the matter is, when I seem down, or sad. To this, I have to ask... Have you ever felt unwanted? Unneeded? Like you don't belong where you are? I find myself feeling like this quite often. The only thing I've ever known how to be is not to be, if that makes any sense. I've never quite made a path for myself, or known what I wanted to do with my life. I guess we can credit that as to why I don't quite know who I am.

Then he came into my life.

I've never really known what love was, what it was supposed to feel like. In fact, it raised more questions for me than it answered. What makes a heart so special? Is it even possible to bind two hearts together for a lifetime? I want to believe it is, but I can't be sure. My problem is that, I've never known what love is. I see people in relationships, how happy they are (or seem). In lesser words, I'm jealous. I want to know what it feels like to be loved by someone.

And then he showed up.

It's a horrible feeling, being forgotten. To know that, somewhere out there, you think of someone, but they don't think of you. I wish I could look up at the moon, and know that someone is looking at the same moon. I know it sounds cheesy, but my life is nachos sometimes.

To reiterate my point, next time you want to know what's wrong with me, look around to see if there are any happy couples around (or if it's a social event, but that's a given).

I know he'll show up.

In all this, I have to believe in something. I have to believe that one day my prince will come. And yet I'm left to wonder, maybe someone needs me to be their knight in shining armor. But then we start the conversation again; no one needs me.

Curiouser & Curiouser

Blog Every Day April: 4/9

2011-04-09T15:57:00.018-05:00

"They say all's fair in love and war, but this war's not fair and my heart's still sore."
They
Tom Milsom

My desk is covered in post its: movie suggestions from friends, passwords to websites I will inexplicably lose track of, a list of boys at my school I find to be easy on the eyes (...), quotes I might or might not save, dates to remember, gift ideas I will forget anyway. There are more post its stuck in my day planner, things I mean to remember and never do (E for effort?). Another stack has long been sequestered at the back of one of my desk drawers. Presumably I don't need them, but I haven't quite perused them lately either. The disarray becomes comfortable, if somewhat inconvenient.

All this said, I am a somewhat organized person. I spent a large part of my last summer sifting through my possessions and downsizing. I recently purchased a box to hold my files and subsequently nerded out over its glorious existence; I find enjoyment in making things right. A military brat for the majority of my childhood, I am used to evaluating my belongings every few years.

That I can find any advantage to my upbringing amuses me, as I am understandably bitter about my childhood. We moved every few years; friendships didn't last and my home life was volatile. Downsizing every few years was awful, and I still mourn the loss of hundreds of the books I loved as a child. I lost things when we moved, small but dear: the teddy bear I loved, a favorite coffee mug, a scarf. As important things broke, too fragile to survive the turmoil, so did my heart. My passport may have quickly filled with brightly colored stamps, but the endless years spent isolated on military bases overseas rubbed me raw in ways that only scar over.

A nasty, real-life scar crawls up left knee. My father was deployed as soon as we moved to Italy; my grandparents visited to help us move in to our house. My grandfather was watching my sister and I one afternoon. I lay in bed, probably reading, and shifted only to find a shard of glass (I have no idea. Ninjas?) had split my knee open. Binding it with a pillowcase, my grandfather rushed down the winding hill leading to our house to beg a telephone from a neighbor, and eventually we found our way to the military base. I read Dr. Suess as we waited for the doctor, leg propped up on the arm of a couch.

Most of the knee is scar tissue now, numb to the touch nearly ten years later. I don't often recall it to memory, and it might be moot point save for aesthetics, but to apply pressure (hello, end table) is to summon searing pain.

Metaphors 4 lyf.

A few weeks ago a Navy recruiter gave a talk in my government class; I shook for hours afterward, my stomach tying and retying itself into knots. My father was Navy. The recruiter made the option of joining sound so clear, so whole. He joked with the class and scrawled figures on the board, cost of living and college and life.

If you qualify, he said, your tuition will be paid. Housing is provided, food is provided...

Problem solved.

"No," I said, voice catching in my throat. Breaths in, out as my palms grew cold. "My father was Navy, and the moving hurt me. Years and years of it. I haven't kept friends. I was stunted. It isn't that easy."

Of course, there are sacrifices...

But I wasn't really listening anymore.

I respect the military, I do, but the chords situations like these strike within me are tender to the touch. The education I received through DoDDS schools (schools for the children of active-duty military overseas) were more challenging than those I've encountered in the US. While the students weren't necessarily much "better" than those elsewhere, there were also harsher, lasting consequences to serious misbehavior. I have visited something like fifteen countries in my short life so far, and I miss true Italian food more than is beyond my own comprehension.

But I didn't ask for any of this, and so much of it has hurt. The lines blur until the fuzzy upset is all I can see anymore. I try to look back and cannot separate what I saw from what really was. In the last three years of our time in Italy, when familial conflict escalated noticeably and we moved to another base several hours away, situations I had failed to question began to pinch me at the sides like ill-fitting clothing.

I clung to the internet like a life preserver for the first time, finding comfort in the message boards of my favorite author and Harry Potter podcasts. I transformed into a haughty grammar fairy. I saved up for a clunky, refurbished laptop (sans internet connection) and started writing.

So many things I love and have loved began as coping mechanisms then, obsessions I could hold on to as everything went wrong. The internet and those I have found within it don't just pick up and leave, which has always been a major part of the attraction.

These parts of my life remain integral, less coping now and more appreciation for what is good.

Hopelessness may ride my coattails and thoughts may leave me blank, but I am slowly learning to take off the coat that has left me claustrophobic for so long. I am stronger than I let myself believe. The memories still hurt, but these experiences have shaped me, and I am glad to be who I am.

I am not yet ready to forgive. I don't want to forget. I have only just begun to accept the state my life was in when I could not truly see it.

All I can hope for is to find the words.

Blog Every Day April: 4/8

2011-04-08T21:47:00.006-05:00

"'We're going to have such a marvelous time,' he whispered to Elspeth, who looked up at him and said, 'Yes.'

He was thinking of life; she of Australia."

The Unbearable Lightness of Scones

Alexander McCall Smith

It occurs to me, as I munch popcorn and iTunes shuffles its way through my music library (hello, Oklahoma! soundtrack, I had forgotten you existed), that blogs do not write themselves.

Knowledge for you, there.

My wife is currently changing clothing as we FaceTime; I have a nice view of the ceiling of a hotel room to gaze at until she returns, and the conversation of late has revolved around the fact that I am, for some unknown reason, completely straight.

To be filed under Things that make only slightly more sense in context.

Now she is gone. Sadly. Running commentary! What next? Will I venture off to find caffeine in the annals of the kitchen, a whole ten feet from my person? Will a random dance party ensue? Will the cat, master of the attack, find his way into the workings of my desk area and pounce upon my feet once more?

12:02! 12:03! 12:04! The cat attacks the paper bag near my desk and skitters off in shock, soon returning to find revenge. The bag crumples as he enters the depths.

12:18! John texts me; he can't sleep, and I'm still wired.

12:33! TiredKatherine looms. She shakes her head, blinks away the sleep. She smiles as she spins in circles around me, finding light where there is a dull brand of darkness. Hi, she says. Fancy seeing you here.

12:48! Hi, she says, hi. Hi. Hi! Can we watch Tangled again? I stare at her.

12:50! John sends me a photo of a turtle. I stare at it for three full minutes before turning back to the computer screen.

12:51! Laurel, who has long been sitting in my Skype Box, discovers that she has yet to don pajamas. Neither have I. We make the best of life choices.

12:56! Hi, probes TiredKatherine, leaning in close to my face. Her eyes are wide. We should really look up the capital of Hungary. Or! You got Realm of Possibility in the mail! Remember that?!!! Please please please can we read it?

1:01! I type and fiddle with my phone as a coffee mug rests precariously atop my head. It falls; I catch it; my breath catches. I really like my coffee mug, despite the fact that I have never consumed coffee from it.

1:06! What exactly are you doing with your life?

1:07! You tell me, TiredKatherine. You tell me.

1:08! You suck.

1:09! ...

Blog Every Day April: 4/7

2011-04-07T21:05:00.016-05:00

"raze, v.

It sounded like you were lifting me, but it all fell."

The Lover's Dictionary

David Levithan

I finish the physics assignment before anyone else and relocate farther away from the window in order to soak myself in music for the rest of the period.

A note on the board reads "my-toe-kon-dree-uh"; standardized testing looms close for the juniors in this class and today we fill in a worksheet on cell organelles. Tomorrow ends the last marking period that will influence class ranking for the mighty seniors, and I am caught in the frenzy that buzzes around me while reminding myself of the fact that at this point it really doesn't matter.

I don't plan to drop everything in a fit of (late) rebellion, but really: I have a 3.9 grade point average. I've done my time. The state university I've chosen to attend in the fall isn't going to snub be for making, say, two Bs in the entirety of my high school career.

I honestly don't know what my grades are right now. I turn things in and study where appropriate and that has always been that.

I'm tired of worrying.

In math my friend John offers me a neon orange ring and pronounces us ring buddies, but not before singing me a rousing chorus of TSwift's Romeo and Juliet ("marry me Juliet, you never have to be alone...") and chiding me for shunning prom and failing to mention him in my blog.

It isn't that I haven't considered mentioning him here before. It's more that he will very definitely read this. It's more that I am terrible at friendship and, to a large extent, people.

He sings me love songs. He also happens to be gay. My life is interesting on occasion.

I feel it's relevant to note that I'm watching Tangled again, as I am a classy individual. I also received my senior pictures today, a few of which I will present you here because... I can? Vanity, thy name is Katherine.

As the (lovely, excellent, I would recommend her) photographer aptly called it upon our first meeting: "Usually it's the boys who are dragged" to have their portraits done. I was that exception, but the experience was fine once I got over nerves and the fact that someone was taking pictures of me (which, of course, is not at all an easy feat).

BOOKS.

To end on another irrelevant note, catlovingmathteacher continues to prove that math can be fun. Today, for instance, we were graced with the following gem: "I always like to put punctuation in; it's one of my favorite vegetables."

It doesn't make much sense in context, either.

I love teachers.

Blog Every Day April: 4/6

2011-04-06T19:09:00.009-05:00

"flux, n.

The natural state. Our moods change. Our lives change. Our feelings for each other change. The song changes. The air changes. The temperature in the shower changes.

Accept this. We must accept this."

The Lover's Dictionary

David Levithan

Before I go any further, please allow me direct you toward some other fantastic BEDA bloggers. Laurel (future roommate and partner in sap), Lydia (the eloquent and excellent and ohmygoodnessiloveher), Ryan (thanks for humoring me, good sir), Maggie (remember that time that I am woefully behind on your beautiful posts?), and Manar (She's writing poems and is also the most adorableawesome person on the planet!) are all worthy of your love and devotion.

What makes this project so fun is the camaraderie of it all. Also the words. The words are pretty cool.

Granted, now that I look for them, they elude me. It's almost as if it was easier to take on the project in August, when I had large gaps of time and thoughts to fill them with. It was easier when I was more certain of where my words would be going.

I do not feel woefully wordless, yet the fact that ideas don't spring as they did once before hangs on me like a weight. I haven't attempted fiction seriously in years, finding a few thousand words to entertain me and drop off the face of the earth only every so often since.

I try not to let it worry me. I try to tell myself that I am merely suffering growing pains, but--you see--I've changed, and I fear there are no words left for me.

I have averaged several hours less sleep than usual for the past two nights. I like to sleep a ridiculous amount, and the sudden lack is becoming less than funny. Words sit in this place, promising another hour's wringing of hands as I try to muster thoughts.

Laurel calls me as she ventures her way home on the bus. I put the phone on speaker and leave it balanced on my knee as I type.

"What if distance wasn't dumb?" she asks.

If only.

Blog Every Day April: 4/5

2011-04-05T19:02:00.006-05:00

"Oh, we're going to talk about me, are we? Goody."
The Philadelphia Story
Tracy Lord

At a certain point I don't do well with praise. I am conflicted in accepting it. My quiet corner of the internet is comfortable, and I had never quite counted on the boundaries stretching. I have what I wanted most here: close friends. The fact that those who see me every day would read this with interest is unexpected, and my first instinct is to run.

I don't mean to be ungrateful. It's more that praise does not feel deserved, and I fear my words travelling beyond this place. The glass I put up is apt to distort, and I mean not to misrepresent. I find comfort in retelling and sketching out situations; I am a thief of moments others might discard. My online life holds a sense of full disclosure, while I feel it safest to be tightlipped elsewhere.

I am terrible at trust. There are days I am asked a simple question of those I see day-to-day and the realization comes crashing down that I have left some critical piece of my life out of the picture, and this is one of them.

It has been one of those days where everything goes wrong yet feels too silly to mention, grating but not warranting a panic attack or tears. The cafeteria claims I owe them six dollars when I have not once eaten a meal there. I lead a discussion in Sociology that appears to bore people to tears. I didn't get enough sleep last night. I forget my English notes in my locker in a sort of zombie daze (oh right, I should study those...) I won't shake for several hours. The words don't fit, and I am suddenly distracted by the fact people out in the "real" world might want to be friends with me.

The protective bubble I have worked so hard to maintain threatens to pop, and I don't quite know how I feel about it.

My first excuse, of course, is that I don't like it here, I don't like it here, I don't like it here.

Surely I am not being fair to the benevolent few in the outside world who are willing to look closer and learn I am more than the safety nets I erect to feel safe amidst chaos. Maybe I am scared of setting down roots where I know I will not, do not want, to stay. Maybe I am simply worn out from constant waiting for change.

"I've never seen you with your phone out, Katherine," gasps the overworked, overzealous junior in my otherwise senior government class. Class will commence in a minute; I will put my phone away and pay attention like the inherently good student I am.

"Yeah, well. I'm a delinquent."

I may still dread the day I graduate. The days may spin as I strive to find comfort in balance; wobbling is more natural to me, worrying is more natural to me.

But the moments are beginning to stretch.

(My wife tells me I should stop worrying over this post and go to bed. Clearly knows what's best for me.)

Blog Every Day April: 4/4

2011-04-04T18:23:00.011-05:00

"The lies we tell pile up. Your father says

he is happy, and I let him. . ."

Entertaining Your Father in the Netherlands

Katrina Vandenberg

"Doesn't high school go by quick for you?" one peer asks of another.

"Sure," comes a response from behind me.

"It's so cold in here; my nipples might freeze and break and fall to the floor!"

All I can think is: Yeah, sure. Quick as molasses.

The teacher announces we need our books today, a rarity despite the fact that we've been instructed to bring them consistently. People scramble towards lockers; the boy in the cowboy hat claims he doesn't have one.

The girl sitting behind me requests I twist in my seat to share mine. I don't want to share, and twisting in my seat would be an inconvenience on top of this. I suggest she sit beside me instead.

Maybe it's the way I say it. This is all I can conclude as she responds, clearly offended.

"Okay, little girl, you don't have to get all butt hurt..."

Words coat my throat.

"Gosh," she is saying to a friend, "that bitch. I hate people. I hate people."

"I hate people, too," I say, just loud enough to be heard. "Not specifically, but in general."

"Am I one of them?"

"No." My dislike of people lies mainly in the fact that I don't understand them. I don't hate her, not really.

I feel sorry for her. I feel sorry for her and her snotty group of friends as they pick apart those they despise in lieue of schoolwork. My palms sweat to think of the sweet, sweet English teacher they shred to pieces and lick up clean from their niche behind me. My stomach finds itself in knots over the fact that these people will soon enter adulthood thinking that it's okay to publicly pull people apart over waist size or choice of romantic partner.

I am clearly a hypocrite, and maybe I do hate them a little bit.

"Good." She turns in her seat to share with a group behind her.

Pressure makes a quiet home in my chest. I scribble on sticky notes and press them against a loose page in my binder as my government teacher leads a one-sided discussion on the Presidency.

I have to believe in people.

Some days are harder than others.

Blog Every Day April: 4/3

2011-04-03T19:05:00.013-05:00

"She has a way of seeping into skin to change

the landscape of your sight, and she will rattle

hearts until the bodies' arms and legs

are still. . ."

The Herbalist's Nightshade Song

Katrina Vandenberg

I watch Tangled for the first time as sleep looms too close for comfort and I scratch previous, deeper blog ideas.

Granted, scratching my one (1) grand inspiration may equate to waxing poetic over the glory of Cheez-Its, and this movie is distracting in the best possible way.

I may just explode from the utter cuteness.

I spent a large part of my day in the fairy cove that is my bed, attempting to stave off what could easily turn into illness. I'm feeling much better now, so here's to hoping! It was only a few weeks ago that I was well enough to return to school after my wisdom teeth were extracted (yay, drugs and dry socket! Alliteration!), and I am not looking to be bedridden again anytime soon. (I assume not many look to be bedridden, however. I'm chock-full of observation tonight.)

Senioritis hasn't quite hit; I have begun to dread school's end, as it means I will no longer have a job working in my high school's library. No, I don't like it much here in tinytowntexas, but in the library I have grown to feel like I belong. It has been a tremendous gift to be able do something I love this year.

Still, it's a bit of a waiting game at this point. My peers are currently in a frenzy of pre-prom madness, which is both entertaining and dizzying in a somewhat sickening way. And while I'm sure I will feel in some way dejected when I don't attend, I am quite confident in my decision not to. In my mind the premise is gross on a level second only to ocean documentaries and mountain climbing; I see no reason to torture myself unduly.

I tell myself I would feel differently about this if I had a group of friends to go with. Possibly this is true, but even then I cannot imagine finding enjoyment in attiring oneself in itchy/tight/shiny clothing and riding around in a cramped limo in order to writhe to music in front of one's equally attired (and probably uncomfortable) peers. (Also, you pay to do all of these things. My brain fails to compute this level of masochism.)

Also known as Reasons Katherine Would Not Be Good at Partying, No. 137.

According to my hairdresser, her prom (circa 2006) had a country theme. There were hay bales. And I thought our techno (i.e. rave) theme was lame.

All of this leads me to think that we are made to put way too much stock in single, grandiose and over-thought events. Be it one's prom, graduation or wedding, our best times are expected to deliver a happiness so great that it will be forever remembered. Make it or break it situations abound, as if these are the only spaces of time that count. Without a fairy tale wedding or high school glory days to look back on, what exactly are we as people?

I strive most of all to find my happiness in the small moments. Even the broken ones have worth, and to think: I have a lifetime of moments to be made. I don't have to wait for the fleeting facsimile of happiness others thrust at me to try on. I don't have to cover myself in a second, itchy, ill-fitting skin.

I don't have to. I have my moments.

Blog Every Day April: 4/2

2011-04-02T16:04:00.009-05:00

"I was sort of the queen of good choices, ruled by niceness and doing the right thing."

The Secret Life of Prince Charming

Deb Caletti

Maybe it's something about me I cannot see myself, as it has long been assumed by many of my peers that I have All The Answers. When forced into doing group-work, it is generally I who is turned to for guidance. While I am not at my most comfortable leading discussion, in many a class I have been the only student to answer a teacher's questions or lend an opinion without threat of demonized kittens being thrown my way.

Right or no, I have yet to fully understand the fact that the general population doesn't work the same way I do in terms of academia (and, in a broader sense... everything?). How, for instance, does a person not carry paper or writing materials with them at all times? How, exactly, does one justify sleeping in class? And, for a shocker, why do many simply refuse to follow directions or complete work?

I try to expect nothing. This has yet to change the overall state of my confusion.

This aside, I must appear "normal" to some slight extent, as whenever I claim to be a nerd I am met with frantic, consoling replies.

"No, you're not a nerd!"

"But I am... it isn't a bad thing, you know."

"But a nerd is like... Someone who enjoys schoolwork. You don't enjoy schoolwork, do you?"

"Sometimes?"

"Oh."

I do not fit the mold. Thus, I am grateful to be able create my own, one that will not leave me gasping for air and understanding.

John Green may put it more eloquently than I, but I, for one, enjoy being a nerd. To me it means I can love things without pretending I don't, to me it means I can differ from the crowd unashamedly, to me it means much more than wearing thick glasses or being a confirmed social outcast.

I would rather be alone in the "real" world than feverishly attempt to associate myself with people who could never appreciate me fully, nor I them. In this maybe I do distance myself from people--but tinytowntexas isn't exactly a metropolis bursting with delicious nerd folk, and not being "from" here is a definite disadvantage. If you don't sprout from here or have a very outgoing personality, consider yourself sunk.

Or I'm sunk, anyway. I feel sunk. It's too late to make lasting friendships here, and I haven't the motivation or desire to attempt again. There's a sort of cold comfort in distancing myself. Sometimes I regret it. Often I consider it to be one of the only reasons I am able to keep somewhat sane.

I grew up moving every several years, a military brat. If I wasn't doing the moving, the few friends I made would move, and despite my trytrytrying, no friend but one was willing to keep up a friendship via email as I desperately wished they would.

In several cases I have been, in a very real sense, left heartbroken by friends who just couldn't give back what I wished to give them.

I am very much an introvert, and while I can see good qualities in many of my extroverted peers, I haven't the heart to face that particular brand of brokenness again. I am not happy in large groups; I could not find contentment in having scads of so-called friends. I cannot justify to myself the merit in being just another face to those I wish to be close to.

(Granted, I am not much better at befriending introverts in the "real" world. This is another story for another time.) (Don't you just love asides?) (HELLO.)

But here is something I hold close to my heart: there is no moving away from those I have befriended via the Internet. I share things with people I have met here in ways no person in "real" life ever has. And while no other person will ever be in quite the same situation as I am, the kindred spirits I have found sympathize in ways I have seen nowhere else.

I will no doubt continue to tug at the ragged edges of what I cannot understand, but it is you who read this, you who console me in the times I feel wordless, you who have not left--it is you who have made room for me to grow in ways I cannot find enough words for.

I've been staring at these words for longer than is safe. Time to step away.

Blog Every Day April: 4/1

2011-04-01T20:34:00.008-05:00

". . .But instead of feeling helpless

when you sense the world outside yourself

and how little you can do, have faith in the world

of your head. . ."

First Lesson: The Anatomist Explains the Primacy of Imagination

Katrina Vandenberg

I am currently eating Cheez-Its.

This is the quality you expect from me, friends. Cheez-Its.

(How are they so delicious?!)

(They're made with SUNSHINE and skim milk! Health.)

In preparation for my next (current?) BEDA (Blog Every Day April!) adventure I wrote a great many things today, scribbled on and around pages of math notes and, most interestingly, a string of about five post-its.

These things do not currently please me; the logical idea here was to wax poetic about my Cheez-Its and hope the beauty of YouTube musicians' voices would bring forth something brilliant in the way of a blog post.

This has yet to happen, but there is always hope.

A cat (the one who doesn't hate me) enters my lair and proceeds to paw at my hip through the workings of my desk chair.

Maybe he wants my Cheez-Its.

Bastard.

(Curse words! That'll get me in trouble!)

(He's really quite sweet.)

(Don't you love parentheses?)

(I am giving them my love this evening.)

Conclusion: Cheez-Its should be a controlled substance.

Quality will follow.

Welcome to BEDA!

2011-03-03T20:05:00.005-06:00

I've lost touch.

There are gaps in what I have and haven't told you. In most cases I simply don't say anything. I try to find words, but instead they swim; I want to find eloquence. Beyond that, I feel selfish and awkward repeating my problems, no matter how I try to rationalize it otherwise.

I've decided on a college. Things are going... they're going. I'm antsy and terrified and excited. High school trudges along at a fastslowfastslow pace I have little time left to master.

The puzzle pieces don't fit. And good or bad, in some ways I've stopped trying to make sense of them.

Thoughts from Advisory

2011-02-08T09:21:00.006-06:00

I'm sitting in advisory class with nine minutes to the bell. Having been successfully plied into consuming waffles the consistency of cardboard, we wait impatiently for the announcements to play.

That's a lie.

Someone at the table to my right was discussing the nature of bongs earlier (...okay), and the persons sitting to my left are playing with batteries and saying words that wash over me instead of sticking.

The announcements play. Next period we will take our senior panoramic photo, which has left many in a tizzy of excitement. The last time I took a panoramic photo was in second grade, and in that case it was because the school was closing. All but I, who would soon move overseas, would attend a shiny new school nearby the following year.

I think that maybe, for many of my peers, this is the high point. We're seniors, the "top" of the school, soon to graduate and have accomplished something tangible. I don't really see it that way. I haven't been born and bred here in tiny town Texas.

For me this is merely the beginning, and I guess for that I am ready to celebrate.

2011-01-29T11:14:00.008-06:00

I'm not sure what words I have for you right now. I wrote a blog post about a week ago, but it was as close to "too personal" as I've ever gotten, at least in the fact that I would feel uncomfortable were the persons referenced to read it. If confrontation does come about, I don't want it to be that way.

And, frankly, I'm scared of confrontation. I'm scared of taking chances. I'm scared of sussing out truths not everyone will agree with. This doesn't mean I have never done and will never do such things but rather that, at this point in my life, I am very tentative to do them. Still, part of me wishes I could. My thoughts are most often scattered and irrational, yet I measure my every action carefully before taking it. As a result, I do nothing. As a result, I worry everything.

It's so much easier, and more fun, to replay amusing social situations here than express my true emotions. I have been in an uncomfortable state of feeling misunderstood lately, conflicted in area after area and stuck wishing.

I forget that I don't have to wish, don't have to hope. It's going to be okay. It's going to hurt, but it's going to be okay.

Life goes on.

"You'll only really need this if you become an electrician."

2011-01-12T17:51:00.014-06:00

There are twenty minutes until the bell ending second period rings; The Bell Jar sits finished in my bag and yesterday's assignment, correct or no (I question whether it truly matters), was turned in in the first five minutes.

The teacher's aid questions how one gets from point A to point B and my Physics teacher shrugs at her and the student she's working with--"you'll only really need this if you become an electrician."

A boy somewhere behind me asserts that it is the teacher's aid's fault that he hasn't finished his worksheet.

"I question the logic in this statement," I say.

"As do I. I suppose in this case we'll just have to deem it illogical and go on with our lives."

"Hey," the boy interjects, "I know big words, too."

"Do you?"

"Only they're all in Spanish."

He means swear words. The teacher's aid gives him a stern look as a beat is skipped.

"What's he doing?" asks the teacher. His face flushes when he's amused, which is often. Divorced with two young children, I question how engaged (or, even, interested) in teaching us he is. Rumors are rumors, but he has grown on me--maybe because of that amused look. Maybe because he's a redhead with a Harry Potter-esque haircut. Maybe many things.

Says the teacher's aid: "He's got some Spanish swear words up his sleeve, only he doesn't have the wherewithal to say them."

The teacher cups a hand over one side of his mouth, whispering: "That's cojones in Spanish."

Dobbin sits behind me as we watch a movie in Sociology, which I realize only as I leave. A notebook is open on his desk, on which his arms are folded and he rests his head. I think, I truly think for a second, without malice: "I hope you're happy." And I walk away. I catapult myself towards my next class, averting my gaze from those who could potentially catch mine, and arrive at my locker even before my classmate and her maybe-maybe-not boyfriend (or else ex-boyfriend) are full into their goodbyes.

It's easier to walk quickly. I wind my way between people and through hallways and feel somehow alive because I am unattached and moving, moving towards something, even if it's only English class and Ye Old Initials.

For those who may be new (are you new? Regardless, I love you deeply.), Dobbin is my jerk of an ex-boyfriend. We dated for two months, at which point he broke up with me via text message and proved himself to be a big fat liar, and while I am generally healed following the debacle, he is still a source of slight annoyance in my life. Sometimes I write about it. Okay, I write about it often, but this is the way it is.

Writing about things allows me to find what might be hurtful amusing rather than tragic.

(Also, for reference purposes, I always change names here. Except for here, as it amused me, and of those who actively read my blog. I hope you know who you are, as you are truly truly amazing. Maggie, Lydia, Manar, Rachel, Dave, mom, and others... I am blessed.)

In my last three classes I find myself half asleep. In Sociology we watch Remember the Titans, in English we watch Hamlet, and in Government we are given a review I finish in the first five minutes of the period. I only have one book with me, and I finished it hours ago. I doodle giraffes and checkerboards on a sheet of paper until the words I am trying to find spill into another page.

Revelation regarding today's youth: a large number can't read cursive. I might as well be writing in code.

The weather this week has been cold enough to warrant a letter regarding possible "severe weather" given to all students. We're not talking about snow, of which we hear rumors of about once a year: if it freezes and there is any ice, all the schools in our (albeit small and independent) school district will close.

Welcome to tiny town Texas.

In other riveting news, this week is our annual (?) stock show. Many kids are out showing stock (?) in the newfound cold (!), for which I have heard there are possible Magic Awards and glitter parties.

(I really wish there were glitter parties.)

As such, we don't have school on Friday (or Monday, coincidentally, thanks to Marin Luther King Jr.). I'm not complaining.

Even if I don't understand it.

A mix of emotions.

2011-01-10T18:35:00.008-06:00

"Are you a cannibal?" I overhear from somewhere behind me.

The girls from my first period class (there are a shocking total of three of us) are talking about something--an ex-boyfriend? his financial status? yard gnomes?--as we walk toward our next classes. We pass two girls in identical magenta jackets walking together and I wonder whether this was intended (it probably was, not that it matters, but these are the kinds of things I occupy myself with). The first of the girls I walk with is deposited at the entrance to another hallway where her maybe-maybe-not boyfriend (or else ex-boyfriend) waits for her. There is a harrowing tale I could tell here, but my main concern of late has been the fact that they spend a lot of time canoodling in front of my locker.

My locker is, in my unqualified opinion, a haven for shameless public displays of affection far across the land.

In advisory a girl sits between two boys as they peruse a prom magazine and discuss prom dates. I am almost certain two of the three are single until The Boy Who Asked Me To Sit There places a hand on the girl's waist and leaves it there.

They still might be single.

Sometimes I forget that I'm quiet. My thoughts are loud and occupy me well enough, so it isn't so lonely.

I watch people, their stories playing out before me, as I sit.

I want to be one of them in the sense that I want to be a part of something, but I find peace in the fact that--it just isn't my time yet. My adventure is only on the cusp of beginning, and I think for now it is okay not to be. I don't want what they have. I don't want drunken nights and a baby at sixteen and a life stuck in this tiny town. The voice telling me that I want any semblance of these things is simply a liar.

A pair of black Nikes sit on the desk of the boy next to me. Earbuds blast music I can hear from four feet away; his phone is well loved, scratches abounding, and sits next to his shiny black iPod. As I write he folds his arms on the desk and rests his head on them, temporarily muffling the music. He wears a maroon hoodie and has artfully styled his hair into what might be a faux-hawk if his hair were longer. He has a long, placid face and a mouthful of braces. For a second he mumble-sings a lyric off-key. The phone buzzes. My Physics class is a helter-skelter of conversation, and the teacher sips a large drink from a nearby fastfood place.

"I love you, sir," one of my peers informs the teacher, "no homo."

Two boys return from a search of the bathrooms; a classmate has been missing for fifteen minutes, ostensibly gone to relieve himself across the hall. "He wasn't in that bathroom," one of the boys says. "I think maybe he went to Ms. Reynaldo's." A pause. "Frank wanted to lie and say there was blood on the floor."

If this isn't a metaphor for the state of my education, I'm not certain what is.

No fewer than two girls are doing their makeup as catlovingmathteacher explains the problems we have been reviewing. The Boy With The Underpants hijacks a small tub of foundation and mimes applying it.

I wonder what kind of world this would be if we didn't feel pressured to fix ourselves.

I want to be me--not my eyelashes, complexion or, god forbid, waist size. And I don't want to lie, either, because the fact that boys have never paid me much heed does occasionally cause me to wonder whether I am really that outwardly unappealing.

But I am learning that there is merit in letting feelings be what they are with the knowledge that they are apt to be deceiving. My surroundings are not who I am.

At lunch my sister and I render crude drawings of our enemies and attack them with the remains of our hard plastic fruit containers. I enjoy it immensely as Dobbin looms behind us in the otherwise empty array of tables. I still find his voice in hallways. He still bothers me.

I don't know why it is that the news that Dobbin has managed to romantically entangled himself once more doesn't surprise me. Part of me wants to gag. Part of me is merely numb.

I deserve much more than this boy. Still he flits, vaguely peripheral, around me like some demented test.

I find myself too caught in the idea of how I'm supposed to be feeling to let myself truly feel things.

This too, I suppose, shall pass. So many other things have. They will.

Not knowing.

2011-01-09T21:37:00.006-06:00

Hours and hours have been spent in feeble attempt to create some semblance of a blog post. No less than five drafts sit in The Magic Box Of Drafts. Two of them are blank. One is almost something. My fingers itch to backspace.

For reasons unbeknownst to me, I feel now more than ever that whatever I put forth will be judged. I fear people will hate me for my words, for my scattered and uncertain thoughts. I have taken to saying nothing.

I don't know anything.

Not true, in theory, but it is how I feel at this point in my life.

It is easier to say nothing than put into words my aimless reaching for understanding.

Experiences with the male gender.

2010-12-26T16:57:00.007-06:00

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.

2010-12-24T17:00:00.007-06:00

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.

2010-12-20T12:33:00.017-06:00

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.

The crossing of paths.

2010-11-29T18:41:00.007-06:00

The science wing is separated from the main building by a gated courtyard and double doors at each end, and one of each is locked from the outside. This equates to congestion between classes until someone has the sense to open the other door from the inside and the fact that, unless I make a point to reach around and pop open the other door (which I have done), I am forced to let my ex-boyfriend hold a door open for me on occasion.

I dislike the fact that I still see this boy as a major source of trauma in my life. Granted, I'm much better off than I was months ago. I am, largely, past it. I am no longer a wreck as a result of his general idiocy, and I have passed the point where I notice what color shirt he is wearing every day (it thrills me).

Still, it frustrates me. I want to be over the fact that I let this boy into my life and he hurt me. I want it to dissipate magically, and worse, I find myself thinking about myself in relation to the opposite sex. I find myself thinking that I want that again, that feeling of elation and hope.

And I do, of course. I am a teenage girl. I am also human (yes, you are rightly shocked).

There was a moment this morning that we rounded a corner at the same time, and in the second that we crossed paths I could have sworn I felt the inches hovering between us. A split second, I thought.

It's silly, maybe.

I find myself wishing I were more than I am, and that just doesn't work.

Without.

2010-11-20T20:35:00.008-06:00

I have spent my day furiously trying to edit essays for college applications, and while I suppose I could be worse off, this hasn't left me in the best state. Not content with writing a cookie cutter essay waxing poetic on the gloriousness that is my granny/first pet/second cousin Albert, I singlehandedly chose to delve into the deep grove of my soul and pull out what might or might not be meaning. And as if the process of applying to colleges were not frazzling enough, the fact of this alone would be enough to unhinge me.

I don't regret writing the essays, exactly, but the subjects are so difficult for me that even thinking about them makes me dizzy.

Words are like pieces of a puzzle to me. I don't know that I have any concrete control over them, but it is only as I locate and rearrange my words that I begin to find my own meaning. Too few and I am blank, too many and I am furiously scribbling in margins already filled. Balance and I are either unacquainted or jolly well pissed off with one another.

I really don't want to muse on life and bewilderment right now, but this is all I can find. I wish I could feel within myself that everything will be fine.

It has never been fine. It will be fine, but it has never been fine.

"Because we hate each other so much?"

2010-11-17T18:08:00.009-06:00

It is on my usual bench at lunch that I find myself wanting for words.

I face away from the crowds, groups magnetized and reminding me of television specials focused on penguins in winter.

But it isn't winter, even. We're working on autumn still, only just cold enough for a sweater in early morning.

Clear blue sky finds its way around parked cars and through trees, and fallen leaves (there are very few, as trees don't shed for the winter here) are tossed by the breeze.

I have to turn to see what's going on, but it isn't anything I can relate to. People are situated in their groups and I merely sit here, my sweater folded beside me. Every minute or so someone turns the corner outside the cafeteria and passes me on a patch of sidewalk.

I don't have the courage or desire to join the group I try to associate with across the quadrangle; Dobbin is close at hand, and this is my only alone time all day. When it gets colder I may have to relegate myself to the library at lunch like last year, but I'd like to avoid it. I'd like this weather to stay, because it helps me feel alive.

I can use all the help I can get.

In Psychology the desks have been realigned into rows and I have to navigate where I will sit.

"Am I chairless?" I ask the members of my group, thinking I may have to sit on the other side of the room.

"No," one of them says, "Gerry isn't here today, you can sit behind Ruth."

"Best day ever!" I say as I sit, making little of the fact that Dobbin is directly behind me.

Meanwhile, Bowl Cut Boy waves in my direction.

"I know, Peter," I say mournfully, "you're so far away from me."

"I was just saying hello," he says, a little defensively. He sits in the next row, a few seats ahead.

"Hey Peter," says Dobbin, "you want to trade seats?'

"Why?" asks Bowl Cut Boy (aka Peter, though his name is not Peter either).

"Because we hate each other so much?" I say as I swivel around to face Dobbin. I smile tightly and turn back around in my seat, busying myself by putting my sweater back on.

A minute later he gets up and moves across the room, closer to the television that will soon play a fascinating video on blood circulation (demonstrated by tango dancers!).

"I was too alluring," I joke to the Ruth, who sits in front of me. "He hated himself too much so he had to move."

"No, don't make him feel bad. You're just too awesome." She goes along with it, but she's friends with him too. They all are, and though my words make me feel better, it unnerves me that he will say nothing to me directly.

I realize that I am more than this.

I would like to understand this boy. I would like to let go.

I would like a lot of things.

Lost and Found

2010-11-15T17:53:00.010-06:00

I haven't fallen out of step with blog writing so much as fallen out of step with blog posting; ideas sprawl across pages every which way in unfinished pieces, and I feel more comfortable commenting on my observances of human behavior than my own feelings.

Only fragments surface and the smallest of things serve to make my heart hurt.

A table to my left is discussing a possible case of incest and my advisory teacher asks them to change the subject; they continue on in quieter voices.

The boy sitting next to me is a transfer student from somewhere I've never heard of (as amusing as it is, my tiny town is a bit of a metropolis when compared to neighboring cities. I mean, we have a mini-Walmart and everything) rumored to have moved here to be near his girlfriend. The truth of this is suspect, but I won't deny my having seen a lot of canoodling going on between classes.

It is easier to make observations than ink of my emotions.

Cute Guy, who I unfriended on Facebook long ago, sat behind me during a (reward!) viewing of Toy Story 3 on Friday, leaning on the back of my chair the whole time in order to chat with the boy to my right. Every once in a while he would say sorry for bothering me while continuing to take up my personal space, and at the end of the movie both of them burst into fake hysterics.

catlovingmathteacher moves a cocky, sweet faced boy to a different desk. On his journey he brings with him a plastic ziploc of cheetos. As he sits down he plucks one from the bag, sets it between his lips and sucks. For a moment I think he wiggles his eyebrows at me.

I am a lost and found of moments.

Group Dynamics

2010-10-27T17:59:00.010-05:00

"This," Dobbin says, handing a piece of paper to the girl who sits across from me, "is not a love poem."

She reads it and her eyes widen, a hint of amusement in her voice as she says "wow, man, that's... not creepy, but dark. Dark."

He takes it back from her, chuckles "yeah" and it makes its way around the table.

The boy who sits to my left, the only thing keeping me from having to ignore Dobbin with a passion every day, has a bowl cut that falls almost to his eyelashes. He reminds me of a little boy, his face cherubic and voice quiet but eager. He gets the page next and I read over his shoulder.

"I mean," says Dobbin, and I can hear the laughter in his voice, "gosh, it is dark. I don't really feel that way..."

There is enough blood gushing from veins and lines like "I cannot keep hold of love" and, oh, "she thinks she has felt my pain" for me to find it all vastly amusing.

I doodle on scratch paper as worlds spin around me; the boy sitting next to me asks me what I'm drawing 1, 2, 3 times.

"Is that a cage? Are you going to put a cat in the cage?"

"I'm just doodling," I insist. "I'm not drawing anything in particular."

The boy sitting next to me worries me. Beyond being a useful candidate for blocking my view of Dobbin, I have become fond of him in a way that one might be fond of a small child or little brother. Last week he nearly fell over himself trying to help me research my Psychology paper--

"You need a laptop."

"No, I don't."

"You need a laptop."

"Why would I need a laptop?"

"For research!"

"I don't need one."

He left our patchwork grouping of desks after this, returning with a laptop from the cart. He slouched close to the screen, fingers poised to type words into the mighty tyrant that is Bing (which he insists is better than Google--pah!).

"What do you want to type in?"

"I don't need help. Shouldn't you be writing your own paper?"

"Well..."

I am, tentatively, concerned.

One could say I have prioritized. Dobbin is in this group, as well, but rarely bothers me these days. He's annoying, absolutely, and I often think he's trying to dig at me.

But whatever.

And really? "She thinks she has felt my pain"? "I cannot keep hold of love"?

Lols.

To my right, at an angle, sits a guy who aspires to be a train conductor. Some symbols are tattooed on his wrist and he practices slacking as an art form. Across from me is a girl I know from last year. Her hair is cut distinctively, two long pieces at each side of her face; she invited me to join their group at the beginning of the year. She enjoys singing, Jesus (which surprised me, somehow), and is edgy in a way I can't quite distinguish. She wears clunky boots a lot (I am ace at this description thing).

The boy next to her works at a hamster farm. He's a big guy, very huggable looking; his guitar case is shaped like a coffin. I don't know much about the boy who sits next to him, at at an angle, besides the fact that he writes stories and, of course, sits next to Dobbin himself.

I don't know where I fit in this group, if I fit, but they have never questioned my right to be here and fitting isn't an issue I had considered before this moment. I just am. Maybe I'm nothing special, nothing glittering, but I am here... and I am okay.

This morning I was talking to the quick-speaking, oft unintelligible boy I know in Physics as we fiddled with library computers and a worksheet.

"You know," he said, voice high pitched and gesturing with his index finger, "I'm going to be named most important person ever to go to this high school."

I smiled. "Can I be the second most important person, then?"

"No," he said, "no you can't. Because you're not from here. You have to be here... be here your whole life. You haven't."

I smiled again, grateful for these words. "At least you're honest."

10/22

2010-10-24T16:42:00.005-05:00

"I'm sitting in Pre-Cal class," raps The Boy With The Underpants, "over here it smells like ass. But it's gonna go by real fast. Gettin' out my iPhone, checkin' my apps..."

A preliminary glance counts six phones hidden behind bags on desks and in laps as catlovingmathteacher goes over last week's quiz.

The boy to my right asks "Who're you writing to?" and I slam my notebook shut, saying no one, they're just words. Just words.

"Thank you for the help, Winston," says catlovingmathteacher.

"You're welcome, sir."

"I was being facetious."

A cowboy sitting on the other side of the room, the one who threatened to kill himself when his girlfriend (an acquaintance of mine) tried to break up with him last year and admits to being racist and I shy away from, interjects: "Hey, no big words!"

I have been feeling wordless recently, and it scares me. Words do not bubble up inside me. I'm supposed to have my college application essays written. I'm supposed to be figuring things out. I'm supposed to attempt NaNoWriMo again and apply to colleges and take the SAT again and hope last month's scores don't prove my idiocy as a human being.

I'm supposed to prove things with my words.

But my words feel cold.

Wanting

2010-10-13T19:45:00.010-05:00

I sit in Economics and pretend to review for a test that was supposed to be today but now isn't. Thoughts drift, thinking--the boy who sits behind me has nice lips, it embarrasses me a little that stupid memories of Dobbin make me smile sometimes, I think I might be the only white girl in this class, I wish someone here would just get me. The four white boys in this class group in one corner of the room, talking with the teen mom I know and her cohort, who wears a lot of eye makeup and seems to have a dose of sense about her. The guy who wears ironic t-shirts makes funny faces as the guy who sleeps grins drowsily and one of them takes on a silly voice--"spank me harder!"

The substitute comes around to the front of the room and a wide-eyed girl whose words string together very precisely, almost like questions, exclaims "my nipples are freezing!"

"Did you hear that, ma'am," one of her friends shouts across the room, "did you hear that? She says her nipples are freezing!!"

The substitute only scoffs.

"If you knew Sally," The Boy With The Underpants told me in math class today, as I helped Teen Mom with the worksheet we were doing under the orders of yet another substitute, "you would hate her. So nice, but dumb as a brick."

"Really," I said, noncommittally. A group of boys huddled around the desk to my right, deeming themselves The iPhone Club and discussing bandwidth or something equally Interesting.

"The other day," he began, "I said to Sally 'hey Sally, did you hear about the fire at the Eiffel Tower? It killed everybody in France!' and she was just all, 'Everybody?' And I said 'hey Sally, did you hear that everybody in France was also decapitated?' and she was all 'what's decapitated?' So I said 'it means everybody had their head cut off, Sally, everybody had their head cut off!' She believed it all."

"Yeah," agreed the girl who sits behind me, "really nice girl, so much fun to be around. If you are around her you will have fun, but she's as dumb as a brick. Dumb as a brick."

Today is nerd day at school, a theme child of The Opulent And Important Homecoming Week. In Physics I submit a personal tirade to the boy costumed in suspenders, plastic glasses and a set of (green) fake teeth. As I try to explain that I am firmly rooted in team nerd and do not find the term demeaning, my Physics teacher asks for my nerd credentials. I draw a blank.

And while this leads me to question whether I am a nerd at all, instinct tells me that I can be a nerd if I damn want to, no matter what my 'credentials' might be.

My words do not appeal to me as they hit the page lately, scattered and self-pitying and downright confused as they are. I question the very foundations on which I have always stood, write myself into loops.

I've been thinking a bit about want. Specifically in monetary terms, as I am now being paid for my time (what?!) in my school's library, but want can be such a big thing in many areas: What do I want? What don't I want? Why does all this wantwantwant have to make my heart hurt so much?

So much revolves around want, and I've never been sure. My hesitancy to choose has always brought about conflict. Oftentimes I just don't want things enough, and it worries me.

And it goes back to trying, too.

As a child (which I still am, but work with me here) I thought that if I tried hard enough, if I was Perfect, equilibrium could be reached. I thought I was the keystone in my family; only a handful of years ago I still believed this, that I was the only constant, and in some ways this still plagues my thoughts. I watched as my immediate family went through atrocities of their own and thought, ridden with panic, that I could not let myself fall apart. I could not make waves. Making waves was Bad. Making waves was Wrong and Not Allowed.

I still feel this way.

Eighth grade self wrote kept a journal in a word document. Eighth grade self, only just fourteen years old, was confused and hurting and arrogant. Eighth grade self felt like she knew everything and nothing all at once, keying words into her refurbished (see: used, 300 dollars, internetless) laptop.

I skimmed through hoping for inspiration, insight or magic sparkles and return here with only the impression that fourteen year old me was severely confused. She also feels distant. Only about four years have passed since eighth grade self wrote these words, but I no longer feel they belong to me. I am no longer that person.

I will not always be the person I am now.

I want to be more than I am, maybe. I want to stretch farther, be more than the words I will later cringe over.

I help my mom make pizza on Monday night and tell her about the journal, tell her that it scares me how far away my words seem. Encouraging words: It's a function of growing up. Will it always be this way? No. No, it gets less so as you get older.

It is all so distant and cloistering at the same time.

Sometimes I can draw no conclusions. This is scarier, I think, than it sounds. I am one to search for logic where none will ever appear, parse out reason and reach for truth. Which isn't to say that I am a lover of reason, either, merely that I look for it. It isn't even that I lack answers, though I grieve that too, but that my experiences muddle together in such a way that sometimes I just don't know that to make of them. Am I fourteen year old me, angry at the world without really knowing it? Am I the girl who tried so very hard to be perfect only to write that despite all this, her father was angry with her?

Despite the arrogance I see in that me now, I really did try. But trying doesn't necessarily equate to change, and the obstacles I was facing were insurmountable. There was nothing more I could have done--and maybe it isn't about being enough. Maybe it's about realizing that there are some things you cannot do.

Fixing the situation I've been placed in is one of them.

What do I want? I want a lot of things. I want to feel whole, feel (honestly?) perfect. I want to read more and sleep more. I want to smile, a lot, and I want to be happy. I want to breathe in clear, cold air on an autumn evening as the sky dims. I want an uncomplicated and exquisite love story, I want to hold someone's hand, and I want it soon. I want to hold a star in the palm of my hand. I want friends here in tiny town Texas, birthplace of the mother effing cowboy. I want to know exactly where I want to go to college. I want out of the box I've built around myself. I want to replicate moments as words and live within their immensity.

It is in Physics class on Tuesday that the teacher's aid says "so I can assume from the noise level in here that everyone understands the work and needs no help at all?" and I snap.

"No," I say, and it is unlikely that anyone listens, "because I haven't said a word." I want to rest my head on the desk and scream, I want to leave, slam the door to this classroom, and I want to slap words against the concrete walls they have built until they break.

Maybe I want justice. Maybe I want to feel whole and I want to be happy and I want to stop wanting for things so ill-defined and unreachable.

There is some beauty in chaos. That's all I can think.

Steam of consciousness.

2010-10-02T20:09:00.020-05:00

"My sister, when she was born, she had blonde hair," said the girl sitting next to me, twisting in her seat to talk to a friend. "Now she has brown hair. That's weird, right?"

Tuesday.
"How old are you?" asked The Boy Who Invited Me To Sit There of the Chinese exchange student.

"Uh, eh, seventeen," he said. There was some ruckus over the age of his girlfriend.

"That's okay," The Boy Who Invited Me To Sit There assured him, with a wave of his hand, "I can do twelve, I can do twelve. This is America, after all."

Friday.
On Fridays the school serves us corndogs for breakfast.

I do not eat breakfast on Fridays.

Monday.
English presentations. Four girls lean against the whiteboard as a shoebox diorama with play-doh figures in it sits on the teacher’s desk beside them.

A girl with empty eyes goes first—she looks sad and lost, and I imagine that no one notices. I follow her words as they all work to unfurl her poster.

A girl with glossy teal fingernails goes next, reciting from memory until her “um”s and “like”s become cause to ask for assistance and she begrudgingly fishes notes from her backpack. I stop listening around now, plan to find information elsewhere if I have to. I can’t see her eyes due to makeup and her nails distract me to no end, and when she smiles it doesn’t seem real to me.

I wish I didn’t think this way, like everyone I meet becomes a character I try to pick apart, not imagining people complexly because all I can see are the shadows they cast. Like what I see is black and white when surely, hopefully gray is what ultimately prevails.

I can’t follow the rest of the presentation, an overview of Upper Hell in Dante’s Inferno. I rub at the blister on my thumb and consider how wrong I might be. I bite my lip.

Ye Old Initials tells us more and I scrawl ideas next to thoughts, juggle worlds as the girl next to me asks to borrow my notes and I oblige. In the hallway after class I study the pretty tulle skirt of another girl in that group, think that I have never spoken to her and wonder what she thinks of it all. She works in the office and I have never seen her smile, can’t remember what her voice sounds like.

I rest my books against my chest as I wait for my Economics teacher to open the classroom door. The cute, nerdy boy who sat behind me in English last year passes by. He wears plaid today and I wonder, like always, if he ever finds me in hallways too.

And I wonder—how do you do it? They are locked doors and I am fumbling with—maybe the wrong—key.

Tuesday.
We are moved into the room next door and presenters rotate. The second presentation involves getting into the groups, and I am guided into a group that includes a tall guy with definite puff levels and some semblance of perceivable knowledge. I think, quietly, that I would like to be his friend.

How to go about this is beyond me.

Wednesday.
The smattering of us without waivers line the walls of what is usually the volleyball practice area directly behind the bleachers in our shiny sports complex thingamajigger. Students in groups are sneakily tricked into sharing personal facts about themselves, and for some reason it makes me smile.

The groups are in circles, small voices rising from the quiet until, every so often, there is a burble of laughter.

And here I am, detached. I am more comfortable this way, finding words and observing moments that are not strictly mine. I am more comfortable borrowing memories, filling my blank space with this--with this.

Thursday.
With minutes to spare, music is blasted from speakers in the auditorium. A math teacher demonstrates a dance, slicking his hair back dramatically and bopping up and down with mad skill, and a group of students take the stage. They dance ridiculously and it makes me smile. It feels like recently I have made myself a character in my own life and I stand still watching people and lives move around me.

Like I have no place grasping for happiness when they all have their groups, their lives. I struggle with wants and their rationalizations; wanting to say words, move forward, carve some space for myself that isn't cold. Say words to the boy I would like to know and he doesn't respond and I tell myself that I don't need drama or wondering when I am just some girl and they all have their places.

Wednesday.
Cute Guy sleeps on the floor at the end of the gym, next to a girl with pretty red hair who I believe to be in a nursing program many students are in. She bends her knees close to her chest and rests an open booklet against them, reading.

A few teachers sit on folding chairs nearby, at the entrance of the space. Most of the others not participating line the next wall, three of the six wrapped in jackets and in various stages of repose.

The person nearest to me is about ten feet to my left, his head resting on a drawstring backpack, and I remember that he is one of the pranksters in my English class, a member of The Infamous Group Of Boys.

Friday.
Pep rally. I stand on the bleachers, periphery as the group I am attempting to cling to fill the seats just below me. The crowd of seniors stand on the seats themselves, the rows, and roar as we compete for the Holy Spirit Stick.

I crane my neck to watch the student conductors through small gaps between people. Their arms move up and down and just so.

They are smiling. This is why I watch them.

Wednesday.
Everyone cheers as a boy manages to carry three girls at once across the gym.

Cute Guy is roused and moves to sit along the next wall, observing. I click my pen open and closed until I decide to write this sentence.

I lament my lack of proper peripheral vision as Cute Guy catches me glancing his way. It's no big deal or anything. It isn't as if people throw stuff at me or anything.

This happens way too often, actually.

Wednesday.
But still, I shy away from what might be advances. I interpret until my thoughts spin circles around me.

I refuse to sign waivers.

Thursday.
English presentations. The Infamous Group Of Boys present their project; The Boy With The Underpants takes this as an opportunity to dress in a red spandex body suit. It is skintight and covers him head to toe.

I dearly hope you can imagine this.

Standing beside The Infamous Group Of Boys, The Boy With The Underpants does a brief jig before undoing the zipper on the back of his head and taking great (poised) gulps of air. He makes a funny face.

Thursday.
It strikes me, standing outside the school's performing arts center as we wait for the doors to open, how alone I am. A five foot radius stands between myself and any other person. My peers group together frantically, as if being alone is a disease they might catch.

The degree at which I am alone makes me feel antisocial.

Wednesday.
It is another beautiful day, one of three I can recall in ages, all of them stacked together this week. My disbelief grows. The weather is pleasant, so much so that I wish to bask in it, and I have never been on the best of terms with the out of doors.

My peers form groups in the shade and in the grassy-ish courtyard area behind me. The dirt here has the consistency of sand. In fact, I'm pretty sure it is sand. While this has been explained to me as the result of the prehistoric existence of some body of water, I choose to find it ridiculous anyway.

A girl my sister knows passes by and asks me if I'm okay. I am. She leaves, a carton of rice in hand, off to a doctor's appointment.

Thursday.
By sheer luck I land an aisle seat next to a boy I have a passing acquaintanceship with. He's very talkative and it's difficult to process what he means by the words he strings together, but he's nice and finds me in hallways to say hello.

Some might find this annoying, and I've had a share of that sort of relationship, but somehow it doesn't bother me. Maybe it's the fact that he cuts through the layer of not knowing and goes straight to words.

Even if I don't fully understand him, his presence makes me feel less alone.

Friday.
Drumline. They pour down the hall in a steady stream--ba ba ba BAH BAH BAH ba ba ba BAH BAH BAH--arms flailing as they pass. My peers rush to line the walls outside the classroom, to watch, enraptured.

I just sit here.

Thursday.
Stretching hurts. I come up short and want to crawl into myself, more so than I ever have. I feel antisocial.

I feel like hiding.

Monday.
My thoughts slip together like staircases.

Monday.
I want to split words, fuse them together, intertwined tightly—and mine. Strung together with breath.

Thursday.
The speaker is a zany scientist, an expert of drug effects on the brain with many a story to his name. A movie has been made based on his impact on history, and at several points he ferries various brains around the auditorium for our viewing.

At least they're frozen.

Wednesday.
If all goes as it is likely to, half of my face will be sunburned following this ordeal.

I decide that I don't care.

Monday.
Clear skies so bright and chill almost enough to call for a sweater, just, and thinking that everything might be okay because it is pretty outside. Good weather makes me happy in a way I cannot replicate, like some sort of mystery I wouldn’t mind living forever if they would just let me keep sitting here as people call to one another around me, a comforting scatter of noise and sunlight gleaming against parked cars.

It also makes me wish I understood things. Ye Old Initials passes by and I wonder if all these years of teaching have made him happy, though my feeling is that he would either question the definition of happiness or say, matter-of-factly, “of course I’m happy.”

Breeze wafts against my neck and I choke against the smell of cheap perfume, a scented wish gone terribly wrong. I stop to stretch my hand. People group together in pieces of shade, spill against a handicap ramp and huddle around the statue of an eagle (gift from the class of 1956!) centered in front of the flag poles.

It isn’t a memorable space of time, but for this reason I wish I could hold it forever—even Dobbin across the courtyard, today wearing a checkered red shirt. He faces away from me and wanders out of sight, and for this moment it doesn’t bother me. It is one of those moments that I like anyway.

Great Art Of Being Thrown Statistics, The

2010-09-27T21:22:00.011-05:00

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

2010-09-24T18:08:00.020-05:00

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

2010-09-22T18:43:00.008-05:00

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

2010-09-11T10:53:00.009-05:00

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.

2010-09-10T17:59:00.010-05:00

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.

2010-09-08T18:22:00.007-05:00

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.

2010-09-06T19:27:00.004-05:00

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.

2010-09-04T11:25:00.005-05:00

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

2010-09-03T20:53:00.002-05:00

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

2010-09-01T19:01:00.007-05:00

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

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?