Blog Every Day April: 4/30

"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

"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

"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

"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

"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

"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

"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

"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

"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

"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

"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

"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

" '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

"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

"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

". . .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

" '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

"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

"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

"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.