Blog Every Day August: 8/5

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.

In conclusion.

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?

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

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

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.

"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.

The crossing of paths.

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.

"Because we hate each other so much?"

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.

Group Dynamics

"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."

Another exciting DOBBIN installment.

I hate pep rallies.

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

Really. I almost started crying.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hi," I said abruptly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Move on. Actual lols.

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

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

I have such great taste in men.

Blog Every Day August: 8/30

I am in a precarious good mood. Does that make sense? My mood is lifted, yet I feel like depression could slink in, yank at my coattails and toss me back down again at any moment. This is about as good as it gets.

Separating today into parts isn't working so well in my head. Bits and pieces flutter through my thoughts, unwilling to cling coherently to words. I said words to Dobbin today. We were in the same group in class (hahahahahahahahaha yes) and he said something at the end of class and then I said something and then I proclaimed myself to be a magical ninja to the teacher and left. Then he came into the library during eighth period with his class and I had to stop myself from hyperventilating madly while partitioning off laminated posters. And he keeps looking at me? I don't know.

My sister wisely told me that I might should stop thinking about him so much. I just got defensive at this suggestion. It isn't like I wake up every morning with the idea "ZOMG I get to think about DOBBIN TODAY oh yeah!!!!!" My thoughts are haywire as it is.

Irony: discussing conflict resolution/how to act in a disagreement while forced into a group with your ex-boyfriend.

Him: I'll write it down.

Me: I already wrote it down.

Him: Well never mind then.

[please insert really weird eye contact here, oh my God]

I'm a f*ding*ing ninja.

That felt appropriate for some reason.

Notable events, notable events... Teachers like me. I don't even know. Well, I do. I must reverberate "I'm a cool kid" vibes or something. Maybe I just do the work, unlike the majority population, but I find it hard to believe this could be the only reason. Surely some people do it, as well, though I do not have statistics on this. In English our teacher, One Who Is Addressed By His Initials, tried to switch a test date on us and argued that no, he hadn't set the date for Wednesday. It was always Tuesday. Yet, when I had it written out in my planner as Wednesday and he observed this, he said "okay, because Katherine is the only one I trust, I'll give you this one."

I repeat: I am a f*ding*ing ninja.

I know, internet. First I reveal to you the fact that I flip myself off in mirrors, then I throw expletives all over the place. It must be a lot to handle. It's getting me a bit hot and bothered, too, if you must know.

At work today I felt like I was doing everything wrong. The Mighty And Magical library staff seemed out of sorts to me, which led me to worry that they were mad at me or I was a failure at Life. If I don't have instruction I go straighten books on shelves and hope that if they need me they'll say something. Tomorrow I work until eight for the first time. Please Lord thank you help me.

Then I came home. Other bits happened. Then I sat here and promptly discovered this. THE BEST. It doesn't feel that simple, but it helps. I'm trying here.

Also awesome: THIS. Also this, which I frequently orchestrate dance parties to. And my lovely wonderful friend Erin. And breathing. Caffeine. Many things.

I don't want BEDA to end. I am seriously contemplating blogging more regularly after this experience. Who wants to hold me to that? I could use a keeper.

For some reason that last sentence makes me giggle.

Blog Every Day August: 8/27

Why do I think about Dobbin so much? He is hardly worth this effort.

The last time I

wore this skirt

it was for him

and I remember that night

in fuzzy picture memories

romanticized twilight

and standing up against a railing

and taking your hand

and holding it there

and you were lost in other things,

as I told you where the quotes the proud graduates

read aloud

were from

and the breeze, and

the world dimming

turning my head away

as you looked at me,

fussing with my

skirt against the wind

Your curved smile

and your words,

you wanted to cry

as your friends went out into the world

and somehow I knew

this would be

what I

remembered.

Silly teenage girl poetry? Why yes. Stream of consciousness, straight from my teenage girl journal. I promise I don't usually write like this. This blog should be some proof, hopefully. I was sitting in our senior class meeting and feeling pessimistic. Nine months from tomorrow, we graduate. What? This place leaves me feeling alienated and alone, often. I am not excited about graduating. It isn't the shiny beautiful present for me that it is for so many. I haven't grown up with these people, and most of them want nothing to do with me.

I am optimistic, mostly, but these are truths as I see them. And as much as I hate that I think about Dobbin so much, it is what it is. Maybe it was two months ago. Maybe he was just some boy, not worth my time. But... something. And now I have to see him every day and it makes me angry that he is now in my bubble, in my life even in this peripheral way. Because I felt like periphery around him most of the time. And I still want to find logic in all of this. I still do.

In Psychology today I had the urge to burst out laughing as the teacher spoke. "This class," he said, "can act as a safe haven for you, where you can come and not be scared over what people might say. Say someone is a jerk to you, and they are in this class. You really don't want to be around them. They're a jerk to you, but you're nice to them anyway. It's like they say: fake it til you make it." Or some such blatherings. The teacher seems like a nice enough guy, honestly, but this discussion left me muttering to myself in hysterics. Things to come: group work! Oh, goody.

On Fridays staff/teachers are allowed to wear jeans with a school t-shirt, but I don't own such a shirt yet... unfortunately enough. I wore a cute skirt instead and my "boss" (I guess? The head librarian, who is really really cool and nice) said I looked "very nice" today. It made me happy. Dressing up is proving fun.

ALSO: I love the library. True facts. I hope the feeling lasts. So much fun. Yesterday I was formatting a table to check off the magazines we've received each month and it was supremely exciting to me. Problem solving! How can I format this so it doesn't explode? It's like playtime for Katherine! It's still kind of scary, working, but they're so nice and libraries and librarians are awesome.

You know who I also love? Teachers. Teachers are the best. I get tingly thinking about it.

And stuff.

Later: My awkwardness is so beautiful. Sigh.

Blog Every Day August: 8/26

Irony is beautiful. At this point it's either laugh or cry, as many things in my life come to. Today my schedule change was confirmed, moving my work periods to seventh and eighth and exchanging eighth period Animation with fourth period Psychology. I was relieved to find that I still have A Lunch, meaning I can still eat lunch with my sister. Otherwise I would have no one to sit with. These are just facts.

Following lunch today, I entered Psychology class for the first time and found a seat. And a few minutes later, Dobbin entered as well. I almost wasn't surprised. Terrible irony follows me. Then, of course, we were all asked to stand at the front of the class and speak about ourselves for sixty seconds. He was sitting front and center. Best sixty seconds of my life. Obviously. I read from my notes and shook a lot. I refuse to look at or acknowledge him in any way. Obsessive notes: the two times I've spoken and clapping has been expected, he has clapped. The three times he's spoken and clapping has been expected, I have not clapped. I have looked the other way or acted as if he didn't exist. This is my approach in general. Or I'm trying. Whether this is the right approach is something I'm unsure of. Is there even a right way? I'm so confused.

This stuff is so hard. It isn't like I really want to look at him. But my bubble regarding him is being seriously invaded. And of course, all I want to do is scream at him. But it's over. It's over. This has been over for longer than it existed, but in my defense: I sat next to the guy for almost eight months before this happened. Also just because. It makes me angry that I have to be mature about this, that I can't yell or give him the finger or something. But I don't do stuff like that. I am somewhat irrational in thought, rational in action, and it drives me crazy.

I wish I could yell. I wish it were allowed. But I'm the bigger person or something.

One cool thing, though: many of my peers said they considered themselves nerds when they spoke.

Tomorrow I leave work early for my appointment with my counselor. Need to work out better times. Work is good. I think. I'm enjoying it, though it's kind of scary. Friday is also the day staff/teachers are allowed to wear jeans, but only with a "spirit shirt," and I don't own one yet. Oh well. Next week, maybe. "Fancy" clothes are kind of fun, if a bit uncomfortable sometimes.

I do not understand math, and we're still on review. It is scary. My Economics teacher makes it seem interesting. I have to read a boring thing for AP English by Wednesday. Supposedly we're destined to fail but he's grading on the bell curve to show us how it works... so maybe I won't fail? I hope not. Teachers are really nice to me. Work chitchat is weird in that it's a bit fake, but somehow uplifting. By saying "I'm good thank you, how are you?" I can sort of trick myself into believing it. And often I am good. Anyway. It's distracting, in a good way. So far. Watched a cheesy video in Physics. We gained a student in Career Prep who I've always found really nice; she was in my English class last year and is in there this year, as well.

That felt like a really weird paragraph.

And I need to do other things ahhhh SAT standardized tests college other stuff. I feel like I have to make the subjects taboo for the moment, or else drive myself up the wall. Taking things one thing at a time is difficult for me.

Blog Every Day August: 8/23

Today was the first day of school. I just woke up after conking out for several hours this evening. I am severely addled. This is bound to go well. I started work, which went pretty well I think despite the fact that now I'm second-guessing whether I got my hours right. Oh dear. If I got them wrong they'd tell me, right? I hope? I don't know. I learned how to laminate. And I laminated.

And oh yeah, remember Dobbin? The dashing creature who led me on, lied to me and then broke up with me via text message? He didn't switch schools. His presence is existent. OH AND I'M IN A CLASS WITH HIM THIS IS JUST GREAT. I wasn't even supposed to be in this class but my schedule wasn't entered right. Total freeze out is being employed, but... gosh. I don't want to deal with this. Until today I hadn't seen him in almost three months. But now he's all around me and I don't know what to do when all I can do is ignore him with fire and ninjas. I refused to look at or acknowledge him.

But... he hurt me. He took my trust, already threadbare, and used it as a rug. I want to yell or scream or say something or be clever or something, but I cannot. I get to be the girl he mutters to his friends about as I walk into class, flat tones of "that's my ex." I get to be the one who gets strange looks from those in his group of friends I became acquainted with. I get to completely ignore him as he throws me questioning glances. And I can't say anything. This is supposed to be over, but it isn't for me. It isn't suddenly okay that this worm got me to trust him, told me I was his "best friend," "the best thing that ever happened" to him and that "every part of Katherine Hardman is lovable and loved by" him and other such stupidity, and then broke up with me in a text message. None of this is okay. But even in light of my ignoring him completely and my words to him previously, he gets to think he got away with it. He charms people, and I can't help but entertain the idea that he might approach me eventually. He's certainly stupid enough to think that this would be a good idea.

Also he said hello to my sister twice today. Get out of my world, dude. She doesn't want to talk to you.

Other stuff. Why can't this be over? It's hard to believe it will ever feel over.

Blog Every Day August: 8/5

I have no news today. Well, this is a lie. I was lying to you there. My distinct apologies. There was news about an hour ago when we learned that I can pick up my GPA tomorrow. So that's NEWS. News news news news. I know you're excited. As no other notable things have occurred, I'm left pondering my default topics, most of which are somewhat depressing.

So let's talk about boys, to get it out of the way for the month. It's pretty inevitable. Please feel free to skip past this entry, as I realize it is destined to be self serving and long-winded. Let's call a particular boy Dobbin, because the name Dobbin makes me laugh and it's easier for me to call him something else. Dobbin was a boy in my Geometry class. He was tall. He wore glasses. He was very outgoing and extroverted. He liked Harry Potter. We became sort-of friends (I'm weird about calling people friends), and I introduced him to Nerdfighteria. It was all very platonic and fine until late April, when we realized we liked one another.

Before Dobbin, I had never had a boyfriend. I wasn't particularly interested in having one, and it isn't as if there are scores of hot nerdy gentlemen ideals here in Hicksville, Texas (or, indeed, anywhere I have lived). But he asked me out and I was so, so excited at the prospect of getting to know him better. But... that didn't happen. I would ask him questions and he would seem surprised I had asked. I would worry, and tell him I was worried, and he would continually reassure me that things were fine. I can be a skeptic, and trust is not something that comes naturally to me, so his reassuring and flowery words always left me doubting. However, I was sort of happy. I was hopeful, despite my many journal entries filled with unanswered questions.

We saw each other very little. All I wanted, I swear, was to sit the guy down and have an actual conversation. I was not looking for hanky panky, or lifelong commitment. As I say, trust isn't something I give out eagerly. My trust is tattered, and I'm exceedingly tentative with it. But I was so, so honest. So honest. I never lied, and I tried so hard to communicate. School let out (for me) in late May, and the last time I saw him for longer than a five minute interval was at our high school's graduation. Dobbin was even more distracted than usual at this event, I think, because many of his friends were graduating. And while I (and a lot of other people) teased him for ignoring me, I was okay with it. It was a big deal for him, and I was just sort of there. That was okay.

Less than okay was the fact that I wrote him a seven page letter that he responded to with two sentences pertaining to the first page. The idea was that if he couldn't talk to me in person without his stomach flipping (excuses are fun, aren't they?), maybe writing would be a solution. Even in this, I moved on. It was okay. I felt like I had a handle on it, and I started to... trust. He kept pressing me with those pretty words and told me he loved me, told me I could trust him, that I was safe with him. No, I didn't know when I would see him again. Yes, I was often left confused by his actions. But I started to trust, whether this is a logical progression or not.

It was a week short of two months "together" that he broke up with me. I had just gotten back from a visit with my dad and grandparents that left me scattered and upset. It was Monday evening and we were texting. Everything seemed fine. Everything was fine. We were discussing nicknames and his visit with his aunt and he told me he loved me. Two hours later... well. He threw ellipses all over the place, stuttering via text that he wasn't sure how to say something. I answered back multiple times as he refused to fess up, saying he could call me or say whatever it was with the caveat that it wouldn't sound right. I spent thirty minutes sitting at my desk, phone in hand, shaking. When he finally replied it was to say that maybe we weren't meant to be more than friends, that his "head and [his] heart" had been aching over this, that he was sorry and could we "still be friends?"

Yes, I put the text messages on Facebook. It wasn't my finest hour. He had told me that everything was fine, and all those pretty things I began to believe, and then he dumped me in a text message. I don't trust easily. It takes a lot for me to call someone my friend, even. But I trusted and then this happened, and it made no sense. I am constantly looking for logic in things, and there was none. Having not accepted his plea for a continued friendship or his friend request on Facebook (HAHAHAHAHA), I made my twitter private and spent a great deal of time in a rage of confusion and horror and what-have-you. After almost two weeks of contemplation and upset, I sent him a message.

Let's be clear here. I needed closure. I needed to be able to say my piece and walk away, never to speak with Dobbin again. While many would advise against it, I needed that and spent a lot of time thinking before I sent something. I showed it to my mom before I sent it. I thought and wrote a lot, which is one way that I am able to process things. I was rational and I did not regret it when I pressed send. It was a great letter, if I do say so myself. Four days later he responded, saying he had been going through personal difficulties at the time and was very sorry in light of his cowardice. This was one thing. It shocked me that he said sorry, but I wasn't sure of my next move. At first I drafted a short, curt response and was leaving it for a while when... he poked me on Facebook. There was definite yelling at the computer screen involved when I received it, and it gave me (personal) license to send it off. It ended with "have a nice life." And with his response, "Goodbye Katherine", our communications came to an end. Thank God.

So. Closure having been acquired, I was left both relieved and in another quandary. Why had he lied? Why had he said all of those things, then taken them back with a tone that seemed rather like another way to say "just kidding"? I didn't know why, and answers are a subject I think about often. That is, not having them. I never have the answers, and so much in my life is not remotely my control. I am trying to learn to focus on what I can control, and to take things one at a time, but as with anything it is a process. Very difficult. My next step had been to compile all documents relating to him, date and fold them and place them in order. All of this went into a shoebox, along with a burned CD of relevant things and anything else I found. I wrote a lot of drafts and moonbrained tirades in this time frame, which composed most of this stuff. The box went with me a lot of places for a while. Now it lives in my closet, where I can still pull it out and look if I really need to. The point is this: with these papers contained in this box, they aren't going to jump out and attack me when I'm not expecting it. It provides some structure where I can find none.

And that's about that. I still deal with feelings about this, but they aren't as horrific as they were at first. My twitter is no longer private. Dobbin isn't all I think about any more. He won't be going to our school next year, even, that I'm aware of. It's possible that I will never lay eyes on him again, and in that I guess I'm lucky. It could have been worse, I realize, but the situation still took over a large portion of my life. It still hurt and it continues to show no logic. This isn't all of it. There are details I haven't pressed here, but as I'm realizing... words are not all-encompassing. I love them so, but mine are destined to be scattered and incomplete. Through this, I was still my own person. Better things will come, and I have hope. I still have hope, and this remains especially relevant.

Appropriately, my sister is playing "Nerdfighterlike" at the moment. Personally, I'm glad I've gotten this post over with early in the month. If you've read it, I commend your sheer amazingness and stamina. Thanks for bearing with me as I regale you with my personal troubles.