Blog Every Day April: 4/5

"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

"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

"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

"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

". . .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!

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

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.