Experiences with the male gender.

There are a handful of relevant things I could write about at the moment. This Christmas day, for instance, was one of the more traumatizing events of my young life. I could write about it, but in discussing it at any length I feel obligated to justify myself. I am conflicted, but I am not wrong.

Instead I'm going to write about boys, because I am a teenage girl and this is what teenage girls write about.

A boy named Kelvin decided to visit with me during lunch one day in eighth grade. He was in my seventh grade English class, styled his dark hair with gel and had a particular fondness for cats. My recollection of our conversation is blurry, but time has left me with the impression that he a) told me I needed more friends and b) needed to be romantically involved to be whole. I also recall him patting himself on the stomach and noting the fact that I could afford to "lose a few pounds." My response concerned my "imaginary friends" and how awesome they were.

I have always been clever.

A few days later Kelvin found me at my locker (which, for those interested, featured posters of Hilary Duff) between classes. "Hey," he said, "I thought we'd gone over this. Black makes you look fat."

For the next few days he followed me from class to class, insults at the ready, and I would shout at him to leave me alone as I stalked off.

Then, as I tucked into my spaghetti at lunch later that week, he appeared again. This time he had backup; a few friends stood in his wake. I turned in my seat to face him.

"Would you go out with me?" he said, sitting down next to me.

Half a beat was skipped. "No."

He appeared not to hear me, smiling creepily. "Hey," he said, rubbing his leg against mine. "You know, I'm a professional slut."

"Wait," a girl in his entourage said finally, "you said no?!"

"Yes," I said carefully, "I said no."

Kelvin was up in a flash. He rubbed his face with one hand, mumbling something like "Oh, I was kidding anyway."

I never heard from him again.

I have had only two long-term crushes in my lifetime. The first was named Cameron, two years previously. I fully embarrassed myself with that one, even going on to sneak pictures of him with my micro-digital camera and nickname him "Camcorder." It lasted all through sixth grade. He was a jerk.

I guess I have kind of a thing for jerks.

The second boy to win my attentions was named Zephaniah, one year and one move following my encounter with Kelvin. He and another boy, Sidney, befriended me in my ninth grade American History class. We sat together and, after months of prodding, they convinced me to join their church youth group.

I am both embarrassed and pleased to say that I have footage of this boy for you. I also have blog posts regarding him hidden away in my very first blog, but there is no way I'm going off to find those.

Just no.

Zephaniah was roguishly attractive. I still get a little flustered thinking about him. However, as was intended to be my point, he was a male chauvinist. He was also self-centered and considered himself to be the source of biblical knowledge.

He also looked like Jesus.

Jesus.

He flirted with me at length during American History, though it was obvious nothing would come of it, and eventually went on to date another girl in the youth group. At that point he joked that he should "probably stop flirting" with me.

He didn't stop. Not that I minded.

As I often say: I have the best taste in men.

Dream state.

Cute Guy asks me to meet him outside. I am sitting across from him on a patch of grass outside of school; he leans closer, kisses me quickly. I close my eyes and I am back in school, rushing from gray hallway to gray hallway.

Nothing is the same. The lockers have been moved around and I can't find mine; I desperately search for it as the bell rings, finally bursting into tears. I can't, can't, can't be late and everything has changed.

As I find it I work the lock in frustration, wanting only to knock my head against it.

Later, as I leave school, Voldemort tails me.

Part of me is amused. The other part is frustrated with myself.

Giving thanks.

My excuses are the same, varying in their frequency. I'm tired. I'm overwhelmed by the slightest of changes and expectations, and the fact that there is so much ground I could cover in this blog leaves me wanting to curl up into a ball and nap forever.

So I won't. I won't try to explain it all.

I haven't seen or heard from my father in six months; word on the street (I amuse myself) is that he will be at my grandparents' on Christmas day, which is where my brethren and I will be on Christmas day, which positively thrills me to bits. (And I may use "six months" as a great divider of time and responsibility, but this visit in and of itself was coincidental. Fun story.)

My first instinct here is to go into defensive mode and attempt to justify every action or decision I've ever made regarding my father. I realize that this is impossible, however, and will leave you with this instead:

I am, understandably, bitter. He left. I have never been treated as I deserve to be, and it still hurts me. I am in counseling, and that has helped. I am facing my problems. I am beginning to believe in myself. But this isn't a "Get Rich Quick!" scheme. This is my life, and the process is slow going. In the mean time, I have a mother who loves me. I have friends who care for me, as I do them. I have a house to live in and a best friend I'm grateful for.

I have a "promising future." I have a job working in my school's library until the end of the school year; I have grown to love it, and each day is an opportunity to prove to myself that I am a useful human being. I am continually amazed by the fact that I have this job and my bosses are awesome and I am useful. I may gripe about it occasionally (generally when I'm tired), but I'm truly grateful for my job and what it has brought me.

I had considered scrapping this post, having no grand moral to impart to you, but a few moments ago I ventured out of my housecavelandofcomputer to check for today's mail, and my first college acceptance letter has arrived. I know it is expected. I know that I am an intelligent young woman with excellent grades, and there is no reason I shouldn't be accepted to any college I apply to. Knowing this is different than feeling it, however, and to have tangible confirmation of this is relieving.

And for this moment, there are good things.

I have difficulty giving thanks. I am a generally overwhelmed human being, and holidays make me mopey. But I am, in a roundabout and work-in-progress way, thankful.

Thank you, all of you. You have become my friends, and for that I am always grateful. Thank you for you.

The crossing of paths.

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

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

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

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

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

It's silly, maybe.

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

Without.

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

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

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

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

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

"Because we hate each other so much?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

I can use all the help I can get.

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

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

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

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

Meanwhile, Bowl Cut Boy waves in my direction.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I realize that I am more than this.

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

I would like a lot of things.

Lost and Found

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am a lost and found of moments.