Lover I Don't Have to Love

Today, after the dress fitting, I purchased fake pearls and "fuck me heels." The dress is so long that the heels won't be visible during prom, but I'll definitely be using them again. In anticipation of May, I've taken steps to get a little fit, to be a little sexier, and I see the results. They're nice. But I've been reconsidering my motive. Feminine appeal doesn't matter much if there's no reciprocated lust, and I've gotten in an awful rut of boys sans sex drives.

The Week Before Christmas

Some late night ago, I thought very vividly of the balls of light suspended in the trees at Brinton Lake around Christmas time. I got milk at Wawa, because the pending snowstorm had depleted the one on 202. Sitting in the car afterward, my eyes got watery, and the lights became like halos on fuzzy silhouettes. Everything else was closed, and no one was on the road. I don't remember singing. It wasn't the ocasion, but it was like something out of a movie.

Retrospectively, I can see where I was wrong.

Tonight was the HiQ banquet.
States are next Friday.
I'm so glad that this year is over.
I hated the team this year.
Except for Doc and Rock,
of course.

Windows and What's Outside

Old fashioned sink, checkered table cloth in farmhouse kitchen.

Whenever I read Organic Gardening magazine, it makes me want to raise chickens or a garden or do something productive, but I hardly ever go back in the garden except to look at how things are growing. Despite my lack of direct involvement, on those days when evening sunlight filters through the maple and the walnut, I look at the barn and a barn cat, maybe the field and fuzzy dandelions, and I'm grateful for my upbringing. I wash my dishes by hand and have done so since I was eleven. I walk. I sometimes hang laundry out to dry. My dad would push me on the tire swing. He built us a tree house and hung up a hammock. Now I wonder if I will have a window in my dorm.

Being a little hooligan with Katie, I remember an afternoon spent on the playground of Mt. Pleasant Elementary. We swore up and down we were of the wrong time, meant to grow up in the sixties and be hippies. I'll stand by the first statement. The fourth dimension has me wrongly placed. Admittedly, I enjoy each day. I love Wikipedia. The internet is a life-changing invention, but I should've been a teen in the 1970s. I should've been friends with my dad and the kids of the woods. My music is there. My style. My aversion to pure convenience.

But I'll live.

"I Like Your Sundress"

Today, volunteering at the art show, I thought about Clayton Park. Kate and sledding. Kate and Jeff and Stasi and sledding. Matt and pictures. Kacey texting me when I was walking off the hurt.

Every time I think about putting Bright Eyes quotes here, I know Nicki will notice.

Today went by fast. I learned.

"little babies, dreaming their little baby dreams..."

The Moth is beautiful. Straight up. The stories of origins, experiences that shaped lives and provided insight, it's an intimate sort of personal.

"...God will look over them, even when I do not."

I was deleting drafts I never published, and came across these.
I was amused and confused.

http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v229/Trigger_89/070220.jpg
http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v299/Kanaro/babies.jpg
http://img.waffleimages.com/65d27585a27cfd54990173dd10fd62d9981edea5/2137a9950nf3.jpg
http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v739/farkingbastage/ridindirty.jpg
http://img.waffleimages.com/9673dfe7d3db35441eb86a0a290dbe420127646e/pandas%203.jpg
http://i153.photobucket.com/albums/s238/LimeGouda/turtlemind.jpg
http://img.waffleimages.com/975f528ac51c583cafa09792e55fc944f387f89d/33.6.jpg
http://img.waffleimages.com/d1cf9bc21859697d633764c1512b3c19d4527786/oh-the-huge-manatee.jpg
http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v102/kingofallblahs/523th5vze4.jpg
http://img.waffleimages.com/67f1892a6fff6a2c4ff93488457ccdd9089d10b6/074_apathy.jpg

Saturday through Sunday, Monday

"Maybe I'll love you one day
Maybe we'll someday grow..."

I recognize that my "love" is pathetically incomplete. I'm curious when and how it will evolve. I talked to my mom about it, and her answer, hands down, is "having kids." That seems like an obvious change, but isn't there something more to spousal love. Am I deluded? By example of my family, spousal love is a convenient working arrangement and is over post-convenience. But from some other families, there is definitely a greater understanding. Companionate love is a lingering love for me. It's probably not worthy to be called so by my definition, which is hazy, but in this age of adolescence, it fits. Hopefully I will learn to love by necessity, and not after it became necessary.

"...til then just sit your drunk ass on that fuckin' runway, ho"

Shocked and Persuaded my Soul to Ignite

"Nothing is crueler than children who come from good homes."
-Amanda Palmer

Today, my mom and I went for a walk. She told me about her aspirations for a three bedroom home. I told her about paying for college. She told me a few stories about the uncle I never met, her little brother. Sometimes I'm scared to death I will only be able to tell my kids stories. Those thoughts are infrequent, though. Jack and I talk about them. Sometimes he agrees.

He doesn't want to go to Garnet Valley anymore, says he hates it. "Parents just don't understand," but I do. I've got 40 something days left before I get out. He's got 540 something. And admittedly, a great majority of my 680 days in confinement were not as unhappy.

The Year of Secrets

Today in physics, I turned in my physics "diary." The definition of this homework assignment is an outline of "concepts, strategies, and reflections" about each day in class. We're supposed to write down what we did, what we didn't understand, and how we intend to induce comprehension. My physics diaries are written in a real diary that I kept from sixth grade into junior year. Earlier stuff is emo or tragic or silly or terrible poetry or the occasional bucket list. Kelsey and Natalie expressed interest in reading it, and I didn't mind. I'm responsible for my own thoughts and actions, and even if I'm ashamed of them, I will not hide them when asked directly. They both complimented my writing style, and we related on some experiences. However, it got me thinking about the things I never wote about.

I once said I'm really good at keeping other people's secrets, but not my own. Until this year, there was always an easy distinction between what is my secret and someone else's (duh, this should be obvious!). However, since summer, there are things that other people have done that affected my life and made me ache. There are revelations that make me very sad, things I "can't" talk about. I don't want pity or advice, but a sounding board or understanding.

I'm very aware that the best way to keep a secret is to never mention it. Since the start of 2010, I made only one vague allusion to any of the secrets I've kept. Now I'm looking for a way out. It'll take a while to find trust in a confessor. Don't be offended if it's not you.

"your FACE is an ad-hominem attack!"

we laugh at pornography
it's the hip thing to do

I am the fucking dragon queen of Lit. Mag. Take that formatting! *Pew pew* to all freshmen who dare not include their attachments. EXPLOSIONS!

I hate Macs! They're counter-intuitive!

My life is sort of busy. A sort of busy I have never encountered before. A sort of busy that keeps me doing necessary and productive work until I fall asleep exhausted, barely having time for food. It's WONDERFUL. I'm going to crash and burn and it's gonna be gorgeous.

Soon means a lot less when everything is measured in walking distance.

South African Pirate Party Wedding Weekend

The weekend wedding was lovely. "Uncle Rodger" wrote Karen two songs. The first, he sang as she walked down "the aisle." (The "aisle" is in quotes, because we were outside in a state park, so it was merely a divide in the chairs.) The chorus went, "It's all in the heart, my friend. It's the heart that tells the stories. It's all in the heart." He made everyone in the audience sing it, and I sorta kinda teared up a bit because it was sorta kinda perfect. Of all my aunts, I most identify with Karen. Now that she's married for the first time in her golden years, I feel there is hope for me. She is the most accomplished woman I've ever met, with a wide variety of interests and talents. Rodger is similarly intelligent and accomplished, with a very pleasant singing voice. He was an anti-apartheid protest singer and formerly on the South African government's blacklist. Now he produces operas and documentaries. NPR interviewed him about South African operas.

I saw my dad dance for the first time. It was hilarious.

I'd never heard "Killing Me Softly" before. On the way home from the wedding, I was riding in Sam's car, a very spectacular Mercedes, and Daniel was driving. We went through all of his Bob Marley before scrolling along to this particular ditty. Sam was singing with loud sincerity. Pam, next to me, admitted that it could be no more embarrassing if she and I were to start singing. However, as I'd never heard it before, I didn't know the words. Luckily, there's about 10 in the whole song, so I picked up quickly and sang with the best of them.

Goat is super delicious. Probably super fatty.

My uncle Joe was quite snookered Friday evening, when it was suggested that everyone go out for a pub crawl. My uncles, Joe especially, were upset because Rodger was not required to wear his eye-patch, thus, they could not force him to endure a "pirate themed bachelor party." The pub crawl was to be the substitution, sans pirate strippers. Because we had a massive family dinner outside in the courtyard, Joe had three of the four forks his room had contributed. They were in his pocket. Quite inebriated, he shouted, "I have three forks! That means we can stab three people at three different bars. Or I can give one to each of you, then NOBODY will fuck with us!" Some minutes later, when transportation was arranged, he calmly stated, "Wait, let me grab some shoes that lace up, just in case I have to kick some fuckers in the head." All of this transpired while my most Catholic grandmom was present.

Temperpedic beds suck dirty, hairy balls.

My aunt Jeanne has a few phobias, one of them being a fear a flying. Being thus, she elected to drive the six hours to Durham. However, she wanted to take a scenic route that avoided every single major highway and efficient road. She left my grandmom's around the same time we left for the airport. Twelve hours later (approximately 1 am), she arrives at the condominiums, exhausted, with an awful headache. The next morning, she was in the worst condition for a wedding. Sick. Throwing up. Sensitive to light, sound, and movement. Migraines. Even though she made a good show, she couldn't make it to the wedding on time. In fact, I did not see her at all until Sunday morning at ~10. She's going to be staying with my uncle Joe and aunt Jane to see their "new" devil house in South Carolina. It's cursed. More on that later.

For breakfast, I had a sesame bagel, most of a mango, almonds, and orange juice. I could stand to have that happen a little more often.

Joe and Jane's house is in a little backwoods Southern community. The grass is super grass that needs to be cut at least twice a week, lest it start eating the roaming dogs, raccoons, or foxes that frequent their backyard. It has required an immense amount of work. One of those things beingn to put new doors on the all the cabinets. So, being industrious, Joe and Jane cleaned off the heavy doors, maybe 5-10 lbs each, primed them, dried them, and left them outside to begin the last coat of white. However, the wind started blowing. Joe and Jane were standing on their deck and worried that the wind was going to blow all sorts of dirt and nastiness from their lawn onto the doors. No. That is not what happened. A mini-twister formed, picking up four or five of the doors, swirling them around in the air a bit, before smashing them against the rock driveway, smashing up the corners and removing promiscuous bits and pieces. Amazed and stupefied at what they had just witnessed not ten feet away, they brushed them off and applied the final layer of paint.

Durham is almost urban, as it is a former tobacco/textiles town. Jack and I hopped up on an abandoned train track and enjoyed the late evening air. It was interesting.

My female cousins are uber girls. When my aunt inquired how long it would take for us to get ready, I said, "Twenty minutes, but that's not including my shower." Each of the other girls replied, "An hour and a half, but that's if I have a whole bathroom to myself, so maybe two and a half." The oldest is intelligent and reasonable. The youngest is not. She has a dog, Lola, who is about the size of my ho' bag and about as intelligent, though more often underfoot and in the way. Also, in the words of my dad, "Peanut-head, peanut bladder." It pees.

During the pub crawl, my uncle Joe was this close to riding a mechanical bull when my cousin Daniel got carded. He's ~60 days from turning 21.

North Caroline is "the Tobacco State." Being so, with Jack jonesing, he requested that I attempt to buy him cigarettes from "Sleepy Eyes," the mildly racist, mildly stoned attendant of the gas station around the corner. The first day we encountered him, I was just casing the place, getting a feel for whether or not he'd sell to me. During that time, two Mexicans walked in. I was in my Soffees. The pink ones with green whales and skulls on them. They were hiked up pretty high. Two Mexicans walked in, and I was pretty suspicious they were checking me out. Then it was confirmed they were checking me out, as I made eye contact with one and he winked. As we were leaving, I caught "muneca" and was flattered. The second night, post-wedding, I was dressed up with my dressy shirt pulled down as low as possible, and Sleepy Eyes sold me the Newports. Jack bought me gum for my efforts.

Bad Penny Beer was the keg, a microbrew from a local place. My uncles didn't drink 'til they got back to the condos.

The dancing was great. My aunt is a swing dancer, and Rodger just makes it up as he goes. It was very nice, though the playlist was not the usual dancey selection. Both "Down Under" and "Oxford Comma" were played, and both were danced to as best as could, given the circumstances.

What Would Jesus Think?

I've been hurting, strangled up in possibilities and buzzwords. Some time ago, I recognized that I am the pilot of my happiness, and as result, I'm usually in a good mood and happy and enthusiastic. Still, internal monologue is suffocating that logic and sense of direction. I'm not really sure what will make me happy anymore, and there isn't busy-ness to fill the void and stop the incessant chatter. During the day I'm sane. I'm logical. I know what can and cannot be, and it doesn't hurt. Then I get home, get sleepy, think these half-twisted thoughts about what could and should, reflect negatively on my history of interpersonal relationships.

I'm gonna have some really fucked up relationships. Half by example. Half by personal failings.

I've given up on learning game design. My instructor jumped ship and the internet at my house makes watching instructional videos impossible. Neglecting game design negates the need to learn Java. Wikipedia has no appeal, except in those sparse and beautiful moods. Poetry is simply exotic diction, and I'm hesitant to jump into another book.

As of now, I've gotten to the point where I reach out to two people. I want to blame it on my history, my IQ, my "family issues," when I'm probably just a jerk. I have no desire to talk to anyone else, and I don't know how to get past the trite facades of most teenagers. Even with these two friends, I resent one and am too easily irritated by the other. The latter is purely my own fault, but I neglect to express that she is appreciated beyond any other. I feel guilty, but that's still not taking action to remedy the situation.

Don Hertzfeldt

"You could make a cartoon in crayons about a red square that falls in unrequited love with a blue circle, and there wouldn’t be a dry eye in the house if you know how to tell a story."

Rejected is the third best short film of all time, according to that great and respected authority, imdb.

"I'm feeling fat and sassy."

Highly recommended wiki: Don Hertzfeldt, followed by Rejected.

"it cuts to the next scene; a man with bunny ears walks up to three children, makes a mooing noise, and does as the quote said onto the three children"

Ded-Gifawe

I checked again, willing it to change from a Forever Stamp, but the handwriting was all wrong anyway.

Now that robotics is over, I have nothing but time. Maybe I'll learn a lot. Or walk a lot.

"Loanwords can also be called "borrowings". Although of long-standing usage, neither loanword nor borrowing correctly conveys the meaning, since no words are going to be returned to the "creditor" language."
-Wikipedia

I've got to look for loans shortly.

Mrs. S. commented that she liked my necklace. I said it was from a friend. A friend who is a boy. She noted the lack of naming names. Mrs. K. asked to guess, and damn if she doesn't know everything. I'm smiley all the time, though I wonder if it isn't influenced by Kate's infectious adorableness. It's a waste to be hesitant and nervous about the future, when now is so wonderful.

Augh. It's Depressing Comic Week #4 on C&H.
And I was having a really good week.
I've been all smiley, and almost maybe sorta kinda floaty.

Fun from Saturday

Step One: Find the biggest girl in the venue
Step Two: Jump on her back
Step Three: Ride her like a dinosaur

"the bill: tl/dr"

It's Not a Lusting

There was something serene in today, and a lot of laughter.
Ceramic scratch of metal spoon on bowl of ice cream.
Pink trail of airplane that looks like it's crashing to earth.
That little catch in his voice where it turns over to something rough and sour.
My dad and his easy way with animals, but alienation from people.