write right rite

I'm home again. Home meaning my dad and friends and the city that I love even though it's smelly and kind of empty sometimes. Even though home means doing more work and worrying about my future and other things that I am told are important. I'm so glad to be back, despite that.

I've just read all of these old crazy things I wrote on google docs over the past year, and I stopped and wrote a new one. I've written several letters to people with no intention of sending them. Well, not exactly people. More or less one person. It's really stupid. If anybody other than me ever read any of the stuff I write, I would be mortified. It's like a weird, slightly obsessive-compulsive, crazy person diary written to people. Also, I write in my diary as if someone from the future is going to read it. Is that so unreasonable though? I will probably read it in the future. Hopefully nobody else will though-I write the most stupid things. I wonder what Sylvia Plath wrote in her diary when she was my age. I think about her a lot, but I feel like I can't read The Bell Jar yet. I just don't think I can do it. Maybe when I'm a little less crazy? I really want to though-it has the attraction of playing with fire, or climbing really tall trees. It's like Legs baby.

Anyway, in some ways, I kind of wish that my unsent letters on google docs were read by their hypothetical recipient(s). I wish that they could understand why I'm writing. I wish I could understand why I'm writing. Frankly, I have no idea. I had this whole thing where I wanted to write more this summer so that I could get better at it, but I don't think it's working out so well. I've only ended up writing around once a month on average, and I'll probably write less for myself once school starts. It's not like I have anything important to say, and it's not like anyone ever reads this anyway. Why would they?

strangers

Summer=reading, and summer reading, but I always end up reading too many other books that are not assigned, and it's always late August or early September by the time I start SUMMER READING, which is of course the most important thing to be doing.

The library in this small town in northern Virginia reminds me of the Secret Garden, because there used to be a secret stairway hidden by ivy-covered walls that led to a sundial that was always wrong. Now I realize that the stairway was never really a secret after all, and that it leads to the main road, and that everybody could see it the whole time. Most of the ivy is gone now anyway. The library never has all of the SUMMER READING books I need, and always seems to be small and empty now.

Nearly everything in this town, even the library, is a stranger to me now, but that's not necessarily a bad thing. I still have one friend here. She is back from Russia now and dancing to a cd on the boombox. We make fun of teeny boppers and blast Alejandro through open car windows. I can stop worrying about college and The Extended Essay long enough for Lady Gaga.