holy shit i'm tired

My best friend is moving away today, my brother is coming back today.  I had to say goodbye to her and then I stayed up way too late last night.  I'm leaving for college soon, and it hasn't completely sunk in yet.  I've got a job that I haven't started yet, and honestly don't really want to start because I'll be there for less than three weeks anyway. And come on, who wants to be a telemarketer?  Nobody, that's who.  Especially since I would be calling people while they are at work. What up with that?  And then someone has to be bored or desperate enough once every hour that I am there to actually buy the magazines I'm selling.


I'm so excited to leave for the mountains. Nothing is going to be the same anymore, but I think I'm okay with it.  I'm not worried about leaving for school or missing my parents because I'm never with both of them at the same time anyway; I've already left two homes.


Next year, I want to be myself, but better.  I want to be better at something.  I want to be more extroverted, get better grades, become a better writer/musician/anything.  I want to have my own thing.  I want to be ballsy enough to make Gold Lion happen and for Cypress to design the t-shirts. 

creepin on new yorkers who i can't stop thinking about

She was drew crossed with vanessa, except not particularly pretty upon first glance, but she had this energy about her.  She was standing with her boyfriend in the subway, her arms around his neck.  They were both messy, disheveled, cool.  I watched as she perfectly applied dimestore lip gloss, almost red.  The train wobbled, but she didn't need a mirror. She kissed the excess away on her hand, leaving two perfect maps of her mouth behind. She smiled, laughed, seemed so alive and whole. Her eyes sparkled when she talked about how she loved to carry her teal backpack around with her, how perfect it was.  She was a grown child, with overall shorts and that backpack and that cheap lipgloss, but there was something so adult about her too, something I have had yet to experience.  She knew something I didn't.  She was happy and in love and didn't really care about what happened next.

so.

I feel like I haven't written in forever, mostly because I've been...doing things.  So weird. But really.  Let's see. Within the past few weeks, I graduated from high school, went to visit my mom and played in an international youth orchestra there, and went to NYC.  All of the little things in between have prevented me from writing anything at all, here or otherwise.  Justification complete.


It's funny how even though you've done something before, you forget what it's really like after a while.  When I play with an orchestra, even just at school (my OLD school! I don't go there anymore!), I feel really good.  I'm seriously trying to think of a better word to use.  Content? Complete?  Connected? Something that maybe doesn't start with a c?  "Good" is the perfect word.  All of the others reflect some of what I felt, but the best way to say it is "good".  I just feel whole and happy and challenged and like I'm actually doing something for once.  I'm making a sound, everybody's making a sound together.  It's good.  Even if we weren't super great or anything, it didn't really matter.  I was doing something that I loved.

hey, you there..

I write in the second person too much.  Gross.  It's a bad habit.  I kind of go back and forth between the first and second person, and who the fuck would think that that isn't annoying?  I'll try to stick to the first person right now. I I I.  I.  Yes.  Okay.  I can do this, for sure. 

I think I like writing in second person because it feels more like I'm telling someone something [resist urge to add "you know what I mean?"].  I probably do it because I feel weird saying "I" so much.  As if anything I have to say is super important.  I'd like to think that I'm super deep and stuff, which also involves less use of "I". But honestly, I'm probably as introspective as some photography chick, the kind with arty photos and cool hair.  If I were speaking to someone right now, I would tell him or her that he or she knows the kind of person I am talking about. 

The thing is, I generally write how I speak, or as Cypress has said, "good, clean prose".  It's so clearly prose, nothing vaguely poetic or funky about it.  But because I write how I speak, and because I generally speak to people other than myself, I start to accidentally write to someone.  Not usually anyone in particular, but to the vague misty wall of You.  So.  Um.  I guess that's it.  Okay.    

struck by lightning

That's the literal translation of "love at first sight" in French.  I like when these things happen, things that translate into something completely different that captures the same idea so perfectly.  Not that I've ever experienced love at first sight or anything.  But don't we imagine it as something that is so instant and powerful that it causes you to feel as though you already know the person you've supposedly fallen in love with?  I'm not a romantic, and I don't really believe that it is love that happens at first sight, but it's nice to think about that.  It kind of goes along with the whole idea that we each have a soul mate, someone we were destined to be with since the day we were born.  Soul mate in French is literally soul sister.  Just saying.  


Things are going to start changing soon.  The thought has been buzzing behind my eyes for the past couple of weeks now, lurking behind the normal.  It's like Chronicle of a Death Foretold; I know that Santiago Nasar dies from the very beginning, but I don't know how or why, or what happens in between.

I am sunburned on only one of my shoulders, because I cut up my gay-straight alliance shirt to look cool.  There is a thin white line where my skin was protected by the strap of my bra, and all around it is red with freckles.  It doesn't look like my skin anymore, it looks older and a little leathery, and then I worry about skin cancer and what my skin will be like when I am old.    

analyze this, sucka

What's so wrong with telling stories?  Our lives are just stories.  Maybe they have deeper meaning, but we can't find out until the end.  When we're dead.  And can't find out anything anyway.  Because of that whole being dead thing.  Seriously though, try to analyze the themes of my childhood.  Really, I dare you.  


I like to write things that don't need to have any sort of deeper meaning.  Maybe I want to tell the story about the girl waiting for the bus in the hot sun with four freckles under her eyebrow. Isabel Allende wrote The House of the Spirits to tell a story about her family, and she laughs whenever people try to analyze her work.  I saw her speak a couple of years ago, and she talked about a student who wrote some epic paper about why the dog in The House of the Spirits is so big, and what it represents.  She laughed, saying, "I just wanted him to be a giant dog! There was nothing behind it!"  As much as I love when writers plan their themes, motifs, symbols, whatever, I love stories.


My blog is my story.  It may not be interesting, or eventful, or funny or tender.  It probably won't change the way you think about the world.  It's just me.  


This is actually most likely inspired by my lack of enthusiasm for Paper 2 of the IB Lit exam tomorrow.  Ughhhh.  I can't believe I haven't complained about them yet.  Physics will kill me.