Dude, sometimes…I wonder where my parents got me. Let’s just say that I deleted pretty much all of my music library, with the exception of Rilo Kiley, Bright Eyes, and the Arcade Fire, from my computer…all to get some lame-ass game that’s supposed to be really cool…and the game’s files turn out to be corrupt after I’ve downloaded them. All that slaving over Limewire, you know? How downtrodden would you feel? That’s like 800 songs, gone. I think it’s good for my computer, though, since I already had most of them on my pod. And some online. Still, though, ugh. Now I have almost 4 gb of roaming space on my computer. I suppose I’ll just download Sims 2 hair or something with it. I wish I could trade it in for money so I could buy some CDs.
This weekend was the ultimate weekend, though. You know, forget the Greek Festival (although Connor’s advantages as an honorary Greek made it fun and FILLING for him), and okay, maybe even the Armenian one, which, that kid who tried to beat us up (he was like 3) was probably the highlight of my day. Also the singing man in the magenta shirt, who was quite the muffin. AKA studmuffin. I got to play gheyball with two of my best friends, witness a jungle cat fight, eat banana pancakes, and gaze at the stars. Although, admittedly, looking at the stars while walking isn’t the same as looking at the stars laying down. It’s not as romantic, or romantic at all, really. I had nobody. But they fit together like a puzzle. I love their love and I am thankful that someone receives the prize that was promised by all those fairy tales that drugged us. And by they, I mean Steven and John. They’re the hottest couple of the century; they’ve got it going on, and they sure as fuck love Bright Eyes. Especially with John’s witch-hunting torch. Which was a failure. [nasal ha-ha]
Sorry for being lame, maybe. Trite? Cheap? A waste of paint? Of tape? Of time? AAH I’m pwning.
I crave hugs and I crave human contact, sort of; anything physical without pushing the boundaries. I am not a monster. Not to be weird, like, “OKAY, this woman is fucking insane and too needy…” but I’m awfully paranoid about being unapproachable. Which, I present myself that way too often, but I’m not. I shower at least once a day, and I brush my teeth, and I use deodorant, and all of that is a guarantee. My clothes are clean, too. But I don’t wear socks, generally. Sorry.
Life is moving too slowly right now. I know that when it starts to speed up, I won’t like it at all; in fact, it will likely be quicker in the aspects I least want it to speed up in.
Clarification: I actually couldn’t give less of a shit about school. Okay, French. But everything else, I don’t care. In one ear and out the other. That’s not to say anything about my teachers; they’re all amazing this year. My life’s path has been set since I was nine years old. I want to write, period. I don’t care if I’m stuck writing reviews about Shania Twain (whose birthday I have) for a WalMart catalog. I would love to write for some fancy schmancy music magazine, like Spin or Paste or whatever. Not that I can claim to know much about music. I’d love, though, to write what I want. An editorial, even, would be fun. I can write a convincing essay on “For Whom the Bell Tolls” without reading it. That has to count for something.
Clarification: Music, I won’t and I wouldn’t. I don’t excel. I don’t care. It’s lost any meaning for me, to play, because I can’t make fun out of it. I’m extremely apathetic. Herce told us to look at it as a game and try and hit all the notes we could, right, sort of like DDR or something. It worked for a while, but now I try and I’m not excited; who am I impressing? Nobody. Music can set me into moods, but nothing can move me like words. I’m killing my GPA for something that’s hard to enjoy; something that is an elective and is supposed to be fun. I’m elligible for NHS and Beta Club, but at what cost? We’re all suicidal, sort of.
By the way, don’t get me started on NHS. Mrs. Lavender put it bluntly, “Be realistic. If you don’t talk during class, you’re not going to get in, so don’t even try.” Tell me this: What does vocalization have to do with good grades and honour? Huh? What if I don’t have any questions; nothing to say, but I’m getting better grades than all those fucks? Aah, if you can’t tell, my inability at NHS because of something so pointed doesn’t piss me off at all. Beta, though, whatever. School is too easy except in as unattainable things as band.
I did get into an interesting conversation with Grant on Friday at the game, though, amidst talk of abortion and society and women (possibly not as deep as it sounds). Why do we volunteer our Friday nights and weekends to a halfhearted cause? I don’t know. Why are we in this if we’re not going to use it to our advantage as a career? I know I have less friends than non-band kids, even if I joined to make them. There are people in line for my position in the triad with E-Dawg and Marti. Um, that was only half-kidding, because there are people allegedly attempting to replace me, and I know, and I’ll hunt you down. Psych about hunting you down, but I do know. I’m just stressed the fuck out, with more things to concentrate on, single straight sixteen-year-old junior with only half a life at this point. I think we all wish we could pause the rest of the world for band practice so we could have social lives.
Clarification: Boys. Adhgiohiowefnocndpjwopeml;mckaiwyqioyerhoqhflkndl. Pretty much sums it up. I hate being single with completely unattainable/way overly attainable options. I appreciate Connor being bitterly honest. I want attainability with a push and a small challenge. At least I’m “realistic.”
Then again, there is one person, maybe overly attainable, unscathed by the claws of petty girl love, who I have come to fancy a little in a sophisticated way, but he looks away, or down on me, maybe. I guess I’m creepy or something. From him, it’s something I could shrug off, but what should I be doing? He might look at me as just way friendly and there’s no way I could fancy him, in a million years, and he’d be fucking wrong. PWNED to the fourth degree, I swear. But I’d hate to be a matchmaker. That’s always awkward. Plus, on Tamagotchis, the matchmakers are fugly.
I hate that I’m so boring. I wish I had other things to talk about, but the same things keep pouring out my mouth lately. That’s the only advantage to randomness. Despite the fact that it’s annoying, it’s interesting. I need to watch more movies, have more life-changing experiences like this weekend, and fall in love/lust/infatuation, even if only for a week. Be independent, too, though. It would make me oh so happy.
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