INDIEchouette

Today is Derek’s birthday.  Happy birthday.  For his birthday…I got him food and a Tamagotchi V4 and a Gotchi Gear carrier.  He’s set for life.  Or at least for the week.   Maybe.

Today was a problem-solving day.  I feel like I’ve gotten a large weight off my chest.  I made left turns at traffic lights.  I drove on Broad Street.  I gave Derek presents.  I got my hair cut.  I washed my face.  I put on makeup.  I sorted out pressing emotional issues–and not with any other girl!  I went to Derek.  I was able to go to him and confront him about something that turned out to be a misconception, I guess, although I still don’t completely understand, and I got the reassurance I needed, and I had an interested listener.  I felt bad asking something of him on his birthday, but I did give him the option, originally, of waiting until tomorrow.  And I felt needy, and I felt horrible for it, but he didn’t appear to mind.

When I was looking for presents, though, I felt like a little kid.  Or I felt like I was shopping for a little kid.   I know I’m going out of chronological order right now.  I don’t care.

I need to pee right now.  I also need to cry.  I’m not really sad so much as I am embarrassed, I guess.  Maybe I’m coming down from the high of anxious adrenaline.  I’ve been anxious all day long.  I’m glad I’m not depressed, and I’m glad I don’t have to deliver a speech of sorts that involves the hypothetical of being a replacement and the ultimatum of being dumped on the sidewalk.

I was asked to utilize my sleeping artistic abilities today, which I was pretty sure were dead or nonexistent, because I’ve convinced myself that my own artwork is creepy and that the only people who like it are my mom, my grandmother, and some select close friends.  I’m not sure if that’s true or not.  But it felt good to be able to draw whatever I wanted, as detailed as I wanted, even if it was in support of the troops, and even if it was slipshod and I set my expectations too high.  And then being applauded and appreciated for my efforts was a golden moment.  I was an example.  I made something out of myself for a second.

For a while, I thought I was having a bad day.  Bit by bit, though, it got better.  And whether or not it was a good day, I was able to make someone happy, and I accomplished a good deal within the limits of my own mind, got over some emotional humps, and released some anxiety bubbles, which I’m glad for.  I still have a few anxiety bubbles left, but now I know that I can pop them whenever I need to.

And now to return to that letter that I should have written a long time ago.  And next entry, I promise to write about something aside from my life.

I got an address and I am going to write a letter that I should have written a long time ago.

Aujourd’hui, j’ai reçu un papier parce que l’année passé, j’ai réussi (j’ai PWN’D) à mon examen d’écriture, mon SOL d’écriture. Je pense que, en français, “sol” est “ground” en anglais, mais je dis “SOL” comme “S-O-L.” En anglais, Standard of Learning. Mais l’écriture est mon sol.

De le papier que j’ai reçu, je pense:

Je mens. Sort of. It’s actually an honour to have gotten a perfect writing SOL score, but the paper was a copied piece of dinosaur shit.

There was an assembly where we had to go up and shake hands with the superintendent and the principal. Sitting in my seat waiting to go up there, I nearly had a panic attack. I hate authority figures and I hate being recognized/honoured. Or rather, I’m scared of both. Afterward, though, there was a reception full of all teh goodies I gave up for Lent. I had two oatmeal raisin cookies. They were breakfast foods, pretty much. I really wanted a sugar cookie. Couldn’t have one.

While I was standing in a group silently eating my cookie, this random sophomore turned around and told my circle that we were all a circle of short people, which was an accurate observation, and I was okay with that. I am short. Derek tells me I’m short. I’m okay with that because it is the truth. It’s a neutral statement.

And if this kid hadn’t said anything more, I probably would have had a good day. I would not have been pissy or avoidant or holed up in the past all day. Everything (except for Derek being sick) would have been dandy. But no, this little bitch had to go and blather on another three seconds before turning his little happy bitch face around.

“I know that was random. Randomness is awesome. You can’t hate randomness.”

That is what pissed me off. I wanted to punch that little bitch in the face. Why would such statements annoy me? Well, I used to BE that little bitch, spouting off bullshit about “randomness,” using the word “awesome” a disgusting amount of times in every sentence, and adding “ness” to every other word ’cause I thought it sounded “COOL”?!?!? Yes, I know those ???s were uncalled for, but what I thought was cool back then in my transition from grade eight to sophomore was extremely not cool. Randomness? Not cool. Even the word resembles something horrible to me. I hate “ness” with most of my heart now.

It’s ironic that we say that we hate things with all of our hearts sometimes.

It’s awful being reminded of the past daily, though. Sometimes I wish I wasn’t smart so I could take up other people’s space, be loud and not care, and just think ahead. Reluctantly, I showed Derek my school photos from middle school, which was before I lost my weight, and while I was at my peak weight and my peak depression. Those photos have made me a superficial little bitch; I focus on my own looks a lot, as hopeless as that may sound, and I focus on certain aspects of other people. I hate people who readily accept compliments on natural looks. I also hate kiss-asses.

A reader recently brought up, via a comment, an issue that I never talk about and never acknowledge directly, except maybe when I write, “Oh my God,” which I suppose is somewhat blasphemous of me.  That subject would be religion, or more specifically, God.  If I recall correctly, I’ve touched on my religion, but I haven’t really discussed my religious beliefs, or my arguments with my religion.

It was on one of many winter entries about being sick.  This particular commenter suggested that I pray.  Now, my first thought was that it was rather embarrassing having someone pure enough to suggest prayer reading my blog, where I casually use the word “fuck” an average of three times per paragraph.  So I proofread my writing to make sure I wasn’t too naughty in that enrty.  I wasn’t, but I did complain a lot.  My second thought was that perhaps I was getting some Southern Baptist trying to convert me, utilizing a prayer suggestion first.  I got a little pissed, ’cause I already have a sturdy religion and to suggest that I convert is to suggest that my beliefs aren’t strong enough.  And I don’t like that.  I only assumed it wasn’t a Catholic because, well, do you ever see Catholics running around door to door, looking for converts?  No.  It’s almost like an elite club, being Catholic, where you’re normally just born in.  I’m not implying that Catholics are elite.  I’m just saying that’s what it’s like.  Simile.

Well, after I got past those, I thought of telling this person off, honestly.  But what would I tell them off for?  For suggesting prayer?  For suggesting that I look to God to help solve my problems instead of moping?  My determination dissolved, and really, I see this person as a godsend.  Whoever this is, he or she reminded me of my faith in a small and somewhat indirect way without any implications or bad intentions, just in time for Lent, the 40 days.  And who knows?  Maybe Jesus was feeling a little under the weather up there in Heaven and decided that this Conny needed a little caffiene shot of faith, without the awful crash, and maybe He knew I’d respond best if he left me a comment on my little old WordPress that would make me think, and that would keep me looking to solve a mystery.  I’m not an atheist or agnostic, kids.  I’m Catholic.  I’m not in your face or trying to convert you.  I’m trying to live my own life, but I’ll help you out too, indirectly, no strings attached.

It took me a while to figure out my Lent promise, because I wanted to go vegan, but I know we don’t have the food supplies for that in our house.  I thought about giving up sex, but then I remembered that I’m a virgin, and that the only reason I thought of that was because on Scrubs, Carla wanted to wait until her wedding night until she had sex again, which would be many months from her proposal of the proposition.  I didn’t want to give up MySpace because that’s such a lame thing to give up for Lent.  That’s not suffering.  That’s pulling out of laziness.  That’s the opposite of suffering.  I considered giving up my hair, as in, getting my head shaved, but Britney Spears already pulled that one last week.  I considered giving up this, but let’s be real.  Almost everything I thought of was lame or stupid or impossible (there are some things impossible to give up, trust me).  I was eating Skittles as I considered my options, and I felt the guilt at eating, and then I remembered what all this faith is about–purity.  And some people fast for Lent.  They stock up on junk on Mardi Gras, and then they stop eating for over a month, until Easter.  Well, purity for me wouldn’t be giving up TV or any of that shit–it would be getting rid of excess food, excess fat.  So I am going on a junk fast.   No drinks except water.  No candy.  No cookies.  No treats.  At the AIA competition on Saturday, it will be hard for me to find anything to eat, but I’ll manage somehow.  I thought it would be impossible to be vegetarian.  Well, this can’t be too much harder.

Oh.  And the one thing I disagree with most in Catholicism is anti-homosexuality.  You hardcore conservatives can argue with me on that one all day and night, for 40 days and 40 nights if you want to.  Love is love.

The more commitment I make, the less magnetism I feel between myself and my friends.  I would never let my commitment go.  I suppose I need friends.  And if you want to argue, then I’ll just say I need more friends.

When I say “friends,” I mean other people…like me.  Maybe other people with social phobia or with other anxiety disorders holding them back.  Maybe other indie kids, or sarcastic or clever people.  Maybe some people who know the pop culture references I know.  I just feel like I’m not clicking with anyone.  And I’m not.   And it’s not anyone’s fault.  I just want some meat for the conversations I need to have, not emptiness and “How-de-do, how was your day?”  And complaints.  I complain a lot, I know, but it’s damn hard not to complain when everyone you talk to just complains all day long.  It’s filler words.  I hate it.

And no, I am not talking about Derek there, and never would talk about him in that manner.  Meow.

Oh, boy, what would I give for a nice show day, five inches, or even three, with sleet, so that no one could go to school safely!  I want to build a snowman.  I want to have to look ridiculous and red when I go outside, and I want my hair to get icicles in it.  I want to throw pathetic snowballs and see the world whiz by while sledding down the hill, only to have to laboriously trek up again.  It’s all giggles.

And what would I give, too, for a hug at 11 at night.  I promise I’m not crying, although my throat is tightening up, and I promise that I didn’t cry today.  I promise not out of disrespect (if I really was crying, I probably wouldn’t write it, but then again, I wouldn’t be writing any of this if that was the case), but in honesty so that nobody gets too concerned.  Not that anyone would be particularly concerned.

I can’t tell if this is out of longing for a snow day, missing Louie, being totally stressed, or just wanting affectionate human contact other than, I guess, from my mother.  I used to be able to go days, months, even years without it, but now I’m so…needy.  I’m dependent, and it’s awful, but it’s amazing.  A few tears did pour down my face.  I’m such a bad liar.

By the way, in “Miss Misery,” Andy Greenwald wrote that anything honest you write online will come off as over-the-top.  Well.  He’s right.   I finished that book today and almost shat my pants, it was so good.  Just, Amy, longing, and the last paragraph thing (clever, Mr. G, very clever!  I recognized it and read it 5 times over…), it’s so sweet.  I had to listen to Stars right when I finished.  It’s that kind of book.  It was “Elevator Love Letter.”  I loved every page.

Uh.  But our English homework the other day was to read Emerson.  And I did it (for once).  I feel like Emerson is my homeboy, though.  It’s like he was two and a half centuries before me, saying exactly what I think, only in more old-fashioned terms.  There was one quote, though, from “Self-Reliance,” that really hit me, and it stuck on my mind all day.  “We but half express ourselves, and are ashamed of that divine idea which each of us represents.”  I dunno.  It spoke.  That whole particular piece spoke.  It’s just, that part, I perceived it as we each represent something different, maybe a different ideal or maybe just idea.  And a lot of us suppress that because of fear.  We shouldn’t try to be like anyone else ’cause they have their talents and insecurities, too.  My teacher said that it didn’t have so much to do with clothes and hairstyles, et cetera, as it did mind and heart…but I’d like to think it does, actually.  At least a little bit.

Probably the hardest thing in the world is watching someone die.  I mean, they have life, and you think you can do something to help them–they still have a fighting chance.  There’s hope in those last moments.  But sometimes, there’s nothing you can do.  But if “What Sarah Said” is true…then I have experienced love.  Because he was alive in my hands one minute…and then he was completely beyond my grip.

Since counting helps me to focus, I’m going to listen to songs like “Accidental Deth” and number my points about his death that have been floating around inside my head for the past hour.   They’re not numbered in any order.  Just, I might be slightly OCD.

1.  From the standpoint of an animal rights activist (maybe I’ve done far less than many other activists, and maybe I’m underage, but I’m an activist nonetheless), it’s painful to see an animal suffering.  That’s the whole reason I went vegetarian–I watched thePETA videos, and whether or not I agree with every aspect of the organization, I do know that those animals are unhappy, and I know that despite what “The Fairly Oddparents” says (Mark’s planet, y’know?), there are universal standards for happiness.  It was an experience I’ve never had before–having an animal who has been very prominent in my life, to die in my hands.  I felt bad.  I knew I had tried to help him out.  It killed a part of me, though, to have him die in my hands.  I don’t feel like I let him know enough how much I love him.

2.  I saved him from dying earlier in his life.  My cousins didn’t want him anymore; they were just going to let him die, but me being an early activist, I took him in without my mother’s consent and pledged to take good care of him.  He would have died this summer if I hadn’t offered to take him.  I was really excited to have saved a life, even one of a small creature who liked to bite the hand that fed him.

3.  I feel horrible, though, because while I generally took good care of him, I slacked off sometimes.  I didn’t get him actual rat food; I gave him Kraft cheese and  fresh veggies.  I mean, yes, he loved it, but processed food probably wasn’t too good for him.  And although I’d read earlier on that rat food wasn’t too great either…I should have still gotten him some.  Occasionally, I skimped on getting him food and I forgot to get him water, but for no longer than a day on the food and an hour on the water.  I am being honest because it will make me feel better.  My mom had to remind me to clean his cage a lot, and the last time I did it, this weekend, I had a hissy fit cause it was too cold to wash it down outside.

4.  I’m afraid that either his dirty cage (it was not like “I’m rolling in my own feces” the last time I cleaned it, but I wouldn’t have licked the bottom of it or anything) or perhaps an unwashed stick of broccoli may have made him sick, and that just kills me.  Cause he was my responsibility.  He was old, but I’m not willing to throw the blame on fate.

5.  He liked to climb up his cage’s rungs and look at me at night, and when I let him run around, he would not come out unless I opened the top door to his cage, not the front door.  I suppose it has something to do with security and the top door resembling a burrow of sorts.  He liked to hide behind my TV stand and just chill out there, and sometimes find my feet and nibble them.  That kept me unnerved, and I tried to keep my feet propped up and out of his way, cause he was an explorer.

6.  Whenever the cats came into my room, which, I now realize that if I was a good caretaker (I hate the word “owner.”  I did not own him.  I took care of him.), I would have kept the cats out of my room to the best of my ability the whole time he was alive.  But he got defensive of his territory, and whenever they stuck their noses up to his cage to gaze at him hungrily, he’d take a swipe at them with his little claws, and they’d jump back a few feet, scared shitless.  What a champion.

7.  He was a really nice creamy white colour with extremely light creamy brown all over the place.  He had big dark eyes and orange teeth that chattered a lot when he was happy.  When I got him the humongous cage that takes up a good amount of my room instead of a little hamster cage, he kept running back and forth, and his teeth would not stop chattering.

8.  Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I’d wake up for no reason and then find him sitting right near my face on my bed, just exploring.  For a while, I was freaked, cause I didn’t know how he got on my bed (I knew how he got out of his cage, though–rats are nocturnal, so sometimes, I’d just leave his top cage door open so he could scurry around at night), but I’d always let him keep crawling around as long as he didn’t wake me up.  I later found out that he used to get on top of his cage, on the corner nearest my bed, and he’d jump like a cat or a sugar glider.

9.  Jordan and Tim and I think Derek liked him.  Well, Jordan was more amused by/terrified of him, and Tim loved him and he loved Derek.

10.  Talking to Alexis online about pets is helping me cope…a lot.

11.  Derek pointed out that I am using a lot of defense mechanisms such as false happiness and laughing hysterically to try and get through this.  It’s true.  And then other moments, I’ll find myself reduced to literally rolling on the floor, burying my face in the carpet, bawling my heart out.

12.  Connor not acting gushy is helping, too.

13.  Derek being here in general, as well as talking and listening to me and helping to distract me, is relieving.  I mean.  He’s not here.  He’s online.  And man, just thinking about the way Divya was when she found out Pepper died brings tears to my eyes, cause I know she’ll be infinitely supportive.

14.  I think I’m feeling a little tired from all this eventfulness.  When I said I wanted something bad to happen, to come in and fuck things up…maybe, maybe I should have been careful what I wished for.

I hope Louie’s happy.

I am not watching the Super Bowl because it is for barbarian squares with nothing better to do.

Instead, I’m grounded.

Basically, I was at Derek’s yesterday, got caught up in Viva Pinata (I imagine your first play is like your first Krabby Patty…), and then, upon naming a character, looked at the X-Box Live clock and realized it was 11:29 pm.  My mom had asked me to turn on my phone when it hit evening.  I turned it on, called home, and found out seconds later that my father was on his way and was not particularly happy.

My curfew is 900.  As a sophomore, it was 1030.  What the hell?

I hate my family.

[09:41] Mastashake91: d00d modest mouse is coming out with a new album in march
[09:42] indiechouette: SRSLY?!??!?
[09:42] indiechouette: MARCH is looking promising.
[09:42] Mastashake91: gh2 for 360 is said to be coming out in march too
[09:42] indiechouette: WOAH
[09:43] indiechouette: that is fucking insane
[09:43] indiechouette: march
[09:43] indiechouette: march
[09:43] indiechouette: march
[09:43] indiechouette: it’s only like what…27 days away

I cannot wait for a month to pass. “Neon Bible,” mainly, but spring too. Groundhog Day is POINTLESS. I can’t stand the timestamp on WordPress because it is always about a day and some off hours off from the real date and time, but for this one, I changed it so it’s right. It makes you think whatever you’re waiting for is that much closer. I like military time, though. It’s hard to read but it looks cool. Just like writing the date the European way does. So today would be 03.02.07 instead of 2/3/07. My English teacher gets kinda mad when I do that. What else? My teachers and classmates say my 1’s look like 7’s. Which they do. Because last year, in French, Monsieur Penland told us that en France, they write their 1’s like that, so I took on the habit immediately. I’m such a wannabe European, it’s sad. But what is America and American equated with these days? Obesity? Ignorance? Tasteless? The fact is that we’re still a ridiculously young country compared to the whole continent of Europe, and although the United States is a “cultural melting pot,” do we really have any culture aside from strip malls, sex, diets, and raping the environment? In fact, I’d hardly consider that a culture. Even at my school, there are still little ethnic groups where kids speak in their primary languages, wear the same clothes, style their hair the same way…it takes a lot to pry them out of their comfort zones. This is the West End, where the rich white man is the majority of the population, where Vera Bradley leeches money off people, where manicures and fake tans are dominant…and everyone’s pretty naturally skinny. I’m sorry, but I really do hate America when there are more appealing, cultured places out there, like Canada and the whole of Europe. Maybe, though, America needs help from people like me to improve upon everything that’s wrong instead of abandon it.

By the way, a good amount of these feelings have been instilled in me thanks to “Super Size Me.” It’s a good movie, good documentary. Actually, amazing. And it captures all the ugliness of the media and big corporations…I’m a big fan of that.

My history teacher’s a real patriot. I suppose he has the experience outside of the country, like in Saudi Arabia, to back it up, and then, well, he’s teaching US history, too. You kind of have to like the history to teach it. He bellows out the Pledge of Allegiance proudly and passionately, and he doesn’t understand or like that we, the students, whisper the Pledge softly, or sometimes don’t say it at all. Maybe we don’t understand quite how much freedom we do have. And I know some kids really are apathetic and don’t lean one way or the other when it comes to the Pledge, or history, or their rights, or really anything except the latest episode of Gray’s Anatomy/The Office/Laguna Beach/The OC or the spring clothes at Abercrombie/their myspace comments. But me, I don’t see much opportunity here, and I don’t care about new American innovations, unless we’re talking certain music (but Canada’s indie music scene has The Arcade Fire even though Win Butler is a Texan, Stars, Wolf Parade, three essentials…come ON!). Yes, I can write and say whatever the Hell I want, because I’m a motherfucking American. But I want a taste of the world because it has to be better than this mess of boredom and blandness. Maybe I want it badly because it will bring me an appreciation of mon pays (wounded mother I’ll never see). Perhaps I’ll come crawling back from Europe and Canada an utter patriot. It’s doubtful, but nonetheless possible.

By the way, as bitterly as I write about obesity, and as much as I blame America and the media…and as degrading or discriminating as this may sound, I love slightly larger people who take care of themselves. They’re inspiring. I’m somewhat of a hypocrite, I’m afraid, for my feelings on, well, loving skinny people, but I hate people who talk about “fat” people as being disgusting or people who make jokes about them…I’m an advocate of the ‘Feel Good’ Revolution. Hope you catch my jab.

Je lis “Miss Misery” by Andy Greenwald. You know, the book that God told me I had to read or else. I miss Amy. I wish I was Cath Kennedy. I want to console Ashleigh. I want to be one of the kids David was going to write a book about. The LJ generation.

It’s one of those epic books, where, when you’ve finally devoured every page, you feel fulfilled for some time, but it’s only a temporary high. Once every event has hit you like a series of punches, you feel a vast emptiness because you have devoted so much of your life to indulging in an author’s vicarious life.

I wish I had the ability to write stories. I never really had it to begin with, but at least once upon a time I had the motivation and patience to write something other than a blog.