Blogs
It’s been done.
missfreako.wordpress.com
missfreakomusic.wordpress.com
Enjoy.
It’s been done.
missfreako.wordpress.com
missfreakomusic.wordpress.com
Enjoy.
Why haven’t I been posting anything?
Nothing has caught my interest to the point where I might like to say a couple words about it.
Generally, I post after I have those deep moments sitting on the crapper, or while poking myself in the eye with a mascara brush. Not that I’ve stopped having those moments, but they’ve stopped being worth talking about.
These days, I’m a generally unhappy person with minimal interest in most things– blogging being one of them.
For being summer, it’s awfully cold. I wish someone would turn off the AC, I’m freezing to death. D;
You know what’s silly?
I’m afraid that I’ll never find someone to hold my hand, because I’m always cold.
I’m not using cold for a metaphor, or anything. I mean literally cold, like, to the touch. My hands, anyway.
I probably hear “Why are your hands so cold?” more than anything else. Ever.
I know it’s dumb, but it was on my mind.
Truthfully?
I’m really scared about summer, about spending time with people outside of school.
At school, I have my places where I don’t have to be near people, at certain times. I spent more time in the Band locker room, sitting on the floor with one of the seniors, or one of the band teachers than I spent at my seat. In history, I spent more time resisting the urge to crawl under my desk and heave out a good one, than I spent taking notes.
I spent a lot of time in Spanish, trying to figure out how to say “could I sit outside for a minute?”
At home, I don’t have that. My household doesn’t believe in privacy. After all, you don’t own them or your space– you’re not even renting it, they’re letting you stay out of the goodness of their heart. I’ve gotten so used to having a little bit of time where I could have my little anxiety attack, and no one had to know.
Especially not my mom or sister, they’re messes already without having to worry about me.
I don’t know what I’m going to do for two months.
I’ve only got a week to pull myself together before things start up again. I’m not sure how I’m going to be able to do it.
So, I took my AP exam.
And I’ve been sworn to secrecy. Which means that I can’t talk about what was in the test– free response in forty-eight hours, multiple choice in– well, ever. Which means I won’t talk about that.
But I can tell you that it was hard as hell. And I can also describe the AWFUL experience I had.
So, I bought, like, sixty pens for this event. I brought all of them with me, and all of my friends told me to bring, I dunno, three to use. ”No way you’ll have three BRAND SPANKIN’ NEW pens that won’t work.”
Harr, harr.
Can you guess how many of those pens didn’t work. ALL FUCKIN’ THREE!
No kidding, right? I was pissed.
So, we’re about to start the exam, we’ve got all of our shrink-wrapped crap in front of us. These huge, I mean, ENORMOUS palmetto bug crawls out from God-knows where, and starts crawling toward us. Seriously, it was big enough to eat any one of us, and our desks, and then our papers. And still want more.
It was huge.
So, one of the dudes gets up, stomps on it, kicks its twitching, gooey corpse out of the way, and sits back down. He’s a God, right? Yeah. Crisis averted, right?
Of course not.
No, here comes ANOTHER ONE. Obviously, the baby of the other one– because it was half the size, and it starts stomping over like it’s got balls, or something, and it wants us to eat them. Someone kicked it, and it literally rolled over and died. There are two giant bug corpses within twenty feet of my desk, which sends me into a PANIC.
Oh mah lawd, I thought I was going to die.
So, I’m writing my first essay about– ha, ha. You thought you got me there.
So, I’m on the seventh or eighth paragraph. Oh no, guys, guess what? I misread the question. Nyuck, nyuck, nyuck.
I give up. I move onto the next essay. I write that one, then the last one. I go back to the first, and I erase it (good thing my pens that don’t work are eraseable) and I start over. Alright, second try.
The essay has a length of-next-to-nothing by AP standards. I’ve almost run out of time.
So, let’s review.
My pens don’t work. I’ve seen TWO, count ‘em, TWO ginormous bugs, and still haven’t gathered the courage to put my feet on the floor. I’ve written an essay that doesn’t relate to the question. My pen is smearing because I’ve got the dreadful luck of being left handed. My left hand has more ink on it than the paper.
Finally, I put my feet on the floor, they’re about to call time. Oh, my God. The scariest thing I’ve ever seen in my life crawls out from under the bleachers. It’s the ugly cricket-monster from hell (I later found out that it was a mole cricket, harmless name for a CREATURE OF SATAN). I pick my feet back up, and try to finish my essay while trying to warn the people around me with jerky eye movements. They must think I’m seizing.
They call time.
I’m not satisfied with my first essay.
I now realize that it is now one o’clock, and I asked to be picked up at twelve.
Walking from testing sight to parking lot, I’ve received twelve texts that say “WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?!!!”
Good stuff.
I know this is selfish, and I do love her, and I know it’s not her fault. It’s my mother’s. I just can’t seem to get any credit for what I do. And you have no idea how frustrating that can be after, say, fifteen years of it.
I mean, seriously.
I worked my ass off to get into festival.
And then my mom turns around and goes:
“Oh, well, I told her to get some paintings together,
a quarter of the display will be yours, the rest will be hers.”
I wonder how her mind makes the connection that that’s fair.
I mean, Jesus Christ, I know she’s better than me– everyone does. But, in all fairness, she’d got a 15 year head start. And, I mean, she started painting in high school, I started photography last year. It’s not even her fault, it’s my mom’s– because my mom is convinced that she HAS to do better than me.
Well, I can’t complain.
But life was never harder.
Don’t cry anymore.
Oh, shit. Chemistry!
Always left and forgotten.
Ugh, fuck me sideways.
Lit face and quick hands.
Oh, eleven already?
I wish I could sleep.
I’ve been told that from your teenage years to adulthood your thinking doesn’t change, only what’s appropriate.
But, thinking back, I’ve figured out things since I was a little younger. Maybe I still think the same, but now it seems like I can better communicate my thoughts. Here’s an example.
I’ve been friends with a girl forever. Forever, forever. We went to different schools after elementary schools, and I’d start lying to get out of going to her birthday parties. One year, I gave up and I told her that I just didn’t want to go, that I’d never wanted to go. I’d always gone out of courtesy (if I couldn’t get out of it). She stopped inviting me. We didn’t talk so much.
I spent Friday with a bunch of really old friends, and she was one of them. She said something about her next birthday party, and one thing led to the next before she complained about me never going to her other parties because I “never felt like it”.
Maybe then, I’d never really realized why it was that I didn’t want to go. I still feel the same way now (but now I’d go since I live so far away, and now parties are the only times I see my friends), and I finally know why.
In elementary school, I knew everyone at her parties. We were all already friends, we knew about each other, nobody was “new”. After she started going to different schools, she got more outgoing, she made a LOT more friends than she’d ever had when we were close. Now, suddenly, the new friends outnumber the old friends, and the old friends kind of band together.
I don’t like meeting new people. That awkward bit where you don’t know diddly squat about the other person, that’s uncomfortable to me. I hate it. When I have to meet someone, I get it out of the way by asking them a MILLION personal questions at once, that way, at least, it feels like we know each other. But in a party situation with a bunch of people you don’t know, well, it doesn’t work that way.
Then, there are inside jokes between all of the new friends and your friend. And then, suddenly, you’re the odd one out. You’re the “new kid”. I hated that feeling, even then. That was the reason I never went, but instead of trying to say something like that (really, I hate her new friends, I think they ‘re bitches), it was just “I dun’ wanna”.
Of course, I don’t think it did that much damage to our friendship, which had always been wearing thing.
After all “you are who you associate with”. Or whatever.
