To ease the explosion

I'm going to explode.

To try to ease the impact of the imminent catastrophe, I had to change something. I just cut my hair, short.

Change is good... but it still hasn't gotten me what I really want. It is NOT true that talking about something makes it better. It makes it worse.

"Love matches, so called, have illusion for their father and need for their mother." (Friedrich Nietzsche)

Remember that.

Unintended Poem

You know that song, "I'm Only Happy When It Rains" by Garbage? Well I'm only happy when it snows. It's the one time when I don't feel like a horrid cow.

And he can't see me. I've been dreaming of him for the past -- what is it now? Three years? -- and he can't see me at my best. He never has.

When will he see me in the snow?

When will he look at me and realize that my eyes are his favorite color of blue?

When will he reach out and pluck me from my perch atop this tower of self-made seclusion?

When will he build the bridge between my dreams and reality?

When will he finally realize "Oh my God, I love her"?

When will he see that I'm not cold, I'm careful?

When will he finally see the fires of love burning behind my icy eyes?

When he sees me in the snow.

Knife Skills

I have the unique distinction of being the first person of the first lunch of the first day of the year that the school cafe was open...

To cut myself.

"Awesome," you might say, "Smooth," or even "That chick powns at cutting."

All of the above are false. Completely. It was pseudo-fantastic, though. I cut myself while making my English teacher's sandwich. Silent paybacks are a bitch.

Ewgh

So much of the morose word clusters!

A CHANGE HAS COME TO YOUR JELLY CLUSTERS BY TRANSMIT OF THE LAUGHTERS!

What is Helen Keller's favorite color? Corduroy.
What do you call a deer with no eyes? No i-deer
What do you call a dog with no legs? Doesn't matter. It won't come anyways.

Hm.

Oh! My Tardis box has found the occasion to epically fail. Its bottom is now nonexistent. HOWEVER, I now have clear plastic for the manufacture of Christmas presents. What's the postage for sending small items to Japan? People have to move so far away... But no matter. It shall return for the repast of nutburgers at the House of the Rising Sun.

Packing

Today I was supposed to pack to go to my dad's house... but I didn't. I was alone. My sister had left for the movies, and my mom was at work. Alone to my own devices.

For a while, I've been fantasizing about some terrible event which would make leaving my house neccessary -- an apocalypse, the death of a parent, a fire, a devastating earthquake, a mad man hunting me down... I think about what I would pack, what I would need... what I would leave behind. I begin planning my movements around my room, timing them, deciding what needed to be left behind to save my life.

Today, I acted on that fantasy. Man Man wailing in the background, I set about packing as quickly and carefully as I could. How many pairs of socks would I need? Which books would I bring? Would I take my boots, or running shoes? My breath was actually quickened, as if the threat were real.

Halfway through packing, I paused, realizing how much I truly wanted to run away -- from everything -- and never come back.

I wasn't trying to be overly dramatic. I don't have it hard, or anything. I have a roof over me, food... I'm not lacking anything. Except perhaps adventure. That's where the running away comes in. I want to meet new people, run away to some place exotic or unknown -- where I could use a different name and have a different life. Maybe I would come back. Just to see the chages. But I would surely leave again, just as soon as I came.

I was so tempted to actually do it -- to run. The adventure and the strangeness of it so enticing... but something stopped me. What would that do to my friends? Would my parents recover?

Too much of a gamble for me.

Plus et Plus, et Moin et Moin...

Life is essentially memory. If something is forgotten, it drops out of existence forever. Never to be found again. Especially personal memories. The secrets, kept in a hidden file cabinet somewhere in the back of your mind.

This is what scares me the most.

It isn't the idea of not knowing, it's the idea of losing forever. People, events, thoughts. Anything can live forever in a memory. Someone once said that a person remembered is never dead. When we forget, we lose those things.

That's why I write everything down. Dreams. Thoughts. Friends. Pneumonic devices just to know that some part of me will stay. I've watched my grandma's Alzheimer's develop from the beginning, when she needed a few seconds to remember my name. Now she can barely remember my grandfather -- calling him her dad -- or my dad and uncle -- calling them "that guy."

I don't want to forget.

At night, instead of trying to forget my day. I rewind and play it again, and again, and again... ad nauseum. Every word, every action, every thought triggered by the two. My only hope is that my mind will remain -- for as long as it can. My "sponge" as I call it, is drying out.

Introductions are in order... aren't they?

My friends say that if I were to write a book, people would read it. I'm not sure, however that a publisher would want to buy my book with the understanding that four high school students would be their only customers... no matter how great my grades in English are or were.

So to save myself time, money, and a bloody typewriter (anachronistic, yet appropriate), I think I'll just stick with a blog instead.

The only thing you need to know: I am a paranoid francophile (with an "E" so you know it's feminine -- HINT!) with a penchant for independent films and unattainable older boys (Like the follower, who will be explained in due time).

Due time is now!

High school weight training. Do you ever get the feeling someone is watching you in the mirror of your school weight room? I did -- so I started paying more attention to the faces in the reflection. There was one guy - a senior - practically perfect in every way. Smart, funny, nice. He was the star of the track team (but not the kind of jock you fantasize about hitting with your parents' car). He reminded me of a mouse -- the Cute Mouse, I used to call him.

ANYWAYS. I called him the Follower because I saw him everywhere in the hallways. It was almost like he was following me, but I secretly knew he wasn't because I was just the weird, mousey girl with four friends and all the answers. So, I decided to "actively seek". My friends found this quite entertaining, and helped me in my quest to capture him for my own. Our escapades included:

• Taking secret pictures in the lunch room, where he just happens to be in the frame


• Stealing his picture from the student of the month poster


• Getting him to sign our yearbook on the last week of school

But I only spoke to him once -- "Nice job on placing third in state," I said. "Thanks," he said. I did, however, manage to catch him looking at me a few times. When he left, I couldn't stand it.

I, who had only ever cried in public once before, broke down emotionally and wept for someone who didn't even know my name. A major loss of face for me. Especially when one of my friends came up to me later and told me he had heard I was crying (wanted to know why -- but only facetiously, being male).

So, that's the Follower. I find little things on the ground that remind me of him now and then, and I try to construe these random playing cards and soggy scraps of paper as fate, binding us together in some unwordly way. Sad, huh?

Still want to read? I think I'll try to post every day, and they won't be as depressing as this one.