(This is so much better than the studio version, despite its faults.)
So, today has been interesting. Basically, I did nothing at school. Which was a welcome relief. I think I acted too sarcastic in French, though; the teacher does not seem to approve of my… How shall I put it. Laissez-faire approach? Not to be too punny or anything.
Nota bene: This post is bound to be rather random. My brain is feeling scattered, and surprisingly, a headache seems to be lurking.
Second block seemed shorter than normal. Since I’ve been sort of busy… I am finding it harder to enjoy free time. I just didn’t want to do anything today.
I ended up going to the band room. Jordan was there… I played him some jazz and wished I could just lock all the doors and cover the windows. Maybe sing a bit. Probably have a one-person rave party.
[I think what was missing might have been you.]
Now is the type of time in which I will begin to say ‘I don’t know…’ and not really mean it at all. The thing is… I really don’t know, but that’s not the message I’m trying to send at all. Please, anybody, help me interpret when you find me like this?
Chemistry was fun. We went to the computer lab and did an activity on elements. I cheated and had time to check my email.
What? It wasn’t like it was real cheating.
I don’t get headaches. Ever. Plus, I had some ice cream and a brownie after school. Almost a binge day, depending on whether or not I eat a lot at dinner.
Speaking of that. You’ve probably never heard me use that term. Binge day. Unless of course you are Sierra, in which case you have. I’m not bulimic… Somewhat due to the fact that my ‘bingeing’ involves me just indulging a bit, but mostly because I don’t really purge. Some days, I exercise a lot more than normal and get excited when I see a ‘good’ number on the scale. But weight alone – actually, I’m beginning to think at all – is not a good indicator of health or improvement. So anyway. Enough worrying. Stop.
Seriously. There actually is nothing to be worried about here. What are the statistics? Five to fifteen percent of people with bulimia are also male. What are the numbers for people who used to be male?
Also, I just had dinner. It was good. Turkey tetrazzini.
I didn’t know how to spell that. I need to learn Italian, and restart Esperanto for the third time, and kick my French teacher into sanity and action, and I also need to show her my old French book and see if we can bully the language department into giving us money for people to get them, because the book is really just an orgasm on paper. Practically a French erotica novel.
I’ve come to the conclusion that iTunes and ǝsǝǝɥɔ ǝbɐʇʇoɔ have a really bad shuffle choice when it comes to music. On the other hand, iTunes just pulled up The Message, which I have to say is some high-quality beat-juice.
Or maybe it’s just that I don’t like anything anymore.
- want to scream to the world something, anything-only worry-only-only w-worr-onl-onlywor-only worry -
It is like a jungle, sometimes. I try not to wonder how I keep from goin’ under.
Makes me wonder how strings attached to wrists stay on without providing a constant pain to the owner’s little lines, associations with dissimilar topics in fabric turns- makes me wonder about the lines themselves → makes me remember wanting a closeness, takes me back to a silliness-innocence I’ve since lost, synapses to mush, because it is that time of year again, soon it’ll all start all over → seasonal ups, makes me wish I had a beat to my life → love the repetitive nature of feet slapping the pavement, jarring every now and then extending to the same synapses, hardened, diamond-crystal → wish I could be all that I want you to want me to be, makes me wonder
I just spent almost exactly an hour talking to myself, recording with Garageband. It started out because I desperately needed to talk to someone, but didn’t know who to call/if I should call.
Jude: I decided against it because it was late. I know you mean anytime. For some reason, some sort of moral sense is keeping me from dialing your numbers when it feels too far into the evening. And at that point, it was eleven thirty.
M: I wasn’t sure if your cell phone would be on or not (and I sure as hell wasn’t dialing your home number). I wanted it to be off, so I could leave a message, because I think that would be the ideal situation (other than us having some sort of direct link that didn’t require loud ringing noises), but I couldn’t know, and so decided against it.
You two were the only people I felt comfortable intruding on like that. M because… Well, because, and Jude because you’ve explicitly told me, and even then I decided against it, so don’t anyone feel left out because your name isn’t here.
Guh. I am just typing nonsense here.
Only one more important part; the aftermath. I feel a lot better. Collected & cool, somehow (literally, not figuratively; chilly). I actually haven’t cried quite like I did tonight in some time now… It’s a different, more extended form. Not just an emotional burst, but more of a cold front-style behaviour, for those of you taking Earth Space right now.
I deleted it. It was powerful, it was raw, and there were things I think I actually should have snipped out to give to people – important ways and mannerisms of expressing things I haven’t been able to get across in the past – but overall, it was the best choice. I feel clean now.
It’s always been true that
I’ve wanted more than I have.
You tell me of successes of my own
And I’ll just think of how much better
Someone else’s are.
I’ll stuff my ears with jumbled notes
Too loud; projected from earbuds
That aren’t quite as white
As they used to be.
I’ll fill my empty stomach
With the words, “Thanks, I’m fine,”
Hoping that someone, somewhere,
Will follow my example.
I’ll cry over the phone.
I’ll whisper your name,
Once upon a time,
When I still thought there was something to be gained
From commiserating with hope and wonder.
I’ll have a style – copy/paste,
Because reading has always been my thing,
And I’ve mastered synthesis.
I’ll always have an air of mystery,
Because some secrets
Are just not meant to be told;
As much as either you or me or both of us
Want them to mean that.
I’ll punch a wall or two,
Over the span of seventeen years.
[Seventeen years. Life is too long.]
My fist will bleed,
And there will be noticeable scars.
Frustratingly,
Every single one of the walls will stay intact,
Because
I’ll be intelligent enough to realize
That breaking other things
Only reflects what’s inside.
I’ll surround myself in
Untouchables, then
I’ll throw myself headfirst
Into someone else’s world of pain and suffering,
Because I’m not entirely sure
What it is that I should be feeling.
I’ll fix people
Because that’s the only thing,
In the interim,
That makes me feel
Like I’m worth something.
I’ll forget a lot of things.
All of them will be or have been important.
I’ll watch the seasons pass,
And I’ll remember how strong I once was.
I’ll admire him,
But only from there;
Recalling that beauty comes in many forms.
I’ll feel fake.
All the time.
I’ll miss you; all of you,
From my deepest hatred
To my strongest affection.
But I will never give up
Trying to find
Whatever’s out there.
And whatever’s out there, likewise,
Will always evade my grasp.
Posted by a student 
Posted by a student 
Posted by a student 
