Blood on your face. Blood in my eyes.

And I would put on copious amounts of eyeliner. Red glitter smashed into my lips. I wore my hair in the same explosive pigtails each time. The same, shiny, double-strapped heels. They were the highest I had. We would get in the car, and dad would stop at the Walgreens on the corner of Campbell and Fort Lowell. I'd run in and purchase a bag or two of gummy bears, and would get back into the car with my little heart pounding oh so hard. We would walk into the lobby of the theatre and Shana would greet Darla and I. I could never figure out how she got her lips to look so perfect. My last name was wrong on the books each night I attended the show because of my old email addressee information. Darla and I would sit on the couch and eat the little see-through bears, until more people started filing into the lobby. We'd get up and stand as close to the house door as acceptable. Familiar faces would walk into the crowded room and I would smile, or "hihelloIknowthisshowisfuckinggreat," them. Peg yelled about how Dorothy-shoe-esque my lips were once or twice. The warm up "performance" of Angry Inch would start. We could hear it through the walls. And each time my knees would buckle, and my nails would find their way into Darla's bicep or tricep. And when the door would open Ashley would say, "You're back again?" I'd make my way to the second or third to last chair to the left in the front row. I'd read the program I had read more than once before. Darla and I would pick out faces in the crowd from her RHPS days at The Loft. The house lights would flash, and we'd scream and cheer as Dani[tzhak] would walk on stage. And for the next ninety minutes I would stare at Christopher in either the black pinstriped dress that matched the one I was coincidentally wearing under my coat, or that skinned mermaid tail. Both of which were so humorously/wonderfully/perfectly short and fringed. And those shoes Peg mentioned were there in front of me, matching not only my lips, but his too. He would sing, and dance up there with more passion and conviction than any performer I'd ever seen. Squeezing his glitter encrusted eyelids shut on the longer notes, revealing his upper teeth more and more as it progressed. And using his hips more effectively than any man we'd ever seen. Darla and I would cheer as loud as we could after each song that we sang along every word to. And each performance was filled with subtle differences. I was occasionally/expectedly/gratefully harassed mid-show due to my convenient choice of seat, and sugar confection. Darla would squeal like a mouse each time the shorter wig went on. Soon the thrill of the strobe lights, and the scent of tomatoes would be all there was, until the stage lights came back up, and the silver forehead paint would show itself. A bra and dress were laying somewhere on the stage by now, and the last two songs would almost [if not] bring me to tears. Everyone would cheer their final cheer and start to file out. Waiting outside for a tired and sweaty Christopher to come. Darla and I would either stay seated in the house or wait in the lobby, while everyone else grew impatient, to give a meek and nervous congratulatory hug or two. And we'd go home and recount the events of the night to mum if she was still awake, or simply to each other if she wasn't.

I remember being in an awful depression through sophomore year. But I also remember this show helping me forget about that, and being the best possible thing that could happen. It was such an escape with familiarity, but unmistakable freshness, and magnetism. Hedwig hardly seems two years ago. Everything about the experience is still so vivid. It's really quite remarkable. 

And, oh, how things have changed.

"It is clear that I must find my other half. But is it a he, or a she? What does this person look like? Identical to me? Or somehow complementary? Does my other half have what I don't? Did he get the looks? The luck? The love? Were we really separated forceably, or did he just run off with the good stuff? Or did I? Will this person embarrass me? What about sex? Is that how we put ourselves back together again? Or can two people actually become one - again?"

I decided to write this tonight, as opposed to waiting for January, which would have been more accurate and charming, because the air in the house now eerily feels the same as it did then. My body remembers and recognizes air, and atmosphere from certain points in time. So that feeling could really be a result of my writing this. I may have tricked my body into that recognition. But it's a wonderful feeling. And a wonderful comparison to present day.

And, oh, how things have changed.

Doug Jones is about to see her with his hands.

This last week went by extremely fast. But hell. I spent my time the way I wanted to. And that feels good, and new, and like a glimpse into what life could be like, if not a few months from now, however brief this break is. I've got a LOT to write about and my dumb brain is making it hard to organize it all. Maybe it's all these clothes. I should go change. Even though this hoodie is a perfect fit. 
Changing was a good idea. I talked mum into making macaroni and cheese for dinner, which is a very good thing. I'm just talking about a lot of things that are really irrelevant to what I should be discussing, because that's what I have to do all of the time if I intend on eventually saying anything that means anything. 


Today my friend Sean who lives in New York sent me a text message that he's in town. Every time he visits we try to get together but never successfully have. The last time I spoke with him was on the phone the Tuesday after Gibran's death. I was filming the preview video for DON'T DRESS FOR DINNER, trapped in my own head, and not able to talk to anyone at the theatre when he called me. I paced in front of the building in the shopping center that's the thrift store now through what ended up being a rather long, and much needed conversation for the both of us. He explained that when he lived in Tucson, and was on the going to the Foothills Mall every weekend spree, that he never really got to know Gibran very well. On his last visit to town that took place over the summer, the two of them had the chance to get together, and it was apparently very enlightening. Sean got into Gibran's head more than ever before. He was in love with him for a long period of time. We've got that in common. Hopefully we'll be able to see each other this week.


Tommy Pickles is having the biggest baby nervous breakdown I've ever seen in my wife. 'Rugrats: The Movie' is on the TV and boy does it bring back memories of all shapes, colors, and sizes. A friend of mine answered a question on his Formspring page about his greatest fear. This was, "[being] scared that I won't take advantage of my youth enough." And it made me realize that that was the perfect way to articulate something that I'm afraid of as well. and something that I've never been good at acting on. Obviously. Since the beginning of my adolescence I've [un]intentionally surrounded myself with people old enough to be at the intellectual level I could only aspire to be at, and past or right at the brink of their most important developmental stage, because I wanted nothing more than to be set out into the world. To be like them. Ignoring the risks they took, or the too-taboo-for-a-twelve-year-old experiences they had. Which were never too taboo in my house. I never found it in myself to without care of consequence be able to just be stupid, or take any risk myself. Risk. Not ever my strong suit. I've gone the first seventeen years of my life with only ever the occasional prescription drug in my body, air in my lungs, accumulatively about two cups of alcohol in my stomach, and have only as of late allowed myself to embrace the possibility / reality of being in requited love. And this has something to do with why when presented with the afore mentioned topics I've been known to spout either an aggressively strange "moral" based opinion, or become completely, and unintentionally uncomfortable. I question a lot my own reasoning behind these things sometimes, usually able to instantly find answers in the experiences of those previously, or currently around me and not in myself. And that can be good. But I suppose it can be a little unnerving at times, in the sense that ... what are you trying to say, Lucy? Sometimes I feel like a big innocent schmuck.
And for what?


I spent hours off and on writing this blog entry. I needed to. All day I've felt restricted from where my jawbone meets my ears to where my vexatiously lopsided chest begins. Sometimes I feel trapped by my skin. This is a somewhat recent development that visits me on extremely different ends of the spectrum. I either don't want to have a neck, am extremely touch sensitive, and want to peel the muscles from my bones, or am exceedingly comfortable with my bangin' body, and want to wear nothing but my skin. And, I mean, I don't feel like this all the time. But it's very prominent. 


Pan's Labyrinth, the third or fourth movie that's been on over the course of tonight/this morning's entry is probably about half over, and I'm ready for my second glass of sparkling cider. Hopefully while I'm asleep I won't kill any more women, or have any more cut up scripts in my hands.
And simmer down with all that angst, Luce, it's driving me nuts.

We wish you a Scary Christmas.

One. Year. Ago.

Good Golly! This is beautiful.

http:///www.npr.org/2010/11/11/131245315/hauschka-gets-the-most-out-of-88-keys

idiosyncratic.

Give the gift of bullshit.

Signing into my old blog to catch up on what those who I'd been following had been posting reminded me of how intoxicating it was to write to everyone in particular with little to no chance of them finding out. But it also reminded me of how awful I felt during that short period of time that I felt like I had to do so. Really. I used to spew hate and love all over that blog, like the angsty little teenager I was / am, writing directly to people I knew would never read it with a sick and almost desperate desire for them to find me out. There have been a couple times in the last few months where I've had the urge to write again outside of this blog, but I've stopped myself, because I really don't have to, and what's the point? Anything that's worth writing about, I can find a way to articulate here. And anything too personal or private to share, is so for a reason. 


Practical Magic is on the TV for the second time in a row tonight, and Nicole Kidman is so fucking beautiful. I'm feeling pretty envious of her hair color, and wish that Ulta was open at 1:14 in the morning so I could dye my hair right now. I've only got one rehearsal this week, which I couldn't appreciate more. That feels weird to say, considering everything I want to do all the time takes place in that building.. mostly. Did I say thing? This whole show hasn't felt good / right / comfortable from the start. Everyone on the cast is great, and nice, and friendly, and working really hard. But the experience isn't warm. That's it, I think. The main issue. It doesn't feel as worth it as other projects I've been a part of. But then again, I got an A in math class, so this show could be brilliant. Could be.


The muscles in my upper, right, arm don't feel like they're in the right places, and my stomach has growled before, after, and during every meal I had today. But I only ate once, and had coffee this morning on an empty stomach. So I'm just whining about that which is self induced. 


I'm feeling especially artsy. And that's good. That's really really good. 

All I'm really trying to say is that I feel like shit when I should feel like a goddess, and It's probably just because I'm a dumb hormonal teenager. And I need to knock it the fuck off. 

12:23.

I clicked [NEW POST] at 11:09am. Senior Seminar hasn't even been in session for a half an hour yet, and because I have finished my career day presentation and have opened the tabs with my in-the-process college applications to show Chad at the end of class, I felt like I had to do something that made me feel the slightest bit productive. 

I woke up this morning in my usual too small of a cocoon of blankets. Four blankets, still, even though the inconsistent weather has lessened the cold in the house. I put on all my layers of lace, and black, and pin-striping, and made my head look the way I do. Boots on, and I walk into the living room where I find my mom. She says, "Before we leave this morning you need to read what Tess wrote on her Facebook." Instantly I utter an, "oh no." Because the worst thoughts run through my head. "Chris must be in the hospital." "Something bad must have happened." "We're losing her." Because that's the way it works in the ruins of the office space in my brain. A few times more I vocalize, "oh no," and it takes a while for mom to say, "It's nothing bad." And I find that Tess has written this, and take the time to read it before I leave.

TESS FOWLER.
"It's been a hell of a long time since I unlocked this particular cage so please bear with me. Putrefecation of the soul takes time to undo. I haven't been able to cut it open and truly bleed it out because of a lot of pent up anguish left over from what they did to me. The sadness, the blackness, gets unbearable for me. That's why I push you all away. The masses of unbelievabley excitable people who welcome me into their lives with open arms. I can't. It hurts to be too close. I used to dance with the flames of self destruction and it's been a hard road back from the brink of the fall which I coveted like a lover's furtive sweaty embraces.
 I'm here now, dancing across the keys with fingers more accustomed to ink stains and pencil shavings. I'm here with you on this screen, in your dens and living rooms and bedrooms. I hear you breathing, day dreaming and thriving out there in the night. You're giving me strength to speak again. To really speak. Not to vent or just expell the poison they injected under my skin and into my very veins.
  They didn't kill it. They tried. What they didn't know was that I kept it hidden and locked away. The true source of it. Here deep inside my breast, encased in red bloody flesh. My soul. Soul? You may ask this little noisy Atheist. What soul? Atheists don't believe in such nonsense. Not true. I have one, and it bleeds paint and vomits ink. It dances, tripping its fingers down your spinal cords. Eyes closed, elbows nestled into grassy knolls of my rolling, musical heart.
  This, dear friends, is where the artistic color smeared soul of yours truly was hiding when two little photos popped up in my Facebook newsfeed recently.
  She is 17 going on 55. I remember that age and I am so thankful for the people who have raised her because she is all I could never be, with ten times the talent. She is AWAKE like I was, but so much deeper and more profoundly beautiful inside and out. Fuck. She adds up to far more than the sum of my parts even now. I'm not even on the same planet as this kid....Kid. Who am I kidding? This is a sylph. She is ageless, and a wee bit terrifying in her audacity to even exist in this time and space.
  When I came across these photos she posted I felt it. That age old tingle at the base of my spine that shoots up and grabs me by the throat. INSPIRATION. Mind you, I've toyed with her image before, as well as her sister's. But it was just child's play until now. I think it was because ever since that day when I met her at that convention, I knew what she was. I've watched her matamorphosis over the past couple of years, but I knew. Goddamnit I knew. And then one day I log into this stupid networking site and I hear the music again like nothing had ever changed because this little girl posted photos; something she has done a million times.

 But this time...this time it's ART.

  Real art. This little psychotic desert brat answered the call and tapped into the eternal. Dare I say it...the sublime? And in one fell swoop the animal in me which was sleeping and grumbling is now awake. Oh shit. Oh holy shit. It's awake. It's making me ache with the glory of it because she tripped the wire folks. This little Muse who is on her own road to the white hot light at the center of the maelstrom with her singing and dancing and cyber poetry is a miracle.
   She's just a child. Don't hate me for calling you that baby girl, but you are. That's why they want to lock you away in that place and pretend like they're educating you. They're afraid of you. Stick her somewhere with the other castaways her age and teach her what everyone says she should know. But how do you teach someone who's obviously existed longer than any of us? How do you control that which was created to be the purest form of chaos. Simple.

 You don't.

You sit back and fucking marvel at her. ...and so I am.

 I know what you are. You are that which caused so many sailors to crash their ships upon the rocks. You are that which made the masters sick in order to get the frescoe just right. You are the light that the blind holy men swore they could see. You are that which I've been chasing all my life.

 You are the Muse, Lucy.

  ....I'm BACK. "

     
--------------------------------------------


And I close the window, after re-reading a few sentences. I don't say much to mom and we get in the car. I tell her about the text conversation Tess and I had last night that was apparently only a little while before she started writing her post. 
I don't know how to accept, or deal, or embrace this kind of thing. I never really have. I think it's because I have a hard time understanding it. Not the content of her post, or what she had to say, but what exactly it is she sees in me that I don't. What anyone sees. What you see. I've never been good at even accepting so much as a small compliment, I think, because I don't tend to feel deserving of such. I don't create for the benefit of other people. I create because I have to, because if I don't, what am I? Who am I? I do these things to remind myself that YES I am a person, and YES I mean something to me, and that's all I had for a while. The ability to please myself, because in the eyes of everyone around me in [I hate to bring it back to this] middle school, everything I did was socially unacceptable, and wrong. So when there are other people in my life, be it and artist in another state, or an artist in my hand, who become attached to the things I produce, or do, or even just become attached to me on an emotional, or psychological, or inspirational level, it still just feels foreign and I don't know the appropriate way to handle the situation. Not that there is an appropriate anything, really. I suppose what it comes down to is that no one has ever understood me as well as people like him, and her do, and that doesn't scare me. But the thought of losing those people who finally do and who I love so completely is terrifying, because all I ever do is lose people. All I ever do is get walked away from. And I'm prone to just being able to accept it. The fear comes in when I realize that I don't think I would be able to accept it now from these rarities. This makes it so hard for me to talk to people. The people who care about me the most, and the people I care about the most, are turning out to be the hardest to talk to. And that shouldn't be the case. But this is. And this would be the point of separation that I'm used to. This would be the fork in the road in which they'd choose to part ways, and knowing that there's a strong possibility that they're going to stay by my side, and walk with their hands still in mine is so beautiful. But I'm looking at it through the makeup that stung my eyes this morning and clouded my vision. I've been trying to blink it away, but I have to get in there with a tissue and clear it away manually. Or it will continue to sting and I can't afford that because I have to allow myself to embrace this, and be happy. I just don't know how.


I must return this computer now. 
But I'm staying late in class to tell you specifically. 
SHE - I will continue to create and will be here for you no matter what. Let me know if you need anything of me, other than just me. You amaze the shit out of me, and have become such a supreme presence in my life.
HIM - I'm not just being nice. And I want you to know that so much of the reason this feels so hard for me is because it should be and is, in a sense, so easy and right. I'm used to complicating things, and so that's why I do so. And I never want to see you unhappy, so I especially would never want to be the cause of your unhappiness. Even if I am, sometimes. I worry about everything I say to and do with you, and everything I don't because I've been waiting for you for what seems like, and what could possibly be my whole life.  And I can't lose you. No matter how much you re-assure me I won't. 


I need to eat. I almost puked, and was shaking this morning. I feel a little bit like that again now.

Get that snowman away from me. I will not be his new nose. Even if I am a carrot.

That math final today was lame. Who woulda thunk? The first half [non-calculator] was fine, but the second half [with calculator] felt awful. There were five questions. And I didn't know how to do three of them. I turned in that homework packet and in order of days assigned: B,C,F,D. Read those, if you will, to the tune of Beethoven's 5th. No. But really it's okay. With those grades entered I still have a 90 in the class, and once she adds the grades from today's final and the final project due friday that I sill haven't started, I'll probably have a B. If I end up with a C? Boo. If I end up with an A? Great. But there's been a tremendous weight lifted off my shoulders now that the final is over with. I left the room with an imprint of an octopus in my palm from my compass. Is it silly that I wear it on specific days because I hope it will "point me in the right direction?" Yes. But I drink 20 or more ounces of coffee each morning for the same reason.


Speaking of which, my all day headache yesterday probably had something to do with caffeine deprivation, but I should have known better what with the headache, nosebleed, random extreme stomach cramps, two hour naps, sudden and intense unexpected annoyance with Jessie, and general negativity-based introversion that it was about time I remember what gender I am. The morning of the final, too. Because that's just what I needed. Somewhere in the middle of the day I began to think of how terrible my headache was last night. And then realized something. I have a feeling I may have lost consciousness at some point on the phone, because I remembered saying goodbye, but prior to that, the last thing I remember listening to/talking about was pillow toppers and I know the conversation went on far longer. I probably swam around in a pool of story that made no sense, and said something embarrassing. But I suppose that's a good thing to not remember. At least my head doesn't hurt now. 

I'm constantly combination amused and appalled by the vibrator commercials I see on TV. Mostly LoGo. The amount of enthusiasm those women have is hilarious[ly bad]. The best worst ones are the commercials with eavesdropping/excited old ladies. And the worst best ones have husbands in robes hiding their boners behind the kitchen counter. By the way. I'm hiding mine right now, because my second favourite drag queen is on Rupaul's Drag U. Hot damn! 
Since writing that last "Hot Damn!" I've read thirty-three more pages in 1984. We're going to have a text-based discussion tomorrow on Love and Sex in the book, which should prove to be interesting, not just as a whole, but for me specifically. Seeing as my views on both have changed significantly in the last four years, but that's not something I feel is appropriate for discussion in my blog quite yet. And probably not for a while. 


Kailee and I talked about her 28 year old boyfriend today at lunch. Intellectually I feel on the same level as her, but we've got a significant number of differences. Which is necessary and preferable. She, though, is dating this greek man that she met via the restaurant she works at. She started seeing him a while ago, and they've had plenty of trouble, but are back together again [this month]. She's got no shame sharing about spending the night at his house often, getting drunk after hours and dancing in the back room at Athens. Kailee has been pulling shenanigans like this since the beginning of last year. She would tell me about it in yearbook. And she's still alive, and has a good-ish relationship with her mom, and seems pretty happy when he's not being a dick. Which gives me a well deserved confidence boost.  
Not that I'm not more confident than I need to be.


This Pixar short about the stork is wonderful. I can't believe I've never seen it. But as always it's fuckin' sad, man. In a great kind of way.

A Couple Raccoons.

I love nothing more than talking about what and who I love. In this case, because I just had to rehearse my Senior Internship presentation for career day at school in January, what I happened to be talking about was theatre. Go figure. I also love starting blogs with the phrase, "I love nothing more than [blanketyblank]" because rarely is that true. But today! Oh, TODAY! It's true. I didn't have any chance beforehand to vocally rehearse this presentation in front of anyone, and we only had about five other people in the room, but given any opportunity to blather on about my life - SOLD.

I've got a shitload of school work to do. I have to finish the math packet that's due tomorrow right before the final I had a dream about failing last night, read thirtysomething pages in 1984, get ingredients and make a bubbly, mint, raspberry drink for Tom's final project, finish my college applications, make a secret santa present, and start and finish the math project, FUCK and I'm only writing this all out in this blog so I can have some sort of a checklist to look back on.

I will never love my teeth.

I think what the problem is for me right now is that I don't have a big, larger than wife, project to sink my teeth into to which I can devote the majority of my time. I've only just fully realized this. I would have liked to have been able to do that with THE WIZARD OF OZ, but the issue there was that I wasn't allotted the amount of time I would have liked. The last few days of working on that show I cut classes to work only on the production. And that was when I felt the most accomplished. Given the opportunity it could have been a lot better. But the issue right now is that I need something I can have complete artistic control over. I want to be breathing every aspect of something I can commit to. But that doesn't seem like it's going to be happening any time soon. Waa. I've got so much on my plate already but I'm being a picky eater. 


We took a tour of Arizona Theatre Company today and I almost allowed myself to being sucked back into thinking I need college to make it as an artist. How dumb. I talked [thought] myself out of it again on the car ride home. I just need to remember to listen to and trust myself. If I wanted to do theatre for money or notoriety I would be setting myself up for failure and a life of feeling worthless. I know that. And for that matter I've come to accept that I am never going to specialize in one thing. I get bored fast, and will occasionally have bursts of re-enthusiasm. I've got a shitload of skills and/or talents but I would never want to be stuck doing one thing. 


Tonight I'm going to ask Carley and Sabian if they need me the rest of this week. I have finals and projects and college applications due and happening. And I don't have time to have barely a spittles-worth to do with this show.

So I just now found out there was a funeral I could have gone to. And I didn't. Lovely.
It probably wouldn't have felt right anyways.

I better get writing this break.

Lucifer.

Caution. Bra Talk.

LUCY - "So. The bra I'm wearing *shows mom* is the one I wore in Rocky and I forgot that I had sewn these rhinestones on the back of it. 
MOM - "Oh yeah! I remember when you did that. It showed in the back anyways so you were like 'I'm gonna detail it.' When I did laundry last I washed, like, every one you own. Who knew you had so many bras?"
LUCY - "I didn't. When I was cleaning I just kept finding them. "
MOM - "I have to get more of those zippered bags to wash them in. I always keep Hedwig in mind when I do the laundry, though. You know, "You don't put a bra -" 
LUCY - "In a dryer."
LUCY & MOM - "It warps."
MOM - "Yep."
LUCY - "I have to write this in a blog."

vitaglio.

I used to devote hours to taking photos of myself.

Maybe I should bring that back.

Coffee Spoons.

This track on the new My Chemical Romance album always reminds me of Jet Grind Radio. And I say it to my sister every time it plays. I bet she's tired of that by now. I just put on my dad's glasses. Maybe it will make this blog entry sound more intelligent. I started the day in Starbucks, and the girl who always compliments my hair was there. She asked if it was naturally curly like this and then squealed when she realized we were wearing similar flowers. Mine was bigger. But then again.. duh. "Oh man! We match!" When I got to school I looked into the obnoxiously large window into the math room and saw all of my miserable peers, and walked right on by into the room that GSA was meeting in and helped tally the results of our school-wide sexuality surveys. And in that tallying I remembered my own semi-upsetting answers about bullying, and realized that when it came to identifying myself as anything specific, orientation wise, I had for the first time been honest with myself and with the page about my own sexuality. That was something I realized in middle school. But it's too convenient, and personal to want to discuss without the veil of anonymity securely hanging over me. Math brought a lecture about negativity. Basically Umbridge was just trying to make us feel sorry for her because "It's really hard to teach when I can hear audible sighs in the back of the class [that was me] and hear from other teachers that you've been complaining about me." Oh, not to mention all of the students you've made cry this and last week. It was awkweird and she didn't take any blame for anything and told us everything she has before about treating us like a college level class. Excuse me, but when a student asks for help because they don't remotely understand something that you never taught and you walk away without a word, we can't help but think you're a bitch. And what's more is when you lecture us and reference those instances, and your excuse is that that's your way of telling us to check our notes or get a textbook or ask a neighbour because you don't have time to teach or re-teach us. What's your job, again? Way to go. She tried to make us feel sorry for her, and as much as I really want to allow myself to be I just can't. Senior Seminar provided a beautiful contrast. We made gingerbread man ornaments, and listened and sang to Christmas music. It felt good and I smiled for most of the day. I lobbied to play my favourite holiday song and as a result ended up hum/singing Baby It's Cold Outside for the next twoish hours. And I'm listening to it for the third time in ten minutes right now. This time the Glee version between Kurt [Chris Colfer], and Blaine [Darren Criss from A VERY POTTER MUSICAL.] It's sweet and their voices meld together well. The end harmony is superb. I started the drama class going around the room and having everyone say one good thing about their week. When one kid protested saying, "It's hard to pick. A lot has happened this week. None of it was really good," I said, "Yeah? I've had a pretty shitty week too. Speak up. That's why we're here. Just focus on one good thing." He answered. And once we got through everyone, a girl who's a little too skinny, and whose hair looks fabulous because of the Toni & Guy show she was just a part of asked, "What about you, Lucy?" And I answered. Spoke about seeing a play, and abused my air time. 

I sang along to Wig In a Box all the way to the bus station where a man tried to sell me a watch. He was intoxicated and too close. Michele appeared behind me with her bike and assisted in getting him to leave. I thought I was going to get raped. Boo. When my bus came I noticed a couple girls from my school were also getting on. They ended up sitting near me, and I wished them a happy weekend. "Only one week left till break." I never like to have anyone sitting right next to me on the bus because I'm afraid of people. They might want to sell me a watch. But it was crowded and the mohawky girl in need of a seat seemed nice enough, and then an old black man took her place. I noticed more people asleep on that bus than I've ever seen. And none of them were me this time. Score! It smelled like perfume, and I couldn't tell where it was coming from. I was surrounded by men. Which I'm also afraid of, usually. Bus rides have stopped taking forever in my mind and are merely just a part of my day now in which I use to figure out what I need to say to people or blogs. Boarding the second bus took a while because of the wheelchair passenger, but the beeping of the ramp folding back up was perfectly in sync with the "doo doo doo"s in The Long Grift that was now playing via shuffle on my MP3 player. That made up for the slight time lost. A woman with mid-length hair caught my attention. Half of it was a strawberry blonde, and  the other half was grey. It was beautiful. It made me want grey hair. But I can wait. There was a boy on the bus later in a hoodie that looked like yours, but the blue didn't have enough green in it and wasn't as aesthetically pleasing. I saw a Wonderbread truck turning into a Circle K parking lot, and knew that it would end up near a place where there used to be rolie polies, and little black dogs, and little black women who were fortunate to not be the ones getting punched in the face.

I often want the last of any food or drink in the house. Even if it's not really mine. And my justification for it these days for drinks is that everyone else in the house can drink the beer on the bottom shelf or go buy a bitch drink in a dark bar, or at a family dinner. So yeah. I think I'll finish your Mountain Dew, Darla.

I don't feel like as much of an idiot today. 

Brian - *In reference to the cat* "Did you just meow at me?"

Lucy - "You're wearing black so she's going to crawl all over you ... like the ladies."

Brian - "... I don't know how to respond to that statement. ... because it's not just ladies."

Oh Brian. Darla will be done primping soon. And then I'll be home alone. 

In your branches.

Today our cafe reading day at Shot in the Dark consisted of Jessie complaining nonstop about having to be there with the class, Ducette almost throwing up, and little old me reading the Newspeak Appendix in 1984 while being super conscious of whether or not my shoulder blades were hooked onto the back of my bar stool. And they were, mostly. That and my wild antici --- pation that maybe, just maybe, the Violent Femmes album playing would include Prove My Love. And it did. Hoo-whaat? That's crazy talk. I had to speak with the counselor today. But about nothing personal. A student who has previously informed us about being in a mental institution for a while began crying before school to a friend of mine about how he was sure his step-father was going to kill him. He spent the proceeding hours at a low volume telling everyone in the class goodbye, as a whole, and one by one. Vicky and I, among a few others were way too concerned to keep quiet about it, so I ended up informing the counselor. Which was pretty damn risky. I don't know what this kid's capable of, but I hid in one of the administrative areas when she collected him, so he wouldn't know for sure if it was me who reported anything.

I haven't even thought about specific Christmas presents for everyone and don't have the budget to go on any sort of shopping spree. As per usual I'll probably end up making everyone I know something smallish, or give them an individual object that came in a twelve pack of some sort... like the schmuck I am.  I've only got one present in the works as of right now. And it will probably take the longest. Not because it's going to be the best thing ever, but because it's highly probable that it's the most important. And that might end up being a multi-part-i-fucking-love-you-and-want-to-give-you-everything-ever present. But, you know. Might. All this should be taking a back seat to the disgusting amount of dumb math I have to do. But it's not. How could it?

On that note. None of our teachers are listening to or considering anything we [the seniors] have to say, and instead are talking down to and at us. I'm sorry. But when all the other 3.95 or higher students and I, are at risk like everyone else of failing our math finals because of insufficient teaching, and being legitimately frightened by, or livid with said teacher you've got to wonder whose fault it is. We're not being encouraged. We're being told we're not good enough. Which is resulting in a big fucking epidemic of Senioritis. Bitch bitch bitch. Blah blah blah. I'm tired of it. And I'm sure by now, oh reader, that you are too.

Adieu. Auf wiedersehen. Gesundheit. Farewell.

circa 2007

Cephalopod.

Someone once told me that there would be a point in my life where everyone would start dying. Well. Here we are. But that's not really what I want to talk about right now. When I got to school today I was presented with an overwhelming amount of work. The math assignment I was to turn in on Friday I turned in today, and it ended up being almost completely wrong. So I have to re-do that. And the weekend work that was assigned on Friday. And the work I was assigned for today. We've got a math modeling project due next week. And we're going to have a two part final the same day. Joy. In global studies we were assigned a research and culinary project due at the end of next week. Senior seminar brings completed college applications and internship presentations for career day due at YOU GUESSED IT the end of next week as well. I've got rehearsals almost every day for the Mainstage show at LTW I'm ASMing from 6:30-9:30ish. Wonderful. Overwhelming.


All I want to do is draw, and watch movies about grumpy old men, and not have to worry about where I sleep at night. I've got one semester and two weeks of senior year/high school/public education left. It was confirmed last Thursday and Friday that what I know I want to do with my life is right. I spent hours and hours typing up programs, prop lists, loading in and striking sets, continuing and finalizing direction, organizing the school play, and talking about future shows/projects. I didn't once have to think about math, or college, or anything I didn't want to. And in my spare time drank coffee, ate food, drew, and didn't have to do any of those things alone, or with people whom I didn't want to be around. What a concept. I suppose what it comes down to is that the things I want or have wanted have become the things I need. And I'm achieving almost everything I set out to. And I'm still a fucking kid. People wish and dream for life like this. And I sometimes feel like I don't deserve as much as I have. But I do. I really do. So I'm done listening to people telling me what I need to or should do with my life. And I'm done hiding everything. The only thing limiting me is this school. And I don't have much more of that to deal with. Once I'm sent out of the deep end and into the ocean I'm going to make my final metamorphosis into the octopus I've always wanted to be. Spewing ink, performing with the mer-people, and wrapping my tentacles around those who I've always wanted, and never letting go.

Where the shock sets in and the stomach acid finds a new way to make you get sick.

Take this with you.

You're not obliged to swallow anything you despise.

I'm glad mum's back from Denver. And not just because she got me coffee this morning. A coffee which I learned later I probably shouldn't have even acquired, because shewantstobeahipstersobadly teacher Sarah took us to Shot in the Dark for a cafe reading day she failed to remind us about. Jessie was unhappy, and embarrassed to be there with a class, and not able to sit in the smoking section. Vicky probably took a nap next to me at some point. I ended up reading multiple sentences multiple times because my brain wasn't fully focusing on 1984 this morning. During Senior Seminar later, Eve expectedly called me out into the student lounge for college talk. I had up until then only been honest with one other person about my college hesitations/thoughts/non-aspirations and that was on two separate occasions [one of which was the night before this meeting]. She said what I really didn't expect her to, and let me talk without interruption about everything I was feeling in relation to the subject. I think she gets it. [I've written/said that last sentence far too much in the passed month. But that's over-ish]. She's not going to push me into college like is with everyone else. Because she understands why I don't feel like I need it, for theatre specifically, and otherwise. I still have to fill out the applications for a grade. Duh. But I'm figuring it out, man. And that's great.
I haven't really stopped to breathe until now today. And I wasn't as terrible as I anticipated I would be in that reading today. Maybe. I did think a lot about Gibran during the talk-back. And my best friend from the second grade Jessica Aldrich who died of a brain tumor. She wore a leopard-print jacket with black lapels, had ginger hair, and the last time I saw her she had come to class with her stuffed animals to say goodbye to everyone because she was going into a surgery she [obviously] didn't make it out of.
That "after-party" was equally as frustrating as it was enjoyable. Practice. That's what that was. Oh man, though... I can't even... AH!


When tech week for this awful-falafel school play is over it will be sweet salvation. That ball of stress will dissolve. I need time to need time. 


On another note. My sister's brother, thirteen years her elder, was doing research on the Truax branch of our family. Truax being where I get my body structure and the bulk of my artistic ability, specifically my need to perform. He found, apparently, evidence of distant relatives who were innkeepers to an inn where people occasionally went missing. When they no longer owned the house, because of death or.... other circumstance, they left in their wake a plethora of dead bodies in the basement. Words can not express my strange excitement towards this. The karma from this twig/branch of the family tree could be responsible for happenings, tendencies, and interests of my immediate family.


My dad just came back out into the living room. He couldn't sleep. Anxiety attack. He's having a hard time, with his Uncle being in his last days and all.


I should sleep.
It's almost 3AM.