You can have one for free.

For those of you who are eagerly awaiting news from the desk of one Lucille Petty, and / or for those of you who forget in my absence that you ever did so, "Hello." And, "Stop it." I don't have a desk. 
In general these days I'm ever so busy doing mostly nothing in my lovely new shared home of yours truly, and a Mr. Christopher Johnson. It's good, and grand, and more than I could ask for and if I haven't returned your calls, or written you back, or don't text you back sometimes it's probably because I'm busy in bed playing Epic Mickey on our lovely Wii, or watching Star Wars or Glee on Blu-Ray... among other bed related things: antics I haven't fully and completely explored yet, but no longer need a compass for. We eat and drink extravagantly, with our apple filled meals, Jack's Juice Club juicer, and [too expensive coffee] coffee pot. And when we've not got the time it's frozen pizzas with the original crisp crust, and / or ramen. Macaroni and cheese for breakfastdinnerlunch from time to time [i.e. maybe a few days in a row.] 
As if I didn't know the city bus already, we now have a pretty exclusive $42 a month relationship. It's always entertaining, and has gotten me into reading. WICKED is currently about a foot and two inches away from me. I tried to tell Leslie Miller last night the I was "currently reading WICKED" and that I, "think it's kind of good, but that it's not my favourite. I don't really like anyone in it." She made a few comments I didn't understand, and then once she realized what I had said told me she thought I was, "currently bleeding witches." On my period. Which is true, but she thought that somehow everything I said afterward had something to do with being on the rag. She said, "I didn't really get it but you're an artist so I just let you talk."
I start a new show at INVISIBLE THEATRE this week, and the funds from that should allow me to get a laptop all my own, but if they keep on keeping on cutting my hours at work it might, and probably should just go directly toward rent. This show is coming just in time because I'm just about going crazy listening and being on the sidelines of all the Tucson theatre community drama and feeling like I have no place to provide any commentary when I'm not actually directly doing anything in that community at the moment. 
It's hard to feel like I've gone from the top of a food chain to simply watching the animals devour each other. I think, "How ever am I going to feel important again outside of my home?" I need to feel important, and need to be needed. I'm a leo. I'm a rooster. That's kind of my thing. 
I briefly mentioned work. If I'm not there I speak a few hundred words a day. If I am it's maybe a couple thousand. Smiling, and rehearsed-like saying, "What can I help you find today?" And in the course of the conversation convincing the customer that I really do know what I'm talking about, when really I'm only regurgitating what's going to get me my paycheck. I'm an actor. It's what I do. But we knew that already. 
Moving on. 
Currently Christopher... that sounds like a bad sit-com. Currently Christopher walks around the pool table smoking, talking to the black wall with a hand or two in his pockets. People must often think he's crazy [which is true, mind you], but he simply rehearses his lines. This time it's a one man show. It'll be the fourth[?] I've seen him in. We're really not even a quarter of the way through the number of them I will see him in. 
Never mind whatever I was talking about that you forgot you were interested in. I'd rather you forget what I've told you so I can tell you again with more conviction, or intense dismissiveness in person.

11.76

Everyone's barking about the classic hits of yestermorrow.

I figured I better start writing again. I can't tell if the time of the month is the cause of my on-again, off-again manic depressive tendencies as of late [I'm pretty sure it is] but I've been considering talking to someone to see if I can't go on some medication for all my anxiety. Also I'm super tired of dealing with acne [among other things' and am considering going on birth control. Not simply because of the acne, mind you. Yay! Lucy's looking to make a bunch  of chemical changes to her body! I'll take the birth control first, I think. Also I've been living with Christopher for a total of two weeks as of now. It's so strange, and god, and different than anything ever. 
Work is going well. I'm at the point where I...well... know what having a job is like. Now that I'm more comfortable there it's time for me to have opinions on everyone/thing. I can't complain about the hours I'm getting. 40-ish hours a week? That's what people beg for, man! I can, of course, get annoyed from time to time, and sometimes I would rather not be there, but if it's what's allowing me to live with Christopher, I can do nothing but work and be thankful I have work / housing / him / love / all of the above and below.

The Breakfast Club.

The Breakfast Club.

10.

Truly.

We've got less than ten days, and almost ten months, which [if you ask me] is pretty damn incredible. 

Things are getting weirder / harder / easier / blahblahblaher. Basically I'm stepping into the real world now like I wanted to in [more or less] the way I wanted to.

No one says "tad" any more.

It's this time of the month again to write about you. The last month provided me with some pretty upsetting dreams. You've been a bit unpleasant to me. I think it's because of Ryan's play.
Maybe it was today when I was talking about where my grandpa was buried that got me thinking again that I need to write about this. I didn't tell very many people that I found out you had a service that people outside of your family could go to. That I missed.
Do you remember Hailey? I'm sure you do. We had that little spat for a while because you were spending more time with her than you were me, but I hardly wanted to say anything about it because she made you happy when I couldn't. All I have to do is look your name up on Google, and after the azstarnet.com listing about your death a little blog called In Loving Memory Of Gibran Escalante [gibranwillliveon.blogspot.com] pops up. She wrote about you for a month, and that's about it. The most recent saying: 
"His funeral was hard and I couln't have gone alone."
"Your funeral was really hard, I wanted to stop everything and actually talk about you, the real you. Not what they were saying they were way too off. During the ceremony i'm sure you were looking down and laughing from where ever you were... (you actually got me in a church) and I wouldn't have missed it for anything." 
She wrote a total of about three blog entries there, and it's possible that there are more somewhere else, or she's writing in a journal, and where I'm actually a little bit flabbergasted, and pissed that there are so few for someone who "love[s] you and miss[es] you so much], I'm still sometimes livid that I even found it. Because to know there was a fucking funeral for you, and that NO ONE in this god damn town who knew you, who would in turn know of me [seeing as everyone I came across at your fucking high school after you killed yourself knew my name and cried into my shoulder while I walked around like an idiot, hugging girls I never thought I would see again]... that nobody thought to fucking tell me, or contact me, or... anything. I don't even know where your remains are. If you were buried, or cremated. If your name is carved in a stone somewhere. In a way I guess that does me some good. I don't need to spend any time trying to stare my way through grass, or through a marble wall just to hope for something to happen. 
A lot of people just don't understand, I guess. I know you had other friends. I know you did a lot of things with a lot of other people. I just feel like it's so different for me than it is for anyone else. Which is why, I presume, I don't cry too much about it. What I have in me about everything that happened is far too complicated to come out in such an easy way. Not one other person has the story I have.  I can't even remember the last words you said to me. I do remember though, last summer the same day / few hours that I got my new phone you texted me and I had to ask you whose number it was and you said, "Forget about me so soon?" Bollocks.


I'm going to write a fucking play about this whole.. thing. Some time. It becoming easier to look at everything as a whole now that almost a whole year has passed. I can't even fucking believe that. But it will still take some time. I imagine the words will come when I've left this house, because I think it still makes it hard to be analytical about it when I'm still living in a space you were in so many times.
It's just been really interesting, I think to see how your death, or a death in general, has affected me. And it's for the first time. 


Yeah. I need to write a fucking play about it.
You know it's serious when the only thing in my life I can comfortably, publicly write about is your death. Ladies, and gentlemen, to grieve.

A new member of the twerk team.

So who's been neglecting their blog? This chica. Did I mention I graduated? Probably. Did I also mention that ever since said graduation I've been looking for a job like a madman? Probably, but maybe not. Anyway, that's been the case. But. Who got offered a job today? Me. And who took that job? Me. I'm so excited, even though it's probable that at some point going to work will become a total chore, and some day's I'll feel too shitty to want to, but this means that I'll now be able to contribute financially sufficiently, and that I won't have to spend months and months feeling guilty about not being able to because I don't have a job. I can barely believe it. But I'm very glad. Very happy. Yes.


Also we started JAILBAIT rehearsals tonight, and that's already going smashingly. That's going to be a great fucking show. Just you wait and see.

9.

Is it rum cake?

It was like a concentration camp of the twenty-first century. I can barely explain it. We were all waiting for our names to be called to meet someone. Later I was running. I hopped into a black car and two friends of mine who had been surviving were a threat now because of me. They said, "Don't worry. You're not going to die." And I said, "Yes I am. If they use against you what you fear most they're going to force me to an eternity of black silence." 
Strangely it sounds like 1984. 
They caught us, and gave us a "warning" that too would end in death if we wouldn't behave. And I knew I couldn't. Amanda Gremel in the sunlight getting out of a striped, orange van, with the smallest matching orange sunglasses I've ever seen, knocks out the guards. We change the identities they were looking for. 


I wake up and eat rum cake.

The Pettycoat Boutique!

The Easy Morning.

It's always right at this time of month, these days.

You sat two chairs away from me, and said no word through the first half or more of the dream. People from our middle school, and my high school all sat at tables in celebration of a coworker's soon to be child. It was weird though, because she was a few months along and they had taken the fetus out of her and put it into a large tin can. Like an elongated cookie tin. I played the newer Panic At The Disco album. I thought it might get you to talk to me. Someone came up to me and tried to get me to turn it off but I said something not offensive that got them to walk away. People spoke around us. Your hair had grown to the length I knew you with, but it and your dark clothes [hoodie and your ever-familiar skinny jeans] couldn't hide the delicate looking scar around your neck. All of your skin had gotten darker. Your movements were manic. When I finally reached for your hand you seemed startled, but I held it nonetheless. As my fingers wrapped into yours they noticed the dry, roughness of your skin. No one's skin should ever feel like that. We just sat there for a while. I don't remember  what we talked about, because frankly I don't know that we would.

Jessie, who you never met invited us upstairs to a long table full of people you had also never met. You sat next to her, and across from me, and I was receiving text messages from Christopher. You asked who he was, and you watched me talk about him for a while, and upon my finishing said, "We really need to catch up."

And when I woke up I pulled the covers off myself, and stared at my room for a bit.

Each time I have a dream about you, you say something different to me about who I am now, and about our lack of communication. It's like a monthly visit I keep not expecting, because I keep not remembering that I can't just call you.

8.

Again. Will he offer me his hunger?

1. Forever now.
2. I feel like this would be a funky, spanish, western of us.
3. I used to hopelessly sing this to myself before I met you. Also. You're clever.
4. I knew the beats better than the lyrics.
5. I was convinced this was about wizards before I heard the word "science." Also this song is great.
6. You were right. About the introduction. This is fucking cute.
7. When I recognized it before the lyrics I choked. I hadn't been able to find a non-live version of it. Thank you.
8. This only made me slightly uncomfortable. But I get it.
9. Not the two for you.
10. I would have if you hadn't.
11. The trumpeter played along backstage for me.
12. This was on when I walked in and you weren't there.
13. You drove me around the gaslight parking lot to this. I remembered, specifically, the purse line.
14. This makes me want to walk like a G.
15. Waking up.
16. This one made me feel guilty, a little. 
17. Hopefully I won't get sunburned. 

Heavy metal lover.

So, how weird is this? I graduated high school two days ago. My body fully expects me to get up tomorrow morning and groggily get some coffee on my way to class, and I think my brain does a little bit, too. My mom asked me Friday night after Graduation if it had hit me yet. Of course it hasn't! Most likely it won't hit me until winter when it's been weeks / months since I would have gone back after a summer vacation. 
Everyone keeps asking me, "What next?" And usually I'll try to say something vague about making some art and doing some theatre, and getting a job to help me along the way, but there aren't many people I can get into specifics with. I guess that's fine. It's my business anyway, yes? 


I can't wait until I can blog about everything I want to.

Graduation.

In.
Five.
Days.

If that's what you want.

Last night I had three separate dreams that I can recall. 
The first one took place in a very large version of a store similar to Buffalo Exchange, and I picked a few specific things to spend money on. I kept them all piled in my hands. Shoes, typewriter ribbon, and a few other vintage knick knacks.
The second took place on the ground floor of my school. Charles Schnarr who was my advisor Freshman, Sophomore, and Junior year showed up in the staff area and at sight of him I ran to, hugged him, and sobbed into his chest. I know for a fact that this is stemming from my wanting him to be at my graduation one week from now. On the first day of school he told me that he would be my advisor until I graduated, and when he left at the end of last year I was instantly hit with the fact that he might not be there to see me graduate. I don't want that to happen.
The third dream was rather explicit, and vivid. I can still remember as if it were a film, specific shots from this one, and it's pretty strange. To say the least, I had a crazy sex dream. But I was a gay male in the dream, more specifically, Kurt Hummel from Glee... fucking Blaine. Don't ask me why. It's a bit complicated. I've never had a dream to remember where I was in the body of another person. I have always been myself. The sensations in the dream were pretty... there. And people were taking photos of us. And it was airing on television and all that. People began to attack us and we were chased up a concrete tree house-like building. Our rivals beneath us at the tail end of their attack... and I vomited on them from above. 
I don't know what any of this means.


I've sold two items on my Etsy store within one week of posting them, and have received a few checks in the mail in response to my graduation announcements. 
What I'm trying to say is... I have a bit more money this week.. and that's fucking great.

I didn't cry until I read my own writing out loud tonight.

Gibran. You would have been graduating in a week or two. And I could have called you and said, "What are you going to do now? Let's go get coffee, and maybe we can see each other more often now." But I can't, and I know that's selfish, and that a lot of people love[d] you. But right now I just wish you were walking at your graduation, and drinking coffee with me.

Final Project in Senior English. - For Writing Compilation .

I come from the womb, upside down, backwards, stuck, and ripped out  in a town across the country I know nothing about. I come from a childhood of scrapes, and scratches, and, “I get hurt every day.” When the only important things were who got the jump rope at recess, who claimed the only blue seat on the swing set, and which boy I chased for calling me by my full name, Lucille [which I’ve come to prefer nowadays]. I come from mountains of mud, teas made from poisonous plants in the yard, and old peanut butter jars filled with water, soap, and Barbie clothes swirling around in a makeshift, stick-powered washing machine. I come from looking up to my sister, trying to emulate her, only to end up completely different from, and an inch taller than. I come from Rob Zombie and Marilyn Manson filling my ears, and Star Wars assaulting my eyes. I come from a nest made of sculpting tools and colored pencils, needles, thread, and sequins too. I come from an early adolescence filled with bullying and hatred, but also filled with love and individuality. I come from the ashes of the fallen queens who walked through our doors and showered us with glitter, music, and most of all acceptance and pride. I come from a crayon and a coloring book. A pen and a paper. I come from a puppet playhouse and a family. A stage and an audience. I come from a cave where extinct species are actually just hidden away. Once I saw one leave, and made it my mission to go out into the world to find him. I come from a brain that works much too fast, and much too hard. I come from a time when typewriters, pocket-watches, and baby-buggies were the norm, and I strive for their return. I come from old cartoons and Disney films. The animators drew me too. I come from a place where creation and love take precedent. I come from the depths of the ocean, from the sand where my tentacles grew. I come from here, and now. There and then. I come from them, and I come from you. This, right here, is where I come from.

Final Project in Precalculus - 2011

Data from: http://www.kinseyinstitute.org/resources/FAQ.html

Glad you think so.

I haven't written a blog in a while. Way to go, Lucy.
I graduate in less than three weeks. That's so much for my brain to process, I can't even handle it. I'm going to graduate high school. I'm going to fucking graduate.
As of now, I still don't regret not applying to colleges, and I still don't regret not accepting that AIMS full tuition scholarship, because I didn't want it anyhow. I just wanted to know that I was smart enough to get it in the first place. I'm struggling a little bit with my month or so off from working on a show, but it's been pretty nice to be honest with you. Like.. today I'll probably get something to eat after school, and then make some more flowers. I'm making flowers now by the way, with fabric and fire. Classy, classy, and just my style.
I'm feeling really good, despite my being sick. I've found two lumps on my neck, one that hurts, and a slightly smaller one that doesn't. I've had three auditions in the last two weeks, went to a Fleet Foxes concert, and layed around a lot. Which is all very good.

I've been doing a lot of cleaning lately. Again. Throwing things away, mostly. Donating a lot. It's all very weird to be getting rid of so many things from my childhood, but it's going to happen anyway. I just getting a head start. I'm really glad I didn't take that ATT show, because I need[ed] this month.

7.

Did you take that x-ray while I was sleeping?

cyclecyclecycle.

I've got a lot on my mind about self acceptance lately. It must be the time of year, as tonight's episode of Glee was coincidentally about such. I tend to feel pretty stable about myself, but duh, I still talk down about myself more than I should. I don't have perfect teeth [in any way], I do not love my skin, I want to chop all of my hair off, I'm hyperconscious of growth and change in my body, and more and more and always have lived in a mind that sometimes feels like a VHS on fast forward moving so rapidly that the tape is just about to burn / melt right before coming to an abrupt stop. But those things that I stress about are like nothing compared to what other people go through, and even what I used to go through. Never does the term, "middle school" fill my mouth or cross my mind without leaving a bitter aftertaste, or stain on the insides of my eyelids. But I will pride myself until the day I die on the person I've become because of how fucked that experience was. So often I feel as though I'm still spitting venom, and I'm really trying to change that. I've in the last year or so realized how important it is for me to use any audience I've got as a way to communicate the importance of being yourself, and positivity, and I realize this because there are people around me, my age, younger, years older, that look up to me, and that is an insane thought in itself. I must be doing something right, and I don't intend that to sound cocky. I'm giving my senior presentation this Friday on "Creation" and really what I'm coming to a seemingly obviously conclusion of is that I am constantly in the process of re-creating myself, and using the people and places and experiences in my life to mold who I am [as I should], and I feel like I want nothing more than to show other people how to do that too. I felt like I didn't know how to do that without being preachy, and activist-y, but I know now that the best and only way for me to achieve such is just to love myself, as I do, and really believe it, because then I will just keep doing what I'm doing, and the never-ending cycle of inspiring, absorbing, and regurgitating will continue on organically for them and me alike, and I won't have to stress about it. Sounds easy, and I know it's not. But it's a good goal to have.

Raja was rightfully the winner of RuPaul's Drag Race and the week before this last episode when posed with the question, "Why do you think you should take home the crown?" she responded with an inspiring and eloquent:

"In winning this competition I would love to leave a legacy for all the little boys who are teased, who are afraid, who don't know how to express themselves creatively yet, and you know.. they don't even know that it's okay to go against the grain. And that it's okay to say 'Fuck you," and do what you love to do, and express yourself thoroughly. I want to be an example of someone who is proud, someone who is accomplished, and someone who LOVES, loves what they do."

In the last episode she confessed that for the first time she was really able to love the person she is, and commented on how great that felt.

And on another related note, I've just viewed this revealing video of Lady Gaga talking about how emotionally taxing her career can be. She is so vulnerable in this footage that I almost feel like I shouldn't have been there, but I feel honored that I could be, in a way. I've read and seen many interviews with her about how much she wants to spread love, and be there for her fans to let them know that it's okay to be different. Sometimes when she speaks on these things I feel as though she's got the ability to tap into my brain, because her intentions are so similar to the ones I tell myself I have. It's tough to see her break down like this but it's fucking beautiful.

I feel like this is more scatterbrained than I would like it to be, but maybe it's not, and fuck it if it is.

I am so close to being where I want that I can taste it, and can even already feel the first rumbles of digestion.

I want to am going to inspire people during my presentation this Friday. I have to.

The sex is in the heel.

And eat it too.

And soon I will cut it out / off.

16. Realizing you're at the point in your life where you've experienced all of this.

It's the only goal.

Prom?

Ryan's considering wearing a dress to prom again. I just asked him to go with me as I've decided to wear a feminine variation of a tuxedo. Ha. 

chicken and waffles.

I've been meaning to send this letter for a while.

Dear eyelashes, wishbones, dandelions, shooting stars, birthday candles, 11:11, and pennies [especially ones in Disneyland fountains],

Thank you for doing your job.

Love,

Lucille Petty

The Most Powerful Forces Of Good Ever Assembled.

I picked up my accordion tonight for the first time in a while, and played [by ear] a song from Amelie. And then without any effort played and sang a new song, which is something that I've never had much luck with before. The ease with which it came reminded me yet again of how much easer everything feels. How much better. I feared so much what being in this position would do to me because never had I successfully been in it, and I realize that there could be nothing better when it comes to my creativity and drive and happiness. Nothing. We are there. We are right where people strive to be. And people fucking get it. THEY GET IT! And that's beautiful, and thrilling, and more than I could have ever asked for.
I'm still very afraid of death, and now more than ever have more reason to be, but somewhere in me I can feel the fear subside a little, if only for a moment at a time, because not being alone gives me so much more reason to live, and to live my life the way I want to, and to not be afraid.


I stopped typing somewhere in there, turned to my sister and said, "Hey! How was work." And that was fucking awesome.


And Birdman might be falling in love too. 

Good Morning.

I could not believe how much I laughed when I found this.

It's alive.

Summer's in the air and there's six weeks left of school now. Jodi told me something like, "These are the moments. Make sure you cherish them," which is [believe it or not] pretty hard to do when I'm so miserable every day I'm in that building. I started off the year being disgusted with my math class and it's turned out to be the only bearable class I've got. Jessie and I are doing pretty well sitting next to only each other, exchanging glances, and writing irritated notes to one another.

But this isn't what I wanted to talk about, dammit! SUMMER IS IN THE AIR which means my time spent at home has become increasingly productive the last few days, and I've been wearing shorts more often. [I confess I used the word "last" in that sentence because I didn't want to figure out whether I should write "past" or "passed"... even though I'm pretty sure it's "passed," and this should be easy but never seems to be for me]. It's so strange, and I know I've mentioned this numerous times, to think about the fact that this summer is coming, and it's not just a two month summer, and then back to school. There's nothing set to define it. I've got to find a new way to do that from now on. Thank the gods for six weeks. I've got fabric, and beads, and a video camera, much more skin than I had last year, and another pair of hands. I have a different bedroom [so to speak], a fresh drive, and a new work out plan. But most of all, I've got what so many people want, but never have. And that's fucking beautiful, and it's time I make that known.

I feel like a better person now. 

Some days this happens.

For You.

The Queens.

Scrapes and scratches.

Today in Sarah's English class we had writing Friday. Our prompt was, "This is where I come from." Every time we ran out of something to say, or whenever we wanted to start a new line we were to start it with the phrase, "I come from."

One of note:
"I come from a cave where extinct animals are really just hiding. And I saw one leave once, and went out into the world to find him"

And I felt my blood rush through my arms.

Without Trying Too Hard.

Cory, let's talk.

I am a cholesterol lowering medication.

Señor Photo.

6.

This cat's coming with me.

Soon.

Run, run, run. - - - Run.

The air in the house a few days ago was really starting to freak me out because it felt more and more like years before. The swamp cooler had a lot to do with that. Today with the mix of that smell, and the boiling macaroni and cheese water in the kitchen, and my watching of Youtube, and [excuse me for being a troll here] people's uploaded videos on Facebook I am flooded with memories. Sensory feelings that like to say, "Hey. Remember when you felt like this? Remember for how long you felt like this? Remember how bad it was to feel like this? You don't feel like that any more. Now you have what you need, and there's a new summer to make, and new feelings to remember. A new summer to remember, and new feelings to make."
And boy does that ever feel like the dawning of a new step in my life. And there's a big one coming up. Duh. But I can feel it now. In my skin.

First Day Of Summer.

And it's not even summer yet. But in a good 8 weeks, my friend.

Truth.

Oh... yes... I slept... fitfully, I tossed, I -

- woke up every hour on the hour without fail in Jessie's bed facing the wall with my phone on my chest, and my waking up was only once due to my phone's alarm clock that was still set. Thank the gods I didn't go on the Senior trip. I bet everyone there is actually thrilled that she and I didn't go. It's very frustrating to not be able to write too much about sleeping over at Jessie Birdman's house last night because I know that people I would rather not be reading this are, and I know that I would be criticized and / or lectured for most of the things I have to say. And it's not that big of a deal and there's nothing to worry about blah, blah, blah, but I'd much rather be able to write about everything I want without the chance of someone in my family, or someone at my school, or someone older than me who thinks they know what's best reading it and freaking out. So you might be saying to yourself, "Then why don't you just write in a journal? Write to yourself." Guys, I'm a Leo and a Rooster, which means I need an audience. Without an audience, my art has no purpose because I don't gain satisfaction from something unless it impacts someone else in a different way than it does me because it's rare that I gain complete satisfaction from my own work in the first place. So basically I'm saying, "pay attention to me, but I can't really tell you everything I want to.. so don't.. but don't go away."
I'm a twat.

In other news, ladies and gentlemen, I've received a second bad show review working with Winding Road Theater Ensemble, in the second production I've been a part of with them, from the same critic. Let's call it a tradition. I've just got through reading all of the comments on her article on the Tucson Weekly's website and it seems that everyone there is on the same page. No one would mind it being a bad review so much if it were actually a review of the performances and not just a bitchy rant. But who knows? Maybe someone in her family just died. Or her cat was in surgery. I just hope this doesn't stop too many people from coming to see our show and TALLY'S FOLLY. 
We shall see. If she shows up to DYING CITY tonight and we happen to recognize each other, I will do nothing but give her a smile and a song. Maybe.

The other day I posted that art piece of Raja that I drew / inked, and the FuckyeahRaja Tumblr page reblogged it which is pretty exciting, and I posted it on the Raja Facebook page and it was commented on by the creator of said page which may or may not be Raja her/himself. Nice.
My nails look like a volcano, and my nose and cheeks are contoured again today. I'm sticking my legs out of that cocoon I was in, and maybe soon I'll be all the way out.
I bought a vest pattern at Joann Fabrics today, and hopefully I'll be capable of making a few vests. I'm thinking a lace back? Yes? Yes.

A man just came in wanting to buy tickets for DYING CITY, and Michael isn't here so I told him when tickets would be on sale. He recognized me from performing with Winding Road, and said some nice things about my performances around town. I'm still having to get used to things like that. Weird, but kind of amazing.
Take that Forrester.

RAJA of RUPAUL'S DRAG RACE - "Well fuck you too!"

Ingredients: Pilot Precise Liquid Ballpoint Pen, leftover coffee, blood from my gums, diluted California Just Chile Hot Sauce. AND POOR IMAGE QUALITY TO BOOT!
This piece really more intricate than this photo allows you to see.


LUCILLE PETTY 3-29-2011

Post 200.

I'm extremely confident the majority of the time but every once in a while I'll have a big identity issue. Not crisis, just an issue. I'll just want to change everything about my appearance. I get freaked out about how I perceive myself in a group of people, around certain people. It usually goes away. I'll tell myself that nothing I wear on or do to my body is good enough and that I need to try harder.
I suppose it's about time that this happened again. I've been in a cocoon for a while, so I saw it coming anyhow. I might as well finish out high school on a high note, with glitter in my eyes and mouth, and knotted curls in my hair. And then we'll see where I end up.


I STILL need some new black nanny boots.

Air Conditioning In Amusement Parks.

Book club.

As the elephants arrive.

I think about death the most during spring. I really hate that. Especially I right now in the season I'm thinking about and hating it. There's really nothing that can be done except for all of the minor attempts to make it stop. Fortunately I haven't had a full on panic attack because of it in a while, but it gets in the way of things sometimes. It's also strange to have a fresher view on things now. Now that I've experienced someone in my life passing away, and now that I've got more reason than ever to live right there in the palm of my hand [most of the time literally]. 
Toni has a bit to say about death in FIFTH OF JULY and I do my best every night to not let the backs of my ears scream, and the feeling of electricity enter my ribs and hair and neck. I have to keep doing, and moving, and making, and loving because if I don't my mind gets the best of me and I panic. I panic. Usually when I'm alone, but sometimes not. And if I'm not I have to prepare for the intense amount of awkward, because I don't want to talk about it.


"You can't worry about the stopping, you have to worry about the going on."

Allergic?

More than food.

I walk around 4th avenue today and I'm fully and almost constantly aware of the smells in the air. In Tucson Thrift was the first and worst smell of the day and can only be described as the scent that overtakes your nostrils when you're hunched over a toilet about to vomit. A mixture of toilet water, and precum-esque saliva that uncontrollably leaves your mouth before the big event. The puking, I mean. I trek over to the other side of the store that is appropriately called The Other Side, and the smell reminds me of Peg Peterson's car. Passing the Hippie Gypsy makes me think of a store in Ocean Beach, California called The Black, but only because of the incense pouring out of the window frames. How Sweet It Was smells like moth balls and high prices, and as I sift through the bargain and sweater bins outside I can smell the burger joint a few doors down. My stomach reminds me that it's never satisfied. Even as I write this in a blue seat in the audience at the cabaret space it growls and yells at me. So do the pigeons. I'll have to turn my music up to drown them both out.
Desert Vintage didn't smell like anything specific, which was a good thing from the start. I bought a new little black vest that I've been looking for for months at the reasonable price of about eight dollars. It's plain, and my size, and showed up just in time as I've recently lost my go-to and only other vest. I leave the store satisfied, but I've forgotten to tell the woman at the register that, "No, I don't need a plastic bag." It's a little guilt-spawning because I've been trying not to use plastic bags anymore so that I don't add to the plastic islands in the ocean, an unnecessary with both my backpack there, and my intense desire [which I immediately act on upon leaving the store] to just put the damn thing on over my black t-shirt. I ended up throwing the bag away anyhow. Boo. What a chump. 
My head swam periodically throughout the day and when I sat in the hallway at the temple before rehearsal I could feel my pulse all through my legs against my jeans. I took off my shoes because they suddenly felt worlds tighter in combination with all the walking I did and my rainbow toe-socks, which makes me now cold. 
Man. I've got loads to complain about today. But none of it compares to the cockroach incident yesterday.

You're hungry.

If you don't have any shadows, you aren't standing in the light.

Drawn by Kat the same day I posted the photos.

I'm glad I look so tall in photos, and that I'm not disappointingly short in person.

Fresh Sub Bread.

I'm really pissed that the new episode of Glee that aired tonight that I missed isn't on Hulu yet because apparently it's supposed to be really good. It's regionals, someone dies, and there might be something finally happening with Kurt and Blaine. Not really sure on that last one though. I know that this is always the way it goes. Hulu does a good enough job posting the episode the day after it airs, but I'm anxious to see it. Hopefully it will be up by midnight or one in the morning. That's when I'll be getting home anyhow, so that's convenient. 
Darla sent me a message on Facebook with a video enclosed. It was a song by a pretty boy named Patrick Wolf called "The Sun is Often Out." She titled the subject one of the saddest songs I've ever heard. And I appreciate the gesture, but the song tells a boy who committed suicide that he will be missed. I, as I often do, imagined myself singing this somewhere. But I would probably not make it through without crying. It was sad. And all too relevant. It would maybe be something good to sing October of next year. I had the song playing as I wrote that, and I cannot listen to it again. And I probably won't, for many months because it makes the back of my neck hot and makes me think again of how awful that whole experience felt and continues to feel. It's been a little over five months now, and I found myself reaching for my phone to text message Gibran the other day when I saw a girl named Mallory from middle school at the Eegee's on Campbell the other day. What a strange sensation that was. And what a coincidence that later that day I would be filling in as stage manager for KIMBERLY AKIMBO listening to a short monologue about someone being a fixture in your life, and having to remind yourself they're not there any more.
It might seem, through this blog, with the amount that I write about Gibran that I think about him constantly, and that I grieve constantly, and that it's something that I can't let go of. This is only somewhat true because I do think of him often, but not often in a terribly sad way. Like.. I think about him when I make microwave popcorn, or see Tapatio hot sauce. Or when I or anyone else says the word "tad." Sometimes when I dry my face on a bathroom towel, and when I hear Fall Out Boy's "From Under The Cork Tree" album, or Panic! at the Disco!'s "A Fever You Can't Sweat Out." When I pass Hat Club in the mall, or see Katy Perry, or look at my old packages of neon makeup. Sometimes when I use the Gaussian Blur effect on Photoshop, and all the time when I'm in a car going down Flowing Wells.
I'll try to moderate that subject for a bit.


I've just noticed that I only use the right shift button. Which is uncommon I think. We used to have a keyboard at home that had a broken left shift button, so I had to retrain myself to use the right one. I've never stopped. There are some rowdy, drunk, and laughing, mexican hooligans outside of the theatre right now that are making me nervous. I hope to god they don't come in here, or see me through the blinds. Please. Please. Please. I think about that shit all the time.

Forelsket: (Norwegian) The euphoria you experience when you are first falling in love.

This is a word that doesn't exist in the English language. 
I wonder if it's a disorder if you feel this every day.


There should also be words for [if there aren't]:
+ The feeling you get when you listen to a mix CD made by someone you're in love with.  
+ The idea / reality of no one ever understanding what the relationship you're in is like.
+ The ability to communicate to a group of people as a whole while secretly getting a distinct message across to one specific person.
+ The sensation of developing a strong connection to a song in relation to the person it reminds you of.
+ The feeling that everything in your life will be and is okay now that you have what you need.
+ The conviction that no one has ever been in love the way you are.


I just finished listening to a particular version of THE ORIGIN OF LOVE and upon finishing it I clicked "stumble" using Stumbleupon.com and this picture was presented to me:

 I take this coincidence as a good sign for more than one thing. I do.

I'm on a roll.

When I was courtin' ya?

When it hit me earlier today that I had officially started my spring break it was such a relief. Ten weeks after that, and then I'm out of High School. FOREVER. Dun, dun, DONE!
The air in the house yesterday felt a little weird. The weather's in a bit of a transitional period here in Tuck-sun so because our cooler isn't set up, and we don't have the heat on, but there are machines, and bodies, and microwaves, and pizzas in the house the atmosphere was all very sticky and uncomfortable. I sat on the leather chair saying, "I don't like the air in here," and I tried to figure out what exactly it reminded me of. Middle school. Oh dear. And later in the night I put together that a few years ago I had a really bad series of panic attacks late in the night when the weather / air was like this. This luckily didn't send me into a relapse, but it was nevertheless pretty annoying. This kind of weather also makes it hard to decide what to wear to bed. I can't find my shorts, so I've been wearing a pair of vertical striped leggings, and because I've become accustomed to the weight of my comforter I usually end up overheated and waking up in the middle of the night. If I weren't with my family, and there wasn't an occasional extra Brian in the house late into the night, I would opt for no clothes altogether. But since this isn't the case I'm just going to whine about it. How choice.

The cut on the roof of your mouth.

Sometimes these photos just happen.

Regardless of my sloppy Photoshop job.

All those pennies.

I brought some different pens to school with me today, so hopefully I will be able to work on my octopus piece. Apparently Jessie looked into and watched a good deal of tentacle porn recently. That crazy bitch. 

There's a girl at my school who is in the drama class that I extended my hand to at the beginning of the year because she doesn't really have a good past, or that many friends, and is in general not very likable to some people. My main goal in making myself available to her was just to be someone she could talk to if she needed. A friendly senior relation. BUT. It was clear from the first day of school that she admired me a good deal, and as of late her admiration has turned into that which is in the vein of the online stalkers that I've had. The desperate need to share interests. The constant need for communication, even indirectly. And of course, the aesthetic mocking. Her "personal style" has changed a bit. Her accessories now consist of black tulle headpieces, and flowers. Her eyeliner seems to have grown wings, and the other day, although she has no trace of it in her hair, her eyebrows showed on obvious tint of red. She showed up to the school dance with her hair up, with small black lips, and again today with her hair pinned in what looks to be a failed attempt at the style that I've apparently got some "claim to fame." Frustration ensues, but unless things get too intense I will most likely do nothing about it. The only thing TO do is cut off communication, which I'm already on top of. A few disapproving looks in her direction with her knowledge should suffice as well. 

Being a girl is a fucking hoot.

I got to the theatre a bit early last Sunday before BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. Apparently Kristi is training some girl to be on Nickelodeon or something, and she introduced me to the girl's mother as "one of our resident previous student turned professional actors" and made a point to ask me how long I've been with LTW. "Four years," I said. Wow. Four years. It's insane to think about how much has happened in regard to my career in four years. It's exciting as well. 

Hello, the rest of my wife.

"Billy Joel is a master of music!"

I've been feeling really restless lately. Not content in my own skin. This happens occasionally. Often, actually. It's not, like, a self conscious thing, not a low self esteem thing. It's just a constricted feeling I have to endure that usually manifests itself in the back of my neck, and my inner elbows. Sometimes it will travel to other parts of my body and it's really the most uncomfortable thing. There's nothing to do about it but, uh, deal. Blah. Blah. Blah.
I've got RuPaul's Drag Race playing in another tab at the moment, sometimes I have to click away from it, but I have headphones on so I'm still paying attention. Also, I've just watched last night's episode of Glee. Kurt sang a duet version of Animal, by Neon Trees. How fitting.
I've only ten weeks left of high school after spring break. That is mind blowing. Once in single digits, things are going to feel nuts.


I get phone calls in the middle of the night. Things are well with the world.

Now she's claiming that I bruised her esophagus.

Appropriate Anagrams.

Below I've included a few out of many many more anagrams for my full name, first, middle, and last.


Intellectual Tent Yep.
Pentacle Entity Tulle.
Anciently Puttee Tell.
Unlace Nettle Pettily.
Typical Entente Tulle.
A Cutlet Peel Intently.
Eucalypti Lent Let Net.


Tentacle Pee Ill Nutty
Tentacle Eye Tint Pull
Tentacle Pellet Unity
Tentacle Nite Lute Ply
Tentacle Tie Yell Punt
Tentacle Tulle Type In
Tentacle Plenty Lute I


Tentacle offers the most anagram options. What does that say?

I'll slip on your banana peel.

^ I promise to never subject you to that ^

What did you ever do?

I had a conversation with my mom about the act of graduating today, which was nice for a change, and then again discussed it with some students at school. Being able to say, "I am going to graduate high school in eleven weeks" is such a surreal thing. But finally. Gaddammitt! Inviting people from the theatre, regardless of if they're going to be able to make it or not, feels so cool. Tom says to me today after a tiresome and rather obnoxious drama class, "I wish I were graduating high school in a few weeks too." I can only imagine what teaching kids of this age range full time is like. I don't know that I could do it.
I got the letter in the mail from my school that has the forms I have to fill out for my cap and gown. Everyone's to wear navy blue. Boring, but, hey. It's not like our school is the king of doing things formally. We can at least work with that. There is a fairly wide variety of tassel colors that we can choose from for our caps, and where my mother thought I might opt for a Slitherin-esque combination, I've decided on the, what should be obvious, rainbow colored tassel. It's just fitting, and very well representative of my self and high school career.

Curiouser.

I'm a beast, I'm a beast, I'm a, I'm a, I'm a beast.

In the car yesterday as my mother spoke to me I set my head against the headrest. The car seemed unusually vibratory, although it probably wasn't any more-so than it always is. After about fifteen seconds of a fixed view of the left side mirror my vision began to shake. Like a horror movie. When everything starts disappearing. Luckily this wasn't the reality, but the unexpected sensation was enough for me to lose my mind for a second and a half. Almost literally. 
I found a notebook in the basement of my school some time last week, and I read occasionally scribbled entries written by a girl who, from what I've gathered: hates herself, can't understand why her boyfriend is still with her, and is also really in love with a woman. Halfway through reading it I realized / figured out whose it was, which made me feel a tad guilty, because I didn't stop reading. And I didn't want to.