Friday, May 24, 2002

I'm a cynical, insensitive bitch.

At the computer beside me- as I'm in the library right now- there is a kid who is not going to graduate with his- who I've known since grade school, who is a good person, if endlessly fucking annoying and way too...unjustifiably confident who is almost in tears. A mutual friend...or at least acquantance of ours came over and asked him what was wrong. "I don't want to see my senior friends leave."

My initial thought in response: "You have friends?"

Maybe it's simply that this kid has been annoying the crap out of me for way to long- not to say I don't like him- or maybe I'm trying to numb myself to all that's happening around me: I'm leaving high school. I'm leaving my class. We're all going to become seperate people and lead seperate lives. Forever.

When I was in fifth grade, I remember very clearly having moments that I just suddenly looked around me in class, saw all these people I'd grown up with, and knew, and felt- the way their all just coming to feel now- that this was my class, this was my family. This grew stronger for me in Sugg, especially eighth grade, the most class-spirited year of my life- god, I miss it. (He's crying now and wiping his tears, and I have the audacity to be annoyed, thinking that he might be doing it to get my attention. I suck.) I miss our little class- we had the same twenty-something kids for every period, just different teachers- and I miss Dud amusing us all, or stealing the remote from Mrs. Bianchi, or saying "Let's get back to the sheep!" in Mrs. Gerlek's, or any number of things that are the exact same things I always talk about when I reminisce about that year- I wish I could remember something new. Giving those reports in Mrs. Gerlek's room- we had to cover certain things about a country, and while we stood up and presented, the other kids in the classes would have check lists to see if we covered everything. We got extra-credit for asking intelligent questions, so I would always write questions for Steenson and Justin to ask- especially on my presentations, because I'd get extra credit if I could answer them. However it was that Mrs. Gerlek didn't catch on to that, I'll never know. And I remember writing Mike long notes every day, and talking on the phone to Sandra about him every night, and Jeremey and Jesse behind me in math and science, scratching on those damn book covers and smiling up at me....I remember a lot. More about eighth grade than any other year.

I could go over my four years of high school, but I've done that a thousand times...or else I'm scared to. Scared, perhaps, to acknowledge how I really feel about these people that I knew were family always- when my parents were offering to send me anywhere else in the world to high school, France if I wanted, because they hated LHS so much- and these people who I've managed to loose that feeling for slowly, like a deflating the balloon in the course of my high school career, and all that remains is that shrivelled red rubber notion of it, and a bit of the ribbon tied to the end.

But that's there. I want to blow it up. I'm just afraid of bursting it...maybe that's all it is.

He was writing a poem on the computer beside me called "To All My Friends", and I was thinking that it must have been amateur crap, as it seems everyone writes around here- I gotta get, out, their cramping my style. And I feel guilty for thinking that, and I'm trying to tell myself that once upon a time, my shit was that bad, and that somebody readinng this- if anyone bothered to- probably thinks this shit is that bad. (except that since it's a blog, I have no pretentions about it being good.) I feel evil and mean, and I want Chad here assuring me that I'm a nice person, that I'm better than I give myself credit for, that it bothers him to see how little love I have of myself. I want Chad here with me, and I want to be laying against him, pitifully making my argument and feeling his complements in a way I can't really feel anything good about me anymore, seems I can only make sense of the bad. I want Chad here, or rather I want us both to be elsewhere, and I miss him.

Which leads me, without a clear segway, to the fact that all this shit happening privately to me is distracting me from feeling the crisis of my high school life ending. Maybe my subconscious is doing this on purpose- it seems everytime something that would really emotionally kill me happens, something else happens that's just bad enough to distract me, and perhaps it's because I sabotage it without knowing. The things I can't control get blocked out by the things that I do, except that I've convinced myself don't, I've convinced myself that they're just happening to me, too.

I'll have to run that theory by Mr. Ladd.

"Just do me a favor
It's the least you can do
Don't treat me like I am
Something that
Happened to you."

I do that to people too's the worst insult I can think of. I need to stop.

And I need to start feeling what needs to be felt. I need buy a yearbook and have every senior sign it, and stop and talk to as many of them as I can. I need to cry about it. I need to write really really bad poetry about it.

I need to be an amateur.

On with it.