Art Is Hard

My big brother graduated college this weekend. I'm going to miss him when he leaves for the west coast this fall, but that's not really the point of this post. Because the ceremony was yesterday afternoon, a good part of our family came to congratulate him. My parents, my sisters, my oldest brother, an aunt and an uncle, and both sets of grandparents.

We went out to dinner Saturday evening, and I got seated across from my maternal grandparents. Now, I love them to death; my grandpa was one of the first people to encourage my writing. He used to ask to see what I'd written between times we'd seen each other, and then read it aloud (I would ask him not to do, and then hide under the table in embarrassment when he did it anyway). Since my writing has kicked up a bit, and our visits aren't as frequent as they used to be, he's stopped asking to see it, and started asking about it. So, on Saturday, I decided to tell him--and, by extension, my grandma--about my Minecraft project.

I started by explaining Minecraft. Now, my grandparents aren't the most tech-savvy of people (and the Understatement of the Year Award goes to...), so I told them that it's basically a videogame version of LEGOs for adults. Once they knew what I could do with the game, I started telling them my plans; use Creative Mode, create a small community surrounded by a huge wall, create a huge world outside the wall, make a dissatisfied character, tell the story of how (s)he finds a way past the wall.

The idea is really to use Minecraft as the medium with which to tell my story, instead of words or pictures or words and pictures, to film it, and to post it on YouTube. When I told my grandparents this, my grandpa's first question was, "Will people pay to see it?"

I didn't really know how to respond. I mean, everything else aside, I'm pretty sure that that would be illegal. I may own a copy of the game, but Minecraft itself isn't mine; I'd have to get permission and pay royalties and all sorts of other ridiculous bullshit that I can't even pretend to understand.

But let's look at the aforementioned everything else that I put aside. I've been working on this project since January, and not once did I even consider the idea of charging for this. Yeah, if everything works out and the gods of fortune smile on me, I want to be a successful author when I graduate college. Much as I may joke about becoming rich and famous, though, that's never what it's been about for me. Writing, and every other type of art I do, has always been about the art itself. When I say that I want to be successful, that it would be lovely to be as beloved and as widely read as, say, J.K. Rowling or J.R.R. Tolkien, for instance, it wouldn't be lovely because of the money; I want to know that something that I have done, something that I have created, has touched people. I want to know that I have helped someone the way Brian Jacques helped me. I want to receive letters like ones that I myself have written, telling me that the stories I have told have given someone enough light to make it through the darkest times of their life. All in all, though, I just want to make art for art's sake.

Maybe I'm spoiled in that I'm surrounded, on the Internet, by people who see art as I do; not as a means to an end, but as the end in and of itself. Maybe it's that, being so surrounded by people with a passion for what they do, I've forgotten that there are people out there who simply don't care, who do their job because it's a job and it brings in money.

Or maybe it's because my grandfather isn't an artist, and so he doesn't really know how it works. He doesn't understand the blood and sweat and tears and heart-wrenching agony that go into creating art of any sort. He doesn't understand the passion necessary to keep at it, even when you're only getting quarters thrown at you for standing on a corner, reading your work. He's never felt the pounding of a story longing to be free, no matter what it takes, even if no one wants it. He's heard of these J.K.s Rowling and Stephanies Meyer (what now, Grammar Nazis!), and he thinks that it's just churn out a novel and get rich quick.

Maybe, if I could organize my thoughts while speaking, and not just when I'm at a keyboard, brain-vomiting onto the screen, I could have explained it to him. Maybe, if I weren't so afraid of offending him, I'd have been able to explain the concept of art for art's sake. Maybe, if I weren't so damned shy, I'd have quoted Amanda Palmer at him: "Stop pretending. Art is hard."

Remember

It is three in the morning, five days before I turn nineteen. I am so scared of the things I must do while nineteen. I must be up in six hours to be at the theatre in seven, but I cannot sleep. Instead, I remember.

I remember being tiny, playing frog in a pond-themed kids' area in a mall. I remember slipping, falling, lying on a bench, unable to breathe or remember how I got there.

I remember being little, having a friend, a "friend", and a stuck-up brat. I remember ignoring Barbies and Bratz in favor of creating worlds in chalk on my friend's giant drive-way. I remember learning my first swear word. I remember forgetting it a few days after, only to remember learning it the next time I heard it, years later. I remember the first time I gave up on another person. I remember being teased, though I don't remember for what, by my "friend" and the stuck-up brat I remember leaving without telling anyone, walking the half-block home, being missed immediately. I remember my mother scolding me for worrying the brat's mom, only to stop reprimanding and start hugging when I burst into tears. I remember telling her, being told, very gently, to ignore her and the brat would stop, but to never leave without telling anyone again. I remember being coddled for the rest of the week.

I remember being homeschooled through fifth grade. I remember the first—the only—"D" I got on a report card. I remember realizing that I wasn't as smart as my siblings. I remember knowing that it wasn't going to be as easy for me. I remember the disappointed look in my parents' eyes. I remember realizing that they thought I hadn't tried. I remember promising myself to work as hard as possible so I never had to see that look again.

I remember Friday afternoons that stopped when I was seven or eight. I remember my Daddy coming home for lunch. I remember wrestling in the family room and people sandwiches on a golden couch. I remember learning to ride a bike. I remember falling, crying, being cheered up, getting back up and trying again. I remember Daddy-and-Me Days and Mommy-and-Me Days. I remember one day every four months, going out with one of my parents, doing whatever I wanted. I remember Atlantis and the Rain Forest Café and riding my bike through forests. I remember being happy.

I remember my big brother, the oldest of the four of us. I remember Weird Al and "Stairway to Heaven" and secret stashes of chocolate in his desk. I remember being teased by the brother between us. I remember my biggest brother sticking up for me. I remember the neighborhood boys teasing me, just because I was a girl. I remember both my brothers sticking up for me. I remember being loved.

I remember second grade. I remember getting bitten by my friend's dog over the summer. I remember going to Oregon, a single stitch still in my knee, unable to wade in the ocean with my siblings. I remember waking up one early September morning, not understanding what was going on. I remember trying to comprehend what was happening. I remember being seven and not getting it. I remember the "friend" and the stuck-up brat moving, getting a new neighbor, making friends. I remember that spring, going to New York with my Daddy for my Communion trip. I remember driving past the ruins of the World Trade Center, not being allowed in the Statue of Liberty, roller skating in Central Park, turning down a play on Broadway. I remember going to Washington, D.C. afterwards, meeting the rest of my family. I remember learning to read that summer. I remember yelling it down the stairs to my Mommy. I remember, "That's nice. Go back to bed." I remember running to my big brothers' room, yelling that I read a book. I remember a noise of disinterest, and "You probably just memorized it." I remember being crushed. I remember my older friend moving away. I remember getting closer and closer to my new friend and my little sister.

I remember 2003. I remember learning that my mom was going to have a baby. I remember my brother upset about the due date; it was six days before his birthday. I remember an emergency C-section almost a month before the due date. I remember her umbilical cord was wrapped around her neck and could start choking her at any second. I remember being nine and not knowing what that meant and just being excited that we were having a baby! I remember my not-so-new-anymore friend being jealous but loving my baby sister to pieces.

I remember summer 2004. I remember drama camp. I remember acting in Annie. I remember a terrible night. I remember reading late and hearing shouting and my oldest brother's fist in the wall and him slamming the screen door as he ran away. I remember my mom crying and my dad shaking. I remember sitting with my other big brother and learning about what "drunk" meant. I remember being thirsty. I remember crossing the kitchen. I remember my oldest brother on the ground, handcuffed, shouting and swearing at the police. I remember my friend's dad coming to stay with us for the night. I remember Auntie taking over after that. I remember milkshakes that were supposed to make everything better. I remember the pact to keep this from the littlest two at all costs. I remember not being allowed to talk to "other people" about it. I remember translating that to "don't ever talk about this." I remember bottling everything up after that.

I remember starting regular school. I remember not knowing what to do. I remember not having a thick skin. I remember changing what I could so I would fit in better. I remember wearing skirts—even though I hated them—and pressuring my mom to let me start shaving—even though I didn't understand it—and starting to play sports—even though I didn't care about them. I remember still being teased for being the smartest, for actually reading when we were supposed to do, and even when we didn't have to do, but could if we wanted. I remember the best thing was the teachers. I remember wanting to get the hell out as soon as possible.

I remember my first crush. I remember not understanding it—why was I thinking about a woman like that? I remember being scared that something was wrong with me. I remember creating a fictitious crush and letting that leak so that no one learn how I was thinking about my teacher. I remember watching Tin Man and feeling the same way about the lead actress, Zooey Deschanel, and wondering what on God's green Earth was wrong with me. I remember hearing about "gay". I remember Googling it. I remember crying from relief.

I remember freshman year. I remember my brand new best friend on 22 April, 2008. I remember Doctor Who over the summer. I remember a hell of a car-pool and getting closer to my brother and the housing market crash and having to leave private school at the end of the year. I remember lying and keeping secrets. I remember leaning on my new show, praying with my wavering faith for a madman with a box to come rescue me. I remember my big brother leaving me.

I remember public school. I remember swim team and a determination not to make friends and a cold silence broken by a Doctor Who joke. I remember opening up to my team, finally telling someone about my sexuality, being accepted at face value.I remember coming out to my private school friends. I remember bullshit and fuckwittery and poor communication from everyone—including me. I remember everyone leaving me—or maybe it was me leaving everyone. I remember the fifteen minutes after every practice when we could just be stupid and laugh our asses off. I remember getting up every morning just for that. I remember my best friend coming back and the two of us wondering if we could ever again be what we were and healing our relationship and being stronger now than ever before and my promise never to go back. I remember becoming best friends with my little sister. I remember learning about my baby sister's mental health issues.

I remember my own mental health issues being identified. I remember being hurt and self-destructive. I remember my parents swallowing my lies. I remember when they finally didn't. I remember being promised that they had seen it before, that they just hadn't known what to do. I remember saying that it would have been so much better had they just called me on my bullshit in the beginning. I remember thinking that, at least then I wouldn't feel so goddamn invisible anymore. I remember starting to sort it with my parents' help. I remember not being able to talk to them. I remember they never made an effort to keep communication flowing. I remember, six months in, they figured I was okay and everything went back to "normal". I remember "Let's pretend this never happened." I remember going on without them. I remember having my friends to help.

I remember starting this blog. I remember longing to leave. I remember my first girlfriend. I remember why that didn't work. I remember my first boyfriend. I remember how much that didn't work. I remember getting my tattoo, my permanent reminder of love. I remember leaving. I remember leaving the hell my parents' house had become, but leaving my two best friends, too.

I remember finding my home. I remember making my new family. I remember the bliss of the summer, tainted only by what I didn't realize was an emotionally abusive relationship—though it was long distance. I remember refusing to put up with shit, even before I realized what it was. I remember breaking up with him in the worst fucking way possible. I remember starting moving into my dorm. I remember starting classes. I remember falling in love with my campus, with my professors—yeah, even the boring ones—with my social group, with my friends. I remember getting even closer to my big brother. I remember the first time my anxiety was accepted by an adult without need of proof or disappointment. I remember having problems and breakdowns and cry fests. I remember being happy anyway.

I remember my life tonight. I remember what I have done, what I have gone through and what I have gotten through. I remember that it could be worse. I remember that that's never much help. I remember all the scary things I still have to do. I remember my friends, my campus family, my big brother, my little sister, my best friend. I remember my own strength. I remember my strength when supported by all these people.

I remember that I can do anything.

Five days from nineteen, five days from the beginning of the year that will truly make me an adult, and I am not longer afraid. I store away the fear, though, and my subsequent vanquishment of it, for the next time I must remember.

This, That, and The Other: An Update on Life

It is one in the morning. I have a maths exam in eight hours. If it were up to me, I would not be awake right now.

But it's not up to me. It's up to my biology. Because guess what.

I'M FUCKING NOCTURNAL.

World, you need to shape up. So many people are all about inclusiveness: include the blacks and Hispanics and gays and all those other minorities, and I'm not bashing that, but how about we get a little inclusiveness for the nocturnal people? How about we get more all-night stores and restaurants, more night classes and work opportunities for people who function better at midnight than at noon?

Seriously, my sleep schedule can flip in a day. No matter how much sleep I have gotten during the week, when I don't have anywhere to be before, I will literally sleep until one or two in the afternoon. I went to bed at five AM yesterday morning. I woke up at two-thirty in the afternoon. I am perfectly peachy, and would be happy to spend the rest of my life like this. I'm not going to get to do, but I can hope, can't I?

I don't even know what the point of this is. I'm angry and upset about something completely different, and I feel like yelling and swearing about it, but I can't react the way I want to, so I suppose that's where this came from.

Maybe I'm just feeling misunderstood and excluded. Not like that's different than usual, but hey, what can I say? I have to have a talk with my German professor at eleven about social anxiety, and I have to figure out how I'm going to get through it without yelling at him or crying. Merlin only knows if I'm going to manage...

On a completely different note, I've decided to post at least once a week from now on. Perhaps it will be a Twilight recap. Perhaps it will be a ramble of ramblyness, like this one. Perhaps (this'll be fun) it will be a short story of mine. Who knows? But there will be a post every week.

With that, dear readers, I leave you and go back to my GameBoy.

Night

I step outside into the icy cold. My breath fogs in front of me, and I smile. A memory drifts on the still night air, a memory of eighth grade, a time before I knew of my allergy, and "the only good thing about smoking". I let the memory float to me, and then past, choosing instead to look up at the night sky.

It it cloudless, save for the steam coming out of the paper mill to the north, so similar to my own foggy breath, but so much bigger. A little to the south, I spy Abby's buddy, Orion, and above me, I think I see the Big Dipper. I grin, my knowledge of astronomy so very limited.

I should have been home hours ago, but my Big started watching Firefly, and I couldn't exactly walk away. It's midnight, and I'm tired, and I still have to shower; the night is cold and empty, but I am fine walking this way by myself.

I take a deep breath to revel in the night; the air is icy, and it pierces my lungs. My body is wracked by coughs from my brand of the Con Death Plague, and I remember that I should really be wearing a hat, a scarf, and probably a thicker coat. I couldn't be bothered, though, to find them on my way out the door to my social group meeting.

I am almost at the door to my dorm now; I tread a longer path than usual, to avoid the snow and keep my shoes from getting wet (they're canvas, and they take a long time to dry). I do not want to take my hands from my pockets to open the door; I'm not wearing any gloves, and my hands chap easily when it's this cold out. I have to do, though, because it's midnight, and not many people will be around to let me in. I pull out my ID and swipe it through the lock, yanking the door open before it has a chance to be an ass and close on me.

Inside now, I am almost immediately warmer. I trudge up the fourty steps to my room, and practically fall through the door. I wave at my roommate. She grins back. My coat comes off and I am cold again. I should shower and go to sleep. I have class and work tomorrow and I'm tired and sick. But I haven't been writing, and I feel the need to do. So I sit down, open my browser, and, still chilly, start to type.

This

This is why I left my parents' house:



So I can come and go whenever and wherever I want.

So I can cuddle with my friends on the couch and fangirl to our hearts' content.

So my fails are met with giggles and gentle corrections, not disappointed looks and sighs.

So I can make jokes about my neighbors having loud sex.

So I can swear.

So I can work at at job I love, and not one my parents force on me to get me out of the house.

So I can do what's best for my health, and not end up hurting myself to keep up with my parents' wishes.

So I can sit in a comfy chair and read for hours on end without interruption.

So it's okay for me to be mostly gay, and I don't have to hide it from the people who are paying my rent.

So I can be the nocturnal creature I am.

So I can use my free time as I see fit.

So I don't have glares coming at me from all directions when I show up with another five comic books.

So I can read whatever the bloody hell I want, and not worry about getting in trouble.

So I can actually clean the everliving fuck out of a paint-sink.

So I can finally be who I really am.



I left my parents' house so I can find a home.

I Wrote A List This Week

This isn't all that uncommon a thing for me to do. I write lots of lists. Lists of books I want need to get. Lists of things I have to do. Lists of what my mom needs me to get at the store. I remember things better when I write them down, and I feel more accomplished when I check things off. Plus, I know that everything is done when the whole list is finished.

But this list is a special list. This list is a list of things I need to bring with me to college.

I'm sure some of you are thinking "Already? It's only the beginning of May!" I'm sure I'd be thinking that, too, if the person were anyone other than me. But only if I didn't know the reason. The reason I already wrote this list is that I'm leaving soon. Twenty-three days from now, actually.

See, I got a job this summer, working at my college. My big brother goes there, and he hooked me up at the theater he works at. I'll be working forty hours a week, and living with his awesome, geektastic girlfriend, Jordan. This is going to be a huge change for me; I know that it will be Fun and A Good Experience, but it could also be Frightening and Lonely, and it will definitely be New and Different. I have many complicated feels about this, and it will probably be a good thing for me to get them down and sort them out.

The first think I'd like to address is my house and homelife. In this aspect, things can only get better. Yes, I'll be providing for myself, living with someone who I have only met three or four times, and will have to manage everything on my own, but I honestly can only see this as an improvement. I currently live with my parents and two younger sisters; my oldest brother has moved out, and lives in Chicago, and I will be joining my other big brother in Wisconsin this summer. I love my family, don't get me wrong, but my baby sister (she's almost nine now, but she'll always be the baby) has an Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD), and it can make life hell sometimes. She can be this sweet little girl, who loves to hug you and hang out with you and looks up to me and our other sister so much and wants to be just as cool as we are, but suddenly, with no visible cause, she can become unreasonable, throwing fits over the smallest thing; she won't respect our personal space, she has no filter between her brain and her mouth, and never thinks how hurtful the things she says can be, she doesn't get that sometimes, big girls are irritable and in so much pain they literally cannot move and just don't have the patience or the will to deal with anything stressful.

I don't want anyone getting the wrong idea. Like I said, I love her, with all my heart, and I will do anything to help her. I'm so grateful to the people at her school, to the staff, who know exactly how to handle her, and to the other students, who love her imagination and think she's the coolest and are almost always so nice to her and make her feel like the most popular girl in school and, really, I think she might be. I'm so happy that she can have that, because I know the hell that kids with mental disabilities can go through in school. I flew completely off the handle one day in Gym class because the teacher was being an ass to someone like my sister, and nobody said so much as a negative word about the kid in my hearing for the rest of the year. I hope that my baby sister doesn't ever have anything like that happen to her, but if she does, I hope that there is someone like me to stand up for her.

Now that I (hopefully) have convinced you of my love of my sister, I think it's safe to say that she is one of the things that make me cry the most often. The unreasonableness, the temper tantrums, the just not getting the fact that Neenie and I just need to be left alone sometimes, are so hard to reconcile with the sweet girl she can be. It's desperately difficult to deal with, and there are times when I have to babysit her, and once she's in bed, I just sit down and cry, and I'm damn certain that it will be so much easier when I don't have to deal with that sort of thing on a daily basis. But then I love her so much, it hurts to think that.

Also included in my homelife are my parents. I remember saying, when I was little, how my parents were probably the best parents in the world. I think back and remember that, and then remember how much they managed to screw up. Maybe Neenie and Grace have it best, because my parents had three kids to practice on before them, or maybe what they do is more noticeable. Or maybe my parents were so afraid of doing the wrong thing that they did it anyway.

When Neenie was in fourth grade, her teacher was a bitch of the highest degree. This was the final year in our elementary school before the students started switching classes; English, spelling, math, science, social studies, all were taught by the same teacher, so Neenie had to spend the whole day with the same woman. My sister would come home sobbing, because the teacher made fun of her, almost every single day. My parents went to see the principal, and I think I'm going to love that woman for my whole life because of what she did. She couldn't fire the teacher, because the pastor had the final say in those matters (don't get me started on him), but she told Neenie that she could come down to the office whenever she needed to, because the teacher was being mean, because another student was being mean, or just because Neenie was feeling down. So my parents did something about that. They don't seem too bad, do they?

Well, look at the other side of the story.

When Neenie was in fourth grade, I was in seventh. Now, I didn't have a teacher going after me, but I had most of my classmates on my back. Neenie has always exuded an aura of confidence (however much we both know she lacks it) that has made her a favorite among her classmates. I never had that. I was smart, geeky, and socially awkward from the ground up. I had been homeschooled until sixth grade, and I didn't have any idea how to interact with my peers until about eighth grade. I'm still kind of clueless. They teased me mercilessly because of this, and I came home crying almost as often as Neenie. My parents never did anything.

When I started to self-injure, I think it was kind of obvious. I'd show up in the morning in my pajamas--a tank top and pajama pants--with cuts criss-crossing my shoulders, but my mom took the cock-and-bull story about falling into bushes that I fed her for the longest time. She only ever did anything about it when my dad saw them, too.

My big brother thinks that she was afraid of making a mistake. Perhaps she was thinking that I was just clumsy and kept taking the same fall over and over, or maybe she was in denial. All that I know is that it made me feel even more alone.

But they did eventually get me help, and I got better.  I'm still better. You could almost say that I'm flourishing. Almost.

They got better, too. They helped me get through things, they did what they could to help me get better, and they were very, very gentle with me. For about five months.

Once those five months were up, though, I started seeming like I was okay again, the support and the gentleness and the care that they had been showing me faded slowly away, until they got to the point where they act like nothing is different from before. They have started, again, some of the behaviors that put me in the hospital in the first place. They yell at me for doing things wrong when I think I'm doing them right but I'm not because my parents have changed the rules again and forgot to tell me. They don't take what I do seriously. They tell me that I need to take time for myself, but get angry with me when I do. They make hurting, cutting remarks that undermine my self-esteem and confidence.

I have to deal with this sort of shit in my own home. And my friends wonder why I think so poorly of myself.

I never get out. I'm trapped in a house that isn't a home, with people who don't seem concerned about my welfare, and I'm dying to just leave. These are the reasons that I got the job at the theater in the first place, and why I'm so happy to be going. But there are reasons that I want to stay, too.

I'm a part of a wonderful youth group. I left St. Damian, the parish of my childhood, and the school where I spent three years learning, to go to a church twenty minutes from where I live, where my only connection is that it was the place my dad and his siblings went to school. Why did I do this, you ask? Because my three years at the school sucked. Because the pastor was a homophobe, and I couldn't sit through another damn sermon about how gays were bad and wrong and going to Hell because they didn't conform to the Bible. Because the place where I ended up had a group of loving, supporting people who let me be myself and stood by me through hell and high water. Because the sixty-something-year-old youth minister told one boy to get off another boy's lap because "that's so gay. Not that there's anything wrong with that."

They are wonderful human beings, the epitome of what the Catholic Church really should be, who take the real meaning of the word "catholic" to heart, and make it truly universal. I'm going to miss being a part of this group, all the friends I leave behind, the love and support they have given me, and the two hours of being open and honest and just having fun every week, and I know that they are going to miss me.

My social life has taken an upturn recently. Specifically, I actually got asked to prom by a friend of mine, and that's something that I never thought would happen. But this kid; he's a friend of mine, and I've sort of half-liked him ever since we met. He's cute and geeky, and he's one of the few guys I've met who are actually really nice (the total is, like, seven or something, and two of them are my blood brothers and another is like my little brother). I mean, I have quite a few guy friends, but most of them can be complete assholes sometimes.

But anyway, so there's this boy who has asked me to prom. Unfortunately for the both of us, I had to say no. No, I'm not doing anything the night of or whatever. I just really hate dances; I hate dancing and crowds and noise and really bad music, and that's pretty much the summary of a school dance. So we're currently treading those awkward waters frequented by two socially awkward people between a slight miscommunication (he thinks I was out-and-out rejecting him) and clearing it up, but hopefully this will work.

Except that I'm leaving soon, so God only knows where this will actually end up going.

Then there are my other friends. My best guy friend (and my "little brother") and I came up with this hilarious plan to build ourselves a little hut thing behind my house this summer, and it would have been so much fun to build it and paint it and hang out in it all summer before I left for college and he started classes (at a local community college) in the fall. Because I'm going away to work, that plan completely fell through.

This is just a little sample of what's going on. My friends and I had a bunch of plans (road trip, hanging out, swimming, and all sorts of other stuff) that won't happen now because I'm really only going to have ten days of summer break between my last day of school and when I leave to start work.

But the hardest part of leaving is definitely the fact that I don't get to take my little sister and my best friend with me.

These are two different people, but they can both share the same two roles. Neenie, my freshman (they make great pets), has been considered my best friend since sophomore year. I don't know how it happened, other than gradually, but suddenly we were super close and loving each other and still a little teasing but in a nice way now and sharing interests and all sorts of things, sort of like what happened with me and my big brother, Chris, but fortunately before my senior year. Emma Lee, my lovely co-host on our recently-conceived podcast (shameless!plug is shameless), has been my best friend since the first day we met in 2008. We are similar enough for it to be awesome and kind of freaky, but different enough that we fill in the gaps in the other's character. When a lot of people think about soulmates, they picture the perfect couple. Emma and I aren't in a romantic relationship--we never will be and the thought is pretty weird. We are soulmates, though, completing each other, best friends for forever and a day, and we know we'll make it through hard times because we have done before.

I'm going to miss these two desperately. Even though I don't get to see Emma every day like I do Neenie, it's still going to be hard being so much farther away from her. Nothing will change in our relationships because we are four hours apart, I know that, but it still hurts to leave.

So, when the day comes to go, I'm going to leave with mingled joy and sadness, because sometimes good-bye is a second chance, but the hardest part of this is leaving you.

Subject Matter: School (and Money)

So I'm going to start school in roughly a month.  High school, for anyone who cares.  My senior year.  Huzzah.  Anyway, it's a month to school, and we still haven't gotten our schedules.  Obviously, my school sucks.

A more pressing matter is my sports physical.  I haven't had that (come to think of it, I don't even know if I'm registered yet. Note to self: ask Mom), and the season starts on the 10th of August.  Yeah...

(Completely unrelated note to self: ask Mom about the Sarah Jane coat.  Nag, if need be.)

So!  Senior year of an all-honors student with a 5.04 GPA and a ACT score of 34.  Yes, I'm bragging.  No, I will not shut up.  I'm proud of being smart, and I'm in one of my rare moods where I'm accepting being smart.

Anyway, all-honors student.  Well, not so much anymore, but really, that's by choice.  I'm taking nice, easy classes this year, mostly ones that will give little to no homework on a daily basis.  What shall I do with all the extra time?  Well, aside from kicking some ass on the swim team, my sport of choice, I will be finding and applying for craptons of scholarships.  My goal to to go to a nice, small, private college, and not pay a penny for tuition, room and board, and hopefully not even textbooks!

If my evil plot succeeds, and I don't have to use any of my college savings money on actual college, I'll use it on furniture, appliances (probably just a microwave and maybe an electric tea kettle.  I already have a TV (thanks, big brother!)) new clothes, towels, dishes, Triscuits, etc.  Any leftovers will probably go towards a game system or two (DS up first, then a Wii or GameCube) and games for the systems.

Then there's the stuff I'll get for my graduation, and probably my birthday, since that's in April.  I mean, seriously siriusly, my uncle/godfather gave sixty bucks for my seventeenth!  He's probably gonna lay out, like two hundred for the graduation!  And my dad's youngest brother always gives us (as in, me and my siblings) plenty.  That's all going towards a kick-ass laptop, so that I can do some legit gaming.  My current computer, a Dell mini10, is so small, I need an external disc drive.  Memory I'm not too worried about, since I have a 1 teraByte external hardrive, so I can keep all sorts of random stuff (like audio books, TV shows, and movies) on there and not clutter up my computer.

Anyway, enough money thoughts!  Back to school.

So the hardest class I signed up for is AP European History.  I tried to the summer homework and failed miserably.  Hopefully, since my counselor likes me, and I wound up essentially in Special Ed at the end of last year, I'll be able to get my ass out of that class.  I got placed in the assistant principal's ACT prep group last year, too, and endeared myself to her, so I've got pull all over the place.

Well, I'll end this now, since it probably wasn't all that interesting anyway, and I have a story to write.  Maybe sometime soon I'll write about what I'm going to do in college.