The relationship boils down to an intense friendship with someone I can laugh with. Where "intimacy" means talking about everything and anything without losing the thread of interest. Where looks mean absolutely nothing and being weird is more endearing than trying to conform. You are yourself. And he loves you for it. He is himself and you love him for it.

In a way, my fantasy relationship is a lot like being on the internet - the only place where you talk to someone, mind to mind, word to word, without looks or sex or age or race or society getting in the way. Without small talk, without formalities, without reservations.

Just you. And him. Talking.

Best kind of friendship - best kind of relationship - ever.

Even if a bit unrealistic.

To me, love is simple - it's living in love that's complicated.


 

What does everyone want from life? What are your dreams?

............................................................................................................

I'm just gonna list random things as they pop into my head.

1. The writing - get somewhere notable with it.
2. Figure out what I want to do before I waste all my time looking or unsure.
3. Complete college (or, if I feel that I don't need it, then get out of there)
4. Friends, family - I'd like to have some good ones at all times, and hopefully not have too many frayed ones.
5. Get out of Southern California.
6. Experience as much as possible, and love as much of it as I can
7. Exercise more.
8. Balance my time with friends, family, and myself for maximum happiness. (It's much harder than it sounds)
9. Get a job - I've been wanting another job. I hope to get one soon. Life is richer when you work for it.
10. Figure out how in the world I can pay for college without owing a dept for the rest of my life.
11. Relationships - I may not be physically attracted to anyone, but I think it'd be nice to be that close, personally, with someone special. Maybe?


You know what? It's really hard to list goals that are in any way specific. Under my philosophy, I believe that you should simply live your life - not think to much about it. Just get out and experience. It's too difficult to make up and plan and keep to it - you change too much in the interrum, and by the time you are on the way to your original goal, you no longer want it, or it changes, or life around you changes. Plans rarely work.

If you do have plans, they need to be flexible - able to change with you. Otherwise, they'll just snap, and then what?

All I know is that, at present, I love writing, I want to move out of my parents' house, I want to go to college, I want to live on my own, and, above all else, I want to see where new experiences take me.

I don't want a plan. I want a life.


 

Getting high.

It's all the rage these days: kids smoking before they're eighteen, drinking, using drugs... it's fairly common. It's almost shocking to realize just how common it is. Just the other day, four of my friends all pulled out their own packs of cigarettes and began smoking contentedly as they discussed boys, actors, and fan fiction, among other things. Only one of them was legal.

Last year, another one of my friends was hospitalized with alcohol poisoning. Another smuggled pills from her house and admitted that she would sell them, if she could. Class-mates brag in too-loud whispers about the drugs they've done, a girl who sat next to me last year came in late smelling like cigarette smoke, a boy in my brother's freshman health class drinks liquor right there in front of the teacher from a thermos. Drug dogs are called in to check lockers and bags, possessions are searched and limited for every major school event...

My friend thinks smoking is sexy.

Despite DARE programs in sixth grade, despite plays, despite talks, despite all the slide-shows and posters... drugs and alcohol seem to have leeked into our lives anyway.

Every college is now a "party" college. Every night out late is met with suspicion. My dad offers me a taste of beer before diving into the college life. My mom refuses to let me drive late at night, fearing drunk drivers.

There's no way to escape the drugs. No way to block them out. It doesn't matter what you do - if you are any normal, social, functioning human being, you will be confronted with drugs eventually. Whether in person, or second-hand, by experience or word-of-mouth, they will come to your attention. And you will choose.

Can drugs be that bad? Can one sip hurt? Just a taste?

Your friends do it. Your mom drinks. Why can't you?

What if you like it? What if it's good? What if it's fun?

What if...

What if you get addicted? What if you get carried away? What if you lose it?

What if you get lung cancer? What if your kidneys fail? What if your teeth yellow, and your breath smells?

What if... you die?

What if you don't know what you're doing?

What if... you can't stop?



... Sometimes there are things you can't avoid. Like drugs, for instance. No matter what you do, someone will mention them - someone will throw them into your life. And what then?

Last night, as my friends brought out their cigarettes, a million thoughts passed though my head, and I wondered what would happen if they offered me one. It would be the first such moment, the first offer, the first temptation. How would I react? Should I try one? All those anti-drug programs all say one thing: the peer pressure was the worst. And as I sat there watching them bring out a pack, and remove a paper-rolled drug each, lighters and all, I wondered what they thought of it. How they'd started. If they'd liked it. I wondered if they thought it was bad, if they'd ever tried to stop... or if it wasn't so bad, after all. I wondered if they would continue to smoke.

One friend coughed and I pondered: why is breathing in a noxious smoke so attractive? Even then, the smoke trailing from the ends of their cigarettes drifted lazily up to tickle my nose, the angry smell irritating my nasal passage and bringing tears to my eyes. Do you get used to this? I asked myself.

I watched them with curiosity in my eyes, as I sunk into my chair and did the equivalent of twiddling my thumbs, waiting, inevitably, for the moment when someone would notice me, the only non-smoker, and say something. Until then, I wasn't nervous... wasn't anxious, wasn't stressed. Actually, I was quite happy, this night, sitting here with good friends and engaging in much-wanted sparkling conversation. Even with the smoke curling up into the sky, my gaze drifted upward contentedly as the alternative music poured through the speakers of the Starbucks outside of which we had commandeered a table.

Then one of my friends noticed me, sitting in the corner, an absent-minded expression on my face, and hands clean of any drugs. "Katie, would you like one?" she asked, then, as I knew she would.

"No, thanks." I smiled at her, truthfully.

"You sure?" she said, not pressuring me, just being polite.

"Yeah." I winked at her. "My drugs are over there." I pointed across the street at the golden lights of the Burger King. "Boiling in grease."

They laughed. Another friend leaned forward and added to my joke: "And coffee?" She nodded towards the Starbucks behind us. My frozen lemonade of that night was already gone, the only thing I drank besides the mocha frappucinos that I would usuallly partake in. The remark startled another wave of grins, and several small after-shocks of chuckles.

"Yep. Fries and coffee."

Satisfied by my answer, the talk returned to other, geekier topics, and I smiled again. Now that wasn't so hard, now, was it?

Drugs may be valued in this society. People like the high that it gives them, or they way it calms them - the way it floats your problems away on a trail of gray. But what I found that night?

Drugs may give you a high. I'm not denying it. But refusing drugs? That made me even higher. I chose to keep my feet on the ground, and, in doing so, found myself in the best of company, surrounded by stars. Content. Even happy.

What I found?

The best drug in the world is life.

 

When you are describing,

A shape, or sound, or tint;

Don't state the matter plainly,

But put it in a hint;

And learn to look at all things,

With a sort of mental squint.

Charles Lutwidge Dodgson

(Lewis Carroll)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Aside from actually waking up, today was an interesting day. (Well, if you wanna get technical, I didn't wake up, precisely - I just never went to sleep.) My mom called one of her "family meetings".

Now, the moment I heard her say that phrase, my heart dropped. Usually, "family meeting" means that something's wrong. And rather than silently dealing with it and keeping up a pleasant facade, my mother decided to bring it out in the open and discuss it - most awkwardly. True to the past, it indeed was something wrong - but it was also mixed with something good. My mom's been having trouble at work keeping up with gas prices and trying to cut her way around the company cutting everyone's hours. As a result, she is now looking for a new job, in case her old one won't cut it, which is looking likely. One thing is different, however - she's not searching in California.

My mom has been thinking about moving to Oregon for a while now. She hates California, that's plain to see, and she'd like to spend time with family, in a place where the cost of a house is the same as our small apartment.

A line comes to mind from a movie I recently watched, Maid in Manhattan: "You see, sometimes when life closes one door... it opens a window." Or something like that, anyway.

Here's our window: Oregon.

It would be different. WAY different. But different is good. Really good. I've lived in the same place for all my life. Sure, I've moved houses many times, jumping from house to house, apartment to apartment, on both sides of my split family. Not to mention the day-to-day moving from house to house and back. But it's still the same town. Not much is different, really.

I'm moving to Santa Cruz anyway, for school, but to live part-time in Oregon would be really nice. It would be crazy for a while - and my dad still lives in California, so that would be even crazier. All my life, I've been lucky enough to have divorced parents who've compromised for their kids, and stayed within a few miles and 10 minutes of each other. If my mom moved to a different state, obviously that would change. I can't just drive from California to Oregon and back over a weekend. Visits would be even more scarce when divided between the two.

But really, I'm moving on. I would enjoy Oregon, I think. California is really not that appealing. It's hot, it's trafficky, and it's crowded. I would miss my dad, but not too much, I think - he's got my step-mom and step-sister to be with him, and I'm already more and more independent of both my parents.

And I'm going to college anyway, so summer would just be one big vacation, half of it in California, half of it in Oregon, and the rest working my butt off in school.

My brother seems not to want to move. He likes the high school, or his friends, or whatever it is, which is understandable. Me? I'm pretty much ready for anything. I'm so ready to try something new, I'm practically rotting this summer trying to last until September, and school.

In the mean time, I am relaxing at home, trying to shift my bad habits a bit, and get something useful done. So far, I'm am failing, as you can tell by the late hour. I had meant to be asleep by now, but I just can't resist.

Anyways, I'll let you go now, and try to get some shut-eye at a semi-proper time.

It's an interesting thought though - Oregon. I'll keep it in mind, and we'll see which way the wind blows.

-Katie

 

Sometimes I think... maybe there aren't any answers. Maybe there isn't any right way, any single way, any one thing to follow to the end. Maybe there is just a void, and everything floating in it all at once, around you. Every opinion, every possibility, every path and goal. Every way there is to be in the world. And you.

Perhaps this is just an excuse. A reasoning to get me out of choosing. Everybody is something or another... aren't they? Aren't we born into the world, into a place, that leads us to another place, that makes us - who we are. Who you are. Who I am. Aren't we victims of fate? Of choice? Of destiny, of voice?

But look now - I contradict myself. For if the world is everything, then how can I choose just one way? How can I choose just one voice? How can I be just one?

All the great philosophers chose their way. Chose who they were, what they thought, what they believed was right. But what is right, anyway? I read all these philosophies, and I made arguments, all of them flawed, all of them making perfect sense, and no sense at all. Even writing an argument feels like losing one. It feels like spitting out information and hoping it comes out true.

No matter what argument I made, I could always see the other side, also. There was never one right, one wrong, in a two-sided argument. Two sides of the same coin, the same material, the same truth - for though you can only see one side at once, both sides are there, coexisting as one body.

Everyone chooses their own way. Chooses who they are, what they think, what they believe is right. But what is right, anyway? I read all those philosophies. I made arguments, all of them flawed, all of them making perfect sense, and no sense at all. Even writing an argument felt like losing one. It felt like spitting out information and hoping it comes out true. No matter what argument I made, I could always see the other side, also. There was never one right, one wrong, in a two-sided argument. Only two sides of the same coin, the same material, the same truth - for though one can only see one side at once, both sides are there, coexisting as one body.

Everything exists in this world. Black and white, dark and light, all the endless opposites, side-by-side. It seems a contradiction - but maybe that is why we contradict each other so. One person says yes, the other no, but doesn't the contradiction say something in itself? Doesn't it say that there is more than one way, and that we should stop to listen?

I imagine the world as a map. Every point different, every feature distinct. Deserts and mountains and oceans, from hot to cold, from lush to barren, all there on one Earth. No one place has more right than the other to exist - no one place has precedence. And my job? My purpose? To visit them all, to see as much as possible, to experience every inch, every difference.

There is no right way. There is no wrong.

There is only another place, another time... another way to go. I am constantly moving. Constantly thinking. Constantly changing from one to another, and cycling around again.

My purpose is not to find the one right thing.

It is to see as many things as humanly possible.

And accept them all.
 

SOLITARY PERSONALITY STYLE:

Solitude. Individuals with the Solitary personality style have small need of companionship and are most comfortable alone.

Independence. They are self-contained and do not require interaction with others in order to enjoy their experiences or to get on in life.

Sangfroid. Solitary men and women are even-tempered, calm, dispassionate, unsentimental, and unflappable.

Stoicism. They display an apparent indifference to pain and pleasure.

Sexual composure. They are not driven by sexual needs. They enjoy sex but will not suffer in its absence.

Feet on the ground. They are unswayed by either praise or criticism and can confidently come to terms with their own behavior.


.......................................................................................................................

WOW. That's amazing.
Came across this on the internet - it fits me PERFECTLY!



-Katie

 

You know, sometimes life hands you a path - whether or not you have the free will to take that path doesn't matter. The mere fact that the path is there changes your life forever. Take it, and everything changes. Don't take it - you still change. The fact that you passed up the possibility alters the way you think, the way you feel, the way you live. Change is inevitable.

The sad thing about time is that it never stops. It never looks back at the past. It just keeps on moving forward, toward that endless horizon. And you are dragged along with it.

You can't not change. No matter how hard you try. You can't stop time. No one can.

And thus we move ever forward - trying to look back and failing; trying to look forward and failing. All there is for us is now. Now. Now. There is no past. There is no future. There is only now, and what you make of what you have.

Now.


...


As I was sitting in bed reading a book and eating chocolate chips, he poked his head around the corner of my door. I looked up at him, wondering what he would say about my sudden appearance at his house, after a week-long absence. Absently, I hoped it was something that might pull us back together. I snapped out of my small reverie as he opened his mouth and mockingly, miserably asked:

"To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

Visit. Visit. I couldn't help but feel it again: the increasingly present sense that I no longer belonged. That I wasn't family anymore. That I was a temporary visitor, and he was just the owner, looking in occasionally from his construction projects to ask if I was having a pleasant stay, whilst we both counted the days until my departure.

Unsure of what to say, unsure of where to start, I said the first thing that needed saying:

"The car's over-heating again."

The mocking expression returned to his face, slightly hurt, and he replied, condescendingly:

"Is that the only reason you are here? 'The car's broken dad, please fix it?'"

Responding the only way I knew to this verbal assault, I quickly said, hating the defensive under-tone in the word: "No!" I would have come anyway, I told myself. Really. I had been intending to before the car broke down. But even my thoughts had a quiver of doubt in them, as if I wasn't really sure that I'd wanted to - wasn't sure that I would be welcome.

But he, unaware of my internal struggle, took one look at me and shrugged the false denial off, letting some of his disappointment seep into his features. Then he continued to press at me, in that annoying way of his, and dug his way into my weaknesses. He continued, disdain dripping off of his overly-aggressive words.

"You need to change the fluid!"

He spat, even though he knew I didn't know how. I thought he'd changed it two weeks ago, when it had first started heating up - when we'd first had this little battle of wills: him and his sourness against me and my defensive-ness. I thought that I'd won: that he'd gone out and changed it for me. Apparently, I was wrong, and he was still holding that bit of stubbornness inside of him, that little uptight streak in him that made him unable to talk to me about something, even something so simple, and instead left him with a wall about him. A wall that he wouldn't take down until you gave in and did whatever it was that he'd so annoyingly urged you to do, that he'd thrown at you, without even giving you a chance to explain that you didn't know how. A wall that he would keep up until you finally broke down and submitted to him, and admitted your faults, your weaknesses in the most embarrassing fashion, which he would then parade about and laugh at as if it wasn't a tender subject - as if it wasn't anything sensitive to you at all.

But despite how much it pained me to give in to this man who seemed not to have an ounce of sensitivity in him, no matter how awful it was to hand him another flaw for him to rub back into my face, I realized that in the future, I might need to know this - that if I learned my lesson now, I wouldn't have to learn it later. Though I hated to admit it, he was right: I was ignorant. So I gave in.

"I don't know how."

I said these words quietly, even as I longed to rage at him - as I longed to shout in his face that I didn't know how, and if he'd kindly show me first, instead of mocking me, our relationship might not be so frayed and tedious.

But I didn't rage. Instead, I laid my injured pride down in front of him, and begged him to teach me. Though he was a mocking teacher, though it was plain to him that I wasn't up to his standards, I took my lessons from him because he had the knowledge - because no matter how much I disliked his manner, the things he knew were valuable life lessons, and if I didn't learn them now, who knows when I would?

So I bowed down quietly and waited. I was a student. I didn't like my teacher. But I was confident, knowing that if I just bided my time, if I just waited long enough, I'd soon be free - I wouldn't be a student forever.

And, as I knew he would, he backed down in the face of my submission.

"Well, then..."

He responded, thoughtfully considering my stance and my next move, no doubt wondering, just as I was, how we would ever resolve this distance between us.

"Let the car cool down and I'll show you."

It had the tone of a retort, but unlike a real argument, he was arguing with me - which meant that it wasn't an argument at all. It was impossible to keep the venom in your voice when you were speaking to someone who never got angry, who just sat there and asked you to show them the way. I rarely got angry, and if I did, I used it somewhere else - and since I never got angry, people never got angry at me.

I returned his cheerless look, and gave him my doleful assent, dreading the lesson, but looking forward to a time when, finally, I could fix the car myself, without him even having to know.

Unsure of what to say, he stood in the doorway, waiting for me to say something. Having nothing to say, I sat in bed and waited apprehensively for his next words, half wishing that he would just leave me alone. But to my dull surprise, he chatted with me. Just a little snippet of conversation, but more than nothing, more than the awkward silence that usually followed. He said something about my brother's English grade, and I chuckled with him, not really paying attention. I was too busy thinking, with hope, that he might stay and talk to me a while. A few times as he was talking, he slid in and out of the door, as if unsure whether or not to just leave. Silently, I urged him to stay there, to keep the door open with his presence, instead of closing it.

But though I hoped, he eventually left. I guess he thought I didn't want him there. Or maybe he didn't think that our small conversation was enough. All it was was a few casual remarks, a small reminiscent laugh, a haunted smile - but though it was still haunted, still forced, still shaky, it was also still a smile. And that was more than I'd shared with him in a long time.

I don't know where to start. I don't know when to end. I don't even know if beginnings and endings exist. Perhaps we simply made them up. But even as I wished that I could start again with my dad, I knew that it wasn't possible. I knew that we would just keep moving, just keep living, just keep changing. And eventually we would change so much that we wouldn't see each other the same way ever again. That's the way life is. You can't look back. All you can do is watch time flow, in and out of various places, like water - passing through rivers, lakes, oceans - and circling around, in all places at once, with you in it, one particle, one speck in a huge world, passing through place after place after place. Even if you run the same route again, it is never the same. The water around you will have carved out new divots and holes, and the water in which you flow will always shift.

This is the nature of time - the nature of change. There is no beginning. There is no end. It just flows, on and on, in a never-ending cycle.

Thus, unable to start change - unable to stop it - all you can do is accept change... and let it flow.


...

 

Tonight I watched one of my favorite movies: Playing By Heart. This is my ideal movie: a flawless plot and substories that weave themselves together perfectly; tragedy, love, grief, sorrow, joy, humor, meaning; memorable lines with a twist of words and wisdom that is unforgettable; actors and actresses that master their part and make you love every one of them; and an over-all effect that leaves you breathless, crying, happy, laughing - the kind of movie that has you feeling it all right there along with the characters.

That is my favorite kind of movie, book, song... you name it. The kind that can make you feel it, even when you are at home sitting in bed, not doing a thing. The kind of emotion that provokes an almost physical response. Those few books or movies that can pull that off... they are amazing. Only a few manage to do it: Stephenie Meyer's books, Playing By Heart, Catherine Asaro's Aronsdale novels, Dawn Cook's Truth Series, a couple of others... but those are the greatest in my eyes. Some songs that can put you in a trance and set the mood, have you crying in the tune.

This is my ambition as a writer. To make you feel.

................................................

Man. Do I have a major writer's block or what? Blegh. I need to get out more.

Ignore me. I am babbling.

-Katie

..........................................................



You know, sometimes I think that it would be easier to write in the old-fashioned way, with pen and pages. For one thing, I wouldn't sensor so much, wouldn't be so paranoid about writing something that will be read. For another thing, it would be less pressure, less problem, more flow - in a journal, you can always scribble out the most nonsensical nonsense and not even worry about it, and sometimes the nonsense turns into something more. Less pressure, more nonsense, more writing, less self-sensoring. Besides, paper doesn't crash - paper doesn't skip a beat or shut down or fail. It doesn't flash you a message on the screen that says "An unexpected error has occurred". No. Paper sits obediently and waits for your thoughts and your ink, and when it has them, it doesn't shun them - it keeps them, until such a time as you choose to filter through them. At worst, paper crinkles. It rips, it burns, it tears. But at least it doesn't disappear without a trace into the vast void that is the internet, in the endless plain of words that is my blog. No. You can always find your writing by thumbing through the pages. There is no need of an index with titles you can't even remember, or pages that take forever to surf.

There is just you - your pen - and your words.


 

Social situations are so awkward. How do you balance family, friends, and money in such a way as to be happy and make everyone else happy as well?

First, there are friends. Have too few friends and you are a lonely, lazy bum. Have too many friends, and they all call you at once wanting to spend time with you. How do you choose which to spend time with? How do you ration your time with friends? You surely can't go out to a movie every night.

That brings us to the second issue, which is money. Too many friends, too many outings. Too many outings, and there are too many things to spend your money on. Even if you go somewhere harmless like the park, which is free, there's still gas money, and, of course, those little temptations on the way: fast food, ice cream, convenience stores, shops, all sitting there waiting, inviting, ready to slowly nickel and dime you until you've nothing left in your pockets. And gas has risen $4.61 a gallon, and is still rising. If it goes up much more, you won't have any money left. Or you'll feel increasingly guilty about putting the cost on your mom's speed pass.

And then there's temperature. Not only is it expensive to go out, it's hot. So really, the simplest thing is to stay home and find other things to do that keep you away from all those little temptations. Right?

Wrong. Staying home may be cheaper, but it also isolates you. Pretty soon, you lose touch with your friends, they stop calling you, you run out of things to say when you message them, there's nothing left to keep them interested in you. So you drop out of the social circle. After a week or two of this, it's awkward to call people up again, randomly, out of the blue, and ask to go somewhere. Chances are, they'll have found better things to do already, or they'll find an excuse. Or maybe you'll find your own excuse.

But then you are lonely. So you call people up. Soon you're in full swing with your friends, getting invited to go places, seeing things, spending time with people you enjoy. Except that now you've got another problem: your family. Your dad sits at home and complains that he never sees you. Your mom gives you a sad look as you leave, and says the same thing in not so many words. You don't know your brother anymore, and you miss those simple days watching movies at home with your parents. Now what?

So you turn down a few people - say you are spending time with family instead, haven't seen them in a while. Surely your friends will understand. But then you go home to your family, and they leave without you. You try to spend time with them, but it's awkward and conversation is stretched thin. You haven't talked to them in awhile, and the relationship is frayed. You end up in your room, not wanting to spend time with someone who's grumping at you, or nagging at you, or trying to get you to do things for them. All you wanted was to spend some quality time, some old simple fun with them, but by the time you come around, it seems like they've forgotten the simple pleasures and replaced them shallow entertainments.

So you turn back to your friends. You call back the person you shunned to spend time with your family. Unfortunately, you've missed your chance, and your friend is already busy. You call them back several times, but there never seems to be a break. No time is the right time.

You go back home and type the hours away.

And then... someone calls. Or your mom stays home and finally agrees to play a board game with you. Or you go somewhere and meet someone new. Or a new school year starts and everything rewinds back and plays once more.

It begins again.


 

.............................................................................................

Have you ever spent WAY too much time in the pool? Just swam your heart out for hours on end, on and on and on, to come out later, get dressed and revel in the cool skin, dry clothing, breathlessly tired, relaxed feeling?

That is what "happy" feels like.


........................................

Me... Today...

- Happily sore
- Awake before noon
- Ready to write a story
- ...And SAVE IT too!
- Running short on spending money
- Listening to good music
- Cozy
- High on life

The verdict: Two weeks of boredom is well worth it for three days of happiness. No matter how boring it is in between.


...................

Summer is here. It's been here for nearly three weeks. And for nearly three weeks, I have fallen into a horrible, cringe-inducing cycle: Stay up all night reading, writing, watching movies, and playing on the computer, then, at sunrise more or less, drop off to sleep to wake up sometime around 4pm in the afternoon, my day wasted and utterly useless. The days are too hot for much else - to walk outside is to be sweaty, even if only for a few seconds. And so, I sit inside, blinds blocking out the sun, sulking in the shadows.

But today, I had the most fun I've had in a long, long time. It reminded me of the days when one best friend was enough to completely lose ourselves in the day. The days of handball, dodgeball, tetherball, and flat ball acrobatics. The days of being the reject and not even caring. Of sitting behind the handball court and listening to thunk, bounce, thunk of the ball hitting the wall, while imagining myself some ordinary hero or another. Perhaps an animal. Perhaps a woman. Perhaps an animal-speaking woman. It didn't matter.

What mattered was that everything was nothing. And nothing was everything.

These summer days are long and tedious at best: step outside and get an instant sunburn, stay inside and waste away in front of the screen. But then there is the third factor: people. Outside with people is suddenly bearable. Inside with people is pleasant and relaxing.

It might even be fun.

I don't know what is so appealing about video games. I've always been against them myself. But somehow, Super Smash Brothers became addicting. Especially with the new technology: take a remote in each hand and you can beat up the other character on the screen with a punch - you can blast Mario and Samus off the screen with a hammer.

And frisbee? What so great about frisbee? It's a disk of plastic. More often than not, it'll fly off to the side in a blast of wind, and you'll end up looking like an idiot as you run behind it, fingers stretched out to catch something out of reach. But still you chase it. And when you throw it, with a flick of the wrist, it's weirdly satisfying. You throw it, flick after flick after flick, seeing if you can cut a sure path to your opponent's face. And watching as it skids off their hands and shoots off into the bush.

The most irrational things are usually the funnest. For instance, two hours of squatting, crunching, punching, and kicking... dancing, moving, lunging, and bending? How does exercise classify as fun? Since when, in what alternate universe? If the world going mad?!?

And yet, this is what I did. I went to a graduation party with a minority of graduates, where I played Super Smash Brothers and beat up a virtual Mary. I ate junk food and went to the movies with my dad. I spent an afternoon playing Monopoly and Scrabble, followed by two hours of exercise videos for fun, and a scary movie marathon. I went shopping and swimming, and played frisbee, chasing after the cheap yellow plastic throw after throw after throw, and returning it in kind.

Completely irrational. But so fun. So worthwhile. So great.


 

IAs a writer, I am mainly a journalist – not the newspaper kind, but the journaling kind. Years and years of quietly recording my thoughts and experiences. The writing is informal. And most of the time, sporadic. But I've filled my fair share of journals over the years. I even have an online blog that, at this point, would take 400 pages of printer paper to print.

I was going through my old journals when I found one page. One page in my tiny, cramped-yet-still-neat handwriting. It was before I found asexuality.org, before I knew that asexuality even existed as an official orientation. And yet, I did know. I even wrote the word "a-s-e-x-u-a-l".

I'd like to share that entry here:

"An acquaintance of mine mentioned that she was confused about her sexuality."

Sex is such an awkward thing to discuss. Awkward and sensitive, wonderfully confusing. Not that I would know – I've never had sex. Never done a sexual act, nothing beyond a kiss. I don't even remember if the kiss was real – it was so long ago, and I was so young. So naïve. Flustered and pleased. I've never experienced that kind of attention. All the songs and poetry, movies and books, romance stories… they all say that love and sex is wonderful. Blissful. Heavenly and great. So many, so many people who can attest to this, so many teens who have experienced it first-hand – and I stand alone. I seem to be the exception. No crushes, no boyfriends. Not even a whisper of male attention. In fact, it seems I go out of my way to alienate guys. I haven't experienced the attraction that my friends have. The only attentions I've received were the kiss, and a 7th grade cutie calling me "buddy" and flustering me with his unexpected charms. But since then, there has been no one. No boy has looked at me, talked to me, asked me out, kissed me… or even asked my name. I've isolated myself among an island of females. I don't know how or why I'm not involved with guys as most other females are. I'm not infatuated with anyone, not even attracted the slightest bit. Not emotionally, not sexually. I don't know why. Perhaps I'm lesbian and don't know it. Perhaps I'm bi. Perhaps I'm asexual, and not attracted to anyone… But no, I've felt attracted, a very few number of times… I could count them on my fingers. The thing is, it isn't much of an attraction. Maybe they were nice, or they were cute, but nothing to stir any real desires in me. I simply looked on hopefully, and admired them from a distance. Sex is so new to me, I can't help but think about experimenting – if only there was someone I trusted to experiment with. I'm beginning to think that I'm bi. I'm attracted to men, but women have more appeal. I wouldn't mind being a lesbian, though it might be extremely weird to sleep with another woman. I don't know… I just don't know. This is why I want to experiment.

This journal entry was undated, but it was probably from sometime last year. Since then, I've been thinking and have come to the conclusion that I was only attracted to those guys because they were nice to me – my attraction was a personal one, rather than a sexual one. If I ever had a relationship, I'd imagine it to be more like an intimate friendship than sex. "Intimate" in the sense that we could talk about anything. In fact, I've always been kind of a romantic – a romantic without the attraction.

This is why it is so nice to finally discover the site and the term that goes with it. When you aren't attracted to anyone, you start wondering and wanting to try everything to find the one that's right for you, all the while, unable to put a name to who you are. Lesbian? Bi? What the hell am I?

Not too long ago, I had a highly sexual friend ask me if I was lesbian casually over the internet. "It's okay if you are," she said. "I don't mind." And I said no, still unsure. I'd never felt attracted to women either. Although, I have told people that I was open to anything. Before this, and even now, I've always held the view that it didn't matter what you were or what you looked like, whether you were man or woman, straight or gay – if you love them, you should be with them. All physical aspects aside. Being unsure, I was ready to accept anything, ready to discover that I liked women, or that I liked men… anything. I didn't see why it would be wrong. I went through phases, thinking I was lesbian, trying to experiment, to test myself. I'd make myself look out into the crowd and pick out someone who was "hot", try to find someone who was physically appealing, man or woman. But no one really struck me as particularly hot or attractive. I knew that this aspect or another of the male anatomy was supposedly one that girls liked, and I'd try it on, attempting to find some way to get as excited about a six-pack as my friends were.

But I never really quite got there. In fact, I seemed to like the guys who were the opposite of hot. The guys with personalities who were good conversationalists, or funny, or were just plain nice. Now matter how ugly or sexy they might or might not have been. And then when people would ask me who I liked, I might say his name, and then I would be confused again. Was I really attracted to this guy? He was nice, yeah, but that didn't mean I was particularly attracted to him. And to be perfectly truthful, the idea of him becoming my boyfriend was just plain out of my league. It might be nice. But I had a feeling that it would only be horribly, terribly awkward, like any other open acknowledgement of attraction. I just didn't fit in.

I questioned a lot. But no matter what I questioned, no matter what idea I experimented with – lesbian, bi, straight – nothing really clicked. It was the same awkwardness as ever. Many would consider it an anomaly for me to still be a virgin at seventeen, to be untouched, un-kissed, un-dated even. But that's me. Seeing other people just didn't stir any desires in me. If I had any desire, it was to discover what I was attracted to, what would work for me.

It was the internet, once again, that saved me. I searched "asexuality" on a whim, and – Wah-La! – asexuality.org. I finally found something that fit.

Oh, I still question. But now, instead of trying on a sexuality and testing it, I'm working from inside the sexuality and wondering if I'll ever change. It's a lot more comforting to question yourself when you have an idea of who you are, rather than standing on shaky ground and wondering where to go next.

I'm so glad to finally know who I am.

I'm happy to know that I'm Asexy.


 

Looking at the moon is like looking at your future - the thing you so desperately want to be. Looking at it, bright and fierce and lonely up in the sky, and longing for it as you struggle against the restrictions of gravity. It makes you crazy, that moon. Crazy with desire, with jealousy, with resentment for this great thing that you don't have, the thing that you fear you can never have, and may never reach. And with that mocking beautiful globe in the sky staring down at you, you lash out. Trying to show it that you can. Trying to show the world that you can be great.

All the while sitting at a computer and staring, wondering... can you? Or is it all a dream, thought up by hope and crushed by reality?

Whatever it is, we sit and stare, two writers against reality and for a cause. Ready to fight for our dreams.



------- Wrote this in a comment, and had to save it.--------


 

Yesterday, the computer deleted my very first semi-erotic piece just as I was saving it. I was so angry that I could, and I quote, "SO TOTALLY DESTROY ANYTHING WITHIN MY REACH RIGHT NOW." And then I cried. In the story's place I posted a blog saying that that the computer had failed me again, and that I was pissed off and heart broken.

The next day, I got a comment on that blog from my friend saying "i would love it if you wrote another using this angst".

So that's exactly what I did. Thus: GONE.




Gone.
You didn't say a word.
And yet, you said everything.
Of sex, of love, of the heart,
You purred.
You stroked my skin
Kissed me sweetly
Played with my ears,
And touched me meekly.
One moment.
You were there.
And yet you weren't there.
The weight pressing in
The walls of my empty heart –
How you dare
Intrude upon my loneliness
As if you had the right
To stare.
As if I was yours
To care.
Leave
And never come back.
Be gone.
I don't want this
Heart attack.



To Samiy. Who said I should use my angst to write again, thus proving the fact that even the worst situations can be turned to good. Much thanks.

-Katie

 

Home.

I stumbled through the front door, eyes burning in the exhaustion of being open all night. I closed them for a mere hour or so, and suddenly it was difficult re-open them. Then I ate a donut - this rush of sugar to my brain must have sent an electric current back through my optical nerve because as I walked through that door I was suddenly wide awake.

I had a plan: take a long, hot, luxurious bath and stumble back down to pass out on my bed. So I gathered all my bathroom stuff - everything from my brush to toothpaste to bubble bath - and climbed up the stairs laden with anticipation for an hour or so of relaxation. I turned the handle and steam erupted as hot water cascaded down into the porcelain tub. Quickly, I slipped my clothes off and slid a tentative foot into the water. Easing in, I leaned back and sighed. Bubbles tickled my feet as they shifted around me. After soaking for a while, I grabbed the shampoo and body wash and began lathering... soon I was covered head to toe in soap bubbles and citrus. Then I sunk down and the water engulfed me, lifting up my hair and becoming opaque with my lime-coconut serum.

An hour later, soapy water swirled lazily down the drain, and I carried all my things back downstairs, now sufficiently clean and fresh. But as I walked downstairs, I was far from tired. No, I was rather awake. The day beckoned to me, and the sunlight awoke all those signals in my body: time to wake up. Though I hadn't yet slept, a new energy surged in my veins. As I sauntered into my bedroom, my eyes slid over the blue and red arrows on the floor: Dance pads. Unable to resist, I told myself that I would only play a few songs - once I started to sweat, I'd have to stop anyway. Or I would have to take another bath.

Excited, I dragged the two pads out to the living room and hooked them up. The menu came up and I toed my way through the options with the ease of long practice: Game Mode... Double Play... Expert... and then the song menu was before me, a wheel of choices flashing and playing a tantalizing hint of the rhythym and music to come. Rather than dallying, I chose the first song I came to with a sufficient difficulty and pattern. I stomped on the start button and waited as the fake crowd in the TV cheered.

Arrows floated up in a quick and steady flow as I danced my way back and forth across the room and back, twisting, jumping, quickly progressing from arrow to arrow, step to step, sometimes getting stuck in the middle or stumbling before picking up the pace once again. I lost track of time, and tear drops of sweat began to roll down my face. I would stop, grab a drink, walk outside, sit in the breeze... and come back in, unable to resist the temptation of another song. My hair was still neat enough that I could get away with it. And sweat would dry. Song after song, I stepped my way elegantly through the day, sometimes floating, sometimes awkward, sometimes tripping over my own feet, but never stopping. Eagerly, I waited for people to come. Happily, I tapped my time away, paced back and forth, and let the heat carry my inhibitions away.

Later I took a reluctant break, as my stomach pleaded for fuel. I walked across the street and bought myself a cup of chili and fries. Having stifled the rumblings, I resumed my endless pursuit of rhythym. Growing tired, my feet stumbled, but I kept on going, determined to continue and used to enduring my body's complaints. I knew that dancing this much would feel so good afterwards. Later, I would stop and fall over panting, a stitch in my side, hair wet and stringy with sweat, face red with the effort, burning with my muscles. And then I would cool down and and relax and lie there, completely at ease and happy in the knowledge that I would be sore upon tomorrow. It maybe makes no sense to be happy for the pain, but I was - happy in knowing that the pain had been well worth it, that fun had come of it, that hours had been spent to good use, and that the pain would soon fade and allow to me to do it all over again, having been all the stronger for it. Next time I would do better, hit more arrows, last longer. Next time, maybe, I'd master it.

Then my family came. They walked in to find me fumbling to hit the last arrows of "Boom Boom Dollar", tripping over the crack between the two mats, but managing, finally, to hit it and stumble off over to a wall. Thinking to show off a little, I started another song, still panting and clutching my side from my last effort. As my grandma told the others how good I was and how I managed my weight through dancing, I concentrated on the screen and moved my feet. My aunt came in, her boyfriend behind her. He was impressed, I could tell. He stared at the screen longer than the others. Michael wasn't what I'd expected, but then, I hadn't expected anything to begin with anyway. When he first walked in, I thought he was my old Pastor Larry. He had PL's bald head, white beard, and cheery face. I instantly decided that I liked him. He was polite, well humored, and he looked as if you could talk to him about anything easily and he would give you an inside ear.

Then my dad caught hold of everyone and took them outside to look at the renovations he'd done on the yard. No doubt, he'd show them the counter-tops and the newly-painted walls and the hard-wood floors next - he'd installed them all himself. Resolved to not being the center of attention - I wasn't a kid anymore, after all - I finally turned off the game and took the dance pads back to my room. All attempt to stay clean had been fairly well abandoned in the last hour, and I was now thoroughly soaked in my own body odor. It dripped into my eye as I walked.

For the next two hours, I had nothing better to do than sit, talk, and wait. I caught up with my aunt, grandma, and Michael, and then my aunt struggled to pin the yellow collar onto my gown. Then Michael went out and came back loaded down with colorful and, by the look of them, heavy boxes. One was pink. One had multi-colored balloons on it. Another was silver. Grandma was a little less conspicuous about her gift and simply placed a plain white envelope in my hand containing an unimpressive card and a check for $4,000. The note on it said "For your college fund." After thanking her sincerely, I was pressed into opening the next box, and the other two after that, which contained, respectively, a printer, three quarter's worth of ink supply, and a butt-load of printer paper. One of these boxes contained a further gift that was more a joke: a sweater that said "Be careful or you'll end up in my novel."

Then I sat. And I waited. I considered reading a book. But then I ended up on the couch, slowly nodding off, waiting for four o-clock to roll around. Whereas before I had been alarmingly awake, I now found it quite easy to get lost in my dreams.

Then it was time, and I fetched my ridiculous outfit. Cap and gown clutched in my fingers, I stood and waited for my dad - we were leaving a few minutes early, but that was okay. I thought that if I waited any longer I'd fall asleep. I climbed into the truck and then we were at the school, teenagers in dresses and suits dallying about the entrance of the gym. I jumped out and punched my arms through the arm-holes of the gown as I made my way over to the front. There I found my friends, and we made fun of each other's caps and tassles before heading into the gym. It was already sweltering hot, and I unzipped the gown in disgust. Not only was it itchy, but it seemed to soak up all the humidity and stuffiness in the gym and project it into my skin.

Me and Mary stood in the gym talking and joking about our lack of sleep. After some joke or another, I started tap-dancing - don't ask me why - and this caught the attention of a woman who walked up from behind and declared that she was from the Ventura County Star, and that we looked like a happy bunch: could she interview us? Sure, we said. Unfortunately, she asked the usual boring questions, and we replied with the usual boring answers. I have no idea what she got from the interview to use in the paper, except perhaps the fact that Mary declared in the middle of the questioning that she would never be able to get rid of Ashlie. And even then, it was going to be a horribly boring story. Oh well. What's new?

Then I lost Mary and Ashlie went to sit down, and I found myslef ambling aimlessly about the gym in search of a familiar face. I ran into several people, but they were all distracted and quickly escaped me. I found myself observing everyone and watching them as they nervously paced and laughed, taking pictures as if afraid that this was the end.

Perhaps it was. To them. But to me, it was a beginning. A year from now, who knows if this friend would still see me. Who knows if that girl would even remember me. If that boy would ever recall my face. If everything would fall apart. What I did know was that high school was over. And it was time to go to the next destination. Wherever that should take me.

Finally, the administraters called us to our row of seats, and started the procession. It took a while, but finally, I was standing up, balancing that black slab of cardboard that they call a cap on my head, tassle strings whipping me in the face. I wasn't expecting much. I wasn't nervous, wasn't scared, wasn't excited. I just went through the motions, ready for anything. Then the first speakers began and my attention was absorbed. I didn't think about the speeches before. But now that I was listening to them, my mouth was opening in awe.

"... The ink is dry. I can move to the next sentence..."

I was stunned by this speech. It was amazing, flawless, perfect. I couldn't have done better. And then Mrs. Stone got up and I found myself crying. Her speech wasn't very professional, but it was personal, and hit everyone deeply. I was entranced by the singers, and DJ. Then I got up and got in line to receive my diploma cover with enclosed instructions. It wasn't a magical moment. Far from it, it felt as though I was being ushered around, pushed and pulled to do this and do that like an obediant dog.

And then it was over. Worthless caps littered the field. A mob rushed the gates, shedding gowns and hugging one another, eager to escape to their families. I was lost among these people, no cell phone to call anyone, no friends in sight. Eventually, I found Mary and called my dad. I rescued my diploma from Diffinderfer's room. Then we took pictures and walked out the gates. I hopped into Michael's car, smelling the fresh leather - it was new. Then we went home, and I ate chinese. We played Apples to Apples and ate coffee and raspberry ice cream. I went to bed around 11:50 pm and slept for 16 hours. By the time I woke up, the house was empty, my family was gone, and I was a high school graduate, at home, surrounded by mussed covers and wearing Hello Kitty pajamas.

All right. I've graduated. I stumbled through the door to my car.

What now?


 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LLvKT6v4noM

I dread this summer. I truly do. I wish everything would just fast-forward to college. Honestly, the first half of summer is going to be so UNBEARABLY boring, I don't know what I'm going to do. And the second half? Lake Tahoe is nice, but it would've been nicer if it was with my old, WHOLE family, not this broken half family, with a new half that doesn't belong. Not the new, umimproved half that has changed the old half so much that it's hardly recognizable. I really don't want to go to Tahoe with Leah and Emily and ruin my memories of Me, Mom, and Dad, the way it once was, so nice, so simple. No tensions, no discomfort, no strangers, no problems. The old life, where everyone BELONGED. Not this. Not them.

I am, frankly, SICK of my dad, who is utterly unrecognizable as the easy-going guy who used to be my dad. He didn't used to care so much about the house, or the way the dining room looked, or how he would prepare for the party he's having. He used to care about US. But now, all it feels like is that he cares about WHAT LEAH THINKS. Not even LEAH, but WHAT SHE THINKS!!! Leah thinks the living room looks empty - so dad buys a table, which nobody will EVER use. Leah thinks my room is messy, so dad comes and tells me to clean it. LEAH thinks I'm not acting respectfully so DAD comes and tells me so. HELLO?!? If you effing think I'm not behaving right LEAH, then YOU bloody come and tell me so. Don't have dad come and tell me not to. He's not your SLAVE!!! If YOU have a problem with ME, then YOU speak to ME!!! YOU tell me so. I am freaking sick of Leah this and Leah that. LEAH does not rule my life, although she apparently rules dad's.

Maybe he wants to keep from a second divorce? Is that it? Cause I can tell him RIGHT NOW that it won't work, especially not with that little DEMON of a child they are attempting to raise. Can you believe that the other day, dad wanted me to stay home so I could watch Emily while he went grocery shopping? I was like, why don't you take her WITH YOU?!? Do you REALLY think that I would stay here to watch a child that does nothing but SCREAM at me? You concieved the girl, YOU can watch her. You spoiled the girl, YOU can deal with it. Don't even THINK that you can fob her off onto me. Jeez.

It's ridiculous. The only thing he ever discusses with me is freaking Financial Aid. He says it's because I'm never around, but DAD - don't you think that there could be a perfectly good REASON as to WHY I'm never around? It's because when I AM around, you treat me like someone you'd love to auction off at the cheapest price to the nearest college. Because when I AM around, you either talk business to me, or you give me Emily to babysit. Because when I AM around, you never actually, really TALK to me. Not like a father would talk to his daughter. You don't know the personal me anymore. You don't have REAL conversation with me anymore. And, sorry, but I'd really rather NOT talk about money money money. Money is of no interest WHATSOEVER to me. It is BORING and TEDIOUS. If I wanted to be stressed out all the time, then I'd come over to your house more often. But until you can show me that you know me, that you realize that I hate that kind of thing, that I don't like Emily, that I think she's a brat, that I think Leah has totally sucked up all your time, that fixing up a house that much is irrational, that financial aid can only go so far, that I don't care about parties or appearances or seeing people I don't know, or whatever else you've decided is important these days, then you'll find that I'm really not that agreeable with you. Or rather, I'll be agreeable, but I won't talk nearly so much. I won't speak to Leah so much. I won't give any attention to Emily at all. I won't be as outgoing with you as I might have been before.

Why? Because I miss the days when you were you. When it didn't matter whether or not there was a freaking table filling the empty space (which is destined to be empty anyway because you completely emptied the house of anything personal). When it didn't matter if laundry coated the floor, or whether or not we actually slept in our beds or on the couch, or how the house looked at all. Back when I could tape things to the wall without you and Leah being worried about the paint coming off, or whatever. Back when my room really WAS my room, and it was decorated as such. Back when it didn't matter. Back when you used to talk to me and we used to take trips that were actually FUN. When you took the doors off the car for the heck of it. When you used to sleep everywhere and anywhere, and life was somehow special. Not artificial. Not fake.

It's like the difference between a day at Sea World and a day in the park: at Sea World, you have to pay to be hot, crowded, and see shows that don't really satisfy, and most of the time, complain more than laugh. But the park is free. maybe it isn't as exotic or as advertised. Maybe it's reputation isn't as good. But when you are with the people you love, it doesn't matter. A day sitting on a mattress in your best friend's room. A night chasing each other in the park. A day driving to nowhere, an afternoon soaking in the sun, an evening playing DDR or talking. Simply talking. That has SO much more appeal than Sea World. That's why, when you offered, I didn't go. I chose not to waste your money on something I knew I wouldn't like. Something that had no meaning to me, no love. A place like that is for tourists, dad. It's not for a broken family. Maybe if you somehow found a way to put the pieces back together, I might enjoy it.

I don't know how or when we fell apart. Seems to me, one day I was laughing, telling you about my day, and the next, you were leaning over my shoulder as I filled out forms and took tests - trying to live up to your expectations. Trying to lift the responsibility you placed on my shoulders. Then somewhere inbetween, it stopped being personal. It started being something else. I stopped belonging. I started feeling like I was only renting a room in your house, the house that was no longer mine. I started feeling like I didn't belong at the family dinner table. I started feeling like it wasn't my family. Not anymore. So I kindly gave you space. I gave me space.

You say you want me back. But how true is that? It would be simpler to move on. To move out. To start my own life, my own family. Not to have to worry about trespassing on yours anymore.

And I say that with all sincerity. This family isn't mine anymore. It's yours. I am my own separate entity, thanks to you. I don't belong with mom either. She's trying to hold onto me, but I've already moved on. It's too hard to live with her and you, and you and her, her and me, and me and you. It's a tangled web of confusion that I'd rather not be apart of anymore.

You'll always be my past. But the future? That's all mine.

 

Lately, I've been questioning all that I am. I've been defining myself so much, and labeling myself to death, and now I'm not quite sure how valid those labels are. I'm also a little concerned because I've been so confident in saying who I am and who I want to be, that I'm almost sure that I'm going to fall flat on my face one of these days, and someone is going to tell me exactly the opposite. It's almost as if I've been solidifying my self-image, so much that it might shatter. I haven't left any room to be flexible. I know that my life can and does change easily. But when I go around telling people "I am this", I become a more pronounced character, and that opens me to a lot more criticism.

Sometimes, it's better to be moderate rather than extreme. But I could also argue that you should be yourself and not hide anything, never hold back. But if you do that, you are placing yourself in a position to be attacked by someone with the opposite views.

Of course, I haven't been attacked, yet. Actually, I am attacking myself. "How can I be so sure?" I think. I don't know who I am. My view of myself is probably significantly deluded and skewed in my favor. I am who I want to be, not who other people see me as. And that becomes a problem because then I seem arrogant and cocky to everyone else. And I just continue being who I am, and thinking what I think, none the wiser for it all. Then one of these days, I'll trip over my own feet, and come to the violent realization that I am not who I thought I was. That I wasn't right at all. And then what will I be?

This year has been a huge change in me. I don't know what did it, but I am much more outgoing than I was a year or two ago. A year ago, I wouldn't have made nearly as many jokes, have been so easy-going in the face of an oral presentation, have flaunted who I was nearly as much. No. I year ago, I was still shy. Maybe it was because I just stopped caring. Or maybe I just decided not to be that person anymore.

Whatever the reason, my new-found social confidence also comes with a question: am I really this confident? How can I be? Those people in the crowd watching me perform... they're probably thinking I'm full of myself. They're probably thinking, what a fake, what a phony. She tries so hard to be something, and it's not real. Like an actress trying so hard to look convincing that she only makes it painfully obvious that she's acting.

What do they think of me? What do they think of my writing, my carefully put together presentation, my overly-loud voice projecting across the room? Do they think I'm trying too hard? Do they think I'm real? How can they, when I can't? I can't know whether or not I'm real. I can see everyone else, but what do they see in me? Do they see a writer? Or do they see someone who thinks they are a writer? Do they see an artist? Or do they see someone who thinks they are artistic? Do they see a beautiful person? Or do they only see the appearance? Do they see someone who takes too much pride in appearing? That may seem like a wild concept: me, the girl who has never worn makeup for more than 24 hours, actually caring about appearances.

But don't you see? That is what makes me care. The fact that I make it a point to not wear makeup. The fact that I don't just get up in the morning and not care. That I tell people I don't care. It is the telling that makes me not so sure. Because if I really didn't care, then why would I call attention to it? If I was a real writer, I wouldn't say I was one, I would be one. If I was artistic, I wouldn't say I was artistic, I would be artistic.

The act of saying it is what makes me doubt it. Because once you say it, it's open to contemplation. Once you say it, anyone can deny it. And lately, I've been saying a lot. It's hard to be sure of anything anymore. Beacuse I don't know. I could very well be wrong. Being wrong has taught me this. Because I am only wrong when I say something wrong. If I never say it, then it can never be wrong.

... Which is why I will continue to say it. I will say everything I can and be all that I think I am, and let the rest of the world challenge it. Because if I can't stand a challenge... then who am I, really?

If I can't say anything, then how can I ever tell the wrong to be able to tell right?


 

My advice to anyone getting a job for the first time: just be aware that afterwards, being unemployed isn't satisfying anymore.

My number one problem right now is financing my college expenses. $26,000 a year? Where the hell am I supposed to get that? Yeah, my parents will probably end up paying off most of it, but because of that, they've become really irritable around me and have been doing nothing but making me feel guilty.

My dad gives me the "you need to do this, you need to do that" lecture everytime I come home, and its driving me up the wall. He doesn't talk to me about anything else anymore, it's just finances, finances, finances, scholarships, scholarships, scholarships... It's gotten to the point where I avoid going to his house because all he does is repeat the same stuff to me over and over again, and ask me have I done this, have I done that, did I get this application in, did I make this appointment... Not only is it annoying but it really makes me think about how little he knows me now, the real me, the personal me - all I am to him is his future-college kid who he is trying to auction off at the cheapest price, meanwhile spending all his money on house renovations rather than saving for college.

My mom uses the opposite tactic, and guilt-trips me. She gives me this look-what-you-are-doing-to-me look and asks me how she's supposed to pay for this.

It's awful.

Maybe I should have kept my job after all...

 

Asexual: someone who does not experience sexual attraction.

Not straight, not gay, not bi, not undecided, not unsure... just not interested!!!

This is an epiphany for me. No, really. I've always been kinda confused about that, but now... whala!! ME!

For all those who know me, you know that I don't do too well with the whole boyfriend/girlfriend, suggestive-conversation, raunchy-joke scene. I just get really awkward and blush a lot and feel like an idiot. I just don't see what's so great about it. Yeah, I nod and smile, I try to put my two cents in. But it just isn't for me. I can't relate. It makes me really uncomfortable.

And when you ask me who I like? When you ask me who I think is hot? I seriously don't have an answer for you. Because I'm not really attracted to anyone that way. I don't go all weak-kneed over some stranger's hot bod. Because I don't CARE.

My whole middle school experience was one episode after another of girls calling guys and experimenting, and me sitting in the corner trying to fit in somehow. It's not that people didn't like me. It's not that I was an outcast. It's just that they were so interested in boys, and I just... wasn't. Whenever anyone would talk about them (which was all the time), I would get really quiet and hope no one noticed me, until the topic was changed. All the girls lost interest in me as soon as they discovered that whenever they asked me who I liked, I would never answer them, or would say I didn't like anyone. Sometimes, I would get so tired of them asking that I would pick someone who I thought was a nice person. But I liked them as a friend, not as a boyfriend.

So much for being shy. I wasn't, really. I never had anything to hide - I just wasn't a very sexual person. Having no experience and no desire, there was nothing for me to contribute to all those sexual conversations. To this day, I still can't name anyone I think is sexually attractive.

Example Senario:

Friend: "OMG, he is SO hot! Don't you think so?"

Me: "Mm... *mumble mumble*... sure."

Friend: "No? Well, who do you like?"

Me: "Um..." *awkward moment* "I dunno."

Friend: "Well, do you think this guy is hot?"

Me: "...Not really."

Friend: "What kind of guy do you like, then?"

Me: "... I don't really know anyone."

*Friend loses interest, subject is changed.*

Notice how I said, "I don't know anyone" rather than "I don't like anyone"? This is because I care more about the person than the body he/she is in. So if someone forced me to name someone, it would be someone I liked for their personality, rather than any level of sexy-ness that person might or might not have. And then, it would probably end up as a friendship, rather than a romance. Physical isn't even a factor for consideration. I might have feelings for someone, but not because I was attracted to them.

Not only have I no relationship, no desire for one, and no interest in anyone, but I really don't care if I'm single or not, whereas most people pretty much have some level of angst over being single. Whenever I do a survey with lots of romantic questions about your boyfriend or significant other, I get annoyed: What's wrong with being single? They always expect you to have some relationship or ex-relationship, or desire for one. And I don't. To all three.

I thought it was because I was shy. Because I didn't talk. But you want to know the reason why I didn't talk? Because whenever I would talk with anyone, the conversation would turn to the most awkward topic of sex. Because my friends used to talk incessantly about who liked who, who was making up, who was breaking up, what kind of guy you liked, whether or not you had any boyfriends or not, whether or not you'd kissed anyone... the list goes on and on.

It's especially awkward when you come home and your own dad asks whether a boy will be taking you to the dance or not. Or when your distant relative asks, or your cousin asks, or all your friends are gushing and cooing over people, and you have absolutely no advice or opinion to give them, no input or judgement to pass because you have no feelings for whatever guy is the object of their attention this time. No feelings for any guy at all. Or anyone else, for that matter. It just isn't for you.

I have always wondered why this was so. I wondered how I could have missed that period when everyone else seemed to get so interested, how come I never felt any kind of attraction for anyone at all. No one else has any problems finding someone they like or making sexual jokes, or talking about it. No one else gets so incredibly uncomfortable. So why me? Maybe I just never matured? But that's stupid, 'cause I'm already physically developed and healthy. Am I gay or something? But no, no feelings that way, either. Maybe I haven't met the right person? The confusion went on. It didn't control my life, but it was there to ponder ocassionally. For the most part, I was intensely content with who I was. There was just that question lurking in there somewhere.

And then, epiphany: http://www.asexuality.org. The internet can be so useful sometimes.

Who ever thought that there could be a sexuality for people who aren't sexual?

Perfect.