First Five Times

1. My first kiss happened in the local dug-out. I kept my eyes and mouth completely open, all the while thinking "Something isn't right." And it might have also been the fact that I was sitting on an empty SKOAL tin, lying about my age (I'm not fourteen!!!!), and just have a general state of social disability where my intrinsic awkwardness cannot be squelched by any amount of eye-liner.

2. My second kiss was at a friend of a friend's house, in her younger brothers race-car bed. I had had a crush on my family friend. We had attended preschool together. The tufts of peachy fur in his armpits were the first I saw in fifth grade, and I think it blew some sort of estrogen dam welled up inside my heart. My mutual friend promised to finally wrestle the object of my affection into dating me, but she did it by bellowing "If you two don't make out right now, I'm going to throw up." Romance.

3. At a party, his party. Distinct memory of being hell-bent on wearing a deep olive wifebeater because I thought I would look like a cool hippy. Another distinct memory of vigorously googling the discography of Jimi Hendrix prior to the party, to aid the cool factor. This is the first time I'm making out in a bed, I thought, like, seven times over. I kept an eye on his alarm clock as he tried unweave my bra off me. Eventually I had to contort myself out of my tank top to readjust myself. I went home and watched Disney channel after.

4. The basement of a church during an indie-concert. The lightness of being inebriated was so novel to me I guess the first idea that comes to mind is drag a boy who fancies you to the back of the venue and stick your tongue in his mouth. "If we're gonna do this, we're gonna do this now," I triumphed, before grabbing his jaw. Smoke and beer and youthful disillusionment. "Ok, it's 11, let's go home."

5. Flipping through a National Geographic after a DIY wine-tasting at my friend's place, I was super smitten by her ex, he leaned in to kiss me after I told him my aspirations to be a blogger (ineffable). We had spent the day wandering around a park we frequented in the summer talking concerts and mutual acquaintances, lending good background knowledge to the character. But I sort of already knew him. We tasted like wine and sleepiness.

On Writing

I am a horrible writer. I didn't realize this until about an hour ago, so I'm feeling particularly dismal.

My precious "personal edification" of writing skills that I teethed on throughout sophomore year must have leaked on to the linoleum hallways one day while I was wrapped up in high-school emotions and a janitor must have mopped it up while my back was turned.

My grand ineptitude is officially not limited to the subjects of history or french, making it actually a GRAND INEPTITUDE. I ought to tattoo the phrase "disadvantage: unable to funcation" on my forearm just to alert whoever is within a yard of me.

**Sigh**
Being an International Baccalaureate student means that not only do you have to metaphorically kiss-ass by not sleeping in class and wearing cardigans everyday, it also means you have to do real work. Essays nd shit. There probably hasn't been a succinct definition of the word "wastiod" since 90's MTV, but I fit the link.
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My life hasn't been manic-depression sucking lately. I haven't been sleeping more than eight hours a day, and I saw three people who make me uncomfortable and my stomach did only a half-flip.

The Ignore Effect

Photo by Joshua D White

Recently, I've decided to sever my friends who are actually not my friends from my life. It's like bonsai-trimming of the soul.



This morning, my friend chauffeured me to visit my ailing ex-boyfriend at his house before he ships himself back to college. I don't really know why we made the trip (because all we did was talk about track for fifteen minutes), but on the way home we went into a deep analysis on why it's semi-impossible not to dick people over on a relatively normal basis.

"Like, even if you don't fuck anyone over, for, like, a whole week; you're still going to get fucked over. You'll probably get fucked over harder because you're being so nice."

"True. I hate it. I hate everyone. We're all double-faced facades who suck. At least pretty people get have something going for them. All us normal people are normal and cruel. It's glamorous to be pretty and cruel."

I think most of my suspicions and distrust is based on ostensible facts my anti-friends or so-called-friends gesture towards. I'm on the epic quest to squelch the paranoia and dread I get from said rumors (ex: Yeah, I don't think she really likes you; she was at that party and did this thing; etc, etc), so I must take my sheers and clip the unruly limbs.

It's a difficult yet satisfying process to watch people whom you're fully exiling from your life blindly fall into the rabbit hole that is your rejection. But I'm almost 18 and can't handle myself, let alone kids who are belligerently inducing my anxieties + don't make me laugh.

Moral: life would be easier if you were pretty because you can do just about whatever you like.