anonymouse

Aiiiiiiiieeeeeeee.

I have decided to take on a double major. I have fulfilled almost all of the requirements for my psychology major, but now I have decided to take on English as a second major. Not because I'm a junior and will graduate soon, and I'm scared, and I don't want to grow up.

I just looked up the lyrics to "I Don't Wanna Grow Up." I thought Tom Waits was singing about not wanting a Florida room. What's "floating a broom"? Y'all probably don't know what a Florida room is. I had one as a bedroom growing up because we did not have enough money for a three bedroom house. So I lived in our Florida room. It's a room with a big floor-to ceiling sliding glass door, and it opens into the backyard, and it's kind of like a den. Yeah. Tom Waits isn't one to enunciate.


I twisted my ankle recently. I glanced at my watch, got distracted my the cannon outside of the Memorial classrooms that I had NEVER noticed and misstepped on... the steps. There were about 15 to 20 people milling about. I sat on the ground for about three minutes because it really hurt. I called them all corpsefucking, dicksmacking fuckstains after no one even asked me if I was alright. No. No, I really didn't. But I wish I did. I could've broken my leg! Or, you know, someone could've given me a hand in getting up. After I got up to my feet, I did the "I'm okay" gesture, with my palms facing out to-- Well, they didn't face out to anyone who cared, so I don't know why I felt the need to express my okay-ness. And then I limped away. I couldn't even properly exit! Snagglepuss would be so disappointed in me.

...

...Is that cannon a new edition?


I cried watching the TV again. "Without a Trace" had an episode tonight featuring a missing kid who was ostracized by his classmates. And there was an attempted suicide scene. And it was sad. I remember how one social misstep changes everything for kids. In elementary school, I didn't take the blame when someone lied and said I spilled some paints. I ratted out the real paint-spiller, and no one played with me during recess. In junior high, at a sleepover, I cried during this stupid sance fucking Debra G. said would be "really fun." And I didn't stop crying. I cried for hours. My grandmother had died earlier in the week, and I was sensitive about death. I had to leave the slumber party early because Debra would not stop making fun of me. She emptied bottles of nail polish into my sleeping bag when I used the bathroom, and she tore up my change of clothes for the next day. And on Monday, everyone knew I was a crybaby, and I spent my lunchtime in the library. And then some wiseass in the school's administration decided it would be fun to only permit kids to the library during lunch with a teacher's written permission. So I spent my lunchtime in the bathroom because going into the cafeteria and navigating everyone's social cliques in the cafeteria's tables would be way too terrifying. And it just kept getting worse once the rumors started. I was a lesbian. And then I was loose. And then I was a prude when I wouldn't have sex with the headmistress's grandson. And then more rumors spread. I was asked to leave once the rumors about me got all the way to the headmistress. It was something ridiculous about me touching a girl. I later learned that the headmistress's son had paid a girl to lie about that. It was a private school. They didn't care. I didn't fit in, they wanted me out.

Oooohhh. And then public middle school. I remember girls beating me up in the bathroom and another experience took place in a school bathroom that I do not care to remember at all. Goddamn Luis touching my back during science and harrassing the shit out of me -- I still hate him. And then there was an even in a history class wherein people threw paper balls at me, and the teacher didn't do anything to stop it. Did anything like this happen to y'all, or am I just a subdefective?

High school was better. I made friends. Somehow. God, junior high was a fucking nightmare.

Ugh. I finished reading "Odd Girl Out" a while ago, and I'm starting "Queen Bees and Wannabes." I'm not so sure about Wiseman's advice in the latter book. I just don't think it would work. The only way to stop kids from treating each other like shit is to teach the goddamn teachers to actually pay attention to what's going on in class and don't afford kids opportunities to talk to each other and... Let's home school the little bastards. Fuck 'em all.

I should probably see a therapist again. Gah. This Saturday is Valentine's and Camera Boy is planning something even though I told him not to, next Friday is my birthday and mom is planning something even though I told her not to. I am... full of unresolved issues.

I think I'll just focus on my studies and prolonging my education. Second major, grad school -- heck, I don't have to enter the real world for quite some time.

Oh, I changed my "story" in my profile. It's sadly true.

This entry is so disjointed. It is not cohesive at ALL.

I'm going to go sleep. I have tests next week. Boo. Hiss. Boo. Boo...urns. They were saying Boourns.

Boourns.