it only hurts when i laugh

Hello, there, again.
On Wednesday of last week we began a new semester, which means new classes. New teachers, new people, renewed sense of diligence- though it's quicker to fade this time, like so many hits of a drug.
I can say that I liked last semester better. THIS IS TOO MUCH WORK. One of the things about me that you may or may not know is that I absolutely hate working. In all circumstances. Which really doesn't meld well with my sense of living up to expectations, of being successful. But anyway. I hate work.
My schedule is Honors English 1, Honors Chemistry, Spanish 2, and Honors World History. So English is okay, except we have a lot of work and our teacher is wholly uninteresting and unimaginative. She seems reasonably nice, though. I have a lot of friends in there; including some friends I haven't seen in a while. We talk a lot in class. I'm sure our teacher already hates me. Actually, I bet she likes me because she was impressed that I once used the word 'solidarity.' Go figure.
And then I have chemistry, which is pretty much a complete clusterfuck. First of all, I'm the only freshman in a class mostly populated by juniors. I have no idea why I decided to do this. Actually, yes I do. I want to go to Science and Math so that I can be successful and have everyone I used to know say, 'oh yes, she was a bright girl and went very far in her life.' That's really all I want. But anyway, the painful reality is that I sit next to a boy named John Adams who I asked if his middle name was Quincy to break the ice and he blankly stared at me. Also, we are lab partners for the rest of the semester. Chemistry, for what it's worth, is also a lot of work.
And then Spanish, which is definitely a lot less work. Also, our Spanish teacher is kind of racist in that he says things like, 'All Nigerians will hack your computers.' in the presence of a Nigerian student. At which point, I say, 'Hey, that's kind racist.' and he's like, 'No it's not! Political correctness will be the death of us!' and I say, 'It's a matter of showing respect to the people around you.' And he proceeds to apologize to me, and I say, 'Maybe you should apologize to [the Nigerian].' which he promptly does. HAHAHA TAKE THAT ASSHOLE, is what I said in my head. But not out loud. I think he likes me though. Because he remembers my name. It could also be that he hates me so much he has learned my name. But I don't think so, because I sometimes laugh at his overly intellectual jokes about Ebonics and Latin.
And then I have World History, with a nice but young and rather inexperienced teacher. She is very Southern and very accommodating. I do not feel that the class will be exceptional, which is disappointing, because I really like history, but it will be adequate. Also, she has a strange and obsessive compulsive notebook organization strategy we have to use, and it's especially upsetting to me because I have my OWN obsessive compulsive organizational... things.
Also, we have driver's ed this week and next. Which means, we get to sit in the cafeteria from 3:10 to 6:45, with a ten minute break at five. And also that everyone wants to kill themselves because this man could be the most boring teacher possible. Some interesting points included him telling us that we can remember 'Regulatory because it rhymes with Mandatory', describing a girl getting her thumbs ripped off in a car accident, or something, and him crying as he describes a recently deceased college student, who, may I stress, he has never met. Also, have I mentioned that the class is nearly four hours long? It's miserable. We have assigned seats. Also, I eat dinner at like, five. I am feeling lightheaded and nauseous by the time I get home at seven.
Other highlights include a boy I know thinking I think it's funny when babies die. Which I don't really, by the way.
ANDDD. I don't have anything else to say. I'm sorry. I'm sure this was very disappointing for you.

my thoughts are stars i can't fathom into constellations

I have just finished reading the fault in our stars. And I found- (I'm going to make an exception to my no names rule because my dear friend Peter is very difficult to describe in terms other than Peter)- that Peter has also written about The Fault in Our Stars, but I have not read his post yet in the interest of keeping my entry as base as possible.
Anyway, I cried the entire time, completely silently, as I have taken up habitation, this week, in a hotel room in Washington, D.C., with my two parents- one of whom sleeps very very lightly.
This sort of literary feat makes me wish very deeply to be a better writer. More than that, though, this novel makes me wish very deeply to be in love. Perhaps more importantly, to be loved.
A quick side note- crying, I have just found, makes one almost unrecognizably unattractive. I was almost surprised by my own appearance. Additionally, there is a large and vaguely urinary wet spot on the sheet where my face was, and i do not want to sleep on it, however, the bed is so small it prohibits any alternatives.
Anyways, the entire book was crushingly sad, and crushingly good. It left me with many thoughts, and the often fleeting nature of my thoughts led me to open my computer and connect to the 12.95 a day ethernet in our hotel room.
The first thought- probably not the first thought I had reading the book, nor even the largest or most important thought I had, just the first that comes to mind- is the thought of how incredibly crushed my parents would be if I died. This is a tangent. Once, I had a cousin. His name was Alex. He live somewhere in the midnorthwest, not Michigan but somewhere near there. At the time, I was eight, I think, and he was 17. Anyway, he died in a car accident. And it was just this unspeakable tragedy in our family. I haven't thought about him in years but recently, I think about him often.
I do remember him, somewhat, though not in the same way as I remember my still-amongst-the-living cousins that I see once every two years. The thing, though, I do remember most, was his death. And I think that a lot of people, particularly those who die young, are completely overshadowed by their death. And I know this is true in my own memory of my cousin. Because for every moment I have of him in the recesses of my mind, I have a fistful of memories of his death. Because you never really know, do you, that the last time you see someone will be the last? So I guess those days I had never stood out, in stark relief, as the days after his death did for me.
You'll have to forgive the long and rambling nature of this post, I do not care to edit it at this time.
What I remember, though, is being completely unable to shed a single tear over his loss. Later, I would. But at the funeral, I recall thinking that I was the only person not crying in the entire room. I also recall, vaguely, the loads of bullshitty eulogies (though i didn't know the word at the time) being read by his classmates, and wondering, really, though, how many of these people actually knew him? I know they're sad, but I feel more that they are sad, not because Alex is dead, but because they recognize that they too will die. That life is incredibly uncertain, and each moment brings us closer to the inevitability of it all. At least, that is what I sometimes feel when I think about death.
But anyway, there was a point to this, some six or seven paragraphs ago. And the point was, that, I feel like the true sadness in someone's death is the way it affects those still among the living- including myself. I remember how utterly destroyed his two parents were. I remember wondering how they would live with themselves, cliched as it is, how they would go on from now. Because a parent never expects to lose a child. And of course, rather than simply reflecting on that, as a non-sociopathic-tendency-displaying person would, I HAD to relate it to myself. I could only truly see the sadness of their loss by imagining my own parents, if, (and here my mother would cross herself, like the catholic girl of her youth), I were to be killed in an alarming car accident coming back from a party?
And I don't know. But I can imagine well enough to hope completely unselfishly, (no really) that when I die, they will already be gone. So that they don't have to go through that, I guess.
At this point I have absolutely no idea what I am talking about but I'm sure I sound quite insane and not at all interesting. So I'm sorry.
As for the second thing... I know, you're bored.
As for the second thing, I very much wish to be in love. Like, right now. I want to be in love with someone, and I want to be loved back. But things rarely happen like they do in books.
Hilariously, depressingly, I can count the number of people who have liked me on one hand. With an amputated thumb. Let me list them. Also, pre-grade school does not count.
1) The Boy. The one and only boyfriend. Who, I must say, I never really liked back. I've been told that there was a time, years ago, where he really did like me. Like, like like me. And looking back, I believe it. My only regret is that I did not seize the few good moments we had together.
2) Some Boy. A boy at summer camp. Not the Peter, but another boy. Who was a bit strange and had large calves and was overly serious and is still a touch pretentious. I did not ever like him back either. I must say, though, that when I learned of his attractive, smart, and Indian girlfriend, I felt just a twinge of jealousy. Because (and I have never gotten a girl to admit this, perhaps because all my friends are more popular and more often liked than I) it is flattering to be liked, no matter who the liker (what?) is.
3) Recently, a creepy emo senior boy who rides my bus. He is creepy. Needless to say, I do not like him back. Just a few days ago, he was chatting with a boy in my grade who I imagine will one day grow up to be a school shooter somewhere hopefully-not-here. (It's important to note that boy number one has since turned emo, and I am glad I jumped ship before that.) Anyway, school shooter boy is creepily best friends with The Boy, school shooter boy was discussing with emo senior boy MY love life, as I sat there a few rows ahead, surreptitiously pretending to listen to my ipod. And he was explaining the nature of The Boy and I's relationship, incorrectly, might I add. (I shudder to imagine The Boy describing his imagined conquests of a carnal nature to schools shooter boy.) Inevitably, I interjected something I hope sounded appropriately witty and lackadaisal and not at all bitter. So then, emo boy and I discussed that for a while, and I emphasized how completely stupid, and juvenile, and non-existent The Boy and I's relationship was, when out of the blue, emo boy goes, 'so, do you have a boyfriend now?' and in my head i'm like, 'YES! SAY YES!' and suddenly I stammer out, 'well, i'm currently in a long distance relationship.' and in my head i'm like, 'WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? YOU ARE TOTALLY NOT.' and then i briefly described my fake long distance relationship and realized that this fabricated boy sounded, an awful lot like the Peter. And then I was like, 'YOU PSYCHO.' but not out loud, because that would be super duper weird.
And then I started actually listening to my ipod and completely ignoring creepy emo boy. The end! Sorry for being creepy and creepily pretending I am in a relationship with you even though that totally isn't a thing. I think. Unless, you know, I have been completely misunderstanding everything. But I don't think that... is so. What?
Um, okay, goodnight.
Hey! I just read the Peter. And, I feel, first of all, much better that he has a creepy idea of a fake relationship with me also, because that helps me feel less creepy and less like I just want to go back and delete the entire last couple of paragraphs. Which I try to resist doing, by the way, because someday this will be a memoir and candor is important.
I also noted that he got all fancy and edited, which made me feel very lazy.
But secondly,(thirdly) and more importantly, ' I imagine that if I do get to go to tip this year, which I might not, then I'd hang out with Frances more, and then be disappointed. Cause i can be nothing but disappointed. all of her I get to know is the good. anything that she reveals to me and nothing more. even if she's trying to show me every bit of her, it just can't happen.' and I feel like that just about sums everything up. That I have been thinking about. Which is sad. But true. And I have been trying. But it's true. That it can't happen.
I also feel that this post is entirely too long. And I feel a little bad for exploiting my dead cousin as a vehicle for my own emotions as though I really knew him. And I didn't because I was eight years old. What I know is an idea of him. My memories of him are more my feelings than anything else. So, I'm sorry that you are able to concisely express yourself in just a few paragraphs while I write pages and still am unable to express myself without a quote from someone else. You, in this case.
I also feel that the titles, while eyecatching, are completely pretentious and also not at all representative of the following paragraphs. However, I will continue using them, because, frankly, I think they make me sound better. Though I'm sure I will be dissuaded of that notion the next time we speak.
ANYWAY, one more thing. I have been avoiding speaking to a specific person, but I have finally confronted the reality that I have but one faithful reader. Which, hey, is better than none.
ACTUALLY ANYWAY, goodnight. I am sorry for the non sequiter-ness of this post.

we're plastic but we still have fun

The previous post, was my ranty post. and this post, is about my day. because i'm just in a blogging sort of mood.
Today was the very last day of the semester, ever. and i am sad- which is not something i expected to feel about this. but i am sad. i am a creature of habit, i do not like change. i will miss being around those particular sets of people that i have in my classes.
tomorrow we have our biology eocs. and i am a little nervous. not really. maybe just a little.
additionally, i went to the orthodontist today. and my orthodontists are always obnoxiously cheerful. it is super. fucking annoying. as the woman is talking to my father, he happens to leave his briefcase in the hallway of the building which this practice shares with a couple other elective doctoral sort of places. and this woman says, 'i don't want to be ugly, but i wouldn't want to leave that bag out there.' and i laughed.
one thing i have found about southern people- women, specifically, is that they are very... passive aggressive. not in the pop culture sense of the word, but by the literal definition.
i hate the south. actually, i hate southern people. and heat. which is pretty much what makes this place southern. i plan on going to college as far away from here as i can.
today, in biomed, instead of, you know, reviewing for our eoc, we applied to a lot of college websites. including, but not limited to, collegeboard, my college options, and zunch. i feel like my two friends in there and i feed off of each other's neuroticism, and get ourselves worked up into a lather (gross, not like that) about our future, and our careers, and our colleges, and our grades, and everything like that. because we are very similar in that we are driven to sort of do well.
and then you meet people, like, my internet summer camp friend, who seems to not care at all about his future. actually, i think he does care, i don't think that he worries about it. he probably does, though, and just doesn't... voice that. or something. i don't know.
but anyways. i very much hope that i get into harvard. i might not be able to go, just financially, but i really really wanna. because i'm pretentious. like that. and then, my safety school is the university of north carolina at chapel hill. which, is a good school. plus in-state tuition, and i actually really like chapel hill, and that's where my mom teaches (which is kind of a negative point). but yeah. i hope, i will be able to do better than that.
#mostgenericpostever

boy, someday you'll be a man

as i'm sure you all know, i watch porn. sometimes. a lot of the time. not really. like, five times a week. which sounds terrible. but you know. whatever.
so i thought i would, i'm sure to the chagrin of some of my more delicate readers, discuss porn, and my thoughts on it.
i have no idea why i included an introductory paragraph. that's stupid.
when one first goes on to a porn site- which i avoid after a particularly unpleasant... incident- one of the first things you will see is a penis, probably several. and the second thing you'll see is a list of all the different categories the site has. usually, these lists include asian, bdsm, milf (or 'mature', if it's CLASSY PORN), young (or barely legal, or eighteen, or teen, which you should always avoid because it might be child porn), and... probably some other categories. oh, anal is usually one. and lesbian, of course. sometimes gay. usually not. (as i compile this list, i'm resisting the urge to go to an actual porn site and am instead viewing the wikipedia article entitled, 'list of pornographic sub-genres'.) oh, gross, apparently there is a category called, 'disease ridden. mainly focuses on lepers.' i can't say that this is ever a category i have happened across. which is very good.
there is also apparently 'glasses fetish' porn, which, i have also not seen, except perhaps in the 'naughty schoolteacher' capacity. which i find sort of awesome, being a glasses wearer.
but anyywayy. sometimes, when you find yourself in the darker recesses of a porn site- this can often happen if you are frequenting the bdsm section- as i often do. occasionally, porn can be really intense.
sometimes, apparently this is sort of a fetish thing, but sometimes women cry in porn, and they have mascara, like, streaming down their face, and i immediately am completely freaked out. even though i know these women are actors, and are probably fine, it sort of scares me. i don't know. generally, people crying make me uncomfortable, so that could be part of it.
also, sometimes, there are weird things, at least by my standards. sometimes, the girls get, like, stabbed, and it's super weird. i don't know how to describe it. it's not like someone comes up and knifes them or anything... it's like when, their skin gets punctured? sometimes with like, needles. or... i don't know. i have a very poor memory for porn. it just freaks me out. so usually i just close the window and go to a different site, but occasionally for whatever reason, i keep watching- and the way porn works is it keeps getting more intense, and usually she cries, and it's just terrible, and not at all erotic. and i sort of get this feeling that i think is closest to the time when i was five or six and i killed this bug. and i didn't, just, squish it, i sort of almost tortured it? it was like a maggot. and i killed it. and there was, like, blood on the table. and then i cried. not after i finished watching porn. that would be weird. after i killed the bug. and i don't know, the feeling is like that, somehow.
what a weird blog post this is. hilariously, the blogger spellchecker claims thatspellcheck, blog, and blogger are not words.
anyway. goodbye.

our bodies get bigger but our hearts get torn up

Well, it's nearing the end of the semester. And I am filled with equal parts elation and anxiety. I'm taking chemistry, so that's with a bunch of strange juniors. In case you somehow missed this particular facet of my personality, I am often terribly nervous and withdrawn around strangers. Over time, I become more boisterous. But for the first month or so, I'm completely terrified. Inevitably, I resolve that this time will be different- I'll be my quirky, sardonic self and they. will. love it.
But every time, to some degree, when I enter a room full of strangers that I want to like me, the plan falls through.
Such is the downfall of this deliciously awkward persona that would otherwise be without flaw!
But of course, the elation is a part of this too. Elation to be done with physical education- or, as it could more accurately albeit lengthily named, 'walk around the gym in unflattering clothes while dodging projectiles' class.
And there's the excitement too, of meeting new people. Perhaps I will meet my wildly attractive, smart but not too smart, slightly sporty, darkly humorous but not too dark, and did I mention attractive? imaginary boyfriend.
I have this strange complex where, my ideal imaginary boyfriend is pretty much exactly like me but less so- just a few IQ points lower, a little nicer, more socially adept, more sporty. Equally attractive, I guess. I feel like if he were a lot more attractive, everyone would think I was a whore or something. I don't know. That's just the way things are.
Apparently, it's a thing now to post, like, 12 'confessions' in a row as your status on facebook. And inevitably, it's always some stupid cunt who's like, 'confession: I lyk <3 my bf sooo much Michael Richards' or something equally insipid and something no one gives two shits about. No one. If people were like, 'I am actually a lesbian.' or, 'Sometimes, I masturbate in my mother's lingerie' or, 'I did a lot of heroine when we were in 8th grade'- maybe then I would actually be interested. But of course no one is stupid or brave enough to do that. So instead I have dumb bitches- and they are always female- lying about how they used to be depressed, and they love their boyfriends, and they hate school, and they've broken their phones three times- clogging up my facebook feed.
/rant