November 27, 2002: Sometimes I feel like I'm taken for granted. Not that I'm some fantastic person who should be showered with... I don't even know. It feels like the little things I do for people go unnoticed. Unappreciated even. I'm no Mother Teresa, but... I can't even explain. I don't know what I'm looking for... I don't need praise. I don't know what I want. I just feel taken for granted.
October 14, 2002: I've never been in love before; I don't know what it feels like. If it feels wonderful and pure and beautiful and the thought of him makes me smile and feel giddy inside, then I am in love. I constantly smile to myself upon thinking of him. I picture his face, and my entire body is overcome with such warmth. I feel like I glow with the radiance he makes me feel inside. No one has ever made me forget the rest of the world like the way he has. Late at night before I drift off into sleep, I wonder why I was ever unhappy before. Sometimes I can't quite remember why; other times I do remember. Yet somehow it doesn't seem to matter anymore. I can't think anything negative when my head is filled with beautiful images of Steve.
September 30, 2002: [in sing-song voice] I kissed a boy today...
August 29, 2002: Damn you, handsome boys. You exist solely to taunt me of what I cannot have. Flaunting your virility and magnetic smiles. Flaunting your girlfriends or your homosexual mannerisms. Damn you and your charming ways.
August 27, 2002: I think I've accomplished the most ridiculous task for one to ever accomplish: ran down three[3] mailboxes with one[1] vehicle. Being behind the wheel and sneezing do not mix well. So, kids, don't try this one at home. To give myself a shred of dignity, I did not drive down the entire street and knock down the aforementioned mailboxes; the three were attached together on one post. Of course, it would not be complete until I mention that it was my own neighbors' mailboxes that I creatively managed to demolish, which becomes quite embarassing to explain. I can feel my face reddening this very moment; my recount of this adventure will end here.
June 22, 2002: I have figured out my intensity for reading and writing. As well as thinking. I read to find answers to the questions I have not yet asked. The prose and poetry I write, mere attempts to find answers. To sort things out. Somehow all the pieces of the puzzle will be laid out, and I'll see it all so very clearly. Someday it will all make sense. Surely. My senior art teacher had told me that I have something to say. I wish I knew what it was. I search for words to explain my thoughts, but my words always fail me. It's never quite enough. I think I have said exactly what it is I want to say; come to realize, there is more. Always something missing. Perhaps I have nothing to say at all. I search hoping that I might have something worthwhile to say. Maybe absolutely nothing is happening in the gray matter of my soulless, vapid mind. But all this brings me back to thinking about daoism, about speaking without saying anything at all. Does any of what I say mean a thing? I fear this is true, [yet I continue to type] that my words, any words for that matter, mean nothing.
May 13, 2002: The concept of a "meaningful" relationship seems awfully frivolous, useless, and trite. Freud has said, "Anatomy is destiny." There is truth in that, to an extent. Biologically, procreation is the purpose of our existence, as with all other species with the innate drive for survival. But, on the other hand, as human beings with a highly developed intellect [relative to the intellect of other animals, of course], this innate survival penchant seems so trite. It would seem that those of a higher intellect must have a better purpose. Otherwise, the intelllect is a waste. Should I even assume this? If it is quite true that our whole purpose is merely procreation, then this higher intellect is adaptive. As humans, we have adapted ourselves [though mostly adapted our environment to us] such that life is made easier, and we live longer. Scientifically speaking [and I suppose logically], this makes much sense. But something does not seem quite right. Something does not feel right. Missing. Our brains are so intricate and complex. To simply exist for procreation seems so primitive...and dull. I think of humans as being able to progress and expand, both negatively and positiviely. There must be something more to our lives. To my life, especially as a female. Although, if everyone where to believe that reproduction is not the only way of life, the human race would short-lived. [sigh] Another night with no answers.
May 9, 2002: Today during my history of civilization class, we, as in the class, discussed many facets of feminism and gender roles. As I brushed my teeth just moments earlier, I began to reflect on the opinions I expressed with my class and also my attitude(s) toward men. I don't think I hate men; the quick glimpse of an attractive boy sets my stomach to fluttering. So perhaps not hatred, but rather a great mistrust/misunderstanding and cynicism towards men which causes me to be non-objective. I often catch myself saying and thinking things about men that are not entirely fair to assume about them. Though I know both genders can at times be warped and flawed in their own ways, I can't help but expect more from men, or perhaps from people in general. And this is not right, nor fair. I try to understand where my feelings of mistrust and bitterness come from, and I'm not entirely sure. I have not been raped, assaulted, or outrageously tormented by men, so where do these hostile tendencies stem from? Perhaps some of it may come from the media, though I suppose it's easy to take any accountability off myself. All I can come up with is that I do not trust men. I automatically figure they're all the same at the core, though I know most certainly this is not true based on friendships with the opposite sex, though many of them share the same inclinations. I assume these things, and firmly believe them until proven otherwise. I feel like all men have some ideal woman figure in mind; tall, blonde, beautiful, well-endowed in the upper regions, and perfect figures. This may be hyped up by media. I am none of the said characteristics, and, per chance, this is where my bitterness comes from: my fears of inadequacy. As much as I'd like to continue and analyze myself, sleep beckons me.
April 4, 2002: Why are some men so horribly vulgar? Last night as I was getting off the train at the train station, a man asked me from the window of his car, upon noticing the vibrant red shade of my hair, if I was red everywhere. I was then led to assume, by his blatant staring, that he was insinuating my pubic regions. People can be so fucking depraved. It's maddening!
February 25, 2002: Break time during drawing class. A little solitude as everyone else takes off to smoke a cancer stick or consume a morsel of high-calorie forgetfulness. Though a little alone time is always a treasure to find, despite the circumstances.
I have to declare my major this week, but of course I have yet to make up my mind. I checked "fashion design" on the sheet, though my decision may not hold firm. There's so many things I want to do; if I choose one, will I lose everything else that I love about art?
January 30, 2002: So I've come to the conclusion that I am a quitter. I want the easy life. Instant gratification. If I have to work hard, I become bitter and unhappy. I try to put on the persona of trying hard, but I'm really quite lazy. That's the consensus as of now.
January 13, 2002: Why is it so quiet when it snows? Today I stood outside as it snowed, listening. An entire blanket of white. Of purity. Snowfall sounds like death. I can hear the world dying, vowing it in a deafening silence.
December 30, 2001: I think understanding is the greatest thing in the world. Understanding breeds compassion. The world needs more of that.
December 18, 2001: Tonight I sat and watched the fading flicker of a candle as it drowned in its own wax. How pathetic.
December 12, 2001: Today in my [final] film class, I happened to overhear this girl talking to another student about a tradition she does with her friends. The tradition is to beat up one of their friends on their 18th birthdays. And they seriously hurt each other. Battered faces, broken ribs and other bones, severe bruises, concussions... Even after I asked her what the reasoning was behind all this, I still didn't understand. Her reasoning was: "It's funny." I've always been under the impression that a friend is somone that you care a lot about and wouldn't want to intentionally hurt. I don't understand how inflicting violence onto another, especially a friend, is remotely funny, or even enjoyable. I don't know. The human species is a depraved one.
And this same girl telling of this tradition is also into the whole drug/alcohol scene. She, along with many of the other students in my film class, glorify the drug/alcohol experience. It's pathetic. To need something like that in order to have fun, any fun at all. It kind of gives the people of my age bracket a bad reputation. It's so easy to see why there are many adults that think we're a bunch of punk-ass trouble makers that smoke crack and get wasted all the time. Look at what we project to them! [Although I guess it's also wrong that many of them stereotype us like that, but it happens.] It's also so very sad. That people think they need to lose themselves in the abyss of a drunken or stoned stupor.
But maybe I'm just being cynical. It's very easy for me to sit up on my high horse of self-righteousness preaching about how pathetic people can be and judging others like that. I'm not much better if I am to put myself up on a pedestal as the epitome of human perfection when I am quite clearly NOT. We all have our flaws.
December 7, 2001: Sometimes I wonder why I wake up each morning. I complain about the banalities of life, so why do I constantly become a part of it? I'm just taking up space. Another mouth to feed. Another consumer.
September 12, 2001: Upon reflection of yesterday's disaster... It's a Tuesday morning, nearly ten o'clock, and I am typing data entries into the computer for my father and half listening to the television mumbling in the background, sitting in my fleece pajamas and Snoopy slippers while my cat doses in my lap. Suddenly the Maury Povich Show has been preempted by some kind of announcement. Then I see it. One of the World Trace Center buildings just collapsed right before my eyes. Smoke, dust, flames, right on the screen. Is this part of a movie? Who's playing this sick joke? I dive for the TV remote, and my cat tumbles off my lap, glaring at me for waking her from her dreamless slumber. I change the channels, and it's on every single channel. This is no movie. This is no joke. This is real. I stare at the TV scren in complete and utter awe. The camera cuts to a shot of people sprinting away from the destruction. It occurs to me that I just witnessed death. I slump to the floor. Leaning against my dresser, I sob. Today people died, people bled, and people wept. Here I am sitting in my blue fleece pajamas, my hair still damp from a recent shower, and my flesh all intact. My cat, recovered from being tossed from my lap, simply curls up on my bed and goes back to sleep. I wish I was a cat.
April 8, 2001: A couple weeks ago at my high school, the administration decided to dedicate an entire week about "celebrating diversity," and that got me thinking a little bit. Lately there has been such mass hysteria about the whole homosexuality issue. Personally, I don't see what the huge deal is. I could care less about whether or not a person is gay. There has been so much emphasis about it. Stop taking yourself so damned seriously. I know that years ago people could not be open about their sexuality, but the times have changed. A vast majority accepts it; I certainly do. It's really no one's business about another's sexuality, unless the person wishes to share it. When you get right down to it though, we're just people. We're not gays, whites, blacks, asians, hispanics. We all spout about "equality," and in actuality so many people don't even understand the concept. We are multi-faceted in a myriad of ways; we are more than "gay", "white," "black," "latino," etc. These words do not define who we are; in fact, they separate us from being what we are: people. That's all we are. These words categorize us and segregate us. People want equality. Then ignore one's sexuality, color of skin, thick accent, slant of the eyes. Just see people. See you.
December 3, 2000: Today an unbelievable thing happened. Today was the first time I have EVER cried while watching a movie. Normally I'm able to distinguish between fiction and reality, but the movie I saw was different. I rented "Boys Don't Cry," starring Hilary Swank. It's based on a true story. To sum up the powerful movie, it's about a girl that has a sexual identity crisis and pretends to be a guy. A group of so-called friends found out, raped and killed her. It's a fantastic movie, despite the fact that I bawled my eyes out while watching it, but the actual story is very disturbing. How can people do that to someone? It almost made me sick to the point where I felt like I was going to vomit. My dad saw my tear stained face, and I attempted to tell him about the story, but I couldn't get the words out. I just broke down and cried. I somehow managed to choke out why I was crying. It's just so horrifying what people can do to one another. I'm at the point where I think almost everyone is horrible at the core. I thought I've been desensitized, but much to suprise and, in an odd way, happiness, some things I'll never get used to.
September 11, 2000: We are living in an age where technology reigns. The internet has been accessible to anyone and everyone around the world. Funny how a mere machine as a computer has the ability to control our lives much more than we wish to admit. The information super highway has chained us to our computers, having us clicking and typing away for hours on end. Something about the internet intrigues us all. We find ourselves searching through the void of numbers and letters, forgetting about reality and entering some kind of surreal world where anything can be possible and IS possible. But what exactly are we searching for? Are our lives so unfulfilling that we must go online to find whatever it is that we are searching for? Why are we online all day and into the night, staying up till dawn just clicking and typing? Perhaps we are on some sort of mission to find ourselves, and perhaps we think it is somewhere on the world wide web, or maybe we're just socially inept.. We "chat" with other people who are also strapped to their computers. What is it we are trying to gain from these partial strangers that we feel we can't extract from the people that are actually around us?
May 1, 2000: Welcome to my mind and the conspiracies of high school. The long-awaited junior prom was Friday, April 28, 2001. The prom is the all-American high school ritual. The females of the junior class dress up in gowns and shimmery apparel, paint their faces, do their hair, and complete the look with tight, uncomfortable shoes that they wear despite the pain; they gotta look good. While the female body of the junior class is lavishing their body with these fine riches that they most likely will never use again, the male species of the high school will be wearing none other than a simple tuxedo. Now what exactly is the point of the prom? To most high school students attending the prom, it is an opportunity for fornication, or in typical high school language, an opportunity to get laid. The prom is nothing more than a ridiculously overpriced dance. People can dance anywhere, but for some asinine reason, paying a lot of money and wearing expensive clothes makes the night so much more special. It's a high school conspiracy fabricated to take all the precious hard-earned money that the feeble-minded high school student has worked at minimum wage for over the past several months. In one full swoop, all that money and effort is gone, all for some silly school-established dance, which tend to suck to begin with. So why waste my time, money, effort, and dignity at a school function? I didn't. I spent my lovely Friday night in Boston chilling with my rad friend Michelle, watching some punk puke all over the ground in Copley.