"THE TRUTH WILL SET YOU FREE"

Her black round glasses perfectly disguised and enlarged her rather dark and depthless eyes, the feature most prominent on her face. She was a young and rather insecure teacher who hardly showed emotion, but who remained stolid behind her desk, rarely reaching for or engaging with her students.
I sat in the back, behind large boys with broad shoulders and wide backs. Many of the girls in class sat with their legs crossed, tossing incessantly. A lot of them played with their hair, discarding individual strands with two fingers on to the floor. I felt an acute but ubiquitous tinge of nausea whenever they did so, and I tried as hard as I could to ignore them. But I realized that the only way to avoid this trigger of nausea would be to ignore them full-heartedly; make believe they did not exist.
"The truth will set you free" my professor said again, "because it is the only thing that people can hold to you, hold from you, and pass on. This freedom of speech, this confessional state of spoken, as well as spiritual liberation is what will be held up against our shadows so that people can not see through; so that they will be able to tell the difference between ourselves and the nothingness that surrounds us".
I started hammering my hands on top of my desk, silently, as to not stir or arouse a single look. I hammered my hands onto the desk as if I were chopping wood with an axe, cutting lines of coke with a razor, or shaking diplomatic hands. I had a bi-sensory disease that required my constant mental twitch (bore from classroom lecture), to be met with and satiated by a simultaneous physical task or exhaustion of energy.

"No, it won't" cried a haunting voice of certainty.
When I heard this I froze; my hands stopped chopping. It was an interruption of lecture that no one was expecting. I looked around: not one person in my class moved or showed interest in responding. I could feel the white noise pervade the classroom air. I slowly rubbed my hands together, creating a heat that permeated both hands. It was not often that a person spoke out in class and less often for him or her to say something that differed from popular thought. The teacher validated the comment by responding.
"Thank you, Wes, but please remember to follow class etiquette: if you have nothing pertinent to say, it is better to keep silent and say nothing at all. Really, Wes, you're just a giant distraction."
Her voice was as unemotional as it had always been, but it seemed to have relieved the tension that had built up in the air. Many students relaxed now and sunk back into their chairs more comfortably. The lecture began again, and everyone began to listen openly and eagerly as if with ears the size of elephants (but with the hearing intensity and accuracy of dogs.) Their obedience was at full force. I never paid much attention to Wes because his ghostly disposition was an intrigue as well as an intimation that intimidated me. I stayed away from him, even though he and I sat on the same side of the fence, ideologically speaking, of course. Wes stuck out like a healthy thumb among the many soar ones.
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[orange thin maker]
How is it that majority always seems right? Why is it that people naturally follow the ideas of others, and protect them? The majority is taught to hate and look badly upon others. This is so in all civilizations, where society eventually becomes an oligarchy where the weak follow and the strong defy. There are key examples of this in history, such as Christianity, Nazism, and the United States government. Once these groups come into power, their opposers are pushed into conformity by force. The reason that these groups get away with what they do is due to closed-mindedness. People choose not to question things and what is wrong with them. Humans have and always will be afraid of what they do not understand. This leads to contradictions, which lead to even more paradoxical ideas.
Life is conformity, but he choice to live differently is unique!
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[blue writing pen]
Last night, I was at Trixi's house watching Zoolander (Which I have seen 8 times so far, and it never ceases to make me laugh histerically). After the movie had ended and the credits began to scroll up the television screen, we each waited for the other to make a sudden move towards the remote control. I looked and Trixi and she squinted her eyes, as if she had supernatural powers that could command the remote to fly to her lifeless hand. Every second that passed caused the remote to seem further and further away. Suddenly, at the exact same time, we both garbled two separate sentences together, making it impossible to hear what the other was saying. A long, awkward gap of hideous silence followed. I then mumbled, "Gee Trixi ... the credits are getting p-retty boring!"

Trixi narrowed here eyes and constructed her response in her head quickly. "More than half of Americans are lazy and accustomed to a lethargic and convenient life style. Why should I differ from popular behavior??? You put THAT in your pipe and smoke it!" Trixi muttered scathingly. We each paused, laughed hysterically, and continued to read the names on the credits and hum to the catchy music. Just as the credits were ending, Tony (Trixi's hott brother) slothfully came up the stairs and claimed the television shouting that Mission Hill had begun. Together, we lazily glazed at the precious television. I love going over to Trixi's house!!
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[thick, black marker]
I sat alone in a chair at the end of a table in the darkness. There were no other chairs at the rectangular table, and the blackness took as much as it could, erasing the perimeters of the room from sight.
A single light bulb hung from the darkness above, giving a halo of soft light to the table below. My face was immersed in a pool of embroidered light. I was, indeed, alone and in complete and open confession with myself. The darkness, however, was more telling than I because it invaded the space around me, pronouncing its dominance through the sound of silence in the air.

Maybe god wanted to end the world. Maybe he gave everyone the option to end it. I pondered this for a few minutes, losing my head to the disembodied thoughts that like butterflies lifted consciousness somewhere else.
Moments passed, followed by more.
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[red, orange, and yellow markers]
I seem to have a talent for stating the obvious. See, I did it again!

[neon green pen]
I remember being told so many times when I was little: If someone called on the telephone and my parents weren't home, I wasn't supposed to tell them that. I was expected to say "They can't come to the phone right now. May I take a message?". This drilled into my head the impression that if anyone did call for my parents while they were not home, they were hiding in the bush out front, waiting for the cue to come kidnap me.
Whenever my parents had to leave the house, I sat in the front window waving until I could not see their automobile any longer. I think they thought it was because I couldn't bare to see them leave, but I was actually waiting for my kidnapper to pop out of the bushes.

I don't remember when I stopped waving.

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[orange marker]
I didn't plan to end up with this guy as my best friend.
He's painfully uncool. He watches televised wresting, for chrissakes. He loves video games and insists on discussing their nuances in agonizing detail, even as I've assured him repeatedly that I do not give a fuck. His wardrobe is an odd mix of items that should have died on the Old NavyŽ clearance rack and tattered college sports memorabilia. He has thick glasses and what has been uncharitably called both a "proceeding hairline" and a "forehead deficiency." This is particularly strange, especially considering the fact that is merely 16 years of age. His musical tastes would embarrass a fifty-something Iowa cross-stitcher. He owns three of every conceivable electronic appliance, and they all suck. If you need to borrow a temperamental laptop or a badly aging offbrand television set, he's your man.

He owns the most aggressively awful automobile I have ever seen. The fact that it continues to run is both a testimony to his pathologically obsessive maintenance and an affront to the millions of far more worthy cars that had long since gone to the great parking lot in the sky by the time his odometer crossed 175,000 miles. You'd be dumbfounded by how gutted and horrific the interior looks... if the sagging fabric from the ceiling wasn't blocking your view.
His social skills are abhorrent. His customary method of making conversation is to argue with every single word you say. He talks waaaaaaaaaay too goddamned loud and will not tone it down no matter how much you plead with him. He makes wisecracks about strangers while they are standing right there. He's a straight-up Southern rube who insists on attempting to make small talk with each and every person with whom he comes in contact with.

Overall, I'd say he's so poorly practiced at socializing that he can come off as psychologically disturbed or mentally handicapped.
But you know what? I love this weird creature as if he was a brother. I would walk through fire for this guy. I would. And he would do the same for me, despite the fact that I have my own list of flaws, quirks, and psychoses that make him look like one of the Osmonds.
Maybe it strikes you as odd to see me lay out in excruciating detail all of the things that drive me up the fucking wall about my best friend. All I can say is that the friendship I have with this guy is more complicated than some sort of sunny, all-smiles "gee, aren't we both great?" bullshit. I'm a pain in the ass mess and so is he. Being completely real with each other about this isn't an impediment to our friendship, it's a strength of it. And it's not as though the guy doesn't have his good points, too.
He's relentlessly loyal, kind, considerate, generous, and intelligent. He's sharp-witted, a good listener, and he never forgets a birthday or a holiday ever. He's the first person there when I need help, and he'd loan me the shirt off of his back if I needed it. Uncritical praise isn't part of the deal. But constancy and reliability are. Whatever else goes wrong in my life, I can always count on my best friend. And that's as it should be.
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Scapegoatwaxguy: WE SHOULD THROW A MAKEOUT PARTY Scapegoatwaxguy: have a good time Leggomyfneggo: hahaha, and spread colds??? Scapegoatwaxguy: we'll hold a pre-party health screening Leggomyfneggo: and everyone gets a glass of orange juice afterwards Scapegoatwaxguy: JOEY AND CHELLE'S ANTISEPTIC MAKEOUT PARTY
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So here's how I figure my marriage
(if and when it happens) will crumble:

I'll come down to the kitchen one morning for breakfast, still in my pajamas or something. My husband will be sitting at the kitchen table. I'll grab myself a bagel, maybe some toast (something containing wheat on which I can spread something containing dairy), and I'll sit down at the table. I'll then grab the morning paper and begin to browse over it while eating. I'll spot something funny and/or interesting in the paper and let out a small laugh that sounds something like "Huhh."
My husband will not look up.
I'll quietly clear my throat and make the small "Huhh" laugh again.
He still will not look up.
I'll go "Well, that's uh...well that's funny."
My husband will slowly lower the paper so that only his eyes are visible over it, and then he will raise his left eyebrow. "Yes?" he'll ask, his voice full of contempt for me.
"Well, I just saw this funny article in the newspaper," I'll reply. His left eyebrow will rise even higher, possibly disregarding the laws of physics.
"And?" he'll ask, the contempt in his voice not waning a bit.
"Well, I just thought you might want to hear it." At this point he'll slam down the paper, the back of the finance page now smooshed against his bagel on the table. "So why don't you just come out and tell me the funny story instead of dropping all your little "hmm"s and "haww"s."
"Okay, there were no "haw"s," I will tell him.
"Oh that's not the point!" he will yell.
"Y'know what? Forget it! It wasn't even that funny!" I'll yell back. I will hoist my newspaper up on front of my face, he will hoist his up in front of him, and we will finish our things containing wheat on which we can spread something containing dairy, in silence.
And this...will be the crumbling of our marriage.
Bummer huh? Later.
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[dull pencil]
Today, Toby asked me out. I said some sort of stupid, mindless joke, he laughed (almost too histerically), and then he asked me out, suddenly and unexpectadly. It was simple: 'Hahaha... so would you go out with me?' and he wore that that smile that most find irritatingly annoying due to the fact that it makes you temporary unable to refuse any request. I told him I could not though, and my reasoning was absolutely terrible (I realized when I was laying on my bed after school). I told him I was in love with Matt. That is quite possibly the worst thing you can possibly say to someone who just admitted his growing affections towards you. To tell that person that you are in love with another ... its horrible. I did not think about that until it was too late. Didn't think. Too late. Blah. Its happened to me about three times and its about the worst thing. Hurts worse than a simple response of "no", if you have strong feelings for the person. The thing that makes this situation extremely menacing is that fact that I am almost positive that Matt is already in love with someone else. I am unsure though.
Jeeze this is just too awful. A guy ACTUALLY likes me. ME! I mean ... ITS ME we're talking about! A GUY! LIKES ME! And yet--YET I rejected him, for someone who has no feelings for me what so ever. Oi zwitter.
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[black ballpoint pen]
Matt Neal Surbaugh. Matt. I loved him. I never ceased in conversation regarding this person. I drove friends away simply because it became too unbearable to hear how Matt brushed his hair out of his face when he smiled or how he waved his hands in such a way of joy that caused me to smile each and every time. Matt. I loved him.

Today, in photojournalism, we were sitting at the table. I seem to be at a loss of words when in that class, so I was silently observing him speaking to Michael. I watched as he smiled, then continued on with his conversation. Later, he was talking about people in the class room and he began naming people: 'Michael Baldock, Tony Choi, Ellie' and then he went on. I looked up sharply. "Ellie" is merely a nickname, but he was calling everyones full name except for mine. Suddenly on impulse, I quietly asked 'Whats my last name?'. He didn't hear me or something, because he continued on.

'What is my last name?' I said louder, and he heard.

"Uhhhh-umm Smith?" he responded jokingly, yet with a wrinkle of confusion.
I stared, disbelievingly. He continued on. My heart sank hopelessly. I formed a horrible lump within my throat of emotion, and I slightly whispered "Anderson" at the same time as Michael said it. I dazed off, realizing that he didn't know my name, and he didn't really care to learn it. The feeling of pain grew, and I cowered in my chair, disappointed and severely depressed. Not a day went by when I didn't think of Matt, talk about Matt, see Matt, and listen to music Matt listens to. Each time he named a song he enjoyed listening to which I had not yet heard, I was quick to download it before any other work was completed.
Matt Neal Surbaugh. I loved him.
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[Orange marker]
Today's mood: sanguine
I heard an interesting saying today, and I have heard it before, but it always gets me thinking...

'Your worst enemy is yourself'.

Well ... I had the most disturbing (and at the same time laughable) account related to me by a friend regarding a mutual acquaintance of ours (who we will call 'X') today at lunch. Needless to say, I won't go into detail of this troubling story here, but it makes you wonder about 'X' and what goes through their mind when they decide to spill personal details to others. Can we say therapist? I do know this... I won't be able to look at 'X' the same way again... without wanting to piss myself laughing!!!

Hit my favorite freaky-deaky store in the world (ahh--the precious comic store) after arriving home from my horrible voyage with my family (see long entree below) and found the cranky worker guy was holding a new nny comic for me. Pretty cool. Placed it up on the bookcase with the other 3 I've scored so far. Unfortunately, the cranky worker guy wasn't throwing the little bitch worker guy a verbal beating. How I enjoy listening to those while browsing the comic racks.
OH YEAH! In my vain attempts at fixing my publishing issue, I deleted my last post from yesterday evening. It was a witty observation from a new acquaintance, Aaron, in response to a typo I had made...

'Kaughed. It's like laughed with a kick.'

Ok so back to the misery I endured yesterday. The current day is Saturday. 'Wow Chelsea! Saturday! What a great day!' you joyfully proclaim to me. Yes--yes to the average person, Saturday brings happiness and delight, but thats because YOU did not just return from a trip to Arkansas to visit family, traveling with MY family (plus Toby, who's like family). I swear if Toby hadn't of been there, I would have lost what little shred of sanity still remains and gone totally and absolutely berserk!
The bright side: Toby kissed me and I kissed him back. I do not know what is going on, but I think I might be falling in love with him.
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[blue, thin marker]
I would today like to say that I had an epiphany last night about life and how to attain complete happiness. And all of it comes from Edward Hopper's "Nighthawks" and "Jackass: the Movie."
OH ... for your info Daniel: When you "Americanize" Adolf, much like when you "Americanize" Diether, (Which is Dether with an Umlaut over the e) the spelling changes. So I spelled Adolf, "Adolph." Or maybe I'm talking out my ass. The Diether thing is true. Maybe it's the difference between John and Jon. But is spelling an argument you want to get into with me? If so, "necisarily" is really "necessarily," jerky.

I am annoyed. Not about anything specific, I just feel slightly agitated. People get to me sometimes. Sometimes, specific people ... sometimes just people. Eesh.
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[red grading pen]
Well another amazingly hectic and headache producing day of school is at last completed. I desperately need sleep. I have transformed myself into this this hideous, sleep-deprived creature that does not properly function without my ever-so-precious caffeine (it had begun to substitute for sleep, which is dangerously abnormal). I swear I wasn't like this before. A zombie I am. Okay ... my photojournalism teacher hates me, Michael loves Bush, Toby is amazingly adorable in his attempt to gain my favor, and everyone dislikes Nick. Not much has changed (except for constant growing indecisiveness for who I love). I'm beginning to feel as though Joby is the only living object in which is capable of returning love back in my direction (*Joby is my stuffed animal bunny, who's name was chosen my my friend Toby, which I find quite obvious).
Oi--I am so tired. I think I'll go to sleep.
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[Green marker]
When Nirvana hit the forefront in 1991, young people felt like they could breathe. It wasn't often that there came a band that could communicate depression and angst in a way that we could relate to. They were grotty, fucked-up, and didn't apologize for their emotions. Adults the world over maybe couldn't quite get that 'i feel stupid/ and contagious/ here we are now/ entertain us' tapped into the hearts of the youth. I love Nirvana so much. It's right around midnight right now, and I'm reading Journals, which was recently published. I have a World History test tomorrow, but I dont feel like studying for it. I am so enwrapped in this book it is nearly frightening. You all should purchase this book and read it again and again. See, I am quite a hypocrite. Lemme explain.

Just about a week back, I was putting Matt down for planning to purchase the book. I claimed it was wrong to buy the book in order to read Kurt Cobains private thoughts and feelings. It is rather pathetic now that I'm sitting here, curled up before glowing screen declaring that all should purchase this book ($29.95 at Barnes & Nobles). It happened like this: I was walking through the store and I saw Toby. Toby had the book in his hand. I go "What are you buying the book I specifically told you not to buy?". "Because its kickass awesome!" He responded gleefully, while offering me the hefty book. At first, I skimmed through. Then I read paragraphs and flipped. Then I started reading pages. Before long, I had found another copy and was standing in line behind Toby, griping the book lovingly. I am a horrible hypocrite. Blah.
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[dull pencil]
What-do-you-know ... happiness really ISN'T a fish that I can catch. Detten came to school (again) today and gave me a gaping cut across my back. It hurts tremendously because whenever my bra even touches the slash, it throbs pain all across my back. Damn--I really dislike him. I sat with Mark, John, Casie, and D today during the optional pep-rally as well. Gosh this day sucked, and it was a Friday too Thank god Matt was there to make my day decent. (*NOTE: TOBY IS A TREMENDOUSLY PERVERTED INDIVIDUAL!!!)
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[black, sloppy marker]
Gah--evil weekend ... grrrrr ... it's all over and I'm back to stupid pointless work. But it is Monday. Oh what a terrible day today was though. After IPC (1st period), I walked to the nearest bathroom and threw my books down to the ground. I sat alone of the floor and buried my head in my weak arms. My black fingernails moved in a constant shifting motion across my forehead, trying ever so hard to alleviate the stress and pain from my weary head. I wanted to cry, but my mind and body would not allow me to. Bitter depression casted a shadowy darkness upon me, and I longed for my sanity. I ducked my head down and just sat in the corner silently for some time. Right as I was looking up, a blond, wide-eyed freshman pushed the cold, entrapping door foreword. She looked at me strangely, then she looked directly through me, and then she lost interest in my issues and did not look at all. I zoned out and remembered when I ran away from home at the end of my freshman year. The thought startled me and, frightened by myself, I stood mechanically, straightened my hair, and left the echoing chamber. I felt the girl's eyes on the back of my head as I exited. I saw Mike standing beside a pillar across from the classroom, and I nervously waved. He did not notice. I slumped in my seat and listened half way to the review.

School is getting harder and harder to deal with. Exams are coming up, and I feel already overwhelmed with this unwelcome emotion of darkness. Exams just add more to the pile. My day wasn't terrible because of just school itself. Toby and Detten got in a gigantic fight before school even started (and to make matters worse, it was about me). When I saw Toby with a developing black eye and a cut across his back, I feel to him, apologizing for something I honest did not mean to cause. Detten was calling me unmentionable names, and Toby hit him. He just ... just hit him! After this action occurred, I contained so much emotion that I was at a loss of words. I grabbed Toby and hugged him, which infuriated Detten greatly. When I looked into Detten's eyes and saw the expression, I pushed Toby away, preparing to take the pain ... but he froze, turned quickly, and decided to attack Toby instead. He hit Toby in the face. He fell hard. On the ground, Toby hit Detten in the leg ... and then Detten repeatedly kicked Toby in the back. Painfully, his back began to bleed through his light colored shirt, and then Detten stopped and ran off (as usual). I dropped down to the rigid ground and held Toby. I wrapped my arms around him and muffled his tears of agony. This boy fought someone for me ... which is especially powerful considering Detten is nearly 6 feet tall. He took a beating from my ex-boyfriend just so I'd remain safe.

I followed Toby to the nurse and watched him from the door. He claimed the "tripped and fell" when the nurse questioned his condition, and upon hearing the response, she raised an eyebrow. He removed his shirt, and when I saw his back, I turned my head away and closed my eyes. When I looked at him for the last time before leaving, his eyes were darting at the floor, and his face showed great pain as the nurse applied some type of medication on the scars. I feel almost afraid to talk to Toby right now, although it is clearly the right thing to do. By 4th period, it was all far too much to take in, so I didn't go to 5th period. As pathetic as it is to say, that was the best choice I'd made in a long while. I talked to myself the entire time, and figured out plenty of issues.

1.) I decided that Matt and Mike both hate me, so I'm wasting my time thinking romantically about either, and
2.) that I need to talk to Toby.
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[Red grading pen]
It's Tuesday and I'm wearing my favorite shirt today (ahh ... precious Happy Noodle Boy), but I'm still depressed. I'm afraid to go back to photojournalism 5th period (because the teacher already hates me so greatly). I can see through her eagle eyes each time she glares at me ... I can see into her mind, where she hold images of me burning in the fiery blazes of hell, screaming in pain. She really dislikes me that much. I wish I could explain to her my pathetic excuse for being the way I am, but I feel it would make no difference. It's too complicated, anyways. She likes the chirpy, shinny students who go "above and beyond" (as the reward papers read, which she distributes to a selected student each month of the trimester). I cringe when thinking about going back to that class, but then I think of Matt, Michael, and Tony (my table), and it makes it worth the initial crushing of my thin spirit.