Funny Story

     So, over the summer I went on a mission trip with my church. Since I don’t attend the Youth Group, I didn’t really know any of the other kids. I found myself in the middle of a split—there was one group of girls in their early twenties who had known each other for years and years. They weren’t clicky or anything, but they were so close it was hard to just break in. And then there was another group of petty, obnoxious eighth graders that I wasn’t interested in. I started talking to the only other girl my age, and it turned out she liked to write fiction. We started exchanging ideas, and she told me about a novel she was working on. It went a little something like this:    
    
     The average, run of the mill, teenage girl one day walks into the woods behind her house and discovers a magical fairytale land where the beautiful elves are at war with the nasty trolls. This normal girl turns out to be the prophesied savior of the fairytale world, and ends up falling in love with the handsome elf prince. Oh, and her little sister follows her into the world and gets kidnapped by the nasty trolls, and they have to save her!! :O
    
     As she told me this, I just smiled, nodded, and gave her as much advice as I could, knowing that this was one of the most predictable, over-used story ideas ever. Because we don’t see each other very often at church, we didn’t talk much after the mission trip, but whenever we did meet up, I could tell she was really eager to talk to me.
    
Then, the other night, she chatted me on facebook.
    
     “I’m finished with my story!” she told me. “And now I’m looking for an agent so I can get it published.”
I’m sure I smirked. The only way she could get that story published was if she threw in some sparkly vampires and shirtless werewolves. Still, I was supportive, told her I knew a couple people who were published; that if NaNoWrimo went well, I might be in contact with them, and I’d pass any info along to her. Then, I told her my idea, which I’ve outlined in a previous blog, about the guy who finds a notebook that has every day of his life written down in it.

Her first response was,

     “And he dies, right?”

I didn’t quite follow.

     “Well, yeah, eventually…”

Then I understood. She thought the notebook said he was gonna die soon, and that the whole plot was him trying to keep himself from dying.

     “No, no,” I explained, “The focus is more about how the girl he’s in love with is not the one he’s destined to marry, and stuff like that.”

…

Her response:

     “It’s a good twist to a somewhat common tale.”

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

Need I say more?

Periodic Angst-Dump

Why have we come to this place again? It seems like an endless cycle, and every time we’re caught here, I can’t stand it.

                Every day at school, I’m reminded of how we were once inseparable—even a teacher commented on how she never saw one of us without the other. That was the only good thing about ninth grade, and it was a really great thing. Then, that selfish ex-friend of ours, who even still follows you around, tore our group apart, and we were cast to opposite ends of the alliances that were drawn in the aftermath tore us unwillingly apart.

                Being in entirely different classes didn’t help either. Of course, until this year, our lockers were just two apart. Every day we at least saw each other, and said “Hi,” and cracked a few jokes with thin smiles and nervous laughter, still unwilling to really talk about what had happened, and how we felt about it. Neither did we confront the fact that we were drifting. But at least, we were in contact. Now your locker is around the corner.

                Honestly, I think our group breaking us is the best thing that could have happened to you. The people we were hanging out with before really were unhealthy for us, and especially for you. Now I see you surrounded by friends, and I’m so happy for you, that now you’re enjoying school, or at least the people in it.

                But then that’s part of the problem, isn’t it? You’re in an exclusive circle now that I’m not qualified to be in. I hardly see you anymore, and when I do, you’re with them. Namely, with her.

                I hate her. It’s not because she’s annoying, or unfunny, or little Miss Know-it-all. It’s because she’s replaced me. I used to be your best friend, and now it’s her. We used to be inseparable, and now I never see you without seeing her as well. It’s like watching a movie of our life two years ago…only, she doesn’t deserve that position.

                I was the one who stuck by you when all our fickle friends decided it was “Hate ________” Day. I was the one who did my best to comfort and counsel you when you cut yourself. I was the one who made you laugh at the administration instead of crying about them bullying you over your appearance. I was the one you went to for relief when your crazy girlfriend was being a drama queen. I was the one who was okay with you appeasing that awful ex-friend when she said, “Sit with me instead of Haley, or I won’t be your friend anymore.” You went through so many hardships, and I was right there by your side. Maybe I didn’t know as many “dirty details” as our other friends did, but I was always the one you came to for actual advice rather than simply attention.

                Since then, you’ve become such a strong and wonderful person. I see you laugh and smile every day and bring joy to people’s lives. There’s so many things I admire about you. You’re talent is unbelievable. You’re always so cheering and ready to cheer others up. You’re kind to everyone, even if you can’t stand them. You’re upbeat and outgoing and friendly and funny. I could go on and on.

                So why does she get to have that part of you? After being by your side and counseling you through your darkest days, she is basking in the happy lights of your transformation. And she is the same to you now as I was to you then, even though it seems I have done so much more for you. Sometimes I wonder if you’ve even noticed that I’ve fallen away and that she’s slipped into my place. I hate her for that. And truly, it’s not a deep, evil hatred. But it’s certainly more passionate than simply “disliking” her.

                I love you. And I don’t just mean in the gushy romantic way. Probably in that way too, but I’m not experienced enough to be certain. But I do love you, more than it seems, more than you probably know. I want to share your happiness with you. I want to spend time with you every day, laughing together and talking for hours at a time. I want to listen to you play your music, and tell me your ideas and your dreams. I want to be best friends again, like we were back then, even more intimate than “boyfriend-girlfriend.” We’ve fallen so far from where we were, and as you run to your new friends, to her, there’s a hook in my heart that’s attached to yours, and it’s pulling and bleeding as I watch you disappear.

                So now, every time I see you, every time you strike up one of those thin, awkward, “we weren’t as close as we used to be but hi,” conversations with me, all this pain comes gushing up. It hurts me when I see you now. I want to squirm and get away, even avoid you, because the pain is too great. And I do get away from you, which only drives the wedge between us even deeper. I know this, and it worsens the pain, and I begin to plan out my routes to avoid you in the halls, yet sometimes you catch me, and the cycle goes on and on.

                I don’t know how to say all this to you. What is there to say? “Hang out with your other friends less because I want you to myself”? “Ditch that girl so I can have my spot back”? And on top of all this, you have a girlfriend outside of school. Is it wrong for us to hang out together, or go to dinner or see a movie, just the two of us, because you’re in a “committed relationship”? I hate high school dating.

                I wrote a letter to you last year, during one of these cycles, saying how we’d drifted, and how I wanted to be friends again. You ran up and glomped me after you’d read it, and we had lunch together for the next several weeks. But I’d only revealed a fraction of my feelings to you, and it was like trying to throw a rope bridge across a still widening chasm. It seems now that there’s not a bridge big enough in all the world to hold us together.

                So what should I do? Should I just suffer in silence, with this hook bleeding in my heart until graduation, when all the strings of high school are cut, and we go on our merry ways? Part of me wants this to be the case, because if it were, then I’d only have a little longer to hurt until you became naught more than a picture in a yearbook, that I would point out to my one-day children and say, “I used to be friends with him.” Rationally, I know this will most likely be the case. And yet there’s still that irrational, over-emotional, hopelessly romantic girl in my pained heart that wants you to be a permanent part of my life, forever.

                Maybe one day I’ll be brave enough to send you this letter. But right now, I just don’t want to interrupt what has now become your wonderful life, with all your wonderful new friends, with some clingy ghost from your dark past. Part of me is scared that you really don’t want to be friends with me anymore, that you’re just being kind to me like you are to all those other people you’ve told me you can’t stand. And yet, when I look in your eyes, sometimes it seems you want to be best friends with me again too…

The Evolution of Attention-Seeking

     The other day, my friend and I were sitting poolside talking about our issues and life in general. It was one of those precious instances when two friends can open up tell each other their most personal struggles. We sat close together with our feet dangling in the water, murmuring and wiping away stray tears as they came.
    Unfortunately, our tender moment was interrupted several times, and the phenomenon fascinated me. We weren't the only ones at the pool--there were several kids playing together, around nine or ten, and a little girl of about six, plus their parents. However, we were the only people between the ages of 11 and 40, and therefore instantly cool. The evolution of attention-seeking began.
     First, the little six-year-old swam by us, quite close to us in fact. I'm sure she was brushing our legs as she swam over then lingered right at our feet. My friend and I looked down at her a little uncomfortably when we realized she wasn't moving on.
     "I'm catching bugs in the pool!" she told us excitedly, holding up a plastic net that was about half her size.
     "That's great!" I said sincerely--the little black beetles in the pool had been grossing me out. Enthralled that we had spoken to her, the girl hurried off after explaining that the net wasn't actually hers. My friend and I resumed our conversation.
     To our left, the group of nine and ten-year-olds were holding swim races from one side of the deep end to the other. There were several rounds, and as they darted from the opposite end of the pool over to our side, we noticed they were getting closer and closer to us, often having to swim around our legs to touch the wall and finish the race. Every now and then, they glanced at us. At first, we though we were in their way, and while they raced back to the other end, quietly got up and resettled ourselves on the steps of the shallow in, giving them all the space they needed to race.
     But no sooner had we moved than the six-year-old returned. This time, her net was gone, and she didn't say anything. She simply stood there in the three foot water, watching us with a big grin on her face. My friend and I kept talking. Suddenly, she started twirling and flipping and splashing in front of us, her eyes glued to us in fixed admiration. Our voices were forced even lower as we talked, and I tried my best to ignore the girl. When the child swam right where we were sitting on the steps, my friend gave her a few polite compliments, and at last the girl swam away.
     "She so wanted to get attention," I told my friend quietly, "Wasn't that interesting?"
My friend agreed, and we kept on with our personal conversation.
     Shortly thereafter, something else started happening. After a few minutes, my friend glanced up, and in a slightly irritated voice, she asked,
     "Are those other kids moving towards us?"
Sure enough, the group of older girls had quit racing, and were no doing flips and handstands in the shallow end, slowly getting closer and closer to the two of us. They did their best not to look over at us, but we caught their glances several times. I became consumed in psychological fancy.
     "Look how they're trying to get attention from us, but it's so subconscious!" I told my friend. She had to agree--as much as they didn't realize it, or at least tried to hide it, their efforts to attract our admiration was blatant.
     So why did these kids crave our attention so badly? Just because we were older? "Cooler" than say their parents? Our were they just hungry for attention? All these questions I hope to figure out when I study phsycology. Until then, I guess I'll just have to wonder...

I wonder...

     ...how many good things have to happen before you can officially deem that something worked out "for the better"? Today, the Holy Grail of NaNoWriMo ideas was dropped into my lap by none other than my least favorite teacher, whose class I had been dreading since the end of last school year. And now, this very teacher has resolved one of the shollower innermost conflicts within me. In fact, this teacher inspired me, and now I'm totally pumped for NaNoWriMo!!
     So, is that one instance enought to say that getting this teacher's class worked out "for the better"? I guess it depends on how well NaNoWriMo goes this year. XD
  
 By the way, the idea is this:
(Insert your favorite male name here) wishes he could be like everybody else. It's not that he has a wierd family, or super powers, or green skin. In fact, he's quite normal in that respect. But he knows. Thanks to a mysterious notebook that wound up in his tree house as a child, (afore thought of favorite name) has the schedule of every day of his life. He knew he would get a red bike for his tenth birthday. He knew the day of his sweet sixteen surprise party. He knew he would fail his first driver's test, and pass his second. And he knows that the girl he's in love with is not the one he's fated to marry. Can he break the "curse" before things take a turn for the worst?

The Ocean

     You see it as you climb the first set of dunes--a horizon of bluish gray, a belt against the sky stretching as far as your eye can see ahead, to the left, and to the right. Boundless. At first, you're hesitant. How long has it been since you swam in the ocean? Two years at least. Probably more. And at least a year since you've even set foot on a beach, hot, fine sand filling the gaps between your toes. You walk towards the shore, throw down your towel and with it your shorts and tank top, leaving only your bathing suit. It's just you and the ocean now.
     You run for it, the fine sand turning into wet and compact pavement that turns again soft once your feet hit the water. The warm waves break against your shins, but you are not to be deterred. The water grows higher, slapping againt your waist, then your shoulders, until you're hit smack in the face. Your eyes sting, but strangely, you don't care. The pungent salt in your mouth is acceptable if from the ocean. Still, you keep moving, you can no longer run, but wade on tip toe, until you're up to your neck in mysterious, alluring water. If you jump just in time, the waves no longer knock you down. Sometimes, you can even tame them, ride them. After every breaking wave comes the hiss of a bitter, weeping mermaid, now turned to sea foam. The bubbles fizz around you as if you're caught in a can of warm soda. Still, you wade out even farther.
     Before long, you wade past the breaking point, and with each roll of the ocean bob aimlessly up and down. Soon, you no longer grasp the sandy floor with your toes--you are floating, and it may be as close to flying as you will ever be. The water sucks you out to its endless horizon after every wave, and you wonder, What's really out there, beyond that horizon? Of course, you know there is England and Europe and Africa not but a few thousand miles away. You wish you didn't know that. You wish that there was some other fantastic world that you could sail to, maybe at the end of or our own, and onto another.
     It is quiet. After a long morning of incessent chatter and trivial conversations, surrounded by unfamiliar people, you are alone at last. Now only the rolling water whispers sweet things with your ears, plays with your damp hair, kisses your cheeks. You are tempted to keep floating out to see, to find that mysterious world beyond as the ocean beckons you softly.
     But alas, as you look back to the shore you are waved back by your hosts, who don't understand this bond you have made. And at the end of the day you drive home, back to dry land where you came from. Still the bond is there, and with it, a longing to return.

An Artistic Moment

     So, the other day at school we had a tornado drill (thanks to the new building we no longer have to use outside stairs to get to safety). And, with my overactive imagination, whenever we have some sort of drill, I think of what would happen if the situation really wasn’t a drill. It got me to thinking about a real tornado ripping through a school—like with that one school out in…Lousianna, maybe? a couple years ago.


     Well, it made me think of a movie scene, say, for a story based on that school’s tornado, where the tornado is ripping through the school. Papers, cieling tiles, and debris is flying everywhere, all the kids are huddled over, some screaming or crying, and it goes from shot to shot, all the noise is overlaid by a really scratchy, slow, echoey version of “Over the Rainbow.”

     It would really be haunting. I’d like to watch a scene like that for real, in IMAX or something.

     Thank you, the movie Australia, for getting that song stuck in my head. Actually…didn’t you have a scene just like that, but with bombs? UGH, nevermind everybody. X.X So much for artistic genius…

Fade

     It's funny how too much of anything suddenly isn't special anymore. Your favorite song plays over and over on the radio for three months, and it's no longer your favorite song anymore. You say you'd be happy to be stranded on a deserted island with just a TV and the complete DVD box set of your favorite show, but after a few years of reruns, the show's not as wonderful as it used to be.
     The same thing happened the other night. I heard you sobbing in the room next door, Dad trying to understand the problem. "It hurts! I don't know what's wrong, it just hurts!!" I heard you wail. And my reaction? I didn't jump up and rush to you, I didn't begin to panic. Instead, I rolled my eyes, and kept working on homework. It sounds cruel and heartless. But how many nights were like this? You sobbing about something, whether it be one of your many medical ailments--the time you broke your rib, your bout of pneumonia, your recently acquired cist, or one of your silly emotional "catastrohpes"--another boyfriend dumping you, a mean comment at school, or another clash with Mom. Events so frequent over the last two years that such sobbing doesn't even pain my ears anymore.
     You went to the emergency room. Your eyes had for some reason dried out and the friction from your dry eyelids scraped your lens, or something of that nature. At any rate, you got some eyedrops and were fine. Nothing major. Just another one of those silly things that cost a whole lot of stress and amount to nothing.
     I wanted to be upset when I heard you cry. I wanted to feel sympathy, but I'm only human, baby sister. I only have so much compassion, so much worry to give out to you. When that's gone, there's not much left. Please don't let me grow cold. Don't let my emotions fade. Hold your head up high, sometimes. Smile sometimes. Give me a chance to refill. Because even if I run out of worry, or sympathy, or compassion, I will never run out of love for you.

Bi-Annual Rant

     What better way to start off my blog than with my bi-annual, hormone-induced emotional dump on some unfortunate events that occured a couple of years ago. Not all of my posts will be this depressing:

     You'd think that scars would fade over time, but the wounds haven't even closed. Has it only been two years? It feels like three, or even more--avoiding each other's eyes as we pass down the hall, the gnawing anger I feel at even the sight of you, even the sound of your voice...those few attempst to suddenly rekindle our friendship as if nothing had ever happened, like trying to light a fire to damp, rotting wood. Every word from your mouth is a lie. Every shameless laugh is a betrayal. It angers me when people flock to you. They're often the new students. They weren't there.They don't know what I know. They don't know who you really are underneath that charming personality of yours.
     Inwardly, I smirk when most of the veterens of this school are put off by your appearance. You look as you are--dark, rebellious, scanty, dark, dark. You are darkness. I overheard you proclaiming to an unfortunate new student that people at this school don't like you because you aren't "cookie cutter." But is that the reason? Or is it because they've learned to see past your charade, into that black, caniving piece of your heart that your friendliness, your perkiness, your spunk try to mask.
     I did the right thing, and you made sure I paid dearly for it. I didn't just lose you as a friend--I lost three others. Three other friends who I could at one time talk effortlessly with for hours on end. Now, our sparse conversations are awkward and unsettling. Though we still long for those long hours of careless conversation and laughter, there are still these unresolved emotions that we see behind eachother's eyes. Yet you can joke and flirt and chit-chat with them, pretending nothing ever happened, lording over them with fear that you will hurt them as well. They saw that you didn't hesitate to throw us under the bus and turn us on each other just to save your own skin from the consequences you deserved. Now, you talk with these friends more than I do, and they're either too nice, too invested, or too afraid to turn and run like I know at least one of them wants to.
     I watch you sometimes in class, in the halls, at lunch. You are stuck in eighth grade--back when everything was hunky-dory, before this war erupted. You haven't matured at all. You don't want to face the facts, to look at the wounds, at all. So you pretend you are in a happier time, back when we were still friends, best friends. Now, you're trying so hard to replace me and the other friends you've lost in this fiasco by finding new and improved versions of us--ones who don't know what you really are, ones too young or naive to question you, ones who are lured in by your charm, your warmness to them, your openess to them, the shy new girl without a friend to sit beside in class. Two years ago, that girl was me. Now, here I am, scarred and hurting, unable to resolve these emotions within me. How long before one of these innocent girls walks away with the same wounds. Do I have to watch the process repeat itself? Because I know for sure that you haven't changed.
     Maybe I could get over this if I didn't have to see you every day, see you getting off scotch-free while I pay for your crimes. We are at the half-way point--two years into this conflict, with two years to go until we graduate and hopefully never see each other again. The question is, can I hold out for much longer?

My Interests Are Quite Obvious Part 2

     She's no prodigy, but she certainly has the passion, as shown by her frustrated hand clasps and grunts at every point lost. She looks the best in the uniform--it fits her as if custom made for her body. Her passionate outbursts of "mine!" and "help!" could be heard over all the cheering parents and distracting, giggling little siblings. She has dark, smooth skin. She is slender and tall. If the whole volleyball thing doesn't work out, she could try her hand at modeling. But for now, she tries desperately to redeem herself every time she causes the team to lose a point. She dives for a ball, and misses it, and then when the other team serves, she spikes it. Then she'll miss again, and strive for retribution once more. It seems like an endless, frustrating cycle. Then again, I am no athelete. This girl possesses a fire that I cannot comprehend...and yet, I admire it.

My Interests Are Quite Obvious Part 1

I went to one of my school's middle school volleyball games to write an enews, and ended up writing descriptions on a few of the people I saw there:

     Dark, wavy, tousled hair rivets down to her mid-back. Sparkling, smiling black eyes and an ethereal gigle are clad in a flowery purple dress with matching leggings. She hugs a ball that is about half her size, and mimicks the older girls' scrimages with aspiration and wonder. But, she is in the way. Her father calls her stenrly. She twirls the ends of her dress and twists back and forth at her waist with irresistable charm. But her father is not swayed, and threatens to count to three. She stomps her little croc-clad feet as hard as she could up the bleachers in a fiery pout, barely able to produce the slightest shudder in the rickety structure. And yet, it isn't long before she sneaks away, back onto the court to play her games and capture the thin crowd's attention with her enchantments.