Journals Section: May, 2003

May 1, 2003

One year ago today, Aria’s Royal family issued false reports to the Arian public of news coming in from Country Music State, Native State, and Decaying State. This report said that Olympia, Renaldi’s capital, had been burned, and Crown Princess Innocent and Queen Perfect had been besieged there. Other reports told of a rebellion in San Antonio and of the resultant invasion of Santa Abuela Dominica Lucia, an Imperial palace reserved for one of the Dowager Empresses and Dowager Emperors. Gudalajara, the capital of Nicholia, was also invaded, and the surprise attack was said to be so bad that fighting was going on on the lawn of Nikolai Palace, the Nicholian king’s compound. The report also alleged that an extensive Imperial military base in the Decaying State Territory had been attacked and completely destroyed. Also purported was that two attackers were caught trying to enter Athens (or Copenhagen, later called Athens-Copenhagen) and attack the Cristalian Queen. The release of this news to the public was enough to send the entire Beautiful Town Cluster into a massive panic. Although the reports were completely fictitious, the average citizen had no way of distinguishing between government lies and the truth. Aria had just annexed Gorgan and Beryllium that day, and things fell into chaos. Almost all cities were evacuated. Many had little or no inhabitants, but San Francisco and Philadelphia, the two major Arian population centers, were also evacuated. This caused a major panic. All of us fled into Beryllium, into what, just hours prior, had denounced its sovereignty. Beryllium City, just one of the many cities in the large Imperial province of Andrea. This is, along with the Revolution that would take place just a day over two months later, one of the most important historical events in Arian history. There were rumors here that people had actually died in Renaldi. The Imperial government vehemently denied them, and, obviously, they weren’t true. The Arian World War II, which ended in the Revolution, began sometime around May 1st. It has been monstrously hot of late. Except for the end, today has been a wonderful day. There was one girl in Drama who cruelly said to me, “Please go away now.” Later in the day I promptly and decisively defeated her in Spanish during a game. She has sided with me before on different occasions, so I can’t understand why she’s suddenly be so blatantly and maddeningly rude. I put another young girl in her place using a more vicious method that same period. This girl constantly belittles my opinions and today in class she gave me a look when I suggested something and said, “Just be quiet.” Or something like that. So I did what I normally try to avoid doing. I raised my voice just enough to fill the room but not screaming, and I exclaimed, “I wasn’t talking to you, you dork! Shut up!” She turned around, rosy red. The entire class burst into laughter. She did not care to reply. The blow was successful, and she should no longer be a problem. Next period I worked with Dumb Boy. This boy is a bit stupid, but he seems genuinely kind (although I really don’t know him that well; he’s barely an acquaintance). He began to tell a lewd joke, but then he laughed and said, “But there’s some things you shouldn’t say in front of ladies.” This old-fashioned, chivalrous notion was charming, and one which I share, although most “ladies” today can match men in their vulgarity. Today it was after school that was terrible. Well, not terrible, but certainly unpleasant. I did homework for the longest time, wanting to watch television and eat. I thought, by mistake, that I would need a Periodic Table to finish my homework. I asked Powell for his Periodic Table. When he ignored me I found it myself. When he saw me, he started throwing punches. Screaming at him, I began a defensive strike. He retaliated. When verbal arguments escalated, he seized the table from me on his way into the shower. I ran into his room and got it again. His stupidity and his unfounded anger caused him to lunge at me, attacking me even as he was in the nude. Now I really screamed, pushing him from me. Mom ordered Powell to bed. I realized that I didn’t need his Periodic Table, [so I dropped it] onto his bed. She falsely accused me of throwing it, and sent me to bed (not that that would have been a legitimate reason anyway)—before 8:30p.m. The ensuing tirade has lasted for hours. I’ve offered by far the fiercest resistance, sometimes subtle (slowly cleaning my room) and sometimes not so subtle (singing, “I just want to get away/Saving all your bullshit for another day/I’m the only one that can rescue me from me…”). But as the fighting itself escalated verbally, her tactics sank just as swiftly. She knows that I look forward all week to Saturday Night Live, and that’s the first thing she took. That’s okay, though; I can easily arrange for someone to have that taped for me. Then she sank to an even more unbelievable level of depravity, threatening to delete the novel that, laboriously, I have spent more than a year working on. Fortunately, I predicted long ago that this might be used as a last-line dirty tactic on me, and all important work is saved and hidden—well. But, although I’d known it could happen, I was still shocked. My father should be home around eleven o’clock, and if I know him will enough I should imagine that he’ll be highly angered. She has shown an utter disregard for the time and effort that have gone into that book, and the thought of its loss troubles me greatly. And she knows that. Psychological socialist warfare and oppression goes on in this house. It’s time that justice prevailed, and I will rush to Dad when he arrives home. Not only that, I have been deprived of a shower. There must be justice.

May 2, 2003

I am actually enjoying this rather ludicrous punishment. There is light enough by which I can write, and I’m very cozy. I can listen to music and read and have all sorts of little activities. Dad promises to have a talk, he, Mom, and I. That’s good. I was outside for hours and hours today, playing soccer and basketball, among other things. I went for a walk in the construction site and down the rather isolated path just as it was getting dark. It was very scary. My computer has been rendered inoperative, something that I must fix immediately. This was done to me on purpose. I should have [unsure what I meant here; the sentence is a fragment]. The weather is happily cool and windy. I am tired and comfortable.

May 3, 2003

Well, despite numerous promises being made, my father, mother, and I did not have a talk tonight. Her ludicrous punishment still officially stands. Mom has gone to bed, and Dad is asleep in the living room. Saturday Night Live awaits, although Thomas is an obstacle. He’ll probably fall asleep halfway through it, though, and by “She Spies” he’ll be out like a light. I found out today that Black Comedienne is originally from Dirty County. This came as a great surprise to me, as we generally look down on Dirty County, and, I believe, with good reason; having lived there for more than a decade, my impression and perception of the overall culture (or lack thereof) isn’t flattering. Powell, Thomas, and I (but especially me) were blessed with not having acquired the Dirty County accent, along with its slaughtered intonation and errors that defy the English grammar system. They don’t all talk as if they’re poor, though; really it’s their rudeness that gives it away. There’s a rather stupid girl named Mean Girl who I was able to pick out almost immediately after meeting her as being from that area. That county is a disgrace to this country. A talk with Uncle Liar today did more to disturb me than to do anything else. I’ll go into that later. I have to go now.

May 4, 2003

I saw Saturday Night Live last night. I also saw “She Spies.” I actually enjoyed “She Spies” more than Saturday Night Live, because I was constantly worried about being caught watching Saturday Night Live. I became so tired of the anxiety that, to gain a somewhat better knowledge of my mother’s movements, I put a book in her door. As her door opens, she wouldn’t even see the book before the opening door caused a huge release of pressure on the book, which would, accordingly, fall to the floor above me with a bang, alerting me that my mother was up. Even with that precaution, I still did not enjoy Saturday Night Live as thoroughly as I would have. I thought that I heard it several times, however my employment of this more effective tactic enabled me to avoid direct discovery. My own stupid error led to that, although I suffered naught for it. After watching Saturday Night Live and “She Spies,” I went up. By the way, “She Spies” was very funny. They went to a spa exclusively for federal government employees. I like the idea. They really should make one of those.


May 8, 2003

Today is the eighth. I should note that Thomas’s birthday is in four days. It will be celebrated (on a small scale) this weekend. Unlike his seven prior birthdays, which were all celebrated in kind with sizeable (for a middle class family) parties, this year will be a very small coalescence of people, only about five, and all of them family. This ends almost a decade of injustice of the party system. Even in theory this system was junk from the beginning. Once implemented, its inequalities and injustices proved more audacious and monstrous than would have been thought. Every five years we were able to have a party with more than just about three friends present. During the years that interceded within these years, what should have been festive birthday occasions were restricted to family, and, if we were lucky, three friends. Over the years, this system, this machine of deprivation, was rigidly maintained with Powell and I. Thomas’s sixth birthday came as a slap in the face; roughly twelve boys stayed for a sleepover. This year, the eighth, has broken the cycle. I suggested to Mom the name Name I Wanted for the baby. She doesn’t agree; she says that she doesn’t like two middle names. I still think that it’s a pretty name.

May 9, 2003

No matter how many times I see the photographs from September 11th, they still amaze me, they still leave me in disbelief. It’s not really so much the pictures from the World Trade Center; those are just incredibly sad. But you can relate that to London during World War II, and you’re not so shocked, because you’ve seen foreign cities get attacked. It’s the pictures of the Pentagon that always manage to instill an incredible surreality within me. The Pentagon is a very specific American symbol and image. When I look at the pictures and I see that huge explosion roaring up from the building’s west side, it never ceases to phase me. I am left absolutely amazed to see our nation’s defense center, the very embodiment of the military power of the greatest international power on fire. For all of our might, we couldn’t defend our core. And I always think that this couldn’t possibly be happening. The world’s most powerful nation (history’s most powerful nation, in fact) couldn’t be so cripplingly, devastatingly attacked, not with such ease. No land invasion of the United States could ever be possible. Canada and Mexico could easily be made American territories (if the United States desired it) and they wouldn’t dare attack us. Any sea invasion would be potentially successful, because America’s coasts are vast and cannot all be defended. But even then, if American territory was ever occupied the invader would be in very serious trouble. Also, in all likelihood, no foreign fleet would ever reach an American base before it was detected on radar and crushed in the ocean. Any air raids on American cities, if the planes could even entire our airspace, would be retaliated against so fiercely that the entire world would weep. It is true that no sane nation would ever attack the United States. So a band of renegade, rebel terrorists was sent instead. They blended into our society and subtly made their plans. There was no large army, navy, or air force to be detected, so their attacks (except, of course, for Flight 93) went successfully. They attacked us mercilessly and caused incredible damage, then, like the cowardly bastards that they are, they then took their own lives (thus avoiding retaliation) and left no nation directly responsible. American vengeance had to be satisfied, though, and two nations, Iraq and Afghanistan, have fallen to American might for it. Now that the war in Iraq is over, I wonder what’s next. President Bush says that the war isn’t over yet. I wonder who’s next? North Korea, maybe? I doubt that, at least for now. Perhaps Syria or Iran, although I really don’t see anyone who we can even pretend to now have legitimate reasons to invade. It’s odd. Since September 11th, there’s been a bit of a war mentality across the whole nation. First, we were the victims of this horrific attack. Then, we were the avengers, forcing our anger and grief onto the world through multiple invasions and conquests. First, our legitimate war in Afghanistan took that nation. Then, though, like Rome, we made up an incredible excuse to invade an enemy, from which we pursued. Although I’m glad that we invaded Iraq. They now think that Saddam Hussein might possibly be alive. What would that mean? I wonder, what does our victory in Iraq mean? Is the war over? Despite what the President says, I think that the war really is over. The conflicts are over, and if we’re lucky this will never go beyond an American war and evolve into something more. I had the most horrific dream last Wednesday night. In this dream, a very large bomb detonated inside of my school. I survived the blast, but I was trapped with a large number of people. The explosion had caused the floors above us to fall over most of A Wing and then to about the midpoint of the lobby. Some of us were bloody, and we were waiting to be rescued. As we sat round in a circle fathoming the damage across from the rubble. We were talking about the massacre at Columbine High School and how only about twelve people had died. We were hoping that only a handful of our fellow students had died.

May 10, 2003

A man going around the school to free people poked in from the rubble. We asked the bloody man if he knew how many were dead, and we told him that we hoped that it wasn’t many. He told us not to get our hopes up, saying, “About fifty people are dead behind that wall.” As we were led away from what was left of our school, we had to walk around the building’s remains. We were able to see the massive explosion’s impact on A Wing. The top three floors’ walls had been completely blown out, creating a sort of cross section of the building. Bodies littered all three stories. I remember looking up as bodies on the edge fell out. Some survivors were pushing bodies off, making more room to be rescued. I remember vividly the body of a boy I know from the bus falling all the way down from the fourth floor. The body landed in front of me, causing me to let out an immense scream. I began crying. The dream ended. Three days later, I had a fair spasm when I saw a news report of a Beautiful County boy threatening to hold our school hostage with strategically-placed pipe bombs. He had planned to use the ransom money to build a hydrogen bomb. That would explain the massive destruction in my dream. Thank goodness he was caught before that dream could evolve into a nightmare reality. Also, has Aria been reborn? A year ago today, the economic aftermath of the alleged horrific attack on that country and the following incredibly successful military strikes was already beginning to wear off. Two months later, the country was already locked in its painful death throes of anarchy. Four months later, it had collapsed. Now, things may be changing. My brother, Powell, has accepted the Arian throne. He has agreed to hold it until a conference in the Decaying State Territory in July. This is also when I will be recording my demo album.

May 12, 2003

Thomas’s eighth birthday was an even more downplayed occasion than I would have thought, and more than I would have liked. Although Thomas is a horrendous brat, and he probably deserved such a small birthday, I’m still not sure if I agree. If I have money, my children’s birthdays will always be large celebrations, thanking God for such an incredible blessing and celebrating the child as a person and the life that they’ve lived thus far. Such is certainly not the attitude here of late. A new, unexpected, and unprecedented wave of socialism is beginning its disastrous sweep through this house, much to my dismay. A brief history of this would go like this: From the time of my birth on April 10, 1988 until about 1999, violations of our liberty and socialist standards dominated our lives. Beginning in 1999, these oppressive tactics increased, peaking in their repressive nature in the period between October and December of 2001. This was almost true dictatorship. Totalitarianism is another accurate term. Then, we made a complete, modernizing turnaround. In December, 2001, incredible reforms and promises were made. Liberties came in their legions. All the way through 2002 this almost democratic lifestyle became more and more open, and by December of 2002 we had reached a height of liberation that we had only dreamed of. Until April of 2003 this continued relatively uninterrupted. In April, the repression came, slowly. So slowly that new far-reaching reforms were still being added to the long list that had transformed our family. One of these was that I wouldn’t be made to cut my long hair if my grades remained well. I applauded this move. As you can see quite clearly from the last few weeks’ entries, these democratic reforms are being repealed in a succession of each other. About two days ago, the bedtime reform (guarantee of nine-thirty to ten time up in room) was swiftly taken. A day ago, my father all but announced that the hair reform would be repealed. I’ve made a concession for layers but I will try diligently to keep my hair long. We have to do another reverse and bring back the democracy.

May 17, 2003

America has been attacked again, on a smaller scale this time, but still attacked. In both Saudi Arabia and Morocco (Riyadh in Saudi Arabia and Casablanca in Morocco). In both countries, untargeted innocents were also killed in the attacks. I don’t think that another 9/11 will happen, though. Dad says that he thinks that the war’s over. Also, there is great news. Mom’s baby is scheduled to be born on June 18th. We found out this week that Pie will join us on June 18, 2003. Since I’m not trying to get a job until this summer, I’ve requested that the layering be postponed so that my hair won’t be as short as it would be.

May 21, 2003

Today is Mama Bear’s thirtieth birthday.

May 24, 2003

For Mama Bear’s birthday, I wrote her a poem called “Once There Was a Mama Bear.” It is part of a story called “Marie Our Family.” I’ve thought often of my mother, and what she did. Virtually her entire family was opposed to the marriage, and they weren’t all too fond of us. We were poor, and she could have been on her way to college. She sacrificed everything for us, and we weren’t even hers. She didn’t even like the story. There was too much in it about the System. This is still a bad subject with us. I fear that she will be angry with me for the entire day. Oh, well. I told the truth. I suppose that she can’t handle the truth. Perhaps I’ll do something else for her, something that she’ll like. I’m not sure what to do, though. Our Terror Alert Level is on Orange, or “High,” again. This is the fourth time since the system has been instituted that we’ve come to Code Orange. I wonder if we’ll get to Code Red, or “Severe.” It’s not quite as hysterical as it was last time, when everyone bought duct tape and gas masks and stuff like that. I’m sure that if we went to Code Red, though, there’d be a massive panic throughout the nation. This weekend is Memorial Day weekend, and we don’t have any school on Monday. If I ever needed a weekend, it was now, too. I’ve been so stressed this week. I’ve had so much homework that I have not even had the time to write. Well, we’ve been attacked in Morocco and Saudi Arabia. A bomb went off at Yale, but no one even got hurt and they said that terrorists were not involved. I got a haircut on Mom’s birthday. I got a whole ¾ of an inch taken off of my bangs.

May 25, 2003

It is nearly three o’clock in the morning and I’ve just taken a hot bath. Midnight is cuddling with me, I’m tired and content. Life is good. I’m going to bed.

May 26, 2003

Mom came home from Hick State yesterday with a vengeance, although fortunately for me I was not here to experience most of it. Yesterday was one of the absolute best Sundays that I can ever remember. I woke up around eleven o’clock in the morning, although I suppose that I should backtrack. Sunday started with me on the couch watching television. Powell’s friend was spending the night. At one o’clock, I went into our newly-finished basement to watch “She Spies,” which is by far one of my favorite television shows. In between, or, I mean, during commercials I watched CNN news. The man who, Paul McCartney (duh) played Red Square recently, singing “Back in the USSR.” “She Spies” was a repeat, but it was still good. I wonder if it will be renewed for a second season. I hope so. It’s a good show, although not very popular, not because it’s disliked, but because it isn’t well known. After that I took my little early morning bath. I dressed in my pajamas, read my Bible, wrote in my journal, cuddled with Midnight, said goodnight to Powell, and went to bed. I awoke at eleven o’clock that same morning. We had an excellent breakfast of eggs, scrapple, and corned beef hash, although I chose not to eat any of the corned beef hash and most of the eggs were gone when I got down there, I still enjoyed it. I had plenty of scrapple, which, by the way, is delicious. I then went outside, pajama-clad and all. Lacrosse Boy was outside, and we spoke on different matters for probably about half an hour before we went into my house to get some drinks. Then we watched something on MTV. Then a Disney movie came on. Lacrosse Boy said that he wanted to watch it. By the way, one of our conversations outside was based on what we would do if we were famous. I was talking about having a party, and Lacrosse Boy and I were conversing over who exactly we would invite to the party. We came up with Mariah Carey, Christina Aguilera, Britney Spears, Jennifer Lopez, the Olsen twins, Hilary Duff, Shaquille O’Neil, P’Diddy, Kelly Clarkson, and (although just to be funny) Aaron Carter. Lacrosse Boy said that he’d come up to the door, and I said we’d put on the music and tell him that the party had been canceled. We said that we definitely wouldn’t invite anyone like Eminem or Marilyn Manson (ew). I think, though, that maybe we could invite Eminem. We would have to invite Michelle Branch and Vanessa Carleton; and who else? I don’t know. Anyway, Lacrosse Boy decided to watch that movie and Dad came home from the store. He said that he had secured a job interview for me on Tuesday, and that if I had to cut my hair I would. Annoyed, I told him that it could easily be gelled back and look presentable enough. I then went to get a shower. Lacrosse Boy told me that he’d wait in the living room watching that movie. I stepped into the steamy, hot shower. For me, taking a shower is sensual in a way that goes beyond sex. It’s like a bit of paradise, almost. I feel enthralled and peaceful, sensuous, but not aroused, all at once. I feel natural and protected. The shower is a sanctified place. No one can touch me there, and no one can take that time from me. I’ve figured, quite naturally, that this feeling goes far beyond the natural shower. It could’ve been applied to any place, because really it’s a state of mind. Although, there is something comforting about standing in your most natural state, nude, while the steamy water pours down onto you. After my shower (“Oh, my gosh, you take a thirty-minute shower!” Lacrosse Boy said to me) I quickly gelled my hair straight back. I went down and asked my father if it was presentable. He said no. I became very angry with him and said that if that wasn’t presentable then nothing was. However, he hadn’t been referring to my hair (well, not exactly). He was referring to my facial hair (however sparse it is). He said that I needed to shave and then he advised me to comb my hair just a bit more to the side. I did both of these things. The combing was easy. The shaving was a bit more difficult. In the end, he had to come and help me. Lacrosse Boy waited patiently throughout all of this, at one point playing with Thomas’s miniature basketball hoop. Finally, Lacrosse Boy and I played Risk. He’d never played before, and he was thrilled with the game. It was actually quite funny. The game really can be addictive, it’s so fun, although I was genuinely tired of it. I got some Doritos and Lacrosse Boy got some, too. I cautioned him heavily, though, to not get any food on the floor, as we were eating in the formal dining room, where the game was. My mother would have a fit if we made a mess out there. So, we played some more. I went to get more Doritos, and Lacrosse Boy blocked the box from me. So we fought (not really) over the Doritos. I won, and I took a bag into the bathroom with me. I suppose I was really just feeding the fire, but oh, well. Then I chased Lacrosse Boy around the house, trying to pop the newspaper bag before he could, and, once again, I won. We concluded our game of Risk, even though we didn’t really finish. I told Lacrosse Boy that we’d play again later. We went to visit Part Canadian Boy, who broke his arm recently. I heard from both Powell and Part Canadian Boy that the bone was making a bump in his flesh. He didn’t cry at all, not even when they had to bend the bone to fit his arm into the cast. Part Canadian Boy deserves a lot more credit for being a really great person than we ever gave him before. We played some tennis in front of Part Canadian Boy’s house. Then we went inside and watched “The Man Show.” There must’ve been a marathon yesterday, because there were very many “Man Show” episodes. That show (albeit in a very crude way) is funny. Then we went outside again. Then we went into Part Canadian Boy’s backyard and into his next-door neighbor’s backyard. Then we got permission from my father to spent the night at Part Canadian Boy’s house. Lacrosse Boy couldn’t get permission from his parents, but before he had to go we made some prank telephone calls, although they weren’t very successful because almost everything in Beautiful Town closes early. Probably the most successful prank telephone call of the entire night (and it wasn’t even that funny) was a call to a local restaurant during which I pretended to be an eighty-five-year-old woman seeking employment. I asked if my age or any previous criminal record would be a hindrance to being hired. I told the woman that I’d been charged a year earlier, when I was eighty-four years old, of armed robbery. She quickly figured out that it was a prank telephone call and she asked questions that visibly voiced her suspicions. I began to laugh and she hung up on me. I said, at the end (after she hung up on me), “You want my number? It’s 1-800-KISS-MY-ASS you stupid bitch!” Lacrosse Boy was practically hysterical. He laid on the couch and rolled with laughter. We put in the movie “Pitch Black” into the DVD player. Lacrosse Boy had to leave in the beginning of it and we walked to his house with him because he was frightened that someone would jump out and grab him. He told us that one night he and a friend were walking down my street when a man in a trench coat began to approach them rapidly. Lacrosse Boy said that they ran very quickly. I would have, too. Ever since, he’s been more cautious. I really can’t say that I blame him. We stood on his porch talking until about midnight (I was in my pajamas once more), talking about school and who we disliked (Annoying Boy came up in that conversation) and different teachers. We also spoke of scary things, and all three of us became frightened. It was fun. When Lacrosse Boy went inside, Part Canadian Boy and I walked back to his house, a bit more aware of our surroundings than we otherwise would have been. Part Canadian Boy fell asleep before the end of “Pitch Black,” which I took out. I was going to go to bed, but (embarrassingly enough) I couldn’t bring myself to turn off the light. I read part of a book of questions designed to teach you about yourself. I finally turned off the light.

May 28, 2003

I went home around eight-thirty or nine o’clock to find that my father had left for work. Thomas was over at Pole Humper’s house, having been there the night before to sleep over. Mom was home, still in her pajamas, quietly cleaning. As I arrived home she was in the midst of emptying the trash cans and cleaning out the cat box. This is my chore, and I felt a stab of guilt as I watched her. But she was near completion, and I thought to just let her finish. She then started making announcements about divorcing my father and moving to New England State and the division of the family and the sale of our house. By evening it had rolled over between my parents, but she is still being cold with me, which greatly angers me. Although it hasn’t been said outright, I am almost certain that my written thoughts on the System, which strongly looked down upon corporal punishment and referred to my mother’s own childhood, were the spark needed to ignite the accumulating gun powder. She also told her entire family about my writings. These writings refer once to my Aunt Ostentatious as fabricating a story to my father, which resulted in a vicious beating. This is true, of course, however people are still offended by its acknowledgement. I now fear to go to Hick State; my mother’s family is rash and quick to anger, and I’m not really sure if I want to take the risk of their retaliation for what is true. Initially relations between myself and that family were already stiff. Actually, they were terrible. Years have erased that, and perhaps I was wrong to invoke the past, however I never could have imagined that it would be put into such easily-enraged hands. According to my mother, Aunt Ostentatious has now forbidden me from setting foot on her property, which could very well be my mother’s exaggeration; I don’t know, I’ve sent Powell to ask. He hasn’t returned, and I doubt that he’ll ask. Mom could be exaggerating, however I could easily imagine my aunt doing such a stupid thing. By the way, Aria is apparently back. Negotiations between Cristalia and the capital were going on recently. Relations between my mother and I remain artificial and cold, and maybe it’s time that I stop trying. If she doesn’t care, why should I? Well, I suppose that one of us should move first toward peace, but that’s what I’ve been doing and there hasn’t been a very significant positive response. I suppose that the truth really does hurt. These people are insensitive and inconsiderate.

May 29, 2003

It would now appear that I spoke (or rather, wrote) too soon, Her family didn’t really care that much (so she says), a reaction which greatly surprised me. It was she who forbade me from going to Aunt Ostentatious’s house, which I find unspeakably stupid. I have to get a microphone and get some of my songs on tape. Pie will be born twenty days from today, on June 18, 2003. It still thrills me every time that I hear it. I can’t believe that in less than a month I’ll have a sister. Nine months went by so quickly. I can’t believe that in eleven school days my Freshman Year of high school will have ended. In four months I’ll be a Sophomore. That’s incredible to me. Everything is speeding by. As fast as the rest of the school year went, these last few days seem to drag on and on, although I know that when I look back on them I will feel as if they passed just as rapidly. My birthday, April 10th, seems as if it was only yesterday, and sometimes I’ll catch myself accidentally giving my age as fourteen, when I am actually fifteen. Does all of life go by this fast? This summer excites me with its possibilities. I get to use a recording studio! For free! I doubt that it will lead to anything professional this summer, though. Who knows, though? I had my first vocal lesson on Tuesday, and I absolutely loved it. My range is from C to high F, which my teacher says is fairly good; an octave and a half, or twelve notes. She wants to try for G next week. She says that she believes my range will expand, and we’re also to work on the bit of nasaly singing that has creeped its way back into my voice. We’re writing, memorizing, rehearsing, and producing our own thirty-minute play in Drama class. I am so excited about it, and Dad has said that he’ll try to come to school and videotape it, although I’ll have to describe it later because I’ve got to study for Spanish and memorize for Drama (they are, in a sense, the same thing really).

May 31, 2003

Tomorrow will be the first day of June. How fast it’s come. I have to finish my three songs this weekend! We have to buy a microphone, too! Oh, wait. My friend actually has a microphone that I can use. It’s a good thing, too, because I seriously doubt that my father would ever really have bought me one. Funnily enough, this May has been largely uneventful. I went to the carnival last night with Blonde Girl. I’ll go into detail, probably tomorrow.