Thursday, March 20, 2008


When I was little, I spelled 'spring' S-P-I-N-G invariably. I never noticed my mistake. My mother never corrects me with things like that.

I wish she would.

I was talking to Coolbeans and Realjimi (I think those are the right nicknames) today--girl talk. D and Rocky weren't on because D was sick ALL week so inside I was like DAMMIT! I missed all of this non-D time! and Rocky stayed after this afternoon. (he was supposed to kiss his new girlfriend today, but he didn't)

So, the only guys on the bus were our busdriver and Strawley, who is actually a really nice guy if you see past his being a boy. (let's face it, the girls on the bus aren't very accepting of there being guys on) He was a good friend in sixth grade, and I missed him in seventh grade, and now that I'm in eighth grade, I'm glad he's here. He has a kind of awkward nice-ness about him that I like. He's taller than me, so I feel intimidated, but he is not in High classes and he's in the grade below mine, so I feel above him. And he looks and acts tough, so it evens out to me respecting him as another person, although I feel enough self-respect so that I don't just completely defer to him. That's a good type of friendship, if you ask me.
Note: I have never liked Strawley and I never will. And anyone who knows him should know why he's named Strawley. In fact, I have two reasons.

Okay, anyways, I was complaining about my Mom (mostly to get off the topic of cutting myself and stuff) and of course what has bothered me most recently is her very hands-off approach to telling me stuff about being a girl. I can't believe one day last year, she's like 'I was doing laundry and it looked like you got your period..." and I'm like "Yeah," and she's like "Did you find all the stuff you needed?" and I'm like, "Yeah," and she's like, "Okay, that's good." and we NEVER speak of it again. Not to mention that she never taught me how to shave my legs or anything. I taught myself (no, that did not start my cutting, although that did probably play a part in my choosing to cut with a razor).

I may have just lost all of my male readers.
That's okay. (guys, you don't need to comment to say you haven't been turned off of this blog, even if you feel you must say it)
I told the girls how our principal hugged me (one of them dared suggest kissing, and we ALL freaked) and asked me if I lost weight. I said, joking, "Gosh, I didn't think he was lookin' at me!" They actually said to me, "Isn't he MARRIED with kids?" and I'm like, "Yes!!!" I got to relive the complete weirdness of it.
Well... It's my mom's fault. She asked my male teachers to be like dads for me, and maybe she or one of them mentioned it to our principal. Or maybe he... Um, I won't say that.

I feel like my male teachers are all noticing me... My math teacher is just so... extra nice to me... My English teacher, well, he's pretty normal. He's just like my dad... It's creepy. Let's not discuss the Tech teacher of last year. Who I will be facing in a few short weeks... *ugh*
I did dare face him once to mention that I heard that Bobby Fischer died (he had heard of it also) but I am still a little scared of him.
It is a natural fear of him, though. I am enjoying this fear because there is little else in this world that I am 'afraid' of. My 'phobias' which are my intrusive thoughts are irrational fears anyways. I am afraid of walking around the dark, though. I am paranoid, actually. I am afraid that zombies of the night are walking up the steps after me. I want to turn around, to prove that they aren't there, but I am running up the stairs too fast; I'm too scared. I do a sharp hairpin turn to get to my room, if I'm fast enough, the zombies won't be able to follow. And my door, I have to find the door, get in, and close it fast so that the zombies can't get me. And they don't.

However, to find the door and avoid crashing into some dark, hard thing, I must slow to nearly stopping, to find the door in the dark, and then, so as to not brush my hand against the pink fiberglass (the 'cotton candy to never eat'), I must move my hand slowly around to find the lightswitch. The slowness nearly kills me, when the zombies are after me still, still coming, and if I don't hurry, they will grab my ankles and I will be taken away. Awaaaaaaaaay.

That was no fictionalization, no flourishing of words (besides my normal flourishing). That is exactly what I feel when I run up the stairs in the dark to my room. The zombies are coming.

Maybe since it's spring now, the zombies will stay in their graves.

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