This first part is from long, long ago...
Today in sex ed, we learned How Not To Get An STD. And were also instructed to Always Use a Condom. And in “drug ed” we learned why not to smoke, why not to drink, and why not to use marijuana. The teacher said that the commercials are lying: drinking this beer or that vodka isn’t gonna help you hook a hottie. Darn. We also learned that if you drink too much, you get drunk. And if you get drunk, you can’t drive and you feel funny. Plus also drugs and alcohol kill brain cells. I can’t help but think of all the people who have screwed up their lives completely by getting STDS and doing marijuana. They have stinky itchy crotches and pass out all over the place and walk around dizzily, barfing into the bushes when nobody’s looking. That is not a pretty picture to be engraved into my brain. And I just carved it into yours. Sorry.
Okay, it’s a few days later right now. I haven’t blogged for a long, long time. It’s because of that Goldman project... I’ve been using up every square inch of my time on it. I want to turn it in early for the 20% extra credit. I think I’m going to make it, since I only have one more feature and the table of contents to complete. (It’s a magazine, by the way... yeah.) Another reason I’m not blogging is that my dad used his fancy-dancy parental filter to block the Blogspot website. Said I spent too much time blogging. I don’t know if this post will never make it onto the blog, or if it will in a few weeks or months if my dad changes his mind.
Again, it’s a few days later: Thursday. I finally, finally finished that project. But at a cost: it chipped away at my immune system and sanity. I lived off of black coffee and spent many hours at the computer researching and typing furiously long into the night. The ominous taps of the keyboard were the only sound echoing against the silent stretches of darkness surrounding me. Okay, that makes me sound as if I were in a deserted cave. With Wi-Fi. Anyway, I should feel complete relief, but all the stress and pressure of getting the gold-dinged thing done has been converted into unsure, unsteady, nervous worries that I will fail. Which will mean that I Am A Failure Who Has No Friends And No Future and Nothing To Love And Live For. If I fail this project, I am going to seriously consider committing suicide. I will die of shame anyway. If I fail this project, my head will turn into a potato and I’ll shrink until I’m two inches tall and my feet will melt into a thick gooey flesh-juice and my bones will be replaced with sponges, and then I’ll shrivel up into a crinkly, crackly nothing and let the wind blow me into pieces and carry me a thousand miles across the ocean. I’ll float up through the stratosphere and find some other life-sustaining planet, one where I will thrive as its only resident and be a Success. As the years pass I will slowly forget that I am a Failure and maybe, just maybe then I can ride the winds back down to Earth. It’ll take years to get over the failure of such a huge project, though. If I fail, the next time you see me I’ll have wrinkles.
That project made my life hell. It was such a huge amount of work, and I should have known I didn’t have the capacity to finish it all in under two weeks. But I always spring for extra credit no matter what. If I fail, there’s no point in having earned the extra credit, because... I failed.
Now that I think about it, I fail at life too, know what I mean? I mean, I am really a very ordinary person, and I wonder why anybody wants to be my friend. I don’t have anything about me that is special. Some people have these secret talents, like, I don’t know, they can SING! Or, oh man, they can really DRAW! Or they can write these really fantastic POEMS! And some people have outstanding qualities. You know, some people are just outgoing and perky, oh man they’re so FRIENDLY! And others are just so perfect perfect hair face perfect teeth eyes perfect perfect skin perfect they’re just so PRETTY! Or they always have the answer, work’s always done in a flash, god those people are SMART! I’m this dull gray area in a roiling crowd of great personalities and talents. I’m okay in school, mostly A’s but with a B+. I look like a doodle of the general girl. You know, a few sweeps of the pencil equals shoulder-length hair, two dots for eyes, a little dash for the mouth, done. I’m nice to people and people are nice to me, but I’m not so incredibly super fun cool funny cute outgoing helpful caring and so on. I can’t do that pretty lilting thing with my voice (I think they call it ‘singing’) that most girls can do, and I don’t play the acoustic guitar. I’m not the captain of the lacrosse team, and I don’t volunteer at the soup kitchen in my free time. (Actually, that would be fun, but that’s beside the point.) I am this little fuzzy smudge of nothing. If I fail this project, I officially fail at life, and that smudge evaporates and disappears. I really don’t want to fail, because it’s gonna be hard finding another planet that sustains life.
Anyway. I’m glad I could post this, finally. I’m on my mom’s computer again. It feels so weird to have gone so long without blogging. In my pre-blog days, I would write in a “journary.” (Journal+diary= journary, get it, ha ha, not so funny but hey it seemed clever back then. I made it up when I got to the second notebook.) I have five of them now, dating from sixth grade to the present. (I don’t really count my fourth- and fifth-grade ones.) I used to think I was so lame for writing in a notebook and calling it my diary. That is just so fourth grade of you, I’d always think. But now I remember why I journary’d so obsessively. I devoured page after page the last few days. I could write whatever I wanted without having to know any old person could stumble across it online, including my peers who could judge me. Sometimes I edit parts out on my blog, but not so with the good ol’ journary. And in the journary, I could lie. I could say that I got beaten up at school. And I did. I could say I almost drowned in a raging river of rushing aich-two-oh. And I did. I wrote whatever I wanted until the pen ran dry and the pages ran out, then it was on to the next notebook. (Actually, the pen still had ink. But I think the whole ‘pen-running-dry’ thing sounds nice.) I use plain notebooks and nestle them in with old schoolwork so nobody suspects what they might be. Oops. I just broadcast that to the Internet. Oh well, it’s not like any of you are ever going to break into my house at night and steal them. And who knows, you might accidentally pick up an old math notebook instead.
Okay. I’m gonna click the “Publish Post” button now. After two weeks. It’s finally happening. All right, then. Here we go... *click*