I got the sun in the morning and the moon at night

I've been thinking a lot about the fine line between pretentiousness and the amount of self-confidence and self-indulgence that's healthy and allowed. I've always been critical of myself. I called it realistic, but in retrospect, I was more critical than I needed to be. After talking to a certain friend who's convinced that he's become an asshole, I started thinking about it. There are about a million issues that we all have hanging in our minds, vaguely, ideas that we don't even think in words but are conscious of, and I'm starting to bring this one forward.

For example, I don't really like sleeping in pijamas. I sleep in flannel shirts, slips, Harry's shirts, concert tee-shirts--whatever. I realized at one point that I have enough t-shirts that I like that I shouldn't ever have to wear ones that I don't like, even to bed. Anyway, I feel like this is a way of flattering myself, taking pride in myself, even though no one's looking, feeling good about myself all the time. But if I were to hear about someone else sleeping in silk slips and their boyfriend's shirts, I'd feel a little irritated. I'd probably think it was obnoxious or something. Why? Because I assume that everyone but me is confident? Because I'd think they thought they were cooler than me because they did that? I don't even know. But I realize that I do things sometimes that piss me off when other people do them--not mean things, not things that you can even really put your finger on. But I do them.

At the same time, I think that my irritation, or whatever it is, with these girls who try to be trendy, and wear heavy eye makeup, and act like they think they're hot shit--I think my irritation stems from a sense that I'm not like them, and that they're accusing me in some way of inferiority or of being insincere or something.

I know I'm sincere. I know they're not any cooler than me because they do some thing--God knows what--that rubs me the wrong way, even if I do it myself.

The thing is, despite having no idea what anyone thinks of me, except Elena, who hates me because I'm busy on the weekends, I'm feeling generally satisfied. I guess they're like bruises--you're fine and healthy and all until someone touches them.

Besides, I think a lot of other people think this way, too.
So I'm only mildly fucked up.

Oh, and I realized that people still read this the other day when I checked my statcounter. People even read the crappy poetry blog (email me if you want the url, I'll be happy to give it to you), and the "stuff I want you to read" blog. (Read it. It's good. I promise.) This makes me happy and feel like a generally slightly more interesting person. I don't know why it has this effect, because the content of my blog hasn't changed, and it's not all that fascinating even to me, and I'm living it, but... yeah.

Recap: today I bought a lamp for my sister for $4, returned my bike basket at Bikes by George on 12th st, finished a book during the PSAT lecture, bought color film (madness!), wore mascara, striped tights and a hat and felt strange, played the harmonica and generally had a good day.

I know that she's no peasant

Got a myspace, updated this, finished A Clockwork Orange, thought about how much I miss Harry, saw Matt, got Rachel's aviators, made, served and demolished a plate of brownies, didn't get my books in the mail, avoided social interaction, drew the devil, wrote a poem and generally had a good day.

I guess I have to admit that I kind of like myself.

This is my confession

I've won shit and I lost weight and I have a boyfriend and friends I like and black jeans and personality, somewhere in there, and a million billion books in my head...

but Lotte's myspace still makes me realize that I'm not quite cool with myself yet. Not because I especially like or dislike her, or look up to her, or any of that shit--I don't--but because I realize that she doesn't really care if I like her and I still care if she likes me, if everyone I meet likes me. And I feel desperate.

And I hate that song.

and in the end, the love you make is equal to the love you take...

Corpse Bride was great. Harry's mom's play was absolutely amazing. Harry, of course, was wonderful. And somehow, at the risk of sounding horribly cliché, Friday became even greater than the sum of its parts.

Since I got him sick, I can't really blame Harry for wanting to sleep in Saturday morning. I just went to my thrift market with my mom and then headed over to try to make him feel a little better. I fed Harry some Tylenol, read most of A Clockwork Orange, stooped in for an occassional kiss and fought the urge to wake him up. My parents let my lie on a sofa for three days without eating with a 104º fever once. I guess I don't really know how to treat people who are sick. My instincts tell me to wake them up at eight and put them on a bean-bag chair and put in a movie, or maybe get out some ice cream or jello or something.

Anyway, Harry got up eventually and had some soup and then we went to the Mac store and generally wandered around SoHo and wound up eating delicious Mexican food with hot chocolate for dessert and skipping the Brotherhood Sound show, which I didn't really mind, honestly, because I wasn't really in the mood for a crowd of people, and Harry really didn't want to go. But when Harry went back to college, I found myself with time on my hands. Matt told me to head down to his house, and half an hour later I was eating Mallomars amongst the mildly drunk and discussing life.

Pretty soon, though, we wound up at another party that seemed more dull than the first. Oona had already left, and Lucas and Clark had already been lost to the guitars. Rachel, Nick and I talked with a guy named Alex for a while and then Matt, Nick and I all hit the road and wound up at my house drinking tea. It was all very strange. The only part of the day I hadn't enjoyed had been the second party. We'd liked Alex, but he sort of hit on me a little and I interjected something about "isn't it crazy, this shirt is my boyfriend's, I saw him this morning..." but he gave me his number anyway. My parents were already asleep when we came home, and Matt was kind of tipsy, and Nick knew a lot about Russian lit, it was all generally enjoyable.

I fell asleep in Harry's shirt and dreamed that I died and roses grew out of the eyes of my corpse and Queen Anne's Lace grew from my fingers and water-lilies grew down my legs and the people came by and smiled.

I don't really like how this post turned out. It seems a little flat. It's all true, though.

Long distance information, get me Memphis, Tennessee...

I left this party right before the camera arrived, but I got the photos anyway, and I thought my blog could use some embellishment, so here they are. Kudos to Jack2 for making his house available, and to Dan Katz for inviting the more loser-y half of his school. Still, it was great.

Jaya, I owe you an apology. This is the second time you've been porned out on the internet because of Jack's camera and my blog...









The caption on this one was "I don't even know half these people..."











No idea what was happening in these...





...but whatever it was, it was all in good fun.



The Beards:







Jaya:









other people





Jaya and Chloe

well, it's gotta be rock 'n' roll musicif you wanna dance with me

Today was a day of art.

Barry didn't seem to hate me, surpisingly. He was kind. I felt like a flapper in my black character-tap shoes. I actually managed to keep up today. It felt great. I felt like a lady, like a tap dancer, like a woman and like a competent individual. Being able to dance was new to me; my lack of ability is notorious pretty much everywhere I go. It was refreshing.

Bob showed up twenty minutes late for jazz vocal today. I didn't mind. I sat on the bench where the seniors sit, at the very top and the very back and right in the middle, and watched Alida happily dance and flip coins and amuse herself with childlike grace while Adam played the piano absolutely beautifully and Dan and Greg wandered around. I took off my shoes and my heavy necklace and lay on my back and felt like a small, rotund Greek statue, surrounded by beautiful things. I wanted to be a dancer, elegant and tall and thin and beautiful. The last ballet class I took was ten years ago. I cried whenever my parents made me go. They finally let me quit when the teacher told them I was hopeless.

I wandered into the little-kids' courtyard behind the meetinghouse and watched the children playing. They all seemed to fit in. They all had friends. They all seemed happy. I was still barefooted, wearing only a slip of a dress (Ty called it a nightgown). Greg came out after a few minutes and stood next to me. "What's so fascinating?" he asked. "It's just... I have so many memories of this playground. From way back in third grade. And they mostly kind of suck... I always think of childhood as this horribly awkward, uncomfortable thing. But now I'm looking at these kids, and I'm wondering if maybe it wasn't so bad, you know? Or maybe people aren't really as happy as they look like they are." When I turned to see what he thought, he'd wandered away.

Bob did show up for a while, and we sang a bit, and then I memorized my vocab while walking to English and passed the test. After that came RM&M with Meghan. While she's not Fish, she's cool in her own right, and the dozen or so kids who showed up seemed fairly competent. I embarassed myself by jumping on the table and shouting "atten-TION!" in my bare feet when the room got too noisy. It continued at the same volume. Nobody blinked an eye. "It never works," said Clark. "Now get off the table." But he smiled, and I knew there was no malice left in him. We tried to brainstorm ways to raise money for our CD, whose sales are intended to raise money for the Battle of the Bands, whose profits are intended for some sort of charity, but nobody came up with a better idea than selling drugs or sex, so we settled on a bake sale. "But it'll be the most rocking bake sale that ever existed," DaSilva said. Nobody heard.

So I went home, finished all of my homework in an hour, ate some jello, ordered Seventh Son volumes 2 and 3 and Thoreau's Walden from Amazon.com for a grand total of $4.00, checked some webcomics, ate a cupcake and settled down to blog, only to be interrupted by a call from Harry.

And I'm going to a book signing tonight, and having coffee with my parents' friend, who's a college counselor but still kind of cool, and then I'll bake with my sister and gossip and watch a movie and it'll be a perfect end to a perfect day.

just a little cloud with some dust in its eye

School's not as hard as I thought it would be. The new teachers are easy, and the harder ones are in subjects I can handle. Although Barry's pissed off at Chris and I and I feel horrible about the whole thing.

My mom told me that ever since I was six months old I haven't been able to sleep well. She said I "always have thoughts in your head" and need to learn how to relax. I think she's onto something.

I rode my bike to 98th st. today. Riding up there was scary, frankly, and a pain in the ass. I rode home quickly, though, and it was easy and leisurely and I rode next to Central Park for half of the ride, which was lovely.

Things I do too much:
think
read (at inconvenient times, like during lectures or while walking)
buy books that I don't get around to reading for years
act cold because I don't know how I want to act
talk about Harry to single people
not-sleep at night
eat jello, even though it's not that unhealthy
skip breakfast
worry
sing when I'm walking down the hall or down the street
wake up early and get up to see the sun rise instead of trying to sleep again
spent a lot of time in the shower
cry
shamelessly expose hairy legs, pits, etc.
get excited about jazz vocal
take my sister to parties that turn out to be dull
take my sister to cool parties and then leave her there
bike without a helmet
try to set up Jack2 and Jill
call people dorky, since I'm really not one to talk
read sci-fi/fantasy (but only really, REALLY GOOD s-f-f)
check my gmail from school
check my favorite webcomics from school
bruise myself
poke at my zits in the mirror
play poker
forget my homework at home
forget my books at school
forget to call people
forget to feed the plants/fish
go to the reading room because I know it's empthy
google authors and bookmark the pages
avoid people
look for an Onion every Thursday and carry it until I've finished it
question my friends' interest in me
think about the newspaper
talk about the newspaper
think about myself
talk in English
look in mirrors
carry deodorant in my backpack
read four books at once and carry all of them all day
miss Harry
play Hexxagon
blog

Serve Yourself

I bought a bicycle. It's brown. I had to buy a thick chain ($15) and a strong lock ($27) because I'm going to keep it on the street, and they cost half as much as the bike did.

Renata's seeing the White Stripes next weekend. I'm seeing Harry.

I'm going to a Pratt party tonight. It's scary. I'm also going to another party which isn't scary at all. My sister and Travis are coming.

Working at UBC today was wonderful. Everyone was friendly and kind and it was one girl's birthday, and they made her a cake. It was delicious. I'm making friends there, and I actually love walking around and shelving books for them. I'm learning how to make the displays more visually pleasing and how to cover books librarian-style and how to use a cash register and a pricing gun and how to shelve by the Dewey Decimal system. Kind of.

I feel very myself.

the honey from the bee, the shellfish from the sea, the earth, the wind, a girl, someone to share these things with me...

That's The Mama's & the Papas' "Chimney Sweep," one of my favorite songs. It's truly beautiful.

Today was rather uneventful. I shouted myself hoarse trying to get people to write for the Newspaper. I got about thirty kids, at the expense of my voice. I wore a dress, because Rachel, Oona and I all agreed to wear one, but Rachel forgot and I felt a little silly. Oona's dress was gorgeous. Mine was kind of flapper-ish. I tried to buy jewelry for my mom's birthday at a thrift shop after school, but it was closed, and I ended up buying myself underwear at Urban Outfitters with the money instead. I wrote a story about going to a boring party for Sr. Quiñones, and the sad part was that it was true. Hopefully this saturday will be more lively.

I had to write a biography of myself for History. I had no idea what to write. It has to be third person, like a bio of someone else. It just ended up sounding stupid. Is this who I am? I thought, rereading it. I didn't bother to rewrite it, even though it was horrible, because I'm lazy. It gave me a very strange feeling.

I also have severe Harry-deprivation-related lonliness. Harry, if you're reading this--and I know you are--can we try to work something out so that we get to see each other more than once a week? I can't do this without you, and besides, I don't really want to. I don't think you do, either.

Anyway, I was feeling a little pathetic this afternoon, having finished all my homework before dinner and checked all of my usual sites. Then I checked my Gmail and found a comment from this guy, my shrink, idol and friend. It made my day.

Ugh. I don't feel like blogging right now. Besides, I'm hungry. More later. Maybe.

do you remember rock 'n' roll radio?

FYI, this is post number 100, in case anyone cared. The computer said so.

I have this dream of buying a bicycle and being able to ride away into the city whenever I want to ("Dirty hippie!" -Rachel). I found a guy who's willing to sell me a bike for $75. I think I'm going to go get one from him this weekend. I'd go now, but he's only there on Saturdays. Call me what you will, but to me the idea of cycling off to God-knows-where with a harmonica in my pocket and a backpack on my back sounds like bliss.

This year feels strange to me. The people I relied on fell out under me. There's no Harry to smile at during meeting, no LK to hug, no deep "Veeevaaaaay!" from Peter to restore my sense of normalcy. Even Oona's soothingly dirty-blonde hair went platinum on me. I can't help it. I'm used to admiring Misa from across the meeting house, watching Amanda toss words with Mr. Schubert, eating guacamole on the Sex Bench. Rachel has in-house, though, and Amanda's gone, and I feel disoriented.

It's pathetic for me to talk about feeling disoriented when all of the people I'm talking about just went to new states and started living by themselves in college communities, of course; but I'm not afraid of change in this respect. I'd love to be in college right now. It would be a positive heaven for me, in fact. I'm ready to pack my bags right now. "Fear of change" isn't the issue. I just don't like this change. I feel like the creature comforts of my existence are dropping away, and I'm being forced to acknowledge that my life is rather dull.

I comforted myself by eating a jello cup, a bowl of chocolate ice cream and a piece of frozen chicken for dinner (even though I'm trying to lose 5 lbs), uploading about 40 albums onto my iPod, reading Ethan Frome from cover to cover for the first time and caressing the printout of the receipt of my Cream reunion tickets. (Had to get that out there... I can't help it. I'm bragging, I know. But it's going to be amazing.)

Reading Ethan Frome, I find it difficult not to get caught up in the feeling of utter meaninglessnes. I don't mean this in a cool, philosophical, decisive, Camus way; I mean forced meaninglessness. It's the same feeling I get hanging out with my dad's family. Everything seems so pointless. Why live if you don't think you'll ever affect more than a dozen people living in a dead little village somewhere? I guess I feel like people should have purpose, aspiration. I'm constantly upset at the intellectual dead-ness that crushes down on me. I feel like every book I read and every story I write and every thought I think is like forcing my shoulders one step closer to casting off this weight. I need the freedom of higher thought, of stimulation. I saw Babbette's Feast a few days ago: "The artist is he whose cry is always, 'Let me do the best that I can,'" quotes Babbette. I want to do well. I want to use my brain as much as I possibly can. I need to feel that I'm doing the best work I'm capable of. And I don't feel anywhere near that.

I do a lot of things kind of compulsively, and I'm not really sure why I do all of them. I'm a compulsive shopper. I buy everything from books to bathrobes to bicycles to jewelry to CDs to lampshades to chairs at whim. I never spend much on anything, which makes it a little better, but I hope it doesn't turn into a problem when I grow up. I eat kind of compulsively, especially lately, even though I resolved to lose five pounds and weigh the same weight my mom weighed in high school. I walk compulsively, sometimes sixty blocks at a time. I once rode the subway all over New York on a whim for a whole day. I used to do weird things when I was younger like buy five sets of sea-monkeys and alphabetize CDs and clean my closet out when I felt like it. I compulsively cover all the empty wall space I'm allowed to touch in my room. My mom has a little of this. When she goes on a kick, she gets completely into it. She'll see two operas a week all winter, or buy concert tickets for the whole summer, or buy a coffee pot she likes in every color it comes in. Sometimes I worry that these are signs of insanity. I guess I'm a little territorial, in my own way. I want to leave my mark, my footprint, whenever I can, because I don't think the world is always beautiful. I do this more when I'm in a negative mood, maybe because the world seems less beautiful then. I guess it's my stupid, petty way of trying to be somebody recognizable. I don't think of myself as a person with regular bodily movements and presence and personality. I don't know why this is.

You know that it would be a lie If I was to say to you Girl, we couldn't get much higher...

Before I forget: do this, because I'm actually quite curious. It won't take you away from my wonderfully fascinating post, don't worry.



Back to business. Today was better. I woke up feeling gross and threw on a tank top and some wierd boots, but everything turned out all right. I walked to school with my dad without arguing even once, scheduled a year of deadlines with Donovan, dropped Chorus, went to my first tap class, and left after 7th. Doug even complimented my boots, which might be a first.

The best part, though, was getting on the L train at 3rd avenue and going straight to Pratt to see Harry. All my trains came on time, although I wandered around a bit trying to find the campus; I got some time with some of Harry's friends, some time with their TV and some time with Harry. By the time I stepped into the taxi I felt like a queen, despite my greasy hair, Harry's sweater and the fact that we'd obliviously missed the first taxi the guard called for me. It didn't matter that I was stuffed with Chinese food and still in high school. I felt mature and confident and comfortable and completely at peace.

And on the ride home I began thinking about all the layers there are to people. While Harry may seem simple at a glance, he's got his own deep-buried complexes, as intricate as mine or anyone else's. While the cabby played fittingly-stereotypical boyband-emo-indie-rock, I started rethinking my judgement of my grade. Everything seemed subjective suddenly. I started thinking about the people that usually bore me from a perspective of sympathy and discovered that they weren't quite as one-dimensional as I'd made them. Suddenly I wanted to know everything about everyone. Are these people happy? What are their lives, their families like?

I know that I am a self-centered person. I'm not proud of this fact. I like people that I'm impressed but not intimidated by, and with whom I can have interesting conversations. But why do the details of some people's lives fail to interest me? I think of all of the circles below the surface and come to the conclusion that I can only blame my lack of imagination for my own boredom.

I can also be judgemental, though I try my hardest not to be. I don't really like admitting this, either. The people I dislike the most are those that I see consciously hurting other people. I think it's because despite everything I still envision myself as at the receiving end of it.

That sounded better in my head. Believe me.



PS-I love rock 'n' roll. Just watched Fats Domino, Buddy Holly & the Crickets, Little Richard, Bill Hayley & the Comets, Chubby Checker, The Everly Brothers, Muddy Waters, The Lovin' Spoonful, Elvis, Joe Cocker, Dylan, the Byrds, Simon & Garfunkel, Cream, The Doors, Joni Mitchell, Jefferson Airplane and many many many more on a tape my dad bought for $1 at a flea market last weekend. I LOVE THIS MUSIC.

...and way off in the distance, there're seven new people born.

I must confess that I didn't do any of the things one is supposed to do before school starts. I didn't do any back-to-school-shopping. I didn't buy matching pastel binders and pencils, and I didn't plan my outfit and leave it folded neatly on a chair. I didn't buy a pencil sharpener or a stapler or cute little magnetic clips for my locker. I didn't pack my bag the night before or go over my schedule. I didn't even show up on time. I overslept in a men's plaid flannel shirt (I ran out of pijamas) and almost fell on my face getting out of bed. It was the first day of school and I just simply didn't care.

When I was a freshman I held this belief that there were really cool people in high school doing really cool, intellectual things that I didn't know about. I assumed that every party I wasn't invited to was fun and hilarious and deeply meaningful. I wondered if Blake and Huxley were right about drugs opening the doors of perception. I thought all of the so-called hippies and artistes and musicians were sincere. I thought people read books and examined paintings and cared about classicism. I thought there were lofty and wonderful things going on.

Now I'm a junior and I feel like there's absolutely nothing going on behind the screen. The parties aren't funny or enlightening or even all that memorable, and the people seem like zombies. They keep going around in nice tiny circles like wind-up toys with broken wheels and they barely see each other. Nobody seems to have changed at all. Everyone seems content to keep doing what they were doing. Life is becoming a collage of homework, alarm clocks, bells, classes, faces, pizza, french fries, hallways, silent meeting, lockers. The same faces will keep being thrown back at me in random, meaningless sequences. Nothing's different, except that there's no Harry to smile for or walk through the park with. Maybe I'm different. I don't even know. I ate lunch with my sister today.

Stick your head in the sand, little girl

If I had an apartment, I know exactly what it would look like. It would probably be pretty small and everything, because I'd be in college or whatever, and if it had a wood floor, I'd lay it bare. I'd leave all my shoes and coats by the door and be barefoot all the time. There would be random objects all over the place--oil lamps, metronomes, bronze crabs, tiny statues of tiny people. The walls would be covered in photos and posters and scraps of paper representing everything from Star Wars to Bob Dylan to George Orwell. I'd buy beautiful old furniture and drape it in patterned cloth, and if there was a fire escape, I'd put an armchair on it. There would be a bookshelf from ceiling to floor and if I were allowed, I'd paint the walls different colors. At least one would be black. None of the silverware or plates or glasses would match. If it got cold, I'd lay Mexican blankets on the floor and sleep under a quilt. I'd walk around naked if I felt like it. I'd play music all the time and invite my friends up at all hours and dance when I felt like it and sing when I felt like it and eat what I felt like eating and sleep when I felt like it, and I would never, never watch the news.

first rays of the new rising sun

So I haven't blogged in about three weeks, and all my old posts seem like crap. I vaguely considered starting over--a new blog for a new year, that sort of thing--but decided that to do so would be cowardly. So instead I ask you to pretend that it's a new beginning for me, because this year already seems old as hell. Everything seems stifling and familiar. I want new people, new stories, new experiences. I'm sick of my grade. Half my friends just graduated, and Harry's off at art college, and after I missed the last L train one night, my parents don't want me at Pratt after the sun goes down, which makes things difficult for us.

I also lost my cell phone in the airport in Zurich, which means that I had no means of communicating while I was lost. My dad made me get a new one, but I still have to rifle through all my friends' phones and steal their numbers. It's also a pretty crappy phone, and they charged me a lot for it because I didn't renew the plan.

On top of that, my grandma's here, so I have to entertain her every day before I can hang out with my friends. This involves lowering myself to the most tourist-ish of activities, including riding the Shark boat to the Statue of Liberty and eating at South Street Seaport, and navegating the subways so that she never has to walk more than two blocks in one stretch. Afterwards she goes home and watches the news all day, until she has a few shots of vodka and decides to criticize my politics, my lack of christianity, my mother and my taste. She insists that Cosi is a "classy place" and will only eat at the one on broadway because "Grandma likes to watch them make the bread," even though there's one across the street from me. (Yes, she refers to herself in the third person. Really.) Pre-vodka, though, she's not too bad. Renata managed to escape to Tory's country house, although I have a feeling that she's not any happier there, so I've had to entertain her all week.

That said, she did sit for two hours while my parents and I rifled through men's sweaters at the Barney's Warehouse Sale, and I get tonight to myself, since she's going to the US Open with my parents. Unsurprisingly, I was the one whose ticket got taken, and I can't say I mind. I'll probably rent a movie or call Lauren or just parade around in my new flea-market boots, eating jello and reading webcomics.

I really have become addicted to webcomics. I tried to start one of my own (well, of Elena's and my own... you know what I mean), but we got mixed responses. I have no intention of giving up, though.

Oh, yeah... what's with the mean anonymous comments? I don't want to disable them or anything, because a lot of people who want to comment, namely Elena, don't have accounts, and I'd hate to block them, but can you people sign them, please? I want to know who you are, and I'm too lazy to track your IP addresses, and besides, leaving anonymous comments is just kind of pathetic.

Not much to blog about. My photos from Europe turned out great, to everyone's surprise, and my cousin Nico wants copies of them. Got sick yesterday, and bored, and called Matt, who was also bored. Naturally I convinced him to eat out with my family in hopes that I wouldn't have to interact with them as much. Instead he entertained them for two hours while I massaged my head (I had a terrible headache). We split and went to find Lucas and his friends and ended up eating oreos on astro-turf with DaSilva, Lucas and this guy called David. Eventually Lucas and DaSilva left, and David, Matt and I watched The Graduate for a while and then split. My grandma was already asleep when I got home--I'd missed a whole night of vodka--and my stuff was, for a change, exactly where I'd left it, aside from my chair, which grandma insists on using as a suitcase-stand, even though I've asked her not to about five times.

It's sad how I'm not looking forward to school in the slightest. I don't really miss anyone, except Oona and RCP and Amanda (who's not coming back anyway), and my classes all look pretty crappy. I don't give a shit about cute notebooks and adorable sparkly pens or anything, and the workload will probably be horrible, especially since I've got an SAT tutor now, and sixty hours of community service left to do, and there's nobody left to hold parties but the new freshmen, and that means I'll have to wait to be invited by my little sister, which is sad, even though she's the coolest person ever.

Anyway, here are some photos--just in--from a party a while ago. They all seem to be of the same people, but whatever. Enjoy.





















Matt titled this one "Lucas raping Jaya in my room:"



...and this one "hot lesbians."