those condemned to act accordinglyand wait for succeeding kings

I've developed some seriously bad habits in my short time on this earth. Talking to strangers, eating candy for lunch, biting my nails, tap dancing under the table and sleeping irregularly are the more physical ones. I also let myself get upset and get emotional over the stupidest things, and give people the impression that I don't like them, and get awkward a lot. Plus I have a wierd voice.

Last night I saw Batman Begins with my parents. They hated it and shut it off half an hour in, but I was already ready to cry over Bruce Wayne's dead parents. And then I saw Zorro and got happy when they defeated the Dons and liberated the Mexicans, despite my mom's insistence that none of the lead characters looked even remotely Mexican (which is true) and had some candy to celebrate.

I really hate myspace. I'm going to try to delete my account again.

The paper went to press with some typos and no page numbers beyond seven. I'm torn between agonizing over its imperfections, feeling relieved that it's finally out of my hands, and worrying about the next issue (deadline in three weeks). Donovan told me to go home and eat some ice cream because I couldn't stop tap-dancing and biting my nails as the pages fed through the printer one laborious, meticulous, painful inch at a time. I took his advice.

I'm wearing pink. It feels strange.

I took a PSAT at Loyola School yesterday, conveniently missing all of my classes except English and Rock & Mythology. The kids there are FREAKY. This one girl kept saying, "Do you know Alicia Harris?" and when I finally admitted that I did, she went "Oh my god isn't she the nicest sweetest coolest best person ever??!!" until I admitted that yes, she was sweet, and then the girl started going "Are you, like, best friends with her??!!" until I finally told them all that I didn't know anyone in my grade (only kind of a lie) and thus didn't know any of their friends. I went to Petco to look for fluffy things for Harry, even though he's not allowed to have them at college, because I know that once he saw it he wouldn't be able to send it back, and I ate at a pizza restaurant where I almost passed out with Harry and Elena last summer on the way to the Met. Even then the Loyola kids infiltrated and tried to get me to talk to them. I barely escaped with my life.

I'm in love with T.S. Eliot.

I feel strange about having this free while everyone else has an art class. I wish I'd taken more art classes, but in a wierd way I resent classes that teach me things I've already been learning on my own. I kind of want to do my artistic stuff independently of the classes. The problem is that I don't do them as much as I ought to, leaving me no choice but to take a class and force myself to write/draw/whatever.

I want it to be friday so I can get out at twenty-after-two and enter my happy weekend-world where nothing is awkward or lonely or cold. So long as I stay out of my house, anyway.

I think I deserve an award for misspelling my own name more than anyone I've ever met. I usually set my account names to "veronicavm" or something so I won't forget them, but I always misspell things and end up locked out for twenty minutes.

It's strange. Nothing seems to mark the passage of time for me any more. I don't know what I'm doing here. I used to feel like I had a place here. Now I just drift, attending things only when I feel like it and ususally leaving early or arriving late. The only thing I really remember is weekends. Weeks are just a vague continuum of bike rides and phone calls and thrift shops and layout and books with no fixed points to use as points of relativity.

It's kind of frightening.