So we performed and she performed and I performed and it went well sometimes and very badly other times and I found I didn't care. I cried and I lost sleep and I forgot to eat lunch for two days and I worked late and my tooth started bleeding and I couldn't get back to sleep until five and I woke up at six and fell asleep again and had to get dressed and shave my legs in ten minutes and then no one was there to give me detention so I just sat with Ms. Daly, and when she asks, "how are you, V.V.?" I never know what to say. "Depressed, hormone-imbalanced, tired, hungry, bored, apathetic and romantically pained" would have been good, but I just said "I'm fine" and tried to get more work done. Sweet sophomore Dylan was nice about the whole performance thing, because he's a nice guy and kind of gets it. Matt and Lucas have, somewhere between freshman year and the present, become excellent musicians, though they sound a bit like the Who and the Kinks. Matt bought me coffee and apologized profusely because Eli was there, and I just shrugged. "I don't really care either way," I said; "I just want him to feel embarrassed." So I ignored him and came home with my little sister and worked for hours so I can go up to Pratt today, even though it's probably not a very good idea for me. I ran out late for detention and my mom drove me and said, "V, I understand why you're bored, because whenever I go to parents' meetings I don't know who to talk to, and I don't really want to talk to any of them, because all of the parents are boring, and I imagine their kids are, too," and I said "Yeah, pretty much," and it was oddly pleasant.

The photo class doesn't want me and my PSATs were mediocre and my dad's happy all of the sudden, which is confusing, and I have to work through this week and then live through next semester and then maybe it will be okay again. I want to bike away like Mr. Z and meet new people and feel the summer and carry my life on my back and be okay with everything. I want to be happy.

I'm afraid that the ex-seniors will all come back and I'll feel safe again and then everyone will leave and it will be another heartbreak. Or maybe I'm so far down that they'll seem lame, too, and I won't want to feel for them or see them or miss them and nothing will help me.

This is how I write when I have ten minutes 'till my next class and two hours of sleep and tear-bags under my eyes and dopey clothes because I never really prepared myself for today.