There's good music and then there's incredible, inspired music. The kind that sends chills down your back and periodically sends you into an orgasmic ecstasy. The same is true of writing. There's good writing and then there's really amazing writing. To some degree it's relative, but there's a component of the universal in everything truly great.

Watching Martin Luther King speak gives me chills. Reading picture-books on him every year since I was three and textbook chapters on him when I got older had almost no effect on me at all. But watching a video in Ms. Reyes' class last week just did it somehow. It was incredible.

Semi-random thoughts:

I gave myself time off to see Harry last night and go to the play and the cast party today. And now I have a ton of work hovering just above my head.

I'd rather be in college than be in high school, but if I have to be in high school, I'd rather be a senior. So things are looking up with the passage of time. I'm even breaking my first semester pattern of antisocial-ness.

I LOVE being with people who understand me. Nobody ever completely understands anyone else, but it can be enough. Haven't seen Lauren in ages, and I'm avoiding calling her because I don't have time to see her for the next few weeks anyway. I'm skipping three parties this weekend. I don't eat lunch any more and I work through my frees. But I when I get a chance to be with the people who get me, it gives me a clean slate in a strange way. I'm completely restored.

I'm really glad I went to see Harry last night.

How the hell do you rewrite an entire essay based on the comment "Nice work, Veronica! One or two places need clarification or rewording. A-"?

I think I'm going to forget about it and take a shower so Harry doesn't have to smell my BO when I subway myself over to Brooklyn for a short romantic dinner before we're both crushed under the weight of finals.

We've had this evil neighbor named Sonya below Renata's and my side of the house for about ten years. She'd always bang on the ceiling if we played music after nine but held parties with loud funk music below our beds until two a few times a year. She threatened to sue us and several other tenants for various reasons. We had to cover our lovely wood floors with dull grey-brown carpets to placate her, which was a shame. Her dog made the elevator smell bad and she was always running around in spandex with a walkman when I went to school. She eyed my clothes with a look of revulsion every morning and took her dog to the dog spa next door while she got manicured over Seventeen around the block. Recently the noise stopped, the smell left and we began to wonder if she had gone deaf or if some Dickensian revelation had visited her overnight. She'd defended her apartment so viciously against any intruding bohemianism that we couldn't believe that she'd move out.

Today I was walking down the street on my way home and I saw a man walking in the other direction. He was in his late twenties, had black dreadlocks down to his shoulders with a few blue streaks here and there and walked a smallish brown-and-white dog with a studded leather collar. I turned into my building and to my surprise, he turned in as well. "What floor?" I asked, as he got into the elevator. "Three." His voice was harsh and he cleared his throat and repeated himself awkwardly. I made friends with the dog to ease the discomfort. When we said goodbye he stepped out and unlocked the apartment directly below mine. His somewhat milder-looking roommate pulled off some enormous studio headphones and said "hey, man, listen to this!" as the elevator door closed.

Sonya must have been a lot more desperate to get out than she let on if she was willing to sell her precious apartment to those two.

So I'm trying this vow of silence thing again tomorrow. I failed miserably last time when Andy Fish took us to the park and asked me if I had any good concerts coming up, and I actually shouted. I have no concerts this year, two Holocaust survivor speeches to attend, and no really interesting classes. Oh, and I have Jazz Vocal, as does Rachel B. (who's running the thing). But Bob will probably just let us go.

In other news, I got to shut my parents up with my good SAT scores and my National Merit thing for my PSAT last year, both in the same day. And it rocked. And I'm going to be in the city on my birthday for the first time in my life. I'm thinking of getting all my friends to come over and meet each other, because they're all awesome and random. But that's in July, and I can't afford to think any farther than a week into the future right now.

My schedule is INSANE! And I'm sick of Robin Bowman thinking I have the same academic life as all the sophomores, because I'm under such insane pressure right now that it's almost suicidal.

Warning: long post ahead that deals with shopping and personal goals

Yesterday I walked everywhere. I left school and went straight to 6th and A, stopped home for money, and walked to 38th and 9th and then back. It was great, although my calves, which were aching beforehand, almost prevented me from sleeping that night (as did Harry, who called me at one in the morning during a draw-a-thon and made me miss him all over again).

I really can't explain the deep delight I take from looking at clothes in thrift shops. I stopped into Barneys while I was nearby to get ideas, but I found myself dissappointed in the unimaginative interpretations of the past that they were showing off. The real thing is infinately superior. Old dresses and shoes and felt hats and jeans have so much history in them, so much life... it's almost a high. I wander into these obscure shops and sift for hours and feel like I've gone back in time.

The strangest part of the experience is finding old wedding dresses. I know I've mentioned this before, but they're always there. I always wonder if the person either died or decided to give away their wedding dress--maybe the marriage failed, maybe they're just not sentimental, or maybe they needed money. Or maybe there's a failed designer out there who was clearing out his or her racks. Either way, the fact that something that was once so important to someone is abandoned and on sale for twenty dollars has a kind of sad magic to it.

People will always take the most beautiful designs and stick huge neon tufts all over them. I'm forever cutting things off of things, tearing out shoulder pads and snipping beads and monograms. I got an amazing purse the other day that had a whole garden of suede pastel flowers germinating on one side, and I just cut them off and got an elegant bag. I got complimented on it at a thrift shop yesterday by this woman who was trying on a calf-length pastel-blue pouf skirt with a natural waist. "I don't know if I can wear it with a waist this high," she told me, but I told her that it could be manipulated. She was fascinated. "How would you wear it?" she asked, so I showed her a few tricks--use the pocket fabric to insert a triangle into the zipper, or fold the top over a belt, or hide it under a pinched sweater. She told me that she had to shop for new clothes now because she'd had an operation that caused her to gain weight and was only now returning to her natural shape. She was thirty and in law school. I gave her tips for resizing her clothes. She asked me which design school I studied at. I told her I was in high school and she smiled and said that "you intimidate me even more now than you did when I thought you were twenty-five."

It was an eerie moment. I'm not used to intimidating people. I don't think of myself as an intimidating person at all. I have to admit that I was flattered, partly because she seemed pretty confident, but I was also just confused. I hate being intimidated by people, and I've spent most of my life doing it. I have several friends who initially intimidated me; but they're of that wonderful type that see intimidation right away and go out of their ways to avoid it. I want to be a Lauren, smart and gorgeous but so friendly and loving that no one feels threatened. But that takes more than just confidence; it takes charisma and knowledge and understanding. Even as a freshman I understood that; my goal was not to become one of those high-school princesses whose beauty leaves a bitter wake but to become a queen, strong and confident and loving. I can deal with criticism pretty well now, but that kind of a compliment is a much more driving criticism to me, and it scares me. I'm more confident now than I ever have been, but I want to find a confidence so great that it approaches complete humility, and I'm not there yet.

Today was kickass. Got back into my yoga groove, sang a bunch, went to a sample sale that LK recommended me where I didn't buy anything but made some great sketches of stuff to make when my finals are over. As predicted, my Their Eyes Were Watching God essay kicked ass, earning me an A four periods after I turned it in and sparking a big debate in the English office about whether or not it was valid to treat the rabid dog as a metaphor. Sarah and Maria initially said that it wasn't, and Donovan and Mr. Schwartz defended it; then Sarah got converted by Donovan and Maria backed down a bit. Then Sarah reread my essay and realized that I'd included several of their arguments and modified her own comments.

I've been identifying literary terms left and right in everything I read and hear lately as a means of preparing myself for the AP English test. It's fun because the words are so cool, like trope and zeugma and meiosis and anagnorisis and synaesthesia. I really like the fact that at this point I've made my scheduling decisions well enough that I'm interested in all of my finals (except biology) and actually enjoy preparing for my SAT II's and tests and stuff. Especially my history paper, which is going to kick ass, mark my words.

Someone anonymously wrote that all public displays of art are pleas for approval, which can be seen as a negative or positive thing, and included my blog in that generalization this morning. That was quite true of this page for a while. But it's not any more. I write because I want to, and I write in ways that I know a lot of people won't read. I just like it. It's definately not art. It's just little daily thoughts. Take them as you will, if you enjoy them, and leave if you don't. Life's too short for sites that you don't enjoy.

And that's the last thing I'm going to say about blogging. Period.

I feel so tired... my lips almost ache envisioning the kiss I've missed for weeks (synaesthesia, and accidentally, but I'm too tired to think of a better word). Damn colleges and finals!

a day in the life (kind of out of order because I'm tired)

In the morning it's tap-tap-tap down the stairs and the pink panther and jazz hands and that incredible thing called beat that I can only grasp every now and then but that I feel everywhere, just beyond my reach, under the skins of everything and under the soles of my shoes and above me as the clouds pass by. Then it's smiling people and I have no bitterness at all, I just like them. And incredibly awesome technology in the hands of those few people who care about that stuff, and when you talk to them about it you can see something crawling out of a cave in their minds and blinking. And then sketching and writing my way through biology and marvelling at the otherworldy graphs Mr. Z shows us (math is finally getting complicated enough to be cool) and tap-tap-tap and digging through the bullshit in Spieldenner's class and enjoying the company of Elisa Shapiro and Moll, who get it, and lovely Lily whom I adore and then Lullabye of Birdland, that's what I / always hear / when you sigh/ never in my wordland could-there-be-words-to-explain... lovely Alida bearing her soul, Adam and Maddy and Rachel finally starting to relax, Bob in another world, unaware of the changes that have come over the physical realm, drifting through everything double-time swing-time blind and alive. And Ms. Reyes, happy even though she's leaving because she really does love her children, all fifty of us, and has an elephant's memory and a sparrow's song and will never really leave us. And Harry's ring around my neck and feeling strong and bright, and Robin yelling at me for being disorganized and hushing when I explain my schedule. And jazz in the meetinghouse, Bob so proud to show us his world YEAH sha-doo-ba-doo-BUH buh BAAA and DFL grinning, above everything, riding the smooth stream of notes like none of us ever will. And buying grapes and shishkabobs with Matt and sneaking them into Barnes & Noble so I can buy a book for Harry, who's working so hard, and singing spoonfulspoonfulspoonfFULSPOONful down the street and Lucas reminds me that we heard Cream play it and Clark notices that I'm dancing barefoot and a year of persuasive work is undone in an instant of laughter. TAP TAP TAP the sidewalk rolls. And at home clicking through webcomics and wikipedia and procrastinating until I finally buckle down and reread the damn book and then I'VE GOT IT and it's brilliant and I'm not taking any more of that B+ shit from now on. I GET it. It's all in front of me. And tap-tap-tap my fingers fly, pausing between paragraphs to eat easter chocolates taht we got in the mail from BusinessWeek, red and white candy coins embossed with their logo. And a break in the middle to talk to my Harry and feel proud of him. And he loves me and I'm his sweet V and he's my man my little boy and we're tired and busy and so so happy. And a minute to email Frankie about pride and solidarity and then spill my tired full happy mind onto my blog before I finish the damn paper and fall asleep with a white bear in a PRATT shirt tucked into my arms, making me feel full and empty all at once. And so alive! And I'm so very tired now and lullabyeofbirdland is singing me to sleep in my head, but I still have to finish the damn paper and I don't even mind.

aaaaaaaaah spore is going to be SO AWESOME! (click)

Even though I wrote that I was going to write my essay and then I came back to my blog again, I actually am writing my essay. But when I was reviewing the assignment sheet and wondering why none of it sounded familiar, I turned it over to see if there was a back side and had the shocking realization that I have become one of those girls that draws clothes all over her notes. I was momentarily revolted at the thought of having done something so un-me.

It brought me back to middle school and the world of the fashion slaves of the time (amongst whom I was not welcome). Whenever I see people doing something like that I automatically think of them as young, like little girls imagining themselves in iconic Cinderella dresses with large busts and small waists and wholeheartedly embracing the feminine cliché. I don't dislike them for it--it can be endearing, at times--but I automatically distance myself from those artists because I want to label myself mature, and because I grew up believing that I would never be one of those girls, the strawberry-ice-cream-eating, gap-wearing kids whose trendy parents raised them to be popular before they knew the difference.

On closer inspection, however, I realized that my drawings don't have that quality. They're simple, modern but not trendy, anatomically correct and somewhat masculine. Then I remembered that I had drawn those sketches as preliminary plans for clothes I've already begun making and marvelled at the wonderful freedom of being able to envision what you want and make it for yourself, rather than relying on someone else to invent your personal style. It makes me feel not just mature but powerful.

Now I have to write an essay about a metaphor in Zora Neale Hurston and I can't stop thinking up my own metaphors instead. But somehow I feel a lot more accomplished after analyzing my own tenor than I would if I had finished the paper.

AAAH I have SO MUCH WORK tonight! I don't know if I'm going to come out of this alive!

We got new editors for the paper. It's really incredible what The Oblivion has become. There are more than thirty people involved, and we're selling ad space and subscriptions next year. Aside from that, it's an important part of several people's lives now. It's definately not my paper any more--if I were to quit, it'd go on without me. But while I'm here I can make it even better. I got called "ms" the other day by an underclassman who was interested in writing for us. It really is a formal organization and that scares me, because I know that it's just me and Jake and Hoops and Donovan, and the fact that it's become a system means that other authoritative systems are just as human.

Congrats to the new editors, if any of them are reading this. I don't even know who reads this any more. Someone who either likes Jerry Lee Lewis a lot or just hates me, Sophie's friends from Suburbland (who also like Jerry Lee Lewis), my sister's friends, my friends in college, a few people from school, a few of Lucas and Clark's band members... I don't even know who else, but there are people. Random people from other countries.

The nice thing about blogs is that they're organic. Whatever you last wrote is swallowed by what you write next, and nobody really ever reads the archives, especially if you write long posts on a regular basis and have had your blog for over a year, as I have. So whatever I write is what it is--and then it's gone and it isn't at all.

I'm falling in love with Seamus Heaney's poetry.
I love talking to strangers.
I feel like I look ten times better when I'm happy.
I miss my Harry.

I really should be starting my English essay.

I had an amazing weekend. And I'm on the rag. I went thrift-shopping, took a Math 2C SAT II and an AP English (both practice tests) and scored well, mailed my Ohio forms, went to Matt's show, saw Jerry Lee Lewis, got all my research done for History and typed a bibliography, studied for my Spanish test, ate easter candy, saw my almost-cousin and figured out what's up with Avian Bird Flu from him, and had a few good phone conversations. And then I found $20. (Not even kidding about that last part.) Now it's sunday night and I feel self-sufficient and happy and at peace. I just finished rewarding myself with a bunch of Seinfeld and now my sister and my dad are laughing in the living room and my mom is sneezing, per usual.

I feel good. I've been feeling great all weekend. Maybe it's the weather or something. I look in the mirror and I like my face and I like my body and I like my intelligence and my intense interest in things and my love of life. When I'm confident I have a great personality, too, and I know it and I'm proud of it. It's summer and I'm alive!

JERRY LEE LEWIS

Thinking about some of my unusual tastes and habits I came to see another common thread this morning. I almost get high off of feeling self-sufficient. That's why I organize my events and work well even though I'm not naturally an organized person. It also explains why I'm so thrifty, why I don't shoplift, why I like making my own things, why I don't like big new stores (I was in Barnes & Noble today picking up an SAT book and it gave me the creeps), why I admire people who make strong and unusual personal statements, why I love walking through the city by myself... everything. The only thing that doesn't really fit into the picture is Harry, and after a few trials-by-fire I'm becoming more self-sufficient there, too, and am much happier for it. I had a more elaborate explanation ready in my head but looking at this now I guess it's not necessary.

Oh, and I got a new email: urbananagnorisis@gmail.com. I was sick of the old one. Anything sent to my old address will be forwarded there.

I feel like I'm much more alive lately. I fill ten pages of my notebook a day and still feel like I haven't gotten down half of the noteworthy new things in my head.

My cousin's fianceé, Pete, is coming today. He's a neuroscientist and a great blues guitarist. He's marrying Veronica, who we used to call Big Veronica when I was little. I'm bigger than her now, but it's hard not to call her Big any more. We're trying to switch to Vern. Anyway, that should be fun.

Please. PLEASE. Powers That Be. Let me be this happy and inspired and in love for the rest of my life.

I have become an absolute Neatorama addict over the last few weeks. And I've gotten my sister hooked now. It's so awful. It's so cool!

Made my first shirt on my new dress form! I can't repress the urge to tie my hair up with silk ribbons for much longer. I've also been stuffing myself with buttered bread recently. I try to excuse my behavior by claiming to be cultured, but I think it has more to do with PMS than anything.

Seeing other couples at different stages of their relationships makes me realize how far I've come in the course of my own. I've experienced and learned to conquer jealousy, anger, self-doubt, and my period. I remember how I felt swept away at the very beginning and saw everything differently, and how good and how bad things have been. It's two years next month. I've really learned a lot.

And why didn't anyone tell me about Emma and Moll??!

I can't tell you how many times my blog has come up in searches for "hot lesbians," "gentry farley" and "dark-eyed gypsy blog." The last one particularly confuses me because anyone who has that much information should be able to get here without an intermediary search. The other two make sense, I guess.

Jazz Vocal + Dukesmen of Yale = baaaaaad

Since Christmas I've been searching the city for a cheap dress form and haven't come up with anything under $350 yet. So today as I took a stray path on the way home and found only steeper prices, I began thinking of possible replacements. I bought a ton of great fabric last week, and summer's on the way, and I don't trust myself to eyeball the clothes I have in mind. (Renata was an option, but her more feminine parts are less developed than mine, and she moves.) There must be some other way to make that shape, I thought. Then I remembered the storker (whose art I have had the privelege of spotting downtown recently) and thought, if he can make people out of tape, then, dammit, so can I.

But the Storker uses elaborate molds and stuff, and the idea of covering myself in tape for a few hours wasn't appealing (or safe, with Renata and Harper on the loose). And my model needed to be solid. So I searched the house for building materials.

I found an old green child-sized broom behind the filing cabinet in the toy closet and a roll of packing tape in my dad's tool kit. Tweety's supply box yielded two Financial Times, and a cardboard box in the linen closet provided a tape measure. I took my measurements and set to work.

Digital camera isn't charged, but there is now a peach-colored shiny dress form leaning on a broom handle in the corner of my room wearing one of my sweaters. It's exactly my size and shape, swolen abdomen and all (maybe I shouldn't have taken my measurements just before my period), and has my posture. The breasts were the only part I couldn't really get right, but they're close enough to model any of the clothes I'm likely to make. It's lighter than any dress form you can buy and doesn't need a stand to counterbalance it. It's portable. It looks cool. And the whole thing cost me four bucks.

Forgot to mention that I got accepted at the Ohio Summer Writers' Studio! It's only two weeks long but it's going to be really intense. The only thing they ask you to bring is a notebook and pen. I'm psyched.

In other news, Oona cut her hair, the Maddinglys left (and Zack was right in his last comment: whenever I call anyone bohemian it pretty much means that I'm in love with them), and I kicked ass on my history test last period. Um. Thinking of cutting my hair some time, but maybe next year or over the summer.

Expanding a bit, the Maddinglys fell off of the sofa last night watching Harold & Maude and I gave Douglas my old Tin-Tin books after I saw how much he loved them. The way he reads on the sofa and giggles at unrelated moments during everyone else's conversations is so Harry-ish!

And I'm PMSing again and had to peek up at Harry yesterday and say "hug me!" He knew right away what I felt and held me and restored me and now I'm back up, intact, a little pimpled, ready to handle anything.

I'm sick of talking about colleges!

Yesterday I bought the most beautiful fabric and I can't wait to start working with it. Liner fabric only costs two or three dollars a yard, and it's so pretty and easy to use!

Being busy like this is really, really good for me. I don't like the pressure but I love having something to do all the time, and managing my own affairs, and feeling like I'm ready for my tests and things. It makes me feel awake and alert all the time. It makes me feel like reading (I pretend to myself that I'm studying for AP English) and going to museums (which I do) and talking to strangers (which has gotten me in trouble before, but whatever). So life feels bright again.

Yeah... looking back, I guess it's pretty obvious that I just ate three chocolate mini-muffins during meeting. Maria Fahey caught several of us studying and said "what are you doing? At least have the guts to skip meeting if you need to study!" I love her.

I have 3 SAT II's, an AP and all of my finals coming up within the month and a half and I'm stressing out a bit, but I'm still happier that I've been in a long time. It's hard not to be happy in the middle of New York. There's so much life and stimulation! The richness of the city also makes it easy to tell the goats from the sheep, or whatever that phrase is, by the way people react to the environment, typically either by ignoring it and pretending that they live in the suburbs or by really persuing an education while they're here.

That said, I have to admit that I know very little about contemporary music or literature, and what I know of contemporary art I accredit largely to Harry's influence. It's not that I'm a classicist, either; I just don't know where to start. I listen to everything people give me and read everything I'm recommended but it's not enough, and I have to admit that I feel like it's a waste of time to go to Barnes & Noble and pore over books of poetry that may or may not prove worth reading. I largely rely on word of mouth to find new art.

Actually, I used to go to stores and try out music or browse through books for hours on end--but these days I just don't have time! Donovan once told me casually that he never bothers to read something that he isn't sure will be worth his while, and I just nodded and leaned in over the proofs to fix a typo, not understanding his perspective or the relevance of the comment. Now it's clear to me because I've arrived at it. Life is too short to read bad books. (I suspect that he was talking about the dullness of proofreading a student article that you've already edited several times.)

Whenever people try to convince me to do something by asking if I can "spare an hour of [my] life," I feel instantly inclined not to do it. It's about the least persuasive argument I can think of. It makes me feel like I don't have extra hours. I don't know if this is only true of me or is a widespread sentiment, but I make a point of never using the phrase.

The search for reading material is never-ending. I write down every title or author that anyone I respect mentions and read every book I am lent fairly religiously, often sacrificing grades or sleep, and use Wikipedia to find authors similar to some of my favorites. I used to read the books I felt I was supposed to read--Jane Eyre kind of stuff--but got bored of it pretty quickly and realized that I had to find people with both knowledge and taste and extract as much information from them as possible. I continue to do so, but I can't help but feel like I'm missing out on a lot of modern literature.

Earlier this year I worked coat check at a writers' party at the Used Book Café and ran into several of the masterminds of contemporary literature (and took their purses). When I told Lauren about it, she knew almost all of them, putting my two- or three-novel repetoire to shame. It really woke me up.

I think I subconsciously shrink away from books that are widely read because I hate to see something that I love misunderstood or pop-culture-ified, and I'm afraid that I'll like it. I'm sure I'm also afraid to like something and realize that my tastes are completely normal.

But it's China Town Ice Cream Factory time, and literature can wait.

We had this community service project on 125th street on Friday at a pre-k daycare center working with underprivileged children and it made me feel really grateful not to have had to go to a place like that. The teachers were strict and harsh all the time! I remember how awful I felt when someone yelled at me as a kid and see these kids getting chastised several times in the course of a day and wonder if they're used to it or if they still feel badly about it. It also gave me this strange urge to see all the people I know as children, see how they act when they're natural and not so self-aware.

The Mattinglys, a British family of five, arrived on Friday as well, and we've been showing them around the city. Unfortunately, I can barely speak because of my sickness, so they all have the impression that I have a really raspy, masculine voice. Still, showing them the city and hearing their perspectives makes me realize just how incredible New York really is. They're almost like the Weasleys--fascinated by our "please curb your dog" signs and intensely interested in the taxi system. They're all really smart and kind and get along very well. The oldest daughter goes to Oxford and the father and mother are working on an archaeological dig in Libya. They're kind of bohemian, and all of their kids were home-schooled until high school, but they don't seem to get tired of each other. The son, Douglas, who's twelve, reminds me of a younger Harry. When he was stooping over a Calvin & Hobbes book at Forbidden Planet and had to be dragged out, the resemblence was uncanny. The whole family is loveable and interesting and wonderful to have, although walking so much and explaining the landmarks has taken its toll on my health. I also haven't been able to use the computer for a few days because the whole family is living in Renata's and my bedroom, so my apologies to all the unread blogs and websites out there.

Aaah readership got way too high for my liking after that whole fiasco!

Anyway I reorganized my link list recently and ended up at some sites I hadn't seen in a while and some new ones. Check out this cool site of insane wedding dress designs! Some of them are just bizarre. A lot of them are actually really cool.

And while we're linking, check out this guy's story about the dangers of listening to punk-rock en route to the airport.

Ugh. I can barely breathe.

Considering how sick I am, though, I've been having a lot of fun for the last few days. I'm not saying that it's fun to be sick, even though I once did, but by coincidence I've been having a good time and it makes things much easier.

Audrey said my grades are in the top 50% but might not fall in the top 25% at the end of this year. I have to work hard!

Harry got linked to and complimented by the author(s?) of ZebraGirl, an awesome webcomic that's pretty well known! It's at the 4/6 news entry under this comic (just scroll down).

And for those of you who don't know, I've lived under the doctrine of "tenga verguenza," which I was told meant "have modesty" but which translates more accurately to "have shame," for most of my life. Having confidence has been an uphill struggle for me as far back as I can remember. Last semester was truly awful. But I'm not weak and I never really buckled and now I've come so far as to have reached a sort of plateau. I'm sorry if the fact that I like myself and I'm happy is offensive to some people. But my friends, who read my blog by choice, do so with the knowledge that I'm no politician or gawker and that I intend to write about myself. What the hell do you expect me to write about? I don't have the right to write about anyone else, anyway, and besides, I'm not lying about that inherent love of the first person. It includes enjoying reading other people's blogs, devouring autobiographies and even preferring fictional narratives in the first person over others. I'm going to keep writing this way, and if you don't like it, you don't have to read it. Fin.

I know that if you don't know me it might seem like I'm just being obnoxious or pompous. But I write for people who know me and know that I have to fight for my freedom a bit harder than most. Look back a few months into my archives, and read between the lines a little, and you'll see the blue devil dragging me down.

There's also a very fine line between pride and arrogance, to quote DH, and it lies in the difference between using your personal merits and self-respect as an excuse to condescend other people and bring them down and enjoying both yourself and others. I love people quite easily and don't use pride to assert any kind of superiority. My vision of an ideal society is one in which everyone respects both themselves and each other, and I intend to persue it.

And Lucas... yeah. That part was a bit factually erroneous. What I meant was more along the lines of "dates/treats younger women as equals in spite of the age gap," and I think you do a pretty good job of it. And "Jailhouse Rock" is awesome just for the one dance number in the fake prison scene. Every time I watch it I get a little chill up my back.

I'm sick and tired (and that's not a figure of speech) and I'm going to go to bed so that I have a shot at being well enough to go to school tomorrow.

I don't want to brag, but you asked for it, so here it is. Here's why I'm awesome. Here's the reason no one can bring me down unless I choose to let them do so. Here's my answer to several misconceptions about me that seem to be especially common these days.

I'm not a self-centered person. I write about myself because I don't think I have the right to write about anyone else, but I do so with the knowledge that people who choose to come to my site want to hear about me. It's a way to keep in touch with friends in other states and countries who do the same and a way to clarify misconceptions about myself and be open with people. I'm a very caring person that will love easily and forgive easily when befriended and I do not condescend or judge other people unless they give me strong reasons to do so (and they have to be pretty extreme reasons). I tend to look for the best in people and live a happier life for that reason.

My friends are awesome. Every single one of them is an intelligent person with a strong personality. Several of the people I looked up to as role models as a freshman have become close friends now and I'm proud to be associated with them. I don't pressure anyone and I know that the people who hang out with me do so because they like me and want to be with me. If you knew LK's life and passion, Lauren's loving spirit, Matt's inner revolutionary, DaSilva's tender wildness, Jaya's wit and laughter... the list goes on forever, and I mean no offense to people I haven't mentioned. But my friends are beautiful people who I love deeply and who make my world brighter.

And don't you dare get up on Harry for being nerdy. He's a little nerdy but he's the coolest nerd you'll ever find and is loved by everyone who meets him. He's loyal and laid-back extremely attractive. He's intellectual and understands the very cutting edge of graphic art. He loves to think and does it well. He's also an amazing artist in his own right and a lighthearted, fun-loving guy with a great sense of humor that's not like anyone else's (except maybe his little brother's). He can make anyone laugh. He's extremely sincere. He's one of the only men I know that is not sexist and doesn't mind dating someone younger than him. He's not out to prove his masculinity and is still much more of a man than his violent counterparts, and better built. He's one of those people that others are grateful to have known. He's an incredible person with a strong personality and on optimistic outlook and I love him insanely. (Sorry if I'm embarrassing you, H. I really love you.)

I am in no way dumb. I have an IQ of 150, I'm extremely well read and have extensive knowledge of several literary movements and six writing awards under my belt from Columbia University, the Columbia-Scholastic Press Association, and the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards Competition. My SAT's and standardized tests have been 99th percentile since I was in kindergarten. I have taken college-level classes and earned A's. I'm editor-in-chief of the school paper, which used to be a crap publication that came out once a year and under my editorship now prints every quarter. I control a flexible staff of 30 now and began with three. Fortunately, I'm at a school where a lot of people are smart and inspired, and I'm not a rariety here; but I'm not a rule, either.

I'm strong and proud and happy right now, and no amount of vague anonymous criticism can bring me down. You can play war all you want but in the end, I will win, because my confidence is not hormonal and will not fluctuate unless my character does so first; and I write with no bitterness inside of me and no hatred at all, while others seem to carry so much bitterness that it seeps out through their fingers. I will be the "maid who defies the quips of blazoning pens;" by attacking the stone wall of my integrity you will only highlight your own weakness. Non-constructive criticism is obviously not intended to better the world in any way and in the end will always be exposed as pathetic and self-centered.

So I'll say it again: what power men possess to annoy me I grant them only by a weak curiousity. No man can come near me but through my act. Mess with me and you're messing with a philosophy of pride and self-reliance. I'm smart enough not to say things I don't mean and I'm anything but weak.

The irony, of course, is that I feel stronger now than ever before now that I know my own ability to face criticism and be truly self-reliant. I hope that some day everyone I know will feel this same sense of freedom grounded in strenth and the happiness it entails.

So I was waiting in the lobby for Nurse Chris because I finally got Harry's sickness, and there was a box of posters that said "Please Take!" filled with the Friends alphabet posters they make every year. And nestled in between tubed alphabets was a short pinkish poster. I fished it out and unrolled it--

It was a DeLa Vega poster with a hand-made drawing on the back and a signature underneath it.

It feels really good to know that your sister knows you better than anyone else does and still really respects you.

Hermiting myself for a while gave me a certain independence that I've come to value a lot recently, which is based on the belief that other people's perceptions of me do not in any way define me. With that knowledge comes a rich Emersonian freedom.

Tell me your character! I like new ideas.

If you could have one mutant X-man power and were not allowed to use any superhero powers already invented by a major comic company, what would it be?

Harry, you're not allowed to comment 'cause you already came up with one.