At the height of our power

I still have to apply to colleges and apply for scholarships and get all sorts of signatures so I can test out of health and take the ACT and take the SAT again and do all sorts of other fancy collegiate things I probably haven't thought of yet and I have to do three more plays and suck the joy from every second of this last sweet year and I have to not have any regrets and I have to kiss this girl and I have to find out about this other one, two maybe, and I have to listen to "Love Will Tear Us Apart" fifty more times and I have to make that dollar and I have to write a three act play and take every possible opportunity to put words to paper and my Creative Writing teacher says I need to be published and I think it's flattery and it's important to maintain modesty and I will only be young a little while longer and I swear to God I'm starting to feel cool and we're getting a little skinnier every day and I'm running at night and I need a haircut and I figured a run on sentence is about how my life sounds right now so I figure it works, that's what I figure, but a happy one, one that's not going to end "and then I died" or "I realized it was all for nothing," one that ends with these words: every day I am getting better.


Here we are, at the height of our power.
This just gets better and better.


Yes, I realized I double-posted this in the diary but I so rarely write anything of value I think it's important to spread it around in the unlikely event it does happen.

Anyone see the Video Music Awards? I didn't. Okay, I saw a little bit of a 2 am rerun of it, probably the only part I would've enjoyed in an unironic manner: The Hives rocked, then rocked some more. Any band that dresses in identical 60's plush blue suits and has a big fat guy that looks like John Belushi and a motto like "THE HIVES are LAW, YOU are CRIME!" is right off the bat deserving of respect, then you add to it all that abundant rock. Then there was The Vines. Their lead singer appears to be constantly in the throes of a really rippin' anureysm, like blood vessels are popping in his head left in right, but dammit, he's going to finish the song. I couldn't watch much longer than that, one, because I was infinitely fucking fatigued, two, because it was filmed in this really strange digital way, that made it almost look like a video or something, and they kept cutting and cutting and cutting, as MTV does, every two seconds, and I was getting a headache from all the realness. So I slept like child for four or so hours.


Ms. Kadavy played the Forrest Gump soundtrack during Creative Writing today.

Kaliq on "California Dreamin'," The Mamas and the Papas: Makes you wanna have sex with a woman who ain't wearin' a bra.
Alecia on "Something's Happening": Buffalo Springfield, they like totally kick!



So tired. So very very tired.



Eventually I will write something interesting in here. But first I have to find the time. And something interesting.

Holdin' it down in fourth hour Advanced Studies. Keeping it real, realer than real, even, realest. This is the class for which I'm writing a three-act play by December and getting honors credit. It takes place (the class, not the play) in the "Gifted Lab" which is this cold little room lined with computers and filled with rolly chairs and little octangular tables and a jar full of candy; you have to tell Mr. Scott an interesting fact he doesn't know if you want a piece. It's like a constant parade of nerditude all day long, people who eat their lunches in here so they can discuss Academic Decathalon business and Rubick's Cube techniques and the like.

Just got done performing in an assembly, the Theatre Company officers played the MP Boys and Girls Varsity Catch Team. Meaning we played catch to Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch's "Good Vibrations." We expected the shouts of "fag" to be deafining, but it wasn't too terrible. Got some laughs. Had some fun. Saw some hot teachers dressed as cheerleaders.
Lunchtime. Peace.

A wise man named Eric once said "Do everything you can. Sleep is for summer."

That harmless little mantra is quickly becoming my life and times. And to tell you the truth, I wouldn't have it any other way.



Something I actually said today: Damn, those clouds are pretty!

The Kids Are Alright
One of the nice things about being a blogger is when you discover that your Junior prom-date's friend or one of your really good friend's brothers has a website, you can say, "Look! Look at these better far more interesting websites!"


Like I'm about to now.


My universe of cool girls I know named Chelsea (last count: 3) has just been bumped up by one. This shiny newChelsea is one of Amanda's bestest friends in the whole wide world, Amanda who I took to prom last year and who has one of the top five all time greatest smiles. Chelsea likes good movies and good music and doesn't believe in God, and while that doesn't mean she's necessarily better, it's just cool to see somebody else throwin' it down for atheism without bein' a jerk about it. Chelsea writes entertaining little posts and takes entertaining little pictures and her site is simplistically attractive. She is two years younger than me and a better blogger by a factor of ten million (that I've only been at it for 72 or so hours doesn't really make a difference). I really must make a point to talk to her in real life one of these days.
This is maybe how cool I'd be, if I wasn't trying so hard to be cool.


Freshman and sophomore year, we'd go over to Chucks' house a lot between school and rehearsal. And we'd watch Chuck pummel his kid brother Ty, and we'd occasionally join in the mockery 'cause it was fun to make fun of lame middle school kids, if only as a sort of revenge on my own middle school patheticness. Let this be a lesson to everyone: wormy middle school kids grow up to be really cool high school kids who vaguely resemble their older brothers who are now in college, and they make funny in-joke websites spawned by boredom and bands and weird pictures of their close friends.


15-year-olds, dude.

Once every year a great and terrible thing comes and plucks a few of my best friends from my midst and scatters them to the ends of the Earth; some I see less frequently from then on, some I never see again. Although I really wish it were a giant friend-eating robot or angry condor, it’s something more menacing and typically far more expensive, and its name usually ends in a capital U.



Once a year, a bunch of my friends graduate and move on to seek “higher education.” A whole crop just left by every mode of transportation imaginable (if all you can imagine is planes and cars) to out-of-town or out-of-state colleges.



One of these friends is Alyx. Alyx and I didn’t really become friends until six months or so ago, maybe even sooner than that. We sort of…hated each other. Probably for no good reason, certainly no reasons I can remember now. Big A has taken now taken up residence in the Big Apple, NYU, the school where I want to fill my noggin after I put a mortarboard on it at the end of this year.



She called her lil’ brother Austin this afternoon while a bunch of us were at lunch today. He sat next to me as he talked, and I could hear his half of the conversation clearly: “No, I want to talk to you. I really do. Seriously.” And knowing the Big A, I could well enough imagine the other half.



I don’t know if it’s a Catholic thing (‘cause Alyx is mo Catholic and so is my aunt, and they both do it in the exact way) or a female thing, but the girl can lay a guilt trip so thick that light cannot escape. And funnily enough, while I could hear this guilt trap being set, and Austin walking right into the business end of it, I missed her. I miss all my stupid collegiate friends, raising brand new hell in dorms all across this great land of ours.



And next year, when I’m calling Arizona from wherever, someone will miss terribly my bad jokes and patently unhealthy eating habits. We hope.

Home from work. Things to do:


1) Write sketch for tommorow's Theatre Co. Meeting spotlight

2) Write sketch for tommorow night's welcome party/improv show

3) Compile all the text that needs to go in the program for "The Yellow Boat

4) Write in OD

5) Write more in blog (Stories to tell, that sort of thing)

6) Deprive myself of sleep because sleep is a poor substitute for youthful creative vigor.




Turns out youthful creative vigor is a great substitute for sex and friends.

Back in an hour or so.

Whatup blog.

Whaddup.

If we want this to work, I'm going to have to come see you, like, every couple of hours.

Ideally, yes.

Well, "Ideally" is what we're going for. The ideal. The ideal of a really really kickass blogs feared and revered by man and beast.

Right.

So you're going to have to get used to me just poppin' in like this, with absolutely nothing to say.

I've been preparing myself. I've got a list of things you can talk about if you have nothing else.

Like now.

Yea, yea, exactly. So here it is:

DOGS.

And?

And what?

The rest of your interesting-topics list.

That's it. Dogs are hella interesting. All good stories have a dog in them. They run into things, and they're loyal, and totally cute when you dress 'em up as cowboys or great Catholic figures.

My aunt does that. Dresses up her dogs like saints and cardinals and things.

Catholics...what're you gonna do?

You should add that to the list. Catholics. Nothing starts contreversy like saying "There's nothing I love more than a good nun-fucking."

That's just needlessly inflammatory and entirely inapropriate.

YOU'RE inappropriate.

What the hell's that mean?

Nothin'. Peace.

There are simply way too few names. Seriously.
I was just reading some Open Diary and every name in it belongs to someone I know. Several, in some cases. Nicole, Michelle, Casey...and they all would've made sense in the context of the story as it was being told. So now I'm not listening to the story. I'm thinking these are my Nicoles and Michelles and Caseys. Perhaps it's just because I lack imagination, but to prevent this sort of thing, we will be reassigning names. Everyone in the U.S. will get a completely new fantastically unique handle, with international renaming to follow. Here's the beginning of the list:



Ulysses Manitoba Bull-Run

Krondor The Heartless

Mmmmppthtttttthhhhmmmpptmttt

Zeb Rocksteak

Noble War Hero

King of Wall-Shaking Tantric Sex

Lorelei Weedletwitz

Nutpuncher



Go ahead and pick one. Or, by all means, create your own. But you may want to ask around and see if anyone is already named "One Way Ticket On The Electric Love-Train."

Go here. Instant ego boost, I swears to God. Not that some of us need that sort of thing. We raging egomaniacs can nurse our own inflated self-images, thanks.

Well, we all have stories to tell.
Except Enrique.
I’m all, “Enrique, come on, seriously, one story. You’ve got to have one.”

Nope.

Not one story you could tell. Seriously.

No, sorry.

But you were born, right?

Oh, definitely.

Well, there’s a story right there. The miracle of life.

Sure. If I could remember it.

Nothing interesting happened to you when you were a kid?

Define interesting.

I don’t know, peculiar, or funny, or sad. You know, interesting.

Well, there was this one time—

Yea?

No, no, wait. That wasn’t me. That was an episode of Cheers.

Dammit.

You think this is frustrating for you? Imagine having a life with exactly zero notable occurrences.

Did you ever have pets? Pets always make for good stories.

I had a turtle.

What was he called?

Didn’t have time to name him. He crawled out of his box and under the wheels of a passing car a soon as I got him home.

Well there you go! That’s a great story! The nameless suicidal turtle!

It’s really sort of…lacking in narrative structure.

Yea. But I didn’t want to say anything that would discourage you from further sharing.

Understandable.

You ever go to a concert?

Nope.

How come not?

Not allowed.

What are you, Amish?

Actually, yes.

With a name like Enrique?

They have the Amish sur de la frontera, too, homie.

I was just noticing the lack of buttons.

Not allowed to have those either.

How do you keep your pants up?

That’s why we have so many children. We have at least two little Amish following us around everywhere we go, keeping our pants up.

Ingenious. How do they keep their pants up?

Even SMALLER Amish people, on and on, in a chain. Everyone keeping everyone else’s trousers from touching the sinful earth. It’s beautiful, really.

Tell me about it. See, that’s interesting!

What?

A bunch of Latino Amish people keeping each other’s pants up! You just told an interesting story.

Wow. So I did. It was really more of an slice-of-life fun fact, but—

You gotta stop talking yourself down like that.

We Amish have incredibly low self-esteem.

I’ve heard that. Wait…If you’re Amish, that means you were raised in Amish Country, right?

Amish Country, Oaxaca, Mexico.

Then how was it possible for your little turtle to crawl under the wheels of a passing car? You’ve got no friggin’ buttons, much less traffic.

Uh…what I meant was…buggy. Passing horse-and-buggy. I told Jedediah Thompkins to slow down, I did!

Enrique…

What? Where am I? What’s going on? Your strange sinful technology confuses me and causes me to preach deceit! I’m so confused and corrupted! Show me your ankles, Goodwife Proctor!

Stupid lying Mexicamish, and their lack of interesting stories. Pththnmpppbbbb.

IT BEGINS.