Fagnificent

So the story is, yesterday was anything but fun. I don't think I had a single fun moment yesterday. Not one.

One at a time.

I am never riding in a bus with the following people EVER again. Logan. Brenda. Terri. Connor. Sean. Veroncia (unless she's in an unenergized, mellow mood.)

I'm going to give it all I got for one more week, and if I still feel the same, I'm going to have to quit band.

I need to try to fix my iPod more right now, so I'll be right back.

[edit]
Back. I hate iPod. Anyways.

Band. Ah, what can I say. It's come to a point where it's so NOT fun that it's painful being in band because of what it's lacking. But it's also painful thinking about quitting band. Ark, the pain.

So economically speaking: opportunity cost of the possibility, the mere chance of getting something out of band (whether it be the band itself or the being with the people or the whatnot) has become too high. Basically, things have changed, I've changed, and I can't do it anymore. Maybe if things mellowed down. Too much crap has happened for me to be able to scream my troubles away to 99 bottles of beer on the wall. I am Cherry. I need deep conversations, emotional outlets, to know that my friends aren't just troublefree screaming people. Yes, I do know my friends aren't just troublefree screaming people, but from what I saw Friday... I could prove otherwise. And then Mr. Wolfe was just racking away. I haven't been able to stand him this entire year. Hah, on the bus ride back, I envisioned myself (as I was pressing my earphones against my years) going to Wolfe's 'office' and telling him that I'm quitting band 'cause I can't take it anymore. Ah, it was great.

And now, thinking back, it seems that I have to initiate all the "bus ride conversations." I mean, yes, I'm needy, but I'm not that desperate. I know they have more to offer to our friendship(s) but they're not willing to. Generally speaking. Or they don't care to and would rather escape and shout a lot, energized and all. Take, for example, my friend (we're going to call her Acinorev) with major trust issues. She doesn't like opening up. Well, I on the other hand am an extremely open person. But it's a one way road. I can't do one way roads. I need it to go both ways. That's how friendship works. It explains why we're falling apart.

So, why am I still in band if the reasons I were in band previously are no longer there.



Overanalyzation rocks my rocks.

Clifford Poem

Thought of the day: People hear what they want to hear. They think what they want to think. Sometimes, I let them. I say what they want to hear. Why not let them feast on their satisfaction?

So how do I feel. A combination of emotions, really.

So the story is, I broke down in the middle/towards the end of reading my poem for my Clifford class. Broke down being crying, voice cracking, shaking. Yes, all the good stuff.

Now how do I feel. 1) When everybody else was reading their poems, I was thinking to myself, Yep, my poem's of a different mothah, a different dimension. No problem, it does say in my poem that I do do things differently, think differently. Wrote a different kind of poem. 2) Reading my poem, out loud, just made things worse. It's alright saying stuff to myself, but to hear myself say it outloud just. Ugh. 3) Afterwards, I thought about it and thought about it. (Absolute silence after I was done, by the way.) I figure, whatever, weird feelings. It's just, I know there's gonna be a lot of judgement flying around, people judging me, but on the other hand, it also feels like I've finally taken that risk. Finally stepped out. Finally became "judgable." Ah.

And yet, I'm still here, explaing this out to myself. Explaining the weird nawing sensation away. Could be because it's just weird, breaking down in the middle of class. After all, it's not every day you read an emotional poem outloud in class, crying and shaking.

And you know how people are when they see signs of emotion. They freak out. They don't want to embarrass said person by acknowledging the sign of emotion, and they don't want to embarrass themself either.

OR, nobody cares, which of course is possible.

Wishful thinking?

Banging 'cause I need a bang?

The poem, by the way, for those who missed my performance.

There Is Always More

Among the emotion, the hormones, the tears,
There’s her.
Admittedly screwed.
Emotionally damaged.
Mentally jagged.

Some people know, some people guessed.
Some don’t care
Because she’s just another teenage girl.

Accepting the facts, the nature, her being,
She tries to move past the influence.
The little ones who run the machinery
Are too many and too divided.
She lets herself embrace the stupidity,
The busy non-work that keeps her from herself.

Quiet, reserved, respectful, a teacher said.
The teacher said it’s in her culture,
How she was brought up,
Child of immigrant parents.
As much as the teacher is hated,
She can’t help but wonder.
An excuse. Jump at it.

Because she thinks in other shapes, from a different perspective,
Because she understands the nature of people, from guessing her own nature,
She can’t help but feel paranoid, seem wrong.
She can’t be wrong.
She can’t admit her way isn’t the right way.
At least, not to herself.

It is usually assumed that if a problem is known,
A solution will fix it.
It is argued that once we know,
Everything can be good.
But they’re wrong.
The worst kind of ideal is the kind
One has for himself.

A friend once said to her,
I don’t know how you get through,
Be how you are, smiling, laughing,
Such happy things.
It’s simple, I say.
You naturally do
What you have to do.

First day back at that place

I. Hate. Doing. School. Work.

I hate doing homework.

I hate doing work.

Some would call that working. Me: doing work.