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Fun with Typos and Exhaustion! I can turn situations around to make them about myself and bitch and whine to you, can't I, diary?People are in so much worse shape than I am right now. I should be happy to be on neither the giving nor the receiving end. I'm just the prying operator, giving my two cents here and there, trying my best to help work things out and at the same time trying not to sound like an insensitive idiot. So why do I feel like pulling a Buffy and throwing someone out a window? It's what seems like an endless cycle of petty arguments, a few not so petty arguments, and lots of misunderstandings. It would feel so good to pick some side and scream at someone for once. Isn't that admirable? My friends need someone to talk to and all I want is some drama of my own. But I feel a little too neutral. A little bit invisible. Just sitting in the middle with my hands folded, encouraging and discouraging and using the best judgment my little brain can muster up. I'm such a bitch for thinking like that. I want people to talk to me. I do not mine one bit. I just wish would talk to other people, too. Like, you know. The person they're having the problems with. I also wish my school wasn't full of pea-brained Confederate-flag-flailing losers. Today I talked to Aaron about crazy Diet Rite parents, suicidal hamsters names Hammie and Mr. Climby, and plastic baggies. My experience with talent shows was limited to the obligatory talent show episode of every children's TV show, until last night. Indy sang some damn good Foo Fighters, and then two White Stripes songs with her sister. I am counting on Indy, she's going to be my friend the rock star. Don't say I didn't tell you. A school talent show is just about the most shallowly horrifying thing I can think of. It's bad enough to flub a dance in front of an audience of people whom you hardly know or don't know at all. But to get up in front of the most brutally judgmental group of people a person my age knows, your classmates, in an only partially darkened little auditorium, and completely butcher an already grating Miss Independent, or perform a dance that includes a particularly unfortunate piece of choreography (hint: do not wear a dance dress and allow the front row to look up it) ? They may not be talented, but they do have balls. Figuratively speaking. Indy, on the other hand, looked completely calm. Carly too. I envy them. They can sing, and they definitely set a school record for most enthusiastic supporters. "YOU'RE MY AMERICAN IDOL, INDY!" Sleep is great. 2003-09-19 @ 11:25 p.m. |