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enamouredI have to do just a little more Secret Santa shopping. I think I should have everything ready by the end of the week, then I can mail the package on Saturday or so. Whee.
I can't believe I'm going to be eighteen tomorrow. It doesn't feel like it. Birthdays have always been weird times for me--I don't feel as if I should be getting older. The time just seems stagnant for me.
The first time I remember feeling ambivalent about my birthday was when I turned fourteen in '99. My dad had come down here already and we knew we were going to move, and Mom had quit her job and we were cleaning up and fixing the house and raking constantly. It was a weird time. I didn't have a party or anything. I was too melancholy to.
I remember feeling weird when my sixteenth birthday rolled around, thinking, Dude, this is not happening. Sixteen had seemed so far away. And last year I was really hung up about some of the same stuff that's happening to me now, and I didn't think too much about turning seventeen, except that I hoped it'd be better than the hell that I went through at sixteen.
I don't feel like I should be eighteen. I don't feel like I've earned those years. I'm not excited about it. I'm apprehensive and a little scared of it, the way I am slightly scared of graduating and going off to college. I don't feel ready. I feel as if I'm never going to catch up and be up to speed, for tomorrow I will be eighteen and I will have never been kissed or had a boyfriend, and I will still have to wait two more months before I can get a driver's license--that is, if I can pass the test.
The other day, I was here in the library and I overheard some sophomores talking. It's time for them to do their first research paper using note cards and all that, so they're naturally very baffled. Thing is, I heard this one girl say, "Fiction is real stuff, right?", which made me want to smack her... dear LORD, you're a SOPHOMORE in HIGH SCHOOL and you think fiction is REAL?! Lordy.
I'm getting more and more worried about Drew and Brandi. I just want him to like me. To give me a chance. Something. I just want to be with someone, and though I know it reeks of desperation, I just want to be with someone.
Also, 60% of high school boys are incurably immature. And disgusting. Ugh.
I can't believe I'm going to be eighteen tomorrow. It doesn't feel like it. Birthdays have always been weird times for me--I don't feel as if I should be getting older. The time just seems stagnant for me.
The first time I remember feeling ambivalent about my birthday was when I turned fourteen in '99. My dad had come down here already and we knew we were going to move, and Mom had quit her job and we were cleaning up and fixing the house and raking constantly. It was a weird time. I didn't have a party or anything. I was too melancholy to.
I remember feeling weird when my sixteenth birthday rolled around, thinking, Dude, this is not happening. Sixteen had seemed so far away. And last year I was really hung up about some of the same stuff that's happening to me now, and I didn't think too much about turning seventeen, except that I hoped it'd be better than the hell that I went through at sixteen.
I don't feel like I should be eighteen. I don't feel like I've earned those years. I'm not excited about it. I'm apprehensive and a little scared of it, the way I am slightly scared of graduating and going off to college. I don't feel ready. I feel as if I'm never going to catch up and be up to speed, for tomorrow I will be eighteen and I will have never been kissed or had a boyfriend, and I will still have to wait two more months before I can get a driver's license--that is, if I can pass the test.
The other day, I was here in the library and I overheard some sophomores talking. It's time for them to do their first research paper using note cards and all that, so they're naturally very baffled. Thing is, I heard this one girl say, "Fiction is real stuff, right?", which made me want to smack her... dear LORD, you're a SOPHOMORE in HIGH SCHOOL and you think fiction is REAL?! Lordy.
I'm getting more and more worried about Drew and Brandi. I just want him to like me. To give me a chance. Something. I just want to be with someone, and though I know it reeks of desperation, I just want to be with someone.
Also, 60% of high school boys are incurably immature. And disgusting. Ugh.
