Head Over Heels Over Heels Over Heels

About a year and a half ago, or maybe two years, I got really mad and destroyed everything. I destroyed everything that could possibly remind me of him. Playbills from plays we went to, movie tickets, pictures, random shit he gave me [like his guitar pic, which I actually turned into a necklace and wore for many many months], all kinds of shit. I kept it stored in a drawer, and on that one night when I got really mad, I emptied out that drawer into a trash bag and threw it out. The garbage truck came the very next morning and took it all away. I didn't even have time to rethink it. I knew that once I threw all of that shit out there and walked back inside and went to sleep, it would be the last time I would ever see any of it.

I remember telling him that I got rid of everything. I couldn't tell how he felt. He seemed...sad in a way, actually. And kind of mad. But he didn't make a big deal about it, he didn't yell or anything. I think when he heard that, that was when he realized this was not going to end well. That he had treaded too deep. I don't think he ever really realized how head over heels I was for him until I told him that. And that, I believe, was when he started looking for a way out.

I really miss talking to him. I miss him calling me to talk to me about plays, or monologues, or movies, or music. I miss him telling me those things, telling me what was going on in that little blonde head of his. My life just hasn't been the same since he stopped. He of course found someone else to talk to about those things, to share in those interests, someone who wouldn't flip out on him over the slightest thing, or make a huge deal about nothing, or even scare him to pieces with her own problems. I still insist on telling him everything. I don't know why. I still want him to know everything that is going on in my life, every little detail about what I am feeling, but he tells me nothing. I honestly have no idea who he is anymore. I don't know who he is friends with...I'm just so attached and detached at the same time, and it hurts so bad. It is so awful. It is the worst pain, the worst feeling you could ever feel, to be so enthralled with this one person who meant so much to you for so long, and then...they wouldn't really care if they never spoke to you again. He's my goddam crutch. I need to fucking heal and get rid of him.

Five In One, Baby

1st Cup Of Coffee:
eyes barely open
traveling to ojai
downing it fast
as the bus rolls by
WAIT, I scream
but there it goes
anger fills me
from my head to my toes.
I run and run
as it stops up ahead
oh, how I wish
I'd stayed in bed.

2nd Cup of Coffee:
done with work
I'm glad to say
painting and building
all the livelong day
I'm too tired
the sun's too bright
I forgot that I
have plans tonight
I sip my drink
and read my book
a stranger gives me
an interesting look
That Kerouac?, he says
I say, Why yes indeed
he laughs and says
'Tis a good read.

3rd Cup of Coffee:
Kirch and I
walk to the show
and I realize how many
people I know
a familiar face
in every direction
goddam this coffee
is true perfection
I float through the doors
flaunting a smile
I act like an idiot
but I do it in style
the lights go down
and up starts the band
I take my place
as number one fan.

4th Cup of Coffee:
gonna kill Toby
gonna kill Shane
goddam it
that's gonna stain
I wonder if I
should just go home
but I'd rather be here
than all alone

5th Cup of Coffee:
it's 11:30
i know, what the hell
it's my fault
if I don't sleep well
case and point
right here and now
I swear I'd sleep
if I knew how

Kerouac Complex #563

i don't
exactly know
what it is
that i'm trying
to say
i don't
exactly know
what it is
that i'm trying
to do
we'll see
where this
leads me

i always think
i know
where i am
or
who i am
or
what i want
but maybe
i'm completely wrong
maybe i don't
know where
i am
or
who
i am
or
what
i want
if i knew
would i be here
would i be
awake
would i be
writing
reading
confused

all of this
is crap
all of it
i don't know
what i a
m
trying
to get across
maybe nothing
maybe every
thing
i thought
this was
fine
i thought this
would be
ok

my world stopped.
just now.
did you feel it?
no.
you didn't.
how could you?
you never did before.
how could you now?


i'm waiting for the day where you actually answer one of my questions.


once my hearts stops
that's when you'll pounce
once i stop trying
once i draw my last breath
my last thought
my last smile
then i'll mean something
i'll be something
i know
want what you can't have
have what you can't want
that's how it is, right?
for you

then you'll feel my world quake
and shake
and ache
and you'll know.

would i do it again?
no.
am i lying?
yes.
there's no more truth.
there never was.
we are lies
both of us
lies
lies
lies
lies lies lies.
honesty.
sweet honesty
return to me
restore my karmaa

patience is a virtue
and honesty a chore
our past is the raven
screaming
nevermore.

Kerouac Complex #4? #5? #851

you don't make sense
you don't understand
one hand washes
the other hand
2:30 in the morning
and still going strong
you never admit
there's something wrong
staying awake
staring at stars
while bowie asks
is there life on mars
you give a nod
and then a laugh
look through a glass onion
at the other half
across the universe
your soul wails
consumed with thought
and tragic tales
but here in your room
you quietly wonder
as daylight arrives
like ominous thunder
your eye twitches
and an eyelash breaks
crying for no one
your mind aches
the smile flees
with a furrowed brow
love has taken
its final bow

will you remember this night?
will it be this clear?
probably not
as you let sleep steer...

Where Am I Going?

I looked in the mirror and saw two vacant eyes staring back at me. Two, unrecognizable, unfamiliar eyes. I stared and stared and stared waiting for something to make sense, for one of those eyes to finally remember, to finally identify, to finally understand. But they just stayed there, wallowing in deep confusion, just trying to make sense of everything.

I can still hear him cry. Only when I'm half-awake, but nonetheless, I hear him. Crying, pleading, begging...that was so long ago. So so long ago. In a time that didn't seem to make sense then, but makes more sense now.

I don't miss him. I miss the idea of him. The idea of having someone care so much about you that they couldn't stand even the thought of you leaving them. The idea of loving someone so much that it hurt to be without them. The idea of belonging to something so intangible and misunderstood. The idea of having your emotions pushed further and further, to a place you didn't even know you could reach. Everything meant something, so much meaning and care was put into every action. Risk. I want risk. It doesn't matter what I do now, and in a way that's freeing, but really...it just means I'm alone. I have people who care about me, I know this...but where's the intimacy? Where is that risk? Where are those emotions and feelings and actions? Nowhere near me, that's for sure.

I want and I want and I want, and I give and I give and I give. It's not even interesting anymore, it's just sad.

Kerouac Complex #3

I knew not what to say as I laid there under the sterling moon. Its rays melted around my skin, and if I squinted hard enough, it looked as if it would explode right in that single moment; explode into a million more stars to fill this dismal night. I shift my focus slightly to the rightly, and examine the night sky bit by bit, second by second, and now my eyes are filled with stars and blackness, aeroplanes and space. I am laying on sand. My toes are numb from being hidden under the cold dark sand, the cold pure sand, but my hands feel warm, and wish to be the sand themselves. In a single moment, I felt my body turn to sand and my mind fade into the stars, with the whispers of the ocean playfully taunting me. "Come in," they say, "Take refuge, take shelter. You are free." The laughter of reality mocks my gullible innocence, and I realize that not only am I invisible in this busy restless world, but I am alone.

I think about leaving.
I think about staying.
I think about disappearing.

I think all too much.

The Kid

I just watched Charlie Chaplin's The Kid. I don't know how to put my emotions into words.

Sometime a while back, I was up really late one night just kinda hanging out. I don't remember why I was up so late. I think my parents were out of town or something, so I took that as a chance to do whatever the hell I wanted. So I stayed up late watching old movies, because that's what I used to really like to do [I still do on occasion, but not as much as I used to; I used to be obsessed with old films]. Anyways, I was watching a movie on TCM, and then a documentary on Charlie Chaplin came on. I was kinda watching it, kinda not, but then they showed the footage of Chaplin reciting that immortal speech at the end of The Great Dictator. I was mesmerized. These words he was saying, these beautiful beautiful words, they were so...brave. I think that's the one quality Chaplin exuded: bravery. He made that film one year into WWII, when Hitler had already risen to power and the state of the world was in peril. He made that gorgeous gorgeous film, and poked fun at Hitler and the war and greed and all of that nonsense. He stood up to the dictators of the world through film. Sure it was a lot of slapstick stuff, lots of cheap shots and physical humor, but at the end, we see the real method behind the madness. In a speech Chaplin wrote himself, he speaks directly into the camera, no longer in the Little Tramp persona, but as himself, as the genius himself, staring right into our hearts and our souls, and convincing us that this is not our future. He calls out to the people, in this treacherous time of warfare, and tells us to unite. No one did that back then. NO ONE. Everything was supposed to be very hush hush. But Chaplin rebelled against it and restored hope in the fate of mankind. The first time I saw that speech...my mind was blown. I vowed that I would use my knowledge in the same way he did, and try to make a difference in the world through art.

I became very obsessed with him after that. I watched The Great Dictator over and over again, and researched him like mad. I checked IMDB at least once a week, seeing if anyone had added any more interesting facts to his profile, so that I could know more. I memorized that speech. I wrote it down over and over, my mind wrapping itself around each word. I found his life so fascinating. He was one of the only actors from the silent era to successfully cross over to the "talkies", and all of his films always had such beautiful hidden themes. His Little Tramp character wasn't just some idiot messing around in society, he was personifying the idea of simplicity, of judgments made on the unknowing and the unaware, of ignorance. The Little Tramp was the ultimate fool, falling into the hard times of society and working his way through purely by chance. He wasn't a hero, he wasn't a villain; he just enjoyed the world, and unintentionally showed others how to enjoy it, too. Sure it was goofy, it was foolish, and downright elementary humor, but it was beautifully choreographed, and always filled with specific meaning.

Chaplin's always had a special place in my heart since that night. I did a couple art pieces based on him, wrote a couple reports, I even purchased a porcelain Chaplin doll from a thrift store [it was my most prized possession for a very long time]. But as my obsessions usually do, my interest in him began to die out, and eventually I moved onto something else. I didn't forget about him, I just didn't dwell on him as much.

Today, I sat down on the living room couch after making myself a smoothie and flipped on the TV. When it turned on, there was my good old buddy Charlie on the screen, wearing his traditional Little Tramp get-up. I don't know what film it was, but it was marvelous. There was a child involved, and several antics surrounding the child and Chaplin, such as getting stuck to fly paper and accidentally frosting a hat instead of a cake because of unfortunate placement. It was a silent film, and although there were no words, I was still on the floor laughing at all of Chaplin's antics. He can make the simplest things hilarious. The film ended with him being stranded on the border of the US and Mexico, with nowhere to go. We see him start walking away from the camera, in his Little Tramp walk, with one foot in Mexico and the other in the US. That's another thing about Chaplin's classic Little Tramp films--they always end with him being placed in an awful situation or setting, but all he does is shrug his shoulder and carry on. You never feel bad for him, or sad, or worried, you just know he'll figure it out.

So after that movie ended, the documentary I stayed up watching all those years ago came on, and I watched a little bit of it. They did a whole segment on The Kid, which I had missed the first time I saw that documentary, so I placed close attention this time. The clips they showed, and the things they talked about that inspired that film...I began to cry it was so beautiful. I'd forgotten how fucking genius Chaplin was. So tonight, I watched The Kid. Lucky for me, it was on YouTube in 5 parts.

That film is too beautiful for its own good. I cannot think of a single film that has surpassed that raw beauty, not even in our modern world. The fact that it is a silent film, except for the wonderfully orchestrated soundtrack composed by Charlie Chaplin as well, and it still can express unholy amounts of beauty...well, that just blows my mind. I don't know how that is done, but it is. No words, just music. Just music and facial expressions and specific movements make that film.

It starts out with a new mother. She is walking out of a hospital carrying her newborn in much despair. She had the child out of wedlock, and the father took off. She is poor and basically homeless. She feels she cannot care for this child. So one day she walks past an orphanage and decided to leave the child in the backseat of a car parked outside of the orphanage with a note saying "Please provide love and care for this orphan child." Unfortunately, the car gets stolen by a couple of thieves, and when they find out there is a child in the backseat, they pull the car over, leave the child in an alleyway, and then drive off. Enter our Little Tramp, minding his own business, out for a leisurely walk. He comes across the child, and after trying to force it upon about 3 other people, he finds the note wrapped inside the baby's blanket, and makes the decision to take the child home.

Five years pass, and the child grows into a little boy. The Tramp and the boy have developed a strong bond by now, and are quite a team. They do everything together. Unfortunately, the little boy becomes sick and requires medical attention. Chaplin has a doctor come to their small apartment and check up on the little boy. He does, and then asks Chaplin a few question about the boy. At one point he asks Chaplin if he is the boy's father, to which Chaplin says, "Well--practically." The doctor asks him what he means by that, and Chaplin tells him the story and shows him the note he found. The doctor tells him he needs immediate care and attention, and then leaves to tell child services, unbeknownst to our dear Tramp. Child services eventually ends up coming to take the child away, and the Tramp fights with all of his might to get the child back. At one point he wrestles three people at once, just doing all that he can to get his dear boy back. The child fights, too, but their efforts are useless. The boy is thrown into the back of a truck marked "Orphan Asylum", and begins pleading and crying for our Little Tramp. There are several close-ups on the sweet boy of him pleading a crying and screaming, and there is so much emotion in his face and so much feeling being thrown out there, you can almost hear his cries. The acting in that scene is brilliant. Through some stream of chance, Chaplin somehow eludes the people who wrestled him down earlier and after jumping from rooftop to rooftop, he tumbles into the back of the truck that the little boy is riding in. Chaplin grabs the boy tightly, plants a huge kiss on him, and they just sit there and cry, holding each other. Chaplin fights off the driver of the vehicle, and takes the boy to safety.

In the meantime, the boy's mother who abandoned him all those years ago, becomes a famous stage actress, and develops a great life for herself. The story often flips over to her and we see how guilty she feels about leaving her child behind. We know she is always looking for him. At one point, she ventures into the town that the little boy lives in, and they actually stumble across each other. She gives him an apple and a stuffed dog, and they share a wonderful moment. It was the hardest thing in the world for me to watch. Because the audience knows that she is his real mother, but he doesn't know it's her, and she has no idea that it is her son, and yet they are sitting next to each other, giggling and having fun for those few brief minutes. I could not stop crying when that happened. That moment and the moment when the boy was taken were the real tear-jerkers.

So the Tramp and the boy flee to a hostel where they can stay the night and then regroup in the morning. Unfortunately, a $1000 reward has been issued for the retrieval of the young boy, and when the owner of the hostel makes the connection of the young boy and the ad for the reward, he steals the boy during the night and takes him to the police station. Chaplin wakes up literally 30 seconds after this happens and immediately freaks out when he notices his beloved boy is gone. He wakes up everyone in the hostel and runs out the door to find him. He unfortunately does not find him, and the boy is taken to the police station. The boy's mother is there, though [somehow she figured out he was hers], and she takes him home to live with her.

The next scene opens up on the Little Tramp at dawn. He has wandered around all night searching for the little boy. He ends up back at his crummy apartment, but the door to the building he lives in is locked, and he doesn't have his key. So he takes rest on the stoop of the building and then an elaborate dream sequence occurs, which I am sure is some play on society and the nature of mankind, because the scene starts out with everyone in the neighborhood dressed as angels, playing harps and all that, and then the words "Sin creeps in" come up and we see a couple guys dressed as devils sneak into their town and start corrupting everyone. I really don't know what it has to do with the plot, I'm sure it was just some play on the world constructed by dear Chaplin. Anyways, he is awoken from this dream by a disgruntled policemen, who seizes him by the collar and drags him away from the building. We think he is dragging him to the police station, but as it turns out, he drags him to the residence of the boy's mother. We see the door to the house open and the little boy run out into the Tramp's arms. THE END.

I cannot label the feelings I have after watching this film. There are just too many, and they are far too grand to be described in mere words. Words mean nothing compared to what I felt.

But not only is this film moving and beautiful, it is also hilarious and witty. The scenes between the boy and the Tramp are priceless. They just work so well together and are so sweet to each other, and their slapstick humor is spot on. It makes for a very funny movie on top of being brilliant.

Goddam it, Charlie. You have my heart once again. Of course, you and Devendra Banhart are gonna have to fight over it. Ugh, I don't even want to try and go into that other section of my life.

Kerouac Complex #2

I gazed out onto the ocean and longward at the horizon as the sun began to kiss the sea. The fog had started to set, and gray clouds filled with mist became a purplish hue as they moved closer and closer to the orange sun. Out amongst the flat sparkling sea, rays of light reflected themselves through cracks in the intense fog. In those rays of light, in those spots amongst the sea, that is where I live; whether it be in this soul or the next—my mind, my heart, and my soul have always been in those scarce and rare diamonds on a foggy day, where sun touches Earth so gently only a whisper can be heard.

A willow tree.
A hummingbird.
A Bird of Paradise.
Turquoise.

I don’t know how to listen to the stars anymore.

And your Identity, Mrs. Smith?

I just read Amandolin's newest blog entry, and it is riddled with epiphanies having to do with the ultimate insignificance of the human race. She's not disregarding our role in this world, she just delves into the fact that we ARE small compared to our environment, the planet we live on, the surrounding planets, our galaxy, the universe...I could go on. It's unbelievable how SMALL we are. WE ARE SO SMALL. And yet our lives mean so much to us. The people we know, the enemies we have, the family we love, our friends, our teachers, our mentors, we all look for answers in them, we all want to know what is going on in this world, but do you realize how minuscule their opinions are? They're just one person. One person in this infinite...infinity. I can't help but laugh when I think about this. I think about the times when something really really meant a lot to me, and how important it really was to me. That thing, that object, will soon be gone. Soon, that stupid something won't mean anything. I like that our interpretation of the word "soon" has become something like 5 minutes or a half hour. Do you know how small a half hour is compared to the history of the universe? Do you know how small 5 years is? How about 10? 20? We're not even hitting a second, that's how small that is. A person's lifetime doesn't even scratch the surface. So when I say "soon", I'm speaking in universe time. I'm talking about when my life ends in some 65 years or so. Soon, everything that was such a big deal to me, that hit me so hard personally, will not matter in its tangible form.

This whole subject got me thinking a lot about the last act in Thornton Wilder's Our Town. Now, that is a play that only really truly hits home for people once they have either been in it, or have seen it performed, cuz I swear to God, I tried to read it on my own before I was in it, and almost shot myself in the head it was so boring. It's just so simple. There's hardly any conflict. Oh, fuck that, there's NO conflict. Up until the last act. The last act is where everything is explained, where you finally understand the play's simplicity, when you finally KNOW what Wilder is saying.

Throughout the entire play, there is a character called The Stage Manager, and he is basically the narrator. He sets up the simple set changes, tells the story, and gives incite and back stories for most of the characters. It takes place in a very small rural town called Grover's Corners, which I believe was in Massachusetts, or Vermont, or some New England state. It starts out in the early early 1900s, around 1904 or so. We see this play in what I believe is a 15 year period, maybe a little more, maybe a little less. The story seems to generally circle around a gal named Emily Webb, and a boy named George Gibbs, and their families', and the small circle of friends their families' have. George and Emily grow up together, date each other, eventually marry, and all of this happens in the first two acts. It's all very cute and beautiful, hardly touching on its main theme, but it gives enough foreshadowing for us to know where the 3rd act leads.

It opens on a graveyard. But because of the bare set, the audience is usually unaware of this. There are about 3 rows of chairs located somewhere on the stage, indicating gravestones. The person who represents each gravestone is seen sitting in the chair. It's all very new age and abstract compared to the simplicity of the rest of the play, but it all makes sense if acted right, and when the Stage Manager goes into his 400 page monologue about each person, where they are, the significance of where they are and all of that.

Emily Webb is dead at this point. She died while giving birth, which we all find to be relatively ironic. There is an empty chair on stage next to the dead, and she eventually resides in that chair, after the Stage Manager allows her to relive one of her childhood memories, and the dead assure her that she needs to "sit down and be patient", even though they all have no idea what they are being patient for. Emily relives her 12th birthday, and as she witnesses each moment and sees her parents, and her brother, and her home, she realized how much she took for granted and is immediately filled with regret. But she also realizes that she has to come to terms with her own mortality, and does, in a very moving speech dedicated to her goodbyes. She says goodbyes to "sleeping and waking up", to "clocks ticking" and "new-ironed dresses", obscure things we wouldn't even think twice about, but mean the world to her in that moment. And after her last goodbye, she says these heart-wrenching words: "Oh, Earth. You're too wonderful for anybody to realize you."

I am now crying, and I haven't even mentioned the most beautiful moment in the play. Yes, Emily's goodbye is beautiful, but there is a line that comes before it that has haunted me since I heard it.

When the 3rd act begins, and all the dead people file onstage into their respected gravestones, the Stage Manager stands off to the side and watches them file in. Throughout the play, he has a pocket watch that he looks at constantly, giving us another essence of the power of time. After the dead have filed in, he looks at his pocket watch and begins an epic monologue with the line: "This time 9 years have gone by, friends." He goes on to describe the area they are at, who the dead people are that we see, why they are here, and then he delves into the thought processes of all the dead people. He goes on to talk about our identities and how they can be gone in an instant, but how there is an eternal part in all of us.

"There's something way down deep that's eternal about every human being."

I don't even know what to say about that line. I don't even know how to explain it. It's just true, it is so true. Think about all the relationships you have had, the effects you have had on people, the ways you may have inspired people, or the ways you have been inspired. It all comes from someone that you knew before, and someone they knew before, and someone that they knew before...everyone is connected, everyone rubs off onto everyone. I am a concoction of who I know, who my mother knew, who my father knew, who my friends know, who my grandparents and my aunts and my uncles and my teachers and my directors all knew. And when you think about that...everything doesn't seem so insignificant. Suddenly you feel proud to be bearing all of these qualities that have come from millions upon millions of people throughout centuries and eras. It all comes down to a fucking game of Six Degrees of Separation, goddam it, and who you know, and who you knew, and who they know and knew, and so on and so forth. Suddenly, you have all of these people's qualities and teachings echoing in you and you feel obligated to tell everyone and pass it on to someone else, who will then in turn pass it on to someone else. MY MIND IS FUCKING BLOWN.

All I can do is hang my head and smile at the paradoxes formed between significances and insignificances in this world, and wonder what each passing moment does for each person, and how different each moment can be depending upon opinion. I feel so small and so large at the same time.

I forgot this remarkable gem Wilder wrote as well, it is a whole other world to look into:

"Emily: Do any human beings realize life while they live it--every, every minute?
Stage Manager: No. (Pause.) The Saints and Poets, maybe they do some."

I want to be one of those Saints or Poets.

Almost Famous.

I have had the hiccups a total of three times within the last 3 hours.

I'd forgotten how much I love the movie Almost Famous. I watched Conan tonight, because I make it a routine of watching him every night before I go to bed, and I caught a particularly amazing interview with he and John Krasinski. I love that man. I just know that if we were to ever meet, we would get along famously. John Krasinski, Andy Samberg, and Justin Timberlake. Ugh, the dream team.

Anyways, I watched that wonderful interview with two of my favorite people, and then I was flipping through channels and saw that TBS was playing Almost Famous. It was at the part where they're on the bus and every one joins in and sings along with Elton John's classic "Tiny Dancer." That is such a beautiful moment. I can't even express why I love that scene, or even how much. I'm sure it has a different affect on everyone.

After that, the film progresses into moment after beautiful moment. From the scene between William and Penny after Russell sold her to Humble Pie for $50 and a case of Heineken; to the scene where Penny overdoses on Qualoods and William tells her he loves her; to the scene on the airplane where they all think they are going to die so everyone lays all of their shit out on the table and the drummer exclaims that he is gay, just before the turbulence passes. The tension after that scene is so thick. Can you even imagine what that would be like? To be so sure that you are going to die, so you shell out all of your secrets only to find out that that slim chance you had of living ends up being the way events turn? How amazing and unbelievable would that be? And I say "unbelievable", with every sense of the word attached to it.

There's a part of me that thought this college process would be so easy, and I'm stumped as to why it has been so hard. Why have there been so many "clincher" moments? So many scares? I don't know if I make it this hard on purpose, or if this is how it has been for everyone, or if it is because of the schools I have chosen. I just don't know.

I had an interesting subconscious revelation the other night that I haven't really come to terms with. Ok, so I missed the deadline for the FAFSA application. I have been on-time with every other deadline concerning schools, as far as letters of rec, the actual application, supplemental forms, transcripts, the whole deal. And then I miss this one deadline, and it shoots everything to hell. So I kind of freaked out. I mean, I realize now that all is not lost because there are other options out there for student financial aid, none as good as the FAFSA, but we can deal for one year. Anyways, I freaked out for a good 7 to 10 hours, just racking my brain on what I could do, what my Plan B could be, all that. And when I approached my mom about it, her first reply was, "Well, you could always go to VC for another year until we get this sorted out." I FLIPPED OUT. My mind almost exploded. The thought of being in this town again, being on that campus for another year, visiting the High School cuz I have nothing better to do, doing shit at the Rubicon, seeing another freaking VHS Talent Show, living at home with my parents and my stoned out of his mind brother...I went crazy. I could almost feel my eyes roll back into my head. I started mumbling, "No...no...no...", over and over again. And then I exclaimed, "WHY WON'T I LET MYSELF GROW UP?!"

My mom consoled me and let me know that she would look into other options tomorrow. Tomorrow still wasn't good enough for me, so I got even more frustrated and lashed out at my parents, mainly out of blind stress. I went to see Picasso at the Lapin Agile, a wonderful production going up at the Rubicon this weekend. It was beyond hilarious, and had wonderful meaning, but I felt very detached from the meaning because I was so caught up in my own troubles. I have a feeling that if I saw it under different circumstances, I would not only find it extremely hilarious, but delightfully enlightening as well. I only judged it on entertainment value this time around, however.

I couldn't stop thinking about what I had said in my boiling point of frustration, about not letting myself grow up. It's true, I have felt this way for months now, and have been on this determined endeavor to MAKE myself grow up. I don't want to become a full-fledged adult or anything, Peter Bellwood definitely taught me the importance in preserving a child-like amusement with the world, but I just need to stop thinking and living like a 16 year old.

It's weird, but I never actually feel 19. I feel either much much younger, or at least 30 years older. Right now I feel about 52. I'm not exactly sure how a 19 year old is supposed to feel, but I can guarantee it is not like a 52 year old. A 19 year old should be sitting in her dorm room right now either drunk out of her mind with friends, or studying for a test, or writing an important paper, wouldn't you think? Sometimes I think that I think too much.

I don't even know what I am supposed to do. But Peter Bellwood said that was ok, so if Peter Bellwood is ok with it, then I am ok with it.

I have been on 3 college searches, friends. One took place senior year when I thought UCs and CalStates were the only colleges that existed on this planet, and felt forced to apply to at least one of them. The second took place last year when I thought I could be an actor. The third is in the here and now, where I've finally come to terms with the fact that I don't know what I want to do, and have narrowed down my colleges to three schools that will help me figure that out.

Let's hope they want to help me.