Sunday, 25 September 2011
10:44:39 PM (GMT)
I keep wondering what it's like to be someone else.
How do they see the world?
Do we see the same colors?
What do they think about?
Well, what if someone else is wondering the same things?
I could tell them what a day of life is like for me.
So I shall...
In the morning, I'm dead, like a typical teenager.
I'm still in a dream when my mom's voice cuts through the blankness I'm enjoying.
She wants me to get up. Idiot.
Suddenly the dream breaks and I'm awake, on my feet, standing, then running.
I have to hurry. I take a shower and think about my dream.
Something about traditional Spanish home decor.
I change my outfit four times.
They make me look fat. I want new clothes.
I stand in front of the mirror and try different poses, seeing which angles make me
I dry, straighten, and comb my hair.
Pack up my unfinished homework in my bag.
Smear on some make-up. Last of the American Girls starts playing in my head.
Only my make-up doesn't look like graffiti.
My mom yells up the stairs.
I yell back, my words on automatic.
I don't know what I said, but she doesn't like it.
Did I cuss? I don't remember.
I run outside, not missing the bus, but almost.
The bus driver looks pissed.
But I don't care, because if he was the kind of person whose opinion mattered to me,
he wouldn't be a bus driver.
Then I feel bad for thinking that. I don't even know him.
On the bus I sit by Brooke. Brooke always wears only one color, everything matches.
And she always wears cute school-girl outfits. I love how consistent she is. I like
I think about when I'll do my homework; I can do math in AEP and biology at lunch.
I get off the bus and hurry to the music room, hoping I'm not late.
I have music theory. We're learning fun things, about notes and augmented and
There's only six girls including me in this class.
Whenever the teacher asks a question, I'm the last to answer.
I know the answers automatically but I'm too afraid to say them, what if I'm wrong.
The teacher says it's okay to be wrong.
I hope he's right, because he's wrong.
I try to make that make sense.
I try to understand all the notes and music things but I have too many questions. By
the time I figure out how to verbalize my question, the teacher has moved on to
another topic. If I ask the question now, the other girls will think I'm a slower
The teacher plays two notes on the piano. They are six notes apart, I know right
away. But I second guess myself and say five, because that's what the other girls
guessed. It was six after all.
After the bell rings I go to AEP but a poem comes into my head and I write it instead
of doing my math.
Then I'm going to art class. In the hallway, a girl smiles at me and says hi.
I wonder if I should know her. Is she in my youth group?
In art class I sit and work on my project. I listen to my iPod. This is all we do in
Libby passes me a note, "Want to get high?" I draw a picture of a shark on it and
pass it back. She looks confused.
Bronson is in my art class. He's random, and gives me laugh attacks. He's nice to me,
but I don't know how he thinks of
me, so I try not to laugh at him. I don't want him to know what I think of him
What do I think of him? I don't know.
After art is math. From one extreme to the other.
Mr. Petersen is dumb. Teachers shouldn't be dumb, and yet the often are. Why?
I don't have my assignment done. The teacher walks around to check that we all have
I fake it and don't get caught.
Then we have a quiz, it's easy. Then we get our tests back from last week, mine is a
I laugh a little to myself because I didn't even study.
The lunch bell rings, Ding-Da Ding.
We all go to the lunch room and wait in line.
I look at the school food and almost throw up.
I turn around and start to walk out of the lunch room.
The sounds of people eating are horrid.
I go in the bathroom.
I think, Don't look in the mirror. But I do.
I flinch when I see myself, but just a little.
I don't look as bad as I expected. But still bad.
My eyes look blank and boring.
I wished my eyes sparkled like the red-head girl in my music class.
She's so pretty. And a good singer. Maybe she'll be famous.
I leave before I can obsess over my appearance.
I see Kye and Lauren and Tori and the rest of Them by the bench.
I go over to stand by Kye.
Kye gives me Kye's Kye Smile.
I smile back, just for a second.
"I heard all the numbers. But not four. It's never four. And I can prove it's not
four," says Lauren. She's high. Pills. Everyone laughs. I laugh.
But inside I'm screaming.
"Last year you were Straight-Edge!" I scream. "You're not you when you're high."
My stomach hurts. I'm going to throw up.
I run back to the bathroom but there's a girl in there looking in the mirror.
I can't throw up with her there.
I lean against the wall the press my fingers to my temples.
"You lost all your friends to drugs," Something says in my head.
"Shut up!!!" I say to the Something.
The girl grabs her purse and runs out of the bathroom.
I don't have to throw up anymore. But I cry.
I cry until my face is red and puffy, the bell rings, it's time to go back to math.
But I stay and cry. Then I go to the counselors' office.
Mrs. Ross lets me in. Her name is kind of like Rose, and Rose is the color of her
I always watch her lips when she talks. I hate looking people in the eye.
I try to tell her what's "upsetting me".
But it's hard, because it's not upsetting me, it's eating me alive.
It's killing me.
I picture blood on my arms, then think, Stop it.
Stop, shut up, shut up, shut up.
I think Shut Up a million times.
Mrs. Ross wants me to say something but what can I say?
I tell her I'm too 'upset' to go to class.
She 'understands'. She doesn't really, but I let her think so, let her feel like
she's doing her job.
She calls my biology teacher, and I'm allowed to do my work in the counselors' office
It's quiet here, that's good.
Then I get the worksheet, and it's too loud again because of all the words on the
I can't handle the sentences so I separate them into words.
But words are still too much, so I go to syllables.
Which vowels are diphthongs and which are monophthongs?
And some are schwa sounds. Long or short.
Consonants are hard or soft.
I think about pain. Window pane.
I think about make-up.
'Make-up' as in cosmetics.
Or 'make up' as in to invent or imagine.
Or 'make up' as in to reconcile or redo.
I think until the bell rings.
Then I'm on the bus. I sleep.
Brooke listens to music.
I always wake up exactly when I'm at my house.
My brain knows the pattern of turns it takes to get from the school to my house
At home I go on the computer.
Kupika. FaceBook. Yahoo!. And then Wikipedia.
I want to learn more about how the brightness of light is measured.
It's called luminosity.
Is this physical or biological science?
Then it's time for lessons, I get my guitar.
I still feel bad.
In the car Mom seems stressed.
I want to say something but don't know what.
At lessons it's mostly the same thing again, a review.
I want to learn something new, something harder, this is too easy.
I play E chord, G chord, A minor, C.
Clay Nubert, the guitar teacher, and my eight grade geography teacher are nothing
like each other but I still get them mixed up in my head.
Now I'm in tenth grade, it's weird.
Clay wants me to strum something random.
What, I ask.
Whatever you want, he says, make something up, be random, just play with it.
But I can't. I try but it's too unorganized. It doesn't sound right.
It's too uncertain, I don't like this, I can't do this.
Instead I play the intro of Amy Says by Flyleaf.
It sounds off, but I change the A to A minor and get it.
"That sounds good," Clay says.
I want to say, This is a real song, I'm not really making this up.
But I'd rather have his approval, it's easier than making him frustrated.
Make up, to invent or imagine.
I go home. I stare at my math homework but can't do it.
It's easy stuff, but it's too boring. My mind won't stick to it.
So I go online instead. Someone commented on my oekaki, finally.
My family already ate, good.
I hate eating with them, becaue of the sounds.
I get a plate of food and eat a little, then I take the plate back to the kitchen.
"Mom, what's the dishwasher?" I ask.
"It's an appliance," Mark my fat stepdad snorts.
But that's not what I meant, what I meant was "Is it clean or dirty?"
But my mom knows what I mean because she's not stupid like Mark.
She says, "It's dirty." So I put my plate in.
I was talking to my mom, not Mark, so there was no reason to say so he would
But he thinks he's smarter than me. I hate Mark.
He's a fat, stupid walrus.
I go upstairs and clean my face in the bathroom.
I use hot, hot water and six different products.
It takes me fifty minutes until it's perfectly clean.
Then another thirty to brush my teeth.
I put on my whore shorts and a t-shirt to sleep in.
I get in bed and hug my toy panda and think about people I should pray for.
People who I should ask to pray for me.
I get out of bed and look in the mirror.
I wish I looked different. Skinnier.
I won't eat tomorrow, I think.
But that's what I thought last night.
And I ate today. Didn't I? I can't remember.
I get back in bed and think about Them.
Lauren and Kye and all Them.
I start to cry.
"I know you hate me, Lauren, but I would still die for you," I whisper.
I wonder what she'd say if she could hear me.
It would be bad. She wouldn't understand.
There was a time she would have.
But that was the old Lauren.
The new one killed the old one.
I hug my panda tighter and go on Kupika, using my iPod.
I feel so lonely and want a distraction.
I click on the button to write a personal ad but I don't know what to say.
I start to cry again and I cry until I fall asleep.
I wake up and look at the digital alarm clock.
There's something in the room I can't see.
I grab my panda and run to my little sister's room.
I sleep in her bed with her.
And when I wake up, it starts again.
If someone else does this, just makes a diary of a typical day for them, please
post the link below!!! And it doesn't have to be this long!!! If you do I will love
Last edited: 26 September 2011