in which the little muse speaks

TUMBLR.

2011-05-29T23:28:00.001-04:00

Guys! I moved! I moved!

littlemusespeaks.tumblr.com

See you there!!!

Must’ve passed when I wasn’t looking.

2011-05-09T18:33:00.001-04:00

Must’ve passed when I wasn’t looking.

Last May, if I remember correctly

We were all too big for our tennis shoes

And I was trying on different labels.

O how lucky am I

Now a stretched out weed

To keep clothes in a closet

& wear ballet flats.

PLEASE STOP: Angry Portrait in the Concrete Trash Can

2011-05-09T18:03:00.000-04:00

PLEASE STOP: Angry Portrait in the Concrete Trash Can

You ugly little bird:

PLEASE STOP!

Get out, you canary strumpet!

Get out! and leave me alone in the china cabinet

With my turkey baster.

I never should have given you

A key to my apartment.

Untitled 7

2011-05-07T12:55:00.001-04:00

Untitled 7

You are in a glass box,

My little cabbage.

So caged

That I cannot even pat your foot

And so small

That I might not even find it, anyway.

A Spring Discovery

2011-05-07T12:53:00.002-04:00

A Spring Discovery

In the cabinet under the sink

Behind all of the cleaning products

I find:

Two (2) tubes of rose lipstick

and one (1) earring.

Untitled 6

2011-05-07T12:51:00.006-04:00

Untitled 6

“Where were you yesterday? I had a reservation.”

Why, in our closet, darling:

making a daisy chain

out of all the twin shoelaces

from all of your Adidas.

Untitled 5

2011-05-07T12:50:00.005-04:00

Untitled 5

My God:

How could we have forgotten

the pickles in the desk drawer?

Honestly:

We’d make terrible chefs.

A Realization

2011-05-07T12:50:00.004-04:00

A Realization

O my love, we are on a stage!

On a stage, my life, and on shoes.

Untitled 4

2011-05-05T20:40:00.000-04:00

Untitled 4

Alright,

I admit it:

I ate the last piece of coffee cake.

But if not because

It looked so moist and sweet

Sitting on your mother’s plate

Then because maybe if I take something that’s yours

You’ll get so mad at me

And scream with your mouth wide enough

For me to see

The places inside you that you keep trying to

Drown in an oboe and lavender soap.

I’ll buy another cake if you want, Kate.

This one might have frosting

And candles.

And we’ll use matches, not a lighter

An afterthought

2011-05-04T18:47:00.001-04:00

An afterthought

PS -

I saw you at the subway

last Wednesday morning

drinking a skim latte

and leafing through your Prada bag.

O where is your Metrocard taking you

mon cherie?

And why didn’t you say goodbye

to Tuesday night

and peppermint bark,

to bumper cars and

our Annabelle?

The last time she saw you,

you were crying into the toilet

and I was an ugly shade of blue.

Untitled 3

2011-05-04T18:46:00.003-04:00

Untitled 3

You are

my festering royal scab

my sweet pet maggot

my rotting pink peach

my dutiful tapeworm

my shower drain treasure

my snowy spoiled milk

my something borrowed,

and my something blue.

And still:

the scar on my spine

the knot in my shoulders

the bruise on my eyelids

the scratch on my thigh

the kiss on

my cheekbone.

I AM:

2011-05-04T17:16:00.002-04:00

I AM:

I am two measures behind

I am four steps to the left

I am odd and prime

(I am the number 37)

I am on the wrong side of the road

I am

short as a tennis ball,

loud as spilt milk.

A Trip to the Inside-Outs

2011-03-17T18:32:00.000-04:00

A Trip to the Inside-Outs

Last weekend I went to the beach

In a purple bathing suit

I found in the lemon-scented drawer in

The bureau and

I brought a red striped towel

And two tubes of sunscreen

And sunglasses that made a mystery

And a magazine with a picture on the

Cover.

Why didn’t anyone bother to tell me

That it’s been winter for two years now?

Untitled

2011-02-05T20:54:00.003-05:00

"Untitled"

Look at you

So much more than

Breasts and legs

Eyes and curls

I think I like your cheek

Sweet girl
And the curve of your neck

And your shoulders

And your ankles

And your nose

And your freckles:

Here

And here

And here.

In the bottom of a box

In the bottom of a house

Is a tissue you kissed

And it smells like strawberries.

Talking to Boys

2011-01-25T14:41:00.000-05:00

Talking to Boys

Hello, little boy, let’s go to dinner today:

Kitty cat grins and puppy dog ways.

You’ll shuffle around, inspecting by waltz,

Sniffing and checking for well-hidden faults.

I’ll wear the collar, you’ll go on the hunt,

You’ll purr the questions and I’ll bark back, blunt.

With Cheshire smiles, we both will retreat:

Girls who like girls don’t smell quite as sweet.

Not Poetry...

2011-01-25T14:23:00.000-05:00

... Just the sole reason I keep watching the show Pretty Little Liars. How cute are they?

Maya and Emily

Anyway. I'll be back with something written soon. Maybe not about small children this time?

Alexa.

A Mousey Girl Is Not a Toy

2011-01-19T21:45:00.002-05:00

A Mousey Girl Is Not a Toy

In a house down the street

With the white shutters and the red door

There’s a wife with curlers in her hair

And the face of a child.

Two years ago they dressed her white,

Reassuring her that she’d do so well,

And at the time she’d so believed

That all she had to do was smile very pretty

And nod and let him lift the veil and kiss her

And she would be perfect, finished --

Her life complete.

And in her candy-coated childhood,

She so loved to play dress up

And kitchen and house

And mommy.

No one ever told her that she had to let him

Undress her deep into the night

Or that she’d have to venture all alone into

An unfamiliar town

To find ingredients for recipes she’d have to beg

Her mother for.

Or that she’d grow bored with the vacuum cleaner

And the iron and the oven,

Resenting their metallic heat and acidic smell.

Or that she wouldn’t grow round:

Mortifying embarrassment at that

Ugly red stain in her panties that she had to explain;

And being a stupid girl who couldn’t do what all the others could

Would mean that she’d have to endure that awful,

Terrifying

Lights down skirt up mess

Again and again.

No one ever told her that

She’d spend late nights pacing

In their bedroom,

Holding to a candle and saying old prayers learned

Back when she was a virgin and didn’t have

So many things to worry about

And so many stains to wash out.

No one ever told her that

She’d grow to hate his secretary,

Hate her with her neatly pinned bob and

Her clacking high heals and

Her bright red kisses on the hem of his collar,
And would have to play deaf

When he came home late but stayed in the guest room.

No one ever said she’d spend most of her time

With her eyes on her feet

And her hands clasped behind her

And that she’d grow to adore him and orbit around him

As though she were his child

Or he the sun and her a planet too small to have a name.

A secretary is not a toy,

But neither are the feelings of

A mousey little wife of a girl

Who misses her mother

And doesn’t know the name of the town that she lives in.

A 20 Line Poem: "Portrait of the Two Almost-Mothers"

2011-01-17T21:29:00.002-05:00

Portrait of the Two Almost-Mothers

It’s only 9:45

When you tug me towards the bed;

Your fingers are tight around my wrist,

Nails painted cherry from Monday’s guilt-trip,

One finger bearing the band with the stone,

And they rip me mercilessly from the paper from last Sunday.

The lights are already out in our bedroom,

And I lie down, almost inhaling the sight before me:

Pretty girl with a pretty smile,

Rounded nine months now,

Head tilted at an awkward angle, hair in your eyes,

Beaming and tired and healthy and

Indisputably mine.

Other couples in other houses might

Don lace and leather and sleaze,

But you lie down beside me,

Curled up in your elastic-waist jeans, smiling wide,

Perfectly content to be in this heavy state of limbo

Which you consider just as lovely

As the life before, and the life ahead.

Hopelessly Devoted to You

2011-01-17T11:04:00.002-05:00

Hopelessly Devoted to You

Guess mine is not the first heart broken,
My eyes are not the first to cry
I'm not the first to know,
There's just no gettin' over you

I'm just a fool who's willing
To sit around and wait for you
But baby can't you see,
There's nothin' else for me to do
I'm hopelessly devoted to you

But now there's nowhere to hide,
Since you pushed my love aside
I'm not in my head,
Hopelessly devoted to you
Hopelessly devoted to you,
Hopelessly devoted to you

My head is saying "fool, forget [her?]",
My heart is saying "don't let go"
Hold on to the end,
That's what I intend to do
I'm hopelessly devoted to you

But now there's nowhere to hide,
Since you pushed my love aside
I'm not in my head,
Hopelessly devoted to you

(I take zero credit for this song. I just had a bad day.)

On Doing Something Stupid, Like Falling in Love, Or Something Equally Corny and Dumb.

2011-01-13T20:39:00.002-05:00

On Doing Something Stupid, Like Falling in Love, Or Something Equally Corny and Dumb.

Here is a pretty little piece of advice:

Never fall for the same girl twice.

She’ll mock you lightly with those lovely curls

And her eyes will whine, “I’m not like the other girls.”

Cuticles are bitten but hands beg to be held;

Though her smile will distract you if you’re so compelled.

But if you accidentally give her a second glance

Don’t give the butterflies in you a second chance.

The inevitable will happen, as it must,

She’ll learn of your love and mistake it as lust.

And she’ll brush you away with a flick of her finger;

“Maybe someday,” croons my angelic brown-eyed singer.

A Valentine’s Day Poem

2011-01-09T16:07:00.002-05:00

A Valentine’s Day Poem

You’re obnoxiously pretty,

Enough that I hate you and

Kind of want to cry.

Enough that I write poetry

Online for you

Hoping you’ll stumble into it

And be flattered and lovesick and pink.

Enough that I’d watch chick flicks with you,

Like The Notebook and Dear John,

So if you cried I could kiss your temple,

And if you didn’t I could mock the movie quietly,

Whispering into your ear and making you giggle.

Your lovely little laugh.

Enough that I think about

Little things I’d want;

Two teachers in a house with a tea set

On the coffee table,

A bedroom painted blue and cream,

And books from floor to ceiling,

With clever ways to relieve headaches,

And old perfumes and soaps in the bathroom

On an elegant glass tray.

Enough that I keep calling you

And texting you

And looking for you,

Even when I’m pretty sure I'm annoying you,

So I can picture you grinning at me

And saying,

“You’re so sweet!”

As sweet as the sugar

In candy hearts for

This February.

(A Note: Actually, I’m hoping to watch a chick flick with her... Jack Goes Boating, anyone? Teehee.)

Alexa.

"Oh, you're gay? My aunt's gay!"

2010-12-17T15:59:00.002-05:00

Oh, honey.

Decided to do a fun little post on the general ridiculousness I deal with sometimes. 97% of the people I associate with are totally cool with the whole yes-I-like-women thing, but maybe 3% are a little ridiculous sometimes. Here are some of the most common:

- "Oh, no, when I called [insert name of something/someone here] 'so gay', I didn't mean it like gay... my aunt's gay."

Oh, that excuses it, sorry.

- "Oh! Have you met..."

Just because she's/he's gay, does not mean that I've met them. Nor does it mean I want to take them on a date.

- "So I saw something about DADT and I thought of you!"

That's sweet, I guess, but I'd rather you say "I saw something about Sondheim / writing / anything else and I thought of you!"

- "Is [insert name] gay?"

There is no master list of gay people. I don't have a magical power to tell who is and who isn't.

- "Do you like [insert name]?"

No. Odds are, at least. Just because she thinks she saw me checking her out, which I probably wasn't, doesn't mean I want to marry / screw her.

Sorry. Endrant.

Alexa.

Masochism.

2010-12-14T23:09:00.002-05:00

“Masochism.”

Little girls with pretty faces,

Petaled cheeks and untied laces,

Playing jacks beside the gutter,

Thoroughly engrossed in one another.

Splat! A taxi racing by;

Acidic water too salty to cry

Drenches the schoolgirls now and then,

But they still stoically crouch and start again.

Portrait of Newfound Daughter as Misplaced Immigrant

2010-12-09T21:33:00.000-05:00

"Portrait of Newfound Daughter as Misplaced Immigrant."

Little girl takes a plane.

One-way, sweetie pie:

Never look back at where you’re from

Or at everyone who understands you.

At the house with your height from this year

And last

And the year before that

Written on the doorframe with pencil.

At the lavender room your Mami painted butterflies on,

Smiling bright and laughing,

As shiny and hairless as a newborn,

Just like as you

In all those pretty pictures with the wired tight frames,

Where she’s got curly hair and you are so tiny.

Never look back, cupcake,

At the cabinet you can fit into, where you felt animal and purposeful,

Or the kitchen that smells like pepper,

Or the patch in the yard where nothing will grow,

Or your Mami’s pretty dress-up pearls,

Smooth and fake and lovely,

Or the couch with stains on it

That you helped her duct-tape

On some lazy afternoon,

Or anything that wouldn’t fit into that cheap suitcase

Some lady with too much make-up on

Bought you as a consolation prize.

No, please, honey,

Inhale the smoggy air:

Land of the free, home of the brave,

And of some man you’ve never met

That broke her heart

And has a room for you

That he’s probably painted pink

Instead of purple.

On Having a Baby.

2010-12-05T00:30:00.001-05:00

"On Having a Baby."

I’d like to watch her grow round,

Actually,

And every day I’d sit her in a purple chair

And take her picture.

And after the baby was grown and shining,

I could show him all the pictures as proof

That I’d always, always loved him.

When he was very small and new I’d watch her feed him,

And remember why I worked long hours in an office job

Where they would be my screensaver.

We would buy a crib that would be tough to put together

And we’d both get up with him when he screamed

And share a secret smile before both crooning

A classic rock lullaby.

We’d buy him light-up sneakers

And make our own applesauce to feed him

When his teeth weren’t there yet.

We’d take turns changing diapers,

And make a scrap book of his first year

And then make fun of ourselves for being the kind of people

Who make scrapbooks.

I’d hold her while she held him,

And he’d crawl into our bed at night,

Wearing spiderman pajamas and sucking his thumb.

And when she was still in that rounded state.

I’d touch her stomach if she’d let me,

Kiss it too, and her lips,

And rub her back and her feet,

And tell her how beautiful she was, every day,

And try to pretend the baby would look like me and her

Blended and creamed and swirled to perfection,

Instead of her and donor number 463.

On Meaning.

2010-12-04T23:58:00.001-05:00

"On Meaning."

Sometimes when I’m hurt or sad

or feel like being a bitch

I look at etymology.

And suddenly everything is funny

And meaningless,

And that dictionary is my pain killer:

I’m addicted to the dizzy euphoric state it gives me.

Because what you said is nothing now,

Just a jumble of sounds that came from people who wore togas,

And I can laugh right in your face

Because my indented border

Has fashioned me invincible.

Updated Poem

2010-12-03T19:42:00.002-05:00

So, we have a lit mag at my school, and I'm desperate to submit something, but afraid it will be torn to pieces. Therefore, I have done what I previously considered unthinkable: I edited my poetry.

I know, I know, you're shocked. Most everything on here is just poems that fly out of my head and are really cruddy, so editing it tough and tedious. However, I think this one turned out quite nicely. I present to you... "Lying at Confession" (previously "I'd Rather Bear a Thousand Crosses Than My Own")

Lying at Confession

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned:

Starved a neighbor, killed my kin,

Stolen that which wasn’t mine,

Betrayed my mother, kissed a shrine,

Coveted what I didn’t own,

Denied the Sabbath, splintered bone,

Bore false witness and cast off Christ,

Burnt His book and cursed it twice.

Forgive me, Father, but truth must fly.

What I said before were all simple lies.

A woman will admit to many tales twirled;

Anything but the truth: that she kissed a girl.

(Also: I am now the proud owner of a blue Olympia deluxe typewriter. Heck yes.)

Chickens.

2010-11-28T22:17:00.005-05:00

Counting Chickens.

There were diapers, also,

Stacked up neatly in a bin

Underneath the changing table

That had been painted off white in China.

The curtains had lace trimmings

And the crib was the same cream color

(she liked to match)

With pink bedding on top.

The rocking chair was a gift from her father

And there was baby powder in a basket

And also a pink blanket,

Crocheted,

And you could see where some of his mother’s greying hair

Had gotten caught in it.

She was clever and determined

And he was crazy for her

And they meticulously planned everything.

Love was to be made on specific days of the month

And a baby was to have materialized after three of these cycles

And so it did.

She had that stupid cliche glow,

And he spun her around and kissed her like a scene from a film that you’d

Throw popcorn at and giggle.

And they waited three quarters of a year like anyone else,

Holding hands and murmuring syrupy things to each other,

And researched and listened and did.

And when the time came she wasn’t extraordinary in any way,

And abandoned her carefully cultivated pride, and was a woman

And screamed, even when it wasn’t hurting,

Because she’d never screamed before, and found she quite enjoyed it.

And then there was a baby:

Perfectly planned but bluntly refusing

To go along with all they had determined.

A baby who wasn’t screaming at all,

And who was fairer than any maiden

who might enrage a mirror.

And the only sound was shallow breathing

That came from the spread-eagled

bearer laid out on the bed,

And her faint, ugly voice

Asking “Where is she?

Where are you taking her?”

He hated her after that,

And most of her hated him as well, if only

Because he wouldn’t lie and say

“She’s fine,

Anna.”

And she to him would always be

the woman who put him through hell

And then decided not to give him a baby after all

And was just teasing all along.

“April Fools!”

They aren’t young now

And they don’t hold hands or

Smile or make love even on calendar days.

And nothing really matters, anyway,

So why bother with anything, ever?

But while the rest of the world changes

and loses color and meaning and life

The pink room two doors from the stairs

Is perpetually pregnant.

The Third Reprise of the Same Song on the Same Night, And It’s Seriously Starting to Get Annoying.

2010-11-24T20:02:00.001-05:00

“The Third Reprise of the Same Song on the Same Night, And It’s Seriously Starting to Get Annoying.”

An absolutely lovely girl,

Head buried and blotted with ink,

And most desperately immersed in a favorite hobby,

devouring words like a wolf.

Children who don’t run to be drugged

And little girls who don’t care for kitchens to be branded with the letter “l”.

Let’s all dance in a circle now;

I don’t think sick children are any different

Or are really missing out on anything at all --

Childhood is just adulthood, but made of plastic

Why not make it out of sterilized sheets instead?

At least you’d get some variety.

Maybe I’d much rather prefer

if you carved out something from my face

than from where you’re supposed to have

This undying, singing purple passion

For something or another.

It’s difficult to measure pain and pin someone lucky

And anyways, I’m mean, and I’m careful about how I spend my pity.

These ones die so young.

Mock me in middle school, if you so choose

Pretend you aren’t jealous,

Sweetheart,

That I can do this well, and you can’t,

And your lipgloss looks stupid, anyways.

Being outside is hard to do

But I’ve heard it pays off some day.

I guess that’s what the writers are for

And why we pay them and immerse ourselves within them

Because they’ve got what she’s missing and he wants and

21st century parents crave for their day old babies to posses,

Because rewriting a lifetime is too tedious,

And apologizing hurts like a bitch,

And it’s much easier to throw money than say,

“Hello, pretty girl,

Let’s be friends.”

Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?

2010-10-18T21:25:00.004-04:00

This play is truly one of my favorites... the movie is breathtaking. Are you afraid of reality? George and Martha cordially invite you to dinner, baby, if you're willing to brave their games: get the guests, humiliate the host, bringing up baby, and hump the hostess. Maybe you'll hear a glimpse about their son -- rumor has it he died, though. Add in a biology professor and his wifey mouse, and you've got something mind-numbingly terrifying.

"Martha is 108… years old. She weighs somewhat more than that." -- George.

"I hope that was an empty bottle, George! You can't afford to waste good liquor. Not on your salary, not on an associate professor's salary!" -- Martha.

"Martha, in my mind, you are buried in cement right up to the neck. No, up to the nose — it's much quieter." -- George.

"I swear to God George, if you even existed I'd divorce you." -- Martha.

I am, George. I am.

on songs that rhyme.

2010-09-29T22:55:00.002-04:00

Rope her away

She won’t feel a thing

High price to pay

For a caged bird to sing.

Cloth to her face

Fair porcelain white

Just in case

She’ll try singing tonight.

Make her your slave

With can’ts, won’ts, and shouldn’ts;

Burn what she gave

And take what she wouldn’t.

Feed on her tears

Salty and hot.

Nourish her fears

Then leave her to rot.

Beat her and scorn her,

Burn her and hit

Punish - don’t warn her

And call her an “it”.

Tear off her pride

With a quick, stinging smack.

‘Till she’s forced side to side

Never forward nor back.

But her face you may mark

You can slash at her throat

Still, the frail, pretty lark

Will just hold her high note.

Darling

2010-09-20T17:28:00.002-04:00

Mommy I'm sorry

You aren't to blame

That she doesn't have God

And likes genders the same.

And it's isn't your fault

That she screams and throws fits

That stress and fear

Eat her bit by bit.

That she can't leave her bedroom

That she refuses to eat

That she hates what she looks like

And keeps her gaze on her feet.

You deserve someone

Much better than me

Mommy this apple's

Too far from the tree.

that's why the lady is.

2010-09-11T17:02:00.002-04:00

There’s a little girl who lives near me, and --

That’s a lie. There are no little girls on my street. I think they’ve hidden them.

So I’m trying to create one out of myself. I think I liked myself better at age six. There was no such thing as romance, and boys were icky, they didn’t make you blush and butterfly. Girls were for jumping rope with, not kissing.

If I wear enough white, will my mind be cleansed?

on the fact there is nothing left to write about anymore anyways, so writing a poem itself is pointless.

2010-09-10T21:04:00.003-04:00

on the fact there is nothing left to write about anymore anyways, so writing a poem itself is pointless.

The artistry of words

Is based on imperfections.

They tell you:

“Write about

A tragedy or

A comedy or

A romance or

A drama or

A loss.”

But

If everything is still

And everything is caged

And everything is glass

And everything is

Coated

Until

Perfection

What will you write about?

Maybe that was the point.

They never really cared much for poets,

after all.

On Closeted.

2010-09-07T22:42:00.003-04:00

I should put a poster on my closet door

(The literal one that is.)

ENTER IF YOU DARE:

COMING OUT MAY BE HARDER THAN IT APPEARS.

October?

Pretty Women

2010-09-06T20:15:00.004-04:00

Please refer to the Sweeney Todd song.

On Pretty Girls.

Here’s where she was standing
Such a pretty girl
Corkscrew spine and feathered hair
And claws and child’s curls.

Captivating in a sense
Her phrases strung by laughter
And I was smitten from early on
Wishing I could have her.

She's lovely, that's the word to use,
Fresh as a springtime shower.
Her singing is my richest wine
Her insight as soft as a flower.

Sugar is rosy by her maiden's complexion
And hardly tasting sweet.
The sun is pale and dim beside her --
Her bright eyes lit hardly discreet.

She's turned me to a poet.
One who begs and whines.
She's turned me to a devoted fan
Of all that causes her grinning shine.

Pretty dreamt-up girl
Devoted fantasy.
If you were made of flesh and blood
Would you find love in me?

Nonsense rhymes
Beauty’s mine.

Camp. (As if I could fit everything about Ballibay in one post!)

2010-08-15T19:43:00.002-04:00

Back. Oh God, I'm back. I'm here, I'm in New Jersey. Here, darling -- go to this perfect utopia where everybody understands you! Enjoy! Surprise -- after 3 weeks we're going to rip you away from it.

Camp. Was. Amazing.

I can't even talk about it. So laid back and chill and the people. Amazing. The opposite of hipster and pretentious. Perfect and amazing.

I cried upon thinking about returning to NJ.

Luckily, I had bookshelves, a new purse, and an amazing best friend waiting for me at home.

So, I'm back. Get pumped for poetry.

alexa.

On Beautiful. Camp.

2010-07-23T22:51:00.005-04:00

On Beautiful.

I can trace your shape with my fingers
So perfect and pretty,
In my dreams.
Smooth and delicate,
You're warm and rich with rose,
My peached and creamed
Curvature of beautiful.

Pale and pristine
My princess sleeps
Unaware
And her breath is silver.
A gift to me
Rewarding my biting yet
Entirely
Unwavering
Unrelenting
Child's persistence.

One day maybe I can be
One of those people
Who walks in white heals down aisles,
With their diamond rings and paled cloth
Their flowers and their vows.
One day maybe I can be
One of those people
Who falls in love with a person
Who falls in love with them.

Youth cripples me from my light
Drives nails into my feet 'til I'm stuck to earth
But I've been recognizing beautiful
Since forevermore
And even a mere child can see
In you
It is alight.

Going to camp for three weeks. There's something decidedly different about packing for theatre

camp: jazz shoes over green 'n gold, vintage tees and petticoats over soffee shorts, sheet musicover address books. Yet same worries: what if I have too much, too little, they won't like me, they'll all already be friends, they'll all be super talented, they'll think I'm snotty... I think these stay wherever one goes. I'll survive and I'll have good memories to share, I hope. Will return with buckets of poetry, forty monologues, and tons of music recommendations. I'll miss you. Don't forget me.

signing off,

alexa.

An Assortment of Cool Things My Mother Has Done for Me:

2010-07-18T17:05:00.005-04:00

I don't think appreciate my mom enough. Here's a list of a few of the many cool things my mother has done for me in no order.

- My Bat Mitzvah. Just in general. She worked her ass of to make that day perfect.

- Les Mis at age five. I've talked to her about it, and apparently it was closing and she didn't want me to miss the opportunity to see it. That is beyond cool.

- Waiting in the pouring rain for Alice Ripley's autograph. I wanted to give up, she refused.

- Refund for Next to Normal because of understudies.

- Rocky Horror. A random Saturday night. A rated-R movie. Rocky fans. Mom, I'm impressed.

- Interest. In everything I do. That's amazing.

- Watching Chess. And paying attention.

- Her sense of style. That's not something she's done, but whatever.

- Sticking up for me. Period.

- Advice. I didn't appreciate most of it at the time, but now I do.

- Being there. Because I'm kind of a brat, and she loves me anyways.

- Everything. Speaks for itself.

I love you, mom.

alexa.

on rocky and 22G.

2010-07-18T03:47:00.009-04:00

Note -- this is a really old post from the beginning of the summer which I just found.

I'm starting to like this poetry thing. Mm. Went to Rocky Horror again with my best friend. It was Kung-Fu night, The Home of Happiness was our cast. Amazingly fabulous, as per usual. I wonder when I'll be able to get back. Oh, and the 2nd one is about my group for camp. I do the travel 3 days a week and counselor 2 days a week thing... yay poetry.

On Rocky.

Let me be a part of something.

Childish desire true, but please.

And I'll paint my fingernails for you
And I'll smile and shout crude grown-up things
And I'll name myself and brush my eyes the way you do,
Pale transylvian beauty.
(And even in my poetry
And wordesmith's artistry
I speak fiction in reality's voice.)

I am most at home
In this carnival of freaks
Twelve years too little
And fourteen too old.

Sometimes I wonder
Who these people are
In their other lives
and if they sometimes wonder
About me too.

Can I carry home your spiked heals,
Your spirit?
Synchronized.

Teach me how to walk like you.
I'll practice my balance every day
So I can make it down the stairs
To the theatre
To the noise
To the shouts
To the song
To the dance
To the pride
And into someone else's skin.

On 22G.

Pretty little fairy's child
Open eyes sing young and wild.
See your smoothened apple's cheek
Hear your blessed laughter's shriek.

Baby see and baby do
Naivety, I'm in love with you.

It's Been Forever. Sorry. / On Gothica

2010-07-14T16:39:00.004-04:00

It has been forever. So much has happened!! Let me brief y'all on my life lately before I post some poetry and start on a rant:

In no particular order, things I have done since my last post include:

- Getting 90 pages into The Inferno.

- Acquiring copies of Slaughter-House Five, Pygmy, and A Clockwork Orange

- Acquiring a boyfriend (Hi, Max).

- Going to Chicago to stay with my awesome uncle and his girlfriend.

- Seeing Aida and Shear Madness.

- Going to DC and Baltimore

- Working on a song for sleep away camp.

- Going to Jewish day camp.

- Nagging myself more to write my play and getting close to convincing myself.

- Discovering a GLBT section in Barnes & Noble.

- Putting up two posters in my room: Hedwig and the Angry Inch and one of Blind Mag from Repo! The Genetic Opera.

- Vintage shopping in Chicago.

- Watching the following films: Repo! The Genetic Opera, The Breakfast Club (again).

- Finding a pic of Adam Pascal in Cabaret.

- Setting a date to take my RHPS-virgin friend to the show (Saturday!!)

That's pretty much it, I think. On to some poetry.

On Gothica.

You think it's
Dark
Ness
That
You
Used
To
Feel
Pulled
To.

If only
Because
Black
Is
Simpler
Than
Choosing
A color
For
Your
Self.

You
Are
Her
Dark
Est
Mirror.

You are her.

Breathe it.

She's seen you smoke,
She knows you've breathed.
Truth will touch the taste buds burnt
And still sting more than the cinder.

Rush to me, pretty butterfly
And lick the acid from my fingers:
So hell bent on destroying
That they are forever crooked.

On Growing Up

2010-07-05T16:43:00.005-04:00

Once? A time.

A little girl.

Princess eyes.

Fairy curls.

Nonsense words.

Easy rhymes.

Ringing songs.

Empty time.

Precious stutter.

Painted cheek.

And fantasy

Makes brave of meek.

Child's logic.

Castle box.

Twisted eye,

Elfin frocks.

Exhale age

Growing bloom

Eyes go dull

No more room.

For.

What you dreamed of?

Where you've gone?

Twirling glitter?

Perfect dawn?

From what I know and what I've seen

Part of you dies at age thirteen.

- me.

Lady, please. I have a new iPod. Your argument is invalid.

2010-07-03T18:08:00.007-04:00

See the title. I just wanted to title a post with "Lady, Please." I was just on The Thinking Atheist and all of the sudden I wanted to write a post. Not even about religion. Go me. Let's have a party, in my honor.

Although, I did read this hysterical essay on "How NOT to Convert an Atheist."

Anyways, I'm in Massachusetts. Currently I'm hiding out in my parents bedroom, wearing my faaavorite shirt ("love is gender-blind", remember?) and listening to Tommy. I got the soundtrack last night. What now? Me and my mom went to see this play, Next Fall, last night (It was awesome. This is where I claim I'll post a summary/review that I will actually never get around to) and afterwards we got the Tommy soundtrack. S'all awesome. Did I mention Alice Ripley's on it? I do love her. Even though she got kicked out of Little Shop of Horrors.

So, guess what? I never wrote my bit on DRV (for the rest of the world, who doesn't "wake up in the mornin' feeling like DEE-AHR-VEE! OMIGOD!", DRV = Daphne Rubin-Vega), but now I have some readers, so I feel as though they don't want to hear about her. Meh. I'm trying to get divshare to work for me so I can post "Pinball Wizard" from Tommy (italicizing that is such a pain in the ass), so if I do I'll post "Never Gonna Be Your Baby" from her CD Souvenirs. (Dammit! I need to stop talking about albums!)

Okay, got everything to work. Here, for your listening pleasure, is "Amazing Journey" from Tommy, "Pinball Wizard" from Tommy, and "Never Gonna Be Your Baby" by Daphne Rubin-Vega, respectively .

1. "Amazing Journey"

2. "Pinball Wizard"

3. "Never Gonna Be Your Baby"

So, I learned some stuff about myself recently. Dug deep into that part of my life II absolutely despise when people bring up stupid things I've done in the past when I still have the conscious memory of making the decision. I don't care if it was when I was little and therefore the event in question was "adorable". Stuff I hear about from doing when I was five doesn't matter, but if I remember making the decision I hate when people remind me of it. I hate mortification, because that links with being "cast out". And I have the ever-present human instinct to flock towards community (reaching out for atheist sites, wanting to be in a Rocky Horror cast when I'm older - throw me in a brown wig and I'll dance like Patricia Quin all night long - , loving the feeling of your cast in your play becoming like family), so being cast-out is horrifying. Therefore, to avoid this embarrassment, I create internal social rules that I feel desperately compelled to follow. Some of these are logical (Not talking too loud, not harassing sales clerks), some are a little less (not wanting to ask what I perceive to be "pointless questions", discouraging any repetition -- i.e. "Can I have chicken?" "So, you want chicken?") and some a little ridiculous (hating to ask for information). I also expect everyone to follow these. At this point, I've reached the place where I flinch if these aren't followed, but I don't know if it's genuine or the original intent was to hint that the person had broken a "rule" and now it's merely habit.

I just did a psychoanalysis on myself. Christ.

Signing off,

alexa.

PS - If you want to receive emails when I update, I can put you on the list... my email address is in my profile, so email me a blank message with "Blog Subscription" in the subject and I'll put you on.

Conforming and Writing A Summer To-Do List

2010-07-01T21:03:00.006-04:00

- Read everything on my "To-Read" List.

- Finish my fable.

- While I'm finishing stuff, write my broken neck story.

- Become Magenta, from The Rocky Horror Picture Show.

- Memorize "The Raven" by Edgar Allen Poe.

- While we're memorizing, memorize all the words to "The Star-Spangled Banner". All three verses.

- Stop saying "retarded".

- Learn to breathe underwater, like the kid in that dumb commercial.

- Be a Barbie doll.

- Break a Barbie doll.

- Throw bread.

- Pick flowers.

- Purchase Alice Ripley.

- Learn the words to "J'Avais Reve" from Les Miserables.

- Learn to dance. I suck.

- Feel wanted.

- Want.

- Belt something I suck at.

- Become Florence, from Chess.

- Become Maureen Johnson, from Rent.

- Get more readers on this blog.

- Laugh.

- Sing "Wouldn't It Be Loverly?" at the top of my lungs, in a cockney accent.

- Sleep in my backyard. Or on my roof.

- Buy a Spring Awakening t-shirt, and the Tommy CD.

- Go to a church.

- Make a list that doesn't involve impossible things.

- Become a spider.

- Flee.

- Come back.

- Live on bread and cheese.

- Cut off all my hair. All of it.

- Stop saying "That's what she said".

- Stop saying "like" (as a filler and to mean "said" and to mean "as though").

- Stop saying "awesome".

- Stop saying "Yeah, I know, right?"

- Stop saying "yeah".

- Stop saying "'cause."

- Start saying "vous" to mean "you"-as-in-people-in-general.

- Breathe.

- Hold my breath.

- Do an underwater flip.

- Kiss. (no idea as to who...)

- Accept it.

- March for gay rights.

- Walk for AIDS.

- Go see a show at the NYTW.

- Stop panicking for highschool.

- Start spelling things right.

- Stop combining words.

- Start spelling "color" like "colour".

- Tell people how I feel.

- Get out more.

- Go to Rocky again. Take a virgin friend. Shout them out as a virgin, too.

- Get over my paranoia.

- Learn the words to "Quartet (A Model of Decorum and Tranquility)" from Chess.

- Figure out grammar.

- Feel beautiful.

- Inhale.

- Exhale.

Twelve Things That I Want to Be

2010-06-26T22:00:00.004-04:00

- Able to play guitar. (More than the first chords of "My Junk" from Spring Awakening)

- Not a hypocrite.

- Social. (I've had such bad experiences in being around other people that I go out of my way to avoid social situations.)

- Magenta, from the Rocky Horror Show. (It's so dreamy.)

- The opposite of detached. (The 3rd person perspective on your life, everyone's, isn't all it's chalked up to be.)

- Not suffering from excessive paranoia. (Fear kills me. Or at least makes babysitting a bitch.)

- A part of that.

- Doubtless.

- Not morbid.

- Not a teenage girl. (I hate them.)

- Better than that.

- Respected.

Read something tonight. The Scarlet Letter is what I'm reading tonight. Woo.

I wrote a poem, and it rhymes, and I'm scared to post it.

Signing off,

Alexa

Glitter Puke

2010-06-26T13:34:00.002-04:00

Watch this video. Now. Also, please go to my friend Olivia's blog. I am inspiring people to blog. I feel special.

Signing off,

alexa.

Done with school. Yess.

2010-06-25T13:54:00.005-04:00

Lots to talk about today. First of all, before I go on my first topic, I have a confession to make.

I, Alexa, for all my rants about the media, do have a facebook. (And why is facebook so successful? Because we want to know about each other, because if one knows their enemy, one is less vulnerable. Not to say you only "friend" your enemy, but it's successful because of our knack for nosiness, which is then brought about by the self-defense instinct) I have a facebook, and I'm often on it, however only because I have it in another tab to switch to when my sister looks over my shoulder, I'm watching Rent's opening night, and "Contact" starts up. Anyways, I am always looking for new shows to look at. (Today I got the demos for a new show called "The Unauthorized Autobiography of Samantha Brown" -- looks like it could be okay). So I found this awesome facebook page entitled "Kelsey's Broadway Videos" -- check it out. "Kelsey" posts a broadway video (or off-broadway) every week, which users select by voting out of five options. She has a website for voting, this site, and Next to Normal: Off-Broadway is up right now, so check it out, and vote for the Rocky Horror Revival for this Sunday! However, you need passwords to view the videos, so request to join the group "Broadway Everyday" to get them. It's just awesome, and you should definitely check them out.

Got an idea for a short story a few days ago, while at a pool party. Bunch of people at a pool party on the last day of school. Narration goes through all their drama, the separation and frustration of finishing the 8th grade, the network of inside and outside, all the hatred underneath the semblance of friendship... and then all of the sudden one girl gets pushed in (they've been pushing people in the whole time, laughing) and breaks her neck. And everything is quiet as the water taints with blood. The end.

Also, my shows for camp got announced! Musicals are Little Shop of Horrors and The Wiz, along with a couple other plays. I believe I'll be doing Little Shop but refrain from The Wiz and do a play. So excited for summer -- plus, I just got my Spring Awakening vocal book, which is excellent. (I got it when seeing Hair the second time -- it's closing Sunday. Nooo. Check out the nat'l tour, though. Totally worth going to.) However, m'still looking for more sheet music to add to my collection, so if anyone has the PDF of the music of the following (or has a link to the PDF), I'd really really appreciate it. Shoot me an email, will ya?

- "The Gods Love Nubia" from Aida

- "Plain Jane Fat Ass" from Bare

- "Florence Quits" from Chess

- "One Night in Bangkok" from Chess

- "Air" from Hair
- "Black Boys" from Hair
- "Frank Mills" from Hair
- "Where Do I Go?" from Hair
- "21 Guns" by Green Day
- "Somewhere That's Green" from Little Shop of Horrors
- "Light My Candle" from Rent
- "The Time Warp" from The Rocky Horror Show

- "I Am Playing Me" from [title of show]

- "A Way Back to Then" from [title of show]

Thank you in advance! And hey, I haven't said this yet, but enjoy your summer. Really. Free of responsibilities, free of drama... (Unless you're going to theatre camp, like moi!)

Sites to check out, if you have time: The Brick Testament, my friend Sam's blog, The Skeptic's Annotated Bible. Have an amazing summer!

Signing off,

alexa.

Revamped!

2010-06-17T21:51:00.001-04:00

The site's been revamped and is now fully original... excelleeeennt. Long post tomorrow. Thoughts on the new layout, anyone?

Yo.

2010-06-12T23:34:00.004-04:00

So much to talk about. Christ.

Let's start with Tuesday:

I had the amazing opportunity to see a Broadway production of Hair. I begged for a year, I begged for aisle tickets, and I received!! Mara, my parents, and I went into the city and made our way to the Al Hirschfeld Theatre, my parents having already seen the show once, and took our seats in Orchestra, with me (at my insistence) on the aisle. The minute the first beats on "Aquarius" began to play, I was captivated. The curtain became transparent, revealing a jungle-gym of a set with the band on stage as well as the Tribe, hanging lazily across the stage while Dionne (character name. I'm too lazy to look up the actress) took center stage. Absolutely amazing -- I believe the part was created only for her to have all her solos. The first act consisted mostly of introductory songs, and because I have so much to cover I can't talk about them (but they came into the aisles all the time -- Mara and I got flyers for a fictional Be-In requesting us to bring pot and blankets, and Hud stroked my cheek). I'll try to post a full-fledged summary later, maybe devote a page of this blog to plot summaries, because I can't go over it now.

But to answer your burning questions: Yes, they got naked. Yes, Ace Young was in it. And yes, it's closing in two weeks. So. Go. See. It!

All in all, it was my absolute favorite show. Above Rent. Order of favorites being Hair, Rent, Next to Normal, Les Miserables as my top four, respectively. Seriously, I'll post a full summary, I promise! Song by song!!

Right now, I'm watching One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. Here's my book vs. movie opinion -- loved the book. Love the movie. But they don't work together. The point of the book is that you don't know if anything is true (in his world, I mean). The book is told from the perspective of Chief Bromden, who is crazy -- he thinks this mysterious group entitled the Combine is plotting against him, and all the evils in the world are part of it. He sees Nurse Ratched and McMurphy as huge, tall, because they are powerful, and himself as small (we know he is very very tall). The movie, told in third person, makes it so the world is fact, and McMurphy becomes the main character. And what ever happened to the nurse with the birthmark? However, the movie itself is great, just not true to the book. At all. But it's a brilliant movie -- the scene where Cheswick freaks out, and then afterwards where McMurphy is talking to Chief Bromden. I'm on the ECT scene now, can't help thinking of Dianna in Next to Normal.

Thursday: Brother's graduation. He's six. My, how we celebrate milestones. I almost cried, to be honest. Some of these children were so solemn, little adults, and some so beautiful and innocent. That was corny. But Christ, all these little children had their own distinct characters. It intrigued me, enthralled me, and the idea of milestones captivates me. How we celebrate them, so proud. I'm going to camp where my brother went to kindergarten, day camp for two weeks. I'll learn leadership and "Jewish values". Yay. But after, I'm going to my sleep away camp, which'll be amazing.

Friday (yesterday): Our school dance. Again, how we celebrate milestones. At a school dance, dressed up in a dress and feeling beautiful, every song is your favorite, everyone is your friend, and everyone's dress is "so cute!" We got them to play "Time Warp", we danced, I created the single-people's-wall-of-losers during the slow songs... but it was fun. I felt beautiful and skinny and fabulous and amazing, even though no one asked me to dance. Not that I thought they would. Afterwards, I went to a party. We basically split up into three groups: World Cup/video games in the basement, chit-chatty goofy outside, and philosophy in the living room. I was part of philosophy.

God, it was amazing. We had a couple things we chose to refrain from: religion, abortion, and gay marriage (I have that argument lined up and I will pummel you to the ground!), but everything else was fair gam. We talked about things girls do, like act stupid to get a guy, we talked about how a lot of girls don't like guys who play sports, how every girl wants a gay best friend but no one wants a lesbian friend (because, ya know, lesbians are attracted to every girl they see, just like how straight women are attracted to every man they seen. Not), how so many things in our social structures are based on primitive behaviors. Men higher than women because of the penis-goes-in-vagina thing. Did you just cringe? Excuse me, I didn't realize this part of my body was disgusting, an offensive, foul word. Men are protective because women are the ones who get pregnant, so in order to preserve the species it'd be natural to protect them. For all our insistence that our lives have purpose, more than any other animal does, and beyond to procreate, we are by large instinctual beings. Build ourselves so strong with our technology, yet a simple wave of water that comes from nature can wipe us out in an instant. I mentioned how girls always whine about their periods, when it really isn't that bad (they do it to brag about the fact that their bodies are matured), and touched on how a girl can hit a boy, but if a boy hits a girl it's a huge thing. Or how a girl can tell a boy "grow a pair!", and it's funny, but a boy can't tell a girl "Wow, you're flat." Or how if you tell a girl she can't be a pilot, you're sexist, but you can tell a boy he can't be a nurse -- he needs to "be a man!" How people hide behind facades -- I pretend to be hyper, for example, because I figure no guy wants a girl who's smart. My friend, however, who always tells jokes (I learned it's because he likes to hear people laugh, and that one of his goals in life is to describe color to a blind man) informed me that if a girl's better than a guy at something, he respects her more, but if she's better at everything, he thinks she'd never like him. Mara said that if you are what others perceive you, than you are the image of yourself you project (if a tree falls and no one's there to hear it, does it make a sound?) I think I'd rather someone insult me than compliment a person who they perceive to be me, who isn't me at all. But who am I, if no one knows except for the person in my head, whose perception is so distorted I am nauseated by it?

A girl in my musical theatre class was in the picture for a professional production of The 25th Annual Putnam Country Spelling Bee. I was nauseous with burning jealousy.

I want to be something.

Comment if you care.

Signing off,

Alexa

It's monday. Play's a day late. Sorry.

2010-05-31T19:58:00.002-04:00

It's Monday. Play's a day late, but whatever.

I. Am. Sick.

Other than that, life's good! Got Zanna, Don't!, along with some other presents from family/family friends: Rocky Horror on dvd, The Breakfast Club, St. Elmo's Fire, along with Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, my next to normal playbill (and pic of me and Alice Ripley) framed, and... a. signed. pic. of. Adam. Pascal.

I was very happy.

So, I was watching The Breakfast Club for about the third time today, and Allison had the line about it being "unavoidable" that we all become our parents. That got me thinking. If we're all our parents, then isn't everyone in the world just carbon copies of the original hundred or so people? Because if you go back and back and back... we're all just duplicates. Kinda scary.

I realized recently that my paranoia is started to affect my ability to function properly. For those of you who don't know, I became extremely paranoid when I was around nine or so... my mom says I'm hyper-aware. I think that's a good way to put it. Since I was nine I've been checking hampers and cabinets and closets for serial killers and the like, and when I was babysitting my brother this weekend, surround-sound was scaring the crap out of me. I think I'm going back to therapy. Meh.

So, I was also musing about why people like to "fit in". I think it comes down to survival instincts; a person simply cannot survive on their own. People travel and live in "packs"; the idea of isolation is threatening and terrifying on a subconscious level. Mm. Thoughts?

Here's my scene from my play. Got it copyrighted before posting, so don't try to steal it.

(Throughout the dialogue between Girl 1, Girl 2, Girl 3, Boy 1, Boy 2, and Boy 3, Girl 4 is climbing a rope which hangs from the ceiling.)

Girl 1: At sixteen you climb ropes.

Boy 1: Lots of ropes.

Girl 2: Rope after rope after rope.

Boy 2: So many ropes you burn.

Girl 3: At sixteen you’re too heavy and it breaks.

Boy 3: It breaks and they laugh.

Girl 1: Laugh and laugh and laugh.

All: Fat a--! Porker!

Boy 1: So you don’t eat.

Girl 2: Don’t eat, and remember how they laughed.

Boy 2: Laughed and laughed and laughed.

Girl 3: But eating is for the weak.

All: And you’re not weak!

Boy 3: You’re strong!

All: So strong!

Girl 1: Strong the way your mother wasn’t.

All: F--- her and her drinks! F--- her and her wine! F--- her and her shots! F--- her and her beer!

Boy 1: What a stupid way to die.

All: Alcohol poisoning! What a stupid b----!

Girl 2: And you know a lot about stupid b----es.

Boy 2: Oh yes you do!

Girl 3: So you don’t eat.

Boy 3: Try to shed your skin.

Girl 1: And every day in gym class… all you can see is…

Boy 1: That rope. Swinging.

Girl 2: Swinging.

Boy 2: Taunting you.

All: What a stupid b----!

Girl 3: So you don’t eat.

Boy 3: Don’t eat, and remember how they laughed.

All: Laughed and laughed and laughed.

Girl 1: Climb that rope and don’t remember about how your mother died.

Boy 1: Died so skinny…

Girl 2: She was mean while she was living.

All: Fat a--! Porker!

Boy 2: If only Mommy could see you now.

Girl 3: See you so skinny.

Boy 3: See how you can climb that rope.

Girl 1: At sixteen you climb ropes.

Boy 1: At sixteen you climb ropes.

Girl 2: At sixteen you climb ropes.

Boy 2: At sixteen you climb ropes.

Girl 3: At sixteen you climb ropes.

Boy 3: At sixteen you climb ropes.

All: And try not to fall again.

Girl 4: It’s all about balance and weight, balance and weight. Balance me. Weigh me. No, don’t weigh me. Please don’t weigh me. Don’t touch me, don’t pull me back to earth when all I want is to get higher up. Higher and higher and higher. Don’t weigh me. Don’t weigh me down. Isn’t that what weighing really is? Pulling you down. No, not me. Ninety pounds and light enough to fly. Or climb. If you look down, you’ll see my skin, twenty layers of who I used to be. Or not me. No, it was never me and God it shouldn’t hurt to do this, normal girls don’t hurt when they do this I’m fat I’m fat I’m fat. How much does blood weigh? But girls who do that are stupid and stupider, I don’t kill myself, I’d never kill myself, I’m saving myself because fat people die die die because they aren’t pretty God kills them because they aren’t pretty. I was so strong. What happened to me? What happened to mom? Too many vodka shots. My skinny mom. Fuck her. Fuck her! I need to shed my skin. Like a snake. Too much skin makes me feel d-i-r-t-y. And not even in a sexy way. My mother called me a fat a-- one or twice or twelve time and I can never reach the godd--- top of this godd--- rope. They’re under me, they’re under me, taunting me, please make them go away! I drop my skin over their heads so they can’t see me. They can’t see through my skin, it’s opaque. They can’t see me ‘till I’ve reached the top. So maybe they’ll never see me. So what? They never saw me before. My skin’s opaque, you can’t see through it. If there’s anything under there.

So, yeah. A scene. Enjoy.

Tomorrow's my birthday. Hopefully I'll be better.

Signing off,

Alexa.

it's saturday.

2010-05-28T22:37:00.007-04:00

So, three days ago, I joined the ranks of the dumped-and-single. Didn't get over it until yesterday evening, but me and him are friends again (sort of. I just annoy him and joke with him) so it's better now. The break-up was awkward and weird, and I still don't know quite why it happened, but it's okay.

Life is pretty okay. T. R. Scholar Night was good. Eh.

Tomorrow I'll post my scene, by the way!

Got three books recently, from my TR Scholar mentor: Stephen King's "On Writing", Sylvia Plath's "Ariel", and "The Perks of Being a Wallflower". Right now, my best friend Mara is over, ad we're watching Law and Order. I don't understand what's going on, but I think she does.

Been thinking about what it's like to have a best friend. Mara and I... she just comes over and we do absolutely nothing. Obviously, you can tell, because I'm blogging at the same time as her being over. We've been together for so long today... school yesterday, then town together, then a friend's house together, then I slept at her house, then we went to mine this morning, then into town together again, and now she's here. The best friends are the ones you get sit in silence with, on your computers, and it be fine. The ones you can say "God, I hate you, you're such a b----!" and they not taking personally. The ones you can talk about philosophy and boys with within the same three minutes. Mara has a boyfriend; his name is Conor: I can hang out with the two of them without it being weird, or without them saying "God, get out of here!" We can insult each other and laugh about it, bash on each other's music, say "I'm going to bed, okay?" and then talk in the dark for another three hours, quote things together (someone says "oh, let's sit on the floor" and we yell "the floor?!" perfectly in sync), talk about anything and everything... my sister has lots and lots of friends, and I guess I have a fair amount, but I only need one, and that's Mara.

She knows I'm writing about her right now, too, and she doesn't care.

This show is sad, now. Grr. I'm already sad.

Today, we went into the park; me, Mara, Mara's boyfriend Conor, my ex, a couple of girls, and a few guys. All was well until some jerky seventh graders came. I feel really uncomfortable posting what they said, but the gist of it was using excessive words that are degrading to homosexuals... I started yelling at them, and they kept saying crap to me, and I almost cried. We tried to stand up to them, but they wouldn't stop being such... jerks. Homophobic jerks. We were all in a gazebo, and they started drawing inappropriate pictures on the columns, (later, people came over for a wedding in there -- I felt terrible, because all those drawing would be in their wedding pics), and just being so awful. Just found out who they were. God.

I kept saying about how the scariest thing about it was what the world will be like when these kids grow up and people actually listen to what they say.

I don't know if it upset anyone as much as me -- I'm actually surprisingly empathetic, particularly dealing with things like this. My ex was pretty upset about it too... we finally talked yesterday about what happened, sort of, so I think we're on good terms now. Good. I like having him as a friend. A lot.

So that pretty much destroyed my afternoon; ignorant people frustrate me so much. I'm so proud of myself for not crying or hitting them. I wanted to.

I guess I'll end on that happy note.

Signing off,

Alexa.