Sjoelen and Boll Weevils

MacAvity's picture

Last night's sjoelen and oliebollen party went well. Regi couldn't come, which was good and bad really. I mean, it would have been fun for her and for me if she had been there, but I'm sure it was good that Sunny and Ladybug got more attention because of Regi's absence. Ladybug's dad couldn't remember the word 'oliebollen,' so he called them 'boll weevils,' in full knowledge that that was wrong, and everybody kept laughing throughout the evening whenever anybody mentioned 'boll weevils.' 'Oliebollen' literally means 'oily balls,' by the way, which may not be any better. They're food - I should have mentioned that earlier - basically deep-fried balls of dough with bits of fruit in them. And sjoelen is a game. And they're both Dutch traditions for the New Year.

One thing, though, merits mention: I think I've greatly overestimated my attraction to Sunny - and I estimated it pretty low, originally. I like her, sure, but I no longer think it qualifies as even the mildest of crushes.

Other news: I'm preparing to repaint my old nerd-cave. This is a little saddening, as it means losing all the features that have been there since I was perhaps eight years old - I don't even remember anymore. The jungle-animals wallpaper, the forest-green paint, the blue ceiling with its white clouds and glow-in-the-dark stars. The tape and thumbtacks my elementary-school friend and I put up in some mad and ultimately unsuccessful scheme to get a paper bird which we never made to fly across the room on a string. The shells of chrysalises that had been stuck there ever since the caterpillars I had brought in from outside escaped their cage and completed their transformation into white butterflies loose in my bedroom. The vestiges, the footprints if you will, of my childhood, wiped away.

So, more change. More bits of the old me, erased. Like some powerful, amoral being is sitting up there, watching, picking out little bits of my life and shooting them down, one by one, pausing only to take aim. For some reason I picture him shooting with some childlike weapon, not a gun or even a bow. The word that comes to mind is 'peashooter,' but I hardly even know what that is. What will be struck down next? My dog is on her way out, as is my grandmother, but each of them may yet last a while longer. I had never thought that the dog would outlast the bird. In a few months, I'll have to go to a new school, to college. These are the changes I can foresee...

...but the peashooter guy doesn't necessarily operate so predictably.