I'm not a nonconformist. Shocking, I know. Radical. Audacious. How dare I not be a nonconformist? How dare I mindlessly do what is expected of me rather than mindlessly rebelling against it?
Astonishingly, I almost feel like ending my rant there and not going into a typical pages-long signature MacAvity rant. Hmm... Must write more...
For the first time in a long, long while, I feel pretty good on a level deeper than mere fleeting enjoyment and present mirth. Sure, I've not been too down recently, but I haven't had this sense that I do now, this sense that my life is actually, fundamentally okay.
So I just got back from my audition for the school play, and I think it went really well. Considering that I've only ever been in a play once before and all. The monologue I used was all about a person lamenting that her life wasn't more like a musical, and I could really relate to that pretty well - even though I can't sing worth a (something worth singing worth?), if I could change one impossible thing about the world, it would be for real life to be like the musicals. Yup, that wins out over world peace.
As I was going through the random junk on my computer, trying to clear up a little memory space because my mother has been too busy to come in and move her files (I mean, come on. This computer has been mine for at least a year or two, and your files are clogging up its memory such that before I can add anything new, I have to go find something expendable to erase. Just move them to your new computer already.), I stumbled upon the remains of a 'book' I started writing when I was maybe thirteen or fourteen. I always knew that the story had no plot.
This probably won't last, but for once at least I'm going to just try writing like I would in a paper journal, if I kept one during the school year, which I don't. So no long stories starting far in the past, no pivotal life-changing (or even just mood-changing or opinion-changing) moments, just today, in all its mundane simplicity.
Actually, first I'm going to see if this works...
I had always figured coming out to my parents would be an emotional and tear-filled time, that I would plan for it for days or weeks beforehand, that it wouldn't happen until I had a relatively solid label for my queeritude, or else that one of them would just ask bluntly and outright, giving me no time to prepare, and the emotional and tear-filled scene would follow. I had also figured that something would be fundamentally a little bit different afterward - maybe just a load off my chest, maybe some sort of change in the family atmosphere. But this... Not what I expected at all.
Today I went to my third Gay-Straight Alliance meeting. At the end, the president passed out cards for everyone to fill out. Allegedly this is mandated by the Associated Student Body for all clubs and their members, although I've never had to do it before for either of the clubs with which I have been involved. Anyway, the problem is that the card requires a Parent Signature. And my parents don't know (nor do my friends, actually, but that's beside the point) that I go to the Alliance meetings. Should I:
I asked my best friend a simple question a few minutes ago. My male best friend, pretty much the only male in whom I haven't completely given up interest. I just asked him what color my eyes are.
He said he doesn't know. We've been good friends since the seventh grade - that's five years! Five years! - and he still doesn't know the color of my eyes. Has he never so much as looked at my eyes?
I thought it might be the end. Of whatever. He had failed me enough times before, hadn't been there when I needed him, but not to know, after five years of friendship, that my eyes are green!
Another long story starting in the distant past. This past even more distant, actually. I hope the story won't be as long.
This one starts more than five years ago. I was in sixth grade, I think. I decided one day (although in my mind I had been considering the idea for quite some time) to leave the kid with whom I had been best friends since about kindergarten or first grade and to hang out with a different crowd.
The next day, my mother bought me flowers. And I've been functionally grounded ever since.
I usually think of him by his first and last name, or sometimes just his last name, but that would make him too traceable, or me too traceable to him, so I'll call him 'Solace' because that's the name he used when we were antagonistic correspondents (pen-enemies). It's short for 'All Solace Everywhere,' which is a very annoying name that sums him up pretty well.
I don't even know what I'm doing here; I just discovered this site today, but it looks like a lot of kids not all that different from me write a lot of stuff here that may be crap or may actually be kind of meaningful, so I'm willing to give it (whatever 'it' is) a shot without worrying too much about clogging up the Internet with my irrelevant musings.