I have a strange relationship with truth and deception, I've realised. I have some need to always be deceiving someone - not just withholding some detail of the truth, but actually actively deceiving. But I'm bad at separating the lie from the reality, bad at staying honest and clear in my head.
A lie told often enough threatens to become the truth. A truth told for too long often, gradually, becomes a lie.
Truth be told, I'm kind of proud of myself for staying away for four entire days. I could have snuck on on Friday morning, or Monday night, but I didn't. Of course, I've got a devil of a lot of posts to read, but even so, I'm proud of getting out and having a life. On the other hand, I missed you guys!
That was unquestionably the most sexual experience I have ever had. I know, this sort of thing happens to a lot of people every day and they think nothing at all of it, but for me, in whose life even the best of friends rarely touch and even then only with shoulder-bump hugs, this is a big deal.
Just recently I was wondering what would be the next victim of the great amoral being with the peashooter. Well, now I know. It's my bird. Again.
When my mother picked me up from rehearsal, she gave me a bit of warning, a bit of time to brace myself. She said, 'I don't know how to break this to you...' Naturally, I immediately jumped to the worst likely conclusion: Bad news from the vet. The dog was dying or already dead. So I was actually relieved when the news was, instead, 'Sage got into your room and... and she ate Dunno.'
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.
Alas, I've already broken my resolution to avoid segregated restrooms. It was an emergency, really. I started menstruating in the middle of third period, and took the obvious option when faced with the choice between rushing to the girls' bathroom to put in a pad and bleeding all over my pants for three and a half more hours. So I've amended my resolution: Specifically for situations like this, I may use segregated restrooms so long as I use them equally. Which means I need to use a men's bathroom before I can use the girls' again. I can do that. Sometime. Not at school.
Oasis is sucking mine. There are so many other things of varying importance that I need to do: write my bird's in memoriam piece, finish his coffin, put away stuff from the holiday, prepare for the California Junior Classical League Convention, deal with this empty and useless birdcage in my room, choose paint colors for my remodelled nerd-cave, buy a book, analyse a poem, watch television with my family, clean up this computer and put more photos on it... But instead all I can do is read the writings of friends I have never met.
So I've read one page of Recent Posts. Out of ten that I need to. Which will be even more by tomorrow. Will I ever be able to go on vacation again? Heck, I'll do it, even if it does mean that I'll take a week catching up.
School starts again tomorrow. Yay? I think I'm ready... And I'll see my one remaining flesh-and-blood friend, who actually knew and, even more amazingly, liked my bird (he wasn't a very popular bird).
My bird is dead.
It will take me a while to write a proper piece in his memory. I'll need to find a good photograph, as well - I know one exists. But I just needed to say this, now. We were together for fourteen years - or was it only thirteen? I meant everything to him, and he was of great importance to me as well.
Five Hours Ago:
That guy I mentioned, in my third-period class, was talking with some other classmates near me - usually he sits on the other side of the room, in silence, with his ears full of sound buds. I don't know quite how it came up, how it turned from what kind of tattoos he wanted, but at some point he said, 'Mr. [Algebra One] is always trying to get me to join GSA. But I'm like, No, because I don't need to join some club to know I'm gay. He always wants me to come, 'cause I'm one of the only totally les' - lez? - 'people in the school.'
I think there's a transboy in my third-period class. I'm eighty to ninety percent sure. I mean, I don't think this is just me seeing queers everywhere. He doesn't just dress like a boy (even down to the boxer shorts sticking out of those awkward low-riding pants that boys so inexplicably like to wear) - he sounds like one, and walks like one. And he can't be a cisboy, as he's got breasts.
My nerd-cave is being remodelled. So I had to move out of it today. When I move back in, it will still be a nerd-cave, but not the one I've had since I was about eight years old. And in the interim, I'm staying in a room that bears no resemblance to a nerd-cave. The walls are white, the ceiling light is bright, it has a sliding-glass door to the outside letting in lots of sunlight, and it doesn't have a door in the inside doorway just yet. Everything is so very light in here - not enough privacy, either - I miss my dungeon.
'And sometimes there's a third, even deeper layer, and that one's the same as the top, surface one. Like with pie.'
My outermost layer, the top, surface one, is male. Buzz-cut hair, men's clothes, sneakers that didn't fit my brother. No makeup, except on stage. No real effeminate mannerisms - but a lack of real manliness, too. An introverted boy, then, free from the usual teenage hormones. A nerdish boy, soft, but not girly.
Although it pains me greatly to post thrice in the span of four and twenty hours, this truly merits immediate note.
I just came out to my parents!
Everybody likes me
Nobody loves me
I don't even know whom I love anymore