Of course I'm excited.
I'm gona be 18 soon.
Happy Birthday to me. In three hours.
Three measly hours. Three hours in a day in a year and eighteen of those. Every minute filled with something amazing or something completely meaningless.
Eighteen soon. Happy Birthday lost childhood.
I don't feel like I'm about to turn eighteen. I know, but I don't feel. And there's always that feeling of being underappreciated the next day. That's also the day my exams start. Great, I'm going to study now.
I'm gona be eighteen. And I'm gona be eighteen... eighteen... eighteen. Right.
Here's a professional ball photo of me and my friends from a few months ago. My friend finally scanned and uploaded it... and I had a sudden urge to share it. Hope you guys like it.
Sat SATs today.
Blitzed the maths, I'm expecting a perfect score for that. Essay, confident it's at least a four... hoping for a six. Writing was alright, critical reading as also alright... would've done better if I managed my time better.
And, I only started studying for it yesterday lol. I had no idea about the format of a SAT test until I went and stayed at my friend's place last night and she exposed me to practice papers for the first time.
I think instead of trolling facebook as a form of effective procrastination, it's probably a bit more meaningful to write a journal entry.
Heart beating fast, and not liking it.
That's right, the world.
Yeah. I can't handle attachment.
Just wana say, a few days ago, out of light-heartedness and distraction for myself... my friend went clubbing. He binge ate Mc Donald's afterwards. Obviously no one told him it was a very potent mix with those overpriced smirnoff shots. We decided to be classy and sophisticated so we visited the rose gardens near his place at 3am for some fresh air. He felt a little heavy headed... and power chucked into them. Nom nom nom, there goes some fine-grown, beautiful, pristeen roses.
How could I do what I do. Fuck, I hate myself.
He's so beautiful.
I like the way his hair smells. How he leans his head on a shoulder, or curls his body next to mine. How he stares into my eyes. Or smiles way too much. Or just says the cutest and most silliest of things.
Except he probably doesn't know all of that. Even I don't really want to admit it. Because he likes me more than I like him. I'm sure. Sure.
What a horrendous term.
It's really not all that bad, but what is a journal if it isn't to vent a little bit?
The musical finished a week ago. We performed six shows. We've rehearsed for two whole terms. It was bloody hell worth it, such a rewarding experience getting to sing, act, dance and meeting new people. But it's also demanding. Sometimes I felt my life had just been drained out of me.
I met a boy who reminds me of myself when I was younger.
A Happy Grave
The grace of a pulsing migraine on the Sabbath
Heads down, hands pointed to the sky
With bloody hands and a fishy smell
Prayers muttered under alcoholic breath
Grin or a grimace
Sparkling white teeth crooked and gold-filled
Never enough coins to put in the offering bag
Children blessed with sterile truths
Distilled and too perfect like a well done sum
Brain a rotten heap baking in the sun
Redeemed by their tribe, glowing on their little pedestal
Spit in the wine and water, swords crossed at the heart
Busy weekend. Had musical rehearsal yesterday, on a Saturday. I realised I never actually said what musical we're doing - it's Beauty and the Beast. I'm officially dubbed a spoon... and a drunk man in the tavern scene... and male 8. Excellent. Getting picked up in about an hour for another four hour rehearsal.
A few things.
First, why is there not a heater in my room?
This is Auckland okay! And I know, it's probably not like Christchurch, or Canada or some obsecure country in northern europe, but I mean I'm still in the closest country to Antartica, and I don't have a heater in my room? Something is wrong, very wrong.
Maybe I should go get one. Time to binge spend a stash of my pocket money... on a heater.