Bloody Well Right

I have had just about enough of this.

Those of you who know me know that I worry more than anyone else.

And most of the time, I am worrying about my friends.

I apologize if I hurt people's feelings. But you have to realize that this was not my intention.

I was and am not in any way trashing anyone. I am worried sick about my friend. If I did not love him, I would not care so damn much.

Sometimes people are the angriest when they take things the wrong way. This is my way of expressing things. If you get that pissed off, vent about me on your journal.

I am not trying to bash anyone. I just care too much to let things pass me by.

And the racist comments don't help the closeminded argument much. That just makes tempers flare, and spins things out of control.

So please, stop flipping out over how I said it. Look at what I am trying to say. In the end, that's where we are all going to end up.

Yes, I Guess They Outta Name A Drink After You

I think that it's about time to start stepping on some toes. Chad is right, I have been way to inconsistent and nice and fake lately. I just felt like I had lost it.

But when he reminded me of the immortal words of the blogging god


Things have been bothering me, and I need to get them out.

I have never been a big fan of drugs. Granted, I have always lived in the liberal mindset that freedom to choose is what it's all about. But I now know the difference between having drugs in your life, and having life in your drugs.

We all knew about his past. He had done some pretty crazy stuff for an 8th grader. But that was years ago, and he didn't do anything anymore.

Then we just kind of noticed at lunch that his pupils were the size of the dime bags he had bought. And the fact that we were learning new vocabulary in the size of the different pills that he was popping.

Then one day, he fed us hash brownies for lunch. That was when I started asking my friends

Shouldn't we do something about this?

"No Grace." They said. "This is not your place." I suddenly found myself to be the only one worrying. I even told him my concern.

He said that he was fine.

Now please, tell me that you are fine again. Now that you have gotten back from the hospital, where you were in a coma from triple c and too much alcohol.

My friends, tell me that it is fine. Don't tell me that this is not my place. Obviously his parents don't care. They looked the other way of the hospital band.

Why don't any of you care that he is so nonchalant about this? What the fuck is wrong with you?

Wait, I know. Maybe you are too drunk and high in the tent in the backyard to notice.

perhaps the shrooms you guys ate yesterday made everything seem rosy and fresh.

I used to be the liberal one. I used to laugh about drugs. Now I am the one who is scared to death. Is this just going to hit us one day? Which one of us is going to not wake up? Why are all of you still laughing? We are fucking ourselves up. I work with the messups. I see what happened to the guy who smoked pot through highschool. He is a sad excuse of a man, waiting on the rich.

The mad scientist tells me to look the other way. Everyone tells me to mind my own business. That this is not my decision.

So should I just not worry about it, and take off next Thursday for a funeral?

Yes, that sounds peachy.

Seconds Tick the Time Out

Happy Easter, my dear friends whom I have neglected for 12 days. I find myself delving deeper and deeper into the philosophy that the less you write, the more that you have to say. And I have a lot to say, to a lot of different people.

To my friend who is spiraling out of control:
You told me that you were fine. You said that you were in control. Everyone else said that it was not my place. But if you go into a coma like you did last week, and you don't come out, the weight of that hospital band is going to be very heavy to hold up. Because you have so much potential. And I love you, just like I love all of my friends. And I don't want you to die. Please, please. Think.

To my father:
I am sorry that I forgot your birthday. But I will be honest, I didn't want to remember. I think back with a pang of remorse to an old man in a ruined apartment with no one but his dog to love him. And I am such a horrible daughter for it. But I am not ready to face you right now. You have forgotten me so many times in my life. I don't want to put my feelings on the line, only to be disappointed once again. I am sorry that you are 48, and have nothing to show for it but a squandered inheritance, a ruined family, and a daughter who is a stranger to you. I am sorry.

To Annie:
You are strength. I have not been there enough for you. None of us have. But a lot of that stems from the fact that we don't know what we can do. If I could make things better for you, I would in a heartbeat. I'll bring you a flower ever day. But I don't know if it will help. So I can promise you that if you ever need anything, I am here. And please, don't forget.


To Lovely:
For a day or two after you left here without so much as a goodbye, or even a hello, I was angry. But then I realized that it's not your fault. It's not mine either. You are a good friend, but we probably won't be close for a long time, if we ever are again even. But you are amazing, and I appreciate the length at which you have opened my eyes. And I hope that your life is always as happy as it is now. Whether I am in it or not.

To Chad:
I am so glad that you have had the chance to witness the beauty of culture shock. Like I said, every writer should be at least bilingual, because for every language that you know, there is a completely different way to describe something. Don't just stop at Paris. Find all of it. Good Luck.

12 days brings a lot of growing up. Happy Easter.

This society is run by old white men.

I'm dead serious.

Working at a high class restaurant like I do, you run into a lot of extremely rich people. Most of them look a lot alike

Suits, receding hairlines, wandering eyes, manicured wives.

The more and more I work there, the less and less that I envy the rich. Some of them are so quirky, and so unhappy, it makes me begin to appreciate not having everything that I want.

So tonight, Mr. Abercrombie and Mr. Fitch came to dine at my restaurant. They looked like my grandfather. Abercrombie is a man in his fifties with khakis and a knit sweater. Fitch is a large man with a blue shirt and a pocket protector. And as I sat there, watching these three seemingly ordinary gentleman decide what next years look was going to be. These men, who are half the reason that teenagers go home and empty their accounts on short skirts and the hottest thing,

are old, white men.

Kind of like the company owners at the next table. And the pharmaceutical company in the gold room.

From the clothes I wear to the paper I read, it's starting to seem like the same people control everything.

Old white men run this town.

Dear Mom:
The most painful blow that a parent can hit a child with is to shut down something that they are proud of.

way to go.

Yes, granted, I don't let you read my writing too often, but when I do show you something that has gotten raving reviews from teachers, I don't expect the response I got.

Did you copy this?

No mom. I didn't. I write. It came from my own head. These are my thoughts, and it makes me so angry that I can barely even stand when you just toss it aside and say "that's nice". Because you still probably don't believe me.

It's people like you who make me think that I have no talent in this world. It's people like you who don't even believe that I can fucking write something well.

I could come home and tell you that I was the president, and you would think that I bought votes.

That really hurts. More than and yell or scream or punch could.

Way to fucking go.

Grace

One of the worst flaws that people have has to be the compelling need to compare.

It is one of those things that seems harmless, but when you look at it long enough, it becomes an addiction. Every girl walking down that hallway is just another fix.

Someone told me the other day that he is upset that I am a writer, because he is supposed to be a writer for a living, and that I just came out of nowhere.

That cannot be further from the truth.

We each have our own path. We're made up of totally different combinations. I've had a suicide in my family, maybe you have tried to commit suicide. Those are two entirely different spheres of emotion resting under the same stereotypically broad spectrum.

Comparing leads to jealousy. And resentment. And the need to be better. And sooner or later you turn around and realize that your entire life has been focused on measuring yourself to other standards, even though you have totally different requirements.

It's hard, too. Take a walk in times square. Everywhere, pounding little messages into your head, is the need to be like them. To look like that. To have that hair. To look that good in jeans. Look how far you have to go until you are able to turn society's head.


Next time that you see that really pretty girl in the hallway, or run into that guy who will always take better pictures than you. Next time you tear yourself apart because that bitch got the solo again..

stop.

Live your own life. Don't spend it trying to outshadow others.
I'm not saying that competition is bad. Not at all. It keeps our drive going. But there is a major difference between being competitive and being bitter.

You choose.

I don't really know what happened.

I got too busy.

But this break has given me so many topics to write about, maybe I just needed some time to let it all build up.

This way, it won't all be repetitive odes to the Mad Scientist.

While I was gone
I went to New York City. There is nothing quite like your first trip there. It is so unreal compared to everything here. It was scary and tiring and so refreshing to take a vacation out of the box.

I feel that I learned a lot while I was there. I'm not sure what knowledge I acquired, or how I acquired it, but it was one of those things that you kind of just know.

The college race is on. I am being flooded with letters every day. It scares me just how much money universities put into advertising. I am really stressed about finding the right college for me. I constantly tell myself that I want to be up north, but I know that I will be homesick. And I just found out that my tuition is only paid if I stay in state. I love this place, I do. But the last people I want to teach me are closed minded ones.

I find that I am the busiest when I don't have my priorities properly aligned. I have been working so much that I spend most of my other free time with William, and on schoolwork. That leaves out my friends, writing, sleeping, relaxing, and being happy. Even though I do enjoy every minute with Will.

Sometimes I wish that we had eight days a week. But it would just make us busier than ever.

Having had a taste of being whirled up by the workforce, and having the limit the people and things that you enjoy, I really do enjoy being young. In fact, I absolutely love it.

God it feels good to write again.