I had school today; and I think it's funny how I had forgotten what school really means. It means going to classes with kids who either ignore me, hate me, or misunderstand me, and having teachers who don't even have time to get that personal. I had forgotten how it makes me feel like I'm nobody, and after a whole summer of just Nick, and being loved by him, it was kind of a shock to go to this place where no one even tries to love me.

Sitting on the couch (once again), being torn between the best friend I've ever had and the most teddy bear deliscious lesbian I'll ever meet, but it's ok! She lives in Seattle, so I won't really be able to see her that much. He lives in Belmont Mass, so I can actually see him sometimes.

I would write more but I have places to go and people to screw, ciao lambs!

The Joys of Being

I exist. Duh. Do you see me, are you looking at me, DO YOU CATCH MY VIBE? Look at the way my eyes, my blue eyes, are set in my head, and the way they are always watching people, watching the grass in the breeze. That same breeze that bothers the hair on my arms and the leaves on the trees. So I'm definitely all there in the physical department, can't argue that. You also can't argue that I don't have opinions and thoughts, see, they're always floating around in my big fat definitely-there head, so you can't argue that; I'm pro-choice, pro-environment, anti-Bush, queer as can be...wait, that's where this gets complicated; not only are there people out there who would call me a sinner because I support queer rights, there are also people who say that I don't even exist because I'm bisexual. They say that my sexuality isn't even a state of being. Stupid psychologists, right-wing nobodies, small town neanderthals, red necks, homophobes, nazis, everyone who can't see that, duh, I'm here the same as you. I'm here and I'm proud, proud because I can fall in love with men and women (like that's so weird)! According to Kinsey, most everyone is bisexual. I'm here and I'm proud, and yeah, I'm bisexual. So all you mistaken people can call me a faggot, faggot, faggot-lover, say I'm a dyke, dyke, dyke, but you fools will be wrong because I am one bisexual bitch, and yeah, I exist.

So. Major uber hugo giganto crush on hot girl from camp.
She's like some sort of porcelain doll, only dressed in 80s punk rags.
Perfect clear blue eyes and doll hair (short aND THICK WITH BANGS)
was blonde, dyed black. Rail thin, practically no figure, but gorgeous
because of that. FReckles sprinkled across her little doll nose.
(cliche) rosebud mouth, long eyelashes like black spiderwebs.
Long thin neck like you wouldn't believe, hugs for sad people

So I'm back. Tomorrow I head out for a three week writing program. Will bring all my pride gear. Will come out. Most likely have a great time. Meh. Nothing to say. My life is a blank slate (I lie, plenty of interesting schtuff, just nothing important)...This is my update. Excitement all around. Read the modt interesting novel on the history of philosophy. Can't bring my computer to camp, updates will be limited or nonexistent, but big and juicy upon my return.

Just been thinking...when I came out, lot's of people were accepting, even some people who I thought would be freaked out. Weird thing was...the one person who I was sure would understand, was utterly freaked. My closest goddamn friend decided that since her sister came out and sort of uprooted her home life, me being bi could be nothing but bad. Sad thing was, she never said it to my face. Whenever I asked her, "are you sure you're okay with this?" all she ever said was, "yeah, I'm fine." but she obviously wasn't.

I let go, and watched as it floated farther and farther.
No time to catch its tail and bring it back home.
So we just let go, and they float away, faces turned upward.

Mac told me to writ him down the answer to the "big question." He was sitting there, trying (pretending) to take this test, and I'm bugging him; he goes "liza, shut up and figure out what the meaning of life is."

My painting can't be finished; I don't even feel that finishing is a possibility. I got as far as painting in the base...fluorescent pink. I can't go any farther, all I'm good for is a dressup doll. Play with me, use me, throw me away. Meh. Having an absolute crap time of it over the stupidest thing. Because I'm stupid.

I'm sad.
Sad like butterflies pinned to cardboard boxes.
Sad like books with torn pages,
ocean shores empty of bathers.
I am sad like unfinished stories
and dusty photo albums,
and always,
always I am sad like burnt out candles.

good night. Kisses, fishes and a lullaby.

So, I have this huge problem. Huge pain in the ass problem.

Despite having gotten about three hours of sleep last night, I'm super hyper. Crazy.
I'm in a quite unusual mood, for one thing, I've been coloring...I never color. Yes, that's right...coloring as in coloring books. Mine is cooler though, because it's Parakiss art from off the internet. Fun Fun. I also managed to do what my mother call "ruining" a shirt by using fabric paints to write Both Ways, encased in a two sided arrow on the front of it.

Wrote this on my typewriter over the past two days...it's short and a bit unpolished, but not entirely crap.
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Light me, light this; light my creative struggle. I now understand that my creative failure of recent months stems directly from my wanting. For I am wanting; not necessarily wanting to be a better writer, but wanting to know what to write, who to love, and wanting to know why...you know, the works.