Monday, September 29, 2014
Let me tell you why good grades don't define intelligence.
Because I get good grades, and because I am stupid.
I am stupid because I leave everything up to the last possible second and then I get irregular heart beats and can't think because I'm sleepy and then I can't sleep even if I've only slept four hours in the last two days, so I have to start drinking liquor and stealing Dad's sleeping pills, and pretending that I'm mortally stomack-sick so that I can skip school, when I'm only just nervous up to the diarreah bits and honestly it's all my fault.
The kind where, if you don't actually fall asleep, you know, you sort of get a very weird trip. Now, I've never done hard drugs but honestly they can't be weirder than this one.
Hallucinations, random thinking processes, doing things you'll regret, you've got the tidy party movie checklist.
And that part about doing things you'll regret takes you to Chatroulette and then you take off your clothes and next thing you know you're masturbating to a stranger from California doing so to you.
But seriously what the fuck was I doing.
And now the thought of my pictures getting on a porn page haunt me, and what's worse, it might haunt me for, say, eight years and just when I thought the thing couldn't possibly happen now, bam, everybody has pictures of me jacking off.
The part I hate the most is that one where I really always defended girls who took naked pictures and shit, they had all the right to do so, the people who sucked were those who shared and those who forwarded.
And even so, I hate myself for doing something so stupid and now I'm all scared and thinking about the multiple ways I should just enjoy the moment now that people haven't seen how abnormally huge my clitoris is.
But I can't because I've got an IB Diploma to finish.
Oh I wish I had made this story up.
Friday, September 12, 2014
*Let's lighten up the mood of the last post with a very happy one*
For a long time, Brazil stood upon my configuration of happy places as a very happy place. I lived in a daze of hot romance with bossa nova, caipirinhas, soccer, but particularly bossa nova. AND HORRAY I GOT TO GO TO BRAZIL LAST WEEK.
The catch is that I went to Sao Paulo for a youth-movement related trip, so I had to work some, but who cares, it's Brazil. (Sao Paulo is part of the catch because it's anything but a touristic adventure; it's a concrete jungle a few hundred miles away from any beach of appeal.)
Unfortunately, as the procrastinating IB student that I am, I didn't have any time or energy to sit down and write this post until I forgot a decent percentage of what I had to say. Like, I had something or two planned about the day we went to a live-music venue, where an infernally energetic and happy man played all sorts of brazilian music and the crowd meshed into strands of alive, happy, dancing and kicking people. And I had one or two things planned about the bar where we went to drink caiprinhas, and where a beautiful woman sang bossa nova, and I just felt myself as if a-floating in dreamland. (It wasn't due to the caipirinhas though. Dude, caipirinhas suck.)
Or the way that travelling with adolescent males means that you will get ten times more knocked out on food than traveling with female friends. At least that was the case for me.
GOSH I LOVE PARTYING I DON'T CARE TO ADMIT IT I WANT TO GET DRUNK EVERY WEEKEND AND YES I LOVE TO READ AND LISTEN TO MUSIC THAT DOESN'T CENTER ON A REPETITIVE BEAT BUT I ALSO LOVE TO LOOK HOT AND DANCE AND STUFF.
And I also love to walk through massihumongyenormy parks with beautiful trees and love the universe and take pictures and gah.
Have a beautiful weekend (and shabat shalom!)
Monday, September 1, 2014
Death comes in threes, but sometimes it comes by fours.
At times it arrives in the shape of a cancer-struck math teacher, one whom you never knew but who's ghost whispers through the hallways and wipes out the teenaged laughters when it's heard.
And sometimes it stays as a great-grandmother, one whom lived in a city miles away and you loved in spite of the respites of contact. And then when that death comes, it tastes of guilt, for you could have gone to visit her more often, and because it was only at her funeral that you discovered that she loved poetry as much as you.
And then it finallizes with a youth, and you could swear it ends there, because death comes in threes and because if it's the death of the kindest friend you have in the world's two year old sister, G'd must have taken a deep breath and ordered death to stop.
But sometimes death comes by fours, and you are chilled by the knowledge that death will come in the numbers that it wishes and in the form it can. For if the suicide of a past friend whose friendship you broke a few years ago's mother does anything, is prove that death will come, and that you are no longer the child to whom life presented itself as an eternal state of being. It proves that death in the old years comes often, but death in the young years comes devastating.
And if this is a part of life, why does it leave it tasting thus like its counterpart?