FridaySaturday.

I hate being a woman almost as much as I love being one.

I just gotta write about what I feel right now. This weekend has been one of extremes - extreme joy, and extreme sadness (well, at least it's extreme compared to how I USUALLY get about that sort of thing).

Let's get the bad part over with. I want to get to the joy and ramble on and on about that.

--

I went to Whiteland again yesterday.
Notre Dame vs Michigan State.

There are truly no words. It's one of those games that you have to process what happened because it happened so quickly.

Dave was drunk off his ass, so he missed practically three-quarters of the game. When Caleb and I were done being designated drivers, he put on his Irish jersey and conked out on the sofa.
Ryan was drunk off his ass, too. But at least he stayed in the garage with Caleb and me and watched the rest of the game in its tense entirety.

After Caleb and I dropped Ryan off at his house, we both sat in the car in stone-cold silence.
But I found myself chuckling a little. Me - having been gone from the jocky nature of my youth for seven-ish years - being upset over a football game? Yes, it was Notre Dame and yes, it was a very intense game...but seriously?

Man. In the words of Caleb Tucker:
I hate everything about Michigan.

But, because I'm silly and because I'm me, I CAN find something good out of last night that kind of segues into the happy part of this blog.

It was so funny, on the ride home yesterday, Caleb Tucker said to me, "You're so into this. I can't imagine what this loss feels on a newcomer such as yourself. What are your feelings right now? Are you going to blog about this?"

I love Caleb Tucker. Being with him always makes me feel happy, no matter what.

--

Okay. Now for the happiness!!

ANDY'S DAUGHTER IS HERE!!

Lilyana Isabelle Sturm was born on Friday, September 17, at 12:30 pm. After having some difficulty breathing, she's currently doing fine. Andy's kept me updated. I sometimes think I'm worrying too much - I've texted him once every day since he went to the hospital Thursday night, asking him how she's doing.

From the pictures I've seen of her, she's absolutely beautiful.
But hey, what else was I expecting, really?
She has a little bit of my best friend in her. Half of his heart - his beautiful heart - is hers.

Today, he got to hold her.
That picture of him holding her in his arms, her tiny little hand wrapped around his finger makes me cry.
Because it's amazing.

Now, this part is hard for me to write...but these emotions have never gone beyond my head and my heart. Never gone out of my mouth...because I knew that they could hurt. It hurt me to even think about it.

In the month of June, from what I had witnessed on his blog and Twitter, I almost let myself think that Andy was not going to be there for the birth.
Yes, I know it was ridiculous. And yes, I know that it was very heartless and mean for what I typically think and say.

But I just read his blog...those entries that made me physically sick...and it was very hard for me to tell myself that Andy had what it took to be there when the time came.
Because, as his blog made me percieve him to be, he had become someone that I did not recognize, like very much, or even love like I thought I did.

But he came to my house after I returned home from Washington DC, and he and I talked in person about absolutely everything...and he and I and a few other friends went bowling with us...and I began to have faith in him again.
He told me, "Something has to change, and that something is me. When I say I'm going to do something, I'm going to do it. I'm tired of letting you down, and I'm tired of letting other people down."

And I know I'll never forget that Thursday he texted me, saying that he was on his way to the hospital because Natalie was going into labor soon. I remember how scared he was...asking me to pray.
I got that text during band practice. After I got that text...let's just say that my mind was not on the field, or my drum.

I felt scared and excited for him...but while I was praying, I found myself saying "Thank you."
Because Andy proved me wrong. He has a tendency to do that, but this time it was something that I'll never forget.

He was there.
He was there when Natalie needed his coaching (and his hand...), and he was there when his daughter was born. There are pictures, therefore it happened.
He was there.

Deep down, because I believe I know Andy that well, I knew that he was going to fall in love with her the minute he saw her...and melt when he finally got to touch her with his finger, her hand gripping it tightly.
And he did. He loves her more than he'll ever be able to fathom.

However, on my end of the spectrum, it's very odd.
You see...I love her. I love this little girl. I took a picture of the picture on Facebook using my phone. And every time I look at it, it makes my heart feel a certain way that I can't really describe - I have never felt that sort of love before in my life, ever.
Is it bad that I love her? When she's not mine in any shape or form?

I asked this to Abbie on Friday night, and she said, "No, of course not. She's the daughter of a friend you love very much. Of course you would love her."

I still don't know. I probably never will.
But it's amazing. It is my hope that I'll be able to watch her grow up. The coolest part is that whole process of discovering who she is - what she likes to do, what music she'll listen to (or potentially play!!), what makes her laugh, how she'll do her hair.

But I digress.
Happiness from this weekend was indescribable happiness for my best friend.

--

That is all.

I love you.

Still A Steady Heartbeat.

Butterflies are supposed to be a symbol of happiness and luck.
Ever since the first day of band this season, I have seen at least one butterfly while we were on the field.

Every time I see a butterfly, I think of you.
And I like to think you're thinking of us, as well.

--

Two years ago today, my friend Sascha Simpson died.
Anybody that was in Marching Band with him or knew him by some other means can get this message, and be lulled into a serious mood for a few minutes.
We all remember where we were, what we thought...when we heard the news.

--

I was a sophomore, going downtown to get my hair cut that Friday afternoon. When I got home, I went online and heard from various people that Sascha Simpson was hit by a car and that he was in critical condition.

When I read his name, a face - a friend - came to mind.
And my first thought was, "It can't be him."

I met him when we were in sixth grade together. We went to the YMCA after school to hang out. I would always show him these stupid videos and songs I'd find online, and I'd go and do my homework or something so he could have the computer.
For the next ten minutes, he'd watch those same videos, back to back. I remember the way he laughed no matter how many times he watched them.

For some reason, when he was held back a grade and I moved up to 7th, he and I lost contact.
I don't think I even really got his last name. That's why I wasn't sure if there were possibly two freshman boys named Sascha. I didn't know...

I was talking to one of my friends in band about it. I asked her, "What does this Sascha look like?"
She said, "Brown hair, glasses, really nice smile. He's German."

And my heart sank.
It was him.

I remember that horrible Monday, when we all came back to school. I went into the music suite as I always did, my eyes stinging with tears. I looked up, and I saw other people crying, too. I don't think there was a dry eye in the music department for that entire day.

During Block Four, our principal came on the intercom. She said "I want to tell you that Sascha Simpson was let off of life support at 9 this morning, and that he is no longer breathing."

Somehow, we got through the week up to Friday. We were to perform at his funeral.
The bus ride was silent, all of us in black, the only color being the new bracelets made in honor of Sascha.

Since Sascha was an organ donor, these bright green bracelets say "Donate life" in English and Spanish.

Chamber Orchestra had to perform first. I remember walking into the sanctuary of Mount Pleasant Church, and seeing his casket. I was struck by how small it was. Sascha was tall as me. He was just fifteen years old...not even his full adult height yet.

And here he was. In that polished casket, all snug and safe.
Right as he was, eternally fifteen.

I stepped behind the casket carefully, sitting down in my seat. The pictures projected behind me made me remember him while he was alive all the more clearly.
We played...we had the opening prayer...and Chamber Orchestra sat down in the left wing.

This was the first funeral in which I knew the person.
And this was the first funeral I ever cried at. And was genuinely touched...saddened, but touched. And even slightly comforted.

We listened to the pastor talk, we listened to Sascha's mother talk. God, she was so strong...her strength was awe-inspiring...all of us that were there remember her voice, clear and German-accented. She spoke slowly, making every word count.
She made sure that her son's legacy was heard...and cherished.

Then the band played "It Is Well With My Soul." I remember looking up and seeing tears stream down their cheeks as they made their musical tribute.
I couldn't think of any other way that Sascha would've wanted it.
All of us...his best friends...making music in honor of his life.

That realization alone seemed to create a healthy sense of closure. It wasn't complete yet, but it was better than where it was at the beginning of the morning.

When I packed up my viola and I walked out to the buses, I noticed that the sun was shining luminously, birds were singing, and there was a nice warm breeze tickling my skin. The smell of almost-fall was in the air.
For the first time in a week, I smiled.

--

A year had passed. And I still remembered.

By that point, I was a member of Marching Band. I don't quite remember exactly when I decided that I wanted to join, but I do remember part of the reason WHY.
I remember thinking about Sascha throughout the year after his funeral. I felt really bad that I didn't get back in touch with him when he became a freshman and was in the high school with me. So I figured I'd give back to his life and do something he loved to do, too.

On the one-year anniversary of his death, I made a tshirt. I painted on words that I had written a few days before, concerning this special date.
"His heart still beats. It's the metronome."
On the back, I wrote the date that will stay forever in my memory: September 15, 2008.

--

And here we are, now. Two years later.
I didn't think I'd say this...but when I woke up this morning, Sascha wasn't the first thing I thought about.

I remembered today, of course, but it did not engulf my mind.
I can talk about it a little easier now. It still hurts, a little, but it doesn't hurt quite as much...if you know what I mean.

Last week, we went to the Southport game, like we did the night Sascha was hit by that car...
And Mr Belt didn't mention him, unlike last year.
But I understood. This year, my class and the class of 2012 would be the only people that would recognize the importance of this weekend.

But Sascha was never mentioned.

I'm one of few that still wear his bracelet.
But I know people that have either lost or broken their bracelets...and they told me how awful they felt when it happened.
I wish I knew where they kept the extras. I know they made a LOT of them. I want to give out those bracelets...those bracelets that keep his memory with us in a tangible sort of way.

It seems like we have moved on to the point where we don't need to acknowledge him by name on this day, because we remember and we know and we still love him - we can say a little prayer for him today or whatever in honor of him, if we want.
...but I want to acknowledge his name. A day will probably come when I don't need to write about him anymore. This is probably going to be the last time, in a while. But I know that I will still remember Sascha when I am in college...when I have a family. And if a friend of my child's dies (heavin forbid), I will be able to tell him or her, "I know what it's like." And I will tell them about Sascha.

When a person dies, after a time, their life is no longer simplified or existant by a date or by their name.
Their life simply integrates with yours, in a sort of way. It dissolves, and spreads out into the little cracks and corners, under the rugs...and you are reminded at the most random of times. And they are alive again, within you while you live your own life.

Sascha Nolan Simpson...thanks. I'll thank you again on Senior Night for Marching Band, but...seriously. Thanks, dude. Without you, I wouldn't be in Marching Band at all. And now I can't picture my life without it.

Thank you.

--

They're also building a sidewalk that runs down Laverne Road (the road he was hit on) all the way to the middle school.
I remember how happy I was the day I saw it.
He is still there. And here. And...everywhere.

MIKE JONES. MIKE JONES.

I don't even know how to begin.

We went to contest yesterday (it's Sunday now, I guess...currently being 1235 a.m.). The drumline was there early, as usual, at 9. We practiced in the cold September rain. We practiced with the band once they got there three hours later.

My bass solo was cut. Well, our bass solo (as a section) was cut, really. But it was given to Strobel...four bars of bass given to bass 1.
I tried to not take it as a personal insult. It just felt like...Austin (my instructor) gave up on me. I felt like he said "Nope - you can't do it," and condemned me to marching in silence.
I still heard my solo in my head, and the feeling of my sticks still against the rims of my drum made me feel empty.
In orchestra, they never cut parts. You have to learn it to the best of your ability and get through it. There's no sitting there in silence while one person in your section plays for you.

I hated myself. I hated myself so much, words can't describe it.
My head kept on yelling at me, "Why couldn't you play that better? What place do you have in this drumline? Why are you even here?"
It made me angry - no, furious.

But finally, we loaded the buses and we headed to Columbus North. I taped my sticks and made myself forget about the cut. If they felt like I sucked that bad, then maybe it was for the best. Maybe we'd score a little better.

When we were warming up by the other football field, my drum felt incredibly heavy. I had no idea why - everything suddenly hurt. The bottoms of my feet, my legs, my right elbow that's been giving me trouble for the past week, my shoulders.
I wasn't about to have this. Not before a competition. Not before the one time that everything counted.

We marched on that prim, clean-cut field. We didn't have any distractions. We were the first in our class to perform.
For having performed our ballad for the public only one other time, I thought we weren't all that bad.
Still, I kind of think the football performance was just a little better. But I'm not sure - both were pretty solid.

When we were in our little huddle for drumline and pit, Dustin told us that we had the best percussion in our class. I wasn't sure what this meant. Did we really have THE best? Could he tell this early in the competition?
I had no idea.

But hours passed, and finally it was time to hand out awards.

They announced that Perry Meridian won Best Percussion for Class AAA.
We won. We won something - therefore, I found out, we placed.
We didn't get a Participation plaque.
We PLACED. Specifically, Third place.

I couldn't believe it.
The drumline I was a part of won something.
All those hours during the months of June and early July...came to this.
All those Saturday camps, including the one the morning of contest...came to this trophy.

"Happy" is too weak of a word to describe how I felt.
"Euphoric" is getting closer.

I was honored to be part of it. But I let myself realize that maybe I wasn't so suckish, after all.
That maybe I DID have a place in the drumline.
That maybe if I let myself grow even more from this success, I could become the drummer I want to be. Someday, I want to play snare.
Today, I was proud of what my family accomplished.
And I allowed myself to be proud of what I have accomplished.

And if you know me, you know I don't let myself do that often.

Insert Meaningful Title Here.

According to this, I have five people that read this blog.
For some reason, I feel like writing again.
So here I go. This is going to be fun.
twss.

--

I just went back and re-read every single post on Caleb Tucker's blog. So if I end up writing just a little bit like him, you'll know why.
But it was kind of cool, to read all of those posts...fifteen of them, I think. The only reason I have this blog is because of him - he kind of inspired me to go beyond Facebook with my writing. And I really really like it.
It's so cool to think that my writing is going places beyond what I aim for. I don't write for the world to see, I write for specific people a lot of the time.

And about writing to specific people...
The one person I feel like I've been writing to for the past year has unexpectedly almost fallen to the wayside, recently. I don't understand why. We just haven't talked for the longest time like we used to. I wonder how he's doing.
I know that I miss him. But I also know that...for whatever reason...I don't view him the same way that I did when I sent him that last long message.

I still think of him as a very important person in my life. I don't want to lose him.
It's very hard to explain, what I'm thinking right now.

It seems as if I'm writing for someone else a lot more, now.

--

For my birthday, I made gifts for those I hold very dearly in my life.
One of the recipients has healthily used his copy, and he told me so.
He told me that gift (and reading stuff I've previously written) have given him inspiration for his writing assignments in his college classes.
The thing is...I feel like I don't write to inspire people. I write because if I don't, I go crazy.

I remember back in the summer, one of my friends kept a Tumblr. Some of the things he wrote about...oh, I can't even begin to describe it.
His entries made me physically sick. My stomach was all kinds of fucked up. And that didn't even compare to how my heart was doing, whenever I'd read his entries.
I'd be so mad. Good God, I'd be so mad. I'd think, "Where's the you that I love? Am I loving a person that doesn't even exist anymore?"

I have so many unsent letters to him during that month.
When he started a new blog, I sent him a message and told him I hoped it would be different from the other one. Then I told him how the other one made me feel.
He said, "Why didn't you tell me it made you feel that way? I'm so sorry - I really am."

It's your blog. You do what you want with it.
If you gotta write, you gotta write.

And I write with no holds barred. I enjoy reading people that write in the same way...especially people I know.
I always think I know people, until they write. Then I see another side of them.

I love that.

--

So, on Saturday I drove to Whiteland so I could be with Caleb Tucker and his family. We were going to watch Notre Dame and Purdue duke it out. It was the first time I had been to Whiteland in six years...it was so bizarre. I used to live south of it, in a town called Nineveh. Oddly enough, Whiteland hadn't changed as much as Franklin had in those six years. It was quite trippy, if you want to know the truth.

But anyway. The game.
It was really fun. Such a good game. And I typically don't follow the Irish.
Except, now, I totally will. I was converted on Saturday afternoon, in that garage.

And Caleb's family. They were such nice people. I felt like I was immediately welcomed into the fold. I could talk to any of them. And I finally met his sister, Emily. She is every bit as cool as Caleb said she was.
After Notre Dame won, Caleb and his uncle Dave started to play guitar and bass right there in the garage.

I love Dave's tat. It's a bass clef in front of a Japanese-character-like thing. It was very cool. Just thought I'd mention this before we go any further.

Caleb started to play bass, and we were all rendered to silence. The music resonated in our chests, fileld the garage with sweet, deep tones.
I snapped pics, trying to capture the magic that consumed my ears and my heart. (yeah, that was corny...)
Faintly, his stepdad, Ryan, murmured "He has no idea how talented he is."
"It's a gift from God," Dave agreed. "The day Caleb was made, God said 'Caleb Tucker, you will be a bass player.' And look at him now."

Yeah. Look at him now.
Not classically trained. Just picks up an instrument and is able to rip it up.
It amazes me.

Unfortunately, I had to leave.
When I got home, I wished I was back with Caleb. My wonderful day now had a cloud over it. I was pissed.

However, Caleb texted me to tell me that Ryan really likes me and thinks that I am "so fucking cool."
That, and a few other things we ended up discussing, made me smile. If anything, it made me feel less one-sided about everything. I'm not elaborating.

It gave me some hope.
Hope is a good thing. And so is happiness.
I can only hope that I give those things to him, during those nights that he loses his confidence and crumbles a little bit inside.
I've been there. And I know it isn't easy to reassemble yourself. I know it isn't easy to allow yourself to grasp that new possibility. But eventually...you do. You don't realize it...but you are grasping it and you aren't going back.

I'll be there for it all. It's interesting witnessing that process in someone else.
Someone that's not me.

---

I don't really know what else I got.
Except for this.

Have no fear.
I love you.

This Is For Caleb Tucker.

---

I wrote a letter to myself around this time last year. From the way I wrote it, I guess my past self thought I wouldn't find this until my sophomore year of college. But my past self asked my future self what she had accomplished, so far.

And the weird thing is...I had accomplished a lot of those things, in just a year.

I've applied to colleges. And I have a pretty good idea where I'm headed.
Those that I thought would still be in my life...are still in my life. Hell and high water came, but those people managed to stay.
I met new people that have come to play such vital roles in my life...roles that I never thought existed.
I have made myself a new kind of musician. I have played at venues that I never thought I'd ever perform at before college.

It's pretty cool, when I think about it.

--

The other day, Mr Potter was talking about how we write and how we percieve things. He said that when we look back at something we wrote in the fifth grade, we notice that we wrote in short, simple sentences back then.

He said that was because a part of our brain was not yet developed.
A part of the brain (frontal cortex, I think...I don't remember) does not fully develop until about the age we are sophomores in high school.
That part of the brain...the part that concocts deep, meaningful thoughts and allows us to see the world in a way that we've never seen it before and helps us to express it...does not develop until we are roughly sixteen years old.

When he said that...God, it was like everything clicked.
When I was sixteen, I remember feeling like I was changing, in the sense of expression. I felt like my very innermost thoughts could somehow be penned to my notebook paper.
The first time I ever did that...writing without really editing my thoughts...I lost someone that I believed to be my best friend. After what happened when I wrote it, and the wordless fight it ensued, I remember how I felt like I had been blinded before by something I could not pinpoint.

There was something new within me, and I had no idea what it was.

I was viewing the world in a different way.
I was meeting people I never thought I'd ever become close to.
I was doing things that would make my younger self be appalled.
I was putting myself beyond myself in ways that I never imagined.
I began to not really care if I wasn't as cool or as well-liked as other people I knew...as long as I liked myself and I was doing what I innately felt was good for me, then the rest would just come as it may.

...and it does.

I have a lot of positivity in my life.
The only negativity most of the time is the way I punch myself in the balls every time I slip up...even when it's a common mistake that anyone could make.
I put up VERY high standards for myself. A lot of times, I have let myself down and I've taken the blame for other peoples' actions.

I'm working on NOT doing that anymore.

My brain has opened up in a HUGE way. My writing has gotten to a level that inspires people (a result that I feel is often misplaced).

I have surrounded myself with amazing people. They are not perfect, nor are they ne'er-do-wells. Some have hurt me, but one thing's for sure: they all give something, and they all take something from being in my life. I make sure I let them know how much they mean to me, and to not let life get them down.

I love in a way that is beyond me. Therefore, it's not understood and has the potential to be feared. But it's the only way I can love. I can only hope that my future boyfriend or future husband can tolerate that...or want it in the first place.

I want to always write like this. I want to always live life differently with each decade, with each year, with each day...while still retaining that bit of me that is always definable and recognized by those that know me best and love me for it.

I never want to fully grow up. I hope to have that hint of Peter Pan in me. I want to keep life an adventure. I want to keep making music. I want to keep making people happy in a childlike sort of way.

--

Every time I'm on the field for band, I see a butterfly. I remember hearing that butterflies meant good luck.

If that's the case, then our band has a lot of goodness in it this season.
Whenever I see a butterfly, I think to myself: "I can do this."

--

Well, Caleb Tucker, I hope this suffices.
I love you so much.

No! No Digital Books!!

At first I wasn't going to do this, since I have the feeling I'll have to do it again for a grade. But we discussed this today and it got me thinking. It reminded me of the first time I ever read this book.

I'll give it to you straight: I loved Brave New World. I don't know why, but i have this thing for novels that focus on utopian societies. I remember reading The Giver in fifth grade, and how I was just so into it...that really kickstarted my fascination with what our society could potentially be if we let it.

But anyway. Back to Brave New World.

In futuristic England, the best way to describe the world and its people is...lifeless. Nobody is an individual, everyone is created in a genetic lab, made a certain way to live a certain way of life. Everyone's in one caste or the other, they ignore all other castes but their own, and they believe their caste is perfectly fine...because they've had it whispered in their ear while they slept as young children, all through the night for years until it's been engraved in their minds.

These night-whispers rule their life, and give them no freedom of thought. If anyone dares to think beyond what's in front of them (...if anyone who dares to think at all, really), they are frowned upon.
One of their virtues is "Everyone belongs to everyone else." Therefore, everyone thinks the same and offers themselves up to everyone else because that's what is supposed to be.

They go throughout their lives doing whatever duties they have, and continuously engage in sexual activity with numerous people. It's considered odd to stick with only one person.
Women are perfumed, polished, nipped and tucked into these doll-like specimens of supposedly-perfect beauty.

There are no parents ("Father" and "Mother" are considered bad words). There are no diverse languages. People that do not fit into this society are sentenced to live in a reservation, where they live - literally - like savages.

Everyone was happy. Everyone was happy because they were blind...unliving. They did not experience pain (they literally had a happy pill called soma), sadness, discomfort, filth, or any emotion other than happiness. As long as everyone was happy, everything was stable.

And this world lived for stability.

When I was reading this book, I was always rereading certain lines or paragraphs.

There's a part when Bernard takes Lenina (and sexually has her for a week) out to Arizona to see a savage reservation, and while they're settling in, he suggests they go for a walk outside around their hotel, so they could be alone. Lenina points out that they WILL be alone, later. Bernard clarifies that he's not talking about being alone for sex, but being alone so they could talk.

"Talk? But about what?" Lenina asks. As the book says further, "walking and talking seemed an odd way to spend an afternoon."

People have sex without getting to truly know the person, just to be satisfied and in a happily-sexual stupor, instead of going on a walk and having an in-depth conversation face-to-face that really grabs at the cold truths of life...or maybe even a conversation that's lively and full of jokes.

When I read that, all I could think was "...is that true or is that true?"
So sad.

We have drugs so people can be dumbly happy.
We have digital books.
We are losing the arts community because people are not patient enough to take in the emotion that goes into art.
Girls are sucking up, poofing up, and revealing more and more.
People would rather be on Facebook than go out with friends and talk in person.

It's scary, you know?
Really scary.

Go read Brave New World. Or Fahrenheit 451. Or The Giver.
And wake up from your stupor.

I'm Getting Sick.

Every fall and every spring, my nose acts up. It's annoying...distorts my voice. But then I realize that people have to go their entire life with that nasally tone, like Alie Hansen.

And my relatives in Wisconsin. Hell, everyone in Wisconsin and Minnesota, really.

--

Well, last week was my first week of my senior year of high school. It was more awkward than most first weeks, because we had to adjust to an eight-period schedule. No more hour and a half block schedule, with four classes a day. No more extra days to do homework. No more "Ugh, it's Monday...at least it's a Blue Day!" No more seven minutes to get to class (five minutes sure will keep us awake).

In all honesty, I don't dislike the new schedule plan as much as the teachers do...they HATE it.
It could be that I don't dislike it that much because I'll only have to do this for a year, but I don't know...

What strikes me the most is the atmosphere that my class has - and the attitude my TEACHERS have towards my class. Like it was spoken at the senior class meeting: "You made it! You're seniors! You know what we expect of you, help us out with the underclassmen. Now, get back to class."

When I was getting gas on Friday after school, I just leaned against my mini-van and thought...
When will the pride begin?
When will we start to BEGIN things, get everyone pumped up?
When will the epic-ness of the Class of 2008, 2009, and 2010 fade to our own epic-ness?

When will I feel like I have earned the right to be principle violist in the best orchestra in the school?
When will I feel like I can carry this "I'm a good student, I can do this" vibe up until the day I recieve my diploma?
When will I come home from Marching Band and feel like I have a place in the drumline...the drumline that I love, and the drumline I love being in?
When will I finally feel like a senior?

Yesterday...Saturday, August 14th...I applied to two of my four schools that I want to go to. I applied to Marian and DePauw.
Just doing that was very interesting. I found myself NOT being nervous or unsure, but rather excited and sort of stoked, really.

My mother was the one that was nervous. Thankfully she didn't hover over my shoulder while I applied online, but she was framing two posters nearby, ready to answer questions ("DePauw wants to know when you and Dad divorced...")(yeah, that was very strange)

And today was...ew. That sums it up. I felt my nose tingle and my throat was sore, meaning tomorrow my throat will be normal and my nose will be stuffed up. Probably for a week, if I take Benadryl.

I spent most of the morning/afternoon curled up on the sofa with a comforter, thinking about things.
I had a dream on Friday night that was vivid. And when my dreams are vivid, that means they mean something. This dream made me think, but I don't know the meaning behind it.
I wish my subconscious would tap into other issues in my life that need to be reinvestigated.

It's hard to describe, but I just had the feeling like I had to define myself and stand up for the way that I live my life, the way I love people, and the way that I want to live my life when I'm out of college and on my own with a real job and wanting to settle down with someone that actually wants to be with me forever, you know?

It felt like I needed to make decisions, and make statements, take a stand.

But instead of feeling full and triumphant, I felt feverish, sore, and like I needed to do grown-up tasks.
So I finished my AP Psychology notes for this week, and tried to not focus on how I felt whiny and half-assed.

It must be PMS. I think it is. So it's a good thing I disregarded all of that.

But I managed to NOT whine about it upon feeling it, so I guess that's an accomplishment. I talked with Andy for a couple of hours on Facebook, and that cheered me up a little. It always makes me feel good when he get ahold of me first.

Sometimes I feel like I interfere with his life when he doesn't need me, and that I'm just that odd 18-year-old that tells him the things that I think about late at night, that I am here for him, and exactly how I feel about whatever may be going on in either of our lives. Sometimes I wonder why he would want someone like me still around...when I am where I am in life. Will it be different next year, when I'm in college as well? Will we even talk to each other in a year, or three?

I wonder that for ALL of my friends.

I think I'm going to go have a psychic reading sometime soon, when I can go to the North Side. It's not like I'm really expecting them to give me all answers, but it'll give me some new insight. And there's nothing wrong with that.

I like looking at myself from the outside...from other people's voices. Whenever people randomly tell me exactly what they think of me, what they see in me or hear in my voice... I love it. Nothing like it in the world.

No, sir.