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nutshell
Diaryland looks rather weird. I refuse to accept a looming sense of mediocrity. Why is it there? This is who I am, hello world, I am caught in a rush of college and collage and Not Enough Time and three publications and I'm winning money, but for what? The first $5 of my special award went to a parking ticket. $24 thousand scholarship. That makes things a little easier. The next $252 of my writing award goes to AP exams. Disgusting. I don't understand Spanish anymore! Grammar worksheets never really were my thing anyway. Maybe because now it feels like my acceptance came so easily, I don't know what to say when he starts feeling bad and worrying about the music program that didn't accept him, and now he's worried about the next one, and the next one. It's so easy to see my worry mirrored in his eyes, what advice do you give someone who's just like you? You'll make it through this? We'll make it through this? We will, and we'll talk all the time after this summer and we can get engaged senior year but we should save the wedding until after graduation, let's get married in a garden! Spring rain. Grey skies. Perfect day. We'll have beautiful autistic children together, you and I. Editing other people's poetry after school. Editor in chief. Such a title. I want to win gold this year, won't that be a crowning goal? But I have papers to write and books to make and a job I'm still at (even though I consider quitting every Sunday) and exams to study for and a journal calling to me, write. Write. Write. $5000 gap. Still too much, I need more scholarships because they're better than loans. I need as much grant as I can get this year and in the future, because my aid package won't be nearly as good next year, since my grandpa died. Isn't that nice? The nice ladies in the poets society say, look, we like to foster young poets, why can't we make a scholarship to give her? And the president looks at that one sternly, now just wait, we need to weigh all of our options here. The exhaustion is wearing on me, a little. Now I try and go to bed by midnight, because it hurts too much when my head slams into a desk mid-doze because I went to bed at three. But I get naps in-between. Lying together, this is what love feels like, a reverse spoon, I'll hold onto you. Smooth skin and soft lips, sweet shoulders and warm thighs.
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