Of New York City and The Way a Camera Smells

How many months was it this time?
Well, I finally have a free moment (which I really should have had much earlier, as it is Winterim.)
Winterim. That's what I want to talk about.
Winterim is joy. Winterim is where you don't take classes for a month. Instead, you take special interest classes.
Mine was photography, and we went all around everywhere and took photographs. I felt so professional walking around Suburbia, chunky black digital SLR (a Nikon D50, borrowed from the Swedish photographer who teaches our Winterime) in hand. I love the sound the camera makes when you press the shutter, and I love the way the camera smells. It's true! It smells like plastic, but like no plastic I have ever smelled before. Anyhow, we also went... to New York City!
It was my first time there, and it is my favorite place in the world (except perhaps Tokyo, but I've never been). The whole time I was there, I kept thinking of Rent, and (sad as it sounds) of The Princess Diaries. (If you've only seen the movies, you're missing out. The books are much better, although I wouldn't call them quality literature.) I WANT TO LIVE THERE.
We went to Central Park, and I could just see myself living there. Not in Central Park, of course, but it was so, so perfect. Just imagine.
It's the middle of my story. My story that hasn't started yet.
I am in my room, waiting for My Prince to come back. He has gone... somewhere important. Somewhere for something he wants to do. My Prince... wants to be a scientist. He's just come back from an expedition to the jungles of Guatemala.
Are there jungles in Guatemala?
My Prince wants to be an environmentalist. That's it. And he's just come back from an expedition in the fierce wild jungles of Guatemala. It's my first time seeing him in months, and I'm meeting him in Central Park. Central Park isn't his idea of nature. Central Park is manmade nature, compact, perfect nature. When we walked in Central Park before he left, he would complain teasingly about it. Now, I'm waiting for him on Central Park bridge. It is magical and amazing and THAT'S what New York City does.
I am most definitely applying to NYU and Columbia when I start thinking about college. If they have good English and Drama programs. I guess that IS something to think about, no?
But, ah, New York. Everything happens first there. I'm sure there are always anime cons in New York... it is NOT overrated.

Wistfully,
Rosie L.

Of Sailor Transformations and Every Kind of Nerdy

Uh-oh. It's happened. My fondness for geeky boys has finally reached the limits of reality.
He is the geekiest boy I have ever encountered. Of course I would fall for him.
He is every kind of nerdy, but I won't say about what because (and this is most likely one of the most ridiculous reasons on the web; at least in the top fifty) I'm worried that it may give away too much if anyone in my school actually read my blog. Which I'm sure they don't.
He is the pale, skinny type. I'm sure you know the type.
I don't think I could have fallen for anyone more thoroughly undesirable to the public at large than Dy (I think that's what we should call him). He's several years older than me, and I am elated that he even knows my name, frankly. In fact, he came to sit by me today in assembly, and we talked about Sailor Moon. Dy said that it used to be a hentai anime. Ew!! But they had to change it all when it came over to America. Apparently, that's what all the smoke and special effects are for when they make their Sailor transformations. To cover up, er, what used to be there.
I've been thinking about Dy all day, though. This is escalating. This is bad. This is going to last several months.
The bright side is, I have a really good feeling about it, which is rare.
But I'm blabbering. Sorry.

Besottedly,
Rosie L.

Of Sailor Transformations and Every Kind of Nerdy

Uh-oh. It's happened. My fondness for geeky boys has finally reached the limits of reality.
He is the geekiest boy I have ever encountered. Of course I would fall for him.
He is every kind of nerdy, but I won't say about what because (and this is most likely one of the most ridiculous reasons on the web; at least in the top fifty) I'm worried that it may give away too much if anyone in my school actually read my blog. Which I'm sure they don't.
He is the pale, skinny type. I'm sure you know the type.
I don't think I could have fallen for anyone more thoroughly undesirable to the public at large than Dy (I think that's what we should call him). He's several years older than me, and I am elated that he even knows my name, frankly. In fact, he came to sit by me today in assembly, and we talked about Sailor Moon. Dy said that it used to be a hentai anime. Ew!! But they had to change it all when it came over to America. Apparently, that's what all the smoke and special effects are for when they make their Sailor transformations. To cover up, er, what used to be there.
I've been thinking about Dy all day, though. This is escalating. This is bad. This is going to last several months.
The bright side is, I have a really good feeling about it, which is rare.
But I'm blabbering. Sorry.

Besottedly,
Rosie L.

Of Red Scarves and Time Moves Slowly

Back again, and feeling in quite the poetic mood. Phrases for poems have been entering my realm of consciousness for several days now. Since Saturday night, I believe, when I looked at the maraschino cherry in my Shirley Temple and thought about how red it was, and how most people don't actually ever eat them, but I like them.
What I want to know is: Does anyone actually agree with me?
In fact, here's the poem that stemmed from that thought. It doesn't have much to do with maraschino cherries, but that's to be expected.
A bright red scarf,
Wrapped boldly around her neck on even a
Not-so-cold winter day
A difference.
As red as...
Those maraschino cherries no one actually eats
But I like them
Stands out
A dove among pigeons
Pushing and scwabbling for scattered seeds
But the dove knows better
Flies
Waits
Like a boldly printed durag in an
Office Building (with a capital B)
Merits skeptical eyes from suit-wearing businesswomen
Chattering on silver phones
While the durag covers
Hamburger headphones
Silver cellphones
Hamburger headphones
The difference among them
"People fascinate me"
-(Andy) (Warhol)
People incapable of BEING fascinated
Strut down streets
They are baggy-jeaned teenagers
And
They are sweater-setted soccermoms
They
Don't
They don't stand out
It's you,
Red scarf, durag, dove
Who fascinates
And is fascinated
You are The Difference

There. I love these poetry-inspiring thoughts going through my head. I'd always been bad at coming up for the initial ideas for poetry. Once I had an idea, the words and phrases were easy, but I could never come up with an idea. Now it's just coming naturally.
I hope this lasts.
People say that a lot, though, don't they? They hope that lots of things last. They hope that their youth lasts. They hope that beauty lasts.
Less dramatically, they hope that this day with their long-distance boyfriend lasts. They hope that this last spoonful of chocolate pudding lasts. They hope that the last two minutes of sleep before their alarm goes off lasts.
It's all about the good things lasting and the bad things going away as fast as we can manage.
See! That's what I mean by poetic thoughts. I could write a poem on that.
I'm also having thoughts that are phrases I could use, such as the one I just had, "Eating ice cream in the moonlight was the only joy he had in moonlight." I could write a poem on this.
This is making me euphoric.

Of Soap Opera Confessions and Twinkling Eyes

Okay, I'm back (she said sheepishly). I've started up a new regime. Since friends seem hard to come by at this school (it's appallingly cliquish-- private school kids) and I only have a few, I've started to observe the people around me. It's surprisingly engaging, and I've decided that Raspberry Beret (and I now realize I will have to change the title or it will be plagiarism) will be about human dynamics, so I have to know everything about people. Most people are easy enough to figure out, but there are a few I just don't get. There's this boy in my English class who makes faces at me when he catches me staring at him, trying to figure him out. I wish I knew what was going through his mind just then. There's another one, though, that I wish I could figure out even more. Let's just call him Ba. He's extremely smart. Sometimes he doesn't even take notes, and I'm beginning to wonder if he has a photographic memory. Anyway, he actually doesn't speak until spoken to, or, occasionally to ask questions in class. He seems to really care about his education, but he doesn't always pay attention. I've seen him walking down the halls in a daze a few times, with a dreamy expression on his face. It's all very baffling. He's definitely not snobby or shy, though. When you talk to him, he's very friendly. He laughs just as much as any other person, and smiles quite a bit. It's infuriating: I just can't figure out what makes him tick. I've also been forming storylines, not just figuring people out. There's this punky junior couple. I've been watching them for ages. They used to be just good friends, but he liked her. You could tell by the way he looked at her. His eyes twinkled. Then, one day, they walked into school in front of me holding hands. I guess he drives her to school. I wished bitterly I could have known exactly how that had come about. I wished I could have witnessed that conversation, but, of course, I couldn't, so I just made it up. Easy enough to visualize. I bet they had been on the edge of romance for a few weeks. And then someone said something that set it off. Or there was a big, dramatic soap opera-confession scene! Or maybe just a kiss. I really hope it was the dramatic soap opera-confession scene. I think I'm enjoying this much too much, though. I walk down the halls, see something that I think is funny, or imagine what someone must be thinking, and start laughing like a madman all the way down the hall. They must all think I'm a freak now, but I don't much care. I'm having way too much fun. Unfortunately, though, it does come with a price. I'm beginning to think of these people as my characters, which is kind of a bad thing to think with real people.
The only bad thing right now is that I am definitely phase-twoing again. Of course, right when I'm phase-twoing, P and I become closer as friends. I know it's my fault and all, but it does kind of suck. I definitely don't mind being friends with him, though, of course. He said this thing last night, when we were IMing, about how he would be happy as long as I was alive and well. I was, frankly, shocked, and couldn't help blurting out (or as much as you can blurt on IM), "No! I'm not that important!" Because, I mean, I shouldn't be. Anyway, I won't bore you any longer with tales of my trivial trials, so this is me, signing off!

Watching all of you,
Rosie L.

Updates!

I believe that an updated friends list is in order.

L= bestie
Z= bestie guy friend
Ly= bestie
T= a friend
Ny= bestie
L-L= a friend
Au= a friend, I guess, although I kinda get the feeling she's not too fond of me.
N= my bestest bestie and former roommate
Na= bestie
M= bestie
Me= bestie
C= bestie
A= bestie
F= bestie
O= my cat
B= bestie guy friend
I= bestie guy friend
S= bestie guy friend
D= bestie guy friend
P= my ex
No= besite guy friend
Sh=Shayna

Of The Kingdom of Media and Zombies

I haven't written in almost a month. I have got a good excuse this time, though. I started school a few weeks ago, and they really do give you a lot of homework. I've been much to busy.
Speaking of school, in my history textbook, they say that the empire ruled by the Medes was called the Kingdom of Media. This made me laugh like a madman, because aren't we just the same?
The Kingdom of Media, that's 21st Century US, isn't it?

Well, all cinical thoughts aside, it was N's birthday last night, and we had quite a blast, let me tell you. We drank spiritless cocktails and watched all of our cult classics (The Breakfast Club, Breakfast at Tiffany's-- anyone see a recurring theme here?--, Ferris Bueller's Day Off, etc. We even watched the new Nancy Drew, only to be ever-so-disgusted by the prep school freak, and ever-so-infatuated with her boyfriend. We heard all about Na's adventures in Sandwich Country, and played Zombie Fluxx well into the wee hours of the morning.
I haven't had that much fun in weeks.

Of Desires and Old Receipts

Writers are power-hungry.
They control their own world. They control the lives of countless characters. The control the emotions and inspire the actions of people they don't even know.
Writers have more power than the U.S. President, and it's all in their head.
I want to be one. I want to be able to make people laugh, cry, and dream. I want to be able to make people fall in love. I want to inspire them. I want to give them something to live through when they have nothing else. And all without knowing them.
It's amazing.
What could be better?
Aside from that, I just want to be that entity, the mysterious one who's imagination is a thing you can pick up and sink into. I want to be an entity from my house, sitting on a pillow in my pajamas, ignoring the telephone with a laptop on my lap, and typing madly to finish a chapter before my deadline. I want my editor to knock on the door, but I won't hear, because I'll be too absorbed in what I'm writing. She will have to pick the lock with the bobby pin hidden deep in her purse underneath all the manuscripts and old receipts. When she bursts through the door, she will stand in front of me until I look up, and I will jump five feet back on my cushion. My editor will laugh, and then she will be all business.
I want to dream about my characters, and wake up inspired.
I want to see a published copy of my book.
I want to stand around the set, insisting on what has to be while they make a movie out of my book. I want to see the actors, talk to them, and transform them into my characters in my head. I want to sign books, see all the people, and realized how many lives I have touched.
More than anything, I want to write something that I would like to read.

Eagerly,
Rosie L.

Of Breaking Dawn and Nothing Else

I am being driven nearly mad by excitement at the release of Breaking Dawn. I know it's not the most tasteful book to be driven mad by, but I can't help it: from the moment C loaned me Twilight, I was engrossed. Obsessed. For a while, I was dangerously close from actually falling in love with Edward Cullen. I dreamed about the characters. I thought about the characters. I read constantly.
Even now, I can't help myself picking up the books when I see them (almost every day, as they are on my bookshelf). They are my go-to distraction when I'm stressed or upset or worried, or even just bored. You could say I couldn't live without them. They amount of truth I would allow this statement would depend on the day.
Today, it would probably be pretty true.
Now that I've started on the Twilight Series, I might as well finish. I am severely disappointed by the movie. Robert Pattinson, the same actor who played Cedric Diggory in the fourth Harry Potter movie (shudder). You really should know, I did not like Cedric Diggory. He was not hot, which is the entire point of him, really, isn't it? In any case, it kind of ruined the movie Edward for me. The book Edward remains (thankfully) untainted.
Also, they made Laurent African-American. I believe he's described in the book as being white, but I can't be sure. They probably did it for political correctness. Actually, when I think about it, what happens with black vampires? One of the things that is supposed to happen when you become a vampire is that you become really pale, because all of your blood is gone. So I guess, if you were black, you wouldn't get really pale, because only your blood is gone, not your pigment. You would probably just look very devoid of color and sort of gaunt.
In any case, I must go anticipate Breaking Dawn. (I haven't gotten it yet, or I would not be blogging right now. I would be reading, for sure. But I reserved it at the Borders near my house, and they agreed to hold it until the twelfth, when I can pick it up. They better have agreed to hold it for me, after playing bad college rock in my ear for twenty minutes while I was on hold.)

Waiting,
Rosie L.

Of Electricity and Horrid Mature Answers

Power Outages...
I probably don't hate 'em as much as I should. It's only when they leave me without a light to read by before I go to bed that I start to feel the inconvenience. Or if I reallllly need to use the computer. Being without light can be a little disconcerting, though, especially in your grandma's house in rural North Carolina where there aren't even streetlights. Imagine not having streetlights. It seems very, very wrong, although it must save quite a lot of electricity.
As to the rest of my life, I had my first locking-my-self-out-of-the-house episode today. I went outside to spray paint one of Granny's many garden statues for her. She was out taking Jordan to be groomed (Now he looks like a freaking rat-- I hate it. When I look at him I don't see Jordan anymore.), and I didn't realize that the door was set so that it locked when you closed it. I was just wondering what I was going to do outside without my book, when my grandma pulled up, thank goodness. I suppose I could have just asked one of the neighbors for a key, but I hadn't quite gotten there yet.
After this episode, and when the power came back on, I checked my email and found a reply from S to my rejection. It was very mature, which made me feel worse. I wish he would have yelled at me, as much as you can yell over email.
Instead he said, "Yeah, sure, let's just be friends. When I said all that I didn't think I would get the answer I wanted, anyway."
It was the "When I said all that I didn't think I would get the answer I wanted, anyway" bit that really got me. I had to apologize again.
My last and final point is that I am just beginning to realize how wrong I feel without my laptop. I'm used to opening it before I go to bed and dashing out a few paragraphs on all my stories. I keep finding myself thinking about them, but I can't remember where I left off. I guess I could write entirely separate scenes, farther along in the story than I really am. The trouble is that I'm not really sure where most of them are going. I know that's not the best way to write, but I'm much better at going with the flow than trying to force a storyline out. Oh well.

Resignedly,
Rosie L.

Of Unreasonable Temperatures and Unrequited Love

I was out walking Jordan today in the hot, hot sun (it really shouldn't be anywhere near eighty degrees at six o'clock in the evening, should it?) when I saw Skateboard Boy again. He was standing in his driveway, in front of a house on a street I usually go down. I think I have quite a chance, although I also think I may be being a bit stalkerish. I certainly hope not, but it is quite a possibility. Stalkerish or not, I wonder how I can talk to Skateboard Boy. It would be too weird to just go up to him and introduce myself, but what else can I do?
On a darker note, S told me he liked me today in an email. I most definitely do not come anywhere close to liking him as more than a friend. I love him as a friend, but I can't ever see it being anything more. I had to reject him, something I've never done before. It felt simply horrible. I hope I never have to do it again, although I'm not too sure how I'm going to manage that. I hope he doesn't mind too very much. Oh, I need to go read and get my mind off of this.

Painfully,
Rosie L.

Of Halfhearted Waves and Reassuring Whispers

I have managed to dig up a young person in this blurred haze of the elderly! I saw him yesterday while I was walking Jordan. My heart skipped a beat when I saw a brown-haired, clearly male, clearly young figure skateboarding down the street I was just about to turn on to. Normally, my heart would not skip a beat at something so trivial. I mean, I see kids skateboarding all the time. It's not exactly a rarity. But here, where 85 percent of the population is over the age of fifty, seeing someone like that is a big deal. And, really, it was everything I had been hoping for. Isn't that why I had toiled down the streets every day, towing a poodle in the sun, sweltering even at five in the evening? Isn't that why I had taken care to make my hair turn in just right, even though I am only visiting my grandma?
But I showed no outward signs of my surprise, and continued walking as if I were completely unphased. When I walked by, I turned to look at him. Because, while I didn't want to appear too keen, it would have been weird to pretend as if I didn't notice him. So I just turned and glanced over at him, nonchalant and brief. A glance that can best be described by the words, "What's that-- oh," and turn away.
To my astonishment, he acknowledged me. Normally it seems to be a code between people my age that you do not wave to someone when you see them unless you know them. It simply isn't done. Nonetheless, he inclined his head and raised two or three fingers in a sort of half-hearted wave. I guess it was the Southern Hospitality thing.
Not that I've been thinking about it too much or anything.
On an equally bright note, I had the most wonderful dream last night. The beginning started out horribly-- I was at theater camp, when I was whisked away to help with the filming of Juno. There must have been something wonky, though, because Juno had already come out, and was already one of my favorite movies. Not to mention I already had a massive crush on Paulie Bleeker. When I got to the set, I found that Ellen Paige hated me and Michael Cera ignored me. Not so good. On my first vacation, I came back to my old school. I was standing by N's old house venting to her and Na, when Michael Cera came up. I went up to feebly apologize to him (for what I'm not sure-- it seemed valid at the time). Then he did something completely unexpected. He wrapped an arm around my waist, pulled me close, and started whispering in my ear. He whispered about how he was sorry for ignoring me, and how I shouldn't let other people's opinions of my affect how I see myself, and all the other things I can't recall now. He whispered about everything. When he finally let me go, I woke up in a joyous haze. It was the best dream I have ever had.
On top of it all, I am counting the days until Breaking Dawn comes out.

Of Sitcoms and Communication

Now don't get my wrong, I love my grandparents, but they are honestly like characters on a TV sitcom for the elderly. At dinner tonight, my grandpa looked out the window and said, "Look, Martha, Den and Dennis are standing outside. What do you think they're doing?"
My grandma said, "I don't know, Gil. I can't see them. What are they looking toward?"
And they had this whole conversation about what Den and Dennis (those are really their names), the across-the-street neighbors, could be doing standing outside. They came to several possible conclusions: looking at something in the sky, commenting on the weather (rainy, unusual for North Carolina), trying to figure out the best way to trim the hedge. I had to work hard to keep from giggling. I just kept my mouth shut, because otherwise I probably would have said something sarcastic.
Later that night, when I was doing the dishes, my great-aunt called and told my grandma all about how this tree had fallen in her yard from the rainstorm. Then my grandma handed the phone to my grandpa and my great-aunt related the whole story to him, too.
Little do they know that I am watching their soap opera with eager fascination.

On a completely different note, I have just emailed my ex and told him exactly why it was I broke up with him. He was quite eager to know at first, but then I didn't know. Eventually he stopped asking. When I was in the shower this morning, though, I figured it out.
These were my reasons: the whole asking-weird-questions-on-the-phone-thing was part of it, and the other part was that I could never dress up for him. If I ever tried to make myself as pretty as I could to go out with him, he would reprimand me for caring too much about my appearance. I'm glad he liked me for more than my looks and liked me the way I was and all, but I wish I had been able to spend hours dressing up for my date, and then have him appreciate it. It seems like a petty, trivial reason, but I guess it mattered enough.
Anyway, emailing your ex and telling him why you broke up with him seems like kind of a... weird is the only word I can think of right now... thing to do, and I wasn't going to at first, but then I found this horoscope:

Hopefully you've noticed over the past few weeks that it's been a lot easier to talk to other people - perhaps one Very Important Person more so than anyone else. This has been thanks to the passage of the communications planet Mercury through your House of Other People. He's about to leave now, but before he does, he's giving you a few last opportunities to say what you need to, to that Significant Other Person (past, present or potential) in your life. So what are you waiting for? Communication is the key to pretty much everything in relationships, non?

It was scary how related it was.

Kind of Emotionlessly,
Rosie L.

Of Fantasy Worlds and Antisocial Wedding Attendees

Good day, all! I am currently in merry old North Carolina visiting my family again. It's very... hot here. There really is no other way to describe it. I practically had a heat stroke just watering the flowers this morning. My mother is now a happily married woman (once again). The wedding was just a few days ago, and it was lovely. I could hardly keep from bouncing up and down on the balls of my feet when they were saying the I Do's. I was looking forward to seeing an old friend there, but he was rather antisocial. I tried a few times to strike up a conversation with him, but several one-syllable answers later I decided that he either didn't want to talk to me, or didn't want to talk to anyone. I don't know why he bothered coming, really. In any case, now that I'm in North Carolina again, I'm back to doing mindless chores for my grandmother (Most of which I really don't mind. I've always had a fondness for busywork) and wandering the streets every evening, walking the dog and looking for My Prince. I don't really expect to find him, but it's a pleasant fantasy world to live in. Plus, it gives me something to try for. A new and exciting adventure every time I walk the dog and so on.
You know, I've been wondering about fantasy worlds. I tend to live in one more often than not. Is that really healthy? I mean, it definately makes life more fun when it's getting monotonous, but will it give me an unrealistic view of the world. I certaintly hope not. I get disappointed enough as it is. Actually, possibly more than the average person. Maybe I already have an unrealistic view of the world. Maybe I build things up in my mind to be more exciting than they are. Actually, if I'm reading a really good book, I tend to get so engrossed in it that I'm really living for the book. I think about the characters almost all of the time. Dream about them, even. When I do this, though, I really start to get a bit depressed when I finish the book. I miss the characters. Sad, I know, but when you are deprived of social interaction with people your own age for a month or so, what else is there to do?
I would make an attempt to look at the world more realistically, but I can't be bothered. I like living in a fantasy world.

Dreamily,
Rosie L.

Of Challenging Individualism and Film Auditions

Good evening, all! I am no longer down about My Prince, or, indeed, anything at all! Nothing at all! Except for maybe the fact that I just got an email from the actor's guild saying that there were auditions for a film that was being filmed locally. Well, where I used to live, but it's only forty-five minutes away. I feel like I'm passing up a big opportunity not going, but my mom's getting married the day after auditions, so I'll probably be really busy! Plus, I think they really want professional actors, and I've only done a few plays and some acting lessons. I don't want to make a fool of myself. Sigh. I wish I knew what kind of people they were talking about. You probably don't need much acting experience to be an extra, but... I don't know. I guess I could ask N what she thinks I should do, beacause... she's coming back from Connecticut tomorrow! I think she's going to stay here with me, too! I am so excited I can hardly wait!! Apart from that, I've been doing a bit of writing (not entirely unusual), and I think I've come up with a good bit for Raspberry Beret. It's kind of farther along in the story than I actually am, but I really like it. The scene is a conversation between Rosie and Claire that challenges Claire's punk vibe. Actually, I don't know if I put the bit where Claire meets Rosie on my blog or not. Well, if I didn't, Rosie is one of the people who live in the Purple House. Claire meets all of them, and spends most of her time there. She is going steady with Sebastian (one of the other people who lives in the Purple House) at this point. Here's the scene:

"Why do you do that?" I finally asked Rosie, as we sat on the front stoop that evening, watching the sun creep excruciatingly sluggishly down the sky, turning the blue expanse ever-so-gradually ino a twisted collage of gold, pink, and orange. The dark representations of the houses in front of us lengthened surreally.
"Do what?" Rosie asked, her voice punctuating the chilly, brisk evening air that hung around us.
"Dress like that," I answered, listening the sound of my own, softer, voice cutting almost as sharply through the almost silence. I tried desperately to lower it and still be heard. "Listen to music like that. Just like everybody else does. Don't you want to be different?"
Rosie raised her eyebrows at me. She looked almost angry. "I am different. I just don't have to wear it or blast it out of my car speakers to be it. I'm not insecure."
"I know, but I dress different and blast it out of my car speakers because I want people to know it."
"Can't people just get to know you to understand your individuality?" Rosie challenged. "Isn't that what getting to know people is all about, anyway? You don't ahve to shove your personality into their faces. You wouldn't just go up to someone and say, 'Hey, my favorite color is yellow,' would you? Sometimes surprises are good, Claire. They make life interesting."
"Yellow is a very sick color," I informed her. "Sunshine, sunflowers. Everything begins with 'sun.' Yellow is the cult of patriarchy."
"Beside the point, Claire!" Rosie said in exasperation.
I didn't even respond to that, just stared at her. Usually my "I-don't-give-a-crap" stare combined with my "Get-out-of-my-way-you-rat-worshiping-tramp" stare was pretty powerful. But I didn't hold a candle to Rosie. I suppose all her years as queen bee in high school had taught her well, and she was a master at staring people down. Now she was combining it with disbeleif and anger. It was prevailing. Ruthless.
"Fine. So what if I shove my personality in other people's faces. At least I'm nonconformist. At least I'm still an individual."
"No. Being nonconformist doesn't make you an individual. What if I want to conform just because the conformist thing to do is the thing I want to do? Would I do what I don't want just to fit into my own boundaries? Just to be 'nonconformist'? That's crap. That's what's not being an individual."
"But being nonconformist is hardcore," I argued. "I'm hardcore. You're... sorry if this offends you or anything... not."
"I don't want to be hardcore. I just want to be me. And there are so many of you. You're not all individuals, you kids who call yourselves 'hardcore,' because, frankly, you're all the same. You all have too much angst, so you have to hide behind your baggy clothes and all-consuming headphones, listening to music that just makes you angrier and trying to express yourself through art that only depresses everyone around you so that they can end up just like you. In fact, you're almost like a cult, just sucking in everyone else in with you." I couldn't think of anything to say. I was just stunned and, I'm sorry to say, a little impressed by this display of raw opinions. At that moment, Rosie could have been a poet. I didn't have to think of a worthy response, though, because she plowed on. "But you're not even like them. You aren't full of angst, are you? You're just like this to piss off your parents. Doing things just to be rebellious. It's the most ridiculous crap I've ever heard," and she propped her chin up on her hand, turned, and watched the much-farther-progressed sunset. Rosie never walked away, even when she was supposed to, even when it was so anticlimactic not to that it almost made me cringe. She just turned her head and expected that you wouldn''t talk to her.
I got up and did the walking away for Rosie. I walked back into the house, and through the living room. When I got to my favorite door, the most daunting door, I knocked a few times, and stepped back to wait, hardly noticing the Broadway musical posters that I usually surveyed with cynical interest. Before two minutes were up, Sebastian opened the door. When he saw me, he smiled, and all the darkness flew out of the world on a high speed jet belonging to Arnorld Schwarzenegger. It's phenomenal that some people can twitch their face muscles and make the world right again. I collapsed into Sebstian's arms without a word, falling over sraight-backed and straight-legged, like a gymnast, into his waiting embrace.
"Wo-oah," Sebastian said, as he caught me. I took some of my weight off him, but couldn't bring myself to pull away from his warm, comfortable chest, swathed in a soft gray cotton t-shirt. Sebastian wrapped his arms around me and said, "Hey Claire. What's shakin'?"
"Rosie and I just had another argument."
"About the ketchup again?" I could hear Sebastian smiling, even though I didn't take my face out of his shirtfront to see.
"No. This time it was about being... individualist, I guess." I told him.
"What? How did that come along?" Sebastian steered me toward his bed, and we sat down together.
"Well, we were sitting there watching the sunset, and I stupidly asked her why she dresses like she does and likes what she likes, because it's all just like everybody else. And we got into this big debate..." I told him all of it, about how Rosie thought it wasn't cool to be hardcore, and about how I had accused her of being unoriginal, and about how she was just so right.
When I said that last part, Sebastian scooted away from me on the bed and turned so that he could look into my face without ravaging his neck muscles. "Claire, Rosie's not right. I mean, she has a point, but she's not right. You and Rosie are very different people, and you both have your own kind of different. Rosie's is more subtle. It's mostly just the little quirks that you can only see when you get to know her. Your different is loud and overstated. You wear it and talk it and breathe it, really, and you want to make sure everyone knows it. Do you want to know the reason, Claire?"
He actually stopped and waited for me to answer. Most people would just go on and tell you the answer, even if you really didn't want to hear it. But this time, I did. "Yeah, tell me."
"Its because you don't care as much. You don't care what people think. In fact, you want them to think you're a freak, because you want to make a statement. Am I right?"
He was exactly right. I don't know how he always managed to put my jumbled, screaming feelings and thoughts into civilized words, but he did. I couldn't think of anything to say, or how to thank him, so I just let my head fall into his lap and folded my arms across my chest, hugging myself. He rocked me gently back and forth. "Sebastian, can I ask you something?" I said, after a while.
"Anything," he answered gently, leaning down and kissing me on the forehead.
"Do you ever argue with Rosie?"
"Not anymore," Sebastian said pensively. "We used to fight nonstop. I remember one particularly bad argument about some turnips. Rosie insisted that they were okay, but I thought all the purple was a bad spot. We screamed and yelled and stormed off, even."
"You sure don't know much about turnips," was all I could think of to say.
"Nope. Never did, never will. Not really my thing, you know?"
Suddenly, I was tired of joking around. I usually loved it, as any sane person would, but right then I wanted answers. "Why don't you ever fight with Rosie anymore?" I asked, and Sebastian must have heard the tone of seriousness in my voice, because he stopped chuckling.
"I'm not sure. There wasn't ever a clear reason, or even a clear time that we stopped. We just matured, I guess."
"But Rosie and I are older than you were then," I insisted, sitting up.
"Well, yeah, agewise, but you haven't known each other for very long. You haven't matured together." Sebastian clarified. It was amazing how wise he could be sometimes. I found it difficult not to imagine him with a long silver beard and a monocle. "Claire, don't mind what other people say." He put an arm around my shoulders and gave me a little squeeze.
"I know." I replied, a little snippily.
"I know you know," Sebastian said mildly, ever-tolerant.

Now don't get me wrong; I am most definately not against nonconfmity and punk-ness. I just thought it would be interesting to challenge it. Anyway, my future plans for this story are to have a scene where Sebastian and Rosie do get into an argument. Claire overhears, and bites her lip because she thinks it's her fault. It turns out to be about something kind of serious (I'm not sure what yet, but I think it will have a lot to do with the plot of the story.), and Sebastian goes to Claire for help. I don't want Sebastian to be all wise-man-of-the-forest and Claire to be a damsel in distress, so I don't want Sebastian always helping Claire. That's not how it should work. Well, toodle-oo!

Ever-So-Happily,
Rosie L.

Of Wishing Wells and Butterflies

I have successfully distracted myself from everything that is wrong in my life, and it's not with with Love, Your Secret Admirer, either. It is because I have changed living spaces. Yes, that's right. I now live in my new house in Suburbia Central, and I have been so busy unpacking that I have had no time to pine over My Prince. All I've been able to think about is whether the butterfly chair should face the window or the closet, and where, God, is the nearest phone jack. In fact, I have left my old My Prince philosophy there at my old house, and come up with a new one. I think it's much more sensible, at my age: Work hard and look for someone I like, not necessarily someone who fulfills my every irrational fantasy. My school is very competitive, and I want a low maintnance social life, with nerdy-cool friends who will understand if no, I can't go the mall with them, I have to finish my biology homework. But most of all I want a steady boyfriend, one who I don't have to think about what I say with and is just as much friend as he is boyfriend. And one who doesn't ask weird questions. I had all that stuff with my ex, but when I was on the phone to him, he'd ask me things like, "Why do you like me?" A little chat with my boyfriend felt like a test. A stead boyfriend (who doesn't ask weird questions) is what I wish for every time I blow out the candles on a birthday cake, or blow the seeds off of a dandelion, or through a penny into a fountain. It's the one thing in my life that I don't really have control over. Everything else I can make happen on my own. I don't need luck to publish a book; I just need to be a good writer. Anyway, getting back on topic, I can't wait until I start school. I want my first batch of homework. I want my textbooks. I want that butterflies-in-the-stomach, big-important-day first-day-of-school feeling. Come quick!

Of Paranormal Activity and My Prince

In order to distract myself from the overwhelming possibility that my ex-boyfriend might be My Prince, I have started a new story. It's called Love, Your Secret Admirer. Here's the beginning:

Love, Your Secret Admirer. Those were the last words on the page. They were classic words. They were museum words. Words everyone knew about but never actually said or heard. That's why I was so surprised to find them at the bottom of that page, especially because the rest of it did not remotely resemble a love letter. Puzzled, I read it over again, although I had already done so at least five times, and the contents had not become any less baffling.

Dear Kerry Martin,

How to put this? I think, for [not sure what word to put here- time or something]’s sake, I will put it bluntly. I and my associates would like it very much if you could steer clear of room 238 for the next few days. I especially would like to request your cooperation. Your sacrifice will not go unappreciated.

Love,

Your Secret Admirer

I was just stuffing the letter into my backpack when I felt arms creep around my waist and meet in front of my stomach.

“Heeey, Kerry,” I deep and very familiar voice intoned.

“Hi, Josh!” I said, turning around and giving my boyfriend a kiss on the cheek.

“What’s that you got there?” Josh asked, removing one of his hands from around my waist to gesture at the letter.

“Oh, nothing,” I said, quickly stashing it away in my bag. “Just a note from Teresa about Roger’s party next week.”

“Oh, yeah. You going?”

“I don’t know… might be a drag, knowing Roger and all.” I said. I wasn’t quite sure why I had lied to Josh about the letter. It just seemed a little weird.

“It’s not really about Roger’s party, is it, Kerry?” Josh asked. I shouldn’t have bothered lying, either. Josh could always tell.

“…No…” I admitted. Josh withdrew his arms from around my waist and turned to face me.

“What’s it about then, that you can’t tell me?”

“Nothing that I can’t tell you. It’s just… a little weird.” For lack of a better word.

“I can deal with weird,” Josh reminded me. Of course. Of course Josh could deal with weird. He did want to be a [scientist that studies the paranormal], after all. So, with slight dubiousness, I dug the letter out of my bag, smoothed out its crumpled surface on my knee, and handed it over to Josh.

Josh read it in silence. In fact, it was so long before he looked up that I suspected he had read it as many times as I had.

“It’s just I have English in room 238. I can’t just skip English for a few days…” I mused to myself as he read.

“Kerry,” Josh said blissfully. I looked over at him and found that he was beaming, the letter still clutched in his hand. “This isn’t just some prank. It’s a ghost mystery!”

I rolled my eyes, at the same time feeling my stomach fluttering. He was just so cute. “Please, Josh. A ghost mystery? First of all, that sounds like something a seven-year-old would talk about.”

“Oh, Kerry, come on! Don’t be so closed-minded all the time. At least come back to my house so we can try to figure it out.” He looked at me with puppy-dog eyes. “I just want an excuse to spend more time with you.”

I knew this wasn’t entirely true—Josh loved this kind of stuff—but I found I couldn’t resist those eyes. “Okay, fine,” I said.

Josh grinned at me, and, taking my hand, led me out the school doors. Fortunately, the bell had already rung, or Josh probably would have insisted on cutting class to get started on his research.

“You want a ride home?” I asked, when we got into the parking lot. It was pretty backwards that I had a car and Josh didn’t. I was always the one picking him up whenever we went on a date. We got in and I revved up the engine. Josh was practically bouncing up and down in his seat.

“Hang on!” he said, as we pulled out of the parking lot. “I think I once read something about something like this. This lady in Hamburg found a letter in her mailbox one morning. It was anonymous, just signed ‘Your Secret Admirer.’ The next morning she heard footsteps in her house, and she ended up acting quite strangely after that. Rumor is she fell in love with a ghost that had been haunting her house. He was her secret admirer.”

I nodded, smiling fondly.

At that point, Josh got very serious. “Kerry, please don’t fall in love with a ghost like that lady, even if he is your secret admirer. I don’t want you to fall in love with someone else, Kerry. I love you.” He looked over at me with big, sincere eyes, and I was having a hard time keeping my eyes on the road.

Fortunately, we pulled into Josh’s driveway then, and I stopped the car. “Josh,” I said. Smiling at him with my heart beating hard, threatening to crack one of my ribs, I leaned over and kissed him full on the mouth. Josh pulled me closer and fell deeper into the kiss. When we finally pulled apart, I said, “I won’t fall in love with a ghost, Josh. Don’t worry.” Then I added teasingly, “A ghost couldn’t kiss like that.” Josh looked convinced, and we got out of the car and into his house.

As soon as the door opened, a strong, feminine voice called out, “Josh, is that you?!”

“Yeah, Mom!” Josh shouted, at the same time as I bellowed, “Hi, Mrs. Van Della!”

“Oh, hi, Kerry!”

“I see your mom’s busy again,” I commented. Josh’s mom was an assemblage artist. She made sculptures out of things she found, and whenever she was working on a project, she holed up in her second-floor studio for days on end working. Otherwise, she was out morning till night dredging through dumpsters looking for inspiring junk.

“Yep. An old glass doorknob” Josh said, answering my unasked question with a sigh. I think he was just tired of having to fend for himself most of the time.

“Hey, how about you come to my house for dinner?” I asked. My older brother, who had raised me, was studying to become a chef, and dinner at my house was always a big deal.

“Yeah. Thanks, Kerry,” Josh said appreciatively, giving my hand a squeeze. When we got to his room, however, he was all business. He instructed me to sit on the bed, booted up his computer, and grabbed a couple of books from his bookshelf almost all in one motion. A few minutes later, Josh let out a triumphant, “Aha!”

“What, Josh? What could you possibly have discovered in three minutes?” I asked, impressed but slightly exasperated.

“Google is a useful thing, you know, Kerry. Quick, too. Anyway, come see what I’ve found.” I got up from Josh’s bed, and went over to stand behind his chair and stare and the harshly glowing computer screen. The first few links were to online dating services, but about halfway through the page we began to get some useful hits. There were things like “The Minnesota Historical Society” and “London Association for Studies of the Supernatural” and even a blog called, “Compilations: Findings of Ghost Love Stories, Experiences and Sightings.” I tried to stop imagining Josh’s head exploding at this, but it was hard. Really hard.

“So… what are we supposed to do with these links, Josh?”

“See what they lead to, of course. We might find something out,” Josh said.

“Wait, Josh, I don’t understand. What, exactly, are we looking for?”

“[Person who studies the supernatural] always research their case thoroughly so that they know what they’re dealing with,” Josh informed me. “Then we can start doing field work.”

I was really hoping I had misunderstood him. “Field work?!” Maybe I had misinterpreted it, and field work didn’t mean what I thought it did. I sincerely hope so.

But then Josh answered my skeptical inquiry, and I knew that wasn’t the case. “Yeah. Field work. You know, going to, in our case, room 238 to check stuff out there.”

“Josh, think about this. I’m hoping I’m wrong, but if I’m right, and I think I am because I’ve seen both Ghostbusters movies, what you intend is break into the school at night, which is illegal, and go to room 238, which we have been warned to stay away from, and wait until we think we see a ghost?” Josh, a typico, nodded as if this had all been obvious. “Josh, we can’t just break into the school.”

“Why not?” Josh looked genuinely baffled. That was the thing about him: he tended to be really clueless. Usually it was cute, but sometimes it got on my nerves.

“Well, to start, it’s illegal.”

Josh shook his head like I was the one suggesting we break into the school at night to stake out the English classroom for a ghost. “Oh, come one, Kerry. No one will actually care. Besides, we won’t get caught. What if it really is a ghost, Kerry? I won’t let you just walk into the room for English the next morning. You could get killed or seriously injured. I can’t let that happen.” As he said these last few words, his voice lowered in pitch and volume, and he looked at me very intensely.

I softened immediately, light a frozen pizza being put in the microwave. “Okay, Josh. When should I be there?”

Instead of answering, Josh turned around and kissed me on the mouth. It wasn’t until the computer started whirring to remind us of our forgotten research that we broke apart. “We probably won’t do the stakeout for a few days,” Josh answered, belatedly.

“’Kay,” I answered, going back to sit on Josh’s bed and digging my trig homework out of my bag.

I'm not quite sure where it's going, but I think it's going to have something to do with vampires, instead of ghosts.
I really hope he's not My Prince. My ex, I mean. Poo.

Hopelessly,
Rosie L.

Of Ratios and Riduculities

I miss him. It is pathetic and sad and ridiculous, really, but it's true. I miss My Prince. And I think I may love him. That's even more ludicrous, right? I haven't even met him yet and already I love him! What sort of state am I going to be in once I do meet him?! And the thing is, I don't just miss him a little bit. I keep crying over him. Like, supercrying. I wish I could just go ahead and find him. This sucks!
But I have had quite a thought recently. You know how in every school there are all the freaky kids and all the normal or supposedly cool kids? Well, usually the ratio of freaky to normal kids is actually like seven to one, so, technically, wouldn't the freaky kids be the norm, since they are the majority? Just food for thought. I'm surprised I even have time to think, actually, I've been so busy with packing. I'm moving in a week now. Here I come, Suburbia!

Big big sigh,
Rosie L.

Of Drowning Wasps and Magic Mirrors

I saved six lives yesterday. There were a bunch of wasps in my friend's pool, and I save them all from certain death. If only they had been human, then maybe My Prince would notice me. Last night I stayed up late pouring my heart out in a letter to him, and, since I know he can see me in the mirror, i held it up to the mirror for him to read. I even left my home and cell phone number, my blog address, my email, my house address, and my new address. Now I'm just waiting for him to contact me. It's probably kind of an unrealistic expectation, isn't it? Maybe I'll find him next year... Oh, God. Now I've started pining away for him. Plus I'm listening to a really depressing song that's making me feel like my problems are nothing. Why hasn't My Prince called me? If he gave me his phone number, I would call him right away. Well, I'm just going to crawl into a hole and read a really bad romance novel.

Pathetically,
Rosie L.

Of Uncalled-For Emotions and Holding Hands

I'm not sure what to write, but nothing at all has been happening. You would think that would be a good thing, because at least if nothing happens at least nothing bad can happen, but with N gone, and the rest of my friends seemingly fallen off the face of the Earth, I have been quite deprived of human interaction. It's making me kind of depressed. Today I went for a walk all by myself, just for the heck of it, and I saw so many couples walking around. It just figures that when I'm feeling so lonely, I see so many couples walking around holding hands. Just when I don't have anyone to hold hands with... But such is life. I have been doing a lot of packing, but... that's lonely, too. I just can't seem to get my mind of how lonely I feel, which is kind of crap, since I had acting class this morning and saw plenty of people. And went swimming with D, T, and S (who apparently likes me-- what next?) just yesterday. And I'm seeing M and Me tomorrow. What's wrong with me? Whatever. I'm just gonna go wallow in my own company now. I just really want a boyfriend...

Lonely,
Rosie L.

Of Colored Pencils and Unachievable Dreams

I am back, Dear Readers, and I come with news. I have achieved the unachievable and done the inevitable! I have broken hearts and I have influenced thousands! (Well, a few). I have finally, finally broken up with E. Well, to be honest, N actually did it for me. But I still made the effort. In spirit. I can't wait to have a summer fling, not unlike those portrayed in The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants. As I have never had a summer fling before, I am beginning to think it is impossible, but who knows. Who knows? I'll be going back to North Carolina soon for a bit of a visit, and maybe I'll find someone there. Or maybe, even, in Suburbia Central. Other than my hopes for the summer, I haven't had much to think about, it being summer and all, when people aren't supposed to think. I'll be moving soon, though, and here is my goal: to be all packed at least four days before I move, so there is no last-minute rush. N has had even more trouble, because she is leaving for Conneticut to visit her aunt tomorrow. I will miss her, but she'll only be gone about a mont. About my work, I have been considering Raspberry Beret quite a lot, but can't really say that I have made any earth-shattering revelations concerning it. Mostly I have been fine-tuning the Purple House. As I have been on a mad art fest, since I just got a brand-new box of Prismacolor pencils, I have spent many an afternoon trying to draw it. It hasn't come out right quite yet, though. Actually, I saw the Purple House just a bit ago. It's downtown, and it's absolutely perfect. It doesn't have any willow trees in front, and especially not any with silver bells, but it's just the right shade of purple, and it makes me smile whenever I see it. Oh, my house. My beautiful Purple House. You know, I have been considering my future lately, and when I am happily married and settled, with three children named Rosie, Oliver, and Lucy, I will have a Purple House. Oh, I will.

Dreamily,
Rosie L.

Of Impromtu Roles and Old Drums

Since my last post, my brain has been misbehavinig rather a lot. I keep forgetting about E. I know it's horrible, but I guess that means I don't like him. I wish I did, but what can ya do? I guess I'll... well, I don't really know what I should do. I probably should break up with him, but I don't want to break his poor, sweet little heart. I guess I'll have to in the end, but I don't want to think about that right now.
I made quite a save the other day, to change the subject quite abruptly. There was a play I'd been helping out with. I didn't really know the story, but I'd been helping paint the sets and stuff, which I usually do with plays at school that I'm not in. It was an original play called "And To Think It All Happened On Thursday." It was set in Chicago, and the story revolved around some diamonds in a pawn shop. The characters were as follows:
The Don, crime leader and all that of the area, who wants the diamonds for his daughter.
Prada: (Played by N) The Don's daughter. Spoiled, rich, arrogant, and demanding fashionista. Basically a crap person, but good for comedy. Wants the diamonds for her wedding with Jake. Hates Rosa.
Jake: The Don's left-hand man. Real tough guy (tatoos and everything). Hates Prada, but has to marry her to please The Don.
Elroy: (Played by D) The Don's right-hand man. Real nerd and annoys The Don no end. Loves Prada. Steals the diamonds for The Don.
Feye: Crooked cop. Makes deal with The Don to get the diamonds for him if he won't punish her for talking to people she shouldn't talk to.
Johnny: Germaphobic cop. Faints when things are too dirty, and quite OCD.
Colleen: Florist. Allergic to pollen. Makes plan with Emily to infest her deli with rats.
Tez: Pawn shop owner. Magpie-like obsession with shiny things (I can't remember the word for that. Something maniac, I think?). In possession of the diamonds (in his shop).
Emily: Deli owner. Makes plan with Colleen At the fist performance, one of the cast members mysteriously didn't show up.
Eliza: Delivery girl. Basically Schwa's servant. Wants the diamonds for Schwa.
Schwa: Argophobic gluemaker. Never leaves his apartment. Unpredictable and very precise. Wants the diamonds because he saw diamonds in his toothpaste one morning and takes it as a sign from above. Really likes tortoises.
Rosa: Insane homeless woman. Hates Prada. Usually found on a bench sleeping or begging. Consantly trying to get her family heirloom, the diamonds back from Tez's pawn shop.
The director recruited F and me to play the part. She was going to give us the choice, but we both really wanted it, so we ended up making the part (Rosa) into two people. F and I became Rosa and Rosie, the insane homeless sisters. We split up the lines and said them sort of like Fred and George Weasley in Harry Potter, switching between sentences and so on. I was actually a bit surprised that we managed to memoroize all our lines in one day, but we did. F couldn't be in the final performance, so if the cast member didn't show up for that one, I was going to play the part alone. She did show up, but the director liked the idea of having there be two Rosas instead of just the one, so I still got to be in the play. I was surprised but actually quite pleased, because I had really wanted to be in tis play, but couldn't because my schedule conflicted with rehearsal. I got to be in it in the end, though. Other than that, I've started moving. I can't wait to redecorate, but I guess I'll have to, won't I? I've moved my drums and my dulcimers and an obscure shelf into my room already, but other than that, I haven't made much progress. Well, I've got to finish a manga, so I'm off.

Impatiently,
Rosie L.

Of Changes of Heart and Arrogant Boys

Well, quite contrary to my last post, I am not completely opposed to E. In fact, I am actually quite excited about going out with him. I don't know what happened, but all of a sudden I think I may like him. Or at least like going out with him. I'm confused about it, but I'd much rather like it than hate it. It makes my life a whole lot easier. On a completely different end of the stick, I have been feeling rather artsy-fartsy lately. It started when N introduced me to a new drawing style. I've always been a manga drawer, but now I've started exploring different styles. Thanks a ton, N! Other than that, nothing much has happened lately. But I have got this scene from my new romantic comedy to leave you with:

The lace-edged, flower-patterned hem of my skirt fanned out as I spun in dizzying circles, watching the blurry trees on either side of me, the masterfully designed library behind me, and the crowd of cars zooming past in all their rush-hour fueled glory. In this town, rush hour was just that: an hour for rushing, not one for sitting behind infinite lines of cars. We only had backed-up streets if there was a football game. So as the rushing rush hour traffic flew by me, sped up even more by the momentum of my spinning.
Eventually, I felt the little droplets of rainwater that had collected on the grass earlier that afternoon soak through the back of my dress as I fell to the ground. Smiling, I lay there for a moment, watching the cars go by, then stood up and was just grabbing my bag to go get dinner somewhere when I heard loud, far-apart footsteps approaching, as if the owner of those footsteps was taking long, pompous strides. Sure enough, when I looked up, it was the one person I knew who was most likely to take strides like that. Rolling my eyes, I hitched my bag farther up on my shoulder and tried to steal past him, unnoticed.
He, however, would not cooperate. Smirking, he grabbed my arm and said, "Not so fast, Miss Spinning Kitty."
I ignored his barb about my odd pastime and said, "What do you want, James? Get it over with."
"Woah, there," James said in that irritating voice of his, "Aren't you being a bit badass for a little girl in a flowered dress?" I looked down at my poufy, purple, flowered dress and Mary Janes, then glared back up at James.
"Look, James," I said with an irritated sigh, "I'm hungry and I really want to go get some dinner Will you please just say what you want to say so I can leave?"
"Fine, fine," James gave in, still smirking. "I just wanted to give you this library book." At this, he slung his backpack onto the damp grass and rifled through it, finally pulling out a library book. I couldn't tell how old it was, nor what it was, because it was covered with brown paper.
"Um, thanks?" I said, puzzled.
Smiling in a mysterious way, James picked up his backpack, walked away, and shouted an arrogant goodbye over his shoulder.

Excitedly,
Rosie L.

Of Paranoia and Breaking Hearts

I have accidentally acquired a new boyfriend while on my road trip (let's just call him "E"). I kind of asked him out on a whim, but then I found out that he's liked me for about a year, so I am in kind of an "Oh crap" kind of situation. I don't mind him (in fact, I like him a lot as a person), but he's really awkward and really keen. Why do I always end up with guys that really like me, who's hearts I have to end up breaking? It kind of sucks a lot. But I don't know how I'm possibly going to break up with him, because he is such a sweetiepie. I'm going to feel really bad. But what can I do? Nothing, that is what, unless I can go back in time and not ask him out. Which I can't.
But on the bright side, I had a lot of fun on the trip. We had a particularly amusing time at this one restaurant. Me and four of my friends (N and Na and two others) each came up with a quirk, and each time the waitress came by we exercised our quirk. Na tugged on her right earlobe the whole time, N cleared her throat after every sentence the waitress said, one of the other girls blinked really deliberately, the other one acted like she was really paranoid of the waitress, and I looked really confused the whole time. Then we told the waitress that it was Na's birthday (her birthday is in February). She totally believed us. We had just asked for a candle to stick in Na's cookie, but she brought us a whole sundae. We felt kind of bad, but what can you do? We all sang happy birthday to her and had a good time. But then the E thing happened... I hope it doesn't screw up my search for My Prince...

Regretfully,
Rosie L.

Of Road Trips and Brownies

Le Road Trip is... tonight!!! I can't wait! We have stocked up on junk food and are all ready to go. In fact, I have just returned from a pop/brownie run. Hurrah!!! Other than that, not all that much has been happening. Once we return from the road trip, though, guess what time it will be??? Summertime! At least in theory, because Memorial Day (quite soon after we get back) is the day the pool where I live opens, and summer for me begins when I can go swimming on an almost daily basis. But now I am altogether too excited about the road trip to think about what will happen when I come back from it. In fact, I think I must leave you now for far-off distant lands (my bedroom) to finish packing.

Excitedly,
Rosie L.

Of Hometowns and Paperback Romances

Our road trip looms ever closer! In two days now, in fact! Or maybe looms isn't the right word, since it isn't really a bad thing. In fact, it's not a bad thing at all... anyhow, I have become once more consumed in my writing (as well as the excitement of the impending road trip), but this time, my focus has shifted from Raspberry Beret. I'm running out of time to turn in my completed pieces for this Creative Writing class I'm taking. I've already written a ton of poems, and I really don't have time to develop another whole story, so I'm writing single scenes. Lately, branching from one scene, I have become obsessed with writing a romantic comedy not unlike the cheesy (but really, really good and quite engrossing) Simon Pulse romantic comedies, set in my hometown. I think it would be so fun to write a story set in a town I know so well. Usually, since I hate doing research for my stories, I set it in a sort of nondescript town and I just sort of make it up as I go, but this time, it's going to be set in a real town, an amazing town, as a matter of fact! I can't wait to write it!!!

Excitedly,
Rosie L.

Of Moors and Suburbs

Yesterday I went exploring! Nothing of Lewis and Clarke-like proportions, but I went on an hour-long stroll around the neighborhood I'm moving to next summer. I must say, that place is like Suburbia Central, honestly. There were very many small children, as well as quite a few dogs. But what I was really looking for was, of course, My Prince. Needless to say, I couldn't find him. I have a feeling that next year I'm going to spend quite a lot of time wandering around Suburbia Central looking for My Prince. Sort of like a modern-day Wuthering Heights. Except without Heathcliff. And manicured lawns instead of moors. Gosh, I can't wait for next year. Not because of the Wuthering Heights part, but just... because I'm tired of this year. I feel like nothing more can happen to me until I move. Even though I will live in Suburbia Central.

Optomistic things of the day:
1. Sacks of grain
2. Public transportation
3. The moon

-Rosie L.

Of Gettysburg and Pregnant Spiders

Yet again, I have found it difficult to post in a while. I don't know what has gotten into me, but I'm going to stop saying anything next time I'm too busy to post in a while. Anyhow, soon I will be going on a road trip to Philadelphia with some friends. Gettysburg and such. You know, edjumacation. History. In preparation for having as much fun as we can, one of my friends has taught us a very amusing little trick that her sister made up. You get a rather large sweatshirt and put your legs in the arm holes with the main body of the sweatshirt hanging down between your legs. Then, you sort of dive down into the sweatshirt and struggle a bit, then put your head through the hood bit. And there you have it: Sweatshirt Troll. You end up looking like one of three things: a strange little creature not dissimilar to the wotsit-thing in The Black Cauldron but more deformed, a pregnant spider, or a poor child with no legs. Needless to say, it really makes you laugh. Anyway, we think we may do it for graduation, and say really cheesy speeches. Buckets of laughs. I can't wait.
Well, anyway, the My Prince situation remains as hopeless as ever, except worse, because, well, I am not getting any younger. Sigh... what can ya' do? But the road trip will take my mind off it!

Excitedly,
Rosie L.

Of Modern Slavery and Raising Awareness

To raise awareness: Slavery is still going on today! Mostly in places like Africa and India, but in the U.S., too, even though it's illegal all over the world!
I saw a documentary about modern slavery today and I couldn't not try to do something!

-Rosie L.

Of Cute Movies and Short Haircuts

I seem to have once again shirked my duties. Sorry! Anyway, quite a bit has happened since I last wrote. Almost a week ago, I believe. While I have remained unsuccessful in finding My Prince, I have been increasingly more anxious to find him. But I guess I'll just have to wait... only the wait seems so long... I think, due to my slightly pessimistic mood, some cheerer-uppers are in order!

1. Nail Polish
2. Music
3. Red Hair

There! That's better! Now, on to the... other stuff. For starters (and I know this is big news, so brace yourselves-- or yourself, because I get the feeling Na is the only one reading this), I got my hair cut. Finally. My last haircut before that was about... oh... seven years ago. So now I am glad to be rid of most of my long, limp, split-endy hair, and be left with a bouncy head full of fluffy, short hair! Other than that, this weekend should be pretty busy. Especially tomorrow. I'm going to a fundraiser, a party, and a concert. And last, but not least, because I now deem it the cutest movie known to humanity (so far), I have finally seen Juno, just like everybody else on the planet. But, alas, due to featuring the cutest relationship known to humanity (apart from the pregnant-y bit), it has made me pine for My Prince even more.

Resignedly,
Rosie L.

Of Optimism and Days

Every day, in order to improve my positive outlook, I'm going to come up with three things to be happy about. Here's today's:
1. Composition Books
2. Flowering Trees
3. Colorful Walls

Optimistically,
Rosie L.

Of Purple Houses and Plotlines

I know I have been absent for quite a while (It's already Saturday-- I can't believe it!), but I am back now, and in full swing. I've been doing backstage work for a play all week, and the rehearsals last really late, so I've just come home and crashed, then got up early again. When did I have the time? I have become less uninterested in guys lately. I try to pretend that I am fully eschewing them, but I can't help wishing that I had a boyfriend (especially My Prince). But I don't, so ah, well. What can ya' do? I'll just keep a positive outlook, and the good news is that I finally have Raspberry Beret to put here!

"She had a raspberry beret, the kind that you find in a secondhand store."

I walked past my favorite house in the world, and listened hard. It was on a street about four blocks down from mine, in the less upper-class part of the neighborhood, and it was painted a vibrant shade of purple. The weeping willows that swept their branches on the ground outside of that house had tinkly silver bells fastened to the ends of their bows, and they rang with a delightful, sugar-plum-fairy sort of sound when the slightest breeze touched them.

Today I was lucky, and an April wind was stirring the branches. I paused for a moment in front if the house, just listening. Then, with a sigh, I hoisted my bag farther up on my shoulder and continued on my way home. Apart from school, home was my least favorite place. My parents were always wondering why I wasn’t more like the next door neighbor’s girl, Julia. I always had one answer to this: Julia was a suck-up. She always did everything her parents wanted; she wore their pantyhose and loafers, their pink poly-blend sweaters. She attended their social functions, had the friends they wanted her to have, and kept her room their boring shades of beige.

When I arrived at my overly ornate, beige front door, I sighed and pulled on the doorknob. The door, to my disappointment, opened, and I trudged gloomily into the living room. My mother came rushing out to greet me. She had managed to force me into a poly-blend sweater this morning, and was ecstatic about it. I had, however, paired it with my Docs, and, somewhere throughout the day, had pinned almost half of my political button collection to it. When mom saw this, her face fell a bit, but she still said, in a good-natured voice, “Hi, Sweetie! How would you like to go shopping with Julia today?”

I just looked at her. She knew perfectly well how I felt about Julia. When she kept looking at me without relent, I muttered, “Homework,” and made an escape up to my room. When I finally got there, I closed the door and collapsed on my bed with a sigh. My room was the only part of the house that I felt comfortable in. my multi-colored walls, painted without my parent’s consent by myself and my aunt Gloria, were a welcome break from the monochromatic house. After staring at my punk band and women’s rights posters for a bit, I pulled myself up from my comforter, grabbed my bag, and elected to go out for a bit. The homework excuse hadn’t been entirely a lie: I did have plenty of homework, but it would be easier to ignore that fact for a bit than to try to bring myself to do it right then. I was in a rebellious mood (it was almost a state of mind now), and homework wasn’t rebellious enough. Maybe going out and buying another Sex Pistols CD would be. So I slipped out of my room and into the hall. I made it down the stairs before I saw my mom. She was talking to the maid, Violet, and didn’t notice as I came down.

However, when I opened the front door, she did notice me, and said, “Claire! Where are you going?”

“Cara’s house. To study.” I informed her.

“All right. Just be home by nine.” I slipped out of the door, silently thanking Cara for saving me yet again. Cara was my imaginary best friend. I had led my mom to believe she was real, so I could use her as an excuse whenever I wanted to go out to buy something or to stare at my favorite house.

When I got downtown, I drifted toward the record shop, but as I neared it, I realized I didn’t really even want another CD. I had enough of them. So, unsure of quite what else to do, but quite sure that I wouldn’t be going home, I floated around downtown, heading vaguely toward a nearby café for a well-received cup of coffee. However, as I was walking down Main Street, I noticed a shop I had never seen there before. As I practically lived downtown, I knew almost every shop there.

It must be new, I thought. When I approached it, I saw that it was in a building as old as the one that housed the café and many of the restaurants. It was cracked in many places, the yellow paint was peeling, and ivy was beginning to creep up it in many places. I looked around in the windows of the shop for some indication that it may have just recently moved there, but saw none. Not even a single faded sign with “New!” in cracking red letters. So, overcome with curiosity, I opened the door and stepped in. a string of bells rang frantically as I came in. on cue, a portly woman with a dull purple house dress (and here I had thought those went out of style in the 60’s—god knows they should have) with a matching straw hat forced down over her wildly curly dark hair. She looked me over from “Think—It’s Not Illegal Yet” button to mid-calf Doc Martens, and uttered a disapproving “can I help you?”

“No thanks,” I told her. “I’m just looking around.” She scowled, but retreated into the depths of her shop. I started into the shop, cringing and shuddering at most of the things I saw. This shop seemed to be a recreation of a 50’s store that only sold things to people over the age of forty. I preserved, however, because I knew the rules of thrifting, and the number-one rule is that you have to look hard, or all you’ll find will be crocheted sweaters with hideously deformed kittens on them and pleated khaki shorts. After sorting fruitlessly through shelves and shelves of items like these, I hit on something.

At first I overlooked it, but my long years of living in a city where secondhand shops were the body of the consumer economy had taught me well. Looking at my find, I saw that it was a wool beret the color of raspberries. I picked it up and put it on my head. When I looked in the dusty mirror that was leaning against a nearby wall, I saw that my head looked astonishingly similar to a muffin. After a little adjusting, however, I found I looked like one of those French artists that stand around in parks painting the seine.

After admiring my reflection once more, I pulled the beret off and made my way over to the counter to pay for it. The clerk looked surprised that such an item would be in her shop, but took my money anyway, and stared me out of the shop. Once on the street, I looked at my watch, and thought that maybe at last I could go home. I put the raspberry beret on my head, and stopped to adjust in front of a shop window, then continued on my way.

I was falling into a forest of red, full of raspberry bushes, with the brilliantly scarlet autumn leaves reflected in the pond, making it shine crimson, too. I hit the ground with a muffled thump, having fallen on top of a pile of autumn leaves the color of ripe strawberries. As I sat up, the world began to spin, the haze of different shades of red making my head spin. I stood up slowly and unsteadily, and tottered over to the pond. I looked in it and saw myself wearing my raspberry beret like a Parisian artist. The world kept spinning, but I didn’t notice it anymore. The raspberry beret, in the pond, was sparkling.

I woke up slowly that morning, quite without the confused jolt that usually comes after a dream. I sat up, and felt like the world was still spinning. I closed my eyes and shook my head, then opened them and looked at my The Clash poster, and the spinning stopped. I looked in my mirror, and saw myself, in my oversize t-shirt and leggings, quite without my beret. My beret, in fact, was sitting unremarkably on my bedside table, looking benign and very much not sparkling.

That's the first scene, but then I skipped a bit because there was a scene I really wanted to write.

The long crab grass pushing up between the cracks in the sidewalk scraped soles of faithful mid-calf Docs as I approached the Purple House. I didn't think about it, though, because I was right then walking past the bell-laden willow trees. I figured, as I was already fulfilling my lifelong desire, I might as well go all out. I reached out next to me and did something I had wanted to do almost my entire life. I gently grasped one of the tiny silver bells and rang it gently. The tinkly sound that followed delighted my ears and heightened my confidence, and I continued my purposeful stride down the walk.

As I approached the Purple House and rang the bell, I half expected that no one would answer the door, because this whole thing seemed almost too... opportunistic to be true. Despite my expectations, the door opened after several seconds of clacking footsteps. I looked up into the face of a tall, elegant middle-aged woman. Her face was creased around the eyes and mouth, but right then she looked very serious. She was wearing a long, black dress and an apron, and I had begun to suspect that she was a maid. The house was pretty big, after all, even if it wasn't as colossal as the mansions that I lived around (and in). I realized with a jolt that I had been standing there for almost a full minute, thinking, and that the maid had been standing there in the threshold, her expression as mild as ever. My face colored and I stuttered, "I... um... I-- I just came to..."

"Finally come to your senses, have you?" the maid asked in a voice that was slightly gravelly, but just as neutral as her expression. "Well, you'd best come with me, then." Confused, the gears of my brain working feebly to understand what was going on, I followed her. By the time we had traversed the long (but not as lengthy as in my house) corridors, past odd still lives showcasing various pieces of exotic fruit, my confusion had faded to and overwhelming, nagging curiosity to know what was going to happen next.

I looked around the room we were in now. It was a living room, and had lavender walls with dried plants framed and hung up. Two darker lilac couches in chairs formed a square around a coffee table. But what attracted my attention most was the people sitting on the chairs and couches. There were six of them. Three were brown-haired, a boy and girl who were seemed to be twins and looked about my age, and a young child, a girl with an elaborate dress and hairdo, who looked no older than seven. The other three had red hair, blonde hair, and textured dark hair. The blonde looked at me with narrowed eyes, but his eyes weren't narrowed in a menacing way, just in a contemplative way. The redhead and the twins both greeted me with friendly smiles. The child looked wary, and the dark-haired one wasn't paying any attention to me at all, but rather to an embroidery cloth she was [bent over with extreme concentration].

The maid looked around as mildly as ever, nodded once to the blonde, and left the room. As soon as the maid left, the redhead, who looked about twenty and was wearing a floaty white tunic, jumped up as soon as the maid left and said eagerly, “You’re Claire, right? Welcome, welcome! That beret used to be mine, you know!” With that, her excited smile turned alarmingly quickly into an expression of horrified realization. The blonde man glared meaningful daggers at her, and she said, “Oh, crap! Mark, I’m sorry!”

“Can’t you keep, your mouth shut, Rosie?!” the blonde, who was obviously Mark, asked meanly. “We weren’t supposed to tell her yet!”

Rosie recovered quickly, and said cheerily, though slightly anxiously, “Well, we might as well explain to her now!”

“Fine,” mark grumbled. “Go ahead.”

“Well, to start, I think some introductions are in order. First of all, who are you?” Rosie asked me.

I was very surprised. The way these people had been behaving, I had assumed (quite reasonably, I thought) that they knew who I was. I didn’t want another incident like the one with the maid, however, so I answered right away, “I’m Claire,” I said, blushing. I had always hated my name. It had been my parents’ idea (Naturally. Who else’s idea could it have been? Certainly not mine).

“Hi, Claire,” Rosie said, looking slightly surprised. People always expected me to have a name like Dahlia or Lee. Claire did not fit my character. Looking sheepish, she introduced me, “Okay, everyone, this is Claire.” Then she pointed to the young girl, the brunette twins, the blonde guy, and the embroidery girl, respectively, and said, “That’s Cassie, Marie and Sebastian, Mark, and Madrina.”

And that's all I've got so far! I've been thinking about it, but I'm still not quite sure what should happen next.

-- Rosie L.

Just a Little Poem I Wrote

I can't concentrate, and the words in my brain just won't straighten out.
I have phrases, have ideas.
I have thoughts.
I have poetry.
But I can't seem to get it out.
My pen tip flows: a waterfall of blue-black ink.
Blurring at the edges.
Agitating me more.
My ideas, though, are not like ink.
They don't flow, they won't sit on paper.
They will sit and stew in brain matter.
They will float and fly and never alight.
They will remain half-formed because they just won't cooperate
Like trying to catch doves in the morning.
They say: Write poetry. How hard can it be?
Pressure.
Pressure to win, because if I don't, what will become of my self-esteem?
Everyone else: wonderful poets.
Give me advice. They write
Amazing poems.
They write ideas, not complaints.
How? I wonder, as my pen tip flows.
They don't understand my plight.
Plight, because this is my future.
These disobedient ideas
This pressure;
I am a writer
But of fiction: without rhythm or rhyme or any of those cursed, blessed plagues.
Fiction: my straightforward fiction.
My poetic fiction.
My comfortable fiction.
Without pressure: my world of chapters and plots,
Characters, and, ultimately, inescapable ideas.
Even fiction is no longer comfortable.
Harsh editors.
Rejected by publishers.
Poetry
And fiction
The fate (and delight) of a writer.
Who was to know?

Of Daffodils and Dancing

I haven't actually written in quite a long time (a week, to be precise), due to Extreme Business on my part. But now i am writing to say that my long-term obsession with J has now come to an end. A final and complete end. An overall stop. In fact, for now I am going to be focusing on the important things: my writing, my friends, the fact that spring has indeed now sprung, and, alas, My Prince, things such as that. Speaking of spring springing (teehee), I never thought daffodils and magnolia flowers ( such as the ones blooming in my front yard), as well as the sun looming over the clouds and finally (after quite a long struggle) managing to peak out, could give as much delight as it has. Perhaps I have finally learned to enjoy the simple things in life. On the subject of enjoyment, I went to a dance last night. In past dances I have attended, I haven't actually really done any dancing. This time, however, I danced for almost the entire thing (except for the slow songs, because I don't have anyone to dance with), and had more fun than I ever have in my entire life (well, possibly). But, alas, the magnolias call me, and I feel I must get up off of this computer chair and out and about.

Delightedly,
Rosie L.

Of Floaty Lilac Dresses and Confessions

I have finally left my family's house, and I head for home today! Alas, perhaps My Prince is waiting for me there? I can only hope... actually, I have begun thinking quite a bit about... J!! Perhaps he is My Prince after all? I think I shall call him sometime soon and make a huge marvy confession and see how he reacts. Because even if he reacts badly, I will never, ever see him again. Probably. In any case, I head for home today! I hope I will finally have access to my other computer and will be capable of letting Raspberry Beret unfold on the digital pages of my blog. But one can only hope, can't they? Now I am in quite a whimsical mood (due to that last rather whimsical sentence). I feel like putting on a floaty lilac dress and prancing about the yard with a basket of flowers, with a white horse sort of galloping around me. But I don't really have a white horse, or a floaty lilac dress, or indeed a basket. I might be able to locate some flowers, but I would probably be ravaging my flower bed for the rest of the season. So I shall refrain from my whimsical tendencies and thoughts. I shall be practical and hardworking! I shall drive, drive like the wind! I shall call J, and he shall admit that he has loved me all his life (well, since I met him a couple of months ago)! I'm off!!!!

No-longer-whimsically,
Rosie L.

Of Failure and Life Completion

Today was my last day visiting my family. When I took Jordan for a walk, I looked and looked, harder than ever, but I still didn't see anyone. I've been looking, and, frankly, my fruitless results have left me slightly disheartened. I guess I'm better off finding him where I live, so that I could see him more often. I guess I can't give up now, because this is a lifetime thing and I've just started. I must press on!! At least I have finally finished my school project, so I've got that out of the way. Thank goodness!! Now I just need to finish Raspberry Beret (which I haven't really been working on), get my masters in library science (sorry-- information science), publish a book, work with Greenpeace to save endangered species, and find My Prince until my life is complete. I can't wait. I can't wait at all. Well, maybe something exciting will happen when I get home. My life is once again becoming vaire vaire boring... Maybe I should stir up some excitement by calling J. If it wouldn't be to clingy. Would it?

Confusedly,
Rosie L.