![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
thatabbotgirl's journalLog in Create a LiveJournal Account Learn more
| You are viewing thatabbotgirl's journal Log in Create a LiveJournal Account Learn more | Explore LJ: Life Entertainment Music Culture News & Politics Technology |
|
|||||||
 |
|
|
|||||
|
That Abbot Girl  Actual updates to come soon. I have a bunch hand written as I did continue with this writing experiment of mine, I just never typed them up or posted them. hopefully that will change soon. Current mood:  giddy.
November 13, 2004 – sometimes paranoia is just perceptive Georgie Porgie is out to get me. This is no longer paranoia on my part. This is street smarts...okay, school smarts. This is survival of the most cunning or something and he’s trying to make me the laughing stock of the school. George Rossovitch wants to ruin my life. Though I haven’t quite figured out why yet. Did I wrong him in a past life? Did I make eye contact? (like the animals at the zoo that they tell you never to stare down to keep them from charging...) “I saw you at the museum the other night. With your friend.” I don’t know if I was more thrown off by the fact that he was speaking to me or that he saw me at the art museum. With Jeremiah, Loser King, wearing a dress. And, though I’ve never heard George say anything above the decibel of a whisper in the past, he like...shouted this information throughout the classroom. It reverberated off walls and knowing my luck, probably got transmitted via the intercom system. The worst part: I got the clutch from Megan Thatcher, a cheesy Ohmigod-isn’t-that-so-sweet gesture because she thinks I’ve got a boyfriend now. Little Linnie Abbot finally got a guy. Except I didn’t and wouldn’t want that particular breed of boy even if we were the last of the human race and the future depended on us. Kenny winked at me, two other girls whispered to one another, and all I could do was sink into my chair and try to fight off the humiliation boiling beneath the surface. I knew I was overreacting. No one in my class knew that Jeremiah was quite possibly the missing link. I glared at George and whispered, “What were you doing there?” Everyone was watching the two of us, which made me want to scream. Like it’s anyone’s business...which, of course, it is because this is high school and what else do we have to do? “I work at the art museum on the weekends,” he said with a shrug. He shrugged. Shrugged. He opened up this humiliating can of worms and then has the gall to shrug? I was going to poke his eyes out with our microscope. Maybe throw it at his head! “Interesting,” I replied. Except it wasn’t. Or maybe it would’ve been if I wasn’t, ya know, plotting his very torturous death. “Your boyfriend’s friends seem like quite a handful,” he replied. He grinned and added lowly, "High on life, I guess." Who talks like that? Quite a handful? What is he? My grandfather? And suddenly he's concerned with privacy? I mean, at this point, as everyone in class had leaned in closer to us to hear what he was saying, so why didn’t he shout from the rafters that by “quite a handful” what he actually meant was “dorky by even my standards...and that’s saying a lot.” Luckily, the teacher came into the classroom and began our lecture. Or maybe it was unlucky. Kenny kept winking at me as though the idea that some other guy had touched me meant that I wasn’t the asexual being he always acted like I was in the past. Gross. I was better off being asexual than witnessing drool form around the corners of his mouth that was directed at me. Oh, I just might swoon. I tried to keep my eyes on my notepad, but I could feel George’s eyes on me every now and again. I refused to look, afraid of what would happen next, afraid I’d have my soul sucked out and end up a peapod person. He didn't say anything else. He might've muttered, "pass the slide" at one point, but I waved him off. After class, George smiled at me and said, “See you later.” Totally out to get me. See you later is his code for "I'll find you in the bathroom and dissect you for fun, Lynn Abbot." Or ya know, just goodbye. But I think I'm onto something with this theory of mine. I think Georgie Porgie wants to destroy me. Must ponder this further and share scary new development with the best friends. Fearfully yours! Tah! Current mood:  worried.Current music: "how" lisa loeb. November 12, 2002 – Death to Homework! Viva la homework free life! Homework is the devil. I gave this a lot of thought while I was supposed to be rewriting my biology lab and preparing my preliminary notes on my term paper and it was the only plausible explanation. I mean, if you really pay attention as a teacher announces the amount of crap required, you can almost make out the sadistic smile creeping out of the corners of their mouths. When am I ever again going to need to know the square route of pi? Will that help me on job interviews: Why am I qualified for this job? Well, I’ll tell you, Bob. It’s because I know the square root of PI. While my patients are convulsing on the metal slabs rather than curing their ailments, I will take their minds off their pathetic demise with nifty mathematical trivia. Teachers spend all this time trying to convince us (and probably themselves for they are delusional) that all this stuff matters, that if I don't understand Latin, a language that has been dead forever, my life will have no meaning and I will die unsuccessful, ugly, and alone. It's lies. Isn't it my job, as a "voice of tomorrow" (according to our yearbook anyway), to fix the system? Homework Is the Devil: A Manifesto by Lynn Abbot It has a nice ring to it. Aside from such deep ponderings on my part, I managed to get Nate to hang out with me on Sunday afternoon. It seems his brother topped him once again and went joyriding in their father’s jaguar. Idiot would’ve gotten away with it if he hadn’t left the Burger King bag in the car. He was highly amused by my antics the night before and as we wandered around South Street aimlessly, he kept referring to me as “cupcake” thus proving that while I often forget, he is in fact a boy and therefore funny only to himself. He also told me to bite my tongue and apologize to Gwen so that he could enjoy his disgusting cafeteria lunch in peace. HA. Like that was going to happen. I’m always the one who has to apologize and I refuse to do it this time. She’s the temperamental, crazy one, not me. She's the one who makes these outrageous claims with no foundation to build them on. So why do I always end up throwing up the white flag and surrendering? “Just do it, Linnie. I can’t take this! I’m too young to have ulcers, but I do. And their names are Linnie and Gwen.” “You should tell Gwen that. Maybe it qualifies as ‘decadent’ by her standards.” “Let it go.” “She started it.” And so it went. For the next two hours. By the time he left me at my front door, I wanted to kill myself for begging for his company. When Nate gets into Mr. Peaceman mode, he’s a bit…annoying…to be around. He says things like, “Karma sorts itself out, Linnie” as if he has any idea what karma is and if he does, it’s not like he believes in it. I’m pretty sure his family burnt witches at the stake for saying such things and is proud of that fact. Worse than Mr. Peaceman mode, is the fact that I always find myself agreeing with Nate in the end. I'm smart enough not to tell him that usually, but I'm sure he knows. Because he's the devil! I swear he puts subliminal messages on my Fiona Apple cds or something because I’ll protest and fight, but end up going home and doing exactly what he wanted. I’m afraid to say it, but f he was a cult leader, I would probably end up drinking his Kool-Aid. I emailed Gwen. Spoke of date from hell with Jer and his cronies. Did not apologize, but made it clear that lines of communication are open. I guess we’ll see how it goes tomorrow. In the meantime, I have a term paper to write. Unapologetically yours! Tah! Current mood:  enraged.Current music: "Broken" Seether. These will be continued...just have been juggling about five different writing projects at the moment, so this exercise momentarily lapsed. This weekend I vow to get the two entries I never posted up, if like, anyone actually cares about that abbot girl. Current mood: drained.Current music: "Wedding Song" Andy Stochansky. November 9, 2002 – The Doomsday Date Technically, it’s November 10th, but I’m in no mood to split hairs with anyone, let alone a journal that shouldn’t sass me back. Mental Note: If my journal ever actually gives me sass, it’s time to talk to Doctor Jack about putting me on some fun brain candy to combat schizophrenia. Mental Note 2: Under pain of death, and even then, do not agree to dates with sons of parent’s co-workers. It only leads to tears. Mine. The worst kind of tears. I mean, it would be kind of fun to make a guy cry. Only if he deserved it and stuff, I’m not a total sadist...yet. Let me begin with explaining a torture unlike anything ever captured in history books, a hell that was so horrendous that it was outlawed as a war crime at the Geneva Convention. That’s right. Shopping at Nordstrom’s with my mother. Dress shopping at that. {Insert screams and mass hysteria} Things to know about me: 1) I’m “hippy”. Not in the flower child sense, but in the “maybe I should buy you a gym membership, sweetie. After all, those hips won’t shrink themselves” way. This is something that my mother felt everyone in the store had to be privy to seeing as she practically shouted it from the rafters. 2) I have no breasts. It’s okay though. After a conference with two senior sales ladies, it was decided that I still have time to grow into my body. If all else fails, I’m fortunate to be a from a wealthy family that will purchase me an almost authentic pair of Double D’s—that’s right, Pam Anderson, I’m coming after your job if I wake up one morning to find my brain has been sucked out by aliens. 3) Red, yellow, peach, blue, pink, lavender, green, etc, etc, etc are not good colors on me. 4) I have a pretty face. Is there ever been a less subtle way to say “lose the weight, chubby” aside from maybe pinching a girl’s ass and asking, “Hey, didn’t I see you perform at Sea World last week?” 5) Less is more. More is also less. Huh? 6) My mother is a martyr. Mommy martyr. Every time I passed on the hanger in her hands, she would sigh, look upward, and say, “If that’s what you want.” 7) After fifteen minutes of shopping with my mother, I turn into a homicidal maniac that is not beyond punching old ladies in the face who believe it’s okay to comment on my body in any way. My mother means well, I know she does, but I find myself ready to strangle her with a DKNY purse whenever we’re on a shopping “mission” together. My self esteem never fails to plummet to near-drought levels when we’re together. You’d think I’d have built up mommy immunity by now, but I haven’t and whenever I snap at her, she whimpers, “I’m you’re mother. If you can’t trust me to give you an honest opinion, then who will?” She tramples my confidence, but I somehow find myself trying to comfort her on the disastrous ride home. I ask you, is that fair? This is why my father is my favorite. I say, “I need shoes, dad” and he responds, “That’s why you have a Gold Card, Lynn.” After many arguments where I referred to my mother as a “shopping Nazi” and she made offensive comments regarding the majority of my wardrobe, we finally compromised on a plain, black cocktail dress with spaghetti straps and thankfully no bows of any sort. I won’t even go into the shoe debacle. I shudder at the memory. I arrive home with two hours to spare before my “hot date” arrives to undoubtedly charm me to death (one can only hope) and I’m expected to dance to the “YMCA”. Oh horror of horrors! Fortunately, this isn’t my school and no one will know me there. Anyway, Jeremiah shows up with his entourage of “peeps” (which isn’t a far cry from the truth seeing as his friends and their dates have about as much personality as you’d imagine a marshmallow candy to embody) and proceeds to feel me up under the pretense of an ugly orchid corsage. If I was smart, I would’ve run up the stairs and pulled a toddler on my mother—complete with covering my ears and shrieking out, “No, I won’t do it. I won’t! Noooooo! You can’t make me. Fa, la, la. I don’t hear you. Fa, la, la.” Never let it be said that I’m a very bright girl. It’s not that Jeremiah is blinding to look at it. He’s kind of cute in the geeky, Wil-Wheaton-on-Star-Trek way in that I would never admit he was at all cute, but secretly would think, “Not so bad.” In fact, you don’t even notice the random pimples or the fact that Jeremiah hasn’t had a growth spurt since the third grade because you’re so overwhelmed by his annoying personality. And the laugh…my god, the laugh. Fingernails running down a blackboard are less horrific. Trust me. That is not an exaggeration. Horror 1: Jeremiah referring to me as “cookie”, “cupcake”, and “honey”. I had a few choice names for him, but my mother’s pleas before leaving (“Try to avoid your normal attitude tonight, for my sake”) stopped me from utilizing them. It’s a shame really. It would’ve been a hoot to see the loser blush. Horror 2: The guys in our limo rushing up the stairs of the art museum while humming the Rocky theme. Never could’ve deduced that would happen. Horror 3: Jeremiah, or “Jer” as he prefers to be called, explaining in great detail his love of taxidermy. “It’s a lost art, baby. Nobody appreciates the idea that your best friend, Fluffy, would make a great addition to your study. Want a cookie, cookie?” {God awful laughs ensue for he is a comedic legend in his own mind.} He then proceeded to make barfing noises and get drunk on the church wine one of his daredevil friends stole from their school’s rectory Friday afternoon. Horror 4: Mass Exodus from the dance to “hang” in front of the Galleria. It wasn’t even open, which apparently makes it all the more subversive. Said idiot boys proceed to hoot and cackle at tourists exiting the Hard Rock until a larger guy threatens to kick their ass. Thankfully this shuts them up. Horror 5: After running to make it back to the museum (which, for the record, is like a hundred blocks away, or feels like a hundred blocks away in heels), Jer-the-king-of-the-dork-squad proceeds to stick his tongue in my ear under the impression that he’s a veritable Lady’s Man. Horror 6: The yells from my mother while my step-father chuckled from the stairwell upon sight of my honey-bunny’s black eye and swollen lip. I tried to explain that they were “love pats” but Jer’s whimpering may have raised some doubts. On the bright side I suspect my mother will avoid pawning me off on any of her co-workers’ children ever again. I can still hear her wailing to my stepfather that she’s going to have to buy a fruit basket tomorrow on her “one day off this week.” My job is done. Datelessly Yours! Tah! Current mood:  amused.Current music: "Time" Chantal Kreviazuk. November 8, 2002 – Fridays officially suck my big toe! The rest of my Friday did not progress any better once lunch was over. Let’s do a quick run down of the ways my life went to the proverbial crapper: 1) My locker wouldn’t open. It took me a half hour to locate someone on the janitorial staff who was allowed to help me. After twenty minutes of proving my identity and swearing that I was not looking to plant narcotics on an unsuspecting classmate, it took another fifteen minutes to get the damn thing open. A lose leaf piece of paper had gotten jammed in the hinge and I was privileged to a scolding from a custodian complete with spit landing on my book bag and unwanted attention from the A-Listers as they exited our classroom. 2) Nate landed his ass in detention for walking into our principal while playing Mortal Kombat. He holds Gwen and I personally responsible for this blight on his spotless record and refuses to have anything to do with us until we’ve made up and think up an exceptional (“Good will not be adequate, Linnie. You’ve met my dad.”) excuse for his parents. So far the only thing I’ve come up with is this: it’s better than bringing a gun to school. Then I remembered his parents are staunch republicans and would probably advocate Nate’s attempts at exploiting his Second Amendment rights. 3) I nearly got run over by an old man on a bicycle on my way to Doctor Jack’s office. When I rushed to get out of the demon cyclist’s line of terror, I fell face-first off the curb into a puddle. There to share in my humiliation was a trolley-full of crazy tourists flashing their cameras at the park beyond me where Ben Franklin used to walk, but most assuredly catching my clumsiness on film for prosperity. 4) Doctor Jack was not impressed with my take on our relationship nor my use of this journal. I’m not digging deep enough apparently. What am I supposed to be doing here? Drilling for oil? And finally... I’ve got a date. It’s all Gwen’s fault. If she wasn’t harboring irrational anger toward me over something as stupid as calling her out on her lack of decadence (“Why not refer to me as pedestrian and pedantic while you’re at it, Linnie?” “Would you settle for redundant, Gwen?”), I wouldn’t be “available” to go out with my mother’s co-worker’s son, Jeremiah. But since I no longer have plans, my mother has decided that now is the perfect opportunity for me to “expand my horizons,” “talk to a nice young man from a good family about growing into a person of substance” and “stop acting like a social outcast and be more like your sister.” This is what it always comes down to in my family. A strange, incestuous form of peer pressure where my sister and I find ourselves doing these horrendous things (like blind dates with goobers or family karaoke night) that we are avidly against. We do these things to keep our mother from trips down memory lane where she talks about all the fun she had in high school and how every weekend boys begged for dates with her. My mother is a blonde in case you’re wondering, and according to her, they have the most fun. They also giggle on command (usually at bad jokes involving the Pope) and have a tendency to flirt outrageously with men in toupees. Example: putting her hands on her co-anchor’s arm at Christmas parties and cooing, “Oh shush, you. Don’t be so bad, Jim.” (Giggle, giggle). How creepy! Don’t get the wrong idea. It’s not like she’s having an affair or anything. My mother is too virtuous for a thing like that. When she and my father grew apart, she waited a full month before dating and remarrying. No, my mother is that sort of freak of nature with everyone. It’s like she’s stuck in a permanent state of cheerleaderdom and can do nothing but be peppy and upbeat at all times. Who knew anyone had that sort of over-the-top optimism to draw upon? When my mother’s own personal experiences fail to woo me to her way of thinking, she invokes the curse of younger siblings everywhere. “Your sister never gave me these problems.” “Your sister appreciates the importance of boyfriends from good homes and doesn’t make it her goal to convince the rest of our family she’s a lesbian.” And my personal favorite, “Your sister walks on water and beats Jesus in most cases of leprosy cured.” Let me explain my sister to you for a minute. Tabitha “Tabbie” Abbot (My mother has an affinity for nicknames that end in –ie...it’s quite disturbing, but she’s been quick to point out, it could be worse. My name could be Candie, shudder at the thought.) is eighteen-years-old, a freshman at University of Pennsylvania, and possibly the most perfect person to ever grace the planet. She can do no wrong in my parents’ eyes, seems to never want for boyfriends or good grades, and always maintains perfect skin and great hair. She makes me sick, or more accurately, she would make me sick, if she wasn’t so damn nice to everyone, especially me. She’s pretty much the best big sister a girl could ask for—quick to cover for me, helping me convince my parents that camp is never a good option, letting me borrow her clothes (this was before I developed a JLO butt and could still squeeze into a pair of size four jeans)—and all-round great person. You know the type. It’s the way I imagine Liv Tyler to be—beautiful, smart, funny, and friendly—and it’s not right. Beautiful people should not be allowed to have personalities. They should be as bland as my mother’s Chicken Kiev and have the IQ of a Real World cast member. Leave it to my sister to be the anomaly. The problem isn’t so much with my sister, but with the way I am perceived due to her stunning achievements. I mean, I’m one science fair award away from channeling Jan Brady and crying out, “Tabbie, Tabbie, Tabbie!” before locking myself in the bathroom for the rest of my life. Every teacher whom I’ve encountered at St. Agatha’s is quick to point out that I have a huge legacy to live up to. My mother loves to bring up the fact that when Tabbie was my age she was fighting the guys of with a spoon—why a spoon, I ask you—and getting invited to parties almost every weekend. My father simply states that Tabbie never cost him a fortune in therapy bills over a divorce that took place a decade ago and should most assuredly be resolved by now. So you can see how I would find myself in this dire predicament. After hour three of my mother’s needling, I finally caved. I agreed to act as Jeremiah’s date to his prep school’s dance at the Art Museum. Ten to one I will not survive the night without at least one re-enactment of the running of the steps from Rocky. My mother is screaming that we need to get to King of Prussia Mall before it closes. I need a dress. A dress? Aren’t I the luckiest girl on the planet? Inauspiciously yours! Tah! Current mood: cranky.Current music: "Journey to the Past". November 7, 2002 – Debauchery is not for everyone “I want to behave decadently,” Gwen stated. She does this from time-to-time. Make bizarre declarations that have no bearing on any conversation we’ve been having whatsoever. Like the time we visited the White House with my father and she randomly stated, “Burger King definitely has the best hamburger. We should make a pact to only eat there.” It’s like in her brain, she’s already reached old age so there’s no reason to bother with pretense and keep those scary thoughts to herself. Mental note: Make sure to remind Gwen to keep those scary thoughts to herself by making little comments like, “That was out loud, you know” or “Hey freako, shut up.” “Your idea of decadence is putting the recyclables in with regular trash,” I countered while exchanging looks with Nate. He totally agreed, but per some silent pact that we made when we became the Three Amigos (Three Stooges, depending on who you ask) back in the first grade, he didn’t back me up vocally. It’s very rare that he communicates anything vocally. It’s not that he’s a mute, but a guy, and in his mind, deep conversations about anything other than video games and Pamela Anderson’s breasts are like asking him to put on a dress (though I’d pay good money to see that). You see, Nate is what you call a keep-the-peace kiss-ass. Of course, that’s not the technical term, but it’s much more definitive of his personality than some introverted extroverted personality type. Whenever there is some sort of discourse amongst his friends, family, random crazy people on the street, he steps into the role of Switzerland with perfect grace and awaits the end of the annihilation until adding his two cents. “Oh by the way, I totally agreed with Gwen about that nasty habit you have of using sarcasm as a defense mechanism. It’s not always cool, Linnie.” Even more annoying is that when he actually does choose to include himself in our highly-energized conversations (aka arguments) he will support his statements with evidence of our evil ways from ten years ago. It’s insane. I have trouble remembering what terrible things I did to him yesterday let alone a decade ago, but there’s Nate, still holding a grudge because I made his GI Joe date Skipper rather than Barbie. Unbelievable. Sometimes I think I should dump the two of them and search for new friends, better friends, friends that understand the way world-weary girls such as myself choose to express themselves. But no, instead I chose a temperamental, new-age obsessed, artist (Gwen) and an apathetic, future President of the United States (Nate) for my life-long buds. If I took the time to think about it, I’d have to admit the truth. The truth is Gwen and I probably would’ve grown apart a long ago if it weren’t for Nate holding us together and the only reason that Nate’s still around is, because like me, he shares my philosophy on friendship: If you’ve invested years of your life in something, don’t go all Days of Our Lives and screw it up. Go with the flow…even when it seems impossible and you want to smother your friends with their new pleather jacket. Also, to be frank, looking for new friends would be such a hassle and don’t I have enough of those already? “I only did that once and it wasn’t an act of depravity as much as laziness on my part,” Gwen paused and she took a huge bite out of her apple, spraying the table with the juice, and glared at me with each chew. I noticed the way the chains around her neck bounced with each movement of her jaw and wondered if they were clamoring to escape. Like maybe all tacky jewelry got together and decided that they would no longer be one of the symbols of avant garde wannabes, rappers, or Mr. T. (See, I’m as random and crazy as Gwen, but I have the good sense to keep it to myself!). I pondered this, keeping my eyes diverted to her necklaces to avoid her incredulous expression, but found myself meeting her annoyed look when she laughed under her breath at me. Ugh. Have I mentioned how crazy she makes me when she does that? She added snidely, “And what do you know anyway? It’s not like you’re a bad girl, Lynn Marie.” “I never called myself a bad girl. I’m not the one making outrageous declarations like ‘I want to behave decadently’ now, am I?” “That’s your problem, Linnie. You never think outside the box.” “What box? There is no box.” Gwen pointed across the table at me like I was the evil villain in a noir film being fingered for deflowering the young town girl. She said, “See.” I raised my hands up as if I were a mime and motioned as if to escape from a box, “You’re right. Thank you for showing me the error of my ways.” “Why can’t you be a supportive friend for once? Don’t I support you in everything you do?” When I didn’t respond, Gwen nudged Nate in the side, and said, “Don’t you concur?” If I weren’t getting more furious by the second I would’ve laughed at the look on Nate’s face. It was the same look he got in the second grade when he peed in his pants while doing his oral book report and people referred to him as “Diaper Boy.” (Second graders are pretty perfunctory in terms of cleverness.) He smiled awkwardly from Gwen to me and said, “Why can’t the two of you act like normal best friends? Why must I always get dragged into some inane argument? I’m not your personal referee.” I can’t be alone in thinking the boy deserves an Oscar for such an impassioned plea. Almost brings tears to my eyes. He stood up and pulled his gameboy out of his backpack, despite the fact that they were outlawed at our school. He’s a total radical, that boy. Our principal decided that electronic equipment could not be used during school hours, but Nate and a few other social-retards-slash-gamers got together and decided to stage a protest because it’s like so unfair to like take away their right to Zelda, dammit! I tried to point out that it’s not a protest if only those four guys know what’s going on, more like sure-fire detention, but Nate dismissed me with a wave. He said, “I’ll see you both tonight when you’ve calmed down and can act like civil human beings” and with that, he stalked off, the sounds of bleep, bleep, bleep from his gameboy filling the cafeteria. Never let it be said that Nate Haverly doesn’t know how to make an exit. Let’s just say that Gwen did not want to heed Nate’s sage advice. Gwen gathered up all her litter. She looked at me, dumped it all, including her can of Diet Coke, into the regular trash bin and stuck her tongue out at me before slamming out of the back doors of the cafeteria. It wouldn’t have been so bad if I didn’t catch my new lab partner witnessing the entire spectacle. When he saw that he’d been caught, he met my gaze, laughed to himself (AGAIN! What is WRONG with that boy???), and shrugged at me. What does it say for you when you find yourself socially scolded by the biggest outcast ever? And this was how my day went slightly awry. One comment about my friend’s lack of profligacy and suddenly I’m persona non grata in her life. Why can’t I be twenty-something and at the point in friendships where the only times people fight are over important things like differing political ideologies or hot guys? And even worse was the fact that Georgie Porgie was mocking me. ME! I’m used to the occasional crap—when my mother’s channel failed to report the snow storm last year, I found myself a magnet for every snowball in our fine city—but I had hit a new low. It was Friday. It was supposed to be a great day. The bell ringing at two thirty was meant to signify freedom and fun, not the chime of doom. But Gwen was pissed at me because I defied her plans for rebellion, Nate was most likely in hiding until it all blew over, and my only potential plans seemed to be coming from the table behind mine where a freshmen was licking his lips in my direction and making obscene gestures. Lovely. Is this freaking day over yet? Please forgive me, but I need to go find a Septa bus to jump in front of. Rebelliously yours! Tah! Current mood: depressed.Current music: "Cry Me A River" Justin Timberlake. November 6, 2002 – the horrors of biology Conversations should NOT begin with, “Isn’t this interesting.” They especially should not begin this way if the person instigating said conversation does not say anything else afterward. Like, “isn’t this interesting how you smell of roses” or “isn’t this interesting, you’ve got a potato sticking out of your ear.” Either would be better than offering nothing else. I walked into Biology today to find Kenny Hardgrove sitting in my seat, grinning at Megan with that oh-yeah-I’m-gonna-get-laid glint in his eyes. I glanced around the room frantically, hoping beyond hope that someone had suddenly come down with a terminal illness that would mean I had to work on my own. But alas, I was doomed. I heard Ms. Moody clear her throat from over my shoulder and begrudgingly made my way across the classroom and slid into my seat in the Georgie Zone. He peered at me out of the corner of his eyes, before leaning back and running his hands through his long brown hair. He smiled slightly, convincing me I was the butt of a joke within the confines of his head and causing me to unravel and sweat profusely from my palms, and said, “Well, isn’t this interesting.” God, what if he thinks I asked to be seated next to him? What if he thinks I’m trying to seduce him with fruit flies? What if I’m overreacting slightly? Okay, breathe Linnie. Breathe. There are only seven months left of school. Ugh! I will say that I got my first A on any Biology lab in the history of my life. Apparently being afraid to make eye contact with your lab partner is conducive to brilliant work. I’m off for a meeting with my School Counselor on College and You, Are You Compatible? F-U-N. Suspiciously yours! Tah! Current mood: cranky.Current music: some rap song on the radio. November 5, 2002 – trials and tribulations of dealing with a cheerleader Desperation thy name is Megan Thatcher. The girl is a cheerleader with the brain of an amoeba, which is intolerable enough, but add to it that she’s a Gap Ad ho-bag to boot and I’m left with nothing but derision for the girl. I don’t understand how she ended up in AP Biology let alone as my lab partner, but no one ever doubted that God had a sense of humor (as Kevin Smith once said, look at the platypus). Today she decided that rather than aiding me in cultivating fruit flies (it’s the gift that keeps on giving and giving and giving…) she was going to commence her plan of attack for ensnaring the unsuspecting Kenneth Hargrove for her date to the Homecoming Dance. She encircled her name and his with hearts (the tie that binds) and told me how she kept “finding” herself standing in front of his locker with her cleavage in his face. It was an “accident”, of course, because she’s like “so not like that” (though the walls of the guy’s bathroom state otherwise according to Nate) and “only wants true love like Romeo and Juliet.” Yeah, we know how well that ended. Thanks to Megan’s lack of interest in our project, we both skimmed by with a C on the morning’s lab. It wouldn’t be the end of the world if I hadn’t made a nasty habit of skimming by for most of the semester and in dire straights as far as academic achievement went. The odds of me making National Honor Society were as slim Eminem recording a Christian Rock Album. So I did what any freaked-out-junior-who-needs-good-grades-t “Why do you think, Ms. Abbot, that you are any more special than the other student’s in my class?” Call me crazy, but I had a feeling that this was one of those rhetorical questions where any answer would be viewed as inappropriate. But I couldn’t help myself. It’s a sickness, I tell you. A sickness! “Because you were the one who chose to pair me with Megan Thatcher, Ms. Moody.” “And how are your troubles with studying related to Ms. Thatcher?” Again, my brain was shouting out, “Don’t reply. Don’t reply. Shut your mouth. Shut your mouth!” But did I listen? “Have you heard her definition of osmosis? I’m hardly a science savant, but I’m fairly certain it’s not the process of moseying down the street.” That would be a no on the shutting up front. Ms. Moody screwed up her face tightly, as if she were afraid it would fall off if she didn’t vacuum-suck it on, and let out a slow hiss of a breath. Her evil gray orbs narrowed in on me until she was squinting at my every freckle. I wanted to turn away, to shut my eyes against the horror in front of me, but it was like a horrific car accident on the highway. I was unable to stop myself, pulled by the gravitational force of masochism, and met her gaze. We stood there for about ten seconds like this, but it felt like forever, like one of my grandfather’s lectures about saving the world from the Nazis. Finally, she said, “Very well. I want a report on my desk first thing tomorrow on the life cycle of fruit flies.” I smiled triumphantly though I knew I shouldn’t. I gathered my books and hurried out of the classroom. I almost escaped, my hand pressed firmly onto the cool metal of freedom, when her voice echoed throughout the classroom, “And to keep this from becoming a recurring excuse, we’ll switch your lab partners.” I froze. This was a good thing. A great thing. Great things were not known to be so easily obtained from Ms. Moody and that could only mean one thing. Death! And boy was I right. “I’m going to partner you up with George Rossovitch.” George Rossovitch. Georgie-Porgie. The kid who used to eat ants off the picnic tables on class trips. The guy that went to see Lord of the Rings dressed as Gandalf. More than once. He was so weird that not even the freakos had anything to do with him. I honestly try not to get too caught up in the high school popularity game, especially considering I hate most people upon first meeting, but even I have my limits. George Rossovitch was testing those limits…and I never thought I would say this, but I was going to miss Megan’s inane jabber. Dammit. This was all her fault. My life is, as always, hell. I wonder what Doctor Jack will think of this. Biologically yours! Tah! Current mood: annoyed.Current music: "Drift Away" Uncle Kracker. November 4 – the first My rinky-dink shrink decided that I needed somewhere to expunge the remnants of those days that haunt my soul nightly. He didn’t use those exact words, mind you. More like, “Jot down some of these thoughts before they consume you, Lynn, and maybe you’ll be able to sleep” but I’ve always preferred the melodramatic to the mundane. There is something about language that allots for the histrionic and therefore it’s my duty to make the most of it. Anyway, Doctor Jack (he prefers me to call him by his first name, just Jack, like on Will and Grace, except not so flamboyantly gay and stuff. But I prefer to maintain some distance between us...what can I say? I’ve got a penchant annoying people…where was I? Right...on Doctor Jack. You see Jack is far too personal a term and gives off a friend type relationship, which is hardly the case. I don’t enjoy spending time with him and the only reason he pries so freely into my life is for the weekly fee of two hundred fifty dollars) was convinced that insomnia could be solved like an algebra problem. It didn’t register that I probably tried every home remedy known to man prior to discussing it with him. It didn’t process in that psychologically-inundated brain of his that when that didn’t work, I resorted to my mother’s well-stocked pharmacy/medicine cabinet and tried an assortment of drugs from Tylenol PM to Valium. No, none of this affected Doctor Jack in the slightest. He was positive that the cure to my woes was a journal. If x = a clichéd affliction that makes girl loathe life, family, and school, and y = place to pour out my heart, the answer is once malcontented teen turned Stepford cheerleader. So here I am. Same malcontented (who isn’t), maladjusted (blame the parents, it’s always the parents) girl with a bad case of malaise and insomnia. Why do my parents pay Doctor Quackers the money? I would willingly take it myself and promise not to make it so abundantly clear that life is shit. Nate, the best guy bud, says I’m a truism for every girl my age from a wealthy family. The lonely rich girl from the broken home that no one understands, wanting for nothing but love. I dunno. It sounds so ridiculous when he says it like that. As if I decided between my appointment at Toppers spa and shopping that what I was in need of was some good, old-fashioned, mental instability. Please. As if it was that easy. I had to work hard to get this cynical and depressed. I embraced entropy, fought the innate urge to please my parents with good grades and extracurriculars, and took to embracing the arts that moved me. It was not an easy feat. But again, here I am. I’m wasting my one free period in a brutal day by writing in this journal and hoping to make sense of a world that seems so vast and stupid and unforgiving, and I’m not sure where to start. I think there should be a class at St. Agatha’s on that—how to survive in this shithole we call a planet without wanting to slit your wrists. The Basics: 1) Lynn “Linnie” Marie Abbot. I’m usually referred to as that Abbot Girl, relation of {insert overachiever big sister’s name or well-known political mover & shaker father’s name or television newscaster mother’s name}. I was named after no one in particular, look like no one in particular, and rarely feel like talking to anyone in particular. 2) I reside in Philadelphia with my mother and step-father (an artist who doesn’t really do anything but stare at a blank canvas muttering to himself) in one of those historic houses that once a year tourists invade for fun. I spend the majority of my summers playing catch up with my father and his creepy family featuring Lissa, the always happy (lithium works wonders) stepmother, and the step-kids, dumb and dumber, in Manassas, Virginia. 3) I’m sixteen and a junior at Saint Agatha’s Prep School. Every teacher, counselor, parent, and random person on the street is quick to point out that this is the year. The most important year in my life EVER. Never will I need to be as smart and apt at taking culturally-biased tests as I am now. If I fail to rise to the occasion, I will have no life whatsoever after graduation and end up that guy selling flowers on the Schuylkill Expressway. 4) I’m not a complete misanthrope yet. I’ve got two best friends, Nate Haverly and Gwendolyn Mercer, with whom I enjoy movies, concerts, and the occasional St. Agatha’s Basketball game. This is only when we’re playing St. John’s, home of the hottest senior in any high school ever, a guy that puts Justin Timberlake and Prince William to shame, captain and center of the unstoppable St. John’s Bishops basketball team, Reggie Whitford. And when I find myself friendless in Virginia, I sometimes hang with the Wildebeest, Wally Watkins, in moments of sheer desperation. 5) Likes: feminine prose, angsty chick rock, punk, Orlando Bloom (Is there any question to his insatiable hotness?), independent movies, speaking French fluently, pretending to be an orphan, soap operas (though not likely to admit it), surfing the internet for celebrity gossip, writing, nerds, and thinking up new ways to torture my family. Dislikes: morons, dumbasseses, and stupid people of any variation, fame whores, Britney Spears, Steven Seagal movies, and guys who think they’re all that. That’s about all I can think of for now. I’m not sure exposing my soul is going to be as simple as Doctor Jack thinks. What if someone found this? Do I really want some random high school jock god to read my ramblings on the beauty that is Reggie Whitford? I think not. Besides, the bell’s about to ring. It’s off to a lecture on William Penn and his relations with the Indians. We’re doing papers and I’ve entitled mine: You give me land and I bring you smallpox. It has A written all over it. Hospitablely yours! Tah! Current mood: discontent.Current music: "Anthem" Good Charlotte. |
|||||||
|
|
|
|||||