All the right friends -(R.E.M, not a statement)

I keep planning these long ponderous posts in my head walking home but I just well can’t seem to be bothered to blog. Pfftttt… And now I am very hungry and still don’t have a dress for prom and have to go later. Again. To look at clothes that make me feel like a balloon. Gah.

I am increasingly communicating via a series of sounds. It’s kind of insane actually. I have like my own language that no one else understands. But well my darlings if everyone just listened… life would be far easier.

And _ introduced us to the joys of Will and Grace!!! Swoon. But it’s not true I say. I know gay men and they are nothing like that. How unfair to force people into having these romanticized notions of what it is to befriend gay men. Ah television is crap for stuff like that: like Friends does about living alone in New York; like the Practice and Boston Legal and what not do about law. Geez.

I suppose I should blog about school and memory lane and all that jazz. I in my Dory (Finding Nemo, not a general character trait of the fish in question) ways will forget everything soon enough but well; I really don’t know what to say. Which you might have guessed by now is uncommon for me. School was good and fun and strange and painful an a bazillion other emotions and I wish I still painted because this would just be so much easier to communicate. It was watching people play football with a cockroach, staying back until one in the morning and just collapsing on the lino unable to move, _’s dad and my mum coming to help us carry the stuff up as we literally had lost all our strength, it was one billion void deck conversations, watching people dance in the damn rain, screaming at _ for doing it to prevent pneumonia. And thus it was _ sitting in the void deck with only her sweater on because her blouse was soaked through. It was countless lectures, most of which we slept or played games through, like _ and _ and their paper chess games all through econs, and _’s dumb word games where whoever completes the word loses. It was walking around school barefoot and racing across the tarmac just for the heck of it. It was the hub and the studio and the NLs and everywhere else prominent in our lives there. It was Mr. _ calling me immoral for my low shorts and forcing me to give Karen a massage! (He later learnt to like me a lot! Beam). It was crying all through my promos and sitting there screaming back at _ and _ who were trying to force me to do work. It was watching as _ directed an entire room of scared teenagers when _ punched in the glass window and _ walking in to find them there, and making her first priority _’s cake. It was getting pyjamas from the _ on honours night and then almost getting thrown out of the event. It was discovering that boys equate free pizza with sex. It was being called snuffles and numerous other things as people mocked my dancing, and my glee at their shock when I could split (can split, I think). It was going for the hissoc seminar thing and spending ninety percent of the time in the void deck gossiping. It was sitting behind the bus stop across the road as they had their little BL (boston legal, don’t ask me why) fests, and getting the smoke in my hair. It was going to school and sitting in the damn void deck on Saturdays, even public holidays. You know, these past two years, I have been in school on every public holiday that occurs during the term period except for Labour Day (2005). It was losing the logbook and having _ find it and give it _ and that immense relief after I spent half of math lecture running around and thus promising to love him forever. It was playing DOTA that first time, that only time, that was awful and miserable and exciting all at the same time. It was smashing my phone (by accident) an d throwing it at irritants (not by accidents). It was decorating the giant lobby Christmas tree in j1. It was climbing over the back gate and getting caught by Mr. _. “ Do you want me to tell…” Bugger. It was braking the air conditioner to stay n the …

And I just realised that I wrote one page. And that every sentence started with “it was”. And there is this overwhelming feeling of sentimentality and nostalgia. But at the same time, of extreme bathos. Like it’s over, and we’ll move on, and it’s the things that never get said, that never get remembered that matter most. That it was the experience of being that I am nostalgic for which is strange given the number of poignant, disappointing. Frustrating moments that I wrote about, but candidly so that they suddenly becoming endearing, and suddenly the memory seems farcical almost, and incongruous with the truth, and yet I barely remember what I have just written. I’ll publish it anyway, but I apologise if it offends or upsets. Sometimes it’s just that we have snap shot moments in our minds that make us remember experiences in a way that only photographs can. And we long to cry over what s passed. But it seems so dumb, sentimental and well just silly. I suppose at the end of it all, it was an experience, and I can’t really say that I remember because with time my perspective’s changed and I am looking back with those rose tinted glass and blurry eyes of tears, but I can’t say that I regret and I guess, well I am grateful, to all those who were part of my experience. To those who are mentioned here, and to those who are not. To everyone who was even vaguely important to my existence, even if it was only for a split second.

And now, I realise that I have become completely incoherent. And my sentence structures have broken down ( like Othello!). So I will end here. And go back and blank out all the names to protect the memories and the memored. Memored? Remembered.