Just say, 'hello, my name is Aaron' and then put your head on her butt.
February 6, 2006. 5:34 pm. An audible tension came over the room. We were the cast of Cats - all of us slaves to a wee piece of green paper hanging harmlessly on the bulletin board outside. There it would remain, undisturbed and stupid of its power, for about another twelve seconds.
And then all hell broke loose.
There was a veritable stampede of spandex and rubber-soled jazz shoes as the sixty or so high school hyenas bee-lined for the cast list. The weak were trampled underfoot or eaten alive by the voracious masses. I played myself deliberately cool and hung around the studio, locked behind my badly sustained veil of apathy until the dust cloud lifted and dancers began peeling away in small groups (on a side note, why teenagers ‘clump’ to begin with is a magnetic marvel that modern science has yet to comprehend).
There it was, glowing bright as…
Who the hell am I kidding? No glowing was involved. Just my name, strung out behind the words “Rum Tum Tigress”. No glowing was necessary, that clump of nonsensical words alone sent me off on a wave of euphoria that hasn’t been matched since Keith left. I literally danced my way home - from the school to downtown I busted out in random choreography. On the bus I moved to music no one else could hear, and once more I climbed the hill to home with series of shases, jetes, pirhouettes and jumps. I haven’t been this happy in a long time - but by Nero, I deserve it! I’ve suffered enough with this stagnant blood and these contented muscles. Now the blood is rushing, the muscles are screaming and my legs are so battered I look like I’ve been beaten (to coin one of my new favourite phrases) like a red-headed stepchild. My classes are a little slice of phantasmagoria as well, particularly biology 30 (or as I have come to know it, the golden challis at the end of bio 20). That class rocks my figurative socks.
Everything has fallen nicely into place. Peachy wonderful super happy fun time. And…less than peachy wonderful super happy fun time. I am the worst of social vampires, as my memoirs should support. So, my stunning victory over life is somewhat dimmed by the fact that I stand victoriously alone. If it wasn’t for biology, I might not be so conscious of this. When I dance, I’m moving and every other fact is too damn stationary to matter. In social I’m debating with the mostly intimately stimulating group of (for group of read: few) people, and I’m too occupied picking over my own beliefs to dedicate much energy to memory stimulus. But then there’s bio, and in biology I’ve nowhere to hide. It’s hard to ignore screaming hormones and longing neurotransmitters when you’re studying them. I want him to be here, I want to see him get all bothered and excited and dive into his Big Book of Biology, burying his nose in major arteries and cholinesterase. Don’t think he knows it, but that little act deepened my endearment to something deeper. Between that, the kids and the church, it was game, set and match.
So I’ve decided to go back on an old limb with this journal and write what I want to say - sans editing. I’m slowly coming into the realization that it’s less than atrocious to admit to my weaknesses. Missing him doesn’t make me a hopelessly attached tool of a woman.
…right?
And then all hell broke loose.
There was a veritable stampede of spandex and rubber-soled jazz shoes as the sixty or so high school hyenas bee-lined for the cast list. The weak were trampled underfoot or eaten alive by the voracious masses. I played myself deliberately cool and hung around the studio, locked behind my badly sustained veil of apathy until the dust cloud lifted and dancers began peeling away in small groups (on a side note, why teenagers ‘clump’ to begin with is a magnetic marvel that modern science has yet to comprehend).
There it was, glowing bright as…
Who the hell am I kidding? No glowing was involved. Just my name, strung out behind the words “Rum Tum Tigress”. No glowing was necessary, that clump of nonsensical words alone sent me off on a wave of euphoria that hasn’t been matched since Keith left. I literally danced my way home - from the school to downtown I busted out in random choreography. On the bus I moved to music no one else could hear, and once more I climbed the hill to home with series of shases, jetes, pirhouettes and jumps. I haven’t been this happy in a long time - but by Nero, I deserve it! I’ve suffered enough with this stagnant blood and these contented muscles. Now the blood is rushing, the muscles are screaming and my legs are so battered I look like I’ve been beaten (to coin one of my new favourite phrases) like a red-headed stepchild. My classes are a little slice of phantasmagoria as well, particularly biology 30 (or as I have come to know it, the golden challis at the end of bio 20). That class rocks my figurative socks.
Everything has fallen nicely into place. Peachy wonderful super happy fun time. And…less than peachy wonderful super happy fun time. I am the worst of social vampires, as my memoirs should support. So, my stunning victory over life is somewhat dimmed by the fact that I stand victoriously alone. If it wasn’t for biology, I might not be so conscious of this. When I dance, I’m moving and every other fact is too damn stationary to matter. In social I’m debating with the mostly intimately stimulating group of (for group of read: few) people, and I’m too occupied picking over my own beliefs to dedicate much energy to memory stimulus. But then there’s bio, and in biology I’ve nowhere to hide. It’s hard to ignore screaming hormones and longing neurotransmitters when you’re studying them. I want him to be here, I want to see him get all bothered and excited and dive into his Big Book of Biology, burying his nose in major arteries and cholinesterase. Don’t think he knows it, but that little act deepened my endearment to something deeper. Between that, the kids and the church, it was game, set and match.
So I’ve decided to go back on an old limb with this journal and write what I want to say - sans editing. I’m slowly coming into the realization that it’s less than atrocious to admit to my weaknesses. Missing him doesn’t make me a hopelessly attached tool of a woman.
…right?