103.
Saturday, I went to Val's house for her 16th birthday party. Mike was the only person I really talked to. About twenty of us were piled into her basement that was somewhat out of the typical 70's. Peace signs and glow sticks were everywhere, along with cigarette smoke rolling out like factory smoke from everyone's mouths. Three people were on e, and pretty much everyone else was a combination of high or drunk. People would periodically leave to walk behind the train tracks and smoke down or something.
"Are you having a good time?" says the girl on e.
"I can see you are."
I knew Anna (Benavidas) was going to the party. I've always had this envy of her, with all the good attention she's gotten for her clothes and whatnot. She seemed purely interesting. I tried to wear something to impress her, to make me feel as if I were better than her.
I'm always doing that, trying to speak with clothing and make up. What an idiot, right? As far as first impressions go, I need to just focus on not saying anything as stupid.
I felt like a wallflower at the party though, plastered away in a corner and talking only to Mike. Not that that was a bad thing at all. Just a few years ago, I would've been dancing in the center of the room with everyone else. I thought that's what you had to do to have fun. I was wrong. I don't want to act out because I feel insecure, it's because I'm really growing up. There just isn't any fun in that anymore. When I'm acting silly, that's the time where I feel most uncomfortable.
For some reason, it took me so long to grasp this. I was put into confusion and irrataion. It was as if someone drew a line and said, "The party represents your childhood. If you do not choose to act out and be involved, then you have started to finally just...grow." I couldn't decide at first, probably because I just wasn't sure of the problem. I went outside with Mike, away from the smoke. I think I had some type of panic attack, I'm not sure. I get them occasionally, just not so bad. But when he held on to me, I just felt myself depart to some other place and my mind cleared away. To look at someone like him and know that he is yours, and you are his, is almost so improbable that it can really blow your mind. I wish I could give more of a soul to this simple words, but to me, nothing else matters but him.
I'm sitting there on this black inflatable couch clutching my purse, my possesion that I think represents who I am, and I just look around. The atmosphere isn't right for me. Somehow though, whenever I look over to Mike, I don't even feel as if I'm existing. I see him, his eyes, and I just can't turn away. He is unbelievable. Sometimes I scare myself, because I know that if he vanished, dissapeared, so would I. I would be so lost within myself that I'd never be pieced together.
I have to confess, as idiotically as this is also, that for two days I went back on promises and went on a "diet". These pro-anorexia communities, and models everywhere, it just really poisons me. I ate less than 500 calories a day, and then worked out so 360 of it was gone. I hurt, and maybe I just needed to be reminded of the pain of hunger, but I'm over it. There is no more need of mutilation. Finally.
"I just felt like I had let myself go for awhile," I said to Mike.
"You haven't. Maybe to you, but not to me."
No matter how I look, I will be the same beautiful person in his eyes. That is such a wonderful feeling. He said this at some christian concert I ended up going to with mom. The band did spoof of popular songs with christian lyrics, such as, "Every crown has it's thorns" as opposed to rose, and "I love apostle paul, put another line in the good book baby" to the song of I love Rock and Roll. The singing then went into this long monologue about how bad atheists are, and how you never seem them doing anything good.
"Do they donate to charities? No. You don't hear much good about them. But do you ever hear anything bad about God? Jesus?"
He forgot to mention the gay, child molesting priests out there. And that Jesus murdered someone when he was younger. Thank you, History channel.
I am just not one made for religion.
Or, apparently, writing in a journal. I used to use it as a crutch. Recently, I just hadn't the time to go into such depth as I have now. I don't need it, obviously. Keeping journals is also something I connect with childhood. Which is why, I'm stopping. I'm sure it's for the best, and no one has encouraged me to do so. I'll still read what other people have to say, but I think I will turn to a private piece of paper if I really need to release something. There, I've said it all now.
It's been grand.