This journal is no longer Natasha's.
So please take me off your friends list, if you haven't already. I'm Aimee, yes, the annoying younger sister, and Natasha decided to use one of her bazillions of other LJs because she ran out of codes and I desperately wanted to be part of this online revolution (not really, mainly because mom has become a snoop and has started doing things like raiding my room, looking for things like pot and questioning, "are you high?" at random intervals).
It is three days until Valentine's Day and I'd like to announce to the world at large that it is not important to have a boyfriend on this Hallmarked holiday. In fact, in protest, I broke up with Mark Weathers who wasn't all that important to me anyway. He was a poor choice. I only dated him because Tassie started dating that exchange student nobody can understand. I don't think she can, either. They spend the majority of their "dates" sitting on the school steps, staring at each other, probably wishing somebody knew a translator.
I want to be in Great Relationship one day. I imagine it'll be all sex and fights and 3am wakeup calls and condom wrappers on the sheets.
The boys around here aren't anything like that. They're just that. Boys. Yesterday I watched this acne-scarred boy, Jimmy, pick on this beautiful girl, Gretel. Of course it was his misinformed way of telling her that he liked her, with suave moves such as bra-snapping and staple-shooting, so she got the wrong idea.
In protest of Valentine's Day, I'm planning to wear all black. Tassie wants us to carry signs and go around quoting divorce statistics, but I doubt that'll be effective. It'll probably be about as effective as the time she tried to get us to protest the destruction of the Winn-Dixie just down the road, because SaveRite was buying them out. It was just the two of us marching up and down in these terribly bright tye-dyed shirts she'd made us, saying things like, "Down with Corporate America!" and trying to keep a straight face. I thoroughly enjoyed myself, even though the only effective thing that resulted was a policeman telling us to take our colorful selves home.
I wish my mom would stop trying to absorb who I am from my private belongings. I am not a pack of tissues, a crumpled up essay on Dante's Inferno, or a dark blue gym sock.
It is three days until Valentine's Day and I'd like to announce to the world at large that it is not important to have a boyfriend on this Hallmarked holiday. In fact, in protest, I broke up with Mark Weathers who wasn't all that important to me anyway. He was a poor choice. I only dated him because Tassie started dating that exchange student nobody can understand. I don't think she can, either. They spend the majority of their "dates" sitting on the school steps, staring at each other, probably wishing somebody knew a translator.
I want to be in Great Relationship one day. I imagine it'll be all sex and fights and 3am wakeup calls and condom wrappers on the sheets.
The boys around here aren't anything like that. They're just that. Boys. Yesterday I watched this acne-scarred boy, Jimmy, pick on this beautiful girl, Gretel. Of course it was his misinformed way of telling her that he liked her, with suave moves such as bra-snapping and staple-shooting, so she got the wrong idea.
In protest of Valentine's Day, I'm planning to wear all black. Tassie wants us to carry signs and go around quoting divorce statistics, but I doubt that'll be effective. It'll probably be about as effective as the time she tried to get us to protest the destruction of the Winn-Dixie just down the road, because SaveRite was buying them out. It was just the two of us marching up and down in these terribly bright tye-dyed shirts she'd made us, saying things like, "Down with Corporate America!" and trying to keep a straight face. I thoroughly enjoyed myself, even though the only effective thing that resulted was a policeman telling us to take our colorful selves home.
I wish my mom would stop trying to absorb who I am from my private belongings. I am not a pack of tissues, a crumpled up essay on Dante's Inferno, or a dark blue gym sock.