Kuss kuss

Imagine a fish.
A big, stinking fish.
A goldfish, if you will.
Now get that fish and
blend it.
Alive, please, blend it alive.
Now get this
bloody
smelly
fish paste and toss some nails into it.
Blend that too, Snooper. Sure, it'll ruin
the blades but do it anyway.
Now toss in some hydrochloric acid and whiskey
and light the whole thing
on fire.

That was my Spring Break.
Troy called twelve and a half hours before
we were due to leave for our trip.
He called not to say that
he loves me
or to say that
he missed me
but to cancel our three-day camping trip in Haltom.

Why? I asked.
"Alyson needs help moving into her new apartment."
"What about James? Can't James do it? He's
her boyfriend.
He's supposed to do those sorts of things."
"They broke up. She asked me specifically to help."

Now I'm okay with him
helping Alyson (that skank)
and I'm okay with the fact that she's
single and on the prowl for a quick and easy
rebound romance
but I'm not okay with him
canceling our plans.

So what else was I supposed to do?
I had my bags packed already,
reservations made and paid for at the grounds
and they were
non-refundable.
What else was I supposed to do, Snooper?
I called Tom. He was going to be in town anyway.
We made it to the campgrounds (only three
hours later that expected)
and we took another three hours
setting up the tent.
Will I tell Troy I went camping anyway?
Maybe. He should feel terrible for missing it.
Will I tell him I went with Tom instead?
Not a chance in heaven.
Will I mention that we got tipsy on old Jack Daniels and kissed under
a moonless sky?
No (and it's not nearly as romantic as you would think when there are
tons of mosquitoes and grumpy, camping families
surrounding you.)

All in all, it was a very
awkward
fantastic
devious
itchy
Spring Break.

Moment of honesty, relinquished

Troy asked me what bugged me
most about him
so that he could tell me what bugged him
about me.
I said that I hate when he passes the phone around
when he's talking to me on the phone.
You know,
something shallow that doesn't
attack
a person's character.
In return, I got
"I hate that you're
so
negative about everything.
I mean, no matter what, you always
expect the worst."
And so I paused & reflected.

In hindsight, I should have said,
"I hate the way you blow me off whenever I have problems, as if ignoring them makes it all go away. And I hate that when I try to talk to you about things that are important, you just cut me off and tell me to stop stressing out. I hate it when you pull my hair and when you put everything else before me because you assume that I'll always be here waiting by the phone for you to call me back. I hate the way you treat me and I hate that I'm too afraid to tell you this because I know you'll get pissed and leave me for good."
I should have said it.
But I didn't.

Busy

So today at lunch I got a text from Tom.
'Coming 2 town for spring break.
Want to hang at Bears on Tues?'

Bears is what we call our local mall
and yes, I'd love to hang out with him
(in fact, right now, I'd kill to hang out with him.
imagine what i'd do to steal a hug from him)
but I
can't.
I have plans with Troy.

I message back with
'No thnx. plans already.'
'What about some other time next week?'
'Can't.'
'Why?'
'Busy'

I say I'm busy
but I'm practically screaming
COME AND SAVE ME FROM THE MONOTONY OF MY
STUPID
STUPID
STUPID
RELATIONSHIP WITH YOUR OLD BEST FRIEND
I KNOW I DON'T DESERVE THE TIME OF DAY FROM YOU
BUT IF YOU DON'T SAVE ME
NO
ONE
WILL.

But I don't.
I just say
'Busy'
and the world keeps turning.

Rememories.

So I was sitting here,
writing about
Upton Sinclair's novel
and I suddenly thought to myself:

Wow, I miss Tom.
And I try not to let it get to me
because I mean.
I do have the best boyfriend ever.
Right?

Right.

So why can't I stop remembering
all of the good
nay, great times
I had with Tom.

No.
No.
Nonono.
I will not think of him
or the way he used to kiss me or
the way he used to hold my hand or
-- NO.
Stop.
Walk away.
Write about The Jungle.
Ready. Set. Go.

Rachel Emily Drumm Dickinson

Because I could not stop for food
it kindly passed me by.
The kitchen was too far away
or far away was I.

I'm not too big on studying
but this competition is
important
so I guess that's what I've been doing.

Troy and I hit our three month anniversary yesterday
and I know that it may seem that
we've not been together long enough to be saying
THE L WORD
but
numbers mean nothing.

Daddy's Little Meteorologist

Last night, Troy fell asleep when we
were talking
on the phone, and I wasn't
upset because I knew it was going
to happen.
When I knew he was asleep, I kept
talking.
I told him everything I could think about
regarding
my father.

I told him about how he had a mustache
and how he died of non-Hodgkin's lymphoma
when I was eleven
and how he divorced our family
when I was seven
and how he collected antique radios
and how he had a mustache
and how we had decided I should be a meteorologist
when I was six.
I told him that Daddy's favorite singer was James Taylor
and I still cry every time I hear 'Fire and Rain.'

I told him about how
he made me Mickey Mouse waffles
every morning for breakfast by cutting one of them
in half and putting the halves on either side of the whole one.
And I told him about
how he would doodle sketch cartoons of my uncle
and how he would make gumbo for me
and how he built me my very own swing
and how he had a mustache.
And I told him about how he would yell at my mother
when they fought and how once I tried to get them
to just
stop
screaming (even though I knew they wouldn't).

I told him about how my father had a mustache.
I told him about the time my father
promised
to take me to the Grand Canyon.
"We'll all go, Rachel. You and me and Tori. We'll
all go see the big old hole in the ground."
And I told him that my father died right before I turned
twelve and I still hadn't seen the Grand Canyon then
and I just
don't know
if I ever will.

I told him about the time when I was in kindergarten
and we had to bring our dads to school so they
could listen to us read
our learner books in front of the class. I was the best
reader in my class but I stumbled over almost
every word because I was afraid that if I looked away from him,
he would disappear. I told Troy about how proud Daddy was
of me, no matter how nervous I might have been.

I told Troy that my father would have loved him
and would have loved how happy he makes me.
I told him that my father had a mustache
and that I missed him so badly that sometimes
I thought I was going to die.

When the snoring got too loud, I hung up
and called him back.
He hadn't heard a word.
And I'm really glad he hadn't.
Because sobbing just isn't cute.

Literary Voyeur Club (now with MAGIC!)

I don't know why
but I really love
snooping in other people's journals.
I suppose you do, too
so let's start
some sort of club for us
literary
voyeurs.

He
still
loves me.
And He
still
wants me.
And no, I'm not being conceited.
I just know.

In other half-way related news,
I think I might be
magical
because sometimes I just make things
happen.
Like two days ago, I wanted it
to rain
so badly it hurt.
I checked the 10-day weather forecast, and it was
SUNNY, CLEAR, LIGHT WIND, NO CHANCE OF RAIN.
Needless to say, I was
very disappointed.
But today,
after pining terribly for at least a drizzle,
it
poured.
No lie. I amaze myself sometimes.
I remember this one time when
we got this new cat.
And I hated it
so
much.
I looked at it, straight in its ugly
cat eyes and said,
"Nina, you stupid cat, I hope you die."
It got hit by a car the next day.

I just kinda get what I want.
Creepy, eh, Snooper?

It's kind of like ebola.

Snooper, imagine this.
You have some sort of
incurable disease.
The only way to treat the symptoms
(you know, to make you feel better)
is to take this medicine that,
essentially,
makes this incurable disease even worse.
I have this incurable disease
and it's called
'being in love'
(god forgive me for this all being so cliche)
Either way.
I have this 'being in love' disease
and I've tried for the past
year
to make it go away, and I have decided
that it is rather
uncurable.
The only way to ease
the burning of my heart
(heart burn?)
is to (take tums?) surround myself
with
Troy.
He always makes things better
(most of the time)
and he's always there for me
(most of the time)
and I always love him
(all of the time).

But I know that if I did not
love him so
freaking
much
that I would
absolutely
hate
his
guts.

When he's not making me feel better,
he's making me feel worse,
and when he's not being there for me,
he's probably being there for someone else.
I'm cool with that though; a man has his priorities.
I just wish sometimes
that distance
didn't make a
difference
as to how much attention
I'm allowed.

He lives an hour and a half away from me.
Rather, I live an hour and a half away from him.
And it's hard.
But we both know it's worth it.
Eventually, we won't live so
far away
and maybe then, his second-nature
'out of sight, out of mind'
mentality will
vanish.

Barbie-pink

Today I
o1. fixed my television
o2. painted my nails Barbie-pink
o3. showered twice
o4. watched Scrubs
o5. helped with laundry
o6. yelled at Tori (my sister, who was
a hand-delivered present from Satan
himself)
o7. Did Tori's chores
and
o8. ate some ice.

Sundays are lame.
But not as lame as
not having any orange juice.

I told Patricia (the lady in charge around these parts,
aka Mom)
that we're out of juice. She replied with

"unnnghuhgn ugnnn ngngun."

Which I think translates from Sickness to English as:

"As soon as I'm done being too sick to live, I shall
rush to the store and buy some more orange juice, seeing
as how your life very well may depend on having this
sinfully delicious drink, my beautiful daughter."

Or maybe it means:

"Drink some milk instead."

Of course, she couldn't have said that
because as everyone knows, Snooper,
I'm
lactose intolerant.

I bet she said:

"Leave me alone. I'm trying to rest, and I swear if
you bug me one more time about that stupid juice,
I will make sure you never so much as look at juice
ever again. Do you understand?"

In hindsight, I probably
shouldn't have yelled, "Thanks Patricia! You're the greatest!"

One (Two, Three, Four)

I didn't go to sleep until
one in the morning, Snooper.
And I woke up
three hours later.
I haven't eaten anything solid in almost
seventy-two hours
because that's what I gave up for Lent.
Hundreds of kids ask me why (cause I'm not even Catholic)
It's a willpower thing. A test of my own faith in me.
Three people have confessed
that they're in love with me in the past
two months.
So life has obviously blown for me lately.
I'm no good with numbers. I made a
thirty-two in algebra
2 last year (thank god I don't have to take pre-cal).
They say bad things happen
three at a time. My boyfriend's friend moved
four hours away last week. Last night, a really good friend of my boyfriend
got in a car wreck.
One girl died.
Two other girls are in ICU (including his really good friend).
One guy is in police custody (I think) for vehicular manslaughter.
I'm no good with numbers.
But Snooper, I hope the third thing doesn't make me
one of one instead of
one of two.

Pretty much

So I have this boyfriend, right?
And he's pretty much
perfect
(for the most part).
And I pretty much
love him
(and I have for a long time).
And I pretty much
hate the fact that he happens to be
best frigging friends
with my
psychotic
ex-boyfriend
who happens to be very good friends with
my old best friend, who ruined our friendship
by telling me that
he didn't think of me as a little sister anymore
(In fact, he never had, according to him. He always knew,
just didn't want to say anything because he feared that
I would be creeped out.
Dingding, we have a winner).

My ex-boyfriend (Tom) is in love with me.
My old best friend (Ethan) is in love with me.
My boyfriend (Troy) is in love with me.
And this is definitely
quite the dilemma, seeing as how
I am only in love with my boyfriend (I hope).

Love is a strong word
and I am a weak girl
but I think know it's
pretty much worth the fight.

This is my diary.

My name is Rachel Drumm.
This is my diary (or at least, the closest I'm ever getting to one).
I guess it's not a
very secret one
because hello,
you're snooping right now. No one likes a snooper.
But whatever, Snooper, I guess you're okay for now.
I think you will be rather bored because
frankly,
I'm a
rather
boring
person.

I'm seventeen years old, I don't have my driver's license, I hate my teeth and I always carry Germ-X with me.
I can keep secrets really well,
but if a lot of people know, it's not a secret,
and I will tell everyone I see.
(You have been warned.)