Tuesday, 09/07/04 - 9:16 pm.
My day started at 7:30 am, but I'll tell what I saw at 2:47 pm: a little dog, very Frog-like (Frog, as in my dog), was running down the street, being followed by a car. Or so it seemed. Then the dog turned around and it almost got run over by the car. I was in my dad's car, leaving, so I couldn't do what I wanted to do: pick up the dog and take it home, because he seemed to be lost.
A few miles later, I saw a squirrel, glued to the pavement, completely flat. It made me sick, and it made me remember a picture in the newspaper: a squirrel got stuck in a razor wire...a few pages ahead, there was the article of a huge departament store, that was being built right where a huge forest was destroyed. Argh, or something.
I guess I can skip the rest of the day, except for the part that Joseph upset me a little, and that made me get all moody, and he even had to beg me to tell him what was wrong. He knew what was wrong, but to be honest, I was the first to be impressed by my reaction. I blame it on my recent emotional rollercoaster, of this past weekend. I wasn't mad at Joseph, really. He was just being playful, it's me who can't stand those types of games. Sometimes.
He said he'd leave early today, but I harbored the hope of seeing him after class. I walked out of class and he wasn't there...for a while. He came out of nowhere, and I couldn't stop my face from grinning. I gave him a violent hug, and I realized how in love with him I am. I thanked him for waiting for me and he asked me to marry him (I said yes, but I pushed him and told him to go away because I was late and my dad was waiting for me). I came home and I still had the rush, I thought I was going to faint.
I think I was too high to grasp the real meaning of what my dad was telling me on the way back home. I can't even remember what he told me, but it went like this: I talked to my friend, the writer, and he sent you a letter. He was very pleased with your short stories. I think it's the perfect time to begin and......blah, blah, blah.
Ok, the thing is that I wrote a few stories. Angel was the first to encourage me. Then came Cel. So I showed them to my dad. My dad showed them to a friend of his who's a professional writer, that's won awards and all. The professional writer loved them and encouraged me to publish them, and sent me a letter, thanking him for giving him the opportunity to read them.
So over supper (MY supper, when I came home at 8:30) my dad read the letter that mister sent me. That I've reminded him what literature is for, that hats off to me, that he laughed very hard, that he enjoyed them, that it's great to find people my age with social awareness, that I might even get banned (which I consider a compliment) by the "very stupid Inteligence Central of the country" (a term I use in one of my stories). That's right, cynical amusement is how he described them as. Be jealous of me.
After supper (MY supper) the mister called and told my dad to think about entering contests. If I won, I wouldn't be the best, and if I lost, I wouldn't be the worst. It sounded as though they were trying to decide what to do with me, and I just wanted to have the scrambled eggs my mom had made for me (she's so nice she sits at the table to keep me company, even if she's got nothing to do). Actually, I couldn't really care less. I'm not ungrateful or anything, I do appreciate it. It's just that I'd written those stories out of boredom and not to enter contests and win. It's not big deal, in the end.
The mister said that if I won, with the money of the prize I could afford having my book published in my own means. Yay! But if I won, I'd like to go see Aerosmith, you know? Or Paul McCartney. Thanks, anyway.
My dad shares the idea with me, that it's better to publish it right away than to go from contest to contest. I don't think those contests are democratic, and I don't like contests anyway. I know I'd lose, and that's fine by me. It's just that I can't be bothered with it, it's too much of a hassle, and I'm a lazy person.
For now, we've agreed on...nothing, really. My dad's watching a movie and I have a neck ache. But my dad insists the letter of the mister would make for a wonderful prologue. I wouldn't know...I still say his letter is much more beautiful than my short stories.
I keep saving my older entries. Today I saved may of 2002, when D. wasn't in the picture yet. I think that was my happiest, funniest month of all senior high. I was widely smiling when I read those 31 entries...even if I was lonely, I was always entertained by my classmates (and getting over The Guy completely). Next comes june (duh), and that's when D. comes in, that's when everything remotely decent went downhill. I didn't know then, but that year was shaping up to be the best one ever if things had kept going as they were in may. Seriously, though, it wasn't so bad. Even with D, or rather in spite of D, it was a great year. And may was wonderful.
And now I will get going because I'm still high on Joseph, and I'm kind of moved by the reaction to my short tales, and I'm FINALLY talking to Cel (after many, many months) and...oh, it's raining. Byegood.
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