With a good criminal heart,

Ack. I just called Len and told him about what kinda cold I've got and what my temperature is, and he said what I DIDN'T want him to say, which is that I ought to stay home. He gets SO mad at me when I come in to work sick--- "Just you wait a week, and Angie'll get your cooties! Or Anna!"-- (he's usually right). Only. . . I wanted to go in today. I don't wanna be here. If I'm here tonight, it means tomorrow I might have to stay home all fucking day because my dad is nuts about illness.

akdjfhg *grumble*. It's just a fucking cold. I've got a might of a fever and some chills and a cough, that's it. You know?

Urgh. It's a pharmacy. Of course I should stay home. I'm an idiot. He doesn't need me coughing on people all day and sounding all stuffed up and looking like a fucking zombie while I hand a customer a package of Ny-Quil from across the counter.

BALLS.

Things I am Bad At:
-comforting people
-recognising what the problem is
-drawing
-singing
-making good decisions
-self-control in the context of emotion+action
-being patient with people who grind my nerves
-speaking foreign languages
-sewing
-combing my hair
-knowing when to stop doing something/knowing what's good for me
-giving advice
-peeling fruit
-lying
-running more than a few yards
-sending letters
-explaining myself



Things I am Good at:
-explaining why I hate John Keats and Virginia Woolf
-getting out of questionably legal situations
-reading books
-writing
-making smoothies
-being patient with people I love
-making stencils
-acting like a tool
-listening
-being as sincere as I know how
-forgiving
-chewing on my nails
-making a gin and tonic
-using words
-getting shit done
-keeping my promises
-being removed

FUCK YOU MOM YOU GOT ME SICK.

I hope I don't lose my voice at a time I really need it for something. Sheeiitt.ttt.

God, and sickness fucking FLIES around my circle of friends because we share fucking everything, all the time. God damn it. God damn it.

My mom told me today that I have not had more than stomach-sickness, cramp-related, or headache-related sicknesses since last school year ended. Besides the carpal-tunnel diagnosis, anyway. Like, no colds or flu or anything. I guess my immune system is better than I am convinced it is.

The only way that I can think to describe myself tonight is "soft". Not as in incapable or, dare I say it, weak; more like soft-boiled. Like things are easier for me tonight, as though more rolls off, like I am far less tightly wound. Like things are just. . . are just lighter. I am not sure why. Something about not really giving a damn about everything, I am sure.

I have been so tightly wound for a long time.

I would really like a permanent, sharp, violent release of that feeling. A few steps away from coiled feels nice as hell, but it's not everything. It's only temporary.

Violent, violent, I still feel violent. Please stop, violence. Your concept is tired to me.

Not me, not me, not me, not me.
Not me, not me, not me, not me. . .

Listening to what I am listening to reminds me that I have not always been so weak and willing to compromise myself.

TOday had its ups and downs. I memorized some shit for CW all hard, and. . . did the Borderlands thing, which is not complete, but we NAILED the fucking costumes and now have some idea what we're doing (and finishing it on Sunday). Damon doesn't have the highest hopes, but regardless, I think we can nail it and it will come out ten different kids of awesome. It's incredibly well-written, too, which helps--- if only I could fuckin' act. I think it will be a good thing. We were all in good spirits, kind of, which also helped. I was frightened of the dynamic because I am frightened of everything, but it was fine.
I, personally, love the way it's written which means I will likely love the way it's done.

I have work tomorrow.

Stopped in at Josh's 22n'd birthday party for about an hour. It was radhats.

Damon and Miguel met my parents all official-like, and my dad was incredibly impressed and called them "nice gentleman" (lol). I actually didn't even know he was going to be home, but at least I no longer have to tip-toe around that certain, ambiguous, "Whooo. . . what?" dynamic that surrounds any time I want to go see somebody they haven't met.
"No, of course you can't. I have no idea who they are."
Reasonable for a parent to say, yes?
I feel terrible putting people I know and love into a slightly uncomfortable, pressurized situation but. . . fuck it. My dad loves them, and my mother loves everybody (because she is an angel).

--
So, before, after this, I'd written this crazy-stumbling, extra-long. . . thing. And I went and took a shower, re-thought, and I realized some stuff. Most of it comes down to resolving daddy issues. Fuck yeah.

So I realized that I put a special kind of importance on this dynamic between my father, Miguel, and Damon, right? Of course I did. And I realized that it was important because it was the deciding factor on whether or not I would be able to see these people who are so very close to me casually, and with support and permission.

There are two things that bother me about this.
One is the circumstantial nature of my father. The way I approached this meeting, the situation, the art involved, the time spent between seeds planted with my father and actions taken is something ridiculous-- not because of its existence, necessarily, but because it is different EVERY TIME. Every time I want to bring a new figure into my life that I have not known either for years or through Clay. It takes months for me to execute it correctly.

I do not mind Dad's expectations with my company-- that part is fine. I mind how volatile it is, how it changes every time, and how. fucking. long. it takes. Or at least, took, here-- especially, here, because damage was done. If the situation had been in one that did not involve an artistic medium, it would have failed. If I had not planted seeds and explained myself in certain ways over the past month, it would have failed. If anything about the situation had been false or unclear or ambiguous in any way in my proposal of it to him, it would have failed. If I had gone to him straight at any time previously to ask to see either one-- Miguel or Damon-- casually, he would have been a wary, nervous, and assuming, and would have shut down. THIS is what bothers me. THIS is the circumstantial part that fucking bothers me. new people do not come into my life very often--- all of my friends, I have known for years. It took over a month of name-dropping and a specific, artistic, clear situation for it to work at all. That. . . that's. . . what? He was so completely non-skeptical because of THESE THINGS and only THESE THINGS.

It bothers me that any time I want to build a relationship with somebody, I cannot be direct about it. Any friendship must has to be pussy-footed around in their own specific and different ways for them to be acceptable. I am patient; that's fine. But when the length of time and my behaviour surrounding it damages the friendship, it's terrible. You know?

It bothers the HELL out of me that next time I want to explore any sort of relationship with somebody unrelated to those ways I previously mentioned, I am going to have to go through A WHOLE NEW SET OF FUCKING MOTIONS in order to even APPROACH Dad on it, in order for him to open his fucking hears without setting off a thousand fucking alarms.

I wish I was not so scared, but there it is.

I'm glad the weight is off, that pressure-- I feel better. A door has opened that I've been building and nailing and repairing and avoiding.

God, I feel young. I hate remembering how young I am. I feel so fucking capable sometimes.

Clay just called me a jew. Or was it "jue" as in HAY JUE. . ?

Sweet. Bedtime.

Dear Miguel,
THANK YOU FOR EVERYTHING!
(Coffee, drivin'z, meeting my father once more, compassion.)
"Don't make yourself scarce."

Dear Damon,
Good God was it ever nice to see you.
I'm sorry.
Thank you.

Either of you-- sometimes I think that I do not make it clear how much I appreciate you for who you are and also what each of you does. They are worlds different, between you, sometimes-- but I appreciate the hell out of both of you. I do.

Clay is giggly, wild, spacey, and friendly tonight.



xD

He can tell the young kids
because he has been behind the counter
for thirty years.
He knows the look.
They are always softer,
they look around, there are false
and arrogant convictions in
their voices---
“Hi. CanIjustgetapack. . .”
and then they name their brand
and he does not ask them
for identification--- he can always
spot the undercover cops (still kids
themselves, it seems,
half the time).
But it’s the young kids,
their scared eyes and
brick fingers and
rushed hands and loud voices.
It’s the young kids,
and their veal lungs
that make him sad some mornings---
But he has spent thirty years
behind that counter
and is still the man
with the toothless
and genuine smile.

---

There's something hackneyed about it, but I like it, in a way. Maybe because it's that incorporation of CHARACTER I have been looking for lately, instead of whatever skewed emotions come out all over my notebook.

I am going to throw a brick through somebody's face.

Dear daddy issues,
Please to not escalate into something that dissolves any chance of me redeeming myself in more important areas of my life. Please GTFO.
Thanks,
Leah.

P.S. I know I've gotten grounded for things like spoons in my room before, but please don't let this sort of thing be one of those times. For God's sake.
--
(What's comforting is that Clay still has to deal with this sort of shit, too. /sarcasm.)

Being reminded that half of the reason I value something is because I romanticise it is something that makes me feel crazy as hell. Scattered and like I'm missing a bookend.

Fucking. . . fucking Neal Cassady. How it feels to lose respect for a poet and character that you once valued very much for specific and false reasons is something I do not want to feel again.

I felt that with Stza, too, after I saw LOC that one summer.

It's. . . defeating. What a theme.

This morning, I was talking with Nick again, and he understood the whole. . . thing. All of these concepts about why there is so much tragedy in how people treat one another, and in romance, too, especially at our age-- because we are so, so young, and both he and I have loved enough to know that we can feel a lot without necessarily being able to be natural or intellectual in our approach to other people all of the time. It was a good conversation, this morning, and I noticed that he had as many tears kind of. . . shining in his eyes as I did in mine, just talking conceptually. It was a kind of passion that I needed-- one that was not destructive or shallow like my weekend was, even if it was a little sad.

It's funny, because he and I even spoke about genuinity, sincerity, honesty, understanding, and vulnerability, and how very fucking IMPORTANT those things are between people. It's funny, because I know how important it is and I know how much I value it, but I do not always receive it in the best way from all angles, although I am incredibly grateful for it, towards it.
(Thank you.)

There is an amount of broken-ness and defeat in today, but at least there is no unproductivity-- at least there is not that.

Sometimes I think that insecurities completely dwarf my core values. That's not. . . that's not fucking okay, you know? I shouldn't put myself into positions where I feel weak or intimidated. Maybe it's necessary or. . . or maybe it just comes WITH. But it shouldn't. It absolutely should not.

Danielle was talking to me once, in reference to Micah-- "I think he's attracted to strong women, and then intimidated by them."
I'd looked at her, and I'd gone, "Me? No. I'm not strong." right? Because I don't ever fucking feel strong.
And this girl looked at me and went, "Bullshit."
And that look in her eyes, one of. . . not blind faith, not even really faith at all-- just. . . just belief in. Something. That's not accurate, either, but whatever it was, I should remember that look in her eyes because I would like to feel that way more often.

I really, really, miss passion, and feel its loss in my life very much. I would like to light a few fires of that nature.

--

I have been filling out applications left and right. . . I need to look up scholarships, also. Once I finish the significant person essay, we're good to go, and I can apply to x amount of colleges (that take the common app, anyway-- three that I care about.)
It's as though college has been drowning my day, today.


I feel as though I have to really. . . kick it up a notch to make it to December. There's so much shit I have to get done. Just fucking LOOKING at the Google calendar makes me want to throw up a little. It's mostly all from college prep class and Creative Writing, too-- the two most necessary to me right now.

Today: Woke up at eleven, drank coffee with Matt, had Clay and Danielle make eggs when they finally got up, watched Superjail, then sat around and listened to DJ play the piano, talked, pet the dog, fooled around, ate sunflower seeds, etc. Mostly, the four of us just talked, with Dad coming in and out of conversation (considering how we were all in the living room, which is the heart of the house.)
Matt: BLAHBLAHBLAH IMANA BE YOUR SON IN LAW
Dad: BLAHBLAH BLAH IMANA FAIL YOU OUT OF SCHOOL
It basically boiled down to them both being fairly uncomfortable with the fact that they were/are student/teacher, so they awkwardly joked with one another all day. It was painful to watch, but also funny. It's like what would happen if I crashed at Quinn Painter's house.

Lazy day, 'cause we lied around like that, refilling our coffee cups, for six hours before we all took off. I went to Fort Collins fucking AGAIN for dinner, since Dad had a rehearsal and was all HAY GUISE LETS GO OUT TO DINNER UP THERE AFTER SDKJGHSKDGJH FAMILY AND DANIELLE WHO IS GOING TO EVENTUALLY BE FAMILY ANYWAY i mean what. So family + Danielle went to the Olive Garden up there and it's 10:40 and we just got back and I'm tired.

Fort Collins twice in three days. Christ. Kill me. I might go up tomorrow, again, with the OTHER Danielle.

(God, Clay has dated too many girls named Danielle. I just remembered that I used to call them 'Clay's Danielle' and 'Micah's Danielle'. Now it's Clay's Danielle/DJ and. . . "Danielle? The one you dated last year? The clubbing one?" Hmm. Confusing. They flipped.)

Anyway. yeah. The clubbing one-- she might snag me from school and head up there to grab her laptop from her ex boyfriend, Rat. So there's that. That'd be a hell of a record, wouldn't it? I don't think I want to do that.

I just figure I'm going to want to come home tomorrow and stay there. I've been in limbo, in transit, on the road, drunk, or asleep for three days. I want to be at home alone for a while. I'm tired of other people.

I don't know if it's 1:35 AM or 2:35 AM.

Went to FoCo. All things to be expected, only I killed a 1.5 liter bottle of wine almost entirely myself. It was nice. It was a lot of fun, and what I needed, kind of. Only, Clay brought home some kid on acid and I slept in Greg's room, Clay and I didn't get into Psyborg Death by proxy, and Clay was disregarding a lot of his core values in order to have entertaining conversation with near-strangers that he was novelizing. I wasn't having the BEST time with it, you know, but it was a good thing for me to be privy to, I think. I gave Damon a ring at some point in the night and I remember that his voice made me feel a lot fucking better about the night I was having, and after that I got a lot more lighthearted.

I'd been real bitter all day, because I realized that Fort Collins is full of fuckheads and cockdouches just like every other college town, and that I would be half-miserable there if there were not so many fucking people that I loved living there. The English department, however, is incredible. I talked to the English rep for a long time, and informed him of the fact that I have had schooling in CW for six years and want to approach it from a different angle and everything. I also talked to him about how the English department and all of the separate compartments within it worked, and he explained it to me. It's very cohesive and very functional both in its entirety and its different divisions, which is apparently quite rare. I REALLY like the sound of the English department up there. I REALLY like the internships available, the networking, the study-abroad program.

I don't know if FoCo is right for me. I want it to be right for me but I. . . just. .. fucking. . . I don't want to be weak and only go there because I'll be close to Clay, DJ, Greg, Hope, Ty, and Bri. I know that those aren't my ONLY reasons but. . . a lot of the reasons I THOUGHT I had have been proven. . . not necessarily WRONG, but off-kilter, you know? Like, the town and the school would provide me very much with what I want, but I could get it better somewhere else. I don't know if I want to be farther away, but there aren't really any schools in the DMA that I am all that interested in or that have all the strengths I need them to. Tuition is cheap as hell in-state and, with scholarships, will be even cheaper. . . I want to go to CSU for at least a year because of that and because I have mentally prepared myself for that and because Clay WILL be around and because I simply do not want to be THAT far from Denver quite yet. I am so well-acquainted with the school. It's dissapointing that I don't find the town it is in as appealing as I used to-- or something. I feel defeated in some way over that idea.

but beyond that, the night was full of giggles.

When we woke up, we made coffee mountain-man style and melted past-its-prime pepperjack on some bagels that Clay stole out of a dumptser and froze. I made that sound far more interesting than it was. Then we stole some shit from an ARC for our costumes and I drove us down to Denver for this concert, where we met up with some fools. Matt was drinking a fuckload of beer out of an empty handle of Captain Morgan's when I walked in, and I had far too much to drink (we killed another 1.5 liter bottle of wine in an hour) and passed out in the car for a couple of hours. I woke up JUST in time to see the AOK'S play, which was rad, and I wrecked the HELL out of the pit, which I needed and wanted. It was fun.

Then, Matt was really drunk so he couldn't drive but we were all exhausted after their set, so we all booked it down to Aurora. I drove Matt's old car to a Village Inn because he couldn't, and we met up with Miguel, which was fucking awesome. I called Dad around eleven and asked if Matt could stay (he didn't want to drive home to Greeley or FoCo), which is hilarious, because Dad said yes, so now he is sleeping in my basement.

(I guess that my dad was involved in judging some thing that gauged whether or not Matt could graduate this class, or something, and afterwards, he walked up to him and said, "Hey! Your playing was great. Stay away from my daughter," and slapped him on the shoulder all fatherly-like. (This was more than a few months ago, when I'd confessed to my dad, "Aww, Matt's fucking adorable and I have a huge crush on him." It's funny because Matt took it quite seriously and Dad was not quite serious, because everybody knows I wouldn't pursue shit anyway-- not even at that time, and anyway, Dad REALLY dug that kid and likely still does.) The whole thing makes me laugh. Tomorrow morning, he plans to wake up and go, "Hey! Pops! What's for lunch?!" Only not really, because he's far too polite for that shit and would NEVER. It must be uncomfortable sleeping in the basement of one of your professors.)

My life is a sitcom tonight, apparently.

The VI visit was nice. It was nice to be around a lot of people who do not necessarily get together all at fucking once very often. The banter and energy was nice as hell, and I got to see Miguel, which I really wanted to do. I owe him one, though; he picked up FAR more of our tab than he should have. We thought we had a lot more cash than we did, apparently. That coffee adds the fuck up, you know?

I think it might be bedtime. I'm not tired. Ugh. Fuck. I'm going to read a book.

Mm.
Today, Danielle and I made apple butter and pizza and. . something else, I think. I forgot what the first thing was. It's 3AM and I'm tired. We sat around and did nothing together for a while. It was comfortable and nice.
Then we did our makeup like cokewhores and took funny pictures and put them on myspace. (I even have a nosebleed and we have blacked out teeth. Oh, and black eyes, too.) It was girly and I felt incredibly young which seemed. . . silly. . . but it fits, too. It was fun. And new-feeling. It felt new. And free. Or, at least, it felt like something so old to me that it's new. Does that make sense? There was a period of my life where I had friendships that regularly incorporated these. . . superficial concepts that are fun to indulge in, only in a serious way. There's something like this, in there somewhere.

I laughed a lot, today. I like laughing. I like laughing a lot and I have not been doing enough of it, recently.

Tomorrow is Fort Collins, and then the AOK'S show on Saturday Clay and DJ and I are all coming down for. I haven't been to FoCo since summer, and I haven't been to an AOK'S show in quite a long time; I want to catch up with Matt and Nicole and whatever fans I barely talk to but always get along with in that setting. I want to wreck the pit. Johnson and Wales kid is going, and so is Beta, apparently.
I want Miguel to come.
Miguel, I want you to come.

Danielle and I talked about some serious shit, tonight: what hurts us, what has hurt us in the past, the best plan of action, why she loves Clay so much, why I don't like love or what it does to people; we talked about Micah and some stupid shit he's done, and we talked about what people feel like when you get to know them. We talked about her hitchhiking back in the day, and the relationship a kid can have with their family; presto manifesto and the kindness of others; what life can do for you and where it can take you, which, if you talk about in a way that is not so vague, can take the conversation to very interesting, direct, and specific places. God, we talked about everything. A load of silly shit, too. And common decency, what it is to both of us. Standards. Expectations. Concepts.

I feel incredibly vulnerable, and quite tired.

Some walls have been broken, tonight-- not just by her, either. It's exhausting.

I CAN'T FUCKING WRITE.

Called Len; work is closed today. I'm painfully lonely, but Danielle is coming over in like. . . twenty minutes. Fucking awesome on that. We're gonna book it up to FoCo tomorrow morning. I can't wait to see clay. I am repetitive.

I have some mad fucking cramps. Shoot me.

Apparently, I have a lot to say.
I do not think that I will ever stop identifying with Dorian Gray. I identify with it tremendously. And it's a curious relation, too, because it is not only with one character. There are relationships between so many people I can identify with in their completion, and things that are said and behaviours that different characters make and it is just. . . it's fucking GENIUS, this book, in its execution of the tragedies and joys of the human fucking condition and everybody already knows how tiredly in love with those things I am. That I am? Whatever.

I'm feeling tonight. Incredibly fucking receptive. Open. Warm. Hot, even. Inside. Boiling. Cut open. Responsive. I love it.
But, as I was just explaining to Damon a few minutes ago, with this feeling comes something else that I fucking despise. What I hate worse is the fact that I can't recognise what quality it is that is paired with this. . . this receptive one that I hate so much. I want to know things.

I want to know everything and I want to feel everything and do everything in the world that there is to do (as long as you put the words "that fascinates me" after all of those things).

Awwwh fucking GOD the world is so fucking huge and people are so big and I love everything ugly and I love everything wonderful and I love everything fucking mediocre, and all things undiscovered and bitter and glorious and lame and boring and hurtful and cold and boiled over.

. . .I love you.

And I. . . tomorrow. . . tomorrow is Thursday. I have work tomorrow night.

". . .


The white wealth of a body made brighter
By the blushes of amorous blows,
And seamed with sharp lips and fierce fingers,
And branded by kisses that bruise

. . . "

It stood out to me more than the rest on a website I was browsing. One Die-lawn linked earlier, actually.


. . . I want to have sex, and all things that it suggests.

--

Heading up to FoCo on Friday night. I'm loving that idea right about now. Unfortunately, there's some stuff I'd like to do on this end of town, first. It's unfortunate to me that Fort Collins is more available to me than a great many other things. On the same sort of note, I get my license in twenty-one days. I don't know why I didn't get on that as quickly as every other person fucking does. Whatever. Fucking finally. What sort of doors THAT will open thrills me to no end.

--

Made triple-berry cobbler today. Ish came over-- she wanted to bum around in someone else's house, I didn't want to leave my own, and we both wanted to bake. She also had to come over here for her grandmother anyway, so it was not complicated at all to execute. It made me nervous for her to drive her car (sans-snow-tires) all the way over here, though. Especially since she can't take the highway due to the spare on her car.

I just slept for fourteen hours. I can't see, though, because I took my contacts out last night, I guess. (I don't remember doing that.) I cannot see a foot in front of my face. Awesome. Maria's face on my Silent Hill poster is a yellow, half-moon blur.

The weather just pulled my heart out of my chest. It's fucking. . . fucking. . . fucking BEAUTIFUL. AND ALSO AWESOME. I JUST PUT IN MY CONTACTS TO LOOK AT THIS SHIT.

(How the hell is it that I can be this exhausted and yet not able to sleep? Wtf is this shit? Should I just sleep all day and be awake all night? Christ! Maybe Dorian Gray will make it better.)

Went downtown today around 2 to do all of my metro shit, but I ended up just going to dinner with Suki and Danielle. We went to Proto's and got some pizza and then got some coffee at Paris. It was nice and giggly, and now I'm learning Wake of the Medusa on the guitar (it's easy and hard all at the same time.)

"Your boyfriend is being a dick? Throw up everywhere!
Failing your classes? Throw up everywhere!
Your dog ran away? Just throw up everywhere!
Your 25 year old brother married some 15 year old bitch? Tag team that shit!
I mean-- THROW UP EVERYWHERE!"

That's my commercial for why throwing up everywhere solves everything. Imagine that in announcer-voice.

Nick gave me an awesome argument for why he likes Mrs. Dalloway today. The only appropriate Virginia Woolf argument I may have ever heard.

Danielle, Clay and I finished the BusinessMan song just now, because we were all pissed off and stressed out about all sorts of things.

It goes,
BUSINESS MAN, BUSINESS MAN, IMA FUCKIN' BUSINESS MAN
BUSINESS PLAN, BUSINESS PLAN, WRITE A FUCKIN' BUSINESS PLAN
WENT TO SCHOOL, GOT A JOB
WEAR A TIE BUT I'M A SLOB
BUSINESS MAN, BUSINESS MAN, IMA FUCKIN' BUSINESS MAN

It's fucking amazing. Four power chords and a work of combined GENIUS.

Lol.

--

Before we wrote it, DJ and I went for a walk while Clay was figuring out the entertainment system. We walked around my neighborhood in the snow and talked a while, and came to the conclusion that putting up with somebody that you care about if they make you cry is a circumstantial thing; based on their intentions and WHY you feel bad enough to shed tears about it.