But I'm Not Ungrateful?

When I was a kid, I was very small, and had a very quiet heart.

And, it's tough, being both small and quiet.

If you're a mouse, you get eaten by the lion.
So I had to act loud. Be as loud and as obnoxious as possible so that no one would ever guess at how tiny I really was.

And that was tough too, to go completely against my nature.
I just want to whisper and mouse around and be too little for anyone to notice, too little for anyone to bother or antagonize.

I just want to be smaller than I ever can be.

I didn't ask for anything.
I didn't even accpet an offer.
I didn't do anything wrong.

I said a mean thing.
You said twenty.
I will always defend Michael.
No one gets to talk shit about him.
You have no idea what he's done for me, what a good friend and person he is.
You have no idea what has happened to me and to my life.
You do not know me.
You do not get to judge me.
You certainly are allowed to be mean to me, because I mostly deserve it.
But you do not get to be unreasonable and irrational, and then complain that I am immature.
I am immature. I am seventeen, almost eighteen.
I am a good kid, with a good head on my shoulders and my heart in the right place.
I know that.
I do.
I do.
I do.
And you do not get to make me second guess myself.
I will change.
Not because anyone asked, but because everyone needs to change.
But even after, when I'm a new person, shiny with an extra coat of gloss on top, you will still not be allowed to talk badly about Michael in front of me.
You will still not be allowed to push my buttons.
Because I will push yours in return.
And you have bigger buttons than I do.

I don't mind wandering around a mine field.
I always cheat at that game, anyways.
But, I wish you would go ahead and blow me up.
It would be so much easier to press F1 and move on.

These are the things that make me smile:

My puppies, obviously. Leilu and Ubu. Therearesocute, it's ridiculous.

Mears, my stylin' hot cat momma.

4chan: The internet hate machine.

Micahel/BrownBear/Shadow Stump. He is my role model.

And Taylor, because even though we no longer flirt, I still think he's cute.

I H A T E T H I S.

Sometimes, I just get mad.
I feel like I don't deserve to talk to the only person I want to talk to.

Because Michael just puts up with so much shit from me, and I'm never able to return the favor. I'm not as good with words as he is, and he's way too intelligent for me to be advising. It seems like whenever I have a problem, he makes me restate how I feel in a different, less emotionally charged way, so that I can look at the situation from a different perspective. And then he makes a corny joke, to get me laughing, so that the scenario isn't so upsetting.
And I understand that. I understand the technique and how it works, I just can't seem to apply it. I admire Michael so much that whenever the friendship tables are turned and I should be comforting him, I get so tongue-tied and end up tripping all over my words. An effort to please him quickly goes south, and I end up this colossal failure.
But, I don't mean too, you know? I can't help the high esteem I hold him in, and the pedestale I put him on. It's a natural reaction to seeing all of the traits that I'd like to have in another person. He really is my role model.
And I just want to make him proud of me.

MMM, 4CHAN.

I love 4chan. I am a channer. I have done ridiculously extensive research on 4chan and it's histories. I know all of the dates and unoffical "names" for the biggest raids and creations of the biggest memes. I can pretty much make a timeline directly linking moot's apathy and lack of snacks to the newfag infestation. I have knowledge.

But, I'm not a part of the internet hate machine. A cat is fine, too, but one cat leads to another, and I'm just not ready for lions. I'm not hateful enough to go on raids. I'm like a history teacher: I don't really do anything noteworthy, but if you have questions, I can answer them.

Also, encylopedia dramatica. Also, shoutout to Shelby, who's recent plunge into /b/rotherhood inspired this post. Also, MMMM, INSANITY WOLF.

Update:

I am going to college. I am.
IamIamIamIamIam.
I have to.

The problem now is that, apparently, MSA has not sent in my final transcript.
That is bullshit. I am angry that MS-Gay, who I am done with forever, is still impacting my life in negative ways. So I am going to call the Y-Hut tomorrow, and if whoever picks up doesn't say, "Oh, we mailed it yesterday :DDD," I am going to throw a bitchfit the likes of which has no human measurements.
Because I am going to college. I am.


Taylor has definitely fired me from my "Flirtfriend" position.
I am not as upset as I thought I would be.
I mean, he is cute and sweet and pretty much everything I want in a guy.
But I am intelligent. We wouldn't have worked out. Case closed.

I watched "Under the Tuscan Sun" today. It's a pretty cool chickflick.
Then I watched "Reservior Dogs." There is a God. His name is Quentin Tarantino.

By now, you have all seen pictures of the adorable two yellow lab puppies we bought. Mom named her's Leelu, and Grady named his Ubu. They are the perfectest little girls ever.
Leelu is really sleepy all of the time, but every now and then she gets this incredible burst of energy that lasts for like five minutes, and then she plops onto the ground and goes back to sleep. Ubu is a lot more rambunctious. She is high energy right up until the moment her cute little eyes close and she passes out. They both had their first "swimming" experience a few days ago, and although Leelu was clearly the better swimmer, Ubu was more excited about it. Now she tries to get all four paws into her water bowl whenever she drinks out of it.
Puppies spend a lot of time drinking.

I still haven't spoken to my dad, but when I was on the phone with Granny, Heather said to tell me that she loves me. So I guess all's well that ends well?
Or maybe they just haven't figured out to kill me in my sleep yet.
Either way, my granny is super excited for me to be going to college in Louisiana still, and is going overboard to show her support for me: "You know you're always welcome in my house," (which implies that I'm not welcome in my daddy's) and, "You know I love you," (which implies that no one else does.) I told her that I am not visiting her this summer, but that I will come the first weekend that I can.
Although, I don't know how I'll do it, since I won't have a car until second semester.

Mears and I are seperated lovers. We are Romeo and Juliet, and our states are our parents. If Texas and Mississippi were next to each other, maybe we could see each other. But no, Louisiana sits between us.
The difference is that if one of us kill ourselves, the other probably still wouldn't get to attend the funeral. That sucks.


Nom nom nom, milk time. Good night, blog readers.

Man. People are such pussies.

I'm just gonna go be hardcore and listen to Gregory and the Hawk (a statement that is compromised of equal parts of sarcasm and truth. Gregory and the Hawk is hardcore indie-- and not this Kimya Dawson, trendy, "indie" shit. Honest indie, the rare type, which in this music industry is fucking difficult. Thus, hardcore. Argue with me, motherfucker,) and sip quietly on my huge glass of milk, because I'm still five years old and like milk before going to bed.
I never got a reply to my email to my granny and dad, so I called today to find out that A: My dad had not told my granny about the email, but she would immediately do whatever it is that needs doing, because she's my granny and she loves me and she wants to go to college in Louisana,
B: That my oldest little brother, Josh, is in New York for some kind of church thing,
C: My second oldest little brother, John David Jr., turned seven today. Because he has his birthday right before school starts, he thinks that after your birthday, you automatically go on to the next grade. I can't wait for him to figure out the pass/fail system. It's going to blow his mind, and
D: I am not as much of a family failure as I thought I was.

I'm running out of milk and overflowing with yawns, so excuse me if the conclusion isn't as eloquent as could be:
I keep thinking about how okay the rest of my life is going to be.
My parents are contractors, so after I graduate from high school, I'm going to move into an apartment and take out a loan to build my house. It's going to be a big adobe house with a ceramic tile roof and stone fence around the backyard. Every room will be painted a different bright color. I will sleep in a huge four-poster bed with my three dogs, all of which will be bigger than me. I'll get a job part-time working as a secretary and part-time as a barista. Eventually, the cafe I work for will realize my potential and hire me full-time. From there, I'll work my way up the ladder until I land manager. After a few years of job experience, I will quit and take out another loan to open my own cafe. We will be pet-friendly, so I can bring all of my bigass dogs to work with me everyday. After I get the business off the ground, I will hire someone to take over the coffee section of the cafe, and I will teach several yoga classes a day, because yoga suits my body type and is a great money maker. Whenever I get tired of working, probably in my late 50's or 60's, I will retire and spend all of my time with my dogs, whom I will treat like children. Maybe I'll find a permanent boyfriend or something, but I'll never get married because marriages don't work. But if I don't end up with someone, that'll be okay, because we all die alone anyways.

So, there. My life plan, at the moment.
Good night.

Taylor

Is teaching me how to play guitar by phone.
It's not really productive, but it's cute.
He taught me the scales. Now he's playing and singing me a song. I don't know what it is, I didn't quite catch it.
He's really fucking cute.

Taylor is not my boyfriend. Taylor is not my boyfriend. Taylor is not my boyfriend. Taylor is not my boyfriend. Taylor is not my boyfriend.
He's not. I promise.

God. He's playing All Time Low and the Tings Tings.
But he's not my boyfriend.


I have to whisper, because my parents are asleep. It's like ninth grade all over again.

I'm gonna learn to play guitar.

It's something that I've always wanted to do, and I'm going to start taking lessons before this year is out.
(Listening to Regina Spektor always makes me wish for musical talent.)

I met a boy.
He sort of fell into my lap, like most of the things in my life seem to do. His name is Taylor. I don't know him very well-- not at all, really. And he sort of lives in Mississippi. And, oh yeah, he's a year younger than me.
We're not in a relationship. I'm not that stupid, you know?
But, if he happens to visit me in New Orleans, I won't object.


I feel like my whole life is like that.
"If" instead of "when." "Maybe" instead of "yes."
I like it that way.
Nothing is certain. The sun may not come out tomorrow.
But, no matter, I'm always prepared, with my half-assed soloutions for problems that don't exist yet.
And I'm going to survive.

(Not that my life is in danger at the present point in time, just in general.)

I'm going to survive healthily and happily.



That being said, I'm supposed to die this year.
I don't think about it much, but it is pretty scary.
I mean, I'm about to be eighteen, and there's a significant chance that I won't even wake up tomorrow.
Ehh. Keep your eyes on the future, right?

"And then I set all the bottlecaps I own afloat,
And it's the greatest voyage in the history of plastic!"
Mmm. Regina, Regina, Regina-uh-uhhh.

My dad isn't talking to me.
I think he's all but disowned me.
I know he has my phone number, he just hasn't used it at all.
And I'm not going to call him because, as stupid and childish as it is, I haven't done anything wrong. I'm not going to be the one to call and apologize. He was the jerk, he was the one in the wrong.

"Be the better person, Jordan. If he dies in a freak accident tomorrow, you'll realize how dumb this is."
No. I already realize how unbelievably petty I'm acting.
But I'm tired of taking the high road. Most of it is uphill, and I just don't have that sort of energy right now.
Besides, I'm seventeen. He's forty-something. He should be setting an example for me to follow. I'm just being a good daughter and learning whatever lesson it is that he's teaching. Because I
Do
Not
Care what he says, I was right and he was wrong.
I've made my bed, and I'm lying in it. It's actually pretty comfortable.