What It All Means
Jan. 8th, 2002 10:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
azuriteAh, never get enough of these pointless posts. Well, maybe it's not so much a pointless post as a me-ranting-yet-again.
So I'm on the bus this morning, and it's around 11:31. About. (laughs) The bus has only about eight people on it, two of them are teenagers, besides me. I'm sitting down, holding onto the metal pole, staring at my hands. I just had this thought, you know, one of those not-quite-epiphanies. My hands are like an old lady's hands. I'm not even 17 yet. You can see the bones in my hand, whether I flex them or not, and if I had X-Ray vision, it wouldn't be much different. My knuckles have these little brownish-pink patches over them, like someone who wears Band-Aids too much. But they look like that all the time. I have a big red-gold callus on my right hand's ring finger. Thankfully not my left, or I'd hate getting married. Then again... I don't know.
So I'm staring at my hand like this, and I think back to when it was really cold. Only about a week or two ago really; it's still winter. When it's that cold, those brown-pink patches on my ice-white skin turn blue violet, just a physical reminder that I'm freezing my @$$ off. And the white skin turns a sort of frosty pink, like the color you'd expect to see on someone pinched by too many aunts, or on Santa's nose. And I realize, somehow, out of this weird observation of my tiny, bony, white hands, that I don't know what lies ahead.
I don't know whether it's going to be colder later, or whether I'll ever get married. Little things. -_-; I have the hands of an old lady. But they're not soft, not welcoming. I've never held hands with anyone save my own family members, or really close friends. Never caressed anyone's face. I have no nails-- I have stubs that are always raw and coarse looking. Bad habits die hard, I guess. So I'm thinking, what will I be like when I really am old?
Will I be a spinster, like I laughingly (not inside) tell my friends when they go to dances and I don't? Somehow, I think my flimsy excuse of hating slow dances or not being able to afford them won't fly for the next year and a half.
Will I be rich and famous, the girl who struts into her high school reunion, makes an @$$ out of those people who tortured her, brutalized her, and made her feel horrible?
Will I be a slut, showing off my goods (or right now, as it seems, my lack thereof) because I have nothing else for it?
Will I be there at all? Will I just be someone who fades into the background, part of that white-snow-noise you see on TV? I don't know, and that's the thing.
When I was little, I was self-assured, confident. I probably got that bit from my sister. She acted big, even if she didn't talk it. There was the dream of being a ballerina, a chef, a mommy with two point five kids, a something-better-than-what-I-am-now. Then the irresistible, impossible fantasy of being a princess. Maybe not so much a damsel in distress, just someone that tromps through it all, comes out on top, and just... is.
Then I wanted to be a fashion designer. I threw myself into drawing, shopping, trying to be the person in style, yet rebellious. I admired (and still do) Vera Wang, Bob Mackie... I wanted to be a fashion designer for Barbie dolls, actually. Then I kind of fell out of that scene, I don't know why. I wanted to be a writer, and journalism became my passion. So I'm sitting here in the journalism lab, not knowing who's written their articles or even if I'll make it into college. This morning I deemed myself a slacker, because for the two weeks of winter break I didn't do a single bit of my homework, for any of my classes.
Since 8th grade, I haven't had much luck in English, which used to be (and by all rights still should be) my best class. Sad, isn't it? Last year my teacher was dubbed a bitch by even my most 'Puritan' (inside joke) of friends. This year, I thought my frequently-vacationing teacher was okay, until this morning, when I surveyed 'the damage' I had done to myself by not doing my work. I wasted all day yesterday sleeping in because of a phenomenal headache (could have been a migraine except I didn't vomit) and I still have makeup work to do. I vowed (when I finally dragged myself out of bed at 5:45AM) that I would not leave the house until I was finished with my work. I managed to finish all 4 of my lengthy prewriting activities for Huckleberry Finn (egads, I hate that novel) but not my thesis paper ('the longest of the year'). I did 3 out of 5 lit-book activities, whilst I expressed my distaste for memorize-repeat activities such as that.
So there you go. I don't know what I'm doing, where I'm going, or why I'm where I am. I don't need my teachers nagging me for not going to my classes; I've suffered plenty in this life and it looks like the Powers that Be have set me up to want myself (yes, I know, I have a conscience) to suffer more.
*waves flag of surrender*
So I'm on the bus this morning, and it's around 11:31. About. (laughs) The bus has only about eight people on it, two of them are teenagers, besides me. I'm sitting down, holding onto the metal pole, staring at my hands. I just had this thought, you know, one of those not-quite-epiphanies. My hands are like an old lady's hands. I'm not even 17 yet. You can see the bones in my hand, whether I flex them or not, and if I had X-Ray vision, it wouldn't be much different. My knuckles have these little brownish-pink patches over them, like someone who wears Band-Aids too much. But they look like that all the time. I have a big red-gold callus on my right hand's ring finger. Thankfully not my left, or I'd hate getting married. Then again... I don't know.
So I'm staring at my hand like this, and I think back to when it was really cold. Only about a week or two ago really; it's still winter. When it's that cold, those brown-pink patches on my ice-white skin turn blue violet, just a physical reminder that I'm freezing my @$$ off. And the white skin turns a sort of frosty pink, like the color you'd expect to see on someone pinched by too many aunts, or on Santa's nose. And I realize, somehow, out of this weird observation of my tiny, bony, white hands, that I don't know what lies ahead.
I don't know whether it's going to be colder later, or whether I'll ever get married. Little things. -_-; I have the hands of an old lady. But they're not soft, not welcoming. I've never held hands with anyone save my own family members, or really close friends. Never caressed anyone's face. I have no nails-- I have stubs that are always raw and coarse looking. Bad habits die hard, I guess. So I'm thinking, what will I be like when I really am old?
Will I be a spinster, like I laughingly (not inside) tell my friends when they go to dances and I don't? Somehow, I think my flimsy excuse of hating slow dances or not being able to afford them won't fly for the next year and a half.
Will I be rich and famous, the girl who struts into her high school reunion, makes an @$$ out of those people who tortured her, brutalized her, and made her feel horrible?
Will I be a slut, showing off my goods (or right now, as it seems, my lack thereof) because I have nothing else for it?
Will I be there at all? Will I just be someone who fades into the background, part of that white-snow-noise you see on TV? I don't know, and that's the thing.
When I was little, I was self-assured, confident. I probably got that bit from my sister. She acted big, even if she didn't talk it. There was the dream of being a ballerina, a chef, a mommy with two point five kids, a something-better-than-what-I-am-now. Then the irresistible, impossible fantasy of being a princess. Maybe not so much a damsel in distress, just someone that tromps through it all, comes out on top, and just... is.
Then I wanted to be a fashion designer. I threw myself into drawing, shopping, trying to be the person in style, yet rebellious. I admired (and still do) Vera Wang, Bob Mackie... I wanted to be a fashion designer for Barbie dolls, actually. Then I kind of fell out of that scene, I don't know why. I wanted to be a writer, and journalism became my passion. So I'm sitting here in the journalism lab, not knowing who's written their articles or even if I'll make it into college. This morning I deemed myself a slacker, because for the two weeks of winter break I didn't do a single bit of my homework, for any of my classes.
Since 8th grade, I haven't had much luck in English, which used to be (and by all rights still should be) my best class. Sad, isn't it? Last year my teacher was dubbed a bitch by even my most 'Puritan' (inside joke) of friends. This year, I thought my frequently-vacationing teacher was okay, until this morning, when I surveyed 'the damage' I had done to myself by not doing my work. I wasted all day yesterday sleeping in because of a phenomenal headache (could have been a migraine except I didn't vomit) and I still have makeup work to do. I vowed (when I finally dragged myself out of bed at 5:45AM) that I would not leave the house until I was finished with my work. I managed to finish all 4 of my lengthy prewriting activities for Huckleberry Finn (egads, I hate that novel) but not my thesis paper ('the longest of the year'). I did 3 out of 5 lit-book activities, whilst I expressed my distaste for memorize-repeat activities such as that.
So there you go. I don't know what I'm doing, where I'm going, or why I'm where I am. I don't need my teachers nagging me for not going to my classes; I've suffered plenty in this life and it looks like the Powers that Be have set me up to want myself (yes, I know, I have a conscience) to suffer more.
*waves flag of surrender*
