It seems to me to be a sign
Conversation with my fatherDad: What are you doing?
Me: Putting away my lunch.
Dad: Putting away your uneaten lunch?
Me: I did eat! I ate my sandwich and four stale teddy grahams!
Dad: I just don't know how you get through the day.
Me: I eat!
Dad: Eat what?
Me: Food! I don't like food, okay?
Dad: What, do you have some kind of - disorder?
Me: No, I just don't like food.
Dad: Maybe you just haven't eaten food you like yet.
Me: Are you serious?
Dad (as I'm walking away): Should we find some?
I'm going to fail my physics test tomorrow. Ready to phail physics... I think I saw that in someone's facebook status a few weeks back. And I'm about to fail my goal to have four posts in a row that are only text, because I really want to post this picture.
It's ugly and crappy and I have no artistic talent whatsoever, but there's still something satisfying about making something and bringing it home and showing it to your parents and saying, "look what I made." I guess that's something we probably feel a lot in elementary school, when we go to art class every week and make little pots and wire figures and copies of Van Gogh's paintings (using pastels, of course). NeedsANickname and I had a brief two-minute conversation today about how we've realized this year that art is a lot harder than it looks... I've come to admire artists so much more than I used to. Art is natural talent, but it's also self-confidence and vulnerability and emotion and gut feelings. Maybe I just think too much to be good at it. But I do like having paint on my hands.
I've completely ripped my cuticles apart, to the point where they feel rough and my fingers are swollen. I hate that I can't quit. I'm usually so good at quitting... quitting OCHSA and quitting stories and quitting Girl Scouts and quitting friendships. And when it really matters, I can't just stop. And college is really freaking me out right now - even though it's still a year away. But it just occurred to me that when I'm going to be packing up to move across the country (or up north or wherever) to room with a stranger and go to big scary classes, so are zillions of other people. That makes me feel a little bit better. I hate that "everyone else is doing it too" makes me feel better.
I swear sometimes things change colors right in front of my eyes. Or maybe just when I blink. We're all Weeping Angels, aren't we? Stabbing each other in the back when we're not looking, assuming innocent poses when we're being watched.
Gah. I stress myself out.
