FREDDY BOOM BOOM WASHINGTON

My hypochondriacal fascination with appendicitis returned today, and this time, as with all the other times, I was sure that beyond all chance, I was going to have to be hospitalized later that day. My champ parents weren't fazed, though. Maybe because I claim to have appendicitis every few months or so.

I felt miraculously better and went to the Bowlby library while my mom bought new plants for the garden (lots of basil, especially.) I took out FAR too many books, considering I still have a batch from the Eberley library. But all of these (One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, Ken Kesey; One Writer's Beginnings, Eudora Welty; Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead, Tom Stoppard, Jennifer, Hecate, Macbeth, William McKinley and Me, Elizabeth, E.L. Konigsburg; Wicked, by I Forget Whom, and Hotel of the Saints, also by I Forget Whom.)

Sadly, my friends from high school didn't call about doing anything today. I think they're playing hard-to-get because I haven't been so available last semester. Any attempts at explaining the difference between college and high school life would render me an asshole, so for the moment I'm letting them be pissed off, not explaining why sometimes I don't want to see anybody when I'm home from school for a weekend. Besides, I remember being mad at my friends who didn't return my calls after they went to college, so I can empathize.

By myself.

Don't worry, dear reader, I'm going to see some friends tomorrow and everything. Don't look at me like that. I *like* my pajamas. Come on, just pass me the ice cream, you prude!

Heh.

MY DEAR LADY DISDAIN, ARE YOU YET LIVING?

Graduation wasn't nearly as bad as I thought it would be. I felt entirely unemotional the whole time, but still bitchy enough to make a good number of mean-spirited comments about the proceedings. (Which, as my mother says, is probably healthy.) Nobody hassled my dad when he gave his speech about the budget problems (although the board V.P. was visibly shaking her head; I could have reached over and smacked her so easily, though.) The speeches were unusually short, and there was very little drama in the way of the salutatorian bitching out the valedictorian in his speech (whatever, Andrew Gump. I still beat you) or the superintendent going out of his way to not give any kind of scholarship to the person with the school's highest GPA ever. (But I don't feel so bitter about that anymore, honestly.)

The whole point of going to graduation was to see a handful of friends graduate and to finally close up all of the terrible feelings I had about graduation last year. I was prepared to get shot down by somebody or something, but it simply didn't happen. The graduates looked like babies to me, and I'm sure they will ever after. It was just another thing that happens in every high school anywhere, rural or not, and the women fanning themselves with programs, the screaming babies, and the loud applause for football stars is so generic that none of us should really consider it more than backdrop.

This is entirely secondary, of course, but not very many people recognized me at first. (Always a nice feeling, isn't it?) Two out of three ex-crushes looked stunned. (HA. Get this: I have a HOTT BOYFRIEND now, lads.) I felt like the only flower in an entire field of more practical, boring plantlife. So nice. (I'm sure this sounds trivial, but things like this are a lot more meaningful when most of your high school teachers felt compelled to tell you to "smile a little more" all the time.)

Also, Dave's blog is particularly cheering tonight.

AND A PACK OF PLAYING CARDS . . .

And so my ensemble for graduation is decided: a black wrap dress, (the one that made Matt Marrowitz wag his tongue and say, "Geez, you look like a flapper or something!") (as if I have many dresses), nine black rubber bracelets, the old sunglasses (because they're more likely to cover my poor, tear-stained eyes), black flip flops (we must always shock the bourgeousie, as my old friend Baudelaire used to say), and a vintage black clutch containing a yellow embroidered handkerchief, a pen and a scrap of paper, a small vial of milk-and-honey lotion, a pocket mirror, and lipstick. And not so much eye makeup, on the offchance that I get enraged (which for me always means crying, no matter the circumstances.)

. . . for a rousing game of Mao during the speeches, of course.

ALICE BLUEGOWN

Listening to Allez-Vous-En sung by Martha Wainwright. I'm getting $50 from my dad for writing his graduation speech for him. At this time tomorrow I'm going to be sitting with my mother in the gymnasium trying to look like Grace Kelly or some other dignified starlet. (Maybe Sally Eilers?) Of course I'll be carrying my black pocketbook palm up.

I had a pretty productive day, as days for writers go. I walked the dogs, cleaned up the house, practiced scales and triads, and listened to the armful of records I hadn't been able to listen to during the school year. The Lou Reed record sucks, sadly, but the Modey Lemon single is pretty boss. Also, I found a copy of Let It Be in really good condition but I've only listened to "Dig a Pony" so far. The album of songs about CB radios is just as bad as I was expecting it to be, but still so worth its price ($.25) for the cover and the list of CB slang on the back cover. (And that song "The Night I Talked to the Lord" has some kind of value. Maybe.)

Also, I have more ideas for plays, screenplays, and short stories than I had thought. At the least I have some character sketches that I've been wanting to do something with.

I really like the way vinyl 45s look. I need somebody to give me a box of their mid-90s vinyl singles. And I need a Modey Lemon album. And a diet Coke.

Watch As She Masters the Domestic Arts
Not only am I the best dishwasher in the house, I can be an ace cook. As long as somebody else is willing to chop the onions for me, I guess. My mom says I can either get used to onions, live at home for my whole life, or hope that Ram will take care of the onions for me. The last is probably what I'm going to bank on. <3

Way Down Down in This Subbacultcha
If my life were an adventure movie, I would have to dramatize the part about the stray dog outside to make it interesting. (Sadly, both of my dogs just sat there and growled quietly instead of barking at that cur.) (Can you tell that I've been meaning to use the word "cur" for a long time?)

I just had a long, dark telephone conversation of the soul with Ian, which was good fun. He reminded me about my big talk about learning to play the bass, which I had forgotten about in my long list of things to do this summer.

While you're waiting for the new Beck album to come out, why don't you e-mail my new address?

Also, my roommate Jenn has a new blog that you ought to check out, but I can't remember the address right now.

Wasn't that helpful?

SWING WITH IT
I have a new web-based e-mail address with which to dazzle all of you summer babes:

geezlouise@fanboy.org

So get on it and e-mail me here, not at my shcool account (which I can't access at home.)

All the Puzzles Hence Have Been Solved

I finally got my truckstop glasses. Excepting the fact that they arent' from a truckstop, they're pretty much exactly what I needed. Almost big enough to soothe my savage diva heart (because all those who know me know that I'm actually a diva. Ha ha.) but still new-agey, ugly, and obnoxious. And $2, as per my restrictions. And I found two pairs, one purple and one grey. It's at times like these that I feel like some luck-blessed film character. (Admittedly a luck-blessed film character in a fairly unimportant film, but nevertheless . . . .

I couldn't vote in the primary today because I registered as a trendy independent. More evidence that trendines sucks, folk.

I went back to high school today to hang out with my great English teacher and some unlucky still-in-high-school types (Steph and Jason, that is). It was hell, kind of. My dad's pretty unpopular at the school due to recent budgetary issues, and as predicted, most of the teachers couldn't see far enough beyond the ends of their noses to tell that lo, I am an 18 year old girl and not my father. Otherwise, my favorite pre-pubescent boy has been growing up, and seems a little embarassed around me. Come on, I know it's wrong to say, "Hey baby" to a 14-year old, even in jest. Those of you who know that I've been reading "Lolita" might be worrying right now, but I assure you it's unnecessary.

Room cleaning is still in progress, but it's been more successful lately. I have so many more clothes, books, and records, than I thought possible. My mother is right; I could start a second-hand store right now if I had a base of customers interested in wading through piles of clean but wrinkly t-shirts and men's dress shirts. Happily, though, my work wardrobe is starting to shape up nicely: black hose, lots of pencil skirts, vintage blouses, and black rubber bracelets. Pretty good, but I need some better shoes. And maybe it isn't acceptable to wear a hot pink sweatshirt over one's work ensemble. Whatever. Give me some orange lipstick and white pumps and I'm set (if only I could walk in pumps of any kind.)

And now it's time to turn in for the night: no more time to decipher mix tapes or hang up clothes. And, please god, no more diet cokes today.