Nothing Seems As Pretty as the Past, Though

✍ CURRENTLY WRITING FROM: SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA

My junior year is coming to a close…  now comes the summer in which I will hear countless “Well, what college are you planning on going to?” and “What’s your GPA?”  And I will grow tired and want to shoot every person who asks me that.  You’d think they’d know better, those adults.  Do you actually, honestly, genuinely think you’re the first adult to ask me what college I want to go to, or what I want to major in, or whether I want to “move far far away from your poor parents”?  I am glad for those who are genuinely interested, although sometimes I find myself getting huffy with them, too.  I can’t help it.

I had to write a personal essay, assessing how I’ve grown in my high school career and whether I think I’m ready for college.  One of the prompt questions was “Do you think you’re making better decisions than you had in adolescence?”  This got me thinking, how, as we grow up in high school, we’re constantly being reminded how we’re adults and we should start thinking and talking like adults.  This leads most of us to believe we know many things.  And when we’re told that we’re wrong, we get frustrated.

I’ve been reminded too often lately that I think I know it all.  And I know that I most likely come off that way to adults, mostly my parents, so I don’t argue—I simply respond with a “I know I don’t know it all.”

In my mind, I’m acting and thinking like an adult now, so what is it that I am possibly doing wrong?

This thought grew much too big in my mind, leading me to become paranoid—when will I know everything?  Will I ever get to the right amount of knowledge?  What happens to those who know less than those who know the most in life?  What do I need to know, then?  What have I been learning these past few years in school that have been completely useless?

Then I felt a severe panic attack coming on, so I went outside to tend my peonies, which are growing at a beautiful rate!

Also I would like to add this fantastic piece of fantastic:  The Great Gatsby trailer.  I cried when I saw the thumbnail, cried throughout (who decided what music should be played in the trailer, I can’t decided whether they should be promoted or fired), and cried when it ended.  Forward to 1:35 to hear the first “old sport” of many.  Oh God I am so excited.  One of my favorite books ever turned into what I hope will be one of my favorite movies.

Prom—A Playlist

As I mentioned previously, I went to prom and I also mentioned that the music was absolutely terrible.  I’ve been waiting, and it seems to be that everyone’s proms are over?  Some of you are already out of school!  I still have a two weeks (not to mention finals), but I’m still counting down the days… and trying my best to study as relentlessly as possible.

Enough about that (am I the only one that always skims past school/exams talk in a post?)—my original train of thought was going in the direction of the terrible music played at prom.  I didn’t elaborate.  It was mostly techno, and it makes me feel like I’m behind but how doth one dance to techno?  How?  My friend and I couldn’t figure it out, so we only danced when a classic party song~ (if you will) came on, which included the Cupid shuffle, Electric Slide and El Payaso del Rodeo for all the Mexicans that knew how to dance it.

Disappointed but hopeful, I composed my dream prom playlist.  I know I wouldn’t sit down.

I Participated in a High School Ritual

✍ CURRENTLY WRITING FROM: SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA

So I did something I didn’t think I’d ever do.  I, um, uh, went to prom.

I should clarify it wasn’t my own—it was of a school I used to attend.  I went with a friend who still attends.  Considering I used to go to a sheltered, private Christian school, I was surprised when she asked me—I wondered whether the principal had a heart attack and toppled down some stairs when she asked for permission.  Turns out all the boys chickened out and most girls went with each other.

In a spur-of-the-moment decision, I said yes, and I didn’t know why I had said yes, considering that day was another one of those days where I sit and stare at my wall and think to myself “Why don’t I have rhythm?”  I mean, you’re required to dance at these things, aren’t you?  Not that I would know, my expectations of high school come from low-budget, straight-to-DVD chick flicks.

I straightened my hair for the occasion, and I’d just like to record, for future reference, that it took approximately two hours for our poor friend to straighten the lion’s mane that passes as my hair.  I kept smiling at myself in the mirror, naturally, and making a face every time I realized that’s how I would be photographed.  (Also for future reference: I just came back from the dentist and they told me I still had ten more months with my braces—I’m disappointed.)

The days leading up to the prom were me trying to forget I was invited—I thought that if I ignored it and pretended like I had been invited on that same day spontaneously, then the nerves would go away.  The day of, I kept looking at my feet, urging them not to betray me and trip or to remember how to sway side to side.

My old school was a tiny one—even though in my horrific daymares I imagined there would be a hundred people in a giant dance floor, watching me fist pump the air like everybody’s business, in reality, there were about forty kids in that salon.  Forty kids!  A mini prom, if you will!  Adorable!  Other adjectives that made the nerves go away!

It seemed almost ridiculous to make such a big fuss about my appearance, so I borrowed a dress from my sister, seeing as the most formal attire I own is a pair of black slacks my mom bought me five years ago that have barely started to fit me.

As expected, the only thing anyone complimented was my hair.  “Oh my God, how long did that take?”  You have no idea.

In retrospect, it was never a big deal to begin with.  It was surprising to see how much effort and emotion people put into this event that everyone was going to forget in a few weeks.  Nothing stood out.  The DJ was terrible—except for the latin songs he played (he ended with Suavemente by Elvis Crespo).  Girls cried because their dates wouldn’t dance with them.

I…danced.  I didn’t think I would, and at first, I kept scrunching my face up when someone pulled my hand and tried to twirl me.  “Come on,  you’re Mexican, you’re supposed to know how to do this.”  Indeed, Sherlock, indeed.  In the end, I decided that it could very well serve as practice for my own senior prom.  And that dance floor was tiny, nobody would see me if I danced in the far left corner.

Also:  I hate to do this, because I hate it when other bloggers do it (it’s a true fact that nobody actually cares) but just in case someone does, and also because I want to have a pity party, I’ve been absent because I’ve been studying for my AP US History exam, which I took today, and I think I did well, aw yeah!  Now for my AP English exam on Wednesday!

The Things I Think About At Two O'clock in the Morning

✍ CURRENTLY WRITING FROM: SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA

It’s well past midnight and I can’t sleep.  I’ve been having random spastic moments where I jolt up in my bed, realize what I’ve done, and laugh, shaking my head as I think of a funny line that would go great on a dubbed narration if this were the movie of my life.

I’ll try to coherently type these things out as I ponder them.

“Holy crap, I really need to pee, but the bathroom’s the other side of the house, and I know I’m going to wake everyone up on the way.”

“Does this mean I have insomnia?  Am I now unpretentiously allowed to declare—oh, wait, no, I had that coffee right before I went to bed—who does that?  Who in the actual hell does that?”

“This is the third time I’ve replayed Madeline and it still hasn’t helped me drift to sleep.”

“Oh my God, I think I hear something outside my door.”

“I swear, I seriously need to pee.”

“If I turn on the light, then the whole neighborhood will wake up, I know it.”

“Don’t look out the window, don’t look out the window.”

“It’s three thirty in the morning, I haven’t slept a wink, and I’m looking at Vanity Fair’s Who Was Drunkest Celebrity At The Vanity Fair Oscar After-Party slideshow.”

“If I go outside now I just know I know that some pale ghost is going to be there and because of my kind nature I won’t scream in order to not wake anybody up and the ghost will suck my soul out of my body and by then well I wouldn’t need to use the restroom to pee anymore now would I.”

It’s 4:34 and I’m calling it quits omg.

*   *   *   *   *   *

I don’t know if I should be worried or relieved that I don’t even remember falling asleep?  I’m kind of ashamed over that last one—I’ve never even liked “pee” jokes.  But I suppose this will help someone on their research on teenage girls + insomnia + coffee + heat + slowly debilitating social life.

Never going back again.