REQUIRED READING...

If you have a problem with the new lack of access to my diary, take it up with my mother.  I almost want to write about wild sex and drug exploits and let the nosiness backfire (and I almost did)… but nah.  I’ll just manually go through every single of my more than 300 entries, and click “protected” rather than public.  Yes.  This is a great way to spend my studying time.  Oh well.  Anything to procrastinate.

It’s not that I have anything to hide.  If she wanted to know about any part of my life, I’d tell her.  She knows I’m gay, she knows I’d love to die, she knows I’m a slacker, and she knows I fucking swear.   

It’s just that I don’t keep a diary so that she can sneak into my conversations with friends and private revelations and self-expressions.  I write to help ease my mind… and I let my friends read it, because I read theirs, so it’s only fair.  I don’t write so that she can get online at any time and know every last bit of my private life.  She isn’t supposed to know everything about me.  Hence, she won’t. 

This is all mostly for her to read, so skip it... it's boring...

Since she's been reading my diary, my relationship with her has changed.  Every time I talk to her, I wonder what else she knows, what else she's read, what else she's thinking.  She's rummaged around my account, read my profile, my entries, and account info, because on her computer, I was still signed on.  (I'm not anymore, and I've changed my password.  Phew.)  I'm honest with her.  I don't deceive her and pretend it's not a lie because I didn't actually tell a lie.  She does that by gaining access to things I didn't give her access to, and then she doesn't tell me about it.  I don't know what opininons she's formed or what knowledge she's gained based on what I've written here.  LUCKILY, it's not my only diary, so the really private shit is still private.  (That is, if she doesn't read that diary too.  And who's to say she doesn't?)  The thing is, I have her passwords to everything, and I don't take advantage of it.  I don't check her e-mail or go on her computer except to check the history and find out if she's been going to my site.  I don't go through her belongings in her room or anywhere else, because she told me she doesn't do that to me, and maybe foolishly, I believe her.  It makes me physically sick to think that she would search for my screen name online to find this site (though that's not how she actually found it, but she did try).  It makes me really sick to know she doesn't trust me or respect me enough to stay out of what's not meant for her to know.  (Great, now I'm crying.)  But even if I tell her not to read this anymore, I'll have NO way to know that she respects my wishes.  And when I go to (New) college, I do NOT want to have to worry about her knowing everything that happens there. 

I love it when new people leave notes about how inspiring my entries have been or how they want to get to know me better or how they see themselves in me.  I like that.  Katie and Jen have become part of my life because of that.  I won’t have that anymore. 

But are far too many problems in my life right now for me to actually worry about this.  So goodbye, Xanga as I knew it.  And hey, if you’re one of the ten people who can still read my diary, lucky you.  You’ll continue to see just how messed up and self-absorbed I am. 

And I might still create a new name.  So, leave a note if you want to know about it.  And forgive me for rambling so much about a diary that's probably only important at all to me.

Thanks for the advice/tips on making my entries private.

If you can see recent entries after this one, you're on my list.  If you can't, and you want to keep reading my diary, leave me a note and I'll see what I can do.  Because I've seen my name on a lot of people's lists, and I don't remember which, because I don't suscribe to all of them. 

That's all.

P.S.  It's pouring rain in my front yard, but my backyard is completely calm and dy.  What... the... hell.

I would love to be sucked up by a whirlwind of my mind's debris.

Every hope I have for self-respect lies in my acceptance to New College.

Not an impossible... or difficult... feat.

But I can't see me reaching next year.

Every year has gotten progressively worse.

Ninth grade... straight A's without trying.  I thought IB was supposed to be hard?

Tenth grade... B's, because I'd learned I didn't need to try.  Maybe I should shape up.

Eleventh grade.  I won't even say anything.  Three quarters of my time was consumed by thoughts of the girl in New York... the memories left in New York... her hair, her voice, her scent, her eyes, her words that would come every other week and fill me temporarily with a reason to want the future to exist.  My mom and therapist blame everything about last year on Shayna.  I blame it on me... it was all me.  I was changed, and not for the better.  In the long run, yeah, every change is good, every further development of myself is essential to the final stretch.  But last year was a miserable failure.  I got two C's on my transcript... yes, 79's, but they're just as much C's as 70's.  See the pattern??  This year there will be D's.  And there goes me being a National Merit finalist.  (Nothing before that counts.)  Hey, I have to wait 11 more days to talk about that.  Ahh, fuck it. 

Senior year.

Not only do I wait until the last possible minute (4:45 AM, usually) to start huge assignments -- I don't even finish... let alone turn in... said assignments.  I never turned in those history essays.  33% of my grade, and I didn't turn them in.  I haven't started the Extended Essay outline, which I've known about since the first day of freshman year.  (Probably earlier.)  The rough draft's due Friday, right?  Yeah.  I'm fucked.

There are 14 Physics assignments I haven't touched.

A mega-test in History to study for.  (Because I skipped school that day, with my mother's aid, no less.)

All of this piles itself on top of me until I'm too weak to think about changing my lifestyle.

The laptop's been restricted to the dining room.  Does that stop me?  No.

This is the fourth day I've had off school due to the hurricane.  And this is what I have to show for it...

...

...

Nothing.

Except a couple dozen photographs of myself... which boggles my mind a bit, because if I hate myself so much, why do I constantly capture her to show to others?

Shayna hasn't written since her first day at Pratt... and a year later, that still matters.  That still controls me.  She controls me.  She thinks we're friends and all is good, but it's far from good.  She's so far into my heart, I bleed her, and I bleed her frequently.

I don't deserve to be happy... good thing I'm not.

Tomorrow, school is cancelled.

If it's anything like today, I'll spend a good part of the day trying to slow my heartbeat down enough to get up without half-fainting.  The rest of the day will be devoted to the black hole that is the Internet.

Because even if I wanted to pull myself out of this rut, I'd have no idea where to start.

And I'm not self-pitying.  That's not what this is.

I'm just... aware... of who I am right now.  And it makes me fucking sick.  And I'm sorry.

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