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8:42 p.m. - October 23, 2001 Although, strangely, my happiness has yet to inspire me. I suppose than that it's another cut and paste entry, this one's from about a week ago, for English class. The assignment was just a character sketch, where at the end, the character becomes active instead of just described. Tell me what you think, it you want. ------------------------- He�s got curves etched into the side of his mouth, question marks for ears, always waiting to listen, but never taking anything quite as seriously as you meant it to be. This is what usually estranges him from the crowd. Whining teenage girls do nothing for him, their sly schemes for attention. They all want his attention, and he hates people who try too hard. He simply leans against the wall, his mouth effortlessly shaping itself into a slight smirk, as they wail and moan about him. His eyes are dark, and even if they weren�t, he wears sunglasses, which he frequently uses to look in the other direction. I myself have had a conversation with the side of his head; though, later, he was able to quote me word for word. He still wore the grin, although we had been talking about betrayal. That was one time I wanted to smack him around his beautiful head, messing up his coiffed blue-black mane. His body is warm and his hands are relaxed, another thing I can�t stand. People should be neurotic; just look at the world in which we are made to live! He isn�t. I always love the ones who aren�t. I watched him when the first news of Columbine reached our sophomore African History class. The teacher made us all bow our heads in prayer. Lots of kids weren�t upset, but they dared not protest. He stayed upright. The hatred on the teacher�s face! �Just another day,� he said, the upward curve of his mouth barely visible beneath his hair. I know the widespread opinion says he�s displaced, that he�ll grow up to be dangerous. The way people back away in the hall. But I love him, his nighttime murmurings, his infrequent waves of intense emotion, his vivid nightmares, his certainty, his admissions of searing guilt. I love how he doesn�t share himself with the world. I love that he dismisses the Oprah-style purge-emotion share-pain-with-entire-world concept of modern living with one unconcerned wave of the hand. I love everyone�s hatred for him, knowing that I�m the only one who needs to understand. �Maybe I�m wasted time,� he wakes up saying, panicked, at midnight, sweat pooling in the sheets, and the next minute, he�s smiling, arms around me, �.. but that�s what I wanted, isn�t it?�
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