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5:43 p.m. - September 26, 2001 My exchange student leaves to return to Spain tomorrow. In the last few days, she's actually been semi-nice to me, but I hate to admit I'm still kind of glad to see her go. I'm an only child, a spoiled only child who's used to being with people only when she wants to be with people, and having a live-in sibling has truly been fucking me up. I haven't been able to blast music from the corner room, or record vocals to my compositions, or just up and leave the house on a whim, since my dad always screamed after me, 'TAKE HER WITH YOU!!' and when I asked her to come, she never wanted to. So guess who never got to go anywhere? I realize here that this paragraph was an utter contradiction of itself. Point A: I'm an introvert so leave me the fuck alone; Point B: You're stopping me from going out and having fun with my friends. I know. Shut up. Either way, I wasn't cut out for siblings. There is something vey curious happening on my head. My once-purple hair has been reduced to one or two inches on the bottom half. The rest of it is kind of a color-progression wheel, from my real blond hair growing in to a kind of light orange to a darker red to the purple. I look like one of those preppy pairs of dip-dye jeans you see in Delia's catalogs, except there's a face peeking out from underneath. I also have been hearing the word 'poser' enough lately to make me lose my head. I've said it before, and I'll say it again. 'POSER' IS A TOTALLY REDUNDANT TERM. If you're trying to be punk, and you're not, what differentiates you from the 'real' punks? If you buy a shirt from the Alley, which has gone tearfully mainstream lately, and it says 'PUNK' across the front, are you a poser, or are you just trying to portray an image? What happens when the 'posers' begin to outnumber the 'real punks'? Then who are the posers? Hm? It's like that game where the magician shuffles a little ball around beneath two cups, and then charges people ten bucks or whatever to guess where the ball is. The ball is punk. The cups are people. Punk is inside one of them or the other, and, Christ, maybe it's inside BOTH of them, fancy THAT, those magicians have all sorts of tricks up their sleeves and they might have COUNTLESS numbers of balls hidden in there, hidden under their long magician sleeves. Fucking magicians. What do we do now? There's all these 'people' with 'punk' inside them, and they're all... get ready for this, children... DIFFERENT! HOLY FUCKING JESUS! DIFFERENT IDEAS OF WHAT PUNK IS! THIS CAN'T BE HAPPENING! I'M DYING! HOLD ME! And there's MORE! Ready? YOU CAN'T TELL WHOSE IDEA OF PUNK IS RIGHT!! Really? No! Really? YES! and what's more.. oh God I can feel the shock coming... THEY COULD ALL BE RIGHT!! ALL OF THEM! AT THE SAME TIME! DIFFERENT BRANCHES! SAME TERM! I FEEL FAINT! I'M PASSING OUT! I'M FALLING DOWN! I'M... You see? All the hate and the gossip is completely unnecessary. That girl who wears the "Hot Stuff" shirt isn't hurting your existence, and chickie,(thank you Rachel, for that word), that other girl with all the chains isn't killing you, either. Like to mosh? Good. Don't like to mosh? Fine. I don't care. Straightedge? Druggie? Whatever. Buy your clothes? Make your clothes? I'm clapping for you both. One of you knows how to spend money and the other's got the creative juices. Where do you shop? Don't care, don't even ask me. Don't care. Don't care. Do whatever you want, it's not my fucking life. Having said that, I'm wearing a red t-shirt, baggy jeans, black sport sandals, a silver necklace Patricia brought me from Spain, my mother's watch, six hoop earrings, and my hair is messy and down. Today someone asked me if I was 'trying to be a raver or some shit, dude'.
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