On April 5th I will have been writing here for a year. I find this to be positively wild. I've never kept an online journal for over six months, before. And I don't even see myself leaving this one for a long while.
My class filled out a survey for my French teacher, today. She's doing a project, about how teachers should be more involved with their students, and base their curriculum on the kids, instead of their schedules. During the written part, at the end, I had to explain how my views of society, self, and my grades have changed since I've been in her class, or why they haven't, if they haven't. So, I found myself explaining that all people and cultures are wonderful and fascinating, and I've always thought so. I found myself explaining that I have an inexplicable deep-seeded self-hatred, that can't be reached by anyone, and therefore cannot really be changed. I found myself explaining that my grades are basically the same, because I've always done well in school (effortlessly), when I do my work. And that I do not do my work, sometimes, because I feel I do not deserve a grade (see self-worth issue).
It doesn't tell the whole story though. I feel much more comfortable in her class, than I do in most. In some classes the teachers even commit racist actions, and yell at people for asking questions, which she doesn't do and arbors in others. But. Yeah. Always fun to reflect on your own views of the world, and then not be able to explain, at all, why you despise yourself. Makes me feel like I was less helpful than I could be. Which is bad, because I do adore the teacher...
I think I'm going to make a new layout for this thing soon. (Please excuse the complete lack of continuity there, I stopped to peel an orange, and my thoughts are plodding along in a rather slow, disjointed manner.)
I feel like I am only flawed because I'd like to be, but that my liking to be flawed is a huge flaw in itself, making my flawed nature inevitable. Repeat the cycle ad nauseum. (Gotta love those tight little circles...)
I looked ridiculous last night. Cheeks almost hot pink, eyes in purple, lips bright red. I wore a purple feather boa, with sparkles interspersed with the feathers. It was nice. Something I should do more often.
The night before I went skating. My dancing. Feeling and expressing music. Staff members still remember me. I shocked one of the guys who worked there, because I apparently hadn't come in since before December of 2000, and I had veryveryvery long hair then, and now I don't. He said short hair wasn't me. I agreed. I need my veil back. Like Veronica, the face of Christ. (Old association, don't ask me to explain, it's not entirely logical.)
I like that I'm known there, though. Skating is one of those things that I really enjoy. My mother is part of my claim to fame there, though. She's been recognised after over a decade of not being seen, purely because she skates like no one else, ever. She has her own style. I do as well, to a point. My wheels are too tight to be really individual about things, though. (We will be asking people there to loosen my trucks, though, next time, so things should be fun, if I don't fall on my ass.)
This is getting long, and I'm sure I've bored the hell out of everyone. So. Yes.
revoless.
3:42 p.m.
March 18, 2002.
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