odd handwriting may be a bad thing...:

Having distinctive handwriting can be a bitch. I actually worked to develop mine. I played. Experimented. I settled on the style sometime around May of last year, and haven't changed it significantly since. I write with an odd jumble of angles and curves. My a's and e's have a tendency to collapse in upon themselves. My question marks are like backwards S's, with dots beneath them. g's and y's at the end of words have curled tails, while the same letters, in the centre of words, have straight tails. Lots of little things. And no one writes the same way as I do, something not many teenage girls can say.

This gets you into trouble when you take anonymous surveys in which you have to write a section. When the person reviewing the surveys actually pays attention, and cares, at least. So, I found myself discussing my complete lack of self-worth with my French teacher, this morning, before school. She thinks it's unfounded, and I really can't argue with that. I make my own clothes, I appreciate literature, I follow my own style of dressing, I create. And she said these were good things. She also said I could write well. I suppose this is good, at least I can express my own self-loathing with some eloquence.

We talked about art, and our chosen versions of it. She writes, I talked about music. She said she'd give me a book, to try to help me appreciate my own talents, and thus feel better about myself. I agreed to try it, though I'm still skeptical. Dialogue: "Do you consider yourself an artist?" "I would if I had any talent." "Do you believe you have a talent for writing?" My reply, very fast: "No." I chastise myself for not being able to write more often than anything else I ever attempt to do.

She commented on how I use different words than most people, as well, which I thought a bit odd. I know my word choice is odd. My accent is odd, as well. They're both shaped by the things I read and listen to, the things I watch. I'm something between an American, a Brit, and a translator's interpretation of various languages. I don't talk regularly, so really that's the only thing I could be.

I don't know. Tugging at my hair (tight wet braids). Thinking and not thinking. I added a pictures section. Click the back button, or the link on the page, wherever it may be. Choose one.

Discussion before a class, with a student: "You're good with words, right? You know what they mean?" I nod. "Can you tell me what a word means? It starts with an I..." He fumbles. I watch. He sits on a desk. "What type of music do you listen to? Rock, hopefully?" I say: "I listen to anything that could even vaguely be considered rock." "Do you know the band Dash--" he fumbles again. I help: "Dashboard Confessional?" He says yes, and remembers the word, from a line in one of their songs. It was 'infidelity.' I helped him with the word, but couldn't help him with what it meant in the context of the song.

He told me a few minutes before this exchange, that I was a lot nicer when I didn't talk. Which, of course, is very true. (Oddly enough, he's another one of my minor crushes, even though I was a bit mean...)

I want more vinyl records. I want to sing more often. I want to fall in love with a fictional character of my own creation. And I'm going to stop typing now.

revoless.
8:21 p.m.
March 20, 2002.
comments? 0.

- or clothes talk, mostly

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