It's Monday again. I am in the library without my Images and Ideas homework, debating whether or not to go to class, again. I don't think I can do it today. I think I am going to try to finish the last two assignments and hand them in to her at six tonight in an attempt to avoid presenting them to the class. I have to make a crown of some kind that represents power.

It's freezing in the library. It's a beautiful day outside though.

By the time I go to sleep tonight I will have twelve images for my book. No matter what.

The background for my painting will be completely done by the end of the week.

By next Monday I will be totally caught up in Images and Ideas.

Hopefully I will be breathing normal by Friday.

Things will be better when this book thing makes sense.

I spilled coffee on myself, washed it off. Came back to the desk and spilled more.

Today is for being forgiving of myself. Today is for art.

This is me in the library not doing my work and thinking very seriously about not going to class.

Isn't he oh so very clever.
Monday: I'm not gay. I'm not going away.
Tuesday: I'm not gay. I'm not going away.
Wednesday: I'm not gay. I'm not going away.
Thursday: I'm not gay. I'm not going away.
Friday: I'm not gay. I'm not going away.
Saturday: I'm gay. I'm leaving.
Monday: I'm not gay. I'm not going away.
He's back and glowing with self-satisfaction. He's got a loud mouth, an engorged ego, and he's as thick as I think he is if he thinks no one listens, or that a single person with average intelligence was fooled.
And he does.
And they were.
He's a dick. He's getting exactly what he wants and makes sure everyone knows it at least once a day. It only matters to him that we read it, even if we read it because it disgusts us.
He's drama incarnate.

I need to write something for bookmaking.
I need to figure out what the hell I'm doing.
I need to pee.
I need a week of sunshine and wet paint.
I need this to work out.
I think it will.

I had an instant of an epiphany the other day that disappeared when I tried to articulate it. It left me flustered and tied in knots and strangely comforted. It's still there; I just don't know what the hell it is. Kara must have thought I went crazy. I did.

I have your bat on a chain. I would have a flock, but one will get me by.

This calm is a rare mood. I don't even mind the butterflies.

I find I usually only get the urge to post when I can't think of anything important to post about.

Alexis and I have been successfully avoiding having more then a two minute conversation since January. I call a lot and leave messages and the one time she did call me back I was in class. From what I can tell she seems really happy. I did get a thank you note from her in the mail for the baby shower gift my mother brought. She said she couldn't wait for me to come home for the summer so that we can take Gia on lots of adventures. I miss her.

The first date on the Black Clouds and Underdogs Tour is next week. Peter has ceased all posting in his numerous internet blogs. I fear it might only have a little bit to do with what I am sure is pre-tour craziness. When he posts it's usually not good. When he doesn't post it scares the crap out of me. Because the more I thought about it the more scared I got, I checked the dates and realized that he hasn't posted anything, not in the Q & A, not even a photograph, since last Tuesday or The Day Hey Chris Rained Internet Drama Down Upon Us All. I miss Peter Panda. How can I not worry about a soul so emo?

Due to my rechecking the official site a borderline crazy number of times while typing this, I was probably aware of the news update about the 16 candles video pretty much the minute it was posted. I am slow at composing though, so I am sure there is already a falloutboylove post about it. So, anyway, the video premiers on TRL on monday and the Making The Video is on that night at 6:30. Yay! I hope this isn't going to be a repeat of Monday's Cupid's Chokehold Disaster.

Do it, Whore:

1. Homework for bookmaking.
2. Put my license plates on my car.
3. Eat at some point today.
4. Go food shopping, satisfy nacho cravings.
5. Gather source images and finish sketch for painting by tomorrow night.
6. Post in LiveJournal. Often. Or at least more often.

Welcome to my effort to actually, you know, post something.

I am in a rare mood. I feel as though being productive may be a possibility. I can not immediately come up with something better to do than my work. Unfortunately I am thwarted. Jeff has my book and I can't do any of my homework for bookmaking without it. Jeff doesn't exist. I can not find him. I will gather images for painting instead while fending off the panic of not having my stuff for bookmaking done. It just goes to show that procrastination is not only inherent but unavoidable.

I also need to put my license plates on my car before the temporary ones expire and I get arrested. I think I need a socket wrench. Where do I find a socket wrench? My only thought was asking Jeff if maintenance had one I could use. Alas, no Jeff.

I need you, Jeff. I am hopeless and lost without you.

Of course, this productive mood is most likely bred of boredom, aided by the fact that Patrick is on top of the closet and I am too short to get him down. I could get a chair, but that feels like cheating. So I am sitting here blowing him kisses, because, as Kara says, I have a problem. Ooo, but Stumpy did arrive in the mail today, which makes me happy, despite the fuzzy bear suit.

Merry Christmas!

While I could say much on the events of the day, I will save that for tomorrow to avoid a post of overly excessive length.

I rolled home at 8:00 yesterday morning, after a sleepless night spent at Jen's filled with sticky contact lenses, cat allergies, mild head colds, and twisted jeans, to find my mum and Bobrob passed out in a heap of disease on the settee. Bobrob proceed to stare at us from his position on the sofa while my mother and I spent the next 6 hours wrapping, cleaning, and cooking before the family descended upon us around 2:30. My poor mum managed to work her ass off and put on the bravest face I’ve ever seen, so that while everyone knew she wasn't feeling well, no one had any idea she was practically dead and having trouble standing up straight. She was justly rewarded by Bobrob exclaiming in front of everyone that she couldn't possibly be as sick as had been complaining to be and that she was up all night whining about it for no reason other then weakness and immaturity. I can still hear her coughing her brains out downstairs right now, while the only symptom he seemed to be suffering from was couch confinement.

I suffered a fit of hysteria about 20 minutes before everyone arrived.

My mother loves bubble bath. One of last year's Christmas presents was a bottle of Origins Gloomaway Bubble Bath that I bought at Harrods. It smells like grapefruit (pamplemousse) and reminds me of both London and my mum. So, when I found it at Macy's I went a bit insane and bought a gift box full of the whole Gloomaway set that cost $87. I want gifts to be special, and when I find something perfect, I really don't mind spending that much. So. I was slightly curious as I was wrapping gifts as to why my room was beginning to smell strongly of grapefruit. It wasn't until I lifted the gift box out of the bag that I discovered that the cap of the bubble bath had popped open and because the lady had put the box in the bag sideways, the entire contents of the bottle had leaked out. (Side note: bubble bath plus maroon tissue paper equals slimy red and orange mess.)

So I called Alexis in a complete panic and convinced her to call Macy's to see if I could return the soapy, orange, pamplemousse-smelling disaster box that was my mother's expensive Christmas present, while I franticly tore apart everything I owned in search of the receipt. Lex calls back and says I can return it, but she told them I had the receipt. I do not have the receipt. The receipt is no longer on this plane of existence. I have every receipt of everything I have purchased in the last 6 months except for that one. So after I scare the crap out of my mother by sobbing uncontrollably and managing to explain to her about her ruined gift without giving away exactly what it was, I called Macy's myself. I got the same girl that Lex talked to and she also happened to be the girl that helped me the day before. I began by trying to explain that I didn't have the receipt, must have said something along the lines of "its ruined" when she freaked out and got mean.

Now, her - evil, snotty, pissed off voice of doom, me - shaky, teary, voice of accommodation and calm.
"She put me under the impression that it was only the bubble bath that needed to be replaced."
"No. She is not here. I am. It's only the bubble bath that exploded. It's all over everything. The other products, the gift box, the shopping bag, me."
"I was only going to return the bubble bath as a courtesy to you. Now you're changing you're story, now its everything. I don't have to take anything back."
Time during which i freaked out and started to cry, explained that it wasn't my fault, I hadn't even looked at it since she put it in the bag. I wasn't blaming her, I wasn't trying to make her life difficult I was just trying to see what could be done.
"Ok, could you try to do me a favor and salvage what you can? I have a set change tonight, and I really don't have time to be washing things off."
So - salvaged body soufflé and shower scrub, returning bubble bath, gift box and lip fixer in soap stained box. As she was putting those items on hold for me she goes:
"One bottle of Ginger Float."
"No. GLOOMAWAY."
"Oh. OH."
"What?"
"I see how that could happen. The top just pops open......"
YES. YES, IT DOES.

Fall Out Boy has decided that Christmas is an excellent time to screw me over. I now officially have been gifted a physical, purchased copy of "From Under The Cork Tree" because, having reached an almost insane level of obsession, I needed it. NEEDED it. So they decided, hey, let's release a special itunes-only version of the same damned album featuring TWO new remixes of Dance Dance. AVAILIBLE ONLY ON ITUNES. Luckily, I can download each song individually using the gift certificate my brother gave me. Because everyone needs "Dance Dance (Patrick Stump Secret Agent)". Who wouldn't want Dance Dance meets Inspector Gadget? I kid you not. I listened to the sample.

Also:
The foolish decision to disable right-clicking on websites with the added affront of a little message that says "PLEASE DO NOT STEAL OUR PICTURES" succeeds only in inspiring a burning hatred and intense determination the likes of which have never before been experienced. In an act of desperation against an attempt to thwart one in an epic and fruitless search for decent pictures of a man named Stump, one might be driven to measures as drastic as holding one's cursor over an image until the little disc icon pops up, allowing one to save the forbidden image to one's picture folder, in direct defiance of the afore mentioned little message box of doom. Of course I would never do such a thing. I always do what little pop up boxes tell me to do. My Patrick collection grew of its own accord. With no help from me whatsoever. Magically. Over night.

I think it might have been Santa.

So much for avoiding excessive length.

I am writing this in Notepad, to be pasted later into LJ, in the car on my way back to school. I have been building up to actually posting now for several months and figured that this was as good a time as any to start. My little battery icon is telling me that I have 33% battery left, which it claims is 25 minutes, but it lies and will probably die on me at any moment.

I saw Alexis yesterday. Seeing her is almost like stepping into another time, as though there are two of me, one that split off somewhere two years and a lifetime ago. Our lives had been so entangled for so long, and the sudden disconnection so painful, a piece of me was frozen there. Most of the time I am completely unaware of it, each state of mind existing independently of the other, then they'll cross over and confuse the hell out of me.
I'll be who I am, who I've become, and we aren't friends, she's not there, not a part of it. And then she'll call, the sound of her voice old and familiar and startling.
Or I'll be going along, believing I'm that old person, that there was never a space, being oblivious to what happened in it. Not like I have forgotten, but as though it never happened at all. But then it always surprises me how hard she hugs me, and it hits me in that moment and it makes me suddenly, painfully aware that there was a long time when we didn't know each other anymore, that she is exactly the same as she has always been, and that she no longer knows me, can't possibly know me at all. Every time we see each other and every time we part that hug is her way of telling me that she missed me, that she didn't forget about me, that she didn't mean to hurt me. She holds on like she's afraid to let go. I drive home knowing that.
It wasn't that long, but it feels like forever ago, like I'm looking back at something that was a big part of my
life twenty years ago and only now seeing the influence it had on me; sometimes we use the same facial expressions, the same odd slang, the same excited way of speaking, the same mannerisms, the same laugh. We used to live our lives to the same beat, and even apart, it continued, exactly the same. I'll glance at her and see flashes of myself.
So, I have come to this conclusion: I never want to go back. There are so many things during that time that I usually wish had never happened. I could never possibly go back to being who I was. I realize now that I didn't change slowly, over time, didn't ease into myself. I picked up my life, turned it upside down, and shook it to see what rolled out. That left a gap I didn't realize was there until just yesterday. I thought I'd left her there. I know now that I never should have doubted what I believed to be certain back when we were best friends, the first time she was pregnant, six years ago: she is always going to be part of my life, I am going to be there when her first baby is born.
I have to go back now and incorporate her into my life.
Eventually it won't be weird anymore, but for now I'm just trying to understand it.

See. This is why I shouldn't post in Livejournal. At least it's out now, and no longer spinning around in my brain like The Underwear Kaleidoscope Show.

So, anyway, she's in week 21 now. The baby is eight inches long, and she kicks all the time. I am going to pick up some baby name books and start compiling a list. She asked me for help picking something out, and I have now made it my personal mission to keep her from naming this baby "Gia".

Halfway through typing this, my battery icon told me I had 15% or 45 minutes of battery left, and then died on me. Lies, I tell you, lies.

This is a test post. So here goes. Test. TEST. testtesttesttest. Test.