“No, nevermind, that would require moving.”

I was sitting in my car at four thirty in the morning Friday, half asleep listening to Elton John and trying to figure out how in the world I was going to get home that it hit me; since I didn't get drunk tonight, there's no way I am gonna get laid.

And then I was like, "Whoa, I graduated."

I still can't grasp the concept yet. Slowly it is setting in. Something tells me if I stop showing up at school my brain will finally get the idea. No more fourth hour, no more Locker Fest, no more having my mom call me out of Econ... or math... or... anything. If I don't want to go to class from now on, no one's gonna stop me.

No more Thursday lunch runs where we'd try to introduce Mr. Bach to a healthier alternative to crap. No more witty banter with Mary in attendance when I would have my mom call me out mid-day because I had an "appointment". I won't have to fake cough anymore (though, near the end, I couldn't even be bothered and she knew it). I'm probably not gonna see Carson again, or Kim, or that really gross guy who sat two seats down from me in math. I won't have to sit through morning announcements and laugh at all of Ollie’s really lame jokes. I won’t have to sneak around security when I leave to get Oh!s at Ben’s house with him and Sky, I never made out in the dark room, and I won’t ever have the privilege of hearing, “We’re in pre-show, people.” Come out of Mr. Bush’s mouth again.

The last time I heard him say that, I was waiting in a cap and gown in the gym trying to get it into my head that I wasn’t gonna ever come back to this place (you know, the gym at least. Please.), but nothing was working until someone asked Mr. Bush what time it was. “7:08,” he said, “We’re in pre-show, people.” I let out a shrill laugh; half out of nervousness, half because that simple phrase almost made me sick to my stomach knowing that would probably be the last time he ever said it in my presence. I don’t wanna get all Amanda on you, but it made me really sad.

The senior breakfast was a joke. It was like everyone I ever really hated (except for that one junior kid) together in one room and then five hundred pictures of Melissa Pilley with the same facial expression, just different hair. And two of Krista.

OK, I don’t hate all of the senior class, just most of it.

The actual graduation ceremony was boring, not that I expected it to be spectacular. I mean, even The Oscars are boring and they always have a good host. We just had Mrs. Pollack, our uptight principal. And gosh, is she fake. She needs to loosen up, have some fun, get jiggy with it. I bet she could be fun. In fact, I bet she used to be fun. She’s pretty cute now, so I can only imagine the siren she used to be. Pollack, what happened?

The only good speech given was Gibboni’s. It reminded me of the speech I would have given if I had had the opportunity or, ah, the grades. Daniel Thai’s was interrupted by beach balls that were quickly taken away by administration. I’m not sure what happened after that- I was too busy text messaging people.

Grad Night at Cracker Jax was roach infested (and I’m not just talking about the kids who were there), but I did win a Starbucks gift card, which is good seeing as how that’s the only place I can buy coffee now. To make up for the four hundred dollars I spent to get into the place, I took a few party favors, including, but not limited to, about 10 water bottles, the “Private Party” wooden sign, the balloons attached to it, and an alien dude compliments of Mrs. Sedor. Feeling fulfilled, I headed off with Jason to Xenia’s party in the middle of nowhere.

I was greeted by a friend as soon as I walked into the house, already drunk and delighted that I finally showed up. She was surrounded by people I knew, but won’t name for fear that I will be dead before my next blog. High school might be over, but anyone can look in a phone book.
“HEY. HEYYyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!” one of the guys I knew blocked my way inside the house, “Are YOU twenty-one? Because I am not twenty-one, and I am piss drunk!”
“Yeah, I know. I can tell,” I nudged him out of the way and he laughed this maniacal, crazy ass, scary laugh and grabbed a hold of another person so that he didn’t fall over. I brushed past them into this sea of groping, dancing, stumbling, and sweaty bodies swaying to a bad rap song.
“You’re late!” a regular party go-er greeted me and pointed to their near empty beer cup.
“Yeah, yeah,” I said opening my Aquafina.
“I don’t even care,” said the drunk kid who looked like someone had stepped on his shirt or smudged it with lord only knows what. He swaggered a little and reached for my shoulder, “The only thing I care about is that I got laid.” He nodded for emphasis.
“That’s nice,” I said, unsure why he was letting me know. He poked my arm, hard as he went on babbling incoherently. I nodded my head to show I understood, then removed his hand from my shoulder and gave it back to him, “Thank you for telling me.”
He gave me sort of a half assed solute as I walked away to the kitchen for oil wrestling, which could have been more interesting if the girls were drunk enough to take off their tops. However, it was two AM and the only alcohol left was stuff some girl I knew but never talked to was trying to sell for three bucks a bottle. Ben, who came in his Pink Floyd pajamas, bought one.
“Fuck,” he told me as he dug into his pocket for the money, “I need something.”
I held up my water bottle, “Let me know if you need a ride.”
It was Ben, so naturally, after I said this he replied, “Oh, I will let you know if I need a ride,” and went back to the oil wrestling.

"That’s adorable,” Jason said as I took another sip of water, “Your little Aquafina bottle. I think we’re the only ones not drinking.”
I looked around and observed everyone I ever knew ever from middle school and high school, including past alumni back for the summer months and that Brazillian from my math class. “I think so too,” I replied as this kid I remember from seventh grade English walked by with a beer bottle in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He was uglier than I remembered him; acne scars stretching across his face, maybe he was a little pudgier, but amazingly, he was the same height- just inches shorter than me.

After standing in the kitchen watching the oil festivities, I realized I myself had oil all over my shirt, so I ventured off to a hall bathroom to clean up. There I witness a girl who rarely came to my English class and some jock showering together while a girl who was in my Spanish class junior year went tinkle. All with the door open. I decided that seeing all of this made my night complete, so we left the party soon after. Also, Vomit Girl was doin’ her thang and I knew we had to leave soon after because we had about three minutes until she became Crying Girl and I’ve had nine months of that and I didn’t feel like sticking around.

The parties better be kick ass in college or I’ll have nothing to write about.

Quote of the day:
I used them all in my blog. Sorry folks.

“I think I look cute!”

“It’s always you guys with all the teen angst who cry the most,” Holden told me as I sat teary eyed in her classroom after school Friday while taking the English final; the last one of my high school career, the one I was late for this morning because I overslept. Again.

I would have argued with her because I don’t consider my warped and cynical sense of humor as angst, but I thought I’d said enough this year and she was doing me a favor by letting me take the final, so I kept quiet and kept filling in my little bubbles.

Friday was a weird day. I think I cried through 75 percent of it. Kids who’d never seen me make any sort of facial expression probably thought I’d lost it. I wasn’t even sure what the salty discharge was coming from my eyes. For the first hour, I was so confused. Then someone said, “Oh, you’re crying.” Crying? Is that what this is? By the end of fourth hour it didn’t even look like I was wearing make up anymore.

Friday was the last official day of my high school career, the first time I’d ever gotten into a car accident, and the official kick off to summer, and in turn, the kick off to the rest of my life.

OK, enough of that shit. I think I might throw up after that last line.

It’s been nice hanging out and not doing a damn thing. I’m catching up on my sleep, eating everything in sight, and writing my fanny off. If I don’t want to do something, I don’t. It’s just that simple. I think my mom will allow this to continue for another week, and then she’s gonna make me do something productive like get a job of some sort. What a pain.

Hold up. Car accident? What?

Yeah, but it wasn’t major or anything. I was all overly upset and having just about the worst day ever since I’d started high school, and I was in a parking lot pulling out and bam! Blue truck out of nowhere! Not too exciting, but enough to get me to start crying all over again. What a bother. Now my tail light is cracked.


Jason models for us.

And don’t be fooled. Even though you see those cute little insurance commercials where the insurance agent is laughing at how adorable it is that the new driver smashed into a car twice (in one minute! ::cue look and giggle::); they ain’t laughing in real life. They don’t think it’s so damn funny. It’s nothing like that. They don’t care that your car is barely scratched and that it was a tiny, tiny accident. They’re pretty pissed that they could be watching Dr. Phil and instead they’re helping your sorry ass because even though you never wanted to believe your friends when they told you that you were a horrible driver, apparently it’s true. Now pay up, because you’re the majority. Bitch.

However, after all of the crying and craziness, I had fun, and if every night is as good as Friday night, summer’ll be just fine.

I’m so exhausted (despite all of the sleeping I’ve done) you have no idea, so I can’t make this post funny. I’m completely out of it right now. I think I’m gonna nap.

Seriously. I’m making up for lost time here. I haven’t slept since I was eight.

Quote of the day:
Alison: “Awww! Do you need a kiss? I’ll kiss you!”
Mike White: “I will watch you kiss her.”
- Newspaper on Friday when I was crying

“I take it back. You’re not less cynical.”

With three days to go, I have officially stopped caring about school. Ever since I learned that I didn’t need my math class to graduate, life’s been pretty damn easy. I literally went into my third hour teacher today and said, look, I don’t need this class to graduate, so while everyone sits around pretending to do the study packet, I’m going to be productive and flirt with Mrs. Murphy- Tick's aid (Note to readers: Flirting is easier in knee highs. Half the job is done for you. What is the male’s fascination with knee highs, anyway?). My teacher merely blinked and said, “But math is life as Jesus is to Christianity” so I said in reply, “I don’t care. I’m a writer. And Jewish.”

Walking along to sixth hour today (spent… mostly in the black box. Weird.) I was approached by some kid I never even knew I had the class with (he musta been a tech guy).
“So, uh, you do announcements now?” he asked me all jittery like. I thought he was talking to Ben, who I then realized was no longer walking next to me because I assume he saw Hanna and/or some other hot girl and had to follow their trail.
“Yep,” I said. I would have been more enthusiastic but this kid kinda resembled Pugsley from The Adams Family.
“You write it yourself? You uh, you write for the paper, too, don’t you?”
“I write for the paper, but no, I don’t write the announcements.” But if I did, people would watch them. I assure you that.
“So you like, just read them?”
“Pretty much,” I said.
“Do they only let the pretty girls read announcements?”
I laugh for two reasons, A. Because yay. Someone thinks I’m pretty or is at least willing to pretend they think that in exchange for sex and B. because even though I’m not hit on often, I’m picky and this kid isn’t getting any mercy action from me. When I finish doing the cute giggle crap I say, “That’s what my boyfriend asked me, too.”
“Oh, who’s your boyfriend?” he asks.
I suck at lying, but I’m ok as long as I don’t have to look at the person while I do it. So as I casually check my bag for my water bottle I say, “James Cagney.”
I look up to see the kid thinking, “He’s a junior right?”
“No,” I shake my head as he holds the black box door open for me, “he’s graduating this year.”

My mom read the blog about hoping to get raped when I go out late, so now I’m not allowed to visit the store after ten. I’m guessing this will last about as long as it takes her to run out of printer paper at some ungodly hour; forcing me out into the night to buy some Bright White.

Regular Quote of the Day:
“Would I be frightened?”
- Ben debating whether or not he would sleep with Skylar.

Poignant quote of the day, kinda:
TheCub05: you better not be writing
ShopGirlLA: I am.

“You seem less cynical… to me at least.”

Why I Won’t Miss North Canyon Reason four hundred and ninety two.
The Security.

By now, everyone knows I like to make an entrance, so I’m always fashionably late to everything. Yesterday however, I was three minutes shy of garnering a parking space in the popular (former) Senior Lot. It was seven thirty on a Thursday and there wasn’t a single space. It was ridiculous. Even that one space in the corner that about three people can get into because of the way they positioned the pole was taken. I was in shock. So off I go to the visitors parking spaces (because screw you school rules, I’m a senior!) when security stops me. They are such a pain in my ass. I can’t even cough without some short, fat little man in a baseball cap (really, what’s with the baseball caps?) asking me something like “Don’t you have class?”. I have lots of class, actually, thank you.
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” I shout except it sounds more like, “I just have to tell my English teacher I’ll be late, that’s why I’m parking here.” Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. And I am a pretty bad liar.
“I’ll just take your ID then,” the smug bald security guard says to me as he shoves his nose high into the air and extends his (probably filthy) hand. He’s feeling really good about himself right now because he was a nothing in high school and girls treated him like dirt when he began losing his hair at fifteen. In high school he was a loser who never had the right shoes and used to wish he could be the next Donny Osmond because even though Donny Osmond was Mormon, he got a lot of chicks (and his hair was fantastic). He feels really powerful now that he wears the black polo that says STAFF on it. Yeah, now that he finally has a steady (ish) job he can go to his thirtieth high school reunion and not lie about what he does for a living (he lied when he worked at Circle K). Now he rides around in his own little golf cart, sunglasses on, wind in his… scalp, racing with the chubby guy in the John Deere who doesn’t really do any landscaping at all around the school. I’ve seen him running around the parking lot; I don’t think he’s mowing the tar out there.
I handed the loser my newspaper ID as I mumbled things under my breath that I will leave up to your imagination. I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
I wasn’t going to even go back out there, but after telling Holden about the incident, I actually did move Jack (my car) to the junior lot which is located just twenty miles south of where my school actually is.
I ended up moving it fourth hour back to the senior lot. The thought of it in Egypt killed me.

Funny thing is, security was mad that I parked in the visitors spot for about five minutes, but when four teenage girls are defacing a teacher’s car (during a class hour) that’s perfectly fine! Dandy! Go right on ahead! Sure, I’ll take a picture for you! What a clever idea!

They couldn’t have cared less as Skylar, Kelsey, Alison, and I wrote all over Mr. Bach’s car with car chalk. They would drive over and say;
Security: “Uh… what are you doing?”
The Four of us, very nonchalant and cool: “Decorating Mr. Bach’s car.”
Alison: “It’s our banquet tonight!”
Security: “Oh. :Pause: Does Mr. Bach know?”
The Four of us, very nonchalant and cool: “Yeah.” (Complete lie by the way.)
Security: “All right.”

I even got one of the security guards (the only nice one) to take a picture with me. Granted, it’s a terrible picture of both of us, but it was a moment.

So parking in a visitors’ spot: Nishe Nishe, but defacing a teacher’s car: totally OK.

It’s good to see where their priorities are.

And the best part about writing all over Bach’s car? Finding out he’d be too busy to wash it for a few days.

Speaking of Bach and fourth hour;
Why I’ll miss North Canyon reason one

Newspaper.
I don’t think anyone, not Bachey, not Cooper, maybe Ben, Sky, and Lil’ A simply because we’re family, but not really anyone else, will ever in a million years know what this class meant to me. Ever. Words can’t describe the sadness I feel because I have to leave it. It’s the one single place in all of North Canyon that I truly feel comfortable. I love the black box, don’t get me wrong; but just like Amanda’s passion is the stage, my passion is writing. Even Mr. Bush’s writing class began taking place in the newspaper room and to me that just kind of said, all right, this is where I need to be. It sounds stupid to you, maybe, if you don’t have newspaper or writing with me, but I guess this part of the post is a tribute to those who do. Thank you guys for everything, much remains unsaid.

Quote of the day:
“Rae, are you proposing?”
- My question to Rae as she was going all Renee Zelwegger on Mr. Bach at the banquet.

“No, I can tell by the way he walks.”

I went to the store again last night (12:30 AMish) by myself in hopes of some guy attacking me in the parking lot so I’d have to beat him down with my Dooney and Burke. My hair would be flying in that sexy, helpless way as I pulled all of my best Buffy moves on him (or her, I’m not picky at this particular point in time) and I expertly darted their counter punches. Only when I returned home (safe and sound, save for my sprained wrist which I would keep in a beautiful Chanel sling for approximately two weeks) would I notice that my skirt had been slit drastically up my leg during the fight to save my life (and my virginity). I would decide that I liked the slit and I’d wear the skirt more often when I went to the store by myself.

But yet, no one is attacking me. I don’t get it. Why haven’t I been raped? I’m starting to think that maybe there’s something wrong with me. I mean, aren’t I rapeable? I don’t run very fast (I’ve always been a sprinter), my teeth are straight now (gap free is the way to be), and my hair is, well, let’s face it, perfection, so what’s the deal here? I’d be an easy catch, literally, because like I said, running is not my strong point and I’m not usually in sneakers.

Maybe it’s because of what I’m buying? Are apples and chocolate milk not sexy enough? Should I ditch the green tea for some cucumbers or bananas? Should I start buying People again? I just don’t know what I’m doing wrong.

I guess I'll just have to settle for Ben during fourth hour. He's my only option. I mean usually I tell him to stop touching me, but I'll take what I can get now.

Quote of the day:
Anthony Llanos: “Which do you like better? Bacon or steak? For sure bacon is better for your taste buds than steak. Mmmmmmm. Bacon.”
- Anthony to me in math class. He meant every word.

“Use it as a ruler!”

I took the SATs again this Saturday (I wanted to take it with the new writing portion because I’m a word whore like that) at Scottsdale Christian Academy. For years I had gone to school at the temple across the street and had been jealous of all the little girls in their little school uniforms jumping out of their mother’s SUVs without kissing them goodbye before trotting off to first hour Bible Studies. I’d watch from afar, but I’d never stepped foot on the campus. I used to think it was against my religion to even look in the general direction of a Christian person. Well, Saturday, all of that changed.

SCA is the kind of school that leaves it’s Christmas decorations up all year. I have never in my life seen so many Jesus posters in one room before. Ever. “JESUS: KING OF THE JEWS” one poster read. Well, I thought, at least they admit it. “REMEMBER YOUR VALUES” the writing on the board reminded me, “God (Jesus), Education, others, ourselves, property, the law”. A prayer box was located at the front of the room right next to the drawing Megan S. did of Jesus holding a butterfly. And then, I'm looking around reading about "Taking the high road, with Jesus" (which is plastered on every wall in sparkly hand made glitter posters) and making that into my own little marijuana joke, when I look up at the ceiling and there, in splendid glory, are two big ass crucifixes. I kid you not. I actually gasped when I saw them. Then I took a picture. They were actually kind of comforting in a Kathy Lee Gifford sort of way. Man, I love her, but not as much as Kelly. I later found out it was a math classroom.

I felt kind of... saved. I also felt the need to shout I AM JEWISH! as loud as I could until I saw (to my great relief) Sasha, a Jewish friend, bounding in with a sack lunch, layers, and a Camp Pearlstein t-shirt (oh, the irony). “Hey Ho-bag!” she shouted to me as she walked into the room.
“I can’t believe you just said that in a room of G0d,” I shook my head at her. She just shrugged. That’s why I love Sasha.

After the SATs I felt like playing field hockey, but instead I went to see Thoroughly Modern Millie at Gamage. Maybe next week.

Quote of the day:
“You should be a glory hole girl!”
- Mike to me during newspaper

"What's wrong with Jonathan Taylor Thomas?"

I’m eighteen now. I kind of feel like it too, if only because I’m not wearing braces anymore AND I can go out on my own. Score.

Other than that, I feel pretty much the same. I’ve been a bit lightheaded lately due to some medication I’m on, so school’s been hell. I don’t know how stoners do it. I’ve had to really pay attention to everything lately so that I can make sense of it. I haven’t had a lucid moment since last week, so I apologize for the blog you’re reading now.

I kept my birthday pretty quiet this year. Celebrating with my family (and later, Bri) instead of having a party or anything like that. I’m not used to keeping my birthday small. I’m Jewish, meaning birthdays are usually a month long celebration (because the oil lasted longer than expected) that your friends don’t understand and your parents overdo. It really is only the Jews who get crazy for birthdays. My other friends say things like “Yeah, I had my birthday. I had a few friends over. They bought me socks.” And you talk to a Jew and it’s like, “Well, after we came back from Paris, my parents showed me the new beemer!”

And we wonder why people hate us.

Alas, for the big one- eight, I let it come and go without many people knowing. Although, I admit, I did bring in cupcakes for my fourth hour class and yes, we did enjoy them.

In sixth hour playwrighting class with Ben and Lil’ A (which now takes place in Mr. Bach’s room), we’re trying to come up with a twelve scene play, which is next to impossible for these reasons;
- I procrastinate.
- Ben procrastinates.
- Lil’ A procrastinates.
- Mr. Bach’s striking good looks distract us.

It’s all too much really and now Mr. Bush is requiring that we work together as a team. He thinks I’m motivated and that I’ll do the other two boys well in helping them finish their work too. To tell you the truth, I haven’t been motivated to do much of anything since about, oh, I’d say sophomore year. We’ll pull this together though, someway. Probably the day before it’s due.

Other than that, school is pretty much winding down so there is nothing to report. Everyone has just been really boring and nostalgic-ey lately, myself included, though I’m not as bad as some of these people who have been crying since March. I can’t believe the year is almost over.

Prom was last weekend too, which I almost completely forgot. My night was pretty dull. I didn’t get laid or drunk, but I did look pretty. Honestly, if I don’t get some creepy forty year old men e-mailing me because of my prom pictures, I am going to be very disappointed.

I promise you a good blog between now and sometime in the near future.

Quote of the day:
“Don’t party all in one weekend. Spread it out.”
- Holden on partying.