22/05/2002 - 4:09 p.m.

Between the heaves of storm.

Maintenent, ecoutez a ca. Je dois faire le project finale pour le francais cinq. J'ai recu le project hier, j'ai lui donner le project, et une presentation, demain. Il s'agit de le Provance et beaucoup de ouvres (je pense que c'est le mot, mais je ne sais pas) de Picasso et Van Gogh et je pense un autre. Je sais que ce n'est pas tres difficile, mais, c'est long, and je prefer que je n'ai pas beaucoup de choses a faire, et donc, je n'aime pas faire tout le project ce soir. Je pense que Kally a le project plus facile, faire uune brochure de Provance pour le classe, et elle a en voyage l'ete passe. Euh, je ne sais pas. Ce n'est pas juste, mais, c'est la vie.

OK, sorry, had to babble at myself in French for a little while. Sometimes, I can feel myself translating in my head (so that I end up thinking French that never makes it out into the world) and the best way to stop me doing that (because, personally, it drives me nuts) is to write it down.

I woke up this morning convinced it was Friday. Really and truly convinced. You have no idea what a let down it was, then, to learn that, oh no, it was only Wednesday. Yeah.

As a side note, I don't think I like Van Gogh. I just found one of his pictures that my grandparents have a print of. I always thought it was something they got out of a magazine, you know, one of those old time-y magazine illustrations. They're OK to look at, but any idiot with a paint set could probably do it. Now, I guess I don't really know enough about art to be too judgemental, I'm not Sister Wendy or anything (take that for the joke it's meant to be, she's one strange little old nun), but, well, that ceases to impress me.

Everbody's expected to show up to graduation and to the senior party. They're hoping that sometime they'll make 100% attendence. Nope. Sorry. Graduation's would be a total waste of my time, and senior party comes right after it. I still say senior party is a huge joke- you go to school at 10:30 and they lock you in and don't let you out until 5:00 the next morning. I'm sorry, but that seems extraordinarily loser-y to me. Yeah, I wanted so bad to get the hell out of here that I can't wait to come back and stay here for seven hours. You're expected to play with all your senior friends- seniors I'm friends with? Ah, yeah, all one of them.

I want to get out of school and stay there forever. I enjoy the fence. I think I'll stay there for the rest of my life, looking down both sides and not really being a part of either.

This is such a bad note to leave my diary on. I'm going to have to shut down for the summer, seeing as I'll be gone for three months and I don't really want to pay to use the Internet at camp, and I'd like to make some of the entries interesting. Ah well.

I feel Emily Dickinson-ish today. Not Marn Emily Dickinson-ish, but just a rather sad, poetic melencholy. The title to the entry comes from one of her poems I heard a fly buzzed when I died- Mr. Pfander wants it read at his funeral, well, at least, that's what he says, sometimes it's hard to tell with him how serious he is. However, it's almost scary how we've got the same taste in poetry: ee cummings and Emily Dickinson and Robert Frost and everything. How often do a teenaged girl and a 55-60-something old guy have the same taste in literature?

It seems really silly to say this, but I miss that class a lot, it's been the thing I've missed most about this year, and really, it's up there with the shows and the show choir show for things I'll miss about Roosevelt. I've said before that I'd like to marry somebody who'd end up like him, a sort of smart, funny old guy with good sense. I could write jokes and things into my papers that he would just understand. It was fun to write papers for him because he actually seemed to give a damn about them. Mr. Dingo doesn't. He just writes one point less than perfect scores (for some reason, it's impossible to get all the possible points on papers, but he won't tell you why) on them and hands them back. Give me comments and advice, you jackass.

Sometimes, it's very hard to beleive my horoscope.