Merry Christmas

Hell for your heart is when a hero dies. Not expires, but disappoints. The person goes on living but the concept is no more. The power goes out in your soul forever, it seems. And then there are those moments afterward when you try and revive her, try and attribute that last broken camel-back event as a surreal dream. An old woman frantically climbing stairs, dirty rosary beads draped over one arthritic claw of a hand. Her elephant skin slung around bones, holier than the blood itself. But you know. It's just you now. Alone.

And I've watched from a distance, seen you thrive in your environment, seen you make your surroundings one with yourself. I've tried to work that into my own persona, but the variables have changed. I question myself, you are completely confident, completely happy. You aren't loud about it, your song is quiet, but saturated with relevance and art. Every fiber struck gold in your manufacture. Your golden flow just makes me emphasize my own flaws.

My Newfoundland

The whole town is chasing December and impatience is on the sweatshirt strings of all so anxious to shed them for winter coats. I am heavy with the task of producing my own caffeine for the day and don't notice much else. Where's the snow? Where are the goosebumps as I undress. That trembling I've grown into? Where's waking up to my father making breakfast to Pat Metheny on Saturday morning while the roads are being cleared? It's been post-poned and we have nothing but sticky humidity to stew in.

I thought about him while shaving my legs in the shower, drizzling conditioner over my legs like gasoline on dry logs. I thought about him and his pout when I joked to him about his hairless chest. It was a soft spot, like his solar plexus was to his heart. He made music sound more triumphant and sunlight sweeter and calculus tolerable without even being there. He was the ray of heat in the microwave defrosting my cold stares.

My heart fluttered out of my chest, through my esophagus, and into the foggy world. I saw him as I rounded Lap 4, chest heaving 7 feet out/7 feet in, mucus in my lungs, anvils strapped to my knees. I took his grin into consideration and 2 more laps wasn't so bad. Wouldn't you know, I was finished 10 seconds sooner that last week. That's one thing to be happy about.

One of many, I'm finding out every day. Which is totally ruining my arrogant, unsympathetic teenager look by the way. I find myself speaking more than when spoken to, smiling at strangers in the dog park, so frequently that I didn't notice Henry getting frisky with a 200 pound Newfoundland. Dream big, I guess.

He was my Newfoundland. Just... not as heavy.

Italians Love Walmart.

I love Thanksgiving.

During this weekend in late November, my Thanksgiving is spent surrounded by Italians who are forever nursing the "When in Doubt, Make Pasta" philosophy. Surprisingly enough, I am comforted by the casual yelling, the chaotic 8:5 kid to adult ratio, the endless questions of "Are you hungry? Would you like twelve more meatballs?" Maybe this is only born of the fact that I've been around it my whole life. Otherwise, how could one explain my tolerance of my huge Italian family, which unsurprisingly enough, pure-blood Irish Dad can't handle?

My greatest regret is that after seventeen years of being submersed in this language, I still have not picked it up. My immigrant grandparents sport a mix of English and Italian when they speak, the production of four decades in the states. I can understand the general concepts but everything else is a big Italian blur. Instead I focus on the braccioli, italian stuffing, cannolis, granita, and home made espresso. So good.

"Dobbiamo andare a Walmart per ottenere tomato sauce piu, perche abbiamo persone troppi per alimentare."

What's worse is my grandfather's incessant need to yell at me in a language I do not understand in the least. I doubt he could keep himself from such disapproval if I was Gandhi. 

Despite the circumstances I derive comfort in high-stress holidays. I even enjoy the airport.

^^ sample from yesterday.

I'm not Naive Enough to Say I've Won

Stuck in solitary this weekend, so here goes.

It went on like that for 14 minutes... we both stood opposite each other and took turns flicking on and off the light switch.

"It's 2pm, why do you want the lights off," I screamed at him. It felt like I was calling down a long tunnel, on the other end of which he was standing.

Every couple of switches I punched him in the chest for good measure. An 18 wheeler cascading down the tunnel. I didn't want to hurt him but  I had run out of ways to show him that I care. If a fist to the breast plate was the only way to revive his crashed web pages then so be it.

Every time I turned them on another memory of us came to light in my head: the kayak in the Appalachians, badminton in the backyard over a torn net, tutoring me in math late, late at night. All burning up with the bulb filaments. If only he could direct his anger at his fear of success, instead of at me. My biggest fear was that he would mistake my anger for the fact that I didn't care about him anymore.

Eventually I just took the bulbs out of the overhead lights and hid them under my bed with the rest of my inhibitions.

Mercy Killing

After all, is it so awful to replace a lack of skill with discipline, with perseverance, with raw power? More admirable, sure, but is it the same? No. Of course not. If that was true anyone who showed the least bit of effort would get everything they ever wanted. Perseverance is enormously important, but so is succeeding.

Annual legality debates in English class. Ugh.

Which are justifiable? (The ones I said yes to are bolded, but remember to read my disclaimer below)

1. Capital Punishment
2. Abortion
3. Revenge for murder of a family member
4. Mercy killing
5. War
6. Treason
7. Human experimentation to find cures
8. Eliminating a harmful person in society
9. Killing an intruder in one's home
10. Eliminating an unproductive member of society

 I try to force every fiber of my being into justification of abortion when I think all murder is evil. What about war? And mercy killing? Can murder be necessary but still damnable? That's just unfair. At the end, I'm just left confused and poorly graded for lack of participation. I try to blame others but I know it's my fault. If given all the time on the planet, I would not be able to organize my thoughts on this subject in a succinct yet coherent if-then statement.

All I'm left with is a disclaimer:

"All of this DEPENDS and I'm only answering because I'm being forced." bratty. and evasive.

Also my "Murder is justifiable when..." statement goes a little something like this. Notice how it doesn't even start with "Murder is justifiable when...":

"Any instance of killing and its justification (or lack thereof) depend on the situation AND ONLY this situation (cannot be influenced by past situations, however similar) and must be decided by all and only those involved."

Why can't I get off this fence? Hopefully I'll be able to make up my own mind before I die. Or before I decide to murder someone.

I'm waiting for this to happen to the world.

This Cloud Above Me

Horror movies don't scare me. They used to. They used to give me awful nightmares. Cold, sweaty, jerky nightmares. I never screamed though. I woke up silently, so no one came to comfort me. It was sick irony. Like a flower that can only thrive in the Winter. Or a miscarriage.

But now I sleep. I realize that each artificial Hollywood sequence is devised within a set of uniquely bullshit circumstances, and my own life is too fucked to accommodate them, so there's nothing to fear. It's a hollow reality I exist in, not one of wet and exciting plot lines. It only scares the viewer, never the character.


Her face rises to show eyes squinting. Ink black hair whipping around her head in the wind. Fat drops of sweat wander down her skin like rats leaving a sinking ship. They mix with the rain. Tongue slips out between chapped lips and jaw expands, clenches, releases. She imagines her teeth shattering into a million pieces and getting stuck in her throat. Somehow that would be better than going on. She sinks back into the grass, glistening in the dark moonlight. The rain is over now. Sweat becomes one with the dew and she is entangled in her own despair, guitar solo echoing around her addled brains. Nothing compares with the amped snow. And the Stardust.

Page Break

I don't think one can be driven crazy. You cannot get in your car and drive to crazy. The street you're driving is the crazy itself. One who is crazy has always been crazy. Insanity only lies dormant in the brain. Insanity can be awoken, not driven to. And another thing: everyone is crazy. You see flickers of when crazy awakes, as if it is a child who has been roused for half a moment before turning back over into slumber. One split second of unhinged rage. Assured: "You're not crazy; you're just oddly specific in your intentions."

"Tell me you love me," Crazy says. "Give me the world that is already mine and I'll go away," Crazy says. But such cancers of the brain are never truly satisfied.

Ugh I have such a gummie bear craving right now.

The Indoor Girls

Dear Indoor Girls,

Your mother claims twins, smugness hiding under her dark circles. I wonder about insemination. I wonder about the validity of twins even; you could not be more different. Well, actually, you both like pretzels. That's a start.

But even I like pretzels, and there's no one like me. No one like me anywhere in the world.

The toddlers scream at the sudden realization of mom's disappearance. Of course she comes sprinting back. This repeats, every time she gets a little farther - like suicide drills in gym class. "Not my problem. Not my problem until she leaves," I think.

Ignored her warning about getting them mixed up. "She gets the purple cup, and she gets the pink." Short, brief, as if labeling boxes. I wonder if they would grow to detest being assigned these colors. How could anyone make such an oblivious mistake and confuse these girls. Splash of red hair on one, dominance, crude innocence is one tiny tongue poking out as eighteen months of motor skills reach for a sticky picture book. Only one sock. I'd love to be back at the point in my life where I wouldn't notice if I had only one foot socked.

Angelic is the other. Beautiful wispy blonde hair frames blue eyes. No distraction is required. She sits and just watches. Everything. I swear, her eyes got bigger every minute. She is perfectly symmetrical. She walks gently, tentatively, as if the polished wooden floor will break like ice bergs if her feet make a sound. I imagine she is so quiet because she's afraid of not being able to hear the sound of her own breathing.

Mom titters about home improvement. Lesson one in white suburban mother chatter. I think the only way to improve her home is paying more attention to her children. Hell, I've been with them for four hours and they've shown me more of a personality then she ever will.

I still like boys better.

The River

We are struck, we recover. Our injuries are only broken strings. Snapped, the chords are corrupt and wavering. Replaced, they sing. But the strings are big, almost 5 and a half feet tall and big enough to fit my shoes.

Your strings play off beat and the melodious nonconformity dances and plucks. A twang: that broken, fractured, slice. That bitch of a 4 count. When one person is over-glorified so much and so many times in my mind that if they get too close my heartbeat goes through my chest and my river of blood overflows its banks. So far deserved, I reassure, but am blind to any flaw.

I have to post this before it starts sounding stupid when flowed back through my own eyes.

What Showers are For

Because God knows we all do our best thinking in the shower, letting the droplets wash away any satanic thoughts that have compounded themselves in our brain stems. Hair is rooted to our heads so it doesn't fall down into the drain with the rest of our dead inhibitions, tucked into the pipes with all other wickedness. I wonder if that's why rats are so evil - because they lurk in the pipes and catch all our awful fascinations. They grow fat with perversion, with lust and rage and sticky heat.

Some are hung onto more than others

"Why do I always think of the best comeback after the argument is over?"
"He deserved what he got."

Rats are only misunderstood. Judged too harshly. So are cancer cells and the end of summer and stepping out of comfort zones. Perhaps rats are our gods.

Future Improvement

She gave me these really bright white shoes for my birthday. She said "Avery, I'll let you figure out the colors in your life." It stuck out in my mind because my family hadn't even remembered my birthday that year. They didn't notice that I continued to wear the white shoes for a few years after that either. Every summer the sneakers would get smaller and I would get high with my cousin out by the cemetery. By the third August he could blow perfect smoke rings and they would float round the necks of the spirits who came out of their beds to watch our veiny red eyes. Adam's cutoffs and relaxed fingers suggested he had forgotten about his dad but the shadows under his eyebrows told otherwise. Still I didn't say a word about it. Things were better when Adam wasn't angry.

Once during July, I could swear his hair was blonder than usual - or maybe it was just the back lighting from the sun - he got real mad about something that I said. I don't even remember what I had been talking about but his head ducked into his chest, as if he was trying to dislodge the weight of shame from his skull. His mom told him not to slouch so much but he did it on purpose anyway. He said it "allowed for future improvement", but I'm pretty sure he just read that on a middle school report card or something. A lot of people didn't know how to wrap their heads around how to help Adam out. Sometimes it seemed like Adam and I were the only people who knew that he didn't need their help. But if I really thought about it I guess he was afraid of both success and failure. He liked being mediocre because nobody had anything to say about it. Making his own mind up about the past kept him from getting stuck in an endless slump of untwisting the knots in his stomach, tied there by what some prick in a brown suit and a notepad had to say.

I never talked about the past with Adam, never, ever the past. Not even what I had for lunch an hour ago. We always discussed what was happening right in front of us. He was the first one to see the car speeding around the corner. Later he said it was me who pointed, but I know it was him.

Swallowed in the Sea

The only thing I've learned through blogging was that there are thoughts that exist which just cannot be expressed through words. No matter how many times one tries.

I always played with the boys as a kid. I don't know why but at that time I got a long better than with girls. A muddy shirt felt better than a clean dress, the bruises and scrapes felt good because they speak volumes about how they were born. The scar on my hand spanning a whole 3 millimeters tells the tale of two reckless children and a blue ceramic plate. Running through the woods and pretending to shoot other kids was much more interesting to me than Barbies or sidewalk chalk. It still is. But I can play a role.

Spencer cruised up the street grinning. No anticipation of the repercussions that came with repeatedly teasing the sleeping dragon of adolescent masculinity. The wolf pack of high school boys prepared to chase him but one shot a question at me first. He wanted to know Spencer's name and barked as much in my direction. Wanting to protect his identity, I shuffled my feet and said "...Phil Collins". It was the first name that popped into my head. The boy's eyes rolled around in his skull confusedly. His expression suggested that he had heard the name before but couldn't put his finger on where or when. He shrugged and they tore up the street after Spencer: "Hey Phil!" Spencer was already long out of sight.

"Swing"

"Sheets"

Second Update

Now that I've stretched my imagery muscle I have to clarify that riding in the car for hours with my family really isn't awful at all. The point was that it was beautiful and (even though I despise the word fun because it sounds artificial and forced) a feel good time. I don't know - judge me but when music is playing and it's sunny and everyone's talking and the mountains are gorgeous and I have a good book in my lap (Hours by Michael Cunningham omg) I like riding in the car for hours.

Add that to the fact that the shore was radiant in a classy sort of way and the house was beautiful and elegant... good vacay. I'm ready for a routine again dare I say it. I need dance 4 times a week and 6 hours of structure a day. It's good for the upkeep of my mind. That's all.

"Twig"

Construction

Try to see everything through the lens of beauty. It makes the ugly experiences less so when you are forced to deal with them.

The overweight construction worker, his face dusty and haggard. The five o'clock shadow on his square jaw guarding the burden of fatigue from ever leaving. His work boots seem permanently laced to his feet with the cement that he uses each day. Yes the wrinkles in his hands and eyes go down all seven layers of skin. If you count them you'll know how old he is, like the rings of a tree. He is beautiful.

The white dotted line, tracing the highway. It looks the way the inside of your lips taste after 6 hours in the same car, leathery and traveled. That fractured line has seen more than all the stars because it's closer to the action. It has seen the mountains, and then has not seen the mountains as they were replaced by interstates. The line never makes a sound; it was never one for casual talk. The line is beautiful.

Cow country. Each house mirrors the 1800's. Not a roof shingle to be found. The radio dial is fiddled with, but all that can be found is country music and lectures about finding Jesus. Both of these are too awkward to fill the already awkward silence in this vehicle. There are overgrown gardens and horses and cattle who are grazing, always grazing despite the brown splotches of grass that had long since had the edible vegetation plucked out of them. But the cows have their noses to the ground anyway, like it's their dead end job to provide for their family of organs. Behind the houses are sprawls of mountains. As many trees as are people on the earth fill this one range. Harmonious and thriving, trying in earnest to reach the unending sky. "Who would want to live here?" an impertinent voice calls out to the squalor. Who wouldn't, I think. Those cows are so beautiful.

I relish in his orange reflective vest. I wish I could wear a vest that warned people to stay away from the mess I was making. I lust for the cows- who wouldn't want to live there. I envy that line. I envy the layers of dirt covering it; one for each broken family who's wheels run over it because the kids are yelling too loud for Dad to pay attention to lines.

Have I been spending too much time on 495? It's so good to be home.

August Break Day 3

"The Shore"

August Break Day 2

"Packed"

August Break Day 1

"In Repose"

Also I know it's the third but... well it's my blog and I must insist.

HD

My dad told me once that the human eye is the most powerful camera out there. It frames perfectly, has the highest of HD, produces vibrant colors, requires no flash, charging, or battery, and has infinite memory space. If you pay attention, that is. I really wish I could record what I see without a camera. I wish I could play it back without recounting it inside this box through words. Everything I see through my eyes is beautiful and perfect and I want a Polaroid of every memory.

A lot of people give up when they first realize that what they produce is shit but I realize with each day that you have to fight through that gap to become great at whatever it is you want. Yesterday I made myself a lovely meal of under-cooked pasta and burned sauce. It was awful and I ate it. I chewed very slowly. Today, though, I made myself a sandwich of fried egg, maple sausage, and Monterrey jack cheese and it wasn't that bad. I think, for right now, my greatest aspiration is to do this with every experience. To start out totally... lousy at something and then to get better. Even just slightly better. Even from bread to toast. I don't know it's just astounding to me to have that much growth in such a small amount of time and with such an insignificant minute detail in my life.

It's the small stuff that gives you practice for the bigger things at any rate. So. That's my wonder for the evening.

Just Bringing This Back.

Remember when joy tasted so much sweeter when you were little. Surge after surge of pure happiness floats into your soul, then explodes like the knowledge of illegal fireworks on the fourth of July. And you know you can't tell anyone that this makes your life a snugger place to be, a place that fits you easier, but in some ways it's better. It's like your own secret haven, where every decision works out, and the summer days last as long as you are able to remember them.

Remember when you would get nervous about the stupid stuff, like the dark closet in your room, or running out of highway when you got sleepy on long car rides, or trees potentially falling into the house? Or your father being swallowed up by the monstrous waves at the beach so that you are no longer able to see his bright yellow swim trunks? Growing up begins to define itself, Captain Hook is replaced by the rapist alerts on CNN, and the irrational fears fade away into the mist, are replaced by more practical ones. And those are so much scarier, because they might actually happen.

Remember when you were small, and got angry... like... REALLY pissed. Just at everyone. For the stupidest shit. The dog knocked over your blocks, or Mom friggen threw away that your box of valentines from your whole 1st grade class? And your house no longer felt like a home and you just wanted to run away to Alaska because it was the farthest place you could think of... and then two seconds later you just completely forgot about why you were mad... because Mr. Rogers was on. He was great.

Have you ever looked back on your memories from when you were really little, too little to know what everything meant on a large scale? Too little to recognize the toll these experiences would have on you once you grew up? Have you ever looked back and thought..."That's why I did that" or "That's why that happened"? I do that all the time. It makes me feel like I'm time traveling. Don't judge me.

Sometimes I wish the world never knew sunlight, and Earth was always shrouded in nighttime mystery. And then one day, out of the blue, so to speak, the sun would rise. And I just want to see every one's reaction. We would all feel like children, afraid of the big sphere of fire up above us. I think if that happened the word beautiful would have a whole new meaning.

Sometimes I hear people say that they have a fear of not being remembered. I think I'm the opposite. I don't want to be remembered. I want to die without leaving my dirty fingerprints on Earth. I want to be the quiet strumming of the acoustic guitar in the back ground, that fades away before the climax of the song. I want to be the left hand of the piano. I want to have an effect on people, but have it be invisible, so that they don't remember why they're like that. I want to be the change you only see if you're looking for it.

Please look for it.

Nauset and a Small Update

There's something calming to me about obnoxiously turbulent wave patterns. I don't like the quiet lap of the water at low tide. High tide makes me feel like there's a section of my life's chaos that is right where it should be. A categorized rampage. Nauset is that rampage. My family and I visited this shore during Hurricane Bill of 09. We braved the 12 foot surf standing in a circle holding hands.

Yesterday the waves were much smaller but the thought still counted.

Okay I said I'd post more new place pictures like... too long ago and even these are outdated because we have furniture now. Except my mahogany desk from Bob's. Stupid Bob's. They literally damaged it three times. Guess I won't be doing any Summer work until Friday! Thanks Bob. More pictures featuring the actual finished project later I guess?

living room

fireplace. and router. i love the router.

back porch. the yard is miniature so I don't like it very much:(



kitchen to the left, basement to the right

The Forever-Man

The following is a short narrative concerning my childhood as a thief.

Armed with a small flashlight (my phone replaced this soon after), my limited and fleeting knowledge of where the creaky floorboards are, and a midnight appetite I glacially gravitated from my bedroom towards the stairs. Actually, it was never that I was really hungry; just a combination of boredom and the necessity to confirm lie to myself about the dominant ownership I had over my own house. Are these internal contradictions what drive children to so easily throw logic to the wind? Whatever.

I used to kid myself that these astounding Spiderman skills were the driving factor that allowed me to go uncaught by my parents but it was probably just that they didn’t feel like getting out of bed to reprimand me. Anyway I had bigger fish to fry, such as figuring out a way to eat wheat thins in bed while avoiding sleeping in a blanket of crumbs afterword.

It's kind of like how you see a plane fly over head, and you imagine all the people inside can see you, there on the ground walking your dog late at night. And you imagine all those people wonder about your story the way you wonder about theirs. But then the plane flies out of sight and you think about something else for a little while.

It was 200 years ago. No one here now was there then and a lot of people forget that time existed at all. But you can see the remnants of their convictions and intentions and normalities if you're really into that sort of thing. History can be tricky because there's no Forever-Man who we can go to and ask "1947...? Did that really happen or is Grandpa fucking with us?". And he'll look down angrily and reply "Of course it happened I was there." We're forced to keep shotty records of our day to day and bury shoeboxes in the earth. Even I know you can't house an entire memory in a shoebox.

Look what I found!

A dusty old barn in the middle of Millis holds promise. Breaking and entering conviction promise yes, but that's beside the point. Anyway we were getting ice cream like 2 minutes from there anyway, so don't tell me the feeling of ownership I had is void of law.

It was dark inside, and the only source of light we had to work with was the occasional stick of yellow sun on the floor from a crack in the wood ceiling and the old flashlight we got from one of the cashiers at the ice cream place, which was pretty much of batteries anyway. There was a greenhouse attached to the barn on the left side and it was teeming with life, so it was really hot inside.

Contents not pictorially recorded:

(1) box of old moth eaten 90s clothes, among them a once stylish jean jacket
(2) porn tapes featuring Pamela Anderson and an (I'm quite sure fictional) softball team
(6) empty coke bottles and one snapple bottle inside a stained cooler (snapple? how old could these have been? whatever)
(1) unopened jug of Canadian Whiskey that could have only gotten better with age
(2) pigeons flapping around the rafters the entire time we were leafing through this stuff
(1) mason jar stuffed with doorkeys. We couldn't find anything they opened but some of them were made of brass and really old.
(1) set of trivia cards that must have gone to some board game
(also)a bunch of farm supplies, including chicken cages, old boards, hundreds of bails of hay, the pulley chain off of a crane, and a few flower pots

Some of the stuff we kept because the place was bound to burn down sometime soon and there was no one within shouting distance to claim it. lol.

Plus I wanted pics.

there were crates of these really old alcohol bottles. I loved this one because it says "Boston" on it. Many of them had no inscriptions and some were colored like sea glass. Upon research I deduced that it was a Root beer Liquor Bottle with the raised inscription "E. Hartshorn & Sons, Est. 1850, Boston". This company was popular in the mid 1800s but ran out of business in 1935 (probably in the Great Depression). Really dirty but I plan to run it through with vinegar and baking soda or something.







This lock (really heavy, by the way) was interesting. None of the keys fit, we tried them all. I love how it says Yale on it. Maybe the owner of the barn was pretty smart? But then why... nevermind.




My fave: two lighters found in a dusty box FULL of junk. Old screws and nails and plastic jewelry and other stuff. I hope they aren't still functioning. They're both really rusty and made of brass I think. Look at the designs on them! Pure vintage.


It says "McDonald Funeral Home, Weymouth"








Super old razor. Pre-80s if Google serves me. The "1, 3, 5, 7" on the dial is for how sharpe you want the blade to be.








Political campaign pins for John A. Volpe, running for reelected MA state governor in 1964 and US Ambassador to Italy in 1973, and Goldwater/Miller from Arizona running for president also in 1964.




More photos once I clean all this stuff? Maybe.

The New Place

Okay, I took a few pictures (few meaning very few) and there are more to come, but it looks pretty rad so far. Considering moving is not up for discussion, I guess this is an okay option.











some of my shit. can you spy the stack of Rolling Stones'? Yeah I made sure not to lose those.



Thoughts?

Re: Stacks

My mom left today. I'm content with it, I think. I watched her pull away in her teeny car and it felt like any other evening when she would make a last minute drive to pick something up. At first I was so angry. I was fuming. She had something I didn't. She was able to escape; to go some place where the yelling couldn't penetrate the walls of her bedroom. Of course she deserves it more than me, but I'm still feeling like a little kid who got duped out of a day at the beach. It just makes me look forward to leaving this town forever. Can't come soon enough, although I'm fairly certain I'll miss it dearly once I'm out. My life is a fractured series of longing for what I had minutes before and no amount of instant gratification or appreciation can undo that inevitable yearn.

Re: Stacks matches my mood right now. Bon Iver has the most beautiful voice.

That said, only excitement for this weekend. Showtime. Stage. Adrenaline. Fucking spotlights. What I live for. Dancing has proved to be the only extracurricular I've actually enjoyed this year. That sounds awful but honestly the rest I'm only doing for the credit. Screw honorablity and give me good beat.

I really like taking pictures.










what do you think?