GIRLS ARE NOT LESBIANS. jesus christ, if i even hear or see the word "lesbian" again, i'm going to shoot myself. it's such an ugly word.

in such a short time, i've gotten a lot older. i guess i liked the attention i got from a hot girl, but in the end she's a lesbian like the rest. there's no way she could have really liked me, just like the rest. so i'm putting it to rest. the only thing i need is the joy of my sleep, my rest.

i am, once and for all time, THE MOTHERFUCKING TRUTH.

i'm dumb, she's a lesbian
i thought i had found the one
we were good as married in my mind
but married in my mind's no good
- "pink triangle" by weezer

i wake up at 10:35, and after eating a banana and a bowl of cheerios, i take the 106 down renton avenue. i run to the school, to see if the lost and found has my retainer. low and behold, it is closed. i mope around for about a minute, and then i decide to run home, with the intention of shooting myself in the head. however, once i turn around, i see mr. day in a jacket [ah!] sipping on a large sized wendy's drink [double ah!], and he says he can let me in. after punching in the super secret school entry code, we see that the office is totally empty, and that i have to wait until monday to see if my retainer was ever brought to the lost and found. out of nowhere, mr. gold shows up, and he is about to walk through the commons, but stops when he sees that the custodian has thoroughly wiped the floor with a floor machine. mr. day improvisationally proverbializes, "walking on wet floors makes a fallen hero."

teachers are fuh-reakin' crazy, yo!

i run back up that sonuvabitch uphill climb that is renton avenue, with the occasional stops due to my low endurance (ladies, i assure you all, this only applies to running!). linda and hannah pass by me, and i wonder "gee, those two have plans." i do a couple hill runs at skyway park, and then i go home. i do a couple repeats on the bench press, some curls, and then i get on the internet. it turns out, everyone is at the movies! sweet home alabama!

after realizing that most of my friends will be unavailable to hang, i decide to head on over to jake's. my dad takes me there, because he has a massage therapy appointment. i could do with a massage myself, actually. anyway, jake and i talk about things, and we eavesdrop on his younger brother and sister fighting.

we wait for tyree to come over. after reaching jake's house with his snail's pace, tyree finally arrives. we sit around, talk to people online, and jake leaves to pick up his mom. jake comes back, and then tyree and i walk to wendy's, and then to anthony's house.

everyone at anthony's is watching zoolander. apparently roger got the movie today, so it is a go-go in the world of movie afficionados. i get sleepy. after the movie is over, everyone leaves to go get some free ice cream, and my mommy comes and takes me home.

i watch the first episode of birds of prey, that my brother taped for me last wednesday. it's not that great.

dude, whatever.

tansamBO: tell jake hi
joseph guanlao: okay
joseph guanlao: he said "tell him to go fuck himself"
joseph guanlao: hahahahah
tansamBO: that dutch-carpet eating bastard.
joseph guanlao: he says, "i wish"
tansamBO: see it's not about love.
tansamBO: it's about rug.

it wasn't a dream.

i've lost my retainer.

i feel like killing myself.

losing my retainer feels like the worst feeling in the world. my mom and dad work so hard for what little they make, and now i've fucked up and lost such a valuable thing to replace. retainers cost hundreds of dollars!

as shitty as it sounds, this CATASTROPHE of my life will occupy the space of stress and frustration and downtroddenness of being a lonely 16 year old teenage boy.

i'm in a such a hole, and as many as there are of YOU READERS, it feels like no one can hear my outcry.

another night of calculus homework, with the "study buddies." i know we're doing math, but am i the only person who has fun at these sessions?

1 / 3 / 5 day - painfully torturous.

it seems that nowadays, my whole school day culminates towards the time i spend with my recycling partner, even for only a few minutes to 'take out the trash.'

i dream of a rendezvous with her, like a wilderness escapist.

calculus homework, with kim, rj, linda, and derek. most conversation i've had with linda, EVER. reminiscing about renton park elementary, fifth grade. one and a half out of FOURTEEN math assignments completed, due this thursday. FUCK.

at school, they call me a "JAGOFF," for being a gentleman. jesus christ, it seems like being a cock-brained prick is part of the criteria for being cool, nowadays.

i hope the "outline" that i turned in gets accepted for my deadline grade, in journalism.

afterschool, i walk up to tell ms. bevis' room that i won't be recycling on tuesdays, for green team. when i get up there, i find out that amy recycles on tuesdays. i lift up my shirt and stamp one of ms. bevis' native american falcon stamps on to my chest. amy is like, "does anyone want to help me recycle?" and i'm like, "i do!"

i'm a doofus.

even though recycling with amy was the highlight of my day, i test the waters of excitement at the renton player's improv audition. basically, i had the "been there, done that" feeling at the beginning, but i quit the audition midway, because i had the "this is fucking gay" feeling by then. it would be cool, if it were only roger, tyree, brian, anthony, derek, and i, it would be cool. but it's not. it's full of a bunch of retarded girls. I HATE RETARDED ACTRESSES.

oh yeah, i skipped cross country practice. ROCK!

4 am, i wake up in a sublime state. 5 am, i get out of bed, and i get ready for school.

0 i'm on time for orchestra; the first time in a long time. exciting.

1 fuck web design. even though i have six out of my seven periods with kim, this is the only class i really talk to her in. so that's cool.

2 american studies is american studies. minh-tu has a laughing disorder.

break time. i lean on a pillar in the student commons, only thinking about one thing, but putting on the facade of seemingly thinking about nothing. she jumps from behind, and pulls my sleeve. she says she is sorry for saturday, and that she should have never let it happen. i say it is my fault too. if my life were in a cartoon, the moment she would look away would be the moment a single tear would trickle from the bottom of my eye, down my cheek. she walks with me up the stairs, and i can't help but feel vacant inside.

3 american studies is american studies.

lunch time. i try to do homework, but i fail at that. it is revealed that rey, the new kid that reminds me and brian of michael baxter, is engaged to his girlfriend. this is crazy stuff; rey is only a junior.

4 i get my test back from last friday. 86. i didn't know what to expect, i never do anything in spanish. rey and i talk about his quote-unquote "engagement," because during lunch i didn't think about it much in disbelief. it turns out rey had gone out with his girlfriend for 5 months, and he's getting their engagement rings next month. his grandparents, on his father's side, bought him condoms. his father doesn't care that they have sex. he had a fun summer. his mom, however, found his box of condoms yesterday, and so his whole family knows now. rey rey: what a kid.

5 during biology, all i can think about is winmill's sweater. i don't like it. it's purple, and it sort of looks like a brown sweater that i got recently. perhaps, i'll wear my sweater tomorrow. when i'm older, i hope i don't wear sweater's like mr. lance winmill, with a white undershirt. that's okay if you're a kid, my age, but not when you're 31 or 26 or however old winmill is.

6 i meander about through journalism. i like this class a lot, because i have a lot of friends in journalism. yipee.

after school, amy and i collect the paper recycleables on the third floor, for green team. we talk about stuff, and every time it is silent, it seems like we're weirded out by each other. sometimes, i boy can have hope in something, but in this case, i cannot. she has a boyfriend. her smell makes me reminisce of one night. her boyfriend's scent memory must be triggered to THREE MOTHERFUCKING YEARS OF TEENAGE LOVE. i have to respect that, and i naturally do.

i stop by the lunch room, to see derek, roger, tyree, and jaymar at the renton player's audition. they want me to audition, because of my improvisational experience with tribes. i think the only drama in me belongs to tribes, exclusively, unless i'm offered a part in a hollywood blockbuster. and then i run out.

i run and i run and i run, and i'll never get better at it. i'm burnt out of the will to run, i guess. i'm probably going to have a case of the would-of-should-of-could-of's concerning my running career, but fuck running.

at home, i take a good look at my homecoming picture for the first time. i, of course, look like the goofy kid i am, but amy is absolutely and stunningly beautiful.

i drink a lot of milk. i need a band.

longed to be with someone to tell, "i love your smell"
- red hot chili peppers, "this velvet glove"

this should be one of those entries that should be hand-written into my personal journal, and not in a weblog for all to see. but, what the fuck.

the party starts horribly. sausage fest and suicide becomes the mantra of the less than a dozen who show up. shots of crown royal and hennesy and guitaring in e minor cannot uplift situation. this is not the saturday night any of us envisioned. we thought we were going to have fun. there is a gun upstairs, and some of us are tempted to get it. and then i see not only the rising action of my story, the most dangerous part of the situation. everything seems funny when you're drunk, and so i assume that i am seeing things, but the night goes on, and it really is her. i get enveloped in feelings and sensations that i thought were lost and forgot - a big bang of sensory overkill.

he says she is just playing with me, and that i should just enjoy the night, because it is the most i'll ever get. others say i should pursue it, to farther extents. i have nothing to lose, i suppose, except for my head.

oh sweet jesus, her skin is so warm and soft, and she smells so good.

i've found out why even rockstars aren't always happy.

she's a drug. physically, last night was not analogous to a binge, but the confusion in trying to figure out what was going on, equated to an overload.

she has a boyfriend, and i am not it. so why must she play with me like this?

these are one of those moments that i wish i could write poetic questions to that wise old sage up top the high-rises, sitting right under god's feet, to ask him for peace of mind. or for the alchemy to bring me back to a fetal stage. but that is not the case, and i doomed to long being a teenage boy. curses.

OH MY FUCKING GOD, i have turned into the self-pitying cretan, that for almost two years i worked so hard to fucking kill.

someone, go fetch the gun. i need to be shot in the mouth.