I have a weird friend named Lucy who’s always disappearing from school at the most inappropriate times. She never gets in trouble for it, though, which kind of worries me because the truancy officer isn’t doing anything about her comings and goings. She’s the only one of my friends with anything even close to representing a significant other that isn’t fictional.
On normal Saturdays, you can find me in my room, being a bum and blogging when not messing around with my internet friends. You don’t generally see me calling people, mostly because my phone is on silent and I hate talking to people. So when my phone started belting out the opening drum line of Complete Surrender, I knew that setting Lucia as a priority contact (which could get past the silent setting) was a horrible, horrible idea.
“Hello?” I yelled after stumbling halfway across the room to quickly snatch the phone from where it had been charging. “This is Taco Bell; may I help you?”
“May Vane, my darling!” Lucy shot back with that airy accent of hers, acquired from some foreign country I would probably never have the opportunity to go to. “How have you been?”
“Tired, sick, and depressed as usual.” I sighed, resigning myself to an afternoon full of incessant questions and two confused parents who would want to know every single detail of the conversation. “Why are you calling? Is Michael The Wondermuffin gone again and you need someone to entertain you?”
“No, darling, it’s just that…” I could hear papers shuffling around on the other end of the line. “I’ve got this ticket here, and I was wondering if you had a job already.”
“Lucia, you’re going to have to be a lot less vague than that, because I have no idea what in the world you’re going on about.”
“Are you employed?”
“Of course not, you idiot, I’m fifteen and I have no idea how I’m going to have a future other than working McJobs and getting bankrupt from college debt .”
“Well, I wondering if you’d like a job… You’d work after school and on the weekends, there’d be lots of opportunities to meet new people, and let’s not mention the free food…”
“Lucia, cut to the chase already.”
“Well, my friend here wants to hire you as a model.”
Ah, yes, the world of May Vane’s dreams: places where people with wings are everywhere, 1st graders are chased by a giant malevolent version of the GEICO lizard in their grandma’s basements, and piercing studios are virtually nonexistent. There’s always a thumping that just happens to be exactly on-beat with the footsteps of whatever villain happens to be chasing me that particular night. (The thumping hasn’t happened for a few years now, however.) There’s almost always somebody who’s obsessed with stretching their ears to almost-Bear proportions, and their friend is the one who befriends you and ends up later attempting to kill you, which they can’t do because you’re always getting away by attempting to fly (which isn’t really flying for some reason, but more like moon jumping) into a tree or something that they hopefully can’t climb. The only real way to escape, of course, is to wake up.
Sometimes, however, the dreams end up being in a whole different universe: either I’m in a surgical suite, about to be sedated and operated on, or I’m in a sensory-deprivation tank, or I’m falling forever through nothing. Kinda makes me wonder if I should really be taking all those melatonins before bed.
Ah, yes, it does seem to be RANT FRIDAY, hopefully the first of many rants to come. Today, I shall reveal to you the dirty underside of my school known as Room 101.
For those of you not familiar with Orange Juice High, (which is pretty much all of you, now that I think about it) Room 101 is supposed to be this magical haven of sorts- people can get help with assignments, have study hall, take tests, and pretty much just have a peaceful place to make sure that they’re keeping their gol-durned grades up.
Right? Yeah, no, unless you take that “peaceful” and replace it with kids listening to their music way too loud, (even though they’re wearing earbuds- seriously, kids, turn your music down, you’re going to go deaf) an always-present group of boys messing around with all the computers, and adults who are probably supposed to be giving kids help and/or be doing something important but instead have to spend their time yelling at kids to face forward, stop talking, get back to work, and other things that probably shouldn’t have had to be yelled if any of these kids had even the slightest scrap of maturity.
However, if we’re going to blame them for some of the unpleasantries of Room 101, we have to consider the perspective of the students there- true, most of them don’t know how to spend their time wisely, but I bet at least some of them are in there because the system’s screws them over and failed them. (That’s probably going to be next RANT FRIDAY.)
I had to take a test in Room 101 today, and I could barely concentrate for the girl playing whatever hip-hop crap that was. In case you’re wondering, it is not easy to calculate the surface areas of spheres if there’s a strong beat to your right and your mind just happens to like being attached to music without your controlling it. So please, if you happen to notice that somebody is taking an important text next to you, PLEASE TURN YOUR MUSIC DOWN.
do you remember
when we’d take those songs
those songs so beaten down, so worn
and we’d make them ours
as we declared our love in the middle of the night
two lonely stars who thought that they could combine
these songs now
they remind me of you
but the little things I loved about your face, about your body, about you
they were gone
and all that was left
was the empty abusing shell of you
sometimes I wonder where you are
and if you’re happy
and if you still think about me
and how I would have done everything for you
but you couldn’t stay faithful for me
There’s been rumors and a few pieces of possibly-trustworthy news floating around that there’s going to be a new family moving to our neighborhood; however, since they won’t be nearly set up enough to get enrolled and all that fun stuff in time for the school year, any spawn that they might have that might have gone to the middle/junior high (we’re still in the middle of a transition because some loony head decided that having a junior high was too much work) won’t have to be subjected to the unique tortures of that institiution and instead will start off by jumping right into the cesspool that high school probably is. (Although they at least try to sugarcoat the pain of school and make high school sound fun with all their elective choices.)
Among these rumors, also, is one thing that seems to be consistent, no matter who your source of information is- the family has a high-school-age boy, and he’s some emo freak, and he’s adopted. (Why does it always seem like they’ve got some weird thing going on or they’re adopted? And, no, correlation does not equal causation.) And I know what you’re probably thinking- “ermagersh! it’s teh designated love interest!” And I feel the obligation to answer you, “I don’t even know him or anything substantial about him, so why do you feel the need to tell me that I’m going to end up in love with him?”
Ah, yes, the hormone-fueled midnight angstings of the teenager girl. This social experiment should be interesting. Nothing like a bucketful of complaints and old songs from my childhood to start off yet another thing that will probably end up getting me in trouble with the parental units.
Hello, everyone! (Or is that too cliché of an entrance?) Or, as it is said in other places, “hola”, “kon’nichiwa” (man, I hope I spelled that right) or “shut the bleep up and get over here so I can [censored for the sake of everything good and right]”. My name (names are such a funny concept… I mean, you don’t see animals or plants giving each other wordy names, do you? it’s always humans being weird) is May Vane, or May Day, or however you want to rearrange the bundle of sounds people seem to like to identify me with. Or, you know, you can call me May Vane Day. That works too.
I suppose having two first names comes in handy when you’re a genderfluid, because at any given moment, your mind could just randomly decide to be a gender other than the one you were born with, and suddenly being busty goes from being a condition that other girls manage to be jealous of to a major annoyance that, if it persists for too long, can cause you want to almost drag yourself into a surgical office and beg the people there to at least take most of the bulk out of the fat sacks on your chest.
Yeah, I never said being in my mind was pretty.