I keep having these weird dreams, and I can barely remember them in the morning. Last night's had to do with me playing quiet music on a black electric guitar, in my seventh grade classroom. (I can play guitar, but I don't own an electric.) And the Jonas Brothers were there (EW!) and I was arguing with them about the nature of consumerism.
It was really, really strange.

I love Paul Simon. I'm having trouble waking up this morning. I should clean my kitchen and have a shower. I should also be working on my novel.
I had a strange dream last night about Boylan's soda and Londsdale Quay combined with the newstand in YVR and the new ferry terminal in Naniamo. Very strange. I was in pj's in the dream, and someone was pulling my hair. When I woke up, my hand was tangled in my hair, which is funny, because my hair is short enough that that's really difficult to do.
In my life, I have two things I really need to do; write and help people. I don't think I'm going to college, at least not right away. I need to work on those two things first.

Ali. I love you, but quit reading my blog. -Boo

Lately all I've wanted is to be fun, to do fun things. I want to clean up my place, put my life in order, work on my novel. But I feel like I'm stuck. I just sit here, wanting so bad to just go and do it, whatever it is. It's maddening.

If I could draw, I'd be like Kurt Halsey. I'd draw cute pictures of simple things and attach sticky notes and pieces of paper in rounded, neat writing, saying 'I just want you back' and 'you mean the world to me'.
Then I'd put it all in a big white manilla envelope and send it to your house, with a return address attached.
Since I can't draw, I'll just go back to missing you in silence.

I have always wanted to go on a road trip. I've wanted red rain boots ever since I grew out of my old ones when I was three. On beautiful days like today, I have difficulty believing that my favourite colour is indigo. It seems like my favourite colour should be a lush green, a sunny yellow-gold. Even a warm, buttery cream seems more appropriate than indigo.
Some evenings, I have an urge to go to the beach. I love the song Freebird and I want it to be played at my memorial when I die. I have a box of letters in my room, locked up, for almost everyone I have an opinion about, because I'm terrified of dying with anything unsaid.
I dream of getting out of here some day, just up and going, because this suburb is far too suburban.
I want to go to university, but I don't know what to study; I want to be an author some day. I love my mum more than anyone else on Earth.

I want to be stalked. I want notes from a secret admirer and someone in sunglasses that I see everywhere I go. It would be really flattering, to be stalked.
Just imagine, walking down the street with your best friend. She glances behind you a few times, getting a little nervous. She says 'I think there's somebody following us.' You laugh.
'It's just my stalker,' you say. 'He's not a problem.'
Your friend looks at you, part weirded out, part admiring. 'You have a stalker? Lucky bitch.'

Maybe not everyone has such a strange best friendship. I do. But she's leaving me. All of my chick friends, every last one of them, is going away for a month this summer, travelling Europe without me. My best guy friend is going on a cruise to Italy. My next best guy friend is going to his cabin all summer.
I'm working all summer. I have an interview at a florist's shop tomorrow. I'm slightly looking forward to it.
I also have one written exam and one oral exam tomorrow. I have this terrible feeling that I'm going to fail them both.

I'm itching for something exciting to happen. I'm kind of lonely and bored out of my skull. I can name all the Muses, and the Fates, and the Furies, and I know every single word to 'Are You Gonna Be My Girl', I've been to the east coast of Canada, I can touch my toes and do handstands, but not cartwheels. I'm 5'10" and my mother's siamese fighting fish is dying and I don't know how to tell her. My mother loves that fish.
I have a guppy named Murgatroyd and I grow sunflowers from seeds in a pot at the end of my driveway. I swear that my little brother is trying to kill them.
My best friend thinks that my new haircut makes me look like a guy. I don't tell her that her haircut makes her look fat, because I am a good friend.
What's wrong with looking like a guy anyways?

Sometimes I think I'm crazy. That one day, I'll completely lose control and start breaking shit and screaming at strangers. Other times, I think that that's the only logical reaction to living in a world where we are slaves to what we create.
Right here, right now, I am a slave of this laptop as I write on this blog that no one will ever read.

I want to write a novel some day, a rant just like this one, about nothing in particular, a rant that is 50 000 words long. I could do that.
I'm writing a novel anyways, but I'm only 10% finished. I have 13 goals for this summer, and one of them is finishing it.

The goals are kind of a long story. It stems back to my almost getting kicked out of my high school, which I never told my friends about. There was this long discussion with my mother, in which I explained that I really didn't see the point in living on this planet. Really, we're just feeding the machine. And I don't necessarily mean the corporate machine, like that anarchist yuppy bullshit. I mean the machine as in our consumerism. Like in Louis Untermeyer's 'Portrait of a Machine'. That poem just shocked me. I was shaken to pieces by fourteen lines, a simple sonnet that foresaw the future.
I'm getting off topic. My mother, after this discussion, decided that I needed to be more grateful. I decided that I need reasons. My mother used to be a therapy addict, so she now says I have to find reasons to be thankful every night when going to sleep. I don't actually, but I tell her that I do. Usually, when I'm going to sleep, I have a song going through my head, but that song and the singer are an untouched subject.
My mother also thought that I needed goals. In my flexible arrangement of the English language, in my head 'goals' could also be 'reasons', and I thought that I needed reasons. So now, I have thirteen goals, most of them concrete, a couple abstract, only one that I don't think I'll do, and I'm not sure why, because it won't actually be very difficult at all.

I used to love going dancing at this place near my house, Seylynn Hall. But I went there last night, for the first time since the last time that I went with the aforementioned Singer of the Song. I was there, and I was trying to have a good time, singing along and dancing to Vancouverite punk rock, but all I could think of was the last time I was there, the singer dragging me into the dancing, throwing his long limbs around and laughing for the joy of the motion.
I think he stole my dancing.

I'm tired and worried and sunburnt and sad and just a little bit lonely. No one else is here. I can't wait to move out, so it won't feel like other people should be in the same place as me but aren't.
I can't believe that the future is almost upon us.