Friday, May 27
Finally, the day came at last. The Salvador Dali exhibit in Philadelphia was fucking stunning. Amazing, to say the least. I must have spent at least five or ten minutes in front of each painting, and there were about two hundred of them, staying there in one exhibit for two hours. I felt like such an art geek. But fuck you, I'll stand in front of whatever I want for as long as I fucking want. And I think the rest of the family enjoyed the exhibit too. No one bitched at me for dragging them to a long boring hall of shit on the walls that's more congested with people than there is money up Gene Simmons' anus.

My allergies are fucking up my throat so badly that whenever I'm sitting here and I cough, I gotta pull the garbage can by my chair, bend over, and spit a loogie full of phlegm and mucous into it. And then I watch the mucous drip all over the used tissues and scraps of construction paper. And this is happening even if I do take medicine for it. But I think I have to stop taking the allergy meds altogether because I can tell it's fucking up the birth control. Well now I guess I have to suffer with that, but have ovarian and hormonal bliss, or whatever the hell I'm supposed to feel when birth control is in full power of my female sexual organs.

I think I am 3% (not a typo) on my way to trying to find a job. Because I really want some fucking Stones tickets. 3% because I'm just lame like that. I never commit to my wishes, even if I really truly want them. Talk about loser. This is 100% authentic american scumbag right here, folks.

So at the Dali exhibit he had this sort of rainbowy hologram of Alice Cooper that spins around. Yes, Alice Cooper. The chicken shreader.

I am invited to two sweet sixteen parties. Just two, and they're old friends that I've known since elementary and middle school. No one new. And to be completely honest, I don't really like these two people that much anymore. The only reason that I'm still friends with them is because we've been friends for so long, we respect each other, and for some reason they always remember my birthday and remember to buy me presents for my birthday and for Christmas even if I don't do shit for them at all, no exaggeration. Other than that, we have absolutely nothing in common, and that I hate practically all friends of each person, whom are without a doubt going to be at their sweet sixteen parties. I just don't see myself having fun with either of them anymore, I've changed so much. I always see myself changing, going through such transformations in life and making new friends and taking in new styles and such, and these two are the types that just don't change. We've grown so different in everything. Or maybe it's just me.

Morally, I have to go. Of course it's an option - my choice, if I am going to go or not, but moral overcomes all. These two different people have always been there for me for so many years and it just pisses me off that I have to return the favor. It's so important to each of them and for me to not be there is saying that I'm a huge asshole, moreso actually. I can't just fuck them off like that. That would make me a bigger jerk than I already am.

But there's also the option of not going anyway and therefore having a better chance of gradually separating from them, so they no longer have to nag me all the time. Because there's not much to a friendship if you don't see each other at all except for saying hi in the hallway. My god, we can't even talk freely anymore. It's like we're complete strangers. Even if I'm in a dire situation and I desperately need help, it would be stupid to go to them because I've done nothing and to ask them such a favor would be wrong.

I just cannot see myself having a good time at either party. There's no fucking way that I could have fun if I despise every single motherfucker there. No fucking way. Unless I crash the party. But that's fucking lame, and it's somebody else's fucking birthday, not mine. So I guess I wouldn't be staying long. Had I been living on my own I would've gone out early and drove somewhere else while already dressed up nice and sassy and do some decent shit on my own. Find some sex in town. But no, I'm a fifteen year old scumbag who doesn't want to work, doesn't know what interest is and has no source of income at all besides picking up loose change on the floor in school.

I'm talking to one of them on AIM right now and told them about my trip to Philly. They answer by saying that they've always wanted to go to an art gallery, especially the one that Carrie works in, in Sex and the City. What the fuck? I'm stuck with airheads here, seriously.

Maybe this is all just on account of me being difficult. Whatever, explaining this shit fucking bores me.


Christina N. @ 6:54 PM