Nails

I've bitten my nails since I can remember, and I've never really cared enough to try and fix it. My mom once gave me this yellowish-clear goo that you put on your nails and it cures thumb-sucking and nail-biting. That is, unless you hide it behind your nightstand so your mom can't make you wear it. Now, about ten years after, I'm using a brand new bottle of the same stuff. Ten years, and they didn't even bother to change the label. There it is, staring me in the face with its' smelling yellow defiance while I have no other choice but to obey. I guess the thing that changed my mind was my grandmother. She tried to pawn a fifty-year old nail filer off on me, and when I told her that it wouldn't do me much good, she looked at my nails, said "OH!", wrapped her hands around mine and leaned her head back with her eyes closed, as if in pain.

It's been three days since I bit my nails.

Tomorrow is Thursday, and Thursdays are holy because I don't have to go to the college. I'm at the community college now, and every time I drive there I can literally feel what's left of my optimism being sucked out of me. Thursdays are wonderful and sacred. I sleep a whole half hour longer, actually eat a breakfast, and can do school in whatever order I like while drinking as much COFFEE as I like. Being technically homeschooled has its perks.

On that subject, I've begun noticing that people look remarkably surprised when they hear I'm homeschooled. To avoid giving the person I talk to a heart-attack, I try to get away with saying that I am in "independent study". Most people don't know exactly what that means so they let it slide. The other day, the boy next to me in class asked how the community college fit with my being "homeschooled - I mean, independent study." I smiled, as though letting him in on a secret, and said, "They're basically the same thing." He nodded and said, "I know." Somehow my dignity was bruised at this.

I wish I didn't have to be at the college. I wish I could suddenly come into a great deal of money - or, if not that, that maybe I could just travel around doing nothing in particular, but having a great time about it. I wouldn't need money at all. I hate money. Money is the source of all problems. (Actually, according to John Quincy Adams, the problem is all due to ignorance of money. I agree with this, if by 'ignorance' he means that no one is giving any to me.) I'm thinking about going with a church group to Prague for 3 weeks this summer. Selfishly, I'd rather travel alone so that maybe I could fall into one of the adventure or romance stories I daydream about so often... but, when it came to it, I'd probably feel more comfortable with a group of people who aren't going to abduct me. Life is so dull.

I told my sister Beth that I'd show her pictures of my room. I think you can tell a great deal about someone by their room - and, just in case anyone else in the world places as much importance on the fact as I do, my room is as incredibly 'me' as possible. For pack-rats like myself, the personality of ones room comes quite easily. I recently painted it, you see, and therein lies the main difference. Every few days I'll shift my photo frames around, and pretend that someone will notice the change and say how much better it looks. Perfection is a fault of people like me - rather, the want of perfection is a fault. We are constantly trying to perfect ourselves and everything around us, and in the process we get frustrated, and because we are frustrated we can be nowhere near perfect. It's a viscious cycle that can't be stopped; it's like trying to stop a bicycle by poking a stick in the tire-spokes, when the spokes are made of saws.

A wall. A flower calender, my guitar corner, James Dean, the Beatles, a painting by my Amelia, my bed, and my cat, who is the devil.

A door with no doorknob (slammed it once, didn't open, mom kicked it down, haven't replaced it out of respect.), a keyboard, lucky bamboo, and a birthday sign made by my sister Kate with many shirtless pictures of James and Marlon, and one of Audrey Hepburn (though she DOES have a shirt.)

Another wall. A window, my fifties diner clock, desks and books, jewelry on a corkboard.

Pictures, chair, greek-orthodox-looking candle hanging, sconces from sister, James shrine, and there on the chair we see Edgar Allan Poe.

I don't know how long I can keep up this non-nail-biting business. Look at them - so impertinant. They know what they're doing to me. It's late - must go to sleep so I can finish reading a hundred or two pages of Crime and Punishment before Friday. I want to make french press coffee. I want to be in Ireland. I want to have tea with Julie Andrews and have her sing "stay awake" to me. I want to go mock my cat. Where is she...