Guts.

I think we've established by now that I love runners: watching them, talking to them, crushing upon them. Lately I've tried to increase my intake of running movies.
But there are SO FEW.
(Well, no. There are lots. Just few well-known ones. The first I think of is Cool Runnings, which is about bobsledding.)
The reason for this is the sport itself. Running is boring. I am intrigued by those who do it because anyone willing to subject him or herself to something so thankless must have a drive. And yes, I'm talking about distance, but sprinters too: ours are stereotypically big-headed but what supporters do they have? Their pride comes, pardon the rhyme, from inside.

A roundabout way of saying: Without Limits. Mm-hm.

Stomaching.

Watched Waltz With Bashir today. The animation made me feel a little claustrophobic, like I was in the head of whoever's recollection it was, but the film had such a remarkable dreamy quality. It was wonderful.

The rest of things I am just shifting through. Last night I went to sleep at nine-thirty and woke up eleven hours later. I'm trying to stomach the things I have to do and say. On days like this it seems I am no good at being alone; though I may adore solitude, it does not become me.

With The Mother.

While watching Casablanca:
"Have you ever even seen this?"
"No..."
"(sound of disapproval)"
"Well, there's so much talking at the beginning. I don't like it."
Later:
"Why do you like Two and a Half Men?"
"Oh, don't..."
"(sound of disapproval)"
"Some parts are really witty. The repart--repartee."
"Witty! AND YOU HAVEN'T EVEN SEEN CASABLANCA OH MY GOD."

I'm so snobby it hurts. I think I'll go apologize.
In other news, Abigail's new nickname is Fisticuffs.

Remember My Name?

"Wait, where are you in school again?"
"Senior."
"So, you know what college you're going to?"
"Just the ones I'm applying to: Colgate, Mary Washington, George Mason and McGill. And my major, geography."
"Oh, that's interesting."

A condensed version of the Q-and-A I experienced maybe ten times last night. Some people brought up how lovely Montreal was, or how intriguing geography is. The sweet potatoes were nommable, and at dessert I broke my record for pie-eating.

Starches!

Potatoes, sweet potatoes, creamed onions, rolls. Salad and healthier vegetables too but mostly--the starch. And the pie.
Happy Thanksgiving, guys.

Listed.

These are things I'm thankful for. Some of them have visual aids!

Runners


Under Armour tights, even if they are so often worn by boys without shorts on top


Cheese, mustard and pickle sandwiches

(Close enough, Scanwiches.)

Nasal decongestants

The Internet

Enthusiastic group greetings whenever Clive shows up


Being able to laugh at the local color


Being able to look in awe at the local color


All the people I met in Louisiana

Learning about the world

Goodwill


Snacks

Zombie movies

Yes, I Feel Just Fine.

I just saw New Moon. Innocuous; faithful to the book; "Shoot The Moon" was used; gratuitous shirtlessness. That is all.

This is a reflection. To prep, put on "Everything Is Alright" by Motion City Soundtrack.
Ms. Phillips is back. Not permanently, she's subbing for the Dual English teacher as a favor. I don't know where exactly she's been--working on some campaigns, I've heard. Back home in Vermont, I've heard. Contemplating a move to Montreal, I've heard. But for this three-day week she is teaching my friends and talking to them and it's like being a sophomore again. I dig it.

This is fleeing. To prep, put on "California."
My parents are paying for my college tuition. I am quiet and bright and quick on my feet. I am not above menial labor, I don't care about being alone and my major will teach me how to read maps. I'm going to take a notebook and a camera and my father's old military coat and I'm going to leave. I've never seen the light in California, or the mountains in New Zealand, or the wilderness of Idaho. My father left Germany, and my mother left Missouri, and they both left India and Oregon. They don't care where I go.
And right now, I don't care what I leave behind.

Corollary.

Almost exactly a year ago, Twilight came out, and I was shocked by such blatant displays of obsession with something so embarrassing. A few days ago, New Moon was released, and the devotion I witnessed in school was no longer surprising.
Tomorrow Anna and I will go see it, just like last year. The prospect is not exciting, but it is fitting. We are teenage girls, so we are going.

That I Could.

I wonder: do I really need to see Lost in Translation? I feel as if I have gleaned all I need to from seeing the first few minutes and last few minutes. But I'll watch it over break and tell you how if it diverges from my preconceptions at all.

He's there. He's being silent, and he's making me silent too. My calculus teacher calls me quiet, and she's right. His presence makes me feel solemn.

At Goodwill yesterday I bought a silk dress. It is pale champagne, high- and boat-necked, with pronounced dolman sleeves. It has texturing on it sort of like crocodile skin. Also, the dress is ridiculously long, but I've asked my mother to shorten it so it will pass as fancy.
Oh, and the pleats. Don't let me talk about them. I'm just magnetically attracted to all things pleated.

Hippies, Of Course.

Thanksgiving is coming. I quite enjoyed the article about foreign ones this week. It gave a window onto the meal-as-panic. For me, the holiday is hardly as particular or American. It feels more nostalgic, and for a shared meal there's little emphasis on cooking.
We bring a dish or two, choices solidified by years of repetition, same as everyone else. The hosts do turkey, cheese and crackers, and seating. Women bustle through the kitchen, but they rarely seem to be those who live in the house.
No one worries, and everyone says hello.

On William Collins.

I finished Alternatives to Sex. It was fine, articulate and interesting, but I never engaged in it because I didn't relate to it. To wit:
The main character, disregard the title, has few alternatives to sex, at least for most of the book, and I have nothing but alternatives.
He's grown, and never mentions school or his youth directly. His friends are adult acquisitions; I have only those from my very recent childhood.
He is a real estate agent in a booming market. It could not seem farther from Right Now.
Unlike me, he is not filled with a crushing dread about talking to strangers or meeting new people.
So little food! I need my characters to eat.

ROAR.

When Abigail is here I find things are so often peachy. Maybe not outside, but inside I am balanced. The parents leave, nothing at all happens. When she leaves I mess up, find my equilibrium, fall apart again. Like waves. We're heading into another going-to-bits phase.
Today I sat at the dinner table and tried not to tell my parents anything. They shouldn't know. I just felt so angry, not at them but this carefully curated world I would like to rampage through.
Angry at the vapid yearbook class,
and Carter blatantly cheating off me in government,
and Peter being nothing more than a capitalized Jock.
How Mr. Atkins is sexist and I just accept it, because there's no changing him.
Alice's constant downplaying of her intelligence.
Anna's crusade against the school dress code. Because really, Anna, your breasts sort of limit what is appropriate for you to wear.
And how when I'm near Nick it's like I'm not anywhere.

They're trivial, but the anger means I can't have a sense of humor about it.
Fortunately, Abigail is coming back tomorrow.