  Since when did Silverwood Theme Park become a militant establishment? For years, my favorite “ride” has been the Victorian Cars. You sit on a track in ancient-looking car-things and drive in a straight line. FUN! Now that I actually can drive a real car, on real roads, with real opposing vehicles, Victorian Cars has, surprisingly, not lost all its luster. But the boy operating the ride today felt that rides were, apparently, not to be enjoyed but rather complied with.
Rules? We don’t need no stinkin’ rules! Long story short, my “punishment” for ramming into Annica’s car; sing the alphabet to the drivers behind me. People, might I add, I did not know. One would think a very comely, messy-looking boy would be more lenient. ---------------------------- The car ride over was awful.
For some reason, I was coned into the most uncomfortable position in the car. My body had about a five inch space to squeezzzzze into. My arms were crossed unpleasantly, crushing my, albeit small, chest in a horrendous manner (I’m still sore). My legs were contorted against the door so that it took all my strength not to plow into Anna Dunn, who sat comfortably the entire time. Maybe it’s not clear enough, but I hate car trips. ---------------------------- Oh man!
Last year I had my summer goals in much earlier. 1. Fall in love. Find a goddamn boy already, settle down, and get me some lovin’. It’s about fucking time! I’m resorted to giving longing glances at old boyfriend photos, one hand on the trigger of the telephone.
2. Live without MTV. Especially stop obsessing about the Real World! I miss Paris so much. Where is the Mallory- Ace romance? Where are the terrible Adam rap songs?
Where is the flamboyancy of Simon?! 3. Get the zine off the ground and develop a cult-following. Really, I mean it. I don’t have any excuses this time. Writing ‘War and Peace’-length blog entries or pretending to be a rock star in my bedroom (clothing optional) is not as admirable as the promised glory of Under the Glass.
4. Recreational pharmaceuticals. According to my creative writing teacher, I’m simply a “dirty, dirty hippie”, so I need to live up to that role. Plus, if I’m going seek male attention of the physical/romantic variety, I might as well make an ass out of myself while I do it. 5. Be mobile.
I must remember to move this summer. It’s tempting to remain a slug, but it would be nice to not look like one. 6. Write the great American novel. Wait, scratch that—just write. The only way I’ll get any better is if I keep on truckin’.
Writing needs to be less of something (conversational? repetitive? whiny? ) and more of… something else (eloquent, thought-provoking, interesting…). 7. Get my scene on.
My heart longs for live entertainment. Even if it is John Hiatt or an open-mic night, I need to be around music. It makes me such a happier person. 8. Contribute to society. As in, get a job.
Work. Make money. Buy into capitalism. I’ve got a drug habit, a CD habit, a book habit, and a dollar-theatre habit to support. 9. Be arrested for civil disobedience.
Work for a cause! PROTEST! Fuck the Bush administration! Those boys I saw last weekend really opened my heart to romanticized protest. I want to make the world a better place, and I don’t care 10. Glossy sidewalk nights.
It’s a term I think I’ve only briefly used here. Basically, those nights when you feel infinite and there is the perfect soundtrack playing on a crappy stereo in a smelly old car, when you can feel love for your friends and the world and you’re drugged without drugs--- everything is perfect. If I can have some of those nights this summer, I’ll be a lucky girl. Affectionately… Anna\ 
