  And how are you enjoying our fair city, Mr. Hotnett-- I mean, Hartnett... Josh Hartnett mania has taken over our town. Or at least, the female population of my high school. Even my teachers are not immune. Mrs. Biard went into a tangent about how her daughter served him at Lindamen’s. Appearently, she was so nervous, she messed up his order. Since they’re filming primarily downtown, and therefore within blocks of my school, there has been a spike in the class skipping rate.
Within the girl community, one feels obligated to tip off others when she spots a set move. It’s like some sort of sick cult (to which I am a willing member). ---------------------------------- I think color contacts are weak. To me, it’s like stuffing your bra (ladies) or pants (gentlemen-- although I don’t think this is a very common practice outside of dance classes). All my life I have wanted to have green eyes. With our advanced cosmetic technology, I could very easily go buy contacts and fool strangers into thinking that I have naturally beautiful eyes.
But I won’t. It’s just… cheating . ---------------------------------- Today is what I refer to as a "Fiona Day". There is something so comforting about her music. Ok, so it’s not a part of my beloved Saddle Creek family, or even the indie scene at all. But I listened to her waaaay back.
Fiona and I have gone through some shitty times together. I think she’s horribly underrated. A lot of it has to do with her neurosis. But how can anyone speak ill upon me VMA acceptance speech? Yes, Fiona, MTV is bullshit! I guess most people think of her as a one-hit wonder.
And yes, Criminal is a pretty good song. But I’m more of a Paper Bag type of girl. The song is my ultimate lullaby. I react to “ I went crazy again today/ looking for a strand to climb/ looking for a little hope ” the way a one-year-old reacts to “ Where is Thumpkin?/ Where is Thumpkin?/ Here I am!/ Here I am !” Oh, Fiona, I too shall indulge in the daydream of a boy. God. ---------------------------------- I was looking through my journal (the tangible, personal one written in pen rather than type) from the summer, and its kind of painful reading.
Painful, I mean, in the sense that I sound so much different than I do now. I suppose there is a little bit of the Mary-factor in there. But the really hard stuff to stomach are entries where I whine about my lack of connections with people. Even over the last year I have established new pockets of depth in my friendships. I’m pretty proud, I guess, because I’ve moved on from just waiting for my turn to talk. I listen more now.
And in a surprising way, this very blog has helped. It’s cathartic. It makes me analyze rationally instead of bottling up absurd ideas. I’m not yet the person I aspire to be (profound, confident, musically talented, brave) but I’m less delusional than even a few months ago. You see, I’ve found that I can type pages about the events of one single day. And then I realized that the people I am close with, my family and friends, they can type the same reams of pages, too.
And if there is so much for me to say, they must have equal complexities in their thoughts as well. And as elementary it sounds, such a basic thing to understand, it took me a long time to fully realize I feel things no differently than other people do. There’s a strange comfort in knowing Christian boys from Wisconsin and witty Texans have the same feelings, and feel them to the same extent, as I do. I feel… blessed? Lucky, maybe, to finally make bridges with people instead of hiding myself from them. Affectionately… Anna 
