  Remind me: I love yellow legal pads. And good black pen. Oh man, there was nothing better than that black pen and that good ivory paper. Flipping through channels during lunch, I discover an interesting one on the History Channel (read: dork) about stigmata. Is it Easter already? Psychosomatic injuries: I wonder how many times a person has to convince themselves that they're hurting.
A million? How big is a million, anyways? And I remember first grade, when we all had to bring a hundred of something. I brought 100 Q-tips. And it was this amazing possessive streak I went through, but I just couldn't bear the idea of those 100 Q-tips staying at school overnight, so I took them home. Everything used to have some great intrinsic value for me.
Everything still does, but to a lesser degree. I can't throw anything away that I got during a happy time: dance ticket, UC Davis paraphernalia, something from Paris. Or something that came from someone dear: I still can't get over losing anything Grandma gives me. SO what is a million? Have I played a million keys in piano? Walked a million steps?
Typed a million letters? Written a million letters? To get the wounds of Christ, how much should someone think they are hurting? A million times, would they have to go over piercings on the hands and feet and sides? What is the power of the human mind? For some reason, I feel sorry for Sra.
Bruckner today. Someone didn't really fill out the "Nosotros, no" side and supposedly had to see her English teacher about the essay so she had to come back later. Senora just says, well, you can't do that, detecting sliminess. And after seeing B get upset, the girl finally assents and finishes. B mutters to me: "Ay! I'm so glad I'm retiring soon.
" So period 2 hasn't been treating her too well...I remember verbal complaints: "Why are we doing this again? " and just complete retaliation and random C noises and speaking English in Spanish class. I wonder how hard it must be to put on a happy "Ay, chicos! " face during class and tell us about semana santa and travels in a happy tone and just show a completely different side during lunch. How terrible it must be to be judged by your peers and also by a gaggle of disrespectful children in AP who always detect teacher weaknesses and worm through. We are a passionate lot.
And when it comes time, we hate fiercely. So we come back to human strength. I wonder, how strong must you be to pretend you have the stigmata and live life as a living saint while everything about you is false? You can't confide in anyone. And since most of the people with stigmatas were women, that's even more difficult: I take the chauvinistic view, ironically, that women are weaker. I am living proof.
I need to tell someone, something, what's going on in my head. Anything I do wrong I usually reveal somewhere safe. How do you withstand the scorn of 40 unruly AP students who have this air invincible superiority? How do you stay a fraud? "I was waiting for a crosstown train in the London underground. " 
