2002-04-10|2:58 p.m.
I have my car back. It was at my school's automotive department. They found out why it won't pass smog and what it needs to be fixed. Unfortunately, I trust A's dad (again and again) and he has convinced me to let him find the part in a junkyard so that it won't cost me so much (the part new is almost 200 bucks). The only thing is, A's dad will never fix my car. This is a cycle that continues on and on.
"Buck up baby, its ok. The sunlight on the floor will always fall."
Ever since I have been back I have been fiercely fighting the depression again. That something in me wants to lie in bed until I waste away.
I wear makeup. I go in spurts in my life. Sometimes I go for months and I don't wear it. Sometimes I wear it everyday for months. Right now, I only wear lipstick and mascara. I think this is the best compromise. I like wearing makeup, but I don't like having it on my face all day.
I have to do things like go to a dentist and get a check up at the doctors, but I fear that it will cost me too much money. My insurance only covers a little. I hate not having money or not having anyone to help me out.
Jeff came over Monday night and played me songs on his guitar. How nice it is to be a one-person audience.
It was interesting seeing all the foreign students at the UN competition. The European students in general were genetic examples of perfection. Clear beautiful skin and symmetrical faces held upon the tall thin bodies that I could almost never talk to because they all used their "anything but English" languages. I know this is because in many ways they felt guarded from the US students. I don't even have any feelings about that part of it. I just was in awe at times at the beautiful people around me.
The foreign students were fairly nice, assuming that they weren't saying horrible things about you in another language. It was my callous, overly competitive fellow American students that I had to watch out for.
A girl representing Colombia came up to me after my group's paper was rejected. She had been a signatory to our paper, meaning that she supported its chance to be discussed before the group. All throughout the conference I knew I didn't like this girl. She looked like a strong faced, exaggeratedly confident Penelope Cruz. She went about the room bragging about a program in Colombia as if it were her own idea. I wanted to ask if Colombia had only one program to help children, knowing that she didn't have much else to offer.
She walked up to my table as I sat alone looking for some documents to help me argue the connection between child labor conditions and their health. At that time, I still thought I could save all our hard work.
"Where is your paper?" she towers over my table with a false smile on her face.
"It wasn't accepted," I said. Her presence made me more emotional about the whole thing. I began to feel my eyes get warm. I looked down, remembering the way that I hated the girls in elementary school who would ask where I bought my "homeless girl" clothes.
"Oh, yeah. The paper on child labor. Hmmmm," she carefully let her pretty face turn pensive, "yeah, I can see that."
I remained silent hoping that she would just leave.
She continued, "You know," and paused, "you should have read your delegate guide more carefully." And with a smooth, quick transition she flipped her long, soft brown hair onto the other shoulder and called out to another girl, complementing her outfit and walked off.
I sat speechless. How could even the meanest person say that? She meant to imply that I had not even done the simplest task as to read the guide that they give you when entering the contest. And the most infuriating thing about it is the guide does talk about child labor. But without even the chance to respond I was to take her blow and eat it silently.
Later at the end of the day, I found myself behind her and a group of men as we climbed the stairs. She was louder than anyone around us was.
"Marcus, you know that I love you," she called out laughing. "Won't you marry me?"
One of the boys made some muffled sound like a "no."
"Awwww," she sang, "no one ever turns me down."
The sad thing is, she is probably right. It is sad how when you are younger your parents, teachers, and others trying to console you try to tell you that some day the girls back in elementary school will get what they deserve. God punishes these people. Time punishes these people. Your own success will punish these people. But, in all honesty, no one and nothing punishes these people. They grow up to look like Penelope Cruz and still thrive off the tears that they can sense welling up in your eyes. They are always beautiful and they will always have better paying careers than you will. I didn't and still don't want them to have any bad luck placed upon them. The difference between then and now though, is that I no longer desperately want those girls to be my friends. In fact, the beauty of understanding is that I can accept that they can exist and so can I. And even though they may stand taller than I do, I never have to look up to them.
But, I have to admit, I did wish a little that she'd fall down one set of stairs and mess up that pretty face of hers.
Word of the Day: barbican- an outer defensive work; especially a tower at a gate or bridge