Feeling: Perfunctory; too tired to put heart behind it
Listening to: ice cream bells
Reading/Watching: journals. "LAURA" IS BACK.

Okay, how annoying is it that Diaryland has yet to recognize the entry I posted several days ago? Mrph.

Dress rehearsal tonight, cabaret tomorrow, paper due Friday, second performance Saturday. Craziness. But afterward, ah blessed silence.

The school litmag is taking entries for this year's publication, so I'm having a ball digging through new poems and short stories, finding my favorites to submit.

I began my tutoring/mentoring at the middle school today (it's part of the teacher certification, FYI), and it startles me to realize some of these kids were born in 1990. Born in the nineties, and they're already making out by the flagpole, shaving their eyebrows and drawing on new ones, and outlining their lips with maroon pencil in a style that has never looked good, even when I was thirteen and it was first coming out.

I think I scare them, with my tall-quiet-white-girl-ness. Not just a white girl, but an utter gringa. Without even a scrap of ghetto to my name. I took French in highschool, for God's sake.

I can see myself doing a lot of good, if they pair me with one of the kids who has trouble speaking out, trouble fitting in, trouble with self-esteem or friends. I can't quite see myself being much good to the girls with no eyebrows who signed up for this program to get out of gym class with their friends. Or maybe that's my insecurity talking.

It's strange, though. This was the type of school I grew up in, ever since fifth grade. I've always been the minority, and somehow I'm still having trouble feeling confident and walking proudly, without remembering when those girls in gym thought my glasses and posture meant I was a stuck-up nerd bitch who needed to get her white ass kicked.

But I'm over-dramatizing. I never got my ass kicked; I usually ran to a bathroom and started crying before anyone could lay a hand on me.

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