Last night it was decided by myself and a photographer that I would play Lolita in the poster he's producing for the subject. There's no new Lolita movie, it's just an art project. We're both very much into it, and he's firm in his casting, but we have yet to find a Humbert. We want one very much. I am searching for classic saddle shoes and the perfect accompanying outfit. I am wondering what to do with my breasts. While rather small, they are still not the breasts of a fourteen year old. They'll betray me if I'm not careful.

It's becoming more and more apparent that I have a full-fledged Lolita complex.

For Her:

Lately I've been thinking, Sandy. Lost in thought. Lost in the past. I've been thinking about you. About our time together. About us.

How long ago it seems, two winters and a summer. I can remember holding you next to me in the darkness of my room. I can remember your laugh. I remember the time I tried to cook dinner for you. Do you remember, Sandy? Spaghetti with homemade sauce and apple crumble. I forgot to take the peels off the apples, and the wine I bought was terrible. Do you remember, Sandy? I do.

I remember the way you laughed when I told you I still loved you. You seemed to think this was some sort of school boy crush that I'd get over in time. I never told you that again.

But Sandy, I haven't. I've tried to move on, and there've been others since you. But whenever one of them comes crashing down I always find myself drawn back to you, back to the affection and security you once offered, hoping to find some trace of it still there in your eyes.

I know now it will never be the same. That those moments of joy and happiness are trapped forever in the past. You moved on long ago, but I never have. Our infrequent get togethers over coffee just serve to drive this point home.

How mature you look now, no longer the naive girl who rested her head on my shoulder all those nights ago. You've grown up, you've changed. I've changed too, but at the same time I haven't grown.

I'll never tell you these things, Sandy, but at night, when the only light comes from the cars outside my window, when my tiny bed seems so big, so cold, so empty, at these times, Sandy, I swear I can still see your face, still feel you next to me.

I'm still the same boy I was, Sandy. Lost, frightened, lonely, and dreaming of you.

Names have been changed to protect the innocent.


I have a Java test in a little over an hour, and while I hope I am prepared enough to pass it, I have heard very bad things about one of the other classes' results on the midterm.
Apparently, only 20 percent of the class passed.
20 percent.

I am afraid.
Yet I can write a simple working program, and understand most of the errors I get. I'm doing pretty good in Java, and my teacher likes me, and is not a dumbass, so I'm happy enough. It's the tests I fear. I can write a program if I know I can take a quick peek at my textbook if I need to, just to confirm that I am doing things properly. But give me a test and I freeze.
I know we should learn this well enough to be able to just write a program without the aid of a textbook, but it is difficult. I will learn eventually, but I just felt like freaking out somewhere.

Oh well. If nothing else, the stress gave me a lot of extra energy, which was then pumped into Pimpette comics. I bet I get nothing done over reading week; except maybe on sunday when I'm freaking because I don't have a comic for that monday.

My mother has anger management problems. This isn't news, especially to me as I've been subjected to errant slaps and outbursts for as long as I can remember. In my younger years I just assumed I wasn't the daughter she wanted. In my teens I thought she was simply the victim of her own abusive childhood. Her story has changed so many times I might never know the truth. The only thing I knew for sure was that I never wanted to be like her.

I remember crying into my pillowcase at night, swearing I'd dance on her grave when she died. I remember promising myself that when I got married I'd move far away so she'd never get her hands on my children. So she couldn't warp them the way she had me.

I remember a night two years ago when I hit back. There's only so much a person can take, I tell myself. I was within my rights to stand up for myself after 23 years of this, I remind myself. Yet I've always felt guilty for it. Because a daughter should never hit her mother. Even if it was just in the arm.

I think she was more shocked at my promise to do it again if she ever laid a hand on me again, than she was at the physical contact itself.

Last night I looked at my mother as she told me about a situation at work and was struck by how self righteous she was. She was being unfairly accused of things by some younger coworkers, but she was making all the wrong decisions in how to handle it. She'd said things she shouldn't have to her boss, because she's been there longer and has earned the right to speak her mind she thinks.

I leaned against the door frame, lit by a lamp next to me, and I listened to her. And when she was done I counselled her as I would a friend. As friends have done for me. She listened to me silently but I could see her anger in the rapid bouncing of her crossed leg. How dare you not agree with me! it seemed to scream.

This morning I overheard her telling a coworker on the phone how I'd helped her last night. How she could feel herself being much more balanced today. That she finally figured out why they'd sent me to college.

Last night my mother was telling anyone who would listen how angry she was. Right now my mother is downstairs with the radio blaring, singing "I wanna hold your hand!" at the top of her lungs.

This morning my mother vacuumed the dog with a hand-vac. Times, they are a changin'.

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