I'm... Bald

Friday I did the craziest thing.Long, thick, split-ended, wavy, heavy, high-maintainence hair GONE!
Not all gone, but 13 inches of it.

Here's me before:

Sigh...
My best friend held my hand for support. I think she was more worked up than I was.

Then before I could put anything more into perspective, it was in pigtails and being chopped off.

I wanted to cry right then.

My hair is my secuiruty blanket. It's what I hide behind and play with when I'm nervous. It's what I pull at and cover my face with.
I don't have it anymore! It's in a padded envelope on its way to Florida. I FEEL NAKED. It's like I got a limb chopped off.
I'm still coming to terms with it.

& I donated it all to Locks of Love, this will be my third time donating.

So it all goes to a good cause, but now I'm kind of sad.

I can't ever think of titles I'm sorry

So school sucks and especially high school.
At 14 you're thrown into the jungle- this whole novel lifestyle that you've only seen on the screens.
And it's who you're with. It's who you're not with.. It's your hair. It's your makeup. It's what you wear. And don't you dare dig into your middle school wardrobe because all you've got is that passing millisecond in the hall to make your impression. Where this impression goes, I don't know..
Too much eyeliner- whore. Short hair- lesbian. Blasting music- punk. Flipflops- gay. Sagging pants- punk. So-much-cleavage-I-can-basically-see-your-nipples- desperate. All black- goth. Jersey- jock. Cheerleading uniform- prep. You know what glasses I'm talking about- hipster.

Sigh. I literally did just walk thru the hall in my most angry, judgemental, bitchy disposition, labeled every innocent I saw, and recorded it. I feel really bad thinking about it so hard, but it's kind of... What we do.
I don't exactly know how this started and why we do it, but that how our little adolescent thought process has been wired.
Highschool is scary! We're all catty little things, and you're never safe from a label. And I don't think that's ever going to change. But you know what can change?

YOUR ATTITUDE! :D *convert every insult into complement*

Taylor, oh god, optimism...

No... But, I'm just saying it's your decision to give a damn about what a stranger thinks of you.

Like, I'll choose not to care about whether you think my cargo pants make me look twelve, or that you think I'm gay because I hold my friends' hands,

or that you think I'm a dork because I'm in orchestra(hahaha wellll....)...

...because *I* know what kind of person I am, and I'm proud of it. So why should I let some exterior opinion tamper with that?

Golly!

My brothers and I think about the dumbest things. I'm only saying dumb because that's what those with higher maturity levels might say, except for it's not dumb to us, it's what we think about.

Last night the topic was variations of fart noises. Instead of that unpleasant, well-known passing gas sound, out comes a positive intergection voiced in a super high-pitch:

"Yippee!"

"Gee whiz!"

"Golly!"

"Yahoo!"

Farting in class just got way less embarrassing. Or more. Where ever you and your sophistication stand.

We also think it'd be great if our cats wore clothes. I know this is gonna be a lot more interesting if you have a better visual, but I do not have pictures handy of them. Luckily, Tyce looks like Salem from Sabrina the Teenage Witch, and Molly looks basically like a ferret.

Tyce is really really fat, but he's been losing weight because we've been starving him like the excellent owners we are. My dad calls it a "diet" when it's really just letting Molly get primary dibs, but she only eats like 3 pieces, so Tyce is still pretty fat.  Anyways, he'd probably be wearing sweat pants and a stained under shirt(stained from what, I don't know), and Molly would probably be wearing some cute flowy, floral dress. Then when we're having company over we yell at the cats to "put on something nice", so Tyce goes and grabs his Hollister polo, and Molly puts on a bonnet. I'm not sure how the bonnet is relevant to anything but I just think it'd be cute.

Also, our cats are very talkative. But we wished our cats could sing. My text can't really do it any justice, but Tyce's meow would be very low and opera-y and go something like:

"MeeeeeeYOOOOOW"

Cowardly-lion style.

That's all the rambles for tonight. I promise to be more textually-active. I might break that promise... But if you send me a lot of annoying reminders I might not.

Oh and here's some pictures of me and my brothers:

So-So Sixteen

Welcome, October.

"Octo" is the latin root for eight, obvi, but, history lesson of the day, January and February were added to the calendar after October was named, so now the Romans just look dumb. Whoops.

My birthday is this month and I'm turning sixteen and I don't really care. Usually I count down the days, and then hours, and wake up anticipating a new segment in my spine or longer hair or the ability to feel the pea under my mattress, but usually, I wake up feeling the same. Well, always I wake up feeling the same. Anyways, this year I could care less, because I've met the bitter realization that none of those things actually happen. Because when you do have a birthday, and it's not a significant one(18 and 21 are significant [I don't get my license until February] ... right?) only a few things are going to change:

• When your far-off relatives who don't care actually about you come to visit they tend to ask the same, general questions, to which I can answer with nothing even slightly impressive: 1. Do you have a boyfriend? Noooo. 2. What sports are you in? Sports? Have you seen me? 3. How old are you now? 16. I'm 16. Last year I said 15 and the year before I said 14 and now I'm saying 16. And I'm somehow still the same person.
• When your parents lecture you, odds are they bring up your age. But it's always in their favor. "No you can't go to that concert, you're only 16!" "No I won't pay for that, you're almost 17!" Each year it ups one. Each year it's just a different number that gets waved back and forth in front of your nose.
• There's one more candle on your cake. It's all just numbers.

You poor little thing.

My Evil Teacher

One of my teachers is evil I think. After hours I'm sure he dwells in the aphotic school basement, slashing red scars on all our well-worked assignments, lacing and unlacing his dress shoes, while feeding on gasping, overgrown rats he heartily raised himself. And when it comes time to rest, he laces up his shoes one last time, only to drop himself into the round, seemly grave in the muddy ground he conjured himself, taping his eyelids closed and forcing sleep.

Okay I just made him seem like an enormous, lonesome creep, versus the baneful, high school Hilter I was originally going for... But, you never know- Maybe he annually bribes the district with treasures and rat pastries, usually just ending in brain-washing, to grant him just one more year of the glossy privilege to continue enlightening us florescent adolescents.

But let's go with this: familiar with Mr.Ratburn from Arthur? And Red from That 70's Show? Well those two charming characters got together and somehow produced the result that is my teacher.

You know how most teachers are always like, I want you to strive and succeed and get good grades and be happy and good and good and good. Their intentions are positive and benevolent and pretty and give you hope.

Yeah I swear tho, this guy's goal is for us all to fail. He'll make sure that if you don't pass that 10 point quiz, YOU WON'T GO TO COLLEGE. And I never exaggerate. You know that!

He's also one of those teachers that just says "Do it." as opposed to explaining how it's done, then letting you out into the field. Yesterday, my lab partner and I sat at our table looking like idiots with a microscope, 4 slides and probably 10 packets. The entire class was doing the same thing! The directions he gives us are shitty and his attitude is shitty and the whole class is just a big shit-fest and the guy doesn't even give a shit.
He gives me a ridiculous amount of failing grades and I probably do deserve them all, but I'm an angst-infested teenager so I like to blame my problems on other people.

Awk

I have a problem with staring at people. Well I think a lot of people like to stare, or "look at a certain subject intently", but a few of us are better at controlling the urge than others. Some people are just too good looking or too weird looking or just too human and I can't help but dissect them with my eyeballs.
And then they sense your eye rape and turn to you and you're going to either:

1. What what what what darting eyes I'm looking at the American flag I'm looking at the inspirational poster I'm looking at the clock oh look it's 10:33 how interesting :)
2. Lolwut? Continue notes on Roman Empire..
3. Ohhey. Casual masculine nod.

Anything to not make it any more awk than it already is. But some weirdos are like "stop staring at me why are you staring at me do you like me oh my gosh you like me wanna date me?"
And, I might just be the only one who goes to such extent of over-analyzing shit like that, but it probably does me mentally good to have myself believe that whether it's true or no, I'm not the only one. Right?

Across the Room

In what’s probably my least favorite class, I was blessed with getting to sit right next to my favorite girl- and what a delight this is! OF COURSE, grey yesterday, me loca profesora thought it best to move me across the room, which really might as well have just been across the ocean- but thank goodness for ammatuer sign language I guess...

Anyways, now I routinely slouch next to Barbie. Her jeans are super tight, her hair is super voluminous, and she likes to twirl her gum around her finger while it's still in her mouth. Adorable. The young lady who switched seats with me is one of those cute girls who wears a lot of bracelets and calls them "candy". She just sits there, dragging a pencil across white or whatever to copy answers with a sad hand and ridiculously sulky posture. Sometimes we make eye contact and she actually pouts, complete with bottom lip stuck out. Taylor, you bitch, you took my seat! But baby, I'm not too pleased either.