Sticky and cryptic.

My parents and I were talking in the car, when my mom mentioned how she could lift 40 pounds with one arm (her good arm, the other is bad). Discouragedly, I pointed out the sadness that 40 pounds was only a third of my weight. To which my parents responded: "Wow, really?" Almost instantly tears sprung up in my eyes. I responded with an ever-brilliant (and thoroughly used-up) "Gee, really boosting my self-esteem there.", but I had to fight to keep my voice steady. I'm gross. And I know my parents will read this, so no, I'm not depressed. I just hate my body.

UPDATE: I never said anything I did since summer started :( Saturday was Lolo's bat mitzvah, which was amazingly fun, and I actually kinda got along with Kim. I hope she's not still mad at me, because that would be pointless. I got a characterature (or however you spell it) done! Haha, I'm buying basil at the supermarket.

Yesterday I went with my mom to the Franklin Institute in Philly. It was actually really fun, even though a lot of the stuff was geared more towards little kids. I ran through the heart TWICE!

There were two things I found particularly interesting there. 1. We went into this heart rate monitor thing, and my heartbeat was around 75. When the creepy voice told me to slow my breathing and such, it went down, but when the creepy voice told me to let go of my stress and such, my heart rate actually went higher than usual.

2. There was a small exibihit about race, where they argued that there was really not enough difference to constitute discrimination (not that there would be anyway) or even really the concept of race. My argument: like it or not, there are physical differences in races. Whether or not there are mental differences is yet to be discovered.

Racism is pretty stupid nowadays. I don't mean actual racism, but how people view it. You're racist if you even acknowledge someone's skin color. And it's really turning around. If you have a black candidate for a job and a white one, with the same level of intelligence and schooling and stuff, an employer will pick the black one so as to appear not racist. Hmmph.

Truly calm water is stagnant, spoiled. What looks like a perfectly serene pool can have a raging undercurrent just underneath the surface.

Earth is the strongest, but it is not invincible- Mountains and gorges, lakes and rivers are all the forces moving and recreating earth.

Fire can be extinguished by water, air, or earth. It's destructive, but fragile.

Air is the most powerful. Air can move earth, water and fire. It's unstoppable. It will go around any obstacle in it's way. But it loses it's energy quickly. It cannot keep a destructive pace. None of the elements could exist without the other. That said, you do not have to be only one element.

My mom is effing brilliant sometimes.

-

A pale, invisible skin covered the bathroom sink where I shook, alone and anticipating the fervor that would soon overcome my bones and soul. My hand trembled as I smeared on my mom's Las Vegas Red lipstick, as glossy as lipstick could get while still retaining it's eye-popping color. It smudged. For a brief second, I stared at the reflected smudge in the mirror, debating whether I should fix it, then sighed and wiped all of it off on the paper towel I kept by my sink at all times.

I was the lucky one in the group. I was about three inches taller than my tallest friend and much skinnier, with clear skin and D-cups. At fourteen, I looked sixteen, and with the right paint and clothes, I looked nineteen. My hands still trembling, I brushed pink fairy dust on my glass cheeks and--

I shook my head. Liza had warned me about the Poetry. She said I couldn't think like that anymore. So I didn't. I snuck out to clubs with my BFFs pretending I was five years older than I really was, pretending to hook up with twenty-year-olds but leaving with the rest of my friends and leaving them confused and disappointing, pretending to drink the finest liquor in the club but really sipping the cherry soda Maya snuck in her over-sized, one-hundred-percent recycled, shiny beach bag. At fourteen, I knew how to have fun. I didn't need the Poetry.

Turning to face the wall-mirror, I reviewed myself. My butt was propped up with shimmery black pumps and covered with a black leather miniskirt I stole from my 23-year-old sister, Natalie. My shiny silver sequined shirt (the Quadruple S, I called it. It was my favorite club shirt.) was tight enough to show off my figure, which screamed 'over eighteen'. My hair was sloppily curled, hanging loose over my shoulders and past my heart. But it was the face that was the clicker. I leaned in, inspecting every detail. My green eyes were electric with the shadowy darkness I surrounding them in, my cheeks were just plain perfect, and my lips were...regular. I had forgotten to put Las Vegas back on. The manufactured blood was once again slathered over my pale, thin lips, making them beautiful, like the rest of me...yes, I was beautiful, and nineteen, and absolutely used to being beautiful at a pounding, dancing, flashing heaven with other beautiful people.

I was complete. The paint was on, the armour that hid my true identity was on, the attitude that gave me that identity was in place. I swaggered out of my bathroom with the pride of a true champion, a teenage rebel who was fabulous and sparkling and glamorous while rebelling. My parents slept in their bedrooms, unaware what their daughter was doing, unwilling to believe I could ever be anything but an angel.

I was cold. My hands felt as if I had been holding ice, goosebumps rose on my smooth, pale arms. The cold was spreading. I could feel it in my back and I shivered.

Outside. Outside would be warm. I almost ran out the door, almost slamming it, but I didn't due to practice (I couldn't wake up Mom and Dad). Almost instantly, warmth enveloped me. Night was everywhere; the clouds were a thick black blanket hanging over the world and trapping the heat. Streetlights were glowing fairies in the night, beckoning me, leading me away from the cold and the darkness. I followed blindly, stumbling to the sleek gray car my sister left while she visited friends from high school for just a few days. Me and her knew she couldn't stand being with Mom and Dad for more than two of those days she was promising to her old friends. She made sure to spend as little time as possible with them whenever she visited from Princeton.

The fairies were kind and turned on the ignition for me, even going so far as to start driving that car. Natalie had taught me how to drive a little less than a year ago, secretly of course. Mom and Dad couldn't know. It was Natalie who taught me the secrets of makeup and clothes and how you act in a social environment (unintentionally) and it was Natalie who showed me the best clubs to be seen at (unintentionally) and it was Natalie who was the only one who knew what I did sometimes more than once a week (outside my clique). She didn't like it too much, but she never told Mom or Dad. I knew I could trust her.

I didn't go straight to the club. I had to pick up Maisey. There were four of us all together...me, Maisey, Maya, and Catherine. Liza didn't count. She was seventeen and she did not want to be associated with us, only as my counselor. Natalie didn't officially count, because she was an adult and she didn't go to the clubs with us, but she was one of us in an older, college model. She was our hero, our mentor, our role model, whether intentionally or unintentionally.

She was the only one who supported the Poetry. Liza told me it was psychotic, though not in so many words, and my parents shuffled uncomfortably in their chairs and checked the time on their gold watches and stared out the window, pretending the Poetry didn't exist. Natalie asked me to tell her a story every night, at least until Liza found out and yelled at us both, saying the Poetry was stupid and not natural. Natalie is older, but she let Liza yell at her. She never asked me for stories again.

Liza took it upon herself to be our teacher, but she wasn't like Natalie. She snapped at us and told us we looked like sluts and threatened to spread what we did all over school. Usually we just avoided her, but she would follow us and tell us not to talk to him or not to listen to that. She was mean.

But she was also my counselor, which made me her property. I was supposed to listen to her until she deemed me cured. Despite her cruelness, she took her job very seriously. Which meant, when she found out, she joined our club-trips. At first we hoped it would loosen her up, but she didn't have any fun with it. She didn't dance and didn't respond when a guy flirted with her, she just sat and watched us and glared.

She wasn't coming tonight.