My Astoria Pomp

I am currently sitting in the one of the computer labs at The New School with Pagan the Mexican and some kid. I have a box next to me that's supposed to signify opinion. The outside is lined with Caution tape, for I am almost 100% sure that by this time, word has spread that I am a crazy-ho-ass-bitch, and this is something you must be cautious of. I wrote all the things I've heard about myself on the top of the box in really quiet-looking dry-erase marker, so only if you hold it JUST RIGHT can you see the Insults of an Improper Nature. Then, I have stuck one of the only good polaroid shots of me, ever, atop the box. It's labeled Astoria Pomp '05 @ The Sol even though it was taken at The Beehive Tea Room in Salt Lake City. I recommend the Beehive Tea Room, you will simply pass out and die the first time you take a bite of their cake. And then you'll take another bite. And another.

The inside of the box is mostly a collection of art from the magazine, Juxtapoz. The word, Juxtapose, happens to be one of my favorite words in the entire English language. Dichotomy is another one. But I digress. I have a photobooth strip of Diantha and I that we took around August or September, and I chose those pictures of us instead of say, a better picture of us, because that was the summer we would never see each other again. [or so it felt] It has a lot of meaning, yanno? I very much wish that I could place a picture of Jason in my box. He's as much of a fixture in my life as the word "Expectations" emblazoned on the inside wall. And sadly, I can't put a picture of him in, because nobody needs to know around with whom I tootle, or the age of said tootler. He isn't that much older than me. But people talk.

This box is to be turned in my Creative Writing class, alongside the boxes of Diantha, Staph-Infection-ie The Girl Who Wants Me Dead, and The Ass. Nothing can express how nervous I am to show them that I have a nipple in my box. [and the Google machine explodes] from a magazine article about war paint, or that I have the Virgin Mary oh-so-cleverly pasted up on the top wall. Say what you will about Christianity, I hold the Virgin in very high regard. We could get into religion for hours. Since I'm feeling drained of bodily warmth, we won't. My tits are cold. My legs are cold. I want to go put on the clothes in my locker, but I don't think I will. I think I might stand up to this cold, and everyone's opinions, and say "Why yes, I am dressed like a girl today, and yes, I am wearing very thin Big Girl Panties, but that doesn't change who I am." Unfortunately, it does change who I am. I am the Crazy Slutty Immature Trend-Breaker. Hear me whimper.