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Capella Rising - A work in Progress

12 Years Ago


Okay. I don't think anyone else is going to join this group so it doesn't matter. Post our story here lol.

[no subject]

12 Years Ago


Jan. 18th, 2000

i woke up today and realized we had run out of coffee grinds. My father
probably finished the last of the coffee this morning before he went to work. He's one
of those guys who thinks that a cup of coffee in the morning will some how erase the
events of the night before, so it's no surprise he found the need to drink the whole
pot. I should mention he finished off the entire bottle of Vodka last night too. My
parents have been throwing words, as well as plates, cup, shoes, basically whatever
they can get there hands on, at each other for the last few months.

[no subject]

12 Years Ago


Edit:

As i woke up this morning, the smell of coffee consumed the air around me.
This may have been the only reason I got out of bed today. As I made my way to the Mr. Coffee it soon became apparent that there was no coffee left in the pot. So I walked over to the tin labeled Maxwell House that had been left open on the counter. I reached in and realized that we had run out of coffee grinds.My father probably finished the last of the coffee this morning before he went to work. He's one of those guys who thinks that a cup of coffee in the morning will some how erase the events of the night before, so it's no surprise he found the need to drink the whole pot. I should mention he finished off the entire bottle of Vodka last night too. My parents have been
throwing words, as well as plates, cup, shoes, basically whatever they can get there
hands on, at each other for the last few months

[no subject]

12 Years Ago


Edit:

As i woke up this morning, the smell of coffee consumed the air around me.
This may have been the only reason I got out of bed today. As I made my way to the Mr. Coffee it soon became apparent that there was no coffee left in the pot. So I walked over to the tin labeled Maxwell House that had been left open on the counter. I reached in and realized that we had run out of coffee grinds. My father probably finished the last of the coffee this morning before he went to work. He's one of those guys who thinks that a cup of coffee in the morning will some how erase the events of the night before, so it's no surprise he found the need to drink the whole pot. I should mention he finished off the entire bottle of Vodka last night too.
My parents have been throwing words, as well as plates, cup, shoes, basically whatever they can get there hands on, at each other for the last few months. My mom is a rather quiet woman. A woman of the lord in fact, but when my father, gets a few drinks in his system, lets just say mom tucks her cross in her blouse, as if to shield god from her upcoming words. I don�t blame her all that much, my father is a belligerent, word slurring, violent drunk. He�s an a*****e, to be quite honest.

[no subject]

12 Years Ago


Jan. 18th, 2000

As I woke up this morning, the smell of coffee consumed the air around me. This may have been the only reason I got out of bed today. As I made my way to the Mr. Coffee it soon became apparent that there was no coffee left in the pot. So I walked over to the tin labeled Maxwell House that had been left open on the counter. I reached in and realized that we had run out of coffee grinds. My father probably finished the last of the coffee this morning before he went to work. He's one of those guys who thinks that a cup of coffee in the morning will some how erase the events of the night before, so it's no surprise he found the need to drink the whole pot. I should mention he finished off the entire bottle of Vodka last night too. My parents have been throwing words, as well as plates, cup, shoes, basically whatever they can get there hands on, at each other for the last few months. My mom is a rather quiet woman. A woman of the lord in fact, but when my father, gets a few drinks in his system, lets just say mom tucks her cross in her blouse, as if to shield god from her upcoming words. I don't blame her all that much, my father is a belligerent, word slurring, violent drunk. He's an a*****e, to be quite honest. I�ll go into more detail of there malefic relationship a little later down the road.
The only reason I am writing this is because �she� told me that maybe if I wrote my thoughts down it might be an outlet and I wouldn�t be so miserable all the time. Maybe she�s right, maybe she�s wrong� and quite frankly, I didn�t think I was miserable to begin with but she has a way of making me believe every word she speaks. She has a way with words and is always saying things like �Everyone dies but our souls live on forever.� I should probably mention that she also frequently attends church as is even in the choir. She has a romantic idea of life that I can�t quite grasp myself.

[no subject]

12 Years Ago


January 18th, 2000

As I woke up this morning, the smell of coffee consumed the air around me. This may have been the only reason I got out of bed today. As I made my way to the Mr. Coffee it soon became apparent that there was no coffee left in the pot. So I walked over to the tin labeled Maxwell House that had been left open on the counter. I reached in and realized that we had run out of coffee grinds. My father probably finished the last of the coffee this morning before he went to work. He's one of those guys who thinks that a cup of coffee in the morning will some how erase the events of the night before, so it's no surprise he found the need to drink the whole pot. I should mention he finished off the entire bottle of Vodka last night too. My parents have been throwing words, as well as plates, cup, shoes, basically whatever they can get there hands on, at each other for the last few months. My mom is a rather quiet woman. A woman of the lord in fact, but when my father, gets a few drinks in his system, lets just say mom tucks her cross in her blouse, as if to shield god from her upcoming words. I don't blame her all that much, my father is a belligerent, word slurring, violent drunk. He's an a*****e, to be quite honest. I would rather call him a*****e everytime hes mentioned, because he hardly deserves the term father attached to him, but mom says words like a*****e are �the words of the devil,� she goes a little overboard sometimes, and i'm most likely going to hell with my mouth, so I'll just call him by his name, Harold from now on. He may have contributed to making me the night i was conceived, but in that bed is just about where his effort stopped.
I�ll go into more detail of there malefic relationship a little later down the road.

The only reason I am writing this is because �she� told me that maybe if I wrote my thoughts down it might be an outlet and I wouldn�t be so miserable all the time. Maybe she�s right, maybe she�s wrong� and quite frankly, I didn�t think I was miserable to begin with but she has a way of making me believe every word she speaks. She has a way with words and is always saying things like �Everyone dies but our souls live on forever.� I should probably mention that she also frequently attends church as is even in the choir. She has a romantic idea of life that I can�t quite grasp myself.

[no subject]

12 Years Ago


EDIT:

January 18th, 2000

As I woke up this morning, the smell of coffee consumed the air around me. This may have been the only reason I got out of bed today. As I made my way to the Mr. Coffee it soon became apparent that there was no coffee left in the pot. So I walked over to the tin labeled Maxwell House that had been left open on the counter. I reached in and realized that we had run out of coffee grinds. My father probably finished the last of the coffee this morning before he went to work. He's one of those guys who thinks that a cup of coffee in the morning will some how erase the events of the night before, so it's no surprise he found the need to drink the whole pot. I should mention he finished off the entire bottle of Vodka last night too. My parents have been throwing words, as well as plates, cup, shoes, basically whatever they can get there hands on, at each other for the last few months. My mom is a rather quiet woman. A woman of the lord in fact, but when my father, gets a few drinks in his system, lets just say mom tucks her cross in her blouse, as if to shield god from her upcoming words. I don't blame her all that much, my father is a belligerent, word slurring, violent drunk. He's an a*****e, to be quite honest. I would rather call him a*****e everytime hes mentioned, because he hardly deserves the term father attached to him, but mom says words like a*****e are �the words of the devil,� she goes a little overboard sometimes, and i'm most likely going to hell with my mouth, so I'll just call him by his name, Harold from now on. He may have contributed to making me the night i was conceived, but in that bed is just about where his effort stopped.
I�ll go into more detail of there malefic relationship a little later down the road.

The only reason I am writing this is because �she� told me that maybe if I wrote my thoughts down it might be an outlet and I wouldn�t be so miserable all the time. Maybe she�s right, maybe she�s wrong� and quite frankly, I didn�t think I was miserable to begin with but she has a way of making me believe every word she speaks. She has a way with words and is always saying things like �Everyone dies but our souls live on forever.� I should probably mention that she also frequently attends church as is even in the choir. She has a romantic idea of life that I can�t quite grasp myself.

I wish I was able to explain her unconventional beauty on paper, but that would almost be like attempting to describe an intricately detailed painting with just words alone. She�s not like other girls, there�s something so much more to her. If you look at her, i mean really look at her, you'll feel an instant comfort lying there behind her amber eyes. The kind of feeling you get inside when you've been away from home for a while and then crawl into your own bed for the first time in weeks. My mom told me that she has a certain aura surrounding her and �They just don�t make girls like Aleisha now-a-days.� I don�t want to let my mom in on my feelings. She�ll find some way to knudge me and give me those eyes while Aleisha's singing her solo at Church on Sunday's just to make me uncomfortable, and i'll end up having a panic attack. I�m already uncomfortable enough sitting in those hard pues between my "happily married parents." My dad trys to conceal the fact that hes siping airplane sized bottles of liqour the second everyone closes their eyes in prayer, while my mom is signing loud enough for "the lord to hear her". They're embarassing to say the least. I'd rather not go, I've never been very religious, For as long as i can remember now i've been going to church just to see Aleisha sing. Every second that words are flowing from her lips, i'm at peace.

It�s not like Aleisha�s popular with the boys at school, they all call her the �church girl.� and feel like she�s off limits. She�s definitely the only reason I go to school. To tell you the truth, sometimes she�s the only reason I get up in the morning at all. I think she may look at me like a brother though. She always tells me i'm the brother she never had but always wanted. It's safe to say most girls see me in that same light. I�m that guy friend that every girl feels comfortable telling anything and everything to. The one who's called when they're having a problem with their boyfriend, the best friend, and the shoulder to cry on. My shoulder is becoming too damp to carry the weight, and my heart becomes more vacant with every wrong relationship i help to mend. It's only adding to my already full plate of anxieties. I�m starting to think I�m too mature for girls my age, or maybe they�re just too self involved to notice my potential as a boyfriend. Whatever the case may be, I�d rather not be in that friend-zone anymore, especially with Aleisha.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Janice came home from rehab this week. Things have been a little different since she returned. Janice is my sister, but sometimes i wonder if my mom had another husband before Harold, because my sister and I couldn't be more different. She's like one of those girls that i wouldn't ever talk to at school. She goes tanning until she's the grossest color orange, and has these really weird colors in her hair. Mom says she does this because she has low self-esteem and thinks it will make her more desirable. I don't get why guys like her, she's pretty fake. It doesn't matter, she ignores the fact that i exist, and makes things worse with my parents. They have been fighting less in the open but i can still hear them at night once i turn my T.V off. They fear that the more they fight in front of Janice the more likely it is she will be back to doing drugs. My mom blames Harold for Janice's addiction. She says that if she had a more positive male influence in her life, and not an alcoholic deadbeat father, then things may have been different. Janice likes to think her addiction to painkillers (i think they're called vicodin or something, I'm not exactly sure, but i always here mom talking about them) started when she hurt her back during a track meet and her boyfriend gave them to her telling her they would ease the pain. She's just likes to place the blame wherever she can.

[no subject]

12 Years Ago


Jan. 18th, 2000

As I woke up this morning, the smell of coffee consumed the air around me. This may have been the only reason I got out of bed today. As I made my way to the Mr. Coffee it soon became apparent that there was no coffee left in the pot. So I walked over to the tin labeled Maxwell House that had been left open on the counter. I reached in and realized that we had run out of coffee grinds. My father probably finished the last of the coffee this morning before he went to work. He's one of those guys who thinks that a cup of coffee in the morning will some how erase the events of the night before, so it's no surprise he found the need to drink the whole pot. I should mention he finished off the entire bottle of Vodka last night too.
My parents have been throwing words, as well as plates, cup, shoes, basically whatever they can get there hands on, at each other for the last few months. My mom is a rather quiet woman. A woman of the lord in fact, but when my father, gets a few drinks in his system, lets just say mom tucks her cross in her blouse, as if to shield god from her upcoming words. I don't blame her all that much, my father is a belligerent, word slurring, violent drunk. He's an a*****e, to be quite honest. I'd rather call him a*****e every time he�s mentioned, because he hardly deserves the term father attached to him, but mom says words like a*****e are �the words of the devil,� she goes a little overboard sometimes, and I�m most likely going to hell with my mouth, so I'll just call him Harold from now on. He may have contributed to making me the night I was conceived, but in that bed is just about where his effort stopped.
I�ll go into more detail of there malefic relationship a little later down the road.
The only reason I am writing this is because �she� told me that maybe if I wrote my thoughts down it might be an outlet and I wouldn�t be so miserable all the time. Maybe she�s right, maybe she�s wrong� and quite frankly, I didn�t think I was miserable to begin with but she has a way of making me believe every word she speaks. She has a way with words and is always saying things like �You know Dorian, everyone dies but our souls live on forever.� I should probably mention that she also frequently attends church as is even in the choir. She has a romantic idea of life that I can�t quite grasp myself. Aleisha is surrounded by an angelic beauty. Her face radiates a glow every time she smiles while her voice rambles on proverbs from the bible.
I wish I was able to explain her unconventional beauty on paper, but that would almost be like attempting to describe an intricately detailed painting with just words alone. She�s not like other girls, there�s something so much more to her. If you look at her, I mean really look at her, you'll feel an instant comfort lying there behind her amber eyes. The kind of feeling you get inside when you've been away from home for a while and then crawl into your own bed for the first time in weeks. My mom told me that she has a certain aura surrounding her and �They just don�t make girls like Aleisha now-a-days.� I don�t want to let my mom in on my feelings. She�ll find some way to nudge me and give me those eyes while Aleisha's singing her solo at Church on Sunday's just to make me uncomfortable, and I�ll end up having a panic attack. I�m already uncomfortable enough sitting in those hard pews between my "happily married parents." My dad tries to conceal the fact that he�s sipping airplane sized bottles of liquor the second everyone closes their eyes in prayer, while my mom is signing loud enough for "the lord to hear her". They're embarrassing to say the least. I'd rather not go, I've never been very religious, For as long as I can remember now I�ve been going to church just to see Aleisha sing. Every second that words are flowing from her lips, I�m at peace.
It�s not like Aleisha�s popular with the boys at school, they all call her the �church girl.� and feel like she�s off limits. She�s definitely the only reason I go to school. To tell you the truth, sometimes she�s the only reason I get up in the morning at all. I think she may look at me like a brother though. She always tells me I�m the brother she never had but always wanted. It's safe to say most girls see me in that same light. I�m that guy friend that every girl feels comfortable telling anything and everything to. The one who's called when they're having a problem with their boyfriend, the best friend, and the shoulder to cry on. My shoulder is becoming too damp to carry the weight, and my heart becomes more vacant with every wrong relationship I help to mend. It's only adding to my already full plate of anxieties. I�m starting to think I�m too mature for girls my age, or maybe they�re just too self involved to notice my potential as a boyfriend. Whatever the case may be, I�d rather not be in that friend-zone anymore, especially with Aleisha.


Jan. 26th, 2000

Janice came home from rehab this week. Things have been a little different since she returned. Janice is my sister, but sometimes I wonder if my mom had another husband before Harold, because my sister and I couldn't be more different. She's like one of those girls that i wouldn't ever talk to at school. She goes tanning until she's the grossest color orange, and has these really weird colors in her hair. Mom says she does this because she has low self-esteem and thinks it will make her more desirable. I don't get why guys like her, she's pretty fake. It doesn't matter, she ignores the fact that i exist, and makes things worse with my parents. They have been fighting less in the open but i can still hear them at night once i turn my T.V off. They fear that the more they fight in front of Janice the more likely it is she will be back to doing drugs. My mom blames Harold for Janice's addiction. She says that if she had a more positive male influence in her life, and not an alcoholic deadbeat father, then things may have been different. Janice likes to think her addiction to painkillers (i think they're called vicodin or something, I'm not exactly sure, but I always here mom talking about them) started when she hurt her back during a track meet and her boyfriend gave them to her telling her they would ease the pain. She's just likes to place the blame wherever she can.
Her boyfriends name is Thomas, he likes to be called Tommy to give off that friendly buddy impression. My parents, especially Harold, really liked Tommy at first and they thought he was one of those genuinely good people that are so hard to come by these days. But as Aleisha said �First impressions can be deceiving.� and as always, Aleisha was right.

[no subject]

12 Years Ago


Jan. 18th, 2000

As I woke up this morning, the smell of coffee consumed the air around me. This may have been the only reason I got out of bed today. As I made my way to the Mr. Coffee it soon became apparent that there was no coffee left in the pot. So I walked over to the tin labeled Maxwell House that had been left open on the counter. I reached in and realized that we had run out of coffee grinds. My father probably finished the last of the coffee this morning before he went to work. He's one of those guys who thinks that a cup of coffee in the morning will some how erase the events of the night before, so it's no surprise he found the need to drink the whole pot. I should mention he finished off the entire bottle of Vodka last night too.
My parents have been throwing words, as well as plates, cup, shoes, basically whatever they can get there hands on, at each other for the last few months. My mom is a rather quiet woman. A woman of the lord in fact, but when my father, gets a few drinks in his system, lets just say mom tucks her cross in her blouse, as if to shield god from her upcoming words. I don't blame her all that much, my father is a belligerent, word slurring, violent drunk. He's an a*****e, to be quite honest. I'd rather call him a*****e every time he�s mentioned, because he hardly deserves the term father attached to him, but mom says words like a*****e are �the words of the devil,� she goes a little overboard sometimes, and I�m most likely going to hell with my mouth, so I'll just call him Harold from now on. He may have contributed to making me the night I was conceived, but in that bed is just about where his effort stopped.
I�ll go into more detail of there malefic relationship a little later down the road.
The only reason I am writing this is because �she� told me that maybe if I wrote my thoughts down it might be an outlet and I wouldn�t be so miserable all the time. Maybe she�s right, maybe she�s wrong� and quite frankly, I didn�t think I was miserable to begin with but she has a way of making me believe every word she speaks. She has a way with words and is always saying things like �You know Dorian, everyone dies but our souls live on forever.� I should probably mention that she also frequently attends church as is even in the choir. She has a romantic idea of life that I can�t quite grasp myself. Aleisha is surrounded by an angelic beauty. Her face radiates a glow every time she smiles while her voice rambles on proverbs from the bible.
I wish I was able to explain her unconventional beauty on paper, but that would almost be like attempting to describe an intricately detailed painting with just words alone. She�s not like other girls, there�s something so much more to her. If you look at her, I mean really look at her, you'll feel an instant comfort lying there behind her amber eyes. The kind of feeling you get inside when you've been away from home for a while and then crawl into your own bed for the first time in weeks. My mom told me that she has a certain aura surrounding her and �They just don�t make girls like Aleisha now-a-days.� I don�t want to let my mom in on my feelings. She�ll find some way to nudge me and give me those eyes while Aleisha's singing her solo at Church on Sunday's just to make me uncomfortable, and I�ll end up having a panic attack. I�m already uncomfortable enough sitting in those hard pews between my "happily married parents." My dad tries to conceal the fact that he�s sipping airplane sized bottles of liquor the second everyone closes their eyes in prayer, while my mom is signing loud enough for "the lord to hear her". They're embarrassing to say the least. I'd rather not go, I've never been very religious, For as long as I can remember now I�ve been going to church just to see Aleisha sing. Every second that words are flowing from her lips, I�m at peace.
It�s not like Aleisha�s popular with the boys at school, they all call her the �church girl.� and feel like she�s off limits. She�s definitely the only reason I go to school. To tell you the truth, sometimes she�s the only reason I get up in the morning at all. I think she may look at me like a brother though. She always tells me I�m the brother she never had but always wanted. It's safe to say most girls see me in that same light. I�m that guy friend that every girl feels comfortable telling anything and everything to. The one who's called when they're having a problem with their boyfriend, the best friend, and the shoulder to cry on. My shoulder is becoming too damp to carry the weight, and my heart becomes more vacant with every wrong relationship I help to mend. It's only adding to my already full plate of anxieties. I�m starting to think I�m too mature for girls my age, or maybe they�re just too self involved to notice my potential as a boyfriend. Whatever the case may be, I�d rather not be in that friend-zone anymore, especially with Aleisha.


Jan. 26th, 2000

Janice came home from rehab this week. Things have been a little different since she returned. Janice is my sister, but sometimes I wonder if my mom had another husband before Harold, because my sister and I couldn't be more different. She's like one of those girls that i wouldn't ever talk to at school. She goes tanning until she's the grossest color orange, and has these really weird colors in her hair. Mom says she does this because she has low self-esteem and thinks it will make her more desirable. I don't get why guys like her, she's pretty fake. It doesn't matter, she ignores the fact that i exist, and makes things worse with my parents. They have been fighting less in the open but i can still hear them at night once i turn my T.V off. They fear that the more they fight in front of Janice the more likely it is she will be back to doing drugs. My mom blames Harold for Janice's addiction. She says that if she had a more positive male influence in her life, and not an alcoholic deadbeat father, then things may have been different. Janice likes to think her addiction to painkillers (i think they're called vicodin or something, I'm not exactly sure, but I always here mom talking about them) started when she hurt her back during a track meet and her boyfriend gave them to her telling her they would ease the pain. She's just likes to place the blame wherever she can.
Her boyfriends name is Thomas, he likes to be called Tommy to give off that friendly buddy impression. My parents, especially Harold, really liked Tommy at first and they thought he was one of those genuinely good people that are so hard to come by these days. But as Aleisha said �First impressions can be deceiving.� and as always, Aleisha was right.

I haven't seen much of her lately. I know shes busy getting ready for the Valentines Day concert at school. I hear her rehearsing her parts when i sit by the theatre during sixth period, my gosh she's so talented. Sixth period is lunch and i usually sit with her, so when she's not around i never know where to sit. I tend to get very anxious walking in the cafeteria looking around for a familiar face, I'd rather avoid that all together, so i sit outside the theatre doors listening to Aleisha. I don't want her to know I'm doing this, so a couple of minutes before the bell rings I'll pace in front of the cafeteria and then start walking to meet her for Chemistry. My plan didn't work so well today. I had fallen asleep with head pressed against Bobby Baker's locker. If i would have known this was Bobby's locker i wouldn't have even been sitting in the vicinity of it. He's a jock and thinks hes god's gift to woman. He calls me "queer" because in sixth grade i had a little bit of a breakdown when my mom refused to picked my up from school and i had to take the bus home. Mom knows that the bus makes me anxious but i think Harold had blacked out from drinking and she was afraid to leave him home alone. Let's just say i ended up taking the bus home, and in turn took on this f****t cry baby image for the past six years now. So Bobby likes to torture my life every possible chance he gets, and he didn't necessarily appreciate my choice of a place to nap. He decided to push my face into the locker with his giant football player sized hands until i woke up. It took everything i had in me not to cry, i just sat there until the bell rang and he released his hand from head, which had become a purplish-blue color. Aleisha walked out of the theatre the second Bobby walked away and i think she could see me trying to catch my breathe. She knelt down beside me and turned her beautiful face almost like a puppy does in confusion, and told me "Bobby won't ever be half the man you are, Dorian." She grabbed my hand to help me up and told me that i can sit in the theatre with her and watch her practice until the concert in February. I'm happy because this means i get to actually see her face as shes singing now, she does this thing where she'll bite her bottom lip during breaks in the song, it kind of drives me crazy.

[no subject]

12 Years Ago


Jan. 18th, 2000

As I woke up this morning, the smell of coffee consumed the air around me. This may have been the only reason I got out of bed today. As I made my way to the Mr. Coffee it soon became apparent that there was no coffee left in the pot. So I walked over to the tin labeled Maxwell House that had been left open on the counter. I reached in and realized that we had run out of coffee grinds. My father probably finished the last of the coffee this morning before he went to work. He's one of those guys who thinks that a cup of coffee in the morning will some how erase the events of the night before, so it's no surprise he found the need to drink the whole pot. I should mention he finished off the entire bottle of Vodka last night too.
My parents have been throwing words, as well as plates, cup, shoes, basically whatever they can get there hands on, at each other for the last few months. My mom is a rather quiet woman. A woman of the lord in fact, but when my father, gets a few drinks in his system, lets just say mom tucks her cross in her blouse, as if to shield god from her upcoming words. I don't blame her all that much, my father is a belligerent, word slurring, violent drunk. He's an a*****e, to be quite honest. I'd rather call him a*****e every time he�s mentioned, because he hardly deserves the term father attached to him, but mom says words like a*****e are �the words of the devil,� she goes a little overboard sometimes, and I�m most likely going to hell with my mouth, so I'll just call him Harold from now on. He may have contributed to making me the night I was conceived, but in that bed is just about where his effort stopped.
I�ll go into more detail of there malefic relationship a little later down the road.
The only reason I am writing this is because �she� told me that maybe if I wrote my thoughts down it might be an outlet and I wouldn�t be so miserable all the time. Maybe she�s right, maybe she�s wrong� and quite frankly, I didn�t think I was miserable to begin with but she has a way of making me believe every word she speaks. She has a way with words and is always saying things like �You know Dorian, everyone dies but our souls live on forever.� I should probably mention that she also frequently attends church as is even in the choir. She has a romantic idea of life that I can�t quite grasp myself. Aleisha is surrounded by an angelic beauty. Her face radiates a glow every time she smiles while her voice rambles on proverbs from the bible.
I wish I was able to explain her unconventional beauty on paper, but that would almost be like attempting to describe an intricately detailed painting with just words alone. She�s not like other girls, there�s something so much more to her. If you look at her, I mean really look at her, you'll feel an instant comfort lying there behind her amber eyes. The kind of feeling you get inside when you've been away from home for a while and then crawl into your own bed for the first time in weeks. My mom told me that she has a certain aura surrounding her and �They just don�t make girls like Aleisha now-a-days.� I don�t want to let my mom in on my feelings. She�ll find some way to nudge me and give me those eyes while Aleisha's singing her solo at Church on Sunday's just to make me uncomfortable, and I�ll end up having a panic attack. I�m already uncomfortable enough sitting in those hard pews between my "happily married parents." My dad tries to conceal the fact that he�s sipping airplane sized bottles of liquor the second everyone closes their eyes in prayer, while my mom is signing loud enough for "the lord to hear her". They're embarrassing to say the least. I'd rather not go, I've never been very religious, For as long as I can remember now I�ve been going to church just to see Aleisha sing. Every second that words are flowing from her lips, I�m at peace.
It�s not like Aleisha�s popular with the boys at school, they all call her the �church girl.� and feel like she�s off limits. She�s definitely the only reason I go to school. To tell you the truth, sometimes she�s the only reason I get up in the morning at all. I think she may look at me like a brother though. She always tells me I�m the brother she never had but always wanted. It's safe to say most girls see me in that same light. I�m that guy friend that every girl feels comfortable telling anything and everything to. The one who's called when they're having a problem with their boyfriend, the best friend, and the shoulder to cry on. My shoulder is becoming too damp to carry the weight, and my heart becomes more vacant with every wrong relationship I help to mend. It's only adding to my already full plate of anxieties. I�m starting to think I�m too mature for girls my age, or maybe they�re just too self involved to notice my potential as a boyfriend. Whatever the case may be, I�d rather not be in that friend-zone anymore, especially with Aleisha.


Jan. 26th, 2000

Janice came home from rehab this week. Things have been a little different since she returned. Janice is my sister, but sometimes I wonder if my mom had another husband before Harold, because my sister and I couldn't be more different. She's like one of those girls that i wouldn't ever talk to at school. She goes tanning until she's the grossest color orange, and has these really weird colors in her hair. Mom says she does this because she has low self-esteem and thinks it will make her more desirable. I don't get why guys like her, she's pretty fake. It doesn't matter, she ignores the fact that i exist, and makes things worse with my parents. They have been fighting less in the open but i can still hear them at night once i turn my T.V off. They fear that the more they fight in front of Janice the more likely it is she will be back to doing drugs. My mom blames Harold for Janice's addiction. She says that if she had a more positive male influence in her life, and not an alcoholic deadbeat father, then things may have been different. Janice likes to think her addiction to painkillers (i think they're called vicodin or something, I'm not exactly sure, but I always here mom talking about them) started when she hurt her back during a track meet and her boyfriend gave them to her telling her they would ease the pain. She's just likes to place the blame wherever she can.
Her boyfriends name is Thomas, he likes to be called Tommy to give off that friendly buddy impression. My parents, especially Harold, really liked Tommy at first and they thought he was one of those genuinely good people that are so hard to come by these days. But as Aleisha said �First impressions can be deceiving.� and as always, Aleisha was right.
I haven't seen much of her lately. I know shes busy getting ready for the Valentines Day concert at school. I hear her rehearsing her parts when i sit by the theatre during sixth period, my gosh she's so talented. Sixth period is lunch and i usually sit with her, so when she's not around i never know where to sit. I tend to get very anxious walking in the cafeteria looking around for a familiar face, I'd rather avoid that all together, so i sit outside the theatre doors listening to Aleisha. I don't want her to know I'm doing this, so a couple of minutes before the bell rings I'll pace in front of the cafeteria and then start walking to meet her for Chemistry. My plan didn't work so well today. I had fallen asleep with head pressed against Bobby Baker's locker. If i would have known this was Bobby's locker i wouldn't have even been sitting in the vicinity of it. He's a jock and thinks hes god's gift to woman. He calls me "queer" because in sixth grade i had a little bit of a breakdown when my mom refused to picked my up from school and i had to take the bus home. Mom knows that the bus makes me anxious but i think Harold had blacked out from drinking and she was afraid to leave him home alone. Let's just say i ended up taking the bus home, and in turn took on this f****t cry baby image for the past six years now. So Bobby likes to torture my life every possible chance he gets, and he didn't necessarily appreciate my choice of a place to nap. He decided to push my face into the locker with his giant football player sized hands until i woke up. It took everything i had in me not to cry, i just sat there until the bell rang and he released his hand from head, which had become a purplish-blue color. Aleisha walked out of the theatre the second Bobby walked away and i think she could see me trying to catch my breathe. She knelt down beside me and turned her beautiful face almost like a puppy does in confusion, and told me "Bobby won't ever be half the man you are, Dorian." She grabbed my hand to help me up and told me that i can sit in the theatre with her and watch her practice until the concert in February. I'm happy because this means i get to actually see her face as shes singing now, she does this thing where she'll bite her bottom lip during breaks in the song, it kind of drives me crazy.
School isn�t really the place for me. It�s not that my grades are bad, it�s just that I feel as if I don�t belong. I don�t fit into any group, sometimes I don�t think anybody even knows I exist except Aliesha. Nobody would notice if I just �disappeared.� I have a longing for a niche that I can�t find. This question plagues my mind late at night when I can�t sleep.