My hands yearn for words. I wish I had a time machine, maybe then I cold make my time last as long as it should. I've been writing my application essay for UM, and by this I mean I have the prompt copied onto a Microsoft Word document, followed by an army of blank spaces. White. "Indicate a person who has had a significant influence on you, and describe that influence" I can name a person. I can describe the influence; purest insanity. No, but really, I'm going to write about my father. He's the kind of guy who wears slacks and long socks and his cell phone slipped onto his belt. UM would like that.
With Homecoming week comes the frustrated attempts of the student body to act a one huge goofball in unison. Rarely only delighted by the ingenuity of some like Jose who dressed as Captain Underpants today for Character day, I've come to feel somewhat, if not completely, detached from the whole thing. But the biggest hypocrisy here is that of the speaker. Yes, I am going to the Homecoming dance. I've already asked my parents for the $45 and begun convincing myself that the tight red silk dress is what I should wear, although I am seeking alternatives since I don't think Coral Park is ready to realize that there is a body underneath the folds of large boxy Senior tshirts and cozy sweaters. I don't have a date nor will I scour the school for one.
Every day, I apply this semen-like substance (sorry for the awkward reference) that's actually this lactic acid that's supposed to scrape off the keratosis pilaris from my arms. It hurts like hell once you actually have it on, especially if it gets cold, but it's like every day I get closer to having normal skin on my arm, free of any chicken-like resemblance it may have had in the past. I stretch, I split, I straddle. I bleach, dye, cut, groom and polish what seems like a good 80% of my body, all in preparation for some obscure intangible day in November. The wishful are often violated by impatience.