I fell hard for you. When you slowly wrapped your fingers around my hand, I felt my legs liquefy as I slid face down onto a cold, concrete floor. And all I could do was lie there and wait for you to pick me up, brush me off and laugh, so that we could move on with our lives together.
And you did, a bright light shining from behind you, encircling your head and blinding me. And I drifted with you-clasping onto your hand so tightly that I was scared I might crush it. In our palms was hope and realization; hope that we could last, that I could love and be loved in return; the realization that I was in love. I told a few of my closer friends about us, how you made me feel, how we sat next to each other and used each other's shoulders as pillows, how we could talk for hours and hours about the most random things, how you made me feel, how I thought that my first relationship could be my only relationship. I was truly, unconditionally in love with you.
I went over my feelings for you every day in my head, smiling and whistling tunes as I strut down the hallways. Especially on this particular day, as I sat in class idly looking out the door. And then I saw you with her.
Suddenly, the alarm went off and I found myself still lying on the floor, groggy from my long sleep. I looked up again, only to see your lips on hers, standing almost unobstructed from view. I was across campus but I could see your hands clasping hers, your smile as you lay your lips on hers again. I could only watch from the floor.
I went home trying to rationalize what had happened. Maybe it was a trick of the light, a mirage! Maybe it was someone else! Maybe she leaped on you! Each excuse only became more feeble and more flimsy, leaving me in tears in my room, tears dropping onto the hard floor that I lay on.
Every muscle in my body seemed non-functional. I could not get up and was forced to watch you and her over and over in my head, even though your shadows were long gone. I could remember nothing of the fever dream I had, only the nightmares that had crept into it. When you told me you weren't into me like that, but I just told myself that you weren't comfortable with it; when you didn't return my texts; when you left me waiting for you to come.

I remember now. Every time you write sweet nothings to her, every time you tell me how she makes you feel. Every time I talk to her, every time I read what she has to say about you. I see how much you care for her, how happy she makes you, and although I'm disappointed that I can't be the one who makes happy, I'm happy for you.

So why haven't I gotten up?

Art as ideas.

What is art?

Recently, I was forced to endure through a frustratingly close-minded discussion in my usually enjoyable AP Art History class.

We were discussing the Dada movement, a movement that was supposed to be a slap in the face of Classical art conventions. So my teacher brought up Marcel Duchamp's "Fountain"


and proceeded to ask us, "Is this art?"

Almost immediately, I came to the conclusion it was. However, I was rather surprised that my Art History teacher disagreed, bringing up a slide of Michaelangelo's David:


protesting "How can you compare it to this? 'The Fountain' is not art."

I was stunned. IMO, art is not about the effort put into making the piece a reality. Art is an idea, manifested into a physical, tangible form. So to me, he was saying that the "Fountain" was less of an idea than "David."

Then, my teacher pulled up a desk and said, "So, if I put this in a gallery and say that it's 'art,' is it really art?"

Absurd. Of course it is. You have an idea, a premise for the world to see and deconstruct. You have a point to prove and you created a way of expressing your point and getting it across. Congratulations, you have made art.

And of course the ignorance continued. When we were reviewing Pop Art, some idiot classmate had the balls to quip that none of what we were currently reviewing was art because they all "did it for money."

Are you fucking serious? Were you even paying attention in the entire year you dumbfuck? Most of the "Classical" art that we went through, the ones that you said were done because they wanted to do art, were paid for by patrons. Yes, idiot, people paid artists to make art, and yet, because they got paid to make them, that makes them more "artistic" than modern art. Fuck off.

Then, another one of my more annoyingly idiotic classmates said that she would never listen to music that artists made "for the money," to which I had to look at her and ask, "Are you fucking stupid, or just acting?"

Everyone makes art for the money at first. No one becomes a full-time artist saying, "You know what I want to do when I grow up? Starve myself and make absolutely no money!" I think people who say that one of their goals in art is to make money are just honest, and although it makes them seem a bit pretentious, I respect that they are forthright about their true intentions. Anyone in the business who says they're making art for art's sake at first is failing to mention the money they want to make.

I just hope my classmates revert back to their quiet and more amusing dumbassedness as the year finishes.

AP Exam break!

Breaching security at school is fun. I should be in band right now, but I'm in the journalism room with Annie and Lindsey and Sallacious. Fun stuff.

Two AP Exams left! Lit. tomorrow then Art History next week then I'm DONE WITH AP EXAMS FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE! BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

Awesome.

Kind of sad.