She was my best friend for a reason.

She was the girl who drew beautiful celtic spirals and knots in class, the girl who planned on going to art school or enrolling in a fancy culinary academy and, honestly, could have done both because she was just that talented. She's the girl who helped you with your geometry homework in the morning and had to explain it to you again in the afternoon because you forgot how to do it. She's the girl who turned the phrase "Take my strong hand!" into a years-long inside joke that never fails to make me laugh.

But now she's the girl who can't spend the day with you without wanting to smoke a joint, not recreationally, but in an every hour type of deal. She's the girl you spent the day after your birthday with and who called you a pussy for not wanting to inhale nitrous oxide from a whipped cream dispenser along with her latest drugged out friend. She's the girl who makes you feel sad because you know deep down inside her, behind the glazed eyes, the old Nikole is still there, bright-eyed, smart, and full of the passion that doesn't seem to be present any longer. I just don't know how to reach her.

I always believed that we'd conquor the obstacles in our post-high school years together, leaning on each other for support each step of the way.

It's just me now and it feels fucking lonely.

I miss you, Nikki.

21

Happy 21st Birthday, me. It's going to be a fucking great day to remember, even if my dad has royally screwed me over. I won't get into it, but I certainly wasn't surprised; a little hurt, maybe. But I am pissed at the disparity in treatment I get compared to my brother, the boy who makes my father's life a living hell, yet still gets treated like a prince. I don't pretend to understand it, and trying to make sense of it will only give me a headache and cause a rise in my blood pressure. I can't let that happen, now can I, especially if I plan on living until I have the financial means to send my father into the shittiest old folks home Florida has to offer, a place where the helper monkies beat the seniors with bamboo shoots.

Oh well, that's the way the cookie crumbles. I must remember that my birthday isn't about what I receive in material possessions, but what I get in wonderful memories and experiences with the people that I cherish.

Once again, Happy f'n Birthday, to me.

Countdown

I ditched my art class. It's important that I make an effort to at least show up, but that class blows. Well, the teacher blows. The class just swallows.

But now I must find a way to fill two hours I would have otherwise spent in class.

Maybe I'll watch a movie. I know the library has a decent film section. Something old, perhaps an Audrey Hepburn movie. I don't think I've ever actually seen an Audrey Hepburn movie. I know, I'm shocked, too.

Or I'll just sexually harass the hot guy across the aisle from me in the computer lab. Yeah, that sounds like fun.

"C'mon, baby, you know you like it. Yeah, that's right, you dirty bitch."

Unwelcomed guest.

The lip pimple, in all it's face-consuming glory, has returned. I've offered it money and promised it many, many supple virgins if it would just go away, but it's not taking the bait.

It's so big and red and very scary. I fear for my safety.

I just hope the lip pimple (Joe, Bobby, whatever, I feel like it needs a name) finds another host to torment before my birthday on Tuesday. Any chance of me getting laid will substantially decrease if the pimple starts talking and engaging in conversations with my potential suitors.

What happens when your Spring Break is one week long.

Plans to visit friend in Santa Barbara?

There's no time.

Go paintballing while intoxicated?

There's no time, although in hindsight, maybe that worked out for the best.

Masturbate?

THERE'S JUST NO TIME!


Worst Spring Break, ever.

Democracy

There's nothing more boring than voting in a local election. Like, who cares about the three-candidate race for city council? Or the only other thing on this lackluster Spring ballot, the ONE MAN RACE for City Clerk.

I don't know about you, but one candidate races seem a bit undemocratic to me. Where are the choices, people!? So, in doing my part to see democracy thrive in my fair little city, I made a write-in candidate selection: Seymour Butts.

The founding forefathers would be so proud of me.

Hanging by a nerve.

Last night I dreamed that my two front teeth came loose. I can still vividly recall the sensation of rubbing my tongue against them, feeling them jiggle, and the final tug of them breaking free.

A few weeks ago, my psych professor gave a rather interesting lecture on dreams, their origins and purposes. People started asking her questions about their own dreams. "I dreamed about bees. What do bees mean? How about when they're chasing you, what does that mean?" I expected her to laugh at the silly requests and move on, but no, Dr. Quack indulged and my Bullshit Meter has been off the charts ever since. (Actually, I'm sure it was the time she managed to equate Oprah with Martin Luther King, Jr. and Gandhi. Good times.)

But now all I can remember is the story she told us of a female student and the dream she interpreted for her. The girl dreamed she'd lost her teeth. Two weeks later she suffered a psychotic break.

I only lost two. That must count for something, though. Right?

The warm and fuzzy feeling I'll get just before I kick her in the face.

I knew I was going to regret staying home Monday to play Halo 2 all day with my brother. But sometimes staying home to prevent space aliens from conquering the earth and becoming our overlords is more important than learning Maslow's hierarchy of boring pysch bullshit, y'know?

I just didn't think I was going to walk into class this afternoon to find everyone at their desks with Scan-tron sheets, all nervously reviewing their notes because, guess what, John, we have a TEST!

There are no words to explain how much I hate my psych professor, an evil human being who has the nerve to schedule a test two days after she announces it. HATE!

But even with that, my day could not be entirely ruined. In another class, we critiqued our collage art projects. My art professor has taken an unsual liking to me and my artwork as of late, and today was no exception. She was ecstatic over my collage, calling it excellent and pointing out my use of negative space, and I could not have been happier, because, seriously, I hated working on it and every waking moment spent on it made me want to yank out my hair.

I went into this semester just hoping to make it through the art class, having almost no discernible artistic talent, and now here I am, the teacher's pride and joy. It really helps soothe my HATE! rages, to tell you the truth.