Beauty was my mothers law, her religion.

On Thursday, Monsieur Reyniers—this British guy that I met on Chatroulette a while ago—and I talked on Skype. The day before, we briefly talked about Osama bin Ladin, and he sent me this link to documentaries. I watched them. Crazy stuff. So, on Thursday, we kind of talked about that a bit more. Then he asked me about my studies, and I asked him about his line of work. He works for an advertising firm, and the way he describes it makes it seems so interesting and appealing. Like, no joke. He showed me some of the ones that he’d produced. Good stuff. We talked about wine and cultural things.

Then his drunk cousin came home. He’s called Nicholaus. Nicholaus then told me about his date while M. Reyniers tried to get him to leave us alone. Nicholaus asked me if I’d been on a date, and I’d said no because that’s the truth. He was all shocked. He then said I should get together with M. Reyniers, and we laughed since M. Reyniers and I always joked that M. Reyniers was too old—he’s 29. Having conversations with drunk people is the most interesting thing ever. We kind of stopped the conversation because Nicholaus wanted to retire and M. Reyniers had to make sure that he was okay.

I went and finished up my commentaries for the portfolio. And then M. Dow and I talked for four hours.

On Friday, I only went to second period to take my Calculus final. I spent the rest of the day preparing finishing up my portfolio and hanging out. Mlle. Jang finished all 12 Concentration pieces the night before, and I bought her a breakfast burrito to reward her. So did M. Ward, but I didn’t buy him one.

The thing was, everyone was supposed to finish their portfolio and send it to Mme. Mills before noon, which is when the testing period was for Studio Art AP, and we were supposed to be done before 1—ideally, so we could all leave. It actually is supposed to go all the way to five o’clock, but everyone wants to leave early, obviously. Mlle. Ocampo had another AP test before, so she came in at half past noon, which was understandable, but we were just all so pissed when she said she had to take pictures of some of her art works, edit them, and upload them to the site. She hadn’t done her commentaries either. We finished at two o’clock—an hour late.

Mlles. Jang and Smith and I went to Pink Cherries (or whatever the name is) and got frozen yogurt. Good stuff.

Then I came home and read White Oleander since M. Dow was spending the night at the house of the girl that he liked. I didn’t know. I only knew they were going to hangout. So when he didn’t come on at eight, which was eleven for him, I kind of figured he got lucky that night. He later told me that they just hung out and he slept on the floor (on a mattress) in her room. That's awfully romantic. I'd love to be in a relationship like that. He's planning on giving her flowers since she's said she's never received flowers before. Sure, it sounds mushy and everything, but that's pretty sweet for someone who's an asshole.

White Oleander is such a good book! I am in love with the way the author describes beauty. It’s my kind of beauty: traveling all over the world, having beautiful and classy clothes, and having a sophisticate mannerism. But I wouldn’t trade place with the heroine. She’s forced to grow up too fast, too soon. I’d like to retain my childlike thoughts and to blush like someone unjaded.

M. Dow messaged me the moment I got home, which was eight—eleven for him. We looked up porn together although I could only stomach the first few seconds. That didn’t work out, so he showed me other videos like One Guy and One Jar and Two Girls and a Cup. He’d watch each video first so I could kind of get a feel for it by watching his reactions. I don’t know. I thought One Guy and One Jar wasn’t that bad—yeah, he was shoving a jar up his anus and it exploded and he bled, but watching Two Girls and a Cup kind of stimulated my gag reflex.  Then he told me of his plan to not masturbating since it lowered his zinc and testosterone level.  I like talking about stuff like that, like things you do and how it affects your body on the chemical levels. Mlle. Smith and Mlle. Jang and my girl friends wouldn’t understand. Mlle. Karch probably knows, but she seems so chaste and virginal to me; I don’t know if she’d know about that kind of stuff, you know?

We talked about our prospective partners. He liked Asian girls, preferably atheists, but he’d tolerate Buddhists and Agnostics. I liked white guys, preferably atheists or Agnostics. It would be awkward to bring up the fact that we fulfill each other’s requirements, so I didn’t. But he did since he possessed the IQ of 130 but almost no inhibition. He said that we should enter a pact where we’d have children together if things end up not working out. I agreed, because there’d be no harm since things will work out. I think our kids would be funny looking though. Maybe that’s not such a good idea.

Anyways, remember that guy that told me that he loved me? Over the Internet? He’s not actually who I think he is. The guy that I’m thinking of is from the Netherlands, not Austria. The guy that I’m thinking of is very, very, very cute and has a giant painting of New York in the back of him. The guy that I’m thinking of loves kids and wants to work with mentally retarded children. That guy doesn’t love me and he isn’t creepy. Thank God.

M. Dow told me he wanted to see me without make up. I told him, not in this lifetime. 

Here are some of my Breadth pieces:

He who trims himself to suit everyone will soon whittle himself away.

My mother has decided to move to Irvine my sophomore year at college. Lovely. There goes the plan that Mlle. Johnston and I have about moving into an apartment together sophomore year. I sure don't want to live with my mom. I'm super sure Mlle. Johnston doesn't as well. I mean, this is our time to live, but she keeps trying to interfere and not letting me live. She's had her chance at life. Let me have mine. Youth only happens once.

Speaking of youth, I've just finished a book. Rebbecca by Daphne du Maurier. It's an okay book with wonderful descriptions of a country estate called Manderley. It sounds so lovely to be so rich and living in such a decadent place, to have a drawing room and a morning room. I am especially in love with the scene where the unnamed heroine enters the morning room, the place where her husband's beautiful first wife Rebbecca always spends her morning writing letters and managing the estate. She describes the ornaments and decorations in the room, and then the descriptions of the writing desk comes up. Gosh, it seems like such a great desk, with labels such as "Unanswered Letters", "Invitations", "Parties", and "Misc.". And then the scene where the unnamed heroine stumbles upon the bedroom in the west wing (she stays in the east wing), and sees how the crazy housekeeper Mrs. Danvers has kept Rebbecca's room in a way that suggests that the owner is still alive. There is the ante-room which has a closet full of beautiful dresses in multitude of materials. I could have died and went to heaven right then.

And then there's Rebbecca.

My ideal beautiful woman is always one with black (blackest of black) tumbling past her shoulders. Always. Then, if her skin is dark, then she would have almond eyes (black or green, it doesn't matter). But if she has pale skin, then she has the kind that is almost white, but not quite. Her eyes, then, would be icy, icy blue. Rebbecca has the hair of the beautiful woman in my mind. She's tall and slim and beautiful, not to mention witty and clever and very, very charismatic and charming. She sails and rides and entertains while looking lovely beyond belief. And then we find out she's a nymphomaniac who has sex all the time and enjoys telling her husband, who hates her, about it to provoke him. She's manipulative and deceitful, mocking those around her for believing in her facade. When I was reading, I was very drawn toward her (not in a homosexual way, of course), but I always feel giddy when a beautiful girl or woman or house or room or dress or outfit or closet or scene that has some kind of a natural water source is described. It's weird. I just can't explain it. Oh, yeah, and floor plans! That stuff turns me on. Not in a weird way, of course. It just gets me really excited.

Mlle. Johnston wants to hangout during Spring Break, and, of course, I can't because my mother is incredibly anal. The topic of my prom dress came up and I told her that it would be $200 (it's actually $300. I always tell her that I spend less money that I really do), and she almost flipped out. She was like, "$200? Why are you so extravagant? Why don't you just borrow one of [my cousin's] dress?" Um...because, one, a long dress costs at least $200 and a good one costs at least $600. Mlle. Hatfield got one for $400 and it wasn't even that good looking. Mine's going to be so much better. I'd rather spend a wee bit more money on something I love than spending any at all on something I don't care about, but that's beside the point because I'm spending less than most people anyways. Two, because it's my own money? Three, because she and I don't wear the same size? Four, who borrows a dress for Prom? That's like borrowing a wedding dress. Who does that? Certainly not me. I would not get married if I couldn't wear my own wedding dress.

Actually, sophomore year, I decided that I wasn't going to marry, but then I thought about it and I really really really want to have my own wedding dress, so I decided to marry after all. Yeah, so...she's ridiculous! I'm paying for it with my own money! Why is she even complaining? Everyone else's parents are paying for theirs and they actually go shopping with their daughter.

Ugh. Talking about this makes me feel so suffocated and oppressed. I wish time flies faster.