Bunraku Seirei

So.

NaNoWriMo starts in one hour fifteen minutes, for me, and I am pumped.  I'm also hiked up on Halloween candy--high calorie of course, as if I actually need to gain weight--and I have a small back-up stash just in case I start to crash.  I am working on Nicky Fibbs Book One, but I haven't decided on a title.  Maybe it will just pop up.  That would be amazing.

Speaking of amazing, I had a very wonderful Halloween indeed.  I talked to Joscar, and Jamie, and David, and Thanh, and John--a lot--and Simon and this other guy on my bus who talks to Simon sometimes but I don't know his name.  And this senior named Kyle asked me out.  Of course, with my parents and the fact that he's a senior, I had to decline.  I feel a bit bad, but I don't like him like that.

Every boy that has asked me out, I've never liked.  I think I figure out why.

It's the same reason I don't like the love interests of main characters--it's so darn boring.  I like love that you have to fight for, and then can hardly retain, and then are unsure about, and then have to struggle to keep it.  I love tales of jealousy and double-crossing, or anything out of the normal.  Anything to add a bit of drama is fine.

Twilight bored me because Bella liked Edward, and sure there was drama about why they couldn't be together, but they were ultimately still in love with other so I snored.  I adored New Moon though, compared to how I felt about all the other books.  The entire time I read it I was like, yes!  Edward is getting screwed!  And that made me happy.

So naturally, if a guy likes me, I'm going to want to jump through a lot of hoops, or get him to jump through a lot of hoops, before I'm actually interested in the relationship.

As a writer, I suppose I just have that compulsion for constant conflict.

Let's take Simon.  If he suddenly turned around and liked me, I'd be like... One, you must be high, and two, what happened to how you used to be?  I want to fight for you, Bobdarnit!

Bob.  Darnit.

I'm not sure of my coherence at the moment.  But today for the first time Simon talked to me outside of the bus.  Maybe this is reading into it a lot, which I'm sure it is, but today we had a party in Spanish class and he came in late, probably because of a math exam or something.  Anyway, so he went to get some food from the table in the front of the room.  Tons of stuff is laid out. 

Six rows of desks lead up to the front of the room; Simon's seat is on the far left in the front, and I am in the far, far right, also near the front.  Well, he got to class, and because someone was already sitting in his seat he took a seat a few seats back from where he usually sat.  But when he went to grab some food, he detoured all the way around the back of the room and up my row--my row!--to get to the front.  Then he went back down my row.  Then a couple of minutes later, he came back up my row again--there are only two people in my entire row, and he doesn't know the other one, by the way.  Except this time, when he comes back down he stops at my desk.

I'm talking to the girl in front of me (who, just moments ago, made a comment about Simon's funny pants, but I like the fact that he wears dress pants and sweaters and bright green sneakers; it's endearing) but he just cuts in with, "What'd you get on the midterm?"

I groan and flip over my test.  "Eighty-eight."

He nods, bobbing his head back and forth in time to music only he can hear.  Like, that's not too bad.  "I got a ninety-seven."

So I squeal, "I hate you!" before he walks away.  Heh.  Afterwards, my friend totally spazzes out about the fact that that was the first time he'd ever talked to me in front of her.

Which, now that I think about it, is a lie, because I've struck up a convo a few times.  Just, this was the first time he talked to me first.  Which is major progressness, in my opinion.

I meant to keep this entry short.  One hour, one minute to NaNoWriMo.  Yesh!

Simon is interesting.  He wears sweaters and dress pants and bright green sneakers.  He's the only boy I've ever seen who dresses like a grandfather.  His eyes are slanted and gorgeous; they shine.  When he grows his hair out, it's a bit curly, but it's relatively short now.  He got it cut three weeks ago to the day.  He has a deep voice like gravel is stuck in his windpipe, but he owns it, and it makes him amazing.

He's always staring at something.  I can't read his mind.  Ever.  I'm talking to someone and out of the corner of my eye I see his head turned towards me, but when I glance at him he's always staring down at the floor near my feet, or just past me, to the window, never meeting my eyes.  Sometimes I think he wants to say something, but he doesn't.  The times when he does say something, he doesn't give any warning--no hey, or so, or by the way.  He just blurts into the air, sometimes not even looking at me at first, and I can't tell who he's talking to.

Which makes him all the more unique.

Hence, I wrote that poem about him.  But Bob, I think I'd need a few hundred ballads.  I just really want to pick his brain!

Fifty-seven minutes now.

Happy writing!