Party politics.

It's my mom's birthday party, and outdoor swimming/grilling/ping-ponging get together with her school friends who have never met us before, but know almost everything about us. My father and his work, staying at home all day. Daniel and his VW bus, his State ring from the football team he barely played on. Julia, her middle school drama, swimming and volleyball. Ollie and his near OCD status, which I feel like no one but me will actually recognize. Me and my gayness. My paganism. My theatre. And even our friends. Daniel and his friend named Anus. Me and Yma, the bald girl.
Needless to say, I don't feel too comfortable.
Needless to say, I don't necessarily want to be here.

The women sit in or by the pool, chatting away, while they force their family and husbands to mingle with eachother. Awkwardly. For a whole five minute, some dad and I watched Daniel and my dad play ping pong. This was after ten minutes of watching two other dads play ping pong. In near silence.

Of course, I'm over-dramatizing. But oh well. It's a lark.

Thank goodness.

For the weekend. I'm really looking forward to sleeping in tomorrow.

So, I might be in a movie. Not a real one, just a fun project. Connor Clifton and Panda are directing/writing it. It's basically an 80's movies spoof. Connor wants me to play the lead, which should be cool. It'll be fun and give me something to do since I won't be able to do any plays at college this semester. Plus I've got voice lessons, the insurance stuff for my mom, and I'm working on my play.

I'm excited about that, although I need to continue work on it. I don't want to burn myself out on it, but I can't just leave it alone until I get inspiration. I feel like I need to work on it, even if it's shit. The plan is, shit will inspire me to fix it, and lead to brilliance. I've already slightly rewrote the scene I posted, although not much. I just love that scene. It reminds me of Bare, which I love. Actually, the quote at the top is from Bare. So we'll see.

I love writing blogs now, and I want to get more people to read! So I've started using tags.

I just had this stupid stupid day dream.

In which some celebrity finds out that my tarot readings come true, and they start this huge fad where all the stars come to me for readings. I keep telling the press, "I"m not psychic or anything. People believe what they want to believe, and people believe that my readings are true."

So this day dream starts with me in my two bedroom apartment that I share with Elizabeth in Boston or L.A. or San Fransico. I get a buzz from the front door, and someone says, "Mr. Efron would like a reading, Mr. Bernal." And I say, "Mr. Efron should know that I don't give readings afer five o'clock without an appointment." Than Zac's voice comes on. "Chris, come on let me in. I just need to see you." I sigh, and let him in, because I've always been a sucker for cute suck-ups. He comes up, and he sees that I'm writing a blog, which has become nationally read since I made the D-list. "Ugh," he ughs. "I hate that blog of yours. I read it everyday in fear that my name will be on there." Then we fight, because he thinks he should be able to control me, and I think that he's a snob. I tell him, "We're not even going out anymore, and it's not my fault that some drunk you fucked in a bathroom took a great oppurtunity to out you to the world." Then he sighs and says, "You're right, I'm sorry." Then he spends half an hour trying to get me to let him stay the night, which I can't because I've got an 8:00 reading with my favorite client, Jennifer Aniston. Besides, I broke up with him, and if I give him any ground I'd be slightly ashamed. Although my sister, who's just graduated highschool and is going to some great school on a volleyball/swimming scholarship, doesn't understand why I don't just use him back. She doesn't understand that I would never use my clients celebrity to get my plays published, which I've now started writing under a pen name.

"Red High Heels."

I'm gonna call up that old boyfriend you said still has it bad for me.

Gonna take him into town, flaunt him around, for everyone to see.

Well, you say 'Watch yourself, baby.' Well, you know the deal.

Nobody holds a candle to me in my red high heels.

If only I felt like that all the time. This song will be popular with the fans of the Brokeback Boys. I just need some red high heels to fit my feet.

It's 8th grade all over again.

God, I spent the last two years of highschool becoming way more self-confident, more friendly, and less shy. Now in a single week, that's all gone. I'm this moody middle schooler again, who doesn't talk to anyone, thinks he's smarter than everyone, and reads way too much. I feel so uncomfortable in my own skin. I keep telling myself that it'll change, "You'll lose weight, you'll get to know people, that zit inbetween your eyes will fade." And deep down, I know that it's true. It's just that right now I don't feel good at all.

Now that I think about it, I realize that it's only on mondays and wednesdays that I feel like that. Tuesdays and thursdays I'm with Daniel in chem, and Stefani in algebra, and I enjoy those classes. If only because I'm with people I've known for a good while.

And english isn't bad, just my dumb teacher. But I guess it's just tennis and acting that I feel awkward. I'm really reconsidering this acting thing. But it's the only real thing I can think of that could pay the bills. That and teach, hahah. Which is probably what I'll end up doing. Teaching english, theatre, philosophy, or theology. Whatever, you know.

Okay, now it's time to actually pay the bills. Work.

An event in my college Eng. II class.

We were talking about symbols, and someone suggested the dove. "It represents peace?" the girl said, as our teacher gave her a dumbfounded look. "Oh, yes," said the teacher. "Like in the Vietnam war, with the doves and the hawks. They represented the people for and against the war, the one in Vietnam. The doves were obviously the hippies, because they were getting killed and drafted."

I metaphorically beat my head on the desk.

Rough draft.

Like real life, this play has too many story lines. Too many characters with broken hearts. Too many inside jokes.

Spotlights up right and down left. Up right, Doug is seated with his arms around his knees. Matthew stands uncomfortably, shivering in the cold. Down left, Stephen is sitting on a chair, with Jenny straddled over his legs. They are making out. He stops her.

JENNY. Do you not want this?

STEPHEN. I don’t know if you want this.

JENNY. Well.. [She kisses him. They make out.]

DOUG. What do you want from me Matthew?

MATTHEW. Nothing. I… You don’t need to give me anything.

DOUG. What does that mean? Do you want me to still like you?

MATTHEW. No. I mean… I don’t know.

DOUG. What? Do you still like me? Do you want me to tell you that I never stopped loving you? Even when I tried to cut you completely out of my life?

Stephen stops Jenny from continuing. He’s silent.

MATTHEW. No, I just… I…

DOUG. Well?

JENNY. Say something.

STEPHEN. I… I can’t.

MATTHEW. Well..

DOUG. [Stands, and grabs Matthew’s chin.] Just look at me. Look.

JENNY. [Grabs Stephen’s chin.] Just look me straight in the eye and tell me. Tell me we'll never go out again.

STEPHEN. Okay. We'll never go out again.

MATTHEW. Okay.

DOUG. Tell me. Tell me that there's nothing there.

JENNY. Absolutely nothing no matter how deep down inside.

STEPHEN. Jenny…

JENNY. Break my heart, Stephen. Please God, just break my heart.

MATTHEW. Doug, don’t.

DOUG. Tell me.

MATTHEW & STEPHEN. I really like this girl.

Black out.