I didn't admit this last night, but I've never read The Giver. I think I own a copy, but I never read it on my own because I was always expecting it to be in the school curriculum, which it never was. I guess I should read it, still.
Banal: My mom called this morning all upset and asked me if I knew what was wrong with my brother. Apparently he's in some wretched mood, and he won't tell anyone why, because "it's personal" and he doesn't want to talk about it. I think it's weird that she thought he would tell *me,* but I guess she was desperate. Then again, my mom thinks it's something like that he lost his iPod, whereas my guess would be that he got into a fight with a girlfriend he hasn't told my parents he has, or something.
On another note, I hate having to talk to my parents on the phone and pretend that everything is okay, when it's not. They ask how I am, so I fake it and say I'm good, when overall, despite temporary bursts of happiness, I'm not. If I don't sound okay, they'll chalk it up to exams, but that's only my excuse for another couple of days. I feel terrible, because my father actually called to tell me something he saw this morning that he thought I'd find interesting, and I totally spaced out, only to be like "I'm sorry, what?" after he'd stopped talking. No wonder he never calls me.
I slept until 11:30, and that fact is *so* going to kick me in the ass.
I'm trying to study, but I'm too preoccupied to focus. I'm not retaining anything. I have to figure out how not to let my non-academic stresses get in the way of my work.
I have overdue library books. Whoops.
A work of art is an invitation to love.
Updated On: 5/8/06 at 12:10 PM