haha

This is a title

R.I.P.

Hailey and Louis
February 9, 2005 - December 10, 2005

twenty perfect songs

The following songs are all flawless (in no particular order):

"sitting, wishing, waiting" - jack johnson
"these foolish things" - benny goodman
"the food" - common
"mona lisa" - guster
"sing" - travis
"sparks" - coldplay
"bad moon rising" - credence clearwater revival
"prostitute song" - group x
"jesus, the mexican boy" - iron and wine
"nothing better" - the postal service
"saturday sun" - nick drake
"walking with a ghost" - tegan and sara
"scatman" - scatman john
"handshake drugs" - wilco
"concrete schoolyard" - jurassic five
"sweet home alabama" - lynard skynard
"andmoreagain" - love
"njosnavelin (nothing song)" - sigur ros
"maple leaf rag" - scott joplin
"i'll never fall in love again" - burt bacharach

does your foot ever itch so much you wanna bite it off?

Things That I Love About ETHS:

• Being able to drink alcohol on the weekends without the prospect of being expelled
• Driving the hot whip to school and to Steak-N-Shake during my lunch period
• The fights in the hallway, and the fact that there's a girl named Lasagna in my gym class (it's actually spelled La'Zanya)
• A curfew two hours later than Saturday night check-in
• The Evanstonian and its cultlike status
• Classical music during the passing periods
• The security guards who always comment on how much/the lack of warm clothing I wear
• Cotillion 2005
• How sometimes it looks like a castle (i.e. in Pnemonia Alley)
• Finally understanding the way rooms are laid out: South, Bacon is green, North, Beardsley, is red, East, Michael is blue, and West, Boltwood, is yellow
• "Laplace, tell us a Christmas story!" I ain't got no stories, now SEND IT ON DOWWWN"
• I'm Mr. Chic-O-Stick, Mr. Su Su Su
• HomeMade Pizza
• Living a normal high school life

Things I Miss About Exeter:

• Shared music on iTunes, and Kirk Bansak's a capella
• Chicken fingers at d-hall
• Swimming in the Exeter river with all those weird theatre kids...naked
• A few 5 a.m. visits, and a few EPs
• Shower parties where we'd turn the radio up as high as it could go and shower in the hottest water possible
• Fudge Rounds in Mairead's freezing room, because she always leaves her window open
• The last class on Saturday being over and feeling relieved but peppy
• E/a assembly, and screaming so loud my voice falls apart
• P.O. and the thrill of getting a green package slip
• Filming the revised version of A Separate Peace
• Stealing bikes...lots of bikes, and hearing about English paper where Louis Frank wrote about a bike theft
• Amazing English classes
• Penthouse 03-04: me, Maya Rudolph, Soo Hyun Roh, Nina Lorenz, Hyan Park, Lesley Xu, Stephanie Diehl, Chelsea Rodrigieuz, Ryan McCarthey, Kelsey Meuse-Hassinger, Mairead Small Staid, Jen Gorman, and Dolly Hayde. My literal family. And the additions of 04-05: Sarah Pittman, Camilla Elvis, J-Kwon, and Nicole Zeng. And the millions of friends of ours: Kim-Mei Kirtland, Cat Hollander, Dawn Hu, Dante Taylor, Tricia Owlett, Isaac Wood, Lily Zhou, Hillary Maxwell, Joey Stat...I could go on

But that was then,

and this is now...

and now there's an English paper, an article to revise, and documents to read. Holla.

this kind of thing is the reason why i don't die right now

Dear James,

Perhaps it is the way the light falls across the trees, or the splashes of color we see in the backyard here on Blueberry Lane — signals that our hard time is here again. The sixth anniversary of your suicide is upon us. I stare at those words: “The sixth anniversary …” It feels like yesterday. It feels like a hundred years ago. You should be 23. You are forever a seventeen-year-old high school senior. “… of your suicide.” You? Suicide? Never! How can that be? Skateboarder. Mountain Biker. Snowboarder. Pilot, Handsome- Full of Adventure. Full of Fun. I run my fingers across the letters on your tombstone. JAMES JOSEPH PETA III 1977-1994. How can that be?
The house buzzed like a beehive for a long time. Your suicide turned us into a family of bedeviled detectives. Was it here the clue was dropped? Was this the point that could have changed the outcome? We were relentless. We lay the pieces of this puzzle out and at some unknown point began to face the reality that the picture would simply never be complete. We learn to live without the answers. This just is.
I used to beg to be given just three minutes to ask you questions. Is three minutes too much for a mother to ask? Your silence deafens me.
It was Tuesday, September 13, 1994.
There is a picture on the shelf that was taken for the yearbook at noon that day. You betray nothing. You are smiling and surrounded by friends. Was your plan in place?
It was a half day at school and I picked you up. You were sitting on the curb and you waved when I pulled in. Did you know what you would do? You called and made an appointment to get your hair cut on Thursday. Did you plan to keep it?
I left for work at the hospital at 3:30. Your last words were: “Yo, catch ya’ later, Mom.” Did you mean it?
You called Dad at work at four o’ clock to follow up on a college application. Were you planning on college?
Bev spoke to you at 4:45. You left me a note on the counter. “4:45 Bev called. Call her.” Bev said you “never missed a beat.”
The gun you used was mine. About five years before we were getting the Christmas decorations from the attic and you asked about it, hanging there in the case. I told you it was a rifle from my days living in California and I used it to target shoot in the desert. You asked if it “worked.” I told you I doubted it. It was probably rusted after twenty-five years in the attic without being shot or oiled. You never mentioned it again. We left it hanging there. There were never bullets in the house, but after you died I found the box of bullets hidden in your electric pencil sharpener. Your note said, “Don’t look for who gave me the bullets. I bought them myself.” When was that James? I have heard so many admonitions about unsecured guns in the home. I never thought the admonitions had anything to do with us. Our kind friends assure me that you would have found another way. Maybe. But you shot yourself with my unsecured gun. I must claim responsibility. No one can comfort me away from that truth and I am so sorry.
The Lifestar helicopter brought you to me in the Emergency Department at the hospital at 5:30. As the supervisor that night I was all business — trauma and neurosurgical teams gowned, gloved and waiting when they wheeled you through the doors. I handpicked every person in the room. If there was a chance to save you, they would be the ones to do it. Your dad was at the house when the helicopter flew you away. He told me later you were breathing and on the way to your mother and all her colleagues at the hospital. Their specialty was reversing crisis. It did not occur to him that we would not save you. When your dad arrived at the hospital, we went into a room alone and I told him. My mind could not comprehend the words that my lips forced out. “We’ve lost him, Jim. James is brain-dead.” Did you hear his anguished sobs?
The Robinsons went to get your sister at Wesleyan. Dad and I told her together. Did you hear her? NoNoNoNooooooo.
We called in the Organ Procurement Team. There were people fighting to live. Your kidneys and liver and heart gave four of them a chance. Brenda, your heart recipient, wrote many letters to us. In one, she said, “You know something? Your son still lives and will continue to live inside my body. He has a lot of energy and his heart beats strong.”
* * *
Fast forward to today and at last I can say I am glad to be here. Each day that passes moves us further from that horrific event. Each day that passes soothes. Each day that passes allows us to mend, with tiny, fragile stitches, the gaping hole in our life fabric. It has not been a “fast forward” for any of us. Your death, as your life, touched so many. It has been a daunting journey for us. Imagine the biggest, tallest, fastest, scariest roller coaster in all of heaven and earth. Imagine the plunges between the peaks. Imagine the lurching stomach, cold hands, bile in the throat, screaming brain, pounding heart. Imagine someone strapping you in that seat against your will and starting the ride and not ever letting you get off. Imagine the fear and the angst and the tension and the fatigue and the chaos. Imagine the track always changing. Upside down? Right side up? Try to catch your breath. Hold on tight. We have ridden that roller coaster every day. James, did you not know we would have moved mountains to stop your wild ride? Could you not send a signal? Could you not scream your pain?
Your sister graduated from college. She lives and works out West. She rides the roller coaster.
Dad and I facilitate a support group for survivors of suicide called Safeplace. We are a family of the heavy hearted. We in the group talk about how hard it is, living without all of you and how sorry we are for the choice you all felt you had to make. Most of us acknowledge that we just do not get it. Most of the time, it does not compute with what we know. You, Caitlin, Tommy, Phillip, Randy, Michelle, Sam, Matt, Eric, Deirdre, Will and all the rest — do you comfort each other there as we comfort each other here? There are so many of you. There are so many of us.
I am on the Board of Directors for the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention-New England. This should not have happened to any of you. This should not have happened to any of us. AFSP works hard on research, prevention and education. They minister to survivors. We look to them to help us complete the puzzle. How does the brain work? What is the combination of forces that cause someone to self-destruct? There is no time to waste.
The roller coaster ride is slower, James. We know the topography of this wasteland — the peaks are not as scary, the plunges are not as deep. We cannot leave our seats, but it now makes frequent stops. It gives us time to sigh and catch our breath and assume a more comfortable position. We try to be good to ourselves and each other. We recognize our strength and renewed confidence. We stand tall. We laugh. We stretch. We will not be overcome, We will survive.
Dad and I saw Dr. Patrick Hynes for almost a year. I used to call it “my check up from the neck up.” He asked me once if I could erase any memory of you would I do it? I told him, “Absolutely. This pain is too searing and I want it gone.”
I’ve since changed my mind. I have wonderful memories and stories that are flip and funny and bring a smile to my face. You filled the house with joy. For us, seventeen years was not nearly enough.
In this universe we share, we trust that you are safe and know we miss you and that our love for you will never end. Never.
Yo, catch ya’ later, James.

— Mom

good evening

I like updating this blog, because out of the three I have (plus a Facebook - if you don't have one of these by now, you must be using the InterNOT! HAHA!), this is the only one that could really qualify as a "blog" - meaning it's not so whack like justmattson or irrelevant like livejournal (which sucks, by the way, sucks like how Old Orchard sucked away business from Evanston merchants, man, I'm the madonna of metaphors.) Right now it's 11:48 p.m. and, well, there are two quizes tomorrow that I really have to ace and a page to write for History. Can we put it on the booooooooard...yessssssssss!

Here is a list of qualities I dislike in people:

people who say "APUSH"
people who swing around Nalgene bottles all day long
people who talk too much about Cotillion
people who disapprove of peeing in the shower
people who lie about straightening their hair

and to stay balanced, here is a list of qualities I like in people:

people who say hi to you in the halls, even if you only had one class with them last year
people who make jokes about touchy subjects
people who read books outside of school
people who have warm hands, or cold hands, either way, will let you feel for yourself
people who make interesting playlists in autobiographical order

Cross your fingers for the White Sox and my GPA.

thinking, what a concept!

Jessica Simpson is a blow job doll.

1. Black jellybeans are so gross. I bet they're the reason why some people are racist.
2. I've come to the realization that I'm a sort of a social climber, because I want to be friends with everyone, from the "gettin' crunk!" bitches to the band stoners to the security guards. High school is so fleeting, and I don't want to wake up one day already graduated and wonder if I had overlooked any cool people.
3. I flipped out during seventh period on Friday and tried to jump out a window. I was standing on the sill and everything, and four stories looked so far down. I didn't jump out but I'm having such a hard time right now, and I really need my friends. Really.
4. Songs that I really like right now:

"jesus etc" - wilco
"step into my office, baby" - belle & sebastian
"dry the rain" - the beta band
"fix you" - coldplay
"the promise" - when in rome
"peaches" - the presidents of the usa
"bad moon rising" - credence clearwater revival
"for good" - the wicked soundtrack
"o holy night' - charlotte church

2:33 AM and 536 words left to go

Basically, I am having a hard time with my life right now.
But instead of complaining in a blog, I will make a poem.

I am posting a blog. I may go for a jog. I will pet my dog. Hey, look at that smog. No, it's not fog. I sat on a log. A cranberry bog. Sex Wax is made by Mr. Zog. I should not eat the hog. I hate egg nog. Do you remember the "pog?"

500 more words.

crying

I



hate




myself.




Fin.

My dorm, fall '03.

flashbacks!

I wrote this freshman fall when I should've been flossing or doing something equally productive.

Overheard at a Café in Heaven
INT. GREASY DINER - MORNING
ROB (38), GREG (26) and PETER (64) sit at a booth beside a blown-out window. A WAITRESS in a pink cardigan and a black skirt sets food down in front of each of the three and then leaves. The three begin to eat.
GREG
(chewing)
So how'd you die, anyway, Rob?
ROB
Plane crash.
GREG
Plane crash? Seriously?
ROB
Yeah, it was wild.
GREG
What was it like?
Rob clears his mouth with a swig of iced tea.
ROB
Like ... I don't know. I've never been able to explain it very well. It was like ... becoming a star. My whole body disintegrated on impact and there was a moment where I could feel it coming apart.
PETER
My God.
ROB
Yeah.
GREG
That's AWESOME.
ROB
I know.
GREG
And I thought my story was cool.
ROB
What's your story?
GREG
Sharks.
ROB
No way.
GREG
Seriously, man. Three of them. Tigers. I was the cameraman for this documentary, right? Endangered seahorses or turtles or something... I don't know. But we're shooting in this old ... I don't know, it was like a fishing boat, I guess, that had sunk. And my foot gets caught in this loop of rope still attached to the boat, like part of the shrimp net, right? So I pull out my diving knife, like this bad ass Navy SEAL thing I got at a flea market, and I start sawing on the rope, trying to get myself loose. But it's dark, right? So I accidentally go right into my foot, you know? And it starts bleeding, because I just cut it with this huge frickin' Navy SEAL knife, and now there's blood in the water, and these three sharks - there's six or seven of these tigers just kinda cruising around the wreck - these three come in and just tear me apart. They started out slow, just kinda testing at first, I guess, but then I guess they liked what they were getting.
PETER
Wow.
ROB
Oh, that's great. Sharks. Man, that's cool.
GREG
And the best part, right? Is after the first bite, I let go of the camera - 'cause I was still rolling this whole time - and the camera spins around and gets the whole thing on film.
ROB
Oh, that's classic.
GREG
I mean, they didn't put it in the documentary or anything, because it's too graphic or whatever, and I guess it doesn't really have anything to do with seahorses or whatever the hell the thing was about, but I like to think people will see it someday.
ROB
Oh, hell yeah. God, what a great way to go.
GREG
Yeah, I love that story.
ROB
You tell it well, too.
GREG
Thanks.
ROB
It's got a real ... I need that drama for my airplane story. I mean, that could be a cool story.
GREG
You have that phrase you said, though. What did you say?
(chewing)
Turning into a star?
ROB
Yeah, it was like becoming a star.
GREG
(swallows)
"Becoming a star." Yeah. See, that's poetic, that's good. Strong stuff. Now just add some details - that's what it's all about, the details, you know? You don't want to get right to the explosion first thing off, right? You gotta make em wait for it, that's showmanship. Add some details and you'll have a kickass story, I guarantee it.
ROB
Yeah.
GREG
How about you, Pete? You've been pretty quiet. How'd you go?
PETER
Died in my sleep.
Beat.
GREG
Oh.
ROB
Bummer.
Beat.
GREG
But at least you went easy, though, right? Counts for something.
PETER
Yeah.
The three sit awkwardly in silence.

strumpetize me, cap'n

"Hey ugly."
"If I grow up to have no self esteem, you're paying for the therapy bills."
"I'll pay for you to get plastic surgery."

I think Exeter made me a slut. It wasn't just me, everyone hooked up with everyone, and if there's something precious I took from my experience there, it's that I now have hoes in different area codes. I mean, they're inactive hoes, but I've kissed them all. I'm glad I transferred cus I didn't have much of a whore reputation here, except for my "advances" on Louis Hellman in eighth grade, which was all in good fun, right? I feel like my innocence was drained and stolen from me, and even when I'm lying next to my boyfriend now and he tells me he loves me, how beautiful I am, how he wants to be with me forever, I keep thinking I've heard this all before. It's fucking sad, and I wish I hadn't made so many mistakes. Nothing I can really do about it now.

Now I will resort to my couch like a beached whale and try not to vomit. I hope everyone's having a good summer so far, mine feels absent cus so many people are out of town. Give me a call.

"Always Be My Baby" by Mariah Carey is the greatest song ever written, other than the Star-Spangled Banner or some shit like that. Boy don't you know you can't escape me, ooh darling cus you'll always be my baby.

Finals week is to Hailey as dry anal rape is to girl scout. YAY!
It's too bad analogies aren't on the SAT anymore, cus I'm relatively good at those. Here's a list of things I'm good at:
1. Drinking water out of saucers.
2. Stealing flowerpots from Peter Jans.

I hope I don't have the black lung, Pop. I should max on some ramen and go to sleep.

"I'll show you mine if you show me yours first
Let's compare scars, I'll tell you whose is worse
Let's unwrite these pages and replace them with our own words"

"Nice blog"

This is why sixth grade is funny:

lyfsux38: well i dident kno i was going out with Sean
lyfsux38: and then i said yes to Jon

Don't ignore the fact that the screen name is "life sucks." I just started a sentence that began with "today I..." but quickly stopped myself and, as a great man once said, backed that thang up. People who just discuss what they did that day are boring. Nobody cares about your mom being a bitch or how you bought new spandex or whatever.

I don't think I'm a nice person.
In fact, I hate that word. You can say anything is nice, it just matters on what context it's in. For example, someone could hypothetically say "gee, that Hitler is sure a nice boy! Always on time and keeps his facial hair so neat! Spends a bit too much time concerned with the ovens, but it shows he cares." Saying someone is "nice" basically means you think they are 1. boring as fuck but you don't know them well enough to say anything interesting 2. a horrible person but you're talking to the nice person's parents or something and have to seem sort of caring 3. they are Rosie Sharp and then they are literally nice.

I'm regretting the choice for the title of this blog. I'm not cool.
I never think things through. It will eventually lead to my downfall. Someday.

First post.

I don't know what to say. Mainly my name is Hailey. I hate Comic Sans. Don't even front. In fact, I want to establish that there is a constant "No-Fronting Zone" within a three feet radius of my presence, so please don't pull something stupid and try to break rules. I guess this is the blog for smart people, so we'll see how it goes. Now I'm gonna make some banana bread and watch a dose of girl on girl action. Or maybe Backdoor Sluts Vo. 4, haven't spend enough quality time with that lately.