My college so far list:
-painted self portrait for scholarship
-painted random art for scholarship
-wrote essay for scholarship
-filled out grant form for single parent home
-filled out application for boston art u
-application for philadelphia art u
-talked to columbia chicago
-looking up scholarships
-talking to tufts in partnership with boston about application
-having my art portfolio created and critiqued
-having my writing critiqued
-sending for newspapers from schools i've been to

and listening to "irresistible" by beyonce. it's good.

This is my essay for a scholarship...

Oh, Captain, Our Captain

“Gimme a P!”
“P!”
“Gimme an A!”
“A!”
“Gimme an N!”
“Uh…N?”
My fellow Independent Study members and I stood beneath an enormous wooden tower covered in rope, ladders, zip lines, and logs. We were watching Pat scramble up a ladder and preparing to leap onto a dangling log, which he had been so determined to reach. We were spelling out Pansy, one of Pat’s many nicknames, and at a final shout of “Y!” and eruptions of cheers from below, Pat threw himself across the vast nothingness to the log. Everyone was clapping and screaming, all proud of our friend.
That’s what Pat was, “our friend.” In the gifted classes Pat was the comic relief. We had been learning about the Holocaust, and Pat would break the uncomfortable silences with off-the-wall questions and comments.
My best friend, Morgan, and I helped Pat found “The Breakfast Club.” It was an illegitimate get together in our favorite teacher’s room before school where we’d watch Lion King, play putt-putt golf, finish homework, and mooch food off one another.
Every class I had with Pat was filled with students waiting to hear what he would say next. He would let curse words slip, but even the meanest teachers had a grudging love for Pat. We had many nicknames for him, Pansy, Patsy, Patloaf, Metro…he deserved and loved them all.
But back to the log tower.
After Pat was lowered to the ground, he proceeded to demand a celebration that night. There was a bonfire already planned which some of us had planned to skip, but were glad we didn’t. It was a little immature, there were thirteen year olds singing day camp songs, happy, bouncy camp counselors, and then there was Pat. He was thrilled with every song, especially “Da moose, da moose!” He danced along to a song called “Princess Pat,” which became his next nickname. I can’t remember the song now.
After the fire we returned to the cabin giggling and smelling like a campfire. We pulled on pajamas and after our supervisors were asleep we girls snuck down to the boys’ living room. When we opened the door we found Pat had moved all the couches, but one, to the center of the room to form a giant bed. There were pillows, blankets, a pack of Mountain Dew, which Pat had charmed the vending machine guy into giving to us, and almost every member of the class on the giant couch. 
Pat saw us and scream-whispered, “Get in the Love Boat!”
When one of us would fall asleep or refuse Pat’s wishes, we were sent to the remaining couch, or as Pat called it the “Iceberg of Hate,” until forgiven, which was usually immediately.
The following school day, we all had our secret songs we’d sing as we passed in the hallway, we showed pictures of our trip to teachers and other friends, and our gifted teacher, Mrs. Cooper, was excited and renamed our knight "Metro."
After school we were in our club house/locker and as Pat walked out the door, he turned back and shouted, “LOVE YOU, DANI!”
I replied, “YOU TOO, METRO!”
I went home feeling happy and talked the whole drive home. Later, that night, my mom and sister went to a meeting, so I was home with my brother. I was doing social studies when he handed me the phone.
“It’s Mattie.”
I was surprised, I couldn’t remember the last time Mattie called me, but this was forgotten when I held the phone to my ear. Sobs rushed in from all sides and I asked incredulously, “Mattie? What’s wrong?”
She cried a few more seconds before she was able to speak.
“Dani…it’s Pat! He’s gone!”
“Where?” I asked, hoping it was not the answer I suspected, but it was.
Pat, our Patsy, was dead.
Two years later, it is completely different.
Many of us moved, another friend died, friendships split, couples broke up, Pat’s best friend speaks little. We thought of Pat as the comic relief, the jester of the school, but now when I think about it, he was the glue holding us together. He was our common ground, the one person we could all love and get along with. When he was gone we fell apart. I visited Pat’s grave on the one year anniversary of his death. It was mid-day, a drizzle was starting, and all I could think was that it had been three weeks before summer vacation when he died. I placed a picture on the grave stone and sang silently under my breath, “Da moose, da moose…”

The music plays, the sky darkens, the cold creeps up my spine, my lighter shakes, it is absolutely silent.
How do you feel? I gaze at the stares and wonder if you can see the same stars...wonder if you're wondering about me. I close my eyes and enjoy the moment of complete silence. I imagine myself in a better time, a better life, a better me with a better you. I want to lay my hands on your heart and heal you. Make it all better, have the pain float awake like the inhale you never exhaled. I flick the glowing light and go to my bed. I lay in it and stare outside. I dream that I'm there, that I can cuddle you and whisper goofy things in your ears that will distract you from the world, if only for a second. We would paint our nails in rainbow colors, dress up in silly outfits, wear big sunglasses as we drive around town. We'd listen to techno opera and conduct as we drive. We'd grab coffees and find old pearls at the antique store. We'd tell eachother the secrets no one else knows. We wouldn't even think about snow. We'd dream of the next summer and swinging naked on a tire swing in the park. We'd tell raunchy jokes and then pretend to be totally shocked at eachother. I'd take your picture as your feet hung out the window, you'd take mine as I tried to hide behind a hat. We'd daydream and imagine what it was like in the old days, wearing wicked flapper dresses, never shaving our legs, wearing flowered headbands, dressing in latex jumpsuits and pink jeans. We'd travel to our other friends' houses and take pictures of them when they opened the door. We'd paint daisies our favorite colors and put them on car windshields. You'd lend me a book and I would lend you a cd. We'd get nostalgic about koosh balls, Spice Girls, and grunge rock. We'd sell our souls on eBay. We'd contemplate tattoos and piercings. We'd fall asleep at night with an "I love you" that means something. I'd watch you sleep and be happy you're alive. 
I just want you to be there forever.

I can't believe I just read that...my mind is going 100 miles a second, I heard it read to me over the phone last night, but I read it today. I just can't believe you. I knew you weren't doing things that were good for you, but this is absolutely crossing that thin line between average teenager and hospital case. Making yourself? Jesus Fucking Christ....making yourself....
And you know what? You may think you're only hurting yourself, but you know what? You're not. Every person that is going to read that is going to feel awful and wonder how they can help. And it makes me feel terrible because, guess what? I'm hundreds of miles away! You could say you're going to do something and lie. I would never know. Just trying to give you ideas here. But there's never a day I don't think of you. I show everyone your pages and they always say "Oh, she's so pretty!" And I smile as though they've said I was the beautiful one, because I'm happy to have a friend like you. But whenever you say shit like that, all I can think of is if you are going to still be there when I get back.

the chronic-what?-cles of narnia!
the chronic-what?-cles of narnia!

dr. pepper and red vines equals crazy delicious!

what the hell happened to my robin williams quotes?

Gay/Not Gay
King Missile

I saw an episode of The Jerry Springer Show, and the topic was "Transvestites and the Men Who Love Them." And the guy was on with his "girlfriend," and he was saying "To me, this is a beautiful woman. She's got a perfect body, beautiful blonde hair, everything. I love her, and I love making love to her. Now I ask you, does that make me gay?" Most of the audience thought so, and so did I. But it got me thinking about what is and isn't gay.


Discussing sex with a guy is gay. Discussing sex with a women is straight. Even telling a woman "Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to suck a cock," is straight.


Sports are gay, especially contact sports, unless you're the only guy on both teams, in which case it's straight.


Gyms are always gay, because afterwards, in the locker room, you're showering with guys, and that is gay.


Watching pornography alone is neutral, like eating a sandwich. It is neither straight nor gay. Watching pornos with one or more other guys in the room, no matter how many other women are also in the room, is gay. Watching porn, even gay porn, with one or more other women only is staright.


Here's an interesting one: Kissing a gay guy on the cheek, or letting him kiss you on the cheek is neutral, as long as the guy is out of the closet. Hugging and/or kissing a straight guy is gay.


See, look, I know I'm homophobic, but not about gay guys. They don't bother me at all. It's straight guys who don't know their gay... they fuck my shit right up.


Like a guy calls me up and says, "A bunch of us guys are gonna sit around in our underwear and watch the football game and drink beer and eat chips and, you know, maybe wrestle with each other, just us guys. You wanna come over?" And I'm like, "No."


Ok, you got a guy sucking your dick, even if he's dressed like a beautiful woman, even if he's got the best breast implants youv'e ever seen, even if you're saying to him "Suck it, bitch, I know you like it, you slut, you whore!" that's gay.


Conversely, if a woman straps on a dildo, and you're dressed like a woman, and you're sucking her cock, and she's saying, "You like it, don't you? You like sucking my dick you little fucking faggot," and then she rolls you over and fucks you in the ass and says "You love it you little pussy boy! You love getting fucked in the ass. I'll bet you wish I was a man! I'll bet you wish this was a real cock, you fucking faggot!" and you're getting off on this like you've never gotten off before, that's still straight.


But then, if you go off to the bar, and discuss this, or any other sexual experience with guys, that's gay.


Here's the most interesting one. Sucking a guys cock can, under certain rare cirumstances, be staright. Let's say you've gotten into a betting game with a woman, and the bet is that whoever loses has to be the other's sex slave for an entire night... you know, the kind of stuff that happens in Penthouse Forum all the time. And you lose, and the woman makes you have sex with another guy. That's not gay. I don't know exactly why, but it isn't.

Jesus is a nayzee

The only thing that I can hear anymore is "snow". And I shudder. Not because it's cold. But because, it is NOT supposed to snow before November. But it's 30 degrees in the morning and it's supposed to snow tonight. I would take tomorrow off, but that would mean leaving Jacqui alone (Ja KHAKAY!) and I do not want to do that to her. That's mean.

So, I'm driving back home from dropping dad off at work. There's a bus behind me and a bus beside me. You know how people hate driving beside semis because they can't see you, they're loud, they drive too fast, they have a major slipstream that slips right in front of your car? Well buses are the exact same, except with children, which only makes them more frightening.

Since August the 25th there has been five school shootings. E.coli is being found in lettuce, spinach, and now vegetables like carrots. North Korea successfully created a nuclear bomb...we are all gonna die.

My head nods in my hand and my elbow slips off the desk. I pretend it didn't happen but my heart is beating fast. My papers flutter to the floor and a pretty boy helps me pick them up. He smells like cotton. He has dark curly hair and thick boylashes. He smiles revealing teeth that seem to be raised on apples and milk. He says hi in a deep gravely voice and my heart goes kersplat. I smile back nervously hoping I don't look too stupid and say hi. He asks me what's with the accent. I giggle and say he has a bigger one. He calls me country cracker and I call him a Yankee. 
Every day we talk a little more. Turns out he is the most popular guy in school. Which is odd. He dresses preppy in Hollister but he is a skater. He smokes, he drinks, but is a total sweetheart with a smile to die for.
He asked me out.
I opened my mouth a few times and finally managed a "suuure".
He is the best boyfriend ever. He knows friends come first. He took me to St. Cloud to go to a coffee house where his friend was playing guitar because he hoped it would remind me of home. He brings me little things. An orange guitar pick, buys me film, always manages to bring me a moosed Caribou mocha with drizzle instead of shavings at lunch, he organized a wheel chair race and then took the winner and the loser to dinner. When I'm sick he calls and if I'm on the phone with a friend he says he'll call back later. When I said I might be moving again, he looked sad, but said if we broke up he just wanted to me be happy, but that he was going to make the best of it now. He paints with me, reads over my shoulder, and loves to wear my hats. He's trying to teach me to skateboard. He said that I will be famous someday for my writing and art. We don't need a look out when we're together, he lets me be when I just want to hang out with my friends, he wants us to go get our ears pierced again when I'm 18. He wants to stay with me for thanksgiving. He said my mom probably had a reason for sending me here. Which coming from anybody else might have made me really mad, but from him, it just sounded like truth. He doesn't say "I love you" because he doesn't want to hurt me. So as he runs down the hall to class he'll shout "I LIKE YOU!!!" and I shout "I LIKE YOU, TOO!!!" We're not rushing, we're just kids. But I think I could seriously get into this guy.

Congratulations to me! I'm editor! Wooooo!

I wake up in the middle of the night and feel a flash of light on my face. I stretch slowly under my sheets and wipe a tear drop from my cheek. I turn off my music and slide into my chair beside the window. A roll of thunder comes over me and my heart quivers. I light a cigarette and watch the smoke pour from my mouth into the air. It pools into clouds above my head. There's winks of light around my room. Things glittering, things blinking, things swaying in the damp storm breeze. I lean my head against the wall as I pull my sheet around my bare shoulders. My hair is a complete tangle as I have lost the battle to tame the beast. I peer around my room. What kind of person lives here. Me. Art on the walls, paint splattered everywhere. Notebooks piled on the floor. Books dog-eared waiting for the reader to continue. Shoes trying to sneak under the bed, fairy wings tacked to the wall like a specimen. No matter how hard I try to figure it out, there's always music coming from somewhere in my room. Always a slight fog of smoke. Always the scent of oranges and cigarettes. A to do list on every surface with only one or two things crossed off. The pictures on my wall smile at me. The friends lost and deceased. So far away. My clocks are all wrong. One says three, another says nine, and yet another says midnight. A burst of wind blows my papers over, snarls my hair into an angry twist, takes the sheet and flings it back. I sit and stare into the sky. The tree branches knock against the house. My candles are all blown out. The only light is the flashes from the sky. The only noise is my inhales, my exhales, and the thunder. As I watch the clouds I wonder who else is doing the same. Who else wakes up every night to wipe away a tear and be sure they're the same person. Does anyone else lose themselves to books to be sure that they'll be happy for at least two hundred pages. Or is it just me. Does anyone else watch themselves in the window to see how much they've changed. Or is it just me. A splatter on my nose wakes me from my revere. The rain falls smelling sweet and humid. My face smiles faintly and I watch it fall, washing the air clean. Leaving a frosty feel in the air. Letting me know soon I am free. I am not long for this life. I'll begin another soon. I close my eyes, the smile on my lips, the rain in my hair, and thunder in my heart. It's going to get much better.

George Carlin said it best about Martha Stewart . "Boy, I feel a lot safer now that she's behind bars. O. J. Simpson and Kobe Bryant are still walking around; Osama Bin Laden too, but they take the ONE woman in America willing to cook, clean, and work in the yard, and they haul her fanny off to jail."

"Let's just go in there and sit."
 "We have to buy something, otherwise it's loitering."
"Fine. We'll buy a salt packet. Excuse me miss, how much is this salt packet? 'A Penny.' Here ya go. 'Do you need anything?' Oh, no. We're gonna share."

-Andew is really weird.

I don't care what anyone says...sure Carrot Top is ugly...but he's fucking hilarious! AND HE HAS RED HAIR!!!!! And he's seriously buff...which is always a plus.

Mmmmm....Carrot Top.....

*insane giggle*

-Smoking killed my father...and raped my mother.

Smoke

-Not only is smoking bad for you it pollutes our air. And from our recent polls, air is good.

Smoke

-We fine the tobacco industry infinity billion dollars!!
     -Good work, sir! But I think that a real number would be more effective.

Smoke

-Baba Louie Baba Louie! Howard Stern's Penis!!!!

Smoke

-I'll tell you what's wrong, your smelly face!
"Mom!"
"Now, honey, your face smells fine."

Smoke

Lois is right! Children under 4 shouldn't be allowed to smoke!

Are you smoking yet?

I've decided to look into plastic surgary in Minneapolis, St. Paul, St. Cloud, and other big cities around. I want to look for probono operations. I even already have an idea for an essay already. I was watching Dr. 90210 and saw a girl getting breast reductions. She was a 30 DD. While I know that must be taxing on her back because she's smaller than me, I wear a 38 DD and have back problems. I'm tired of wearing a certain shirt and people saying "Damn, Dani!" I want to wear a tank top and people not stare at my breasts. I'm tired of Morgan pointing out to guys that I have one boob bigger than the other. I'm tired of paying $50 for a proper bra. If I can even find one big enough for me. That's step one.
Step two is my butt. I know that I joke with everyone about my butt and how flat it is. But I know that with such big breasts and such a flat butt it makes me look 20 lbs. heavier than I really am. And I'm not that heavy. I want to have a butt! I want to be able to wear jeans without a belt. I'm allergic to nickel! And that's all belt buckles are made out of. My lack of ass makes it impossible for a pair of jeans to stay put. So, I'm tired of people constantly staring at my chest, feeling my breasts, asking if I know that one is bigger than the other. I'm tired of shelling out $50 for a single bra. I'm tired of buying jeans that fall off because I have no butt. I'm tired of my jeans looking really baggy because I have no butt. 
So, I'm looking. And if I have to I'll get a freaking loan or ask the insurance people about it. Otherwise, they're going to keep paying for hospital visits for my crooked spine and allergic reactions to metal. I'll do whatever I can. I'm not trying to look beautiful or extraordinary. I just want to feel comfortable.

My heart is dying...
it hurts sooo much...


I remember the summer I became obsessed with Martin Short. I watched every movie with him in it. I pined for him. Looked up everything about him. Taped him on the Jay Leno show. Well, now I have a more serious obsession, for it is split between two men..........*sigh*

I am madly in love with Johnny Depp and Shaun White. I only discovered my love of Johnny a few days ago when I practically orgasmed when I saw him on television. And now I burn, I pine, I perish...
And Shaun White...skateboarder, snowboarder, red-head...'nuff said. *High pitched half crazed giggle*

Oh God.....................

on my to do list...
done:
#4, 5, 8, 10, 13, 19

yeeeeeeeeessssssssssssssssssssssssssssss...

I understand crushes. Why? Because I get them every 8 seconds. I have them on almost every person I know. Girls too. But the girls are more in a "why can't you be a guy" crush way. I guess they're okay to have. They kind of hurt my heart though. Like you know when you love something so much...you feel like you're about to explode? I feel that way about so many things and people. I feel that way a lot. Some might say that's "THE" love. But I disagree. Because I feel it all the time. And I know when I'm in love. It happened once. I think that might be why I'm such an angry person. My heart hurts. I love so many things. From walking barefoot on green grass to going shopping with a lot of money to seeing my family. But it seems it hurts because it always goes away. People leave. Money dwindles. Grass turns brown and fades. The hardest I've ever tried to not cry was when my family turned in one direction and I turned in another; on our way to two seperate homes. I don't know. Just right now my heart hurts.