Oh, wait. I introduced you to everyone else except for myself. I'm like that. I forget the obvious a lot.

OK, at this time in my life, I'm a 14 year old girl. Wildly unpopular in school, I defiantly try to make my own styles and march to the sound of my own drums, mainly because I don't know how to do otherwise. If I were able to conform, I might...if it made sense to me and seemed logical. So, the result of all this is that I think I'm pretty cool with a short spiked haircut, red eyeshadow, hugely baggy pants, and very loud jewelry. At this point in time, I'm convinced that I'm a talented artist, and I draw constantly and go through reams and reams of paper and wear out a lot of writing implements, often on the same subject, over and over and over again, tryign to refine it down to the essence of what I'm trying to express. I might draw the same cat in the same pose fifty or a hundred times. I also do a lot of abstract art, with intersecting shapes and bright colors. My favorite color is blue. I'd like to have everything I own in blue. I also like to sew and make things. This is the overriding drive in my life -to create- and it's virtually all I think about, other than guys and animals.

I love animals. I can't live without them. People are so mean, and animals, if you know their language, are a lot better and far more trustworthy. When I grow up, I want to have LOTS and LOTS of animals- all kinds, but especially cats. My mom let me have a kitten- Marshmallow. I nicknamed him Mashy. I spend so much time with him (hours a day, basically whenever I'm not drawing or climbing trees or hiking) that he's extremely tame and laidback. I can give him a bath and he'll purr the whole time. He lays back in my arms and lets me pet his tummy, something cats don't usually like. When I want to call the cats to play with them or feed them, I go outside and meow loudly. They come running. Even the very shy ones will let me handle them. It doesn't make sense to me to call them in English. They're cats.

I had a boyfriend in Chicago, and I miss him. His name was Matt...something ending with "ski". He's Polish, so I don't remember his last name, and besides, he was always just "Matt" to me. He's tall, about 6 feet and the same age as me, blond. He has acne, but I don't care...most of them do. Matt is extremely quiet and shy, like me. We hardly ever talk when we're together, just short bits of sentences, but there's so much meaning in the silence when we're together. He never said goodbye, or that he'd miss me....we just knew these things. When I left, we walked to the door holding hands (seemed like a big thing to me at age 14) and he kissed me on the forehead. He used to feel my spiky hair and laugh about it. Darn, I miss him. Maybe I shouldn't have moved here.

But...I don't think my dad likes me anymore. We fight all the time. He wants me to be pretty and preppy and feminine like his new wife, Marie, to play piano like he does (and he's so good that to hear my own bumbling attempts, when I want to sound just like him, is frustrating), and above all, to be "orthodox", whatever that means. I think he means that he wants me to be just like everyone else, and not only do I not know how, I don't want to. Other people are boring and dull! They never seem to think about why they do things or whether there's another way to do them. In short, I don't think my dad likes me the way I am. He didn't want Lisa to go..he likes her. He was fine with my going. Besides, my Mom is fun and it's so great to finally get to be with her.