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One thing that always depresses me are deflating helium balloons. They're a happy symbol of the party you've just attended, until you wake up the next morning to find your smooth-skinned, energetic friend, who only yesterday strained into the skylights, is now half-heartedly hovering six inches above the carpet. I haven't taken one home from anywhere in years.

Before school, I spend twenty minutes taping pictures into the locker I share with Evil A of all the things I love (polka dots, Alexis, Orlando Bloom, Shelby, tropical flowers, Moulin Rouge, Marilyn Monroe, Sam, Gwen Stefani, and if I can find any more room Starburst and Coldplay). I drink my first of two smoothies today and come downstairs to find that Brittany's gone all-out and asked French Boy if he has a girlfriend. According to her, he said something like, "Uh... yeah. Yeah I do." This may be because Brittany is about seven hundred percent obviously not his type, but oh well. Also, while the comic appeal of a nerdy drawing class listening to Rammstein is high, my Coldplay-dominated mix CD has really got to return.

At lunch, the table where Necker and co. always sit had vanished. He and one of the other guys sit at the end of our table, where, while he certainly sees me, he never acknowledges me. That same period, I lose my second mechanical pencil this month and all the information about clubs I'd just written with it. Actually, I spend most of lunch being punched by Cucumber and Sean/Shawn/whoever he is with the one sexy earring. Despite comments like, "What would be worse, the bad clothes or her without them?", they're surprisingly nice guys to hang out with. They may have no idea how to give a compliment, but a girl gets a lot of attention.