I find myself here starting this at 4:28am. My spring break-- the last one I'll have as a high schooler; has been spent doing things I expected, and even more of things I didn't expect. What was it that Lennon said? "Life Happens when you're making plans."

I've tried to live my life by the seat of my pants, because we all know what happened to Mr. John Lennon when he was making plans. A little something called life, brought to him personally in the form of a bullet. I'm enjoying my life too much to let it actually happen to me. But, we all grow up someday, and this is another step on my journey to actually becoming someone of value to the uh... what do we actually refer to it as? Society? I know it's society, but becoming an asset to a modern American society is kind of... bogus. What with how I'm pretty sure I'm accurate and saying that maybe 4 in 10 people offer nothing to the world at all.

Hell, that was an example of life happening to me. The confirmation of that exact suspicion about someone in my weekly life. I recognize them now for what they are, and I hate them for it. The f$$k with the whole,"Thou shalt not judge" BS. I'm all for respecting your elders as much as the elders are, but even they should know when they're abusing their position. Thankfully, this is not someone I am required to deal with. All in all, it was life happening. Because this was the kind of person that encourages the idea of life happening to you. The kind of person who not only encourages; but doesn't give a damn whether you agree or not, or where you stand in relation to them; but apparently life is to revolve around them, and they decide how Life will happen to others around them.

The idea of being in control of the events in my life can be comforting, but to know that I'd have complete control-- like this person wishes they had-- takes the entire thrill out of living. It literally defeats the purpose of living if we are in control of everything around us.

I've meandered from my point.

My point is, this week has been a living hell for me; whether it brought with me the glad or the sad. In the beginning, it was certainly a good thing, the events happening were wonderful. I know that I'm going to school at FLCC for the next fall semester. And we're pretty sure I'll actually have my own apartment rather than staying in the dorms (which turned out to be the equivalent of my two years tuition for just the one year). It's still up to be debated, but outlook is good. The roommates are almost set in stone, as we're all onboard with the idea, it's just a matter of making sure it can work out between the three of us.

I've never lived on my own with someone else outside of  sharing a room and a bed with my brother on and off throughout elementary school, which was the sucks; and not to mention the combined total of 23 days in the psychiatric ward. The variety of roommates kept me guessing. Eventually it worked. Naturally, it makes sense that we need to be certain the three of us can live together and not piss each other off.

As the day went on, I learned that my grandfather (who is technically my step-dad's grandfather, thus making him my great-grandfather by marriage, naturally) was on his deathbed. I made it a point to be sure I visited personally. He never knew I was there. My girlfriend accompanied me down, and the return thereafter was ultimately when things became shitty with the aforementioned ramblings.

All I can really say at this point on that is that I'm incubating a "rage baby" for lack of a better term. Go ahead and laugh, I know it's pretty f$$kin' sad and stupid to call it that, much less decide to hold onto it and identify it as another entity within myself (which my schizophrenia could REALLY use the company, as all schizoids know that).

The week seems like a blur since Monday. I came to learn tonight that approx. 10-20 minutes to 9PM, that my grandfather had passed on. 97 years old. 97 f$$kin' years on this earth. 92 of them he spent strong as an ox and independant with my grandmother. This was the kind of guy who would get hit by a semi-truck and stand back up and brush it off like the wind blew a bunch of dust onto him or something. I'm not even really that sad, to be honest.

He had a long life, he lived to see most of his great-grandchildren start families of their own. I'm glad he's not hurting anymore. But the source for any of the anger and hurt inside me goes back to that one person.

I was making plans in my life. FLCC visit on Tuesday, band rehearsal on Wednesday. Work Thursday. Tora-Con during the weekend. Life happened. Life didn't kill me like it did John Lennon, but it sure as hell set up some nasty (and expensive) roadblocks along the way. That van of mine is kind of running out of time, too.

This was supposed to be the last week of my high school career that I'd get to relax. I'm not bitching about the fact that I haven't had a chance to rest and relax (even tonight, though; I've worked endlessly on my cosplay for Saturday. The rules: no sleep 'til it's finished. It's still not. This is not helping the process). I'm complaining that despite all the misfortune that has happened; the one thing that should matter the most doesn't, and the thing that matters the least bothers me more than that scandal with the Pope (and may his ass be locked up, AMEN!).

If I could say something, I would. It wouldn't be right to announce it to the world. I know nobody reads this now. But that doesn't mean nobody will in a week. Or a month. Or a year from now. And the wrong eyes seeing it will hurt those involved, already. I'm enjoying my existence right now; 'fraid I can't risk that.

How can one person harbor such rage in someone? I thought that was why I went to high school; so I could hate them. Being wrong is well within my nature; but never would I have imagined that I would've missed the mark on animosity more so than I seemed to have, now.

This week needs to end, and it's still only Friday. That may mean something to you 9-5ers out there. But to me, it's just the beginning, at this point.