Ovarian Cancer (and some other boring parts of my life....)

Okay so my grandmother has ovarian cancer. She has surgery Monday. She's 75. If you believe in God or some force of whatever, pray. If you want that is. . . .

I'm sort of sad but I know for a fact that my grandmother will pull through. I know she will and I don't say that with annoying little tears in my eyes or my head in the clouds hoping to God or whomever that what I say will come true. No, I said it truthfully; I know for a fact that cancer will not be her downfall. It seems pretty stupid to assume that I know things . . . but I just know things sometimes. Gut feelings or whatever. And I say and know for a fact that she won't die from ovarian cancer.

Not much else has really been going on in my life. Not really. Nothing significant that really stands out to me.

I've been reading Gone With the Wind by Margaret Mitchell. Great book -- you should read it sometime if you haven't.

Spanish class is essentially dull. Riva is annoying as always and I've just recently realized "hey, she's also in my homeroom class!". We did make these menu thingies though, and I think I did pretty well in the creativity department. The name of my restaurant is "Tortuga Torpe" or "Awkward Turtle." Great job, right? I think so.

I think that Riva called me immature (and that I need "to realize that we're not in middle school anymore. This is high school." No way? Really now? . . . because I was under the impression that I didn't care what grade I was in.) because I put some scrap paper on Juan's desk and said, "Here you can have this for your project." Oh yes. . . I am the immature one -- the one that makes all these brilliant grades without studying and reading books that, yes, do in fact go over the 100 page mark. And I don't know for a fact that Riva was talking about me. She's too cowardly to say anything to my face. I wish that I would just lose my cool one day and tell her exactly what I think of her and her foolishness, but I know I never will.

I've just been thinking a bunch. I do that too much. I sometimes feel like I'm the only person in the world -- or at least in my small-town no-town -- who thinks about things. I overanalyze stuff. I see faults in people I dislike; I blindly cover up flaws in the people I love. I hate who I am; I love myself immensely. I'm weird; I'm normal. I'm loud; I'm quiet. I'm sophisticated; I'm immature. I'm every contradiction known to man. And I think too damn much. I already have a strand of gray -- or perhaps a random blonde among all the brown, red, and black? I don't need to care about others, but yet I do.

God. I just wish that I were normal. It's not so much to ask, is it? To be like someone? To have things in common with people? I want to be different, but I want to be the same as everybody else. That's stupid; no one is the same. Everyone is different.

I'm being very stupid right now. My grandmother has cancer, and I'm thinking about books, a girl I hate, and myself. Gosh. My life is so simplistic and yet I make it sound so very, very complex. It's not, and I hate myself for making it seem that way.

I'm tired. I'm bored. I'm sick and tired of life in general. The monotony of my existence is killing me. I want change so much and I'm sick of my school schedule. It seems as if I'm living for the time that I get out of school; I want summer vacation.

My birthday is on May 1. I'll turn 16. Sweet 16, right? I'm not flipping out about it like all my other classmates are about their own birthday. I'm not holding a party and inviting everyone I've ever talked to. I'm just going to stay home probably and watch TV and read. Nothing special, just another day.

I'm boring whoever's reading this, aren't I? I'll leave now to spare you.

~Isabel