Well, this has been a whirlwind.
I don't know why I started this stupid diary in the first place, now that I think about it. I think I had this romanticized fantasy that this was my first step in becoming a famous violinist; and one day, when I've retired in a mansion in London and Juliard is begging me to speak at their school, people will want to know where it all began. I mean, if you could read Beethoven's diary, hearing him ramble on about the very beginning of his rise to being a quasi-deity like legend, you'd be interested, right? Even if every other page was, "Oh my god, that bitch Marcy will just not put out. I mean, helllloooo. I play the violin! Who wouldn't want this?"
This is awfully presumptuous of me, I know, but when I write in this stupid book, I can't help imagine people reading it all over the world. That's probably why I insisted on sitting now and writing today, instead of getting caught up in the whirlwind of this school.
What a whirlwind it is! Or a maelstrom. Mostly due to the dynamic and mysterious duo of Marie-Claire and Xavier. I haven't figured Xavier out yet. Sometimes he seems absolutely fascinated with me; then half the time he just cuts me down with every syllable. Plus, he gets this look on his face when he looks at me: he smirks, tilts his head back, closes his eyes, and chuckles, and then tells me I'm a "good boy". Interesting character, indeed.
Marie-Claire is Xavier's literary foil. Where he's mean, she's kind. Where he wants to see you fail, she wants to hold your hand and ask you about your day. While he's always shagging some girl in the pool house, she'll come over to my dorm room on Sundays and have tea, and she'll get this sad look on her eyes when she stares out the window, like a lonely girl waiting for her love to come back from war. But somehow they work together, and they work with me.
"Mozart," Genevieve says, wrapping her arms around me. "What's got you down?"
"Nothing," I shrug. Genevieve is one of Marie-Claire's friends at this school who's rapidly becoming my friend. She seems to be really taking to me.
"Did you finally wake up and realize that no girl is going to go for a guy who spends his time practicing fingering a musical instrument?" Oliver sneered and tossed his jacket into the chair on my other side.
The same cannot be said for Oliver.
"Can you even do that?" Oliver asked, grimacing at some unspoken thought.
"What?"
"Finger a girl?" he spat out, like the words were in another language. "Aren't your hands like... your livelihood?" Oliver held up his hands in front of my face. "Magical phalanges!"
"I play the violin, I'm not a surgeon," I shrugged. "I'm not Ben Carson: Gifted Hands."
Oliver snorted. "I bet you don't even know how to work a... joystick."
"What?" I asked.
"Nothing," he said and changed the subject.
Well, future reader of my autobiography, I'm sure you're not terribly concerned about the upcoming conversation about Oliver assumes that a girl's ladybits would feel like jello. Yea, I'm not sure the publishers would publish that bit.
PS. Do they? That's gross.
Hahahaha. I love Oliver. He is too funny. The ironic part is that Oliver is making fun of Thomas for not being able to finger a girl when Oliver doesn't even want to finger lady bits.
ReplyDeleteAnd we all know why Oliver doesn't like Thomas.
And your user picture! I still have to see that movie. And you told me about some guy named alex pfeifer or something who looks like Oliver? Is that his name? I have to look him up.