I can almost feel the anxiety of the whole world. Soon it will be all over.

There's a black moose filled with stars on a purple fence on Brookline street, but I'm only going slow enough to notice it when I'm going out of town. Waving goodbye.

...it's the ability to walk outside without a jacket and decide not to go back for one. To walk to campus barefoot in the rain, finding the biggest puddles along the way.

Today, I am 18.

It feels exactly the same as being 17, except today I can walk into Blockbuster and not get rejected while attempting to rent a movie. Any movie. (Yes, this happened to me this summer. Not 18? No Blockbuster account for you!)

I feel a little scandalous when eating dinner in a sit-down restaurant by myself. There's something weird about walking in and saying, "just one," and then constantly being approached a little tentatively by the waitress, occasioning an "are you alright?" once or twice.

Maybe I'm not smiling enough. Maybe I look depressed and friendless. But I really just was passing through the neighbourhood on the way from here to there, and happened to be really hungry and in the mood for this particular restaurant. Huh.

The room is silent, except for the quiet scuffle of papers being shifted on the tiny desk that's too small for even the average kids to be comfortable in, or pencils rolling onto the floor and being left there. Thoughts run through students' heads; not I'm so screwed on this test, but my hand is starting to cramp up from writing for so long, or when's lunch? Though, sometimes all of these at the same time.

Finally, the sharp voice of the proctor cuts through the gym. Place your test booklet on your desk, fold to the left. Everyone rises, stretching. Cell phones are reclaimed. Quickly, no one is left. Nothing but silence, once more.

Silence, and the pitter patter of quiet feet as they slip through the unguarded music wing door to fly across a sea of black.

Today, I witnessed somebody attempting to read a magazine on a dark bus via the light of their cell phone.

Makes me wonder what OLPC will end up causing.

Jackie told me today:

Cheese. It's good for the soul.

Word on that.

There's this strange feeling I get when walking into my sister's room when she's away at college. For some reason, this room gives off an aura that says "I AM NOT LIVED IN." You get hit with this funny smell as soon as you make it through the door. There aren't any dirty clothes strewn all over the floor, no food wrappers with some sort of strange green fungus growing on them stuffed into some corner. No fan in the window blowing in sticky humid air to counteract the heat being thrown off by a CPU that's churning away 24-7. Just silence. Dry, empty silence. And stuff, gathering dust on desks and drawers.

So I just got back from being a "guest artist" at my little sister's band concert, i.e. I got to tout (and toot) my horn and get stared at by 50 little fourth and fifth grade musicians who think I'm da bomb. (And pretty, apparently, in my dress black [pants].) I really just played one song with her [large] band, a French horn-section featuring march entitled Our Claim to Fame that the band director actually wrote when I was in the band, a good six years ago. Pro: you don't need to play in tune! Play loud, have fun. Be "big sister."

I also made new friends. It's funny how I haven't been to a younger concert in quite some time now, one where there's a constant murmer in the audience from giggling siblings playing with dolls on the floor and hormonal little boys who never stop fidgeting, where the lights are off but it's still mostly light because it's in a cafeteria with large window and rows of cafeteria chairs in front of the stage. While hanging out backstage waiting to go on, I had a couple nice little chats with my old band director's student teacher. She was really quite nice, aside from having a last name which happened to be the first name of a guy in my grade who I would really like to throttle sometime. It felt like I could connect with her a lot more than the kids, or even a student teacher of about the same age who might have taught at the high school.

Later, when I was standing in the back, I just started talking with a middle-aged couple who were standing there too. They were nice, too -- it's been a while since I've just had a little chat with someone who I've never met before and probably will never see again. And no, I am not in middle school, though that seemed to have been the first guess of several people. Those are three years of my life where a lot of things could gladly be forgotten.

Both the band and the chorus played/sang several songs that I had played when I was back in elementary school, from "Fifty Nifty United States" (Alabama, Alaska Arizona Arkansas...) to "West Genny Jump." To be young and innocent and rap wearing patriotic flag headbands again (alas). Along the hallway were displays of art projects that I can distinctly remember doing... one of which is hanging up at my grandparents' house now... birthday signs for the middle school band director who was also my middle school band director, a sign on the chorus door reading "Official Home of the Countdown to Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince." Alright, so there were some good times in middle school. Some. More in elementary, though the bad were brought back with the reminiscent callings of "I'm better than YOU are, you jerk!"

High school is better. Not perfect. But better.