facepalm, headdesk

Yesterday I visited my friend, due to a potluck dinner.

I brought my sketchbook, a mechanical pencil, and an eraser to work on some pieces, such as my sister’s commission, which I am beginning to despise. Her character is an evil character, and I think he’s beginning to get on my nerves. How do you draw pretty and evil men? Ah, you know what, let’s base him of Sephiroth. Just kidding, highly unlikely. Maybe just the face.

Well anyways, this particular friend of mine especially loves to steal my sketchbook so she can look through everything, which is quite annoying because of all the works-in-progress, as well as the scrapped works. I should remove the scraps, but it makes the book feel especially incomplete.

I put it in her room for safekeeping (bad idea), and she stole it. I sent my sister to go steal it back. While she did that, I gathered all my drawing utensils. Except, I couldn’t find my mechanical pencil! My eraser was there, but where had the pencil gone? I frantically checked my coat pocket, my jeans pocket, under her bed.

Apparently, she didn’t take it when she took the sketchbook. And so I looked around the house for it.

When I came back to her room to tell her about my inability to find it, I found her, as well as my sister, and other friends, flipping through my sketchbook. What the heck! I sent my sister to take the sketchbook yet she betrayed me and became my friend’s accomplice!

With the combination of the loss of the pencil and the betrayal, it’s easy to say that I was not in a good mood.

I’m not usually good with mechanical pencils, because after the first or second week of use, I break it or lose it. This particular one was my “lucky” pencil since it lasted four months without any hubbub. I guess I’m still not good with mechanical pencils yet.

But all I could do that night, in order to avoid the role of party-pooper, was to swallow my frustration.

I hope that my friend can find it.

Ah, reading back on this, it seems like a stupid artist’s rant. Stupid even for the most serious of artists.

But I just feel so down, my pencil lost, my trust betrayed.

I need to slap myself on the head. So stupid.

A Night of Havoc, part 1 in which I die

Tonight was dreadful.

I cursed 500 times more tonight than I did the last month combined. (When you see the word 'granola,' you can bet that it's a substitute for some other thoughts.)

First of all, it's a Monday. Everyone can understand that. But I had piano lessons, from 4:30 to 6:00, since my sister and I take our lessons back-to-back. I kept stressing about the lessons, and I almost forgot about my concert. But the school is close by to my teacher's house, and the time would be just right.

But on the way to my piano teacher's house, I remembered that I left my orchestra uniform and shoes home, but luckily, my sister had a concert too (elsewhere) and so my mother said she would come back with it.

Meanwhile, I had forgotten the call time and assumed it to be 6:30 P.M., but I told my mother 6:15, just in case.

She picked me up from piano lessons late because of all the exceedingly-congested rush hour traffic which happens to occur right in front of my neighborhood. I quickly changed in the car and right as we were in front of the school, both of us realized that I didn't have my violin.

...

My violin. How could I forget my instrument to an orchestra concert. I wanted to hit myself so hard and knock my body unconscious. I took a hold of myself and told my poor, stressed mother to please bring back my violin in 10 minutes, max. Our house is unfortunately 5 minutes away, not including the traffic. Poor Mother, I put too much stress on you today, didn't I.

As I walked in from the frosty outside air into the nicely heated building, people gave me strange looks. Well, I was wearing our 1960s-styled orchestra dress, which only the freshmen girls had to wear.

And when I strolled (with worried thoughts in my head) into the orchestra room, where my orchestra was supposed to meet, I think I died just then and there:

Everyone was dressed out, sitting in their chairs with instruments in hand. The director was tuning, and (I swear,) every. Single. Person. Was. Staring. At. Me. And. My. Empty. Hand.


Holy freaking granola goddess, why did the call time have to be 6:15.


I checked my watch. It was 6:20. I would have points deducted for being late, and not only that, I HAD NO INSTRUMENT. The director didn't even look at me. I panicked, and my friends looked at me with a mix of concern and shock. It's times like these that I truly wish time were on my side.

Panicking, I walked in and out of the room, but with no instrument. Holy granola bars, I was going to be murdered ruthlessly by my directors, I knew it. Of all days, why today to have bad luck?

Finally, I called my mother and she was coming, and she was annoyed. I stood by the double-doors, waiting and praying and desperately staring for the vehicle that would deliver the vital goods.

6:41. The highly-anticipated violin had arrived. After 20 minutes. Oh gawd, the director would kill me now, wouldn't he? My orchestra was almost done with their rehearsal, which I had missed, and I rushed into the eerie room and quickly unpacked my violin, only to find that my shoulder-rest was not there. I would just have to manage.

As my group practiced their last song, I tried to keep up, hands cold from the short trip outside and nerves causing havoc on my mind and body. Through the few minutes of practice I got, I kept thinking of what the director would do to me tomorrow. I was sure I would fail.

Fortunately, after we rehearsed, we had a few minutes to calm down before we entered the stage. I was ever-so-grateful to the concertmaster, because he let me use his shoulder-rest, since he doesn't use it. I'm indebted to him.

The concert was overall ok. My mental state was not.

I rushed home, not wanting to face the director at all. Though it may have been better if I did, for he most likely would not rebuke me. I'm still nervous, and my senses are on edge, like I've taken too much caffeine, and I know something will pop out from behind a corner but I'm not sure what.

...

I am awaiting the director's punishment. I'm sure it'll be harsh. What if I fail? I am done for. I know it's all my fault and I'm pretty much responsible for this, but I do not want to die. Though I think I already am.