Snowbound and Irate

They say Spring is the time for romance. I think they have never had to endure a New England Winter. As I ward off the ever-present threat of frostbite, and watch my fellow animals in this zoo we call Icaria, I've come to the conclusion that while Spring may be a time for lovers, these dwindling days of Autumn are just as much an aphrodesiac. After all, when you're snowbound inside, what would you rather be doing?

a. Homework
b. Gossiping about who's sleeping with who
c. Expanding the range of possibilities vis-a-vis who's sleeping with who

Let's just say I'm putting my money on the last two options. Maybe it's more than the cold; even a tropical snob like me has to admit that the leaves are gorgeous this time of year, the forest aflame in ways that I'll leave it to much better poets than I to attempt to describe. I'd quote Robert Frost, but all that comes to mind is Fire and Ice:

Some say the world will end in fire;
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To know that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

At least it's poetry that's vaguely on-topic, as well. We've certainly got enough ice around here these days, and I know it's just going to get worse. As for fire...well. We can count it a blessing for some that I wasn't burned like Guy Fawkes at Dot's Fundraising Dinner -slash- Pizza Extravaganza. Perhaps she's saving that for Homecoming, though; I would go up in a pretty good blaze if we soaked me in all the alcohol we can afford from donations. That, or maybe she'll toss me to the other girls who didn't have Campaign Managers. I know we've got to have a bacchanal around here at some point, dammit!

(Special note to someone who shall remain nameless: You still have three days. If you haven't yet, ASK HER.)

Of course, the girls apparently lost the lottery to see who would tar and feather me first. As previously and briefly reported, I was given what I do believe the young kids are calling "a trouncing" after the party. Four guys, none of whom I saw real clearly in the dark, and a pummeling later, and into the dumpster I went. Wounds were relatively minor: a black eye, some scrapes, a twisted ankle, a wounded ego, and one unrepairable shoe. Somehow, I was lucky enough to have a sharp-tongued Angel of Mercy drop in and apply first aid to the physical wounds, and a good lancing to the ego before it tried to fester. Add in a more gentle touch later that night, and a weekend to recover, and I do believe the limp and the shiner will be gone in time for Homecoming. Underlying causes? We'll address after we find out if I'm surviving Saturday.

Speaking of Homecoming: yours truly is dateless. C'est la vie! Thankfully, my fingers will be occupied with other pursuits -- at least, hopefully, this will be my debut as the trumpet section for Smutty Moll. Though still, given the way things are looking, I may be the only guy going stag. I was..let us say, pre-empted?...in my first choice by Mr. Fly-By-Night, and the second option...well. Apparently, even the budding possibility of Autumn romance is more whirlwind up here than even I'm used to. I can't be upset, though. Not in the face of budding adorableness to this degree. They may actually need to issue a license; I'm not certain this kind of cute isn't lethal in uncontrolled doses.

As I look back over my previous paragraph, a clarification: I don't mean to say that second and any other options unasked (one was suggested to me, but I think I'm staying further away from the knives than that, at least for that night) would have been consolation dates compared to who I had been considering at first. I'm not that cutthroat and mercenary a bastard. There is a damn reason I'm going stag rather than working my way down the list into the truly desperate for a date, just like there's a reason I'm not even asking the possible third. She, and everyone else? Deserves better than that.

Anyway. Enough self-reflection. I'll just end by noting that, despite not having really talked about it? There is some serious strangeness afoot in this town. I think I've shaken the majority of the cloud that'd been over my head since Halloween. At least, I'd like to hope I have. But that leaves questions. Consider this a note to self: Talk to D and E when you get a chance. Better informed than blindsided again, after all.

You know what the perfect end to a perfect night is?

I'll tell you. It involves getting gang-rushed by four guys in the dark, slammed against a brick wall in the alley behind Minelli's, punched in the gut a few times, and then thrown into the dumpster before they all run off, laughing.

Oh, let's not forget the warnings to "stay away from things that don't belong to me."

I need the fucking bactine.

It's been a rather interesting week or so. I think I'm settled in a bit more around here, which comes with both good and bad sides, as most things generally do. I'm not certain I want this to be home, even away from home. This isn't some longing for Miami thing, it's more a desire to be anywhere that really fits. I'm still not sure here does that trick, or even if it does, I'm not sure I'm comfortable with the parts that do.

Yes, that's vague. It's staying that way.

It started with Halloween. I was late getting to the dance; I just didn't anticipate how long it was going to take to lace the damn corset up, I'm afraid to say. And then things got...strange. I'm still not sure what the hell happened, or how to explain it, or if it's some elaborate hoax. I may come back and deal with this later, when my head's clear on the subject...but no one else seems to be really dealing or talking about it either. I can't decide if that's healthy, or if it's just a sign that everyone around here is fucked up.

There's better news, though. They announced homecoming court nominations, and in the spirit of school pride, I decided to nominate myself as campaign manager for one of the impending royalty. Don't forget, boys and girls: Dorothy Rothschild for Homecoming Queen!

Speaking of, in fact: keep your social calendars for Thursday night clear. A formal announcement will be forthcoming later tonight.

And speaking of the social calendar, Eliza's birthday was Sunday. I was going to go over and bring her a present on my own, but then she opted for a big public party, back in the woods behind the school. Which was lovely, until I dared speak to my social betters and attracted the ire of the European Elite. I just have to ask: when the fuck did we sign up to recreate episodes of The O.C.? I just never quite expected to hear the equivalent of "Welcome to the Eupheme, bitch!" Mind, I didn't actually get my ass kicked, but that's because the girls stepped in and saved the day. Though I suspect to get tossed into a trash can by the end of the month, don't you worry.