All the good fishes were taken.

Our AP Euro book: Sand's novel Indiana (1832), about an unhappily married woman, was read all over Europe. Her notoriety- she became the lover of the Polish pianist Frederic Chopin, among others, and threw herself into socialist politics- made the term GeorgeSandism a common expression of disdain for independent women.
-sob-
On another note, Lacey wrote an INCREDIBLE note to me on her blog: You are quite possibly the best person I've ever met. I haven't known you very long but I feel I can say that without any hesitation. No one's been that accepting of me in every way. That willing to help me, no questions asked. You understand. I wish you would think of yourself better because I think of you in the best possible way. You are AWESOME!!!
It really made my day a lot brighter to know that anyone would be so happy to know me. And oh, did we have fun torturing Blair at lunch today.
We're frantically getting ready for the Mini Mu, and it will be amazing. I have to leave at 2pm for a recital at the Westminster Oaks Retirement Center, and I really hope I don't mess up for them. "Them" meaning the old people for whom I feel sorry.
After school, by about 5:30pm, I was supposed to wait for my mother to take me home. It started to get dark, and she still hadn't come. I knew she was on her way by about 5:45pm when I called her, and as the sun was mostly set, I sat on the sidewalk and started to just think, ignoring my surroundings (which included a fellow jazz band member who kept asking me to buy his World's Finest Almond chocolate that I didn't want). I couldn't help it, but all the day's reminders of that one guy kind of built up and tears started coming out of my eyes. Thankfully, Michelle, Logan, and the band kid were too far away to notice. I couldn't let my mother see me crying, so I stopped myself with plenty of time to spare. It felt miserable to know that I still missed... things. Or wanted them. It's getting so tiring, as this post probably is because it started off sort of lighthearted, even though it kind of was an allegory. Well, actually, the Chopin thing was an allegory.