Here I am world.

Let it be known: I am not dead. 

Just busy.

A slippery slope.

OK KIDS. So I was busy today: getting my haircut, goin g to BJs, and spending hours at Becca's. I'm sorry. But I will update tomorrow if I find time (I have a seven hour rehearsal for Bright Lights.) but I DO have topics to cover so it will be INTERESTIG. Remind me never to try to blog from an iPhone.

I'm a strong bitch but I'm a weak bitch.

And today is yet another usual summer day.

This is going to be a great summer. Endless pizza, America's Next Top Model marathons, this is what summer is to Eric Gomez. I can't pretend I'm going to have this Phineas-and-Ferb-crazy-adventurous summer vacation. Although I may have understated how busy of a summer it will be. Road lessons, vacations, Bright Lights, camp, my driving test (holy God!)  all while fitting in voice lessons where I can and seeing friends in the breaks I'm giving myself.

But there will be about three weeks of nothing. And this is when my diet will turn to pizza and freeze pops. This is when I inevitably fall asleep at 2 AM, wake up at 12 PM, hate myself for wasting my day but also love sleeping in. This is when I sing in my dingy basement even though it makes no difference whether I sing in my room or underground, my brother will still hear me. This is when I will pretend to shop for clothes online even though I know full and well I can't afford it.

This is when the blog posts get shorter; when I have nothing worthy of talking about to... talk about.

Tomorrow, I'll be better. I promise.

Because EVERYONE loves detail.

I told you I'd be back.

First, I just wanted to point out, Woodland has its own Wikipedia page. Like, who took out the time to write a page about our school? Who wants to have that kind of time?

Moving on. So, it's my second day of summer vacation. I should start reading the 4 books for AP Lit that I haven't actually bought yet, or listen to the French broadcasts for AP French, which God knows why I'm even continuing this language when I haven't learned anything since Mrs. Hiscox, or I should start the Calculus packet, which seems the least daunting of the three. But, no, I'm here. Typing away on the keyboard missing the X button, The Price is Right playing in the background, waiting for life to begin.

There's so much I want to tell you. There's so much I neglected to talk about in the past eight months.

In the fall our school did a production of Stagedoor. In the spring we did Once on This Island. We received 10 Halo award nominations, and we won Best Specialty Ensemble in a Musical, (that's me guys that's ME!)

Tech week is rapidly approaching for Bright Lights; which seems much more hectic than last year. We've had maybe a month of rehearsals and our director just left to do a show in the Adirondacks and there's so many little kids and ugh. But it's ok. It'll all be ok.

Graduation was yesterday. And now I can talk about it in detail. Because everyone loves detail.

It was hot. Hot. The temperature was in the high 90s, there wasn't a cloud in the sky, and the courtyard was flooded with sunlight. The only shadows to be found were the ones casted from the spectators.  But the heat was bearable. I survived. I survived.


The speeches ranged from the obligatory to the unexpected, to the originally-observational-and-witty-until-everyone-started-incorporating-YOLO-into-their-speech speeches. Chamber choir suffered from my ex-boyfriend's proximity to the microphone, who sounded uneasy and uncomfortable, and thus the entire chorus sounded uneasy and uncomfortable. The band was missing integral parts of both their sections and their spirits, as some chose not to come, and others chose to graduate. Well, not chose. But. Yea.

But these are just trivial parts of the evening. What I, and what I expect most everyone else, really came for was to see the seniors walk across the stage. It was strange. As much as I was upset that my friends were leaving, going off to respective colleges across the (predominantly New England area) country, I was also filled with a sense of closure. This is their final step as a high schooler. This is mine as a junior. This is me next year. This is them right now. This is okay. This is what's happening and this is the only way the future really happens, by accepting the present.

Of course, I will sorely miss the seniors that I call my friends, my best friends. To walk into Woodland next year missing such a large part of our spirit, will be a haunting and jolting realization. But, they aren't gone. They just aren't here. They're at college. They're growing up, they're finding themselves more than we ever could in these humid halls.

So, it's bittersweet.

But, hey, thank God it's summer amiright?

Equally unflattering as it is an 

accurate portrayal of our friendship. 

And they pull me back in.

Hey.

What's going on? With my life? What am I doing, writing on this blog that I haven't visited in eight months? On a laptop that's been chipped and cracked down to its bare bones? With unchecked notifications on the Facebook that I begrudgingly made four years ago? Why am I typing away when I know three people at most will see this (and I know exactly who), without a clear purpose as to what I'm really trying to say?

I'll tell you why. Feelings. My feelings are why I write.

My feelings are equivalent to this post: no clear subject; plot; direction. But, that's ok. Both these feelings and this post will not be forgotten, nor will they be concise. They're everywhere. 


I felt like I needed to write. I've felt like I've needed to write for a while now. It never really crossed my mind that unearthing dear old Gomezziblog was what I needed.

It didn't cross my mind until a downhill-sloped, out-of-breath-conversationed, took-longer-than-I-thought-it-would stroll down to Main Street with Sam. It was the last day of the carnival, where the entire population of Beacon Falls inexplicably congregates around the Fire House. The carnival in and of itself isn't impressive by any means. The rides haven't been inspected by engineers in years, decades even. There is never a seat to be found. The fried dough you order never seems as good as the person's before your's. But the carnival isn't entirely a noun, it's a verb. To carnival. To walk across the carnival grounds and say hi to nearly every friend in the sophomore class. To take a picture in front of Ms. Shove's band to earn extra credit on your English final.

Anyway, Sam and I passed the carnival as she led me to a spot behind the "Fun" House, which looks more terrifying than fun. At least I've always thought so. There was a ground of red bricks, stone benches, and trees that reminded me all too much of our school's courtyard. I thought to myself This is a pretty space. But we didn't sit down. We didn't pause. She led me down a metal staircase where the toes sticking out of my flip-flops were met with sand. Water streamed ahead of us. A beach? In Beacon Falls?


Well, beach is probably too big of a stretch for inland Connecticut. It was a short patch of sand that met the Naugatuck river.

And Sam and I just stood there, backs resting against the silver fence. Sam keeps a journal that she writes daily entries in. I've always kind of been jealous, of how she can just jot down her feelings of the day's events, and it's there forever. She'll never forget the disbelief on our faces when Nick guessed the correct date on the milk carton in an intense game of Dicecapades. She'll never forget our wildly inappropriate responses to Why Did the Chicken.

I talked about my wanting to write again. How I never do anymore. How I feel like I need to. And that's when Gomezziblog entered the conversation.

That's why I'm here right now.

I wrote a little too much than I planned to. I started this post at 9:17 PM. It's now 10:00 PM on the nose. And there's still so much I want to talk about. I want to talk about graduation. I want to talk about how I'm sort-of-almost-kind-of-not-really-but-I-will-be a senior. I want to talk about the goodbyes I'll inevitably have to give. I want to talk about how I've changed in the past three years. I want to talk about my future. I want to talk about the present.

But somehow I got caught up in writing about the past. Woops.

Until tomorrow,
Eric.