Entry Number Fourteen:

Sir Elton John seems to have decided to reside in my head temporarily.

I keep telling him this is probably very disconcerting to both friends and family, seeing as he is in the skull of an American fourteen-year-old girl who, while a fan, is not exactly a fan-atic (pun!) and who used to mix him up with Billy Joel, but he isn’t listening.

I swear, if I have to listen to Levon one more time . . . .

This is all my mother’s fault. She was the one who put on Elton John music in the first place. She should know that once you hear it, you’re a goner, but she persisted. She sacrificed her own daughter for her eardrums’ pleasure. Indulging in a colloquialism, I say at her behavior: ‘le sigh.’

Halloween is coming up! I am attempting to make my own wings from scratch this year--see, if I have enough energy to come up with an idea, plan for it, and actually build it, I can’t be depressed--and so far it’s . . . well, it’s interesting. Seeing as I lack a group of friends to go trick-or-treating with and my mom is going to be busy with Dee, or Princess Deirdre, rather, and Rob’s going out and I don’t know what Brett’s going to be doing--he's my step-dad; I think you've met, but just in case I thought I'd mention it--so I’m handing out candy this year.

Halloween is my favorite holiday, in case it was not obvious by my preemptive enthusiasm. I don’t know why. It’s not the candy, although that’s okay. It’s hard to enjoy candy when you can’t really pig out on it because you’re on a constant diet-of-sorts for dance. I think it’s mostly that I’ve never lost my love of playing dress-up, and one only has so many opportunities to do so once one is over eight years of age.

I want to see how many other people will be coming to school in costume; I know I will, but I don’t have anything to lose. Anyway, it’s always interesting to see who has how much imagination and what kind of sense of humor; I mean, there are the people who dress up as prostitutes (which, honestly, isn’t all that different from their everyday attire), and then there are the people who dress up as Communists.

Put it this way: you have the choice of conversing with a) a person from a fairly affluent neighborhood who is dressing up as something that really isn’t, I’m assuming, an ultimately happy lifestyle and who doesn’t understand what the word ‘crass’ means, or b) a person who dresses in red and makes it work as a cynical, ironic, and above all deliberate social mockery.

Which would you choose?

Actually and in fact not totally full of hate,

Mackenzie Owens

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Notes: As of 8:23 this morning, I was officially a decade and a half old. This doesn’t have anything to do with anything, I just wanted to share. Anyway, thank you very much to Stravinsky, SaveTheDay, Azzandra, The Watched, and princess max, my very first Mackenzie reviewer ever, who came back (don’t worry, you’ll get Maria yet). I’ll try not to clutter things up with author’s notes, I just wanted to give my thanks and to mention that I think I’ll be back to a fairly regular schedule now, despite the rigors of homework and pit orchestra. Good night!