Dear Wonderful Friends,
Today is Wednesday, April 23, 2008.
This is Entry Number 40.
First of all, I just needed to get the whole "bee-otch" thing over with, because I've been needing to say something like that for a few days now. Second of all, I'm so glad I finally have a chance to post a new entry, considering I've not been able to the last few days, since I prefer to type them when I'm home alone and it's quiet, so that I may concentrate.
Before I begin talking about what went down at SPAAC on Monday, I just need to say one thing that I should have been saying every day, every chance I get, for the past eight years or so: Conor Mailla is an idiot. God, I am so damn sick of him. He just does not know when to shut his big, fat, know-it-all mouth. Making him just like his stupid mother, and whore of a sister. Okay, so that last part was kind of mean, but sadly true.
Anyway, at SPAAC on Monday things went just as they usually do: Max, Josh, and Conor spent the entire day calling each other a fag. I swear to God, if I hear that awful, awful word one more time I am going to stop going there. I just can't take it anymore. I simply cannot stand it that they use the word "gay" as an insult. I cannot stand it. And the sickening thing is, Annilee Mailla does nothing to stop her stupid seventeen-year-old son (who, frankly, should know better than to say half the things he says to me and other girls my age) from making such crude and inappropriate comments.
You want an example of the things he says? I was sitting on the tennis court with my best friend Regan Maxwell, Re and my best friend Ryan Izzy-Deveaux, Josh Adams, Hayden Mayne, and Conor Mailla. Hayden teaches a pyshical education class for one of the younger groups, so those of us who have free time in that time slot either walk around, go somewhere, or sit out on the tennis court or in someone's car with the air on. Well, they were playing kickball, and since I'm not sportsy and neither is Re's little brother Riley, we were sitting off to the side of the field, and Ri was showing me all the songs he had on his iPod (yeah, for such a little guy, he has some pretty sweet gadgets, I'll give you that). Re, Ryan, Josh, Hayden and Conor were all playing kickball with the little kids. Well, Conor decides he can't talk about everyone and everything he knows (and knew before the rest of us) while playing kickball, so he decides to come over and sit with me.
Wonderful.
When I saw him coming, I told Riley that he needed to either go play with the other kids or go inside, because he's just as much of a brother to me as Re is a sister (and even if he wasn't) I didn't want him to be exposed to all the perversion I knew I was about to endure. But to my dismay, he opted to stay put.
"How are you, Charlotte?" Conor says, sitting down beside me. He gives me a quick hug; I flinch away. So I'm not saying he did anything inappropriate; I didn't do anything inappropriate. But the thing he doesn't realize is when Re and some of the other girls and I tell him that it makes us uncomfortable, we're not kidding. And it's not just because he's older. He's seventeen; hell, Seth Riley's fifteen and he can hug me whenever he wants. But it's just because it's Conor.
"I'm fine, Conor. How are you?"
"I'm fine, little emo girl."
I sigh. "What does 'emo' even mean?" I used major air-quotes, by the way.
"It's someone who's really emotional, and takes everything really personally, and is into self-mutilation. They're all a bunch of freaks if you ask me. But I know you're not really emo, little sad girl."
You don't know how badly I wanted to say, No, Conor. Self-mutilation is not "emo"; self-mutilation is called "mental illness." Self-mutilation is what happens to people who spend their whole lives hanging around with crackheads like you, and become so depressed that they want to cause themselves physical pain, and don't want to live anymore. Emos are teenagers who have nothing better to do than wear a lot of black, way too much eye make-up, use awful language, and have bad attitudes.
Okay, so he's not a crackhead, but he sure acts like one.
So instead of all that, I just said, "Oh."
Taking the hint (for once), Conor turns around and calls to Ryan, "You nailed her!" just as Ryan scores a point or whatever. (I don't follow sports at all; all I know is that something good happened.)
And since has this whole social-insecurity thing going on, and has to be all "badass" when his guy-friends are around, Ryan comes jogging over and says, "So tell me you did not just say that I nailed Maxwell, Mailla."
Conor just laughs. "You know you want to, Izzy."
Ryan glances at me before sitting down on Conor's left and messing with something on the ground, trying to block out Conor's comments of perversion with little Riley Maxwell sitting right in front of him. And as he begins giving us a detailed description of some joke one of his perverted "emo" friends told him, I finally had to step in and say, "Okay, you know what, Conor. Riley is sitting right here, and you need to watch your language, got it?"
He just rolls his eyes at me, and turns to Ryan (making some obscene gesture, I have no doubt) who says nothing.
So yeah. That's what I have to put up with. And I've said it a million times, and I'll say it again: I don't mean to sound like to good-girl who doesn't like "bad words"; I couldn't care less if Conor says "dammit" a couple times; Allie and I use worse language than that in our everyday conversation; they're just words; it doesn't bother me; it's not like I'm afraid of going to Hell or something. But the thing that I simply cannot stand is the perverted and sexual references directed towards not only my friends, but myself as well. And that has to stop. Regan keeps saying to him, "Conor, this stuff makes us uncomfortable. Please stop." Well, dammit, I don't care how uncomfortable it makes her; it's just not right for a seventeen-year-old boy to say some of the things he's said to and around thirteen- and fourteen-year-old girls.
I mean, I cannot tell you how many Christmases I've had to endure, filled with, "Hey, Charlotte, what do you call three blondes dancing around a Christmas tree? Ho, ho, ho!" And I don't care if it's directed towards me, being a blonde myself, or not: it is not right for him to use that sort of language and say so many other sexually explicit things after I have repeatedly asked him to stop. And I've told my mother all this; it's not like I'm just letting it go on. And she says she doesn't know how to approach the situation, because it wouldn't be appropriate to address Conor, but she knows that it's a waste of time to speak with his mother, seeing as how she responded when my mother brought up the situation with Connie, who is, in case you hadn't guessed, Conor's sister and Annilee's daughter.
And, further more, it's not like it's just me who is bothered by it. I cannot tell you how many times I've had conversations with and said these very things to Re, Allie, Cami and Max (the last one is pointless, I know) who feel the same way. Well, Max doesn't care what Conor says --- he's just as bad --- but I have told him these things and it doesn't seem to phase him.
So I don't know. I'm going to see what I can do to get all these situations resolved.
Until tomorrow, take care.
Charlotte
Your place looks great; keep up the good work! 
He needs slapped upside the head really hard... perhaps with a big ol' cast iron skillet. Or a good hard kick where the sun don't shine could do the trick too. ;-) 
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