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OOC. [05 May 2003|05:15am]
[ Just want to apologize for my lack of updates and participation in the community. I have finals this week and I have been busy getting ready to take them, etc. My last one is on Wednesday, so I should be around more after that.

To the mod- Please don't remove me. I have every intention of updating and being active as soon as I get these finals out of the way. You have to understand how it is.. senior year finals.. not something to be taken lightly. ]

[29 Apr 2003|11:11am]
[ mood | sleepy ]
[ music | Come Away With Me - Norah Jones ]

It amuses me the way girls are throwing themselves at Clark already. It really does. I know that most girls would be getting pissed off, and normally I do, but its so funny to me. These girls don't even know Clark. Are they really that desperate for men around here that they have to throw themselves at someone else's boyfriend? I suppose so. At least I know their efforts are going to waste. Sorry girls, I'm afraid Clark loves his Rosie.

So today is day two for me here at Dover. Its not so bad. I haven't met anyone yet, but thats my own fault because I am anti-social. Perhaps someday I will stop being anti-social and actually go out and attempt to make friends.

And having said that, I will end this weak attempt at a second update in this journal.

[ AIM is rruh its rosie. ]


[28 Apr 2003|01:19am]
[ mood | bored ]
[ music | Watching Star Wars. ]

I hate writing introductions. I hate introducing myself to people. I hate being the new kid in some random place I've never been before. Don't expect some mind blowing introduction from me. I'm not very eloquent. I leave that to my boyfriend, clark_lowry.

I am Rosanna Elizabeth Bauer. You can call me Rosanna or Rosie. I don't really care which. I'm eighteen years old. And I just transferred to doveracademy from Vail Colorado. I am not your typical teenage girl. I don't like to party on the weekends, I don't listen to loud music, I don't think the key to life is having 39048239048 friends.

I come from a typical American family. We ARE the typical American family. Two happily married parents. One older brother. We live in a nice big house in a nice neighborhood. We have a dog. My parents have good jobs and enjoy their jobs. My older brother does well in college. I do well in high school and will graduate with honors. We are the epitome of the American Dream. And I hate it. I long to be different. I long to rebel against my perfect life. I want to cause havoc in my perfect world. But I don't. And I probably never will.

I'm a happy teenager. I love to smile and I do it a lot. I suppose that gets on peoples nerves sometimes. People probably wonder if I'm ever angry or pissed off. If you want to find out, then go flirt with my boyfriend. Then you can deal with the wrath of Rosanna. Then tell me how much you enjoyed it.

I listen to music. I don't listen to pop music. I hate Good Charlotte. I hate Dashboard Confessional. I hate people who claim to be Weezer fans but don't know a single song off Pinkerton. I listen to Weezer. I listen to Bright Eyes. I listen to the Rocket Summer. I listen to Beethoven. Yes, Beethoven.

I like cheesecake and cheesy romantic comedies. I think Harry Potter and Star Wars are great.

Why am I here? Unlike most, not because my parents forced me into coming here. In fact, I had to do a lot of talking to convince them that I should come here. So why did I come? I followed my boyfriend. Pathetic, no? Eh, oh well. His father decided he needed to come here. I decided that thousands of miles between us is too much and I followed him here. My parents don't know he came here. Had I told them that, they would have never let me come here. Instead I told them that this would be a good oppurtunity for me to prepare for college. My father, the voice of reason in the family, agreed that it would be and in the end, they decided to let me come here.

So here I am. Sitting alone in a dorm room, because a roommate is not something I could deal with, contemplating wether or not I should sneak out and go see Clark.


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