The Piratess In Search of Life...

This Was Supposed to Happen Yesterday

2012-03-02T06:55:00.002-08:00

Well hi! This post is a bit late. Yes, it's 8:30 in the morning. But this is yesterday's post. So...

YAY FOR SPRING BREAK STARTING! Two classes, packing, and then I'm on the road to Florida. Might have to blog on my phone tonight depending on what the wireless situation is.

Ah, Spring Break. I'll have the beach, books to read, margaritas to drink, tans to work on...

Heh. Tans. See, my roommate is a pale ginger. I don't know how, because she's hispanic, but she is. Me? I'm Scottish. I've got a touch of Aboriginal Aussie blood thrown in for good measure, but definitely Scottish. So how do I go from looking like Snow White to darker than a Hershey's chocolate bar?

Shopping for bathingsuits is always an interesting feat. I have a long torso AND long legs, so most everything ends up fitting strangely. I need a small or extra small so it doesn't fall off, but then half the time it looks like I'm wearing nothing. While I understand the concept of a bikini isn't exactly to have the most coverage, it'd help to, ya know, cover SOMETHING. I'm not asking for granny panties, here. I just don't want to wear a thong on the beach.

When going to the beach, my mother takes what she calls her "trashy novels." They're those cheesy "romantic" things with cheesy titles and people halfway undressed on the cover, trying to look passionate or something. I guess her theory is that if she falls asleep while reading it, she isn't missing out on plot or anything. And then there's me. Currently, my list is as follows: "A Traveler's Guide to Medieval England," "Guns, Germs, and Steel," an astronomy textbook, and a cognitive psychology textbook. I've been told I don't understand the concept of light reading. Eh, overrated.

Most people at the beach go for sweet drinks. I don't get it. Maybe it's just my taste buds, but sweet drinks are, simply put, too sweet. Sweet tea is the only thing I want too sweet, and I want it PAINFULLY sweet. Like sugar that's kinda liquidy and has some tea flavor. But the pina coladas and all that...bleh. But that also means tequila. While I tend to behave like a normal human being while drinking the stuff, other people don't. They do stupid things like take their clothes off, serenade sober people, and generally cause a rumpus.

My biggest problems over break:
1) Studying for the two exams I have when I get back.
2) Making my margaritas.
3) Making my tanlines be as invisible as possible.

Super rough, huh?

Hambo the Substitute Carrot.

2012-02-29T21:18:00.001-08:00

So Hambo is super cool and awesome. I've known her for a good while now, thanks to a group who follow Allie Brosh' Hyperbole and a Half blog like no tomorrow. (If you've seen the ALL THE THINGS! meme, it's from her blog)

She's been awesome enough to put my last post up on her sidebar so it can get more traffic. I only have 13 followers and random other friends who read this, but if you could scurry over to Hambo's blog, I'd really appreciate it. She's from Down Under, is a nurse, and is generally awesometastic. I love her, so if you have the time, go give her a read. :)

An Expanding Star is Like Godzilla.

2012-02-29T20:48:00.001-08:00

It's been exactly a week since the start of Lent. Yay!

I have a 10 AM class on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. I'm definitely *not* a morning person. At all. In fact, I despise mornings. The only mornings I'm okay with are in Scotland, because they're dewey and gorgeous and Scottish, obvs. But this class somehow puts my day totally on the right track.

Imagine Miss Frizzle with a more normal but equally charismatic voice. Now give her an edgy bob that's straight. And dyed a lilac-silver color. Oh, and always have her dressed to the nines. With gorgeous heels. Now, have her teach Introductory Astronomy. Because she's a slightly changed Miss Frizzle, she'll use Godzilla references to star expansion, get mad when Star Wars used quarks incorrectly, and is a semi closet Trekkie. She also prefers to explain things in plain English instead of scientific jargon.

I went through a phase in late elementary and early middle school where I wanted to be an astronaut. I studied everything I could about space, went to Space Camp (yes, I still have my warmup suit), and generally geeked over all things interstellar. Unfortunately, I had to come to terms with the fact that I can't do any sort of high level math (even long division gets me sometimes), and you can't be an astronaut without knowing basically every math ever created ever. Including their OWN type of math. I still have a dorky obsession with space, however. Not in a Star Wars or Star Trek way, but in a "Can we watch Apollo 13 again? Pleeeeeeease??" "But Mommy, the Discovery Channel has a show on orbit changes in our solar system!" "No, Jupiter is a gaseous planet, *everyone* knows that...sheesh...Pluto's the only "planet" past the asteroid belt that is solid, and while it's been declared a star (again), everyone in astronomy and cosmology *knows* that they aren't totally sure, and it'll take several more years of observation to figure it out for sure." "Ugh, they totally got the color wrong on the SRB's on that cake. Seriously? Why did you make them yellow? They aren't yellow. They're white with black accents, just like the shuttle. Only the external fuel tank gets a crazy color. Any Space Camp kid can tell you that, along with, I dunno, Wikipedia?"

All in all, I really like space.

So this class is very entry level stuff, some of which I already knew thanks to my love of space. I just didn't know the math behind it all. I know I said earlier that I stink at math, but that's where astronomy's different. For some reason, the equations (usually) make some sort of sense to me. Maybe it's because I still not-so-secretly would love to be an astronaut, but...

If I ever make those millions and billions being The World's Greatest Author, I'm totally gonna go into space sometime. Just sayin'. Even if it means I bring back the shuttle program just so I can go up there, I'm doing it. Not one of those dinky day trips, either. The full legit mission with experiments and stuff.

Dream?

2012-02-28T23:13:00.001-08:00

I know this is technically Wednesday, but it's Tuesday's post. So...oh well. It's short.So you know how people say "in your dreams" when talking about something someone REALLY wants to come true, or you talk about your dream house/car/boy/girl/haircut?I dunno about you, but my dreams are crazy places. It isn't a happy go lucky place with smiling faces and Free Ice Cream Day every day (or Free Pancakes, as the case may be). It's filled with strangeness, and things that aren't how they usually are. Very Wonderland-like. Like flower beds are beds made of flowers. I've had people shapeshift, travel time, eat really bizarre inedibles, walk on the ceiling, say things that make no sense...What I'm saying is we should probably change the definition of "dream (insert thing here)" to mean something that's so bizzare you can't explain it. Like a platypus. Or smartcars. Or cupcake flavored toothpaste.Am I the only one that thinks this? I'm pretty sure not, because there are definitely other people with crazy dreams out there."It's kind of fun to do the impossible."--Walt Disney

Cast Iron Skillets and Ice Cream.

2012-02-27T14:56:00.003-08:00

You know those days where you have to get smacked in the head with a cast iron skillet to get an ice cream cone? A really, really old one that's still hot from the stove? And the ice cream is your favorite triple scoop extravaganza of homemade deliciousness? Well, that's been my afternoon.

For the first day in a while, I was able to get up today. I went to class. I got dressed with makeup and everything. Why? Because today was the first morning in a very long time that I haven't felt excruciating amounts of pain. Otherwise, I'd be on the couch, in too much of a fog and in too terrible of a mood to pull myself up to be actually productive, which makes me feel even more lousy.

My roommate, when she got home this afternoon, was the friend I've been needing this whole time. It was more than difficult to hear her say "You need help. You need to help yourself. This isn't okay. You're hurting yourself, and I as your friend can't let you do that."

I haven't been cutting myself, or depriving myself of food. I've simply been letting the world say I can't do it, no matter what it is. I've been surrounding myself with no. Everyone around me has been saying no, or I can't, or I shouldn't. I've been taking entirely the wrong approach to fix myself--that is, I haven't been taking one at all.

I'm intelligent. I'm a Vanderbilt on a full ride. I'm strong. I survived an abusive father. But it left its marks. I have issues telling people only the truth. I feel vulnerable. I feel like if someone has that much truth, they're more likely to hurt me.

Growing up involved a lot of lying and half truths. Lots of "Tell Mommy this," "Tell Daddy that." If I slipped up and told the truth (It happened a few times), it would always come to hurt me. It's been ingrained in my mind. It's been very hard to let go of. Too much truth hurts, so when situations get strained tell manipulated truths: that's what's been put in my head.

In doing that, I've been telling myself manipulated truths. I haven't been honest with myself, because I haven't been honest with everyone else. I hurt much more than I let on, because I'm scared that there will be another medicine from a very short list, and I'm terrified of being a zombie. Another situation where truth does more harm than good.

That's probably why I've always loved writing. I don't feel like I have to hide. For once, I can be honest, and there's nothing anyone can do about it. I can say what I want to say, exactly how I want to say it. I don't have to hide anything.

Can't, can't, can't. All these diagnoses have led to a world filled with can't, shouldn't, don't. While I'm incredibly thankful to know what's wrong with me, it's also frustrating to obey the chains of rules that accompany them. The "don't do this, you shouldn't do that, you need to do this every day..." It's made me box myself into a world of "Maybe I can't do anything, after all..."

What wasn't there was someone who could look at me in the eyes and say "I believe you can do, quite literally, anything."

That came today.

My roommate looked at me and said enough was enough. That as my friend, she couldn't let me live like this. I'm capable of so much. "Even when you can't physically, you have to get yourself mentally out of bed. I know you can do it. I *know* you can. I've seen your few happy days, and you get so much accomplished. I know you can do it. You've got so much potential, and everyone in the world tells you no, but I know you can."

Pamphlets and blogs can say "You can do it!" all they want. It's another when a best friend holds your hand, wipes away both yours and her tears, and says "You can do this."

That's what I needed.

It seems that every person who says "You can do it," they trail that with rules and exceptions. This is the first person to say that, no matter what, I can do it. No negatives allowed.

No negatives. One big world full of yes. I've always wanted it, but I couldn't believe it existed, because no one told me it did.

No one until today.

So I'm logged full of tears. I'm congested, my head hurts, and my body hurts from crying. I've got that sick nauseous feeling you get when you've cried really, really, REALLY hard.

Sometimes that's necessary when starting your life over again. Sometimes, it's the most beautiful feeling in the world. Because with that feeling, you know something's changed. And change is good.

What's it gonna be then, eh?--A Clockwork Orange

Circle of Life.

2012-02-25T20:57:00.000-08:00

Nants ingonyama bagithi baba
Sithi uhm ingonyama.
Nants ingonyama bagithi baba
Ingonyama
Siyo Nqoba
Ingonyama nengw' enamabala

The Circle of Life is one of those songs that stirs up all sorts of happy feelings. Between multiple soundtrack listenings and movie viewings, several trips to Disney World, seeing the musical off Broadway, and seeing several awesome dances preformed to this song, it's got all kinds of nostalgia.

I think it sparked my love for African music. I could listen to it all day. Polyrhythms? Obsessed with them. The voices with all the different timbres? I can't get enough. I love the heavy use of percussion. I love how you can't help but dance. It's probably part of why I started tapping.

But one thing that movie gave me? A love of big cats. Jaguars, cougars, lions, panthers, cheetahs, tigers...

You know what I also love? Baby animals.

The last one even has a husky!

So, what's the point of this post? When you have a bad day, look at baby animals. Baby animals fix anything. Even if there's a chance they'll eat your face when they grow up, they're filled with mews and snuggles and cuteness. So admire them and take care of them, so they can grow up to be happy, healthy animals...who make more adorable baby animals. If I weren't having a bad day, I'd wax poetic on how we should do that with everything in life--take care of everyone and everything to make sure this world is as happy and healthy as possible to promote a better life for everyone.

But, let's face it. If you don't automatically think that after watching these videos, you're a squib with no soul.

All In The Merry Month Of May

2012-02-24T08:40:00.000-08:00

All in the merry month of May
When the green buds, they were swellin'
Young William Green on his deathbed lay
For love of Barb'ry Ellen

Barbra Allen. Barbriallen. Barbara Allen. Barbry Ellen. So many different titles and versions of a ballad so rich. This, however, is my favorite.

I've heard this song a few times, having taken a few music courses at the Blair school here at Vandy, and also being a general audiophile. But it wasn't until I heard this version that I absolutely swooned. I've had it on repeat since I first heard it near the beginning of the semester (again, for a music class). Don't try to listen to it when you're running around. Don't try to listen to this as a pick-me-up, either. This is a classic "sit down, grab a cup of tea and a blanket, and actually listen" sort of song. Don't immediately try to do something right after it, either. You'll probably forget you heard it, and that defeats the purpose of a ballad entirely. Sit. Soak it in. Listen to it a few times, if you feel the urge.

I like listening to the lyrics of songs and how and artist will blend it in with any other instrument (if they're using one). I've got a playlist specifically for when I'm feeling especially introverted and need to tidy up everything messy in my mind, and settle my thoughts down for a nap, as it were. Thoughts are like toddlers, though. You can't lay them down with nothing and expect them to stay there. They'll be grumpy, or yell, or get out of bed, or be fussy. You have to plug in a movie for naptime. You have to turn on a mobile or nightlight for them to sleep (unless they're genuinely exhausted). Use this song next time you need to have your mind take a nap. I promise you, the dreams will be beautiful.

Gifs hate me, too.

2012-02-24T07:40:00.001-08:00

I've affectionately come to admire and adore the .GIF for it's easy useability. But Blogger doesn't like it when I upload them from my computer.

If I upload them straight from my computer, they do this derpness.

One roll through, and then poof? Done? Are you kidding me?!

No, .GIF. That's not doing it right.

This, however, is. Thank you, Photobucket, for being awesome.

Why AdSense Hates Me

2012-02-23T20:58:00.000-08:00

Dear AdSense,

Evidently you don't want me to be a successful writer. You want me to wither and die living in a cardboard box. Would you like to know why I think this? Because you, AdSense, won't accept my application. Why? Well, let's look at your email:

Hello,
As mentioned in our welcome email, we continue to review your AdSenseapplication once AdSense code is placed on your sites. As a result of thisreview, we have disapproved your account for the following violation(s).
Issues:
- Insufficient content
---------------------
Further detail:

Insufficient content: To be considered for AdSense, your site must containenough text content for our specialists to review and for our crawlers toidentify relevant ads to show on your pages. We recommend including morecomplete sentences and paragraphs on your site. We require websites to befully launched and functioning, allowing users to navigate throughout yoursite with a menu, sitemap, or appropriate links. Once the majority of yoursite is complete and functional, we'll be happy to reconsider yourapplication.

Like HELL I don't have enough content. Complete sentences? Um, yes, I use them. Sometimes I.

Don't

Cause that's how I roll. But, typically, complete sentences are used. AND I DO TOO HAVE PARAGRAPHS.

That is my very poetic response to you, AdSense. You're a butthole.

Munchie Mart Adventures.

2012-02-23T20:10:00.002-08:00

Our on-campus grocery stores are called Munchie Marts. Some of them are rather small, offering the usual selection of Coke products and vitamin water, energy drinks, snacks, and some small microwave meals, as well as a few prepared things from Vandy's kitchens and some fresh fruit. Some of them are a bit bigger, offering more diverse snacks, a small refrigerated section with milk and breakfast stuff, and some frozen food. The biggest is in Towers. It's got a few different aisles of food, laundry stuff, and random personal products. One thing they all share in common is that they have cigarettes, medicines, and condoms behind the counter. That's right! Kids can buy cigarettes and condoms on the card. Good to know that all the vices of life are covered.

When I go to my munchie on Highland Quad, which is a medium sized one, I have to grab at least one pint of milk. They have half gallons in skim milk and 2 percent, but not whole milk. I'm of the belief that if you're gonna drink milk, you should *drink milk*. Not milky water. Or watery milk. But MILK. So I have to use my meal plan for milk. Sometimes I grab three milks--a full meal. Sometimes it's just two. Sometimes it's one. But there's always AT LEAST one. My mindset is if I grab two (or three) milks that night, I can have one (or two) before bed, and then one with breakfast. That doesn't work when you're a milkaholic.

Some people *claim* to be milkaholics. They get a gallon for the week, maybe have more than one glass a day. These people are amateurs. When I say I'm a milkaholic, I can drink a gallon plus A DAY. I've done the gallon challenge with no problem at all. (In fact, once I got a milkshake afterward. Yes, I've done the gallon challenge more than once. Yes, I've always succeeded.)

All the cashiers at this point recognize me. They know I'm The Girl Who Loves Milk, Coca Cola, Popcorn, and Crackers (I usually grab a box of crackers per week). They also know that if I *don't* buy milk, I'm usually buying fruity juices for mixers.

Since I'm 21, a proper college student, a proper Southern woman, and a proper Anglican, I pride myself in my bartending skills. I'm hoping to one day get my bartending license, so I can count on that as a backup when whoring myself over one novel or another doesn't work. I can make some damn good combinations, too.

So those at the Munchie know when I check out, what exactly I'm up to. It's sort of strange, really. But it's also pretty cool that they take notice. There's one that I typically call Stoner Muchie Man. He's gone grey, has a ponytail, and is always a very jovial and convivial man. I've never seen him have a bad day. He's the coolest guy to strike up a conversation with. He loves his wife, likes going exploring in the woods, and has an affinity for finding interesting alcohol--and sharing it with us. Moonshine soaked cherries? Now on my bucket list, thanks to him.

I call him Stoner Munchie Man due to a rather interesting turn of events. It was about 10 on a Thursday, and I was staying in since I had to take extra pain meds. I wanted happy food, naturally. And lots of it. So I used two meals and got three milks, popcorn, mac and cheese, and mini nutter butters, as well as a new box of crackers (the Triscuit stock was rather low). I was preparing for an evening of Monty Python and happiness to distract me from steamroller levels of pain.

In walk in three guys, eyes as red as grenadine, giggling, and smelling like skunks in a flower bed. Only conclusion: high as kites. In space. They see my arms full of food as I walk up to the counter. Their eyes bug out of their heads like Boston terriers. One comes up and whispers (VERY loudly) "Are you in our marijuana universe, too?"

Before I could contrive some sort of answer, Stoner Munchie Man starts laughing. "Nah, dudes. She's stone cold sober, except for her pain meds (he guessed I have fibro when I had tremors one time--a good friend of his has it, too). And based on the amount of milk, she's staying in...movie marathon? (he received a thumbs up) However, she is an excellent foodie, so you might want to ask her what to eat. Trust me, if I'd had a friend like her in college, it would've saved me from many failed attempts at being a gourmet chef while in...a haze. A very, very thick haze." He winked at us as he finished ringing up my foodstuffs. The guys were wide eyed, and upon their begging like puppies I created the three of them perfect gourmet nights (that is, they thought it was gourmet. It was really a chocolate Ben & Jerry's pint, Nutter Butters, and marshmallows. A cross between a s'more and a Reese's cup!).

Upon checking out, one turned to me and said "Thank you, Foodie Lady. You've made my culinary dreams a reality. And thank you, Stoner Munchie Man," now turning to the cashier, "for sharing your infinite wisdom. May the force be with you both forevermore." They shuffled off back to their hazy, dazy heaven, and I went back to my warm, cozy room with Monty Python. After, of course, giving Stoner Munchie Man a high five.

The point of this post? Even when you feel like you've been steamrollered, sometimes funny things happen that let you make someone's day better. So when that opportunity comes, take it. You never know what you'll find out about the random, fun people in your life. Including your favorite casher.

(You also might get some free chocolate-almond Pocky in the process. Just sayin'.)

Moderation is a virtue only in those who are thought to have an alternative.--Henry A. Kissinger

Gotta start somewhere.

2012-02-22T21:46:00.001-08:00

Since this Lent, I'm getting in the habit of blogging every day (and it will actually happen because I actually have to learn to be an actual member of society and it actually has to start now...actually, though), I'm signing up for AdSense. I apologize if it bugs you, or if you don't like what shows up (once it's running for a while I'll see about what kind of ads show up, blah blah blah). But you know what? Damnit, I'm a struggling college writer that has to start somewhere. So there.

Why Lent Is Tedious Ick, And I Like It

2012-02-22T21:35:00.001-08:00

I have ashes on my head and I'm eating Lucky Charms.

See? I told you.

Yes, it's that time of year again. Lent.

My earliest memories of Lent were my Catholic friends giving up chocolate and soda and having to go to more masses and being on their best behavior so that they didn't have to go to confession more. My Anglican church in that area didn't do ashes for Ash Wednesday, so I didn't know it was also an Anglican/Episcopalian (generally high church) thing until I moved back to Tennessee.

I almost missed my ashes today, too. I'm coming out of a flare, so I woke up stupidly late (also I have no phone, which means I have no alarm, and derpy me forgets that roommates also have extra alarms, probably...). As in 4 in the afternoon. Derp.

Then I had to studystudystudy like my brain was on fire for this make up exam on American Music. It's not a hard class, but there was a lot of detail on the study guide. Thankfully, the test wasn't nearly as detailed as it could've been, so only a couple slipped my mind. Overall, definitely B+ A- job, at least.

I then had to scurry over to the Kappa house for a mandatory education event: CPR training! I'm not certified, but I basically know everything from this training, so I can go in and flex my CPR-filled muscles and get a two-year certification. Yayuh. Also, my big led the training! Also also, we might be featured in The Key (Kappa's magazine for all members) and that would be super awesome!

So THEN I realized something was missing. I mean, I knew it was Ash Wednesday, and I had my plans all set up for my daily tasks, and I needed to get my ashes and---OH CRAP MY ASHES. By this time it was 8:55. There was a mass on main campus at 9. So I whopped my butt into hyperdrive to get over there.

Then I sat down and realized I had to be the derpy Anglican at Catholic Mass. I mean, they're similar. Super similar, actually. But little phrasings and some orders of things and the fact that I can't take communion there all throw me in for a minor loop, and I tried my very best to not look like the derpy Anglican I felt like I was. I crossed my arms at communion, did the hand-holding thing during The Lord's Prayer (I even stopped before the ending part!), and did all the correct motions. I couldn't get the switch between "And always with you" and "And with your spirit". That will forever befuddle me and make me a derpy Anglican in mass. I'm cool with that.

The homily was awesome, down to earth, and very optimistic, especially for Ash Wednesday. In sum: If you want to be able to live a better life, you have to realize you're not gonna be perfect--EVER--and you have to just do the best you can from there. I kept thinking of my junior English class when we had to read Crime and Punishment, and my teacher was trying to make all the low church Christians in the room get the idea: "You can't know a perk till you know a con. You can't know good till you know bad. You can't know awesome till you know horrible. You can't know a true blessing until you've seen your life crumble in front of you."

You have to wade through the shit in the pipe before you can get in the rain and escape from prison.

I walked out of mass with my ashes, and immediately smelled the faintest hint of magnolia. I'm dust, and will return to dust. But I get to smell magnolias in the process. Even if every other day I have to smell rotten eggs, I get to smell magnolias. Even amongst all the ugly, you still get beauty from time to time.

I've been really aching to start in The Real World lately. I'm honestly not sure why. I love college. I love the friends, I love the atmosphere. But I'm kinda ready to be an actual person. Everyone I know says that being a real person in the real world is totally overrated. And trust me, if you know any of my old posts, I definitely don't want to be a "real" person in the "real" world.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm ready to be an author. A legit, book tours, writing all the time, working my pants off for someone to buy a book author. I'm ready for that first crummy apartment in Scotland since I've basically cashed out my life to live there. I'm ready to meet up and comers like me who save up for the occasional treat, and will crash at each other's places when the electricity or water gets cut off.

I have to finish college first. I have to get that degree in my hand. I have to do all the paperwork and investigating that comes with wanting to be a writer, wanting to live abroad, and wanting to actually make money.

While most people would view college as golden and the real world as sucky, in my case it's the opposite. Especially since I have to stay at college an extra semester to a year. Don't get me wrong! Again, college is great! But I'm ready to move on. But I can't move on until the world says it's okay, and that can't happen until I get in contact with Scottish publishers, apply to live/work abroad, figure out dual citizenship, make sure I have the money to do all that---and oh, yeah, have a degree. That kinda helps.

You can't play until your work is done. That's precisely what Lent is about. Even when you throw a hissy fit and scrunch up your face and insist that you don't need help, you can do it right now and be fine, you want it this way and this way only, you know that simply doesn't work. Would you trust a doctor that hasn't been an intern? No way. Would you hire a lawyer that didn't finish law school? Are you joking?! So I have to go through the tedious ick.

Lent is tedious ick. It's realizing that life is full of tedious ick, strange yuck, ugly grossness, and general nastiness. It's also got awesome awesomeness, supermegafoxyawesomehot fantasticness, beautiful stuff, and general greatness. But can you really appreciate all that awesome if you don't also have all that yuck? Of course not. You'd be jaded and a generally shitty person to be around. You'd also probably develop a diva complex and demand on wearing Louboutins every day before you know what's happened.

Don't be that diva. Appreciate the yuck so you can appreciate the awesome.

Any idiot can face a crisis - it's day to day living that wears you out.--Anton Chekhov

Relief.

2012-02-16T03:54:00.001-08:00

Count the tiny blades of grass that harbor whole universes that we trample each day. Do they have names? I suppose we should find out, but we lost that ability ages ago--with it went the magic that is fire, the torment of a dragon, the imagination of the unknown.

I used to think marble was made from millions of dead bodies, and all the striations were the veins of everyone intermingling. I still wish they were. Ancient, timeless, smooth, stunning, cool when needed, warm when wanted, and best of all supportive yet soft.

Did you feel that urge to lay on the marble altar, too? Did you, in your gut, know there was something ethereal to it, something that made you connect with that corner of yourself that knows we're too big for the world we're in? Did you smell the grass as you took each step in memory of the verdant pillar it once was?

The sun was a comforting hug, the wind a smattering of soft kisses. Your eyes were retuned. The sky? The bluest of blue. The grass? Emerald cut. The air? Sweet with something you've never been able to say, but know it's from someplace better. The laughs are brighter, thoughts are clearer, questions unravel with magnificent answers that spawn even more querys, and you know from the depths of your heart to the tip of your pinkie finger that this is how life should feel.

We live in a world with multiple personality disorder in every person. We have the work side, the play side, the friend side, the family side, the dating side...why does the spiritual side always remain uncultivated? We know our favorite drink at a bar--but do we know our favorite position to pray in? We have our workout routines, but do we have our meditation routines? We combust from the pressures of excelling at work and school, but do we put anything at all into understanding the souls within our bodies?

Stop. Rewind. Regroup. Relive. Relief.

Oh, Valentine's Day.

2012-02-14T07:54:00.001-08:00

I'm not begrudged of the fact that there is no significant other. Nor do I feel the urge to mope about it. In fact, I didn't realize this is my first VDay as a single member of society since I came to college until a friend pointed it out.

Some of my friends have events tonight for all those who are single involving desserts, funny movies, wine, and togetherness, but it's all centered around this grumpy girl attitude about the fact she isn't in any sort of lasting anything with anyone.

Let's go back in history for a minute and remember this is indeed a Saint's Day. VDay didn't have any sort of romantic inclination whatsoever until Chaucer's era, when courtly love was getting a shot of steroids and everyone swooned for everyone else. Originally, it was about sacrificial love. There are several Saint Valentines, actually, all of whom are martyrs. This stemmed into gifts symbolizing that the giver would give his life to the receiver out of love--not romantic, per se, but love nonetheless.

This branched into romantic love, because (by the sense of courtly love) if you're in romantic love, there's no way you *wouldn't give your life for your beloved in every single way. VDay was just another day to show that extensively.

That's turned into the modern "If you're single, no one cares, and if you're in any sort of relationship, you should get gifts for each other because that's what you do."

I made a joke post on tumblr to a question I was asked: what would be in your dream Valentine's Day basket (mixing up holidays, much?). It's got craptons in it--including a puppy--and is absolutely outlandish. But, in all honesty? I'm not sure that's what I'd want.

Sure, according to the development of the male mind (this is neuroscience, people), men process that providing things, both necessary and trivial, show love and commitment. Why would he give you resources if he didn't love you? He wouldn't. Women, on the other hand, typically process words. So a note that says "I love you," or a middle of the day phone call to say that, or any other time for that matter, speaks much more than gifts. To a guy, words are fine, but they aren't physical proof. To a girl, things are great, but you don't know the intent. (I'm not trying to make sweeping assumptions, but this is neurological and historic fact. There are always exceptions!)

I guess that's why Valentine's cards when giving gifts work. They're both a *thing* and *words*.

I've had (quite) a few people do the "You should be dating someone! Guys probably fall head over heels for you, don't they? Ugh, I'm so jealous." The truth is, they don't fall head over heels for me--or if they do, they don't say or do anything about it--and why should I be dating someone? Not to go on a misandrist-sounding rant, but aren't I awesome the way I am? Would dating someone make me more awesome? No? So why should I? There's no reason to be jealous, because you're awesome, too, so...just be happy that you're you!

Yes, I've been in love. Yes, I've considered marriage. Yes, I've felt that "I'd do anything for you" corny type of love that I can't stand watching movies about. But that doesn't mean this VDay as a single woman is any less great. It just means I can give that sacrificial love to my friends and have it mean just as much, if not more.

I was helping a friend pick out a VDay gift for his rather recent girlfriend. He was debating over what to do, but the roses and chocolate and jewelry just wasn't appealing. I asked him what her interests are. "Well, she loves cooking. And Coldplay. And generally happy things." So, with a bit of investigation, he found a cooking for two cook book, the newest Coldplay album (after triple checking she doesn't have it), and daisies (what's happier than a daisy?!). He also wrote her a rather silly poem about their new, dorky, derpy, adorable relationship. Why? Because he wanted her to know that he really, truly does like her a lot, and if the gifts don't show it, the poem will.

That, readers, is how Valentine's Day is done.

When I was a senior in high school, I was one of the *very* few who didn't have a date to homecoming, and most likely wouldn't for prom. My valentine, instead, was my best friend Root Beer. We played video games, ordered pizza, ate chocolate, and generally showered each other with bestie love. I ended up not having a date for prom (my stepbrother escorted me!), and it was all well and good by me. Why? Because I knew that it didn't really matter much. My friends cared, and that's what mattered.

I never had a valentine that wasn't sent from parents or those class-wide valentine swaps till middle school, then I didn't get any till high school, which consisted of friends (a couple of years I got stuff from my mom's ex). I stopped expecting anything from anyone during this crazy holiday--not in a "bah humbug, forever alone" sort of way, just in a "Eh, whatever. I'll get chocolate at home" way.

I think part of the reason Valentine's isn't particularly romantic in my mind is because I'm not a fan of romance-on TV, in movies, in commercials, in songs...it's really just corny, and my Creative Writing major self squirms at the predictability and level of cornball.

So, overall, this holiday in it's modern sense is just Awkward Penguin. So if you're single like me, go valentine a friend or two. Go watch a movie and eat some chocolate. Go do whatever you want, actually, who's stopping you? And if you're in a relationship, make sure you aren't just giving a gift because it's VDay. Make sure you care enough to constitute getting a gift, and make sure that gift is definitely for the receiver, not just any person on the street. Because the receiver doesn't want to get exactly what their friends got.

Tough Love.

2011-12-01T03:05:00.001-08:00

It hasn't been until fairly recently in my life that I've been able to give honest tough love. I've always had a pretty strong sense of right and wrong, but would bottle it inside when someone else would make a mistake, scared that they would call me out on something I'd done.

Here's the thing, though. If you're gonna be an acquaintance, a buddy, or only meet up for certain events (studying, partying, whatever), that mindset can still apply just fine. But if you call someone a genuine friend, tough love and constructive criticism are unavoidable--and, quite honestly, crucial to the success of that friendship.

I'm not saying be judgmental. Judging people is wrong in every way, and when you point a finger at someone, three point back. But letting someone know when they seriously screwed something up? Or when they're not being a good friend or person? Or they're not taking care of themselves? You have to intervene. Not because it's wrong, either, but because you love that person and you want them to have the best life possible.

I've had to give and receive a lot of tough love lately with friends and family. I don't know what it is about being 21, but you suddenly realize that your life is ticking by minute by minute, and because of that you smarten up. You take risks, but they're the ones worth taking. You wise up, but don't turn into a grown-up (by J.M. Barrie's standards). You see a bit clearer. You act more like an adult who's about to go out in the real world in a few years, and you want to take care of the people around you.

Just remember--when you give tough love, it has to come from love. Nothing else.

Write It Out.

2011-11-29T01:02:00.001-08:00

It's 2:34 in the morning. I'm on codeine cough syrup for bronchitis. I should be asleep. I want to be asleep. But I'm wide awake.

It's that time of night when I recollect on my day and let all my emotions from reactions throw me into Neverland. But today has just been too weird and not quite right to be able to do that without being scarred somehow.

Based on how today ended, I'd love to just pick up everything and transplant to Edinburgh. I don't want to wait for it any longer. I want to wake up tomorrow in my cozy flat, a husky curled up at my feet, and drink some tea with breakfast before bundling up and heading over to a park, or pub, or anywhere I can go for the morning, and just write. Write, write, write. Then stop in a pub for lunch, probably a sandwich and a cup of leek and potato soup, and a pint. I'll go home, walk and play with my dog, run by the store to get dinner supplies, and return home for the afternoon to make calls, answer emails, pay bills, the like. I might take a cat nap with my adorable (and very well trained) and loving dog. I'll make us dinner (obviously, being a husky, the dog will get table scraps at the very least), then get ready to go out for a few drinks at my favorite of the local pubs.

It's a bit quiet for some, but it sounds blissfully divine to me. It's what I want in life. Sure, I have dreams of living in the lap of luxury. But, let's face it. I'm gonna be a writer. Unless I'm the next Rowling, that's not gonna happen.

My family wants me to marry rich. They want me to know the privileged lives they got to lead. While that would be glorious, I really don't care if that happens. I just want to be happy, healthy, and content, whether that's on my own or with someone by my side.

Happy I have down most days. Happy is getting easier and easier by the minute. I don't have to "think myself happy" like I did for quite a long time. I just am. Sure, I have bad days. Those come with depression and being human. But they don't rule my life anymore.

Healthy can be hard to do with fibromyalgia. My immune system just hates me, and the pain levels are a doozy, and constantly monitoring mess is exhausting. But it's getting better, and hopefully I can get it totally under control by the time I graduate.

Content...now that's the problem. I feel like I won't be content until several years from now, when I'm making a decent income from writing and I can say with pride and security that yes, I've made it in the writing world. It's this that keeps the lingering bits of stress.

And this is why I'm taking Chris Baty's challenge and writing a 50,000+ word novel in 30 days. I have to do the preliminary brainstorming this week, and then I'll be going. I'll keep this updated on how I'm doing and the questions that'll arise--you know, how close I am to peeing straight java, how many characters I've killed off, who really murdered JFK, why are Mickey Waffles so delicious, the like--as I take this journey.

50,000+ words? You're mine.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Location:25th Ave S,Nashville,United States

Fine.

2011-10-05T22:53:00.000-07:00

Breathe in, breathe out, tell me all of your doubts--
Stretch your neck a bit too far--first to the right, now to the left
Breathe the tension out that you can cut with a knife
Muscle tension, sexual tension, situational stop
Drop and roll, make the flames die out
The spark is gone, but where, by dear? It seems that I have stepped to far, and for that, my love, I'm sorry. So I'll just step back, curtsying slowly, hoping the daggers you're throwing won't rip me to shreds.
Out of the ball gown, into the blue jeans and wifebeater.
Out of the glass slippers, into the converse.
Out of the perfume, into the sweat.
Smoke drifts out of blood-crusted lips, stroking my hair, pulling my clothes
And I swear if this stuff had a brain, it'd know
That suddenly, I'm fine.

This is my 150th post!

2011-09-28T22:38:00.000-07:00

YAY! So very exciting.

I have a few friends that I routinely talk about love lives and marriage with. Not necessarily for any reason in particular, it just kinda happens that way. Like, I'll be talking about a certain food I enjoy, and someone will say out of the blue "You think you'll want that in your buffet at your wedding? Or will you have a seated dinner?" Completely logical, right? Right. (Buffet, personally. If I want the chicken AND steak AND seafood, I shouldn't have to pick ahead of time when I don't know what exactly it's gonna be till I get there. Just saying.)

I want kids. I want kids SO badly. (Seriously, I have all my name options already picked out.) But I can see myself with kids much sooner than I can being married. I actually CAN'T see myself married. Between a family of marriages that haven't worked, wanting to be a writer, and being pretty sure there isn't a guy in the world who would want to deal with random fibro flares in a wife, I'm actually about 75% sure there isn't a guy who'd want to marry me. "Till death and/or nasty pain flare that sends you to the ER do us part." (watch me have to go in three days after the honeymoon.)

And yet, between these friends and my party-planning obsessed family, I've got ridiculous ideas planned for my wedding. Yet there are some things my mother/grandmother REFUSE to grant me...for the wedding I most likely won't have. Damnit, it's most likely not gonna happen, so just let me dream!

Take, for example, my wedding cake. I want a multi-tiered cake decorated in spider webs and sugar skulls in ivory icing. And what do they say? NO. I say it's my wedding. They say they're paying for it. So now I'm determined to pay for my cake so I can have the cake I want.

So why am I bothering to make a blog post out of this? I'm...

I'm......

I'm......................................

WRITING A STORY YAY!

And not a short story, either! An actual humor novel!!! ABOUT MY LIFE!!!

Okay, no. That's not my news. (although, I am working on that)

This is actually something I've wanted to blog about for a while. Familial expectations. There's a pretty dividing line between those who stand by their family 1010% and those who say "Eh, fuck the family--it's your life, not theirs."

I'm stuck in the middle. It's a strange place to be, really. I want what I want, and what I know will be good for me, and for the most part my family's in agreement with me. But it's some of the things I *really* want that strike a bad chord with them.

For instance, I really want to move to Edinburgh, Scotland when I graduate. It's an incredible city, I have strong family roots there, the UK generally recognizes fibromyalgia as an actual chronic pain condition, and the health care is much better over there. Plus...it's Scotland. I could totally pull off a kilt super well. And maybe even get that gravelly Scottish burr. And drink whiskey. Er, Scotch. I'm not gonna try to get used to haggis, though. That just isn't okay.

My family's been in the US of A since the late 1500s.

LATE 1500s.

THAT'S A SHITLOAD OF TIME.

And while I consider myself very lucky to be raised in a country as well off as America...I'm not sure this is where I need to stay. Obviously, I'm going to do tons of research before simply transplanting at the drop of a hat. But I really want to call Edinburgh home...

...with which my family freaks out like they would if I decided to tell them I was gonna switch majors and become a biomedical engineer and use stem cells to make something awesome, like a velociraptor that poops painkillers. You know that shit should be invented.

Come ON. Really? I'm my own person. I should be able to move and live there if I want. Besides, you know that'd be an awesome place to visit for Christmas. I COULD CELEBRATE MICHAELMAS. I COULD BE SO BRITISH IT'D KNOCK YOUR SOCKS OFF.

There's also that whole "God takes our plans and laughs at us while God rips them to shreds" business.

This week, I'm planning.

So here are some things my 11 followers might want to know about me.

2011-08-12T07:18:00.000-07:00

1) My computer background is presents opening kids for Christmas.

2) I don't eat bleu cheese or mushrooms. Since I'm allergic to mold and fungi, they make me have an obnixious headcold for a few days.

3) I eat my steak blue or Pittsburg--for those of you who don't have the joy of knowing what that means, I LIKE BLOODY RARE STEAK :3

4) I play with Sonya Blade and Skarlet on Mortal Kombat 8--Sonya because I can do chain kicks that are just badass, and Skarlet because she's freaking made of blood--her fatalities are *SO AWESOME*.

5) I have no butt and no chest. Basically, I'm a wall.

6) Yes, I do own a Miraculous (three, actually) that I'll wear for family events so I look like I'm related to my 38J grandmother and 36I mother. Yes, those *are* actual bra sizes.

7) No, I don't own any of the butt pad panties. I've been told I should invest. I'm not gonna unless I decide to be someone who's bootylicious for Halloween.

8) Speaking of Halloween, I plan of what I'm gonna be *super* early. Like, around this time of year. I get excited since it's the day after my birthday. I know I'm gonna be Abby from NCIS--I just have to check that I can spray-dye my hair black. And look online for all her accoutrements.

9) There are 79 days until I turn 21.

10) If anyone wants to hire me for something, please pay me more than the $8 an hour I get right now.

11) I would be lying if I didn't say a large chunk of my paycheck goes towards buying stuff for The Sims 3. I'm considering working for them. Maybe I'll get a discount!

12) While at the beach, I did all my summer reading, (I make my own list of goals, you know) which consisted of Alice in Wonderland, Through the Looking Glass, The Catcher In the Rye, and A Clockwork Orange.

13) I didn't like the 21st chapter of ACO. So yes, I like the American/Stanley Kubrick version more.

14) I'm now reading a book called Napoleon's Privates. It's basically all these sexy, naughty, juicy, and hysterical bits of history: the French Impotence Trials, how sexy Cleopatra was, who has Napoleon's severed member--you know, the funny stuff.

15) I'm back in touch with my dad and his family. So far, everything is friendly. We'll see how the trend continues.

Midnight in Montgomery.

2011-08-01T23:09:00.000-07:00

For some reason, this unposed and made itself a draft? Boo hiss.

Well, it's *actually* 1 AM, but who's counting?

Being in my mother's hometown is sort of strange, really. I've always heard her recollect on her hometown with mixed feelings--some of love for the Old Southern charm that flows with iced tea punch, some of sadness from the memories of her sister, some of a quiet spite from the hurt of her father's affairs and alcoholism.

In a few days, I'll be heading to my home town of Ponte Vedra, and I have mixed feelings about it. On one hand, I'm stoked to walk in with my foodie/writer/adventurous outlook on life having ditched the former shy shell I refused to crawl out of. On the other hand, that requires showing the people I used to know who I've become, which I have some issues with only because it's not known to be a warm, accepting place to live.

Also, I'm potentially meeting up with my dad's family. The one person I've had any contact with, my first cousin, and I are trying to meet up during the weekend. Just because my dad and I have had this awkward middle-school tension and it's hard for us to put our differences behind us doesn't mean I can't have a relationship with the rest of my family. Now that I'm an adult (terrifying to think and say), and four years have passed since the Initial Blowup, I think it's safe to assume that we're all ready for the drama to leave port.

Hometowns are strange. If you're a typical member of American society, then at some point you decide home must be left behind--most typically for college--and decide to move on to bigger and better things: relationships, jobs, opportunities--all usually meaning a new location. We move and move and move. When we do share stories of our childhood and teenage years, we find ourselves blowing the dust off a very old scrapbook filled with awkward pictures and sentimental memorabilia. We find some pictures make us laugh, some make us shake our heads, some we hide and hope no one saw, and some we can't stop looking at--or, we would if we could see through the tears.

It's good to go back--at least, I hope so.

Flare.

2011-07-24T21:37:00.000-07:00

So, taking a look at me, you can probably guess a few things.

1) I am tired.

2) I could be sad.

3) I've gotten pretty good at angling a webcam so it looks like i have boobs.

4) Charly is not amused.

5) My level of non-tan is depressing to say the least.

So overall, nothing stellar or insane.

Oh, if you only knew.

The truth is, I'm starting a fibromyalgia flareup. My spine feels like it's been replaced with a metal rod straight out of a fire. Every movement I make is excruciating. Clothes hurt. Air hurts. Existing hurts. My muscles have burning knives in them. My joints are throbbing with pain. The level of fog in my brain makes it nearly impossible to think. I just want to curl up and be surrounded by warm fuzziness. Like sleepy puppies and kittens.

I've taken flexaril and Rx strength ibuprofen all day. It's barely done a thing. I soaked in a warm bath with salts. It at least made it so I stopped having tremors.

The worst is when this happens during the school year, and I have tons of work to do but am flaring up so badly it's basically not worth doing since I won't absorb a bit of information.

I wish they could pinpoint the causes, already. I wish they could find an actual treatment for a CURE, not just a suppression of symptoms. I want this gone. I don't want this for the rest of my life. Oh, wait--too bad. Not only do I have it the rest of my life, but there are several doctors who believe I'm making things up or it's all in my head.

To those doctors: try taking a look at my musculature sometime. Wanna know why I have more scar tissue in my muscles than professional wrestlers?

Now you know.

I am ridiculous.

2011-07-23T20:46:00.000-07:00

This movie is ridiculous.

I am tipsy.

I am thus snuggly.

There is no Awesome Boy to snuggle with.

Emily is here, but I'm not sure she's a snuggler.

I just met Ari, so I can't tell.

I'm way too entertained by typing with one hand.

Gooooooood evening, Ladies and Gents!

2011-07-23T20:35:00.000-07:00

So I've found something pretty wonderful. It's a magical elixir. It makes me happy.

It's called sour apple vodka.

Please keep in mind that normally, when I consume vodka, I'm a terrible bitch. Like, it's a problem. I whine, bitch, moan, and generally think that everyone is meant for me to beat up verbally or physically.

However, this stuff is different. It's vodka that's been distilled four times with apple, so it suddenly becomes magical. At least, that's what it says on the bottle. I'm pretty sure they're lying, and it's secretly unicorn piss.

This stuff is beautiful. I'm pretty sure I could blog it's praises all night.

First, I had it with propel and soda water.

Now I'm drinking it with green tea.

I've had about 7 shots of it at this point. I'm a happy friggin camper.

2011-07-21T22:03:00.000-07:00

I'm a fucking walking paradox--no, I'm not. Tyler may be the Creator, but he's definitely not my maker. So I'll just keep on sipping Maker's Mark like I've got no problems and let the whiskey burn mix tightly with Marlboro smoke.

Why do I want your lipstick on my neck? I've got my own, thanks.

The only hugs I want tonight are from my leather jacket. The only man I care about is Mr. Daniel's, and the only woman who matters is polishing glasses in front of me. I hope I remember to tip her tonight with actual money--not shoes, or my whole freaking wallet.

The girl at the end of the bar crying in her beer needs to shut the fuck up. We've all been there before, with the broken hearts and torn up letters, and it really is fine. You've been here every night for the past three weeks sobbing over this dick. Get over it.

I play with whiskey-marinated ice on my tongue. Sensuous when I'm this tipsy. I wish I could say it was for some luscious reason, but it's honestly from boredom.

I start drumming my fingers on the hardwood. Anxious. Restless. Waiting for absolutely fucking nothing.

I want blood.

Why the hell did I do this to myself anyway? I used to reflect somewhat normally. Now I look in the mirror and see bloodstains where skin should be, bones where curves were. I try to think of it as an improvement--if you can't tell I'm not dead already in this sorry ass state, maybe I'll just live forever.

Even though that's not what I want at all.

3:30 AM. Tracing the condensation on my glass. I'm too restless to be tired, to tired to be restless.

Someone just send me home.

I notice no one has wanted to draw my Superpowered Self yet.

2011-07-21T14:22:00.000-07:00

Should I raise the stakes? Should I involve a new car? Should I get Howie Mandel and his impressing earring to host this thing??

Letters to the Editor

2011-07-21T13:30:00.000-07:00

To deal with the anger and fluctuating frustrations of everyday life, and to celebrate those moments that are truly deserving of recognition for sheer awesomeness, I write short letters. I've been doing this for a while, and realized all 11 of you who follow me religiously would find them entertaining (maybe).

Here are the letters for today.

Dear Fibromyalgia,
I think we need to have a discussion. WHY THE HELL ARE YOU DOING THIS TO MY BODY. ALL I WANTED WAS A NAP DURING THE RAIN, AND INSTEAD YOU GIVE ME THROBBY HURT. I AM NOT AMUSED.

Dear Vickie's,
I think we might need a little "come to Jesus" discussion. I understand the necessity of having XS thongs in the Pink section. I don't understand why they should be small enough to have a mother buy them for her 4 YEAR OLD DAUGHTER.
I think this is the part where I quit at life.

Dear Couples Shopping at Vickie's,
Just because we allow you to try things on in our fitting rooms doesn't mean it comes with a complete "Try Before You Buy" guarantee. I know, you got a room, and I'm proud of you for that, but next time try something a little less public.

Dear Triscuits,

Please be in heaven. I find you too delightful to part from.

Dear Liesl the Dog,

Thank you for not being barky like Bedford and for being especially snuggly.

Dear Red Hair,

YOU ARE THE SHIT AND I LOVE HAVING YOU AROUND BECAUSE YOU MAKE LIFE AWESOME.

Dear Adorable Boy Who's Walked In My Life,

Get back to Nashville already so we can drink and watch old movies and eat dinner under blanket forts.

Dear Life Size Cutout of Capt Jack Sparrow In My Room,

Thank you for watching over me at night and protecting me from the boogie monster with your sheer beauty and quirkiness. You make waking up a true joy.

Dear Those Who Are Dissing My Cutout of Capt Sparrow,

Don't knock it till you try it.

Dear Racing Suits In My Trunk,

We haven't spoken in a long time. I know, you really want to be all over me again, but I'm not sure I can handle that kind of relationship again. We were pretty tight, and I know that you'll want to be tighter when I'm in you again. But please, try not to be too protective--just give me enough coverage to get the job done.

Dear Kate Middleton,

Can you convince Harry to marry me? I'm a good (heh...) Episcopalian girl, I love everything about the UK, and my mom's quite sure that I'll look like you when I'm your age, so I want a boy who will look as drop dead gorgeous as your sweetie. The whole money thing helps, too.

Dear Homemade Herb Butter,

You make Triscuits that much tastier. Thank you for your commitment to being awesome, and making me feel better about my culinary prowess.

Dear The Sims 3,

YOU ARE TOO FUCKING AWESOME FOR WORDS.

Dear Xbox 360 and Mortal Kombat 8,

Please magically appear in my room so I can play with Skarlet all day long and adore her blood-loving self.

I believe this is everything. For now.

GUYS IT'S ME!

2011-07-21T13:22:00.000-07:00

So since this blog's inception, I've had it linked to an AOL account, which is like trying to run a brand new Toshiba in DOS. But now that my whole life has been conveniently organized by Google, including the brand new Google+, I decided to switch everything over. This has taken two days of searches, customer service calls, headdesks, criminal amounts of chocolate, and some snuggling from my dog, but I think I've done it.

And now, back to our regularly scheduled piratical adventures.

Wonder Charly! fanfare plays--turned into a contest?!

2011-07-13T08:27:00.000-07:00

I've recently been thinking what I'd have for superpowers if I was a superhero. I'm not really sure why--it might be the amount of DC and manga on my tumblr dash--but in any case, it's been on my mind a lot, specifically because I can't decide what they'd be.

At first, I was thinking something along the lines of Sailor Saturn since she's pretty much a badass. 1) she looks awesome. 2) she can heal pretty much everything. 3) she can also destroy the entire universe if she so chooses. 4) she gets to carry around that awesome scythe thingy. 5) sexy sailor uniform is ALWAYS a bonus. 6) Saturn is my favorite planet.

But THEN, I thought, hold it right there--Saturn *may* be my childhood favorite Sailor Scout, but that doesn't match my zodiac sign at all! Maybe I should go with that and be Sailor Pluto instead. She's got the super cute (slightly altered for her personality) sailor outfit, but has control over time and death. OOH CREEPY AWESOMENESS RIGHT THERE. She also has a huge staff in the shape of a key. 1) keys are super cool. 2) it has a garnet on it, which are really pretty. 3) keys are one of the symbols of my sorority. BOOM SHAKALAKA I COULD DO THAT!

I *THEN* thought maybe I should venture outside the Sailor Moon genre and instead go for Catwoman. Ridiculously sexy, pulls off a bodysuit like it's nobody's business, and her cat o' nine tails whip is AWESOME. Plus, Anne Hathaway is going to play her in the final Nolan Batman installment. Anne Hathaway = pure awesome in human form. I then realized that, like Batman, she creates her superpowers, which has it's pros and cons.

And then, as always, there's Wonder Woman. Who *doesn't* want to look like her? And her lasso of Truth? Nice touch! Not to mention she's got everything Superman has without the whole kryptonite issue. Plus, tiara = projectile. Sweeeet. I'm not sure I'm as feminist as she was created to be, but I could work with that.

Jack Sparrow should somehow be involved. I don't know how, but it should happen. Maybe I always have a bottle of rum on me? Or skulls adorn my outfit? I dunno. But it should totally work itself in.

So maybe I should just be a mix of all of these...that would be kinda awesome. If I had any inkling of drawing talent, I'd totally try to draw it out. Anyone on here wanna try to draw this? I'll reward you somehow--a gift card, maybe? Sure, everyone likes gift cards! That'll be great.

Okay, a $15 gift card will be given to the winner of Draw Me As My Mixed Up Superheroine. If you wanna draw it, shoot me a message in the comments, and I'll write it down somewhere. When you're done, let me know, and I'll get in touch with you as to how you should send it.

The Dangers of Mixing Me with Amaretto.

2011-07-12T20:11:00.000-07:00

Here are some things you should know.

1) Amaretto is DAMN tasty. Seriously. I'm pretty sure that secretly, it's angel pee that's been poured in fancy Italian bottles to disguise it's true ethereal nature.
2) I'm pretty much a tank. If you want to get me buzzed, it takes 3 drinks at LEAST. If you want to get me tipsy, it takes about 6-7. But because of my enormous cocktail of meds/vitamins, I stay inebriated for WAY longer than normal.
3) I like tasty things. I also think being tipsy from time to time is loads of fun.

Mix all that with the fact that I'm currently house/dogsitting for my godparents while they chillax it up in Hawai'i, and they specifically supplied me with a bottle of amaretto...I'm a freaking happy camper.

But there are interesting things that happen when I'm inebriated. If I'm by myself, I become very needy for socialization. I'll video chat with anyone so it feels like I'm not drinking alone. If I'm with friends, I become even more of a snuggle whore than I normally am. I'm just like GUYS THE WORLD NEEDS MY BODY TO KEEP IT WARM AND HAPPY and will snuggle with anything. (this may or may not include a bench, a box of ice cream, a transvestite, a building, and a dead bird on the road).

So the dog that I'm taking care of is a mix of Jack Russell, boxer, greyhound, and pure awesome. He's pretty shy, though, and will only cuddle with me if he's asleep. I was getting VERY frustrated by the fact that he couldn't see my drunken need for attention last night, especially when my video chat was being an absolute boob. He couldn't understand why I was a pouty mess that just "wanted to snuggle with the precious poochkins" (I also make horrendous nicknames in this condition). I was very distraught.

Another thing that happens is I get VERY critical of myself. Even more than usual. For instance, when I realized I was subjecting the dog to my will and no, he *wasn't* interested in cuddling, and I shouldn't force that kind of behavior upon him, I started to cry. I felt like such a terrible person for making the dog do this. I just wanted to apologize, but I wasn't sure if the dog knew I was really sorry, so I gave him about five bones.

I think I should take this as a sign that I shouldn't drink by myself.

International Happiness Day

2011-06-28T13:40:00.000-07:00

Blabbity blabbity blabbity blah blah blah. I think I want the world to just shut up.

Between facebook, tumblr, twitter, texts, emails, and the media, I just want one day where no one complains about ANYTHING. Including myself.

It's like every day *someone's* Debbie Downer Drama brings down my dash or TL, and I just want to stick out my tongue. Really? Why'd you have to do that? I know, your potato chips are stale, and that totally sucks, but everything else right then was full of happiness and unicorns! Why'd you have to go ruin it?!

I know, this is a post that's complaining about complaining, but there's no other way to say that being a complainer all the time is damn annoying. I only do that when my meds aren't working--if you're complaining all the time and not depressed, shut the hell up and find something bright and colorful, like Finding Nemo.

If you're complaining all the time and *are* depressed, get over it, too. Get some treatment, get some help, and get the hell over it. I know, it sucks. I have it to a fairly high degree. I've had the days where you want to do nothing but cry all day because nothing in your world is right. If that's how you're feeling, I can guarantee you that *not* everything in the world is wrong, actually, and you can get over whatever it is. Promise. Okay, pinkie-promise. Fair enough? Grand.

My tumblr dash has been filled with some RIDICULOUS complaining recently. Some of it I contributed to in agreement, but nonetheless it was whiny and complainy. It's just put me in a seriously shitty mood. I think I'll need to color for a bit to get over this.

I think that we should make a holiday where no one's allowed to complain or say something mean about anyone else. Trust me, I'm not one who believes in a Brave New World-type of utopia where everyone gets along *way* too well. But the constant complaining from all sorts of outlets is just tiresome and annoying. Like a mosquito bite on your back that you keep opening up from scratching it that gets infected and you pour vinegar on it every day.

I haven't heard of this holiday yet, but I'm pretty sure it would be awesome. Wars could probably be settled, and as part of the festivities everyone got warm cookies and a nap in the middle of the day. And gas would be $1 a gallon again. And everyone would be allowed to blow bubbles in their chocolate milk. And no kid would have to eat vegetables unless they wanted to (seriously, five or six of the kids at VBS said their favorite food was broccoli, and I'm a bit concerned for their mental health). And Disney would be free and no rides would break down.

See?! It would be freaking MAGICAL! It would be paradise! It would be awesome! You could record everything you want to complain about for the next day, but for *one day* no one could complain! I think it's pretty damn spiffy. Dinosaurs would totally come out of extinction for it. Just saying.

Say what you need to say.

2011-06-27T17:40:00.000-07:00

So today I learned the same very valuable lesson in two totally different circumstances--if you don't say what's on your mind, you can never assume it's been thought by anyone else.

The first instance is much more enjoyable for me to talk about. I've really enjoyed being this guy's friend for the past two years, but there was one issue: I had a crush on him while I was already dating my ex. Naturally, I didn't say or do anything about it. I was happy with my relationship, and happy with having this guy as a friend. I kept it at that until very recently, when we had managed to get back in touch via me tweeting about The Sims 3 and him wishing to feed the addiction (*insert gratuitously maniacal cackle here*). We re-exchanged numbers, and have been texting quite a bit.

Here's the part where I debrief you on the fact that I am actually the world's WORST person at reading guys. Seriously. If you're a guy who's interested in me, you have to be really freaking direct and actually say it, not just hint at it, otherwise I'm not gonna catch it. I'll be focused on something else entirely, and Dory Brain will kick in going "tralalalalalalaaaa all is dandy" and I'll have no clue you were interested.

Here's also where I tell you that I cannot for the life of me take a compliment. I think it's either a lie, or you're trying to butter me up, or you just want in my pants, or you're trying to make me feel good. Me and compliments have that awkward elementary-school age dance where you stand 1,000 feet apart because you might get cooties but your parents want a photo of you two together to ogle over. IE, we're not on the best of terms.

So this guy started complimenting me, and I went into my typical "LOLWUT HUH ME" reaction with those anime question marks above my head. I then did something I never ever *ever* do: I came right out and told him (since we'd been flirting for a bit) that I really liked him. I set the phone down thinking "Oh, stellar, Charlotte. He's gonna laugh in your face and say something like 'Uh, I just thought we were being friends...cause offering to snuggle with rum while watching old films is a purely platonic friend thing, right?' And then you're gonna have to shove your foot in your mouth and say that it's totally fine and you're used to unreciprocated like (which is true) blabbity blabbity blah."

When he texted back, not only was he happy, but he giddily informed me HE LIKES ME BACK.

GUYS THIS NEVER HAPPENS EVER. NEVER EVER EVER. EVER. IT JUST DOESN'T. I DON'T GET LUCKY LIKE THIS. ASDFGHJKLWHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

Anyway, I was on Cloud 9 all night. When I woke up this morning, I found another text from my ex. Evidently he saw where I had been tweeting/tumbling that I was super duper happy. Upon finding out it was over a guy, he pulled a joke that I didn't find funny, and we got into a pretty heated argument. I won't go into details, but we both put some things out on the table that we never did when we were together.

I finally admitted to him in a sober state something about the way he acted that I couldn't stand. I had told him several times when he was drunk or blackout, but by the next day I just dismissed the behavior as a drunken thing instead of it being him. The comment he made was in the same vein, and I finally just gave up and told him everything I thought of him. It was frustrating, especially when he asked my why I never told him, and I had to admit that I did--many times crying--but he had been too drunk to remember.

To be honest, I'm not sure the kind of note I left that conversation on. Since we had laid everything out, I had tried to make it a good platform to be friends again on. Neither one of us is feeling spectacular physically right now (he's working 60 hour weeks, and I've had the Mystery Illness of Death That's No Longer a Mystery [will blog later]), which I'm sure didn't help our moods at all.

But all of this left me thinking: how many things have I assumed someone knows when they really don't? How many times has my brain said "Surely, they know that" when they may not at all?

I mean, not everyone knows that I have a blog. I should probably start wearing a shirt at all times advertising it, and paint it on my car, and write it in random bathroom stalls. Maybe that will get me more followers--to the 8 of you following right now, y'all are rock & rolling AWESOME.

But see what I mean?! Just because someone is a friend of mine, or is great at observing, doesn't mean they know I have fibromyalgia. Or have a blog. Or have a cardboard cutout of Jack Sparrow watching me as I sleep. What do you mean obsessed?! THAT'S NOT THE POINT, PEOPLE.

The point is, if you want something to be heard, say it. If you want someone to listen, say it. If you love someone, say it. If you have to fart one of those nasty rips, don't say it and leave the room instead. You know, use your discretion with this!

So Blogger is letting me pretty much stalk you.

2011-06-25T17:14:00.000-07:00

I can tell where y'all are from, what kind of computer you're using, which browser you're on, what time you came back home last night, where you were, what you were doing, who you were doing it with...

Just so y'all know, I've got some page views in Russia, guys. RUSSIA! I took two semesters of Russian! Поздравляю to me! (and спасибо for reading!) Don't worry France, UAE, India,

and tons of other cool places. You're awesome, too.

This is making me feel better about my potential of maybe reaching Rowling-like

fandom. If I already have page views in those places, with 5 magical followers,

who know what all I can accomplish?!

FOLLOWER UPDATE!

2011-06-25T16:59:00.000-07:00

I now have 5 magical followers!!! At this rate, I could be famous tomorrow!

I have an alterior motive...

2011-06-25T15:56:00.000-07:00

So one of my dreams (for quite a while, now) has been to become a paid blogger. When I first started blogging (and from what I remember the whopping YEAR ago I last logged in...yeesh!) there wasn't an option to earn money off it without going through another program.

I should have learned from Allie and the drama she had over whether or not to put the ads on there that making money by blogging is always a good idea--as long as you, ya know. ACTUALLY BLOG. As long as you're not "And now, this post sponsored by Brandy McBrandnameson, will be about SuperAwesomeCleaner, even though I never use it because it sucks tiger balls, so I'll probably make it about unicorns instead." Something tells me nothing about that would go over well at all.

That also doesn't work well when a) you HAVEN'T BEEN POSTING (yeah, I know, I'm really sorry, I just...yeah, okay, I'm gonna stop apologizing now, Gibbs wouldn't like that) and b) you have a whopping 3 followers. Woohoo!

So, here's what's gonna happen. I promise you I'm gonna post at least once a week (every Saturday), and you promise ME that you'll start reading. I'll even blog about stuff you want me to talk about. Rabid monkeys? Not my forte, but they make me sad, so I can come up with something. Whiplash? Ha, been there, done that! Allie Brosh? YES I CAN BLOG ABOUT HER ALL DAY LONG THANK YOU.

Because at the end of the day, I'd love to get paid for doing something I love. I've posted about that a few times. I'd also really love for that to involve being able to work (aka, blog) wherever, whenever, in any condition, and wearing anything. That's right--I could be blogging right now with a Tinkerbell costume on, and no one would care (if anything, I'd probably get brownie points for it) because it doesn't matter what I wear to work, I'M WORKING!

Right now I work part time in retail. We have to wear all black, so every time I go to work I'm asked if I'm going to a funeral. No, I'm not going to a funeral, I'm going to work my ass off for $8 an hour, thanks. "Where do you work, a funeral home?" No. I work at a store. I sell people clothes and unmentionables and know how to measure for a bra. That's definitely not something that happens at funeral homes. If it is, I'll totally start doing my underwear shopping there.

I don't want that to be my job forever. I'd *really* like to write forever. And hey, look, this could be a great start! And I could actually have my stress release again! (which was super awesome, by the way) And I could keep my creative juices flowing! And I could be paid to talk about anything I want--like Jack Sparrow or glitter or, I dunno, King Tut! What? He was pretty kickass!

So, if I get to a point where people are seriously starting to take a notice, and be like "Hey, this girl is pretty awesome, I'm gonna start following/commenting/letting her know I exist and letting her know she totally deserves to get paid to do this," then I'm gonna hit that magic button so I can make some moolah. There is never anything wrong ever with making moolah. Unless it involves nefarious deeds, and then you might want to question it once, but only if your gut is up to it.

Deal? Excellent! *shakes hand via interbwez* I'm glad we can agree on this.

Okay, GUYS LISTEN UP.

2011-06-25T15:35:00.001-07:00

It's official, I'm back for good.

I've had MORE than my fair share of insanity since I last posted on here, and it lingers in the back of my mind--should I post again? Would anyone read it? Is there anybody out there? Have I been listening to The Departed soundtrack too much while driving to quote Pink Floyd in the middle of a whirl of questions? Where was i even going with this??

POSTING! Right. So, as it turns out, not only do I have depression, but I have fibromyalgia. YAY FOR MY BODY THINKING I'M JUST CRAZY! The boyfriend I had isn't around anymore. I'm in a sorority. I work part-time at a clothing store. I love chocolate. Wait, this isn't your bio, Char...anyway.

So since my life is a clusterfuck of insanity and awesomeness all meshed into this glorious thing we call "life," and everyone's version of that lovely word in quotations is oh so very different, and I personally believe every person's got a pretty awesome story to tell, I'm back to posting. And no, not thinking "maybe I could, but no one really follows me, and there's really no point..." but ACTUALLY doing it.

Cause peeps, I've got stories to tell. Do you?

Peter Pan and the Cafe du Monde.

2010-06-29T19:09:00.000-07:00

One of the biggest reasons I wanted to go to Tulane for college was to sit in the French Quarter and fill myself up with those mouthwatering, piping hot, and wonderfully messy beignets, then walk over to the cemeteries and write.

Yes, you read that right. Cemeteries.

It sounds pretty morbid to some, and like a nightmare to others, but to me, it's very comforting. It's where I relax most. In fact, most of my pictures from Pilgrimage are of tombstones and cemeteries.

I experienced my first funeral just before my third birthday. In a sense, they're an awkward occasion. At that point, you've probably already done your fair share of grieving, or you just want to be out of there and away from everyone else if you still are, or the lady next to you is wearing so much perfume it's giving you a headache and is sobbing so loudly you can't hear the minister and you just want to go home, for Lord's sake. And at the end, when there's the graveside and you finally realize that The Departed doesn't live in that casket, there's a release. There's an inherent joy. I actually giggled (silently, of course), when my great grandmother was being buried and everyone was standing around awkwardly chatting or pointing toward other family members long gone. I knew she wasn't deaf anymore, and she would most certainly keep making comments about "that eye-talian food" at His holy banquet table, and if anyone left a glass of ginger ale to go flat she would think it was pee, and there better be a sugar bowl for her to dump on her cheerios, and she wouldn't have to wear support panty-hose, and she could see the love of her life again and have him make her peach preserves, and life would be the simple way she loved it to be.

I guess the reason I love Peter Pan is it ties in youthfulness and death all in one tidy bow. You must always maintain your youth--maintain it till your dying day, and after. Granted, Peter was known to be more than a tad cocky, but he said "To die will be an awfully big adventure." Isn't that how we're supposed to view it?

Which, of course, brings me back to the streets of New Orleans, because I want a New Orleans style funeral. The procession starts with somber blues, mourning the fact you're not there anymore to live with those still here. And then like a burst of bubble-gum, you hear snappy, happy jazz and the procession line dances. Yes, dances. Because you lived a wonderful, full, happy life--and now you get to go on an awfully big adventure.

So, feel the blues. Feel the heavy bass. Feel the wailing trombone, smell the stale smoke, and let your heart ache. Because in due time, that ache will leave, and the smoke will clear when the roof's torn off, and the bass will pick up speed, and the trombone will laugh with you--all because you know and love someone lucky enough to have truly lived.

Hi! Welcome to the 21st Century!!

2010-05-28T22:56:00.001-07:00

That's about what it felt like a week and a half ago when after trying to figure out why increasingly during my college freshman year i was crankier and sorer and more tired and just not me, and then for two weeks after school got out I became a crying, exhausted, blubbery mess, I decided to go to the doctor and she told me, with downtrodden exuberance, that I have depression.

I kinda expected it, to be completely honest, because I laugh far too much at life to be considered normal. Plus, with all my crazy past shit and self-confidence issues, it's no wonder my brain decided to go join the 21st century and need Zoloft.

So I've been on this stuff a week and a half, and have been noticing some of the physical side affects like insomnia and nausea (which made me freak for a minute but not as much as I formerly would have cause ZOMG THAT'S HOW ANTIDEPRESSANTS WORK, GUYS!!!), but didn't notice a mental affect until today, when I was rifling through old stuff I wrote, especially on this blog.

God damn, I'm a serious pessimist. I'm not even gonna go with optimistic pessimist, cause what I've been writing (when I have been--I think the dwindling number of posts should have been a sign in huge red letters CHARLOTTE, YOU HAVE DEPRESSION but whatever) has simply been the stuff of Debbie Downer. Or at least, a lot of 2007 was.

What I'm saying is this--I kinda realized that I don't have to be all snooty and try to change the world with every blog post. and I realized that I didn't have to be all intellectual all the time. That'd seriously be a mega huge responsibility that I'm gonna leave to someone else. Part of it kicked in when I read Allie Brosh's supermegafoxyawesomehot blog and I realized that I didn't have to be all intellectual all the time. It's kinda more than a relief to think about. I also think that's why I haven't been posting--I think I need to be this super serious, showing all sides of life awesome blogger, when I've kinda been just meh.

(Admit it, it's been meh many times over.)

I'm not promising I'm always gonna be Cinderella on a dose of caffeine pills and anti-depressants. But I do promise to blog about anything I'm feeling. Even if it's supreme giddiness about watching Nightmare Before Christmas for the brazillionth time and still being able to quote the whole thing from start to finish.

Maybe that's why I only have one follower...cause I've been a major Debbie Downer. Or Louise Loser. Or Betty Bitchface. Whatever. You get the point.

Go and be happy enough to belch rainbows, my friends.

(Yes, I just said that. And no, I'm not high. You're just starting to see every single side of Charlotte the Pirate Queen. Get ready for your mind to blow.)

Writing to a Best Friend

2010-05-11T19:36:00.001-07:00

Somehow in all of my blogposts all of these years, I've forgotten to mention one of my absolute best friends. He's the kind of person I could literally talk about anything with (and I mean ANYTHING), run late night Sonic trips with, vent to about anything girly or dramatic in my life, yet he'll still make me laugh and gives me honest advice on anything. He dreams big, like me, and has family drama craziness, also like me. We may not always understand the other's exact situation, but we always are there--even if it's just for a hug and a bit of dark humor.

I'm not sure how I haven't mentioned him till now, to be honest. Robby's always been there--ever since we had to share a lane in swim practice--and I'm 99.999999999% sure that he'll always be there. That teeny tiny percent of not being there? If I was being a bitch enough to not take his advice for a change. And then I'd probably wake up one night in a cold sweat and bring him a Frothy Monkey Mocha the next day with a teary apology.

The reason I'm mentioning it now it because he's finally started a blog (YESSIR). www.whyamireadingthisblog.blogspot.com is now a favorite read of mine. He's honest, objective, and insightful, and you should read it now. Because to know one person means knowing their friends.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Location:Stanwick Dr,Franklin,United States

Nashville Floods.

2010-05-03T22:19:00.000-07:00

Floods are strange. And I vlogged about it already here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_Y7WJ_0I_tk

(Yes, I am vlogging. Subscribe to SaintPiratess to follow me.)

So frankly, I don't want to talk about it anymore.

I just want to say that life is gonna be different for all of us in this area. For those like me who were lightly affected, it'll only be a little. For others, it will be a total 180from their normal lives. For others, I can't even say. Just know that Nashville has changed.

The Grace of the Ocean

2010-04-21T23:38:00.001-07:00

I don't often talk about the pros to living in Ponte Vedra. I make it seem like this fake, plastic place that abused and scarred me to bits so I didn't recognize my own self by the time I got back here.

But there were some bits of reprieve, bits of calm--in the truest sense, bits of grace.

I've never like the word "grace." I like it as a name, sure. But just the word reminds me of little kid Sunday school and nilla wafers with apple juice and awkward family meals and some kitchy item for a megachurch or once-born self. It seems inappropriate. Even what I consider to be the grace of God isn't what most consider. For me, it's not a get-out-of-jail-free card. It's a "Here, look, you fucked up. You'll feel the sting and the burn, you'll know the pain--but you'll always know it could be much worse."

As much as I've loved life here, my images of grace are in Florida.
It was the bartender at the beach club sneaking me smoothies so I didn't totally waste away.
It was my family friends taking me in and trying to let me be a kid--even if just for the length of a sleepover.
It was the warmth of the sun when I felt cold and scared.
It was the suntan to disguise myself, make myself totally change and temporarily hide the thin frame I had.
It was the understanding smile from the dearest of friends when my dad would call.
But most of all, it was the ocean. The ocean hid the tears I wanted no one to see. The ocean swallowed me up in the waves when situations arose that I knew weren't quite right. But it also taught you.
If you try to swim right into a wave, you barrel and twist and turn everywhere. But if you learn to ride the belly of the wave beneath the water, you learn that it'll take you down hard, but bring you back up just as fast.

I miss the grace of the waves.

Location:18th Ave S,Nashville,United States

Let Me Spell It Out For You.

2010-03-23T21:23:00.000-07:00

In the past 48 hours, I've lost my voice, after Student Health told me it'd all be fine (of course...), and have found it hard to communicate without sounding like chain-smoking Minnie Mouse or prepubescent Mickey Mouse. And that's when I've actually been about to talk. Either way, communication has been....interesting.

The Boyfriend has been with me all weekend since my formal Saturday night, and it's safe to say that he's feeling no symptoms--or if he is he's being stubborn and not telling me. He's been keeping me company, making sure I always have juice, giving me a hug when I need it, communicating for me, and simply making my life a wee bit happier even though I feel absolutely craptastic and wish I could curl up in a little ball and cry.

I try not to compare, and yet I think...
The Boyfriend gives me a hug when Mi Padre would have yelled.
He tickles me so hard I can barely breathe when he would shake me by the shoulders hard enough to make me dizzy.
He rubs his hand along my back when I cough when he would've slapped me.
He fixes bags of popcorn and trays of Bagel Bites when he would put me on yet another diet to insist that this one would make me "skinny and healthy."
He seems to instinctively know what I want or need when he had his own expectations of what I should want and need.

It's...beautifully peaceful.

Now before you shake your head and think "Great, she's already planning the wedding..." I'm not--I'm a freshman in college, life is crazy enough without having to invest in marriage. But it does make me think that maybe I'm heading in the right general direction. While it doesn't seem like much to some, and painfully obvious to others, a man in my life who isn't abusive in some way is extremely hard to come across.

Polar opposites make me wonder. I've been told that we're all equal, we're all the same people looking for the same things. Why, then, do we sometimes take a completely different path from someone else?

Forgive me for liking the road that lessens the stresses I already carry. Some would call the move irresponsible, lazy, or naive. Maybe I'm learning lessons you've striven to have your whole life and will never come close to knowing. Maybe it's the reverse. It could be both, for all I know.

But having someone call you beautiful and not have it be in the midst of an argument or yelling rampage, and actually mean it....that's something I'm still wrapping my head around. Having someone hug you and tell you that life will really be okay, and that I'm big enough to get past whatever might come my way...that's something I'm slowly getting to know. Having someone who isn't afraid to just be, and let myself be, and let us "be" together...that's a change of pace I'm just now grasping.

I like to think, too, that this isn't coming from a boyfriend so much as a best friend. Yes, it means a lot to have a boyfriend do these for you. It means even more to have your best friend do them.

Sure, many will say I'm setting myself up for a horrendous heartbreak should anything come up (statistically, it's bound to happen). I'd rather feel that and know the feeling I have now than put a barrier up and simply say I can't get that close to the person I'm dating.

Besides, I've known heartbreak--on just about every level. I'm still alive, aren't I? Who says that when (cause I'm not just talking about boys) it happens again I won't be?

In the meantime, I'll rest in this feeling and know that, for now, and in the near future, it's dependable, reliable, safe--and good. Rest...what a concept.

It's time for Mucinex, a coughdrop, and sleep. Gotta get better somehow :P

And yet...

2010-01-25T22:21:00.000-08:00

I'm wide awake, and yet exhausted.

I'm tired, and yet pumped.

I'm anxious, and yet settled.

I'm one great big paradox sitting in the middle of the lawn, and yet I have a feeling I'm not the only one.

William James is a brilliant theologian. I'm reading his speeches in my Religion & Human Development class at the moment...and I'm wondering why this man understands me so well.

You see, there are two main "kinds" of people: The Healthy-Minded, and The Sick Souls. The Healthy minds are much like Walt Whitman (who he actually uses as a close personal example [I'm envious]), who simply don't bother with the bad because they feel no need to feel it. The Sick Souls are dark, realize the potential of badness, and are more likely to stick in the bad than the good when dealing with life.

There are also two other classifications: once-born and twice-born. Once born means you've had the same spiritual/religious viewpoint almost all your life. You've never seen rock bottom. You don't know hopelessness. Twice-born is having seen rock bottom and out of the despair come to terms that there is a greater something other than yourself--like the Healthy Mind meeting the Sick Soul.

Ultimately, James insists that the personalities that make it through the other end the best are those twice-born sick souls, who now know what breathing clean air is like but know all too well the taste of ash.

I'm in the process of writing my spiritual development for this class. My professor says in her clear, bright voice "I'll need a minimum of 3 pages from all of you." Grunts and shuffles are faintly heard, and I slowly raise my hand.
"Yes, Charlotte?"
"Dr. Baker, would it be okay if I gave you much more than that?"
"You mean like, 7 pages?"
"I'm thinking more along the lines of maybe 10 ish...minimum."
"Wha--wow!"

I'm a Sick, Twice-Born Soul. I've seen the highs, I know the lows, and I've been many places between. I'm not saying I have a handle on *every* high and *every* low, but I've certainly gotten my fair share of taste. And I have stories to tell.

I've been having issues with living a paradoxical life. I want to stay, I want to go, I want to freeze time, I want to speed it up, I want to be younger, I want to grow, I want to be ageless.

I think James is, essentially, talking about my battle. Everyone's battle. A battle of balance.

Maybe I need to think of life less as a paradox and more as a scale...a measure of keeping everything in life on an even keel.

The more I've been thinking about this assignment, the more I've realized what I've been needing to do.
God tried to tell me during Lent.
I've been trying to tell myself by wanting to post blog updates often.
I've known it, and yet I haven't *known* it.

All this time, I've been thinking I need to tell people a story--a story of love, loss, happiness, quirks, musings and meanings...deep things. I've been working plotline after plotline to try to figure out not quite the perfect tale, but a tale I can be proud of.

This whole time, I should have started with my tale.

My story.

My plotline.

My life.

It may not be perfect, but it's human. And once I complete this assignment at the end of the semester, I'll be taking it to publishers as an abstract to write a book.

I finally got it.

Okay, okay, I'm 19 and it makes about as much sense for me to be writing an autobiography as it does for Taylor Swift to have a Greatest Hits album. But even if no one buys it, my story will be out there. A story I know I can tell. A story I know well, far too well some writers would say.

But I can only argue this: how can you go about understanding others (fictional or real) without first understanding yourself?

Boyfriends.

2009-12-17T18:28:00.000-08:00

In my lovely voyage through my first semester at Vandy (which all through Christmas Break I'll be blogging about, explaining why exactly I didn't blog, yada yada yada...), I discovered this wonderful thing.

It's called a boyfriend within walking distance.

I met him in May, when he decided to accept to go to Vanderbilt. We met through my now ex-roommate (but that's a whoooole other story to itself...) when she found him in the Vanderbilt facebook group. They talked, she thought we might get along...and we somehow clicked.

He's from Michigan, comes from a crazy family, used to work at McDonald's, loves sports of just about every kind, has a soft spot for any cartoons and shows we watched in the 90s, is a music junkie, is thinking a double major in history and economics, gives wonderfully good hugs, understands little things like my love for Nightmare Before Christmas (thus why he gave me a Sally doll for my birthday since I have a Jack one) and Coca Cola (why I'm now wearing a Coca Cola swatch, my first Christmas gift), and is an all around loveable person.

I understand Wendy now.

I understand Sally now.

I get it.

He's the person who gives you exactly the right hug for the slump you're in.
He's the person who goes with you to eat to make sure you eat enough...oh, and actually *remember* to eat.
He's the person to tell you that you look good with no makeup on, and actually mean it.
He's the person who hugs you and says "Thank you for not being able to break when I hug you."
He's one of my people.

As of right now, I'm not quite sure if I should nickname him Jack, and I be his Sally, or Peter, and I be his Wendy.

Either way, I'm a very happy person.

He's the person that makes me happy right now.

And I'm not going to try to fix the future. I'm not looking five years from now and saying "Will we??"
Occasionally, there's a "What if?"
But then he grabs my hand and we both focus on right now.

We've got enough planned for the future for ourselves individually.
We don't need to map out anything else.

And I love it that way.

My Saint & I

2009-11-17T00:46:00.000-08:00

I hate modern feminism.

I should know, we're studying the theory of it in English right now.

It's all whiny! "Women get the short end of the stick, la la la bleh bleh bleh, men are douches, blabbity blah"

It makes me sick to me a woman, honestly. Not all men are douches. Not all women get the short end of the stick. And it's not because they don't wear makeup and refuse to wear bras--it's because they live life in such a way that they refuse to be gipped, but don't lose their feminine identity in the process.

I love ancient feminism.

It said women are separate but equal from men. No, women actually cannot physically do everything men can, and men cannot physically do everything women can--but they were each made to their own to thrive and excel in life.

Women were looked upon as mentally able--and in many circumstances, more able than men--and tough. We were looked upon as we'd love to be seen today: a creature of brains, beauty, emotion, and intellect that was different but no less worthy than that of man's handsomness, brains, emotion, and intellect.

And this is why St. Margaret is my patron saint.

She was, in essence, Queen Elizabeth's precursor--except she liked the Catholic church instead of the other churches back home in Hungary, and she had a husband. On surface level, that looks dissimilar in every way.

Queen Margaret used her position and smarts to influence opening trade routes, caring for the poor, teaching the lessons of both life and God to children, delegating to other countries, focusing on making Scotland a country of pride and wisdom--and she succeeded. How is that much different from Good Queen Bess?

She used her power to help where she could in every way she could. And yet at the end of each day, she focused on being a mother and wife. She focused on her family--what she held dearest here on earth.

If that's not a perfect balance of Woman, I don't know what is.

She's the kind of person I look at and know that if I had the chance to know her today, I'd love her just as much as I love her in her ancient state, beckoning to me just beyond the shadows of what I know.

I think it seems fit to have her as my saint at Vanderbilt.

And I think it seems fit to have her be my diving board for regular blogging. I've been out of it. I've wanted to write but have been to lazy or tired or emotionally drained or simply come up with excuses not to. I think I had this grand idea in my head to wait and have everything figured out before I started hitting the keys again.

But isn't that why I blog in the first place? To figure all that out? To empty my brain and get this all in a form in front of me that I can understand?

So I'm looking for wisdom. I'm looking for comfort. I'm looking for a friend.
And I've found them all here.

St. Maggie, St. Brigid, and all the company of heaven are sitting at my shoulder, waiting for this to happen.

So, here it goes. Ladies and Gentlemen, I return.

Good Nights.

2009-06-25T13:34:00.000-07:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f_2rrxONlLo

"I've gotta feeling that tonight's gonna be a good night."

That is my new mindset. I've been waiting for a happy song that has a simple message like this.

It's not out to change the world, it's not out to make you change your values or give all you have to some charity or another out of guilt, THEN make you feel better because you've "done something."

It simply asks you enjoy life.

Do something completely random and fun for the hell of it. Have a dance party in the parking lot with your friends. Take a blanket and food and have a picnic at midnight in an old cemetery. Roll down the windows and sing from the top of your lungs. Dance on the streets. Let a smile slap itself upon your face. Laugh so hard you cry.

Have a good night.

While my version of a good night doesn't exactly mimic this video, you have to admit--this isn't the normal party. There isn't bedroom drama, there isn't some massive breakup going on on the back porch, there's a touch of sketchiness, but not enough to make you feel weird about walking in. They look like they're just out to have a good night.

So whatever your version of a good night is, have one. Maybe it's a hearty round of Apples to Apples with your friends, maybe it's this party, maybe it's smiling while enjoying some iced tea and watching the stars.

May we all have a good night...every night we can.

Structure. (June)

2009-06-25T13:26:00.000-07:00

I opened this note up fully expecting the glorious revelations I've been having recently to spill upon here in a fabulous fashion...to be able to post this as a work with much dire, heart-felt, and enlightened wisdom as I could afford to give.

That hasn't happened. Not for the six times I've tried to write this thing.

And that's when I realized something.

Creativity isn't a force to be harnessed. It wasn't made to be categorized, shoved, manhandled, or put into time slots. It wasn't designed to operate with constraint. And I, wanting to have my life have some kind of order and organization, have been pushing my creativity so much into so small a time that it's been giving up on me.

So yet again, I turn to Neverland for an explanation.

Creativity is like a child. Depending on who you are, it can range from the quiet, delicate, angelic soul who would cry at the mention of a hurt cat, to the "I BITE!"s. You know...the four-five-three-whatever the hell number-year-old kid who runs up to you with eyes full of chaos and mischief, who gnashes his little pearls at you and says with a voice that grinds like a rusty hinge, "I BITE!" Yes, you know these little devils--the stuff of nightmares.

Children don't work with overly compressed time. Sure, they need a schedule. They need naps and food and playtime and work time and TV time and outside time and inside time and cookies and milk time and story time and music time and the like. But it's not the exact same from day to day. A child who operates on the EXACT same schedule all day, every day, would be bored out of his mind--and while at first it would cause pranks and bad behavior, the child eventually gets tired of it and doesn't bother getting excited. Milk and cookies? Who cares. Pirates in the treehouse? Big whoop.

And so, the child stalls....and so does the creativity.

This is why Neverland is filled with so many adventures. The creativity simmers at the brim with the few necessary organizations needed...but when was the last time you heard of someone plotting time in their every day schedule for an adventure? That means you have to go FIND the adventure in the first place...instead of letting the adventures find you.

High school is a thing of the past. At VandyLand...who knows what kind of adventures I'll have?

Just please make sure I don't forget to eat in there :-)

Confessions from a Plate of Chocolate Cake. (March)

2009-06-25T13:24:00.000-07:00

I haven't written anything this week. Not even in a journal or spare piece of paper to go on here later.
There's been nothing.
God and I had a wee talk about this writing thing, since I had to sit down and look at him and say "I failed Lent this year..." but before I could say anything, He said "Wait."
"Wait?"
"Wait."
So I waited.
And waited.
Days passed of waiting, and nothing came along until I was eating chocolate cake for breakfast this morning. (Bill Cosby would be proud.)
I was waiting for some epiphany about life that God was putting into my head for me to string out over the past week. Sure, I've had some, but nothing that I could really prove a great point from.
God was waiting for me to sit down and listen to fairytales.

Fairytales?
Yes, fairytales.
He wated me to write a story.

I have to clean today. And paint a room. So when on earth will I find time to sit down and write a story?

He then looked at me and laughed.
"Charlotte, I've given you 40 days to write a story. Exculding SUndays, of course."
And now I know why I needed to write for Lent.
Isn't it funny how sometimes we think we know what we're supposed to be chasing after, only to find that we were runnning in the right direction, just not on the right road, but it's okay because you're about to get on an exit and take a cutaway to finally get to where you need to be...

Maybe that'll be the start of things.

Mixed Feelings. (March)

2009-06-25T13:22:00.000-07:00

Johnny looks lonely.

Johnny is my Canadian folk guitar. Acoustic. Cherry wood. Gorgeous. He's polished and gravely like Johnny Cash, appealing and slightly unexpected like Johnny Depp. All the same, he's sitting in the corner dying for me to strum him again and put my hands on the fretboard. Give him a tune. Do something.

Iona looks lonely.

Iona is my iPod named after that lovely place in Scotland. She's black with this insanely thick plastic cover and a pink prop-stand built in. She has every kind of sound in her that you could imagine--good, bad, positive, melancholy, satisfying, empty.

And then I look in the mirror and realize my creativity is looking a little lonely, too. I look at myself and ask, how on earth can this be?

I play my guitar. I listen to my music. I write. Why is my head seeing all these things as lonely?

I then proceed to get up and tap dance to the silence in my bonus room.

Shuffle heel flam, toe stand chug, triple triple time step, add a new break--

Maybe...
Maybe this isn't just about writing. Or playing. Or listening.

Maybe I'm forgetting that life isn't just words and sound.

You gotta move, too.

Prayer to St. Vitus
Dear Vitus, the one thing we are certain about
is that you died a martyr's death.
In early times,
churches were dedicated to you in important places.
In the Middle Ages,
your intercession obtained cures from epilepsy
so that this disease came to be called "Saint Vitus' Dance".
Inspire comedians to make people dance with laughter
and so bear goodwill toward one another.

Amen.

Scotland. (March)

2009-06-25T13:15:00.000-07:00

I miss it greatly.

There were the mornings where I woke with that slightly stiff feeling left in me, fixed myself a bowl of Museli, and sat down to the taste of hazelnuts and raisins waking me up from my warm deep sleep. I'd take some toast and spread on some homemade orange marmalade and butter, and with a crunch and coolness pour myself a cup of half-cream milk.

I'd then write.

And write.

And write some more.

When we kept track of the blog on my journey, my fellow pilgrims would be flustered by just how much I wrote. Sometimes it didn't all even fit. But I'm a writer--I listen to my words--this is what I do.

But more than the scenery, more than the little black sheep who nuzzled our hands and captured our ears..more than the yaks--I mean, highland cattle...more than the soups and scones and days spent over oat cakes and honeyed tea...there was the vibrant discovery of who I was going to become. Myabe it started with the Time Warp. It could be from from the Lindisfarne meade. It might even have to do with those gabbing sheep. But somewhere in all that, I knew what I was going to do.

I knew I wanted to be a writer. I knew I wanted to write anything I could tackle. I just didn't know precisely how I'd go about it.
I didn't realize what it would take.
Rather, I didn't realize just how much of my life it would take.
Or how easy it was for my life to be taken by it.

At first, I thought it was just Scotland itself. Then, I thought about it more, and wrote the following, which was my college essay.

This June I went on a pilgrimage of sorts with some members of my church through Scotland and England, traveling to many holy places where saints established bustling communities. When researching my destinations, I came across a snippet from Iona’s history that said at some point the Fraser clan, which happens to be my dad’s side of the family, ruled the island. I tucked that information in my mind, but was so overwhelmed by packing and passports that I never thought about it. Subconsciously, I chose not to think about it. Although I’m passionate about my family tree (I’ve got my mom’s side tracked down to a few Norman invaders from the year 1150), I had mixed feelings about my father’s side. My dad and I are not what one could call close. We think differently about relationships and what people need, causing a serious falling out between us in May of 2007.
Needless to say, I was excited yet nervous when I walked onto Iona. So far, the trip had been nothing short of mesmerizing beauty, mystery, and spiritual growth. While riding the ferries, I kept praying that my time there wouldn’t be the scarring time I imagined.
The first day, I walked over to St. Columba’s abbey. In the sanctuary, down on my right, sat two white marble effigies of the Duke and Duchess of Argyll, also Frasers, who donated the island to Historic Scotland’s care in 1899. A cemetery near the abbey had more Frasers than I’ve seen in my lifetime.
I found myself at a large stone monument dedicated to Lord Fraser. I wrapped my jacket around me and crouched down closer to this granite block before me. I felt as if I couldn’t touch it—that it would be too sacred to let my finger swipe—but soon I was tracing each word. “The Island of Iona Was Given To the Nation In Memory of Lord Fraser of Allander in December 1979 by The Hugh Fraser Foundation.” A local couple walked by me and asked if I knew about the Fraser clan. I told them it was my name, and the woman smiled as the man went on to tell about the Fraser clan’s presence in Iona as if they were still members of the community. My ancestors weren’t simply a presence years ago, they’re still a presence today.
Until that point, I had mixed feelings about being a Fraser, but after that afternoon, I couldn’t be prouder. I’m honored to have these great people be a part of me, and I being part of them. Set in stone all over the island of Iona, my descendants quietly let me know that they wanted me in the clan. So I take my place in the line, coming after the Duke and Duchess of Argyll, after Sir Hugh Fraser, after Sir Simon, the first recorded Fraser—after everyone in this great family of mine. I am of them, they are of me—it’s set in stone.

I've found out since that my Scottish immigrant is George Fraser, who moved to Australia and then to Jamaica. He was an architect for the Panama Canal. His son, Herbert, then moved to New York. Herbert was my great grandfather.

I've found out since that I wasn't meant to stay in one place forever. I'm not supposed to "settle down." Sure, there will come a time hopefully when I'll have a family and I'm on the parent board taking my kids to soccer practice and dance recitals. But the fact is, I wasn't meant to "settle down"--none of us are. We are meant to keep moving, keep changing, constantly warping one second after the next.

No, I'm not about to live as some hitchiker in Europe for the rest of my life. Nor am I going to sit here and let everything in this earth pass me by.
Study abroad. Make a pilgrimage. Go with family. Go with friends. Go with the ones you love.
Whatever the case may be, just go.
You weren't called to sit and wait--you were called to make a journey.

Prayer for St. Cecilia:

O glorious saint, who chose to die instead of denying your King, we pray you please to help us as His fair praise we sing. We lift our hearts in joyous song to honor Him this way. And while we sing, remembering, to sing is to doubly pray.

At once in our hearts and in our tongues we offer double prayer sent heavenward on winged notes to praise God dwelling there. While in our hearts and tongues we try with song to praise God twice, we ask dear saint, to help us be united close to Christ! Amen.

Virginia Lee. (March)

2009-06-25T13:14:00.000-07:00

July of '82
A white rose in full bloom
And yet I have to wonder
If it was seen too soon

Amidst teardrops and pearls
Opals and perfumes
Your glowing baby blues
Take on another hue

You're sure of who I am
I know what you became
Somehow we're connected
Through photograph and age

No, I can't hold your hand
But you can hold me tight
Please don't let me end the way
You did the other night

Do our fingerprints match?
Am I secretly you?
Do you breathe in my lungs?
Is this your old heart?
I think you are my soul

Why do October days
And storms late at night
Open my eyes
Put in me a new fight?

There's almost a whisper
Please turn out the light
I miss you too, friend
It's a Neverland night

Fate's been good now
And Time will tell
If you're my only sister
Who has a tale to sell

Put on your pointe shoes
I'll tap you a beat
I guess this little dance here
Is what makes our hearts beat

Do our fingerprints match?
Am I secretly you?
Do you breathe in my lungs?
Is this your old heart?
You must be my soul

Cemeteries and looks
Journals, pens, and books
Shakespeare envies
Our lovely irony
Dostoevsky is stunned
By our creative fund
Pull the curtain back
Let the worlds react
You've never seen a thing like this--
So open up your eyes

Do our fingerprints match?
Am I secretly you?
Do you breathe in my lungs?
Is this your old heart?
Yes, you are my soul

Prayer for St. Gregory the Great
O God, You look upon Your people with compassion, and rule them with love. Through the intercession of Pope Saint Gregory, give wisdom to the leaders of Your Church that the growth of Your people in holiness and love of You may be the everlasting joy of our pastors. Amen.

A Tidbit. (March)

2009-06-25T13:13:00.000-07:00

So as I was about to hit "enter" on this original piece of creative work, my computer decided to be mean and stupid and shut down.

Ger.

So, I found something else for you. No, it's not original from yesterday. I'll rewrite that another time. My cretive side is a little drained right now--you'll see why soon...This is a story I've started to write.

That cold December morning was just like any other icy, dampened, frozen winter morning in the village of Ramier, England. There was no buzz of excitement in the air for the fast approaching Christmas or New Year’s seasons. There were no giggles or whispers dancing through the air as innocent children rose early to play in the snow. There was no mother making a rumpus in her closet to find the perfect dress for that day, no father slamming the door to the frozen fairytale outside from where he fetched his newspaper, no housekeepers tending to the morning chores of warming the house, cooking breakfast, and dressing the children, no dogs chasing screams and shouts of play through the halls…there was nothing.
There had been nothing in that enormous, ancient house for as long as the village of Ramier could remember, yet the thought of Nothing having taken residence there for so many years in the forgotten mansion made the townsfolk tremble at the very mention of walking by it, yet alone going inside it. People are scared of Nothing, because when you are wandering in the accompaniment of Nothing, you just might discover Something, though the occasion is rare; and even if you do perchance discover Something, that Something is typically feared and condemned instead of enjoyed and, Lord forbid, loved.
The Shaddix mansion was an eyesore in the quaint countryside town, so it was said, although rarely did anyone see it since the quasi-castle was comfortably tucked on a hillside just outside the city. Still, the very thought of it was, if anything, a sore on the brain. It made villagers squeamish and nervous to even think about. Yet why exactly the village was scared of the mansion was a mystery. You see, the Shaddixs had been gone for such a stretched amount of time, the village had forgotten why on earth it was scared of such a beautifully haunting building in the first place. This manor is exactly why Beatrix O’Conner had come to Ramier.

Prayer for St. Edmund of East Anglia

O God of ineffable mercy, who didst give grace and fortitude to Blessed Edmund the king to triumph over the enemy of his poeple by nobly dying for thy Name: Bestow on us thy servants, we beseech thee, the shield of faith, wherewith we may withstand the assaults of our ancient enemy; through Jesus Christ our Redeemer, who liveth and reigneth with thee and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever.

Slumdog Neverland. (March)

2009-06-25T13:11:00.000-07:00

So I know this didn't get posted till today....but I was working on it yesterday and finally God decided sleep was more important than Lenten writing.

I finally saw Slumdog Millionaire today. And first, I must apologize. I was outright pissed to see it do a sweep. All I saw about this movie from the subtitles was some Indian dude in love with some chick and he goes and wins a million rupees. WHOOP DE FREAKING DO.

I was stunned.
I was shocked.
I nearly cried.
I was amazed.

This movie is incredible. But for all the incredible writing, the clever twists, and the masterful blending of culture to make a cliche (yet great) love story and family story turn incredible...
It wouldn't have been the same if those kids hadn't been so awesome.

I'll admit--when they were playing circket on the airstrip, and the guards were chasing them through the city--there was an element of fun to it all. Although they were, I suppose, running for dear life, they were giggling. They were being crafty. They knew the ways around. They really were musketeers, dodging their way around, going from place to place to survive, and having fun out of it all.

And then I wondered....

Do these kids know more about life than American kids? Or European kids?
Do they know the lessons we've long forgotten?
You pass a circket bat to your brother when running from guards.
When you jump, bend your knees--it reduces the shock.
When adults say go, they mean it.
Climb--it's harder for fat lazy guards to do, and then you can throw trash at them.
No matter what, never hurt your brother for your own betterment.
Always go back for a friend--no matter how much time has passed.

It makes me wonder.

A collect for St Kentigern:
O God, who wast pleased that through blessed Kentigern, Thy Confessor and Bishop, the light of the true Faith should shine forth brilliantly: grant, we beseech Thee, that, by faithfully following that which he preached and taught, and by solemnly celebrating his venerable Feast we may attain unto the splendour of everlasting Light. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.

Lamps. (February)

2009-06-25T13:09:00.000-07:00

So I officially bought my first item for my dorm room with Mel.

It's this lamp from Target that has a bunch of shelves in it. It stands fairly tall, it's skinny, and it has storage. Not to mention--quite fashionable. Mel and I are pumped.

But I thought of something after I bought it.
I realized that college was much closer than I realized. I move in August 15th. 5 and a half months.
In five and a half months, I'm going to be on my own...granted, I'll have The Amazing Mel by my side, but nonetheless I'm essentially planning my first house.
This isn't summer camp,
This isn't a vacation,
Or a school trip.

This is life.

Guess you can say my lamp switch got turned on...
I'm enlightened.

And excited.

Mel--GET LE PUMPED!

Magnificat of St. Mary

My soul magnifies the Lord,
and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior;
Because He has regarded the lowliness of His handmaid;
for behold, henceforth all generations shall call me blessed;
Because He who is mighty has done great things for me,
and Holy is His Name;
And His mercy is from generation to generation on those who fear Him.
He has shown might with His arm,
He has scattered the proud in the conceit of their heart.
He has put down the mighty from their thrones,
and has exalted the lowly.
He has filled the hungry with good things,
and the rich he has sent away empty.
He has given help to Israel, His servant, mindful of His mercy
Even as He spoke to our fathers -
to Abraham and to his posterity forever.

GLORY BE TO THE FATHER AND TO THE SON AND TO THE HOLY SPIRIT. AS IT WAS IN THE BEGINNING, IS NOW, AND EVER SHALL BE, WORLD WITHOUT END. AMEN.

Aftermath. (Feb)

2009-06-25T13:08:00.000-07:00

I went to school today expecting to hear the usual gripes about the whole concept of Lent.

I was happily mistaken--nearly everyone I know has given something up. Some are even making new habits like me. It's refreshing to see. And now, for a change, I'm starting to see the High Church habits moving down.

Now I'm not saying Low Church is a bad thing--everyone who believes finds God in his or her own way. If Low Church does it, then good for you. Let's face it--if it weren't for the Low Church, we wouldn't see Jesus, God, and the Holy Spirit as beings who genuinely like to be with us.

But I think being with Jesus is like establishing a realationship with a good teacher--you have to have the casual talk, you have to have the deeps talks, and--most importantly--you have to keep the respect. I'm happy to see more and more of my friends graps the respect part. I know, God likes for us to laugh--but there are many times I feel that what some people call "worship[ping" is really just a bunch of screaming and partying to not focus on the deep stuff. After all, everything in life has deep stuff--it's not just the cookies and milk. But I think knowing the deep stuff makes the cookies and milk ever so much more enjoyable.

Who knows, next thing you know the Baptists might come out with a Book of Common Prayer!!!!

OKay, okay, long shot. But hey, I can dream!

Collect for St. Nicholas
ETERNAL GOD,
in your great love
you gave your servant NICHOLAS
a perpetual name for deeds of kindness on land and sea.
Grant that your Church may never cease to work
for the happiness of children,
the safety of sailors,
the relief of the poor
and the help of those who are tossed
by tempests of doubt or grief;
through JESUS CHRIST our LORD,
who lives and reigns with you and the HOLY SPIRIT,
one GOD, now and for ever.
Amen.

Ashes (Ash Wednesday)

2009-06-25T13:03:00.002-07:00

So for Lent this year, I'm not giving up anything--I'm adding two things.

1) Required writing every day.
2) Find a new prayer every day.

I hate keeping a stereotypical "journal." They end up sounding silly to me. But I don't write enough. There are times I just need to muse through my day, and I never give myself time to. I never let myself sit down and sift through it all, instead letting it all just get mixed up with my everyday musings.

So I'm creating a habit of writing every day.

I got my ashes, as usual, this morning. When I lived in Florida only the Catholic kids got ashes. Then I got to BA--and NO ONE DID. But--it was a popular thing with my church. So I started getting them. This year, getting ashes was eerie--I was the only one in school wearing them. I got looks from some, questions from others, confusion from most. And it was okay--I love sharing my High Church customs with those who haven't heard them before. But my English teacher looked at me and gave me a feeling of great comfort. He said, "I think there's a lot to be respected from you on a day like this--the Low Church, I think, gets a little too chash, emphasizing too much the idea of Jesus being a friend, when he really was a lot more than that. I think we need somber times, too." There were some who, once I explained the meaning, found it to be sobering and humbling.

I'm the only practicing Episcopalian in the school that I know of. It can feel a bit isolating at times, having no one to share it with at school. But I discovered today that it's okay. Just as I'm not any better than they are, they're not any better than I am. Sure most kids in my school go to my church in the middle of the night for the sheer fact it is literally open at al times of day. They don't know much about it. But it's okay--it's my Church, it's my safehaven, it is one of my many holy spaces. And that I'm more than willing to share.

The Collect of St. Margaret of Scotland:
Lord, you gave Saint Margaret of Scotland a special love for the poor.
Let her example and prayers help us to become a living sign of your goodness.
We ask this through our Lord Jesus Christ, your Son,
who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit,
one God for ever and ever.
Amen.

Iona (February)

2009-06-25T13:03:00.001-07:00

You can beside me when the world comes down
If it doesn't matter, then just turn around.

"Why must you bother me now?
Why go to the trouble after so many months of debate?
The paperwork's been signed, my debts long paid--
I don't need you following me!

Really, do you insist? I thought I said leave last night!
Alright, I suppose you can come along for a small bit--
You were, after all, the least anoying pick from the bunch.
Just don't get between me and my thoughts and life will be grand."

Lord Fraser of Allander,
I must sincerely apologize.
For too long I haven't known you, known this--
Known myself.

Saint Margaret of Scotland,
Please forgive me for being so ignorant.
You probably rolled your eyes and threw up your arms countless times--
So thanks for sticking by me.

I'm Scottish, Irish, English, Swedish, Danish, German, and Black.
I have all kinds of polish in front, scars deep set in back.
So while you sit and think I'm some royal debutante queen,
I'm really all assunder under this gleaming stylish preen.
Don't worry dear, I'll be just fine at the end of every day--
I look up high, and laugh it off--there's just no other way.
So now that I have my sailor's scars and can rest upon the land
Why don't you sit and talk with me--and better, take my hand
You can beside me when the world comes down
If it doesn't matter, then just turn around.

Restlessness (January)

2009-06-25T12:48:00.000-07:00

I suppose this is coming from being at home sick over a week. Maybe it's that I'm in the middle of "Thier Eyes Were Watching God." It could stem from me waiting for Vanderbilt to send me my fateful letter in 17 days. Who knows, it could even come from watching Anthony Bourdain on the Travel Channel basking in envy at his New York writing and adventury (sp?) awesomeness.

But I'm restless.

I've been sitting on my rock long enough in Neverland--I want change. I want to be graduated, I want to go to Destin with my class, I want to go to Disney for my graduation trip, I want to get a job....I need movement underneath my wings. I've been folding them in for warmth long enough. I need a change of scenery. And I don't mean finding a new view by spinning to another spot on my rock. I want a whole new rock. A rock I have to clean off and settle into. Trust me, I've been spinning around enough to the point where even the mermaids have gotten used to me in their lagoon and Peter's fairies know exacly where to find me at all times.

I need to go to an old place and find a new rock....a place I haven't seen in so long that it would look new to me.
And I need a storm.
I'm sick of the still weather. It feels lifeless at this point.

God's been editing my DVD...and I feel like the plotline has entered an unfortunate pause for dramatics.
Well, we've got that. And I want it gone.

It's that kind of restlessness that feels like a heavy marble case that you know you could scratch away...until you realize just how thick it is. So you bang on it and hit on it and try and get so much as a wobble but it just won't move. So finally you figure out how to move in this thing and you keep moving until you hit a wall............
and it cracks.
You hit it again.
It cracks more.
And after some bruises and strains, it finally breaks and you laugh as the pieces fall on the floor.

Please break, you stupid case......................................................

Life in Neverland (January)

2009-06-25T12:41:00.000-07:00

Life cannot be figured out. It cannot be tested by men in white coats with goggles and fuming glass containers who say that more of Vitamin C will keep you from ever getting sick and switch opinions between “Diet Coke is better than Coca Cola Classic” and “Diet Coke will kill you.” It cannot be predicted by looking at the stars, aligning constellations with birthdays, and proclaiming that on the 5th Scorpios will be good in bed on the 24th Leos shouldn’t make any big purchases, and that Taurus will be more aggressive this month than usual, which occurs often. It cannot be studied by looking at years passed and Louis XIV’s legacy versus Hitler’s tyranny versus Elizabeth’s brilliancy versus Cleopatra’s sexuality. It cannot be summed up in a word, line, phrase, chapter, book, or series. Life cannot be figured out due to two reasons—we already know what will happen in it, and we’re too dumb to acknowledge it.

Life is comprised of a series of positive and negative happenings. I believe J.M. Barrie sums these things up the best in his theory about Neverland. It is often assumed that Neverland can only be flown to when sleeping, but on the contrary it affects our life when awake more than we realize. It is when we sleep that we get our greatest ideas, which lie in wait for the perfect opportunity when you’re awake to bust out in your head and exclaim “AHA!” It is in our sleep that we mull over things like stocks and shares and love and politics and the Twilight Zone and milk and cookies, and when we awake we announce our conclusions. Positive and Negative present themselves on a stage in your sleep. This stage is somewhere on Captain Hook’s ship now that he’s been dead for quite awhile—in fact, I’m quite sure that Peter’s forgotten all about Hook’s existence at this point, but he has a whole new group of Lost Boys who travel with him, for girls are still much too smart to fall out of their prams, and these boys along with the mermaids and fairies sit and watch as one thing after another presents itself. Getting your teeth pulled. Pulling your own tooth. First day of school. Chocolate cake. Outdoor showers. Gummy bears. Fiber optic Christmas trees. Acrobats. Your first real kiss. Bruises from your bicycle. The list continues on and on, and as each happening walks offstage the Neverland changes slightly—the rock on the west side of Mermaid’s Lagoon suddenly turned a pink hue when you said yes to your first date, a strawberry bush grew near where Tiger Lily’s hut once stood when you read the first book that really made you think, a stream appeared on Skull Rock when you realized Kurt Cobain was dead, and so on. Of course, not everyone on Neverland is there all the time, but Boots will take watch while everyone eats breakfast, Bilbo tends to take guard during afternoon naptime, say around three thirty, and Peter likes to go around midnight when traffic is busiest. Neverland used to be able to change on its own accord, but when The Home Under the Ground suddenly caved in he decided enough was enough and that he really needed to make sure things were running smoothly.

But Neverland is small and compact, correct? Yes, that’s right. So how can billions of changes occur at one time? Because there are billions of Neverlands. Each person has their own Neverland, which has the basic shape of a singular island with a Mermaid’s Lagoon, Hook’s ship, an Indian tribe with a girl named Tiger Lily, a Fairy Grove, a Skull Rock, Peter, The Lost Boys, Fairies, and a Home Under The Ground. The rest varies from one person to the next, and when lined up in a row you can compare similarities and differences—like height, weight, eye color—and when lined up in a family you realize that ah! that giant cherry tree to mark the exit to the Home Under The Ground really does run in the Bowles Family, while in the Green family it is indeed an orange tree! And such realizations extend widely. Best friends might have a similar black haired mermaid in the lagoon, an ex-couple could share a broken boat off the shore of the lagoon. No matter which shape your Neverland takes, this is the place where you reside in your dreams. This is your community, your nature, your private place, and when you awake the things your hold dear and those you despise are the result of having been in your Neverland.

Yet because of the basics that are required in Neverland, we are forced to admit there are some things that must or cannot happen. The mermaid’s lagoon will not be bombed off the map and destroyed—it cannot leave. No matter how hard you try, you cannot make that friend you wish to be with anything more if the friend doesn’t want it—it won’t happen. Tinker Bell has to, at some point, die if she hasn’t already—it must happen. You will be turned down for a date—it must happen. There are some rules in Neverland that cannot be broken, just like in real life, while some rules were made to be broken. A fairy must die, only to have you bring her back to life. You must break curfew, only to see that you narrowly missed a wreck on your way home that, had you been home on time, you wouldn’t have been near. You must make a mermaid mad, only to make amends with her after much trial and error. You must break a dish in an argument, only to stop the whole brouhaha and have those involved stare at the shattered pieces on the floor as a tear drops down your face and the other person wipes it away.

We all know these things will happen and yet when we leave our Neverlands and continue our thought processes in the world, our thoughts change. Suddenly being Cinderella can be achieved, the world must give me all it has under every circumstance, I deserve the finest luxuries for simply staying alive, and I must match my idol celebrities. We refuse to acknowledge the truth about ourselves, our friends, and life itself. We get caught and tugged into this warped, grotesque, complaining mindset that allows for no negativity or all negativity, nothing in between. We have lost balance, we have lost truth, we have lost God, we have lost love, we have lost faith, and we have lost ourselves. We have lost Neverland. I am just as guilty of it as the next person—I believe that Ed Hardy and Betsey Johnson will magically appear at my door and give me everything they’ve ever designed and send constant shipments of their newest creations, all in a size small; I believe that at some point my father will admit everything he’s done wrong and will come running back to me saying he’s sorry and that he wants to start over; I believe that at the drop of a hat I’ll have more dates and phone numbers than I’ll know what to do wit.—but it won’t happen. Neverland looks me in the eye, raises its left eyebrow, and says “are you kidding? You need a wake-up call…” and sucks you in yet again to ground you in reality. The saddest part of it all is that this outside world, what is normally called reality, is in truth anything but. It has been warped and twisted until we have lost touch with it, and to find any sort of reality at all we must look to Neverland, which was originally meant as an escape from reality, but the rules and restrictions and natural orders of this place in our heads is our only chance of going back to what is real and pure and good and true.

I can’t tell you everything that will happen in life. That can be done by God alone, and at that He hides it from us in order to prevent us from being Macbeths. But I can tell you that what I have said is true—life has positive and negative, and there is no force to stop it. Changes must be accepted, relationships must endure, time must continue. We already know what will happen in it, and we’re too dumb to acknowledge it.

My Bucket List (January)

2009-06-20T15:21:00.000-07:00

So I saw the movie The Bucket List a few nights ago. See it. It's one of the few movies I've ever cried in. (Literally I can count them all on one hand.)

So I'm starting a Bucket List for when someone decides they want to go crazy with me before they die.

1) Go to Castle Fraser in Scotland.

2) Visit St. Margaret's Chapel in Edinburgh Castle.

3) Dance in St. Mark's square in Venice.

4) Swim with dolphins.

5) Run a dogsled through Alaska.

6) Paint a portrait that I can be proud to say I've painted.

7) Tap dance on the streets of Paris.

8) Pray in St. Basil's Cathedral.

9) Create the longest quiz of personality questions EVER. BEAT THAT E-HARMONY!

10) Write a bestseller.

11) Record a song.

12) Skip on the Great Wall of China.

13) Go to Kenya.

14) Learn Russian, German, Swahili, and Japanese.

15) Take my besties and go on a road trip.

16) Have a Europe Trip reunion!

17) Have an NYLC reunion!

18) Drive a '64 Astin Martin.

19) Live in a big creepy haunted old house/mansion/castle.

20) Be in a movie.

21) Get a kiss in the rain.

22) Learn pointe.

23) Go bungee jumping.

24) Skydive.

25) Go to New Zealand.

26) Go see the Olympics.

27) Learn how to take a compliment.

28) Learn to ballroom dance properly.

29) Stay out all night dancing and go to work the next day without having gone home (just once).

30) Shower in a waterfall.

31) Be in Munich for Oktoberfest.

32) Spen New Year's in London.

33) Attend one really huge rock concert and bodysurf.

34) Go to Bartending school.

35) Go to all 7 continents.

36) Stand where Athena once stood in the ruins of the Parthenon.

37) Go on a blind date.

39) Get a reputation.

40) Own black leather pants and wear 'em like it's nobody's business.

41) Carry a good luck cram or totem for a year, then give it to a friend.

42) Be with wolves in the wild.

43) Read all of the Bible, the Apochrypha, and the other books that weren't included in the Bible.

44) Live outside of America for awhile, other than studying abroad.

45) Become a master of poker.

46) Become a freemason.

47) Take a vow and keep it.

48) Have a job where you work for tips.

49) Have your own brand of alcohol, be it beer, wine, or whatever.

50) Read Lolita.

51) Go somewhere for two weeks and tell no one where you are.

52) Go on a safari.

53) Read everything Shakespeare wrote.

54) Visit the yet-to-be-made Harry Potter theme park and try not to cry tears of girly joy.

55) Draw a map of a fictional place.

56) Live to see the day when smart and witty wins out over hot and shallow every single day of the week.

57) Buy the most expensive pair of shoes in a store.

58) Go to a club with your best friends.

59) Talk in an accent for one day.

60) Reread all of your favorite fictional series and do a study on them.

Tap dancing, Coca Cola, and My Creative Itch (Dec 8, '08)

2009-06-20T15:11:00.000-07:00

Heel shuffle heel down, heel shuffle heel down, heel riff, heel riff, heel toe heel step...

Gulp...fizz...burp...gulp...:ahh:...

Click click click...pause...clickety click click.I'm really sore right now. I shouldn't be, I know. But I am. I haven't had a massage in 2 months. My shoulders are going to rage on me at any moment. My thighs and calves and feet ache like the've got leadshot in them.

I'm tired. And I'm tired of being tired, to tell you the truth.

So now I'm just gonna sit here and type. See, I watched Finding Forrester last night.(3 words...OH MY GOD.)
And now I want a Forrester in my life...yes, even with the anxiety attacks and the angry hermit lifestyle. I want that gravely voice who has traveled the rocky path I want to take and say "Now look, here's what you need to know to do--here's what you need to know to never do--here are the rules which are dying to be broken--now go!" and push me off to see what happens. Okay, so take out the whole plaigiarism bit of it...but other than that.

And yet some little part of me keeps pulling at me saying "dance again...please?" Tap and lyrical for some reason just flow for me. Sure, they take work, but the flow. They thrill. If Heaven doesn't have a stage and a pair of tap shoes waiting for me when I get there, I don't want to be there. And now I'm thinking of adding foot undeez to the tap shoes--go through my days just dancing along...

Writing and dancing. Two careers that pretty much get you no pay.

And now my Coca Cola is gone. Mmmmm. Wherever the pharmacist is who first invented this stuff, I thank you. You've saved me.

Mary Helen, you better be saving me a spot in your cardboard box.

It's Been Awhile.

2009-06-20T14:14:00.000-07:00

Well, the Pirate Queen needed a bit of time off from the blog.

I purposely took some time off this year. I didn't intend to take the whole year off, but I needed to. It was senior year, and either I could have documented every single bit of this year, or not written a bit of it. I've written some stuff on my own, musings and such like I put on here, but I haven't posted much for people to see. I wanted this year to go by without my examining every moment of it all the time.

I wanted to simply happen.
And it did.

Life was a beautiful, chaotic, glorious journey this year. It had it's ups--me getting into the college of my first choice--and it's downs--more drama with my father's side of the family--and it's inbetweens--the joy and sadness of graduation--and I wouldn't trade the voyage I've been on for the world. The Captain is gone, and that's okay. I'm steering my ship towards Neverland, anyway, and that's something he's not the greatest believer in.

My biggest realization was the wonderful place called Neverland. I've loved it for years, but I didn't let Neverland affect me until this past year. It's literally re-shaped the way I see the world. I'll be posting my creative musings on here with dates.

Ladies an Gentlemen, the Pirate Commodre Queen has returned.

Adventures.

2008-05-27T15:41:00.000-07:00

Why don’t you take a walk with me?
We used to when we were young...
Won’t you go back there with me?

We’ll walk those beaches filled with
Hurriedly scurrying little crabs encrusted in diamonds and fire
Shells given to us by mermaids and witch doctors
Imagined pearls and jewels strewn about for our never-ending collection

We’ll journey those forests in our backyards
Filled with ancient castles and oceanic moats
With knights at our side to lead us to victory
No matter what comes our way

We’ll glide along those roads again
(Who knew a little Razor could make us so weightless?)
Pretending we can fight the world of all evil
Simply by believing we are the glamorous super-girls who invaded
Our televisions and our heads

We’ll skip along the grass again
Dive deep into the sea
Here’s my hand: so take it, friend,
And come along with me

Let’s be Wendy and Peter for today
Having more adventure than reality could stand
In a place where kisses can be buttons
And dying would be an awfully big adventure

I suppose our journey should come to a close
Talking with mermaids on some forgotten beach
Playing solitaire with bits of the sky
Changing from sapphires to topaz and rubies and rose quartz
And maybe...just maybe...we might just catch a shoot of emerald
And that now golden pearl would sink into that ebony velvet basin

I suppose we’d have to grow up again after that...
We’d have to be adults again...be members of the real world
No fairies to play in our hair and whisper secrets in our ears
No Lost Boys to explore with
No Hogwarts to get lost in
And then the only big-people adventure we could have is getting lost in Harrods for the day...
...but who says we must grow up completely?

So then after playing with the skies and wishing the stars good luck on their watch
After putting out the campfire and taking our last swig of rum
I guess I’d take a look at you and ask, “Tomorrow, love?”
And maybe you’d grin “yes.”

Regain Paradise.

2008-05-27T15:40:00.000-07:00

Stop everything…just for one moment…for me.

I need to you pause with me…
Step out of the traffic, as it were…

And give me something I’ve been craving.

It would seem our lives are going by faster than we ever thought a day could pass…going by one drip-drop at a time, but at an ever increasing rate…to the point that it turns into a waterfall.

I need you to take this break with me…
Bask in the calm of fairytales and swing sets along the riverside…

Let’s regain Paradise.
I can be Eve; you can take my hand and be by my side
As we mind each other oft, not merely taking each to our own willed desires.

Let’s live life the way it should be. Let’s forget the poisoned morals of this world…

Dance with me.
Braid flowers in my hair.
Lace your fingers through mine.
We’ll lie in the grass and whisper secrets to the butterflies
Giggle with the wind
And when we’ve had our fill of life…real, true, beautiful life…
We’ll return to this hectic and wondrous land we call our temporary home, our golden treasure lying inside our hearts
Constantly burning brightly
You can stay with me or leave; it won’t matter—just know…

There will be a day when I ask you to jump back out of the traffic…
And you might just enjoy the new craziness and mortality of it…
And you’ll have to choose to stay or go with me.

Rain.

2008-05-27T15:39:00.000-07:00

I walk into that midnight white noise
Effervescent kisses pop all around me
As moonshine drips its gloriousness down my body
The cool rain leaves a refreshing stick on me in that breathy air
It’s always that way in the good summer nights…
It’s calm enough to be releasing…yet, you must wonder…
Is all that liberated tension just building up somewhere else?
And you think in the back of your mind,
I wish my hand wasn’t empty
Cause tonight it just might storm…
And I want to be the center of the hurricane.

Tightness.

2008-05-27T14:56:00.000-07:00

That's right, kids.

I'm a senior.

Wait....what happened????

What happened to junior year--the anxiety of being ALMOST on top, but not quite?? The bonding between my class out of need, desire, or sheer desparation?? The moments when we realized who really was smart...and who can just pull it off??

What happened to sophomore year--the sophomore slump?? The days we spent being emo, dreaming of loverly Junior-land?? The forcefulness of cliques that make the word sickening on our tongues??

What happened to freshman year--being yet again stuck at the bottom of the totem pole, but feeling idealistic and pushing forward as if nothing could hurt us, when in truth we had no idea what we were getting into??

What happened to 8th grade--when I was starting over someplace new, able to reshape everything I had and make me, well, me??

What happened to seventh grade--when I was mixed with fear and jubilation at the thought of leaving my hometown??

What happened to sixth grade--when I realized all to quickly that the real world simply stinks if you let it??

What happened to fifth grade--when being the tall, geeky, acne-covered one actually meant something to someone??

What happened to fourth grade--when we wrote and sponge-painted our way through life??

What happened to third grade--when multiplication tables were the hardest thing I'd yet faced??

What happened to second grade--when a teacher could call you doorbell and being liked by someone was dangerous??

What happened to first grade--when my first homework assignments were worksheets and being tall made me prouder than ever??

What happened to kindergarten--when I was a star because I could read The Little House In The Big Woods??

What happened to preschool days--when I could be a snake or sunbeam on any given day??

What happened to my toddler years--when I rearranged spices on the precarious spice rack because I had nothing better to do, and proving myself to be a genius came by simply by living??

What happened to it all? Where did it go?

It's like it's all dripped down the hourglass...my one problem is that I'm not sure how many grains are left.

I could have eighty years.
I could have fifty years.
I could have thirty years.
I could have ten years.
I could have five years.
I could have one year.
I could have 6 months.
I could have two weeks.
I could have one day...one single, solitary day...
and then I'd be gone.

I have to wonder...

Today...with this one single day...did I make the world a better place than it was at seven-something when I woke up this morning?

I got a message today.

What I've not been mentioning in this blog is that, the reason The Captain left me last time...
is that he was dead.

I was told he had been killed in military basics due to a gunshot wound.

Since that April day, I've been dealing with the fact that one of the people dearest to my heart, no matter how strained, messed up, and strange our relationship has played out to be...is gone.

I got a message today.

A saint lives, he apologizes but that is all he can say for now. Good day.

He lives. St. Captain lives.

And that, to me, is something to be joyous about.

I know that this thing we have between us is strange and if it were any other man, I'd be long gone.

But he would have been gone if he didn't feel it, too.

There's a whole new meaning to "tight."

He and I--we're tight. It seems nothing can stop us...ever.

We're tight.

I'm a senior now. My life has whipped by me. And it's about to spin faster.

Time is tight.

Life. It's tight.

The Last English Post: A Few of My Favorite Things

2008-05-08T21:31:00.000-07:00

Well, friends, this is it: the last post of the year. Let's go out with a mental Kodak moment. Pick something you enjoyed that you would put into your imaginary scrapbook for the class. It could be a new idea, a fresh look, or simply something funny that somehow slipped in through the door.

English has always been an easy subject for me. Wait, erm...forget last year and that'll still ring true. But nevertheless I've always liked it. I mean, it was one of those classes that I didn't not enjoy, which must've meant I liked it...but this year proved all that wrong. English became more than just a subject where I could sit and not be dreading to leave--it became the hilight of my A-day, and I found that every day I was hoping that for some random reason we'd all get locked in Mr. Sawyer's classroom to discuss, debate, mitigate, appreciate, and make eachother realize our strengths and weaknesses.

My mom has always told me that somewhere in high school, you'll get a teacher and a class that stood out more than any other. The teacher will be one of those people who invites you to his house simply because he enjoys being around you. He'll know you well enough to make fun of you in a way that makes you laugh at yourself. And that relationship comes, in the end, to a trust and friendship much like that of you and any other close adult friend. And that class--you discuss things that simply would never come up in any other class. You find yourself interested and passionate about things you never considered about yourself. You figure out who in your class really has their grip on things and who doesn't. That class has been our class to the quick. And in the midst of some huge argument over Adam and Eve's intentions and behavior, there's a look that comes across our faces that can simply be termed as "Whoa. We just said all that. We've become the smart Juniors that we were so scared to be..." and a mixed feeling of pride and sadness comes over you as you realize you won't have this class for the rest of eternity. I'd have to say that look of revelation, along with Mr. Sawyer's contented "Well done, young padawan" smile, would be my Kodak moment.

I honestly can't decide what I'll miss most: the teacher, the students, the inside jokes, the puns hidden in conversation, using OPs to rant about writing and modeling, Mr. Saywer's impeccable sense of humor, the works themselves, writing notes to Mr. Sawyer on my tests, discussing practically every topic under the sun, the OPs (the closer together you are, the father away from eachother you are!), tackling yet another work to the point that we could rock the world with our knowledge...this class, I have to say, is something that I'll never forget. It belongs in the books among the best of the best.

YAY 100TH POST! / English Posts: Putting Your Finger On It.

2008-04-28T19:07:00.000-07:00

In the first part of Heart of Darkness, Joseph Conrad borrows from his own past when he has Marlow tell of putting his finger on a map of central Africa when he was a boy and announcing, “When I grow up I will go there” (5). Like Marlow, Conrad followed his finger and made it to Africa years later. What I would love to know from you is, “Where is your finger place?” It can’t be anywhere you have already been. If you could pick one spot on earth to see before you die, where would it be?

Since I'm going to the two places I would hae said (England and Scotland), I'll have to say... Russia.

So what is it about this snowy crazed country of Vodka and Communism that appeals to me in the least? My aunt, Laurie Lee. If you've heard this story before, please forgive me. Laurie Lee Woolen was the smartest woman to ever grace our family. As a senior in high school, she made a 99.9 for the year because she made 1 grammatical error on 1 essay the ENTIRE YEAR. Not to mention she was a straight 95 or above student who only made one B in her life--geometry. She was a genius. Not to mention an incredible dancer, writer, piano player, and person. She wrote a different essay to each one of her colleges in her application list. She applied to Harvard on a bet she made with a guy at my grandfather's office who said she wasn't good enough to get in. She was accepted early admission but didn't go. She didn't even like the place. Instead, she went to UVA on an Eckel's scholarship--ie, you don't have to take ANY core classes. She was taking MASTERS classes as a FRESHMAN. (And her college essay to UVA would be considered apalling in standards of today--she wrote her entire essay never mentioning herself once, but instead used to to write about a fictional world of G'Nomies (say the "g" and add an "i" in gnomes).) As a junior in high school, her European History professor offered a trip to Russia to anyone in his class. She went wide eyed and camera obsessive. The crazy part: this was in the late 70s, back when Russia was still VERY Communist and strict. She bargained for decent food, better accomodations, and a better trip in general by taking her teacher's recommendations and bringing all sorts of bargaining items: Pink Floyd and Rolling Stones albums, pantyhose, Levis jeans, ballpiont pens, Playboys, and a few other random but coveted items in that country. That trip inspired her to become a US correspondent to Moscow when she got out of college, but unfortunately that never came around: she died in a car accident in the summer of '82.

My mom, grandmother, and other relatives often call me Laurie Lee by mistake because of how much I remind them of her. I don't see how we could possibly compare, but I can try my hardest to walk in some of her footsteps...creating a few of my own pathways along the way, of course. So I'm off to Russia...one of these days...

English Posts: Politics and Pulpits

2008-04-22T20:15:00.000-07:00

As Americans, we have long prided ourselves on believing that we invented the concept of “the separation of church and state.”My impression, however, is that, while everyone knows the phrase, that there is wide disagreement as to what the phrase means. In A Man for All Seasons, we have a man deeply involved in politics and deeply committed to his faith. So what is he supposed to do when those worlds collide? Do Christians have a place in politics or should we keep our values to ourselves? Do pastors and bishops have the right to talk about political issues from the pulpit or should our church leaders stick to spiritual issues and leave politics to the politicians?

Hmm. This one's tough.

See, you can go on the line of because we're Christians, part of our job description is to live life the way God intended it to be, which means we need to be actively involved in politics to influence others to create a better world. But it can also be said that a minister who preaches politics and not religion will ultimately lead people to go away from his ministry, or abandon the Church altogether. I think those in ministry have a fine line in their paths, and it is a matter of how that line is handled as to how their congregation will react. If politics are absolutely never mentioned, it seems our ministers are out of touch with the world. If politics make up more of the sermon than Scripture, I have to wonder what that Church is based on. The way I see it, ministers should not hop on one side or the other of that line but straddle it, applying political issues only when applicable, not leaving them out entirely to no damage feelings nor stick politics in merely to have politics in there.

The best example I can think of is the fight for World Hunger and AIDS treatment in Africa. We have a lot of items sold in our church bookstore made by men and women in Africa, both tribal and missionaries, in order to support these causes. Also, we have the annual 30-Hour Famine at my church, as well as many other churches. While at first it doesn't really seem political, in truth it actually is. There are many disputes over the best way to deal with both the hunger and disease in Africa, and there are some who even say that we should just step back and do nothing, because these people don't have enough humanity or civility to keep disease from spreading or enough common sense to find more food--as shocking as it sounds, I've heard it many times.

I guess the church has to take different political issues into consideration and figure out which ones can be helped by religion and which ones will only cause more arguments and delays with it.

Hmm. Titles.

2008-04-17T19:53:00.000-07:00

My Peculiar Aristocratic Title is:
Countess Charlotte the Philomath of Old Yarkhillshire
Get your Peculiar Aristocratic Title

So I decided to try another aristocratic title because I've been told by some I'm quite contrite, while others say "bloody hell of course you're not!" and I really don't have a clear grasp on the meaning, so I decided that being a title of something you have no clue of probably isn't a very good thing to be.

A philomath is someone who seeks knowledge and facts for the pure sake of knowledge. They are not philosophers, out developing ideas and theories...they just want to know what is out there in this beautifully chaotic place we call home.

And that, right now, is me.

I'm not out trying to change the world with my views. That's to come later.

Now...

I'm just trying to sort through the vengeful silliness that is life.

I'm trying to figure out what makes me tick, what makes you tick, what makes books flow, what makes God vital.

Why some prefer rainy days and splashing in puddles to dancing around on a bright and sunny day.

Why Henry VIII ACTUALLY broke from the Catholic Church.

What makes a book a book, a good book a good book, a great book a great book, and a classic unforgettable.

What is the appeal of sitting in a vat of hot water with bubbles all around you (because I thoroughly enjoy it and have no idea why).

Why I can be incredibly sore in dance and yet be happier on the dance floor than in the lap lanes of my old chlorine-infested waters.

Why good things happen to bad people.

How many licks DOES it take to get to the center of a Tootsie pop.

Why some could possibly prefer Pepsi to Coke.

Why I like to sit with a friend and a good movie and snuggle just as much as I like to be an insanely hyper silly person with that same person.

Why being a best friend sometimes isn't enough and other times is too much.

Why exactly we liked to be loved. After all, doesn't the drama of it make life wierder?

How some people could POSSIBLY enjoy Wuthering Heights.

Why low budget films with coconut shells and singing knights and knights who say NI! and killer rabbits somehow all tied into a plotline of the Holy Grail can be hysterically funny.

Why chicken noodle soup is just a hot steamy bowl of home.

Why on earth I like to cook.

Why books are so much more to me than text on pages.

Why Laurie Lee had to die...and why I'm so much like her.

Why He sent me here in the first place.

But of course, being completely sane, I know that I won't know the answer to most of these questions for quite awhile, if ever. And honestly, I'm okay with that.

Doesn't mean I'm not going to ask though.

My Peculiar Aristocrtic Title.

2008-04-14T11:13:00.001-07:00

My Peculiar Aristocratic Title is:
Reverend Countess Charlotte the Contrite of Similar Ealand
Get your Peculiar Aristocratic Title

English Posts: Going to the Polls

2008-04-09T20:32:00.000-07:00

We’ve talked about how Wuthering Heights has provoked a wide range of responses from readers over the years. So let’s put it on the read-o-meter, with “1” meaning that you love the book, “2” that you like it, “3” meaning that it’s okay, “4” meaning that you don’t care for it, and “5”meaning that you’re not surprised that Emily Bronte died a few months after she wrote the thing because it’s killing you. (“6” means that you intend to read the book someday.) Add a few sentences explaining your vote, stir, put it in the oven at 350º for twenty minutes, and you will have yourself a fine response to the prompt.

5.999999999999999. I can honestly say I have never read a more dull, predictable, pointless story in my life. Personally, I have never been a fan of this genre, whether it be Pride and Prejudice (which I couldn't get past the first page of because it bored me so) or this (which I only read because I know that since I want to be an English major I'm going to have to read a lot of things I just don't like at all). There is honestly no character in the story who does not at some point appear as a whiny brat, and the only reason I can get through the silly thing is by imagining all the characters as modern-day Emo kids, which makes me laugh hysterically and the story becomes more of a satire than anything else.

Call me horrible and cold-hearted, but the fact is I have no sympathy for any character in this book. Sorry, Emily, but this is one I will be joyous about when I never have to read it again.

MTV's WH was, if anything, (and I can't believe I'm saying this) even worse. Punk kid who feels he's not understood, sympathetic and kinda trippy but good looking girl, guy who has nothing but good looks and a guitar...WOOP DE DO. I say my made-up Emo version would be funnier to both cast and those watching.

I do agree with a few others that her language is beautiful, but her mindless details and stale plot pretty much ruin it for me.

English Posts: Reason or Romance?

2008-03-31T16:40:00.000-07:00

As we race through the Ages of Reason and Romance, I wonder which one you find yourself in greater sympathy with. Do the folks from the Enlightenment bore you with their excitement about making sense of things or do you take satisfaction in their longing to bring order out of chaos? Are the Romantics just a bit too loopy for you or do you find appealing their call to experience life and not merely analyze it?

Personally I enjoy both equally but for different reasons. I love how the Enlightemnent Boys were masters of satire, something that we see today but sadly isn't done nearly as well. The point of satire is to be insanely ludicrous yet make your argument so convincing and so appealing that even the man most against your case could say "Well, you might have a point there...hmm." It is, in my opinion, becoming a lost art. But I also enjoy the Romantics for not letting the little things in life go by and fully enjoying every bit of life that comes their way. And I REALLY like that Poe and Hawthorne aren't here to make things all dark and gloomy. The British Romantics seem much more concerned with everything about life--good and bad--and notsomuch being the "emo" kids sitting in the corner saying "Life is a waste! It's not worth living! Yet we must toil on! We must go back to nature and--!" Blahbbity blabboity blah, I get it already, just don't be so morose about it! The British Romantics really seem to enjoy life more than the American ones, and that I'm very happy about.

I guess after writing this I should somehow make up a satire concerning emo kids. But alas, I don't have time...or maybe that's an OP? Hmmmmm......

That Sicilian Boy, Part 2.

2008-03-31T16:28:00.001-07:00

So I get a text from out of nowhere the other night from a number essentially engraved in my head: That Sicilian Boy's. After talking awhile he asked, er begged, if he could have me back. I wanted to say no--You're too far away, I'm not sure I can do that, I don't trust you as much... something. But I couldn't. I said for him to give me a week to think on it but I honestly wanted to. Really, really badly.

A week has gone by since that happened. I haven't heard a word the past few days, and saw he was online a bit ago. I decided to IM him, only to hear from someone else that he couldn't talk.
And wouldn't be able to for a very long time.

Whoever this person was said he wouldn't be around much longer, and for me to get up and move away from him as fast as possible.

I know he's in the military now. Military friends don't say things like that to their friend's interest unless they absolutely mean it.

This was the second time I've been told to run away from him as fast as possible.
There's no running away for me.
I let go of that one last picture I had, that one precious memory...

and dropped it where I'll never find it again.

And that's exactly the way I want it.

It's funny, it hasn't been till I talked to him again that I finally felt single. And liked it.

Really, really, actually enjoyed it. I don't feel like I've broken off...

I feel like I'm just starting a new chapter. This is about me now--what I want, what I need, what I simply have to have.

And no Sicilian's gonna stop me from getting it.

Ladies and Gentlemen, Your Pirate Queen.

English Posts: The Best and the Rest

2008-03-24T18:50:00.000-07:00

I just finished watching my favorite movie of all time, The Wizard of Oz. (How can you beat lines like “What puts the “ape” in “apricot? Courage!”) But now I’m sitting at the computer listening to a song that made the reputation of three musicians because of its catchy melody. The band was “America”and the song was their first hit, “A Horse with No Name.” The song is memorable for its lyrics as much as for its tune because the lines are soooo bad. For example, “In the desert you can remember your name, ‘cause there ain’t no one for to give you no pain.” Need I say more?
What I would like to hear about this week are lines that you find remarkable, either because they are so poignant, clever, or unexpected, or simply because they are so bilious.

Mr. Shakespeare, if you could ever make a post that I literally could NEVER quit talking about, this is the one. Thus, I will try to restrain myself...but man, I love this topic!
If you're referring to song lyrics, I'll have to go with a few lines from "Tennessee" by The Wreckers.

I never had all the answers
I never had enough time
But I sure had all the reasons
Why you weren't what I wanted to find
I never laid all my cards out
You just wanted to play
The king he waited on my doorsteps
While the joker and me went on our way.

But if you're talking movie lines...oi, that's just tough for me! However, I think I have found the lines that encompass cleverness, unexpectedness, and biliousness (is that even a word?). Just copy the URL below into your browser and enjoy the hilarity. Or, if it won't copy, go to YouTube.com and type "hook food fight" into the search engine. Click on the first clip that comes up.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a-eaUT7JPZs

I've got one hint: Bangerang!

Or just click on that silly link. It actually works. Yay.

English Posts: The Sales Job

2008-03-02T19:58:00.000-08:00

As we work our way through book nine of Paradise Lost, I am impressed by how much Satan comes across as the first salesman. The only thing he uses to persuade Eve is words. He does not overpower her, or inflate his snaky body to the size of a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade float. Instead, he just praises and oozes. So, this week I’d like you to think about salesmanship. You have been bombarded by ads your whole life. Are there sales campaigns that work for you? Are there some you find ineffective, incomprehensible, or even repugnant? If you prefer, think about yourself as the target of these people who want your money. When are you most vulnerable? Or what helps you to resist such temptation?

To be honest, I can't really think of one big turn off when it comes to sales other than cheeziness or stupidity in commercials. You know, the commercials that after you see, you say "Wait...that was supposed to be funny? Okaay then...um?"
The ad I find most appealing right now is the new (RED) campaign ad with many people from many different places and backgrounds explaining what (RED) is, what it does, and how it helps others. Not only is the music appealing, but the presentation draws you in and keeps you on the edge of your seat. By the end of the commercail, I always have the impulse to buy some (RED) item, no matter how much more it costs, because I want to be able to know that by doing so I helped someone live one more day. It's a commercial that can be replayed over and over in your head and not get annoying--if anything, i speaks to you more with each round. Maybe it's the fact that I know this campaign isn't a scam that makes it memorable. Maybe it's the fact that my youth group at my church is really dedicated to helping the kids in Africa with the 30-hr famine and buying (RED) stuff when we find it. Maybe it's the fact that the people in that commercial don't seem like actors, but sound truly dedicated to this cause. Maybe it's that fact that I could be saving someone's life by buying a (RED) product. Whatever the case may be, those commercials hit me hard. Another one is the new Pedigree commercial with the dog named Echo in the pound who has a family walk by him and he's absolutely ADORABLE and it just KILLS me every time that commerical comes on. My family has rescued 2 dogs and my nextdoor neighbors help rescuing dogs, so this commercial (maybe even more than the (RED) commercial) makes me want to run out and either adopt a dog or run to the pet store and grab as many bags of Pedigree as I can. SOunds pathetic, I know, but after rescuing 2 dogs (one Alaskan Malamute who died at about 16 years of age and one SIberian Husky who died when he was about 4 due to a lung problem) and watching them go from being almost dead to living out happy, healthy lives, it kills me that there are so many more dogs out there who need homes.
And on that note, I'm going to hug my puppy for a long time and have her convince me not to run out and adopt another dog. But having more than one dog would be nice...ooh, and I heard they're making (RED) pet supplies now, too! Oh, boy...I need to stop now.

English Posts: Round 2

2008-02-28T17:31:00.000-08:00

We’ve seen this past week how Lady Macbeth dwells on what it means to be a woman or a man and then goes on to deny her own femininity and to manipulate her husband’s masculinity. Some folks today might object to her obsession with sexual stereotypes on the grounds that men and women are more alike than different and that such stereotyping is useless or worse. Others might say that stereotypes are rooted in centuries of observation and behavior and thus contain more than a kernel of truth. What I’d like you to do is to choose one stereotype for either sex and respond to it. Does it bother you? Do you wish that people paid more attention to it? Talk to us.

Ah, stereotypes. Can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em.
I'm going to go on an opposite limb from Marshall and pick apart the group who's OBSESSED with women being able to lead the world and be in charge of everything. Don't get me wrong, I know women are powerful. Some of the greatest figures in history have been women--Queen Elizabeth is my favorite and best example. In Orthodox Judaism, a man is given respect while a woman is essentially revered. She--not he--is the head of the household. She controls the bank account. She runs everything, and if she's a mother is not even required to fulfill all of the Shabbat constraints and other mitzvout (tons of rules and prayers that make life absolutely insane to live for about 24 hours) becuase her role as housewife and mother are above those rules in their eyes. But I do have a problem with women wanting to control EVERYTHING.
Last week I was confirmed in the Episcopal church (I was baptized at birth, so this was when I took on my baptismal covenant. It also means I'm an adult in the Church. I can vote on clergy, etc. That's a whole other discussion...). We have three priests at my church. Father Bob is the head guy. If you think of the quiet guy in class who doesn't really say much, but when you talk to him and get him going he's really quite knowledgable and funny, that's Father Bob to the quick. Then we have Ann and Monna. Yes, we have ordained female priests in the church (other dioceses give a lot of grief about it). Our diocese, along with a few others, reconizes that women can lead a service just as well as men and are called to minister by God. The new bishop of our archdiocese (I believe...yes, because John, the bishop of the diocese, is the one who confirmed me, and she's above him) is a woman named Katherine. I love Ann and Monna (I haven't gotten to meet Katherine yet) to bits, yet if either woman was the head of my church I'm not sure I'd be able to attend. I've always seen the father as the head of the household. To me, if Ann or Monna were head...I'd feel like I wasn't a part of a church family like I am now. It simply wouldn't feel right. Neither Monna nor Ann are any less important than Father Bob, but the fact that he's the one who is overall in charge of the Church is a comforting thing.
I'm really not sure we'll ever have a female president. There are too many men--and women--who honestly don't like the idea. God created each of gender the way he did for a reason. He made Adam to lead and take care of things overall. He made Eve not merely to follow--but to help. Sure, women can lead, too, but when it comes to something as great and demanding a job as the Presidency I'm honestly not sure that a Mrs. President and the First Gentleman would be able to handle it as well, thoroughly, and diplomatically as a Mr. President and the First Lady. Women were made to comfort, love, and be supportive. If that means getting in the middle of the action, then fine. I have no problem with that. But having a woman as the ultimate leader I'm not so sure about. Now, if we somehow get another Queen Elizabeth in our midst, then I'll have her full fledged support. Till then, I'm liking the sound of Mr. President.

We’ve been taking some time to look at Macbeth through the eyes of a director. Now I would like to know what part you would like to play if you were in the show. What would you bring to the part? Some actors prefer to play villains because they find them more complex. Harrison Ford, on the other hand, said that he preferred playing good guys because the motives of the bad guys often seemed so shallow. (All of which is to say that we will not believe that you are wicked if you choose one of the leads.)

After doing part of my research paper on her, I'd really like to play Lady Macbeth. She's not the type of villainous woman we expect in that she doesn't stay strong and grow more wicked and twisted as the plot does on. In fact, we see her grow insecure and have doubts as to whether ehat she did is right--something rarely seen in villains. Typically, a protagonist goes full throttle into his plans and never doubts that he's wrong, which is why I like Lady Macbeth so much. We see her at the start of things and cruel, unfeeling, and practically inhuman, yet when the gravity of what all has gone on finally lands on her shoulders she qickly crumbles.

Also, there's the big debate on how Lady Macbeth died. Was she murdered by Macbeth, which is why he's so callous about it? Was she murdered by someone else? Was is suicide? No one's really sure, so I think it'd be cool to go down one of those routes and see how the audience takes it.

Even though we have only begun Paradise Lost, you have already seen how Milton is no ordinary poet—nor is he an ordinary Christian. In his opening lines he asks for the Spirit’s inspiration to help him write the world’s greatest epic, one that is especially better than anything Homer ever wrote. My question for this week is this: what do you make of Milton’s ambition? Do you applaud it or does it bother you? What room is there for ambition in our lives as we seek to use our gifts for God’s glory?

(Yet again, I'm stuck in my house sick awaiting test results from the doctor to see what I have THIS TIME...ugh. This whole sickness deal is just annoying.)

Honestly, Milton's ambition doesn't bother me. I see his drive to write the best epic ever as inspiring and thought out. For one thing, I doubt he'd make a statement like that and not think he could achieve it or come as close as possible. I see Milton's statement as not so much an arrogant boast but a goal--something we make every day. We each push ourselves to be the best we can be in one subject or another. As kids, we all made goals that today we laugh at, such as "I want to be the best Olympic swimmer!" That was my goal as a kid...heh, looks like it didn't fall through. I could have made it work. I was on a few year round teams, had a few coaches who had been lucky enough to coach (or be) Olympians, but I didn't want to have a life that revolved around being in the pool doing hard workouts. That simply wasn't fun, so I quit the three or more hours a day and decided to just be a normal kid and find something else to do. Mr. Sawyer told us that from a time Milton was a kid, he knew what he wanted to do. There are some who keep the over-the-top, adveterous goals because they were born with the drive, determination, and just plain stubbornness to do so. Milton, in my eyes, is yet another perfect example of that personality.

Rev. Norman Vincent Peale made a lot of money years ago with his book, The Power of Positive Thinking. I’m positive that I’ve not read the book, but I’m wondering if the philosophy is neatly summed up in lines 254-255 of book one when somebody says, “The mind is its own place and in itself/Can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven.” What do you think of the reverend’s (and this other chap’s) position?

On one hand I completely agree with having a positive atitude. I'm dealing with that right now being sick. I'm one of those who has a high pain tolerance, so when I feel bad, I feel BAD. And I'm ANYTHING but happy about it, and selfishly would really like the whole world to know it (to be completely honest). My mom is just as sick as me right now, though, and also has a high pain tolerance. She has whooping cough (which evidently you can still get!), and it lasts 100 days. 100 days of coulghing your lungs out...JOYOUS. She's had this since the beginning of the month, and today is the first day she's taken off of work. She keeps a very positive mind. She also didn't have the easiest life. Her dad was an alcoholic, now 13 (I believe) years sober. Her parents didn't have the best relationship. Her relationship with my dad wasn't exactly a dream either. But the worst was probably the summer of 1982. In six weeks, her dad moved out permanantely, her older sister died in a car crash while they were vacationing in Destin, and she went off to college. Needless to say, her life hasn't been smooth sailing. But upon meeting her, you'd never know it. Her theory is this: What's the point in wallowing in wasted, sad yesterdays when you have today to live something better?

I'm a little bit different. I'm more like Anna, who doesn't like when people are happy-happy-joy-joy or just plain depressing in every situation. I like to take my theory from a song title: "For a Pessimist, I'm Pretty Optimistic." I'm not going to be the one in a bad or sticky situation who tells you everything's going to be okay. That doesn't work with me. That's not facing reality. I'm going to tell you exactly whats happening with no sugar-coating, and exactly what needs to happen to fix it. I'll help you out as much as humanely possible to get there, being with you step by step if I need to, but the fact is people have to face the real world--not sugar coat it, wallow in it, or ignore it. Decide for yourself if that means I have a negative or positive attitude.

One of the marks of great poetry is that it contains phrases that make you wish that you had thought of them first. As you know, this week I noticed Milton’s phrase “siege of contraries” and have been thinking what a great title it would make for a novel. The idea of being trapped by opposing ideas is fraught with possibilities. What I’d like you to do is to find a phrase in Paradise Lost that catches your eye and then to tell us why.

Mine is from my passage in book nine.

"....Within himself

The danger lies; yet lies within the power:

Against his will he can receive no harm."

Oh, boy...this is going to be hard to write and admit.

I'm one who doesn't really like for problems or people to get to me. I don't like being hurt--I doubt anyone does--but I'm one of those people who thinks if you see me hurt, I must be too weak to handle it. My father drilled into me from the time I was probably eight years old that I shouldn't--I couldn't--be weak. Weakness meant you were a victim in his eyes, and he was determined to make me a survivor. What ended up happening was disastrous: he controlled my lifestyle in dangerously unhealthy ways, including my weight. He demanded to know my weight each day when I woke up and when i went to bed. If I was but one pound over what he thought I should be, he would yell at me until I cried and take food away from me, or force me to eat whatever he thought was appropriate for my weight. This started around the time I was eight. By the time I was ten, I figured out that if I didn't eat anything at all, or only ate what was required of me to leave the table, that he wouldn't be mad at me for "being chunky" (as he phrased it), and I then started a six year-long battle with anorexia. Last summer I finally told him what he did to me, and he blatantly denied it and verbally shoved me in a corner that made me feel lower than low. Now my mom and I are taking him to court to ensure that I never see him again. All of this has been incredibly tough for me, and I can't help but wonder if the first time he told me to lay off the french fries (mind you, I've been underweight all my life) and stick with a salad what would have happened if I simply said no. What would have happened if for all these years I didn't let his pain affect me, if I had simply said "I'm going to do what I want to do with my body." Unfortunately I found out he also did the same thing to my mother during their marriage, demanding she stay within 128-132 pounds. For those of you who aren't good at visualizing weight, that's about ten pounds more than my weight right now. Not exactly healthy. This also hasn't helped my anger towards him and what he's done to me. I have this awe over the fact that God can't feel any of this against his will, and wish more than you could imagine that I could do the same. Yet the second line says that this blockade against negative feelings is dangerous. I guess that can only mean I'm supposed to feel this pain, no matter how much it hurts. Ever been told by your doctor that if you don't gain ten to fifteen pounds--and quickly--your health is in some danger? Not exactly what you want to hear. I want to make it all go away, and I've been told I disguise the pain well, but honestly it hurts just about every day.

I guess all I can say is this: Sonic, anyone? :-D

English Posts

2008-02-19T18:20:00.000-08:00

So in English class, I pretty much have the coolest teacher in existence. We do portal posts every week online, so I'm going to post Robin Shakespeare's, as I now dub him, posts and my responses. I'll keep with it each week, but here's what all we've done so far.

This question is inspired by “The Two Drovers.” What’s your take on the part that pride plays in friendship? Is it ever a good thing or is it always destructive?

{Ah! You're asking someone with Scottish, British, Irish, French, and German blood about pride, please keep this in mind.}
Honestly, I think pride plays a vital role in many things in life, and to have to no pride is a concept I simply can't comprehend. Pride is absolutely a wonderful thing, but even the most boastful Sicilian will tell you that pride is a blessing as much as it is a curse. To have pride in who you are, what you believe in, where you come from, and what you've been through in life makes you stronger. It acts as a reinforcement of sorts of the person you've become. But it can also be destructive if that pride is ever damaged or threatened. People don't like having their name degraded, anyone caould agree (especially after reading "The Crucible" last year). There are those who can brush off insults to their pride, or react to them initially in a stand-offish way but inside the pain has wedged itself in their hearts; yet, these people do not act brashly to defend their honor. There are some, however, who have intense amounts of pride, and if their treasure is even so much as encroached upon, there is no limit to what could happen. For some people, it means eliminating the thing that damaged their pride, and in Robin's case, that meant murder.
Now, I can understand getting into a shouting match over pride, or even a fist fight with a broken nose or two along with some blood, but anything more than that is, for me, beyond the line of limitation. Murder certainly does not fit on my side of that line. That's just a few steps too far for me.
I also say all this having never been in this situation, during this time period, with Robin's experiences, culture, family and freinds to influence me. So if I was put in his situation, I may very well have killed Wakefield, then again I might not have.
What I'm saying is this: Pride is a good thing. It gives people reason to live. It bring passion to life. It, at least to me, is practically crucial to survive in this world. However, pride can also get out of hand, and when it does, that is when all hell can potentially break loose.

In his essay, Orwell complains of phrases that are pretentious, misleading, and just painful to read. For this week's topic, I invite you either to share a phrase that you can't stand or, if you are feeling more positive, to contribute one you have run across that strikes you as wonderfully fresh.

Let me start things off with a line I heard years ago from a friend that I have appreciated ever since. Like most good things, it is simple: "I love you all the time but, today, I really like you." The line speaks to me because it is ironic and it also addresses another line that I have never cared for, which is the idea that you can love somebody without having to like them. I suppose I understand the theory but, as for me, if I had to choose, I would rather be liked by someone than "loved" without the liking.

Well, I can adress both.
For the line that I absolutely, positively, completely CANNOT stand, it is, in all actuality, a word. And that all-too-often abused vocable (:-D) is "anyways." No, it is NOT anyways, it is ANYWAY! THERE IS NO SUCH WORD AS ANYWAYS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (Excuse the several exclamation points. I had to stress my anger concerning this word somehow...)
And for the line I find wonderfully fresh, I must call upon Robin Williams. In an interview with James Lipton on the show "Inside the Actor's Studio," Robin shares his comical childhood, and one of his earliest memories of his mother, when she decided to re-vamp the old "Roses are Red, Violets are Blue" poem with this: "I love you in Blue, I love you in Red, But Most of All, I love you in Blue." I'm honestly not exactly sure why I find it so comically refreshing. Robin goes on to say that when he was younger, he didn't quite get it either, but nodded his head and rolled his eyes, yet later came to figure out that it really meant certian people are going to like you more in certain circumstances, and nothing can stop that. I understand the meaning behind it, but I enjoy it more for it bluntness than anything else.

We finished the week talking about the sounds of the language and the associations we draw from them. What I want you to consider now is the impressions you get from any particular dialect, whether you have any experience with it or not. (Feel free to indulge a bias based more on ignorance than knowledge.)
Let me start things off with a story. One summer in college I worked at a burger joint in the mountains of Pennsylvania. One day, a girl placed an order in an accent I had never heard before. Her voice was so lovely and lilting that I wished she could stay for hours and simply read the encyclopedia so I could melt with every word. After she walked away, I told my co-workers that I had just met a beautiful Dutch girl. I said this because I had never heard Dutch so I guessed that this was her accent. The next customer knew the girl, however. Smiling, the woman told me that the girl was not from Holland but from Dublin. For the next few years I prayed that God would give me an Irish wife so that I could melt every day.

<~~~~~ Accent fanatic.
Truly, I am pretty much addicted to accents. It came from being raised by an Alabama debutante mother and a Boston Irish Catholic father in Northern Florida with all the surfers. I pretty much learned to speak in three different accents and dialects depending on who I was around, and from the on I became addicted to accents. I, too, have an ABSOLUTE soft spot for NY accents (especially Italian / Sicilian guys... they make me smile :-D), and most Yank accents, for that matter. I love surfer accents, as annoying as they are to most people, simply because that's how most of my childhood buds talk. And if you get me around them, we all pretty much sound like we've been imported from Surferland, USA. I ADORE British, Scottish, and Irish accents. They're so much fun. I also love European and Mediterranean accents...there's something about them that almost makes you think the speaker enjoys life more, savors the small things m ore, takes the walk a little more slowly to enjoy the scenery. I must admit that, against CaraBeth, I love German and Russian accents. They're probably my favorite. I had a Russian babysitter for a little while whom I loved dearly, and the way she trilled her r's always made me giggle as a kid. She was one of the most gorgeous people I'd ever seen, and something about her voice made her even more incredible. And after visiting Germany two years ago, I fell in love with the accent there. When Germans speak English, they do it in the neatest accent. It's a German-British sounding hodgepodge that sounds absolutely horrid and ghastly in description, but sounds so educated and classy in person...almost like Vespr Lynd's voice in Casino Royale, but add a little more German to it. I talked like that for probably a month after that trip and absolutely loved it. It's amazing. I'm also partial to Asian voices. I think they're pretty darn cool, if you ask me.

As I think about what Kipling was up to in “The Record of Badalia Herodsfoot,” it becomes increasingly clear to me that he was taking a shot at people who try to help but do it badly. Rather than turn this discussion into a complaint fest of stories about patronizing and interfering relatives and neighbors however, I would like to shift our attention to people who get it right. So here’s this week’s topic: Tell us a quick story about a time when you or somebody you know made a difference for somebody else and got it right. For the sake of this assignment, you are allowed to tell about something you did or said that helped somebody and we will agree not to call it boasting. Or, if you prefer, tell us a story where you were on the receiving end of somebody else’s kindness. The key is that whatever example you choose, you were involved.

Here’s my story: Peter Haile is a short Englishman whom a friend of mine once described as “fresh air and clean water.” Imagine a polite grandfather with ruddy cheeks and you have the picture. Peter and I taught together for years at the boarding school where he was the chaplain. It was not unusual to see him walking across campus in the midst of students and teachers, with everyone hustling to their next class. What was quite common, however, was to see everyone in his or her haste walk past a piece of litter and to see this gentle old man stop and pick it up. He never grumbled about those who missed it. He never complained about how people are too lazy to clean up after themselves. What he did do was to care enough all the time to make a difference, even in something so small as to pick up somebody else’s trash.
My connection with this story is that his example has made it very hard for me to walk past litter. I try not to grumble, because Peter never did. You may ask, “How did Peter Haile help you?” The answer is easy. He reminded me that we are here to make things better. God bless the sermons in shoes.

I've been waiting for a topic like this :-D
This summer, my youth group participated in Mountain T.O.P., or Mountain Tennessee Outreach Project. It's a week-long mission trip to Grundy County, Tennessee (the poorest county in the state) to do service projects for the locals there. The residents of Grundy County are encouraged by Mountain T.O.P. to voice a need they had, whether it be physical, monetary, emotional, or spiritual. Some of the residents just need something as simple as someone to talk to. I helped run a daycamp in the area for kids aged six to ten.
I honestly don't think I've learned more about life from anyone more than I have these kids. Every child was thankful to be there with "the big kids who come 'ere evruh summer." This week of daycamp was the hi-light of thier summer, maybe even their year. There are adults living in that are who went to the Mountain T.O.P. daycamp as kids, and still remember everything about that week.
I asked one of the kids who stuck by my side much of the time, Daisie, why exactly she liked coming to camp, and getting piggy-back rides from the big kids, and just getting to be around us. Her response is still engraved in my mind:
"Weyul, thayas a silly question! Y'all come 'ere jus ta see us, not nobody eyulse. Y'all came 'ere to play wiv us, not nobody eyulse. No one's evur done somevin laike thayat befour four inny o'us. Ayund y'all luhve us. Thayas so silly..."
Translation: "Well, that's a silly question! You all come here just to see us, no one else. You come here to play with us, no one else. No one's ever done something like that before for any of us. And you love us. That's so silly..."
:Lightbulb appears:. These kids really appreciated the fact that we wanted to come here to help these kids. They loved us for loving them, and in many cases we were the only sources of love they had. For one week, we at Mountain T.O.P. day staff had made these kids our lives, and although they didn't really know all the sacrifice we made, they knew it took "an awful lotta trouble" to get where we were that week. These children appreciated even the smallest things. Letting them take pictures. Giving them piggy-back rides. Holding their hands when walking in a group. Helping them figure out how to do different crafts. In return, these kids would give us their personal things, simply because they wanted us to know they loved us, too. They offered us pets, their siblings, their toys, anything they had. I have a bag of paper flowers from a girl in my group, Jayla, who didn't have enough money that week to make me anything else, but she gathered up all the paper she could to make those flowers for me.
In this case, I was both on the giving and the recieving end. And honestly, I cna't tell you which end was better: to see the smiles on the kids' faces when we did something special for them, or recieving something that they put everything they had into, no matter how small it would seen to anyine else.
I realized that I take way too much for granted. I too often say I "need" somethng, when in earnest I just really want the gadget. I didn't need a new laptop. I didn't need a car. I don't need that fancy new Cannon camera I've been wanting. I don't need that group of CDs that continues to grow on a near daily basis. I just really want them. These kids really needed us. And looking back, I think we at Mountain T.O.P. really needed them.

For this week, I would like to turn our attention to Dickens for a more literary question. As you probably gathered from class, I have mixed feelings about Dickens’ writing. I think there are some things he does amazingly well, such as to create memorable characters, while there are other things that show a lack of restraint or even honesty, such as the death scene of the Manette child.
What I am interested in hearing from you is a response to my ambivalent reaction to the work of a man who has been hailed as England’s greatest novelist. (In other words, feel free to disagree with me.) Choose something specific in the novel that drew a strong reaction from you, either for better or worse, and tell me why it struck you the way it did.

Lucie simply made me gag every time she popped up in the book. She gave me cavities she was so sweet! However, he makes up for it by the emotion he stirs between the pages and the reader.
But probably the thing that bothers me the most is his tendency to use incredibly overdrawn run-on sentences. I'm one who likes poetic writing, a bit more ornate than Hemmingway, but, o say the least, Dicken's rather egregious colloquations of vocables turned my head into topsy-turvy madness. There were times I had to read the same sentence in my head, aloud, in an accent, or have someone read the sentence to me multiple times before something would finally sink, and I'm not one who has trouble with reading comprehension. Dickens clearly never had a man like Mr. Dobbins as an English teacher.....
So, while I do enjoy his stories, I wish they were a *bit* easier to understand. That would make reading his stories much more enjoyable, in my opinion.

This week’s prompt is inspired by Charlotte’s O. P. this past week. For those of you who were elsewhere, Charlotte spoke of her love for music and the idea of having theme music for our lives. I liked how Charlotte was specific about these songs not being the same as our favorite tunes. Instead, she said that these songs were important because somehow they reflected a part of who we are. She also said that we can have many themes because there are many parts to who we are.
So this week I would like to learn what one of your mirror songs are: those that when you look into them, you see yourself. One of my new ones is by Sara Groves, whom I heard play at church one Sunday. She sang her song, “Add to the Beauty” and I was hooked. Here’s part of the lyrics:
“Redemption comes in strange places, small spaces.
Calling out the best of who we are.
And I want to add to the beauty, to tell a better story…”
As I get older, I am discovering that the deepest lessons are often the simplest. One of my deep lessons, which is years in the learning, is that we are here to make things better. Any action that makes things worse, even temporarily, is to be shunned. It’s that simple.
Okay, it's your turn.

:Does a dance: I sparked a topic :-D I feel happy :-)
So I actually have a blog that I update every so often, and one of the topics I write about alot is music. A lot of times I'll just take lyrics that apply to whatever I'm writing about and use those as a quote in the end to sum everything up.
One I always like to go back to in my head, but I've never blogged about, is a song called "So Far Away" from the band Staind.
"Now that we're here / It's so far away / All the struggle we thought was in vain / All the mistakes / One life contained / They all finally start to go away / Now that we're here / It's so far away / And I feel like I can face the day / I can forgive / And I'm not ashamed / To be the person that I am today"
I'm one of those who places burdens on themselves easily. I almost never get in trouble, but when I do, it's always for something REALLY stupid; the kind of stupid where, when you're punished, you think "WHY ON THIS BLOODY EARTH DID I EVER DO THAT?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!" and you think your name will be under the Obituaries column in the next morning's paper. It's hard for me to forgive myself of these grudges, not becuase I necessarily regret them, but I wonder what on earth made me do them in the first place and get myself in that much trouble. It wasn't till I really listened to this song that I realized that forgiving myself, moving on, and accepting the changes I've made to become a better person after the incident is better than carrying the stress of everything on your shoulders.

Mankind has long been fascinated by the long ago. So this week’s question, offered in the spirit of our Anglo-Saxon poet, is simply this: if you could go back in time, when would you live, where, and why. To make the choice easier, let us assume that you are in perfect health and won’t need to visit the local “doctor” anytime soon.

Well, I'd pick one of two places.
Choice #1) I'd go with mid 1700's British Caribbean (GEE I don't think you need to guess where that one came from...). But it's not for the obvious reason of possibly meeting someone half as drunkenly brilliant (don't deny it, he is a genius) as Jack Sparrow more than it is reliving the life of my sixth and fifth great grandfathers...to some degree. Both these men were privateers, the elder for Britain and the younger for the Colonies. The younger, Robert Morris, was one of those highly important men in the Revolution that never seemed to make it into History books (after all, he's gotta be important to be the one who corresponded with France to tell Ben Franklin who to strike up deals with and who to avoid, then paid for the rest of the war when France backed out of paying, THEN started the first navy with some of his privateering ships and coined the first coinage with Washington's impression...but we won't go on to what else he did. Type his name into Google and you'll be pretty surprised what all he did behind the scenes...), and probably helped our nation the best by privateering English ships. [BTW: HIs dad, Henry Morris, died of mortification by cannonfire. Ouch.]
Choice #2) I'd go with Authurian England. It was such an interesting time...old folklore and superstition was blending with Christianity in such interesting ways...I've always wanted to live in that time. It looks so incredible from what we know, and yet there's so much that's left our knowledge over the years...so much that's been lost...so much that was taken for granted from that time that eventually just got left behind in our thoughts until too late when all the meaning and knowlege of the time was lost. I want to know what it's like to be there. I'm a bit like Meg in that I want to be a princess in King Aurthur's Court, but I'm one of those who's not waiting in the tower to be rescued. Forget being pampered. I'm the princess that knows how to use a sword, who's out on the battlefield, who knows how to fight. It's the girls who brandish a sword while still looking beautiful that I always admire (Queen Elizabeth I is AMAZING!), and to live in a tie where that could feasibly happen is pretty awesome.

I would like you to imagine that you are a young person setting out on a quest that will take the rest of your life. You want to test yourself and prove that you are capable of fighting to win. An Anglo-Saxon sage once told you that behavior that’s admired is the path to power among people everywhere. So, what would you like to do so well that people would be impressed with you for doing it? (Don’t worry about the odds against you. We will just consider the cost and the lack of opportunity some of the monsters you will have to conquer along the way.) Imagine someday a poet at your funeral telling the tale of your quest and of your eventual success. What would you like him or her to say?

A Quest, you say? There are many of those in our books these days...but the one I find most intriguing and the one I would pick must be the Quest for the Holy Grail.
I'm one who, being interested in medeival history and Biblical history, has to admit to loving the History Channel. Geeky thing, I know, but they've got some really cool stuff in there. (NOT the black and white movies Coach Harris showed...oi...). Whenever Gaelic or Anglo-Saxon history comes on, or something Biblical comes around, I'm popped in my chair watching it (or have it on tape). The two cooincide easily with the story of the Holy Grail, along with all of the intricate theories of where (or what) it is. Some say that the Holy Grail isn't a cup at all, but a bloodline (where the inspiration for The DaVinci Code came about), while some say if it is a cup, it's long gone becuase the cup would most likely be ade of wood (Yet why someone from the royal House of David would drink from a wooden cup on his last night on earth when he's celebrating with the disciples beats me...)
Admit it: you want to find the Holy Grail to. In a sense, everyone does. It would be a tangible artifact of Jesus, something that (unless you want to consider the Bible) we don't have as of yet.
Yes, I'm off to find the Holy Grail....
"How can a five-ounce bird carry a one-pound coconut?!"

This week’s idea comes courtesy of John Donne. In his magnificent poem “A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning,” he compares his relationship with Anne to other, much more mundane couples. John and Anne must have been a special pair.
This week I would like to know what is something that would impress you about someone of the opposite sex enough to make you think, "Wow. That person is different. There is nothing sublunary there." To make your response more interesting, aim for a specific action or gesture, rather than something generic like, "I want somebody nice."

In order to look for a boyfriend, you have to look for a best friend who just happens to mean a bit more than a best friend. I've got to know I can trust him--and trust doesn't come easy for me. I've got to know I can tell him anything and everything. I hate it when girlfriends won't tell their boyfriends if they don't like something their guy is doing because she "doesn't want to hurt his feelings" , or even better, "she doesn't think she's close enough to him to be able to correct him about it". I'm sorry, you're dating him!!! He needs to know what you're thinking!
He's also got to be intelligent, funny, and creative. I can't stand talking to a guy who can't keep me interested. He could be James Bond for all I care, but if I can't stay interested in a conversation, I'm walking away. (This is actually how I met the guy I've been "dating" (very long distance) for over a year now. We met in DC in the Holocaust Museum at a youth government conference and he and I just happen to both be WWII junkies. We ended up walking around DC for a few hours after with Starbucks :-D)
He's got to stand out, while not looking like a sore thumb. He sometimes strays off the beaten path, but if we do something as a group he's in it full swing. He needs to introduce me to the things he loves while being just as happy to do the things I like. He needs to be able to laugh with me when I do something goofy, or comfort me when I'm at the bottom of the well with no way out. He needs to respect my beliefs for me to respect his. He needs to be passionate about life while not turning uber poetic or emo. Call my demands high, but that's what I want. Maybe one day those demands will change, but right now, that's what I want in a guy. I've always been told that if you have no demands, you'll fall for anyone, but if you make what kind of guy you want clear to you and those around you, you get respected instead of hurt. And i honestly don't have time to be hurt :-P

BUT THEN!!

Okay, I have to change my post sightly.
The guy I met in DC that I mentioned above? Found out last night he's pretty much a lying, cheating :grumbles choice words here: ...so he's not longer in the picture, to say the very least.
:-P
So after that, I had to look at my list a little bit. I realized how much I emphasized trust without emphasizing honesty. Usually, the two go hand in hand, but there are cases where you can be trusting without being honest. Scenario: You trust your boyfriend not to cheat, but he's been acting suspicious lately, and you think he's up to something, but you won't confront him about it and instead tell the rest of the world your thoughts. If you trust someone, you have to be honest to both your girlfriend / boyfriend along with being honest to yourself.
Also, when looking for a guy, he has to be confident. Not cocky, but confident. And yes, there is a definite difference! If he's all "La la la LOOOOOK AT MEEEEEEEEEEEEE SEE WHAT I CAN DO OH MY GOSH I'M SO COOL DATE ME!" then I'm not just walking away, I'm RUNNING. That's probably the surest sign of someone with MAJOR insecurity issues, yet alone making for some very one-sided conversations. I mean, it's cool to occasionally go "Hey, did you know that I can :insert some talent here:?" Talking to people about what you can and can't do, have and haven't done, and want to or don't want to try is part of what makes meeting someone new so exciting. Otherwise, how can you get to know the person? But having the entire focus on you is just stupid.
So those are my added comments from the peanut gallery. I'm going to go rip up a few more pictures and listen to some "I Hate The World At This Moment" music... :-P haha

I have been watching House regularly for about two years but I am losing interest with each episode. This past week the writers introduced a new character, a CIA doctor who looks less like she has spent years practicing medicine and more like she stopped her modeling career just last week. Hollywood has been doing this for years, and so many films and shows have “experts” who are there for their sex appeal and who have no resemblance to any scientist on this planet.
This is one of the reasons I admire the author of Sir Gawain. He takes the clichés and turns them inside out. So that is what I want you to do this week: think of one of the clichés of plot or character that plague so many stories and come up with a fresh treatment of the same idea. If you like, imagine one of your own. Or, if you know of a film or show that has successfully avoided that cliché, tell us about that one.

Cliches are the reason I cannot stand the genre of movies called "chick flicks!!" I don't even have to see the movie to know what happens, just let me see the title and I'll be able to tell you what happens from the preview. Some say that chick flicks are varied, which is slightly true, but each variation is insanely predictable and boring.
If there's a cliche character that I despise beyond all doubts, however, it's the awkward girl in high school who manages to suck up to the popular girls (who half the time look like Barbie dolls) only to get beaten down by them, thus gatting disappointed when she thinks she's "lost her friends." Excuse me while I fall asleep over here...but that plotline is WAY overused and boring!!!!! Please. Get with it. I'd like to see the dubbed "artsy" crowd, or the ones who aren't quite popular but are WAY cool when you get to know them, take the popular kids for ransom and make the popular ones live like that crowd does...or something like that. That'd be hysterical to me!

One of the things Chaucer brings to mind is that everyage has its fashions. Later generations may think that foreheads and forkedbeards are silly things to admire, only to replace them with shaved heads andbody piercing. So this week’s question is this: what in our current world offashion do you find silly—or worse? If you prefer, you may flip the questionand write about something you enjoy. What you may not do is to pretend that youcould care less about such things, because everybody dresses themselves in waysthat society says are acceptable. Like it or not, we check ourselves out in themirror every morning to see how we look.

So let me start off (and I know I'll sound like a hypocrite) but I absolutely CANNOT STAND POLOS!!!!! I'm incredibly sick of them. Occasionally, I like wearing them, but only if I'm in a country club...NOT on a daily basis. And having wear khakis all the time only makes it worse...I seriously walk out the door every school day looking at myself saying "Okay, get over the fact you have to wear a polo and khakis, what did you do to your outfit to make up fo the fact you look like you're entered Country Club Capital, USA?"
But probably the thing I hate most is how clothes are cut. I've heard many people say "All the clothes these days are cut for models, so they don't fit anyone with real bodies!" Take it from a model, ladies and gents, this simply isn't true! I have the hardest time finding clothes that actually FIT me. Pants are always too short, tops are never long enough, or if they're long enough I swim in them (along with the pants)...face it. There are no clothes for skinny people any more. :-(

Chaucer taps the range of humor, from vulgar low comedy tosharp satirical attacks on hypocrisy. One thing he refuses to do, however, is to lose his humanity in the process and look down on his characters from the lofty heights of moral superiority. Running through out The Canterbury Tales is the idea that these people are a lot like us.
So for this, our last post of the semester, I would like you to borrow some of Chaucer’s wit and humility and tell us a brief but true funny story about you. Steve Martin once said that to make fun of other people seemed cruel to him but to make fun of himself made him more human. Welcome to the human race.
Let me throw the first stone. Once I was driving home alone late at night when I pulled up to an intersection. I didn't realize how tired I was until I noticed that I was sitting there waiting for the stop sign to change. (True story)

Well, if anyone has a menagerie of funny and embarrassing stories, it's me. Now, you've gotta understand, I don't really HAVE embarassing moments. I had so many as a kid that eventually I learned to brush them off and laugh them away. However, they do occasionally come to haunt me...
Probably my most recent was at a modeling gig I had. I was modeling in this really nice boutique in downtown for a cocktail party. A lot of times, these places will hire models to wear dresses and earrings they have in the store and walk around and smile and pose and look anorexic while surrounded by all this really tempting food. But the whole rule of "don't feed the models" ACTUALLY EXISTS... so needless to say, I walked around a boutique for two hours walking around and posing, bored to tears, absolutely starving, smiling so much my cheeks were spasming, in really high stilettos, in a gorgeous dress that I'm still sad that I had to give back, wearing earrings more expensive than my car, and in serious pain. Well after about an hour and a half of this nonsense, I needed food. And fast. My hypoglycemia was kicking in and i began to felt dizzy. I leaned to the model next to me to see what we should do, and we decided to go around sneaking the samples of trays when no one was looking. The two other models caught on quickly, and we were feeling supremely overjoyed...Well, that is, until I was caught stuffing a piece of chocolate covered toffee in my mouth by a group of well-to-do Belle Meaders being served by a bartender. The bartender just giggled as I said "Hey, a girl's gotta eat!" and smiled my head off to make up for it. That seemed to please the crowd, as they quickly asked my what brand my dress and earrings were...whoo...
But as if it could get any worse, I went up to the owner afterwards to thank her for modeling. Er, at least, I THOUGHT she was the owner...she was one of those people who looked SERIOUSLY in charge of the whole party, so I had just assumed her role as owner. (Plus., I had been told this older woman was essentially made of plastic to the point that it could scare little kids...and she DEFINITELY fit that...) Wrong. She kindly informed me she was not Jamie, but she had modeled for Jamie herself when she was younger, and was sure Jamie would greatly appreciate it if I sent her an email.
Ouch. That was just BAD...at least the other models had evidently done the same thing...so we all slunked off in shame together to our cars, stuffing our faces with leftover food since the party had ended, and the "don't feed the models" rule quits applying thirty minutes after the gig ends...I've never been so happy and embarassed simultaneously in my LIFE...

I raised the question in class this week about whether you would accept a million dollars if the devil offered it to you. A number of you said you would, provided that there were no strings attached. The rest felt that there are always strings attached when dealing with the devil. (Hmm…would fair be foul then?) This week’s question concerns temptation, especially in its less obvious forms. When you reflect on the times you have faced temptation, what have you learned that you can offer as advice to help others win the next round?

I'm responding to this from my living room chair. My brain's a little fuzzy and jumbled due to the amount of medication they put me on to knock out the insane case of laryngitis I have, so forgive me if this post is a little rough. I'll do the best I can.
Temptation is one of those thigns in life i find to be a necessary evil. You wish it didn't have to happen, but it still does anyway, and you know it will. There are three ways I know to deal with it: 1) ask God to give you the self control but don't b other adkjusting your thoughts and actions to match, 2) just keep getting tempted anyway over the same things and never learn, or 3) (what I like to do) fall into the tempation the first time praying that God will help you in the end of it and become a stronger person. I'm one of those people who if I'm told "You shouldn't do that, it's not good for you" or "That's just a bad situation to get yourself into because you never make it out whole again in the end", likelihood is I'll go into that situation merely because you told me not to, kind of like . I want to test myself. I want to see how far my will and self-restraint will take me. In the end, I have my little "WHY DID YOU LET ME DO THAT?!?!?" scream-fest in my head, but that quickly blows over when I look at the facts. Somehow, in some way, this experience made me a tougher, stronger, wiser person. The fact that I did come out the other side still whole (now, there might be some stitches, but those heal soon enough) and I can live to tell the tale makes it all worth it to me. It kind of falls into my mantra of "Live with no regrets." Something's been put in my path for a reason: now it's my turn to see whether or not I can come through the obstacle as a better person.
And on that note, I'm off to reheat some more soup and hopefully not cough my lungs out in the process. Stupid sickness...THANKS ADAM.

Sickness.

2008-02-19T17:33:00.000-08:00

It all started when Eve took a bite out of that stupid apple.
(Course, it's not like Adam was stopping her!!)

That, my friends, is when sickness came into the world. And that is why I'm really shaking my fist and muttering explatives at that Serpent Satan for making them believe it was okay.

I mean, think about it. At that point, sin had not entered the world. It was perfect.
God created all things, which meant they were all perfect.
Thus, I predict Adam and Eve just assumed that because this snake was here, God created it, which meant whatever it said must be true.
So, of course, they believe the silly thing.

And thanks to them, I'm sick.
It's not the flu.
It's not whooping cough (what Mi Madre has).
It's not mono.
Honestly, we don't know what it is, but we've sent bloodwork out to figure things out.

What I do know is this: Mi Padre ain't exactly helping the situation.

Now before you start waving your hands, scratching your heads, or start screaming "I THOUGHT WE WERE DONE WITH HIM?!?!?!?!?!?!" I'm going to clear things up.
I thought we were done, too.

It's early February. Mi Madre was going through her crazy number of emails, when all of a sudden she saw one with the subject line referring to her being served with papers from Mi Padre's lawyer's office, but it was from someone's personal email account. She opened it anyway, and saw she had to be at a hearing that following Tuesday.
In Florida.
And we live quite awhile away from there.
Oh, Crap.

So that Tuesday morning (Monday had been a vacation), my mom called the office to tell them she would have to appear via telephone. The judge's office was SHOCKED about how she had been informed of the hearing, and were very compliant with her. She also didn't have an attourney to represent her--there was no time to get hers.

So here's what they're hearing about: Mi Padre (after saying TWICE he wants nothing to do with me) now says he wants me for Spring Break and his "customary" two months of the summer (which he doesn't HAVE...arrrgh!). He also wants Mi Madre to pay all his legal fees, and says she can only give him certain medical receipts because he's the one who takes care of my medical insurance.

Well, the judge didn't like the way his team behaved and handled things. They said some horrible things about my mother, essentially arguing she's brainwashing me and turning me against Mi Padre. And the way they acted, from what I heard sounded like a banshee of monkeys.

The judge returned word to my mom, saying that she couldn't pay his legal fees, and she could give him any medical receipts she has for me for reimbursement.

Mi Madre met with her attourney two weeks ago when I was in NYC (ah, yet another blog...). She said that what he did to me was horrible--what he's doing is crazy--and of course she'll help.

He doesn't get me on spring break anyway--he only gets odd year spring breaks and its 2008.

So needless to say, it's a bit understandable why I haven't exactly been able to post in awhile. I've been trying to let eveything sink in to prevent me from ranting and raving on this thing so you might more clearly be able to figure out for yourself what the truth is.

Cause let's face it: the last thing any of us needs in more drama.

Dehydration.

2008-01-07T16:11:00.000-08:00

I'm not really sure what it is, but ever since I last posted (excluding the little blogthings.com thing), I haven't really been in the mood to blog.

It's like...I needed a break. My flow just wasn't coming.

I thought it was simply because my well wasn't flowing--so i'd give everything a few weeks to mellow out and then everything would be alright.

What I didn't realize is that I was actually, creatively speaking, dehydrated. My mind was bored. I had nothing to blog about that I hadn't blogged about before, not to mention by the time I'd log onto this thing I'd be so tired and my brain would be so mushed that I'd just yawn and think Tomorrow...and get off the computer to drag myself to bed.

I've missed it.

I'm not sure how many people read this thing--probably not too many--but what I do know is this.

I need my blog.
I need to write.
I need to keep myself on edge.
I need to express.
Be free.
Be happy.
Be limitless...
Even if it's merely in the bounds of your screen and the meaning these words are willing to hold.

Ladies and Gentlemen, The Pirate Queen is Back.

2007-11-24T16:30:00.000-08:00

What Your Favorite Color Purple Says About You:

Intuitive --- Seeking --- Creative
Kind --- Self-Sacrificing --- Growth Oriented
Strong --- Very Wise --- Rare

What Does Your Favorite Color Say About You?

Cinderellas Continued.

2007-11-12T06:18:00.000-08:00

So the more I've been thinking about what That Sicilian Boy said, the more I realize there are some people out there who genuinely think they are Cinderellas: that this life is all good and every badness can be overcome.

The truth is, these Cinderella's don't know life.

The only thing I have in common with Cinderella is that I'm working my ass off, but instead of hoping some prince will come sweep me off my feet in return, I'm just hoping to do this so I can live a fun, exciting, good life.

Is that too much to ask?

Forgive me for being slightly optimistic in that way.

They're called fairytales for a reason, Boy.
They can't happen.

[Besides, if I'm Cinderella, then he's Snow White's Prince, taking any girl he can simply cause she looks good without taking the time to know her ;-)]

It's too bad.

2007-11-11T19:54:00.000-08:00

So I talked with That Sicilian Boy tonight.

He's the man that I never wanted.

He thinks that this world is nothing but hate, so you should accept it, attack it with hate, and die quickly to get it over with, even if it involves going theough hell to get there.

He called me a Spoiled Cinderella.

He never wants to be my friend.

He clearly never knew me.

What he doesn't realize is that Cinderellas are fakes trying to hide their pain with drugs, money, and popularity and aren't Cinderellas at all.

Cinderella? I think not.

So I'm okay with him never being my friend, because clearly he never knew me.

I'm glad this ship is mine again. I can stroll the decks by myself, not having to impress anyone, make him think I'm perfect. I can ponder my thoughts alone.

Pirates, after all, can rarely co-captain a ship. And I am not one to share the wheel easily.

I wonder where my Black Pearl will take me next...

Bittersweet.

2007-11-11T19:15:00.000-08:00

The play is done.

I'm no longer Mrs. Cratchit with the rest of the gang.

I'm glad the stress is over, and that I can do homework at a normal pace now, and get somewhere close to the actual amount of recommended sleep...but still.

There will be no more Cratchit Family Meetings before shows. No more tongue twisters. No more shakes. No more "Let Me See Your..." No more "Go Ninja." No more "buzzzzzzzz." No more waiting for the entire first act with Jeffarey! while he goes nuts over computers. No more repeating my crying mantra. No more adlibbing. No more character meet and greets. No more laughs. No more sobs from the audience. No more living this beautiful alternate reality.

Cast and Crew, if any of you somehow read this, thank you for making this one of the best experiences I've ever had. I love you all more than John Proctor could ever know ;-D

Angry words.

2007-11-11T14:06:00.000-08:00

So I'm looking at the past posts I've written since I broke up with That Sicilian Boy. And honestly, I'm mad at myself. Sadly, I decided to write angry words about our past relationship. I mean, of course at the time I felt all of those things, but looking back, I don't feel that way anymore.

Everyone makes mistakes. Everyone makes decisions. Occasionally, one person doesn't like the decision the other party makes, and you have to figure out how to deal with it from there. We each made our own decisions.

And looking back, he is a pretty cool guy. He's chock full of amazing stories, has awesome viewpoints, and one of the greatest senses of humor I've ever come across. He's definitely got personality to boot.

We had a falling out. It didn't work out. One of these days, I'm sure we'll figure out what really went wrong.

He's definitely one of those people you never forget. He makes a lasting impact. And really, I hope many people get to meet him.

So if you do, by some odd chance get to meet him, talk to him. If you do somehow end up in a relationship with him, go with it.

Although I enjoy being my own captain again, I will miss the times when he was my co-captian. We had adventures. We had stories. We had great times.

We had the kind of relationship people dream about. And for that, I'll always keep That Sicilian Boy in my heart and prayers.

I wish you the best of luck on whatever journeys you decide to take, my friend.

To That Sicilian Boy.

2007-11-11T12:53:00.000-08:00

I'm renaming Stupid Ex. I'm done being angry. He's now That Sicilian Boy.

I hope one day we'll be friends again.

I hope one day we'll let go of these grudges, appreciate what we had, and be friends again.

I don't regret being with you. I truly believe we had true love--anyone would say that.
But something went wrong...I hope you'll tell me one day why this happened.

Till then, I wish you well.
I pray you are able to cure every hurt in your life--I know you have many.
I pray you do find the right girl and that I might meet her one day.
I pray that just because things got ugly and went all wrong that it doesn't mean you and I might be able to find some kind of trust as friends.

Granted, it won't be easy to garner by trust again, but you should know that even though I don't like you right now, I still love you in that "It's what Jesus would freaking do!" kind of way, and that I'm here whenever you want to talk.
I'm here if you need help.

John Proctor.

2007-11-09T14:16:00.000-08:00

So waaaay back when we first started running scenes in play practice, JTCoxzilla got pissed at us one time for not knowing our lines. To which he adds When I was John Proctor in The Crucible as a Sophomore, I had more lines than Scrooge and Marley COMBINED and I knew them THREE WEEKS before we started BLOCKING!
To which someone says "John Proctor is a beast."
"When I was John Proctor, I could play the ENTIRE play of A Christmas Carol ALL BY MYSELF, pops and all between characters."
"When I was John Proctor...

And so the John Proctor jokes began.

Indulge me in this list. I'll keep updating it every so often.

When I was John Proctor, I knew how to spell "plethora."

John Proctor is God.

When I was John Proctor, I threw Tiny Tim into his fireplace and he screamed but...NO ONE CAME...There's an empty chair by the fireplace and a crutch without an owner!

Chuck Norris wears John Proctor pajamas.

When I was John Proctor, I could lift minivans to rescue old ladies in distress.

John Proctor invented emotion. John Proctor is also impermeable to emotion.

John Proctor is watching you.

John Proctor placed the curse on Jeffrey.

John Proctor saw EVERYONE with the devil.

John Proctor hates lecherous ex-boyfriends and curses them for all eternity by constantly throwing rocks at them.

John Proctor doesn't know what forgetting his lines means.

John Proctor had a buttcut.

John Proctor created Justin Timberlake and JTCoxzilla in his own image.

John Proctor would scare the athletic kids and coaches so bad that they would bow down at all the Fine Arts's kids knees and make them do whatever the Forensicators demand.

John Proctor does everything Chuck Norris can, but infinitely better and makes ol' Chuck do the sweating for him.

John Proctor is the 4th member of the Trinity.

John Proctor is the inventor of JTCoxzilla's stomach gremlins.

John Proctor pushes the galaxy when he does pushups.

Chuck Norris trained under John Proctor, but left because John Proctor made him feel like a sissy and cry.

John Proctor is Big Brother.

When I was John Proctor, I blew bubbles from a pack of bubble gum simply by looking at the pack.

John Proctor doesn't know pain.

John Proctor gave God all His ideas.

I love plays :-D

Revenge is miiiineeeee!

2007-11-09T12:59:00.000-08:00

Stupid Ex didn't realize what he was doing when he bought me that CD in NYLC.
It was Three Days Grace: ONE X.

It makes a really good breakup album :-D So one of my favorite CDS is still one of my favorites.

I feel so / Much better / Now that you're GONE FOREVER...

Opening night.

2007-11-09T12:21:00.000-08:00

Last night, I wasn't The Piratess.

I discovered a new alter-ego when I was on stage. She's not evil, boastful, prideful...She pretty much gets the Lucie Manette award for being PERFECT.

Not in that teenagery, "Omigah I hate/love you you're so pretty" kind of way...

In the Mrs. Cratchit kind of way.

Last night, I wasn't a seventeen year old who recently dumped her Stupid Ex and has since then realized what a blessing it was.

Last night, I was someone else entirely.

I didn’t live in 2007.

I’d never even heard of a computer, CD, iPod, or research paper, and I’m not in school.

I was Mrs. Cratchit (evidently I have no first name other than Mother). I lived in the 1840s.

I was a full time mother, probably around the age of thirty or so, with four children roughly ranging in ages from fourteen to eight.

I hadn’t heard of Converse sneakers; I wore brown boots instead.

Forget the “smoky eye” look that is seen everywhere; My face was cleverly disguised as plain through theatre makeup.

I wouldn’t dream of wearing pants; I wore a boring beige shirt with dark green skirt and dull plain apron with a few patches on it.

I’m disheveled, but still (for the most part) kempt.

To say this transition is easy is simply nuts.

I’m seventeen!

I’m a junior in high school!

To heck with being a mother, I’m not married yet!

And yet...even with all that...something happens when we’re on stage.

We’re not on a set of a poor but cozy house; we’re in the house I put together and run using sixteen or so shillings a week, which equals roughly $3.91 translated using the currency rate of that time.

I’m not in costume; I’m in my daily garb that is sturdy enough to last through any hardship but still looks quaint.

I’m not with Jesus, HMA, Lil Burg, Dannisy, and the evil Jeffrey; I’m with my family: Robert, Martha, Belinda, Peter, and Tiny Tim.

Something happens to all of us.

I’m not pretending to be a mother.

I am a mother.

I’m not pretending to be a wife.

I am a wife.

There’s one scene that’s pretty famous in The Christmas Carol. It’s when the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come is making his rounds with Scrooge, scaring the Dickens out of him (pun slightly intended), and they stop to see my poor bereft family, now without Tiny Tim’s smiling face.

Martha, Belinda, and Peter sit there, either actually crying or faking the act incredibly well, and yet, as hard as I try, I’m not completely Mrs. Cratchit for that scene.

I can’t cry for the life of me.

I don’t know what it is, but the Mother-switch doesn’t click. I sound like I’m crying. I just can’t do it.

Last night was the real deal. Opening night.

All the costuming issues are done.

All the volume, lighting, and tech issues are dealt with.

I sit down with my quilt, pretending to sew, and it hits.

I am a mother. I’ve lost my son.

My children and I ponder whatever is taking Robert so long to get home.

I am a mother. I’ve lost my son.

Robert finally comes home, trying to give hope to his grief-stricken family.

I am a mother.

I have lost my son.

I have lost my hope.

And right as the scene comes to a close, right as Peter says he really is happy (after all, Tiny Tim wouldn’t want him to be sad), right as the lights are dimming, it came.

One lonely, cheerless tear makes its way down my cheek.

I finally cried.

What was SUPPOSED to be our 15 months

2007-11-07T15:26:00.000-08:00

Ended up being me telling all my friends about the situation with That Stupid Mistake of an Ex, with many telling me they always thought I deserved better.

I started out my morning just mad at the world. I wanted to pretty much throw bombs everywhere and bust out some AK-47s and have some fun.

I then went this afternoon to feeling sad.
What had I done to deserve this?
What had I done to him to make him do this?
Is there ANY chance I could change him?
Why aren't I hurting more?

Then I went to swim practice. I pretty much attacked the water.
And then I realized something that made me officially get over him.

He's gonna regret leaving me.

It might be soon, it might be in a few months, years, or even a long way away from now.
But he'll regret losing me for some slut.

Call it vengeful, but I know he'll regret it.

And that's when I realized...I don't love him anymore.
He broke my trust.
Break my trust, you break my love.

I'll always love him in that "love your neighbor even though you really don't want to because that's what Jesus would freaking do!" kind of way. But love him like I did?

Never again.

I hope the ring you gave her turns her finger green
I hope when you're in bed with her you think of me
I would never wish bad things, but I don't wish you well
Can you tell
By the way the way flames burned your words?

Does it hurt
To know I'll never be there?
Bet it sucks
To see my face everywhere
It was you
Who chose to end it like you did
I was the last to know
You knew
Exactly what you were doing
And don't say
You "simply lost your way"
She may believe you, but I never will
NEVER AGAIN

The Captain is NO MORE.

2007-11-06T17:50:00.000-08:00

That's right, he's gone.

Unfortunately, he decided that dating a girl far away wasn't worth it, and decided to meet another girl about a week ago, and she's (as she stated it) "convenient"....well, you can probably figure it out from here if you take the worst textbook situation.

So I decided that The Captain needed walked the plank.
And that slut of his, too.

Oops, did I say that?! :-*

Silly me...I didn't mean that.... [or did I? ;-)]

Don't get me wrong, a part of me still loves him. We did have a relationship.
But his drama, his tricks, the secrets....
I was fed up, to say the very least.
And now...

I'm free.
I'm not tied to such a reckless, careless guy.
I don't have to deal with his drama.
I don't have to put up with his secrets or when he avoids me.

A part of me wonders when he quit loving me.
I've been expecting this for awhile.
And I wish I felt more than just sad. After all, it's my first break up.
But maybe the fact that I know he lied, and the fact that I'm so used to dealing with liars, is making this a little easier.

I'm free.
I'm lighter.

Oh, a word to whoever wants to date him:

Don't. He'll steal your heart, he'll make you think he loves you, and you'll love him back, and right as you sit there in his palm he'll try to crush you.
I think I'm one of the few who managed to crawl around his fingers...

And I damn hope I have him a few horrible cuts on his hand along the way.
And paper cuts.
And burn his hands somehow.

Ooooh, I'm so spiteful... And I love it :-D

So The Captain is now That Stupid Mistake of an Ex.

It's got a nice ring to it, don't it?

Huh.

2007-11-04T17:51:00.000-08:00

It's funny how fast life passes you by...

I'll have been seventeen for a week on Tuesday.

I've already finished one quarter, and before I know it I'll be finishing the first semester.

This Thursday is opening night. We've been rehearsing for sixty two days.

I've been in Catecumenate since late August.

I've been a junior since mid-August.

Grandmother died three and a half months ago.

I'll have been dating The Captain for one year and three months also on Tuesday.

I've been in high school for over two years.

I've been at The Academy for over three years.

My parents divorced five years ago.

I met my real-life acting model six years ago.

I've been writing creative stories for eight years...some good, some I wonder what in the world I was thinking...

Life.
It's fast.
It's slow.
It's easy.
It's hard.
It's crazy.
It's boring.
It's unsettling.
It's satisfying.
It's strange.
It's wonderful.
It's perfect in every imperfection.

It's odd, really...
I mean, I know my life isn't perfect.
I'm not considered to be a part of the popular crowd at school.
I don't drive a BMW.
I don't have millions of dollars to spend.
I don't have every new outfit I want.
I don't have every bottle of perfume I want.
I don't have the ideal relationship with my boyfriend.
Classes are not easy.
My friends have drama.
I have acne even after going on Accutane.
Periods are a bitch.
I have issues keeping my blood sugar under control.

Life isn't perfect.
And yet....it is.

Every thing I listed and more makes life a daily adventure.

And isn't adventure what life's about?

Zonked.

2007-11-04T14:59:00.000-08:00

It's what I currently am now.

Everyone's felt it at some point.

It's being emotionally, spiritually, mentally, physically, ecumenically, gramatically, and in any and every other way tired.

But life won't let you slow down long enough to let you rest long enough to keep going.

Grrrrrr.

Grr.

2007-10-28T18:49:00.000-07:00

I'm having another burning bush moment.

MiniJack is telling me that I should quit worrying. That I should just take one day at a time and live it out to its fullest potential.

But AP US, Anatomy, British Lit, Pre-Cal, Spanish, the play, swim team, Catecumenate, relationships...really, life in general...demands otherwise. It doesn't want me to sit down and let life run by with missed opportunities.

Why can I never do both?

Peter Pan.

2007-10-17T20:00:00.000-07:00

Peter Pan.
It's my favorite story EVER.

When I was little and dreamt of being a mother (as every little girl does), I wanted to be Mrs. Darling. I mean, what little girl DOESN'T want to be Mrs. Darling?!

I also wanted to be Wendy. I wanted Peter to tap on my window, and there were many nights as a kid that I pretended the tree that occasionally tapped at my window was really Peter begging me to go to the Neverland with him.

And yet too a part of me wanted to be Tink. I wanted to be Peter's mostly companion, his best friend, even if at the time I didn't care for the flirtatious attitude she carries.

I'm partially grown up now. I can drive. I can say a word like delicatessen and know what it means [;-)]. I can tell you pretty much anything there is to know about Queen Elizabeth. I use my cellphone constantly. I'm on my second iPod. I'm about to start writing my research paper soon. I'll be applying for colleges before I even take another breath.
And yet...

I still want to believe. I do believe, in a strange way...
I believe that good is better than evil.
I believe that every boy needs a mother.
I believe if you just imagine something to be true, it can happen.
I believe every day is another adventure waiting to happen.
I believe every person's Neverland is equally confusing and wonderful.
I believe every good mother has a kiss tucked in the right-hand corner of her mouth.
I believe that every boy should tell one girl other than his mother that he loves her.

I do believe in fairies, I do...I do.

Why change?

2007-10-07T10:02:00.000-07:00

I'm feeling the urge to write. I'm not really sure what exactly, but I'm having one of those moments where my Mini Jack Sparrow consciousness is saying "Write. Just do it."

So I am.

I hate it how consciouses can be so demanding. Well, okay, it's really another form of God talking to you saying "Hey, look, you wanted to hear from me. You wanted guidance. Here's what I'm telling you to do. Do it."

The problem is this burning-bush voice, nine times out of ten, doesn't give us a WHY.

WHY should I write when not many read?
WHY should I still love when there is so much hate?
WHY should I apologize when apologies aren't worthwhile to others?
WHY should I trust when trust is hard to find?

Shouldn't I be like the rest of the world?

This burning bush voice is telling me Eh, not so much. I don't want you to be the rest of the world
I want you to be you.
And I can definitely tell you that you are far different from anyone else. I have put you in a group that cares. That wants to change the low standards this world has given itself. Yet even among that group, each person is its own entity. You are you. The Captain is The Captain. Beautiful Day is Beautiful Day. Lady Sorella is Lady Sorella. Mildred Darling is Mildred Darling. Leonidus is Leonidus. Big Bruver is Big Bruver.

They are them.
You are you.
I AM.

Okay, Mr. I-AM-the Burning-Bush. You want me to change things?

Here goes nothing.

Nothing endures but change.--Heraclitus

His loss.

2007-10-04T14:59:00.000-07:00

I've been dancing around with this fact since last Saturday in my head, trying to figure out how exactly to handle my new situation, and if I would blog on it.

So, here it goes.

Mi Padre calls to come visit me. He sounded excited to see me, like he really wants to fix things.
After school last Friday, I went to pick him up at his hotel.

It was like he hadn't changed at all and was humoring me the entire time, which of course made me more than a touch put off.

When he first saw me, he said "Wow, you're skinny!" Not "Hi, Sport!", or even "Hello."
"Wow, you're skinny!"
I didn't do my usual.
Instead of just looking down and laughing a little, covering my stomach so he couldn't see, I said "Yeah, well, swimming does that."
And left it a that.

I played my dad's game. He tries to threaten people; put them in a corner to make them feel the way he wants to.
I'd had enough of it.

Then, he said
"Yeah, I just got this new song website from the guy who you took guitar lessons from last summer. Which, he would've taught you this summer, but...Maybe next summer."
My response?
"So what's the site?"
Didn't even mention my old guitar teacher.

Then, when I told him I made the part of Mrs. Crachit in the school play and that I'd have to cry on stage, he said:
"I can always call you on your cell phone and yell at you some."
No ducking and hiding from me. Instead:
"Nice try, but the Crachits didn't HAVE a cell phone."

He tried all of Friday to pressure me into working out with him that weekend for a few hours, when I had so much homework I was sacrificing time going to the football game (20-14! yesss!). I figured I had to give in on something, since my whole letter was about compromising to get to a good relationship, so I said it sounded good, but I had a lot to do, so I didn't know.
That turned into "We're going."

Saturday morning I'm already crying I'm so stressed and didn't know what to do. I wanted to show my dad that if he could change some, I could change some, too. There were a few emotional, screaming, heated phone calls placed between me and my dad and my parents, to make the story short, and the conclusion is this:

By 1 o'clock, my father decided to end his relationship with me.

He called me ungrateful. He says he's better than 99.9% of the fathers out there, because he provides.
He kept food on the table.
He kept a roof over my head.
He gave me a car.
He set up a college fund.
He doesn't drink in front of me.
He's not an addict.
To him, that's what a father is, because that's what his father wasn't.

He's missing a huge chunk of the picture, and the biggest part at that.
And that is the emotional and mental responsibilities of raising your child, having a relationship with him or her, not just talking to your child.

He doesn't want to be my dad.
He never wants to see me again.
He never wants to talk to me again.

But it's okay.
He can't hurt me, my mom, my family, my pride, my mental and physical health, my security, or my friends any more.

He's gone.

Big Bruver told me never to hate him and always love him, no matter how much he hurt me, because I don't want the weight of hate to be resting on me.

I don't hate him.
I still love him. After all, monetarily, yes, he did provide to a great degree.
But I also love him for what he did to me.
He made me stronger.
He made me fight.
He made me speak my mind.
He made me realize what should be there in a father...a lover...a husband...a friend...and family.

And while I might've lost my dad, I've still got one that will never leave me.
I've still got one that will always be there for me and love me.
I'll always be His daughter.
I'll always be His lover.
I'll always be His friend.
And He'll be the dad I always wanted, but never seemed to have.

So here I stand with Him, my Yahweh, my Jehova, my El Roi (The One who Sees Me). And The Captain. And Mi Madre and Miss Vanda. And Lady Sorella, The Empress Saint NatSprat, Mildred Darling, Big Bruver, Bambi Killer (who I'm now re-naming Leonidus), Beautiful Day, MacGuire Man, Root Beer, The Redhead Genius Who Is CareBear, and all my other friends.

I'm gonna make it through.
Everything will be alright.
I can breathe now.

There's a light at each end
Of this tunnel. You shout
'Cause you're just as far in as you'll
Ever be out
And these mistakes you've made,
You'll just make them again
If you only try turning around.
~Anna Nalik, Breathe (2 AM)

La De Da...

2007-10-04T14:38:00.000-07:00

Ever had a day where you simply couldn't stop singing, no matter how hard you tried?

That's DEFINITELY me right now.

I've got this menagerie of music in my head that just wants to come bursting out, and I'm sure it'd drive the world crazy, so I just sing it in my head. Unless I'm alone like I am now.

I'm SO not belting out the words to The River by Good Charlotte..................... :-D

You're from a small town,
You're gonna grow up fast
Underneath the lights
Down in Hollywood
On the Boulevard
The dead come back to life
To the praying mother
And the worried father
Let your children go
When they comeback they'll
Come on stronger
And if they don't you'll know...
They say
That evil comes disguised
Like a city of angels
I'm walking towards the light...