Vintage

I've been thinking about quality a lot lately.
Like, someone with a "quality" voice for musical theatre now would have been considered a terrible singer 20 years ago, because styles change. Or people say that American movies are the best quality, and that our acting is better, but isn't that just a matter of opinion?
What about music? The music that I like, other people don't. Does that mean that they like "bad" music and I like "good" music.
It might be unfair to judge things in such a black and white way. I'm trying to see art as not a matter of good and bad, but of personal taste. Maybe people should just say that they don't prefer things.
It's really hard not to judge, though. It's really easy to make fun of stuff that I think is crap.
It's really easy to make fun of stuff in general.

Look at that. Hippies. Hippies wear the AWESOMEST clothes, hands down. I would dress like that if a) I had those clothes and b) I were beautiful. It's all headbands and bright colors. Geez.

Sometimes I get in the mood to watch every All American Rejects music video there is. I don't care if that's wrong. I love them. I taught Noraa to sing "Swing Swing" when she was too little to even understand the words.

I saw my grades. Even though I was sure I was going to get a B for Foundations of British Literature, I managed to pull an A out of that class. So I have all As for every semester, which is crazy. People keep asking my parents how I'm doing and stuff, and they're always like "Did she get her first B yet?"
I study a lot, I guess.

It's almost Christmas! It's almost flipping Christmas!

Too much

When I first started listening to the Beatles, I felt like I was listening to music for the first time. It isn't like I'd never liked music before, but most of the music I listened to was music my parents listened to or music I was exposed to in choir. I didn't have my very own favorite band. Not really. I went through a period where I really liked Train and listened to their albums constantly, especially when I was writing. I also once identified strongly with punk rock and ska music, but didn't have any favorites. When I started listening to the Beatles, I knew that I wanted to listen to every single thing they ever performed. I bought my first CD within the next week. I looked up each of them on Wikipedia, then found out everything I could about each album, then each song. Before long, I was getting books out from the library. LOOONG books. Extensive biographies. At first I read without thinking, not stopping to consider which authors were biased toward John or Paul, or which simplified events to the point of meaninglessness. While reading one biography, I realized that I recognized the source the author was using. That started happening more and more often, and I began to realize that I had actual personal opinions about the lives and personalities of the Beatles. I thought I understood why the band broke up, why John and Yoko were inseparable, why Paul couldn't handle her presence. I empathized with them both. I understood each person in the story, and didn't hate any of them. The tale began to feel like the saga of King Arthur to me. I don't hate Mordred, I don't hate Lancelot, I don't hate Arthur, I don't hate Paul, I don't hate John, I don't hate Yoko. I used to stay awake at night, running through scenarios in my head, thinking about what questions I would ask Paul and Ringo if I ever had the chance to interview them. I would ask Paul why he laughed in the middle of Maxwell's Silver Hammer. I'd ask Ringo if he liked acting or singing more.
To be honest, my fascination frightened me. Sometimes I worried that I'd never be able to stop thinking about the Beatles. I wondered if I should stop reading up on them to attempt to curb my own interest.
Life isn't like that. Maybe some people never get over their fixations, but most of the time people just get interested in other things. I still like the Beatles, but they don't consume me. I'm waiting for my next passion to come along. Then I'll learn everything I could ever want to know about that thing. Just like I learned everything I could about the Beatles. Just like I learned everything I could about ancient Egypt. Or Greek mythology. Or Garry Marshall. Things change. People get interested in other things. Most brains don't get stuck on one idea for their whole lives.
I was thinking about personality quizzes, and how I wish that there was some brain measuring thing somewhere that would just tell you everything about yourself. Because personality quizzes aren't that accurate. You pretty much end up getting what you want to get. A three year old could manipulate one of those quizzes to get the answer she wants. So I always end up being nice and awesome on those quizzes when I'm not really especially nice or awesome. I'm pretty much normal. Like, if I take a Beatles quiz, I'm going to get John Lennon as a result, because he's the Beatle I would want to be, so the test wouldn't end up being accurate. Likewise, I like to think that I'm a super-creative person, so when I take Meyers-Briggs tests, I end up being an ENFP, which is pretty creative and empathetic and stuff. I think that I'm like that. I know I want to be like that. Am I really?
So then I was wondering if maybe the fact that I WANT to be those things makes me like those things. Just the fact that I value creativity might mean that I'm naturally inclined to be a creative person. Doesn't our desire to be better influence how good we actually are? Then again, I know people who think they're really good listeners and value good listening, but actually are terrible at listening to people. Or people who think they're funny but aren't. Etc etc.
That's the point in my thought process where I start wondering if I really know anything at all.
(Usually it turns out I don't. Or that I know part of something. Or that I used to know something but then thought that thing wasn't true, but now it appears that it is true. The thing about knowing things is that the strongest thing I think you can ever do is THINK you know it. I don't know if you can ever know you know it, because maybe everything isn't as it seems. And that's why it takes faith to believe in anything.)
A couple of weeks ago, I was sitting beside the breakfast table, thinking about my troubles (not literally the breakfast table, mind you). Typically, that kind of activity does more harm than it does good. So of course I ended up thinking about how awful my life is and how many problems I have, and how I don't think any of them will ever be solved, and then I talked to my mom and realized that EVERYONE has really horrible lives, and no one will ever be happy, and life is a vale of tears. (I'm being hyperbolic, but you understand what I'm getting at.) So I was laying in bed, and I started praying, because that's what I do when I'm really upset. I just start complaining to God. Then I thought, "Hey, if everyone's lives suck so much, why should you even think God is listening to you? Why should you even think there is a God?"
I guess I think about evil as much as the next person, but there's always been some pat little argument I learned in high school to argue that God exists, even in the face of evil. But that night, none of those arguments made sense. They were all bull. (I think most of them are probably bull anyway.) So I just said, "God, what the heck. Why? Why, why why?" And then I curled up into a ball, because if there's no God, then there's no point, really. If there's no God, then everything sucks and then everything is over, and that's awful. If there's no God, then there's no point in morality, and there's no point in love, and there's no point in art. So I just stayed in bed for a while, saying over and over "God, please exist, please exist, please exist. Because I don't want to fool myself into believing. Just let me know. I need to know You're there."
Nothing really great happened. There wasn't any flash of lightning. But gradually a sense of calmness filled the room, and I stopped whispering to myself. I was just quiet for a little bit. And I read my Bible, and I read about faith, and I thought, "Okay, God, here's my faith back. I don't know if You're there, but I'm going to go ahead and cast this out, and see if You grab the other end." And I didn't feel like I was alone. I didn't feel a presence in the room, or anything. But I just felt like there was some reason in the universe. That my faith had caught on to something bigger. And then I fell asleep. (I think the sleep might be the strongest argument for God in this story, because my mind was so occupied that I don't know how else I could've slept.)
Sometimes people call Christianity a crutch. Okay, sure. It's a crutch. But when everyone is going around with two broken legs, I don't see a crutch as a bad thing.

Star-gazing

Last night there was a meteor shower. Some of my friends and I bundled up and headed out around 11:30, stopped at Taco Bell for some Mountain Dew and nachos (because that's what we're fueled by, mostly) and drove until we could see stars.
It took a while.
I get bothered about stars every once in a while. There's so much light pollution in Canton that's it's futile to look up. I can only see the brightest stars. I can't see the Milky Way. Sometimes panic jumps up into my throat when I wonder if someday Millersburg will be like that, too. When I go home, I can see the Summer Triangle and Cassiopeia and even Draco, which is the hardest for me to find and sometimes I think I'm making it up as I go along, connecting stars that aren't meant to be connected. Still, the orange haze of civilization is already creeping up around the horizon of my house on the hill, and it's only a matter of time before I won't be able to see anything but streetlights and cars. I already feel isolated. Human beings are already consumed with ourselves. If we can't see the rest of the galaxy, how will we remember that we aren't the only thing that matters, aren't the only things that are breathtakingly beautiful, aren't the only thing that God created?
We started driving through fields and past Amish houses (you can tell they're Amish because they don't have shutters) and started wondering aloud where we should stop. Laura said we should just stop in a field someplace. I didn't want to because people have private property and I didn't want to get shot.
We stopped in a field someplace.
Sarah and I brought our guitars, but it was too cold to play, and we were close enough to houses that we decided it was best to stay as quiet as it's possible for four girls to be after midnight. So we put down a blanket and flung ourselves into a heap on top of it, and covered up with each other and more blankets. Then we looked at the stars.
At first, everything was overcast, and we could only see things out of the corners of our eyes. We weren't even sure if we were seeing stars or if our eyes were tired and beginning to fail us. Then a tiny hole in the clouds appeared and we could clearly see Orion's belt. Sarah started pointing out constellations that I didn't even know, and told us that she used to want to be an astronomer. As we waited for the clouds to blow away, Chelsea regaled us with stand-up comedy routines she's memorized and then just told us stories of her own. Laura flipped out every time a new star was visible.
I laughed until my stomach hurt and I couldn't feel the cold anymore.
I looked away for a second, and everyone gasped. "Did you see that! That was a giant one!" Laura practically yelled. Everyone had seen the first meteor of the night but me. I looked back up at the sky, and before long there was another. As the night grew colder, we snuggled closer together and gasped when another piece of space shot across the sky.
Eventually the clouds covered the stars again, and we all packed our stuff up and drove back to Malone. Laura cranked up the heat, and I almost fell asleep, covered in blankets and friendship. I crawled into bed, exhausted but complete.
I don't think I ever could have given myself a better life than God has.

Regressing

I was kind of surprised when the girl behind the counter at Starbucks asked me a question while I waited for my tall mocha frappuccino, so I didn't really hear what she'd said, especially over the roar of the coffee-making-machine-thing.
"What?" I said, leaning over the counter.
"Do you have any big plans for tonight?" she asked again. I shook my head.
"Oh, uh, no." I paused, trying to think if I was doing anything special. I'm usually not. I'm single and don't have a driver's license, so any "big plans" of mine usually involve watching movies or going to Walmart and buying candy and/or milk with Sarah and Laura. Which are all of immense importance to ME, but usually aren't considered big plans by anyone else. "I'm, um, going home."
She smiled. "Oh, that's nice! Have fun." She handed me my coffee, and I was on my way.
I felt really grown up. Partially because I was drinking coffee, which I don't do a whole lot, especially not coffee from Starbucks, but mostly because that was the first time I've mentioned to a stranger that I don't live at home. I live on my own, now. For all she knows, I'm a famous safari explorer who has been living in the Sahara desert for 5 years. Although I suppose my immaturity is revealed by the fact that the first example I thought of just now was so farfetched.
My friend Grape is spending the night. She's downstairs about to sleep. We both have church in the morning. I went to a concert at her church with my little siblings and ran into her there. She saw me and literally screamed with excitement. It made me grin. It made my heart expand. She tackled me in a great hug.
I love hugs, I think. I'm really awkward with hugs, but I like them. I never realized that I didn't know how to hug until last year. I was in a play and was supposed to hug my "husband" and it became all too clear to everyone that my body couldn't manage to coordinate itself into a hug. Maybe it's because I'm used to hugging people much shorter than I am (my siblings and mother) or much taller than me (my brother and dad) and not used to hugging people who are roughly in my height range. Or maybe I'm just not used to hugging people who aren't my family. Anyway. The moral of the story is that now that I am better equipped to hug people, I like it. I especially like when Grape tackle-hugs me. Because it's an overflow of love and joy and it's slightly violent, but only because it's unrestrained. And wonderful.
So what I'm saying is, everyone who sees me anywhere should just hug me. (That's not true. Only because I think people would be crazed out if they thought I was serious.)
Do you ever feel like you're in junior high again? Sometimes I look in the mirror and can only see an awkward 8th grader. I remember one time in 8th grade I wore an outfit that consisted of all items of clothing with the word "princess" on them. Even my socks. My shirt said princess. My jeans said princess (and, to be fair, other things as well). I might've even been wearing a hat that said princess.
Why didn't anyone tell me that wasn't okay?
I'm often afraid that I'm making those same mistakes. I'm still the same person, if you think about it. I haven't learned all that much about fashion since then. I still just wear whatever stuff looks awesome to me. It might still be ridiculous. I wouldn't know. Most of my clothes come from thrift stores, which means that most of the things I wear are things that other people have already decided that they don't even want to own, let alone wear. The only difference between myself then and now is that now I'm aware that I'm capable of being and looking completely silly when I think I look great.
Maybe that's okay, though. My dad used to have a mullet. My dad is even a reasonably cool guy. If everyone in the 80s was duped into having a mullet, it might be okay for me to dupe myself into wearing weird clothes.

Snakeskin

I don't like losing people.
Who does?
The other day in one of my classes, my professor mentioned that losing touch with people is just a part of life.
That part of life freaking sucks.
I don't want to lose my high school friends. I don't want to lose my college friends. I want to keep everyone trapped in a little box with pins stuck through them and I want to pull them out when I'm lonely or want attention.
That is unfeasible. And cruel. And self-centered. However, it's what I want, deep down inside.

All these thoughts of letting go came from Fall Break. I went home. My brother wasn't there. He's in Pennsylvania, training for the 6 months he's going to spend in Africa. This break is the first time I've really been home for any substantial amount of time without him being there. I kept wandering into his room to talk to him, but he wasn't there.
Then I started thinking about how he's probably going to start living on his own soon. How, after he gets back from Africa, we don't really know what he's going to do. He doesn't really know. So, basically, I can't go home ever again. Slowly, we'll all leave. And I can't be a kid anymore. And I can't have a family anymore.
Freaking crap.

(I'll still have a family. We'll just all be living other places and some of us will have other families.)

Why do things have to change? I don't feel like I change that much. I guess I do, though. Probably some people feel like I've left them. I don't like leaving people, either.

As my professor said, it's an inevitable part of life.

We'd all be on horseback

Sometimes I wish for brilliance. Sometimes I want to be so ruthlessly intelligent I could cut people down with a single word. I want people to be afraid of me. I want to be a hard and sharp and cold as a diamond. I want Emma Thompson to play me in a movie.

Here's who would really play me: Rosie O'Donnell.

One thing I really like is when I'm passing someone I know, and instead of saying "Hi," or "Hey," or "What's up?" we just nod to each other. Not the kind of nod where you smile and nod completely. I'm talking about the kind of nod where you just lift your chin up and are both too cool to smile or say anything. It's my favorite thing to have happen.

I think I'm the least edgy person in my playwriting class. Everyone else is writing this really artsy stuff or gritty stuff or meaningful stuff, and I'm not, actually. I mean, I think it's meaningful. Sometimes. But it's just stuff about people meeting other people and falling in love over and over again before they realize that falling in love isn't a real thing. And then they realize that love is actually better than falling into it. And I don't know anything about anything, so maybe that's just a load of bull that I'm writing. Do I believe in love at first sight, or do I just believe in hormones? Does anyone believe in love at first sight anymore? I believe in a lot of things that are weirder than that. I don't believe in that, though. I don't really believe in destiny, either, but I find myself thinking that things are destined. Does that make me a hypocrite? Or does it just make me human?

Here's the reason I'm not edgy: I don't ever swear. I really don't. I have a foul mouth in my mind, but I don't say it. One time I called my brother a dick, and one time I said I was being a bitch, but that's it. When I try to write characters who are realistic and swear, they just sound silly. They sound like they're trying too hard. That's because they are. That's because I am. Other people can write things where people have no problem cussing, and it's natural and realistic. And edgy. Not I. I want so badly for a character to tell someone to fuck off, but it's not going to happen. I know why it's not going to happen.

A) I can only ever seem to be alternative and awesome, when really I'm vanilla. I might be a poser. I like things that are different and weird, but I myself am neither of those things.

B) I can't shake the feeling that swearing is not the right thing for me to do. I don't care if other people do, but I can't. I can't can't can't justify it for myself. I like beautiful things, and swearing isn't beautiful. It's raw and emotional and honest and real, but it's not beautiful. It's something I can respect, but I'm not enough of any of those things to write and/or do it. It doesn't make sense for me to feel like that, because when other people swear, I get this weird kind of admiration for them. When people create art with vulgarity, I like it. I mean, I don't like all of it just because there's swearing, but if it's good, I like it.

Lately I feel trapped in my head. I wish I could just shrug out of my skin and take a vacation. I'd float around the ocean for a while and not think about anything anymore. I'd come back when everyone had forgotten about me and I could make myself something new.

I think life is a process of becoming something you aren't yet. Smarter. Stronger. Kinder. Maybe that's good. I think that's good. But if that's true, does that mean that contentedness is stagnation? I don't want it to be. Do I only think progress is good because that's society? Isn't trying to get closer to God trying to progress? I'm going to be honest: I don't feel like I'm close to God right now. I don't really know what I'm supposed to be doing. I pray, but I feel like my prayers just jostle loose my insecurities, which bounce and echo in my head, and sometimes I think they're God talking, and sometimes I know it's just my own voice coming back to me.

Are all the things I feel are right really wrong? Are all the people I think are hurting people really helping them? Last year I found out that I knew a lot of stuff I didn't think I knew. This year I'm finding out that I didn't really know a lot of it.

Is this just another time for me to grow? I remember when I was 8 or 10 I went to the doctor because my knees hurt and I was tired all the time. Turns out I was just getting taller and older. Growing pains. I thought I had a disease. Maybe that's what's happening now. Maybe I don't have a spiritual disease, maybe I just need to get taller again.

I played some records today. Artifacts are just as good as time travel. I pretend I'm living in the 60s, only computers were around back then and also Snow Patrol, because I've been listening to them more lately too.

Here's another thing I love: coming into my room and seeing Laura crashed on my couch. I love when people are comfortable around me and just act like themselves. And when I come into my room and see that Laura is fine with chilling there even when she's alone, I feel like a real person.

And that's why I'm never going to be hard as diamonds.

Imbued

Ever since I was a tiny child, I have wanted to be a writer. My first book was entitled "Dad's Book," which I both wrote and illustrated, and which featured a drawing of my dad standing in front of a barn wearing overalls. No, my dad had never done that (and still hasn't) but I choose to view that as a sign of my creativity, even at the tender age of 5.
By 8, I was writing my own memoirs, although I never got much further than the titles. A few I remember are "My Great Boring Life," and "Tales of the African What-What Bird," which sounds like it might be about something made up, but was actually referring to the fact that my mom had called me that one time because I guess I had a penchant for not hearing what people were saying and then yelling, "WHAT? WHAT?"
I'm trying to say that I wrote a lot, and have always wanted to be a writer.
Technically, I am a writer. I write on a regular basis. I don't do it for money, but I do it for a living. As in, I would probably die if I couldn't express myself using the written word. Heaven only knows I don't express myself well in the spoken one.
The other day I was thinking about how crazy it is that I'm actually good at the thing I love. One could make the argument that I love to write because I'm good at it, but that doesn't explain why I've loved writing before I could do it well. I loved writing even when I wrote things in my journal like,
"Oct 22 1999, Age 9
Today was bad. Aleks couldn't find his shoehe's so every one exepte him was looking for his shoe, mom calld pop & dad. After that she blue up she yeled at us all including me. Why me? I'm upset."
(Don't ask me how I knew how to spell "including" but not "yelled" or even "shoes.")
Worse yet, my journal also documents the angst and inner turmoil I suffered when, at age 11, I discovered that Aaron Carter didn't write his own music.
This is not the height of literature.
Somehow I managed to break through my hatred of my handwriting workbook (thank God for keyboards) and my inability to focus on anything that wasn't how angry I was at my siblings or how betrayed I felt by the music industry. Somehow I made it to college, where I've discovered that I have become, completely by accident, a writer.
How crazy is that?
How crazy is it that the one thing I want to be more than anything else in the world is the one thing at which I excel? The one thing I'm completely comfortable doing.
I know it's not an accident, obviously. I know it has nothing to do with me, and everything to do with this God I worship, but still. I know people who want to be actors but who can't act their way out of a paper bag. I know people who want to be musicians but who can't carry a tune in a bucket. I know people who want to be original but only use worn out metaphors like "act their way out of a paper bag" and "can't carry a tune in a bucket." Seriously, though. Is there anything more torturous than wanting something with everything you've got in your finite little body and not being able to come anywhere near it?
I think I might be the luckiest person alive.

I'd give you everything I've got for a little peace of mind

"I just want you to be happy," he said, rubbing my back gently. "I want to spend the rest of my life with you." He looked at me intensely, and I looked away. He didn't stop. "I love you."
Yes, that was the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me.
No, it wasn't real.
Last night I went to an interactive mystery thing, and my character, Gabby Backer, was dating Larry Linebacker. We went to homecoming together before my brother was killed by Cindy Sensational, who wanted her boyfriend, Kevin Kicker, to get the scholarship my twin brother Bobby was about to receive. It was a really fun time: I got into a huge fight with Sally Spirit and Dr. Chambers had to break us up, and then Peter Prez tried to crown himself homecoming king since the actual winner (Bobby) was dead and couldn't fulfill his duties, and Laura and I were two out of the four people who correctly deduced that Cindy Sensational was the murderer, which resulted in our "Smoking Gun" awards.
Still, Larry Linebacker's confession of love was a little unnerving. Not because he was being creepy or uncomfortable. We were both acting out our parts and being silly like everyone else. It just made me think about my own horribly uneventful love life.
After the event, Laura and I started talking about how she and her boyfriend ended up dating and about how my mom thought my dad was going to kill her when he proposed (Spoiler alert: He didn't), and about how Sarah is engaged and all that kind of stuff, and it threw into sharp relief the fact that I have never had a boyfriend in my entire 19 years of existence. To make matters worse, I've never even been pursued. (Okay, one time I was at a square dance and this creepy kid followed me around for a couple hours and ate my pretzels, but I was like 13 at the time and it was a fluke.) And to be honest I'm not THAT upset about it. I don't want a boyfriend just for the sake of having a boyfriend. There are so many great things about being single, really. I don't have to worry about missing anniversaries or spending enough time with my boyfriend, or worry that he's cheating on me, or keep myself from talking about celebrity crushes (although I usually end up going for writers, who aren't that intimidating anyway) or any other things that people who are dating have to worry about. And I heave a sigh of relief.
But there are sucky things about being single, too. Every once in a while I start wondering if I'm ever going to have a partner. I can't help but notice that more and more of my friends are engaged, and that leaves me on the outside looking in, worried about seeming awkward when someone's fiance or boyfriend shows up, completely eclipsing my presence with his charming smile and his cologne.
"What's wrong with me?" I wonder, watching girls my age as they casually touch their engagement rings and smile a little.
I think that's really the part that bothers me. Is there some aspect of my personality that drives people away? Am I a repulsive person? It's the not knowing that's upsetting.
I'm too afraid to let anyone know that there's some little part of me that wants the kind of relationship where people say silly things to each other and fall completely in love. It's like when I'm sitting alone in the cafeteria but I don't want people to know that I'm not sitting alone by choice, so I give my best impersonation of a person who just wants to sit alone for a little bit and doesn't need anyone else in her life. Because obviously letting it be known that there's a romantic part of me is completely pathetic, because who does that? Even writing on my blog about this is uncomfortable. It's too much to reveal. It's weird to confess that I'm pretty sure I'm going to end up a batty old maid living a shoddy apartment in New York writing plays for my cats and keeping a blog about how our civilization has really started going downhill ever since earthquakes shook the midwest into molten lava and California slid into the sea back in 2012 (gosh darned mayans!). For someone who claims to hate romance, I'm sure hung up on the concept.
There are a lot of people in my life who love me. And those relationships aren't inferior to a boyfriend/girlfriend relationship. Those relationships are loving and stable and I appreciate my friends and family so much. And more importantly than that, I have a God who will love me even if everyone else in my life doesn't. That's not something I take lightly, and it's not something I'd trade for anything else.
I just wish I could shake this feeling that there's something wrong with me. Or that I could figure out what that something is.

Things People Say To Me

Yesterday, I got a chance to see my little sisters when we went out to get a dress for homecoming. (I was going to just wear some random clothes I have, but my mom was like, "We can go to Encore and pick up a dress, no big deal.") So while we were there, my little sister who is 6 was trying on the tiaras and making Laura and Sarah do the same. One of the women working there looked at my little sister and said, "Aren't you just gorgeous!" My little sister, who was gazing at herself in a hand mirror, replied smugly, "Yes!" Laura said her self-confidence balances out my complete lack of that virtue.

Just a couple of minutes ago, I was talking to my suitemate Melissa about homecoming, and she said it's her dream to be homecoming queen someday. "You should vote for me, because I'll bring an end to world peace!"

That's a good campaign strategy for sure.

And now for a segment I like to call, "Laura's Words of Wisdom."

Yesterday at dinner, I was talking about how my little brother is having a hard time at school because apparently all the kids he goes to school with make fun of him and call him "The Weird Kid," even though he's legitimately one of the awesomest 14-year-olds I know. Laura's advice was, "If you can't beat them, don't join them. Kill them."

Righto.

After watching Dead Poet's Society, Laura's comment was, "The moral of this movie is 'Don't trust a ginger.'"

Don't trust a ginger, never trust a ginger, don't trust a ginger; don't trust me.

Finally, a word of caution from Laura: "Don't just eat grapes."

Academic Relationship

Last night I confided to my roommate and suitemates that I'm unable to turn my brain off. The thing that makes me a (good?) writer, my ability to analyze the smallest phrase for hidden meaning, makes me a neurotic human being. Accepting things blindly is difficult, even when that's all I want to do.
This is especially a problem in church.
While the pastor is speaking, I'm evaluating his statements for veracity, often too critically, especially if I'm at a new church. It's hard to get into the worship service when I can only think about how similar and uncreative most praise and worship songs are. Church becomes less of an outpouring of love to God, and more of an academic exercise. How does this doctrine fit with mine? How many songs use the exact same language? How many errors in grammar did that woman include in her announcement? Why do Christians have to be so average, so silly, so uninspired, so wrong?
That isn't what church is about. Sure, there's a place for study and consultation and heavy thinking; I believe this unto my very soul, and will never stop thinking that. But there's also a place for not thinking, for just acting out of feelings (a part of life I degrade because I'm too afraid to do it), and that aspect of a relationship with God has to be let in. This constant evaluation and rejection of "just empty feelings" only hurts my own ability to grow closer to God. And guess what: I only notice that I'm really far away when something forces my restless mind back into God's endless one, and I remember what it's like to be quiet and listen. That's when God says, "You don't have to understand everything. You CAN'T understand everything. Stop critiquing the music and the speaker and let them do what they're supposed to do. You don't always have to be a rebel; you don't always have to be cutting edge. You don't always have to put up a front so that people won't see that you do want to sing and be close to Me."

It feels like sleeping, but it feels like being completely awake for once.

Does life get any better? (Also, I apologize for the length of this post.)

Not to be one of those people who constantly talks about how great their lives are, but this past week was just about the best week of my life. Shall I count the ways? Yes. Yes, I shall.

Thursday, I worked at the Writing Center. I love meeting and working with students, but it's also easy to make people feel like crap, since it's kind of a leadership position. Sometimes I feel like if I say one wrong thing, I'll completely ruin writing for the tutee forever. It's difficult to tell if they feel helped or degraded or just bored. But the student I had for Thursday had a great attitude the entire time, and seemed to be enjoying the session. He smiled and asked good questions and laughed when I tried to be funny. At the end, he said something that no other tutee has ever said to me. "Next time I come in," he asked on his way out, "Is it okay if I sign up for you again?"

I'm pretty sure I started glowing. I tried to contain myself. "Yeah, that would be awesome! I always work Thursdays at this time."

He smiled, and thanked me again.

He validated me.

Friday I lazed around and watched Home Alone 1 and 2 with some of my friends. I'd never seen either before, and spent most of the movies covering my face with my blanket and yelling. I really can't take violence, it turns out. I'm too wimpy or sympathetic or childish, I don't know what. Everyone else was highly amused at my shameful display of wimpery. (That is most certainly not a word.)

Saturday afternoon, Laura (my friend), Sarah (my roommate) and I went to Denny's and then to see The Ugly Truth. I don't think I liked it that much. Upon much reflection, I feel like the whole thing was a lie. There was so much emphasis placed on a shallow view of the world, and so little time spent showing the alternative that I came away from the movie thinking, "Well, apparently fakery and promiscuity CAN get you into a relationship. Particularly if you're really hot." I don't think everyone is shallow, though. I think some people are more into personality than sluttiness.

On Sunday I was supposed to go see a play with my playwriting class, but had a conflict. I asked Nick, a friend of mine who is also in playwriting, if he was going to see the play a different time than the rest of the class, and if he would mind giving me a ride. He did. (Give me a ride, that is. He didn't seem to mind.) The play was interesting and different, although I probably wouldn't see it again, and the conversation to and from the show was energizing. We talked about writing and movies and music and most of the things that really matter in life. I feel awkward about writing all about it because Nick is following this blog, and writing down everything we talked about word-for-word would be freakish. So, I'll just say that it was a great time.

Rewind time: Whilst browsing the tweets of those I follow on Twitter on Tuesday, I came across this tweet from neilhimself (aka Neil Gaiman): "Ohio reminders. I'll be talking, reading & probably signing in Cleveland on Sunday."

It's fair to say that I had a heart attack of pure joy. I convinced Laura (the most amazing friend in the world) to take me. My friend Liz ended up coming with us because she saw my status message about Neil Gaiman and freaked out. On the way there we listened to Disney music and talked excitedly about the man we were going to meet.

We got there about 10 minutes after the auditorium filled up but there was an overflow room. Melanie, one of my best friends, texted me: "He has the flu, so make sure to give him soup or tell him to get better. I'm so jealous that you're going." In response, Liz, Laura and I made him a get-well card. It read: "So, I heard you're sick and decided to make this card." It continued inside: "Thanks for coming to Cleveland anyway, and get well soon." Laura drew a bowl of soup and stick figure versions of us, and Liz drew some pretty flowers for a border.

It was a creeper card. It was wonderful.

Shortly after Liz and I had a angsty conversation in which we threatened self-harm if we couldn't meet our favorite author, who should walk into the room but NEIL GAIMAN! He assured us that he didn't want to turn anyone away, and would sign for us as well. He sounded like a less-sarcastic Alan Rickman. He sounded like I was in love with him. He is probably the sexiest writer in the world. I kid you not.

Anyway, he read bits of two of his books and answered questions from the audience. Several times he looked directly at the camera and addressed the overflow room, which sent shivers down my spine. He was delightful and funny and interesting and more than I ever could have hoped for.

Then we waited in line for 2 and a half hours.

The only thing I could manage to say to him was, "Thank you. Thank you." While he was signing, I remembered the card we'd made for him. "OH!" I said, too loudly (as is my wont) and slipped him the card. "We made this for you," I said vaguely, and he looked at it.

"Oh, virtual soup!" he said in his delightful accent, and I wanted to snog him. (I didn't, I didn't.) I said thank you again, and he handed back my brochure.

"Could we get a picture?" I asked timidly.

"Of course. I'll keep scribbling, but you tell me when to look up," he replied. Liz and I positioned ourselves behind him, and Laura snapped the picture.

As we walked out, I said thank you one last time. I was nervous. My vocabulary evaporated. And I really was thankful! I felt deep gratitude to him for signing things for so long. Although, he was surrounded by 900 people who loved him. I'd probably sign things if that many people loved me.

I think the deeper reason I thanked him so many times had to do with how much I owe him. His writing makes me want to write. His writing has opened up worlds to me that I'd never know otherwise. His writing is an inspiration. His writing has helped me cope with life when I didn't even want to. All I could do was say "Thank you," over and over again.

The car ride home was great. We all took turns gushing about meeting him (Liz showed off the drawing of her future gravestone he did in the cover of her copy of The Graveyard Book) and complaining about how hungry we were and how badly we had to pee. Unfortunately, the McDonalds we stopped at happened to be the slowest McDonalds on the face of the earth. The employees were basically wandering around aimlessly while their manager scowled at the three of us for some unknown reason. One employee made roughly 18 trips to the bathroom while we were there. Another stood off in the corner and texted relentlessly.

We got back around 8:30, and I had to do my homework. I had a mini-breakdown (not really, I'm just a drama queen) and spent too much time on facebook, specifically on Compare People. Sarah and I compared rankings. I'm third most likely to be a good mother, which is crazy, and second best listener, which I like to think is true. I'm also 14th prettiest, which is clearly false. I am definitely nothingth prettiest. I'm first most likely to do a favor, though. That's because I'm nice.

Anyway, after I buckled down and read through that thesis I couldn't get my head around, I stayed up and finished all my homework. It was hard to concentrate when all I could think about was plays, encouragement, friends, movies and Neil Gaiman. What a flipping amazing week. What. A. Week. (Thank you to everyone who made it possible!)

9 Beautiful Things

#1 Tavi, aka "Style Rookie."
So, yes, I found out about this girl through Yahoo news, the least creative place to find anything. This girl is getting a lot of notice from famous fashion people and from me. I love the way she writes, and that the first part of her About Me is "Tiny 13 year old dork that sits inside all day wearing awkward jackets and pretty hats."
Really, though. Look at her blog. She's so quirky and beautiful that it makes me remember that fashion is a type of artwork. It's so easy to get cynical about fashion and think that it's all about shallowness, which sometimes it is. But anyone can put together a really awesome outfit. This girl thrifts and wears shoes she finds in her basement, for Pete's sake.

#2 Games by Gregory Weir

Please play I Fell In Love With The Majesty of Colors. Or I Wish I Were The Moon. They're simple and beautiful and only take a few minutes. But hopefully you'll like them. He has others, but those two are my favorites.

#3 Death To The Tin Man

One of my professors played this in class and the whole day was wonderful as a result. Sometimes you just see things that make you think about everything differently, and you fall in love with everything. This is one of those things. It's a short film based on the story of the tin man from The Wizard of Oz. It was actually kind of funny, because I think the tin man's story is one of the more obscurish trivial things I know, and that made me like this even more. But you don't have to already know the story to love this film.

#4 pictures for sad children

This is probably my favorite webcomic (I linked to the first installment). Please just read the first 8. The comic is basically full of whimsy and optimistic pessimism. There's nothing else to say.

#5 Can You Tell, Ra Ra Riot

The words to this song are full of longing and adolescent angst, but the good kind.

Oh what am I supposed to do?
It's hard to stay cool.
Oh, when you smile at me
and I get nervous every time you speak.

My bed's too big for just me
and when you turn your eyes,
I promise I won't care.

#6 The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, T.S. Elliot.

I know less than nothing about this poem. I just read it and really like it a lot.

There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

[This is Taylor. I'm including this part of a stanza, too.]

Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

#7 I Want You, Bob Dylan

Dylan is Dylan, and that's about all I need to say about that. This song is so full of great bounds of love.

The guilty undertaker sighs,
The lonesome organ grinder cries,
The silver saxophones say I should refuse you.
The cracked bells and washed-out horns
Blow into my face with scorn,
But it's not that way,
I wasn't born to lose you.

#8 Harold and Maude

A lot of people think this movie is creepy and weird. That's true. It is. Aren't people's emotions creepy and weird, though? This movie has a lot to say about how humans are and why they act like they do. We're all looking for love, it seems.

#9 Jon Foreman

I wrote about this on Facebook, but so much of what this man says is so right on. He's all about loving people.

Some Items I Wish To Discuss And Will Therefore Do So

I used to write notes on Facebook. But then I realized that, although that gave me a potentially wide syndication, that meant that I was constantly thinking about what my friends on facebook would think about what I wrote. Which made me not write that stuff. Or made me write things I wouldn't necessarily write now. I don't think I gave into that pressure a lot, but here we are. I don't have that pressure anymore.

Plus, real writers have blogs.

So, my friend Melanie left all of her CDs at my house when she came over, and I downloaded her Ben Folds CD, Way To Normal, and I'm addicted to it. I keep listening to Cologne over and over and over again. Everything about the song is how I feel sometimes. Which is how it is with just about every Ben Folds song. Maybe he's me? Maybe I'm him? Maybe I just try to identify with really cool, really creative people? One of those.

There's a huge difference between talking to someone when you know what they're saying is true and when you know what they're saying isn't true, even when they're saying the same thing they said yesterday. This isn't based on anyone I've talked to recently. It's just something I think about.

Last semester I walked around campus with my head down all the time, afraid to say hello to people. Now I keep my head up and am an aggressive greeter. If people don't hear me, I keep saying their name until they notice. I'm happier now, even though I'm creepier. People like to be recognized. People like to hear other people say their name.

Definition of a poet: someone who speaks the truth in a way that no one has spoken it before.

So, poets are prophets.

I made those things up. But I think they're true. Does making things up make them untrue? Sometimes. But not always. I hope.

I love having a roommate. I love being around someone and not having to say something, but sometimes saying something if one of us wants to. Sleeping in the same room as someone else. Feeling safe. Sharing. I miss Amanda, but I love Sarah, obviously.

The other night I was at an APO meeting and wondered where Amanda was, because I forgot for a second that she wasn't on campus. I was looking forward to seeing her. It was like reaching to grab something that wasn't there anymore. Jarring and sad.

BUT! Today was a great day on so many levels. I had a lot of great feedback for my first ever script. And I love my classes. And I love a lot of human beings. And my secret sister gave me Swedish Fish in my mailbox, which was a double win because I not only have Swedish Fish, I also had mail.

Mail is great.

That's that.