I don't like to have stereotypical titles that use the words "musings" or "rambling" because that's what people always do.

I really really really want something exciting to happen to me. I can't sleep anymore because I feel like I'm on the verge of something exciting happening, and if I go to sleep, I'll miss out. I check my email and facebook every couple of minutes because I think something is about to happen.

Nothing is happening.

When my hair is long I'm afraid I look like a cartoon hobo. When my hair is short I'm afraid I look like a lesbian. There is no right answer.

I don't know whether I've changed a lot or not at all since high school. Sometimes I think I'm a better person, and sometimes I think I'm a worse person. Sometimes I think I've been the same person since I was eight years old and pretended to faint whenever people did things that surprised or displeased me.

I don't remember the last time I dreamt. I think maybe the last dream I remember was a dream where I had started smoking and then felt bad about it because I always told myself that I wasn't ever going to smoke, but then in the dream I like smoking much too much to quit. Then Betsy and my mom told me that the dream probably meant that I'm blocking people off from me with a smoke screen of always being funny and I thought they were wrong at first but then I thought about it and was afraid they were right and now I think I'm afraid to remember my dreams because maybe they'll tell me more things I don't like about myself.

Today in directing we did an acting exercise. When I took Intro to Theatre and was in plays, I hated acting exercises and never committed to them. But now I commit to them and I like them because it's making me a better director. But they're the same exercises. Probably, though, I'm not ever going to act again because I think I'm too sensitive about myself. I usually am cast as older women or annoying people, and then for the whole production I keep telling myself "The reason why you got this part is because you're ugly and annoying." I'm much easier on myself as a writer and a director. It doesn't matter what writers and directors look like because no one ever knows who they are, anyway.

The more successful I am in college, the more I worry that I'm going to fail dramatically at real life.

I made cookies with Laura tonight. I'm very glad to have people in my life with whom I am completely comfortable. I am also glad that there is such a thing as chocolate chip cookies.

Sometimes I meet people and feel very upset if we don't become friends right away. But it always turns out that we become friends later when I'm not expecting it, and it's like finding an extra present under the Christmas tree after all the wrapping paper is cleaned up.

Some Things That Have Come To My Attention

Sometimes if you just see a picture of someone, they don't seem that good-looking. But then when you talk to them you think that they are the most beautiful person in the world.

I always think to myself, "That person is so cool, they act like nothing matters to them. They're so freaking cool." But then if I ever talk to that person, I realize that I care too much about everything to get along with someone who doesn't care about anything. Something awesome will happen, like a thrift store full of Beanie Babies that I don't have, and then that person will find out that I collect Beanie Babies and instead of coming to the realization that Beanie Babies are an important thing to care about, they just scoff and make me feel stupid for seeing wonderfulness in what are essentially bags of plastic beads. So, I have to look at those careless cool people and think, "Taylor, you are too intense and too hyperbolic to be cool, so you'd better just stick with the people who care about things."

I've been watching a lot of videos on YouTube of British people, and now my internal monologue is British.

So, John Mayer wrote on his blog about his hair: "The feathered cut projects an attitude of ease and quiet confidence that seems to have all but eluded our generation. [It] is a work in progress, and as my hair grows longer it will serve to become a more stirring and poignant statement." Yes, he's talking about his hair. He thinks his hair style is going to make a "stirring and poignant statement." The more he talks/writes, the less I like him. Nothing about hair is poignant. I guess unless it's that song about that girl with cancer who has to shave her head before prom and then her boyfriend shaves his head in solidarity. That is poignant. But a Ferris Bueller-esque hairstyle? No. Not poignant.

Zach is home, and he didn't know who Justin Beiber is! Man oh man! I wish I didn't know who Justin Bieber is!

Last night I was trying to figure out who in the world I could imagine myself married to, and there wasn't anyone. I could imagine dating people, but not marrying anyone. That's probably because all the people I was thinking about were Andrew McCarthy, Ewan McGregor and David Tennant.

If all I ever ate was watermelon, I would be happy with my life.

Apparently people really hate you when you talk about music and, after mentioning a band you like, say "Yeah, you've probably never heard of them." I can understand why, in certain circumstances, that would be annoying. But I say that sometimes because sometimes I listen to bands that I really don't see how anyone else could have heard of them, either because they're local, or just random stuff I found online or whatever. And I don't want to act like I'm talking about Coldplay or something, so I don't want the person I'm talking to to feel like they should know who I'm talking about and feel stupid. So that's why sometimes I say, "You've probably never heard of this band."
Also, I guess people say that because they feel proud of how indie they are or something? I don't ever feel proud about knowing about some band, because usually it was someone else who told me about it. It's not like I'm a private eye who scopes out bands or something. I find out about them through websites and friends. Anyone can do that.

Well, well, well.

My life is full of celebrity moments. No big deal.

When I say "full of celebrity moments," here is what I actually mean: four celebrity moments. But I'm only 20, so that averages out to one every 5 years. And actually, all of these celebrity moments have happened in the past year, now that I think about it. So, when I say that my life is full of celebrity moments, what I really mean is that this past year has been full of celebrity moments and that I expect that number to grow exponentially as I grow more and more famous (which I will achieve either through a. writing and directing b. being a stand-up comedian c. making really great salads or d. being an awesome rock star).

Let me cut to the chase. Here are my celebrity moments. (I'm not counting the time I met Kirk Cameron because, let's be honest, he probably doesn't count.)

Moment The First

The setting: last summer at Lollapalooza. Most of the bands that Melanie (one of my best friends) and I were most excited about drew HUGE crowds, so we didn't get overwhelmingly close. We were pretty far forward for Ben Folds (far enough forward that we didn't have to rely on the giant screens to perceive his talented performance) and even closer for The Decemberists (so close that they seemed like actual people and not little dolls) but she and I got to the stage EXTRA early to see the Kaiser Chiefs, who are a fantastically wonderful band. We weren't pressed right up against the stage, but we were pressed right up against the railing that housed the technicians and photographers. That is how I managed to touch Ricky Wilson, the lead singer. The band put on one of the best shows I've ever seen, with Mr. Wilson climbing up the scaffolding on the sides of the stage and twice running into the crowd.
The first time I just stood there, basically paralyzed with adoration. There he was, right in front of me! The crowd surged to support him as he climbed up on top of the railing and sang his face off. It was only after he retreated to the stage that I realized I had missed my opportunity to touch the rockingest rock star I'd ever seen.
(You're really worried right now, I can tell, but this story is going to end up with me touching Ricky Wilson, so don't worry.) (And when I say touching I don't mean it in a pervy way.)
I wasn't too heartbroken about the whole thing because I'm not exactly a touching kind of person in that I don't make touching people I admire a goal in life. In fact, I was a little bit glad that I didn't touch Mr. Wilson because I don't think I would like being touched by random people all that much, but then again I don't walk into crowds of adoring fans basically asking for them to touch me. Regardless of my feelings on the subject, Ricky Wilson sang a few songs, and then made his way into the crowd once again.
The only explanation I can give for my actions is that he was so absolutely magnetic that my hand flew up and attached itself to his sweaty back. It stayed there as long as he did. I rationalized this action by pointing out to myself that there wasn't anything supporting the rock star as he balanced on the fence, and without my help he might very well have fallen and been trampled by the screaming fans. I guess you could say, in fact, that I saved Ricky Wilson's life, which is a bit more than just a moment.
After the concert, I held out my hand to Melanie. "I touched him!" I said, feigning fangirlishness. "His sweat is on my hand!" Without missing a beat, Melanie rubbed my hand, which actually was dripping with the sweat of Ricky Wilson, all over her face. So that was cool.

Moment The Second

I'm pretty sure I already wrote about this, so here's the scoop: I met Neil Gaiman and gave him a get well soon card.

Moment The Third

Pretty much right after school was out, I was up really late one Thursday night because CollegeHumor was pulling a comedy all-nighter, and they were doing a live webcast of people just hanging out between shoots. I love CollegeHumor. I'm probably going to Hell for it, but I love CollegeHumor. Some of the funniest people with whom I am in love (because basically my only requirements for true love are being really funny and/or being British, I guess) work for CollegeHumor. All through the night, you could tweet them your phone number and they might call you. At first I was like, "There's no way I'm tweeting my phone number, that's crazy, I don't want to get stalked. Also I don't have a Twitter account." (This was before I had a Twitter account, in case you were reading and got all confused because I have a Twitter account. I have a Twitter account.) But then Pat Cassels was all, "Hey, here's some trivia, and we'll call the first person to answer it. Who was Beatle George Harrison's first wife?"
Of course I knew that his first wife was Pattie Boyd. I also know that he met her while filming Hard Day's Night. I also know that both the Beatles movies made quite an impact on his life, because not only did he meet his first wife through the first movie, he also was introduced to Indian music through the second movie, Help!, and Indian influences became an incredibly important part of his musical career, causing the song Norwegian Wood (This Bird Has Flown) to be the first pop song featuring the sitar as a prominent instrument. This interest in India eventually sparked an interest in Indian religions for all the Beatles, who eventually flew to India to spend time under the tutelage of Maharaji Mahesh. A lot of the songs on the While Album stemmed from the time in India, including Dear Prudence, Bungalow Bill and Sexy Sadie, whose titular character was originally named Maharaji, because John Lennon felt betrayed by the revelation that the Maharaji was hitting on his female followers and wasn't all pure of heart and such.
All of these things I could have told Pat, and almost did! Unfortunately, just before I completed my account, someone else sent in the answer, and they received the phone call. And they probably just Wikipedia'd it.
That meant that I was forced to spend the entire night trying to connive the various staff members of CollegeHumor.com into calling me, getting more and more desperate as the morning approached. The tweet that finally got their attention, sent at 4:00 in the morning, read "My life is a joke."
But it got Gale Beggy to call me! And I spent the most ecstatic 30 seconds of my life talking to Gale Beggy as people threw glasses of water into her face. Great. Day.

Moment The Fourth

The most recent of these celebrity encounters isn't nearly as entertaining or dramatic, but whatever, it inspired this post, so I guess I'll write about it.
Once again, I was up late on facebook and Twitter, and saw a tweet from Amir Blumenfeld, who I am following. It said, "Late shoot with @Kal_penn, tweet us your questions in the next ten minutes."
I LOVE Kal Penn (whose name, incidentally, is not Kal Penn but Kalpen Modi. He took his stage name as a joke, claiming that a more traditional Americanized name would get him more job offers. BUT the joke was on him because it actually did. Never underestimate the power of racism. Did people just somehow suddenly not realize that he was Indian?). Wow, that parenthetical digression was elaborate enough that I don't even really remember what I was talking about. I love Kal Penn, okay? The day he committed suicide was the day I stopped watching House. My roommate Sarah can attest to this.
So, I tweeted him a pretty lame question, which was "What is the best song you can think of right now?" My reasoning was that firstly you can tell a lot about someone by the music they like and secondly, it's really hard to think of the BEST SONG EVER, so I took the pressure off a little by just making it off the top of his head. I'm sure he appreciated the courtesy.
I didn't expect him to get back to me, but he did! His two word response of "Mika's Rain" elicited the most happiness from the littlest amount of effort that has ever taken place in human history. I wanted to tweet back, complimenting him on his musical taste (because Mika is great) and also mentioning that, in case he was wondering, his most attractive features to me are his inquisitive eyebrows and his thoughtful voice. Unfortunately, I couldn't think of a way to express my fandom in 140 characters or less, and when I thought about ways to shorten my thoughts, I realized my sentiment was a tad on the creepy side, so I just sat in silence.

So, there they are. Exhaustedly enumerated, my celebrity moment have been documented for generations and generations to glance at before thinking, "tl;dr" and going back to their twitterbooks and YouBlogs.

(Oh, also, when I was 12 I had lunch with Tamora Pierce, but that's a kind of long story and probably not that many people care, even though it was the best lunch of my life. Oh my gosh, that was a really great day.)

The Return

Yesterday I saw my brother for the first time in almost a year. My brother, post-malarial, post-missional, pre-debriefing. I witnessed his first wide-eyed examination of the aisles in a grocery store, his first sip of Mountain Dew Code Red, his first viewing of the Double Rainbow Guy.
I watched him closely as he hugged Mom and Noraa (at once) and Dad, Jaynie, Aleks and Grace (separately, with Noraa coming in again for seconds, thirds, fourths and fifths) to see if he was the same before I gave him a hug of my own.
Selfishly, I wished for all signs to point to normal. I hoped that he would be the same goofy and infuriating brother I have stranglehugged for my entire life, childishly wrapping my arms around his neck and balancing between jealousy and dismissal of his talents.
I never used to think I was selfish or jealous. I remember telling people (but secretly myself) emphatically, "I'm not a jealous person, but--" and feeling the shifty-eyed expression of my soul, who knew it was being lied to. I'm jealous of love. I'm jealous of affection. I'm jealous of attention. I'm jealous of my brother's outright popularity, a kind of popularity I have never enjoyed. People immediately like my brother and crowd around him, whereas I'm friends with popular people and occasionally others mistake me for a member of that class. At the same time, I can gloat over my scholarly achievements in private, knowing that school has never come easy for my younger brother.
I missed all this while he was gone. I forgot that all of our jokes could never really be understood by my friends at school. I listened to bands like Justice and thought about how he had imbued me with an appreciation for techno, even as I pretended to scorn his musical taste.
I realized that, without Zach to talk to late into the night on weekend visits, I had no one else to really confide in, without worrying that I was burdening them with too much information or, in the case of my parents, guilt of one sort or another. I consistently told the girls who flocked to me in hopes of getting close to my brother that he never really talked to me about anything, and that we weren't really that close, but I was lying to them. He told me a lot of things. We were close.
This closeness we shared, I feared, had been stretched and gone limp like an overextended rubber band, its integrity compromised by my lack of emails and the ocean between us. Three emails and a handful of phone and Skype conversations to last almost a year. 10 months. That's the reason my brother is the popular one; he makes an effort.
I scanned his face for the tell-tale signs of a harrowing spiritual missions trip. Would he refuse to smile? Had he grown bitter from suffering observed and absorbed?
He was there. He made the same goofy faces, and told the same meandering stories of his exploits and injuries. But he was changed, too. His face and tone sobered when he spoke of the damage done to Africa by conquerers, tycoons and missionaries. In the short time we visited, he hinted at turmoil.
So I don't know. Jaynie said she gets confused when we talk about Zach. For her, there is the Zach who is her brother and there is also the Zach who just came back from Africa, neither one completely the same nor completely different from the other. I have stayed the same, prolonging my immaturity through college activities and college education and scribbling snippets of collegiate ideals across my blank computer screen. Always the older sister, I'm afraid the seesaw of experience will come down heavily on my brother's side when he finishes his two weeks of debriefing and comes home again.
As I listened to him speak and laugh and ran my hand over the back of his spiky-haired head, his buzzed hair prickling against the palm of my hand, I said without thinking, "I'm never going to stop doing this," with a petulant air that made my whole family laugh. But I know it's true. Even if Zach is different, which I know he must be, he will still be my brother, and he will always be there for me, and I will be there for him. Even if one of us is in college and the other is in Africa.

This almost turned into a post about pet peeves.

So, I haven't written for a long time (since February, for Pete's sake!). I've started writing things, but then I get a little bit into them and start thinking, "All right, who cares that I don't like euphemisms?" Which I don't. I hate it when people say "passed away" instead of "died," or "made love" instead of "had sex." Really I hate that a lot. But, like I said, probably no one reading this even cares.

Also, a lot of things that I wanted to write about seemed like things that I probably shouldn't just post on a blog because they were too personal, and I'm an over-sharer, I think. So I kept starting to write about things that were probably too much.

I'm home for the summer, which is a little weird to get used to, but not too bad. Basically the hardest part is when people ask what my plans are, and my plans are pretty much "take some time off and not have any plans."

All right, my plans are to write. That doesn't sound impressive. And it doesn't sound like a summer job, which is what everyone else's plans are.

The thing is, this past year has been WONDERFUL, but probably the busiest year of my life. By finals I was totally stressed out, and I need some down time. That's the truth. Because I did everything this year, I think. I co-wrote a play, I directed a film, I took classes, I had a vibrant social life... I mean, that's all pretty normal college stuff, but whatever.

I'm writing stuff that I feel like no one cares about right now.

I'm getting worse at small talk, I think. I used to think I was getting better at it, but I think I'm getting worse. I played guitar and sang for this club thing that took place at my church, and all these women were asking me things about my life, and they knew the kinds of things to ask because they found out I was a college student. What am I supposed to ask people about? Most of the women were over the age of 60, and none of them talked about jobs, so I think they were all retired. Can't ask them about that. And I feel like that's the only thing I can ask people about that isn't weird. Here's the thing: I think I'm much worse at small talk at home and at church because Mom keeps everyone updated on my life, but obviously she doesn't tell me about what's happening to everyone at church every time I talk to her. So I can't just walk up to them and say, "So, what's happening in your life? Anything?" and then grill them about that. Maybe I should take the time to find out more about people's lives, I dunno.

Maybe everyone knows this, but when I get interested in things, I decide to learn all about them. The last thing I did this with was the Beatles (obviously) like, three years ago. Now I'm getting obsessed with SNL. This isn't exactly new; I've wanted to write for SNL since last year. I'm reading this book that I got for Dad for Christmas, and it's called "Live From New York," and it's this whole history of SNL, but it's all people talking about it in interviews. It's probably not super-accurate, and the writers who compiled it all are obviously all misty-eyed over the original cast (not that I'm saying the original cast wasn't FANTASTIC) but they're all venerating the show and making the whole thing kind of melodramatic, which I don't really like when I'm reading cultural stuff, but it's a good book. The best thing about it is that I'm pretty sure that writing for SNL is an accomplishable goal. They usually get young writers who haven't done anything before, but show talent. That's probably me. I'm not a genius or something, but I think I'm a pretty funny person, generally speaking. I'm capable of making people laugh. I think it's a lot more likely that I'll write for SNL than a lot of other things I've wanted to do. The thing that freaks me out is that so many of the original cast and writers, and even writers and cast members today, are so young! They're like, 23. I'm 20! I haven't done a single thing with my life, and my life feels like it's going to be over very soon. It makes me want to just drop out of school and go to New York. But that would be silly because I don't know anything and I don't have any connections. Also I like school.

Anyway, probably none of this is of general interest. I'm losing my knack for writing blogs, maybe. Ugh.

Vision

The thing I mainly like about having glasses now is that I don't have to feel self-conscious about my face. I don't feel like I should be wearing eyeliner or mascara because what does it matter? My glasses feel like they cover up my whole face.

Also, when people first meet me, they probably just think "glasses." They don't evaluate what I look like, maybe, because there are just these big glasses staring back at them.

I like that.

Maybe it's cowardly, but I can shield myself with my glasses.

Also I can see.

It really helps to see.

Christmas Pizza

When I started going to Malone, I didn't know anyone. I knew a couple of Betsy's friends who were also freshmen, but they weren't particular friends of mine, just people I knew and chatted with when I ran into them. I was nervous about it, it being college, at the beginning of senior year, but by the end of the year I was really glad I was going to be starting over with a new group of friends and a whole new environment. For various reasons, senior year sucked a lot. I'm not saying that to be all mysterious and dramatic and vague. I'm saying because I'm over the stuff that happened then, and looking back it was all for the best and I don't need to talk about why it sucked. But I'm mentioning that it was terrible because that's the reason why I didn't make a huge effort to stay in touch with my friends from high school last year. Of course I was really busy adjusting to my new schedule and friends which played a large part as well. After all, I still loved my friends. I just wanted to take some time to distance myself from...well, pretty much everything. Even people I love, people who were there for me. I needed time off.

This year has been really nice, because I'm getting back in touch with friends I haven't seen much since I started college. For example, the week before Christmas, I met up with some choir friends at the Christmas Candlelight Concert our choir performs at every year.. I was worried at first that we were all going to be too different and it was going to be one of those terrible moments when you realize that your old friends aren't friends anymore, but as soon as I saw the first couple of friends, I knew it was going to be okay. I saw Jake first, because he's pretty flipping tall, and grinned a cheesy grin, because it was just like old times, guys. Then I saw Ginny, and she ran over and gave me a huge hug, and reminded me that we NEED to hang out, especially since I'm only about 15 minutes away from her when I'm at Malone. And then we talked about how we sat next to each other for years and years and she always thought that as long as she held her music up in front of her face our director couldn't tell what she was doing at all. (Shout out to Ginny, who told me that night that she reads this blog. Woo hoo!) Ginny was ushering and Jake was with his parents, so they left to go show people to their seats and sit down, respectively. Then Melanie showed up, and that was exciting. I still talk to Melanie on a pretty regular basis, so we just goofed off and waited for Andrew, the other former chorister we were sitting with. He gave us a pretty skillful double-hug when he showed up, and we all went in.  The concert was fantastic, of course, and afterwards we went to Luigi's, which definitely has the best pizza in the world. Originally I wasn't going to be able to go, because Mom had to pick Dad up someplace else as soon as the concert was over, but Ginny offered to give me a ride back home (even though it's an HOUR DRIVE, for Pete's sake) and then Mom said they could meet her halfway, and so all was right with the world.

It was a really good night. We were loud and full of laughter and stories about college life and the last choir trip they'd been on. Baby Alex protested his nickname of Baby Alex (there are two people named Alex in our group of friends, and he's the younger one), and Caitlin talked about how certain members of the choir none of us had gotten along with were doing. On the ride back with Ginny, we talked about our lives and how her brother steals her breakfast cereal and almost got lost, and promised to keep in touch this semester.

I guess I'm trying to say that I've had enough time off from high school, and I think I'm ready to renew these old friendships. That's what I learned over my Christmas break.